So yesterday I texted Taylor about mid-afternoon and notified him that I would be spending the evening doing Serious Writing, and therefore any plans he had for fun and frolic would have to wait. Taylor agreed that Serious Writing is pretty important, and so after I got home and took a shower and ate some dinner, he left me to it. I promptly sat down and drew the following picture of Batman:
You guys, I am pretty obsessed with Batman lately, and I completely blame this Batman: Arkham Asylum game. For the uninitiated: Batman is a costumed vigilante. Arkham Asylum is where all of his crazier foes go when they’re caught. Naturally, you spend the entire game frolicking through the Asylum, hucking Batarangs at anything that moves and sneaking up behind dudes so you can ether them in the face. It’s pretty easy to get into.
Here’s where I state the obvious and say that I have an addictive personality. I used to think that an ‘addictive personality’ meant that everybody thought I was so great they were literally addicted to my presence, but no. It just means that if I eat one jelly-bean I will be found about six hours later with forty-three empty jelly-bean bags scattered around my caramelized corpse, having died of sudden-onset diabetes.
I was about to say that I am incapable of doing anything by halves, but that is one hundred percent a bald-faced lie. I do pretty much everything by halves. Or even three-fourths. But that half I do? I do that half with an unwavering intensity.
Example: I tell myself that today I am going to get a cup of coffee. The way I buy my coffee (grande triple-shot hazelnut mocha) costs like four freakin’ bucks, and so it’s not a daily, or even weekly occurrence. I make that holy pilgrimage to Starbucks maybe once or twice a month. It’s a big deal, you guys. So I decide to go get that cup of coffee on my lunch break, and all morning I think about it. I plot. Do I say ‘hazelnut’ first? Or ‘triple-shot’? ‘Triple-shot hazelnut’ sounds about right, and it almost rhymes. That’s the way I’ll do it. Maybe get a two dollar croissant too. Those are expensive goddamn croissants but they are totally worth it. Really, they’re just butter in pastry form. Some scientific innovation gone wrong, probably. Like, the military was all, “Listen up, scientists! It’s time to weaponize butter!” and after a battery of intense chemical treatments the butter came up a croissant, and the military was a little disappointed but not that much, because croissants are fantastic. Someone should write a book about the perfect pastries to pair with coffee. Like people do with wine. Only with coffee. Like, “Oh yes mmhmm a Dutch Bros. iced almond latte? That would go excellently with our crumb cake mmhmm nyyesss.” There probably ARE books like that. I should go find some books like that, maybe at Borders. That’s near the Starbucks. I can go to Borders and drink my grande triple-shot hazelnut mocha and look for books about pastries. Yes. Yes. Excellent.
This goes on completely uninterrupted until my lunch break actually arrives. I eagerly get into the car and start driving down 9th Street, wondering if I should order that coffee extra-hot or not, when suddenly I spot a sign by the shopping complex advertising Jamba Juice.
And just like that I whang my steering wheel to the left, tires squealing, and barrel into the parking lot to get some Jamba Juice because it sounds absolutely delicious. At that point, I have completely forgotten that I ever had any intention of buying coffee at all.
This is pretty much an allegory for my entire life. You’ll notice this post started out about Serious Writing and then was about Batman and ended up being about crumb cake or something, I don’t even know.
So anyway. Back to Batman.
Because I am unable to just casually enjoy anything in moderation, I have been playing Batman basically everyday for about a week. Every night I come home and Taylor opens his arms, ready for a big snuggly bear hug, and I nimbly dodge out of the way and beeline for the Playstation 3, shouting, “NO TIME FOR AFFECTION. ONLY TIME FOR BATMAN.”
I proceed to play for the rest of the evening, growling at Taylor if he moves his hands too near the controller or the volume settings on the television. Rarely, I will allow him to play (it should be noted that it is his game on his gaming console) but only so that I can look up The Riddler on Wikipedia and remind myself whether Selina Kyle is still Catwoman or whether there is a whole different Catwoman now. When I am not playing Batman, I am talking about Batman. To my friends. To my family. To people who stand near me in checkout-lines. To police officers who pull me over for going sixty-three in a residential area.
“Not my fault, Officer,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “The Batmobile was on autopilot.”
It has gotten to the point where I have started mentally attaching the word ‘bat’ to everything I say and do.
Taylor: “What are we going to eat with these sandwiches?”
Me: “I dunno. Lemme check the (Bat)fridge.”
Taylor: “When are you going to do the dishes?”
Me: “I wanted to take a (Bat)shower first.”
Taylor: “Hurry up, you’re going to be late for work.”
Me: “I know, I know, I’m still looking for my (Bat)pants.”
If Taylor is aware that I am doing this, he has not acknowledged it. He realizes, though, when I go on these binges the best thing to do is ignore it until it goes away. Soon I will be obsessed with My Little Ponies or Darth Maul, or the history of the tea trade in India. It’s only a matter of time, and he only has to put up with me until then.
He’s a pretty good sport about it.