Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Year 02

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My whole life has been about crushing.


In first grade i had a crush on a girl named Jamie. Even with fifteen years of retrospect it still seems as real as any other crush i’ve had since then, despite my tender age at the time: they were the same butterflies. The only difference was that at the time i didn’t have many people to confide in (and, lamentably, no blog), so my mother was the person i turned to with all of my feelings. Yes, she agreed that Jamie was pretty. No, it wasn’t fair the she didn’t like me back. Yes, she knew that i only pulled the drawstring out of her jacket at recess because i was flustered and didn’t know what else to say to her.


Sometime in the winter of first grade was Jamie’s birthday, and our entire class was invited to her birthday bowling party, which i have entirely no recollection of whatsoever. What i do remember is her present. My mother and i had just finished wrapping it, and we were sitting at our creaky kitchen table together in silence when we both noticed we were staring at the same thing.

The toaster.


“Do you want to?”

“I’ll get the shrinky-dink paper, you get the colored pencils!”

Yes, shrinky-dinks… art you could make and then cook until it became entirely indestructible. After a few failed creations, my mother and i settled upon an apple tree, because Jamie liked green. Or red. Or apples. I don’t remember. Anyway, we had finished rendering it in all of its colored-pencil beauty, and i was about to stick it in the toaster.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…”

“Why, what do i need to do?”

“Well, i was thinking that you could turn one of the apples into a heart!”

As soon as she said it she knew she had me hooked, despite my feeble protests to the contrary. Out came the red colored pencil, and we meticulously rounded up the curves of one of the apples until it was a heart, stemmed and leafed. Away went the pencils. On went the toaster. In went the tree. The two of us sat with our chins cupped in our hands, watching the edges up it turn up in the heat.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“I think so.”

It was a few days after her party that Jamie came up to me before recess, bookbag in hand. Dangling from one tiny black zipper was my tree, on a shiny gold dog tag.

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a heart on my apple tree?”

I learned some important lessons early in life. Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Never take romantic advice from your mother.


But, really, wouldn’t you love to read a blog from when i was six?

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9443486/

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Does everyone remember my essay? You know, the painfully embarrassing one that i seem to find entirely more hilarious than i should find it? Well, my Journalism instructor just emailed me some copious commentary on it, which was headed off with the following glowing review:

Assuming you’re not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), I’m left with the feeling that your approach to romance is more like sabotage than flirtation. Like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, you crush rather than stroke. Unlike Lenny, you know exactly what you’re doing. My advice: STOP doing that. I heard a great line from a forgettable movie once. The Matthew Modine character turns to his mouthy cohort and says, “Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.” Those awkward silences you mentioned may have existed more in your mind than the moment. Either way, you’ve acknowledged your inability to trust silence.


I’ll bill you later for the romantic counselling.

Wow, apparently i did manage to summarize my entire romantic existence in 1200 words, and he just thinks i was trying to be witty. I mean… “crush” rather than stroke? Little does he know…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9389436/

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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/