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!