GeoffPatrick
39 Brooklyn, NY
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GeoffPatrick
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My self-summary
I am in the manufacturing business.

I'm a liberal/leftist but I try to ignore politics as best as I can because talking about them makes me sound boring.

I like cooking, eating, sports, traveling, movies ... within reason, I try to have an interest in pretty much everything. But I am a terrible herb about basically all music post Wu-Tang Clan.
What I’m doing with my life
Lessee. I go for a jog in the morning. Edit stuff. Go out or stay in.
I’m really good at
Apologizing. Talking. Writing. "All of us learn to write by the second grade, then most of us go on to other things." Bobby Knight said that, but he is a very angry and judgmental man.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Favorite TV show: The Simpsons
Favorite poem: 13 Blackbirds

I don't have a favorite book, etc., but here's some examples of things I like:

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned (short stories)
Talladega Nights (movies)
The Red and the Black (semi-obscure French novels)
Zuni Cafe cookbook (cooking)
Casa Mono (restaurants)
The six things I could never do without
This is clearly a trick question.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Why they call them fingers when they don't really fing.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I was ten years old or so and standing in the grocery store checkout line with my dad as the checkout lady ahead of us was doing her job: asking people how they were, responding “great! thanks” when they volleyed the question back, and swiping their groceries across the scanner to be bagged. And then I started crying.

I wasn’t throwing a tantrum or sobbing or anything like that. I was just staring off into the distance with tears rolling down my face. My dad asked me what was wrong.

Well, I said, what if instead of saying “great,” that lady’d said—and then I launched into a long tale of woe. I don’t remember the details (I think it might have involved her son?), but the story included poverty, irresponsibility, terminal illness, everything sad that I could think of. Whether I was imagining how it would feel to be her or what it would be like to be me listening to it, I can’t remember, but I’d like to think that I made no distinction.

The payoff here would be my dad’s reaction, but he didn’t say anything memorable enough to stick. He didn’t call me crazy or say that I’d become a great writer some day. I imagine he just sighed, Louis C.K.–like, with a resignation that a parent can never ultimately understand the inner workings of his kid.

(If there’s a point to this story, it’s that rather being this soulful empathetic prodigy, I happily and loudly detailed the checkout lady’s hypothetical tale of woe as she processed our transaction.)
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