4:20 p.m. - February 04, 2006
Case in point:
Received a copy of my book yesterday, a beautiful shiny-hardcover-full-color text that is more beautiful than the mock draft led me to envision. My book in my hands, accompanied by a range of emotions that squeezed past that trusted monitor of mine. Good emotions, overwhelming emotions, a fantastic set of feelings. Showed the book to a few people and found myself suddenly shy yet bold - hey, check this out - it's a book I wrote - and I positively loved the hugs and congratulations, not because such attention stroked the ego, but because I stepped out of my comfort zone where I don't share my life with people. It felt good to have Nicole shriek and hug me like I had handed her a million dollars, and to have Marl and the others ooh and aah. Just good, not unseemly or prideful, but pleasant.
So today, emboldened by yesterday, I drove to my father's house to give him and his Lady Friend a copy. Gave her the flowers and said I wanted to give them a copy of my book; my dad said oh!, looked at the cover, and handed it back. Nice he said, and then asked me if the smoke alarm he was installing was working. It was. I tried again like a pathetic fool who just doesn't get it, and said maybe he'd want to look at it later, this copy was for him. And just like turning down a door-to-door vacuum salesman, he said he didn't have time.
You have no idea how that hurt. I feel stupid and I'm angry for feeling stupid, for setting myself up when I should have known better. When will I learn that there are reasons I'm the way I am, with most of them there to insulate me from shit like this.
Loooooooooooser. I hate it.