Hey guys! I heard of this thing* called flickr! It’s this place where … where things* like … like where you … Oh MAN this is hard* to explain.
Anyways, I got to sign up FOR FREE !!! After getting over* the fear thing*, I thought I’d share myself* a little more with you. Not that you asked*.
Location here*. (There’s not much* unless you’re a contact*.)
*twss
**didn’t say
I just had this strange thought that I might be That Guy, you know—the one at work who is exceptionally odd, like the semi-retarded man with Coke-bottle glasses who empties your garbage bin while later in the day the real cleaner comes by and does it all again for a higher wage. But I’m not semi-retarded, or at least I don’t think I am, and therein lies the problem. I mean, I allegedly did well in high-school and university, and now and then I get praise for the quality of my work, but how real is it? If I was That Guy, aka Quota Guy, wouldn’t the people around me treat me like I was normal, then later talk about me behind my back? I would never know what people really thought of me. AND, I tend to live in a vacuum, which means that esteeming myself as a high-functioning human being is irrelevant.
I need unequivocal validation, like a tattoo from Oprah saying “100% pure normal”, though I know I’m nowhere near 100%. Maybe a better stamp would be “Certified 10th percentile or greater!”
In the meantime, I’ll be going back to work, doing stuff on the computer and thinking that everyone around me is stupid. But I have this nasty feeling that all I’m doing is clicking and dragging pretty colours while everyone looks on in silence thinking, “Poor guy. What’s it like to be him?”. Then I’ll go home and sing to my kids with lyrics that I make up because I can’t properly remember any of the original ones.
Sigh.
Hello Scott. Hello friends. What do you want Oprah to tell you?
I like to fall asleep with my fat (don’t say it!) orange cat resting her chin on my arm. Usually, this is after I’ve caulked my wrist in some uncomfortable way to provide her the perfect scratch and rub. It’s a sacrifice I am willing to make, this discomfort, one I would likely waive for a fellow human BECAUSE HUMAN’S DON’T PURR! There was a time however when some humans did, ten or twenty years ago—I’ve lost count—and I think that maybe this is my sideways attempt at making a point.
I dreamt (again!) that I was newly smitten with a girl, and that we were enjoying sloppy kisses while holding one another in complete comfort, and I think that maybe this is another sideways attempt at making a point.
Maybe I’m the cat and too many times I find myself running from the ringing clang of the pot lid that seems to land so close beside me every day of my life. In my opinion, the human in charge of reheating yesterday’s leftovers should focus a little less on doing it as swiftly as possible and a little more on considering how the cat might feel. But what do I know? I’m the one who licks his own ass.
Typographically, a point is the easiest thing to make. I, however, am not a typographer.
Hello, friends. Hello, Scott. What makes you purr?
I was thinking. I do this a lot. I was thinking, and then I spoke my thoughts, but I spoke my thoughts to the wrong audience, said audience being my wife who shares different interests from me. I say wrong audience because it was not an audience that responded with more than a hm before readily letting itself be distracted by children and shiny things, two things which are mutually exclusive for the record. Unless butter is involved. I love butter. #thingsaboutme
I suck at introductory paragraphs, but this is The Shed where suck is my namesake. (I am presently reading The Namesake.) #morethingsaboutme
I’ve been thinking about perception a lot. My son has been diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder. It’s no big deal in my mind. He is who he is, which is a bundle of energy, sometimes sensitive and fascinating, sometimes a pain in the ass. He also peceives things differently from you and me. (First mistake: assuming anything about you. I make this every day.) Touch is more intense for him, and therefore overwhelming. Sometimes it’s less intense, and he craves a supplement. He’s a gum chewer because yay! gum!, but alse because it sets him at ease. Same thing with smells. Now bring him into a crowded room full of extended family or strangers. He is slammed with tactile and olfactory stimulation, and as a result seeks a better place. Sometimes the place is a quiet room. Sometimes it’s my leg. He’s not a rude child, and he’s not antisocial. That’s my expertise. Fuck you. #morethingsaboutme
What I’ve really been thinking is that we all perceive the world differently. This has nothing to do with upbringing and how much baggage we carry. I’m talking about the discussion we all had as children (I’m assuming again) which goes like this:
“What if when you see blue, you see red compared to me?”
“But I see blue when I see blue.”
“Yes, but what if — what if my mind could see what you’re seeing?”
“I see blue.”
“You name it blue, but you don’t know that it’s the same colour that I see.”
“But it’s blue.”
I’ve always had trouble finding the right audience. #morethingsaboutme
Of course, there are rods and cones and scientists and pigments and filters which reduce this childhood wonder to a set of equations. But some kids (not mine) can’t write on white paper because the blank brightness is overwhelming. Give them a pale blue, and they’re good to go. Some kids have a “special spot” which, if tickled, render me the kid completely powerless. So why is it that some people can’t even be tickled. We all taste differently; there is no doubt about that. (I mean taste as in sense flavour, not as in taste yummy yummy good.) (Though I imagine we all do taste differently yummy yummy good and otherwise.) And blah blah blah, think of your senses and write an essay tonight on how people perceive differently. I expect two rolls of parchment on this.
My point is: how could I possibly expect anyone to behave in any particular way when we are heaping a life full of experiences on top of the fundamental notion of perception which has just become, as I now see it, a string of variables unto itself. #mypoint
So. Next time I bitch about the hum of my fridge (and continue do to nothing whatsoever about it), go ahead and berate me for my laziness, but please, wrap your seed of disdain in a shroud of sympathy. You don’t hear what I hear. Meanwhile, I will consider that my burrito farts may not in fact smell like wintergreen (to you). #thisremindsmeIhaventhadaburritoinages
I’m going to continue thinking about this, audience or not—perception, burritos, everything. Hi.
