I Know You Have Bugs…

Okay galleons, I’m… well, I’m not a fan of bugs. Which is really a gross understatement, but I wanted to avoid saying “I have a bad habit of flipping out and flailing my extremities and screaming like a girl (in registers I didn’t know I was capable of even reaching) whenever insects come near me/are within my line of sight/touch me/look at me wrong with their creepy bug eyes, no matter what type of insect we’re talking about (with the weird exception of fireflies, which I can tolerate being on me, but only by a strong application of my will), yes, even butterflies, because I’ve never thought butterflies were that pretty and I don’t care how fucking harmless any of these creepy fucking things are, I don’t want them near me and I will let you and the world know, vocally, that I detest their presence and that I had to do an insect project in my high school biology class that resulted in me having a sobbing breakdown on my kitchen floor while holding a pair of pliers over the three pieces of a butterfly that used to be one piece that I had been attempting to pin to my board”… but since I just love telling on myself, I guess I said that anyway, so now you know my shame.

Actually, compared to how bad I was as a child, I really have gotten better. I mean, I’m still a pathetic girly wuss, but I’m less of a sniveling pathetic girly wuss.

I’ve really matured over the years.

But, despite my dislike of the insect world, we’re gonna talk about an insect today. Because it’s actually pretty interesting.

And also, it may be extinct. Which means it will never come near me. And that makes it the best kind of insect.

Lucihormetica luckae is a species of bioluminescent roach found in Tungurahua, a volcano in Ecuador. Now, when I say found, I mean found in the past tense. This glowing roach was just getting recognition in the scientific community when Tungurahua went and fucking erupted in 2010.

What the fuck, volcano?

Since then, nobody’s been able to find any of these strange roaches. It looks like they may be extinct. Which is kind of a sad day for science.

See, Lucihormetica luckae was kind of an interesting specimen. It was the first example of asymmetrical bioluminescence scientists had ever documented (and the only example- all study of the species came from one subject gathered 70 years ago). See, the little (well, not that little) guy has two spots up…

You know, it would be a lot easier if I just showed you what the fucking thing looked like, wouldn’t it? Okay galleons, meet Lucihormetica luckae:

You’ll notice that it has two large glowing spots on its upper back, as well as one small one on the right side (thus its asymmetry… though with only one example of the species, it’s kind of difficult to tell if that tiny spot is an aberration or the norm, now isn’t it?).

But not only is the bioluminescence of Lucihormetica luckae asymmetrical, it’s also a rare example of mimicry through bioluminescence.

…No, Lucihormetica luckae is not mimicking a jawa (though if it was, it’s doing a really good job):

Nor is it pretending it’s one of those creepy ghosts that attack Romani Ranch in Majora’s Mask:

No, Lucihormetica luckae‘s glow patterns (provided by symbiotic bacteria that dwell in divots on the insect’s body) actually resemble the glow patterns of another insect in the area, the click beetle:

Because click beetles are poisonous, mimicking their glow patterns may have made the predators of Lucihormetica luckae less likely to try to gobble them up. Which is a smart strategy, but thanks to a pesky volcano, it looks like Lucihormetica luckae might not have been as lucky as its name sounds.

Poor little fella… Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I may love science, but I’d high five the shit out of that volcano if I could.

Vorlesen

I’ve always been someone who dog-ears books. Which, to many bibliophiles, is goddamn blasphemy and should probably be punished by stoning. To me, it’s always been a way a book evolves with me. I love books, but I love how they wear and age as well. How their creases and tears, the fading, the dings, the dents, how all those things show a book that has been well-loved, that has traveled, that has been used and worn and fucking read, as a book should be.

Which is good, as I am not careful with books. I am not a dainty, delicate reader. Books get shoved in my purse, tossed in carry on luggage, boxed and carted around the country. I read in the bath, while eating, on the bus, waiting in line, in the bathroom, at the DMV, outside under a tree on a summer day. Everyone these days seem glued to their smartphones at all times, but in this regard, I’m a bit of an old-fashioned girl. I like books, physical, actual books with spines and pages and the smell of paper and ink and glue that you just can’t get with a Kindle. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the weight of it, the ruffling of its pages.

And so, yes, I dog-ear my pages. I’ve always hated bookmarks. I cart my books everywhere, and I’ve lost more bookmarks than I can count. They are a pain, and seeing as I do not worry about keeping my books pristine, I long ago stopped bothering with them.

Then, a few years ago, I started a second system of dog-earing. While I still dog-ear the top of the page to mark my spot when I stop reading, I also make smaller dog-ears along the bottom as I go. Sometimes, they mark something I want to look up when I’m near a computer again, a song or a foreign phrase that I’m unfamiliar with. More often, though, the tiny dog-ears mark phrases/lines/paragraphs that I find to be particularly thought-provoking or beautiful.

Last night, I found myself doing this, and it made me stop and think about why I bother at all. I might think these words are beautiful, but why mark them? I read them- I know how wonderful they are. So… why?

My deep reverence for the written word has been a part of my life, a part of me, for as long as I can remember. And because it is so important to me, I suppose that I always want to share it with someone, to connect with a person or with multiple people over something that means so much to me. It is a very human need, the need to share oneself with others.

It’s funny, you know. Many of the people I’ve known over the years have this idea in their head of exactly what they want out of a relationship, know that they want someone exciting, someone that challenges them, someone spontaneous, someone with money who will take them out and show them grand evenings, someone to sit on a porch and drink lemonade with in their twilight years. Ask somebody about their ideal mate or their ideal relationship and, if they are being honest, they can probably go on forever about it. Which has always made me feel very awkward, because I don’t really have this laundry list of needs another person has to fill. I think the basics of compatibility have to be there- I know I would never be happy with someone who wasn’t at least in the same intellectual ballpark as myself. But when I think about an ideal partner or an ideal relationship, there’s really only one thing I want.

I want someone who I can sit with on a sofa, my head resting on his thigh, while I read to him some of my favorite poems and stories (or, better yet, that he reads to me), and in the flow of words from page through throat, that he could share something of my love for this language. That moment, or the ability to have moments like that with someone, that is all I can really say I’ve ever wanted.

For me, reading aloud is intimate. It is a sharing, between two people or between many, of the beauty of literature, of poetry, of stories. It encloses reader and listener(s) in a bubble, the world of the book, a world that exists only for them in that moment. The boy on the street outside the window is not part of that world. Reading is so often a solitary activity that inviting others into that experience with you is, to me, intensely personal.

I read aloud quite often when I am alone, letting the shapes of the sounds form in my mouth and curl, explode, and flutter out into the air. I let them hang there, I let my own voice fill the room, paragraphs becoming tangible things you feel you can almost touch. When I first read the children’s book Inkheart when I was young, I identified strongly with the central concept that reading aloud is powerful, that it could conjure these characters into being in the real world. It was something I had felt all along, and something I still feel to this day.

A friend of mine recently started recording audiobooks for… well, for some reason, I don’t really know. Probably because he can. And he is very talented (I think he’d punch me if I didn’t plug his stuff here and tell you to click this link to download some of his stuff and check it out), and has a wonderful voice to listen to. I’ve been enjoying what he’s been putting out. But he asked for a request for his next project, and I do not think I can give him one. I want to, I want to offer up an idea, but…

When he first announced this project, I thought it would be so great to have a friend (who I know from experience has the voice and acting chops to pull this off and do it well) reading books at me. I mean, shit, it’s the dream. All those books I love, I could have them read to me, read by someone I know could really do them justice.

…But the more I think about it, the more I don’t want those most treasured, most beloved books, the ones that speak to my heart and my soul in ways nothing else does, to be read by even a good friend like him. Because those are the books that mean everything to me. They are so very personal, and to have them read (even read well) and shared with just anybody who feels like clicking a download link… it would feel like a betrayal, to let that happen.

I do not think books should be locked up and never shared (anyone who knows me knows I’m always sharing books, shoving them into the hands of friends and insisting they read them), but I don’t think I want to give up on the dream of that sofa by letting them get read and shared with anybody. I want these books to be mine to share, with whomever I choose. I’m sure my friend would read them wonderfully, that I would love to hear them- but I want to hear them from the lips of someone who wants to know me, who wants to share in who I am, whether that person reads them well or not.

My little dog-eared snippets are like those books. Sometimes I share them with a person or two, someone I know will be amused by them or interested in them in some way. Sometimes I post a few of them on Twitter or here on this blog. But most of those little dog-ears aren’t shared with anybody. One day, maybe. One day, I’ll know somebody (or a few people) who will appreciate a call or text out of the blue with these lines and phrases, people who will understand and want to share that language with me. Or maybe they will always just be for me, read aloud in the silence of a room, alive and powerful in a way that I have a hard time describing.

And if you ever borrow a book from me, you can search the pages those little dog-ears are marking, looking for the passage that set a part of my soul spinning. Perhaps you too will feel that pull toward the page, that spark of power in the text, that almost magical warmth and awe of a well-turned phrase.

If so, I have many more books I’d be happy to share with you. Just saying.

The Story of Lydia

Oh, Lydia. Even if you’ve never played Skyrim before, chances are you’ve stumbled across some mention of that damned Lydia. Because all of us have our Lydia stories. Our woeful, amusing stories of our love for/irritation with/bizarre attachment to Lydia.

In Skyrim, you can have one follower travel with you across the province. For most players, the first follower you come across is Lydia. If you do the first few steps of the main questline, Jarl Balgruuf names you Thane of his hold and grants you a personal housecarl. Lydia.

When I got Lydia, I had her follow me everywhere. Lydia was like the bitchy, sarcastic, passive-aggressive best friend my character never knew she wanted. I had a habit of imagining her chasing my character around, trying to teach her to act more like the Dragonborn of legend. You know, a lot of “Stop stuffing dragonflies in your mouth, my Thane, and slaughter that dragon attacking the townsfolk” kind of nagging.

Bitch had no respect for my alchemy.

Then, Lydia outlived her usefulness. See, once I’d joined the Companions, I ran off and married the tall, dark, growly-voiced Farkas and started hauling him around with me on my adventures. That left Lydia to mope around my house in Whiterun, slumped sadly at the table, wishing she was out there teaching me how a real Nord woman was supposed to act.

Poor Lydia. All alone in that house for weeks at a time, waiting for me to come back from my adventures to drop a few things off and probably have loud sex with the husband while Lydia stuffed a pillow over her head and tried to pretend like she wasn’t there. And then I’d be off again, and I could just see that puppy-dog sparkle in her eye. Take me with you, that sparkle said.

And every time, I’d saunter out of the house, hulking husband in tow, leaving Lydia alone. Again.

I really did feel bad for the woman. She’d slayed dragons and draugr and bandits with me. She’d been by my side at High Hrothgar, where those old bastards taught me that Nordic yelling magic. And I’d just cast her off. But it seemed wrong to leave my badass warrior husband behind while I traipsed across Skyrim, having adventures and slaying hagravens and slaughtering bunnies (oh, such bunny slaughter there is). So, it was Lydia who had to stay home.

I suggested she take up a hobby. Learn to cook or pop next door to hang out with the blacksmith. Fucking knit.

I found myself a little surprised the first time I returned to my home and went inside to find a strange man exiting while Lydia just looked on. But hey, it’s not like I’d sent a courier ahead to tell her I was coming home. And really, this was more Lydia’s home than mine. She spent more time there, after all. I just owned the place and used it as a place to crash once in a while and as storage for a bunch of cool shit I found on my travels. If she wanted to have a man over, that was her business. I did tell her to pick up a hobby, right?

But after the fifth time I came home to find a different strange man exiting my house, I started to imagine this self-satisfied smirk on Lydia’s face. She was whoring herself out, making a mockery of the Dovahkiin by turning my hard-earned house into a goddamn brothel. Probably tarted herself up in my old armor and pretended to Shout for them, too.

What. A. Tramp.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I left Farkas at home, and invited Lydia out for a trip. Her excitement held a touch of wariness, because she knew I was unhappy with her antics, but I suited her up in some truly magnificent gear and headed out of Whiterun. She followed along behind me, happily swinging her sword, glad to be back out in the world.

We headed to an old ruin, inside of which lay a grand temple. I led the awed Lydia inside, and walked over to Delphine, smiling all the while. Told Delphine I’d found her a new recruit for her little dragon hunting gang of Blades. I could feel Lydia’s stunned stare, the hurt and betrayal in her eyes. Still smiling that same cruel smile, I turned to her and made her swear an oath to the Blades. A pledge to serve the order until she died. A pledge she had to make because I had told her to, and she was sworn to my service. I looked her in the eye, and on my face she could read the truth. The Blades might claim to be dragon fighters, but they never left their sacred little temple. And then I turned and walked out of the temple, leaving Lydia alone with Delphine in the nunnery I’d banished her to.

Nobody fucks with the Dragonborn’s rep. Not even Lydia.

Anyway, my story is nowhere near as funny as this one.

…And nowhere near as disturbing as my friend Ronnie’s. He kept referring to Lydia as his wife and taking her everywhere… until he found out he could actually get married in the game. A few days later, he came in claiming he’d accidentally killed Lydia in the middle of a civil war quest. It was almost believable (those are some big battles and Lydia has a habit of running in front of your sword like it’s her job), but the timing was too good. I called him out on it, but he fervently denied my accusations that he’d murdered Lydia so that he could run off and marry that bloke in Windhelm. For two weeks, he said it was an accident. And for two weeks, I called him a liar.

Finally, in the middle of work one day, he came up to me and said he couldn’t lie any longer. The truth had to come out. He had viciously murdered Lydia so he could be with Caldur. But he still respected Lydia and didn’t want her to be alone in death. So, he dragged her body to a nearby burnt-out shack and made her spoon with the burnt corpse in the house.

What can I say? We’ve all got our Lydia stories.

Not a Single Fuck Was Given This Day

A Skyrimjob or How I Learned to Stop Whining and Love Tamriel

Okay, Bethesda. You win. I will buy Skyrim.

For those of you who have been privy to my gamer crisis of the last few weeks, I have been extremely torn in regards to the latest Elder Scrolls title. Now, the gaming community has been all atwitter for months in preparation for the release. And really, when you watch the trailers… can you blame them?

I mean, that’s pretty fucking badass right there. The game looks gorgeous, it’s a high fantasy sandbox, you get to kill motherfucking dragons and steal their souls… What’s not to like?

Indeed, it seems like exactly my kind of game, the kind of game I can develop an unhealthy obsession with (much like my sordid, tumultuous affair with WoW). But, when all my Skyrim-seduced acquaintances would approach me, starry-eyed and swooning over Bethesda’s latest darling, I looked them straight in the eye and told them I had no intention of playing it.

O, my precious gamer cred, how quickly you were stripped from me with the admittance of my aversion to Skyrim.

In order to understand, we’re going to have to go back a few years.

***

My first encounter with an Elder Scrolls title was Morrowind, probably two years after it was released. My younger brother owned an Xbox (not the 360- told you we had to go back), and the two of us were in the habit of hitting the GameStop every two months or so (about how frequently we’d travel the two hours up into Montana to the nearest such store) to turn in old titles and buy new ones. On this particular trip, I was the one who picked up Morrowind, though I ended up talking him into buying it. Because I’m crafty like that.

And so, we take it and a few other games home. He played some of his other acquisitions, while I waited for the console to free up. When it finally did, I settled in to try it out.

After about an hour of frustration, I gave up. It was clunky and ugly and boring. I kept dying, I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to be doing, and it was giving me a tension headache.

I never went back to it. On the next trip to Montana, Morrowind found its way back to the GameStop.

So, a few years pass, and it’s my freshman year of college. For Christmas, my brother gets me a copy of the latest Elder Scrolls title- Oblivion. Much like with Morrowind, I was intrigued by the description, though I was a bit warier this go round. After all, I’d been burned before by this series.

And, after completing about the first quarter of the main questline, I felt cheated again. What do people see in these games? I wondered. They keep getting accolades, praised by gamers far and wide. To me, they seemed like the worst fantasy titles I’d ever tried (at the time, my favorite classic high fantasy series was the Baldur’s Gate: Dark Alliance games¹). Movement and combat seemed awkward, the controller layout made little to no sense, and the expansive world was just exhausting. I died a lot, kept accidentally killing civilians who walked in front of my sword, and wasn’t leveling up. I didn’t see the point in continuing to waste my time with a game I wasn’t really enjoying.

So, once again, I put an Elder Scrolls title aside.

It was a few short months later that I first ventured into Azeroth as well, though my first attempt at playing WoW ended just like Oblivion– after reaching a mere level 19 (which, for those of you who have blessedly never thrown your money at that particular Blizzard death-trap, is incredibly easy), I threw in the towel. It just wasn’t fun, all these silly little quests and boring experience gathering.

Eventually, I got completely immersed in other games. Mass Effect. BioShock. Fable (I know it’s terrible, but I still enjoy it). Portal. Twilight Princess. You know, the games you all know me for.

And along came Fallout 3.

It sucked me in with its post-apocalyptic setting, to be honest. And with a few more years of GTA under my belt, I was starting to develop a stronger appreciation for sandbox-type games. And so it was that I was broken, that I embraced the sandbox game with open arms. Because Fallout 3 was glorious. And still later, I found myself sinking hours and hours of my life into Red Dead Redemption, another kickass Rockstar sandbox.

Maybe it was because of this that I found myself buying a cheap copy of Oblivion again (my first having been lost in the Great Theft of ’08) last year, almost unconsciously. A game which then sat among my game collection, gathering dust, as I continued to not play it.

Which brings us back to Skyrim.

***

I can’t escape Skyrim talk. At work. In class. On the internet (my Twitter feed is full of geeks and my Stumble preferences all-but-demand that I’m sent page after page of Skyrim news and humor). Hell, I went to a goddamn bar last weekend and the people at the next table were talking about the game.

And all this time, I’ve been stubbornly stating that I won’t buy it and I won’t play it. Because I just knew that, despite how amazing it looks and sounds, I’d end up hating it. I mean, I had to. I’d already been disappointed by Morrowind and Oblivion.

Right?

Finding myself done with everything for the semester, I went to select a game. I reached for Dragon Age… but found myself hesitating. Oblivion was right there. And it had been years since I’d last played it. In that moment, the full weight of those years hit me. The way I’d finally come to embrace sandbox titles. The borderline disgusting fixation with WoW. I realized that I just might be depriving myself of a game series I could really enjoy.

That was two days ago.

I can’t stop playing.

It’s like WoW, but without all the asshole players.

I. Am. So. Fucked.

***

So, there you have it.

I take it all back, Bethesda. I take back everything I said. I mean, I still think the gameplay can be a bit awkward and the tutorials really suck in some places (I mean, what the fuck is with the Persuasion minigame? Was there no way to make the description of it clear to the reader? Or, better yet, was there no way to put a better fucking minigame in there?), but I’m able to ignore all of that because it’s so addicting.

I give up. I give in. Somebody hand me a copy of Skyrim. I am defeated.

All I want is to become a badass Viking, much like this guy (who I just imagine is Skwisgaar, because he would go through a game punching everything to death):

1 I couldn’t remember which branch of the Baldur’s Gate games I played, so I had to look them up… which led to the wholly amusing realization that they were made by BioWare. Seems I’ve been a BioWare fangirl for much longer than I realized.

Blonde Moment

…Posting this is actually pretty embarrassing, dear galleons. However, seeing as I tend to share my idiocy with others on a regular basis, I figure I might as well share this gem.

I actually think my constant self-deprecation is a function of my extreme narcissism. Because I even find my stupidity awesome.

Yesterday, Karla 3.0 died a spectacular death, if having what amounts to an epileptic seizure and then just giving the fuck up can be considered spectacular. After leaving the bar last night and climbing into my car, I plugged her in and tried to turn her on. She started quickly and violently flashing between a black screen and the regular start-up Apple screen. She would do nothing else.

Upon returning home, I plugged her in, hoping that would stop her from being a massive cunt. I noticed that Ghiert wasn’t registering Karla’s presence, but I had company all night and couldn’t spend the time cussing at my technology and trying to fix her.

In the end, there was nothing I could do for Karla, anyway. She had been giving me signs for weeks heralding her coming demise. I had just been hoping I’d have more time.

So, I find myself sans iPod. Which is a fucking travesty, to be sure.

And now we get to the moment of sheer, fuck-all amentia.

I wake up yesterday, still in mourning, sadly contemplating the coming silent drives to work and class. After a few seconds, I realize that I could burn a CD, seeing as (for once) I have blank CDs in my possession.

Thank god for my bizarre habit of making mix CDs, I think to myself. Wandering into the bedroom, I grab the stack…

Only to remember that my car is too old to have a CD player. And I don’t own a Discman or the adapter for the Borgia’s cassette player, so my CD plan was out.

Groaning, I trudge back to my couch to watch Doctor Who. I am dreading the drives in silence.

What am I going to do?

I am going to die, that’s what.

I start to get really emo.

There may have been tears.

I’m an amorphous blob of sadness, squelching my way to the bathroom and back.

Even the Doctor’s latest adventure is failing to cheer me up.

I become aware of how pathetic I am.

I don’t care.

I need my music.

…

…

And then it finally hits me:

My car has a fucking radio.

O RLY?

You don’t get more blonde than that.

Chapter 14: Touch

Galleons, some days I think I should come with a User’s Manual. And if such a magical tome existed, today’s post would be a very important chapter indeed (particularly because I get uncomfortable trying to explain this to people IRL, so it would be insanely useful if they could just read a quick bit and know the depths of my crazy)- the chapter detailing my deep-seated issues with physical human contact.

Yeah, make some popcorn- this is gonna be good.

***

As an infant, I wasn’t particularly fussy about being cuddled and carried about as folks are wont to do with their squishy, squally larvae. I was perfectly ordinary, falling asleep in my mother’s arms as she rocked me in the old wooden rocking chair she still sentimentally refuses to throw out. People petted, squeezed, stroked, patted, and snuggled me. And, from what I’ve been told, I reacted precisely as any normal baby does.

Around four or so, however, I apparently became increasingly fussy about who touched me, when, and why. So much so that, for basically the entirety of my fifth year of life, I flat-out refused to let anyone touch me. At all. I bathed myself, dressed myself, brushed my own hair. I hugged no one, I kissed no one. I used to play a game of duck-and-weave at family functions where my boisterous, affectionate relatives (who, despite being repeatedly told not to fucking touch me, always tried to violate my rules) would amble in for a wet peck on the cheek or an entrapment hug.

But it wasn’t just that- it was avoiding even brushing another person when walking past (which, considering my klutzy nature and crap depth perception, means keeping a rather sizable distance between myself and all other people) or when playing at recess.

I can’t tell you why this happened. I’ve thought about it and thought about it, I’ve talked about it with my parents and my old therapist… nobody can really puzzle out what prompted this desired cessation of touch. I do experience some hypersensitivity, though at this point it’s hard to tell if that’s developed from my habit of avoidance or if it was what prompted it in the first place.

Suffice to say, there’s this odd fissure in my childhood, so early that I can’t really remember much before it. Everything about me being a normal, cuddly baby has been related to me over the years, when I’ve attempted to discuss this with my parents. It’s not an easy subject for them, and my own awkwardness doesn’t help the situation, so what I’ve gathered is from a series of start-and-stop conversations, often ending with my mother snapping at me and telling me to drop it.

And I understand why she reacts that way- I hurt her (I hurt them both, to be honest, but I think my father has chosen to just let the past be- he’s easygoing like that). That complete rejection of her physical displays of love is a wound I will never be able to make up for. She will carry that strange scar with her for the rest of her life, and I will never stop feeling guilty for giving it to her.

Even though I don’t understand why I did it.

***

It might surprise you to know that my parents never had me tested for autism.

The school apparently suggested it, but my parents (both harboring a strong aversion to going to see a doctor unless it was unavoidable) refused. And, objectively speaking, there really wasn’t a strong case going for autism. Beyond my sudden, baffling exile from the world of touch, I was a perfectly well-adjusted child. I had a lot of friends, I did very well in school, I loved climbing trees and playing in the dirt and rollerskating. I read like mad and threw Legos at my brother’s face when he blamed me for things (they always believed him, because he was the baby) and picked plums that grew over our fence from the neighbor’s yard and chattered all the time, to anyone who was listening (and anyone who wasn’t, to be honest), claiming I had all these words in my mouth and they just had to come out.

I was so disgustingly normal that one aberration (however bizarre and large it might have been) wasn’t really enough for my folks to believe there was something wrong with me on a neurological level. They might not like it, but it was “a phase I was going through.”

They were both right and profoundly wrong, all at once.

***

I did eventually lift my ban on touching, but that year left its mark. I carry my own scars from it, scars I’m going to show to you now like a 12-year-old boy on the bus while on a school field trip (I always won those contests, not for my scars, but for the fact that I’m hypermobile in many joints).

In fact, the years since have been a slow, uphill struggle to try to learn what comes so naturally to most people. Hugging. A pat on the arm. A playful poke. A reassuring squeeze of the hand. Hell, holding someone’s hand. And it’s really a vicious cycle, because the less you touch others (and the more you kind of flinch away when they try to touch you), the less they eventually reach out to you. And the less receptive they are to you touching them. Which makes me want to attempt this whole touch nonsense less, which makes them touch me less… You see where I’m going with this.

So, maybe the easiest way to go about this is to outline the rules.

***

1. If we’ve just met, the most you are allowed is a handshake. I don’t see what’s so out-of-line about this one. I don’t know you. I don’t want to be groped by you. It’s simple. I don’t want you to pat me on the arm or clap a hand on my shoulder or anything like that. I just met you. All you get to touch is the palm of my hand, for the length of a simple, assertive handshake (and woe be unto you if you try to give me some of that limp-wristed, no-grip bullshit- I judge a person hard based on that initial handshake, so man up and shake it like you mean it). And then you cease contact with my person.

2. I will give obligatory hugs when it seems socially required. I will not enjoy them, and receipt of such a hug is not permission to hug me at any point in the future. When it comes to touching, there are moments when people with a certain degree of intimacy (i.e. “friends”- the quotes are needed because my definition of friends and the rest of the world’s seem to be very different) are almost contractually obliged to embrace. In celebration of a performance or achievement, for example. And so, I try to honor these contracts I unwittingly signed by associating with people and hug them when it seems appropriate. But this is not the Berlin Wall falling, folks. After this moment, you are not invited to hug me whenever the mood strikes you. We will not hug in greeting. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you just didn’t bring your body within 5 inches of mine.

3. Breaking Rules 1 or 2 will result in me noticeably flinching away from the contact, as well as garnering my immense displeasure. On a good day, I’ll let one infraction slide. On a bad day, you’re immediately on my shit list. I’m going to pop away from you as if you’ve burned me, or I will wriggle in the embrace like a small animal in a snare. There will be glaring, threats will be issued. And I’m really not kidding here, despite what you may think. I don’t fucking want you to touch me, so stop. It’s basically the ultimate violation for me, the one way a person can make me feel really uncomfortable. I will not forgive you for it for quite some time (if ever, depending on the situation).

4. If I have made an overture to touch you in a manner beyond the aforementioned obligatory hug, it means I care about you. This rule is my most important, simply because it is the point when I open myself up to touch from people in an honest way. I warn you, me touching you will probably seem awkward (it always does for me). It may even seem unintentional, like a casual brush against your arm as we’re walking somewhere. But if I’ve tried, in any way, from a hand on the arm to brushing back your hair, I’m really attempting to convey that you mean something to me. You have become a member of my innermost circle. This rule is hard in that you can’t just tell people this- you just have to hope they understand. The harder I try, the more you mean. It’s that simple. And it means I am open to reciprocation. In fact, I want it. I just don’t know how to convey that.

5. Don’t be put off if I accidentally flinch away from you if you have been cleared for contact. Just because you are an intimate friend does not mean I won’t, from time to time, balk at physical contact. It’s not because I’m mad at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just a knee-jerk reaction if you catch me by surprise, and I always feel bad for doing it. It’s what I’m trying to train out, so just bear with me, yeah?

6. If we’re having the sex, it’s all systems go. If you’ve managed to make it through the obstacle course of my crazy and have ended up here, first of all, kudos. Second, there are no touch barriers for you anymore. When it comes to sex, I like touching. I like touching a lot. And, as I stated, I’m a bit hypersensitive to touch. A simple hand on the arm can burn on my skin for minutes after the person has left, the sensation sticking with me and distracting me. Now imagine how intense touch can be for me when aroused, when the body already heightens its awareness and sensation. If I’m doing the sex (seriously, love that phrasing) with a boy, my hands are going to be all over him, and I want the same in return. None of that fussy, restrained nonsense. I don’t do restrained in bed, and it’s certainly not what I’m looking for in a partner.

***

I mean, it’s really not hard- it’s a progression. The better I get to know you, the more I trust you, and the more acceptable it is to touch me.

Sadly, it’s hard for people to transition as they move up in my regard, simply because they’ve learned that I don’t like to be touched, so they won’t touch me. What people fail to realize is that my stringent “no touching” policy slackens as we become closer. And this is where I get upset and frustrated, because I don’t know how to tell them. I’ve tried flat-out saying it, but that’s awkward and doesn’t often work. And, much as I try to reach out to them, it’s even more awkward and tends to seem forced and silly.

I wish people could crawl inside my skin for a few days and see what it feels like to be my particular breed of crazy. It’s this constant tug-of-war between the yearning for human touch and aversion to it. It’s maddening. It’s this puzzle I only have half the pieces for and have to do in the dark.

So, I’m sorry if I make you frustrated or confused or uncomfortable when I try to reach out to you. I’m sorry I’m awkward. I’m sorry something so normal is so goddamn hard for me.

Honestly- I’m sorry.

But if I don’t know you, seriously, don’t you fucking touch me.

Want

Volo vos.

Volo basio vos.

Volo gusto vos.

Volo audire vos dico meus nomen.

Infatuation: An Inner Monologue

Galleons, when it comes to comedy, I’ve always been… a bit picky in my choice of films, books, and stand-up. Your basic, mainstream, gag-heavy, fart powered, gross-out laden, dick-joke run media aren’t going to cut it for me.

Okay, well, I do like the odd dick joke.

For the most part, though, I like my humor clever. I like it sharp and well-written, dark, a bit zany, sexy, and smart. There’s usually more subtlety than in your average summer comedy. I love British humor because it employs, on the whole, writing teams with a stronger regard for the relative intelligence of their viewers.

When it comes to books, I don’t tend to read much in the humor genre. It’s hard for me to find something honestly hilarious, something not trite and so dumbed-down that I feel insulted reading it. As such, while my bookcases overflow with poignant fiction, poetry, and popular science, there are few books nestled in there that one could classify as “humor.”

Yes, I am a pretentious twat.

I say this so that you understand that when I recommend a book based on its humor value, I don’t do so lightly. As far as actual novels go (not counting the writings of the few comedians I enjoy), there are only 5 or so that I have found breath-stealingly hilarious. And two of these books are by the same author: Max Barry.

Barry’s writing is devastatingly addicting, sharp, and wickedly funny. I cannot help but giggle aloud when reading his stuff. Of particular note is Syrup, a witty satire on marketing and corporate America (considering I find the morally malleable advertising game dead interesting, this is kind of spot-on my taste). I could rave all day about this book (and have, to many people), but instead, I’ll just suggest you go read it. It’s a lightning fast read, and you won’t be disappointed.

I bring it up now because I’ve been rereading it and felt the need to share the creative, honest, adorably stupid, and amusing descriptors of 6, the lady Scat¹ (our main character) is infatuated with. Mostly because I find them so damn relatable- if you could pop into my head when I’m around the guy I like, my inner monologue basically sounds like this:

The New Products Marketing Manager enters the room and I am stunned. I am flabbergasted. I want to grab her, fling her across the table and make love to her. For whole seconds I can do nothing but stare.

***

“Bear my child, you great goddess of a woman,” I say, although by then she has hung up.

***

Reminders: dark eyes, lips like a rubber dinghy.

***

6’s deadly eyebrows sharpen into a frown. I’m sure that if she turned these weapons onto whoever knifed her, she could slice him into little pieces.²

***

She picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” Her voice is like honey smeared across velvet pajamas.

***

Before I can recover, 6 is in my face, holding me by my lapels. Despite myself, I’m stunned by her proximity. I’m undone by the spice of her breath.

She kisses me. Hard. Fast. Devastating. 6 breaks away, and I gasp for air. White spots come over and peer into my eyes to make sure I’m okay. My nerves leap around, saying, “What the fuck was that?” and for a second I’m sure 6 has taken the opportunity to punch me hard in the guts.

***

She arches an eyebrow. I’ve noticed that 6 is very egalitarian with her eyebrows: sometimes the left gets to arch, sometimes the right.³

***

I reach out and take one of 6’s hands. They are warm and smooth and suddenly I have to fight a strong and very stupid urge to lick one.⁴

***

6 rises from her chair like she’s in slow motion, rises until she is inches from my face. Her intoxicating scent washes over me, and  for a moment the office tips dangerously.

“Scat,” she says, and her lips are curving into a genuine, authentic smile. It is shocking, stunning. “Sometimes, you-” She stops, licks her lips. I am leaning into them, helpless to stop myself. “You surprise me,” 6 says softly.

I’ll tell you exactly what’s required at this precise moment: a raised eyebrow. That’s what I need to do. A sardonically raised eyebrow has a good chance of progressing to a brushing of lips, and that could lead to my hand reaching into that dark hair and pulling her close. And after that, there could be all kinds of acts that presently defy imagination but I’m sure will be nice.

***

She is dressed formally, I am pretty sure, and I think her hair is still the gorgeous dark waterfall it was six months ago. Her shoes are probably black and high, and there could be some kind of handbag slung around her shoulder. But I can’t tell for sure, because I can’t take my eyes off her face.

“Scat,” she says, and I never knew my name sounded so good.

“6,” I say. This relieves me greatly, because for a few moments the tiny part of my brain still functioning was leaping headlong into Marry me. Not such a good opening line, that. A touch too intense.

***

I’m not completely sure how I feel about 6. And even if I was, I have no idea what I’d do about it. I mean, sure, she’s intriguing, gorgeous and treats me like shit, but despite these attractive qualities I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship based on manipulation.

***

I open my mouth to send back a sizzling rejoinder, which will no doubt inflame 6 even further and maybe our passions will rise so much that I’ll even grab her and just kiss her hard, but then I realize that 6’s idea actually makes sense.

***

Silence. I count to a hundred, concentrating on breathing steadily. I’m up to eighty-six when 6 rolls over and something flops down onto my chest.

I look up but can’t see anything except her sheet of hair. I carefully lift up the blanket and peer under it to see that, amazingly, 6’s arm is resting on my chest. One immaculate hand extends from Tina’s blue satin top and rests, black nails and all, on my chest.

I wait for a minute, hoping that maybe this is some clever seduction ploy, then I carefully rest my left arm on top of 6’s.

No reaction. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.

It takes me half an hour to pick up enough courage to intertwine my fingers with 6’s, and when I do, it feels like heaven. I can’t understand how it can feel so good to just hold her hand.

I lie like that in the darkness for two hours, and by the time I fall asleep I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her again.

***

“Oh.” I’m about to add something noncommittal when 6 nudges me. I am leaning in for an embrace before I realize she’s just trying to get my attention.

***

I’m annoyed with 6. Now, I know I have a long tradition of being wrong, but here I’m fairly sure I’m right. If 6’s behavior doesn’t qualify as mixed signals, I’m giving up on relationships.

***

Like a brush from angel wings, I feel the unmistakeable contact of 6’s lips on mine.

At this point, I’m very, very lucky.

You see, my reaction is instinctive. The kiss is so unexpected that I have no chance of controlling my body’s response. A few of the less appealing possibilities include snorting, gasping, and sitting bolt upright and screaming.

Fortunately, I do none of these. Instead, my entire body, maybe figuring that this display of affection from 6 must be a dream, shuts down. I don’t freeze, I relax. I’ve never felt so relaxed in my life. It’s like her lips have drugged me.

***

By the time we get home, it’s eleven o’clock and we’re both tanked. In the bathroom, I boldly peck 6 on the cheek and she glances at me in a way that I could swear is affectionate. When we go to bed, she lets one forearm dangle off the sofa so that her fingers graze my arm but acts like she doesn’t know she’s doing it, and I could believe that this is the best night of my life.

***

“I want you to know that I’m cool with your mixed signals,” I say. “In fact, I’m kind of getting used to it. So don’t worry. I can take it.”

6 is silent.

“I love you.” It’s a little risky, but it comes out okay: casual but sincere. I leave a pause, just in case 6 is inspired to do some declaring of her own, but to tell the truth, I’m never very hopeful.

***

The skies have opened up and 6, standing on the street in her red pajamas, is soaked through. She peers through the glass door at me, her hair hanging in thick, bedraggled locks, and she is absolutely gorgeous. She’s not wearing makeup, her hair is a disaster and she isn’t dressed, and she’s just beautiful.

***

I blink, but someone bumps into me from behind. I turn and it’s 6. “Hello,” she says.

“Hi!” Suddenly she’s here and I have no idea what to do.

1 Yes, their names are 6 and Scat. They are in marketing, with “potential employers who had names like Fysh, Siimon, and Onion.” So, they both selected “wacky, zany, top-of-mind names” because they sounded “fast-track.” Just roll with it- it’s part of the slick, hip, strange world of marketing Barry throws you into in this book.

2 There’s a rather hilarious obsession with 6’s eyebrows present throughout the book. In her first description, she is mentioned as having eyebrows that  could “cut steel.” While I have said in the past that I’m not a fan of authors wantonly bandying about the powers of delicate eyebrow manipulation, this is a rare case where it fits the character perfectly. 6 is all about marketing herself, and she would absolutely have spent the requisite time in front of a bathroom mirror teaching herself how to use her eyebrows to their fullest potential. It raises her ‘cool’ factor, making her impressive, memorable, and effective in her chosen field.

3. Told you.

4. Fun Fact (that I most certainly should not be telling you because it will come back to bite me in the ass): Back when the object of my affection had mutton chops (so early in our acquaintance, that), I used to get the sudden urge to lick him from the tip of his chin on up to his entirely-too-enticing lips.

Eye Candy: Musician Edition

I am in lust, dear galleons.

With Dane Poppin of A Static Lullaby:

He’s beautiful. He’s a musician. And he has a glorious beard.

I swear, my lady bits are all a-tingle right now.

R.J. introduced me to this song, and we listen to it all the time at work… but I just saw the video today. And there Mr. Poppin is, black leather jacket and all (I’m even digging the serious emo swoop he’s rockin’):