If that page asks you for a password and you don't have one, then what I've linked to is the first edition of my new weekly column in the DFP which will run every Friday. So if you're in the area, be sure to pick it up and write the DFP letters about how great I am to balance the hate mail I've already been promised by a few people (though when I run out of ideas and turn in my completely sincere column about how WACKY AND NUTTY THE FACEBOOK IS LOL, I expect all of you to be on my ass harder than anyone). I have the slot that belonged to Catherine Babcock last semester, so make of that what you will.
It's called "The Whole Truth" which I don't like but it wasn't my idea. In the first meeting, I was told the column was my place to express myself and I should take advantage of this. So when the editorial page editor asked me if I thought about names, I told him my first thought was "I'm Trying." He clearly hated it and asked me politely if I had anything else. I told him I had also considered "This is all true." He shrugged again and said that he was worried that these weren't "traditional" names for columns and said he'd think about it. I was expecting to wake up in the morning with an awful name for my column, but to his credit, the editor called me and suggested "The Whole Truth." Yeah, it sounds like I'm an arrogant political columnist rather than a meaningless self-deprecating humor columnist, but I am still too grateful to have a column at all to care and I allowed it.
As soon as he said the name, I had a powerful flashback moment. I suddenly remembered a dream I had freshman year in which I received a column and it was called "The Whole Truth" and it wasn't my idea and I didn't like it at all. I can only assume this is true because it wasn't deja vu, it was an incredibly powerful memory. Which is weird. Luckily, the dream I had Thursday night wherein my column was edited so heavily that it turned into 800 words on the NBA (and specifically how it is unfair that the tall people simply block the shots of the shorter players) did not come true.
If the DFP web site is asking you for a password and you don't have one, here's the column (an extended version of something I posted here back in March or something).
The other day, I ate lunch with a friend of mine who told me I should meet another friend of hers. I was skeptical, as I usually am, because I think I already have too many friends as it is and was actually thinking of making some cuts. "You'll like him," she said. "Everyone who knows both of you says he's just like you."
This made me quite nervous. All of a sudden, I felt a lot of pressure. Ever since I've been conscious, I've been convinced that were I ever to meet myself, I'd almost certainly hate myself. After all, what is there to like? I'm truly astounded I have any friends as it is, but I suppose different people have different tolerances for these sorts of things.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly bored and especially self-centered, I imagine what it would be like to have a conversation with myself. We'd probably get along well enough at first, marveling at our remarkably similar taste in music and movies and the like. But I'm sure it wouldn't be long until I found myself unbearably annoying. Jared Fogle would probably come up somehow. I'd mention how I find Subway's Jared hilarious with his big pants and all. The other me would roll my eyes at this obvious attempt to appear offbeat and quirky, knowing full well that only the dullest of people ever try something like this.
Our conversation would be stilted and awkward the entire time. We'd probably forget each other's names (Chuck was it? Oh right, Chris, like me, haha) and even though I'd forget too I'd still be resentful. I would tell a joke and the other me would force some fake laughter. I would notice and get angry again. "Don't patronize me," I would think. "I haven't heard you say anything funny."
In the agony of being forced to sit down and socialize with this nitwit, I would come up with some transparently fake excuse to extricate myself from the situation. I would realize I was just making things up to get out of there and quite justifiably take offense. The next day, both of us would ask our mutual friends what they could possibly see in that boring, self-absorbed, dimwitted, offensively unfunny jackass.
As bad as I am now, I was even worse as a child, if you can believe it. I would probably apologize to every adult I ever knew if I weren't so certain they'd force me to apologize for the way I am now as well. As a child, I was basically the same as I am today only louder, less funny and with a complete and unshakeable confidence that everyone around me wanted to hear every thought I ever had.
As I've evolved as a person, I've always hated my past selves. By the time seventh grade rolled around, I was mortified that, for no particular reason at all, I used to stretch my socks up my legs instead of bunching them up at the bottom like a normal person (I have pictures that you cannot see). Even worse, I didn't just have regular white socks; they had bright colored bands around the top that faded and stretched near my knee. In 10th grade, I would have recognized my middle-school self as possessing every trait I hate in every punk little kid in my neighborhood. I would yell all the time and jump around like a chimp.
I'm surprised no adults ever slapped me around. I'm sure the temptation was almost overpowering. And my 12th grade self would have found the whiny, mopey, moody 10th-grade Chris completely insufferable. This would have been just about the only thing my 12th-grade self ever would have gotten right because he is a complete idiot.
As I grew older, the gap between the present and the most recently hated past self began to close. Soon I was disliking selves only months old, then weeks, then only hours. I think the best sign that someone has reached maturity is when he hits the point where he can't stand to be around himself in real time. When my embarrassment of my past became full-fledged in-the-moment self-loathing, I knew I was finally on the road to adulthood. If the trend continues, I will probably end up keeping my dumb mouth shut once and for all by the time I hit 25 and begin hating future selves who will probably end up doing something stupid eventually.
To my great relief, I found the other me quite personable. He was nice, he seemed intelligent, and we had a pleasant little conversation. It was not at all the ordeal I had been expecting and I would actually not be averse to speaking to him again. "Thank God," I thought. "He really isn't like me."
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