This isn’t something that I can help you with

I thought I had it bad, but the hot girl at work started crying during a meeting today. The thing that really attracts me to her isn’t her looks; it’s that she’s so vulnerable. It’s not good, but I’m really in to needy girls. Anyways, our team has been working really hard for the past couple months and I know that she hasn’t gotten much sleep. She was supposed to take last weekend off and spend some time in San Francisco with a friend, but instead came back so that she could work. I’d love to just hold her hand and tell her that everything’s alright, but that would be a big fat lie. It seems like the only thing that I can do is not get involved. It all seems so unfair. Is it just because our new project manager is also a girl? This didn’t seem to be as much of an issue before, but then again maybe I just didn’t notice. Anyways, I have a meatball sub waiting for me. This issue will have to go on resolved. Sorry, a little work humor for you. God, FML

Beso

So last May (or was it April?) my supervisor tells me he needs a drink. After work we’re hanging out at a bar, when this short guy walks in with four girls. Obviously my initial reaction is, “How did he pull that off?” One of the girls walks up to the bar and orders a drink. When the bartender tells her how much it is, she says to put it on the guy’s tab. Well obviously the bartender needs the last name on the tab, which the girl is unable to provide. As she’s asking her friends what the guy’s last name is, my boss says something to me. I can’t hear him, and at first I’m content to just pretend that I heard. But the girl hears it and goes off on him, and now I really want to know what he had said. It turns out that he had (without thinking about it) said “Vultures.” The girl responded to this with “We’re not vultures, he’s our friend!” Yeah, right. Well, at least I figured out what it takes to get that many girls to go out with you.

OCD

Someone suggested that I do a series on bad nights that I’ve had. I’m going to kick it off with a story from my college days.

So a few of us go to this random house party. Only my cousin knows anyone there, so my friend and I drop her off and go to 6th Street. I find this sweet parking spot in front of a well-lit ATM, and assume for some bizarre reason that my car would be safe. We go to Buffalo Billiards to meet up with some girls, but can’t get in because we’re 21. They won’t come out to meet us, so we just end up doing something lame until 2 AM.

I get back into my car and find that someone had smashed my window in; this seemed half-assed to me, since the car was really old and didn’t even have an alarm. Why couldn’t they break in properly? Also, the only thing of any value was my CD player and some burned CD’s. I’m sure everything together was worth about $75 to the person that stole it. I guess they just took it because it was in a leather case that looked like a purse? What really makes me mad is that I put alot of thought into what songs went on each album, and in what order. I’m sure the dirty thieves didn’t appreciate it at all. So now we drive back to my place, but my friend has to sit in the back because the front seat is covered in shards of broken glass. Anyways, we finally get back to my place and my friend’s car is blocked in. We don’t actually know whose car is blocking him, so we just stand around getting frustrated for a while. Finally we see a few people going to a party, and ask them to check there. By the time the car is moved, my cousin calls for pick-up. Obviously I don’t want to drive my car, but at this point my friend decides that staying up a little later won’t hurt. He offers to drive, and soon we pick up my cousin and we’re on our way back. Well just as we’re exiting from 35 North, his tire blows out and we’re forced to pull over. No big deal, except that he doesn’t have a spare. So I have to call another friend at 3 in the morning, and have him drive me to my place. I grab my car and drive back, thinking that my spare will match the flat. Now, though, we can’t get my spare tire out. I’m not sure what happened; maybe the bolts were rusted in place. By this point a police officer finally shows up to help out, and everything is straightened out.

Houston

When I first came to this city, I was only about two-years-old. But the next time I came to this city was in 1998, and I considered it my own personal hell. I guess it didn’t help that I wasn’t working or going to school here – I had no way of meeting people. Still it’s the most polluted city in the country, and crowded to boot. There’s nothing really special to do here: there’s nothing outdoorsy nearby, there’s no worthwhile tourist attractions, there aren’t any good beaches nearby; there’s hardly any decent cities nearby. The only reason anyone ever lives down here is because it’s cheap, and they get stuck here. Much like I did.

After I started my first full-time job, I slowly started to come to grips with living in Houston. It helped that one of my friends moved down from Atlanta. When she conscripted me to show her around town, I warned her how terrible it was. But a day or two later she told me that she liked the city, and I have to admit I had a good time. The ethnic diversity is good, mostly because it means that there’s alot of good eating down here.

When I first graduated college, I wanted desperately to move to Austin. More than that, I wanted to live in California. Each time I flew there to visit, I told myself that the next time would be permanent. After I started my current job, I’d pretty much given up on ever leaving Texas. I definitely don’t plan on moving in the next few years, and after that I’ll be old enough to want to stay in one city. Besides, my entire family lives down here. And as I’ve learned recently, there’s really nothing that’s more important than that.

Another Manic Monday

So when I was thirteen, I was sitting at home one Saturday afternoon playing Soul Blazer on Super Nintendo. My sister’s friend Dominic was over, and he said, “Shouldn’t you be outside, playing with your friends?” I thought to myself that I didn’t have any friends, and I cried myself to sleep that night. When my parents moved away from Fort Worth that summer, I was more than ready to make a fresh start in another city.

My first year of high school was pretty hard, because everyone already had well-established cliques from middle school. I managed to work my way into one, just by following around the only person that I knew in my own grade. It also helped that I joined Math Team. Yes, it sounds really dorky, but everyone in my high school was really smart and it wasn’t as big a deal as you’d think.

One night during my freshman year I walked to the kitchen, and picked out the biggest knife I could find. I held it over my chest for a while, thinking how terrible my life would be if I missed my heart and had to just go to the hospital for stabbing myself. I put the knife back after that.

My life got steadily better over the years; I became closer to my friends than ever before, and was able to talk to them about almost anything. Unfortunately, during this time I also sealed my fate for the next year. I was still brainwashed into thinking that the only important thing in choosing a college was prestige, and I avoided all public schools. I was pretty ambivalent about gaining admission to Carnegie Mellon, and accepted the admission immediately.

My freshman year of college was one of the worst years of my life. It rained everyday, and sometimes the rain was frozen. When it didn’t rain, it snowed. Hail started as early as September in Pittsburgh, and ended as late as April. Covering up didn’t really help, because the wind would find a way to blow the precipitation into your clothes. The only thing more depressing than the dark, is being wet and cold. More than this, I hated my school because there wasn’t anything to do there. On Saturday morning, my friends and I would have to go into the computer lab and play Starcraft. But the worst thing of all was the girls: our school had a 3:2 guy/ girl ratio when I started there. Not bad in and of itself, but the girls were so bad-looking. I guess it’s hard for girls up north to stay fit, since there’s nothing to do all day except sit indoors and eat. And, it’s more acceptable, since they’re always bundled up. Girls in the South constantly have to show their bodies off, so it’s really more important here for them to stay fit. Anyways, a year at CMU really lowered my standards in women.

Amazingly enough, I was actually more miserable the following summer. My parents had just moved to Houston, and I hardly had any friends here. Not only that, but I couldn’t find an internship, and it was too late to sign up for classes by the time I got here. So, I had almost no way to meet people my own age. I was lucky enough that my parents were sympathetic (meaning that they were afraid of my temper tantrums), and my dad took me to see a counselor. And then a psychiatrist. While neither of these were actually able to help me, it was nice to at least have someone to talk openly to. It was probably also one of these two “professionals” that said that I might be chemically-imbalanced. “Might” because the brain is a black box (the first thing they teach you in Psych 101), and can’t actually be understood except by observation.

Summer finally ended (Thank God; I mean, me). I had signed up to be an Orientation Counselor, for no other reason than my own OC had suggested it to me. My roommate and I had also decided to build our own loft – with his dad’s help – and so I had to head back to school two weeks early. OC training was terrible: everyone seemed so happy. As for myself, I couldn’t even figure out why people dragged themselves from one sorry day to the next. Half-way through the first day of training, I couldn’t take it anymore. And then it occurred to me that the “Tower of Learning” at the University of Pittsburgh was over forty-stories tall. I had always thought that falling would be the best way to die (possibly second to a drug overdose), so I just started climbing stairs. Life found a way to thwart my plan, however, and I was unable to find any window or balcony access on any of the higher-numbered floors (somehow, building maintenance has anticipated my suicidal scheme. You bastards). Frustrated, I slunk back to my dorm room and took the remainder of my anti-anxiety pills (there were about twenty-two left). I threw up pink a few times, and then started to feel feverish. Not wanting to panic my parents, I called my sister and told her everything that happened. To her credit, she flew down immediately and spent the weekend to me. To Paxil’s credit, I did not feel depressed for the rest of the weekend.

The school counselor, while being extremely annoying, was able to point me out to an exceptional psychologist. The man knew when I was lying to him, and in my weakened mental state I honestly believed that he could read me mind. Nay, I thought him to be a guardian angel sent down to protect me. At any rate, the man narrowed down the cause of my depression to be sexual frustration. We both knew he was right, because it was the only thing that made sense.

I stayed in school for two weeks, but I was unable to sit through class without having to leave the room to cry. I withdrew from the University, and had my dad take me back “home.” My psychologist recommended one of his former students to me, but he was useless and I didn’t spend much time with him.

Coming back to Houston was hard: I still couldn’t persuade myself to work even part-time for more than a couple weeks at the same place. The only thing I had to keep myself busy (other than spending time with family) was my cat. Oh, and I was taking a class at the University of St. Thomas, but I didn’t interact with any of the other students there. I was interested in attending Rice University, but they only accepted Fall transfers. And so the following Spring, I started at the University of Texas.

Can you understand what I felt at the time? Everyday I saw new people, it was always sunny and warm – this was heaven for me. Again I was at a new school, and didn’t have alot of friends. But I more than made up for that, by meeting people. Sometimes I got bored on weekends, but I would just drive a few hours to see my parents. No, I don’t think that I got depressed again until I started dating my first girlfriend.

Indians are Pretentious

I’ll begin with Indian parents: they’re hung up on appearances. I dunno if it’s because they came here from a poor, dirty country that they’re hoping to erase their memories of. For whatever reason, they’re very superficial. All they care about is the semblance of perfection. As an example, take a look at what they require from their children:

1. Attend a prestigious university (No, state schools do not count, no matter how highly ranked).
2. Get a good job – This means becoming a doctor. Depending on your family this may also include lawyer or engineer, but don’t keep your fingers crossed.
3. Marry an Indian – not just any Indian, but also someone whose family is from the same state in India. Also, this person should have a good job (see #2).

Our parents are so bad that they turn a blind eye on any legitimate problem. Many of them don’t believe in things like depression or homosexuality. Hello, your kids need some kind of help, or at least support. Too bad for them, though; they need to be concentrating on their grades and SAT scores. Good grief, that’s another one. News flash, no one cares about your SAT scores. You can get a 1540 and still not get into a ‘decent’ school (trust me, I know).

Oh, but we’re not off the hook, either. As kids growing up in this country, our excuse is that we don’t have a cultural identity… at least, not one that we’re proud of. Our people are known for smelling like curry and revering cows. Great, this will make me really popular at school. It’s bad enough that we have to latch on to other cultures… on the east coast abcd’s act black, in the midwest they become white, on the west coast they become hippies. Not just that, but we have to act stupid in school so that the other kids won’t pick on us. As much.

The worst example of acting stupid I ever saw was at a friend’s birthday… this girl used the word ‘redundant’ in a sentence and got called out by her boyfriend: a big gorilla-looking motherfucker, who actually said something like “Dyamn you ain’t gotta use all that SAT vocabulary.” Good job jackass, redundant’s not even an SAT word. Keep in mind that we were all in college at the time.

I have one more bone to pick, and that’s with Indian girls. They’re notorious for playing games; finding one that’s straightforward is rare, indeed. As an example, Indian girls will rarely make eye contact. If they know that you’re checking them out they may smile, but they’ll never look back at you. Also if an Indian girl meets a guy that she likes, she’ll almost never talk to him; even if he walks up to her and initiates conversation. Rather, she’ll ask all her friends about him (which I suppose works, since every Indian knows every other Indian). After that, she’ll have your mutual friend talk to you for her. Sorry, if I need a liason to talk to you, you probably aren’t worth my time.

Owning a Camry means that you’ve given up on life

I grew up driving Honda Accords and Toyota Camrys. Obviously, since I’m Indian. Well, three years ago I wrecked the car that my dad had given me. I managed to hold out a full month before I had to buy my own car. I was making way too little money to afford a luxury car, and I avoided sports cars because of the higher insurance rate. In fact, in my ignorance I avoided all two-door cars thinking that insurance companies would treat them as sports cars.

I couldn’t find a car that I liked: the new Eclipses and Celicas looked like ass, Toyota stopped making the Supra. I found an old Dodge Stealth, but I knew that my dad would not approve of me buying a used car. It makes sense to me – unless you hire some kind of inspector, you’re going to be plagued by all kinds of problems.I was finally so demoralized that I was just going to buy a Toyota Corolla. What rejuvenated me was a commercial on the radio, “$5000 off Maximas.” Again since I’m on Indian, I was unable to resist such a deal. It turned out to not be so hot, since the Nissan dealership was just trying to clear the old body-style out of the lot. Still, I fell in love with the car right away. My SE has 255 hp, which is a fair amount of pick-up. Most other cars (RSX’s, etc.) just disappoint me, and leave me missing my own ride. The only car that I’ve driven that performs as well as mine was the Lexus IS 300, which they stopped making (I guess it looked too much like a Civic).

The “what a twist” ending here is that my uncle bought a Maxima, as well. It turns out that Toyotas and Hondas are no longer assembled in Japan (which is precisely why Indians bought into them in the first place), making Nissan the last true Japanese car.

One Man’s Quest

When I was in college, there was a comic in the Daily Texan that said that there were three types of men on Valentine’s Day. The first is the one who has a girlfriend, and they showed him buying her flowers and chocolate. The second wished that he had a girlfriend, and they showed him sitting at home moping. The third guy didn’t even realize that it was Valentine’s Day, and they showed him playing the Warcraft III beta. At the time I was the first guy, but I wanted desperately to be the third guy.

Flash forward to early 2005. My girlfriend and I decide to just be friends. Sweet! Come Valentine’s Day that year, guess who’s sitting at home playing World of Warcraft. Of course she e-mailed me telling me how she missed me. After some deliberation I did send her an e-greeting. At first I was happy with my decision, but when she replied saying that my e-card had made her day I felt kind of bad. And by that I actually mean that I had levelled my elvish druid.

I finally cancelled my WoW account last July, while I had a roommate. I didn’t have alot of time for video games that summer and besides, Warcraft crawled on my PC. I figured that I would just wait until the expansion came out, which would give me plenty of time to buy a new graphics card. I’d managed to hold out until a week or two ago, when I realized that Valentine’s Day was coming up. I already had the video card, as well as a new monitor. But, I still needed a larger harddrive before I was ready to reactivate my account. True, the expansion hasn’t been released yet, but I’m starting to get antsy. Besides, I have to maintain my status as “that guy” from the Daily Texan comic.

I can’t eat, wtf?

When I was in high school, a good friend of mine was on Prozac (as was a cousin of mine and someone else I knew, as it later turned out). He said that he never really felt happy, or sad. That sounds pretty terrible, and it probably was considering the fact that he slashed his wrists once. I don’t know the full story there, since he would never actually talk about it.

I dunno what happened to me when I was 19. The psychiatrist my dad took me to prescribed an anti-anxiety drug to me. Thanks, asshole, that takes care of the anxiety that I never had while simultaneously ignoring my depression. As an added bonus, I was literally unable to eat or sleep while I was on this stuff. I told him as much after three days, to which his only response was that my body needed time to adjust. After another three days, I realized that there was no way this worth it and gave up. If I have to choose between depression and starving, I’ll stick with the depression.

I guess I got really lucky, later that year. I found this amazing psychologist (at the time, I honestly believed that he was my guardian angel) who prescribed Effexor to me. This stuff is great: think about how you feel at any given moment. Now imagine if you felt a little bit better. Yes, there’s a pill that does that. It also helps you get really messed up when you’re drinking. Unfortunately, you need a prescription to take it. And a month’s supply costs about $80. Suffice to say, I did not get a refill.

Antidepressants have other side effects that people enjoy. They kill your libido, which is a huge hook-up. As a guy, it’s normally almost impossible to get things done since we’re constantly thinking about sex.

PTSD

So last April I was in Hermann Park with this girl I was dating. We had a huge fight and made up, after which she decided would be a good time to talk about everything. So she rolls in with “All my friends think you’re gay.” At this point, it is safe to say that I was nonplussed. I mean, why had she been dating me for five months if she thought I was gay?

The next day we’re at dinner, and she’s complaining about pimples on her face (I guess her make-up had caused her to break out). I said something about acne and she flips out. I actually apologize twice, but she still says something “Don’t say things about me that aren’t true.” Naturally I ask her if that’s like the time she said I was gay, to which she only responds “People are going to think you’re gay for the rest of your life.” On top of this last statement being (mostly) untrue, it seemed really unfair to me that she wouldn’t take it back. After that, I kept my mouth shut for a bit. She then said “I don’t like your body language,” after which she picked up her food and moved to another table.

I had to turn around to tap her on her shoulder, but her only reply is “I’m ignoring you.” So I ask her if I can at least wait in the car (I let her drive; my first mistake of the night). She says to me “If you’re going to act like you’re two-years-old, I’m not going to talk to you.”

Well, I weighed my options and came to an important decision: that none of this was worth it to me. I was only a couple miles from my sister’s place, so I started walking. My girlfriend then texted me with a message saying something along the lines of “We can’t be friends anymore. Goodbye.”

Anyways, I have my friends pick me up. I’m hanging out and having a good time when she called me, saying “You fucking retard where are you?” Now this statement is wrong on so many levels: for starters, she works with autistic children. Anyways, I tell her that she needs to calm down and she started parroting/ aping me. This is also odd, since we had just talked about this the previous week. Obviously I could see that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, so I hung up on her. She called me several times after that, so I had to turn off my phone. After that she left me three voice mails. I didn’t care about the first two, but in the last one she threatened to have my car towed.

So now I have to have my brother-in-law drive me over to her place, so I can retrieve my car before the tow truck gets there. At first it’s still fun and games, as we all try to rank the night (on a 10 point scale). Then she sends me a text message saying that the tow truck was on its way, so we speed the rest of the way there.

Now I’m outside her condo, but the foot gate is locked. I don’t really feel like calling her to buzz me in, so I literally jump the gate. On the hood of my car is a note with “Fuck you die” written all over it, which I promptly throw away. My anxiety doesn’t fade until we’re a couple blocks away.

The next day she sent me four text messages the minute she got out of work. Two of them were “Fuck you rat brain” and “Fuck you queer scum,” verbatim. The second of those two seemed particularly inappropriate, considering the fact that a couple of her friends are gay and she herself is bisexual. A couple days later I was online, and she IMed me with “You suck donkey balls.” This time I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be upset or just laugh.

A couple weeks later I saw her at the same bar that we had originally met at.  I managed to successfully avoid her the entire night, but as the bar closed I was giving my number to this beautiful Pakistani girl. Marisa walked by us and said, “Don’t bother, he’s gay.” It all just goes to show you that you can never date someone who has post-traumatic stress disorder, now matter how hot they are.