Liar, Fraud

I was in midair again. Falling off the top moves of a route called "Mousetrap," my friend had, only two seconds before, been shouting up from the ground, telling me where to grab. I'd come up short of the hold in question. Not terribly so, but short enough to keep the purchase to a minimum and the airtime to a maximum. The rope came taught, and I reacted in the only way that seemed natural. With venom. Anger. Accusation. "Mike Brumbaugh is a liar and a fraud!" Mike, you see, was the friend on the ground. He hadn't failed to grab the hold, I had. In my feeble literal grasping, I needed someone to blame. Eventually, I figured out exactly where he was telling me to go. Mike patiently told me to do something subtly different, and i finally quit falling off. Not before I'd (mostly) jokingly blamed someone else for another failure.

And that's how it's felt lately. I can't seem to grab that last hold. Hell, the real problem is that I don't know where it is on the wall. I've made it high enough to count myself amongst the respectable, though not the actually successful. What's the problem here? I think the answer is that I don't know where I'm headed.

Taking the GMAT was supposed to be the first step in the line of figuring that business school was my destiny, and that I could at least count the next three years as settled. When I got my scores, though, Wheat Ridge High School called and told me I'd need to return my diploma, as it was obvious I'd never learned simple addition or subtraction. "Fine, fine," they reasoned "I could read and write, but no one goes to business school to scribe. They go there to crunch numbers, and learn how to produce the next piece of plastic that will drive American's wild with lust." Shitteroo. Maybe I'm not meant to be a business graduate, let alone finish high school.

So where now? I was hoping that school would be the saving grace, but it may not happen. (Hell, maybe it will. Maybe I'll get really psyched to study more and retake the exam. I'll be the comeback player of the year.) I was hoping that the answer would be right there, attainable with the help from my friends shouting directions from the ground. I even recruited the Princeton Review to go up the route before me, tick all the holds, and brush off the dust. Then, they'd stand there and yell encouragement. They gave their directions for six hours a week in a dank, sweaty basement. All for naught, it seems. I want to cry.

Once again, So Where Now? I know I like to climb rocks. That much is easy enough to tell. I know I like to write. I like to drink tea and talk shit about Wal Mart and that I fear spiders and public toilet seats. I don't much like office culture, high culture, or, as discussed, mathematical culture. You know anyone who is hiring along those lines?

If nothing comes along, I can keep blaming Mike Brumbaugh. Or my boss, or lack of education, or general lack of opportunity for the upper middle class white man. But sooner or later, someone (my girlfriend, perhaps) is gonna get tired of this liar, this fraud. Or maybe I'll (BroGnar alert!!!) match the crimp, bump my foot up and left, and really try hard to grab the slot. That might beat falling off again. Take!