Hey guys, remember that time we dressed up and went to the photo studio as a family?
Oh look, a picture from that time we all sat around a table at Olive Garden and smiled. That was so memorable compared to all the other times we went to Olive Garden.
But more than that, I wasn't exactly comfortable with documenting what was going on in my life. When you spend years fueled by alcohol and pheromones, swayed by hormones and bourbon and the opinions of others, the decisions you make aren't exactly the type of events you want on the record.
Did anybody get a picture of me busting Billy's nose open? We could edit it so the picture is all black and white except for the blood! That would make a sweet profile picture.
Home burglary? More like Kodak moment, am I right? Fuck... was the camera stolen?
Somebody get a camera! I'm about to experiment with drugs normally reserved for cancer patients.
I should totally send this picture of me spending the night in jail to my parents!
Guys look, I'm about to take six shots of Jim Beam and sleep with a stranger, I sure hope somebody takes a picture of me missing work tomorrow.
It just seemed irrational to want photographs of myself during a point in my life that served as a terrible reflection of me as a person.
I'd also lay some of the blame on that Nickelback song about photographs. I would have lost all of my cool credibility if I participated in anything that could possibly be construed as related to Nickelback (but my techno jam sessions were and still are totally acceptable, I don't make the rules).
But now, I'm starting to wonder if maybe a picture or two would have been nice. Perhaps a picture would help me explain certain aspects of myself. Maybe it would be easier to explain that when dating a Latina veterinary student I didn't love her, but knowing that I couldn't made me feel safe. Or the way it felt when I realized I was losing Paul to Denver. Or that while I felt justified beating a knife-wielding mugger senseless with two gallons of milk, a nagging guilt still scratches at my stomach from time to time, berating me for leaving him on the parking garage floor. Maybe a photograph would show the way the blood and milk splashed into peppermint swirls on the pavement.
And a few naked pictures of exes would be cool, not for blackmailing or because I want them back or anything, but for bragging rights. I mean, the lesbian was crazy hot and the Pakistani guitarist, well, he was a Pakistani guitarist, you'd be crazy to think that's not sexy. How are people supposed to know I managed to score out-of-my-league lays if I don't have photographic evidence?
There's still a chance for a recovery of the missed photographs. They say a picture says a thousand words.
Too bad I can't draw for shit.
It looks like I have a lot of writing to do.