Read Letters To My Little Brother: Misadventures In Growing Older Online
Authors: Matt McKinney
See, I don’t write these letters because I think I’m smarter than anyone else. (I am, but that’s beside the point.) I don’t do it for the fame. I don’t do it because I think I’m the funniest or wisest guy I know. Far from it. I know people with way cooler experiences and way better prose, but I write because I need to in order to follow my voice. I do it because I literally have to write to survive. I
have to
. When I don’t, I feel like my skull starts to harden, trapping the pressure into my head until I finally have to collapse or trepan myself in order to release it. The cherry on top is whenever someone emails me and says that they relate to what I’ve written, when they tell me that they now know that we aren’t alone in this world. I’m using my voice because not doing so is a life and death issue for me.
Your job is another one of those life and death issues. You don’t get this time back. You don’t get a redo. If you choose to take a dead-end job that you hate, then you’re choosing to slowly rot and disappear as anonymously as all the people killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. And you have SO MUCH more value than that. You have so much more to offer the world than taking a few notes and typing some shit into calculators.
Change the fucking world, dude. Be like Natalie Portman in
Garden State
and revel in doing something that no one else has ever done. If any clone, drone, or empty suit stands in your way, then spin them around and shove your foot up their ass. You are alive. You are on this Earth. So why not take advantage of it while you can? Be great. Be unique. Take risks. What’s the worst that can happy? Death? That’s gonna happen anyways, so at least this way it’ll be on your own terms.
Do not let someone else dictate who you are. You are already you. Everyone’s got a voice, you just have to follow it. Be you.
Love you forever and ever,
-Big Boy
CHAPTER Seven:
How to Handle Relationships
Dear Squirrel,
I’m about as good at emotional, interpersonal communication as I am at… no that’s pretty much the thing I’m worst at. I mean, I’m pretty bad at arts & crafts, coloring between the lines, and controlling my wild mood swings, but emotional, interpersonal communication is still my biggest weakness. Well, that and my bicep curls. Those are pretty weak too. And my tolerance for spicy food. I think I’ll stop listing my weaknesses now.
It should be no wonder then why I haven’t had a relationship last for more than three months at a time without some sort of “break-up” in between. I try to be accommodating and kind and compassionate and all of those wonderful things, but so far I’ve only been a pastiche of those qualities. I remember once on a college film shoot that the actress showed up with a bouquet of fresh flowers in her hand. She said her boyfriend had been walking down the street, saw them in a store window, and decided he’d get them for her. There was no special occasion. No hidden intent behind them. Just love and generosity.
I haven’t developed that skill yet.
Truth be told, I’ve spent an embarrassingly large amount of time reading about relationship management. When one girl broke my heart with another guy, I spent an entire day reading about how spouses can recover their relationship with their cheating spouse. Mind you, I did this when she and I were no longer dating. I used to research cute ways to bolster my value status with girlfriends, performing adorable acts of kindness like the aforementioned guy with the flowers. I learned all about breakfast in bed and writing little love letters and randomly dropping compliments “just cause” I felt like it. The one time I brought a girl yogurt in the morning, she asked me to open the foil lid on it because her “wrists are weak in the morning.” I’m pretty sure I dropped a snide comment before realizing she was serious. And then I fled.
I didn’t realize just how much time I’d spent researching this stuff until YouTube suggested I watch a video entitled “So You Think You’re Ready For A Relationship?” I should mention I’ve built a lot of websites in my lifetime, so I know how Google aggregates your data and tailors ads and videos for every user. But coooooome oooooon, Google! I spend way more time looking up pictures of Jennifer Lawrence than I do looking up relationship advice. Why can’t you show me more of her?? (She had a terrific supporting role in
Like Crazy
by the way. She only has a few scenes, but the one when she’s crying on the couch is incredible.)
I decided to watch the video only to discover my new favorite relationship mentor, Jun Blazin. This guy got 65 likes on Facebook with this one post. And his video had 3,023 views at the time I wrote this. That’s about 3,000 more views than my last blog entry. Since I’m an arrogant ass and I think my site traffic is awesome, and since his is better than mine, I assumed he was an expert.
He was.
This guy is my fucking hero. I was waiting for his amazing pep talk to go off the rails at some point, but it didn’t. It just kept going. And going. And going. I’ve pulled some of my favorite quotes.
“Take some time to love yourself.”
I’ve spent a lot of lonely nights doing just that. I’d prefer to find someone else to do the loving for me. One, because it’s better that way. And two, cause I’m getting really lazy.
“You should slow down and you should…whatever.”
Truth. Gonna get a tattoo of that.
“Love is only as hard as you make it.”
I must be the cement mixer of love then.
“I’ve been single for almost two years and that’s because I’m not trying to settle down with just anybody.”
I told myself that once. Then I realized it’s because I was insecure, unconfident, unattractive, unkind, and uncaring. These days I’ve gotten a lot better. I’ve got the confident part down. That’s a 20% improvement over, what, 8 years? Solid. When’s Goldman Sachs gonna call me with a job offer?
“I’d rather be miserable with myself rather than make the next person miserable cause I’m not happy with myself.”
I actually do agree with that part. No wiseass comment either.
When it really comes down to it, I’m honestly just not that good at relationships. (As I said, I’ve never even gotten a sext!) And most of all I don’t deal well with intimacy. Well, feelings in general, but mostly intimacy. I get all vulnerable and either feel like someone wants me too much or doesn’t want me enough. It’s walking a balance beam between feeling tied down and feeling like someone is taking advantage of my affection.
These video searches then turned into peer-to-peer research. I figured that I could find answers in my friends and confidants. Just about everyone has had more success than me, so they all counted as experts in my book. I asked one friend what kinds of things she wanted in a relationship. It should be an easy question to answer, right? Of course we all know what we want. But now I’m not so sure. I feel like we all have these vague notions without any meat to them. She listed that she wanted someone who…
I, in the other hand, want someone who:
That’s about all that came to mind for me. (In case it weren’t abundantly obvious already, I’m an incredibly shallow creature. Incredibly.) I had some stuff about “fidelity” and “respect” in there too, but I felt like nice undergarments and nice morals are often mutually exclusive.
So instead of breaking down my own list, which is pretty self-explanatory, I began to wonder if she knew what she really wanted. In a larger sense, do we really know what’s best for ourselves even when we think we do?
What does it mean to want someone who:
…is responsible
I feed my dogs and pay my bills on time. Does that make me responsible? What if I’m that guy who gets trashed every weekend (but only on the weekends)? What about someone never taking accountability for their actions? Like, “I set my alarm and it didn’t go off.” (Do you know how many alarms I’ve set in my life? Do you know how many of them have failed to go off? Zero. Fucking zero.) Do does responsibility mean apologizing no matter if they’re right or wrong? Or does it mean remembering to buy groceries before you run out?
…has priorities
My priorities: family, family, family, writing, Harry Potter, potential girlfriend, heavy petting, Netflix, lunch, and Sweet Baby Jesus. In that order. I have no idea how heavy petting ranked ahead of Netflix, but I’m going to assume it’s because it’s so rare for me.
…cares about me
What does this even mean? Does it mean I care about you, but not when you start acting crazy? I care about you and by that I mean I care about your nice rack? I care about you more than I care about myself? I think it really begs the question of the definition of caring. For example, I care a lot about defecating once a day. It’s healthy to stay regular. So should I therefore treat you like shit?
…wants me in their life
I want more hugs in my life, but do I want them everyday? Well, yes. But does it mean I get them everyday? Or any day at all for that matter? Noooooope.
…is willing to do little things I like to make me happy
Say one of the little things you like is when someone does the dishes for you. And say it’s my honest-to-God, least favorite chore on the planet. Then also say I do this little thing for you one evening because I like to make you happy. Does that mean I can’t complain about it? Cause I will. I definitely will. I’ll do it to make you happy, but I’ll also make you miserable for making me feel like I needed to do it to make you happy. (Did I mention the petty part of being shallow? Cause I’ve got that too.)
…can respect my space when I need it
I’m on board with this. To quote one of my all-time favorite songs,
The Perfect Space
by the Avett Brothers:
I want to have friends
that’ll let me be,
all alone when being alone
is all that I need.
…is capable of setting aside time just for us
I’m on board with this too. 110% actually. (See: Chapter Eight.)
…is loyal
Ha. Seriously. Me too. Here’s the definition of loyalty (from thefreedictionary.com):
1. The state or quality of being loyal. See Synonyms: fidelity.
2. A feeling or attitude of devoted attachment and affection
That doesn’t make sense to me. It’s the “feeling of devoted affection,” but not the actual act of devoted affection. So does that mean going to first base with someone else and throwing them a few random blowies is acceptable as long as you still care about your partner?
…is logical and open-minded
Hmmmm. I’m logical. And open-minded. I have no shame when it comes to hitting on your fellow college freshmen. I voted Democrat (at least until I learned Obama went back on his promises of expanded personal freedoms). I don’t think I’m prejudiced in the least. (So why does Mom keep telling I’m prejudiced against doing work? Blogging takes a lot of effort. Blogging about funny stuff takes even more. And on top of all that I do it pro bono. Now that’s work.)
So I ask again: do we really know what’s best for us? I say I want friends who challenge me, but I actually hate when people try to push me. I say I want to spend more time with my two dogs, but I really hate them waking me up at 6am and barking till I feed them. So how can I possibly know what’s best for me in love? And, if I do, how do I make sure I don’t screw up that relationship? Are flowers and breakfast in bed really enough?
Another friend, who is now engaged, told me that relationships are about waking up every day and deciding that you want to be with your partner. I kind of like the sound of that. There’s no “commitment,” per se. There’s no anxiety about the future. It’s just realizing every day that someone else makes you happy. While I’m unsure that I can ever wake up and commit to the same person day after day — mostly because of my untreated, WebMD-diagnosed ADD — I think that my friend’s philosophy is one for folks like you and me to believe in.
Love,
-Big Boy
CHAPTER Eight:
How to Handle breakups
Dear Squirrel,
I broke up with my girlfriend, Celine, this January right after my grandpa had a stroke, my grandma had two seizures, and Notre Dame lost to Alabama. Oh, and I turned 24 a few weeks later, meaning I’m one year closer to 30 (and therefore death). Celine and I — despite our long history and combustible chemistry — weren’t working well together as a couple. I was too much of a homebody for her and she was far too interested in going out to see other people than being alone with me. I was always too introspective and emotional, pondering or moping about something or other; she was always too activity-oriented, never sitting still long enough to talk or watch a movie with me without texting her ex-boyfriend, laundry, work, Facebook, or any number of other chores. I just wanted to go on romantic dates and stare deeply into her beautiful green eyes; I felt like she just wanted me to be her Blow-Up Boyfriend, smiling and holding her hand like a dummy whenever she was in front of her friends and family, and then she’d leave me flat whenever I wanted us to be alone. Even though we both agreed that the split was a good decision, we were both pretty selfish and stubborn, neither willing to compromise our individual lifestyles to save our relationship. We needed — and could give — different things. I guess that’s what doomed us in the end.
But of course I really blame it all on her. Duh. That’s how these things work.
Over the course of our relationship I learned one golden nugget about love: there’s a difference between passion and happiness. Celine and I had something, to use a cliché, electric. You could very nearly hear the snapping, sizzling air between us, sort of like Rice Krispies that never got soggy. When we were in sync, we could literally have deep, intellectual conversations without ever having to explain ourselves. We understood each other that well. We could speak on the phone for hours day after day and never run out of things to talk about. We often played a game of alternating questions like the tram scene in
Before Sunset
. It never ended. Ever. If I actually had any ounce of affection left for her, I could probably call and pick up that game right where we left off. And the physical stuff? Yowzer. I’ll leave it at that.
The downside was what I like to call the Icarus Phenomenon. The higher the highs, the lower the lows. We could spend a romantic evening together and then cry and fight and scream the next morning. We could watch a movie and cuddle and kiss each other softly and then, almost out of nowhere, give/receive the cold shoulder. As someone who already has difficulty maintaining their own emotional stability, pairing it with such a rollercoaster relationship was not ideal for my health or sanity.
The ensuing break-up was understandably hard. I mean, seriously: really fucking hard. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a few months of time and a few prescription drugs to make me feel whole again. We used to text everyday. We’d go to the movies or share an ice cream cone. Then suddenly I ended up stuck alone in my room wondering whether the joining ‘dead hand gang’ like
The Inbetweeners’
Jay Cartwright or Dave Chappelle’s Lil’ Jon wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It was more than just losing a friend and a warm body to hold while crying over the end of
The Great Mouse Detective
. It was the painful loss of intimacy and romance so wonderfully developed throughout our years of shared experience.
I don’t think we as humans have a finite amount of love to give in our lifetimes, but ending a relationship still feels like locking away a corner of your heart and trying to throw away the key.
It’s always his stuff after the break up that’s the hardest. How do you recover? Do you cut off contact altogether? Do you try to stay friends (which has never seemed to work out well for me)? Do you become friends with benefits until you feel so disgusted with yourself that you finally hate each other? If you are friends with benefits, what happens when other prospects enter the picture? Should you be jealous that he/she has found someone else? Do you continue to hook up anyways? Is it gross to hook up with someone who’s also hooking up with someone else? Should you make an “exclusivity rule” while being friends with benefits? Doesn’t that technically make it a relationship? And doesn’t someone in a friends-with-benefits relationship always end up developing feelings for the other person? And, extrapolating from my 24 years of experience, wouldn’t that person probably be me?
So far every break up in my life has been a little bit different. Two have come right before my birthday (I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing). Some were in the summer and some were in the fall. Oftentimes I’ve felt relief, like I’ve been absolved of the burden of thinking/caring about someone else. A few times I’ve been devastated and despondent, only dragging myself out of bed because the pillows hurt after lying there too long.
I made myself a promise that I won’t try to hook up with Celine after our break-up. First of all, I didn’t think she’d be willing. She’s way more Catholic than me. Second, I blasted TSwift’s “We’re Never Ever Getting Back Together” for about 4 straight days, and I’m pretty certain the message took root in my subconscious. Third, it’s an awful, awful idea to make out with your ex. The reason I know this is because I did so with a different girl a few years back. This particular girl was probably the most generous and caring girl I’ve ever dated. She was (and is) a truly fantastic human being. That being said, I always felt dirty after we “spent time alone.” I’m not talking about the sexy, ‘oo-la-la’ kind of dirty, but rather the “Sweet Baby Jesus, I think I need a year-long bubble bath in the Prefects’ bathroom” kind of dirty. See, hooking up with an old flame is a lot like eating Bojangles: it’s great while you’re doing it, but afterwards you feel so greasy, sick, and disgusted that you start to hate yourself. Once, after my final tryst with her, I stood in the shower for a solid 45 minutes as penance for my sins. I stared up at that faucet like it was Christ on the cross and, honestly, I’ve never felt closer to God. I knew I’d done wrong — and I knew how much of an asshole I’d been to a good person like her — and I promised with all my heart that I’d never do it again. Not with her or any girl.
Needless to say, I broke that promise. I hooked up with Celine after our break-up. A bunch of times. I hope God finds a certain ironic humor in my shortcomings. Otherwise I think he’d be disappointed in me. Hell, I’m a little disappointed in me too.
Things between us only got worse from there. I said a lot of awful things to her. Unforgivable things. At the time I didn’t care. I told her things like, “I hope one of the guys you’re blowing makes you happy,” and that she needs help because all “of [her] perfectionist, obsessive, anxious, impulsive, critical, manipulative, stubborn, controlling, compulsive, and avoidant traits are symptomatic of serious mental illness.” My eloquence, like my shame, knows no bounds.
In retrospect, these weren’t my proudest moments.
I forced myself to create separation from her. That was the only way. I stopped watching
(500) Days of Summer
for the umpteenth time and cursing out all the Summer’s in the world who overpromise to and under-provide for tender-hearted boys like me. I stopped my Spotify from playing Cee Lo’s “Fuck You” and Eamon’s “Fuck It” on infinite repeat. It took four months of radio silence before I saw her again. When I did, she went for a hug and I held up my hands to say no. She got all sad and tearful afterward because I was acting like we were no longer friends or something. [We weren’t and never will be.] As our late uncle would say, “That’s too bad.” I did what was best for me. Was that heartless of me? Or was it the right thing to do?
I began stalking the hell out of OkCupid because, honestly, where else can I look for a rebound? A
Harry Potter
book club? A church for semi-religious people kind of care but who aren’t offended if I declare that “Jesus is my homeboy”? A bar with no alcohol (which sounds a lot like Chuck E. Cheese’s, which is definitely off-limits to me for what should be obvious reasons)?
What questions do I ask on a first date anyways? “Do you like your job? Do you have a roommate? Have you ever had red apples with vanilla yogurt? No? What about turducken? Haggis?” At least in college I had the reliable, “Hey babe, what’s your major?” (except minus the ‘babe’ part). And, God forbid, what if this potential ladyfriend adds me on Facebook only to realize I’ve veiled her identity under a paper-thin pseudonym and blabbed about every single detail of our relationship on my blog? That might work for Tucker Max, but definitely not for me.
You also never know what a partner will be like after a few weeks or months of dating. I might, for instance, meet someone and hit it off great for a few days, but then slowly realize that the reason she sleeps with a knife under her pillow is not because she likes making midnight snacks but rather because she’s a serial killer with a penchant for castration. Or I might discover that beneath her fascinating, intellectual exterior, she’s plainer than a potato and twice as whiney as a California merlot. Or I might discover that she’s clingier than me and overanalyzes every word I say like she’s reading a high school IM conversation. Or I might discover she’s into really violent stuff like scratching or biting me till I bleed. (Don’t laugh. You wouldn’t believe how many people I’ve met with stories like this, myself included. Some scars never fade.)
This leads us to the physical chemistry aspect. Let’s be clear: I’m not a total animal who needs physical intimacy to be the primary concern of my relationship. I just don’t want to be kissing a dead fish or a swashbuckling tongue every night. Have you ever been with someone who just didn’t gel with you? This reminds me of a girl I kissed on a rooftop in Marrakech. It was a gorgeous night — 70 degrees, stars in the sky — and we were overlooking the famous Jemma El-Fnaa (imagine a giant public square with fruit stands and snake charmers). While previously throwing down some hot and heavy dancing at the biggest nightclub in North Africa, I dropped the eternally useful, “You wanna get out of here?” The effect was — quite literally — instantaneous. I followed her from the dance floor to the secluded pool area (yeah, this nightclub also had a pool. It was ridiculous). Unfortunately a goony white boy and an attractive blonde girl in a skimpy halter-top are quite easy to spot in Morocco. A security guard sent us hightailing away. Out of options, we hailed a cab to the hotel, where she took my hand and led me up the stairs into the cool night air. We giggled and laughed a little bit as we soon realized we weren’t the only ones trying to find some privacy on the roof. (Not gonna lie: I gave the other guy a thumbs-up.) She gazed at the rare view of the square while I nervously whispered some sweet nothings into her ear. Finally feeling bold, I leaned in…
But when I first felt her lips against mine, all I remember thinking is, “Why the fuck is her mouth so wet?” My second thought was, “Is that her mojito or do people’s mouths always taste kind of minty after they’ve been drinking?” Obviously I couldn’t see her lips, but I kept picturing her puckering them so much that the insides were flipped outward and pressing against mine. I think at one point she glanced up at the moon and I took the opportunity to secretly wipe the slobber from my face. The worst thing about the whole experience was that I really liked her. I thought she was really pretty. I thought she was athletic and funny and wonderfully playful. And she was incredibly smart, which might actually be the trait I am most attracted to. But the kissing killed it for me. I still liked her and we still had a few dates and stuff in the ensuing weeks, but I just hit this mental roadblock where I didn’t have the desire to learn or adapt to her style of intimacy. I couldn’t get past it. I joked with a friend of mine about this a few days ago and he suggested that I ask girls I meet to hook up before ever going on a date so that way we won’t stall, crash, and burn cause of bad chemistry after we’ve invested a lot of time in each other. I’m pretty sure I’m not suave (or confident or misogynistic) enough to try that, but I like the logic.
Now, nearly a year after my unhappy ending with Celine, I can say I’m happy. I have a girlfriend who makes me feel special and cared for. She smiles at me and swoons at my compliments and stares into my eyes as we fall asleep. I have some semblance of a working life. I’m writing creative stuff and trying to eek a living out of it. I have friends and activities and all the things necessary to leading a semi-productive lifestyle.
Some days I still feel sad that Celine’s gone. She’s no longer a part of my life. At all. We aren’t even Facebook friends. I lost my most intimate friend and confidant, you know? Even with all the hate in my heart, can you really expect me not to miss part of her? Like the way my stomach froze when she bat her eyes at me? Or the way she tried to sneak out of bed in the mornings to brush her teeth before I woke up? Some days it sucks to realize that those butterfly eyes and that beautiful mind won’t be focused on me ever again. She may or may not have found some dude who I inevitably think is ugly or stupid or beneath her, and who I then compare myself to at length only to realize that this guy must be better than me in some (read: every) way.
Squirrel, I honestly have no simple way of telling you how to let go and move on after a break up. I’m still trying to figure it out for myself. So far I’ve only discovered one tried-and-true technique: find someone else. While effective, I won’t say it’s easy. Nonetheless, the process of courting someone — learning about them, figuring out the ways they kiss and like to be kissed, discovering their favorite movies and flowers and ice cream flavors — is so potent and consuming that even a tiny bit of passion for a less-than-ideal candidate can replace (some of) your heartache. It’s a vicious cycle, yes, but you have to be confident that the ends will eventually justify the means.