Numbing Qualities, A Dead Fish and Squeaky Floorboards

I don’t know if I’ve gotten accustomed to living in a big city just yet. San Francisco is a very different place from the rest of the world, and any world that I’m familiar with. It’s expensive, chaotic, and fun. You have the ability to just disappear, to become transparent and live in a big city without knowing anyone, yet. The anonymity of just being in a massive cluster of people, all swooshing by you at once is kind of exciting. And lonely. But I guess right now (while this is all still new to me, as everything always is) it’s more exciting than anything else.

And yet.

I’ve fallen into this weird gap that keeps me from any sort of socialization, which bothers me a bit. I’m too young, I’m too old, I’m too in my head all the time. Maybe I’m just being cynical and the like, but I’ve found myself in this very strange situation, in which I’m becoming numb to the things that once troubled me. I’ll equate this to something silly and fun, like when your foot falls asleep: one part of you has become numb, while another part is simply not asleep. It’s not like I’m distancing myself from my sleeping foot, I’m quite aware that it’s still there, an appendage that will always be there (I think) but I’ve decided that it’s a numb quality about me that, for the time being, I would like to forget. My sleeping, tingling foot has become this old characterization of me, all numb and dead inside, while the rest of me is finally beginning to feel a little less dead, and a little more living. This is probably the point where you stop reading, if you haven’t already, and just click that little red-x-goodbye button.

A fish that I wasn’t all that familiar with died, the other day. He was a little black one, bigger and fancier than all the rest. I should start by saying that the fish wasn’t really in my care, but let’s just say I happened upon this little, black, dead fish. I live in a house with a really great lady and her son, and the fish was his. They were out of town this weekend, but had already fed the fishies and there was no need for me to do anything for them.

And yet. In my care, one of them expired and floated down to the bottom of the aquarium, to bounce around with the shrimp who was hanging out by the moss ball. The other living fishies (guppies, are somehow harder to kill, I believe) looked on in horror, hiding on the other side of the cage, near the bubbly thing. My third grade self, my hidden numb-foot-persona reappears from stage left, calling out some sad sorrow about a fucking fish. I felt partly responsible, but some part of me really hated how I always seem to discover dead and dying things. It’s really dumb. I left this elaborate note about the dead fish, but somehow that doesn’t seem okay enough.

The squeaky floorboards in this place bother me. I always end up scaring myself, walking around the house, or going to the fridge to get some water. Creep Creep Squeak Creep Squeak. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal, or maybe I just need to walk softer, but I guess if I have one foot asleep, I’m not going anywhere quietly.

More later.