Things I don't do well.

This was inspired by an English person.

Shave. I consistently miss a good inch long swath under my chin. It might be because I shave in the shower, but I am not here to make excuses. I owe you the unvarnished truth, dear reader.

Sing. I’m a master of inventing melodies that might start more on less on the same note of the song I’m attempting to sing, but then wildly gambol to far off places.

Speak. I have a weasally nasally, reedy speaking voice with a whistling “s”. Excruciating really. I've been told I do not sound sincere, ever.

Converse. I’m a little bit introverted, so ordinary conversation usually bores the hell out of me. I can’t follow small talk, I fake laugh inappropriately loud, I forget words, invent others and swear too much.

Go to the doctor. I’m afraid to find out I have some embarrassing malady, like shingles or anal warts. Of course, with anal warts, I’m sure I could self-diagnose that, uh, condition.

Coordinate clothes. I think I’m being not trendy and insouciant (a word I fucking LOVE, ever since I heard Moby use it on some crappy VH1 show and sound like a dick) and Wittgensteinian and stuff, but I think I look like an asshole a lot of times.

Converse with my daughter. She’s five. She draws for hours, and I’m bummed that we don’t talk as much as we did when she was four. She’s a great artist, of course. But dang, we used to talk all deep and shit.

Discouraging my son’s butt picking. In the past, I was on that guy if his hand went below his waist. Now he’s got to be fairly AUTO-SPELUNKING before I can even be bothered. That’s no good.

Not eat cookies and almonds. I eat cookies like the sassy fat bastard I am. I also eat almonds like a fiend, even though they sit in my stomach like an abandoned ten-speed. Got to cut that crap out.

Sleep. I sleep like a goddamn asshole. I’m just not good at it. I snore, so maybe I have sleep apnea. Great, I’m dying. Of course, co-sleeping, a fiendish plot by hippy nihilists to destroy humanity, kicks my goddamn ass. It doesn’t help that I live in $700,000 two bedroom shack.

Practice Stylistic Diversity. I write for a living, and I am resistant to change my writing for the assignment. I’d rather write overblown and weird than terse and concise. I get petulant when I have to be serious. I’m a baby.

Yard work. I hate it. I hate…leaves. I hate weeds. I hate the hot dusty August sun causing me to sweat. The thing is I admire people who can happily garden. It’s useful, productive hobby, unlike my major hobby: blathering useless information to my wife who tolerates me.

Have pigment. While not an albino, I am a pale and can get egg plantish after only a few hours in the sun. I can tan after a week or so in the sun, but it only lasts a day before I start sloughing vast sheets of flesh. I actually can remember the DAY that I had a good tan. It was spring vacation when I was about sixteen. I stayed in Santa Cruz for a week and went to the beach everyday. That Friday night, I looked like betelnut. By Saturday morning, I had begun aggressively molting.

Eat green things. Salads are a chore. Celery is mind numbing. I like tacos, Chicken Korma, lamb chops, lobster in bourbon sauce, milk shakes, Chicken in spicy garlic sauce, you know, good deadly foods. I would rather be shot in the face and live than have to suffer through a large sprouty salad.

Appear sane. I am actually a sort of pleasant person. Or I try to be. But I have this habit when I’m deep in thought of going into scowl, of the scary Japanese temple guardian variety. Really frightening. Isn’t a good thing for the morning train.

Hotels Am mildly creeped out by hotels, especially nice ones. I'm at a loss at what I'm supposed to do in a hotel room, which stinks because I invariably can't sleep. The disconnect of a hotel room sort of looking like a home yet being sterile and sans books gives me the heebie-jeebies. Houses without books do the same thing.

Not fretting about money, earthquakes, and the end of the civilization. Three things I’ve been worrying about lately. Money, because I have kids and a mortgage and I need a raise and my wife has gone freelance and such is the mark that our civilization makes on middle class goons like myself. If this were the Aztec empire, I’d be worrying about if I sacrificed enough Chiquaquas to the Dreaded Corn Lord. Earthquakes and the end of civilization come simply because I have an overactive imagination and can enter long periods of pessimism and low grade Weltschmerz.

But,I do laugh a lot, which is good. And I make my wife laugh. And my kids are affectionate and gratifyingly wise-assy. So that’s good.