Me Robot, You Jane

I hear people just concluded celebrating some holiday the other day. I hear they dedicated a long weekend to remembering the public flogging and execution of a man with superpowers who then came back to life less than a week later in non-zombie form, leaving me to wonder why this hasn’t been adapted into several movies and video games where he goes after his oppressors for revenge. Why isn’t there Kill Barnabas Vol. 1& 2? Pontius Pilate Must Die? Zero Dark Three?Judastein: The New Order? Jews Must Die!? (HA-AAA-aaa…)

Instead, people choose to commemorate through singing and eating bread, and I will never understand people.

Take this other (non-genocidal) example. A few days ago, I was engaged in a back-and-forth with somebody who felt offended that I’d forgotten their birthday. If I knew what the fuss was all about, I’d apologize and get him a gift that isn’t a skirt, but I don’t, because why would I want to celebrate a day where, under severe duress, strangers drugged my mother, cut her open, violently yanked a blood-covered me out and presumably slapped me on the keister (sick perverts) just to make me cry?

Why, psychopath, why?

Then there’s the thing where people bid each other goodbye, which I have been unable to learn despite all my encounters. (People just walk in and out of my life, always taking with them a piece of my soul, oh, my soul.) I once sat in a room with a friend of mine warming up to the realization that after that day, I wouldn’t see them again for months. As we were eating all her cereal, singing songs about snow and generally trying to savor every last second, her father finally came to pick her up when she had the very bright idea that I should meet him while my eyes were redder than Valentine’s Day at John Legend’s house. Twenty minutes later, I was standing face-to-face with the father, and he was looking at me, probably wondering if my friendship with his daughter was part of some elaborate prank. Since he was staring at me so much, I could not say goodbye to the daughter in the conventional way – because hugging a man’s daughter in front of him is all the provocation he needs to run me over with his car, and I doubt my insides would survivegetting pinned under 1.8 tonnes of angry white SUV filled with heavy suitcases– so I did what any rational person would do: Fist-bumped her and got as far away as possible from all tarmacked surfaces. On this day, I am proud to announce that my pancreas remains intact and not flattened with tread marks on it.

Speaking of which, it always gets worse when families come into the picture. Sometimes, I find myself having spontaneous meetings with my friends’ families, and it goes about as well as you’d expect. Mothers seem worried that their children are running with the wrong crowd because they’re convincedI have the hair of a person who’s aching to be back in jail by next Tuesday. The fathers usually have the sort of demeanor that’s either supposed to say “I would break you in half to protect my family” or “Walk away now if your plans with my daughter don’t involve poetry, a Masters and wedding rings” where applicable. Siblings are usually more lenient, although they habitually shoot me a smirk that seems to accuse me of being the type of person that cries after a round of groin-sparring with my lover, which is untrue. (I prefer to cuddle and talk about my feelings, thank you very much.) Things always seem to go horribly wrong whenever there’s dinner involved, whereupon I’m required to give a prior alert of impending chaos to my hosts that sounds something like “Yes, I am aware that your approval of my relationship with your child depends on the impression I make here today, but this is some very good wine and this is a very large glass and that is a very lovely rug that I will puke on later”, but they don’t seem to appreciate the warning for what it is; they think it’s a joke. I never joke. You see, words like “etiquette” and “courtesy” don’t mean anything to me, because I REFUSE to conform to societal norms and also I do not read so I came across both those words for the very first time just a few hours ago.

I hope now someone can understand why sometimes I wish I were a comet so that the only time I’d have to deal with people was when they were marveling at me from very far away, too slow to catch up and invade my personal space. I’d make exceptions but honestly, the ceaseless search for someone to hold and sing to me while I cry is exhausting.

PS Mama Roselyn, I’m sorry about your rug.

 

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