Harder to kill than cockroaches, geeks just keep on ticking

Well slap a pot on my head and call me Johnny Appleseed – I’ve lived another year.

I’m always pleased to find that I’ve managed to make it through another calendar year.

To you it may not seem like a big deal for a 24-year-old man in peak physical condition to live 365 consecutive days, but that’s only because you don’t know me.

Most of my friends realize that I have the manual dexterity of a sea cucumber and that every few months, I burn myself so bad making spaghetti that I have to go to the hospital.

It is these people, the ones who have helped me use duct tape to stop the bleeding, that are shocked to see me soft-shoeing all over this mortal coil.

From what I understand, several of them have lost bets over this topic.

Now, to the average human being, surviving another calendar year may be like successfully eating a meal at a nice, sit-down restaurant without getting a lifetime ban, but to me, both of these are a big deal.

Part of my problem is that I don’t know my own limits, meaning I try to do things under the false assumption that I am in the least bit capable. I blame public television.

I used to love Sesame Street. From that show, I learned to count, how to share and most importantly, that ‘C’ is for cookie, ‘G’ is for green and ‘V’ is for Vendetta. In the same episode, Big Bird, a bird I have known a trusted my whole life, told me I could be anything I wanted to be if I only would believe in myself.

Well, one time I believed that I could swing like Spiderman from a towel rack and all I got out of that experiment was four concussions. One from hitting the ground, one from the towel rack hitting me in the head after it was ripped from the wall and two from my mom.

Thanks for nothing, Big Bird.

Another problem I have is I never seem to learn from my past.

For example, despite having spent the latter half of the summer of ’97 without eyebrows, I still add lighter fluid after the barbecue has started.

It took me three days at scout camp and two permanently scarred fingers to figure out that maybe the wood carving merit badge was beyond my reach and that I should focus my efforts on getting the archery and shotgun shooting ones instead.

In my defense, not everything that could have killed me was my fault. Like the time I nearly broke my neck on a skateboard. If my friend hadn’t told me jumping off his roof would lead to a secret warp zone, I probably never would have done it.

Let’s not forget that I once ate a dog biscuit without realizing what it was.

I blame Purina for that one.

Despite everything that’s happened to me in my life, I still consider myself lucky. Sure I have scars that I honestly don’t know how I got and I can’t see very well out of my left eye – but that’s all part of growing up isn’t it?

Please tell me it is, or I’m going to be really ticked about how everything has worked out for me.

Besides, I’m hoping my death will be something a little more dramatic.

I want my death to either prove that the hidden temple my team is exploring is full of dangerous booby traps or to be in a firey storm of bullets on day before I retire.

But we all know that isn’t going happen. I’m not that lucky. I’m probably going to end up getting fatally bitten by a llama or fall off a jungle gym or something.

Anyway, until then I’ll just geek on.

Steve Shinney is a junior in

computer science who is currently

trying to collect enough gold coins and rings to guarantee himself immortality. Comments can be sent to

steveshinney@cc.usu.edu.