Blogspot, open bar raffle,
Reading my blog, the inadvertant publicizer of my deepest joys and fears, it's likely that people think that, in real life, I am as emotionally transparent as a forest stream refracting the kiss of an early summer sunbeam. Sadly, the truth of this matter is not unlike The Truth About Cats and Dogs (or the truth about the much less joke-conducive Cyrano de Bergerac) in that what you see is rarely what you get. Nobody can ever tell what I'm thinking.
What I possess is less of a inclination towards acting and more of a talent for deceit. Despite its intrinsically evil nature, my Kremlin-like knack for being unreadable does its part in maintaining my image. This mechanism is of paramount importance partially because, in reality, I am actually a thirteen-winged beast dispatched from the Netherworld (and nobody likes those).
Lately, what with the prospect of an upcoming graduation, the uncertain job hunt, and genetics lab worries all gnawing at my sanity like so many tapeworms of the brain, I have woken up in abject panic too many times to count (4). In these moments, my facade is set to crack, and I am in danger of tearfully revealing both the benthic depth of my insecurities and the bourgeois monstrousness of my sense of entitlement.
My only consolation then is the bearded, disco-loving Catholic next to me, upon whom I pour my frustrations like a lava flow of anguished gravy. His unequivocal support for everything I attempt, his invitation to Easter dinner, his forgiveness for my drunken jewel case hurling trespasses, his pleas for me to lay off the chocolate covered espresso beans--they keep me stable. They keep the illusion alive.
Joe, I love you!
Reading my blog, the inadvertant publicizer of my deepest joys and fears, it's likely that people think that, in real life, I am as emotionally transparent as a forest stream refracting the kiss of an early summer sunbeam. Sadly, the truth of this matter is not unlike The Truth About Cats and Dogs (or the truth about the much less joke-conducive Cyrano de Bergerac) in that what you see is rarely what you get. Nobody can ever tell what I'm thinking.
What I possess is less of a inclination towards acting and more of a talent for deceit. Despite its intrinsically evil nature, my Kremlin-like knack for being unreadable does its part in maintaining my image. This mechanism is of paramount importance partially because, in reality, I am actually a thirteen-winged beast dispatched from the Netherworld (and nobody likes those).
Lately, what with the prospect of an upcoming graduation, the uncertain job hunt, and genetics lab worries all gnawing at my sanity like so many tapeworms of the brain, I have woken up in abject panic too many times to count (4). In these moments, my facade is set to crack, and I am in danger of tearfully revealing both the benthic depth of my insecurities and the bourgeois monstrousness of my sense of entitlement.
My only consolation then is the bearded, disco-loving Catholic next to me, upon whom I pour my frustrations like a lava flow of anguished gravy. His unequivocal support for everything I attempt, his invitation to Easter dinner, his forgiveness for my drunken jewel case hurling trespasses, his pleas for me to lay off the chocolate covered espresso beans--they keep me stable. They keep the illusion alive.
Joe, I love you!
posted by Byron at 12:23 AM
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