To my fault, I approach most social situations with a degree of clumsiness, none more so than introductions.
I usually begin them with a surreal aside (often smutty and unprompted) and my victims conclude them with laughter – the kind that comes with one of those toothy grimaces and a quirked eyebrow.
Before I have time to explain myself the moment passes and we part ways, leaving me in the aftermath of my mishap. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable talking to people – the opposite in fact.
The problem is being too comfortable, being too familiar. Perhaps it stems from a reflexive need to fill silence with something other than involuntary shouting (which is far more offensive) or a desire to purge my inner ruminations like a sneeze. I’ve not really thought about it.
Whatever the reason, it’s fair to say people don’t like being sneezed on. There’s a time and a place. So, a column right? That’s appropriate. I’ll start a column.
Starting a column is like starting a diary, except you’re more honest about wanting people to read it. With a diary there is a pretense of secrecy crucial in creating that coveted space where you can express your innermost thoughts, unedited and uninhibited.
The lack of censorship enables freedom to truly express yourself, to expound the profundity of your hidden depths. You read back on your entries feeling accomplished, like you’ve captured something – the ripe redness of the setting sun, the feeling of loneliness – to the point where it drives you to an obsessive desire to entomb every moment and thought because you’re sure, secretive as you are, one day someone is bound to find it whilst cleaning out your room and, upon slyly reading it, be so staggered by the lost brilliance of your underappreciated mind that they will publish it, posthumously.
The subsequent royalties will secure your family for generations (especially after the film rights have been bought by a major studio); scholars will revere and champion it as an eloquent voice of a by-gone age. The tremours of your legacy will be felt long after you’ve faded away underground. You will have immortalized yourself in the face of obscurity; you will live on forever.
I kept a diary once. I wrote about girls. My most astounding revelation was:
“Home is where your pet is.” Unsurprisingly, it was a painful and brief fad because realising that my inner depths were as shallow as a finger bowl was a truth too brutal to bear. After erring dangerously close to Bridget Jones territory, I decided that I wasn’t ready to acknowledge my own mundanity or accept that the majority of my brain is taken up by breasts (others, not my own). I scratched through all previous entries and used the remaining pages for series of doodles about a penguin with aspirations of being a concert pianist. Diary writing and I had resolutely parted ways.
However, upon being offered the opportunity to write a column for Pinkwire I took it without a second thought. Flattered yet clueless, I somehow rationalized that it was completely different from diary writing and anyway, I had grown up and done things – exciting things. Of course people would love to read about my daily gripes and my sexual misadventures, taking enjoyment from the awkward wriggling of my everyday existence. Of course. We’re increasingly nearing the retirement of Big Brother from our screens; something will have to fill the void. Me, I could fill that void. Me.
So brace yourself. I’ve what you’ve been waiting for. Are you ready for what’s coming? Because I’ve got a funny feeling (and it isn’t indigestion); it could be all downhill from here…
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