From the Loser
By Tim Drugan-Eppich
I am a maniac, but you should already know that. All year I have tried to convey my daily struggle to seem somewhat normal to the public eye, and my miserable failure to reach that goal. I was under the impression that I had successfully portrayed myself as someone to give a wide berth, someone to avoid coming in contact with if at all possible, someone who should be dealt with in the same manner as a lunatic screaming on the street corner about the end of the world, or how he is the second coming of Jesus, or whatever those people are always going on about. I should be avoided, of course, due to my tendencies of being inappropriate, offensive and, for lack of a better term, odd.
So while I am absolutely tickled to find out that someone has written about me, or more correctly my column, on the university Crush page on Facebook, I am also a bit distraught. Why on earth am I distraught, you ask? Because, if people are turning to me to fulfill their romantic fantasies, the world is in a dire state indeed.
For those who don’t know, the Crush page is a forum of sorts where students can let others know, anonymously, that they were looking at them earlier that day and found them attractive. Kind of like a friendly stalker. The posts are something like “To the girl with the boobs in my chemistry class, I like your boobs.” Perhaps not that crass, but along those lines. The post regarding me was the only one I could find that was not about being good looking, which figures, as someone who has actually seen me would never consider posting about the experience.
However, even if I could be described as a “Greek god,” as another fellow was, my actions would completely negate my stellar looks, because I do not conduct myself with much grace in public. Let me rephrase that. I am a complete and utter embarrassment to myself in public. I’m actually an embarrassment all the time, but usually nobody is there to see it. Let me illustrate my point with a quick detour to the grocery store, where I was shopping (as you do). Every trip to the grocery store is chaotic for me, but I will just paint the picture of my most recent trip for the sake of the story.
The first cart I grabbed had a stuck wheel, so I quickly traded it in for another, which, after ten feet of rolling, decided it would stick two wheels on the same side, causing me to crash into a display table of assorted pastries, knocking over various cakes and whatnot. Apologizing to no one in particular, I cleaned up the mess, called all of the baked goods a wide array of horrific names, and decided not to change my cart. Because at this point, if I traded in the cart, I was letting it win. So I pushed ahead. After more cursing, crashing, and mumbling, I made it to the eggs.
Reader, are you seeing this? I have already knocked over stuff, disturbed the peace, continually crashed into other stuff, and I haven’t even picked up the first item on my list! What kind of moron would have a crush on me? Alright, continuing on.
I picked up milk, beans, and spaghetti sauce without incident, unless you consider plowing into a case of tortillas and making a speedy getaway an incident. So shopping was going all right. All right that is, until I was picking out what kind of ice cream to get. Now with ice cream, I’m not looking to get too busy. My taste buds have the maturity of an earthworm, so if there is too much going on in my ice cream, it overwhelms me. A fact I was muttering to myself, when a little girl asked me why I was talking to myself.
I could have just smiled, quickly picked out an ice cream, and hustled on my way. Instead, I said “I’m not talking to myself.” I know, great comeback; it comes from this massive brain of mine. The aforementioned little girl quickly replied, “Yes, you were, I heard you!”
Now I am an adult, age-wise at least, but I quickly proved that age means nothing when it comes to maturity. I responded, “I’m not talking to myself, you’re talking to yourself!” This back and forth went on longer than I’d like to admit, until I saw the girl’s mother and I grabbed the first flavor I could get my hands on before hustling away. I’m sure she told on me, the little tattletale. And the flavor I grabbed was “Everything but the Kitchen Sink.” Serves me right, I suppose.
This was not the end of the experience, mind you. Several more interactions happened: at the cash register (where I had to pay partially in change to afford the ice cream I don’t like); then at the customer service desk (where I had to return items I realized I couldn’t afford while at the cash register); and then getting into my car (where I slipped on a pebble, banging my head and raising an impressive lump on my noggin). But I don’t have time to tell you all of these things, because if I were to try and include you in every embarrassing moment, every offensive comment, every inflammatory response, you would have to be with me all day. I am a non-stop reminder that some people should be banished to a societal table for one, where we can chew with our mouths open and belch without grossing everyone else out.
So I am reaching out to this anonymous person who has, against all of my recommendations, decided to impart her (or his- it’s 2015 people, let’s keep an open mind) love interests upon me to say, don’t. While I am flattered, do not be struck by the eloquence of my writing and forget what the subject matter is. For as nicely as I can say it, at the end of the day, I am still the loser.
Tim Drugan-Eppich is a junior majoring in English-journalism.