don't even make sense that I wrote this song

The Giants won, and the grind did their thing by getting me and my other work schmucks tickets to the game. Towards the end of the game, I remarked that the Giants had the game locked. I proceeded to get the Manson lamps from my co-workers when the Giants proceeded to allow two runs. No offense to the DCists, but I don't think we should do cartwheels over beating the Nationals.

I came home with an allergic reaction, a stomach ache, and then, just as I was settling down for an evening of Project Runway, the apartment shook such that I instinctively ran to the window to see if a truck had rammed into the building. No. We had a mild earthquake. San Francisco. Always reminding you that life is not static or steady.

After getting a few much-needed things done, I started thinking about flowery prose, and how I have always been fond of this expression in period pieces about recommending. For the past year, I have really done some serious thinking, underneath all the surface insanity, about what qualities recommend me. And in the past year, I have come to the definite conclusion that, in fact, I have none.

When I was less self-aware, I would cling to one particular quality, and claim I was good at it. I might not have been the smartest person in the world, but I was driven. I might not have been the most driven person in the world, but I had a knack for figuring out how to squeak by. I may have been unable to keep a relationship going, but I was spectacular at maintaining a feeling. I could be a good friend.

It was like constantly coming up with an excuse, constantly coming up with a retort. It was so very I know you are, but what am I? But as I woke up, as I squared with reality, I had to throw it all out. This is not fishing for compliments, because there is really nothing that can be said to dispute it. Say that I am a passable writer, and I'll pull up an old blog post that will prove you wrong. Tell me I am a good friend, and I'll give you 20,000 examples that will make you wonder if I even have any friends left. I can't even say that I am really good at telling the truth- even there, I fall short.

And that is an oppressive feeling, this feeling of always falling short. Maybe most people have gotten over such foolish expectations by this point in their lives. Or maybe I just really have nothing to offer. Because the only thing, at this point, to recommend me is that I have grown impressively adept at looking out for myself, wrapping myself into chainmail, impenetrable cocoons. And that is not really something that should recommend me to anyone else.