The Agony of Self Discovery

For decades, the allure of self discovery has crept into the minds of many. I’m no different. No, I’m not that self-assured pariah that thinks he’s got his finger on the pressure point of life, the universe, and everything. I’m the same way as many, many others. I’ve had quite a few moments of revelation from reflection. A bit of it was good, but most of it… honestly… is down right sad. It’s a major bummer, to put it quaintly.

If it constantly depresses me, then why in the world would I do it? Maybe I like beating myself up with introspection? Well, maybe I don’t like it, but I’ve been conditioned to perform it. Maybe I’ve been programmed to hold myself down to “know my place” in the world? God, that’s rich. Convince someone to sabotage their whole life in order to gain authority is clever, and best of all: it’s free! I’ll have to hand it to the elite, that deserves a round of applause. That’s better than Huxley.

Anyway, back to the point. I’m introspective quite a bit and, as one may guess, ran into another realization. This one isn’t so bad though, not so bad I’d lock myself in my study and play Johnny Cash’s cover of “Hurt” until I thought he was pouring wine over my pitiful head. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the realization that I bury myself in my work because I fear any relationship would turn into a romantic Chernobyl. This would all be due to my meddling, of course. That one was rough to admit.

No, I’ve come to the realization that I’m an Anglophile. Now, most people by now know what an Anglophile is. If I didn’t, I’d fancy it being sexually attracted to the acute and obtuse. Instead of writing sonnets for lovely young maidens, I’d be reciting proofs to the isosceles’s daughter underneath her bedroom window. I’d be out in the pouring rain, holding up a Tangram to a full-figured rhombus.

OK, I’m having too much fun with that.

I love the English. There! I said it. I said for myself, because I didn’t say it before and I’m writing it down to burn it into my head. Not only am I an Anglophile, but I’m a Hibernophile and a Scotophile, too. Naturally, I’d want to know why. The mere thought that I’m a British fan boy isn’t enough of a taunt.

I didn’t have to go very far; it’s my environment. It’s the area in which I was born and raised, and not in the sense that the two are similar. They’re not. This is the Midwest, and I reserve every right to call it the “Midwest.” I’ll have none of that “Great Lakes” crap; I grew up in a cornfield.

I will say that I give people the latitude to enjoy their life, as they please. If someone adores Midwestern America, then good for them. I find it horribly stifling. What is with green bean casserole and Betty’s Salad, anyway? Pigs-in-a-blanket is not so bad, but casserole? Give me a tin miner’s pasty any day.

I’ve had people people try to scare me with horror stories of chavs and Birmingham and whatnot. My response is: IT’S BETTER THAN THE RUST BELT! Not only is this the Rust Belt, but it’s the rural part of the Rust Belt. Industrial city problems with country town salts. Some people enjoy that stuff, but I’ve had enough of truck stacks and Stars and Bars license plates. YOU’RE LIVING IN OHIO! THE SOUTH DOESN’T WANT YOU!

*Deep breath* OK, so that wasn’t so bad I suppose. It doesn’t change much, but it’s good to know why I prefer BBC America to Bravo. Maybe I’ll write some shoddy Ripper Street fanfic and find a place to order scones to make me feel better.

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