Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

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Weird spectral gray overlapping spring-like warmth wrapped in wind that delivers howl upon howl. Isn’t it supposed to be warm, she kept asking as i slung my scarf over one shoulder (as if we were owed another down payment on spring, you know?). It was supposed to be something else, of that i’m pretty sure. Strange five second downpour erupting so fast as to catch my back with its stray drippy claw as i slid into the main building. Later i found it clawing at my roof as i was lying curled in my bed under the eave, just listening and playing Dorothy. “Somewhere,” you know? But, there weren’t any blue skies to be found at the time, and just the normal amounts of technicolor outside when i slid out to check. The gray had given away to purple night, and accompanying it was just wind … bitter wind delving in-between my fingers and down to my toes.


I can wait like this, i thought.


I stood out on the front porch and sang at the top of my lungs — first songs i love, and then songs i wrote, and then just riffing backwards over myself in a human loop of feedback. I wrapped my voice around me as if it would keep me warmer than my slowly disintegrating mod-squad jacket, letting each quaver wrap me tightly in another sonic layer of warmth. People on the block were playing an open/close of musical doors so that someone was on another porch at any given time, but no one seemed to hear me.


You’ve got a very nice voice, a man said as he walked by wrapped tightly against the wind. My surprised thank you took flight on the breeze like a single snowflake, unique and forgettable.

Hands back to pockets, keys to unlock door: maybe i would rather wait inside.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9296247/

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(Speaking of which, here’s another article for “Finding Your Voice in Journalism.” The assigned topic was “describe a process,” and after staring at my last post for about an hour the process i was meant to describe became obvious.)

There are things that I do every day. Habits. Rituals. The blind stumble across my room at 7:02AM to set my alarm back another hour. My daily power-walk down Walnut Street to campus. Checking my email.

Of course, there are things that I don’t do every day that I can still do with a proverbial blindfold on. Tapping MAC for cash. Gridding my last name into standardized test bubbles. Restringing my guitar.

Conducting a romantic crash and burn.

All of these rituals are simple to me – almost mechanical. Yet, although I could easily describe them to you step by step, I don’t think anyone could quite replicate the manner in which I see them through. There is a simple grace to my sleep-encrusted stumble that ensures that I do not land facedown in green pile carpet. There is a back and forth rhythm to plotting my last name out with a No.2 pencil. And, there is a sort of cosmic simplicity to making sure I will not marry, sleep with, kiss, or even get to know a girl who I am attracted to.

The process starts simply enough: I meet someone distracting. They don’t have to be stunningly beautiful or a classically trained conversationalist; they just have to pull my attention away from doing whatever I had been attempting to do at the time.

Fizzling out here, though it is something I am adept at, does not accurately represent a crash and burn.

Next I have to make myself known to woman in question. There are a myriad of ways to complete this step, each supplanting my own limited natural grace and charm with a sort of stumbling awkwardness that I have honed to laser-sharp perfection.

The plainest (and most painful) way to accomplish this is to actually get up the nerve to speak. I have found speaking to be effective in ruining any illusions one might entertain that I am either attractive or well adjusted.

Appropriate banter would include mentioning anything I am obsessive about, including music, grades, or other women. Bonus points are awarded if I enthuse about fashion, dancing, Will & Grace, or Madonna. The purpose of this step is to establish my deep-seated need for addict-like dependency on anything and everything I can focus the brunt of my attention on.

Note that at the time this will seem like a Good Idea to me.

After introducing myself by-way-of my obsessive traits, my next order of business is ineffectual flirting. This step is marked by my performance of suggestive behavior so subtle that it would fly under the radar of even the most desperate and willing potential partner.

The first order of business here tends to be furtive glances that are aborted as soon as any sign of reciprocation is detected. After establishing this pattern of creepy staring, the next step is usually a regiment of standing very close without actually touching. Randomly inserting a line of non-sequitir into conversation can be substituted if it interspersed equally with awkward silence.

The overall intention here is to imply a sort of third-grade crush in which I find a girl alluring but am definitely afraid she might have cooties.

At this point, several options open up. If I feel as though not enough attention is being paid to me despite my continued efforts, self-deprecation focusing on my romantic desolation is usually in order. If I am being paid a substantial amount of attention, I proceed to focus on what potential defects this particular girl is in possession of, foremost amongst them being infectious cases of cooties.

The ideal reaction at this point is a cool acknowledgement of my existence totally lacking any value judgment of my looks, charm, or decency. This is the equivalent of putting off pheromones specifically attuned to my neurotic neural receptors.

At this juncture I usually I repeat the previous step to try to induce one of the former reactions. If the friendly acknowledgment continues, I generally have no choice but to start mentioning my developing crush loudly and decisively until one of us flinches and bolts from the room.

Failing that, I may be forced to contrive to ask her on an unsuccessful and largely platonic date. I’ve perfected this habit to such a degree that I can’t even begin to describe the individual steps there-in, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Interestingly, accepting or declining this well intentioned invitation has no effect whatsoever on the eventual result of the situation.

There are two obvious end-results of this process, neither of which I am actually seeking to achieve. One is to inspire a sort of squeamishness in the party in question, so that she will no longer meet my glances or engage in conversation with me. The other is to transmit the friend vibe to her in such a powerful fashion that she either begins to question my sexuality or feels the need to set me up with her less-charming and usually distant girlfriends.

While my outline of this process might make it out to be complicated, intricate, or even slightly surreal, it is something so ingrained in me that I often go through it without even noticing until I’ve acquired yet another beautiful female friend who is either confused about my sexual orientation or willing to aid me in acquiring scores more just like herself.

After seeing this all in print, it’s almost a wonder that I’m so good at that “getting out of bed” routine rather than its socially phobic cousin “cowering under the covers.” I suppose that I’m convinced that one day I’ll go through this entire checklist only to wind up with someone who is inconceivably attracted to me, even after witnessing all of my hijinx.

Obviously I’ve mistakenly perfected the process known as “optimistic daydreaming” rather than revising my “effective flirting routine.”

Oops.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9158437/

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The other day in Public Relations we were talking about dealing with emergencies. The section was entitled: Crisis Management. I turned to Laurel and said “This is so cool! He’s going to talk about me.”


I definitely caught me teacher looking at my strangely as i headed each page in bold red letter with my personal spelling of crisis. I think he might speak the language that actually spells it that way. Did you know that the three attributes of a crisis are that it threatens central goals, involves short decision making time, and involves an element of surprise? It is a stage in which all future events will be determined. It is a situation that threatens the effective completion of high priority goals.

Sure, he was talking about the Exxon Valdez more than he was making veiled references to my personal life, but i still managed to take six pages of notes just in case any of it applied.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028841/

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The first time it goes off is around six in the morning, for no discernible reason. I mean, it obviously goes off because i set it to go off then, but Lindsay is constantly asking me why i set my alarm to ring four hours ahead of time. No reason other than it’s like a two-minute warning for having to wake up and deal with another day.

I was happy to have the warning this morning, since the day seemed especially dreary. I didn’t even need to look out of my tiny back window to know; i could feel the chill sliding in through the cracks and twisting up to raise goose-bumps on my legs. Deciding to sleep through my first two classes was not the most wrenching decision i’ve ever had to make.


The other thing Lindsay can’t seem to understand is why my alarm rings over and over again. I tell her it’s a warning… life ahead in four hours… three hours… until finally it’s just “Time to wake up. Fucking Blastoff.” Apparently, one ring is enough to convey the message to her. Today the blastoff ring was #6, and the reason i got me out of bed was because the sun had decided to accompany it. I was up and navigating the mess of my floor to turn down the alarm before Courtney could start screaming, and i could feel the diffuse runny-egg yellow of a damp sun on my back. The day had made an ugly duckling transformation for me, and i felt as though i was headed for something not entirely dissimilar.


It’s strange to go from kneading a palmful of shampoo past damp curls down to the suffocated scalp beneath to sliding a dime sized drop down the middle of centimeter long strands on the top of my head. It’s the shortest my hair has ever been. Stepping out past my fish-curtain i caught my nude reflection in the mirror, and something seemed different other than my hair. No new pimples, no unexpected muscles. It was something about how the slope of my shoulders changes, the line of my neck becomes smoother. And, something else as well — as if my haircut was emblematic of some greater change that was working its way out from my heart and up through the skin.

I wasn’t sure of what the change might be, but i hoped it would go well with my grey turtleneck and sexy jeans.

It wasn’t until i had gotten halfway to my destination of skipping class that i started feeling the way my reflection looked. Nothing tangible, but my change in carriage had seeped down from my neck and shoulders and out from my gut to pervade my whole being. By the time i got down to the Green Room i definitely felt different, although to everyone in the room it read as something closer to narcissistic conceit. Really, could i help wanting to have attention paid to me? I had Changed and they wanted to talk about midterms. Ridiculous.


Amazing what a $10 haircut, losing three pounds, and being in my scientifically determined sexual prime can do for morale. Whatever. I try not to dissect the positive moments of life too much. I just felt … fuckable. And, not just hot or easy or anything like that, but like someone covetable. Someone other people have strong opinions on. And, well, fuckable sounded like a good adjective at the time, but now that i’m looking at it in writing i can see where that narcissistic angle came in.


So, maybe it wasn’t so different from most other days, really, but usually i’m more of a pity fuck, you know?

Nevermind.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028072/

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The feelings i have are these slippery things, and i wish they were more like velcro. I wish i could throw words at them and have them stick. I feel… slighted, continuously slighted by life despite my attempts to make it worthwhile. I feel unappreciated for being someone i enjoy being and over-valued for things i despise. And, of course, alone on a Sunday night my immediate reaction is to try to write a song about how i feel and, failing that, to blog about it.


The thing is, i’ve written this song already and blogged about it a hundred times. Yesterday Lindsay and i had a ridiculously deep conversation while watching the Eagles game, and i said something about getting married and having children and a house, and i meant it. But, i can never have any of that so long as i live within this private universe i’ve constructed, with all of its own symbolism and meaning.


I’m usually not shy with my lyrics, but this week i wrote something that says how i feel and i purposefully tucked it away. It Says how i Feel, but i can’t sing it or play it because for it to really come out and do justice to all the slippery feelings i have inside i need to make it perfect. In my head i hear the sighing melody and the double bass beat on the chords in the chorus, but try as i may i can’t get even a line of it to come out like that at all. Anyway, i don’t know what to say about this feeling other than what i already said in these lyrics last week, so here’s the latter half of them:

Imagine my whole life as Technicolor — with someone painting the shades into the scenes, and everyone acting from scripts with each other. They’re all off-book except for me, so every day is a stumble-through rehearsal, and each night is an actors’ worst dream because i never know the right thing to say, and i’m left silent in the spaces in-between. So, my front porch is a consolation, my door is a sigh of relief. The stairs are invigorating, my room is a reprieve. It’s then that i open my mouth, and the room is filled — the words come pouring out. My guts are spilled. It’s a shame i can only find my voice between four lonely walls of brick and concrete, but i don’t really have any choice: it’s just something about emptiness and me. Outside i feel just slightly out of focus; around other people i sing a little off-key. I wonder all the time if anyone will notice that i seem to be coming apart at the seams. I am coming apart at the seams.

It’s a one-dimensional representation of what i’m trying to say… my words stripped of inflection and tone. But, it’s the closest i can come to opening this up to you, so take it for what it is.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8889949/