Sorry, folks, no fun story for you today.  I am currently moving, packing everything that I own somehow into my car so I can make it in one trip.  Because real men don’t go back for a second trip.  Plus it isn’t feasible.  So yeah, that.

Because of this, this day’s update is (temporarily) postponed.  I will now make empty promises that I will come back and fill it in, but in all honesty, there’s only about a 50/50 chance that it will happen.

More stories to come soon, promise, once I have my life reassembled.

Recently, I went home, where I saw many doctors and friends of my parents.  The question that I received the most, of course, is:

“What are you doing with your life now?”

Now, if I was properly alpha and secure about myself, I probably would have responded simply with “Making it.”  Or “Living.”  Or something clever like that.

However, I’m not as clever as I wish I was (or perhaps I simply still have a few shreds of self-control and self-preservation), and so I instead regaled all these successful people with my plans to head off to graduate school, to hopefully discover something new that will convince people of importance to pay me money to continue poking at little bits of life.

Yay, science.

I do like science, I do.  If I didn’t like science, then why would I write so much science fiction?  You see?  You can’t explain that.  Insert face of Bill O’Reilly here.

Oh god, that was a mistake.

But on the other hand, there is a definitive reason why I keep on writing.  As long as I could remember, even back when I wanted to be a space ship designer and was convinced that the proper orientation of magnets would be the answer to traveling faster than the speed of light, I still wanted to be a writer at the same time.

And I’m not just talking science papers.  No, I wanted to write fiction!  I wanted to see my name on a book at Barnes and Noble, at the library, sign the front covers and know that people would be struggling to pronounce my name long after I’m dead.

And that’s why I keep writing.  No, I don’t always submit, edit, or even go back and reread what I’ve written, but at least I’m still writing.  I do submit a piece, occasionally.  And the rejection only crushes my spirit for a few weeks before I’m ready to try again.

And hopefully, hopefully, some day I will be able to call myself a writer.

I’ll have made it.

P.S. I know, that’s so uplifting.  Ladies, try to hold back your feelings of gushing, awkward, over-the-top love.

P.P.S. Looking at this post, all I can see is Bill O’Reilly.  I really need a second image, to distract from the middle-aged upper class white dude.

Oh man, I really have to go.

Ugh. I’m trapped, though. Whomever decided that booths in restaurants should be one long, curving bench ought to be locked up. Should I say something?  I guess I have to wait for a lull in the conversation?

Erp. Nope, can’t wait that long. Gotta go. I’ll just make a quiet announcement to this lady next to me.

Okay, well, that sort of worked. It’s spreading like a ripple. Wonderful, now everyone knows that I’m about to explode. Ugh, doesn’t matter. Gotta go. Let me out!

New observation for future reference: standing makes the sensation worse. Yes, yes, be back in a second, sprint away. Now, where the heck are the bathrooms in this place?

There they are . . . Nope, never mind, that’s the kitchen. Oops. Seriously, they’re always impossible to find!  I’m going to leave a big puddle on their fancy carpet- wait, there!  Like a light from heaven, I see the restroom sign!

Okay, men’s room. Not women’s. Not making that mistake again.

Great thing about being a guy – never a line for bathrooms!  Now, unzip. Oh man, my teeth are floating. Come here, where are you. Ah, there you are. Come on out, little buddy.

Ahhhhhhhhh. Oh, that’s such a good feeling. Someone probably says that it’s better than sex. I mean, they are either wrong, or having really terrible sex, but it’s still a great feeling. Total relaxation.

Man, it feels like this is taking forever. How much did I drink?  Whoop, gotta correct for declining water pressure. Aiming is hard.

There we go, all done!  Now, shake it off. Wait, where did that drop go?  Aw man, it’s on my shoe. Maybe I can sort of scrape it off with my other foot. There, now it isn’t so noticeable.

Shake complete; time to holster the rifle. Aaand there’s still one more drop left. Dampness. I hate that feeling. Oh well. On to the hand washing.

Didn’t I read somewhere that it’s actually cleaner if I don’t touch anything in the bathroom?  Besides myself, of course. The handle of the door is definitely dirty. I’ll use the paper towel to open it.  I wonder if everyone else has this thought too.

Okay, time to head back to the table. One last check: any spotting?  Good, nothing has bled through. It’s as if it didn’t exist!  What bodily functions?

Bang.  Bang.  Bang bang bang bang bang.

“What the heck!” I shouted, jumping up from my reclining pose in my room.  The series of rapid-fire explosions seemed to be coming from directly outside my door.  As I scrambled from my bed, where I had been relaxing and enjoying an episode of Doctor Who, I continued to hear more bursts of noise from outside.

Briefly, I wondered if there was some sort of gunfight outside.  I know that our neighborhood is not the safest, and although I’ve never seen or heard any actual fights, the sound of police sirens has become a nightly occurrence.  Should I even look outside?

I cautiously open my door a crack, peering out into our living room.  Immediately, I spot the source of the ruckus.

Several days previously, while my roommate had been away on a weekend excursion, I had taken the opportunity to fill his room with balloons.  Upon his return, he had been delighted by the colorful sight, and had swept the balloons en masse into the living room, where they had covered most of the floor in a dense sea, ever shifting in the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan.  While this had been pleasant for several days, I had quickly grown tired of having to trudge my way through the latex tides on my excursions to the kitchen or bathroom.  Earlier this day, I had requested politely that we reduce the number of balloons in the apartment by a measurable margin.

Clearly, my roommate was willing to oblige.  Gazing out through my half-open bedroom door, I could see him standing triumphantly in the center of the living room, face red, stabbing all around him with a kitchen knife.  Scraps of latex lay strewn across the floor, and as I watched, his plunging blow caught another balloon, which exploded into a shower of rubber scraps with a cacophony of noise.

I opened the door further and caught his eye.  “Having fun?” I asked, as he paused in his slaughter.

“Oh, most definitely!” he retorted.  “Just reducing the number of balloons, like you asked!”

I shook my head slightly, smiling, as I closed the door and the loud bangs resumed outside my room.  Briefly, I wondered if our neighbors were concerned, and if I should expect any police visits.

My job involves a fair amount of driving.  As I traverse the highways through my city, dodging down side streets and making rapid lane changes as I head to constantly changing destinations, I have come to recognize a specific sub-group of humanity: those who drive slow.

Although encounters are by no means rare, they are emphasized by the force in which my foot hits the brake pedal.  These people, these slow drivers, were absent at the all-important Driver’s Ed. class where we were all taught to “go with the flow,” to match speed with the other cars on the road.  Instead, these slow drivers choose to pedal along at ten, fifteen, twenty miles per hour below the speed limit, placidly ignoring the other cars that zip by like angry bees.

What goes on in the minds of these people, these slow drivers?  Are they frustrated by how fast the world moves, the rapid flow of technology, innovation, discovery, to the point where they choose to go slow as an act of rebellion, small and inconsequential as it is?  Are they nervous, have never grown totally accustomed to the speed of these iron horses, and fear the fast reflexes necessary to handle the high speeds?  Or are they simply oblivious, unaware of the bother they pose to other drivers?

As I pass these drivers, I often try to crane my head during that split second of parallel passage, when we are side by side for a fraction of a second, to get a glimpse of this person who momentarily has become my mortal nemesis.  Although occasionally surprised, I usually find that my suspicions have been confirmed.

Sometimes the driver is elderly, hunched over their wheel with both hands gripping like claws, squinting to see through both the fog of their glasses and the fog of their failing mind.

Sometimes the driver is on the phone, talking or even texting, paying no attention to the falling dials on their speedometer, the line of honking, angry drivers behind them, the cars whizzing past on their left (or worse, on their right, when they fall asleep in the left lane), the angry glares as the other drivers pass.

Sometimes the driver is talking, enthusiastically shouting (or perhaps in the depths of an argument?) at other passengers in the car, sparing only a glance to confirm that they hadn’t fully left the pavement.

Whatever the case, knowing the reason for this slow driver doesn’t usually mollify my anger.  Instead, like a hot coal in the bed of a dying fire, I must wait for my frustration to gradually subside.  I take a small bit of grim, perverse satisfaction in roaring past the driver, cutting them off sharply in hopes that the sudden movement will awaken them from their stupor, make them realize how frustrating they are being to the others on the road.

Whatever the case may be, at least I’m now past them, able to finally accelerate back to my normal speed, at least until I encounter the next One who Drives Slow.

Time to write an email!  Okay, I’ve been putting off replying to this person for way too long.  Time to sit down, write this out, and move on with the other things I have to do.  Like looking at cat pictures.

Okay, introductions.  Dear so-and-so.  Wait a minute.  Should I use “dear”?  Or do I go with “To” instead?  That seems so informal, but I don’t know if I know this person well enough to go with Dear.  Oh no, I’m hung up on the very first line!  Whatever.  Press onward.

Okay, first paragraph is going well.  Saying what I need.  Hmm, better change that word, I don’t want to use the same word twice, or they won’t think that I have an extensive vocabulary.  And I want them to think that I’m smart.  Otherwise they will totally judge me.  And I want to be judged only in a positive light.

Second paragraph time.  The first paragraph was basically just acknowledging that yes, I read their comments, blah blah blah, they are important, I’m pleased to meet them, all that stuff.  The second paragraph is where I hide the hook among the candyfloss – my request!  But I have to phrase it properly.  Don’t want to seem demanding.  Or pushy.  But I need it to stand out, too, to make sure that they see it and know it’s there, and don’t gloss right over it.  Maybe I should use bold, or underline?  Whoa, nope.  That makes it stand out way, way too much.  Maybe I can just rearrange the words to make it clearer.

Okay, got that written.  Time to end this.  One last paragraph, only one or two sentences, just to sum up the (small) body of the email.  Very nice to hear from you, thanks for the comments, I hope you can get to my request, thank you in advance!  That thank you in advance part is important.  It makes it seem like I assume that they’re going to do what I ask, so they already feel compelled to obey.  I wonder if that actually works, or, if like most people with psych degrees, I’m totally pulling this out of nowhere.

Great, now on to the closings!  Oh man, almost done with this email.  I like “Sincerely”.  It has a nice, formal ring to it, but isn’t off-putting or intentionally inserting distance.  Also, it reminds me of old timey messages.  The things that ship captains would send back to their beloveds, pining away in lighthouses for them.

Now, just my name.  Nickname?  Do I go with the full name?  Go with the rule of thumb here – if I put the full name of the recipient in the “dear” line, then I use my full name.  If I went with their first name only, and I would feel okay calling them by their first name in person, then they can get the more personal touch of only having me add my first name at the end.  Although I think Gmail cuts this off anyway most of the time, putting it in with the signature, hidden unless the person manually clicks to expand it.

Yes!  Email written!  One more quick read-through for errors, changes in phrasing, and minor editing.  It looks good!  Send!

Whew!  That went well.  How long did that take me, anyway?

What??

I spent a half hour just writing that single email!  It wasn’t even the most important one that I have to send!  That was just a warm-up email, to get ready to write the super important ones!  I’m going to be at this all day!

Ugh, I’m going to just go look at cat pictures instead.  I deserve this break.  I mean, I did just write an entire email.