radcliffe-2 domain was triggered too early. This is usually an indicator for some code in the plugin or theme running too early. Translations should be loaded at the init action or later. Please see Debugging in WordPress for more information. (This message was added in version 6.7.0.) in /home1/tollopa/public_html/colin-adams.com/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6131I entered my late twenties recently. My roommate seems to think I’m knocking on death’s door because of this. Been meaning to buy a cane.
There’s an old proverb, “A life sentence certainly becomes less of a deterrent the older I get.”
There’s an episode of House one time where it turns out a wife is secretly trying to kill her husband by sprinkling a little gold dust into his food for each meal. Somehow this is supposed to give him heavy-metal poisoning (like lead poisoning) which is rarely ever tested for. I’m not sure of the biological mechanism.
I filled out my benefits for next year today. Got pissed off that health insurance isn’t free in America. My mom called me at the same time and she could hear how pissy I was in my voice.
I watched a movie where a very elderly woman has a stroke or something, and is bedridden the whole time. At the end, her husband suffocates her with a pillow. It’s not clear to me if the audience was supposed to think this was a good thing or not.
My grandma sometimes needs help loading her concealed-carry pistol because her arthritis makes it hurt to put bullets in the magazine.
One of the most disturbing movies was Midsommar. The whole premise follows a Swedish culture that is still apparently chill with Ättestupa (a ritualistic senicide), among other things.
I’ve never really believed I’d make it to my thirties, intuiting that a horrific car crash would get me. It almost happened at 11:00 pm on the night of my 27th birthday. (Not my fault.) I can’t stop thinking about it.
My dad’s stepdad (my step grandpa?) called me the other day and told me that he went walking from 3:00 am to 6:00 am; at some point, he fell and cut his face. His memory is failing.
“Sedentary lifestyle for 20 years linked to doubled early mortality risk compared to being active.” I’ve become a sloth ever since my brother got married.
Last night, I was hovering over the Purchase button on a single $20 concert ticket in West Hollywood a month from now. It’s a punk band, which apparently I’m into now. And I don’t even like concerts that much. But I got a really powerful urge to go. I think it’d be fun, even though I’d be alone. I should go.
Prior to that, I matched with someone on Tinder in San Diego. Her profile says she’s looking for “Short Term Fun” and is clearly looking for a rebound. I thought I was a great candidate: a willing, definition of short-term, rebound (who at the very least is fuckable and— dare I say, is handsome?).
Neither ended up happening, but it was the first time I seriously began to believe there is a very significant chance I end up alone for the rest of my life. It wasn’t in a pity-me way, but more objectively, if that makes any sort of sense. And that was the surprising thing for me: it was the first time that I thought it might be best for everyone involved, for both me and—you know—the world, I guess.
I’ve been trying to read One Hundred Years of Solitude again after I read some of it for my brother’s wedding. It’s really good, but it’s a tough read. Anyway, there’s a part in it where a pair of twins get swapped when they’re babies in the cradle, and they live their lives with the wrong name, die at the same time, and then their bodies are accidentally swapped when placed in the coffins. I never knew what to make of that for the past decade since first reading it, but I’ve thought about it a lot. Sometimes, when introducing myself with a fun fact, I tell people I’m not a twin. I usually get a laugh or two. Some are genuine, some not as much. My brother was a twin though.
So… the past year has been a year not of routine but of lost routine. I seem to have misplaced most of them. I mean they’re probably laying around my apartment somewhere, but I can’t find them. I haven’t written anything of note in a year—with the exception of a failed proposal or two for work. I somehow managed to even stop the once-mandatory routine of exercising substantially every day. Now it’s like twice a week, but barely. I don’t cook consistently, and I kind of eat like shit.
And now my lack of routines somehow is its own routine. If I don’t go grocery shopping on Sunday, then I will persist on frozen food for the week, no matter how dire. I basically don’t see my friends outside of work unless it’s part of a routine, like my weekly Bachelorette cult on Wednesdays.
Because of this, my life is flying by. My brother got married. My friends are engaged and doing fun things on Instagram. My parents travel the world. And I’m just sitting here thinking about moving to DC and even talking about it to anyone that’ll listen for some reason. I tell myself that change is good and that I need to try something different. But then I tell myself that I have so many friends here, and that my friends in DC will probably move soon anyway, so why rock the boat? But it’s not like I actually see them that much. So besides a traumatic move, I don’t think my life will be that different. There’ll still be shitty traffic, but I’ll just be colder during the fall and winter and hotter during the summer.
But work has been going well, and so now my Routine has mostly been focused on that. And this is sad, because I know my Past Self would give me the proverbial finger wag and my Past Self would tell me to prioritize my life better. Like there’s that novelette I never quite finished and there’s that NYC marathon I said I’d try and qualify for and there’s all that other stuff I should actually get around doing.
The last time I went karaoke-ing, it was February and cold, and I got way drunker than everyone else. I distinctly remember started singing “Who Let the Dogs Out?”, which seemed like a good idea, but it turns out that song is way too long and way too repetitive to be a good singalong song; I still don’t quite know how much I embarrassed myself.
Later that night I ended up sleeping on the floor with a friend at a different friend’s apartment. We cuddled and snuggled and hugged and nibbled and scratched and slowly went from none- to half-naked; she let me touch her (at least until her conscious overcame her) but we didn’t kiss.
That night, we didn’t sleep a wink, both from our excessive heat radiating into each other and being blue-balled enthralled with the idea of going just a little further with each other, just not quite jumping in.
As we teased each other and ourselves the whole night, these large dogs were barking at nothing in the distance—not aggressively, but like they were defeated. Barking just to let someone know that they’re there, maybe. And each time I go back and relive that memory, those goddamn dogs are there with us.
I never wash my car. Ever. It’s like a principle thing. Instead, I choose to wait. I wait for rain in LA. And I wait for my mother to visit me. One occurs slightly more often than the other, but the other is much more effective.
My car used to be my mom’s car. She didn’t take great care of it (meaning she’d bump into things), but she did a good job, and it sparkled more often than not. It’s not that she was only interested in keeping up appearances (which, admittedly she was), she just liked it.
I think that maybe she liked getting her car washed because she still feels the wonder and fun that only rainbow foam and scary, spinning sponges slapping the car can make you feel. Maybe she still feels like a little kid instead of what adults are supposed to feel like, what I feel like. She is still full of energy, tries new things, spends her money, and by and large, is absolutely crushing life. Maybe that’s what happens if you never stop getting car washes.
Cooking means a lot of things to a lot of people—you know, like love. To some people, it means going to the grocery store every day after work, roaming the aisles, smelling the produce, buying the freshest ingredients, and coming home to make a proper meal. This is the person I want to be. And then there are the people who meal prep for the week on Sunday. I used to fall somewhere in between. To others, cooking means whipping out a Trader Joe’s meal from the freezer and dethaw it using the oven instead of the microwave. This is what I do now because of my commute. My parents also extended this level of effort when I was growing up. But the first thing I thought of was meth. Yes, that’s right, in the word-association game: cooking = manufacturing methamphetamine to me. Thank you so much, Breaking Bad. But, but—to be fair—it’s not really my fault. Meth’s been on my mind a lot lately. I am neck-deep in the final season of Better Call Saul (the Breaking Bad prequel that has somehow managed to be even better than its predecessor). Goddamn, that last episode was a real heart-breaker. And to be honest, it was more of a gut punch to me than I felt when my ex and I broke up nearly two years ago. And before you go around calling me an asshole for saying that, consider first that I’ve had a nearly 15-year-long relationship with this character but only had three with her. And after you do that, then you can call me an asshole. Characters aren’t real, even when they feel like they are.
Inspired by the girl who I’m seeing’s list of 20, but much less thought out, and written in less than 20 minutes:
I stayed at an Airbnb in Vicenza, Italy—a quaint town in Northern Italy, sandwiched between Venice and Milan. It’s not a tourist hotspot, but it is full of Americans. Army Americans specifically.1 Anyway, my mom balled out (as the kids say) and booked us a beautiful apartment three stories above the restaurant that my brother was a frequent patron of, sat squarely across the cathedral, and overlooked the plaza. It was Thanksgiving, which obviously isn’t a thing in Europe, but the town was getting ready for Christmas, so catenary lights made the nights not so dark. It was the first time that I realized that Italians just seem to get it: waking up late, drinking espresso, staying up late, drinking limoncello.
I will say, however, that the most memorable Airbnb I ever stayed at was a tiny little bamboo hut in rural Indonesia. I stayed there with a very special person. There were many sounds: the Australian five-year-old who couldn’t fall asleep in the hut next door; the insects that made it hard to sleep; the cheap motorcycles that made it even harder; the dog that repeatedly bit another dog until the most horrible sound I’ve ever heard came out; a song that sang Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, I love you, I love you over and over again; the sound we made as we cried while that song played.
I first chose a preference for my name in kindergarten when my entire class made me and Collin Walden decide how to distinguish ourselves in everyone’s limited lexicon. Collin got to choose first, and for some reason, decided he wanted to be called “Collin W.” for the year. I think I got the proverbial-W that year.
But now I’m choosing a new name, and I think I will start calling myself E.D.—for emotionally dyslexic. I’ve been doing this online dating thing for a while now, and I go on my fair share of dates, to the point where I’ve stopped getting nervous about them now. And through all those dates, there have only been two people that I felt like I’ve vibed with. For both people, “K.” and “M.”, our third date ended up at my 300-square-foot apartment1 where we’d cook or something, and inevitably, I had to show them my lofted bed; it’s not like I can hide it. I continue to laugh it off and pretend like I’m not actually super self-conscious about it.
I kissed “K.” after walking her to her car as the night ended; perhaps I was too hard on myself, but I thought I did a terrible job kissing her.2 “M.” and I went further.3 During and immediately after both of these third dates, I thought it went well and that we both vibed off each other. And yet, after each time, they texted me two days later to break things off. It’s weird because, during that inbetween-y day, I could feel in my bones that something was off. And voilà! I was right.
Sometimes I’m Mr. Emotionally Dyslexic and sometimes I’m just Colin, albeit a bit whiny right now.
During my first day here in Austin, it was 97 degrees and humid as hell. It felt like I was in China again1—you know, if you ignore the three-ton pick-up trucks and the “No Open Carry” signs plastered all over stores. And there is undoubtedly that certain Texas charm, there’s no denying that: the live music in the bars; the shops full of cowboy boots and hats; and the freedom that’s thicker than the sticky air.
I’ve been saying for some time now that I’d think it’d be fun to live in the South.2 But my blue-necked California/Colorado kith are too goddamned closed-minded to even consider it. Of course, I look like me, and I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up and then resort to a DIY abortion. But yeah, sure, politicking aside, then (select parts of) the South would be fun to live in.
I came to Texas to see about a girl if I could do a Ph.D. here. It was between Texas and New York. But the answer is going to be neither. It’s actually been quite a personal journey. I think I’ve realized that I’m not a graduate-school boy; I like my cushy life; I don’t have any burning intellectual passion—hell, I’m starting to believe that I don’t really have any actual interests that persist.3
So that’s been a bit of a reality check for me in the like depressing sense. I feel like I always knew that being someone who gets a Ph.D. is the type of person I should be—but I’m not. And accepting that stings. Because now if there’s no new distinct milestone to set my sights on in my future, then this is just, like, it. This is my life now, and it feels so fucking aimless and hollow. I guess maybe I should buy some boots and spurs while I’m down here, then I can get up on a new horse and try and figure it out.