I did notice one thing about today's selfies: in every pose I look like I'm going through the motions. Line 'em up, snap the pics — there they are, all bright eyed and alive, and there I am, dead-eyed and dreary.
Maybe I'm just too serious and cynical. Pair me with someone like Moloney, or these two goofballs, and there's no doubt who's the life of the party. Spencer and Daniel, the aforementioned goofballs, think they'd like me to hang with them at Dublin's Pass, but they also think I'm kidding around when I tell them how consistently terrified I am of life, how every fucking day is a battle and it takes most of my strength just to get through it with a snarl and a rattle of the cage bars as the people around me laugh and say oh that's just rondavis, what a character he is. They don't see that I'd love to be accepted as me — not a character, not a curmudgeon, not an iconoclast — just me, a quiet guy who avoids crowds because they make me uncomfortable and uncertain and tongue-tied. A guy who wishes to find a like-minded weird soul to relish life with, but the more I look and learn the more I become increasingly sure that this is what the rest of my life will be like — solitary and too often sad, wearier and more wary. Too wary to let myself tend to whatever spark is still glowing behind my eyes. But fuck, I'm not going to settle for someone just because I'm lonely and want to romp. I may be a libertine but I have high standards. I'd rather be alone than be with someone because it's convenient or easy. I know what will put the fire back in my eyes.
I go outside and pick up two fistfuls of fallen leaves, throw them high in the air to gin up some enthusiasm for the day. The wind catches the leaves and blows them into the face of the person taking my picture. My Mary Tyler Moore moment is a bust. Fuck it. I still tell myself I'm going to make it after all. I am, right? Right?