Well, that was awkward. I really thought you all knew me by now, but I guess I was wrong. My last post, you see, caused something of a stir. In fact, I was pulled away from my studies in the middle of the day so that I could be escorted by several university employees to their mental health department for a psychiatric evaluation. They were worried that I was going to go on a shooting rampage, you see.
It’s understandable, in these post-Columbine days, that people react strongly to any mention of a “killing spree” on a school campus. It’s a bit like saying “bomb” at an airport. Even if everyone could plainly see that you were joking, security has to take the threat seriously. Nonetheless, I must confess to being a bit surprised. My blog got over 200 hits in the 24 hours after I published “Things I Hate Doing, Part 3”. That’s more than double the traffic I’ve ever gotten in a single day and more than I’d gotten in the entire month previous. Hell, I thought it was just good writing. That, or the picture of Taylor Lautner, which I’ll post again for those of you who, like me, just can’t stop staring at it.
In all seriousness, I’m not too angry about this. I have a few guesses as to who might have read that last post and reported my ass to the Columbia authorities, but I’m not going to go digging around. I don’t have the time. I have schoolwork to do, and if being unable to find temporary housing wasn’t stressful enough to break my will, I think being suspected of harboring murderous fantasies entitles me to take at least a day or two off from my various projects. It’s hard to care about this shit when you know that people are looking at you like the guy on the subway who won’t stop muttering to himself. What deeply concerns me is how exactly to approach issues like this in the future. As anyone who reads this blog or knows me knows, I have an edgy sense of humor. The Robot King persona is founded on misanthropy, so if you visit this website expecting to hear me opine about how wonderful life is and how happy I am, perhaps you aren’t exactly worthy of an Ivy League education.
I mean, yes, if you really must know, this incident has helped me out in more ways than one. Once the on-campus housing people heard about my problem, they set about finding me a place to stay until I could move into my long-term apartment. So that’s nice. It’s a hell of a way to go about getting it, however. I tried contacting them back when I was having trouble finding housing last semester, but through a weird misunderstanding/miscommunication/something-or-other, I kind of just fell through the cracks and ended up having to fend for myself. So I found housing at a nearby place. Then that ended, and it didn’t occur to me to contact the school itself and ask for help. The point is that, in case anyone was wondering, I take no responsibility whatsoever for any of this. Granted, it was stupid to joke about killing people. But anyone who read that and thought, “Oh my God, he’s about to go all Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold on everyone!” rather than, “Can somebody get this poor bastard a fucking couch to sleep on?” needs professional help. Incidentally, I’m having my first session with a counselor this Tuesday.
I’m not complaining, exactly. I’ve toyed with the idea of talking to one before, and since I’m not paying anything to talk to this one, I can’t see much of a downside. Still, it would be nice to avoid situations like this one in the future. I’m not opposed to therapy, although the last time someone suggested I see a therapist, it was my mother, and I shot her down for no reason other than that I’m tired of doing what my mother thinks I should do. Now I’m doing what I might as well do because at this point, I don’t see any reason to push back. There’s that.
It would be nice to be able to write whatever I want without setting off other people’s alarm bells. What if I decide to write a story about a school shooting someday? Are people going to take it as a sign that I’m fucked in the head? Is someone going to shoot up his own school, then blame it all on me? I can’t bear that kind of responsibility. I don’t have the time to worry about anyone’s troubles except my own, mostly, and what people take away from my writing is, at a certain point, out of my hands.
If it pleases you to hear me say it: I’m not going to hurt myself. Or anyone else. Well, maybe Justin Bieber. (I kid, I kid.) Now please leave me in peace.