I Don't Want To Care At All
Today I downloaded a program called "Audacity" which allows me to take different audio files and splice them together. What this means for me is that I can now pursue interviews more intently and upon tearing them out of the throats of my victims, can superimpose quotes and clips over a background of music. It took me a good portion of the afternoon to learn how to use the program at all, and at one point I even uninstalled it furiously, thinking that it was defective. It turns out that it was I who was defective, and after reinstalling it (I always save install files) I've now gotten about 45 seconds of monologue over a soundtrack of part of an Aimee Mann song. This is a big accomplishment for someone as computer illiterate as I, and it means that I am one step closer to becoming my idle, Ira Glass (read: locking him in a closet and taking over his wonderful life).
Enough of that, I know why you are all reading this, to discover the answer to your questions about the previous entry. Yes, I did come out to my mom. The conversation, by the standards of any good person, went fine. I told her after using the lead in that I had held off from admitting anything until after she and dad had submitted the final payment of my college tuition. Still, she called me out on it, asking if I had really believed that she would have torn it up upon discovering the truth, and forcing me to relinquish that I had actually been completely terrified regardless of a possible ceasing of cash-flow. She apologized that I had felt forced to suffer that kind of depression for most of my life. She said that she loved me, which I (I'm just as surprised as you all) reciprocated. Then we lapsed into a bout of silence, the uneasiness of which forced me to take Homer and Rose outside to do their thing. Over all it went well correct? One would think, and it's true that it could have gone much worse, but I, terrible person that I am, had been silently asking much more of my poor mother.
I had assumed (hoped) that after finding out, she would feel the need to talk to someone about it, specifically my dad. I had assumed (again, hoped) that this would lead to the rest of the family becoming clued in without any further effort on my part. Telling her had been hard enough as it was, and I have never been one to push myself very hard, especially when there is any kind of discomfort involved. Unfortunately I hadn't counted on my mom remaining silent and glued to the chair where I left her for the rest of the night until she decided to go to bed. Whether it was due to shock, or to her and I sharing a similar proclivity toward not talking about things that are bothering us, or to her wishing to respect my privacy and allowing me to come out at my own pace, it annoyed me by leaving me in the position of having to actually do my job. As you may have guessed by looking back at my track record in procrastination when it comes to any other job I've ever had in my life, I've done absolutely nothing since telling her.
So now, as good as the initial conversation went, mom and I now have an elephant standing between us at all times. Now each of us is waiting to see if the other will tell the rest of the family. What I've effectively done is take my problem, and make it hers. Does that make me a bad person? If it does, it's the most recent thing in a long-ass line.
Discover Sean Lennon!
.
Enough of that, I know why you are all reading this, to discover the answer to your questions about the previous entry. Yes, I did come out to my mom. The conversation, by the standards of any good person, went fine. I told her after using the lead in that I had held off from admitting anything until after she and dad had submitted the final payment of my college tuition. Still, she called me out on it, asking if I had really believed that she would have torn it up upon discovering the truth, and forcing me to relinquish that I had actually been completely terrified regardless of a possible ceasing of cash-flow. She apologized that I had felt forced to suffer that kind of depression for most of my life. She said that she loved me, which I (I'm just as surprised as you all) reciprocated. Then we lapsed into a bout of silence, the uneasiness of which forced me to take Homer and Rose outside to do their thing. Over all it went well correct? One would think, and it's true that it could have gone much worse, but I, terrible person that I am, had been silently asking much more of my poor mother.
I had assumed (hoped) that after finding out, she would feel the need to talk to someone about it, specifically my dad. I had assumed (again, hoped) that this would lead to the rest of the family becoming clued in without any further effort on my part. Telling her had been hard enough as it was, and I have never been one to push myself very hard, especially when there is any kind of discomfort involved. Unfortunately I hadn't counted on my mom remaining silent and glued to the chair where I left her for the rest of the night until she decided to go to bed. Whether it was due to shock, or to her and I sharing a similar proclivity toward not talking about things that are bothering us, or to her wishing to respect my privacy and allowing me to come out at my own pace, it annoyed me by leaving me in the position of having to actually do my job. As you may have guessed by looking back at my track record in procrastination when it comes to any other job I've ever had in my life, I've done absolutely nothing since telling her.
So now, as good as the initial conversation went, mom and I now have an elephant standing between us at all times. Now each of us is waiting to see if the other will tell the rest of the family. What I've effectively done is take my problem, and make it hers. Does that make me a bad person? If it does, it's the most recent thing in a long-ass line.
Discover Sean Lennon!
.