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The truth is out. Randy caught me emoting last night. I am not a robot. The veils of disinterest and apathy that have shrouded me all my life have begun to wear thin with age. I reveal myself more easily now than ever in my past. But before I explain just what it was that caused me to put my feelings on display last night, let me establish why anyone might have previously thought that I was more likely machine than man.
Standing almost six and a half feet tall, weighing in at over two hundred pounds, and most often coiffed in what I affectionately call a military cut, my stature is rather terminatoresque.
I also don’t smile very much. I used to believe that I did, and continually wondered why others so often insisted that I did but rarely. It wasn’t until recently that I was astonished to learn, upon looking in a mirror, that the subtle contraction of my cheek muscles, which always felt pleasantly cheery on my face, appeared to the outside world like bored indifference.
Coming from a family of secret drinkers (degrees of secrecy varying wildly across generations,) I also learned early that feelings were best left repressed. They were to be held tightly within until they built to a violent pressure, or drunkenness had lowered the threshold sufficiently. Then they could be vomited forth, in loud fiery outbursts, upon all those unfortunate enough to share the same space, until an equilibrium of emotion was once again achieved.
The cause of that upbringing might have been averted had anti-depressant medications been more socially acceptable at the time. Now, they are used in profusion to treat its effects on those of us who survived. So certainly the mood-minimizing properties of such a treatment serve to underscore the animatronic aura of my being.
Additionally, such frank openness about my personal demons, and their salves, especially offered here, to an unknown readership, will assure you that I am indeed unconcerned about what others think of, gossip about, or say to me.
Lacking a smile, not readily affronted, and heavily medicated, you perhaps can now better comprehend how I might be mistaken for a mecha.
So what was it that extracted me from my apparent incuriousness?
To say that it was Randy himself would be only a partial, if appropriate, answer. More specifically, it was what Randy said (ironically, after asking unrelatedly if anything upset me.) Randy, while framing it constructively, saw fit to criticize my website, and by extension, my art.
What exactly he felt the need to comment on is irrelevant, as he was clearly wrong, but my extended enragement did serve to answer his earlier question, and to prove, for all those that may still doubt, I am not a robot.
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