boysbriefs

boysbriefs:

Why Can't I K.I.T.?

Two weeks before the end of every school year, high school annuals would arrive. Students stormed the halls, scrambling to collect as many signatures as possible, as if their life's worth could be calculated by the amount of empty space filled. They'd write shorthand messages like "KIT" (keep in touch, the old chestnut) and "HAGS" (have a great summer, I think) and what is perhaps the most moronic message in the history of high school homages: "I'm the first person to sign your crack." It was the forefather of MySpace.

I thought it was retarded. People who had barely spoken to me for an entire year suddenly descended upon me like we were BFF. They'd leave little notes like "You're a great person" and "Never lose your sense of humor." Some would even sign "Love ya." It was a despicable display of insincerity. I participated merely because it's what everyone else did. (Yes, Mom, as a matter of fact I would jump off a bridge into a burning building if everyone else was doing it.) But on the inside, I cringed every time someone scratched their pedestrian prose onto a published page, and in one particular instance I became visibly angered when some stupid hick marked all over an amazing photo I had taken of Marcus Pounds performing the highjump. Did I mention I was a member of the yearbook staff?

Senior year was particularly bothersome. I hated high school. With the exception of two, perhaps three, close friends, I hated everyone there. I wanted to get the fuck outta Douglasville, Georgia, and never look back. I did not want to know about their new jobs at the mall or what they thought of my sense of humor. So I barely bothered to request any signatures. The back of my senior book is filled with empty pages. And every time someone asked me to sign their book, I wanted to write "Good riddance." I could care less to KIT.

When I left Atlanta, it was a different story. I had many wonderful friends and many fond memories. There were people I knew for years through circuit weekends and drunken nights, from deep dinner conversations to casual jaunts through the park. There were others I was just getting to know. It was hard to say goodbye. When people said "Love ya" before I left, I knew they actually meant it. I really do want to keep in touch.

Unfortunately, I suck at it. I can't seem to remember to pick up the phone until it's too late to call. Days fly by until suddenly I realize I haven't talked to anyone in Atlanta in weeks. I'll get emails and blog comments from old friends, flag them in gmail to remind me to respond, and then forget about them. On the weekends, I'll promise to stop by the card shop, but come home empty handed. I can name the remaining contestants on "Project Runway" but I can't tell you if any of my old friends are dating someone new.

To make matters worse, Michael is the king of communication. He arrives home from work everyday with a cellphone attached to his face, blabbering away with some old friend. He writes emails. He sends cards. He has friends scattered across the country (and into South America) because he's so goddamn good at keeping in touch. I bet his high school yearbooks are filled with sincere messages.

It shouldn't be such a tremendous task. All the modern fixins from email to instant messenger, cell phones to social networks, should make staying in touch a cinch. In the two hours it took me to type this post, I could have called three friends. Reminisced about old times. Caught up on new things. It's a curse I best conquer or my only friends will be distant memories and dusty photos.

To all my BFFs in the ATL: I miss you guys enormously, and I'm sorry I haven't called. I promise to do better. KIT, OK.