"MORON" On My Forehead, Part 1

Vanity's death trap
Proud man crawls low on his knees,
Romancing the truth.

It's 3 AM and I'm clutching the Gordian knot in my stomach. Merciless jackhammers twist my back, pounding the length of my spine. I slowly unclench my grinding teeth but the invisible hand that squeezes me and crushes me into a human ball of pain knowingly ignores the efforts of my futile will.

Pretense of the day breeds demons in the night. My liar's prison boxes me in without pity, never falling for my artful deceit. If you are the smartest man alive and you are a deceiver, who then can see through your deception? The whole point of deception to get caught so a caring world may then tend to and understand your dilemma.

But I guess at the end of the night, we're all a party of one.

But what kind of idiot gets himself in this position? Friendless, fuckless and fundless is no way to go through life. I do so understand the thought process that says seppuku brings honor. My biggest problem is my tears. I just don't have time for them all. I'm tired of talking to people through a cardboard box as if that's a normal state of being. I need to confess. My aching neck demands I confess.

So I woke up in the morning determined to undeceive the world and with a bold, black marker I proclaimed "MORON" on my forehead. How else can one describe he who creates his own misery? But now everyone will know of my crimes, I'll be able to drop my facade and the keys to freedom from my liar's prison will be mine at last.

Oh, the company I keep!

First place I went was the grocery store. I walked down the aisles receiving many an amused stare but...no words. No exploding revelations of, "Aha! Now we see you're a fraud! The illusion has been ripped from our eyes!" I had been dreading that moment going in but the longer I went without it happening the more I yearned for it - the more I needed it.

The cashier. The cashier would save me! Direct, human contact is what the doctor ordered.

But she was a young girl, polite in her ways. I read her struggle so clearly. Should I tell him? I dare not embarrass a customer. Should I say what I see? Mentally, I screamed back to her. I already know it's there! You can't hurt my feelings! Jesus, say something!

"Thank you, sir. You saved 3.25 on today's purchases."

No, I refuse to be trapped forever. I found a couple of teenage girls in the parking lot. I know they will say something. I asked them directions to a street I already knew but their giggling overcame any words. The more I talked, the more they giggled. They're still giggling now as far as I know.

What to do, what to do? Sinking feelings festered in my stomach. I was just about to duck into my cardboard box when a gruff voice called out.

"Hey moron! Come over here!"

As an anthropologist I knew the voice well: the Insecure Male Ape, perpetually desperate to feel superior. Freedom, however, was not the feeling it gave me, but fury. And once the first ape started yelping, the apes around him joined in with tribal glee, knowing their place in this world. I stayed inside my box - in every sense of the word.

If you want to prove evolution to me,
first you'll have to prove we've evolved.

Clearly, breaking the chains of my lying was going to be harder than I thought. Girls were useless and apes were clueless as well. I needs me a full grown woman who speaks her mind! I decided on a lingerie store. Ain't no shy cashiers there - and I'd pull out all the stops. I'd be branded a moron there for sure and never have to pretend again.

When I heard the question, "OK, what is your size?" I was a bit stunned. I read her eyes and she hid not the fact her reading of my forehead when I entered, but she insisted an treating me as if I were normal. Ok, fine, I'll up the ante. I asked for women's underwear. "Make it a thong." "Actually it's for me." And that's when her nonplussed ass asked my size just as if she were asking the time of day.

I was in a pickle now. How the fuck would I know my size in women's underwear? My immediate reaction was to point out the illogic of her question in her assuming I would know that but then I wouldn't be acting like a moron and she'd call me a fraud! Damn this is complicated! I ran out the door to hide my disgust.

I heard he got a Pulitzer for the sign

I'm a moron. I tell people I'm a moron - but they still don't know. Amazing. Just fucking damn amazing. I'm in trouble here, folks. You don't see me screaming at 3 AM. I thought my problem was the hiding of my imbecility. I try confessing but it's like speaking to a deaf, dumb and blind planet. You people have friends, funds and fucking - there's no goddam way in hell you can be as fucked up as I am. The whole world can't be aching to eat a bullet, can it?

I sighed on these musings as I stared at the roof of my cardboard dwelling with hands clasped behind my head. There's a comfort factor here. The winos, the creeps, the losers, the self-talkers - none of them bother me. There's no judging among us, we birds of a feather. But my dilemma was this: How could I ever bring a person of respect here? How could I even ask it? How could I even want it?

Part of me suspected I was chasing the end of the rainbow, part of me suspected I was a quitter. I decided to give it one last chance. This time I would pick the ultimate stage, a place to ensure my outing beyond all doubt: the Jimmy Choo store on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. I cashed in all 430,000+ cans I'd been saving up for a rainy day and booked my flight for a date to live in infamy.