The Experience Whore

The East Coast had a rare earthquake recently, and although it was mild (about 5.9), my first thought wasn't for the damage or for people's safety. It was: why wasn't I there? I desperately wanted to experience an earthquake.

It isn't just earthquakes. I have a yearning for all sorts of experiences, both natural and social. I've briefly been in California and Seattle, both quake-prone locations, but nothing happened. The one hurricane I have direct experience with was so mild we went out and walked around in it, wondering if we should try flying kites.

I wouldn't be so jealous if the women I know didn't have a long list of experiences behind them. As a group, them seem to blithely have taken hash, acid, mushrooms, heroin, and coke. They've had one-night stands and threesomes and rape. There has been skipping school, blowing off work, drunken partying, and thievery.

And the consequences? None. They are happy, intelligent, and well adjusted. If they wanted to write a story about tripping at a party and waking up in a strange hotel room, they have the authenticity to make it feel real.

I don't. Yet I'm the one that fancies himself a writer.

So when my hometown experiences a disaster, my first emotion isn't empathy.

It's jealousy.