Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am one of the lamest and awkwardest 26-year-olds you will ever encounter.
In the presence of just about anyone (especially anyone whose anatomy includes a penis), it becomes my destiny -- an unofficial requirement, really -- that I will say a minimum of four ditzy things. I'm not talking about "slightly ditzy," either. I'm referring to the brand of ditziness that makes people think very seriously about bashing some sense into my head.
My intellect plummets and crashes to the ground like violent, heavy sheets of rain.
I juggle armfuls of stuff, drop the aforementioned stuff all over the floor, and crash into people and/or stationary objects with the force and fanfare of a water buffalo.
My voice gets extremely giddy, causing every sentence to end in a question mark or an exclamation point. Either that, or it sounds extremely lifeless and flat. Never anywhere in between. Never, never, never.
Without even realizing it, I scramble up the order of my words (which are often poorly chosen) and arrange the structure of my sentences in a most puzzling, unconventional fashion.
I cough and clear my throat incessantly, but to no avail.
I make dumb, "filler" observations, or ask questions whose answers are perfectly obvious, all for the purpose of avoiding silence.
I laugh. A lot. At things that aren't even remotely funny. Nervous laughter.
I stuff forkfuls of food into my mouth at the precise moment that someone speaks to me. Sometimes, I respond to this development by immediately spilling food on my shirt.
Maybe these sound like mindless, mechanical habits, but I'm fully cognizant that they occur. Maybe that's the problem. The more I think about them, the more I seem to do them. All. Of. The. Time.
There are probably hundreds of charm schools out there that would watch my behavior for 10 minutes and laugh me clean out of the place. "Get outta here," they'd say. "Get real. We can accomplish a lot of things, great things, really impressive things, but we're not in the business of performing miracles."
Not that I'd completely blame them.
In the presence of just about anyone (especially anyone whose anatomy includes a penis), it becomes my destiny -- an unofficial requirement, really -- that I will say a minimum of four ditzy things. I'm not talking about "slightly ditzy," either. I'm referring to the brand of ditziness that makes people think very seriously about bashing some sense into my head.
My intellect plummets and crashes to the ground like violent, heavy sheets of rain.
I juggle armfuls of stuff, drop the aforementioned stuff all over the floor, and crash into people and/or stationary objects with the force and fanfare of a water buffalo.
My voice gets extremely giddy, causing every sentence to end in a question mark or an exclamation point. Either that, or it sounds extremely lifeless and flat. Never anywhere in between. Never, never, never.
Without even realizing it, I scramble up the order of my words (which are often poorly chosen) and arrange the structure of my sentences in a most puzzling, unconventional fashion.
I cough and clear my throat incessantly, but to no avail.
I make dumb, "filler" observations, or ask questions whose answers are perfectly obvious, all for the purpose of avoiding silence.
I laugh. A lot. At things that aren't even remotely funny. Nervous laughter.
I stuff forkfuls of food into my mouth at the precise moment that someone speaks to me. Sometimes, I respond to this development by immediately spilling food on my shirt.
Maybe these sound like mindless, mechanical habits, but I'm fully cognizant that they occur. Maybe that's the problem. The more I think about them, the more I seem to do them. All. Of. The. Time.
There are probably hundreds of charm schools out there that would watch my behavior for 10 minutes and laugh me clean out of the place. "Get outta here," they'd say. "Get real. We can accomplish a lot of things, great things, really impressive things, but we're not in the business of performing miracles."
Not that I'd completely blame them.
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