Awkward Asshole

It was never meant to be. I was home sick the day my primary school ran the sex education course. I missed out on the sex ed. talk in high school too. By the time I reached university it was too late, they just assume the knowledge. Now, 9 out of 10 times I don't understand sexual euphemisms. But I'm a fast learner and I've picked up a lot along the way.

In fact, I've found the same to be true for my lack of geographical knowledge. Fortunately, I impress people with my excellent sense of direction which (I believe) leads people to forget during dinner I admitted to thinking that Brunei was a type of soup.

But there is one thing that I have not yet mastered, or been able to bluff my way through, it being: how-to-function-like-a-normal-person-in-social-situations. If there were classes on it in school, I would have paid attention, instead of colour-coordinating my diary in ancient history, or spending my entire maths class trying to work out whether the knot on my neck was a cancerous lump and then proceeding to plan my funeral (flower arrangements, who will speak the eulogy, cremation or burial etc.).

Alas there were no classes, and it was not cancer. So, although I now know the double entendre of the term 'spit-roast' and can rattle off 5 countries that start with the letter Q, I am no better at functioning-like-a-normal-person-in-social-situations. As a result I often come across as, quite simply an asshole.







When I'm on a crowded bus and feel uncomfortable with the proximity of fellow commuters, my natural thought process is, if I get up real close to them and cough and weirdly touch my thigh against theirs, then they'll feel uncomfortable too and move away from me.



















I held a bunch of flowers in front of my face as I walked past someone on the street in order to avoid an awkward encounter.

















I told a friend when he had gained a little weight that, not to worry, the extra pounds don't suit you, in fact it looks like you're wearing a fat suit.













When I tried to console two friends' broken hearts I ended up calling one a faggot and laughing in the others' face about some poetry she'd written on the experience.

It's only after I've told my friends of such incidences and watched their faces scrunch up in mild concern for my mental wellbeing, or after they start crying from my insensitivity, call me a dickhead and leave me standing alone on the street that I realise my behaviour is not normal. But I don't mean to be rude, it's just, I don't know any better.