I enjoy writing.

I’m so glad typing exists. Writing with a pen or pencil takes a lot out of me, and my fast thinking translates into my handwriting, which is never a good thing. With this device I can type at about half the rate of thought, which is nice. It is also oddly satisfying, hitting the keys. It gives a nice visceral sense of creation. I suppose writing with a utensil has a similar effect, probably a more classically appropriate one. I like this, though.

I don’t really know how to organize the type of content I want to put out here. I enjoy this sort of free exhalation style, but I also enjoy writing poetry, stories, and doing improvisational pieces. If I try to force myself to do all of these in a structured manner, I fear it will burn me out. Any sort of limit I set for myself tends to stress out the better parts of me, causing the worse to surface.

I’ll probably write about video games from time to time.

“Video games” has always felt awful to say. I think it stems from being a kid, and being looked down upon as lazy for stating this as my hobby. Ironically, this drove me away from having more personal relationships with adults, since I used video games as a form of escapism in the first place.

“What about you? What do you like to do, Billy?”

“I like to run, hang out with friends, listen to music, and…this is where the stress kicks in. I prepare myself for the reaction. For the mere possibility of judgement in their tone, in their eyes. It is the smallest yet most infinite eternity of fear. It is too late to lie. Why did they have to call on me? I wish I could skip introductions. I wish I could just do the work they ask of me, and leave…video games.”

I never fail to feel awkward while saying it, to this day. I will say something more casual like “gaming”. I feel a little cooler phrasing it this way, but the discomfort is still there.

They are so very odd, the small things that scar us. You learn of what it is to be mentally or physically scarred, and you never think anything will do it aside from “legitimate” trauma.

I remember one of my friends in high school using a part of my life to make others feel bad about complaining.

“Your father is going into the army? Whatever man, Billy has never even seen his dad.”

That struck me as very odd. I don’t feel altogether affected by that non-event. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have a father figure. I wondered if maybe I could have been less awkward, growing up. But you know, some people’s fathers were assholes. It isn’t like just having one would make everything better. It could very well make them worse.

I like how he used that to make others feel bad, while I’m here still thinking about the trip to Home Depot, when I was hungry and moody and an employee offered me his crackers, to which I replied “no”, in the brattiest tone possible.

Kids are assholes too. At least, I was. I wish I could go tell that guy that I’m sorry. He was being so sweet, giving what he had to give to a child he had no connection to. It probably didn’t affect him too much at all, but my mind paints a picture of him sitting there in his break room, eating a package of crackers. He isn’t sad really, but you can see on his face that he is slightly hurt. Why weren’t his crackers good enough? He was only trying to help.

I hope he thought I was a little shit, if he thought about it at all. I was, and I would rather think he felt anger than sadness.

That little moment, I feel, affected me more than not having a father. It feels silly to me, the melodrama of not having the quintessential pair of parents. Yet, here I am, with that feeling of “dude you might actually tear up if you think about this too hard”, because I said “no” to a guy who offered me crackers in Home-freaking-Depot.

These days, I immediately feel an overwhelming sense of love and appreciation for anyone who offers me food. I think offering someone food when they are hungry is one of the kindest and loveliest things you can do for a person.

I should give food to more people. Maybe I should cook more.


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