KNOW WORRIES #1

The first weekly iteration of my brand new humor column! Enjoy!

So, yeah…I’m writing a column now. What does that mean exactly? Well, if “Sex and the City” has taught me anything, it means I need to up my shoe fetish game and get those Jimmy Choos I’ve been eying. So I guess it’s goodbye Jordans, hello day-to-night patent leather pumps. It also means I’ll need to make three (3) unbearably obnoxious friends, which should be easy now that I’m writing a column, because I’m sure I’ll be putting that same energy into the ether like I was working the night shift at Chernobyl.

But I digress. And I mean that literally. I will be digressing all over the place in every one of these little column pearls forged from the leavings of my irritation, because that’s essentially what this little weekly exercise is going to be. A digression. A left turn at Albuquerque. A wild and wooly fluffle of the dust bunnies that have taken root between my ears. That’s right, a fluffle. Look it up. Or don’t. It’s whatever.

You see, I write novels, but I (apparently) write them rather slowly. And unfortunately for the both of us, I crave the validation of somebody much much more prolific, so now you all have to read this column every week until the next one is done. Sorry, but those are the rules. I could change them, but I’m nothing if not a man of the laws I’ve invented.

But Jonathan, I hear you say. Isn’t it enough to be all over Instagram and Facebook and Twitter and Bluesky and Threads and Venmo and Chewy? No. No, it is not enough. The truth is I love making people click on links. I love it. It’s my favorite thing. It fills me with happy brain tingles every single time it happens, and if it stops now, I’m terrified that void will be unfillable no matter how many adorable fuzzy things I have running around my house. Like I’m not saying one more kitty cat will definitely fix it, but scientifically speaking, there’s only one way to find out for sure that it won’t.

It’s the only thing that numbs my Sunday scaries, to be honest. Your little click click clicks. So, at the end of every week, you do your part, and I’ll do mine, and when we see each other around the holidays, we can just avoid talking about it altogether like, well, I’ve already said too much. Thanksgiving’s gonna be wild this year.

So, this will basically be like every other column ever written, except my ADHD will almost certainly stop me from focusing on any one subject for more than a hundred words at a time. Now, normally, that would be the kiss of death for a venture like this, but lucky for you, my anxiety will make me be funny about it, because I don’t wanna eat lunch alone anymore.

And if you think I can’t keep this up week in and week out, have no fear, because the autism express is rounding the bend to keep me in line. Routine, routine, routine. Patterns, patterns, patterns. And if you’re worried one more pattern in my life is gonna make everything clash, well, you’re probably right, because I am also gay and colorblind. So, joke’s on me! I don’t know what the fuck I’m wearing half the time anyway, and I don’t even have a straight man’s queer fashion panic to keep myself in line.

Okay, that was a lot. But it was also a terrifying glimpse into the rudderless meat grinder of trauma and neuroses that fuels me, and I think that was an important step for us. It’s time you all got to know the real me (please don’t call me). I know you all probably think half the stuff I post about online is exaggerated for internet points, but surprise…I am actually that functionally compromised.

In fact, even as I type this, I have my lucky plaid sweatpants and my lucky plaid sweatshirt on. I have a drink in my left hand, a cat on my lap, a dog at my feet, a comfort show I’ve seen a thousand times on the TV, and the bulb has been removed from the big overhead light in my living room so that I never ever have to endure the ingrace of accidentally turning it on, even for a moment. Fuck that light.

And all of that…all of that…is necessary just to be able to sit down and type this stressay (I’m awfully proud of that) for you (presumably) lovely people to read. So, you should be honored, and also probably a little worried. And if you’re feeling seen right now, you should go see someone yourself, because I could probably throw a dart at a DSM and you’d feel it.

So, here we are. Off on this new adventure together, ready to find the best versions of ourselves and learn some valuable lessons along the way. We’ll laugh, we’ll cry. We’ll go terrifying stretches of time without doing either of those things, and then we’ll do both at once for like an entire long weekend.

It’ll be fun, then it won’t, then it’ll be kinda fun again, then it won’t again and we’ll split up around the end of the second act. And sure, that’ll be super sad, but then we’ll reunite to overcome something together that we could never overcome on our own, and one of us may very well die in the process! Every single Sunday. Forever.  

And yeah, all of that’s great, but if I’m being honest, my favorite part of any story is the denouement. The warm and fuzzy ending. The return to a new normalcy after the dust has settled and all the battles have been fought. The chance to plant the seeds we’ve gathered on our journey, and to dream of what will one day grow from them. To sit alone in our living rooms without the big overhead light on, and to feel comfortable no matter how ridiculous we look in two different kinds of plaid. Aye, there are good days ahead. See you next Sunday, weirdos.