Golly, is it a bummer being from Connecticut. I mean, when you’re in Connecticut it’s not such a bad place to be: nice climate, close to New York City, good school systems. To be honest, when I’m in Connecticut I’m perfectly happy.
But I’m not in Connecticut all the time. I go to school in North Carolina. I go on vacations to places. I’m outside of Connecticut and this is exactly the situation where being from Connecticut becomes a huge disadvantage. I meet people when I’m outside of Connecticut and I introduce myself. Sometimes I meet a girl. The usual pleasantries are initially exchanged. She tells me her name, which I usually don’t really hear because I’m too busy trying not to mess up my own name. After clarifying that I’m neither Brad nor Brent it’s time to delve deeper. Where am I from, she asks?
Connecticut.
Oh.
Silence.
Awkward silence. Because there’s nothing really interesting about Connecticut. My being from Connecticut provides no interesting information about myself. Nobody has any good stories that result from the fact that they grew up in Connecticut.
“Oh, you’re from Connecticut? Yeah I thought I detected a little bit of a complete lack of accent there.”
“Yeah? Well it really comes out when I get emotional usually, you should hear it then.”
It probably sucks to live in Wyoming. But you tell someone at a party that you live in Wyoming and people will be flippin’ exhilarated. Being from Wyoming is like walking through a park pushing a stroller with a little baby in it that’s cuddling with an adorable puppy.
On top of my already awful situation, fate dealt me a hand that was tragically unfair. If I were playing War it would consist of twenty-six 2’s. Yeah, fate cheats. You see, my best friend for four years at college is from Saudi Arabia. Totally average looking white guy – from freaking Saudi Arabia. Naturally, a thousand facinating questions arise.
“Have you ever ridden a camel?” – Yup.
“Were you there during the Gulf War?” – Yeah, until they recommended we leave the country.
“Will you love me forever?” – But of course.
And on top of that he’s diabetic! Oh, everybody just loves to hear about how he’s gotta constantly stick himself with needles and maintain a relatively consistent blood-sugar level! Oh why, why must I be cursed with health and a stable environment in which to grow and learn? I can only hope that God will realize the injustice he has enacted upon me and take away my social handicaps, hopefully by giving me some sort of interesting facial scar or other horribly disfiguring conversation piece. I sit, fingers crossed, next to a beaker of acid on the brink of a wonderful new life.