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31 May 2011
28 May 2011
questions i don't know how to answer
I became aware that there are multiple ways to answer a question when I was in third grade. My teacher was sick, so a substitute filled in. Unfortunately, my teacher had been in the middle of reading a book aloud to the whole class, and had therefore left the substitute with the task of finishing it. When the sub asked for a volunteer to tell her what had happened thus far in the book to give her context for where were in the story, my hand shot up, practically propelling me out of my seat.
I should interrupt this story with an anecdote my mom loves to tell. When I was younger, she used to walk four miles a day and take me along with her. And I would talk to her the whole time. For those four miles, my mom would be subjected to my nonstop chatter about books I had read, juicy third-grade gossip, random thoughts that popped into my head. I would just talk and talk and talk. And she would listen, without telling me once to shut up. Or she would just tune me out. I know what I would have done.
So when the substitute asked me to tell her what had happened in the book, I thought she wanted me to tell her everything that was important to the plot (read: everything). Since the author had constructed such a delicate story, every detail was crucial, and therefore deserved to be told.
I must have talked for about twenty minutes (including reenacting all the dialogue) before the poor substitute teacher thanked me then asked someone else what had happened right before we left off.
I was heartbroken and humiliated, then realized that that was probably all she intended to hear, rather than my retelling of the entire novel. Since then, I have preferred to err on the side of too little than too much in conversation.
But back to the original point of this post. There are some questions that I just flat out don’t know how to answer. Questions like:
So what do you blog about? I’ve written on this subject before, but it still doesn’t get any easier to explain. I like to say “Nothing. But also everything.” except that I haven’t found a way to say that without feeling like a total douchebag. So, until I’ve figured that out, I’ll just resort to mumbling or changing the subject.
Are you having fun? If the person asked me whether or not I was having fun, wouldn’t it mean that something on my face conveyed otherwise? Although, my face looks bored a lot of the time, but the glazed-over look can be attributed more to me over-thinking any and all social interactions, and not necessarily to me wanting to leave. Also, even if I say that yes, I am having fun, I’m afraid that it sounds forced, especially when accompanied by a smile. Like I’m overcompensating for having a lazy face. Then, even when it isn’t a lie, it comes off as one. Likewise, “Are you excited about [whatever]?”
Do you care about the children/human rights/ animals? I hate this one. I’m walking down the street and a person with dreadlocks and a clipboard asks me a variation of this question. Saying no makes me out to be a heartless bitch. But saying yes means that I have to listen to this person stumble over some “ums” and explain the petition, culminating in asking me for a signature or some money. I even feel mean just writing that. Either way, I feel bad. I normally smile and say something along the lines of “Sorry, I’m in a rush!” then hurrying off. I still feel bad though.
You don’t have a boyfriend? Why not? The way I answer this question really depends on who asked. I might say something like “Because I don’t have time” or “Because I haven’t found anyone that I like” or something else noncommittal and vague, but a more accurate answer would be something like “Because I am too socially awkward to have a normal interaction with a guy, exacerbated by the fact that I go to a women’s college. Also, I consider man-repelling a sport. Do you want some old lady candy from the pocket of my grandpa cardigan?” It really depends on how uncomfortable I want to make the other person feel.
I should interrupt this story with an anecdote my mom loves to tell. When I was younger, she used to walk four miles a day and take me along with her. And I would talk to her the whole time. For those four miles, my mom would be subjected to my nonstop chatter about books I had read, juicy third-grade gossip, random thoughts that popped into my head. I would just talk and talk and talk. And she would listen, without telling me once to shut up. Or she would just tune me out. I know what I would have done.
So when the substitute asked me to tell her what had happened in the book, I thought she wanted me to tell her everything that was important to the plot (read: everything). Since the author had constructed such a delicate story, every detail was crucial, and therefore deserved to be told.
I must have talked for about twenty minutes (including reenacting all the dialogue) before the poor substitute teacher thanked me then asked someone else what had happened right before we left off.
I was heartbroken and humiliated, then realized that that was probably all she intended to hear, rather than my retelling of the entire novel. Since then, I have preferred to err on the side of too little than too much in conversation.
But back to the original point of this post. There are some questions that I just flat out don’t know how to answer. Questions like:
So what do you blog about? I’ve written on this subject before, but it still doesn’t get any easier to explain. I like to say “Nothing. But also everything.” except that I haven’t found a way to say that without feeling like a total douchebag. So, until I’ve figured that out, I’ll just resort to mumbling or changing the subject.
Are you having fun? If the person asked me whether or not I was having fun, wouldn’t it mean that something on my face conveyed otherwise? Although, my face looks bored a lot of the time, but the glazed-over look can be attributed more to me over-thinking any and all social interactions, and not necessarily to me wanting to leave. Also, even if I say that yes, I am having fun, I’m afraid that it sounds forced, especially when accompanied by a smile. Like I’m overcompensating for having a lazy face. Then, even when it isn’t a lie, it comes off as one. Likewise, “Are you excited about [whatever]?”
Do you care about the children/human rights/ animals? I hate this one. I’m walking down the street and a person with dreadlocks and a clipboard asks me a variation of this question. Saying no makes me out to be a heartless bitch. But saying yes means that I have to listen to this person stumble over some “ums” and explain the petition, culminating in asking me for a signature or some money. I even feel mean just writing that. Either way, I feel bad. I normally smile and say something along the lines of “Sorry, I’m in a rush!” then hurrying off. I still feel bad though.
You don’t have a boyfriend? Why not? The way I answer this question really depends on who asked. I might say something like “Because I don’t have time” or “Because I haven’t found anyone that I like” or something else noncommittal and vague, but a more accurate answer would be something like “Because I am too socially awkward to have a normal interaction with a guy, exacerbated by the fact that I go to a women’s college. Also, I consider man-repelling a sport. Do you want some old lady candy from the pocket of my grandpa cardigan?” It really depends on how uncomfortable I want to make the other person feel.
27 May 2011
from my crooked heart
I’ve written before about plurality and the issues that arise from it. If you don’t remember, and I don’t blame you if you don’t (I don’t even remember what I’ve written most of the time), I was wrestling with the fragmentation of my identity, and my inability to reconcile those distinct parts. In other words, I gots issues, yo.
The reason why I’m returning to this concept is that it has played an integral part in my negligence of this blog recently. Things have been really difficult recently in my personal life.
I responded as expected: I spent a lot of time contemplating life and writing. I wrote five blog posts in full explaining my thought and emotional processes in response to recent events. But, as you can probably tell, I didn’t publish a single one of them.
Why? I can already hear you asking. Just kidding. I don’t hear voices in my head.
I didn’t publish because I didn’t know what boundaries there are in having a blog. After waiting this long to post, especially with respect to what has happened, does there need to be pomp and circumstance in my return? Does there need to be a grand sweeping gesture in which I employ more poetry than prose in expressing myself? Or is it acceptable to do a post that is completely removed as an attempt to move forward?
Because of this uncertainty, the content of these posts were varied. Some contained emotion-filled recollections. Others were abstract interpretations of the way in which my brain copes. And one of them was about my inability to make commitments, exemplified in how I sleep: with most of my body under the covers, save for one leg.
Maybe these posts will be published sometime in the future. But maybe not. The folder of posts in my laptop has tons of unpublished and unfinished works. Every time I try to continue a post like that, though, I become inspired by something else and that new post takes precedence, pushing the other one further back in the queue. Maybe these posts will meet the same fate.
But I digress. My point is, I didn’t finish these posts because I let my work define me, instead of the other way around. I was so swept up in making sure I reacted in the correct way that I stifled any creativity.
Being self-conscious sucks. And if there’s anything I don’t want for my blog, it’s for it to suck. So from this point on, I am going to do my best to express myself fully, with as little censorship as possible. Also, I’m going to keep in mind that this is my blog. I shouldn’t have to worry about breaking any rules because I’m the one making them.
Yes, I’m still upset. But, as some women in my family have shown me recently, it’s important to stand your ground.
The reason why I’m returning to this concept is that it has played an integral part in my negligence of this blog recently. Things have been really difficult recently in my personal life.
I responded as expected: I spent a lot of time contemplating life and writing. I wrote five blog posts in full explaining my thought and emotional processes in response to recent events. But, as you can probably tell, I didn’t publish a single one of them.
Why? I can already hear you asking. Just kidding. I don’t hear voices in my head.
I didn’t publish because I didn’t know what boundaries there are in having a blog. After waiting this long to post, especially with respect to what has happened, does there need to be pomp and circumstance in my return? Does there need to be a grand sweeping gesture in which I employ more poetry than prose in expressing myself? Or is it acceptable to do a post that is completely removed as an attempt to move forward?
Because of this uncertainty, the content of these posts were varied. Some contained emotion-filled recollections. Others were abstract interpretations of the way in which my brain copes. And one of them was about my inability to make commitments, exemplified in how I sleep: with most of my body under the covers, save for one leg.
Maybe these posts will be published sometime in the future. But maybe not. The folder of posts in my laptop has tons of unpublished and unfinished works. Every time I try to continue a post like that, though, I become inspired by something else and that new post takes precedence, pushing the other one further back in the queue. Maybe these posts will meet the same fate.
But I digress. My point is, I didn’t finish these posts because I let my work define me, instead of the other way around. I was so swept up in making sure I reacted in the correct way that I stifled any creativity.
Being self-conscious sucks. And if there’s anything I don’t want for my blog, it’s for it to suck. So from this point on, I am going to do my best to express myself fully, with as little censorship as possible. Also, I’m going to keep in mind that this is my blog. I shouldn’t have to worry about breaking any rules because I’m the one making them.
Yes, I’m still upset. But, as some women in my family have shown me recently, it’s important to stand your ground.
10 May 2011
i should probably wash this shirt
I wonder whether the face of triumph is always this unglamorous.
I turned in the last of my academic work for the semester at 2 am. For that moment in time, I was victorious. But that moment was short lived.
I could not go to sleep. I admit, my sleeping patterns are far from normal. But this morning, there was nothing I could do to remedy the situation.
So I watched documentaries on Netflix, caught up on some television (including an entire season of Sex and the City), and read some articles on some literary websites. I have no idea what insomniacs of the past did to pass the time. I suppose I could have read a book, but after the intellectual exhaustion of the past few weeks, I thought that I deserved a break. Besides, the only books I have in my room are for my classes, and there is no way in hell I was going to relive any academic moments from the semester. But hey, it could have been worse. I could have been watching reality television.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I know, it seems implausible, what with all the riveting entertainment at my disposal. But I think my body understood that sleep is a good thing, and therefore was being foolish for depriving me of it.
Unfortunately, I forgot to turn off my alarm. So here I am, sitting in bed as the grey light of morning slants through my open window, wondering what I am doing with my life. I’m wearing the same shirt I’ve been wearing for the past couple of days. My hair is all sorts of fucked up, and there are coffee cups and soda cans on my bedside table. All in all, I am a vision in black and white stripes.
I have poured my heart, soul, and brain into my work this semester. But all I have to show for it is a tired face and a listless body. What should be met with exuberant celebration is instead met with quiet, solitary contemplation.
I’d like to take this opportunity to bid farewell to the past semester. So long, awkward encounters in which I cannot see the other person until it’s too late to employ any diversionary tactics. Adieu, times when I leaned too far back in my desk chair and fell into my bookshelf, thanking any deity that would listen that no one else was in the room to see just how little of gravity I truly comprehend. Goodbye, moments of existential crisis during which I was rendered helpless by the sudden onslaught of self-doubt, only to lie catatonic in bed while pondering the possibility that this may be it for me.
I know that I have much to be thankful for about my time here. But tinted with the dull morning light, on very little rest (even for my standards), and under the influence of no caffeine, I cannot help being a little bit jaded.
I know things will get better. Later on, I’ll be happy about being done. But for now, I will lie here, rumpled up, and think. People say that their favorite part about summer is that they no longer have to think. That notion has always baffled me. I have never been able to escape.
I turned in the last of my academic work for the semester at 2 am. For that moment in time, I was victorious. But that moment was short lived.
I could not go to sleep. I admit, my sleeping patterns are far from normal. But this morning, there was nothing I could do to remedy the situation.
So I watched documentaries on Netflix, caught up on some television (including an entire season of Sex and the City), and read some articles on some literary websites. I have no idea what insomniacs of the past did to pass the time. I suppose I could have read a book, but after the intellectual exhaustion of the past few weeks, I thought that I deserved a break. Besides, the only books I have in my room are for my classes, and there is no way in hell I was going to relive any academic moments from the semester. But hey, it could have been worse. I could have been watching reality television.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I know, it seems implausible, what with all the riveting entertainment at my disposal. But I think my body understood that sleep is a good thing, and therefore was being foolish for depriving me of it.
Unfortunately, I forgot to turn off my alarm. So here I am, sitting in bed as the grey light of morning slants through my open window, wondering what I am doing with my life. I’m wearing the same shirt I’ve been wearing for the past couple of days. My hair is all sorts of fucked up, and there are coffee cups and soda cans on my bedside table. All in all, I am a vision in black and white stripes.
I have poured my heart, soul, and brain into my work this semester. But all I have to show for it is a tired face and a listless body. What should be met with exuberant celebration is instead met with quiet, solitary contemplation.
I’d like to take this opportunity to bid farewell to the past semester. So long, awkward encounters in which I cannot see the other person until it’s too late to employ any diversionary tactics. Adieu, times when I leaned too far back in my desk chair and fell into my bookshelf, thanking any deity that would listen that no one else was in the room to see just how little of gravity I truly comprehend. Goodbye, moments of existential crisis during which I was rendered helpless by the sudden onslaught of self-doubt, only to lie catatonic in bed while pondering the possibility that this may be it for me.
I know that I have much to be thankful for about my time here. But tinted with the dull morning light, on very little rest (even for my standards), and under the influence of no caffeine, I cannot help being a little bit jaded.
I know things will get better. Later on, I’ll be happy about being done. But for now, I will lie here, rumpled up, and think. People say that their favorite part about summer is that they no longer have to think. That notion has always baffled me. I have never been able to escape.
26 April 2011
on being emo
I needed to take a breather after that last post. Far too much emotion for my comfort zone. I honestly have no idea where that outburst came from, but it did show me that I am not a very good writer when hysterical. Good to know.
Rather than bitch and moan about how much my life sucks right now (and trust me, it does), I am instead going to focus on something positive. Because nobody wants to read a shitty blog written by some emo kid.
When I’m feeling really depressed, I like to think about the sound of rain. Yes, I know that this notion sounds ridiculous, but bear with me.
I think about the sound of rain, pitter-pattering on my windowsill. Then, I imagine myself looking out of said window, gazing out at the muggy grey landscape without really seeing anything. The raindrops may pursue each other, racing down the glass hoping to merge with another, but I take no notice. Instead, I imagine myself completely absorbed in my lamentation. Maybe I am wrapped in nondescript, neutral-colored clothing. There may even be a hot beverage steaming up the windowpane in front of my face, obscuring my reflection.
Perhaps a solitary tear runs down my imaginary face. My imaginary countenance is nothing short of pathetic. One face cannot possibly hold so much emotion, no matter how furrowed my brow may be. I have hit rock bottom, found a pickaxe, and continued digging until I could no longer see the light of day. Everything is in black and white.
After I have established that mental image, I take a step back. I see myself, looking like a complete idiot, absolutely absorbed in my insignificant problems. Then I laugh. There is no way that I could take myself so seriously that I can pull off the described scene without an ounce of irony. I may be dramatic, but I am nowhere near that ridiculous. Nor am I the leading lady in a romantic comedy.
I know that this probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it is the easiest way to put things into perspective. Yes, it blows that I have to write so many papers. It sucks that my hands and arms are sore and cut up from bamboo (long story). It’ is unfortunate that I still haven’t completely recovered from my recent sickness. But I have not reached the point where the only logical thing to do is stare out my window and wallow in self-pity. I have already cried in public. I dealt with my emotions for once. Now it’s time for me to finish my espresso, hug Salvatore the unicorn, and buckle down.
P.S. This is precisely the reason why I cannot be a tortured artist. Nor can I talk about my "process" without being acutely aware that I sound like a douchebag. I usually just end up laughing.
Rather than bitch and moan about how much my life sucks right now (and trust me, it does), I am instead going to focus on something positive. Because nobody wants to read a shitty blog written by some emo kid.
When I’m feeling really depressed, I like to think about the sound of rain. Yes, I know that this notion sounds ridiculous, but bear with me.
I think about the sound of rain, pitter-pattering on my windowsill. Then, I imagine myself looking out of said window, gazing out at the muggy grey landscape without really seeing anything. The raindrops may pursue each other, racing down the glass hoping to merge with another, but I take no notice. Instead, I imagine myself completely absorbed in my lamentation. Maybe I am wrapped in nondescript, neutral-colored clothing. There may even be a hot beverage steaming up the windowpane in front of my face, obscuring my reflection.
Perhaps a solitary tear runs down my imaginary face. My imaginary countenance is nothing short of pathetic. One face cannot possibly hold so much emotion, no matter how furrowed my brow may be. I have hit rock bottom, found a pickaxe, and continued digging until I could no longer see the light of day. Everything is in black and white.
After I have established that mental image, I take a step back. I see myself, looking like a complete idiot, absolutely absorbed in my insignificant problems. Then I laugh. There is no way that I could take myself so seriously that I can pull off the described scene without an ounce of irony. I may be dramatic, but I am nowhere near that ridiculous. Nor am I the leading lady in a romantic comedy.
I know that this probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it is the easiest way to put things into perspective. Yes, it blows that I have to write so many papers. It sucks that my hands and arms are sore and cut up from bamboo (long story). It’ is unfortunate that I still haven’t completely recovered from my recent sickness. But I have not reached the point where the only logical thing to do is stare out my window and wallow in self-pity. I have already cried in public. I dealt with my emotions for once. Now it’s time for me to finish my espresso, hug Salvatore the unicorn, and buckle down.
P.S. This is precisely the reason why I cannot be a tortured artist. Nor can I talk about my "process" without being acutely aware that I sound like a douchebag. I usually just end up laughing.
24 April 2011
on crying in public
It takes a certain amount of desperation to cry in public. Crying in public requires that the crier in question hit rock bottom. Unfortunately for me, I reached that point today.
As you may know, today is Easter Sunday. Happy Easter!
Today was the first time I had to go to mass alone on Easter Sunday. I didn’t think it would be that big a deal, but for some reason, when I walked through the door and saw a bunch of people dressed in gaudy pastels, my heart broke. Not in the ostentatious, bursting into tears, messy way. Rather, seeing all these color-coordinated happy families reminded me that I was alone, and caused a slow implosion.
At first, I was just sad. I missed my family. I kept my composure and pretended to smile when the people next to me tried to start a friendly conversation. I don’t think I was as dazzling a conversationalist as I could have been, but I managed nonetheless.
Then, the girl sitting next to me started singing. Loudly. I think it’s great when people have the self-confidence to sing in public. But when the person is tone deaf, it becomes a little bit harder to keep a straight face. I found myself twisting my mouth into a contorted half-smile because, while I am a horrible person, I would not be able to laugh and forgive myself. So I kept it in. But then the sadness sunk in deeper when I realized there was no one around me to share my experience. There was no one to whom I could say later, “That girl had quite a voice.” Yes, I realize that I am mean, but today not only was I mean, but I was also alone. Around this time, my eyes started to water. The look on my face was probably a mix of extreme sadness and shock. I had not expected to have such a strong reaction to something so trivial.
Then during the homily, someone started snoring. Loudly. Again, it took all of my self-control not to laugh. Because of the high ceilings, the acoustics were impeccable. Unfortunately for the sleeping person, it meant that each inhalation resonated to the point where everyone was craning their necks trying to find the offending sleeper. Parents were scolding their children to stop laughing while trying not to laugh themselves. I stood there, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from running down my cheeks.
I barely made it outside the church before I succumbed to my overwhelming flood of emotions. That was easily the most emo sentence I have ever typed, and I will do my best never to do something like that again.
But yes, I cried, blubbering to my mom on the phone while speed-walking back to my dorm. At that point, it didn’t even matter that there were families holding hands around me. I didn’t care that some of my classmates were standing around with their significant others. I barely even saw the old couples looking at me with concern. All I wanted to do was cry. I know that I looked like a walking disaster and there was no hope of salvaging whatever dignity I had left.
I know that I’m going to be by myself in a foreign country in a matter of months. I will have to celebrate my birthday away from home for the first time. I’m going to have Thanksgiving by myself. There’s no way of knowing how I’ll react to reaching these milestones, but when the time comes, I will be better prepared. At least next time I’ll know that crying in public is a definite possibility.
Sorry for being so bleak. Enjoy Easter with people you love.
As you may know, today is Easter Sunday. Happy Easter!
Today was the first time I had to go to mass alone on Easter Sunday. I didn’t think it would be that big a deal, but for some reason, when I walked through the door and saw a bunch of people dressed in gaudy pastels, my heart broke. Not in the ostentatious, bursting into tears, messy way. Rather, seeing all these color-coordinated happy families reminded me that I was alone, and caused a slow implosion.
At first, I was just sad. I missed my family. I kept my composure and pretended to smile when the people next to me tried to start a friendly conversation. I don’t think I was as dazzling a conversationalist as I could have been, but I managed nonetheless.
Then, the girl sitting next to me started singing. Loudly. I think it’s great when people have the self-confidence to sing in public. But when the person is tone deaf, it becomes a little bit harder to keep a straight face. I found myself twisting my mouth into a contorted half-smile because, while I am a horrible person, I would not be able to laugh and forgive myself. So I kept it in. But then the sadness sunk in deeper when I realized there was no one around me to share my experience. There was no one to whom I could say later, “That girl had quite a voice.” Yes, I realize that I am mean, but today not only was I mean, but I was also alone. Around this time, my eyes started to water. The look on my face was probably a mix of extreme sadness and shock. I had not expected to have such a strong reaction to something so trivial.
Then during the homily, someone started snoring. Loudly. Again, it took all of my self-control not to laugh. Because of the high ceilings, the acoustics were impeccable. Unfortunately for the sleeping person, it meant that each inhalation resonated to the point where everyone was craning their necks trying to find the offending sleeper. Parents were scolding their children to stop laughing while trying not to laugh themselves. I stood there, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from running down my cheeks.
I barely made it outside the church before I succumbed to my overwhelming flood of emotions. That was easily the most emo sentence I have ever typed, and I will do my best never to do something like that again.
But yes, I cried, blubbering to my mom on the phone while speed-walking back to my dorm. At that point, it didn’t even matter that there were families holding hands around me. I didn’t care that some of my classmates were standing around with their significant others. I barely even saw the old couples looking at me with concern. All I wanted to do was cry. I know that I looked like a walking disaster and there was no hope of salvaging whatever dignity I had left.
I know that I’m going to be by myself in a foreign country in a matter of months. I will have to celebrate my birthday away from home for the first time. I’m going to have Thanksgiving by myself. There’s no way of knowing how I’ll react to reaching these milestones, but when the time comes, I will be better prepared. At least next time I’ll know that crying in public is a definite possibility.
Sorry for being so bleak. Enjoy Easter with people you love.
21 April 2011
being sick is doing wonders for my writing. just kidding.
There are many profound questions that I ask myself on a daily basis. What am I going to do with myself in the future? What is the meaning of life? And, most importantly, what is the proper way to sneeze?
I’ve been given many responses in my extensive time here on earth. But so far, none of them have been satisfactory.
The first option was never told to me; it was really more intuitive. I’m talking, of course, about the free-flying approach. In this scenario, the offending sneezer simply lets loose and releases the sneeze at its full 100mph without obstruction. This method is not socially acceptable because a] it is very loud, b] the accompanying facial expressions are never pretty, and c] people don’t like to have spit/snot flung in their faces. I learned pretty quickly that this choice would brand me a social pariah.
The next option is the catcher’s mitt. Instead of letting the sneeze particles run amuk, the offending sneezer may use his or her hand (or both hands, for the more advanced sneezer) as an attempt to “catch” the sneeze. Impeding the sneeze’s trajectory is a good idea, but the problem with these message emerges post-sneeze. What am I supposed to do with the spittle in my hands? Wipe them on something/someone? Close them awkwardly until I have the opportunity to wash them? This method only makes me ask more questions, so I can be sure that it is not the answer.
The catcher’s mitt can be modified to include a tissue, but there are a few problems with this option as well. For starters, I don’t always have tissues on hand. Also, like the original catcher’s mitt, using the modified catcher’s mitt creates new problems. What is the socially acceptable placement of the tissue post-sneeze? I know that a trash receptacle is ideal, but I do not have the luxury of always being surrounded by garbage cans. So what should I do? Hold it in my hand? Put in my purse or the pocket of my grandpa cardigan. I feel like, no matter what I choose, I am set up for failure and for feeling gross.
The method that I use the most appeals to me purely because of its name. I like to call this method the Dracula sneeze because it involves sneezing into the nook of one’s bent elbow, mimicking the way in which vampires peer seductively from behind their capes. Bonus points if you maintain sexy eye contact with someone while sneezing. Even though I use this method the most, I don’t think it’s necessarily effective. Sure, it keeps the hands spittle free. But I think of it as a glorified version of the first technique. Therefore, I still feel guilty about using it. But, since it is called the Dracula sneeze, I do it anyways. Resistance to the Dracula is futile.
I’ve been given many responses in my extensive time here on earth. But so far, none of them have been satisfactory.
The first option was never told to me; it was really more intuitive. I’m talking, of course, about the free-flying approach. In this scenario, the offending sneezer simply lets loose and releases the sneeze at its full 100mph without obstruction. This method is not socially acceptable because a] it is very loud, b] the accompanying facial expressions are never pretty, and c] people don’t like to have spit/snot flung in their faces. I learned pretty quickly that this choice would brand me a social pariah.
The next option is the catcher’s mitt. Instead of letting the sneeze particles run amuk, the offending sneezer may use his or her hand (or both hands, for the more advanced sneezer) as an attempt to “catch” the sneeze. Impeding the sneeze’s trajectory is a good idea, but the problem with these message emerges post-sneeze. What am I supposed to do with the spittle in my hands? Wipe them on something/someone? Close them awkwardly until I have the opportunity to wash them? This method only makes me ask more questions, so I can be sure that it is not the answer.
The catcher’s mitt can be modified to include a tissue, but there are a few problems with this option as well. For starters, I don’t always have tissues on hand. Also, like the original catcher’s mitt, using the modified catcher’s mitt creates new problems. What is the socially acceptable placement of the tissue post-sneeze? I know that a trash receptacle is ideal, but I do not have the luxury of always being surrounded by garbage cans. So what should I do? Hold it in my hand? Put in my purse or the pocket of my grandpa cardigan. I feel like, no matter what I choose, I am set up for failure and for feeling gross.
The method that I use the most appeals to me purely because of its name. I like to call this method the Dracula sneeze because it involves sneezing into the nook of one’s bent elbow, mimicking the way in which vampires peer seductively from behind their capes. Bonus points if you maintain sexy eye contact with someone while sneezing. Even though I use this method the most, I don’t think it’s necessarily effective. Sure, it keeps the hands spittle free. But I think of it as a glorified version of the first technique. Therefore, I still feel guilty about using it. But, since it is called the Dracula sneeze, I do it anyways. Resistance to the Dracula is futile.
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