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rinueIf my journey to England has made nothing else clear, it has possessed me of the certainty that I must never live alone. Although it might seem impossible, my Absentminded Professor Syndrome has gotten worse. Struck by sudden fantasies of literary discourse, I wander away from sinks with their taps still running until I'm reminded that they're on. I eat primarily with my left hand to free my right for gestures and note-taking and must sometimes have help in unwrapping my sandwiches because I forget that I can use my right hand when I need to.
It's embarrassing; I like for my eccentricities to be the ones I've chosen, and I feel they're spiraling out of control. When I'm not around new people, I forget that it's not normal to wear holiday socks year round, or that most people go to salons to get their hair cut, or that it might be considered odd that I automatically start dancing if left standing for more than a few moments. I look down at my fingers to find them involved in elaborate repeating rhythms, and must ask observers how long they've been going.
In sum, although the thought had certainly crossed my mind before, it is imperative that someone be present to remind me to eat, make me tea, open the blinds in the morning, and switch on the lights at night. Most of all, I need someone to shepherd me through shopping – and to force me into shopping instead of wearing my things to rags. It's quite terrifying.
Fortunately, other people seem to find this charming, especially since it is only where things concern myself that I am forgetful. One of Turtle's friends is hopelessly enamored due to my ability to discuss the battle of Waterloo whilst so drunk I cannot even lift my head from the table; another is astounded by my ability to stare into space for the whole of a card game and then lay down a perfect hand before wandering off in search of a good adhesive.
It helps, Patrick would rightly say, that I'm pretty. I don't know how much people would tolerate otherwise. When it comes to that, I don't know how much sense I make out of context. Of course, I have nobody's word that I make sense in context as more than an alien but welcome presence.
It's embarrassing; I like for my eccentricities to be the ones I've chosen, and I feel they're spiraling out of control. When I'm not around new people, I forget that it's not normal to wear holiday socks year round, or that most people go to salons to get their hair cut, or that it might be considered odd that I automatically start dancing if left standing for more than a few moments. I look down at my fingers to find them involved in elaborate repeating rhythms, and must ask observers how long they've been going.
In sum, although the thought had certainly crossed my mind before, it is imperative that someone be present to remind me to eat, make me tea, open the blinds in the morning, and switch on the lights at night. Most of all, I need someone to shepherd me through shopping – and to force me into shopping instead of wearing my things to rags. It's quite terrifying.
Fortunately, other people seem to find this charming, especially since it is only where things concern myself that I am forgetful. One of Turtle's friends is hopelessly enamored due to my ability to discuss the battle of Waterloo whilst so drunk I cannot even lift my head from the table; another is astounded by my ability to stare into space for the whole of a card game and then lay down a perfect hand before wandering off in search of a good adhesive.
It helps, Patrick would rightly say, that I'm pretty. I don't know how much people would tolerate otherwise. When it comes to that, I don't know how much sense I make out of context. Of course, I have nobody's word that I make sense in context as more than an alien but welcome presence.
