Gas Station
Saturday afternoon, I had to take my mother with me on the way to work in order to drop her off at the Saturn dealership to pick up her car. I made it a point to leave at once, heading out the driveway nearly an hour before my shift began. Were I not so sensitive to prudency, I could have made it in time for my shift had I left a half hour before, as I usually do. The car also needed gas, and I took that into account in deciding to leave as early as possible.
Sometimes I just don't know what to say to my mom. She's not the type of person who I can discuss my life with, and one of the few whose encouragement affects me tremendously. Ever since she saw one of my "depressing" comics, she's been telling me how I have this special ability to express my feelings. Obviously she's never been on LiveJournal. I don't think much of what I say about myself because reporting on one's own feelings seems to be the most natural response a human can have. "I'm hungry", "I don't like this" - the first sentences a child creates on his own.
I don't want her to know the whole truth on how I feel about things because I wouldn't want to upset her. On this particular day, I was a little sad that Nina had left to go back to New York and all I could see in my future was a road not unlike SR 52, which we were turning on. It was long and slow; uncomfortable because I didn't quite know the way being that I don't often go down that road, and yet it had a vague familiarity to it. I thought about spending the rest of the semester trapped in a cycle of work, then school, then repeat. Most of my friends at this point are either working, living in Tampa permanently, or somewhere far away, so I don't have much time to spend 'hanging out' anymore. Nowadays, I spend most of my time reading books.
I felt very uncomfortable on this road, and avoided speaking. A common theme in my life is that others get the impression that I hate them because stop talking to them after a while. Or don't say much to begin with. I don't know how to explain this to people, really, other than that I am unquestionably boring. Or that I talk so fast it isn't long before I've run out of resources in regards to conversation. Yes, I could bullshit about movies for hours upon end, but I feel that kind of talk is often one-sided and phony boasting. I think I'd rather be remembered by the few things I say than respected for the many.
I remember asking her about the liklihood of a car exploding were the engine running while gas was pumping into the vehicle. Somehow that led to me asking her why she talked to people.
"I like to know how people think, so as not only to understand them but to understand myself. I like to know their flaws, especially those people who seem to have it all together. Everybody has something wrong with them."
I think it's fairly obvious what's wrong to me, but her saying that made me think about what was wrong with her. There was nothing more bitter than to realize it was probably the same thing. Yet I never see her sad, and she's always seemed to overcome whatever odds are against her. She never fights with my Dad, no matter how wrong he may be at times (though not often). She seemed to me like the kind of person who has it all together, and yet I was the only one who could see that perhaps she hadn't.
Whenever she tells me to keep writing and doing comics, I encourage her to do the same.
"Oh, I can't write," she says.
But if you have heard her infinite stories about her life in psychiatric nursing and being a social human being beyond that, you'd know that she has a lot more to say than me. Me, who has hardly seen the world.
Alex
Sometimes I just don't know what to say to my mom. She's not the type of person who I can discuss my life with, and one of the few whose encouragement affects me tremendously. Ever since she saw one of my "depressing" comics, she's been telling me how I have this special ability to express my feelings. Obviously she's never been on LiveJournal. I don't think much of what I say about myself because reporting on one's own feelings seems to be the most natural response a human can have. "I'm hungry", "I don't like this" - the first sentences a child creates on his own.
I don't want her to know the whole truth on how I feel about things because I wouldn't want to upset her. On this particular day, I was a little sad that Nina had left to go back to New York and all I could see in my future was a road not unlike SR 52, which we were turning on. It was long and slow; uncomfortable because I didn't quite know the way being that I don't often go down that road, and yet it had a vague familiarity to it. I thought about spending the rest of the semester trapped in a cycle of work, then school, then repeat. Most of my friends at this point are either working, living in Tampa permanently, or somewhere far away, so I don't have much time to spend 'hanging out' anymore. Nowadays, I spend most of my time reading books.
I felt very uncomfortable on this road, and avoided speaking. A common theme in my life is that others get the impression that I hate them because stop talking to them after a while. Or don't say much to begin with. I don't know how to explain this to people, really, other than that I am unquestionably boring. Or that I talk so fast it isn't long before I've run out of resources in regards to conversation. Yes, I could bullshit about movies for hours upon end, but I feel that kind of talk is often one-sided and phony boasting. I think I'd rather be remembered by the few things I say than respected for the many.
I remember asking her about the liklihood of a car exploding were the engine running while gas was pumping into the vehicle. Somehow that led to me asking her why she talked to people.
"I like to know how people think, so as not only to understand them but to understand myself. I like to know their flaws, especially those people who seem to have it all together. Everybody has something wrong with them."
I think it's fairly obvious what's wrong to me, but her saying that made me think about what was wrong with her. There was nothing more bitter than to realize it was probably the same thing. Yet I never see her sad, and she's always seemed to overcome whatever odds are against her. She never fights with my Dad, no matter how wrong he may be at times (though not often). She seemed to me like the kind of person who has it all together, and yet I was the only one who could see that perhaps she hadn't.
Whenever she tells me to keep writing and doing comics, I encourage her to do the same.
"Oh, I can't write," she says.
But if you have heard her infinite stories about her life in psychiatric nursing and being a social human being beyond that, you'd know that she has a lot more to say than me. Me, who has hardly seen the world.
Alex