30 Days’ Notice

Something very awful just happened. The man I’m renting a room from gave me 30 days’ notice. We weren’t fighting or anything, he just wants the room back. It’s kind of hard for me to wrap my head around. Up until then, he’d been just about as friendly and considerate as could be. Then when he asked about my travel plans for the holidays, I told him that I was going back to California in mid-December and returning in mid-January. He asked if I could email that information to him. I did, and he responded that he’d need me gone by January 1. Wouldn’t it have made sense to bring that up after asking about my plans in person? Oh, I know why he did it. See, for this little shit, it’s all about convenience. He was nice to me in the beginning (even offering to let me stay on his couch instead of hostel-surfing before my official move-in date!) and now that he has no more use for me, he discards me like a used napkin. It’s nothing personal, he just doesn’t care about me. God, I want to punch him. How do people like that look at themselves in the mirror? Technically, he is within his rights, as my name is not on the lease, and the unofficial agreement that we signed said that I could stay through May, but that if either of us wanted to terminate the agreement, we would just have to give 30 days’ notice. So it’s not like he did anything illegal, just extremely unethical and inconsiderate bordering on sociopathic. My hope is just that I’ll be able to get this straightened out before my flight so that I don’t have to cancel my plans back home to see family and friends. I would never do this to another human being.

So with all of the moping and whining out of the way for now, I’m going to focus on things that I don’t hate. Little things, because that’s all I can work up the energy to care about right now.

5. Good Customer Service

Even when I was a teenager, I got a strangle little buzz out of hearing somebody call me “sir”. I think it was because some employees are curt and unfriendly with the younger customers because we didn’t tip as well and made more noise. But I always appreciated somebody who took the time to do their job no matter what. I had a very bad day yesterday. Then I went out to eat, and the waiter was very friendly, almost as if he actually gave a shit about whether or not I was enjoying my meal. It helped. A little.

4. Non-Pushy Christians

I was browsing in a bookstore when a Korean evangelical approached me and started proselytizing about Jesus and stuff. I hinted that I wasn’t interested, but he just kept going. He even tried to get my phone number at one point. Seriously, he must have talked to me for 20 minutes or more. This entry isn’t about him. It’s about the people who come to my door, hand out their literature, and fuck off. I respect their beliefs (no, really.) But I think they need to learn that “Why wouldn’t you accept this wonderful offer of eternal life and salvation?” isn’t a legitimate question so much as passive-aggressive bullying. Most of the evangelicals I meet are polite. A handful understand that that’s not enough. I sometimes learn things from them. The dude who accosted me yesterday started with an interesting lecture about the Bible’s many references to God as a mother, laying to waste the strictly paternalistic view of Him. If he had stopped there, we would have parted peacefully. Instead, he kept pushing me. And I grew antsy. Moving on…

3. Central Park

After getting the news at 5 or so yesterday morning (I’d been having trouble sleeping), I set out walking and wandered all the way from the Upper West Side to Columbia. Then I took the subway back up, packed up a few things, and left. My roommate was going on about his business as if he hadn’t just upended my life, and I didn’t want to look at his face lest I break every bone in his body. So after getting breakfast, I went down to Central Park to see Bethesda Fountain, which I’ve wanted to see ever since I saw Angels in America. For those who aren’t familiar with that play/miniseries, I’ll just quote the final lines, in which an AIDS survivor visits the fountain and monologues:

The fountain is not flowing now. They turn it off in the winter, ice in the pipes. But in the summer, it’s a sight to see. I want to be around to see it. I plan to be, I hope to be. This disease will be the end of us, but not nearly all, and the dead will be commemorated, and we’ll struggle on with the living. And we are not going away. We won’t die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come. Bye now. You are fabulous, each and every one, and I bless you: more life. The great work begins.

My roommate thinks I’m one of the little people. He is wrong.

2. A Good Night’s Sleep

I almost never get this, so I’ll talk about something else: nostalgia. My childhood kind of sucked. I’m fucking sick of people talking about it like it’s blissful and magical, as mine was no such thing. I started developing neuroses at a remarkably young age. I was a hypochondriac before my age was in the double digits and before I was in high school, I had OCD so bad that my parents sent me to a shrink. (The shrink sucked. All she did was talk about meds. I told her I didn’t want to take any, so she kept pressing me. My mother sat there the whole time and let her badger me. I’m still a little bitter that my parents made me go through with that.) My point is that my life sucks and basically always has, so if it seems like I’m letting what others might see as a relatively minor setback get me down, it’s only because I have nothing to compare it to. I haven’t stayed at one place for more than three months since mid-2011, and I was really looking forward to breaking that streak with my current place. The part I hate the most is packing things up into boxes, then getting a taxi to take me to my new place. Anyone with a car feel like helping me out?

I am very tired.

Things That Annoy Me More Than They Should

5. Having Earbuds Ripped Out of My Ears

I listen to my mp3 player when I’m at the gym, grocery shopping, or sometimes while eating or commuting. My favorite podcasts are Savage Love (big surprise) and This American Life. I also enjoy audiobooks and various musical artists. Few things make me more irrationally angry than having to reinsert my earbuds because I brushed up against something, the cord caught onto something, or whatever. It takes only a few seconds to fix the problem, but every time it happens, I want to kill someone. (Please note that I am not actually thinking of killing someone. The last time I joked about that, it didn’t turn out so great.) Maybe if I just punched an old lady in the face, I’d feel better. She’s missing her teeth anyway, so what harm could it do?

4. My Own Social Awkwardness

As you might have figured out by now, I’m not very good at small talk. I’m far too busy figuring out just how to take over the world and force everyone to pay tribute to me to be troubled with such things as interacting with lesser mortals, you understand. But if you are one of the select few that I have deemed worthy of having your life or freedom spared, you might have noticed that I tend to act awkwardly around those who have yet to work their way into my confidence. It’s nothing personal. I just hate humanity, that’s all. I never ask anyone how they are, how their food tastes, how they slept, or whether they’re happy with their spouse and children. Such puny matters are simply irrelevant to me.

Really, he’s just misunderstood.

In all seriousness, I really, really suck at small talk. Really really really really really really really really really really really really suck at it. I wish somebody would just hand me a script so that I could get through these awkward interactions. I’ve had low-paying jobs before, and those almost always require you to interact with customers. When I smiled at people during my days as a canvasser, they actually burst out laughing. When I was a cashier, I focused on being polite because, frankly, I’m just not good at friendly. I frequently meet people who have similar interests and seem to be more or less on my wavelength, at which point I wish that we could just skip the “getting to know you” part and just become friends. As far as I am concerned, that would be no less awkward.

3. Nice People Who Suck at Having Opinions

I’m not sure if I spend enough time talking about Doctor Who on this blog. Sure, I mention it in every other post, but why stop there? I have so much resentment for my fellow fans that continues to go unexpressed. So if you are one of those fans who is both wrong and a nice person, please keep reading. If you aren’t one of those people, you can skip to the next entry. Still reading? Good. I’m assuming that you’re one of those people who thinks Rose Tyler is awesome. She isn’t. She a whiny, selfish cunt who, for the first season, was a halfway decent audience surrogate but who, once she was paired up with David Tennant, became the most detestable Mary Sue this side of Bella Swan. Seriously, she almost destroys the world because she insists on seeing her father one last time, and when she falls into a parallel universe in which he is still alive, her first move is to…go see him. If the Doctor had left her there and gone with Mickey as his primary companion, I would have been much happier. But really, I know nice people who disagree with me. I know why: They like to project themselves into Rose. Just like fans of Twilight do with Bella. This cuts deeper, however, because I like Doctor Who and only like Twilight insofar as hating it is a lot of fun. (See my post last week for more details.) So when I saw a poll on the official Who Facebook page in which Whovians were asked whether Sarah Jane Smith or Rose Tyler was a better companion, I assumed that it was some kind of joke. Surely they don’t mean to compare a badass feminist icon like SJS to someone as entitled and insufferable as Rose? They did, so I “unliked” the page. If having Rose stick around for two seasons wasn’t bad enough, Russell T. Davies had to bring her back again and again. I hate to be that guy, but I’ll be goddamned if there aren’t times when I want to weep for the new generation of fans.

“My name is Rose Tyler. This is the story of how I died.” Promise?

2. Sports

I don’t dislike sports, actually. In fact, I played them quite a lot as a child, and over the past few years have idly toyed with the idea of taking up surfing. I just wish they were easier to get back into. Men watch sports. To be fair, women watch sports, too. I didn’t play sports to reaffirm my masculinity, I just…enjoyed them. They are, however, a world unto themselves, not unlike Doctor Who, but with far more testosterone.

A bit off-topic, but I think it’s a shame that there is still not one openly gay player in any of America’s four major team sports. Many players have said that they would be totally comfortable with one, but who’s going to be the first one out of the gate? Chris Kluwe, punter for the Minnesota Vikings, wrote a very funny letter to a homophobic Maryland delegate that should be read in elementary school classrooms everywhere. If that makes people uncomfortable, someone should at least have the decency to found a gay punk band called “Lustful Cockmonster”. Hell, I’d listen to that.

Well, at least we have the Olympics.

1. Not Getting My First Choice

Most of us get used to this after a while. Still, I think it’s odd that in my entire life, I can think of maybe one or two cases in which I got exactly what I wanted. Columbia was my first choice for my undergraduate education, but I didn’t get in. By the time grad school rolled around, I had fallen in love with a program at M.I.T. I didn’t get in there, but got into Columbia. That’s annoying in ways I can’t quite put my finger on. Is the universe laughing at me? I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes. That’s okay. My life is probably a lot funnier to people who aren’t me, so if the only reason you’re reading this is to laugh at my inability to interact smoothly with the outside world, please knock yourself out. I laugh at other people all the time (usually my close friends, because if you can’t be an asshole to them, then tell me, what is the point of all this?), so it’s only fair that I turn said mockery on myself every now and then.

The lesson that I have learned from all this is blah blah blah idontgiveafuckingshitkthnxgbye.

Hating Twilight Is My Hobby

A chapter in my life is drawing to a close. I have always made a hobby out of hating things that are not awesome, and now, one of my favorite targets is retiring its cultural significance. It could be a long time before another cultural phenomenon this obnoxious, empty, and thoroughly hilarious comes along. People I respect tell me The Hunger Games is quite the page-turner. I suppose I could start watching the Disney Channel again, but that would just make me feel creepy. Seriously, what are the kids into these days? I wasn’t up-to-date on that sort of thing even when I was a kid, but I must confess to having a certain fascination with something that is so obviously a product. Looking at the lead actors, I see that Robert Pattinson doesn’t much care for the series, Kristen Stewart has only one facial expression, and Taylor Lautner has looks and enthusiasm, but no talent that I can discern. He was the best thing about the first two movies, but that was just because he was the only cast member who seemed to give a shit. I’ll post a shirtless picture of him just for old time’s sake, but really, I think it’s better for both of us if I just move on.

So long, Taylor. It was nice knowing your torso, I mean, you.

I honestly don’t know if anyone involved in the books or films besides Stephenie “How do I spell that?” Meyer actually thinks that they have created good art. I have a soft spot for romances, but I need them to feel honest and realistic, not shallow and derivative. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I picked up 50 Shades of Grey in a bookstore and read the first page. It took about 20 seconds. The print is very large, possibly out of consideration for the intelligence level of its target audience. If the author intends to write any more books, I suggest she consider leaving words out entirely and just telling the story through crayon drawings. It would probably be more titillating, and would spare the English language the great abuses that it has suffered at her hands. I am not a misogynist, partially because I know that men like things that are equally stupid and probably as misogynistic. But our stuff isn’t walled off from everything else the way that “chick stuff” is. I know women who like The Matrix. I’ve met some who enjoyed Michael Bay’s Transformers, and as soon as I finished shaming them for having such uncultured and intellectually unrefined tastes, I reflected that I know one, maybe two (straight) guys who would admit to enjoying Twilight. Taken as a film, Twilight is probably better than Transformers. It’s moody and atmospheric, with some nice flashes of subdued humor and a central relationship that isn’t particularly romantic, but is kind of creepily fascinating. I cannot say any such thing about any of Michael Bay’s filmography. (Okay, I did kind of enjoy The Rock, but sweet Jesus, what a loud, dumb, overblown movie.) See where I’m going with all this?

If there is one thing about the Twilight films (and I haven’t seen the latest one but will undoubtedly watch it as soon as the Rifftrax becomes available) that I genuinely enjoyed, it’s Bella’s father, Charlie. He is something of a stereotypically overprotective movie father, but he’s also the only truly sympathetic major character in the series, loving and supporting his daughter in good times and bad, and never missing the opportunity to undercut the melodrama with a clever aside. He also rocks a mustache that, in a fair and just world, would have its own separate billing (much like David Bowie’s crotch in Labyrinth deserved but was so cruelly denied.)

Men come and go, but the Mustache abides.

I used to make fun of Dan Brown a lot, but his date of relevancy seems to have passed. His characters were thin, his plots silly and full of holes, and his historical puzzles nowhere near as clever as they first seemed. I even wrote a scene parodying him for my undergraduate sketch comedy group, taking the time to research “Easter eggs” hidden in Michelangelo’s art so that I could piece together a mystery of my own. The scene ended with the villainess killing the other characters with David’s genitals (which turns out to be a magical artifact that gives the bearer power over life and death), then resurrecting them and leading her army of the undead off to the sounds of (what else?) “Thriller“. It was rejected for being “too intellectual”. I fail to see how that is a bad thing.

Look, he’s just nervous, okay?

Where to go from here? I don’t know. I’m failing at least two of my classes, racking up tens of thousands of dollars of debt, and still firmly believe that I’m at least as smart, talented and driven as anyone at Columbia, if not more so. So maybe I don’t have to retire Twilight as an object of mockery just yet. It might be fascinating to see where the young actors’ careers go from here. Taylor Lautner, I imagine, will fade rapidly unless he turns to modeling. Kristen Stewart might survive, but since I don’t like her, I don’t give a shit what happens to her. Is Robert Pattinson a talented actor? It’s kind of hard to tell. He seems charming enough, but I haven’t seen anything else he’s been in besides Harry Potter (in which he had only a small role.) Not that David Cronenberg movie, not Bel Ami, not anything else.

Bel Ami, in case anyone is wondering, is a beloved 19th-century novel by Guy de Maupaussant. It definitely is not also the name of one of the best gay porn studios in the world. No, that would be just ridiculous.

Helpless

I hate feeling helpless.

I’m not very happy. That was never my life goal, but most nights, it’s a struggle just to get to sleep. God, how I wish all of this could just be over. The only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that if it ever gets to be too much, I can walk away. I’ve known one or two so-called “free spirits”, and what usually happens to them is that they burn out because if you have no commitments to tie you down, you lose self-respect. If Columbia doesn’t work out for me, I’ll drop out and probably move back to California. I’m a little scared to do that, as I can feel New York sinking its teeth into me, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still have friends left in my old college town. I could get a job and an apartment, reconnect with some people, and figure out where to go from there. Why don’t I? I don’t know. During those few weeks when I was basically homeless, I thought about leaving almost every day. Now I keep going because…I don’t know, exactly.

I’ll switch to something a little bit more upbeat. Well, maybe not upbeat, but less self-pitying. I mean, okay, yeah, it burns that I just had the lead role in a group project yanked away from me at the last minute for the second time, making me the only person in my class who hasn’t given a presentation yet, but let’s focus on something more positive: I’m getting along with the people in my program better now. One of them pissed me off so much that I called her a “cunt” on this blog not too long ago, and after getting to know her better since then, I have concluded that she is not a cunt. I don’t regret what I said, as she and I were not getting along at the time, but in retrospect, I think she has realized her mistake. (And yes, I maintain that it was her mistake and not mine.) The aggravating thing about my inability to keep up with all of my obligations is that I am getting faster and more efficient. I’m just not getting faster and more efficient fast enough.

I had two weeks off of school at the end of August. I wish it had been six months. God, how I wish I could just shut myself in my room and not come back out until I’ve got everything figured out. I’ve mentioned the teacher who grades everything super-harshly before now. Is she, like, the final boss in the game of my academic troubles? Seriously, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do to please her. All I know is that I’ve never worked so hard for so little payoff before.

The problem is that, in my experience, most authority figures do things the way they do because that’s the way they want to do it. They honestly don’t see how they can do things any other way, so they just assume that any problems lie with whoever it is they’re keeping down. And not to be dramatic, but that’s usually me.

The fact of the matter is that I have never been under more stress than I am right now. Please bear with me. I have, I think, between one and two dozen regular or semi-regular readers. Don’t go away, people. The only reason this blog is anonymous is because I don’t want a future employer Googling my name and finding out what a bitter misanthrope I am. The Robot King values his fans–assuming, of course, that he has any.

(In truth, you could probably track me down if you were really determined. You already know what school I go to, along with the general area I grew up in and my major fields of interest. So if I have any potential stalkers, I urge them to exercise self-control. My life is shitty enough without people following me around and documenting my every move.)

I’ll try to keep blogging over the next few weeks, but it’s getting harder and harder to write anything that other people might care about. Don’t worry about me. If you don’t hear from me, just assume I’m back in California. If I survive, though, I’ll keep doing this and I’ll stay in New York. The city seems to want me, at least. I have no idea about Columbia…

God, I am so tired. I can barely even find the energy to proofread this. But I press on, because I am so noble.

I used to work out three times per week. I haven’t done that in months. I also used to start one book and keep going until I finished it. Right now, I’m in the middle of at least four books–five, if you count the one I’m listening to on audiobook. I’m becoming well-read, but very slowly, and in a slightly less linear fashion than I would like.

I’ll close with something unrelated: just a vlogger I like. I agree with what he’s saying, and for the record, prefer slim and toned to overly muscular. But that’s just me.

Disclosure

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.

Image stolen, I mean borrowed, from here.