Here’s the thing. I don’t know where I am. Ever. I don’t know the name of any street that’s more than one street away from my own. Because I don’t know where I live. I have my daily routes memorized, but without them, I’m adrift in a sea of confusion — the cars are sharks and the people are grizzled seas captains. I’m on a lifeboat and it looks a lot like my cellphone when it’s opened to the Google Maps app. Help. Me.
See, the thing is, no one can. Not really. I figured that out a long time ago. About the same time that I farted during circle time and the girl in front of me turned around and pointed so that everyone would know who’d made the stench. Yeah. I don’t trust anybody. Nobody except the lady inside of my GPS. Where you lead, I will follow, baby.
So here’s how I hide the truth from the world. Rule #1: I don’t talk about it. Ever. Not if I can help it. Someone asks me for directions? Can’t help you. I’ve never been. Oh, you’re asking me how to get to my house? Sorry, I’ve never been. Not in the waking hours. I sleepwalk in and out of that door every day like some kind of chronically ill nocturnal rodent. My front door has a hole the size of a human woman from the time I gnawed my way out. After that, I spat out wood chips for a week. One guy on the bus thought it was a tobacco can and he tried to get in on it. I belched woodchips in his face and he coughed on the spray.
Rule #2: I cry every time I pee. See what I did there? I told you a personal detail that was just disturbing enough to distract you from your question. And even if you can remember what you wanted to ask me about the shape of our northern nation, you’re sure as hell questioning the usefulness of it now. Who wants to talk about landmarks with someone who can’t get through a conversation without dishing disastrous deets? Not me. I don’t have time for that kind of hogwash.
Rule #3: If you’re forced into map talk with some geography-obsessed freak, ask them to point out a lighthouse, a sweet, angelic guide: the nearest fast food restaurant. Because…otherwise? I got nothing. Zero. Zilch. Goose egg. If you can’t explain the location to me in proximity to the closest McDonalds, then I’m out of commission. Please respect that, I whisper. Please respect me.
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