One of the most uncomfortable and, wait for it…. awkward situations that have occurred far too frequently in my life occur when a person knows me and I don’t have a clue who in the hell they are. I don’t know if it is due to the fact that I used to party a lot. And when I say ‘party’ I mean all that stuff that those PSA’s tell you will give you short term memory loss which is just a fancy way of saying that they’ll make you retarded. And when I say ‘a lot’ I mean ‘alot.’ Which is how I should write based on how many drugs I’ve done.
Luckily I mostly did the kind of drug that makes you stand in the kitchen and talk into the camera saying, “this is your brain on drugs…” while frying up some nice eggs and maybe even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because those are delicious when you’re high, but I never did the kind of drugs that make you look aggressively into the camera and then unexpectedly start smashing up your kitchen with a cast iron frying pan for no discernable reason. I think meth makes you do that. I also think that meth causes you to lay witness to an ugly, anorexic, bleedy, baldy, corpsey, naked version of yourself in the shower. So it’s good that I’ve never done meth because I’d probably destroy my kitchen with a cast iron frying pan in a hysteric fit of ragey panic if I saw the naked, corpsey, shower Me.
I’ve also never done the kind of drug that makes you get all dick sucky when you feel you need more of it. I guess I pretty much suck balls at being a drug addict, except without all the ball sucking because if I were doing the ball sucking, I would, ironically, not suck balls at being a drug addict. I’d be good at it.
Sorry, I got off track before I even started the train. See what drugs do to you? I was just saying that I’ve done enough drugs in my life to basically have turned into Leonard from Momento except without all the tats and I couldn’t remember to remember Sammy Jankis because I can’t remember to remember anybody.
I remember that remembering people started to become a problem in my early 20’s when random people would just walk up to me like we were BFF’s or even frenemies and babble on about some nonsense regarding their lives/parents/baby mama drama or some such shit. But I wouldn’t have the slightest inkling of who they were. The only feeling I felt was one telling me that if they were telling me about their baby mama drama then I should have known who they were and I was left hoping that I wasn’t about to be told that I was, in fact, the baby mama.
When I still lived in Pittsburgh this happened to me at least once a week. I never knew what to do in those circumstances so I would usually internally panic and wonder how well I was supposed to know this person. Like, what if I had accidentally slept with this person, or what if they saved my life by donating a kidney or a heart or something when I was dying? But then I wonder if they’re tricking me and I’m really supposed radiate hatred instead of pretending to smile because they beat me up or raped my dad or something similar. God damn it sucks balls (but not literally) not to be able to remember people who remember you.
So I’d usually just kind of plaster this fake smile across my face and nod and tilt my head at all of the appropriate intervals and hope like hell they weren’t on to me. Because if they realized how bad my memory actually was they could have easily produced DNA evidence and informed me that I owed around $21,874.00 in back child support.
Now that I’m a safe six thousand miles from home those awkward encounters almost never happen to me in person anymore. Now they only happen on Facebook. I went to a large high school and I had my share of friends but I wasn’t, like, quarterback of the football team, popular. I wasn’t even wide receiver popular, and I was the wide receiver (but not in the gay way) until my senior year. But now everybody I’ve ever so much as nodded to in the hall wants to be my friend on Facebook.
Back in high school they were all like, “Oh no, we can’t hang out with Scott. He sells crack and he stabbed that kid in the throat with a utility knife in wood shop (true story) and we heard his dad might have been raped but can’t remember.” Now, when I log on, I see friend requests from people wanting to be all up in my grill. That would be fine in and of itself, but then they send me messages asking me if I remember these ‘incidents’ and wanting me to be all nostalgic but not only do I not remember “what happened” at “that killer party” where “we accidentally exploded that old dude’s heart” but I don’t even know who the motherfuck it is sending me these messages in the first place. I don’t remember any Bills or Jeffs…?
Maybe I should start taking Astra Zeneca or something.
First of all I wanted to thank all of you for the holiday well wishes. They must have done a world of good because we had an amazing time and I barely awkwarded myself at all. Paris is a city that I could live in provided that don’t mind ending up a clinically obese alcoholic/addict, perverted diabetic homeless tramp with a speech impediment and chronic gout. So I’m thinking that, yea, I’ll end up there at some point.
Unfortunately there was no girl with a fucked up face for me to befriend. Fortunately everyone in the whole city seemed to be ridiculously attractive. So attractive that they made me feel almost less attractive (which shouldn’t really be possible, given my way over the top level of attractiveness) by comparison. Even the men were, like, hot. I’ve never been afraid to admit when guys were good looking, I’m comfortable enough with my sexuality for that (if you know a man who says that they don’t know if Brad Pitt is good looking or not because he’s ‘another dude’ then the man you know is gay and afraid to admit it.) but there were men there that I found myself starring at. Not in like an “I want him inside me so bad I could just shudder” kind of way but in a “God Damn that’s a pretty adult male specimen” kind of way. And the women were worse. Women so goddamnmed pretty that you could sit down and write a poem about how much you’d sacrifice just to be graced with a glimmer of their smile. And you don’t even write poetry. And you’re not really the sacrificial type. I mean, you won’t even share your Pellegrino with your wife who is clearly dehydrated and fainty. She should have bought her own sparkly water.
I’m pleased to report that by using my sick investigative journalism skills, I have indeed found the real story behind Jim Morrison’s untimely demise. Right after I get the official ‘thanks but no thanks’ call from TMZ and the ‘not this time but feel free to submit in the future’ letter from The Enquirer, I’ll be breaking the story right here on this very blog!
I don’t have any interesting, awkward stories to share with you; I only have the little nuggets of wisdom I was able to glean from my trip to La Ville-Lumiere.
– If you go to a club called the Marquis De Sade do not order the happy ending massage. It will be neither happy nor a massage.
– Baguettes are just really expensive hoagies.
– Fresh pastries are really fucking good.
– French military don’t like having their picture taken. Nor do they like being called Frenchy, Toast or Fry. The do like slamming the butts of their riffles into ‘independent journalist’s’ abdomens though. They like that a lot.
– If you go to a spectacle (strip club) don’t buy your wife a lap dance and then let them go off together to ‘chat.’ It will end badly for you. And by ‘end badly’ I mean that you won’t see your wife again for weeks(?). Please come home hunny bunny I bought you your own sparkling water! Also I don’t know how to change this colostomy bag…?
– Contrary to popular belief French whores aren’t especially pungent with perfume. If anything I find their scent to be an understated, pleasant aroma with just a touch of jasmine.
– Even though I only spent a week in the country I now consider myself to be an authority on all things French. And I’ve found that Nicholas Sarcozy is a slimy, rodent-like creature of ill-repute. You heard it here first.
– Surprisingly they don’t use a QWERTY keyboard. Going back to the hunt and peck days of not that long ago really, really, really sucked.
– The Seine is colder than it looks. And deeper.
– French maids don’t dress, look or act at all like we Americans were led to believe.
– While the French are grateful for America having saved their ass in the second world war, they are, “Not that grateful.”
– Despite the country’s track record in war the French soldiers that I encountered did not back down. And they don’t mind the sight of blood on their gun butts, hands, elbows knees or boots either.
– The Metro line in Paris was the best and most efficient public transportation system that I’ve ever experienced. You could get anywhere in the city within minutes. And it was a great place to stare in a totally non-gay way at all the ridiculously good looking people.
– The meditation room and Buddha statue in our garden area totally kept me from going all Chuck Norris on those French Fry Military Walking Vaginas who thought they were so tough because they had guns and were trained in the killing arts and were like 250 pounds of pure, well moisturized muscle and happened to look amazingly handsome in a beret.