Is My Phone Gunna Do What? Smack You? Probably

It’s always the not-so important things that bother me the most.

For example, one Thursday afternoon a friend and I wandered through the library looking for an open “study room”. These are rooms in the sides of the library that are almost sound proof (as opposed to the upstairs rooms that are sound proof) and that you’re allowed to talk in (as opposed to the upstairs rooms where you’re not allowed to). They’re specifically for groups of 2 or more.

Well, they fill up pretty quickly. I don’t know people at this school even though I’ve been attending for three years but my friend recognized two women in a far corner room. We asked if we could also study there. One girl had her ear phones in her ear, the other just had her nose in her book. I set my phone on the table. It buzzed once. One time. I hadn’t got a text all day. The chick with her face buried in the book looked up at me and said “is your phone going to do that every time you get a text?”

Bitch, What?

Is your fucking pencil going to sound like nails on a fucking chalkboard every time you write an integral sign? Is your voice going to sound like a fucking bear cub with it’s leg caught in a trap every time you open that gaping mouth of yours? Are you going to keep fucking whispering to your friend every five fucking seconds?

What kind of dumb ass question is that?

My blood boiled, as usual, and I was ready to “Is Wayne Brady Gunna Have To Choke A Bitch?” the shit out of her, as usual.

Instead, I responded, “I’ll put it on silent right now.”

I know I shouldn’t really care about all the attitude in her voice, and I understand we were the ones who entered their room, but she could have kindly asked, “can you turn your phone on silent? Sorry, it gets on my nerves” or something.

I mean, don’t get pissed off at me because you don’t understand your calculus homework. That sounds like a personal problem.

See why it’s just so much easier not  to talk with people? I don’t have to deal with attitudes or stupidity or promises or anything. If you’re only ever with you, the only thing you have to deal with is yourself. I mean, that’s a challenge in itself, but at least if you cop an attitude with yourself, you can slap yourself without some cop charging you with assault.

So maybe I have a slight irritability problem. The smallest things light my very, very short fuse; it’s always been that way. If you do something to piss me off, chances are I’ll remember it even when I shouldn’t. That girl probably couldn’t recall that day in the study room, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

I try not to hold grudges against people. Just because I’m mad at them, doesn’t mean I’m seeking revenge or that I’m obsessing over their stupidity. Regardless, I can’t say with confidence that if the opportunity to fuck with her presented itself, I wouldn’t take it. I probably would. But I’m not planning or waiting for that day. If it comes along that’s when I’ll make my move. I’m sneaky.

I also try not to manipulate people or make them feel bad or make them do what I want them to. But the temptation is great. I mean . . . if you can’t see that I’m messing with you, If you can’t see that the socially awkward, socially inept, socially anxious chick is fucking with you, if you are so blind that I see what’s good for you when you can’t, than you deserve to get fucked with. Does that sound conceited? Probably. Whatever.

There’s a reason why I say it’s a good thing I have social anxiety disorder. If I didn’t, I’d be blurting shit every which way, probably stacking up enemies, and metaphorically pushing people off bridges. I care about people, I really do, and I’m very in tune with myself, with others, with our surroundings, with the universe, but if you piss me off it’s all over; no more feeling, no more anxiety, no more second guessing my words. And you better not catch me in a week where I haven’t gotten very much sleep for the previous five days (A.k.a THIS WEEK) because I’ll lay you flat on the concrete without hesitation. My anger is very freeing.

Sometimes I do feel like I’m better than everyone else. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t. One of my issues with authority, and one of the reasons why I’d still have problems working even without this fucking social anxiety bullshit, is that they’re all idiots. They are! Not one of the seven managers at my last job had a lick of sense in their thick heads. I want my M.D because 1) adolescents deserve better care than a pill-pusher (Everyone does) and 2) because I can’t handle people telling me what to do. I don’t mind it when I’m learning, but once I’ve learned it back the fuck off. I don’t want you over my shoulder, I don’t want you re-telling me things or insinuating I’m stupid and most importantly I don’t want you acting like you have the right to assert your power over me because you have a different title on your name tag. We can take this shit outside, if it’s a problem.

I can’t be an elf. I just can’t. I have to be Santa Claus. Once I nip this social anxiety in the bud, it’s on. Move bitch, get out the way! For real, if you’re standing in my way, I’m going to smack you to the side.

I have a feeling a lot of this is my mindstate talking more than me. No sleep = aggressive, narcissistic, confrontational, and little patience for stupidity.

My eyes might hurt like a bitch but I feel pretty good about myself at this moment. I’d rather be willing to punch someone in the teeth than curled up on my floor ready to blow my head off. Not that I have a gun. I don’t. Guns creep me out. I’d like to go to a shooting range one day though, that’d be fucking awesome!

I also want to invent a dashboard camera for your car that records your speed limit in the tape so that when you get pulled over for being black or brown–oops, I mean speeding–you can prove that you weren’t speeding. If we have google cars driving people around, than what’s so weird about a camera that catches cops being liars? I really want to get a dashboard camera and rear camera for my car. I’m sick of cops fucking with me.

I don’t even know how I got on that topic.

I haven’t eaten yet today: it’s 5pm. Shit, I think I forgot. My stomach isn’t happy. I’m going to go shove something in my face hole.

Dear High School: I Never Loved You

Does anyone ever feel like they forget what depression feels like?

That’s my current mood.

I tried studying for my test tomorrow (today by the time I post this shit) but there are more things to remember than to study. You either get it or you don’t; there’s no half getting it. I feel like if I can do integration and physics and approximations I can do some fucking conversion factors in chemistry. It’s not like rocket science over here. It’s like taking algebra all over again. This is what I get for skipping chemistry in high school to go get high in the park.

I’m dead serious; I have to start from the beginning with this shit, significant figures and all. The first week of the class was learning how to add numbers. He did a ten minute explanation on the scientific method. Fuck me, dude.

If there’s anything I’m mad at my social anxiety for, it’s for getting me so far behind in school in my earlier years. I couldn’t do math because I couldn’t ask questions, I never did presentations in my science classes (so I often got dinged majorly), and although I took college level classes I was basically mute. I did well on tests and exams. That’s basically what I went to school for: to take exams, quizzes, and watch movies.

I remember the first friend I kind of made my freshman year. She came from a private school over the hill and we were both in “Intensive English”. If you have social anxiety disorder, you may experience a phenomenon where you can literally “sniff” out people you’re able to talk with. I’ve been able to do that since I was in first grade. These were people I instantly felt comfortable speaking with. It happened again freshman year, and sophomore year. Three people I’ve felt absolutely comfortable talking to in my life within the first ten minutes of meeting them.

Anyway, this girl was incredibly smart. She spoke well and I wrote well. We had physical education together and there I met a few other people, reluctantly, through her. We were never all “friends” but they were people I could talk with during class so I didn’t look like a complete loner. We drifted apart junior year; she was much more social.

Instead, I stayed with some friends from middle school. We were the last true “goth/emo/rock” kids of our generation, I swear by it. We were in all black with the chains, the wrist bands, the dyed hair cut halfway over our face, and we headbanged during break. I still love metal, although I’ve since dropped the fashion statement. It gets too hot. I’d also look like a jackass at my school; I’m already paranoid people are constantly staring at me.

I sucked ass in algebra. I mean literally, I sucked ass. I carried a fat donkey with me to class and sucked on it. That’s how bad I was. The teacher also sucked ass. He got a pink slip within his first year of teaching because the average of his class ranged about 50%. So, we all got F’s. Except maybe two people. Fuck those two people.

My few friends (literally, three) moved away after freshman year. I had one left.

My second math teacher was young, hilarious, sarcastic as fuck, and not too bad on the eyes either. He had anger issues. I went on a field trip to a college once  and came back to learn his entire class was scarred for life because some kid spit-balled on the brand new projector in the room and the teacher blew up on him, screamed about how the class was lazy, how we didn’t even try, how mentally challenged monkeys out-performed us on a test for shapes.

Just kidding about the monkey part. I’m sure he thought that in his head.

Anyway, he went into anger management and started taking days off to go out on his boat. He’d say “I won’t be here tomorrow, I’m going out on my boat”.

In his defense, our classes were pretty . . . inattentive.

Last I heard, him and his wife had a falling through and he fell into a major depression. He always gave me breaks on my homework because I was so quiet and timid and stupid and probably looked like a complete jackass; I’m determined to show him, one day, how far I’ve come in math. It’d probably make him faint.

I couldn’t multiply 9 x 8 in my head people, that’s how bad I was.

So social anxiety ruined my high school career. I had no friends, no joy, no happiness. I failed in subjects I could have easily excelled in and now I have to pay for it by sitting through 5 hours of chemistry with fucking Miniature Michael J Fox with a bad case of Howie Mendel OCD. He really is obsessive, I’m not using that as an adjective.

Sophomore year my one friend started hanging out with a freshmen with a bad reputation. They skipped class all the time. I called them fucking idiots.

Junior year, I skipped the majority of my classes . . .

 . . . but with smarts. I asked around in my AVID (a college prep course; only course I knew people in) class about how they calculated who got detention and who didn’t. Through a few other master skippers I learned how they counted days, weeks, and months, and how many skips you were allowed to get in a week and a month before they contacted your parents. If you managed to stay below that number, your parents never found out.

So I planned accordingly. I was really quite sneaky. I have to be: I’m always supposed to be smart and perfect and quiet and passive. When I need a little danger, I have to be a ninja.

I just hated school. The people saw me as an idiot, I was too nervous around my teachers for them to ever help me, I couldn’t make any friends on my own, and I woke up every morning at 4:30am so I could calm myself down until 7 am.

I never got involved in heavy drugs and I never will. But I was an avid marijuana smoker. I hit it before class, between class, after class, and if I was out at night, I’d do it at night. I brought vodka to school in water bottles which I sipped in class.

One morning I arrived extra early at my friends house. We often walked to school together. Her parents were always gone so I’d go in the back yard while she got ready and smoked until it was time to go. It took her a little over an hour one morning and by the time I walked with her and her other friend, I was floating so high I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. I kept packing and lighting, packing and lighting, packing and lighting, non-stop. I walked my bike with them because I couldn’t ride it without falling. On the street I started laughing. They kind of laughed. My vision had turned into a fish eye lens. All the sound around me muted beside the soft thumping of my heart and I no longer existed. I asked them over and over again “dude . . . you guys, is this reality? I’m serious, no, I’m serious, is this reality?”

I remember they kept telling me it was but they weren’t convincing me. I just kept laughing. I ran into the walls in art class, almost tipped over the printing press in art class, and my table in art class could smell the stench from my backpack. People weren’t snitches at my high school, though, because we were all in the same boat. I sold weed to people, they gave weed to me, and that was my greatest connection to most people. By the middle of the day I was fucking done. I skipped math and slept out on the bleachers.

Every once in a while I still smoke, but eh, who gives a shit. I stopped public drinking and smoking when I turned 18 because I didn’t want my financial aid revoked if a cop ever charged me with something. None of it really helped my anxiety anyway.

I think what inspired me to do this post is that whenever I get like this, whenever I get “happy” or I’m up for a while or I just feel like I’m clawing to get out of my skin, I think about those times. I think about all the contacts I had with people who popped X  and Xanax on the daily and people who snorted cocaine after school. I think about how good I feel right now and how much better I’d feel with them.

If I wasn’t writing this post I’d be texting that one friend and saying bro, we need to find some shit to do, something to drink, let’s party, fuck this shit!

Because that’s how I feel right now. I need to party. I need to say FUCK EVERYTHING and celebrate this moment of feeling good for once. I don’t want it to go away.

I end up wishing my friend didn’t have a job so I could go out with her tonight, smoke up my car, toss back some shots, and stroll through downtown causing havoc. Fuck, that sounds like so much FUN. Maybe she is awake?

I end up wishing my boyfriend would drink with me and party and smoke and we too could stroll through downtown causing havoc. He tried a packed edible on an empty stomach and has been turned off of marijuana since.

I feel like partying is the RIGHT thing to do. It’s not like I’m shooting heroin or cocaine or binge drinking.

I’m sick of being depressed all the time and now that I’m not, now that I’m back, that I’m free, I can’t even embrace it.

Fuck this.