NOSTALGIAMANIC DEPRESSION. 5.26.06
My mom recently stopped by with a few photos to give me... apparently she'd found an old disposable camera that hadn't been developed, and did what all females would have done: immediately run to CVS to get it developed. Turns out they were candid photos of my college days, undoubtedly snapped by friends and drunken well-wishers who happened to be invading my dorm room. Mom dukes was very excited to see the prints.
First of all, let me tell you that I can't think of anything more potentially dangerous than having your mother peer over your shoulder as you try to rifle through these mortifying accounts of your days in neverneverland. Second of all, since when does exposed film last that long? Now I feel the need to ransack my mom's condo just to make sure she doesn't "happen upon" pictures of me in leather chaps from five years ago.
At any rate, for those of you who don't know, I don't do photos... at least, not photos of friends and family. I don't snap them, and I don't collect them. If you've sent me a photo at any point in my life, rest assured it was enjoyed for five minutes, and then promptly thrown in the trash. Nothing against you, I just don't want the nostalgia of days gone by, as my logical side tells me I'll look back on those days with yearning and regret. And I don't do yearning or regret, because they're counterproductive emotions.
That said, you can understand how I react when I actually do come across pictures of yesteryear. I'm like those african kids who just can't fathom how you crazy white devils can turn a simple piece of paper into a striking representation of my life. It affects me deeply, as the nostalgia I'm always devoid of comes rushing to my brain. This particular batch of photos had it all... ex-girlfriends, bosom buddies, and memorable occasions that I obviously ended up not remembering.
Next thing I know, I'm sitting there dwelling on crap that has been over and gone for years now. "Man, my ex really was beautiful... she has such a glow about her in this photo. Why'd I break up with her again? Oh yeah, the webbed feet." Ok, since she might be reading this, she didn't actually have webbed feet. At least, I never noticed it if she did. I'm sure I would've been ok with it, unless she was all like, "lick my webbed feet you bastard!"
Bah. This is why I don't like photographs... I'm trying to achieve the opposite here folks: forgetting everything that's happened to me up until twenty seconds ago. Like a housefly. With alzheimer's. And a severed limb, just for the hell of it.