Read Letters To My Little Brother: Misadventures In Growing Older Online
Authors: Matt McKinney
CHAPTER Eleven:
How to be manic
Dear Squirrel,
My mind likes to jump on trains of thought. It enjoys picking a track and running and running and running and eventually realizing that it is very, very far from where it began, in an area that it didn’t even know existed. Sometimes it feels like it takes multiple trains at once, all going in different directions. I can hear different thoughts in my head at the same time. It’s not voices or anything creepy/psycho/fun like that. It’s more like I’m hearing myself in each ear, except that one ear seems to resonate from my right frontal lobe.
This type of thinking, which many refer to as mania or insanity or craziness but I refer to as “everyday existence,” has some dangerous ramifications. One is that I sometimes can’t help myself with swearing in formal situations. Another is that I often crack lewd, untimely jokes when I’m around sadness. I think I got this trait from our late uncle. When one of our 90-year-old relatives had his foot amputated for gangrene, our late uncle told him, “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that the operation was a success. The bad news is you’ll never be a ballerina.” Hilarious, right? I thought so too until Dad scorned me for laughing.
I also have the ability to think in ways that most people do not. Again, that’s not supposed to be a humblebrag. It’s a reality. I’m really fucking strange. Like I often pee at the same time as brushing my teeth because I think it’s a more efficient use of time. And I think that the idea of kissing someone is far more enjoyable than actually kissing someone. And I think that I holding hands is gross. Like, read the following sentences:
“I love how sweaty your hand is right now, Matt. I could practically drink off it.”
“Hold my hand, Matt. I want you to help give me the flu.”
“Mmmmm, hold my clammy hand. Stroke it like a sexy palm reader. Squeeze my fingers, you dirty little fortune teller. Tighter. Tighter! Ooooooh yeah. Just like that, baby. Just like that…”
What do these statements all have in common? You will never, ever hear anyone say them. Why? Because holding hands is gross. Most people just aren’t willing to admit it.
Seriously, what’s the deal with holding hands? Is it supposed to be a form of intimacy? Like, “I love you so much that I willingly sacrifice one of my two best weapons should we be confronted by a surprise stampede of wildebeests arranged by your evil uncle, the one with the penchant for befriending hyenas”? Is it supposed to be a sign of endearment? Would you tell your friends, “Yeah, we said we’re exclusive, but we’re not, like, Facebook official yet. Sure we’ve bumped uglies a few times, but, like, we haven’t even held hands, you know?”
To be completely fair, I do understand some instances of handholding. Sometimes, for example, it’s just the easiest way to position yourself when you’re spooning. Sometimes it’s a good indicator that someone is into you, like when they lay their hand across the table for you. It can definitely be a good way to remind your partner of everyday intimacy in a non-sexual manner. Riding in the car. Lounging on the porch. I get moments like those. Those can be romantic.
But what about holding hands while walking down the street? What’s that for? It’s not like you’re holding your child’s hand because you’re afraid they’ll get lost in the crowded street. So is it a public display of affection then? Maybe. I guess I’ve never really understood PDA. Isn’t it rude to flaunt your good
Four-Eyed Monsters
fortune? Don’t you think it makes it awkward for the people who notice that you two are clearly thinking about rounding first/second/third/home/fifth base once you’re alone? It’s like, “Whoa there, Cho, don’t expect me to hold hands just cause we’re at Madam Puddifoot’s. I’m not Roger Davies and we’re not tickling the pear tonight.”
And those are just the external effects of holding hands. What’s there to enjoy about doing the act itself? I, for example, am 6’5”. Imagine me as the Jolly Green Giant, but minus the jolly, the green, and the giant. You know what, just imagine a tall, skinny dude. My last girlfriend, on the other hand, was 5’2”. Do you know how hard it is to hold hands when you’re walking with someone who is 15” smaller than you? I felt like I had this sweet, 70s-style playa walk because I had to dip down so low with every step. I never had to do squats at the gym for the duration of our relationship because my hamstrings and quads got such great workouts on the street.
Plus there are all the issues with hand size, hand tension, etc. Some people let their hands flop around like dead fish. (The dead fish strategy, as I have learned, is also a poor strategy in acts more intimate than handholding.) Some people have tiny little baby hands that don’t fit into frying-pan size mitts. So why exert the effort to hold hands in the first place?
And, to really get down to brass tacks, holding hands is a bit disgusting in terms of all the germs and bodily fluids involved. Don’t get me wrong: this is true of kissing/touching/sexing/etc. But I have more confidence that people brush their teeth and wash their private parts with more frequency and diligence than their hands. You can be about 94% certain that someone uses toothpaste and body soap as part of their daily routine, but how certain can you be that someone soaped their hands after a #1 or #2?
“This Mexican restaurant is amazing, Matt!”
“I know, right? I am such a good date planner. And I’m incredibly suave and handsome too.”
“Taste this nacho cheese, Matt! It’s delicious”
“Did you wash your hands after you just went to the bathroom, darling?”
“I’m your girlfriend! You’ve put your mouth in plenty of dirtier places at this point.”
“But none that potentially involved fecal matter!”
“Actually…you know that time when I blindfolded and handcuffed you?”
“When you made me lick Nutella out of your armpit?”
“That wasn’t Nutella.”
“Hmm. Okay. But you still can’t get fecal matter in your armpit.”
“It wasn’t my armpit either.”
Call me a germaphobe or an overly-analytical, intimacy-averse, single twenty-something, but I still can’t wrap my head around intertwining my fingers with someone else’s. Someday I will hopefully meet a ladyfriend who pushes my boundaries and convinces me to ignore these instincts. This particular girl will probably help me overcome my flashbacks of junior prom and my fear of dancing. I expect she’ll show me that it’s okay to use the L-word in front of my parents when referring to a girl. She’ll hug me tight and remind me that sharing a physical, human connection with someone outweighs any potential social or medical risks. Because that’s what handholding is, right? Grasping someone and realizing that — as the universe spins into utter oblivion — you have the one single connection that matters.
This is all assuming that love exists, that such a person exists, that reality exists, and that intimacy can trump the crushing forces of death, eternity, and non-existence. My experience with intimacy thus far does not, however, instill much confidence in me. Intimacy has proven itself more of an everlasting pain rather than an enduring warmth emanating from within. If romance were torture devices, intimacy would be the iron maiden. It’s like, “Hey, I love you so much that I’m going to pretend to enjoy your bad breath. I’ll take deep, long whiffs of it and describe it as the succulent scent of Elmer’s Glue and chicken grease.” Well guess what? I don’t enjoy that. Nor do I enjoy staring at that terrible tattoo you may have have. I like the smell of flowery perfume and blue gum. I like soft, silky hair and I have a selective memory when it comes to remembering that girls poop, too."
I mention the tattoo thing because, while bad breath is fixable, tattoos are permanent turn-offs that you have to pretend to like when you’re intimate with someone. You can’t just go around and be like, “Of course I like your whale tail, pumpkin!” or, “Indeed, sweetheart, I am fond of the sun stenciled on the nape of your neck.” Squirrel, let admit here that I nearly freaked out this spring when I noticed your shoulder had a fake tattoo of a hockey goalie standing in front of a brick wall. You said that it was a copy of your teammate’s real tattoo of a hockey goalie standing in front of a brick wall. I used my intuition to guess that this teammate was also a goalie on the college hockey team, and he thought he was analogous to a brick wall in front of a goal.
There’s a reason I keep emphasizing the “hockey goalie standing in front of a brick wall” part. Why? Because it’s fucking stupid! Come on, dude!! That’s like the Canadian equivalent of redneck baseball players tattooing a flaming baseball on their shoulders. It’s overdone, cliché, and — need I say it again? — fucking stupid.
What is that going to look like in 40 years? A chubby Mario busting through melty NES Brick Blocks? And, more importantly, how do you explain that to your future children?
“Why yes, children, I did indeed tattoo an image of a hockey goalie standing in front of a brick wall on my shoulder. I thought I was pretty damn talented in high school. Soon enough, though, I realized I wasn’t good enough to play Division I or II, and that I couldn’t even make the third-string spot for my Division III team. In the end the tattoo became a permanent reminder of my teenage ego and its utter stupidity. So, to answer your question, it was the worst decision I made apart from asking your mother to give me oral when she had adult braces and I had a Prince Albert.”
People get the dumbest tattoos these days. Seriously. I’m not even talking about the weirdoes who tattoo their entire bodies with tiger stripes or lizard scales. That’s beyond strange, but at least they can argue it’s about art and self-expression. But the woman I saw at a baseball game in Oakland with a full-color picture of Tow Mater from
Cars
? What message is she trying to send?
What about the picture I saw on online dating? The one with the girl who had — in big, bold Gothic letters — “FAMILY” tattooed across her upper back? Who would ruin such a nice patch of skin like that? Family? Really?? At least only a few kids play goalie or throw fastballs. Everyone has a fucking family. And why would you put it on your back? Are you turning your back on your family? Do you want it to be a reminder to your husband whenever you’re doing it doggy style that he hasn’t visited his in-laws recently? What’s the meaning in something like that, especially when it’s in a place you can’t see?
I don’t want to sound like I’m bashing all tattoos here. I get why my sister’s boyfriend has a tattoo with his Marine company’s insignia. I get why Manti Te’o has a sweet Samoan tattoo on his arm. I get all that. That’s heritage. That’s tradition. There’s value in honoring those around you and those that came before you. BUT —
I’ve seen so many people get tattoos for so many stupid reasons. Random shapes with no relevant meaning whatsoever. Music notes shaped into their initials. Why, people? WHY? Think about the following situation:
Female Friend:
I got the French flag on my ass tattooed in the shape of Italy because it reminds me of how I lost my virginity in Rome to a French man named Jean Valjean.
Me:
Oh, okay. That makes complete sense. And by that I mean it makes no sense whatsoever. So why tattoo it on yourself?
Female Friend:
It just signifies so many great memories. It was a big moment in my life.
Me:
So was the first time you menstruated. Why don’t you tattoo that on your waist while you’re at it?
I think the larger question I’m debating is why people find such value in inked signs and symbols. Why tattoo yourself with something that says “Club Med” because it reminds you about your high school spring break trip? Why tattoo yourself with a heron because you accidentally killed it with a BB gun when you were 10? Are those things that much more worthy of physically-manifested permanence than, say, the nights that your parents rocked you to sleep? Or the words you learned in counseling that helped you break through your addiction?
Has society just reached a point where it no longer values foresight but instead thrives on impulse? If so, is it hypocritical of me to say that I write these letters almost entirely stream of consciousness? Is there something wrong with my consciousness? Is it underdeveloped because it has the attention span of a 5-year-old double fisting ice cream sandwiches? Am I simply drawn to moments of childlike wonder such as double fisting ice cream sandwiches? Wouldn’t double fisting ice cream sandwiches get pretty messy? Would the enjoyment outweigh the cold hands and sticky fingers? Why do I always go on these tangents full of questions without any answers? Is this natural or am I really just crazy?
That’s the word that I’ve really been trying to hint at with this letter: crazy. I tried to make everything feel like a series of funny non-sequiturs with prose to match. I wanted to express a sense of insanity through my words. I wanted you to notice the way my mind works and the way it proceeds through the maze of my thought processes. I wanted you to see how my brain is so manic and untamed and up and down and everywhere and nowhere all at once.
The goal was to talk about why I hate the word ‘crazy’ when it comes to discussing a very serious issue: mental health.