Day Three: Humiliation exfoliates the ego – July 9

At 5:50 am my alarm clock chirps and I rise with a singular purpose: Today I will humiliate myself.

I button up a wrinkled shirt. I pull up a pair of frayed jeans. I pour my coffee and sip, slowly. I walk to the window and gaze at the lifeless apartment building across the courtyard.

I contemplate the myriad ways of embarrassing myself. I want to look like a fucking idiot. I want people to stop and point. I want tourists to snap pictures of me. I want them to talk of me, in strange languages, back in their foreign homelands.

Before I leave, I give my bookshelf one last glance. I search for something I don’t want to find. I skim. Not a single book charts a journey of humiliation.

My story is a journey of humiliation. My story unfolds in the present moment. This is a narrative forged in life. Mortification is glory. Humiliation builds character – real character. Embarrassment is virtue.

I am not my humiliations, but my humiliations will become me.

I walk to the train. The dawn-lit streets are desolate. I get on the train and sleep. I’m at the gym. I’m benching more weight than my fragile frame can handle. I fall asleep at an office meeting. I doubt anyone notices. My eyelids are burdensome. Foggy mist shrouds my thoughts. Like looking at a cloudy swimming pool and not seeing the bottom. Only seeing cloudy muck. The time ticks like teeth of a gear. The minutes wilt without thought or purpose, simply routine. I fall asleep on the train ride home.

Emerging from the train station, I inch towards progress. I embarrass myself. As a warm up, I pretend I know the city-walking denizens. I pass them, look into their eyes, and give them a name and story.

.

-Hey! Tony! How’re the kids?

-Roger! What’s new? How’s the car working out?

I want someone to call me out. I want an indignant demand for an explanation. I want some belligerent to shout: “Who the fuck are you? My fucking name isn’t Jacky. And I didn’t just have an operation you piece of shit!”

But no one does.

They just politely nod and scurry on their way.

I sidle up to one guy and ask, “Chicken or quesadilla. What should I have for dinner tonight?” He responds like a bitchy girl. He pretends he doesn’t hear, or he doesn’t speak English.

I go on to list the pros and cons of quesadillas. I purposely pronounce them “case-ah-dill-ers” like I’m retarded.

Finally, he smiles and says, “Go with the chicken.” It’s a small victory for both of us. I nod and walk away.

I trot around, spouting irrelevant bullshit. I feel insane. But, after a while, I feel good. No. Not good. I feel fun. Can fun be an emotion? It should be. That’s how I feel: FUN. It’s a feeling like everyone is stuck in miserable bumper-to-bumper traffic and I’m ramming with a bumpercar.

Wee! Fun!

This is self-amusement. This is a start.

I get stares of concern and stares of hatred. Exactly the reaction I wanted. I’m breaking polite society’s rules. I’m rising up. I’m becoming ME.

Later that night a girl comes over. We watch a science fiction movie and have sweaty, hard sex. After an hour, I climax and feel instantly deflated, lifeless. I peel off the condom and examine it like a dead jellyfish. It sapped me of my spirit.

I muster the energy to crawl into an armchair.

I speak at random. I’m not aware of my nakedness or my tiredness or my complete lack of sexual desire. I just feel like talking. I talk about Shakespeare and aliens and homeless people and coffee. There is no reason for this conversation to exist other than for the words themselves. My voice fills the quiet moments of our lives with something utterly genuine.

This is self-amusement. This is a start.