I’ve always been pretty socially inept. Perceiving or improvising interactions with other people in a normal manner has never been my forte. The very thought of becoming a by-product of General Pants Co gives me heart palpitations. GP sales assistants are like lizard people on some kind of sabotage mission behind enemy lines. They whisk you into a corner with aesthetic walls that glitter with encroached blabber and invade your personal space - both physically and cognitionally. They are reptoids, tickling you with dread and panic until you piss. No, I do not want to be that guy. I do not want to be the cause of somebody vacating my store with a dishonorable discharge for pissing under interrogation.
Unfortunately, this kind of social kidney-strain follows me into the brawling, hysterical, post-urban suburb of Surry Hills, where I currently reside. I probably have a particularly dark vision of this place. To me it seems like a pretty burned-out world where drug companies rule and nature is salvaging what it can. It probably doesn’t help that the local men strut around with gynecomastia and the local women are seen squatting commando on corners in weary disbelief as the past disappears.
This kind of habitual awareness is all well and good until it brings on the Tachycardia. Ah, the audacity that some people have to just come on over, sit beside you and breathe down your mother fucking neck. Just yesterday I was sitting at a bus stop next to low-income housing (I guess I was kind of asking for it) and upon came an arguing couple, both potentially dependent on diamorphine. She attacked his masculinity. He bragged about an ongoing affair. And there I was, sitting statuesque in an uneasy fog of pure awkwardness. The concept of both public and private were beyond boarders at this moment. What’s worse is they then decided to include me in their domestic dispute. Bring on the innocent bystander to really Jerry Springer things up. I started getting a painful twinge in my forearm when the girl asked what my opinion was concerning her boyfriends low libido - I didn’t have the heart to tell her he probably exhausts it regularly on the local bar wrench who serves more than a schooner of Reches each night. Of course then the heightened martial presence of the boyfriend radiates the scene in a demeaning manner, and there I am sitting between two people who will probably die soon of an anal cocaine cancer overdose while they call one another a plethora of demonic names ranging from one to five syllables.
When the bus came light-years later, I was actually left with the overwhelming inability to deliver a perfunctory, helpful reply? I was also left with the assertion that I live in a town I can only identify as one big outpatient mental institution that probably fuels my current social inadequacy. But hey, it’s my home and I shouldn’t be so picky.