In Which I Commute

I received an email from the almighty and omnipotent Google the other day. At some point a while back I sacrificed a portion of my online privacy and allowed them to track my location history. I use Google Maps quite a lot as I am not the greatest with directions, and I figured it wasn't giving up too much of my privacy if it helped me get to where I needed to go in the long run.

In this email, they listed a bunch of facts about the places I had been to over the past year. 17 new cities, four states, over 20,000 miles travelled, that kind of thing. It was pretty interesting to me, being a data need, so I kept scrolling to the end of the email to see what else they could tell me. There was a link at the bottom of the email to update home and work addresses, and I clicked on it. I know my home address was correct, but I figured I'd double check what Google had listed for my work address. 

Before I could confirm the address for my office, Google suggested I update it to a new location.

Do you work here? Hannaford Supermarket

Underneath the suggestion was the address for the local grocery store just a few miles down the road from my house. 

Apparently Google thought that because I go there at least once a day, pretty much every day of the week, that I must work there. Except no, I'm only there so often because there is a zoo of people and animals at home who eat voraciously. 

They bring up a good point, though. Given how much we spend there, maybe getting a part-time job there to get a discount would be worth it. 

In Which I Forget

Yesterday, I bumped into a guy I work with who I haven't seen in a few months. He's out on paternity leave, his girlfriend having recently had their second child together. He came out of the elevator as I was going in, and was accompanied by his girlfriend. She was pushing a stroller with a baby inside. 

"Hey, Dan!" I said. "Long time, no see!" 

"Hey! I know, It has been a while."

His girlfriend, whom I have met several times, smiled at me. "Hello!"

I look at her and completely space on her name. 

"...Hey!"

The baby in the stroller makes a noise, and we all look at her. I assume it's a girl based on the excessive pink that she's wearing. When she had been born, he came in and distributed photos of her by email, but I long since forgot what the baby's name was. 

"Is this your new little one?" I asked, hoping it wasn't obvious that I forgot her name, too.  

"Sure is!" his girlfriend replied. 

"How's.... the old little one doing?" I asked. Go figure, I forgot her name, too. 

"Good, good, everyone is good," Dan replied. 

There was an awkward silence for a moment while we all stared at the baby. She made a grumpy face as she yawned. 

"She doesn't look very happy to be here," I said, trying to make a joke.

"Oh, that face," Dan's girlfriend said. "Yeah, she makes that face a lot. She probably needs a nap."

"So do I," I agreed. 

"What, have a grumpy face, or need a nap?" Dan asked.

"Both."

Now, they did tell me the name of their newborn and their older child, but by the time we said our goodbye's and the elevator door closed, I had already forgotten them. 

Still don't remember what Dan's girlfriend's name is, either. 

I should probably take a memory loss supplement, but I keep forgetting to buy some. 

Oh, well. I need a nap.

In Which I Joke

Inspired by the book “Go The Fuck To Sleep,” I decided to make a few changes to some classic children's literature. Check out these titles:

“Love You Sometimes (And Now is Not One of Those Times)”

An endearing, true-life story of a frazzled parent who is at the end of their rope with their toddler, and expresses it in moment of stark honesty. Teaches children the value of being truthful and tactful at the same time. (Original here)

“Where The Wild Things Used to Be”

Max returns to where the Wild Things are to find that they've all been killed by poachers. This heart-breaking tale can be used by parents to help their children understand the concept of death and dying. (Original here)

“The Little Engine that Couldn't Remember if He Could or Not”

The Little Engine is much older now, and Alzheimer's is creeping in. Before he used to think he could, but now he's not so sure. Will his friends help him figure things out, or will he wander off on his own (again)? This story can teach children why Grammie or Grampa doesn't remember them anymore. (Original here)

After I made the images above, I realized that I was beginning to feel tempted to actually write the stories to go along with them. Is there a market for parodies of books for children?

If I saw these in a bookstore, I'd totally buy them.

In Which I Take a Second Look

I used to work in an office that had an ice machine. It had a proximity sensor so it only dispenses ice when you put your cup underneath the chute. Despite the fancy technology, it worked only sporadically. You'd put your cup under the chute and wait for the ice, but nothing would come out. Move your cup closer and then farther away, still nothing. Just as you got fed up with the machine and take your cup away, it would dump ice all over your hand and spill onto the floor. This happened a lot, so you either had to prepare to get a little wet (that's what she said), or simply go without ice.

As result of this finicky machine's behavior, there were often are bits of ice on the floor that melted and caused things to get a little slippery. Instead of putting down a mat to absorb the water, the cleaning crew in the building decided it would be better to place a "Caution Wet Floor" sign in front of the machine instead. They don't bother mopping up the water, but figure that if you see the bright orange sign and still slip and fall on your ass, well, they tried to warn you and it's your own damn fault.

One day, I was on my way to the bathroom by way of the kitchen and I noticed that the Wet Floor sign had somehow migrated away from the ice machine and into the middle of the floor. I kicked it lightly with my foot on my way past, and something caught my eye.

I stopped and asked myself if I truly saw what I thought I saw:

I turned around to take a second look, and was proven wrong:

Truth be told, I was a little bummed out that someone hadn't swapped out the sign with the one I thought I saw. Would have made the rest of that Tuesday afternoon at the office a bit more enjoyable.

In Which I Write

I write.

I write because I have to.

Not out of obligation, but out of a critical need.

I write because it is an outlet for the things in my head that I have trouble expressing with my voice. Writing becomes my voice, my way of exploring how I feel, my way of explaining how I feel. Writing allows me to rehearse and revise my thoughts so that I can help others understand me, and through that, writing helps me better understand myself.

Writing is addiction that I feed because it nurtures my soul.

If I go too long without writing, I become a different version of myself. When deprived of time to write, my soul becomes dried out, drought-stricken. Writing hydrates me, and when that rainstorm of words finally arrives as I sit at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, words and feelings spilling out, I soak it all up like a dry riverbed. I stand there in the rain, the absence of which I caused, the creation of which I caused, and I am restored.

I mostly write fiction, because I like to create something to hide behind, which feels safer than exposing myself. I create stories about places I'll never go to, stories about people I'll never meet, because neither the places or the people exist. Like me, they exist in silence. They exist in their own world, hidden, but they have stories to tell. I write about them to tell their story, often letting the characters themselves tell me what happens next, not realizing that in the end, I am telling my own story. None of it is real, yet so much of it is. There are many truths about myself hidden between the lines.

My wife inspires me to write.

She can see the affect that writing, or not writing, has on me, and knows that I need it more than even I recognize sometimes. She inspires and pushes me to write, to connect with myself through these words, to connect with parts of me that I have denied the existence of. Through my words, she can connect with me on levels that I struggle to communicate verbally. The words I write are keys to doors that I didn't know were locked, keys to doors that, until I wrote about them, I didn't know existed, and they let her in.

They let her in and I am not alone anymore.

And so I write.

I write for me, as it is the best form of self-care. I write for me because it lets me breathe. It heals me. It lets me feel pain, it lets me feel anger, and it lets me forgive. It lets me feel love and purpose. It lets me tear down walls I no longer need, because I am no longer alone.

I write for my wife, because when she looks at me, she tells me she sees sunlight reflecting off something hiding in the rubble. She knows there is treasure within me, but only I can dig for it. I've found some of it already, but she tells me there's more. I'm inclined to believe her.

Writing allows me to exist, no longer in silence.

No longer just in my world, but in your world, too.