I stayed up to read the bulk of and ultimately finish About a Boy. There’s a quote on the cover about about Nick Horby being the “… maestro of the male confessional”; this being his second book after High Fidelity. I saw both the movies before reading the books, but the film adaptation of this one maintained most of the British bits that were americanized in High Fidelity.

The books ends speaking of main characters changing in someone opposite ways, that is into people that each other was, but all the same being the best for everyone. Chapter thirty four ends with:

This thing about looking for someone less different . . . . It only really worked, he realized, if you were convinced that being you wasn’t so bad in the first place.

I called my mom tonight and the conversation started something like this.

How’s the weather?

Good.

Do you think Dad is more likely to blame himself for his problems, like emo, or to externalize his problems on to others and not take responsibility for them; sub question, what about twenty five years ago?

The twenty five years part started at twenty, and it slowly hit me like a brick shit house that I turn twenty six in a few days and twenty kind of missed the point; not that I was asking about before I was born, but before everything, in a Field of Dreams sort of way like “Oh my God….It’s my father…My God! I’d only seen him years later when he was worn down by life. Look at him. He’s got his whole life in front of him and I’m not even a glint in his eye. What do I say to him?”.

It seems at times that people are either convinced they’re a gift to the world and assume that they’re good people, or they think they’re shit and no good at all. Both are problematic, although I’ve tended to prefer those people that consider that they’re not the embodiment of God. What’s important is that you take a step back now and then and try to observe where you’re swinging, do some dead reckoning and continue on. I picked up on a thread that was only shortly bright in About a Boy in one passage that I recall that it seems people in my life have been reluctant to say/admit/pass along: There is not an answer.

The abundance of drama over the last season has been a catalyst for many conversations about whining, venting, and bits in between. We’re quick to point out that other people vent to let of steam and that they’re not looking for you to necessarily fix anything, about I feel like there haven’t been any conversations about the lack of an answer altogether that would fix anything. I suppose it comes off as a bit pessimistic, that we’re destined to a lifetime of toiling forward towards an obscure but definite end.

Events of late have left me thinking about what I think about myself. I had this notion in my head that just doing some of the things I was afraid of would not only reduce the anxiety through showing myself that there was little to fear in the first place, but show others that I was somehow more capable. The latter is really a sham, as I realize I have no idea what most people think about me, less that I’m a swell chap mostly.

I mentioned to my mother tonight that I have a nice binder of my computer certifications on my shelf in my bedroom and I really don’t know what to do with it. That is that I feel like it’s supposed to be representative of some kind of accomplishment in my life, but I’m not particularly proud of it, and it’s just sort of sitting there like a question mark on the shelf. She says I should be proud of what it represents and she’s probably right. Am I caught up in some sort of attempted exertion nonchalantness that doesn’t quite make itself public and is therefore missing the mark of the shrugging martyrdom? Possibly, I’m not sure about it. It sits there, gawking at my with an eyebrow raised every time I sit quietly in my room.

All in all, I don’t like feeling vulnerable, yet here I am, unsure what to do about it exactly. The fear of becoming cocky as a result of thinking more of myself really isn’t a concern, yet I’m not quite sure that thinking more highly of myself is a solution in and of itself.  I suppose Mom’s advice from the other night translates though; if you didn’t ever feel vulnerable, what would be there when you feel the opposite? Would you be feeling at all?