60 Photos in 60 Days - Day One

Mostly, I ignore things like this - I totally missed out on Reverb10, for example - but I figured I'd rise to the challenge inherent in a friend's observation: "...we'll never be memoirists of the Sedaris caliber if we don't get to journaling and blogging."

Fair enough, friend.  And since a picture's worth a thousand, this seems like a fun way to get it started.  By the end of sixty days, hopefully I'll have gotten into the habit of writing something more often.

A Picture of Myself with Fifteen Facts.  I assume that I'm supposed to deliver the fifteen facts appended to the picture, rather than try to hunt up a photograph that illustrates fifteen things of interest about me.  I further assume that these facts should be in the category of Stuff Not Commonly Known About Me/Stuff That's Slightly Revelatory.  So:

This is the most recent picture taken of me that I can bear to look at.  It was taken during my recent trip to Qatar, about which I've already written sufficiently to leave it off of the 15 Facts portion of our agenda.

1. I often loathe my name.  David Alan Sherrell.  David Sherrell.  Dave Sherrell (Mom hates this one; "I didn't name my son Dave," she says).  No iteration I've found satisfies me.    I even tried D. Alan Sherrell, but since it's the "Sherrell" part that bugs me the most, that was sort of a wash.  My name doesn't flow well, doesn't mean much of anything.  I'm named after a relative I've met twice and a Biblical character with whom I've never felt much of an affinity, except that he too fell from wisdom into folly before he was very old.  Our last name is derived, as many Black American family names are, from the owners of my father's ancestors.  (It wasn't that many generations ago - we're long-lived and late-birthed on both sides of my family.)  Often I've considered being bothered by that; mostly, I just wish the owners had had a better name.  Like Stryker.  I could roll with Stryker.
2. Closely related: I don't hold nicknames very well.  I tried to put DS out there for a while, but it didn't take.  Dash, the closest thing to a nickname I've had for any length of time, is a name only known by my friends online. (Dash Stryker.  You love it.)
3. I struggle with depression.  Sometimes, I struggle harder than I let on.  Mostly, this means I spend a lot of time in my room when I'm not working or at a 12-step meeting.  Going to school online does not help matters any; it lets me feel like I've accomplished something most days.  Even though it's true, I'm still not the healthiest boy.
4. My body and I don't get along much; after years of battling it out with each other, I'd say we've reached a mutual nonaggression pact, which my body violates infrequently.  I retaliate by consuming massive amounts of junk food.
5. Not a day goes by without me wondering if I should be doing more with my singing voice, and resolving (again) that I'm on the right path (for now).  (Bonus fact: I have several recordings of me singing, both a cappella - I dub over all the parts - and self-accompanied.  Nobody but me and my mother will ever hear these recordings, as I don't think they're good enough for public consumption.)
6. I've been single for the last two and a half years or so - not entirely by choice, but primarily because I haven't put the effort in.  I know the time is nearing when I'll have no excuse not to get out there more; then I'll really have to face this irrational fear of rejection I have and the terminal shyness that's been a part of my social makeup for more years than I can remember.  In order to get there, however, I've got a couple more hills to climb and at least one major regret to put firmly behind me.
7. I spent all of my adolescence and a good part of what was supposed to be my early adulthood (but wound up being my prolonged adolescence) entirely too worried about what other people thought of me.  After nearly twenty years of therapy (off and on, but mostly on) and over four years of sobriety (entirely on), I've gotten to the point where it doesn't matter as much.  Not coincidentally, I think, I no longer have anything approaching a working concept of how others perceive me - physically, socially, characterologically, etc.  This only occasionally troubles me.
8. I have done a horrible job keeping in touch with friends who have been dear to me. This is, in the case of my friends spread around the world, very sad.  In the case of my friends in Pasadena, it's just lame.
9. When I'm feeling particularly down, I still think going to a bar will help.  These days it's the karaoke mic, rather than the beer tap, that soothes.
10. I spent the first twenty-five years of my life swearing up and down that I wouldn't be like my father. My first complete sentence was "Daddy, I don't want to go to Yale."  (Mom coached.)  I succeeded - I'm not like him, not in any of those ways I was worried about.  Now, I just need to deal with all of the ways I wish I was like him but am not.  (Congratulations, David, you are totally emotionally available!  Too bad you've got crap for a work ethic.)
11. I don't get why people are bummed about turning 30 - I'm totally fine with it.  Unless my problem is that I'm still busy being bummed over turning 25...or already bummed about turning 40.  Either or both are possibilities.
12. I am a pretty unflappable person - it's hard to anger me, hard to offend me.  But if someone were to manage either of those things, they'd quickly discover that I have three temperatures: cool, heated, and holy shit someone hold him down and keep him held for a while.  Only my immediate family, and one I would consider a brother, have ever seen that third setting.  My awareness of that rage is what keeps me so invested in staying centered no matter what; I imagine it's only different for Bruce Banner in terms of the scale of the consequences of failure.
13. I actually do wish I was a little bit taller and had more skill at basketball.  If I was better at it, I would play more often, and would be in better physical shape as a result.  I am fully aware of the hole in my logic here.
14. I can't wait for this phase of my life to be over, for the next one to begin.  I'm close to making some terrifying and amazing changes, but to complete them will take two years minimum.  It's like being near the top of the roller coaster, right before the first plunge, but it keeps stretching out before you like the horizon.  Ugh.
15. I want to lose about 25 pounds - I need to eat better and exercise more.  I miss the collegiate metabolism that allowed for two daily trips to McDonald's without gaining a pound - of course, I was also living twelve-to-fourteen-hour days back then, most of which involved sports and/or dancing.  We're down to about eight unless I'm working, I don't play ball, and you'd have to pay real money to see me dance.  Living is wonderful; maturing is okay.  Aging sucks.

I could keep going, but there's only so revelatory I want to get, y'know?  So there's fifteen, plus the bonus, and all the little side-facts.  So, really, here's the forty-third fact (by my count): I'm terrible at following directions.