15 Layers of Irony

I’m having a rough time—with leaving Berkeley, with adjusting to a new home, with not knowing exactly what I’m doing next. I know these are all normal things to feel anxiety about—as opposed to my fear that spiders might lay eggs in my face—but it’s still not a pleasant sensation. Over the past few (several) years, I’ve learned various techniques to deal with depression and anxiety. Some of them even work! The one thing I can’t stop doing, whether it works or not, is talking about it.

Thanks a lot, cognitive behavioral therapy. I mean, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing: talking it out is a lot healthier than repressing it into an ulcer. (Not that the two are mutually exclusive!) Experience indicates that the only way to get past my problems is to talk about them. But there’s a difference between sharing with a medical professional and airing all one’s dirty laundry on the internet. None of the strangers who read my blog or Twitter feed really need to know that I feel like sleeping all day. But that doesn’t stop me from telling them.

I know this isn’t just a “me” problem. I come from a generation of overshare: we’ve been given so many outlets to talk about ourselves, and we’ve been encouraged to let our feelings out. When I was in high school, I at least had the decency to camouflage it in vague LiveJournal posts with Dashboard Confessional lyrics, but now we all spell it out. Is “TMI” even a thing anymore? I’ve definitely been shut up while telling a boring story, but I can’t remember the last time someone didn’t want to know an embarrassing personal detail. Are you kidding? We live for that shit.

Talking too much about our problems still seems preferable to not talking about them at all. As much as I cringe at the way the “it gets better” campaign was co-opted—most recently by The CW’s absurd H8R—I appreciate the fact that people are talking about and responding to bullying. There was a time when being picked on meant being picked on. You accepted it as a fact of life, and you didn’t tattle. Do people even say “tattle” anymore? Probably not. Either because the concept is outdated, or because there’s some new street slang I’m not aware of. I’ll just wait for one of my hipper friends to enlighten me.

But what do we expect when we talk about our issues? Bullying requires intervention, but what are you going to do about my anxiety? Maybe nothing. Maybe just listening helps. And, speaking for myself, I think it’s more about talking than it is about anyone responding. I don’t expect you to hug me while whispering platitudes in my ear, or to offer me a handful of Klonopin. I just feel better when I write. If I can take a genuine feeling of moroseness and transform it into a mildly entertaining tweet, at least I’ve produced something. And maybe I can smile a bit at how lame I’m being. Besides, wallowing is more fun when you drag someone else into it.

I guess my fear is that you might take my words as, at worst, a cry for help, and at best, fishing for compliments. When I say I spent the whole day feeling like I was walking through the Swamps of Sadness, I’m not asking you to make a therapy appointment on my behalf, or even to tell me I’m too nice a guy to feel that down. (Note: no one has ever said this.) And I will concede that there are people I turn to for pep talks and occasional adoration, but I tend to be more direct about that. When I put it all out there for a wider audience, I don’t have ulterior motives. Sometimes a self-deprecating joke is just a self-deprecating joke.

And what about when I’m being serious? You know, like right now. Why do I talk about my need to talk it out? It’s partly a form of (free) therapy, as I said, but I’d like to think there’s more to it than that. Sometimes I share because I want someone else to relate. If you know I feel shitty and I know you feel shitty, maybe we both feel a little less shitty. Or not—I don’t know your life. But I can’t be the only one comforted by the thrill of shared experience. I like the idea that someone can read what I write, or listen to what I say, and think, “Yeah, I totally get that.” Even if that thought is immediately followed by, “Good thing I’m not enough of a self-involved tool to blab about it on the internet.”

Which is all to say, I think I feel better after writing this, so I’ll stop. But I could go on. Believe me, I could go on.

I was so eager to move out of my parents’ house when I was 17. And not just because I was a teenager and consequently a little shit prone to butting heads with Mom and Dad on a regular basis. It was more about the symbolic act of movin’ out. (Cue the Billy Joel.) I somehow got the notion that moving into my own place meant magically transitioning to adulthood, which—now that I look back on it—doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. You should never argue with a crazy mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mind.

My first semester at Berkeley was rough. It was my first time away from home. I was living in a crappy neighborhood. I guess I grew up in some ways, though that’s as much as a result of just being at college, which teaches you more practical life skills than employable abilities. I graduated in ’08, and I lingered—because where else was I going to go? I couldn’t afford to live elsewhere, and I couldn’t go home. These were both seared in my mind as absolutes. Even though I’d be saving money by returning to my parents’ house, as many of my friends opted to do, it was simply not an option.

What was I afraid would happen if I moved home? Because in my mind, it was as impossible as breathing underwater or sitting through a Sofia Coppola movie without taking a nap break. I think what it comes down to is the perception of failure—whether that means believing that I have failed, or believing that everyone else will think that I have failed. I don’t make this judgment when it comes to others, but I hold myself to different (sometimes unreasonable) standards. If I were to return home, the act of moving out would become retroactively meaningless. This whole time I thought I was moving forward, I was really moving in a circle.

Obviously I have changed my opinion, because I am in the process of (temporarily) moving back home. I don’t think of myself as a failure—though I don’t think of myself as particularly successful either. Realistically, I am on a good career trajectory, but a lot of where I end up will depend on luck, and the right opportunity coming along at the right time. Or maybe winning big in Vegas, if I get bored and decide to take up gambling. So what’s the big deal about living with my parents while I try to take the next step?

If I break it down, there is nothing wrong with moving back home, especially since I refuse to let this become a permanent situation. (My parents are great, but we don’t really need to be subjected to each other all the time.) That doesn’t mean I’m not feeling some anxiety, which perhaps goes without saying. It’s one thing to reduce my decision to the pros and cons, and discover that yes, living with my parents until I find work in LA is the smartest course of action. But I’m still embarrassed when people confront me about it. “Are you going to live with your parents?” they ask. To which I’m forced to reply, somewhat sheepishly, “Yeah—for now, at least.” I don’t actually think anyone is judging me, but projecting my judgments onto them still makes me feel pretty awful.

I can tell people I’m moving home, but it has to be with that asterisk. Otherwise they might think I’m a bum, or that I think I’m a bum, which is maybe just as bad. Perhaps in the future I’ll just link them to this blog post: “Yeah, I am moving back in with my parents, and I do have some reservations. Read about them here!”

Even after reading this—or for me, writing it—I’m not sure my anxiety makes any more sense. I get that, in this economy (magic words!) temporarily living with one’s parents is a viable and often smart decision. I also know I can’t ever get past these feelings of apprehension, because symbolically, the act of moving back home is still problematic. I guess I just have to accept it as a thing I’m doing, and move forward accordingly. If I want to be an adult, I have to act like an adult—and that’s something I can do from anywhere. Of course, living under the same roof with my parents might mean I have to try that much harder.

The title of this post is kind of a lie, since I haven’t exactly overcome all of my social anxieties. It’s a process, and as my sweaty palms and nervous stomach aches can attest, I am still not always comfortable surrounded by people. But I’ve made great strides, and at the risk of being presumptuous, I thought I’d share some of my tips and mental reminders for meeting new people. Advice from Tony Robbins might be more practical, but you’re probably closer to my height. Besides, feeling awkward is an issue I face daily: I’m kind of an expert.

1. You are not the only person with social anxiety. Being an anxious person (clinically or otherwise) can feel very isolating—perhaps more in the past than now, in an age of constant antidepressant commercials and tweets about, you know, social anxiety. But it’s still easy to get so lost in your own head that you assume everyone else is a fully functioning human, and you are the nutty outlier. Lots of people’s brains work differently than the “average” person—we might all be kooky in different ways, but we’re very seldom “normal.” So take comfort in that. The person you’re chatting with is maybe questioning all of his life choices, too.

2. Practice makes perfect, or close enough. If you feel like you’re shitty at small talk and other forms of conversation, you might be kind of right. But don’t be such a defeatist about it. The easiest way to feel more comfortable talking to strangers and new friends is by doing it: like anal sex, it feels weird at first but the more you do it, the more relaxed you/your sphincter will become. (Yes, Mom, that is the most obscene analogy I could think of.) Every time I go out and interact with people face-to-face, I feel like I get better at it. I’m not a pro, but I don’t totally suck.

3. Worrying about being interesting is boring. Let’s get this out of the way first—some people are a little bit dull. You know who you are. But I’d say most of us have something unique or insightful or at least amusing to share. Trying too hard to excite people is bound to backfire—nobody likes a show-off, except at bar trivia night. It’s a lot easier to keep the attention of those around you by acting natural and not pushing too hard. To keep the anal analogies going, that’s how you get conversation hemorrhoids.

4. Get comfortable with personal space. If we hang out, I’ll probably want to hug and maybe kiss you a little, but not everyone feels the same way. It’s often hard to gauge what people are looking for, which leads to awkwardness and hurt feelings. (Have you ever been denied a hug? It’s worse than genocide.) Be intuitive—see how the person interacts with others. Don’t overstep your bounds by getting too handsy, but don’t be weirdly detached either. While you obviously don’t have to hug people if you’re not down with that, standing with your arms crossed is sort of a bummer.

5. Sex is the icing on the cake, and the cake doesn’t really need icing. I think the most stressful part of social interaction is trying to figure out which person you’re going home with, when the answer is very often “no one.” I’m not saying you should hold back on flirting, because maybe you’re really sexy and good at it, but for me, removing that from the equation makes things a whole lot easier. You can build a better rapport when you’re not trying to get into someone’s pants. And then maybe said person will think you’re charming and attentive: he or she would love to be pants-free for you. Just don’t count on it.

6. Remember how fucking awesome you are. Look at you. You are one smooth, stylish motherfucker. It doesn’t matter if you are suave by everyone’s standards—it matters that you feel like you are. This is the most obvious tip to feeling comfortable in social situations, and it’s also the one I have the most trouble with, because I spend a good amount of time fixated on my flaws. Maybe they’re real, maybe they’re not. The point is, feeling good about yourself makes others feel better about you. If you think you’re cool, people will pick up on that. And I think you’re cool, friend—I love when you do you.

And before I go, a few don’ts: don’t think that alcohol makes you more likable, don’t try to be an asshole to impress people, and don’t pass judgment on everyone else because you imagine they’re passing judgment on you. That’s shitty. No one likes a shit.

When you hate moving as much as I hate moving, there’s probably more to it than the hassle. Don’t get me wrong—that’s a big part of the anxiety. I like having stuff; I don’t like taking that stuff and putting it into boxes. I can’t use my stuff when it’s in boxes, and I can’t lift boxes when they’re heavy. There are a lot of obstacles here. Still, I’m self-aware enough to know that there’s a deeper root to my hesitation.

I remember moving to Berkeley seven years ago. The only way I could cope was insisting that it was a temporary situation. Never mind that I intended to stick with the whole college thing—I was determined to never think of the Bay Area as home. Which was naïve, obviously, but I was 17. (For reference, I also thought I’d be going to grad school!) The difference between “moving” and “a very long vacation” is what kept my stress level relatively low. And for that whole first semester away from home—my “real” home—I dreamed of returning to LA.

I’m not trying to be poetic: I literally dreamed about LA all the time. I also dreamed about my teeth falling out, but that’s neither here nor there. It was only at Thanksgiving, when I took my first trip back since moving north, that I realized how deluded I was. Life in your hometown doesn’t just take a time-out when you leave. It seems obvious now, but I assure you it wasn’t at the time. Just as I assure you I spent way too many tearful nights overidentifying with that scene in Garden State in which Zach Braff talks about losing a sense of “home.” Bad movie or not, the sentiment rang true. I suddenly didn’t feel as though I belonged anywhere. I was an idiot to purposely avoid adjusting to Berkeley, and I was an idiot to pin all my hopes on LA staying just as I’d left it. You can’t go home again, stupid.

If you told me I’d still be in Berkeley in 2011, I would have a) called you a liar, and b) been surprised humanity managed to survive that many years of a Bush presidency. But here I am, sitting at the same coffee shop I’ve been coming to since first forcing a caffeine addiction on myself. What I found after a few years of living in Berkeley was that I wasn’t so much looking for a “home” as I was looking for stability. I missed LA because I was used to LA, because I understood my life there (more or less), and because there were routines and patterns I associated with the city. Moving somewhere new means establishing new habits, and holy crap, that is not as easy as it sounds. But eventually I was settled.

Too settled, maybe. Sometimes I think I could live here forever. Not because I’m so smitten with Berkeley—although it’s objectively a nice place to live—but because I’ve once again let my fears of being uprooted get the better of me. As much as I’ve come to appreciate LA when I go down for extended vacations, I’m still comforted by my ability to return back to a rather mundane existence in the Bay Area. But there’s a difference between being secure and being stagnant. I could stay here indefinitely, but I don’t want to. I know there is more for me in LA right now. And while I’m also sure I could make more of my current life in Berkeley, experience shows me that I won’t.

I need to push forward despite the discomfort, and that means taking my stuff and putting it in the goddamn boxes. I’ll think about leaving my apartment for good. I’ll think about saying goodbye to the friends I’ve made here, though admittedly many have already left. And I’ll let that anxiety wash over me, because you have to feel it build before you can feel it subside.

I don’t want to move. There, I said it. I want to be in LA, sure, but I don’t want to have to make the choice, to take the action, to plunge myself into once-familiar waters. I’ll do it because I owe it to myself to not let anxiety hold me back. I’m nearing the quarter-century mark (hey, it’s as good a milestone as any) and growing up means facing fears, right? Besides, the logic of my decision to move will soon trump any feelings of unease. If it happened before, it will happen again.

And with that, I’m going to stop staring at the boxes—and start filling them.

My body is a cage that keeps me
From dancing with the one I love
But my mind holds the key
— Arcade Fire, “My Body Is a Cage”

“I think I have body dysmorphic disorder,” he confided. “No matter how much weight I lose, I always see myself as fat.” And I thought, “Yeah, maybe. Or you could just be a gay man.” I didn’t say that, because that would have sounded dismissive—not to mention the fact that it’s a sweeping generalization of the gay community. But it’s the first thing that popped into my head. Even if it reflects my own mental distortion, it has to mean something.

There’s a little voice in the back of my head telling me to stop writing this post: do I really need to unleash my body image issues on the internet? Plus, song lyrics? I’m getting distressing LiveJournal flashbacks. But I pride myself in being honest and open, and writing about this might help me work through some of it. Maybe. It’s worth a try.

I have never felt comfortable in my own skin, and I don’t know if I ever will. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine myself in a different body, but let’s be real—the twinky version of me is probably a total dick. Perhaps spending my entire life a little bit overweight (and, more to the point, dissatisfied with my appearance) has contributed to a personality and sense of humor I’m at least marginally proud of. Whether my self-deprecation is a comedic affectation or a genuine coping mechanism, I kind of dig it. There’s a good chance I will never be my physical ideal, but I think that just makes me work harder at everything else.

That doesn’t mean I’m happy about feeling awkward, however. And I do think being a gay man makes it harder. Stereotypes or not, there are certain physical expectations associated with one’s sexuality. Not that all gay men are skinny—hello, bears—but that body type determines subcultural identification, and the gray area (the space that isn’t for twinks or bears or muscle daddies) is difficult terrain to navigate. On those rare occasions when I walk into a gay club, I feel instantly out of place. It’s not that I don’t know where I fit in—I’m just sure that I don’t.

I’m not the first person to make this observation (far from it), and I’m surely not the only gay man who feels uncomfortable at Badlands. I’m more interested in the way these perceptions are formed, both from within and without the community.

Within, it’s obvious—and I’m going to ask that you forgive the generalizations, or hey, dispute them in the comments. I realize that I am speaking in broad terms, but I believe men are more superficial than women, for the most part. I think most men are less sensitive to other people’s feelings, which leads to more casual denigration of those around them. The stereotype is that women and gay men are “catty,” but you should hear the way straight guys talk about women. (“Her tits were too small.” “Her hips were too wide.” “She didn’t wax where I wanted her to be waxed.”) In my mind, the reduction of a person to his or her physical attributes or failings is as much a male problem as it is a gay male one.

From outside of the community is perhaps trickier, although a quick glance at the cover of Out Magazine should give you some idea of what we’re dealing with. This is our major publication—yes, I get that The Advocate is the legitimate one, but still—and we’re presented with the same kind of unrealistic expectations that fashion magazines force on women. Do straight guys see the same images of the male physique? To some extent, yes, which is why there are also plenty heterosexual men with body image issues. But I’d contend that the problem is still more pressing for gay men, who judge themselves in the same manner they objectify each other.

Then there’s the issue of the visual representation of gay men. I’m not referring to the swishy hips and the sibilant “s,” which are different issues entirely. The gay men we see in movies and on TV are primarily handsome, slender men. Sure, there’s Cameron on Modern Family. He’s fat, yes, but he’s also sexless. (Honestly, can you imagine him and Mitchell getting down?) On Happy Endings we have Max: if you’re wondering how much I identify with a chubby gay Jew, far too much. But even there, Adam Pally is hardly fat—he’s “TV pudgy,” at most. If he were a straight character, his weight wouldn’t be addressed at all.

Because look at how straight men are portrayed. Jay (Ed O’Neill) is married to Gloria (Sofia Vergara). Doug (Kevin James) is married to Carrie (Leah Remini). Bill (Mark Addy) is married to Judy (Jami Gertz). Three sitcom examples do not prove this is an absolute rule, but you can’t argue that there aren’t far more representations of chubby or older or otherwise conventionally unattractive straight men who still manage to bag societally deemed hot women. It helps that there are far more representations of heterosexuals in general, but show me a fat gay character who is getting laid regularly. (Or an ugly gay character. Or a gay character with a small penis. Or a gay character who can’t dance.)

They are out there, I know. They mostly live in indie films, which are appreciated but a far cry from the mainstream. Would it help if there were more of them? Maybe. I don’t know. It seems to me that openly voiced judgments among gay men are damaging enough without the Hollywood influence. I don’t have a solution, as much as I wish I did. Trust me, I would like to feel comfortable with my less-than-Greek figure—I would like everyone to be happier with their bodies. But until I master collective mind control, that’s an even more daunting task to undertake. (You’ll know I’ve taken over when you start quoting The Golden Girls in inappropriate situations.) It’s not like I can say, “Let’s all like ourselves more!” and expect things to change. If it doesn’t work on me, why should it work on you?

But maybe thinking about these issues does help. It has for me, at least a little. I can’t look in the mirror and instantly see myself as the person I want to be, but I can start to understand where some of these distortions come from. I can separate the things I can change about myself from the things that just are—and I can learn to appreciate my own quirks in the way I have learned to appreciate others’. I do hope that if you’re someone with a body image problem reading this (and yes, I’m addressing gay men primarily, but you know I love you all), you can take something positive away from it.

We’re all kind of fucked in some ways, and it’s shitty. For gay men in particular, we are likely always going to be striving for something we can’t quite achieve. That’s the closest thing to an answer I can offer—we’re all different levels of dissatisfied. Take comfort in that: safety in numbers.

I’m not at the Pride Parade right now. Which is maybe a little bit lame to some of you, but how much lamer would it be if I were there, sitting on the sidewalk, blogging? I went to San Francisco Pride once. It was my first summer in San Francisco, and like Halloween in the Castro, the Pride Parade was something every Bay Area transplant had to try out. Also like Halloween in the Castro, I decided that I didn’t need to go again.

I’ve spent a lot of time making excuses for not doing things like the Pride Parade, or any number of other loud, crowded activities. In fact, it’s not that complicated—I don’t like activities that are loud and crowded. I make some exceptions: San Diego Comic-Con (they pay me), big concerts (Xanax). But for the most part, I prefer the company of one or two others to EVERY GAY IN SAN FRANCISCO. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this, but there are certain times of the year when my choice to keep things mellow comes into question. And surely San Francisco Pride, queer person Mecca, is one of those “how can you NOT?” events.

Of course, that forces me to question my true reasons for avoiding any Pride festivities. Surely the sheer number of people and noise and potential for sweating are part of the equation, but is there not more to it than that? And yes, I’m forced to admit, there are other reasons why I prefer to feel proud in my own quiet, personal way. The first and last time I went to the Pride Parade, I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. Not because I’m gay—there was never a time when I felt less like a minority. I felt out of place because I’m me. I looked around and I looked inward, and none of it made any sense to me.

I could go on a long rant about body image in the gay community, but do you really want to hear me yammer on about my ish? (Irrelevant. I don’t want to yammer on about them.) My avoidance of crowds, on a larger scale, is part distaste for sensory overload, and part a feeling that I don’t fit in. Would being a waifish twink make me more comfortable? Maybe. Probably not. I have always felt a little outside of it all (“it” used in the most general sense possible), and that’s as much a part of my identity as my Jewish heritage and penchant for reality TV competitions.

It’s frustrating, sure, but I hope it doesn’t sound like I begrudge others for their Pride experience. I am truly thankful that Pride exists at all, and that in San Francisco, queer people are encouraged to be as queer as they want to be. The more this country accepts a conventional understanding of homosexuality—slowgoing as it may be—the more we need reminders that some of us want to be freaks. I’m passionate about marriage equality, but I recognize that others dismiss it as an unnecessary heteronormative convention. It’s about choice. And I feel lucky to live in an area that embraces the full span of the queer spectrum.

I guess all of this is just to say, I’m here, I’m queer, I’m used to it. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that my reluctance to participate in Pride reflects any shame or discomfort—at least not discomfort with my sexuality. I get down on myself for just about everything, but my sexual identity is, in my mind, one of the best things about me. I celebrate myself in my own way, and I encourage everyone to do the same. If the Pride Parade makes you happy, then go watch the parade. Or march, if you’re into that sort of thing. Be proud and be loud, even if your rebel yell isn’t a literal shout so much as a blog post.

I went grocery shopping this morning because I was out of, well, everything. I used to hit up Safeway (or a more exciting supermarket) without a clear agenda: buy whatever strikes your fancy! But at some point I became the kind of person who writes out a list, and not just any list—the dullest, simplest list imaginable. I mean this isn’t even shit I need to write down. Today’s haul: plain yogurt, bananas, orange juice, frozen vegetables… I’ll spare you the rest. I surveyed my Chobani-laden bag as I left the store and I was forced to ask myself, “When did I become so boring?”

I guess the real question is, “When did I become an adult?” I fondly recall a time when I treated every grocery store excursion as a “kid in a candy store” situation. What did I buy? What didn’t I buy! I used to joke that I grabbed everything but the essentials, which wasn’t so much a joke as an accurate assessment of my purchases. Who needs milk when you can buy overpriced bottles of aloe juice? Tuna in a can is boring—go for the canned conch you’ll never eat. Instead of bananas, grab some spiky fruit you can’t figure out how to open. And remember, there’s always room for weird Japanese gelatin-based confections.

While I miss the spontaneity of my whimsical shopping adventures, I don’t exactly pine for the days when I spent $50 on a bunch of crap that was mostly inedible once the novelty wore off. I’m still not what you’d call good with money, but I’ve become way more practical and somehow that bums me out. I’m predictable. I’m calorie-conscious. I consider raspberries and nonfat vanilla Greek yogurt a treat. And yeah, part of it is dieting, but because I can’t help but overanalyze everything, I have to think about what my grocery choices mean on a larger scale. I shop the way an older person shops, with a slightly lower emphasis on bran. (Although, and don’t you fucking repeat this, I’ve gotten really into fiber.)

There are worse things than boring groceries, I guess. What really struck me about my Safeway-inspired angst was how distraught I was over feeling like an adult. I spend a lot of time reminding myself that I’m a grown-up and trying to act accordingly. I hate when people assume I’m younger than I am, or when my behavior strikes me as “very college.” But as soon as I show signs of maturity, I get all nervous, because in lots of ways, I do still want to be an idiot kid. And for some reason, I see a correlation between that and buying pepita brittle. (‘Cause, you know, kids looove pepitas.) What I’m really reacting to is the internal voice that pops up whenever I reach for something unnecessary: “No, that’s not practical. You don’t even really want it. Why spend $4 on a cracker that tastes like bird food?”

But of course, apples taste better than grapples. (Are you familiar with grapples? They are apples infused with the flavor of grapes! Their flavor can best be described as really bitter Dimetapp.) In the long-run, I am making more satisfying choices, saving money, and—ideally—avoiding hypertension. There’s nothing fun and sexy about responsibility, though. And all of this is probably just a deflection, because I don’t feel like addressing the real issue. Buying granola doesn’t make me a boring adult, but maybe feeling all tuckered out at 9 p.m. does. So tell me: am I wasting my youth, or am I just getting older? Also, is it normal to sing “Landslide” while you’re unloading your groceries?

I stole my blog title from Parks and Recreation, which is my favorite sitcom currently airing. The original line: “God, why does everything we do have to be cloaked in, like, 15 layers of irony?” It resonated with me the first time I heard it—you can tell because I made it a quote on my Facebook profile, the highest of all honors. But it makes sense to me. I’ve often been frustrated by my inability to do something for the sake of doing it. That sort of thing makes me miss sincerity.

And it’s partly my fault. I’ve embraced a whole lot of terrible because I’m amused by things that are bad. But do I own From Justin to Kelly ironically, or do I genuinely appreciate the trainwreck for what it is? I guess it’s a little of both: I like the movie (on some sick, masochistic level), but I also enjoy the irony of owning something that is most definitely not worth owning. (Related: Last Action Hero on Blu-ray is going for $6 on Amazon. Do I dare?) Perhaps the mere act of owning trash isn’t ironic. On the other hand, praising a movie like Valley of the Dolls as “great” surely is.

But it went past that in college, a time in which I did all sorts of not-that-fun activities because they sounded absurd and I wanted a good story to tell. I remember the first time I went to a frat party, but I can’t remember why. It smelled like cheap beer and cheap weed and B.O. (the consequence of wearing cheap deodorant). I was drinking, because this was before I realized I don’t like drinking or being drunk. And I’m sure I knew at the time that I had no real interest in being at a frat party (or most any parties, for that matter), but I went because it was something to laugh at. You know, a party to attend ironically.

Then there were things I did—and this was likely far more common—that I pretended to be disenfranchised from. And I think that’s why the Parks and Recreation quote really struck me. It’s not so much about doing things ironically as it is about pretending to do things ironically, which is actually way worse. It comes from a fear of genuine enthusiasm, of showing an unhip and unironic appreciation of shit. Like when someone looks at my DVDs and asks, “You own The Simple Life?” I say, “Yeah, I love it.” And he says, “But do you really?” How do I answer that in the affirmative without outing myself as a Paris Hilton fan? It’s less awkward to feign detachment.

I don’t do it as much anymore, since I’m trying to be more honest about my feelings in general. Besides, who cares if I love Paris Hilton? She looks like a bird, and that’s pretty great. But I also feel like doing things under the pretense of irony is a waste of time. I’d rather people know that I’m super into something than have them think I’m a facetious asshole. (I guess I can be both.) With that in mind, I’m not sure the title of this blog is appropriate to what I’m trying to do here, but I like it and I’m going to keep it. Please stop making me feel weird about it.

Incidentally, I stole my header from The Golden Girls, which is my favorite sitcom maybe ever. I never said I was a role model.

Last time I wrote about May 21, I admitted that I felt a little bad for those people foolish enough to sell their worldly possessions and await the apocalypse. Today I experienced another twinge of sympathy reading this article about Harold Camping’s disappointed flock. One of the men interviewed for the piece was Keith Bauer, a 36-year-old trucker. “I was hoping,” he said. “I think heaven will be a lot better than this earth.”

What a thing to say. I get down on this planet a lot—well, mostly the people on it—but I can’t imagine thinking we’d be better off after the Second Coming. (In part, because if such an impossible event were to occur, I know I wouldn’t be saved.) But I was sorry for this man, reading his lament, knowing that he’s broken up inside because the world didn’t end. How sad for him, you know?

And then I just felt pissed. Because the paradise Bauer (and all of Camping’s followers) imagine is one in which I don’t exist. We sinners will be tortured and destroyed while the righteous few ascend to a higher plane. Seriously, fuck that. How could I experience even a moment of concern for this man’s feelings? His salvation is at the cost of my existence. I’m part of what makes this world a place to be saved from, and the reason—according to Camping—that God is so livid.

For most of us, for anyone reading this I’d hope, we recognize how backwards that is. As several comedians and Twitter humorists pointed out, we’d be the ones benefiting from a post-Rapture Earth. I don’t want to live alongside anyone who condemns me to eternal damnation. Go ahead and spirit away Camping and all those who spew hate—it wouldn’t solve all of our problems, but it would make day-to-day life a lot less annoying.

I wish the anticlimactic reality of May 21 were enough of a slap in the face to faith-based idiocy. It won’t be. There are always more lunatics on the fringe, and we continue to let their voices be heard. Sure, I’m as guilty as anyone of tweeting jokes about the Rapture and, um, writing Harold Camping-centric blog posts. But in my mind, there’s a difference between mockery/analysis and legitimizing insanity. The news has been reporting on May 21 as if the billboard plastered around the country were anything more than drivel.

All distinctions aside, of course, I’m still perpetuating the conversation, which either makes me a giant hypocrite or completely un-self-aware. So why am I talking about Camping’s Rapture? I guess for the same reason I talk about anything—it got under my skin. I felt something, not fear or dread about the end of the world, but compassion for people with no compassion for me. And I want to smack sense into them. I want these assholes to know that the world is a shitty place because they are part of it.

But I can’t get through to them, even if any did somehow stumble onto this blog: my words to them mean as little as their words to me. We’re forever at odds. Buying all the billboard space in the U.S. wouldn’t change that.

I’m trying to get better at expressing my anger. Frankly, expressing it at all would be a step in the right direction. I’m cranky kind of a lot, which you might have noticed from my Twitter feed and blog and general bad attitude, but I’m rarely open about my anger toward people I know. (As opposed to celebrity abominations like Gwyneth Paltrow and Russell Brand.) I can count the number of friends I’ve yelled at on one hand, even though I’ve been pissed or at least mildly twitchy far more than that. I would need a freakish number of fingers to count those instances, probably.

I’m not saying this so you’ll suddenly worry that I’m mad at you on the DL. (How many of you actually went in that direction? I forget that everyone’s mind isn’t the paranoid sucktrap that mine is.) I’ll admit that I get angry pretty easily, but I get over it just as fast. And in that brief period of rage, it’s almost always internal. I’m big on expressing feelings, just not when they’re negative, which means I’ll let you know when I want to make out but not when I want to punch you in the face. (I am super nonviolent! Just typing that made me uncomfortable!)

There are benefits to not ripping people’s hair out, sure, but being not-at-all assertive is sort of a bad thing. I have had people say some really not nice things about me, and my general response is to shrug it of (read: quietly seethe) because that’s less scary than confrontation. It’s not a rational fear, like worrying that I’m going to get shanked for my insolence. I just don’t like the idea of fighting, of telling someone that he or she has hurt my feelings or otherwise made me stabby.

And part of it has to do, I’ll admit, with an intense desire to be liked by everyone. I’m sure there are plenty of people who don’t like me—maybe some who actively disdain me!—but that’s basically out of my hands. For my part, I try to be nice to the people I do know, especially those who are more acquaintances or casual friends than BFF. By “being nice,” I mean being agreeable, not talking back, not getting too openly butthurt about things that bug me. Sometimes my version of “being nice” means being a doormat, and that’s the kind of behavior I want to move away from. I’m self-aware enough to know that my internal anger is misplaced, and that I can be overly sensitive about things that in the long-run really don’t matter. But I also know that some people are straight-up assholes and I let them get away with it.

Like I said, I’m more likely to raise my voice with my closest companions, mostly because I know they’re not going anywhere. Still, I’d prefer a bit more balance. I can actually be kind of a dick to my favorites, and some of that is just residual anger I refrained from using on more deserving parties. It’s like I am a flaky croissant and my anger is the sweet chocolate center: I want it to be evenly distributed. That’s a ridiculous metaphor—chocolate is delicious. Whatever, sometimes it gets on your teeth and looks stupid. Also, calories.

In case you were wondering, here are some things that make me angry on a broad scale: misogyny, homophobia, racism, ignorance, rudeness, apathy. Here are some things that make me angry more specifically: being called lazy, being called passive-aggressive (especially when I’m being passive-aggressive), not being taken seriously, criticism of other people’s bodies, most music reviews, slow drivers, jerk drivers, guys who don’t call back, pop culture pretension, Glee. Anyway, thanks for letting me share.