Chapter One: Dumbing Down

I was walking home today thinking about what I would call my great novel. I do this often, mind you; walking around with these sorts of delusions of grandeur, neglecting to realize they are just that, perhaps because I tend create from those mind musings a reality that mirrors that circus I call a consciousness.

“If Truth is Truly a Virtue, then Call me Virtuous!”

At the time, I thought it was genius. I accepted a Pulitzer Prize for my memoir of being such a soul baring white woman of privilege penning tales of how she felt.
That didn’t last long. The genius that is.
This is fortunate.
It would have been a shitty book.

So I kept walking and I kept daydreaming. What is it that I want to say, to share, to give, that hasn’t been done before.
Or rather.
If it has been done before, how can I make it so delicious you still want more? Seconds. Heck you’ll even ask your neighbor how I did it, HOPEING they know and will make more for you.
(Did you get that food symbolism? I know right, I am a goddamn genius. Such prose, such imagination, such-)

I did it again.
I have nothing new for you. No insights. No wisdom. No life changing phrases that will echo in the hallways of high schools and community colleges. No professor will ever quote me, hell my friends barely read me.

So I guess that frees me.
I can say whatever I want.

You. Aren’t. There.

I fall in love all the time. It’s sad really. Such naivety that has been slapped in the face so often, continues to be naïve, to be open, to marvel at the beauty that surrounds. I fell in love four times last year, all different, and considering the odds, they all ended fairly well. Falling in love doesn’t mean that person must be you only high five partner. Now, I am not advocating polygamy or dis-advocating it. I am just saying that, sometimes its nice to fall in love with someone and be able to let them go. Love them enough in that moment to really see they are a like a breeze. Or perhaps the timing is just awful. Or maybe it is all just another delusion that you have yet to be aware of. Or maybe they were amazing liars.

I suppose if someone was reading, this would be the part they would think to themselves, “Oh, its gonna get juicy now! She’s set us up for a story, she’s gonna tell us about one of those gents! Maybe it will be heartbreaking! Maybe it will be awful! Maybe she sneezed all over herself!”

Well, I didn’t sneeze all over myself. He did.

Not really. It wasn’t a sneeze as much as he laughed and spit his drink all over himself and I thought it was the cutest thing ever.
That’s not right either. It was worse then that. It was a slow dribble down his lips and chin that we both knew was coming and there was no stopping it.
It had begun.
Slowly it came.
Inch by inch.
A.
Dribble.
A nightmare most men would have talking to a girl who dressed up as the Doctor. (Please note: if you ever happen to meet a girl dressed as the Doctor, know you’ve found a wonderful geekie dream). Most men, such as this, I would expect would write a rage comic about such a flirting faux pa.
Back to that dribble.

Now, perhaps if there were a superhero with the power to stop boys from dribbling mojito down their face, we’d have a chance. But I’m not sure what sort of radioactivity would be needed to create a hero like that. And in all honesty, I don’t know if I would advocate for a superhero to have such a power. I mean, that dribble was super cute.

He was embarrassed, and rightly so. There are women that would be horrified and quickly create an excuse to leave such a man.
Not me.
I spill shit all the time and I have no excuse for it. I am clumsy and awkward.
It’s charming.
It’s human.
I just so happen to be human.
(Note: this makes mating much, much easier when you are attracted to other humans. If I was a bear, that would make my past relationships with men, very strange indeed.)

So I did what any reasonable woman would do, I giggled. I offered my condolences to his drink, (which was delicious by the way. Maori gods make the best mojitos!) And offered some sort of Reader’s Digest-like anecdote about how I too, a funny cute girl, dribbles things down my face as well.

Now, for the sake of all honestly, I don’t really dribble drinks on myself.
No. I do.
Not really.
Sometimes.
I more often fall over for no apparent reason.
I should see a doctor about that.
Honestly, what I really do is this:
When I laugh too hard, a bit of snot flies out and lands somewhere.
I don’t know where it goes.
I am sorry.

But I didn’t tell him that.
I dumbed down the truth.
I made it less embarrassing for me.

And that gentle reader, who really doesn’t exist, that’s why things don’t work out.
That’s why falling in love happens in brief spurts.
Because when you have the chance to fully be yourself, you dumb it down.

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~ by ambur on January 19, 2012.

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