Dork Fears

Something that never seems to go away, no matter how long I have been blogging, is this almost constant desire to delete every post I’ve published. I read over them the next day, and suddenly I feel like such an asshole. My feelings about Pride now read like an annoying lecture given by the kind of guy who’s no fun at a party. Suddenly I can imagine every valid argument against my opinion, and they all sound more intelligent and more funny. Suddenly a minor quip about party boys sounds self-righteous and arrogant, and I want to change everything or just hit delete.

The posts I write about the past, the little stories from memory, are less prone to this, as they deal with past feelings and events. I still feel raw when I post them, vulnerable and anxious. I’ve gone too far this time, I think, every time.

But let me emphasize the final words of the previous post: that I am the dorky one. I am the one who is more worried about how to get to campus from La Guardia than I am about writing well during the workshop (at least, that is how I feel today. When I get there, my worries will naturally morph into new worries). I am the dork who is more worried about lifting weights during the workshop than writing during the workshop because I want to look good for when I return to SF and the space monkey finally lands. I am the dork who worries that I won’t be cool enough for New York, that all my clothes will be stupid and too casual and that I will just have to deal because I don’t want to be carting around two or three suitcases of clothes in cabs and on the subway. I’m the dork who is afraid to meet people I’ve been corresponding with for over a year or two because, well, I am a dork. I am a self-indulgent dork who can only write about himself and the dumb past.

But take all this with a grain of salt. I am a dork, but I also exaggerate everything to cover my ass. If I was really all that worried, I’d just stay home.

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