Anxiety

As a kid, people always described me with words like, "shy," or, "quiet." I would actually say that a lot of people still describe me as that way; the kid who would rather sit in the front of the classroom, but only talk occasionally. That kid who spins his thoughts over and over, until he can pick the one that seems right for the situation.

Anxiety is a sneaky little bastard who has hung out with me most of my life.

I'm going to go back to my Mormon roots for a second and pull out the well-worn technique of looking at a dictionary and explaining what anxiety is. If you would all turn with me to your DSM-V handbook and look up Social Anxiety Disorders:

A.  A persistent fear of one or more social or performance situations in which the person is exposed to unfamiliar people or to possible scrutiny by others. The individual fears that he or she will act in a way (or show anxiety symptoms) that will be embarrassing and humiliating.

B.  Exposure to the feared situation almost invariably provokes anxiety, which may take the form of a situationally bound or situationally pre-disposed Panic Attack.  

C.  The person recognizes that this fear is unreasonable or excessive.

D.  The feared situations are avoided or else are endured with intense anxiety and distress.

E.  The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared social or performance situation(s) interferes significantly with the person's normal routine, occupational (academic) functioning, or social activities or relationships, or there is marked distress about having the phobia.

...Etc., etc., etc.

If I was going by the book, I would now open up a dictionary and read you the literal definition of anxiety (Something along the lines of how anxiety is more related to social exclusion whereas fear is related to actual physical harm. I feel the need to make that difference.). I would now break this apart piece by piece, until my ten minutes were up and I could sit down and relive myself from all the pressure of giving a talk in church once a year. But I'm pretty shit at being a religious person, so I'll ask you to picture a shaggy-haired kid with large round glasses in the fifth grade. That kid is me, in case you were wondering.

Fifth grade Ryan was quiet. Teachers liked him, parents adored him, and lots of kids found him a little strange. He was very selective about who he chose to be his close friends, which resulted in him only having a few he was comfortable being himself around. One day while at his friend's house, Ryan got more rambunctious than he usually did because he was comfortable. He was being loud and saying most things that popped into his head without everything going through the filter first. While in the middle of running through the house, Ryan remembered the name of a scary movie he had been thinking of all day and subsequently yelled the plot to his friend when out of the corner of Ryan's eye, he saw his friend's mom. The music was loud, kids were running and screaming, and here was Ryan screaming morbid things like murder across the room. It didn't look good. At least, to Ryan it didn't look good and that was all that mattered. He went home feeling rather despondent and the thoughts kept spinning and spinning: what was she going to think of him now? This noisy rambunctious kid--talking about murder! He must be no good. He must be weird. He must be a bad seed. After that, Ryan didn't really like seeing his friend's mom very much.

This little anxiety monster has followed me around for most of my life. There are days when he is really quiet, and there are days when he will not shut the hell up.

"Remember that time you walked into your professor's office and because you stared at him too long he hates you forever?"

"Don't forget about the time you walked into class late, no one will forget that."

"Everyone still remembers that awful campaign slogan you made for jr. high class elections."

"That homeless man remembers the time you farted near him".

"You asked for that day off and now your boss wants to fire you."

I spin these thoughts over and over again, each time making sure that they grow until it's the only thing I can think about, Then there's anxiety, sitting on my shoulder getting fatter and fatter as each thought becomes a slight obsession.

"You can't win in that race and when you lose no one will forget."

"Your friends only tolerate you."

"You're going to fail that class, flunk out of school, and end up alone."

I am ashamed to admit that sometimes I seriously acknowledge these thoughts. Dammit, I really am going to end up alone with a shitty job and no name for myself. I'm sure that even my cat will leave me. Well, he'll probably just eat me. 

They stick to my brain like everything to a George Foreman grill.

There were days when I felt like someone had made my brain into a washing machine full of bricks that pounded on the edges until I felt like I was going to burst.* It was usually during those times when I distracted myself with music, video games, and books. This way, I'd be able to wrap myself up in something that was outside of my own head so I wouldn't become to physically and emotionally exhausted.

Within the past several months of my life, I've had a lot of...grownup life things happen to me. I say grownup because I always joke about how "grownup" I am with my friends (hint: I'm not) and these were things I had never really to prepared for. I had to make a very serious relationship decision coupled with some serious family issues that had arisen. One left me feeling hurt while the other left me in a very cold disposition. 

...Looking at it now, I guess it wasn't a terrible combination for the situation.  

I had gotten very stuck. I stopped blogging because I felt like trying to find things to joke about would almost be like lying since I didn't really believe anything that I tried coming up with (Believe me, I tried; and in all honestly my wonderful and terrific writing probably would have suffered if I had chose to share it). I distanced myself from any social network that I had and instead tried to focus in only on work.

Each and every day I was digging myself deeper into my own little anxiety hole.**

And it sucked.

Then came my epiphany: It was me.

I was the one who decided what I got to do next. As simple as that was, it hadn't really dawned on me before to just stand up against myself and do something. New empowered Ryan started not putting up with shit. New empowered Ryan gained a strange new confidence that he hadn't really ever seen before. New empowered Ryan put himself out there and firmly decided what he wanted. New empowered Ryan only talked in third person!

I got to be the hero of my own story. I got to be Han Solo when he decided to take initiative for saving the galaxy. I got to be Indiana Jones in his last crusade (but nothing more because there definitely no more movies about Indiana Jones after that). Apparently, I get to be Harrison Ford, and I will roll with that.

While I still didn't blog, it was more out of just serious neglect than crippling anxiety (like your first ten goldfish..minus the crippling anxiety). While I've still maintained my distance from social networks, it's less out of weird validation and anxiety, and more from just not needing that around. The endless spinning brought on by over-thinking; not speaking up and wishing I had, or speaking up and wishing I hadn't significantly slowed down. In fact, it made this weird turn around where I did a lot of talking with little regret (except the time I decided to engage a homeless man). I was getting the support I needed from the people who mattered in my life and I didn't see this change going away any time soon.

Now, this post has been something of a struggle. It's been edited, read, re-read, re-edited, completely changed, and left alone to simmer for a very long time. Every time I looked, it changed a little; leaving old parts because I liked them and some serious erasing because why would Ryan five minutes ago ever say something so ridiculous . Now I'm just comfortable with the whole thing.

There are still days when the little anxiety monster still likes to hang out on my shoulder (e.g..: parties and surprise gatherings), but he's gotten a lot more quiet. That, or I've tried to stop listening. Either way, I'm comfortable with that.



*Even as I write that sentence, I have a slight twinge of anxiety from fearing that people will think that's a horrible analogy.
**Do I have enough analogies and metaphors for anxiety in this yet? Because I also worry that I may be using analogy and metaphor incorrectly sometimes, which is why I included both right here because I am shit with grammar and just the English language in general. Now I worry that grammar isn't even the right word.

Dear Girl Above Me

Dear girl above me,

I know we've never met before, or ever really seen each other, but I assume that we both know that the other exists. I'm sure you've seen me passing out of the driveway, or carrying groceries into the door, and I don't blame you for not saying hi (I mean, I haven't said it either, so we're all good on those grounds).

You have a dog, which is super great! Our dogs even have a lot in common sometimes! They're quiet, respectful, and don't bark a lot. I forgot to mention that my dog died a few years ago (so she's not as lively as she once was). Your dog, on the other hand, seems to be full of life and so do you! I get the talking in a weird baby voice to your dog and having it chase things. I also realize that I used to do that with my dog outside (You know, when she was alive.) so that people indoors could maintain some peace and quiet. I'm sure our dogs would have even gotten along because I can tell that your dog likes to talk (bark) all the time! For instance, at 3am the other morning, she just wanted to let the whole neighborhood know where she was and you decided that a good run around the house might help. I think we really bonded at that moment.

I also get the whole "spousal problem" thing! I mean, if I was home alone, I would talk as loud as I could on the phone to my friend complaining about things he was doing. He left the TV on again!? Ugh, he is just the worst (I assume.). But here's where you lose me: Every time your so-called hubby returns home from wherever he goes during the day, you two seem to have a fully functioning wood shop up there. It would seem to me that after complaining on the phone for hours at a time about this person that you wouldn't be able to haul heavy lumber around the house together, but you two seem to make it work! (I guess that's what marriage is all about, right?)

Us below you also think that your furniture is probably great where it is. To us, it sounds like you've rearranged it about every day since you got there and it has to have reached some sort of feng shui. Also, if it's dead bodies (No judgment! We've just speculated that loud thumps followed by long silences could be some kind of "Silence of the Lambs" type scenario, but we don't want to be nosey.), please drop them on a mattress or something.

Have you ever heard of the hit television show, "American Idol?" Every song you've sung to could definitely bring you fame and fortune, *hint hint.*

Maybe we could be friends, but our sheer proximity really prevents me from doing that right now. There are days I want to knock on your door and tell you that I can hear you screaming at the TV, but I don't want to make you feel embarrassed. I'll also admit that it's a little nice pretending like I know your life because I can hear every little move you make.

I will also definitely take the instance of when you threatened to throw up on your significant other so that he would leave you alone and apply it to my daily life. That was a metaphor, right?

Sincerely,

The guy passive-aggressively complaining about you on the internet

P.S. We can still hear you faking sex.

Pseudo-parenthood, Part 2

Stella and Steve have left our presence. After chewing on multiple items of clothing and basically anything in sight, paired with multiple escapes (probably coordinated by Steve), we were over owning rats. I know, I know--we only had them for about a week, BUT THEY WOULDN'T LOVE US. Yes, I mean to say that crawling over my body with little rat feet isn't love.

How did we fill this void? With a guinea pig of course. Yes, on our trip to return our small rat "friends," we happened upon the small tank that held three little guinea pigs. Three little fluff balls making tiny guinea pig noises that kind of sounded like a wave machine, but with more guinea pig. It was like a two-in-one bargain!

"I like the brown one, because it's a loner." I said to Beth.

It was true. Our little spotted guinea friend didn't play with the other two orange-spotted pigs and kind of just moseyed around the tank and looking for something else to do.

"I think that's why I like him too." said Beth.

With that, we chased our new friend around the tank until we were able to successfully catch her in a cardboard box. Her name is Wallace and she will love us.

Wallace took kindly to her new home by not moving or doing anything in particular. She actually resembled a guinea statue until I tried to touch her where she would turn into a small race horse to escape my grasp. Things I did not know: Guinea pigs are faster than you think.

"Wallace likes to nibble." Beth sent me in a text the next day.

"Wallace bit me." I sent back later that day. It turns out that screaming, "LOVE ME!" while holding out your hands to catch an escaping guinea pig doesn't actually make them warm up to you faster.

Here's to our second chance at pseudo-parenthood. Because guinea pigs can't fit through small bars...and neither can children.

Stress Poops

"They're stress pooping! Everywhere!"

Again, I find a little pellet settled nicely on a blanket, or a pillow, or my shoulder. Little Stella and Steve couldn't handle being held, touched, or even really looked at. The stress proved too much and manifested itself in a little brown turd.

I never thought I would have to restrain a small animal, but that's all I've been doing lately. The cage (probably manufactured for a small dog), has proved useless in their relentless attempts at freedom. The moment one gets put inside, it will climb up the bars to what I only imagine it screaming, "FREEDOM!" in a Mel Gibson voice. We've since amped up our security with chicken wire, numerous blankets, a candle, and a laundry basket. We thought it would be enough, but I still come home to find these little Houdini's sitting on the top, looking at me with a smug look of satisfaction that says, "Fuck your cage."

Having an animal that doesn't want to immediately snuggle is also frustrating. Dogs: Always. Cats: Eventually persuaded. But NO. They can't just calm their tiny little heads down so that I can GIVE THEM MY LOVE. It really gets me right in that spot that hurts. The metaphorical heart, or whatever.

Steve and Stella, such a dynamic duo. While both are girls, Beth and I decided that Steve was the best option because we don't conform to gender stereotypes. We're progressive by letting our pets have whatever name we choose for them.

So basically I'm writing this to inform you I have rats living my apartment now. Our landlord said no pets, so we got rats because they're under the threshold of real pets, right? Little pets that won't relinquish their love to me.

I'm only waiting to get home to find Steve sitting atop the cage with his little mouse paw flipping me the bird.

Chinese Family

Ever since I got back from China, I made the goal to try and learn some more Chinese. I had mastered a few key words and phrases (like telling a taxi driver to take me to an egg instead of an airport), but figured that if I was ever going to get past the level of "sad immigrant," I would have to do something.

So, I enrolled in Chinese for the semester.

I didn't really know what to expect from this class at all. In high school, I had taken  few Spanish classes (Hola, me llamo Ryan. Me gusta gatos y perros y bibliotecas. Te gusta levantar pesas? Bueno.) and those had been rendered useless over the years by my unwillingness to study, so I wondered where this class would leave me. Surely, I was ready to study for a college class. I mean, what else have I been doing for the past four years?

Which brings us to now; halfway into the semester with my vocabulary slowly growing, but constant frustration at my heels. My professor's teaching style is that of, "Here is a powerpoint presentation that I am now going to read to you word for word and I will have you parrot some things back occasionally." It's not my favorite, but I participate.

"How many people do you have in your family?" My professor said. This question, on repeat like a BB gun, constantly smacking us unaware and fumbling around for an answer.

"Uh, five." the blonde guy in the corner said.

"Five. Who are they?" He was relentless, this small, Chinese man. First how many, then who they were, then occupations; what next? their favorite 80's movie?

"Well, my dad is an engineer--"

"Engineer!" He blurted out, which was quickly followed by the Chinese equivalent.

Please spare me from this blitzkrieg.

"You! How many?"

I knew my numbers well enough, but I didn't know all the words for siblings.

"Uh...five..." is what came out.

"Who are they?"

I began in Chinese, "a mother...a father...a younger brother...and older brother..."

A quick mental count in my head told me that I had left out three of my real sisters, added a new brother, and also forgotten a made-up new sibling, but I was past the point of caring.

"OK, now talk to the person next to you."

I turned to the girl next to me (A girl notorious for wearing the exact same outfit to class every day: Grey zip-up hoodie, blue bootcut jeans, and faded, black, slip-on shoes. The shirt underneath the hoodie varied from day to day, but it was lost underneath everything else. I often wondered if she either washed these items frequently, or had a stockpile of the exact same thing she could vary from day to day. I imagine her looking in the mirror and saying, "You know, I'm going to mix it up today and wear Tuesdays pants! Ah! I'm so bad!" and then accidentally wearing Wednesdays pants again.) and she began asking me the same questions.

"How many people do you have in your family?"

"I have four...I mean five! I have five people in my family." I said, stumbling over my own lie.

"Who are they?"

"I have one older brother."

She looked at me for a second, putting together the inconsistencies.

"I thought you said you had two brothers."

"Yeah...and a younger brother. He's 17." I had to give him an age to make her believe he was a real person.

She continued to stare at me, "OK, do you have any pets?"

"How do you say, 'my dog is dead,' in Chinese?"

Psychics and Pizza

Back when I first tried to start dating guys, I fooled around with dating websites. Ignoring all of my upbringing of "stranger danger," and "everyone on the internet is an ax murderer," I made a small profile on an obscure dating website to see if I had what it took to put myself out there. Apparently, the criteria for putting myself out there meant having a profile picture and a description that was probably something like, "I enjoy books and food. People are tolerable." (Since this website has been cast aside like so many Yu-Gi-Oh cards from my childhood, I don't know what it looks like now. But, seeing so many different dating avenue nowadays, I figure that things haven't changed all too much.)

As time went by, I found myself meeting (meeting in the sense of talking to the internet) a lot of colorful characters. There was guy who had the small "inconvenience" of being married; the twenty-one year old who actually just turned sixteen; the "I'm only going to send you penis pictures" man; and let's not forget the foot enthusiast who offered me 50$ if he could lick my feet. I wasn't terribly impressed by the fish in this sea. Mostly, I was starting to wonder if everyone on the internet was an ax murderer living in my closet. I decided to stick it out a bit longer to see if there was anyone worthwhile; this is when I met The Psychic.

The Psychic didn't introduce himself as a psychic (that came up later), but as a guy my own age that seemed like not-an-ax-murderer. How could I pass up someone who wasn't trying to lick my eyeballs? We messaged back and forth for a little while before I agreed to give him my number and go on a date with him. Granted, he still could have been a suburban housewife posing as a guy on the internet, but the sheer number of people wanting to touch my feet made me realize that people are surprisingly honest on the internet...to a certain extent.

The day of the date arrived and I sent him a text to ask about details; when, where, dinner, etc. He suggested that we grab a pizza, rent a movie, and just hang out. Awesome, it wasn't anything high pressure that I had to really get ready for and I wouldn't be stuck in a restaurant wishing I hadn't ordered the spicy quesadilla. I did notice something a little odd though. At the end of each of the texts he sent me was a little signature that read: Psychic ________ (I'm just gonna leave out his name out of courtesy and relevancy)*.

Huh? Psychic? Not wanting to be overly chatty before the date, I didn't say anything about his signature. This way, if my usual rant about how sweatpants are not unacceptable in public didn't fly, I would have some topic on hand to talk about. I like to plan out conversations before they happen and this one was a goldmine:

-Oh, you're a psychic? How many dead bodies do you find for the police in a week?

-Oh, you're a psychic? Like the horse whispering kind or the "I can see dead people," kind?

-Oh, you're a psychic? I'm gonna choke on a marshmallow, huh? I just know it, you really gotta tell me. Don't lie to make me feel better.

-Oh, you're a psychic? Are crystal balls solar powered or satan powered?

As the time rolled around for the date to start, I hopped into my car and headed to his house. Not having a car, I would pick him up, grab a pizza and a movie, and head back to his home. The drive was a little nerve-wracking as I was meeting a stranger on the internet and I kept my fingers crossed that I wasn't going to lose a kidney or meet a 65 year-old woman.

I pulled up to the address I had been given and gave him a call as I was not about to knock on a strangers door in a neighborhood I didn't know. He would come to me (which also gave me time to high tail it out of there if I saw a flash of a hook/chainsaw). The Psychic opened his front door and I got my first look at the person I had only seen flattering pictures of on the internet.

Fortunately, The Psychic was not a 65 year-old woman, a man wearing a mask made of skin, or a pile of cats; he was actually the guy in his pictures. What I forgot about pictures on the internet is that they're usually taken to be flattering. The Psychic was about five-foot three and weighed about as much as a bag of feathers. His hair was a shaggy, dirty-blonde, and was swept to the side above his square glasses. His pants were skin tight, showing off his stick-thin legs a super model would envy. Overall, I was kind of unimpressed but was pretty sure that if he tried to stab me in the throat, I'd be able to fight him off.

Heading up the stairs to his house, I introduced myself and greeted him. He responded in kind and went inside where two small dogs started licking my shins. "Come say hello to my mom!" he said with a smile. "No, please no. I have something I left on the oven for a few hours." Is what I wanted to say. What happened to the good old days when one doesn't meet the other's parents until said parents are presented with a cow of appropriate girth and udder size?

I went up some to a higher level of the house and was then greeted by his mother and his mother's friend who were watching the Oscars while eating pizza. They were genuine friendly women, but also probably slightly intoxicated as evidenced by the few boxes of wine on the counter. "Want to head out and get that pizza?" he said. Yes. The first date was supposed to be something where I could focus on looking good for just one person, I hadn't budgeted for more. Meeting relatives was something I believed was reserved for a later date.

I fast-walked to the car and we headed out to the pizza place that he directed me too. The conversation was pretty mundane: "Oh, what do you like to do?" "How many siblings do you have" "Favorite color?"--all that first date stuff one needs to get out of the way. While getting the pizza, I was more than welcome to let him pay for it (I mean, it was the first date and I did drive out to his house and meet his mother and his dogs. As far as I'm concerned, I paid for my end by showing up and also by not being a murderer.). We then hit up a RedBox to see what movies we could rent.

When picking movies, I usually tend to let the other person pick. Not because I think that they'll pick something good, but because I don't want to pick something that's bad. See, if they pick a terrible movie and we both hate it, then I can blame them. But, if they pick a terrible movie and they like it, then I get to put that strained smile on my face and make non-committal statements like, "The lighting was really good," and "It was a movie alright!" (Sorry if you've ever picked a movie with me before and I've made statements such as those above. You are now warned).

"Go ahead, you pick."

He sat there for a second before choosing the film, "My Sister's Keeper." I groaned internally (For those of you who don't know this film, it's about a little girl who has a terminal illness and the only way to keep her alive is to borrow things like bone marrow, fluids, probably friends and dolls, maybe even secrets, from her sister. How should I really know? I didn't watch it. Well, it turns out that the sister was basically born so that the parents could use her to keep the other sister alive. Point being: it's not a happy-sunshine-flowers movie. But let's get back to the car.).

We had been talking the entire time of our pizza pick-up and sad-movie rental and I finally worked up the courage to ask him why his signature was what it was: Psychic ________.

"Have you ever seen the show 'Psychic Kids'?" I responded that, no, I had never seen/heard of that show before. "Oh, well I used to be on it." What exactly did that show entail? "There were other psychic kids and we would sit around and talk about supernatural stuff." That sounds pretty cool, I guess. Lots of entertainment value. "Yeah, it was." So...you're an actual psychic (while what I wanted to say was, "you think you're an actual psychic). "Yeah, sometimes I see things." You don't just make them up? "No, I'm a psychic." Wait, crystal ball kind of psychic? "No, that's just crazy." That's what I thou-- "Other people do that, I talk to spirits and sometimes I can see the future."

Yes, he was that kind of psychic; the kind who really believed. Well, at least he was giving me something to work with conversation wise. I asked him if he could see anything about me. "Could you read my palm and tell me how I'm going to die?" "No, I'm not really that kind of psychic." "What about my aura? You guys can see auras, right?" "You know, it's a gift that really only works with people that I'm closer to, so no." Huh. For a gift that was about being rather omniscient, he was being selective. Where were the dramatics? The puffs of smoke and bolts of lightning and evil laughter? Weren't psychics supposed to tell me of my grisly demise that I could only prevent if I did something completely drastic and irrational? This was getting disappointing. "Not even what I'm going to eat for lunch tomorrow?" I meet a real psychic and they won't even describe any future maiming for me.

The Psychic decided to continue by telling me about one of his latest visions.

"Yeah, I actually was able to know that my ex-boyfriend was going to break up with me before it happened." Yeah? "Yeah, it was really strange. I mean, I kind of saw it coming after we went camping and things didn't go very well. You see, the last night we were there he forced me to have sex when I didn't want to."

What.

Nope.

Date 32.

Date 673.

Date NEVER.

The Psychic had obviously decided that this was his "sweatpants in public" topic of choice and was going to run with it. He opened the floodgates and information that I would have deemed "information for close friends/family," kept coming out.

"Yeah, it all happened and then we broke up. But then I went and got tested and was really concerned when the test came back positive with HIV." The Psychic continued. "Turns out, they actually mixed up my test results with someone else."

"So...you don't know yet?" I said.

"They're figuring everything out and should have it back to me in a day or so. I mean, this all only happened a few weeks ago."

I could hear my own teeth grinding as I sat there listening to him. I had never met anyone before who had deemed themselves possibly HIV positive and I retreated into protection mode. All the knowledge I had learned in the two days of my high school online health class was thrown out the window and replaced by fear of the unknown.

I was a little stumped--I had no idea how to keep a conversation going. Now if I said, "Do you know what people should never wear in public? Sweatpants.", it wasn't anything compared to "My boyfriend raped me and I may or may not have HIV." So much for planning ahead.

"That...really sucks." is all I could come up with.

Not wanting to really delve deeper into The Psychic's life, I hurried back to his home to try and watch this movie and end this date. By now the pizza was cold, but I made sure to keep my hands on a piece and keep my feet pointed straight ahead as to avoid any instance of canoodling. My eyes began to wander the room: two cream colored couches, one love seat of accompanying color, two lace doilies covering two wooden coffee tables with small matching lamps (the kind whose lampshades one sees on an inebriated person's head), and short carpet that I probably wouldn't want to rub my face on. Every single item put in its specific place by a single mother and her small dogs.

The movie started and my mind was racing with the checklist of what to do next: Do I say nothing the rest of the night? Do I make small talk about the movie? What if I go to the bathroom and just never come back? What relatives do I have that could be dead soon? Despite my own prejudices of using a cellphone on a date, I pulled out mine to see what excuse I might muster up.

As I opened my phone, I saw that I had one message from my friend Grace reading: "I might call you and pretend that I need to go home and you need to go along with it."

How convenient.

"Me too." I replied

A short while later, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, mom."

So I'm her mom now.

What followed was a short conversation between Grace, her mother, and me listening blankly on the phone.

"But mom, I don't think I need to do that until tomorrow." she said, "Well, I guess if you really need me to come home now then I guess..." I couldn't help but wonder if Grace looked sincere on the other end of the line or if her expressions more closely resembled dogs when they're being punished. That would probably be good enough.

I hung up after Grace's mother decidedly told her daughter that she needed to go home. "Do you need to go home?" said The Psychic, "It's OK if you do."

This was my out. "No, I'm good; I really want to finish this movie." I said, putting on a big smile and glancing up at the screen to a bunch of weepy actors crying over who-knows-what. Hospitals and terminal illnesses, how romantic.

How long was I obligated to stay and watch a depressing movie on a first date? Considering it was a weeknight, I didn't think that I was required to really finish the movie, but at least get past the first 20 minutes.

About three pieces of cold pizza into this movie later, I decided I needed out. I also had to come up with a better escape plan than, "I need to go the bathroom for the next FOREVER." and sprint out the door. I knew I might not be the best on first dates, but I knew I was a little better than that.

I settled on the, "Gee, it's really late and I have to get up early tomorrow," excuse. Though it was easy to see through, it was more polite than setting something on fire and jumping through the window.

"Gee, it's getting late," I said as I checked my phone reading: 8:30pm, "and I have to get up early tomorrow...to swim."** The Psychic didn't put up any fight about this. I mean, first dates usually entailed some kind of physical contact and I had been about as approachable as a cockroach. Despite this, he was gentlemanly and walked me out of his house.

"Would you like any pizza to take home?" he asked as we came to the top of the landing and approached the kitchen where two pizzas still sat in their boxes, untouched and beginning to harden.

"No, I got enough...wasn't that movie depressing?"

"Yeah, I'd just been told to watch it so I thought it'd be a good choice."

I left him at the door with a small hug; his eyes at nipple level while I gave him a small pat on the back. With that, I hopped into my car and made my way back towards my house. While I drove away, I couldn't help but think if he might have seen this coming the whole time.




*You may be asking, "Ryan, why didn't you make up a new name for this kid? I mean that can't be too hard. I have twelve kids and it wasn't that hard naming them." Well, you wonderful person you, I decided not to make up a new name because the name's that I came up with weren't very fitting. His real name is the only one that feels right to me so the new label of, "The Psychic," give us the detail that we need. If you don't like that, you can go name more of your own kids.

**Throughout my high school years, I would get up at 5:30am every morning to go swimming. To accomplish this, I would go to sleep rather early. After high school though, this still became my go-to excuse when I wanted to leave somewhere at night. Sorry if you have been a victim of early morning swimming.

New Neighbors

My new house is nothing special.

A basement apartment on the side of a fading yellow house on the corner of a suburb slowly becoming outdated as its counterparts are being constructed on the other side of town. I'll give it that: a titch of "originality" in its environment (Which I have to do to oppose the bourgeoisie since I'm in my twenties and have to fulfill that obligation as a college student of this century. I can just feel the angst.).

The dents in the walls and the stains on the ceiling are evident of its neglect in past ownership, but I like to think that it had a more colorful history. The last owner only smoked in the same spot in the kitchen every day for 5 years and created the yellow stain on the ceiling. The scorch mark on the wall is from a birthday cake gone awry. Making a place home means deciding it was something more special before and now it's yours.

"The landlady said she would fix that sink...in November." Beth tells me again and again. Our bathroom sink is merely a statue new sinks might look at in a museum of the first pioneers of sinks (or at least the sinks that went to Woodstock). With two faucets, it's a mystery how this ceramic actually lived up to its expectation of washing things at the right temperature.

The first month was quiet. According to our landlord, our neighbor upstairs had sustained some type of injury and was usually with his sister. He might have even been up there and just never made a lot of noise; it was nice.

"When did our injured neighbor get so loud? And multiply?" I asked one day while I read a book at the table. The usual pitter-patter and occasional flush of a toilet had been replaced by what seemed to be people repeatedly pouring bricks all over the floor and then rolling in said bricks.

"I think we have new neighbors." Beth was right, new neighbors they were. Overnight, our quiet little basement turned into the underside of a highway (complete with hobo).

One afternoon during lunch, I started hearing music. I had learned earlier that week that while our apartment, already providing minimal insulation from sound above, provided even less when the small closet door to our washing machine was open. I opened the door and recoiled slightly at the sound. It was music alright-- the doin'-it kind. I quickly texted Beth. "They have sexy music on upstairs. They're totally doing it." "Ryan," she replied, "afternoon delight is a thing." I shuddered.

They ruined quiet shower time.

They ruined quiet lunch time.

Then, they ruined quiet movie time.

We were chomping down on salt and pepper chips when it happened. The movie was about to play and we were settled comfortably in our spots in the living room, Beth and I, when it happened. The noises. Such distinct noises they were.

"OH MY GOD." We hear from the floor above us. "YEAH, DON'T STOP. OHHHHH."

I turned to Beth, "Are they?..."

"They are." she said.

Our faces, then displayed with an appropriate level of disgust, quickly turned into the face of curious children.

"Open the laundry room door!"

We quickly crowded around the open door and listened.

"OH GOD. YEAH. LIKE THAT." and other grunting noises descended from above.

"You know," Beth said as she looked at me, "that girl is a really good faker."

I nodded and grabbed a few more chips out of the bag.

To Miss A Sheep

Due to the fact that I feel guilty about not putting anything up recently informing about my current goings-on (which things have been happening and stuff and things and blah), I decided to share this story that I wrote with you today. I will preface this with that I wrote this under a mindset that would best be described as...disturbed. I think that's enough detail.

I was responding to a friend's e-mail where the subject line she sent me was: "Who'd have thought it was possible to miss sheep?"

Here was my response:

You know, I think that it is possible to miss sheep. Once when I was a very small child, I had a small sheep; I named him Reginald McFluffypants of Yorkshire the III (or Reg, for short). Well, Reg and I would do all sorts of activities together to pass the time: boggle, running, crocheting, shuffleboard; we were the best of friends. Then one day while I was at school, Reginald decided that he needed more stimulation in life. "Life isn't just about shuffleboard! I need something more. MORE I SAY!" With that, he slammed the door and I didn't hear from him for a long time. That was until one day when I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize.

Upon answering, I could tell that it was Reginald. He had sold his fur to buy carrots and had nothing left to sell (oh, he was also heavily addicted to crack). I searched the dank city far and wide until I found the small hovel he was staying in. "No, don't look at me!" he said as I walked in the door. He was on a stained mattress with a bottle of coke and a loaf of bread surrounding him; it was bleak. "Ryan...I don't have long..." he whispered in my ear, "But I just wanted to say...I always hated shuffleboard." With that out of the way, Reginald died in my arms, leaving me nothing but a cold husk and shoddy lambskin.

Happy first week of school.

Pie

I'm late. I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late. This thought occurred over and over as I drove towards the Marie Calendar's on the other side of town. The plan had been to meet at eight o'clock, order a couple pies to share, and go from there. Despite the fact that I'm perpetually late for most things, it still gives me more stress than if I were to open my freezer and find decapitated baby dolls in there with a note in scrawled letters that read, "I like eating your toenail clippings."

Driving up to the Marie Calendar's, I saw the time was 8:15. It wasn't the worst; I figured that everyone would be sitting down and just beginning to order so I would definitely wouldn't be the last person there. Opening the door, I was greeted by two familiar faces; Russell and Spencer. They were sitting by the fireplace looking...early.

"No one else is here yet?" I asked.

"What did you expect going to dinner with a bunch of Mormons?" said Spencer, a punctual Mormon.

It was true.

Over the past few years, my high school friends have organized small gatherings here and there to bring the whole gang back together. Sometimes these occasions are brought on by a marriage of one of our cohorts, or simply because everyone is in the same town at the same time--they usually happen is the point that I'm trying to get across. Since we have gone our different ways in life and a lot of us might not have much in common anymore, these meetings have become somewhat of a "catch-me-up" event. Who's dating who, who's knocked up, who's getting married, who got arrested--just stuff like that; not to mention there's always the question of, "If we had met now in life, would we be friends?," But I try and disregard that as we have the "high-school bond" and that I do enjoy these people's company.

About five minutes after getting our table the rest of the gang showed up. By that point, a few of us had ordered individual slices of pie and our original plan had gone out the window. But screw the plan and onto the gossip!

We brought up new jobs, graduate programs, undergraduate programs; basically all those things in life where we just cry a little bit inside when we think about our future debt lives. It was nice to focus on our dearest Angelee for a while as we prodded her about her dating life until it came time to question me about my recent trip. Oh, by the way, I just went to China*. I was slightly obligated to fill my friends in.

Friend 1: Wait, where did you go?

Ryan: China. I got back last Saturday.

Friend 1: Really? That's crazy. How long were you there?

Ryan: Seven months.

Friend 2: I always know what you're doing because I read your blog.

Ryan: Yeah...I really gotta keep that thing up better. Weird story: people in my city found out about my blog.

Friend 2: How did that happen?

Ryan: I was at a birthday dinner when one of the Chinese guys there heard my name and said, "Wait...do you have a blog?" My friends told me there was only one other Ryan in the entire city and they assumed he didn't have a blog. I was a little afraid because things I wrote about my city might not be considered the...nicest.

Friend 4: That's so crazy. Small world, I guess.

Ryan: Yeah, so I guess I'm slightly internet famous! (I think it's right above the daily arrests and below the obituary)

Friend 2: I really do think your blog is funny. Though, if someone reading it didn't know you very well, they might think you're always about to kill yourself.

Ryan: What?

Friend 3: Yeah, if [the reader] didn't know you, you can seem a little moody.

*Nods from around the table in agreement.*

Ryan: Oh. Well, I guess I'll try and sound less...suicidal.

Friend 1: Don't worry, we still think you're funny.

Friend 3: You're probably going to blog about this, huh?

Ryan: No...


*Yes, now I can use this as one of those conversational ice-breakers FOR EVERY CONVERSATION EVER. "Oh, you look tired." "Yeah, well I just went to CHINA."; "Would you like a little more cheese on your pasta, sir?" "Cheese on your CHINA?!"; "I'm going into lab--" "CHINA. DID YOU KNOW I WENT THERE." (I really promise that I'm not going to be that guy, (You know, the one who has to tell you about that one thing he did every time he finds an opportunity to insert it into conversation.) but I might bring it up from time to time. I call it playing the "China Card." Haven't seen me in awhile and I demand time for you to see me? China card. I demand cheesecake for lunch and macaroni for dinner? China card.)