So, you want to know why I’m so shitty at picking friends? Me too. I didn’t make a single good friend this year. In fact, I lost most of them.
You say what? It’s because people don’t know the “real me?” No, no, see…the problem is that they DO know! Or at least…they think they do.
They complain that I’m depressing. Dark. Sad. Lonely. Brooding. Anti-social. Stubborn. Bit of a dick.
Very well, then. I’ll take it.
I have clinical depression, generalized anxiety disorder, inattentive-type attention deficit hyperactive disorder, insomnia, stress-induced changes in speech, dyslexia, dyscalculia, dysgraphia, oh yeah and fucking autism. And I may be bipolar.
That is not the real Jaska.That might be the Jimmy you know and love to hate, but it’s not the real Jaska. Not by a long shot.
The real Jaska is confident and self-aware. He doesn’t care what people say about him because he knows he has real friends to whom he can turn at any time.
The real Jaska is prodigiously musically talented. He taught himself eight instruments. Only ever took lessons in guitar…now he teaches himself that, too. Taught himself how to use music composition programs on the computer - go ahead, name one, I dare you - and taught himself how to read music just so he could try and help this upstart group on campus.
The real Jaska recognizes that he has talent, and lots of it. He knows he’s great at what he does, because music is his passion. The self-deprecation is all an act. It’s a façade. He’s just afraid of his innate character traits - arrogance, egotism, a touch of self-righteousness - might shine through and must therefore be repressed.
The real Jaska knows he’s good at music. Also knows he’s good at photography, and doesn’t blame a “lack of subject material” for not taking more photos. He’s just a bit bored with it. I’m sure he’ll be back. Although, come to think of it, more subject material wouldn’t hurt. Carlisle is, well, Carlisle.
The real Jaska knows he’s a computer genius. He’s so talented. He learns really fast, you know. He teaches himself everything. Never had one class. Not in computer studies, science, design, nothing. Also never taken a formal music or art education course.
The real Jaska has taught himself everything he knows. That’s why he’s so bored in class. That’s why he doesn’t want to take introductory-level courses. Ever. Not again. The real Jaska has a thirst for knowledge that he quenches in his own way. He marches along his own road to his own drummer, and he’s got a double bass pedal.
The real Jaska doesn’t depend on his friends, they depend on him. He makes them and keeps them effortlessly, with them knowing he’s always there for them. For anything. Nothing out of the question. Seriously, nothing. He’s the most open-minded person I know.
The real Jaska doesn’t drink because he’s depressed, he drinks because he likes the taste of wine and whiskey and bourbon. The real Jaska doesn’t need to drink to have fun, and stands around at parties with a red cup of water pretending to be a bit tipsy for comedic effect.
The real Jaska doesn’t have piercings because mutilating himself numbs the pain of reality. He has piercings because he fucking likes them, dammit, and doesn’t care what you or your generation have to say about it. The real Jaska doesn’t smoke because he’s a helpless addict. He smokes because he likes the flavour, the sensation, the thrill of something new and dangerous every time. And the real Jaska doesn’t do drugs, because he doesn’t need a crutch. He can stand up just fine, because the real Jaska is not too terribly crippled after all.
The real Jaska is kind, loving, caring, and utterly selfless. He knows he has his shit figured out, but just doesn’t let it on. That’s why he’s always helping other people. Always there for them. He only cares about how his words and actions will affect others and their feelings. He wants nothing but for others to be happy. And, on the off chance he and someone else find something about which they are both happy, then they may as well be good friends.
The real Jaska doesn’t mind new situations, doesn’t mind being on the spot, and doesn’t mind being the center of attention. Sometimes, he recognizes that he deserves it. Maybe it’s nice, in his eyes, to be praised for doing what you love and doing it well. The real Jaska gladly accepts a thank-you note from the girl whose computer he fixed, a round of applause from the audience of a song he arranged, an award here and a certificate there. The real Jaska knows how to take a compliment - with a smile and a “thank you,” because he is well aware of the reason.
But you see, the real Jaska has no friends, because he lives in a bottle. He’s bottled up. There’s a cork in that bottle. If you think you know Jimmy “the way he is,” or not, well…you can remove that cork, at your own risk.
Now that things are settled and sinking into perspective, I’ve realized how under-appreciated I really am.
It’s not entirely a bad thing. But mostly, yes.
All I do in my spare time is music and music. I compose and arrange and mix and remix and write and record and even fucking sing. I learned guitar for twelve years and have taught myself seven other instruments.
I have spent hours and hours working on music solely for myself, for the feeling of accomplishment it gives me, and because I fucking like it. I’ve spent even more hours meticulously ensuring that the music I arrange for the a capella group was the best it could be.
Drafting, writing, re-writing, cutting, adding, re-drafting, adding more, cutting more, listening to the same thing over and over.
Importing my arrangements to GarageBand and Logic to ensure the parts meld like they should.
Tweaking little bits here and there.
Writing in a whole separate fucking part for someone because she thought a harmony would be a nice touch.
And our MC actually credited me. To the whole audience.
Is that enough? Maybe for now. But if my talents aren’t wanted as badly as the others’ are, then too bad.
Sure, they were “torn” between me and the girl who pretends I don’t exist. The one I tried to work with but “never got my texts.”
Sure, the one who replaced me was a unanimous vote. Okay, fine, she deserves it. I have nothing against her.
But geez. I didn’t get elected because I didn’t run rehearsals? But…I did all the rest of the work…while my co-director ran through an iTunes playlist of possible songs for the distant future.
If I ran rehearsals, it’d have been a bit lopsided.
And no, I don’t want to continue helping the group. It’s too much of a time commitment. If they aren’t willing to vote for me, I’m not willing to help them any more than I already have.
I’m sure someone else can learn to use Sibelius and Finale Pro in under a day. LIKE I DID.
And I’m sure they’ll be able to arrange a song for which no sheet music exists. LIKE I HAVE DONE.
Oh, and I’m positive they’ll be able to take a song with sheet music that isn’t too great, write it into a program, add extra parts, modify the existing parts, add lyrics, add harmony lyrics in an ossia, export it as MIDI, tweak note timings for tempo, export as PDF, print out 50 pages of music using their own money, and distribute it at rehearsal.
And all they’ll get is “Why isn’t there a copy for everyone?”
I don't have motives, what a strange thing to ask. If anything I want her to feel terrible for being such an awful person to you and others. I just feel sorry for you having to deal with someone who treated you so awfully. I still don't understand why you went after her for so long, though.
Ah, that’s nice. Carry on, then. I don’t understand either.
A one-word response. Quite nearly befitting the Infinite Question. But he was not amused.
"I wasn’t trying to amuse you."
But he was interested.
"I know you’d like to speak with me."
More accurately, if such a thing was possible, would like to remove the brain, dismantle it, and examine it back in the workshop. How does this work? To what does that connect? Can more power be added here and less there? Is this part entirely necessary?
"I am not an android, you know. I am a mortal."
An infinite question. There was no answer that could be comprehended by those whom of which were worthy. There was also not no answer, of course, or else it would be a pointless question.
The Being spoke.
"Do you see before you a bucket of red paint?"
The mortal replied.
"I offer you two choices of words, should you not mind me returning to you a question."
"I have taken in many statements. Two more questions ought not overload me!"
"Do you want me to see a bucket of red paint? Do you mind me answering your ques-"
It was not spoken, merely understood. The bucket of paint took its leave to return to the Great Forest, and the Being and the Mortal were left alone.
A lesson once instructed to send feet of great power into battle.
Into, as the same when spears and hastae were thrust and thrown into Hercules.
Perfectly correct translations of an age-old tongue unworthy of our fragile modern ears.
But the uncrafting garbletrig couldn’t faze me. Not quite, insofar as it’s viability was concerned. We decided to press on - after much internal debate.
Jotunheimsfærden was just off in the distance now, and the old general stopped and looked around. The moor was bleak, that much was for sure. He couldn’t tell how long they had been there - the fog was overwhelming, drenching his senses in its cold embrace, trying its hardest, longing to make him forget and forgo the mission he knew he must fulfill.
So, even with all the tapalexic hurpareksflorters accounted for - and there were many - where the damn broke and sun cracked like an egg on the horizon, spilling juicy beams of cholesterol and light down upon the parched and lonely earth.
Pretty bad day. I can’t stand this heat. It is nearly 90ºF and I’m sweating just sitting here at my desk.
And my air conditioner is on, just like it has been all year. This is absurd.
And the doctors said there’s nothing wrong with me. I have half a mind to have another blood test, despite the fact that I keep getting newbie technicians who can’t find my damn veins. Not entirely their fault. I can’t find my veins either. I don’t really want to. >.<
I just hope it’s not hot in the office, too. I might die.