sixfootdwarf

Sometimes, when I’m out driving, I’ll see an ambulance with lights ablaze, and I’ll think to myself… “Whoever it is they’re trying to save, I hope they die.”

I don’t know why.

And immediately, I’m ashamed of it.

One of my favorite bars here (not that the list is very long) is called The Griffin. Yes, as in that medieval monster thing you’ve probably seen on a coat of arms or two. Appropriately, the interior looks like some sort of castle or dungeon straight out of Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. It’s dark and dreary, the drinks are plenty stiff, and you’re likely to run into everyone you know if you stop in on the weekend. But my favorite thing by far is the heavy jukebox rotation of Weezer’s magnum opus Pinkerton. On a good night, you’ll be graced with two or three bona fide nerd rock anthems oozing with Cuomo’s pent-up, sullen, sexual frustration.

A journal entry entitled “Consolation Prize” that I began and abandoned many moons ago reads: “A family is what you start when you finally fail at what you really wanted to do in life.” It’s lain dormant for months or more because I’m still debating both the truth and the sentiment behind that statement.

better days will haunt you
they will say who wants to own you
find the other ways to slip the light through
better days will haunt you
let your model home surround you
find the other ways to push the air through

—an excerpt from “Memorize This Face” by Chavez

One of the most annoying things about being single—apart from the celibacy by default—is the balancing act you have to go through to befriend a member of the opposite sex without either insinuating or instigating some sort of sexual interest. A female friend can turn out to be an award-winning wingman, but she can also dish out the worst cockblock you’ve ever had if she likes you more than you think.

I seem to have developed a really pitiful habit of feeling sorry for myself lately. It repulses me to no end when I see it in others, so it really disgusts me to see it in myself. Despite how logical and rational I strive to be, far too often it is the emotional and compulsive side that wins out. How absolutely maddening it is, to know exactly what you ought to do and yet do precisely the opposite. Sure, to be fair, I’ve lost quite a few things dear to me in the past half year or so, and it’s been nowhere near easy. But the bitterness only gets you so far, and then what?

If there is one thing I’m learning, if ever so stubbornly, it’s that if you continue to regret the past or fear the future, you’ll never make that first step forward. It will seem like too much of a leap.

This was supposed to be a quick and easy exercise. So much for that.

Dear Perplexed Single People of the World,

Have you ever noticed that the more doggedly you pursue someone romantically, the more likely that person is to just shrug it off and ignore you? And conversely, have you ever noticed that the less interested you are in the affections of an admirer, the more persistent that person becomes in acquiring your attention? While counterintuitive at first, this is no paranormal phenomenon. In fact, the explanation is so simple, it’s stupid.

Here is the single most important piece of dating advice you will ever receive: the more attracted you are to someone, the more mysteriously aloof you need to be towards that person. The trick is to act flirtatiously unimpressed—you’re mildly interested, but just barely. You could take it or leave it. It’s a fine line to walk.

Get her phone number, but hardly ever call. Get her to call you, but rarely answer. Don’t call her back immediately, if at all. If you run into her randomly somewhere, you’ve got five minutes to show her what she’s missing. Put on your best show, then ignore her for the rest of the night. The trick is to be an unattainable desire.

The biggest mistake you’ll always make is to try and paint yourself reliable, dependable, sincere, generous, sensitive, yada, yada, yada. It’s your first instinct, but it kills you every time, because all it does is scream “desperate loser creep.”

Make tentative plans, but totally flake out. When you finally do hang out, don’t make a move—you want her wondering why not. Talk about hanging out again sometime, but don’t follow up. The trick is to come off as if you have a million better things to do than bother with her.

What you want to do is knock her off her high horse.

A beautiful, charming, intelligent woman knows she is—she has no need for you to point it out for her like every other chump. She gets all the attention in the world—she doesn’t need your worship, too. She doesn’t want flowers, or thoughtful gifts, or doors held open, or romantic dates. The trick is to offer her something she can’t stand: casual indifference.

I know, I wish I were joking, too.

The main light in my kitchen is one of those long fluorescent ones, with a deeply rounded plastic covering. During a housecleaning marathon this summer, I went to the trouble of removing the cover and cleaning out all the dead bugs that had christened it their final resting place

It remained fairly pristine until a month or two ago, when I noticed this rather large cockroach who had somehow found his way up into the fixture. The sudden realization that cockroaches come fully equipped for ceiling traversal isn’t exactly a welcome one. I poked curiously at the plastic covering, jarring it up and down slightly.

Startled, the insect anxiously ran a few laps inside the plastic perimeter before giving up in a defeated heap. The light covering curves in on itself in such a way that the roach could only crawl so far up the side before losing his grip and sliding back down to the bottom. Despite the impressive stucco dexterity, it seems that Mother Nature has neglected to sufficiently prepare the cockroach for smooth plastic surfaces.

For a moment, I considered my options. Should I set free my accidental detainee? I immediately realized how silly this would be, in light of my general pest control policy. The borders of my home are lined with insecticide and fortified with roach traps. If I came upon this very same cockroach crawling across my carpet, he would be sprayed, squashed, and flushed, no questions asked. I decided to just leave the poor bug to his own devices. After all, he had gotten himself into this mess, hadn’t he?

As the days passed, I made a habit of checking in on the hapless little fellow by rattling the light covering every so often. Each time, on cue, he would display a furious new resolve to escape from his plastic prison. It was almost as if I was sending him some cryptic sign that he might make it out this time if he just gave it one more go. I couldn’t help but think that, if God does exist, this must be what it feels like, to watch us trap ourselves in all our stupid mistakes—casually curious about our fates, but unwilling or unable to help or interfere on account of some self-imposed theological principle or technicality.

No, there would be no merciful act of God or man to save this cursed cockroach’s life—we had both forsaken him. Eventually, inevitably, the insect simply refused to respond to any more of my guilty poking and prodding. He was either dead now or devoid of any hope he once had, and that’s when I knew there was no difference between the two.