I find the rubber sole of Aldo shoes to be the tastiest. Then again, maybe their flavor is enhanced by the fact that when I wear this particular brand, they are generally loafers and easier for me to insert into my mouth regularly. Multiple times every day, to be more specific.
I suffer from insert-foot-into-one’s-own-mouth syndrome. It’s a somewhat common ailment, but my case has advanced so far that it is seemingly incapable of going into remission.
The way that I communicate seems to be like a glass bottle of ketchup. I let the information kind of trickle out, not revealing too much, keeping an invisible guard up, and then … gush! Someone who knows the secret taps on the “57,” and everything just floods out. Too much. Too soon.
To those fellow neurotic types wondering whether they possess the hereditary traits that might develop into this syndrome -- don’t panic. It’s not caused by a recessive gene or an extra chromosome. Rather, it surfaces in social scenarios, potentially leaving the affected person a bit helpless, ashamed, and subsequently, lonely.
As I age and mature into my sexuality, I have found that the social failures of not possessing certain traits and not following certain behavioral patterns have induced a somewhat excessive amount of rejection. This rejection has mutated into this syndrome. The syndrome is then aggravated by distrust (and I have plenty of distrust). So once I encounter a potential friend, all that previous rejection leaves me feeling inadequate and awkward.
But what to do?
If you have rolled your eyes while reading so far … wait! This is not a pity party. In fact, I’m trying to approach this thing head-on and figure out a way to trust again.
But trust is not exactly an easy thing to come by when you are a homosexual in America today. We face restrictions on our rights; presidential promises that seem to be tepidly in progress, at best; myriad online hookup sites that make anonymity easy; too many people who continue to have unprotected anonymous sex; backstabbing; immaturity-induced fighting; and the competition that appears when people try to find companionship in a relatively small pool of potential mates.
So what do we do? I haven’t a clue. I hate to admit it, but the future doesn’t look particularly optimistic when it comes to this matter. This syndrome may be terminal.
In the meantime, I continue to discredit myself. Maybe I’ve evolved to protect myself from hurt by driving away those who might be agents of wrongdoing. I say “what the f^$%#?” Don’t I have enough challenges that maybe this one time I can have a pass?
Whatever the answer is, I’ve yet to discover it. And after looking to my elder gays for advice in this matter, I’ve found that it seems like a lot of them haven’t exactly figured it out either.
I guess the best thing for me to do is to have a little more hope. And with any luck, I won’t be in a situation that calls for ketchup, or at least I won’t be wearing white.
After all, as Morgan Freeman so eloquently says in The Shawshank Redemption: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”
