Not The Greatest Hiatus

I haven't written here in awhile, things have been busy.

Over the past few weeks I've helped another person that I care about leave my life, at least temporarily, but who knows.

Still, it is for the better and I know that it needs to be done for said person to find happiness and I am honored and happy that I was able to play a role in them getting to that point.

I feel no anger or ill-will, but I must admit, I am fast growing tired of being so good at what I do and so patient. Part of me wishes I didn't understand and I could be irrational and upset about the turn of events, but I cannot, because I do understand.

If I could have acted differently or not been so encouraging and understanding, I might be sleeping better tonight, but I had to do what was best in the hopes that it turns out positive in the end. This feeling and the returning sleeplessness are worth it though, every moment has been worth it.

I am not unhappy, merely thoughtful and vigilant. I have so much on my mind and so much wanting to get out. I am surrounded by people who love and care for me and life overall really isn't bad. I'm going to use these next few weeks during the holidays. I am going to get these thoughts out and into words and I am going to remain patient and vigilant but not reclusive.

So once more unto the breach I go. This all too familiar feeling of hope and sadness. I have felt it far too many times this year, but I carry on. I do have hope though, more than I have had in a long time. Everything that has happened recently has given me that hope, along with several great conversations. So I carry on.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

                              - Robert Frost

Silence Is So Much More Than The Inability To Use Magic

I feel like I am in a vacuum, everything is silent and nobody can hear me shouting. I still hear noises, but I don't really, they pass through me and I am none the wiser of their existence. I haven't written in a while and this is mostly because I have been sliding down this steep slope of God knows what emotions. Feeling and not feeling so perfectly at the same time. Everything seems and feels meaningless, but I carry on more out of spite and the knowledge that it is the "right" thing to do, regardless of whether I really want to or not.

I'd give just about anything to not feel like this right now (anymore) but this entire non-emotional, emotional state, this numbness I suppose, has been an approaching curve for sometime and I have no intentions of slowing. I think if there were a devil, I'd probably sell my soul just to feel normal, to feel like a part of the world again. That really is it, I feel completely detached from everything. It is quiet.

My room is clean at least. Everything neatly displayed and put away, reminders of the past, the present and the future all staring me down. I haven't brought my chair back in yet though and I sit on a tote full of childhood memories as I type. I almost like the tote better than my chair, it promotes very good posture.

I'm going to take more pills to try and sleep, but I hate sleep nowadays. I have been dreaming and I don't normally do that, or at least remember them. I have been though and the dreams are awful. . .just awful.

Something Is Wrong

I just finished writing an entire blog and before I posted it, I deleted the entire thing. I have never done that, at least not since starting this whole thing months ago. Words, just gone, never to placed in the same order or with the same feel ever again. Blinked out of existence with a single keystroke. I feel is if I ought to mourn the loss of thought, or an idea, or at the very least, the loss of words, but I feel no such remorse. I am numb to it all. Those words I destroyed were trapped in my head, then they we freed briefly while being typed onto this page, but there they would remain, from one prison to another. Perhaps I did them a favor.

That I even thought that pains me, words and thoughts and ideas are meant to be shared, not dispersed into nothingness mere moments after there creation. Still, tonight something is wrong.

Nothing soothes me, though I am exhausted.

I guess it is another night with my new friend melatonin. I wonder if it actually does anything at all and if it does, how long before that doesn't even work.

Oh well, goodnight I suppose.

The Trouble With Being An Elephant

Tonight I saw a kid, well not a kid anymore, an adult, at least by legal definition (I know because he successfully bought cigarettes) but in my memory he is a kid. His name was Mitchell and his was in the checkout line at the Speedway gas station near my home, his mother waiting in the surprisingly nice looking SUV outside. She looked far more ragged than I had remembered, though in truth, it had probably been a decade or more since I had seen her, or her children.

Mitchell had a brother, his name was Josh and he was not in the Speedway, but I assume with relative certainty that he is still alive, though I have no actual proof. Mitchell was 6 or 7 years old when I met him and his younger brother in a cul-de-sac of houses not far from where I lived. I was a bit older, but not awkwardly so, and I became friends with the two boys and to some extent, even their mother. I suppose she saw me as a good influence and rightly so. She (the mother) who I can't rightly remember the name of, was always a bit short-tempered, but overall seemed to mean well and tried her best to be a single mother raising two rowdy young boys.

As I got older, I saw less and less of Mitchell and Josh, adolescent and teen life tends to take precedent over kids the age of your little brother, especially when you often times can't escape him, the last thing you want is two more. I still would see their mother from time to time in the grocery store or around town and for the most part she was pleasant toward me and always exchanged the seemingly social routine of expressing how I should come see the boys and how they are growing up so fast. I suppose in my youth I did not realize it at the time, but looking back, even then, she appeared as if she was weighted down and ragged.

I saw her (the mother) tonight, waiting in the SUV and I saw Mitchell, standing in line to buy cigarettes, and chew. I think maybe the cigarettes were for his mother and the chew for him, seeing as he took a moment, while in line, to open the nearby door and spit some of the tobacco laced saliva from his mouth. Neither of them recognized me, I doubt am anything more than a vague memory to Mitchell and his mother may have remembered had I approached her, but she was in the SUV and she looked so ragged.

She was in the driver's seat, so I assumed she drove them to the Speedway and though I do not know for sure, I would not be surprised if Mitchell was without a license for one reason or another. He looked nothing like the happy kid I remembered, he simply looked like a punk, a punk who hated that he still lived with his mother, yet also depended on her in an oddly parasitic way. He looked ill-tempered and lacking self-respect but worst of all, he too looked ragged.

As they left the parking lot, in the surprisingly nice SUV, most likely heading back to the same cul-de-sac and home I had met them in so many years ago, I looked at the face of the mother. All the time I had known her, she had been a single mother, trying to raise two boys on her own, doing her best even though she was short-tempered. She had loved her children, Mitchell and Josh and I am certain she still does, but the look on her face as she pulled away. Her tired, ragged face. The face of a woman that had tried her very best, but somewhere along the line simply gave up and could do it no longer. She loved her boys, though I am sure through the years they had caused her a great deal of stress, she loved them. In her face, masked behind years of grinning and baring, I saw a hint of loathing.

Loathing. . .

I don't think I will ever forget that face.

. . .Damn

Questioning My Career Choice

Saturday night I found myself in a local gay bar with some friends. I went out to support some of my friends and a group they are a part of, also to have a good time with the 3 other straight friends I brought with me. It was a pretty standard night, excepting that they were doing line dancing and I am only mildly familiar with that form of dancing.

Regardless, I very much enjoy dancing, so I danced anyway. My friends I brought with me laughed as I tried to get them onto the floor. (They later would, once the music became more familiar and the dancing less in-line.) So as to not be in the way of all the people that knew what they were doing, I ran over to a slightly raised section of seats overlooking the dance floor and just starting letting the music move me. My friends came over to the area I was in shortly after that and we all talked and laughed while I danced.

Now, I had only had one drink and was nowhere near what anyone could even speculate as drunk when a man in a cowboy hat with a glorious mustache approached my friends and I. He started asking if we were charitable people and began talking about the organization he is raising money for. Naturally, we all expected him to ask us for money, but no, what he asked was far better. The man with the mustache saw that I really enjoy dancing and he asked me how much money it'd take to get me to dance in this cage box that they had at the bar.

I was shocked and excited! I told him I'd do it for free! It sounded awesome! My friends, of course were very encouraging and with that, the man with the mustache began going through the bar, taking donations to see me on stage. Now, most of these men at the bar knew I was straight, I knew a good lot of them anyhow, but I think something about being unobtainable makes me more attractive. I didn't request any money and everything he raised would go directly to the charity, I was just flattered and honored to even be asked.

After a short while the man came back to me and told that many people were wondering if they could give me tips. I thought sure why not! It is just more flattering and I didn't really expect to actually get any.

Shortly after that, still being completely sober, I took the cage box thing and I was introduced as "Bad Sam." Then I hear the familiar sound of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance and IT IS ON!

I danced my heart out. Stripped a little bit and just did my best to drive the bar crazy. I had people dancing and singing and it was awesome. I made 7 dollars in tips. . .2 of which I did not find until I got home and changed. Money can sure find its way into strange places. Most importantly though, I raised a bunch of money for a good cause and everyone had a great time.

I tell this story because I am very confused. You see, I had absolutely no problem dancing half naked in a room full of gay men. I didn't even hesitate, but today I found myself uncomfortable at a restaurant with friends. I can sing and dance and be goofy in front of droves of people, but I get anxious in an Applebees? How does that make any sense? I have a hard time going to the mall but I can spend hours roaming about crowded streets trying to convince people I am an impromptu street performer.

It just makes me wonder if maybe I am somehow wired backwards. Maybe I really am different and maybe that is the problem, maybe it always has been.

(Side note: In case anyone wanted to know, Sandi, from my last post, did contact her man and everything went great. Good for Sandi!)

The Depth Of Kindness

Tonight something happened to me that has never happened before. I got a series of text messages from a number I did not recognize. Now, getting messages from unknown numbers really is not that uncommon, but it was the content of these messages that completely threw me.

The person who sent these messages too me, stated in her first message that she did not think she'd have the courage to send them, but she did nonetheless. This girl poured her heart and her feelings out to me via text message, all the things she'd been aching to say, she wrote to me. It was beautiful and obviously nerve racking. You could tell through her jumbled words that she really cared and this whole series of messages was terrifying for her to send.

Her name was Sandi. . .and she had the wrong number.

I was not the guy these messages were meant for. I was not the one that this girl had to build up so much courage to say these things to. All he effort and all her struggle, only to be received by the wrong person. I felt devastated, it was terrible to think of this series of events. I didn't know exactly what to do, I had to tell her I was not the one she meant to send them to. I couldn't very well let her feel as if this guy she poured her heart out to was a jerk and ignoring her.

I messaged her back, I had to. I explained to her that I was glad she found the courage, but regrettably, she had the wrong number. I sent a series of text messages, telling her not to be embarrassed or discouraged. I did my best to encourage her to try again and make sure she told this guy, the right guy, all the things she was feeling. It is important to let people know these things, keeping them in rarely ends in anything but regret and hurt. As I hit the send button, I wondered how my message would be received, would she be ashamed and abashed? Would she find my response and advice creepy and weird coming from a complete stranger? I almost felt as if I had made a mistake, but there really was no turning back at that point.

I waited nervously, almost like a young boy waiting for the arrival of his prom date. I didn't even know if I would get a response, I mean, she might have been too utterly embarrassed to respond. That was not the case however, and after a few nervous minutes, I got a message back.

It was simple, almost perfectly so. She said, "Thank you, I will, you are really sweet."

We rarely ever treat strangers with the depth of kindness she and I had during this interaction and I think that is a shame.

No Worries, Just Writing. . .Seriously

There was a man, not particularly old, but not particularly young. Mild mannered in most aspects, always meaning well, but good intentions do not always translate accordingly. He felt he possessed some type of knowledge, some understand of life that others either did not, or chose to ignore.

He sat in the quiet, alone in his room, in a chair that was black and deceptively uncomfortable. He often wondered if perhaps how he sat was defective and it was not entirely, or at all the chair's fault. A life of bad posture and hard work were likely to blame than the actual chair itself.

Thinking about the deceiving black chair was, in fact, part of this gnawing knowledge the man felt he possessed. He constantly found himself taking into consideration the thoughts and feelings of inanimate objects. He knew they had no such things, at least on any sort of level he was capable of understanding, but just like most things in life, it is the thought that counts. So, had the black chair been endowed with any sort of sentience, he felt it'd be necessary for it to know that he did not blame it for its short comings, even though he often said quite the opposite.

Seeing the world around him, as if it were staring back at him, judging in the same way he judged it. That was the curse and the grating, unrelenting knowledge that often denied him dreams. Some nights he would lie in bed, rubbing his feet together, then wondering if perhaps that was a mistake, after all, he had know idea if his feet actually got along, much less would be prone to enjoy being pressed together and furiously stroked like a young couple at a high school dance.

Seeing the world in this way, with all its negatives, did grant him a nearly endless supply of patience. He would often spend time making sure all spare change was facing heads up, that way the men on the coins could breathe easier, if of course, they ever found that breathing became a necessity. In comparison to something like that, people we easy, people could communicate and tell you their needs. He enjoyed helping, he nearly fed off of it. Seeing as most of his endeavors were the pointless and merely the product of an overly active mind trying to give meaning to everything, trying to make something worthwhile.

He was tired, sitting in the black chair, now quite certain it was his and not the chairs fault for the discomfort. All the coins on his desk were heads up, able to take in breath. All was well in his world of friends, family and lovers, he had helped and been rewarded with the knowledge that he had done very well. He had done far better than most and now all was well.

He examined the inanimate world around him and there all seemed to be in order as well. It was a beautifully crafted period in time where everything seemed perfect and perhaps he would find some rest. He swiveled in his chair, noting aloud how nimbly it moved, even with his weight upon it. All was right in the world, animate and inanimate alike.

He saw the gun, resting heavily on the ground. His black chair now facing a darkened window, he stared at the weapon with curiosity wondering how it must feel. It had one purpose, one singular motive for its creation. To be fired. Yet in its life thus far, it had never experienced its purpose. Having all that power, all that ability, a perfect design but never being allowed to use it.

He felt he could relate. He knew how to help.

Gathering My Thoughts At The Bitter End

I have been rather confused the last few days. Without getting into detail, a series of events transpired that I was completely unaware of but somehow involve me. It is frustrating, mostly because I don't understand and because people I care about are affected by it.

As with everything, it has gotten me thinking and as I sit here in the coffee shop, I gather my thoughts.

How does information get anywhere? If two people have a conversation, neither party can ever be 100% sure that what they said was heard by the other party as what they actually said. Once words leave our mouths they are free to be skewed and interpreted in any way and there is virtually no way to stop it. Anyone can say you said something and regardless of whether that is the truth, it then just because a matter of your word against anothers.

It really is a wonder to me how people have built stable relationships and communities over time. It is a wonder how we can trust and love so implicitly when it is just as easy for someone to come and take advantage of that. I mean, it is good that we trust and love and having meaningful powerful relationships, but just as many people have completely fake relationships and trying to distinguish them could drive a person mad.

You certainly don't want to go through your entire life wondering how many of your friends and relations are real, but it is possible that many of them are based on, or completely comprised of lies. It is a very dangerous rabbit hole to go down and perhaps that is why we have trust, because otherwise we'd all be eternally stuck in the depths of that rabbit hole.

We are all in some ways, guilty of this, we all have friends or acquaintances that we aren't ourselves around, or we keep them around for selfish reasons, sometimes it is even both parties mutually using each other. Regardless of how, all of us have taken advantage of trust and it is bound to happen, but it is the people who abuse it, the people who form relationships based solely on selfish gains, those people are the problems.

Worst of all is that we can never truly know who those people are, so we just have to go on trusting and hoping that people aren't dicks to one another.

I don't know, I feel like this blog has no flow, like it makes little sense, but I at least know what I am trying to say and I suppose that is most important.

I think I have had too much coffee. . .

In The Wreckage Of A Thought Tsunami You Find Gummi Bears

Tonight at work I had a veritable plethora of ideas for things to write. Stories, songs, blogs, anything and everything. I tried to write snip-its down of each so I wouldn't forget, but the initial high of the inspiration had long worn off by time I got home at 1:30 a.m. Because of that, I will simply be writing about the last thing that happened to me during my work day.

I was walking by the man that I assume to be our oldest employee, his name is Ron and he mostly speaks in incomprehensible tones or makes lewd jokes that seem only acceptable because of is age, but if I were to say them, I may get in trouble. In any case, Ron is an all right guy, he almost always has some type of candy with him and he will always share with you. That alone is enough to make you cool with me.

So, I was walking by Ron, pushing my black cart around in front of me and all of the sudden I hear. Ay! Sham! I instantly knew it was Ron trying to get my attention, but other people might have mistook his greeting for nonsense. I turned just in time to see him tossing an unidentified bag at me and before I even fully realized what was going on, the bag plopped onto my cart.

Much to my surprise and delight, Ron had thrown and entire, unopened bag of Gummi Bears onto my cart. Now, until this point I had kind of forgotten about Gummi Bears. I loved them, but ever since I have been out of the grocery store business and don't see them all the time, they just kind of fell off my radar.

I opened the bag and the smell was just as I had remembered. It was sweet, but just a little off. The exact way that Gummi Bears themselves are sweet, but the concept of them is just a little off. I mean, really, who thought of making delicious treats look like cute bears? It makes me wonder if they loved bears, or hated them. Anyway, I tore into the bag, immediately shoving handfuls of Gummi Bears into my mouth, it was as if I hadn't eaten in days the way I greedily scooped them into my mouth. Their flavor was spot on, everything about the experience was perfect, for me, for the bears it was a massacre, none would survive.

The bag was empty mere minutes after I opened it and shortly after that I found myself regretting my lustful decision to devour with reckless abandon. I should have taken my time and enjoyed the bears that are so seldom in my life nowadays. Sure, I could go to any store and buy Gummi Bears, but I won't. In fact, I will probably forget about them again in a few days, maybe a week, but that doesn't make them go away.

It is kind of the same with old friends you don't see that often. They are always there and you really do care for them, but they fall off your radar. Then, one day, they come back to town and you binge on them. Try to fit as much time in as possible, regardless of the quality of it. Really though you should make that time count, rather than assuming quantity with be fulfilling. Pretty much all relationships are like Gummi Bears in that aspect. They should be savored and enjoyed, not devoured hastily disregarded.

Each flavor is different, take time to enjoy them individually, then try different combos and see what works best. This way you can form the best and most flavorful bonds with your chewy friends before you send them on a horrifically painful journey being eaten away by your stomach acid. Yay!

10:30 a.m. On A Wednesday

So I was thinking about the origin of the word Wednesday and naturally it led me down an odd path, but before we get to that, I should probably fill you in on the origin of Wednesday. Wednesday was named in honor of the Norse god Odin and for those of you unaware, Odin is, according to mythology, the father of the gods. He is the god of war, death, poetry and wisdom. He fathered several children, but most well known is Thor, which is where Thursday comes from, but this isn't about Thursday. Basically, Odin was the penultimate Norse god, for crying out loud, the guy never ate! He gave all of his food to his two wolves, Freki and Geri because Odin consumes nothing but wine. That is classy, imagine a dude riding an eight-legged horse with a big ass spear, two wolves by his side and he is just carrying on with a bottle of wine. Odin was the shit is what I am trying to get at.

Anyway, I started thinking about what Odin might think about what has happened to the day that was originally named in his honor. Wednesday is often the most hated and dreaded day of the week. Very few people say, "man I love Wednesday!" Not only that, but it has been giving the notable title of "hump" day. Now, I don't think Odin would mind the idea of "hump" day, after all, a guy who consumes nothing but wine probably has at least a little sense of humor. I think he would be very upset however that his day is the most hated. The father of the gods! The god of war, death, poetry and wisdom! Yet, we hate his day, if Odin were real he'd probably be really angry about that. Silly humans, disrespecting such a powerful deity.

Next time you find yourself thinking that you hate Wednesdays, just remember you might find yourself dealing with a pissed off god riding an eight-legged horse, carrying a huge spear and drinking wine like a boss. I say to Odin. "Wednesdays really aren't that bad, but if you pass me that wine, they'll get that much better."

I Really Really Need A Raincoat

I've been feeling the winter coming, not so much in the literal sense, though that is true. No, I have been feeling it in my thoughts and ideas. Everything is getting colder in my head, darker and often times more depressed. The winter casts a heavy malaise over my thoughts, it creeps in throughout the fall, gets all cozy and sticks around for a few months.

People tell me I should go tanning in the winter, they say it'll help me, they say that I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder. First off, I absolutely hate that, I mean really, that is a thing? S.A.D. Even the acronym kind of infuriates me. Okay, sure people get more depressed in the winter, but since when do we get to call that a disorder? I don't know, I guess I am just tired of everything in life slowly becoming something wrong with people. Nobody talked about this stuff when I was a kid, hell, half of the "disorders" and "problems" people are having to medicate for and deal with don't even seem like they existed ten years ago. Sure, maybe they did, but we didn't have names for them, we didn't have medication for them, we just lived our lives and took the lumps as they came. Now, everything can be fixed. Fixed! As if it were broken to feel the natural range of human emotion.

Don't get me wrong, there are some people with real problems that really need medications and help to get through things, but seriously things have kind of gotten out of hand. Would going tanning in the winter perhaps make me feel a little better? Sure, it probably would, but so what? There are a whole slew of things that would make me feel better in the winter and just as many that would make me feel sad. Isn't that normal? Isn't that life? That isn't a disorder, it is existence.

I guess I am just tired of excuses. If you are sad and you don't want to be, take steps toward being happier. I have had my fair share of depression, believe you me, in fact, this blog is kind of a testament to it, but it like everything else has ebbs and flows. Sometimes I even want to be sad and frankly there is nothing wrong with that. However, if you are always sad or upset or whatever and you don't want to be, try changing your mindset or your routine. Don't just blame something else and rely on medication or a doctor to fix it. Be the master of your own brain, or at the very least try to be.

If that doesn't work, then go ahead and consider getting help, it is true some people really do need it. Most important though, you have to remember that life is meant to be felt on all levels. The happiness would be nothing without the sadness and turmoil. Joy feels hollow without grief. The ebb and flow of life should be enjoyed, not suppressed. Feel! Whatever it is you feel, feel it! Then come out the other side with a greater perspective or appreciation for the wonderful ride of feeling.

Tonight I am sad, but so what? I will let myself be sad and tomorrow will bring what it brings.

Don't Fear The Reaper

 I apologize in advance, this is not a typical blog entry. I felt the need to write something aside from the book I have been working on and while trying to think of a blog, this just started to come out. It is a very rough and not entirely complete story, but the idea is sound. As always feel free to read, but make note that this is a short story, not a typical blog entry.

The room was well lit, but very quiet. Only the fan of his laptop and the subtle striking of keys broke through the silence of the still air. He paused for a moment and stared at his socks, they had lots of fuzzy little tendrils climbing off of them, the sort of thing you only find on new or nearly new pairs of socks. He desperately wished he had a lighter, something to start the tendrils aflame. It was an activity he often did with new socks, sort of a rite of passage for them. There was no lighter however and his attention was again resumed to the striking sound of the keys. It was an almost seductive sound, the way each individual key groaned as it was pressed, not a groan of pain, no, they were happy to be used, to be chosen.

His fingers moved deftly from keystroke to keystroke, losing himself in the intricate ballet of typing. It was creation, he was creating worlds with his fingertips and doing so was addicting. He imagined it was the same way artists felt when they painted worlds and places out of their imaginations, bringing something to life, almost in a literal sense and who's to say there isn't some life held with a story or a painting? A piece of the creator goes into it and so perhaps goes the essence of life itself. He became so caught up in his creation and in these magnificent thoughts, he didn't hear the door opening behind him.

The room was still silent, still well lit, but it could have been a bustling city street or pitch darkness, he would not have noticed anymore. He was entirely entranced. Perhaps that was the point, the goal all along, but whether it was meant to be or not, it changed nothing and he did not here the darkness creeping up behind him.

It was not a single thing, no, it was an amalgamation of hundreds of different ideas, half finished, half brought to fruition, all manifested into one shapeless entity. The man typing away had often wondered if all the stories, all the characters, all the worlds he had left unfinished, left to rot, ever felt abandoned or resentful. He wonder if the small sparks of life he gave those creations would ever find their own way into the world without his help. On this night they had. Life always finds a way.

The shapeless form drifted silently behind him, seeing with unrecognizable eyes that the man was again typing away. No doubt he was creating yet another life, another existence that he would leave alone and helpless just like the others. The being had great capacity for emotion seeing as nearly all of its' creator's unfinished projects were written through fits of strong emotion. The entity began to feel anger, wanting nothing more than to stop this man from leaving more work unfinished.

The man, the writer, never turned to see what it was, nor did he ever hear it, but in a flash, it consumed him. A hateful darkness that poured over him like a heavy fog, wrapping his body and stealing the very life from him. The souls countless half-realized lives all intertwined now, feeding off the life force of the very man who had made them this way.

His death was quick, he barely comprehended what was happening before all that made him who he was had been sucked from his body. The hateful darkness slinked away from the now lifeless body of its' creator. Still unfinished, never to be truly whole, especially now, but feeding off the lives of others seemed sustainable enough. It carried on its' journey, looking for more life to steal, needing nothing but to feed on thoughts and the things that make us human, trying desperately to become so itself.

You cannot kill an idea, stop a creation from the depths of imagination. Even after the creator is no more, their thoughts and ideas remain, skulking through the ether, looking to become whole. Manifestations of the best and worst of us and now one lingers about, hungry and eager. It is raw and heartless, wanting only to be alive, to be realized in entirety and it will continue taking the lives of others until that happens. It never will. . .That is why we are all doomed.

Death itself is nothing more than the combination of all our unfinished works finally catching up to us. Why else would it be that so many infinitely creative people perish at such early stages of their lives? Because it is not about what we finish and create, it is all the things we leave unfinished and unsaid that eventually become our undoing.

Modern Cave Paintings

Tonight I want to talk about something that has completely baffled me since as long as I can remember. It is an issue that is pretty much overlooked by most of society, yet it could very well be, far in the future, how we are remembered. I am talking about men's room bathroom stalls.

If you are unfamiliar with this, then you either have never used a public bathroom, or are a girl. Granted, I do not know if the women's bathroom stalls have such "art" within them, but I can feel fairly certain that if it does exist, it is not nearly as bad as the men's. Having been a glorified janitor at Meijer, I did see, at least a small sample of the stall art in the women's restrooms and in comparison, it is virtually non- existant.

To those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. You go into pretty much any public restroom, sit down in the stall and all of the sudden you are transported to a claustrophobic would filled with countless people's fear and angst depravity. Scrawled along the walls are almost always multiple referenced to sex or sucking dick, sometimes you'll be lucky enough to find drawings, or even carvings of these acts, crudely drawn of course. You continues to look around and naturally find the obligatory "for a good time call" followed by a random phone number that usually is real and connects you to a real person who often times had no idea their number was scrawled on a bathroom stall.

You'll see places where people, either the establishment, or someone who got offended, tried to cover over profanities or whatever, but it is always in vain. Once one thing gets erased, it is quickly replaced by something else, a drawing of a penis, or a swastika.

Amongst all the vulgarity and drawings of cocks shooting sperm everywhere, you will often see references to God or Jesus. It is as if someone is trying to preach to and save the souls of the depraved who write on these stalls. It does say something, that God and Jesus can be found in the most awful of places, but it really only adds to the problem. People shouldn't write anything at all and bringing God or Jesus into the mix only ultimately leads to things like. "Jesus sucks cock." or "Fuck God" Whatever message the well-meaning have tried with their deities is lost amongst the unstoppable force of the stall artists. 

You will always find someone, who thought it'd be a good idea to write their name, followed by, was here. Now I don't know if that is a carry over from childhood or what, but what I do know is that every time you see that, you will inevitably see that the HERE is crossed or carved out and is ALWAYS replaced by the word gay. Now, set aside for a minute that saying someone was gay doesn't even make any sense, that isn't was concerns me most about that. Grammar and spelling have gone out the window long ago for these denizens of bathroom art. Hell, just tonight I saw something in a stall that said Suck my dick Niger. Now perhaps they were talking about the African country, but I highly doubt that is what they were trying to express.

What concerns me the most, what really just defies all logic, is the two most common things found on the wall of a bathroom stall. The second most common thing is the word gay, or references to gay, but the most common, the absolute MOST frequently seen thing on stall walls, are penises, dicks, cocks. All shapes and sizes, squirting cum, pissing, doing any manner of things. Some drawn with great detail, others look like a child drew them, in some ways it is fascinating. I just don't understand though, because the men's room stall is perhaps one of the most racists,sexist,immoral and especially homophobic single place you will ever enter in your life, yet the most common thing you see is cocks. So, the people who draw these things hate gays and everything remotely related to them, but they are more than happy to add another penis to the already penis infested wall?

I don't get it at all, frankly I don't even understand what makes you want to write anything at all. I have never been sitting in a bathroom thinking, "Man I should draw something." Much less thinking I should draw a dick shooting cum into somebody's face. What is wrong with people? I guess I understand how somebody may think it is funny, and admittedly every now and then you will see clever bathroom art, but mostly it simply becomes an outlet for the worst in people.

A thousand years from now, if many of our great cities have become rubble and some alien race, or even our future generations, excavate the ruins of those cities, they may find great lost works of architecture, wonderful remnants of the good in humanity, art and music and pictures, all of those may be found. What will most assuredly will be found is at least one of two bathroom stall walls, the hard plastic they are made from will probably last forever. Those walls, could then become our legacy, modern cave paintings, left for the future to discover. What would they think? Would they be happy to know the so and so was here, but so and so was also gay? Would they appreciate the detailed way in which someone drew a hairy nutsack? Doubtful, they may get a little chuckle from the whole thing, but then they'd probably shake their heads and think, no wonder that society failed. No wonder those people aren't around anymore.

Coasting On Potential

Two weeks ago, I turned 26, a pretty unexciting age to turn, but since then life has been crazy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have metaphorical doors in front of me, all waiting eagerly for me to open them. I can't of course, open all of them, such is the trouble with metaphorical doors, you have to choose the ones to open and go through. Some of the choices are obvious, others not so much, but regardless, once you choose and step through you can't go back, you have to keep going until more doors come.

When you finally do settle upon a door, open it and walk through it, the world doesn't change, you aren't magically transported to a new place or world. The passage through the door generally offers subtle changes to your life and environment, but whether they are for better or worse is usually not made immediately apparent. Such is the risk in choosing to pass through metaphorical doors. It is a risk we all take however and will take pretty much our entire lives.

I often find myself wishing these doors did actually lead to some far off places, it'd be such an adventure. Taking the people in your life with you through these crazy worlds and lands behind the doors. Even accompanying others on their journeys through the doors would be incredibly amazing. It'd be like an interactive real life choose your adventure story. You might argue that life is an interactive choose your own adventure story, but then you'd be missing the point of what I am trying to say.

I guess in a way, I have always been afraid of opening new doors, partly because they don't lead to new worlds of grand adventure, they lead to more doors, more decisions. Nothing unusual, nothing strange, just more of the same, except with an altered cast or slightly different scenery. I think though I might also be scared because what if the door I choose does lead to a grand adventure? Am I ready for that? Will I go alone or do I get to bring others with me? I don't have the answers, I guess I just have to start opening doors.

"I can see the light all around your silhouette, leave an open door behind you."

Reckless Abandon

I have been doing a lot of things I wouldn't normally do as of late, but I found out tonight, that there are some things you just can't turn off.

I was at a get together with some friends, admittedly quite a bit intoxicated and the whole deal was starting to wind down. I figured I'd just stay up a while until I was able to drive home and go to sleep, but just as everything was settling, I got a very disturbing text from a very good friend.

I knew I couldn't drive, but I also felt I had to help. It was like a switch turned on in my head and BOOM! I was ready to help. I told the people I was with that I had to go, it was important, but not to worry, I wasn't driving. I left the car there and started running.

I ran about 2 miles, all the while talking to my friend in need, before I truly realized the scope of crazy I was embarking on. There simply was no way I was going to be able to run to where he was, so I turned around, very tired, still drunk and a little lost.

Eventually, I found my way to a Denny's and I sat and had coffee and food, still trying to help the situation anyway I could via the phone. I was exhausted, but I knew that had it been asked of me, I would have tried my hardest to run all the way to see him. It didn't matter, all that matter was trying to help. I went forth with good intentions and reckless abandon, then found myself in a Denny's eating cheesy hash browns and drinking coffee.

During the course of my Denny's meal I was able to successfully help my friend feel better, or at least I think I did. Then, with aching legs and a tired head, I ran another mile or so back to my car and drove home.

I sit here now, wondering if my selflessness is noble, or just stupid. It seems I will literally do just about anything to help those I care about, even when I have no business even trying to. In some ways, I guess that is good, but after tonight, I think maybe I should try to reign it in just a little. It wouldn't, after all, do anyone any good if I got myself hurt while trying to help someone else.

Still, there is a time and a place for reckless abandon.

The Bitter End

It is a Wednesday night/Thursday morning, depending on how you chose to look at it. I am sitting in a place called The Bitter End, a place I have never been to alone, a place that feels far lonelier than it actually is. In fact, it is busier here tonight than I have ever seen it before. I am getting a lot accomplished in my time here, so it is a positive thing, but it is just a little off.

Something about not being at my computer desk, not in my own room, seems to help me focus more. It doesn't make much sense to me, seeing as here, there are dozens of distractions, but at home, I can have quiet and comfort in any way I desire. Still, sometimes, being out of the norm is exactly what I need to really get some real writing done.

I  am now far too immersed in my world of fiction to continue writing a real world blog. This post has been more of a novel idea, feeling as if I almost have to write a blog while sitting in a coffee shop at 3 a.m. but it is nothing more than that. I will try and post something better soon, but for now, it is back to my world of fiction.

Shower Power

Inspiration is a fickle creature. It seems to like to strike you most often when there is very little you can do capitalize on it. In the middle of a meeting at work, stuck in traffic, right before you fall asleep, or even during a heated hostage situation. Inspiration almost seem to take sick pleasure in taunting this way, forcing us to try and remember whatever great idea it gave us until we can write it down or bring it to fruition. It really is like being bitten by a venomous creature. Such things never happen conveniently outside of hospitals, no, they always happen in deserts or out in the wilderness somewhere. Then, you just have to hold on, you have to survive until you can get to a hospital and even then, hope it isn't too late to save you. Rattlesnakes and inspiration are perhaps the exact same creature.

Except for one instance, at least for me, inspiration follows the above pattern, but I can manufacture it, force it out of hiding if you will, milk its' venom.

Showers, nothing special, just a shower. I am not sure if it is the sort of sensory deprivation that a long hot shower gives you that helps to let the ideas flow, or maybe it is just the relaxing nature of a good shower. I haven't ever pinpointed why showers work, but I have learned that nearly every time, they do help produce inspiration. I suppose the only exception to the rule is if I find myself showering with someone else, often times in those scenarios, inspiration couldn't get into my head if it wanted to.

The best part about the shower induced inspiration is that you can easily just turn the shower off and go make whatever idea you had, become a reality. At the very least, you can write down the idea or start planning it out, but for me it is usually writing related, so I can just turn off the shower, dry off and go write. I'd say a good 40% of everything I have ever written, I wrote while wearing just a towel. The idea will come and I won't feel the need to dress, just to get it out, set it free.

Hell, I am writing this entry in just a towel and if you know me, then you are welcome for the mental image

Here's to showers and rattlesnakes! May they never coexist.

Gifts And Shampoo

As I write this, it is officially my birthday. I am 26 and as such, do not expect to get presents, pretty much after your 21st birthday, presents are a rarity. Not that they aren't appreciated by the few who give them, but most of the time, any birthday after your 21st, the celebration and the gathering of friends is the gift. After all, when life gets hectic for everyone, finding time to all share in good times and great company truly is a gift.

If anything, the best gift on my birthday is going to a good friend of mine. She finally gets to get out of this town and go chase down her own happiness over in Chicago. It is bittersweet for me, I will miss her company, but I know it will be great for her and I am certain we will still talk. Chicago is a big city, full of opportunity and I honestly don't know if it is ready for her, but she is a comin' and I highly recommend that whatever it is she is looking for out there just come out and surrender, because she will find you and possibly beat you into submission.

All joking aside, I am really proud of you and very happy for you, I know you will absolutely love Chicago.

Getting back on the subject of birthdays, I very much thought about being a child today, but it wasn't at all because of my birthday. I was showering, as I do every morning and all was going as it normally does. Washing myself, enjoying the hot water, staring directly into the shower head as it blasted water on me in an effort to wake me further. The problem came when washing my hair and I honestly do not know how it happened. For the first time since I was a young kid, I got shampoo in my eye! Now I'm talking talking a little bit, the kind of think you can just brush off like a man, no I am talking full on soap to eye contact. The kind of thing that sends lesser men to their knees.

I remained upright and steadfast, but I had forgotten how much that hurts! It was truly awful and I couldn't help but think, most things we remember from childhood are either exaggerated or disappointing when we relive them as adults. Old cartoons, childhood stories, the list of things that truly stand the test of time is a small list indeed. However, shampoo in the eye is now on that list. It is exactly how I remembered it as a kid. It sucks and I hate it.

I hope to go at least another decade of birthdays before having another shampoo to eye incident, but all I can truly do is be careful and take proper hair washing precautions, leaving it up to chance would be downright foolish.

On the same note, I hope it is far less time than that before I see my friend thriving in Chicago. My advice to you is simple, stick to your guns and be careful when washing your hair.

Unburdened

Tonight I removed the final artifact of the past that I carried with me. It was a small slip of paper, that was tucked into my wallet a long time ago.

 

It has survived everything I put my wallet through, even multiple soakings. Still, the scrap of notebook paper remained. Tonight though, I released it from its' home. It now will rest among other artifacts of the past and fond memories, in a drawer that exists solely for such things. It was perhaps the final stage in what has been a long process for me. A process that saw the birth of this blog and many other things, some yet to be seen.

I feel less weighted by it all now, though I do not know if that will correlate into feel better, but what is done is done and there is no turning back now. I will continue to keep up this blog, I have grown rather fond of it, but with any luck the post will be more pleasing to read. I type this for the first time, free of anything that binds me directly to my past and perhaps the future is bright, but it is far too early to tell for certain.

Math + The Bible

I really don't have much to say tonight, it has been a rather rough week and this evening was one of the only bright spots. I am currently working on a few other writing projects and I do not want to get too distracted from those, but I did want to share this neat bit of information with everyone. Math can be fun, or at least entertaining.

The temperature of Heaven can be rather accurately computed. Our authority is Isaiah 30:26, "Moreover, the light of the Moon shall be as the light of the Sun and the light of the Sun shall be sevenfold, as the light of seven days."

Thus Heaven receives from the Moon as much radiation as we do from the Sun, and in addition 7*7 (49) times as much as the Earth does from the Sun, or 50 times in all.
The light we receive from the Moon is one 1/10,000 of the light we receive from the Sun, so we can ignore that ... The radiation falling on Heaven will heat it to the point where the heat lost by radiation is just equal to the heat received by radiation, i.e., Heaven loses 50 times as much heat as the Earth by radiation. Using the Stefan-Boltzmann law for radiation, (_ H/_ E)^4 = 50, where _ E is the absolute temperature of the earth (~300K), gives _ H as 798K (525C).

The exact temperature of Hell cannot be computed ... [However] Revelations 21:8 says "But the fearful, and unbelieving ... shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone." A lake of molten brimstone means that its temperature must be at or below the boiling point, 444.6C. We have, then, that Heaven, at 525C is hotter than Hell at 445C.

-- From "Applied Optics" vol. 11, A14, 1972

Better Made In Younger Seasons

I don't remember what I wanted to be when I grew up. Most people seem to remember the first thing they ever wanted to be when they grew up, I don't. Maybe that is a good thing, after all, most of us never reach the triumphant goals of our childhood, so by not remembering, I can't be disappointed. To that same degree though, maybe my inner child wants nothing more than for me to remember, maybe then we can start on a real path. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't change that I don't remember.

I feel like I am forgetting more and more lately and I don't like it. I realize that the memories are probably stored somewhere and all it would take is a picture or a conversation with an old friend to spark all the dormant memories, but what about the personal ones. The memories that were made in solitude. Memories that weren't shared with others or captured by cameras? How do you retrieve those? Do they just dissipate? I hope not, that would be a shame.

I remember being fifteen and walking around alone at night. Most likely doing pretty much the same things I do now 10 years later. Walking around, enjoying the peaceful night and feeling as if I am keeping an eye on the world while everyone else slept. Fifteen and feeling like I could save the world if it was truly asked of me. I remember sitting on the steps of a church, a church that would in only a few short hours serve as a bus stop for many kids of all ages. It was, in fact, the bus stop I would have been going to had I taken the bus or went to school for that matter.

Sitting on those steps, I remember feeling as if I was a part of something, a sort of oneness with everything. It seemed profound and it seemed important. The moment was very brief, almost as if it never even existed to begin with and perhaps that is what makes it stand out so much. I remember wondering if anyone else was feeling the same thing at that moment. Perhaps it was a collective experience, shared by all who were awake for it. I remember thinking that I hope that was the case, I hoped that the entire world would feel that in that brief moment. I knew that was probably not the case, it was probably just me, such profound experiences rarely seemed to also be shared experiences. Still, I remember hoping.

I don't want to forget that memory. It felt so important, but I had forgotten it. I forgot all about that night until this one. I was running and I had been pushing myself far too hard and far too fast, I needed to take a quick rest.

There was the church, my old, seldom used bus stop. I hunched over, hands on my knees, catching my breath, staring down at the steps I sat on 10 years ago. I remembered then, it all flooded back, I didn't feel the oneness, but I did feel a twinge of something. Maybe happiness, nostalgia, who knows, I wish it was the oneness again, but it wasn't. I was happy to remember it, but sad that I forgotten it in the first place. Happiness and sadness in the same moment seem to be following me around lately. I don't know if I will ever get used to that feeling, I don't know that I want to feel it enough to become used to it.

After remembering such a thing, I didn't feel like running anymore, I had pushed too hard anyway. I walked back home, legs a little sore, thinking and wondering about what else I had forgotten and when or if I will remember them. It was at that point that I realize I no longer remember what I wanted to be when I grew up. I guess it isn't really important, I haven't grown up yet so I still have time, but I wonder if something will ever jog that memory. If something does, then what? I guess I'd have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

I walked home, intertwined with the happiness and sadness. An almost perfect mixture of the two, but not in the sense that they canceled each other out, but more to the effect of each one being felt perfectly simultaneously. I hoped that the rest of the world was not feeling this way, I hoped it was an isolated experience. It was not something I wished others shared with me. I just continued walking, just wanting to get back to my keyboard now, but feeling no actual rush to do so. Now is sit here typing this, knowing that in doing so, I will never forget either memory. The one of a fifteen year old who felt at one with the universe and the one of a twenty-five year old that felt completely separated from it.

I am twenty-five and I feel as if I could save the world were it truly asked of me. However, in that moment, I questioned whether I would.

That's Gonna Hurt In The Morning

I went for a run tonight, it was a really chilly night and the air felt good to breathe in. I was really in a groove, the kind of point of no return sort of scenario. My legs ached and my lungs were strained, but I felt amazing nonetheless, I guess it is called a runner's high. The trouble with the runner's high is that often everything else in the world disappears, which I suppose is normally a good thing, but tonight it added to an awful brew that nearly ended in disaster.

Now, I will be the first to say that I should not run in the road, so had I been more responsible in that aspect, no risk would have been taken at all. In any case, I was running one of my usual routes and at 1:30 a.m. I rarely worry about traffic on the suburban back roads by my home so at certain points, I find myself running in the street as opposed to the uneven sidewalk.

I was on my way home, feeling the runner's high and having the usual music blaring loudly in my ears, driving me forward and drowning out the rest of the world. Everything was perfect and I had not intentions of slowing until I reached my driveway. I did not hear a car, my music was far too loud for such a thing, but I noticed the change in lighting coming up from behind me. Whenever cars come by, it always drastically effects the shadows around me, so even when I can't hear them, I know they are there.

Tonight was no different, I acknowledge that a car was approaching from behind and I moved to the side of the road. I am not sure if it was the groove I was in or what, but for some reason I did not move to the sidewalk, I simply ran along the edge of the street. After all, I have done it countless times before with no consequence.

The music and the mood and the moment all coalesced and I am surprised I noticed anything wrong at all. I recall think that the lights seemed to be coming very quickly and at a much more erratic angle than I am used to at such an hour of the night. Most people driving at 1:30 a.m. seem to be relatively cautious, at least on the back streets it seems. Regardless, I could tell something was wrong, but whatever was wrong, I noticed far too late.

The light got very bright, I didn't turn around. In what felt like minutes, but was probably only 3 or 4 seconds, everything seemed to stop. The music kept playing but I did not hear it, my legs ached and my lungs burned, but I did not feel them. I did not look back, I simply dove into the grass to the left of me. I hit the ground, did a pseudo-somersault, landed awkwardly on my shoulder with and looked up with just enough time to see a white car speeding away in a serpentine manner. I was too shaken from the whole experience to get a plate number or anything but it seems pretty clear to me that I was nearly hit by a drunk driver.

I don't know how bad it would have been, I have survived a lot, but it was by far the closest I've come to serious injury in a while. I get really lucky and I get really lucky a lot and while I am sure my shoulder will hurt a lot tomorrow and the adrenaline from it all is keeping me rather wired tonight, everything could have been much much worse. I didn't have my phone or my wallet, nothing but my iPod, not even the Swiss Army knife I carry everywhere.

I am absolutely fine, nothing is hurt or broken, not even the iPod and oddly enough I am not even that shaken, I think I have become slightly used to the feeling of narrowly escaping severe injury. That is probably bad. In any case, I am thinking I will be running on the sidewalk now, pretty much exclusively.

Cuban B

I think anyone who has a rather large social circle has a friend like my friend B. His real name is Brennan, but those of us who are close to him simply call him B. B is loud, out spoken, not afraid to do or say anything, his confidence is through the roof. He is a good looking man and he has a sonorous voice that echoes out when he talks and laughs. Everything about B simply screams that if this guy is with you, you will have an incredible night. Also, he is Irish, so that generally means you will have an incredible night, but you will be hazy on the details come morning.

I don't see B nearly enough anymore, time seems to do that to even the best of us, and I wonder how he is doing, though I am sure a man of his resources is doing just fine. I am sure soon enough he will reappear and we will have great times again, but I write about him tonight because I finally found (and subsequently remembered) an Irish philosophy that he told me one drunken night in the past.

B was always the first to have a good toast before taken a shot and he would never hesitate to give you a quick quip of advice here and there, but for the most part he tried to stay out of profundity. It was not that he was incapable of it, merely there was no place for deep meaning when you were with B, it was all about the moment.

Every now and then however, when you found yourself out with just B, no other people to distract or entertain, B would share is own form of Irish wisdom. Of all the conversations I have ever had with B, the one that stands out the most for me came one night shortly after my most recently relationship had ended. B and I were sitting in my house, already far more intoxicated than two people should be at such and early hour of the evening. He was giving me his own brand of break-up therapy, good company and good liquor. It was just his way and him simply being there was meaningful enough. I honestly can't say I remember most of that night, I know it was a blast and I actually felt a little better the next day, but until tonight I had been struggling to piece together what B told me about life. I always remembered bits and pieces, but as always with B, the details were fuzzy.

Earlier today I found a picture and this picture is of a sign, probably in a bar somewhere, that repeats exactly what B had said to me. I know B did not come up with it, but he was the first person to ever tell me it so in my head it is cemented as his wisdom.

 

To me, that is B's legacy. I know it may seem a bit silly, but it is profound in its' own right. If I never see B again, I can at least do him the honor of passing along his unique form of wisdom.

We don't all need to be like B, hell that would make for a chaotic world, but every now and then we should all stop and look at life through the eyes of a drunken Irishman. No need to over-complicate things. No need at all.

That's Not What I Said

I recently re-learned something that I had forgotten. It was indeed a crucial mistake on my part to have forgotten such a thing, but I am happy to have been reminded of it in a joking manner as oppose to a potentially serious one. What I re-learned, was that anything, absolutely anything you say, can, if they feel so inclined, be turned around by a woman. It is almost always in a jokingly sort of manner, but the fact remains that they have an uncanny ability to twist words into insults with what seems like effortlessness.

I will start by giving you the innocent example that reminded me of this fact of life.

Me: Hey, I really like your painting, there are a lot of layers on it, you can totally tell.
Girl: Is that a bad thing that you can tell there are lots of layers?
Me: No not at all, it looks good, I was just saying you could tell it is very layered.
Girl: Are you saying my painting is bulky?
Me: Wait? What. . . No. . I just. . .
Girl: You just called my painting fat!

It was all in good fun and I knew she was just giving me a hard time, but such a series of events can easily turn on you in an instant if you do not recognize that they are simply playing, or worse yet, you assume they are, but they are actually serious.

Usually you can gauge this by how far a leap must be made to go from what you actually said, to what the woman has decided you now meant. In the above example, it took several steps to go from complimentary to insulting, which is a good indicator that the whole thing was in good fun. The most important thing however, when using this strategy, is to remember exactly what it is YOU said. If you can't recall, verbatim, what you said to initiate this string of events, you are at the mercy of said events from there on out. Now I know that as dudes, we never see these things coming so we often pay little mind to the things we say in an effort to be kind or offer opinions, but it is absolutely imperative that as men, we pay attention to the things we say.

If we can start remembering the things we say and why we said them, this amazing power women have would almost assuredly be only useful in a playful setting, which is honestly where it should be all of the time, but really nobody is perfect.

If you can remember exactly what you said, and you find yourself in one of these scenarios, make sure to repeat and explain exactly what you said, if the woman still gives you a hard time about it, or you hear sarcasm, you can pretty much safely assume the whole thing was a joke. If your reiteration then sparks an actual conversation, or serious emotion, then you know that what you said was either taken wrong or you may have actually hurt feelings. In which case, even if you don't fully understand, apologies would be in order.

As long as you see it through to the end, these situation do not usually have negative affects, but if you ignore it, or panic, or just stop the game in the middle, then problems could arise. It is all part of how people interact and if you simply don't play along and offer no explanation as to why, you can then open up a whole new can of worms. Yes, women have a special knack for twisting words and yes men often pay little attention to the things they say, but for most reasonable people, such interaction are all in good fun. If you find yourself in the word twisting game, don't panic, it is mostly harmless.

The Truth About Nice Guys

It seems like ever since I have been able to distinguish the difference between a "nice" guy and not a "nice" guy, it is always said that the "nice" guys finish last. This sentiment is ingrained in pop culture, music, social situations and many other forms of media. It is such a prevalent force, that it almost seems to be self-fulfilling because we are constantly bombarded with that expectation. I will be the first to tell you, that to some degree, that is true, especially early in life, but as with most things, it is not the whole story.

I have had the unfortunate pleasure of being a nice guy my entire life, or at least for the most part and I by no means feel as if I finish last, but then again, the race is far from over. There are very many things I have missed out on because of my alignment toward the nice side of my gender, but they always seem rather superficial and overall hollow, so in the long run I don't really miss out at all. Besides, I still take my shots when I get 'em and that is part of being a nice guy. As a good friend of mine once said. "You're an idiot if you don't dance." As a nice guy, when given the opportunity to dance, you can dance and if you end up with two left feet and fall on your face, it is perfectly fine, because as a nice guy, you can fix any damage you may have caused, not only that, you legitimately want to fix it.

If you truly consider yourself among the ranks of the nice guys, it no longer becomes about the place you finish in. Now I know that sounds like an excuse, used to make all us losers of nice guys feel better, but it is the truth. We can go for it, give it our all and get shot down, crash and burn and still get up the next day and be your friend. The race is about the people you run alongside, not who gets to the end first. Nobody ever seems to consider that maybe all the nice guys lag behind so they can help those who stumble and fall. Gathering as large a group of fellow runners as they can for the race, after all, it is supposed to be about "enjoying the ride" not trying to win.

So sure, it may be true the nice guys are destined to finish last, but when they cross that line they have the most people cheering for them and the most love and friendship as their trophy. Don't let chances pass you by, you're an idiot if you don't dance, but once you've tried, regardless of the outcome, just keep being a nice guy. Don't let hardships change you, don't let friendships fade, keep on holding the nice guy banner high, we are few and far between so let everyone know where you are and where you stand. Let all those you care for know that you are there for them and you are not going anywhere, regardless of the past, present or future, the nice guy remains steadfast.

We will never defeat the douche bags of the world, nor can we redeem our gender to all the women of the world, but those we meet along the way, we can show them how it should be. From friends to lovers and everything in between it is the nice guys that hold it all together. It is a tough life, but it is more than worth it.

Getting My Priorities Straight

Yesterday I finally finished a video project I had been working on, also I have been doing plenty of writing that is not at all blog related. Sleep is still hit or miss with me and my exhaustion is proof of that, but this morning I still cannot seem to sleep. Normally, I'd sit here and write until my eyes hurt from the screen too much and I simply could not stay awake. Tonight though, I think I ought to get my priorities straight. I have been doing good overall, most people can attest to that. Except for last Sunday night, things have been going well. I am accomplishing goals and keeping pace with writing. Because of these things, I feel as if I have earned the right to straighten my priorities for one night, so I am instead of going to sleep, going to go to New Beginnings for a delicious breakfast. Delicious omelets vs. sleep, I think I know which is more important.

Scatter Brained

As I stated before, my days have, for the most part, been going very well. The only real problems, aside from the other night, have been with sleep and focus. Sleep is certainly an issue I could force if I truly felt the need, but focus, that is much harder to come by.

Obviously, being tired and sleep deprived makes focusing far more difficult, but there is far more to focus than that. Focus is primarily about putting your mind to something and doing whatever that something is and my problem has been that most of what I have been focusing on, I cannot change. I have plenty of things to do, actually, as far as projects are concerned, I am pretty swamped, but I just can't seem to put more than 15 solid minutes into anything. It even carries over into work, but there it is far less noticeable.

People often ask God to grant them the serenity to accept the things they cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

Now, I know I have no issues with the courage part of that and I am pretty well stocked in the area of wisdom. Even serenity is something I have found at times, so again I find myself feeling as if I don't need help from a higher power, but my beef isn't with God, it is with acceptance.

Sure, there are situations where there is absolutely nothing you can do, you have to accept that, but more often than not, something can be done. Maybe you can't change things, but you can make someone feel better, you can add smiles and laughter to the world. You can encourage those who are great to see themselves as such and even though you can't actually fix or change the shit in peoples lives, to merely accept that is folly.

If anything, I say people should ask God for the strength to keep trying, to keep fighting, even if it seems nothing can be done. When all avenues have been exhausted, when there is no fight left, then ask for serenity.

I know, I absolutely know, that nearly everything that has held my focus is completely out of my power to change, but I can still do something. I can still be helpful and kind, I can listen and try even though it makes no difference. What I have to learn now, is how to get my everyday focus in order. I've got the long term goal focuses all pegged down, but it is the day to days that have been killing me.

I wonder what God has to say about that? Perhaps one would ask for patience? Patience to focus on the monotony of everyday, strength to push on, even when it seems hopeless and wisdom to know what is really important. . .Yeah, that sounds more like something God would do.

Right big guy? If you are real, you can obviously read this. Go on about your business, help some people in real trouble, I've got it nailed down over here.

Losing My Voice Finding Much More

All in all, the last 3 weeks of my life have been pretty fantastic. The general ups and downs of everyday monotony are ever-present, but so many positive things have balanced it all out, perhaps even tipped the scales toward good. Funny thing about that is how incredibly fragile it all is. It only takes one thing, one simple, small thing, to send weeks of good crashing to the ground.

I had just gotten home from a comedy show and late night food at Denny's with a bunch of friends. It was a good night, very fun, just as most of the nights before it had been. I said goodbye to my ride, stepped out of the car, hesitated, then closed the door. The sound of the door closing was much like the sound of a gong, symbolizing the beginning of a battle. I heard the door close, stepped away from the car, toward my house and in that instant I knew it was going to be "one of those nights".

If you aren't familiar with "one of those nights" then I'd say you have lived a pretty good and astoundingly lucky life. Though for me, "one of those nights" can get out of hand very very quickly.

I got inside my house and almost immediately began counter-measure to try and keep my night from spiraling down the horrible toilet of sadness that sometimes grips me. I wrote a message to a friend, often times that helps, but it only made me worry more. I did this and that, trying to stay occupied, trying to stay distracted. Nothing helped and it wasn't long before I found myself absolutely needing to get out. As of recently, I have had a partner at night to walk with, but tonight I did not and tonight I knew I would have to run. When all else fails, I run and I run and I run, until my legs give out and my lungs burn.

I found my iPod and my running shorts and I started out into the distinctively Fall feeling night. It was very cool, but I was going to be running so I didn't much mind. The music of Rise Against blasted through my earbuds, typical running music for me, high in energy and emotion. Between heavy breaths I would scream out lyrics with no regard to pitch or volume, I was determined to out run the night.

All was going well until I reached the top of a hill on a street simply called 60th. The shoes I was wearing were in no way cut out for running and as it was they were already falling apart, but they were the only pair I had so I just went with it. I did not think that after about a mile of furious running, my shoes would catastrophically fail and become little more than coverings for the tops of my feet. The soles of my shoes simply gave out and with them, it seemed, my soul gave in.

I stopped, music still booming, baffled by what had just happened. Then, all at once, it felt as if everything I had successfully outrun to that point, caught up to my and tackled me to the ground. A wave of absolute melancholy crashed upon me, I killed the music and stood silently in the dark, wondering what to do next.

I knew I had to get new shoes, that was obvious, but the obvious decision was not by any means the most important, what mattered was what I was going to do about the horrible malaise that had overwhelmed me. I started walking toward the nearest Meijer, keeping my shoes on, though they did little to actually help, it somehow felt better having them on. I felt the sadness sink deeper, past the point of being productive and into the realm of being destructive. I thought about getting a hold of my friend Julieta, but then realized that she has done far more for me than she ever needed too and I did not feel right about burdening this on her as well. I nearly called my friend Chris, my Dad and my friend David but decided against all of those for one reason or another. I kept walking, trying to keep positive and failing miserably.

As I neared the intersection of 60th and Kalamazoo, it seemed as if almost all reason had taken a backseat to raw emotion. I barely stopped myself from contacting a few people who would have been unhappy to hear from me, it was like drunk dialing except without the excuse of actually being drunk. Eventually I settled on trying to talk to my friend Hilary, but as luck would have it, she did not respond, though I honestly don't know why I thought she would have at 3 a.m.

I reached the intersection, getting colder from no longer running and getting exhausted from sheer depression. I watched the lights of intersection. RED. YELLOW. GREEN. The colors lit up the road beneath it in an almost artistic fashion. I looked both ways, more out of habit than anything else and I walked into the middle of the intersection. There I stood, beneath the changing lights, head down, only watching the road under my feet and colors that it changed to.

RED. . .
YELLOW. . .
GREEN. . .

I stood there, never looking up, never checking for cars, just watching the colors, for six entire light progressions. It sort of felt like a traffic light version of Russian Roulette, except it seemed this time, there were no bullets in the gun at all. The entire situation seemed almost surreal, but after the six progression, I thought perhaps The Universe still has use for me and I continued on.

I eventually made it to Meijer, the whole time having mixed feelings about the outcome of my little traffic light game, but when I finally entered the Meijer parking lot, I was greeted by some old friends. Now, they weren't people, nor were they even alive, but the parking lot was absolutely full of shopping carts. I had worked at Meijer for 7 years and my favorite thing to do was always cart pushing, so without a second though, I wrangled some carts together and began a cathartic release of emotion through doing something I used to love. I nearly cleaned the entire lot, not caring that my shoes were a tattered mess, then I walked into the store, feeling tired but somehow renewed.

I very quickly found some shoes I like and that fit well, then I went a bought a ten pack of brand new socks. I checked out, sat down on a bench inside the store, took of my torn shoes and ripped socks and put them into a bag. I replaced the old sock and the old shoes with the brand new sock and shoes, it did not seem symbolic at the time, but perhaps it was and I am only just now realizing it.

It felt good, I felt good, all seemed right with the world and I brought my iPod back out and walked out of the store. I pressed shuffle and let the music play, walking home with a spring in my step, from the new shoes and the new out of the blue attitude. I sang whatever song came through at the top of my lungs my entire walk home and though I can barely speak now, I feel it is a small price to pay for how I feel now.

The moral of this entire story is something that I have been saying for years, something that too many people seemed to disregard as hogwash, but I assure there is truth in this statement. No matter what is happening in your life, no matter how bad things get, everything always seems better when you put on a brand new pair of socks for the first time. There really is nothing else like it.

Paying For College And Other Subtleties

School has started again for a lot of people, it is often a fun and stressful time for those individuals. Either starting a new experience for the first time, or just trying to get back into the groove of it all, this time of year is always interesting. Normally, I too am preparing for school by this time, but not this year I have no classes, but it really has gotten me thinking about my education. About what I have learned in college.

From the fall of 2003 until March 12th of 2007, I studied at the University of Michigan, majoring in biochemistry. I spent hours studying, flash cards, posters, papers, you name it, I learned it. I did research and lab work, I pulled all-nighters and I procrastinated. I learned so many things that I will never forget, but just as they are forever in my brain, they are also useless. On March 12th, 2007 I dropped all my classes and left U of M behind me, at least academically. I still love the school and the city, but nowadays I have no reason to go back there. I credit a good portion of my knowledge in science and all things chemistry to my experiences there and for that I truly am grateful.

The rest of 2007 I just sort of took off, relearning some basics, working on easier things just to refresh and keep my mind sharp. By the fall of 2008 however, I found myself back in college, this time studying nursing at Hope college. There I participated in a lot of extra activities along with my studies, but mostly I learned new things. Between cadaver labs, clinicals and endless piles of flashcards, my mind was filled with so much knowledge about health and the human body. Some nights I spent the entire night scouring the internet for just one credible source, just one good article for my assignments. Sifting through years of research in an effort to find one small thing. I stressed and I stressed, the nursing program at Hope was a big deal and I was determined to do well. It was an amazing experience and again, I learned so very much that will stay with me, but again it is all useless.

March 5th, 2011 I dropped all of my classes at Hope college and for the second time, quit when the end was very much in sight. Maybe I fear success, maybe March is just a bad month for me, I don't know. I do know however, that I self-sabotage and when I do that, I let others, my classmates, down.

I am not enrolled in any classes this year, but I am determined not to let anyone down, not to fail. I intend to show what I can do, prove I am not worthless. Maybe I was nothing more than a distraction, or maybe I was the one holding my classmates back, honestly I have no idea. All I am certain of is that I will do everything in power to not let people down again and I will without a doubt prove to those who I have let down, those who have lost faith in me or refuse to speak to me at all. I will prove my worth, prove my breadth of knowledge and my strength of heart.

This year I have no classes, but this year I have a huge test and it will take a long time to finish. I don't know if I am ready, but school has begun for the rest of the world whether they wish it or not, so then I must begin, whether I wish it or not.

Having No Thumbs, Horses Shouldn't Attempt Puzzles

Nearly everyday for the last two weeks, I have seen the sunlight begin to peek through my window long before my eyes close for their much needed rest. The sunrise symbolizes, for most, the beginning of a new day, hopefully filled with wonder, joy and new opportunities. For me, the sunrise has begun to symbolize the end of a day, often times, a day I'd rather not see end.

I honestly don't know if I truly get tired anymore, but my body forces me to rest, makes me sleep. I know I have to, I know sleep is necessary, but waking up, there's the rub.

Now, I know plenty of people have a hard time waking up in the morning, whatever your morning may be. I too have a hard time with it, but probably not in the same way as most. Each time I wake, I feel as if I have to completely put myself back together again. Not unlike Humpty-Dumpty, except I have neither the king's horses, nor men to assist in my endeavors. It is as if the moment I drift to sleep, my essence, my being, my everything, begins to pull apart and slip away, melting from the center, outward across the expanse of my bed.

Each time I wake, I must pull myself back together, prepare for a new day and face it with as much vigor as I can muster. In some ways, we probably all do this and I don't know if it is normal or not. All I do know is that the better I feel before I fall asleep, the less I seem to melt and fall away. Sure, it seems simple and obvious, but it wasn't always that way and that is why I make note of it.

There was a time, in fact, most of my adult life, where it didn't matter my mood before sleep, I almost always awoke feeling the same. It was a steady medium amount of melting each night. Nothing too hard to recover from in morning and after a while I even got rather used to it. The medium level is nearly gone now and it has been replaced by either very little melting, or what I can only describe as violent shattering. It is obviously the violent shattering that often makes me delay sleep as long a possible.

I don't know if these changes mean anything, I have been doing my best not to dwell on such things, but I do know that right now, my mood is good, so I can probably sleep with little fear of the morning.

On The Seventh Day He Rested

I was totally going to talk about God in this post, in particular a conversation I have had recently, but I have decided to save that for a different night. The subject of God is too daunting a task for someone who has recently gained the habit of not sleeping.

The world looks very different through groggles. By the way, groggles is a word I have coined to express the feeling of being perpetually groggy. Wearing groggles seems to slow down the world around you, often time minutes can feel excruciatingly long. That isn't always a bad thing, sometimes you'd love nothing more than to slow time down, but as far as everyday life is concerned, it is not fun, or fashionable to wear groggles.

The very worst part about groggles however, is the part I am experiencing right now. When you reach a point where your exhaustion becomes so extreme, that you truly no longer feel tired, or capable of sleep. Any of you who have experienced this, know exactly the feeling I am describing, anyone who has not, well, consider yourselves fortunate.

It is so surreal, knowing that all you really want to do is sleep, but being unable to relax, unable to stop your mind or your body from staying awake. In some ways it is almost painful, at least for me. That is why I can't relax, when I try, I realize how worn out I am and it is very akin to pain.

Tonight, this particular week in fact, has been relatively severe. It is not like before, not like a few months ago when I simply could not sleep due to emotional pains. No, not being able to sleep at all I can deal with and to be honest I was such a wreck I barely noticed. This week, however, I CAN sleep, I just haven't, or haven't very much. Now it has finally gotten past the point of no return and I honestly am not sure what to do.

The only other times it has ever gotten this bad, I always had a "significant other" and I would turn to them to help and make sure I found my way to a good nights rest. Someone who would slow my brain, ease my mind, not let me get up and indulge the insomnia. I have learned how to do many things alone that I never used to have to over the last 6 months, but this, this I fear is too difficult.

Nothing quells my restless mind, not even these words tonight. I will try and sleep very soon and with any luck I will succeed. If not, it is only a few hours until I have to be awake anyway. Focus is leaving me now and I my brain is on to other things. I hope to soon write another good blog, rather than my hopeless ramblings at trying to find peace, but I suppose we will see.

It is now day five. . . Maybe on the seventh day I will rest?

Lesser Forms Of Batman

I have a lot on my mind, a lot to write about and I hope I can maintain focus to write a single entry, though every ounce of me wants to write several.

Thursday night, before I left on my weekend trip, (which will absolutely be written about, but as I said, I must stay on track.) I went for a late night walk. Getting out at 12:30 a.m. every day usually makes late night walks a relatively common event for me, but over the last few months, I have been taking them alone. It is mostly due to opposing schedules of friends and what not, you know, the price of growing up and becoming responsible. It has also partially been my own doing, I seldom even try to invite others on my night excursions. I have become fond of the darkness, scouring the night, feeling akin to Batman, looking for purpose and something bigger than myself.

Some nights, I even find myself having to be a hero, I have helped people in need while walking through the night. My little suburban area is no Gotham City, but it is still my home and my world, if I can help, I will.

The night is peaceful and lonely, profound and brave, things I feel I can relate to, things I hold dear. That Thursday night however, I did not wander alone, nor did I wander in search of meaning or purpose. I traveled through the night with a youthful heart, seeking fun and adventure, the things I used to find around every corner. The things that seem to get stripped away from you as the charges of adult life pile ever more frequently into your lap.

I was immediately surprised by my companion's willingness to venture through rough terrain and I was, for the first time, extremely glad about the existence of cell phone apps. Apparently, phones have a "flashlight" app now and it came in rather handy, though I feel like the last person in the world to know of such things.

We traveled to one of my favorite spots, a little known area that is often a bit frightening, especially to the fairer sex. My companion however, did not hesitate at all, we ventured into a dark concrete tunnel with water running through it. She did not hesitate at all, walking straight through the water, even I remained on the sides of the tunnel, but for her it was all or nothing.

After a bit more tunnel walking, we had to return to the open air of the night. The woods around us were filled with downed trees from the recent storm and droves of weeds ready to plant their burrs upon us. We made it out and though my companion was covered in the green burrs, literally covered, she took it in stride, without a care, just enjoying the night and the adventure. It was the same attitude you see in kids, the kind of carefree, let it all roll of your back sort of thing.

I won't go through the entire night, but suffice it to say we ended up sitting on a rock in the middle of a creek, letting our imaginations get the best of us. As I kid, I used to be able to imagine things so clearly, that I would have sworn they were real. I think most of us could do that as children. Somewhere though, between school and the daily grind of life and responsibility, we lose that ever important skill of imagination. We still have it, but it becomes less potent. We can no longer convince ourselves of things, we are too wise, we "know better."

That night though, that night, rebooted my imagination and together we had ourselves convinced of things that we otherwise knew couldn't be real. It was fantastic, wielding the power of imagination again, as an adult. I attribute much of it to my companion and her amazing ability to just exist in the moment, but ultimately, it was a collective experience.

It was perhaps one of the most incredible nights I have had in a long time, but this is not a tale of Batman finding love. The story ended with a smile and a goodnight, a nearly perfect ending to a nearly perfect night, but Batman still finds himself alone.

Since then, I have once again resumed my travels through the night alone. Searching for answers, friendship, companions and anyone who may need my help. Go on about your lives and do the things you feel you must, a lesser form of Batman is watching the homestead and all will be well when you return.

Correcting The Grammar In Other People's Letters

Everybody lies. Those two words have become a relatively popular phrase thanks to television over the last few years. It is true though, but I think there are shades of gray.

If, for example, you told someone how much they meant to you and that they make you happy and a better person. Then, some time later, you say those same things to someone new. Does that make the original statement a lie, or have you as a person simply changed again and the truth is then circumstantial.

We can't judge solely on the present, nor can we judge solely on the past. There must be a healthy medium between good memories and pleasant tomorrows. I seem to seek out personal sorrow, like an emotional masochist. As far as faults go though, that really isn't too bad.

Have the courage to fail big and stick around, make 'em wonder why you are still smiling.

I don't do anything small, when I go for it, I go for it. I either succeed in an absolutely gorgeous and unforgettable way, or I fail, fail big. I have always had the courage to do this though, and I always stick around, even if I fail.

Yes, that is an exercise bike with a butcher knife attached to it. I find it a very humorous representation of how I feel sometimes. Even in the most dire of situations, I have to do it differently, be different. Go big and unexpected, give them something they've never seen before. Like a suicide bike.

I still have a few things floating out in the ether, things I tried and I honestly have no idea of the outcome. Someday soon I hope to figure all of that out. I hope figure out everything, find the answers I am looking for. I just can't help but worry because I know, everybody lies.

We often lie to spare feelings, I don't care about that though. Honesty and hurt is better than feeling good about a lie.

Wow, these posts have gotten really unorganized, but I told myself when I started this that I wouldn't fret over editing. This is an outlet, not another thing to fuel my incessant chase of perfection.

Tighten Up

*Warning! Explicit Content*

I have never had to put a disclaimer before anything before, so bare with me on this. This particular post will contain very lewd and vulgar things. It will not become a pattern to my postings by any means, but tonight is simply something else.

I have false confidence, that, I suppose is the easiest way to describe it. It may be slowly melding into real confidence however, it is far too early to say just yet.

Fuck! I am losing grip!

Earlier today at work, I was walking toward one of the new guys that had just started yesterday. I heard him say something to his buddy as I was approaching, but I didn't pay much mind to it. I don't really like new people, it takes me a long time to warm up to them. As I got closer to him, he stopped me, a guy that I have barely said ten words to, stopped me to talk to me.

He didn't ask me a question, nor did he make some inane attempt at small talk. He stopped me to tell me one thing.

He said to me. "Sam, I just thought you should know, that the way you walk and carry yourself makes you look like you have so much confidence. Enough confidence in fact that as you were walking up here I thought, man he looks so sure of himself, I doubt I would reject him if he tried to convince me to let him sodomize me."

It certainly was an odd analogy, but nothing else could have driven the point home in quite the same way. Though I am not sure if it is a good thing, I took that as a compliment and I had a pretty good laugh about it as well. After all, it isn't everyday that someone says something like that to you.

I am well aware that it was partially a joke, but even still, it really got me thinking about my confidence and why the hell people seem to think I have it.

(It is all a lie. Fuck!) Tighten up.

Sure, behind the safety of words and a computer I can have charisma, confidence and charm. Anyone who has ever had the distinct pleasure of talking to me in person and online would easily notice a marked difference. Words, as I have said before are my weapons and my armor and through text I am nearly untouchable. Get me alone in a room face to face though and all that confidence flies out the window. In real life, I am just a nerd who gets nervous around girls and is insecure about pretty much every aspect of his life.

I feel as if the line is becoming blurred, between text Sam and real life Sam and maybe that is good, but maybe it isn't. I need to get a firm grasp of the reigns and tighten up. Figure out if maybe the two Sams can coexist cohesively. Confidence in actuality.

I feel as if I have recently experienced a profound failure of life.Something far worse than failure Something that I could do my best to describe, but honestly, there is a movie quote that does it much better.

There's a difference between a failure and a fiasco. A failure is merely the absence of success. Any fool can achieve failure. But a fiasco, a fiasco is a disaster of epic proportions. A fiasco is a folk tale told to others to make other people feel more alive because it didn't happen to them. 

It is time to recover from this and tighten up. Find my confidence in actuality. Walk in a way that makes people stop and tell me that I move with purpose. I do move with purpose. . . I am just still figuring out what that purpose is.


One last time for good measure. Fuck!