She still remembers the one little girl who dressed up as a giant red rose one year and was so embarrassed when she got to school that she called her mom from the nurse’s office to come pick her up because she was the only one in costume. I like the way she tells stories without adding any details that aren’t strictly necessary. She gets to the point.
But I’m almost positive she was the little girl in that story and she didn’t want to relive the embarrassment of the giant plastic flower headdress. Telling it like it happened to someone else might have made it less traumatizing for her. I get that. I like to pretend weird shit happens to other people, too. Unfortunately, that’s not always possible.
I’ve started paying more attention to the side effects of other drugs. There’s no question that we are overly medicated as a country. Our obsession with erections alone is just insane. You can barely watch cartoons anymore without bearing witness to some guy’s embarrassing lack of wood.
And yes, I can almost hear your judgment: But, Adam, without your current medication, wouldn’t you be listening to the voices in your head and trying to follow the white rabbit to Wonderland? Touché, jackass. Yes, you’re right. Some people do need medication to help them get through some really serious shit, and I for one would not begrudge any man the opportunity to sport a raging boner whenever he feels like it.
When Paul and I were watching TV (actually, while I was watching TV and Paul was trying to think of something to say to me), I counted four commercials for sexual-enhancement drugs, one for depression, and one for restless legs syndrome. The side effects of all these drugs could be a number of things, like heart attack, anxiety, trouble urinating, an erection lasting longer than four hours, muscle tension, death, and, my favorite, anal leakage.
Death I understand. There are plenty of people willing to die to achieve ridiculous results. But I really don’t think any drug could justify the possibility of anal leakage. If anything ever drips out of my ass as a result of the treatment I’m receiving, the cure is clearly not worth it. Please kill me.
—
I’ve been keeping a list of things that bother me. I’m not sure what prompted this except that I wanted it noted somewhere.
1. When people borrow my books and dog-ear pages.
2. The sound of a spoon scraping the bottom of a plastic yogurt cup.
3. Chewing with your mouth open. Gum. Food. Anything. This is completely unacceptable. *Note: Ian does this and it is disgusting.
4. Arguing with stupid people, knowing that you’re right, but then they say something condescending that basically means, Okay, I’m going to go because you don’t seem to understand what I’m saying, when really you do understand—you just know that they’re wrong. Like when someone says the world is flat and you argue with them because obviously it is not, so eventually they just smile and say something like, Oh well, in some places that may be true. You don’t need to concede their point. There is no point. You should be allowed to slap them because clearly they are too stupid to live.
5. The word “rural.” I will never use it. Ever. I hate the way it sounds.
6. When people ask me how I feel today.
DOSAGE: 2 mg. Increased dosage approved.
NOVEMBER 7, 2012
I don’t even want to tell you about this, but I will because I have no one else to tell, and if I keep going over it in my own head, I’m going to go crazy.
Ha.
Maya was having a really bad day, but because she’s basically a robot, she didn’t want to tell me what was wrong. I don’t mean robot as in she doesn’t have any connection to people or that she doesn’t care about anyone, because she does, she definitely does. I just mean that she processes information exactly as it hits her, as logically as possible. She doesn’t make a fuss about it. She just responds to it. And she doesn’t talk about her feelings. I don’t think she would even use the word “feelings.”
So I spent most of the day trying to figure her out, which seemed to annoy her more than anything. And not in a cute way.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” I asked her after class for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
“Just drop it, okay?” she hissed.
Her lips were pursed, and after our last class was over, she bolted to the library without looking back.
“What’s wrong with her?” Dwight asked me.
“No idea. She wouldn’t say.”
“Is she…you know…?” He looked mortified for asking the question.
“Dude. How would I know that?”
He shrugged, but I wondered inwardly if he had a point. Still, I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to mention a girl’s period. Ever.
It was one of those moments where you just know you should be doing something, but you’re not sure what. Maya was clearly upset, but since she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, my options were limited. I sat at my desk for a minute waiting for the class to clear out when I had a thought.
Rebecca was twirling like she always does when I think I have a good idea. She did cartwheels on the lawn in front of me.
Spontaneity. Girls like that, right?
I stopped at the grocery store and went straight to Maya’s house, knowing she wouldn’t be home for a couple hours. She was doing research at the library. I’d seen her through the window. She’d said her computer at home was too slow and usually monopolized by her little brothers.
I’d been there a couple times to drop her off with my mom after Academic Team, but I’d never gone inside. The neighborhood was older, and some of the houses were pretty beat up. Dead grass, plastic flamingos. Short chain-link fences around the front yard. That kind of thing.
Her dad answered when I knocked, and one of her brothers drove a plastic trike into a wall somewhere behind him. Maya had said her dad was a plumber. When I saw his face, I knew that Maya must take after her mom. There was nothing in the goofy face and untucked shirt that could have belonged to Maya.
I’d never officially met the guy before, and I hadn’t considered that what I wanted to do would be weird coming from a stranger. He was maybe five foot six, so I sort of towered over him with my bag of groceries, but when I explained what I wanted to do, his face split into a wide grin. Maya had told him about me. Most people would have looked at me funny, but there was something in his expression that made me feel like he honestly didn’t think I was doing anything weird. That made me feel good for some reason. So I walked into their small kitchen and got to work, while Rebecca sat at one of the barstools with a dreamy expression on her face.
Two hours later, Maya walked through the front door with a defeated-sounding “I’m home.” Her dad and brothers were already sitting down at the table, which was overflowing with some of my best work.
Her hair had mostly fallen out of her ponytail, and her uniform looked like old skin she wanted to shed. I could tell she’d been crying. Then she asked what was going on.