We, as humans, live in a capitalist society dominated by a
perpetual quest for wealth, power and authority, and that authority
undoubtedly yields corruption, poor taste and, sometimes, bad people who
do bad things.
Lately, I’ve felt stuck in
this peculiar post-college limbo, one in which the novelty of thrusting
myself into this post-21 world of fledglings has granted me steady
access to a potion that makes social interactions almost effortless —
the never-failing social lubricant that is alcohol.
We, as humans, really love getting compliments. Next to
free stuff, there are few things we appreciate more. Compliments make us
feel like we’re special or have done something smart, even if it’s as
simple as choosing an item from the fast-fashion store that ends up
earning praise from an acquaintance. “I like that shirt,” she says,
platonically. “Thanks, I got it at the mall,” we say, not at all
A native, I’ve now had (ahem) approximately
40 years of experience watching how things go down in Cincinnati. And I
remember at least 30 of them. More importantly, I’ve been able to see
the evolution of Cincinnati’s society and culture. And recently it has
felt like I’ve had a front row to that part of evolution where the
monkey-man stands erect.
Is it possible to get burned out on, or overwhelmed by,
simple human interaction? My recent nightlife apathy stems from equal
parts unwillingness and utter lack of motivation to take on the
potential hours-long task of getting from Point A (leggings and hot
rollers) to Point B (prettified and in a reasonable parking space). As
the great Peter Gibbons said, “It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I just
don’t care.” But I want to.
Dear Close Male Friends: There have been
times over the years when some or most of you entered into serious,
sometimes long-term relationships. I believe I have been extremely
patient with each of you, understanding that your respective significant
other might be meeting various universal human needs and making your
I’ve got a problem. Some call it a problem, at least.
Personally, I prefer “fixation.” Better yet, a love. Passion. Interest.
Civic duty, if you want to be fancy about it. Ask any of my former roommates; they’ll
call it a compulsion. A quirk. The one descriptor they’ll use to sum me
up to their next roommate. “God, she had this weird thing about
recycling … drove me nuts.”
Don’t talk about my car. You know how guests on “talk shows” like Maury or Jerry Springer
will literally break a chair over someone’s head if they mention the
former’s mother? That’s how I feel (internally, thus far) when others
try to bring up my ride.
A couple of years ago, I went through
depressive funk that led me to withdraw from most social settings. I
hermited away not only physically, but also cyberly. I’ve always
suffered from some level of social anxiety; now, I was experiencing a
kind of social-network anxiety that caused me to ultimately break up
with my Facebook page.
You were a shit show this weekend and I
straight up don’t appreciate it — in fact, I still get so irritated when
I think about this weekend that my butt and calf muscles tense up into
tiny little balls. I was too hot, too hungry and too dressed up to deal
with whatever you were going through trying to figure out how to cram a
thousand events into a single weekend.