Transparent.

        I started to realize the other day that perhaps my problems with jealousy are getting out of hand, when at work, I became belligerently jealous of a blind kid.  We sell these reusable shopping bags at work and a large portion of the proceeds go to the Make a Wish Foundation. The design on the bag was painted by a visually impaired child and people eat it up.  I've been slowly building resentment towards this kid for a few months, going unnoticed until a few days ago.  I was ringing up a couple in their mid fifties and they would not shut up about how amazing his artwork was.  First of all, I could do what he does with my eyes closed, literally.  I mean his artwork is just smeared paint across a rugged surface.  Secondly, how blind is "visually impaired" anyway?  I'm pretty sure if you require reading glasses you are technically visually impaired. Actually, I just Googled it and found out, "A visuall impaired person is: Someone who has an impairment of visual function which cannot be improved, by the use of corrective lenses, to a level that would normally be acceptable for reading without a special kind of light."  According to that definition, I am visually impaired.  I have dyslexia.
        "It's so amazing that a blind child can create this artwork don't you think honey?" "Oh yeah, its beautiful, do you guys sell a lot of these bags, I hope so because it's such a great cause."  She asked me.  I wanted to puke.  "He's not that blind actually," I said, before quickly realizing that I could loose my job for being an ass hole and recovered with, "but yeah his art work is magnificent."  They ended up buying 45 dollars worth of his blind bags, and I couldn't help but physically fight the urge to punch them in the face on account of the artwork I have sold in the last month is totaling in zero dollars.  As far as I was concerned, the visually impaired kid was 45 bucks ahead of me and probably got laid on a more frequent basis than I do.  Maybe, I thought to myself, I should stab my eyes out with a salad spoon or saw my hands of with a table saw so people will like my artwork more.  "Isn't it amazing the art Ryan is able to create with no hands not to mention his visual impairment?" The critics would most likely rave while sipping wine at my New York gallery opening.  Oprah would be serving orderves in roller skates and I would be posing for pictures to be released on my new reusable bag line.
        Being jealous of a charitable child who makes the best of his visual impairment by making offensively mediocre art is embarrassing in and of itself, but when everyone knows your jealous it does a lunge right over embarrassing and lands hard on humiliating.   I found myself talking shit on this kid to a close friend and he said, "Ryan it sounds like you may be a little jealous." I was stunned and quickly changed the conversation towards something more lighthearted like the Tsunami in Japan.  He was right though and I was slapped with the realization that I'm about as transparent as triple distilled water.  And that's where things get humiliating, when people see right through you.  For that reason alone, I think I will be single until the world stops spinning, or until I can learn to conceal my inner monologue or looks of discontent, jealousy and desperation. 
        When I'm single I'm way more fun to be around, this has been told to me by literally every single person in my life currently.  And it's true, I'm way more likely to get totally tanked and strip on a pole to techno renditions of "Hung Up" by Madonna when I'm single, opposed to when I'm in a relationship and I might get a wild hair and make a Mediterranean pizza and drink wine with my lover under the night sky.  I don't know what it is, but when I'm single, it's as if all the stripper poles in Kansas City call my name, because I have been half naked on every single pole within an hours driving distance, excluding Bazooka's.  Bazooka's bouncers would probably kill me if I stole the spotlight from one of their pregnant strippers.   Even though I'm considerably more fun to be around when I'm single, I also become obsessed with not being single.  I'm sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by about 30 men, and I have pictured my life with each one of them.  So far, blue shirt guy is the most viable option, as he is the only one who is under 40. 
        It's not that I'm desperate, oh wait, that's exactly what it is.   But not for the reasons most are desperate.  I don't need a man to validate me, make me feel worthy, or even be around that much.  I just want a man to take me to dinner, have mind blowing sex, and financially support my non-lucrative art career.  Is that to much to ask for?   It seems that every place I walk into when I'm single I scope out within thirty seconds and get pissed off every time I my future husband is not sitting at a table with a folded up triangular piece of paper with my name on it, waiting for me with a briefcase full of money in one hand, and a wedding ring in the other.    It sounds like I'm kidding, but these are the things I look for when I walk into a bar, coffee shop, or public restroom.  Sometimes I catch eyes with attractive men who are obviously into me, but I'm pretty sure my frantic head movements, kinda like a parakeet looking for a nut, gives me away.  I'm sure if I played it a little more cool I could land my prince.  No one likes to see through desperation, in fact, on my list of attractive qualities, desperation is on the bottom of the list, right under living with parents. I can't help it though.  I just like scoping out men, even if I'm not planning to have kids with them.  Sometimes I actually spark a conversation with someone, but usually murder it by the time the second sentence expels from my mouth.
        Last week, there was a hot lanky guy walking a dog in-front of my apartment when I pulled up.  I put my cigarette in my mouth and got out of the car as dramatically and oversexed as I could.   It actually worked, because the lanky guy walked over to me, arguably with a little more of a dramatic stride than me.  "Hey I was thinking about moving into the neighborhood, is there a number I could call to get more information about it."  His voice was sexy and holy shit, he was asking me for my number, things were going really well; he would be picking out floor tiles with me in no time.  Not knowing what to say, I looked around searching for wit, when my eyes landed on a huge sign that said, "Central Apartments: 816-352-2365."  I lifted my arm and pointed at the sign, "there is a number on that sign, you should try that," I said feeling instantly shamed.  He looked at me with a puzzled twist, and I watched his big flirty smile slowly crawl down to a reserved frown, kinda like when someone bakes cookies for work, and someone, not from work gets excited and asks, "HEY, I love cookies, can I have one?" When you say no, they always look like you punched them in the gut.  Hot lanky guy walked away with his dog, leaving me on the sidewalk watching him walk away. "What the fuck Ryan?!" I said to myself. 
        Hot lanky guy and I didn't work out, but I think running into him was a good 2 part lesson.  If I become transparent in a good way, a way that invites people to talk to me, then I will probably get hit on a lot more and maybe even meet someone worth a damn.  And, I need to work on my flirting skills.  I've known the latter part of that lesson for years, as my flirting conversation usually includes my past experiences with drugs, piece of shit men I'm still pissed off about years later, and my strong affinity towards not working.  When I tell someone a funny story about me passing out on NyQuil martinis in a dive bar and shitting my pants, often times it's perceived for what it really is, sad.   People tend to see me for what I really am, as transparent. 
I guess people need a little more mystery.  
        I was once told by a man named Ben, who I was madly in love with, "Ryan I don't need to hear your farts, or really even know about them.  How am I supposed to find you attractive if you fart all the time.  It's just gross, and leaves no mystery about you.  Everything is just so open with you."  I hate to admit it, but I strongly believe that if I farted less on Ben then we would be married by now.  I also hate to admit that even though Ben needs to develop a sense of humor that involves laughing at fart and ass jokes, he might have been onto something, because I really am gross.  When I lived with Aaron, I used to trim my toe nails with my teeth, while he sifted through bills or indulged in a book.  He would look up in disgust when I would alternate between beer and toe nails.  I smell bad sometimes too.  Sure I'm cute to look at, but get to close to me on a day when I feel particularly lazy and "forget" to brush my teeth or put deodorant on, and you might as well stick your finger down your throat and vomit because it will save you from doing it involuntarily.  I've been known to pee in sinks when I drink, and sometimes if I just don't feel like lifting the toilet seat.  I get violent when I'm upset, like I wont hit you but I will maybe throw something at you.  I cry at the drop of a hat, and I have the social ineptitude of a drunk hyena.  And I also sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes; I get scared and push people away.  Maybe it's not a mystery then, that my lack of mystery chases of men like a kid chasing pigeons in New York City.
        But I feel like someday someone will find me.  I'll probably be sitting in a corner somewhere bitching to some poor stranger about how much I hate blind kids who make art.  I will probably smell bad, and look disheveled.  I might even be drunk, who knows.  But he will find me.  He will see through me.  And he will love me.