Miles of Something

Let’s be honest, you probably hate me already.

I guess I’ll be as odious as possible early on and call myself a writer. It’s the only skill I can even pretend to have anymore (NOTE: The ensuing summary in no way reflects my skills in said pursuit). Occasionally I post little tidbits of my work on here but, generally, I avoid that sort of shameless self-promotion.

My life is consumed by the University of California, Berkeley—who knew I’d devote myself to a subpar institution with a comma bisecting its formal sobriquet? It’s at UCB that I hone my verbal skills, attend obscure film screenings, avoid frenemies and partake in haphazard rounds of sweaty bathroom sex. One day I hope to become a beloved professor at a middling to upper tier university (a private one, thank you very much), doing my part to mint the next set of worthless liberal arts students before they syphon away the pittance left over for America’s remaining entitlement programs.

My tastes in the visual, the auditory and the semantic are refined. In this fact I am utterly confident. My posts on Tumblr reflect these impeccable preferences, and I often curate constellated strings of posts relating to a particular theme. Let’s be honest, the last few sentences are utter bullshit; I post pretty pictures and campy oddities which happen to pop into my mind either as a result of a flashback or a timely exposure. I have a proclivity toward modern art, supple sculpture, soulless photography, mid-century design, perverse quotes and any tasteful bit of the bizarre.

I hope to revamp my routine as a blogger so that I may use this page, more than anything else, as a zone for self-assessment. I hope to become ever more personal, detailed and intimate so that I may extend a burgeoning motif in my life, those pesky but prudent fraternal twins: honesty and transparency.

In terms of my own family life, I am both free and young—the two most ephemeral traits of all. My biological family consists of a set of emotionally vapid parents, a fastidious grandmother and some estranged cousins. Oh, and Monsieur Petit Willicent, the English Springer Spaniel with enviable liver and white markings.

Focusing on current events and the arts is a pastime that I strive to integrate into my future career. Approaching this goal pragmatically, I am obsessive about pumping knowledge into the void which separates my salient abilities from charlatanism. Hopefully one day I’ll be comfortable enough with my intellectual capacity to ignore that little falsetto cunt who inhabits my skull and perpetually belts out “FRAUD!”

At times I feel like the cynosure of the room—people are often drawn to me and I suspect they’re curious to see how my twisted perspective holds up and challenges the conventions of our shared existence. At other moments, I feel utterly, utterly detached— even alien. Still, inferiority is not one of my many afflictions and this paucity of the humble may, in pause, be the basis of my ineluctable charm.

I adore Stephin Merritt as a lyricist, as a musician and as an acerbic role model. Subsequently, The Magnetic Fields dominate my LastFM and their cynical philosophy dictates my approach to daily life and—as is inhered by the word “life”— love. 

Naturally, I’m dedicated to my professional success and the security of my status as a sybarite and bon vivant. That means academic diligence and dozens of bitter hours of tapping away at the keyboard. When my childish behavior is no longer legitimized by filial subsidization, I plan to settle in New York or remain here in the Bay Area—a family would be nice. Two sons. A middle daughter with a weight problem. Perhaps even a French bulldog named Guillaume? I have a penchant for greenery so, in addition to mon mignon Guillaume, a garden is a must.

So who will join me as I survey the zoysia for des petits bonbons du Guillaume (I have never claimed any sort of capacity for Le Francais)? I don’t know his name right now. Half a year ago, I’d have a different answer, but, for now I’m a one man homo-troupe. Yes, despite the rumors, I am of course very, very gay. But, really, that’s probably one of my least interesting qualities.

Until very recently, I considered among my most fascinating traits my adolescent tendency toward drafting comprehensive maps of fictional cities—I’m talking down to the sand traps, the subway stations and the Goddamn sewage treatment plants. Then I watched some lackluster Zack Galifianakis film entitled It’s Kind of a Funny Story and I discovered that this tendency is common enough to serve as a minor plot point in a fucking Zack Galifianakis film. And, in a whirl and a flash, any sentiment of specialness vanished into the darkness. Cue grains of popcorn tumbling beneath a seat cushion.

Disingenuous people bother me more than just about any other sort of people—note the strain of self-loathing as it meanders through this rambling ode to Rabelais at his most disarrayed (fuck, the prolixity of my prose is painful and no, I’m not using alliteration intentionally—personal aside: don’t drink and write, one more gin and tonic and you’ll turn into a nineteen fifties Nabisco executive with a fucking crew cut). More than anything else, these people leave me disenchanted with humanity, particularly when they succeed. I don’t need to be smiled at or have my hand shaken by people who loathe me in private. I urge forward intentions though, as you might imagine, I’m hardly a zealous practitioner. Though my encounters with the superficial may be joyless, they’re often marked by some sort of pronounced purpose—providing material to write or think about or, perhaps, the impetus for some pithy gossip, that contemptible currency of human communication.

Yes, I admit it, I’m an infamous conversationalist; so, please, keep your mouth shut when we connect. I’ll whisper to you the least and most profound sentences you’ll ever hear. Then I’ll make some baseless cultural recommendations, a crude remark and perhaps a few biting observations relating to any and all unfolding affairs (nuance is not my strong suit). Then, thoroughly divested from our social jig, I’ll restore my headphones over both ears and return to my work.  

Remember when I made that unexpectedly sympathetic comment regarding the inherent relativity of love and life? Oh, yeah, that one. Well, it was, in a sense, disingenuous. In my time I’ve been in three meaningful relationships. Intimate relationships. Sodomy on a fucking sailboat intimate. Hospital waiting room intimate. But, still, I don’t think I’ve ever had the capacity to truly love anything. Cry if you want, but I’m a realist and I refuse to pine for something—an impalpable concept no less— which is defined by such a questionable reality. For me, I’m sated by Sunday mornings spent under the covers, legs intermixed, laughter reserved for two. There’s something exquisite about the light on those mornings; pale, even melancholy—it’s clear that whatever envelopes us is wholly aware that the hours we share are not designed to last. Joy happens but, more often than not, at least for me, it stems from pain, arcs upward and then back downward— down cruelly toward the depths of paranoia and distrust.

Destruction haunts me always. The fear of an unactuated life is, for me, omnipotent and it only heightens other lingering concerns. The logic goes that if I die now, I’ll have clicked off before my time and failed conclusively as a life form. Thus, trips to the airport become riddled with jolts of heightened anxiety. That odd pang in the torso disrupts my sleep patterns for weeks. A step into an elevator becomes a willful plunge to Hades.

Is it a surprise then that I self-medicate? Is it a surprise then that, like a vampire, I refuse to face myself in a mirror? Here’s where the cliché clarion sounds for the forty-fifth and final time.  

The two critical points to know about me before you really get to know me: my delusion is near lethal and I’m constantly concerned with my odor (I will not be caught dead without a tiny bottle of Lacoste cologne concealed somewhere on my person).

Didactic Summation: If you’re not shaking in your boots by now— well, by now, you should be.

Ask me more, if you’d like.

[The above was dictated but not read by Myles Parker Osborne between 1:31 A.M. and 2:57 A.M. on Thursday January 12, 2012].