Zodi’s Blog

Wait, Who Are You(?) Awkwardity

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.

  

Shower Me scares the shit out of 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.

She’s my BFF, my frenemy and my 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.

God damn Maury and his God damn tests.

 

 

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.  

October 31, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | 86 Comments