Me: oh, I’m going to record this interview so that I can just take casual notes and intuitively drive the conversation whilst I gather the relevant and interesting information more organically and with far less effort than a traditional interview style.
Also me: well lookee there. Fuckknuckles if that’s not a shitacular surprise…there’s my damn therapist who’s seen me bawl like a little bitch and knows all about my history of interpersonal horrorshow-level trauma. Great. At least I’m recording this interview, so that I can just pretend to be taking notes while I’m trying not to act like a total dweeb because I’m cognitively preoccupied with the experience of being flooded all at once by every last gram of my lifelong trauma because his face is associated in my brain with the entire saga of interpersonal mindfuckery through which I’ve lived, despite even my very best efforts to not.
Also me: I have this vague sense of dread over having to transcribe this interview into notes that I can then use to weave together a largish featurey human interesty story about a new downtown practice that focuses on mindfulness and community. I think I’ll put it off for about six and a half hours so that I can just focus on literally everything else in the whole world I could possibly do with my life.
Also me: oh shiiiiiit. It’s not vaguely horrifying anymore. Now I get exactly why I didn’t want jack and/or shit to do with this interview. The dissonance between the way I sound in my head and the way I actually sound is overwhelming, and I don’t sound great to start with in my head. Not only did I get to live an hour of profound social discomfort, now I get to sit here at my desk and listen to the entire thing all over again while trying to type fast enough – even with the incredible multitude of awkward silences contained herein – to ensure that I only have to do it this one…last…godforsaken…time.
And then, 60 column inches of notes in (that’s about four single-spaced pages, or about 42 minutes out of an hour and ten), the lights flicker and the computer croaks and guess what, bitches?
From the top.
My life is a dark, poorly-written sitcom.
In other news, Harper lost her second tooth last night. It was one month to the day from the loss of her first tooth, right next to this one.
Ignore my nails.
Need to get to Denny for that fill, y’all.
I’m not ashamed.
Have a great Wednesday.
Or I’ll beat you.
In all the good ways.