12th
Seven Things (you [probably] don't know about me)
I was tagged by @Jessabelle2o7 and indirectly by @zolora (who tagged, um, everyone in general). So here it goes. This turned out longer than expected… here are (roughly) seven things you don’t know about me.
1) I have been 100% sober for 29 years.
That’s right, my entire life. I’ve never had more than a sip of beer; my dad probably gave me a taste of whisky when I was a kid; I’ll sip on a glass of white wine or champagne at a wedding or extra special occasion, but that’s about it. And nevermind smoking or any sort of illicit drugs. (Though, surely I’ve spent enough time locked in cars and enclosed rooms while my friends enjoyed any of a large variety of substances. I know that there must have been times that I unintentionally buzzed a good contact high. And there was all that post-wisdom-teeth Vicodin that I enjoyed - and missed dearly when it finally ran out.) I have no explanation for why I never got started, nor for why I haven’t started yet. In college I considered myself to be straight-edge, but I was never hardcore about it. I could never imagine myself being a big enough delinquent asshole to go around burning down liquor stores, but there were several years where I felt proud to wear an X on my hands when I would be out at a club rocking out to some band.
I feel as though this has defined much of my life to this point. It nearly destroyed many of my best friendships in college when I just couldn’t put up with friends who seemed to put getting wasted at the top of their list of priorities. It did destroy my first serious romantic relationship, as she spiraled into an unhealthy pit of drug and alcohol abuse that would eventually lead to some very dark times in her life (she’s since cleaned up). Additionally, one of my closest friends recently recovered himself from the depths of opiate addiction. To see him healthy and clean(enough) now makes me feel incredibly proud of him, not to mention lucky that he made it through without going fully supernova.
I’ve grown past judging other people. There was a time when I thought I’d keep this up forever. How wonderful, I thought, to be able to look my teenagers in the eye and not have to lie to them when they’d say “Oh come on dad! You know you used to do it too!” But, as I now have no intentions to produce children of my own (see bonus, below), that’s no longer a valid reason to not drink. If anything, my social anxiety (also see below) is what will finally lead me to the bottle, but I’m in no rush.
2) I still live at home, with my parents.
Yup. I’m 29 years old and I’ve lived in the same house the entire time. Go ahead, take your best shot. I’ve heard them all; they don’t even phase me anymore.
How did this happen? Well, I went to a college that was literally 5 minutes from my house, so living on campus would have been financially retarded. So, at the time when most kids move away and start their lives away from home, I stayed put. After graduation, my degree (K-12 Music Education) went to waste as I decided I hated teaching, and so I continued to live home while accruing 10 years of employment at a local golf course. Then I finally got a “real job”…yet home I stayed.
“Why the hell didn’t you just move out?!”
Honestly? There came a point where it made more sense to just stay home, put up with my parents, and save money. As you can imagine, living at home is significantly more affordable than renting (yes, I’m paying, but it’s not much.) Needless to say, I’ve saved a significant amount of money that will become a generous down-payment once I finally find a house (yes, I’m shopping… desperately shopping.)
Truthfully though, while there are often days and times when I feel like my life is falling apart due to a lack of personal space and personal time (I basically spend all my time in my tiny bedroom [FLICKR TOUR]), there are plenty of other moments when I feel incredibly grateful that I can be spending (mostly) quality time with my parents as they grow old (example 1, example 2). When I finally buy a house, it will be bittersweet, for sure.
3) I FUCKING ROCK.
Anyone who really knows me will vouch for the fact that I’m very modest, humble, and reserved. I rarely am one to make a scene or seek the spotlight, but I have to be honest with you… I fucking rock.
I’ve been playing guitar since I was 11. I can remember the first day my brother (13 years older than me) stuck a guitar in my hands and told me he was going to teach me to play. I resisted at first. I wanted to go watch TMNT or play with my Micro Machines, but he was stubborn, and that’s the thing I appreciate more than anything else in my life. I remember him playing me Golden Earing’s Radar Love and then passing me the guitar and teaching me how to play that bassline. Next thing you know we were working on the guitar part for The Lemon Song. I have no idea when it happened, but at some point it just clicked. THIS was what I wanted to do with my life. Playing guitar; making music; rocking the fuck out. To this day, not a single thing brings me more joy. Standing on stage and performing your own music for a roomful of strangers can be better than sex.
Most of the best days and nights of my life have revolved around my experience as a musician. In the grand scheme of things, our band (FMGreen) really only ever enjoyed a modicum of success on the local circuit. We played about 100 shows over the course of several years early in this decade, we released a full album (Yellow #5) and an EP (3 2 1 Go!). We weren’t the most polished. We weren’t the most graceful. We weren’t the best looking. But we. fucking. rocked. I only use the past tense when talking about FMGreen because we haven’t really been much of a band for the past two years since we lost our primary rehearsal space. Now we wait on me to buy a house, and then the rocking shall commence anew.
Am I the best guitarist in town? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But I’m very good, and I’m not afraid to admit it. There is nothing in my life that I am more proud of than the music I’ve written and the music I’ve made, and no one can take that away from me.
Ultimately, I can’t thank my brother enough for the gift that he gave me, and if my dying words are “Thank you, Sam.” then I’ll be dying happy.
4) I collect the little nuts from the ends of guitar strings.
Though I’ve never been diagnosed with OCD or ADHD… well…
I meticulously snip these from the ends of guitar and bass strings when I’m putting a new set on. Then I drop them into their respective container. One for colored nibs. One for bass nibs. One for silver nibs. One for gold nibs.
Oh shut up. You collect weird shit too.
5) I’m pretty self-conscious about the way that I talk.
I don’t know when it started to affect me, but within the past 10 years or so it’s become a major internal conflict. I’ve never really told anyone. I can’t really explain how I talk, nor why it’s so awkward.
I remember being shuffled off to speech therapy in elementary school. They’d bring me into some office and have me practice my “th” sounds and my “ch” sounds. I have a distinct memory that the speech pathologist had this little dollhouse that had a hole in the top. The hole had a black cloth bag attached and inside the bag were various cheap toys - you know, the kinds of things you might now find inside plastic bubbles in vending machines. She’d have me reach in there and pull something out, and then we’d practice saying the name of that which I had removed. “Chair. Chhhhaaair” “Thimble. Thhhhimbuuul.”
I don’t remember having a complex about talking in social situations in high school, or even in college. But at some point after college, it has become a problem for me. It’s not a lisp (for which I’m grateful), it’s like a dull mumble, sometimes a stutter here or there. It makes me feel a wee-bit retarded, as I’ll try to say something, but it will just come out garbled. I’m fairly certain this is one of the reasons I’ve become an internet addict. On the internet, no one has to hear you speak. I can type till my fingers fall off. Twitter is 140 characters of pure bliss.
Some words just consistently trip me up - “Saturday” and “literally” come to mind. My voice isn’t very loud and that just makes things worse, because no one can hear me, so I’m forced to repeat myself, and each repetition makes me more and more self-conscious. Often I just give up and keep my fucking mouth shut.
Worse still, it destroys me socially. There is severe anxiety involved with me being in a social situation, especially with strangers, and it’s multiplied exponentially if we’re in a loud environment such as a bar, a bowling alley, or a sporting event. My friends are great because they’ve never mentioned it and they seem to just put up with it. You can imagine how hard it can be for me to meet new people. Throw a beautiful girl into the mix and I may as well be a 2 year old drooling and muttering incoherent vowels sounds.
I should seek help, but it’s tough to find the motivation. A few more months of being painfully single will probably be enough to get me into a therapist.
6) I’m sensitive. Perhaps too sensitive.
Old people make me feel so fucking sad. Fuck you old people! How dare you? Now don’t get me wrong - I enjoy a good harmless old people joke - but in-person, they often tear me apart inside. When I see an old person sitting alone at a restaurant, it just breaks my heart. I invent scenarios for why they are alone; She’s a widow; He outlived all his children; All her friends have passed away; All his friends are locked up in some cruel nursing home. It makes me afraid to grow old. It makes me scared that I’ll be 75 and sitting alone in a McDonald’s drinking free coffee, pooping my pants, and staring at the empty seat across from me. And when I see kids - or even adults - disrespecting old people, I just want to punch them right in the crotch.
But honestly, they do suck at driving.
And it’s not just old people. Lots of things make me sad.
I’d surely be offered a healthy dose of meds if I ever went to a psychiatrist. I’m not sure if I ever want that to happen.
7) I’m superstitious about odd numbers.
In other words, I hate even numbers and I think they are the bringers of evil.
The basis for this comes from my birthday: 9/19/1979. All odd numbers, no matter how you slice it up. Individually, in pairs, all together. Odds everywhere.
This superstition isn’t without merit… but there are some glaring exceptions as well:
Good things that have happened on even years:
- 1994 - The Blue Album
- 1996 - Pinkerton
Bad things that have happened on odd years:
- 2001 - The Green Album, 9/11
In support of my hatred for evens:
- A 6 year relationship ended in 2008, on the 28th day of the month (
January, not quite perfect.) - George Bush was elected in 2000 and reelected in 2004.
- I know there’s more.
I’m on the fence regarding the number 2, because it’s a prime number, so it WANTS to be odd…
I hate evens with good reason. You’ll just have to trust me on this.
A couple short bonuses, because I apparently love talking about myself:
8) I don’t want kids.
Honestly, I think I’m just too selfish. Does that make me a bad person? At least I can admit it. I want to be able to sleep as long as I want, whenever I want. I want to be able to go out at any time on any day to any where without having to worry about any thing. I’m really not interested in having something that is entirely dependent on me for survival. A dog or a cat will be plenty. Maybe finding the right woman will change my mind… but 5 nieces and nephews have done a very good job of convincing me that my life will be just fine without booger-flingers of my own.
9) I magically make street-lights turn on and off.
You can try to convince me that it’s just coincidence, that it’s all based on timers, and it’s just me being in the right place at the right time - but I won’t believe you. It happens too frequently and consistently with the same lights at different times of day for it to be coincidence. My father also has this ability and all three of my siblings - separately and without my prompting - have told me that they notice it too. It happens in the car and on foot, everywhere I go, even in different towns and cities. It’s awesome.
Thanks for reading, I hope I haven’t scared you. Please send me your old guitar strings.
I hereby tag:
@shotcopter (Done!)
@ashleychasse (Done!)
@Kalli (Bork bork. Not interested.)
@tdavenport (Done!)
@aedison (Done!)
@MsHiss (Done!)
@ttseco (Done!)
