I'm Sorry I Didn't Help You Move.

Here's the thing.  I saw your Facebook post asking if any of your friends might be available to help you move on fairly short notice and I feel really bad about not replying.  I am currently in self-imposed exile from capitalism and I have a fair amount of time on my hands. I certainly could have at least pitched in and helped you with the heavy stuff or maybe even with some packing, but I didn't.

Perhaps it is for the best.

For one thing, I barely even know you.  Maybe you would have thought it strange that I offered to help, certainly your real friends would have.  I mean, I am your friend, but you know, not your friend friend.  I am your Facebook friend, and that hardly warrants potential back injury.  I know that we were once real friends (maybe?), but previous recreational drug use combined with the passage of some years have left my memory as blank and scratchy as a garage sale etch-a-sketch.  Truth be told, I didn't even help my best friend move last time I had the opportunity.  And the last time I moved, I hired some guys to do it for me, which means I didn't even help myself move.

But what has really started to gnaw at my soul is not my absence at your moving party (which as I understand included pizza and cheap beer), but why I can't figure out how we know each other.  Forget about the fact that I didn't help you lug your crap from one apartment to another, how do I know you?

I have compiled a list of things I have been able to piece together from mutual friends, my damaged memory, and your Facebook profile:

• You work as a bartender at several establishments in the downtown area.  This much I know.  When I used to have the kind of time and disposable income required to drink in public, you were there sometimes.  We would acknowledge that we knew each other, but I never could put my finger on the origin of our aquaintance.

• You have 454 Facebook friends!  Impressive.

• You wear glasses.  Apparently, not just for reading.

• I have the feeling that the way we know each other has something to do with church, but then I recall that I didn't ever attend a church service at the time I was supposed to know you.

• You have curly-ish hair.

• We attended the same High School.

• Sometimes we talk about bicycles because we both seem to enjoy riding them.

I remember that I like you, doesn't that count for something?  I have a generally "good" feeling when I see you at your job.  Of course, since you are a bartender, I am drinking when I see you at your job, but I still have some memory of liking you more than most other near strangers.

The truth is... I just can't figure out how I know you.  Why does it matter?  Because you seem like a person that I would like to know.  Because I am too afraid to be honest and explain that I have forgotten how we know each other for fear of seeming obtuse or inconsiderate.  Because I need people to like me. I need to be one of the people who you showcase as your "talented friend" - I need to feel just a little bit more special than most people, not for the purpose of grandstanding, but so that I might humbly accept praise in a self-deprecating manner that would make me all the more attractive as a human being.  I need to be thought of as clever and cute and witty and wise and all of the things that I am not when I am full of doubt, worry, and regret.

This isn't about you.  It's about me - it always is.  If it were about you, I would have answered your post and you would have had a much needed helper on moving day.  Maybe then we would be friends, we would have eaten some pizza, drank some beer, and realized that we both weren't sure about the circumstances surrounding our initial meeting, but we were going to have a helluva good time trying to figure it out and piece it all back together.

Like I said, really sorry I didn't help you move...

Beau