Social Graces & Other Enigmas

I'm socially inept.

I can write pretty, but you plop me into a crowded room full of interesting people and I seize up like a 72 Gremlin with no synchromesh.

I'm pretty sure I am afflicted with a high, but tragically one-sided Social IQ. I pick up and process ass-loads of incoming data. On the other hand, should I try to contribute my fair share to the conversation, my words either won't be heard or I will sound like an inconsequential nincompoop.

I'm like what your internet experience would be if regulations prohibited your provider from marketing bold-faced lies about download rate.

If you see me paralyzed on a padded footstool at a social gathering, you can bet your over-hopped beer my mental computer is processing petrabytes of visual, auditory, sensory, and olfactory input. I know what you're thinking before you say it. I could probably mime what you're about to say so that you'd feel like your brain was running on a two-second delay.

I know you think that I've gained weight. I know you've speculated that my faux-hipster beard masks a double chin. I know you can't remember just what it is I do for a living. I know you think I'm an armchair liberal who hasn't lifted a finger to help the human condition. And, so on and so forth.

Rest assured if you ever deigned to talk to me...that is, if you surveyed the entire room to find everyone else animated and engaged and then had to settle on the likes of me as the last possible option beyond the dog, I would regale you with incomprehensible sentences on a topic you couldn't give two shits about.

Praise the gods of humility for Pablo Neruda.

"When everything seems to be set to show me off as a man of intelligence, the fool I keep concealed on my person takes over my talk and occupies my mouth."
— Pablo Neruda