When to yell at a deaf person.

I feel like the increase in demand for instant gratification has stripped people of the patience to communicate with me.

I had a dream this morning about getting into an altercation with two unfamiliar old ladies who insisted on communicating with me verbally through their masks. I responded, on paper, reminding them that I, too, would love to communicate seamlessly with the public, but because I dared to get sick as a child, I don’t get to do this. Think about it, I continued scribbling, you can’t deal with what I have to do 99% of the time, for five minutes. One of the ladies started bleeding at the fingertip and scribbled her response in blood, accusing me of being disrespectful, thus summoning the manager.

What a sinister bitch!

But that was a dream. In reality, I’ve had many people simply walk away from me upon learning that I can’t understand them even if they start yelling at me from behind their masks. The correct response from me is: “Fuck them.” But when it starts happening regularly, there are some days where I go, “Fuck me, right?”

I don’t like that I’m a misanthropist, but it’s hard not to be when you’re confronted with rude, ignorant people routinely. On the contrary, when strangers do something as simple as sign “thank you,” it brings me joy. This is an everyday interaction most people are accustomed to, but for me, it’s like, “Wow, you’re treating me like everybody else. You’re practically the kindest stranger I’ve interacted with all day. If not all week.”

Continue reading “When to yell at a deaf person.”

Heavy reflection.

I have been unusually content for the past week. The past few months had been wild, and not in a fun way. Decompressing feels so nice. I’m not as easily rattled by small things anymore, except for silverfish.

My bike frame was supposed to arrive today, but UPS is being UPS, postponing it another week. I have accepted this as a minor setback as I haven’t been riding my bikes outside of my daily commute anyway. (Too wet and chilly for this delicate lady.) I have been riding more, though, now that I live more than twice as far from work. I used to be able to get to work from my old place in seven minutes. Now it takes me seventeen and has me riding up a steep–but short–hill both ways.

I live at the bottom of a hill, and the only way to avoid it is to take a detour. I like hills, but exerting that much energy at the start of a ride early in the morning is a bit much. It does make me feel heroic having my legs feel pumped within thirty seconds into the commute.

I’m still amazed that I live in a house, but making it feel like home is still a work in progress. I still haven’t figured out all the light switches, and the walls are still bare of art, except for a wall tapestry in the living room. I was about to remove it until I realized that it was hiding the circuit breaker box. So I guess the tapestry will have to grow on me until I find a long, narrow, and tasteful replacement, like a giraffe growth chart.

A wall tapestry featuring a painting of an old European seaside town being lifted out of the way to show the circuit breaker box.

I’ve been waiting for my landlords’ cars to both vanish from the driveway so that I can get busy with a hammer and hang the art. I feel better about the landlords now. Initially, I was worried that they’d be overbearing. So far, the biggest issue has been with the landlady not understanding that I’m deaf to the extent that she’s called me on my phone. Perhaps slipping her a copy of my audiogram is in order.

Other than a wall tapestry, the landlords have supplied the kitchen with a slightly mismatched dining set. The two chairs match, but not with the table. Still, this means the next time I throw a pizza party, at least one guest will get to sit and eat.

The landlords’ contribution to the living room was a sofa chair, reinforcing the idea that the place is meant for one person only. The seating options for my guests are limited to a camp chair or my lap. The living room is so small that the sofa chair is just over five feet from the tv. I don’t even need to wear my glasses to watch tv.

The bathroom has a splash of luxury with a stone countertop: my first out of many bathrooms. My previous bathroom did not have a countertop but a circular pedestal bathroom sink too small for even a soap dispenser, which would frequently fall into the sink. Though not the worst-looking bathroom I’ve had, it was the most poorly-designed.

Now, instead of keeping my toothbrush on a shelf right above the toilet, I store it in a large mirrored medicine cabinet. When I open up the cabinet doors, I still get to admire my (new!) dazzling smile as more mirrors line the inside. I can put my head inside, fold the doors behind me, and see myself into infinity.

I could hype myself up from multiple angles!

A WikiHow illustration featuring a brown haired white guy pointing at his reflection with a stern expression on his face.

That is… IF IT HADN’T FALLEN ON MY FACE!

Continue reading “Heavy reflection.”

House party of one.

What’s the word for when you have a crush on someone, but in a strictly platonic manner. As in, you really want to be their friend.

Someone translated hydraulic press videos through interpretative dancing, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen so far this year. Not only is it a unique idea, but also it is super well-executed. I’m shocked the video has only 1,600 views.

So, I figure this means Sarah McCreanor isn’t famous enough to refuse my friendship. I, too, enjoy spending an inordinate time and energy creating something superfluous. She must also get “But why?’d” all the time.

Continue reading “House party of one.”