You Can Pick Your Friends, and You Can Pick Your Nose... no, no, you can't, because that is nasty. Who came up with that saying anyway?

When I was a much smaller me, I made friends the way every other vertically-challenged pre-adult did; via proximity. I daresay this is how the adults do it as well (or so I've heard from many successful grown-up imposters, which are the only kind with which one ought truck.) When we were kids, however, proximity was defined not by job, college class of interest, gym or other external hobby, you know, things that would imbue a sense of camaraderie from the get-go, but by where you sat in class. If you attended a school like mine, that meant how tall you were or where you came in the alphabet. To this very day, there resides in me an abiding need to 'marry-up' in the alphabet; anything south of S destines you for the cupcakes with disappointing sprinkle counts and frosting-to-cake ratios, last to be released for recess and first to file back in, etc.

Suggestions to switch it up with a different alphabet did not improve matters, either.

Most annoyingly, sitting in the back corner of the room meant every test and assignment grade was  made public knowledge as they were passed through Anderson all the way back to the T's. And even as a fairly regular A-student, this proved embarrassing on those random days where a B- marred the ol' rep, which, off-topic though this may be, was one of those reputations that everyone thinks you strive for, and are very quick to ding if they can, even if you didn't want to be known for this random aspect in the first place. Of course, if you defended yourself as such, saying, "I never said I was smart/best at volleyball/wealthy/whatever the rep may be," then the children would just chock it up to you being embarrassed at being caught out on top of being pretentious enough to think yourself any better than anyone else at anything, ever.

I imagine psychologists have all manner of charts, graphs, studies and theories to explain this out. I personally maintain children have all the same aspects and inclinations towards being rotten people as adults do. They're just condensed down into a size that frustrates, as it is small enough to toss down a well, but is also smug in the knowledge that to do so is looked down upon in most societal mores.

Hence the need to rent gear and plan trips to make it look accidental.

Of course, if one used only nearby candidates to fill out the friendship roster with no other form of application or interview, one could be burned. I once watched a fellow student repeatedly squirt Elmer's glue into his desk's pencil tray, let it dry, peel it out, and eat it, pencil shavings, eraser turds, used Kleenex (!!!) and all. Nearness or not, you've got to have standards. Herein lies the second integral part of friend-making: verification by common interest. Now, as a child, my litmus test involved a desire to eat candy and watch Animaniacs and Freakazoid, which, might I add, were surprisingly reliable in weeding out the yuckier of my contemporaries. However, in the adult world, this wears grownup clothes and goes by names like sports and recreation,  being fans of the same arts or music, book clubs and writer's groups, various religious affiliations, singles', couples' or parents' groups, etc. Arrested development notwithstanding, and admitting that your mileage may vary, but I'm betting there are worse standards out there than Red Vines and the knowledge of all the nations of the world, circa 1993.

For example, there are tattoos.

If you're reading this and haven't seen a picture of the amateur-mind behind this blog, allow me to disclose that, around 23, I started decorating, and now have a fair few pieces on my ribs and arms. This does not make me cool, unique, a rebel against society, a convict, or a hardcore anything, except perhaps an enthusiast-of-colored-drawings. I draw the designs, take them to people who can improve upon them (i.e., are experienced enough that they don't still need to draw the sun on their pictures to figure out where the shading goes) and pay money to have people draw on me. And then I look at them and like them a bunch, and that's exactly where my interest in them stops. This picture chosen specifically for how very thug lyfe I represent myself, and how very seriously I take being the human version of the wall you drew on when you were 5 and had access to crayons outside of supervision.

 Gaze upon my street credentials, Beezelbub demands- wait are those animal cookies 

what the gently caress

The problem with the above paragraph is that it, like everything else you're likely to read here, is entirely, like, my opinion, man. This obliviousness is a fine thing for a blog. It is not, however, a fine way to approach something that can be controversial, offensive to delicate senses, or at the very least, inspiring to onlookers as to what sort of person you might be. Not to say one should live in fear of other peoples' opinions, but take this as just a gentle reminder that you shouldn't really be surprised if people look at something that is for all intents and purposes a personal decision, and decide they need to hold forth loudly and publicly on it. (See also: health, lack of children, hobbies, etc.) You may fail to notice your tattoos, piercings, or multicolored mohawk after having them for some time, but you can't really be shocked when they do not, or if they are dickbags about it.

This is a cute version of what I looked like after I googled "dickbag" with the safe search off. 

Not pictured: vomit.

Adult-sized people, after all, are held by consensus to have all the necessary aspects and inclinations towards being rotten, and carry the downside of not fitting down most standard wells. Double whammy.

You might wonder why I chose to write a whole post about the arbitrary nature in which friends are selected, held or caught-and-released, or wanted to extrapolate on the common interests that can bind friends for life, and which ones glance like a ricochet. You might wonder if this was all just an excuse to use that Wacko Warner meme I've held in reserve for the last two years; I wonder how, even in my social naivete, I ended up dating a guy like J.

To Be Continued...