Ramanujan Redux

Viral infections are the worst. At least with diarrhea you know what you’re getting, and with constipation you know you’re eventually getting it out. With a virus you just have to hope that your immune system holds the fort and eventually beats the invaders into submission.

Now, thanks to some undertreated lettuce or soggy tomatoes or whatever the hell was in that salad, I’m currently in perpetual shitty mode, waiting for release. On the bright side, I remembered about this site. Maybe I’ll start writing to it again.

Well, 21 came and passed. Expecting some wild stories?

Naturally, I’m expecting big things to happen. I had been changing a lot for the better over the past few weeks and months, so the hammer has to drop. It has to. I haven’t been doing all these changes just to get myself angry.

So I go out to a local party with friends last night, thinking that perhaps tonight might be my night. I’ve been feeling stronger, better, more confident than I ever was in the previous years of adolescence. All of this has to pay off dividends at some point, doesn’t it? Why not at the turning point from into adulthood?

So I’m casually surveying the scene, looking for someone who would be willing to share this glorious occasion…and catch the eye of one particular girl. Her face seems familiar (perhaps we’ve met before?) as she gives me the look. You know, that look. The one that says “I want you and I will wait until the end to get what I want.” The first time I’ve ever gotten that look. Jackpot.

I did all the things I dreamt would happen on my first date. My social awkwardness didn’t even seem to matter at the beginning (although it was clear I had no idea what I was doing). We eventually hitched off the party late and went outside into the dark. We walked the hills of the city, sharing flirtatious glances late at night. We stare at the landscape and admire its beauty. I’m practically on a high, hitting all the right notes, acting totally comfortable in my own skin. We lose complete track of time, just enjoying the moments together, alone in the emptiness of the world, save the few random frat fights we seem to run into every few hours, and the fact that the scenery seemed to change from San Francisco to Vienna to Tokyo. Alcohol seems to be my enabler.

So after a long night to remember, we head back to her apartment, open the door, she smiles at me seductively, we walk in, and…

…and then I wake up.

People wonder why I never get any chicks. I guess I’m just too much of a dreamer.

I’m technically Catholic, but not really. Here’s one reason why:
After receiving First Communion (which I never think too much about) and confessing all my dirty little sins to the priest (looking back on that, I realize how creepy that must have been), I hoped my Church affiliation could begin and end then and there. I wasn’t interested in any of this. Hated the stupid mindless activities my mother forced me to attend. Tried to get out of that Catholic retreat as early as possible to hightail it to a math contest.

(And in defense of math contests, which I could write a whole treatise on by the time we’re through here, they were the best thing I EVER did in Florida. Ever. The awesome level of nerdiness combined with fast food Saturday lunches with my fellow geeks are something I’ll always look back upon with fondness.)
But one thing really stands out; at my sister’s First Communion the following Sunday, receiving only my second Communion, all that lack of discipline, of practicing simple-minded doctrine, came back to bite. Big time.
One of the bearers of the body of Christ was in front of me. Despite all my reservations and my general disinterest in religion, I enjoy the communion rite. They play very soothing tunes that put you at ease, and everyone seems to be fairly happy afterwards, with the sun shining into the colored church panels. Say what you want about Catholics, but they do know how to put on a good spectacle.
Well, in this revelry, I forgot about the ritual itself. I reached out for the body eagerly like a young child, as if I was touching God.
What I felt next was God touching me. At least if you consider a priest pushing your hands away angrily a sign from the Lord.

That priest viewed my obvious act of childish exuberance as a sign of sinful wrath as he took the bread away from my eager fingers. He then forced me to cup my hands as the embarrassed bearer (a flustered forty year old woman) then placed it in my hands. Red with shame, I walked away and sullenly ate my bread. At least my mom hadn’t seen that escapade.
I think that was the first time I realized Catholicism might not be it for me.

“Hey!”
Oh no.
“How are you doing?”
What is he doing. Doesn’t he see Mom is here with me? Does he just want to start fighting for the whole world to see?
“How’ve you been at school?”
Why is he sitting down with us with that stupid smile on his face. He just left me.
“Hey son…why aren’t you talking?”
Because I want you to go away.
“Son.”
Glare at him and look down. Stare at your tray and look disgusted. Make him walk far away.
“….”
Good, there he goes. He looks crushed. Deserves it for walking out on me. Thinks he can just strut back into my life. Shot him down like a Zero.

So why do I feel so much pain inside?