Networking is a funny concept. And it’s poisonous. It’s about trying to work a group of people, and their contacts, in order to get something from them. I hate that whole concept, and I’m big enough to admit that part of the reason I hate it is that I suck at it.
When I was five, I staged a suicide with some ketchup and a butter knife. My mom made me wear a pair of underwear that “felt funny,” and already versed in my outbursts over shoes, socks, turtlenecks, and panties, she paid my tantrum no mind. So there I strategically laid on top of a detached cabinet door in my bedroom, mindful of not staining the carpet. I wanted recognition, not revenge. “You’re going to ruin the wood!” she scolded with tire. “No,” I thought, that’s not what was supposed to happen. I only wanted to make her understand how shattering these feelings were for me. We cleaned up the mess but we never really talked about it. I was a very sensitive child, tangibly and otherwise, and this is one of the first times I remember believing that emotions, especially sadness, were not good.