social experiment: drunkenness and vampire fangs

*Please note that I will not be intoxicated for the duration of the social experiment. I am underage. Plus, I might end up biting myself with fangs and that would hurt.

Today’s post is a little bit different in that it will be presented in two parts. As you can probably tell by the title, I’m going to do a little social experiment. I’ve been flirting with this idea for a while, and today I have finally collected enough courage to execute it. I’m talking about wearing fangs. In public.

I should probably explain. I got the fangs for a Halloween costume, so they are customized to my mouth and look pretty realistic, if I do say so myself. This week is rush week at my school, which means that the fraternities are throwing huge parties for the new members. Being who I am, I cannot let this opportunity for social experimentation go to waste.

I plan on looking as normal as possible. Sure, I’m slightly paler than your average human being, but that can’t be helped. It can only help my cause at this point. I’m going to go out looking like this:

Pretty normal, right? But, little will people suspect that brewing under this calm exterior lay these bad boys:

I will get back to you with my findings tomorrow. Can you wait? Neither can I.

*EDIT: I will be conducting this experiment at a later time, preferably one with greater visibility and less of a chance that I will be elbowed in the face and inadvertently swallow a fang. It's for my own safety. Plus a vampire in the daylight may cause more panic.

now i am actually curious about my facial expressions during conversations

Today, my blog came up in conversation. The other person was curious about my writing compulsion, and when I mentioned that I write a little bit each day, he asked, “What do you write about?”

Despite my overwhelming urge to correct his grammar so that his question didn’t end with a preposition (an urge that, by the way, drives all my friends crazy. At this point, I wonder how I have friends), I found myself at a loss for words.

The feeling I had was unsettlingly familiar to my initial response to the prompt “How would you describe yourself?” What am I actually doing here? Does it count as comedy? Creative writing? How long can I get away with not saying anything before this situation gets awkward and he wonders what’s wrong with me? What does my face look like at this point in time?

In the end, I noncommittally mumbled something about how I don’t really write about anything, or about a lot of stuff, or something else equally vague. I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, otherwise I would have distracted him with sarcasm and steered the conversation elsewhere. Based on his confused expression, I doubt I conveyed my thoughts very eloquently at all. I justified my writing by explaining that I want to keep myself in practice, and I also enjoy doing so, and it seemed to placate his confusion. But after this exchange, I was removed from the conversation. I wonder if he noticed.

Anyways, my inability to label my writing (and in extension, myself) was confusing. True, I’m not sure how to define my often-maniacal musings. Classification is tricky, even with a mnemonic. But attempting to explain my work was, for lack of a better word, weird. Like I was giving away a part of myself that I wasn’t ready to share. It was in this moment that I realized how personal writing is for me. I mean, I knew before, but I had no idea that my sensitivity reached this extent.

Another thing I noticed was my aversion to a concrete label. As you can probably tell, I don’t really like being confined. I think that people are far too complex to be put into neat little boxes. Doing so does everyone involved a great disservice in understanding the other. In sum, oversimplification sucks.

But the distinctly American school of thought that everyone is special has heavily influenced my way of thinking. By labeling, I feel like I am somehow cheating myself and the other person with the omission of certain details. Then I remembered that not everyone thinks like me, and not everyone cares either.

I didn’t say any of these things aloud, but nevertheless, he concluded our conversation by mentioning that I would be a fascinating subject for psychoanalysis. Was it so obvious that there was a storm brewing in my head? Whatever. It has always been an aspiration of mine to be a guinea pig.

next to normal

Have you ever gotten to a point in your life where you wonder whether or not you are actually crazy?

What happened to me today certainly was not quite that dramatic, but it did force me to question my ability to determine what is socially acceptable.

It happened in my cultural studies seminar. The girl that sits next to me is an acquaintance of mine, so I thought on some level she understood my neuroses. Especially considering that she lived pretty close to me my freshman year, so she has seen me in action when she visited my room.

She had forgotten to bring the reading for today’s session, so she asked to look on with me. I said yes, of course. There have been times when I forgot to print out the reading, but being too shy to inconvenience anyone else, would pretend that it was in my binder, or even pretend that I had taken copious amounts of reading notes and was editing them in class. I didn’t want someone else to suffer like that.

I moved my papers between the two of us (but still slightly closer to me, just to establish boundaries) and we both leaned in to follow along as the professor pointed out a particular passage. I should also note at this time that I print these documents with multiple pages on one printed page so that they end up looking like this:

I always feel horrible printing out fiftyish-page readings, and adjusting the images and printing double-sided helps alleviate that guilt, even though it's at the expense of my already rapidly deteriorating eyesight.

This particular reading was confusing, so my copy was mainly marked up with underlines and question marks in the margins so that I would remember to bring things up in class. Other pages were blank, simply because I wasn’t sure what exactly I should take away from those passages.

As we were following along, she turned to the next page. I already thought that was crossing the boundaries I had established, but I let it go. Mostly because I am aware of my personal space issues and I know that they are weird. But she kept turning the pages to look, superficially, at all of the pages. She then turned to me and said, “(snort of derision) Nice notes.”

In a defensive panic, I tapped my notebook and made writing gestures with my index finger, indicating that I had taken reading notes (which I had, except that they were mostly quotes of text followed by phrases of confusion). She looked unconvinced, so I put my head down and feigned being incredibly interested in the reading before me. But all I could see was the reason for my shame.

As I sat there half-listening, I started to think about the interaction. She was inconveniencing me, yet had the audacity to judge me. I mean, she didn’t even have her reading. I would never judge someone based on how annotated their readings are, and even if I were to judge someone, I certainly wouldn’t vocalize the judgment. And I have seen people write stupid stuff in the margins of their books. I bought a used book for a class in which, unbeknownst to me or I would not have bought it, someone had written “metaphor” next to every single metaphor in the novel. It drove me nuts.

Besides, I judge myself more than enough. I do not need help from other people.

But what struck me was how quickly I went into defensive mode, deciding in that split second that I had to prove myself to her. In addition, I automatically assumed a submissive position, even though I should have been in a position of power. I, after all, had the reading. Somehow, I had absorbed all the blame for what had just happened, even though I understood that she was being rude to me.

The problem, therefore was not with me at all, but lay with her. More specifically, it lay with her failure to recognize that she was being inconsiderate.

Later on during the seminar, the professor referenced an additional reading that he had assigned for extra credit. I had done it, but neglected to print it out, or even save it on my laptop. Yes, I had taken reading notes. Luckily, I had my laptop in my bag, so I took it out so I wouldn’t be lost when he mentioned specific instances.

But, to access that specific version of the reading, I had to open the email to which he had attached the document. While searching for his email, I noticed that I had an unread message in my inbox. Being easily distracted, I opened it. Then I felt that familiar discomfort. She was reading my email. I turned to her, but she was still staring intently at my screen. I tried to make eye contact, but I could see her pupils moving as she read the words that were intended for me. I said, “You’re reading my email.” She nodded. Then she said, “It’s not like it was anything private.”

I quickly closed the message, found the document I needed, then tried to make sense of what had just happened.

True, the email wasn’t necessarily private. One of my professors sent out a list of awards for which her students could apply. My classmate may have even been on the list of recipients. But I still felt violated that my classmate was so open in her disregard for my privacy, nor did she see any problem with her actions.

Now that I am removed from the situation, I can’t help but wonder whether my perception is so skewed that I interpreted everything completely wrong. The more I think about it, the more concerned I am that I have the problem. Was all the discomfort only in my head? Was the way in which she was behaving normal, but because I was the one on the receiving end, they appeared especially strange? Or, was her behavior really as appalling as I perceived it? Who is the weird one here: her or me?

sometimes silence is the better option

I have heard people say that they think that their life would be drastically improved with the addition of a soundtrack. A musical narrator, if you will.

I however, think that this is a terrible idea.

Music adds drama to a given situation. I am a dramatic person by nature. I think you see where this is going.

When I am upset with someone, I tend to wait it out for a bit. I am not a confrontational person. I try to avoid conflict at all costs. However, being who I am, I need to know exactly what happened so I can move on. Some people call it closure; other people call it beating a dead horse. Either way, I like to have rational conversations after the fact. Someone once told me that I handle conflict diplomatically. He also called me a robot, so I’m not sure whether it was a compliment or not.

But this strategy is already flawed. Instead of expressing myself at the relevant time (like when I actually feel the emotions), I wait. I wait until I am as close to calm as I can be. I use this time to write out everything that’s on my mind so that I remember every detail that I think is important, and gives me a guide in case I get distracted.

It seems like rationalizing would be effective in this scenario, especially for someone like me. If only it were that simple. Seeing what I write reminds of why I was upset in the first place, which then escalates my anger. I begin to seethe, writing increasingly more volatile things as I sit fuming. I convince myself that I’m right and the other person is wrong and how could someone be so ignorant and look how I have been wronged until I snatch up my piece of paper and head over to give that person a piece of my mind.

But the momentum of that rage wears off prematurely, no matter how hard I try to keep it going. I imagine epic scenes in which I deliver grand speeches to eloquently describe why the other person is a douchebag, usually about three to five minutes in length (with copious amounts of guilt-tripping, of course). I suppose my body can only handle a certain amount of malevolence, and immediately dissolves it once it crosses that threshold.

The emotional comedown generally occurs during my walk over. My clenched fist relaxes and I glance down at the crumpled, sweaty manifesto of anger. I realize that what I have written is probably not going to ameliorate the situation. Besides, even though most of what I have written is true, I no longer have the motivation to deliver that rage-induced speech.

I re-evaluate what I have written, crossing off irrelevant points or ones with particularly colorful language, then have the aforementioned rational conversation. I manage to say everything that I need to say without worrying that I might fly off the handle at any moment.

I take extra care to hide the piece of paper beforehand. Because I don’t want the other person to think I’m weird.

Imagine the above scenario set to music. Now you know why it’s not such a good idea after all.

new friends?

With this post, I will have surpassed my previous blog in terms of volume of content. In honor of achieving such a feat, I am going to write about something of great significance.

Just kidding.

As I was sitting around a table with my friends, “studying,” a horrible realization hit me out of nowhere.

These sorts of realizations smack me in the fact quite often. When lying in bed during a typical sleepless night, I’ll suddenly bolt upright with wide eyes, thinking, “I’m mortal. That means I’m going to die.” Luckily I’ve gotten fairly good at calming myself down with all these years of practice. But as a little kid I would end up panicking myself to sleep.

But back to the story. So I was sitting there laughing and chugging caffeine when it occurred to me that, next semester, I’m going to have to make new friends.

The reason I need new friends is that we are all, save for a small minority, going to be abroad next semester. Also, two of my friends will be studying at the same institution, so they don’t technically need to make new friends. Needless to say, I am ridiculously jealous.

The problem isn’t with the act of making friends. As shocking as it may seem, I can pretend to be normal long enough to ensnare someone in my trap of friendship. Besides, no one is actually normal, so it’s really just a matter of time before the other person cracks too.

The problem is with learning a new language.

With friendship comes a slew of vocabulary that makes sense to only us. There are certain phrases tied to events or inside jokes. These things become so ingrained in our collective lexicon that we draw upon them without thinking twice. It is only in talking to other people that we realize just how pervasive our language is.

And the thought of having to learn a new one is terrifying.





*Of course, I’ll miss my friends too. That goes without saying.

the game

As you may or may not know by now, people-watching is one of my favorite activities. As I am more comfortable observing than acting in social situations, I suppose this fascination makes sense. I appreciate the everyday interactions, and I love analyzing the larger implications of such interactions. But what entertains me most is observing people’s methods of extracting themselves from potential awkwardness.

I can assure you that my analysis is not mean-spirited. In fact, I take these golden moments of humanity as opportunities to learn from others—to determine what does and does not work.

Take, for instance, a classic example of highly visible embarrassment. The homecoming football game at my college is the only sporting event I ever attend. I’m not exactly interested in football, but I feel obligated to support my school at least once a year. Besides, large sporting events are fascinating. Emotions are high, and the entire stadium is buzzing with the prospect of public humiliation. Or maybe that’s just me.

One year, as expected, there were a bunch of shirtless guys in the front of the stands, torsos painted with the letters of the mascot. Typical bros. They were obviously intoxicated, and waaay too into the game. Of course, where there are bros, there are gaggles of giggling girls. One particular gaggle consisted of several girls wearing team paraphernalia and short skirts. Probably not the most practical outfits to wear to a sporting event (who knows what has come into contact with the bleachers). After flirting with the guys, who suddenly were not as interested in the game, they began to couple off and have individual conversations. As expected, there was plenty of hair touching and plenty of shoulder shoving.

One couple seemed in especially high spirits. The girl then decided that she wanted a piggyback ride, so she hopped up on his back. Unfortunately for her, he was too inebriated to provide a stable base, so she quickly met the ground with her face.

Keep in mind that she ate it in front of an entire section of the bleachers.

But, instead of getting upset or dying of embarrassment, she got up and pretended that nothing had happened. Of course, she was not very convincing in her charade, especially since she knew that everyone had seen, but she did her best to ignore that we had all seen up her skirt.

Was her coping mechanism an effective diversion? Considering the vividness with which I remember the event, probably not. Her total disregard for what happened struck me as extremely odd, and intrigued me to the point where I continued to watch her after she walked away, curious to see whether she would break character to one of her friends and express her true feelings. But she never did, which made me uncomfortable. Or maybe those were her true feelings. There’s no way for me to ever know.

But when I think about how I would have behaved were I ever to be in such a situation, I doubt I would have done something different. Is there a way to gracefully handle oneself after experiencing something like that?

I suppose one can take preemptive measure and not ask a drunk shirtless guy for a piggyback ride. But taking such extreme precautions may be unreasonable.

itch

I have an uncontrollable itch. It is located at the top of my left foot at the base of my third and fourth toes. And it is driving me nuts.

Currently, I am in a class that lasts for two hours and forty-five minutes. We’ve just passed the one hour mark. Because of where I am sitting, it will be extremely visible if I take off my shoe to scratch my foot, not just to my professor (who probably already thinks I am strange) but to the majority of my classmates as well. Subtlety is not an option. Plus, my ankle boot is fastened with a buckle, and I am way too lazy to unbuckle it.

It’s okay. I can handle it. Poker face. I wiggle my toes to try to create some sort of friction between my skin and my sock, but to no avail. The itch persists. It heightens. Mocking me and my desire to follow social conventions whilst in the company of strangers. Propriety is ruining my life.

I step on my left foot with my right, digging my heel into the top of my foot. Hoping that the pain will distract from the unbearable itch. It helps a little, but once I return my right foot to its place on the floor, the itching returns. I contemplate keeping my heel jammed into the itchy area, but my right leg is getting fatigued. The flexion is beginning to make my right leg tremble. Plus, my left foot is starting to hurt. A lot. My poker face is wavering and I wince, then shift position once more.

At this point, I realize that my fidgety leg movements may be misconstrued as the uncomfortable shifting of someone who needs to pee. I do not need to pee. I just need to scratch my foot.

I need to pee.

Well, there goes any concentration I may have still had. I sit and wait for the break (we usually break at an hour and thirty minutes). Once the professor dismisses us, I rush to the bathroom. Then I buy coffee.

Class resumes. I sit down.

My foot itches.