Zombie Nation

Written November 2008.

One of the defining moments of my life was when I witnessed a man eviscerated by a handful of human-like creatures. They gathered around him and pulled him to the floor, plunged their rotting hands into his torso, tore his skin like sheets of paper, and removed his guts before biting into them. I sat on my couch, wide eyed and amazed. I had never seen such a beautifully grotesque display of violence in my young life and I was both frightened and fascinated. I never looked away. Neither did the camera. It remained centered on the creatures as they tore the man apart and ate him, documenting the unfortunate man’s death in unflinching entirety. This scene is from the movie Day of the Dead, a horror gem about a world overrun with zombies. At the time, I was a fifteen-year-old gore hound who was on the hunt for scary movies notorious for their high levels of blood and guts. I had heard that Day of the Dead was quite the splatter fest and once the credits rolled, I was not disappointed. I had been a casual horror movie fan before but after seeing the man being turned into human lasagna, my love for horror movies, especially the zombie genre, was clenched.

People have often asked me why I am such a zombie enthusiast and I’ve never had an adequate answer. I suppose I have never really thought about it before. It’s like asking someone why they love sunshine or their children. I just do. So, instead of just giving a half mumble the next time someone asks me about my zombie obsession, I decided to examine my love for zombies and come up with a deeper reason for my attachment to the atrophied.

I can trace the source to director George A. Romero’s Dead trilogy, consisting of the movies Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, and Day of the Dead. I’m not including his latest zombie efforts, Land of the Dead and Diary of the Dead because they were not influential in my love for the zombie genre. Plus, I think they are abysmal films and don’t acknowledge them as belonging to Romero. His Dead films are not only famous for redefining what a zombie is but also for the social criticism that is embedded within each film. It all started with the original 1968 Night of the Living Dead, a movie that initially started out as a horror comedy about a group of alien teens. It was a controversial film of its time. Many claim it’s a critique of the turbulent 60s by including such topics as racism and sexism. Romero himself has denied any intentional commentary despite the fact that the themes of race and sex continually occur in each of his films. Many critics panned the film for the explicit violence during the scenes in which zombies feasted on human flesh. While Night of the Living Dead touched on relevant topics of the 60s, Dawn of the Dead dealt with 1970s consumerism. An excellent example of this theme comes from an exchange between two of the main characters, Francine and Stephen.

From the roof of the mall, they observed the zombies down below and Francine asked, “What are they doing? Why do they come here?”

“Some kind of instinct,” Stephen responded. “Memory of what they used to do. This was an important place in their lives.”

While watching Dawn of the Dead, I started to realize the deeper meaning behind Romero’s films. The image of mindless people shuffling around the food court really stuck with me. I wasn’t sure if I was watching a movie or a documentary. The film also follows up on the previous entries’ theme of race by once again casting a black man in a lead role. While the first film never directly addressed race, the beginning of Dawn throws it in your face with a scene consisting of a group of SWAT members slaughtering the Puerto Rican and black Caribbean residents of an apartment building. It also seems that Romero makes up for his less than positive portrayal of females in Night (the character of Barbara is basically comatose and helpless throughout the entire movie) by making the character of Francine a bit stronger than her predecessor. In fact, the actress who played Francine, Gaylen Ross, refused to scream because she felt it would weaken her character. Day of the Dead, undeniably the most depressing entry in the Dead series (as well as my favorite), focuses on how to deal with the dead from a scientific and military standpoint. Dr. Logan, one of the scientists, wants to cure the zombie plague and domesticate the reanimated dead in the mean time. However, the head of a group of soldiers, Captain Rhodes, would rather exterminate them all and anyone else who gets in his way. Day really examines how cruel humans can be to one another. Dr. Logan feeds Rhodes’ men to the zombies as treats for their good behavior while Rhodes is ten shades of nasty, a completely unredeemable character that becomes more psychopathic and power hungry as the film progresses. The only seemingly sane character is the main female lead, Sarah. She is the definitive answer to Barbara from Night. Sarah is a fellow scientist, strong and not afraid of Captain Rhodes, his slimy advances or his very big gun. While none of the characters in any of the movies are incredibly likeable, the characters in Day are horrid. Admittedly, they have reason to be bitter. Every thing they’ve ever known has collapsed and every one they’ve ever known has died but instead of coming together to support one another, they slowly turn on each other. There is no human compassion, only selfish hatred. In each movie, the handful of survivors end up becoming a danger to each other for no other reason than they each feel they should be dominant and take control of the dire situation. What started out as survival soon turns into a power struggle. It becomes quite apparent who the real evil is in these movies. The deeper the characterization goes, the more the zombies become less of a threat and more of a supernatural backdrop to the real horror found inside the house, the mall, or the underground bunker. The real threat lies in the minds of the people who are still breathing.

Although there is never a clear explanation as to why the dead have risen, in Night, it was theorized that radiation was the cause. Others speculated that it could be parasitic in nature. One of the main characters in Dawn, Peter, gave his theory by saying, “My granddad was a priest in Trinidad. He used to tell us, 'When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.'" This statement implies that people are sinful and their evil ways earn them a place in hell. And since hell has suddenly become full, that must mean that a lot of people ended up there. If this is the case, then humans have brought this plague upon themselves. In typical horror movies, death and destruction come upon mostly innocent teens who just want to have a little smoke and a little poke. But with zombies, we deserve the wickedness that reigns down on us because we are wicked ourselves.

The zombie is my all time favorite monster. Zombies themselves aren’t exactly fear inducing. The fact that they are dead is certainly unsettling but physically they are slow and not entirely strong so disposing of them wouldn’t be too difficult. It is only when they are in large numbers that one should start to worry. It is the emotional quality that zombies possess that is bone chilling. What exactly is a zombie? They are not totally separated from humans. They are humans. They are just dead humans. They do not transform into rabid dogs during full moons or become bloodthirsty albinos by swapping bodily fluids with pale Romeos. They are not physically different like a werewolf is and yet they cannot conceal their identities like a vampire can. Physically, they are still like us until they begin to rot. Even then, there is still a semblance of humanity left on their withering faces. This triggers a psychological conundrum within us because we don’t know if we should sympathize or euthanize. It’s one thing to destroy a prehistoric creature from the depths of a cave or a fish monster that’s suddenly come to shore but how easy could it be to shoot a person? Zombies aren’t inherently evil. They are us, only primitive, stripped of all logic and only left with instinct and the most basic physical functions. They are simply trying to live as we try to live. This makes their disposal all the more conflicting because while they commit atrocities, they do not do it out of spite or anger like humans, only out of an instinctual need to survive. It is especially disheartening when you have pre-existing feelings for one of the undead. How easy would it be to destroy a person you know, a person you love? Could you shoot your best friend? A relative? Your mother? Your child? The fact that these zombies are quasi-human makes their destruction hard to comprehend and even harder to execute.

When the dead rise from their graves, no one will be able to help you. In Romero’s Dead trilogy, as well as countless other zombie films, society will eventually break down. The government, military, and other forces that we’ve always assumed would keep us safe will fail. We will be left alone to fend for ourselves. A sense of overwhelming dread comes along with zombie movies. They are horror on a grandiose scale. It is inescapable. This adds a sense of isolated terror because not only is it happening in your own backyard but all the way across the world as well. There is no safety.

In my life, I haven’t had the best experiences with people. Because of this, you could call me cynical. I would probably agree with you. I’ve been hurt by girls and friends and girlfriends and those moments have left an abiding bitterness in my mouth. My negative experiences with certain individuals have shaped the way I see people as a whole. Watching zombie movies has only verified my views of others. Not only are zombies former humans, many times humans act a lot like zombies. I think back to all the times I’ve let people in and they’ve let me down. The people I thought were friends were only using me to get to something better. I’ve been a therapist. I’ve been a placeholder. I’ve been a smorgasbord. I’ve stood around and allowed people to take chunks out of me as they’ve needed. Isn’t that exactly what zombies do? Are we really that different from them? Is the world really that different from them? As I get older, I realize this planet is a cruel place. They say it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there and I couldn’t agree more. What some call modish I call mindless. What some call exorbitant I call empty. What some call capitalism I call cannibalism. And I’ve always said that if the world should end, it should end in entrails. I can just picture people clawing at each other, tearing each other apart for their own sustenance, people slowly being converted into mindless beings with no free will of their own. I think a zombie apocalypse would be awesome because, really, would anyone even notice?

Inciting Inspiration

I watched a special the other night on J.K. Rowling and found her story incredibly inspirational. Listening to her talk about creating Harry Potter made me want to develop my little seedling ideas. Unfortunately, as soon as the program ended, so did my inspiration. And every time I go walking, I’m inspired to write poetry. All these thoughts and lines flow through my head until I’m done walking. I stretch my legs, wash my face and don’t feel like picking up a pen to write down all the things I thought about. And then they slip away. And just the other day, I was looking up information on literary agencies and it once again brought up that desire to get cracking on my memoir, an idea I’ve been sitting on for close to two years now. It’s quite ridiculous and I even gave myself a deadline on writing that thing. I think I said if I hadn’t started writing it sometime last year, I would just forget it. I mean, it must not be that important to me if I can’t get my crap together and sit down and write it.

I guess I just feel like my mind is too cluttered. That’s why when I write, I tend to write about things that are pressing on my mind at the moment. The basic content of my memoir has already been written down. It’s just a matter of punching it up, editing and polishing it to a pearly shine. The only problem is the details I want to inject have not been written down and as each day passes, those little nuggets that tie each story together are disappearing from my memory. It’s crucial that I get started right away and yet I can’t seem to get started. And I keep saying once I clear my head, once I get all these other thoughts out of the way, then I can concentrate on writing. Sadly, there are some thoughts that I’ve been holding onto longer than the idea of the memoir. I can’t just sit down and write. I have to be inspired. I have to feel it. I can’t force anything. If I start an essay or a poem and I’m not feeling it anymore, I rarely force myself to finish. I just hang on to it until it feels right, until finishing it feels good and natural. I just don’t know when something is going to feel right Actually, I’m a slave to my writing, to my brain. I can’t make it work for me. I work for it. If only I could turn the tables, if only I could clear my mind and focus on one subject at a time, if only I could split up my writing between working a bit on my memoir and working a bit on current thoughts. I guess I need to work at getting my mind right as much as I need to work on that memoir.

And although I said I would forget it if I hadn’t started it at some point, I just can’t let it go. The time I want to write about was a very troubling time for me and I truly feel like writing about it will bring some kind of peace and maybe a little closure. I feel that way with anything else I write and so this should be no different. And although I’m not as bothered by the happenings now as I was then, there are still some situations that I question, circumstances that I regret and times that make me shudder. That’s the stuff that needs to be written, even if no one else likes it, even if I’m the only one who will ever read it. I need to do this for my own benefit. I just need to find a constant stream of inspiration instead of it finding me in short bursts.

It’s those fleeting moments of creativity that I find the most frustrating. Why do I always find myself wanting to write when I can’t? Why is it that when I have all the free time in the world I can’t seem to get out a single word? I just wish I could get a handle on my mind, slap it around a little bit, straighten it out and make it work for me. My head’s definitely an annoying place. Most people don’t want to deal with it and really, I can’t blame them ‘cause I find myself not wanting to deal, either. I just miss that time when I used to be able to sit down and write pages upon pages with little to no effort at all. It was my release, it was my therapy, it was my way out of myself. And now, it seems like it’s all changed. It seems it always changes. Anytime I find something that works, it doesn’t anymore. I’m always chasing that chance at sanity, always running toward rumination. And it's always so coy and elusive and never stays long enough. I just wanna be able to clamp down on a way to release my emotions so that I'll know where to go when I need to vent, know what to do when I become upset and know how to share my rare moments of happiness.

Ugh, make up your mind, mind!

Bummer

I gotta say, this whole job situation has really taken priority over my usual neurosis. I went from being in total slacker status to super turbo job mode in a matter of days. Since I live in Satan's Crack, AL, I can't trust the weekly paper to have any worthy job opportunities so I turned to online job listings to further my career prospects. I checked out every one I could find, including the shifty craigslist. I looked up various jobs on the state's official job listing site but there weren't many options there. Craigslist, on the other hand, had an abundance of jobs. A very excited Bran this made. So, I went into resume mode and put myself out there like a cheap crack whore. I sent off rapid fire resumes and e-mails at every ad I could find. And sure enough, after a a bit, the responses came in.

Unfortunately, through a series of hoops and hurdles, I realized most of them were scams. I even received two responses from two different companies that were worded exactly the same, except for the name. And many of them wanted me to visit credit report sites, sites that were deemed scam sites upon investigation. I just got a real shady feeling from most of the responses. Many of them didn't seem personal, as if they were just sending these generic messages to any idiot that applies. I've been looking around several cities and many of the job descriptions are word for word the same, except with different e-mails or names. Just shadiness all around.

I suppose I should have known these jobs were too good to be true. They offered very good money for very little education. Yet, I naively got my hopes up and thought maybe it would work out. It's just so disconcerting because I went from having all of these prospects to having nothing, starting over, beginning at zero. All those days of applying and wishing... all for nothing. And I still check the official places and they have nothing I'd want to do, at least nothing that pays well enough to allow me to move out.

I'm suffocating in my stuck-ness.

It doesn't help that my mom is constantly checking in, asking if anything has come up, giving me job suggestions and general being a nuisance. Every morning, the first thing she asks is if I received any e-mails from potential employers the night before. Let me tell you, it's not so great to wake up and hear, "Anything yet?", instantly reminding me that no, there is nothing yet and yes, I am still trapped in this house. She's also been doing her own online research, which is pretty ridiculous because she can't spot a legitimate job ad. But then again, look who's talking, the gullible craigslist hopeful. I guess it runs in the family. Sees always seeing those sidebar advertisements that claim you can make big money by working at home. It's not that my mom isn't smart but she isn't computer smart at all. And she's always pushing me to take this customer service call center job in the next town, despite my repeated rejections. Ever since it's doors opened several years ago, I've known several people to work there and they've all hated it. I don't wanna be one of those people. I understand that sometimes we all are forced to do things we don't want to but I'd rather hold off going there until all other options are exhausted.

And that's closer than I'd like to admit.

I've been constantly checking different job listing websites, hoping the perfect job will be posted. So far, nothing. I'm just so scared I'm going to end up like every other person in this terrible town. I don't want to live here forever. I don't want to just be scraping by. The plan was to get a job that paid well enough so I could save up enough to move out on my own, become independent and buy all the animating software and materials I'd need to further my skills so that one day I could become an actual animator for a company. But right now it doesn't look like that's going to happen.

I'm stressed out about trying to find a job and the way Mom's breathing down my neck is not helping things. So, I eat to cope with the stress. I check websites and then check the cabinet. Frustration always leads to the fridge. I'm overeating during my meals and snacking way too much in between. Night time is the worst. I just can't help myself, though. It's my automatic defense mechanism. I know I should manage my stress in other ways but it's hard. And when I am stressed out, I'm not in the mood to do anything hard, anything that's going to stress me out more than I already am. And so I stuff my face.

My immediate future fear is that I won't be able to pay my bills, especially my student loans. And my long term future fear is that I won't be able to pursue my animation. The thing about it is, I don't know if I have a future in animation but I at least want to pursue it. I feel my school experience was just a taste of what I can accomplish and create if ever given the opportunity to work on my own accord. But, like I said, that takes money, money that's slowly dwindling and money that I can't make enough of.

I know I should give it all over to God but that's easier said than done when I fear my future is filled with dumpster diving for dinner and sleeping in a cardboard box bedroom. Ugh, and even though I don't believe in marriage, I feel like I'm gonna have to get married just so I can double my income. Maybe only then can I drag myself out from under that bridge called home. I kid. Maybe. It's just all about security, control. I don't have any and it's giving me anxiety. I guess now is a good time to try that yoga thing I've been contemplating for the last five friggin' years. Oh wait, I can't. I'm too stressed.

Number One Nevermore

i look down to see this silver
strangling such a pallid bone
wrapped around a writhing knuckle
intricate striations skewed
misshapen from misuse
worn down from wear

contemplating this crown
crusted over and sinking into
a heart that’s too heavy
for flayed fingers to hold

you live by this, die for this
and yet it means nothing
a symbol that falls short
and how could it not
for no one is available
to qualify these qualities

i find myself unable to let go
unaware of any sensible reason
to hold on to a mere myth
perhaps haunted by a naïve notion
that this will one day ring true
so here it remains
and the mystery will dangle
like this spherical shape
that rests among the ridges

Chip in my Tooth & on my Shoulder

Had my second appointment with the dentist last week. I got one tooth filled and the chip on my front tooth fixed. The process actually wasn’t that bad. I was pretty nervous about getting all the shots, worried about the pain, but Mom said they’d give me some gas to relax me. That made me a little less nervous. That is, until I was being gassed and felt no effects, which convinced me I’d feel every bit of pain as the needle went through my gums. I was lying in the chair, the Nitrous Oxide apparatus clamped down over my nose, breathing in the anesthesia and not feeling as goofy as Mom had described to me. Crap, it must not be working. I was starting to feel a little tingly in my extremities but I assumed that was because my legs were propped up. This kind of accelerated my anxiety but when the doctor came in and told me the tingles meant it was working, it relieved me a little bit. Although, I did feel a little cheated because Mom made it out to be some great gas that would make me feel high as a kite. Not so much. I wasn’t even really relaxed…just tingly.

So, the dentist went to work on my teeth and it really wasn’t as bad as I was expected. I did feel the shot in the area of my front tooth a lot more than the area of my back teeth but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Even the dizzying drill sound didn’t bother me that much. In fact, it sounded a lot like some of the music I listen to. It didn’t take that long, either. He gave me the mirror and I could barely hold it up. Maybe I was a little out of it more than I realized. My front tooth definitely looked a lot better…at first. When I got home I inspected my teeth and it looked like the dentist had actually filed down my tooth at an angle. It didn’t look straight across. Of course, I am a complete perfectionist and I’m sure nobody else would notice that my teeth now are on a slant but I notice and I wasn’t too happy about it. Then I thought about it and realize that none of my teeth really go straight across so maybe the dentist was shaping my tooth relative to the way the other teeth are positioned. I tried to talk myself into getting over it. I mean, they don’t look bad at all and in fact, they look much better but like I said, I don’t accept less than perfection. I gotta work on getting over that.

And to make matters worse, two days after the dentist visit, I chipped the tooth right next to the one that got fixed! I don’t even know how it happened. I was just sitting in my room, minding my own business, and feeling my newly fixed tooth with my tongue. Then I gently rubbed my top and bottom teeth together, not grinding them, just running them along each other when I heard/felt the gritty little chip. I immediately thought, “Oh crap, the composite didn’t take and I’ve messed it up!” I looked in the mirror and it was the tooth right next to it. Really upsetting. Just when I get one tooth fixed, another one goes and gets messed up. It was pretty depressing ‘cause it just feels like nothing can ever go right for me. I fix one thing about myself and something else screws up. Just like with my front tooth, I don’t think the chip is super noticeable. It’s a very tiny chip but tiny chips can lead to big ones if not taken care of. I have another appointment to get another tooth filled next month so I’ll just ask him to fill in the chip in my other tooth as well. Bring on the gas.

And speaking of teeth, I felt really good about going to the dentist. I felt like I was actually taking care of myself and the fact that my teeth are in relatively good shape just boosted my confidence a lot. I told myself after I had the proper dental work done on my teeth for health and hygienic purposes, I would then move on to aesthetics and get braces. Of course, it wouldn’t be right away. I’d have to save up for them and that will probably take a long time but just the fact that I knew I was going to have them one day made me feel really good. But now, I just don’t know anymore. I’ve been persistently looking for jobs and nothing is coming up. The only jobs that are available are hard labor jobs or jobs that pay minimum wage. I’m not sure if I can survive on minimum wage. I want to move out as soon as possible because my parents are driving me crazy and I need a job that pays well so I can save up and get out of here sooner rather than later. Plus, I’ll have rent and bills to pay, not to mention the ever-looming student loans! And just the fact that I have huge student loan debts to pay scares the crap out of me. If I had no debt, I probably wouldn’t be as freaked as I am but just knowing I’m going to have so much to pay for really scares me and makes me aim for the higher paying jobs.

But the higher paying jobs require an education that I do not have. I have two degrees and they are basically useless, at least around here. I mean, a degree in animation doesn’t stretch very far. A journalism or business degree, on the other hand, can cover a variety of jobs. Right now I’m trying to find clerical work because that is the only other experience I have and the jobs I’ve found either pay very little or require the kind of experience I don’t possess. I’ve looked for art related jobs but the only ones around are looking for tattoo artists or web designers. Even in the writing field, the only positions available are technical writers and copywriters. I just feel like I have very limited options. And I feel like if I take a low paying job, I’m going to become stuck. That is a big fear of mine right now, becoming stuck. And I’m starting to see how people become that way, especially those with families. When you have children to feed and need to keep a roof over your head, you can’t be very choosy. You have to take whatever job you can get and you make so little money and that has to stretch across bills and food and at the end of the month, there’s little to nothing left. It’s nearly impossible to save for a better house, nearly impossible to splurge on fun things. And I don’t want to be that way. I’m not saying I want to be super rich but I do want to be comfortable. I don’t have a problem with saving up for something I want. I can be patient. But I want to be able to afford whatever I want, even if it takes a while to get it. I don’t want to be in debt for the rest of my life. I don’t want to constantly be behind, constantly scraping by. It just seems like such a sad way to live. You work so hard and have nothing to show for it. And I think if I become stuck, those braces will be out of the question. All my money will go toward bills. Right now, I’m not thinking about luxuries. I’m thinking about necessities. I’m not worried about not being able to buy a PS3. I’m worried about not being able to pay my bills.

It all comes back to me being stuck. I feel like I did when I was in high school and that’s not the way a twenty-three-year-old should feel. I’m still very much a child and I need to become an adult. I want to have my own place, my own responsibilities and my own commitments and I want to feel like it’s a blessing and not a curse. I want to be independent and free from my mother’s criticizing eye. I want to be my own man, not the man she wants me to be. I don’t want to be another family failure. I want to do something good for myself, become successful and grow up. I don’t want to have to worry about money because I have enough to worry about already. And I think most of all, I just want to find my place. I don’t want to be stuck. I don’t’ want to be lost. I don’t want to not know who I am. I don’t think I can ever do that if I stay at home. And as long as I can’t find a good job, that’s the way it will always stay. And to be OK, I just need new teeth and a new place to live and hopefully that’ll spark a new outlook on life.

Wilting

Essay written for my nonfiction writing class, October 2008.

Standing over the dead lady’s body, I had to wonder to myself how I got into this situation. All I wanted was a nice job so I could earn some spending money. I didn’t expect I’d be sending off the dead with a fistful of flowers. As much as I was fighting it, I forced myself closer to the casket. Morbid curiosity held my gaze to the painted shell that was her face. I was thoroughly freaked out but could not turn away. Perhaps I was looking for a twitch, a rise in her chest or even a disembodied voice, any reason to bolt from the room, the building, and my new job. As I laid the flowers on the smooth, blood red wood of the casket, I just knew the lady’s hollowed hand would jut out for my jugular. After I nestled the ornate arrangement of flowers onto the casket, I quickly pulled away out of the dead woman’s reach. She didn’t budge. This was the first time in my life I was actually thankful that a woman didn’t put the moves on me. I left the funeral home, jumped into the company van, and pondered how I ended up rendezvousing with the rigor mortised.

It all started when I turned sixteen. A lot of people look forward to their sixteenth birthday. For most of the kids in my town, it’s an age that means a driver’s license, a car and their first tantalizing taste of independence. It’s when most kids start to bloom. For me, it meant a rusty truck and manual labor. In high school, I joined the Vocational Industrial Clubs of America, or VICA, program. In the program, I was allowed to leave school early to go to my job. The head of the program was Coach Grimes, a heavyset and aggressive P.E. teacher who never spoke below a holler. It was up to him to set us up with jobs based on our interests. Unfortunately, if your interests don’t include repairing automobiles or frying chicken, then job choices in my town are slim pickins. When I put down “art” as my interest, I was quite curious to see what Coach Grimes would come up with. A few days later, I sat down next to him at his cluttered desk and with his noxious nicotine breath and peek-a-boo nose hairs, he told me I would be working at Young’s Florist, a local flower shop. I can’t say I was exactly ecstatic. I’m not much for frills and flowers, but Coach Grimes had gotten the job for me so I didn’t object. I did ask him why he chose a florist and he said it was the only artistic, creative job he could find in the area. Fair enough. Opp, Alabama isn’t exactly a mecca for the arts. He said I would be able to help with the flower arrangements, and while it wasn’t exactly the kind of art I was interested in, it was a new creative avenue for me so I looked forward to it.

I walked into the shop to meet my boss and was immediately inundated with ridiculously overpriced plastic angels, that lined the walls and seemed to cover every inch of the cramped building. I weaved myself through the jungle of knickknacks and made my way to the cash register area, a space littered with papers and handwritten notes and polices taped down onto the counter. Rebecca Young, the owner of Young’s Florist, stood propped on the counter, waiting for me. A faint smell of smoke permeated the air toward to the back of the building where Rebecca stood. She was an aging southern belle, past her prime by a good thirty years. She looked like she had been in beauty pageants when she was younger but never took off the makeup. She wore so much eye shadow that her eyelids drooped over her corneas. My mom later told me her eye condition was most likely due to her being buzzed all the time. Looking back, it makes sense. It would account for her overly laid back attitude and slightly slurred speech, which at the time, I had simply mistaken for her unique southern drawl. Her thick red lipstick had migrated to her yellow teeth. Her store-bought black hair was pulled into a severe bun. She wore a blue denim button up shirt with the Young’s Florist logo monogrammed on the upper right corner of the shirt, just below the collar. Around each finger she wore large, gaudy rings and in between her bejeweled fingers, an ever present cigarette. Of course, she wasn’t holding one on that first day. That was her effort to make a good first impression. We exchanged greetings and she got right down to the point, saying, “This is a purdy place and a purdy business but working here ain’t purdy. You think you can handle that?” Being the naïve sixteen-year-old that I was, I simply said, “Yes, ma’am.” And she, being the apathetic chimney that she was, didn’t bother to elaborate. That was my entire interview. I went into work the next day.

Unfortunately, after I clocked in, Rebecca informed me that my main job would be delivery. I told Rebecca I was geographically challenged and had been under the impression that I would get to help arrange the flowers. She lit up a cigarette and laughed a gritty laugh, as if she was juggling rocks in her throat. She said that was Jan’s job. Jan was a snotty lady whose jowls hung down like a bulldog’s. Her mouth was forever in the form of a frown. I could tell this lady was carrying around some baggage. She was perpetually pissed off and always walked around like she had a corncob stuck up her butt. She definitely didn’t dress to impress, always showing up for work in a sloppy shirt and shorts and the same pair of three-dollar brown rubber sandals that were sold in the shop. Through the sandals, I noticed her feet were in about as bad condition as her personality. She was a mean lady but she also made a mean flower arrangement. I never saw her smile. When it was cold outside, she’d wear white socks underneath those rubber sandals to keep her calluses warm. In the Young’s Florist hierarchy, Jan was second in command, after Rebecca. Next came a full figured gal with crunchy blond curls named Mandy. She had a sweet name but a sour personality. I was beginning to notice a trend. Mandy was the one who had previously done all the dirty work in the shop, but since I was there, she put it all on me. Since she used to do everything that was now expected of me, she was the one who trained me while Rebecca sat back in the same blue denim shirt, day after day, chain smoking. Naturally, I was ranked at the very bottom.

When Rebecca said the florist business wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t lying. Not only did I have to deliver the flowers but I also had to prepare them for Jan. This involved sorting the flowers, cutting the stems (and in the process, cutting myself with the thorns), carrying the various flowers around in large pails of water, organizing them in the freezer, and fetching the ones she needed for certain arrangements. Then there was the shop work, which involved schlepping around heavy boxes filled with ornaments, packing and unpacking boxes, helping take down and put up seasonal items around the shop, and running personal errands for Rebecca.

We didn’t have lunch breaks. We were allowed to eat only when there wasn’t anything to do, but as soon as Jan had finished an arrangement, it was time to put down the sandwich and pick up the van keys. That freaking van gave me trouble. During my first few deliveries, Mandy went with me to show me the ropes and how to load and unload the flowers in the back of the van so none of the precious petals were crushed. I was already nervous about driving a different vehicle other than my own. At sixteen, I still hadn’t had very much experience on the road. I was even more apprehensive about driving because I felt like I was operating a tank instead of a van. Each time I sat in the driver’s seat, anxiety filled the interior of the van faster than the smoke from Mandy’s Marlboro. Yes, she smoked too. I didn’t fare much better when I was alone in that van, either. I got lost, spiraled into a ditch on more than one occasion and even managed to break off the driver’s side mirror while trying to squeeze through a lane of the local drive-through bank.

The van wasn’t the only thing giving me grief. I just didn’t realize how depressing my job would be. The combination of my crabby coworker, drunk boss, sourpuss floral arranger, and my job requirements that made me dread the day ahead. Probably the most depressing part of the job was all the old and dead people I was forced to encounter. During one particular delivery, I had to take flowers to a retirement home. I walked through the automatic double doors and searched around for a receptionist. While doing so, I found many lonely and lined faces, senior citizens shuffling around with their walkers, some napping in their chairs, others medicated in front of television sets. I brought the flowers to the receptionist and then as I was walking out, a lady raised her frail hand to get my attention. She sat up from the faded blue couch she was sitting in and I looked over to her. She asked in a weak yet hopeful voice, “Do you have anything for me?” I felt my heart crack a little bit. I regretfully replied, “No, ma’am, I’m sorry.” She nodded, smiled a weak smile and then settled back into the faded couch. I exited the double doors with watery eyes.

I had never seen a dead person until I had to deliver flowers to the funeral home. The idea of being so close to a lifeless body freaked me out. It didn’t help when Mandy mentioned that the funeral home employees liked to play pranks on us. I was already nervous enough hanging out in a building full of dead and drained people. Now I had to worry about a bunch of douche bags popping out of closed coffins or sneaking limbs into the company van. Fortunately, they never did. I wasn’t employed long enough to give them a chance. Not only did I have to deliver flowers to open caskets but I also had to go to the funerals themselves and wait around outside until the service inside was over. Then, while mourners were packing into their cars to drive to the gravesite, Mandy and I had to pack all the flower arrangements back into the van and then rush to the gravesite before everyone else got there so we could set up the arrangements around the grave, making it presentable by the time the families arrived. Most of the time, we only had mere minutes to pull it off. It was incredibly stressful.

I couldn’t take this anymore. Everywhere I turned I found depression. Depression at the workplace. Depression at the delivery zones. I found depression within myself because I despised the job but at the same time I didn’t want to be a quitter. I was conflicted and confused. I had to find a way out of my situation but if I did, my parents would be disappointed with me. My parents took on factory jobs because they had a limited education. They didn’t like what they did but it was their only choice and they did it because they had to support my sister and me. And I felt like a spoiled brat for wanted to get out of the florist job, a job that I hadn’t even had a month. Maybe I just needed to get used to the physical labor and mental anguish? Maybe I could befriend these women? No, I couldn’t do any of that. I was only lying to myself, trying to feel better about a bad situation. In my heart, I knew this wasn’t for me.

My mother came home from work one day to find me slumped on the couch. I had gotten home from the florist shop a few hours before. My jeans were dirtied and rolled up to my knees. Each aching foot was plunged into a large plastic bowl filled with steaming water and Epsom salt. My mom laughed at the site of me. She put down her purse and sat on the couch across from me, her auburn hair deflated by work, her face shiny from the hot factory. Her makeup had faded and her thin eyebrows were furrowed with exhaustion. I was beginning to understand how she felt every day.

“I really hate my job,” I said to her sheepishly.

“I know,” she responded, the words exhaling from her lips without a trace of sympathy.

“I want to quit.”

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

That was her typical response to any negativity I ever expressed to her. That’s life. Tough luck. That’s what you get. Oh well. We all have to do things we don’t want to do. But that couldn’t be all. Surely she wouldn’t want her son to suffer like this. I worked out a plan in my head. My mind raced to find a solution. Then it clicked.

“What if I find another job?”

“Good luck with that!”

“But, if I do, can I quite this one?”

“Sure, as long as you can guarantee a new one first.”

This was my way out. From that day forward, I fervently went through the classifieds, collected stacks of job applications and asked around about possible employee positions.

I had been fantasizing about quitting the florist for several days, especially on the days when I found myself elbow deep in cemetery dirt cleaning off dead flowers from graves and replacing them with fresh ones. The hot southern sun beat down on me, my face smeared with dirt and sweat. I had had enough. I couldn’t go on working in an environment of smoke and stress. One of those job applications had to work out. It just had to.

Fortunately, all the days of job hunting paid off. The manager of the drugstore in town had reviewed my application and wanted to speak to me. The interview went great. I was charming and funny and desperately trying to be as hirable as possible to escape from rose-colored hell. I suppose I was either a good choice for the job or maybe she just saw the desperation in my eyes because she said she’d be happy to hire me. And she’d never know how happy that made me. Now, the other tough part was quitting. As much as I hated the place, I was nervous to confront my soot-stained boss.

A few days later, I found myself in the company van with Mandy and she was once again yelling, “ You’re going to have to eventually learn the layout of this city!” By that time, I had already decided to quit that day so I thought to myself, “That’s what you think, you human exhaust pipe!” Puffs of gray smoke escaped her flaring nostrils and curled lips as she went off on me, ash from her cigarette trailing her hands as she gestured. Screw this. At the end of my shift, I went up to Rebecca and told her I needed to speak with her. In between puffs of her cigarette, she said, “You aren’t happy here.” I politely said no and that I would like to end my employment with her. I then quickly offered a two weeks notice but she told me that wouldn’t be necessary. She then blew a puff of smoke in my direction. I took that as my dismissal. Thanks a lot. The next day I woke up and was overjoyed with the realization that I would not have to walk into a building that housed carcinoma and crappy attitudes.

I suppose we all have our “worst job ever” stories. And although it wasn’t the best experience of my life, I think I did learn something from it. I learned a bit more about people and life and how neither are as great as we hope for. I suppose if I had to get my feet wet in the working world, I’m glad they got a little scalded. It definitely helped make every job after Young’s Florist seem so much better in comparison. For instance, I thoroughly enjoyed my employment with the drugstore. After the florist, I thought of my parents and how their jobs are probably twice as hard as mine was and just knowing what they have to endure daily makes me appreciate them so much more. Because I had a taste of how much they have had to struggle to take care of me, experienced that hard work myself with my rough hands and aching back, it encouraged me to pursue my education further than they did so that hopefully in the future, I’ll obtain a more profitable position that won’t be as physically demanding. I admire them for sticking it out although they don’t like what they do. And I tried to sick it out as well but I’m just not that strong. And maybe, most importantly, I just refuse to accept that things have to suck. I know sometimes situations are beyond our control but I took control of my situation and my job and found one that was much less stressful. I realized that no job, no relationship, no experience is worth it if you find yourself wilting.

Affection Rejection

This is my senior film that I did while I was in college. It's definitely not amazing but it was my first legitimate film that I had to create all from scratch. So, all things considered, I don't think it's that bad. Plus, it has a good message and that's what counts! Concept, design, story, animation and color all done by me. Music by Alex MacLeod.

Vapidity

i find you sweeping in and out of my life
just like this lump in my throat
some days you catch me off guard
clutching my cords and leaving me breathless
while other times i can feel you fading away

i find myself swimming in and out of the strings
i sew together into songs that play in my head
nourished by the notes like my meat and drink
as i craft sweet serenades and sing them to you
to make you smile in hopes you'll stick around

i find us swerving in and out of space
torn apart by time and distracted by distance
WoW, i never thought the day would come
when i would disremember your face
or forget you ever existed at all

Odontophilia

I have a couple of confessions to make. First of all, I haven’t been to the dentist in over ten years. I know, I know, I just made all the ladies out there a little moist with that statement. You know, ‘cause gingivitis is sexy. But I have a really good excuse, which leads me to my next confession.

Teeth get me hot.

For as long as I can remember, teeth have always done a little something extra for me. When other little boys would ogle their mother’s Cosmopolitan magazines, I’d sneak dental brochures into my room. While other guys found late night Cinemax titillating, I’d get wood over the Crest Whitestrips advertisements. And don’t get me started on those Extreme Makeover shows. I derived way too much pleasure from the mouth makeover portions of those programs. It was like porn on cable! So, that's why I've avoided the dentist. I can't imagine going there and having someone stick their fingers in my mouth. Mmm. All that latex and fingering of my teeth. It's so erotic! I'm always worried I'm going to pop the unavoidable and totally detectable woody, right there on the chair!! And that's just the type of awkward I'd like to save myself and everyone involved from.

Actually, I’m just kidding. About the tooth fetish, not the infrequent dentist visits.

In actuality, I haven’t been to the dentist in so long because teeth were never really a priority in my family. It seemed that as long as you brushed twice a day and none of your teeth were hurting, it wasn’t absolutely imperative to see the dentist. And as time moved forward, the idea came up that I probably should go to the dentist just to make sure everything was okay in my mouth. But by that time it seemed too late. I had already gone so long without going to the dentist so it was a little embarrassing to me to explain to the dentist why I’d waited so long. Plus, I was pretty sure my mouth was disintegrating and I didn’t want to deal with the possibility of them having to extract all my teeth and fit me for dentures. It was one of those situations where you’ve put something off for so long that it just makes you want to keep putting it off. But after I graduated I decided I needed to do something about my teeth. I’ve always been pretty self-conscious of them so instead of just living a life of insecurity, I should just go and get them checked out and whatever needs to be fixed should be fixed. I was nervous but I realized I need to go ahead and get them checked out now before I developed an abscess or something equally icky later on. My mom had an appointment scheduled so she just added me on with her and we went in together.

So, the day came and we got to the dentist’s office and Mom put her name down first on the list of patients. Crap, now I’d have to wait that extra half hour to be seen and told that I’d have to have a root canal or something when really, I just wanted to go in there and get it over with. Thankfully, the place wasn’t crowded and they called Mom right in. I filled out my paperwork and then read a few more chapters of my book until they called me in.

I walked through the door and saw that a girl I knew from high school was working there. She took my x-rays. Okay, that’s fine. And then she led me into a different room and laid me down in the squeaky chair. I made myself as comfortable as I possibly could, the only kind of comfortable you can be as if you were strapped to an electric chair as apposed to a dentist chair. The girl then put her mask on and sat next to me and readied her tools. Oh, wait, what?

“So, you’re gonna be doing my teeth?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

Really? Really? Out of all the people there, she had to be the one messing with my molars?

Well, that’s great. She’s gonna be digging around my mouth and see all these cavities and plaque and then tell everyone she knows. That’s what people do in such a small town. They spread other people’s business. Obviously, I was not feeling too great about my mouth. Although I have no evidence to support my theory of radical oral decay, there’s a lot of nasties that can accumulate in that region without the intervention of a dentist’s drill so I was pretty sure my mouth was abysmal.

And I explained that to her. I was like, “Well, this is embarrassing” and when she inquired as to why, I just explained to her that it had been way too long since I’ve been to the dentist and I was pretty ashamed not only of the fact that I waited so long, but of the overall health of my mouth, plus the crookedness of my teeth. She just laughed and told me not to worry but that’s easy for her to say with her perfectly straight, white teeth. As she hovered the light over my face, she told me that another girl usually does the cleaning but she was on vacation.

Really? Really?!

Great timing. Of course things would have to go down like that. FML.

So, the time finally came and I just gave into the circumstances. There was really nothing I could do and if my mouth was to be declared a biohazard, it would serve me right for neglecting to take care of myself as I should. A lesson learned.

But, surprisingly, when she began her initially poking around, she said, “You’re teeth really aren’t that bad at all.” But, of course, she was probably just trying to make me feel better.

Because it had been so long since I had been to the dentist, everything felt like the first time. She put her sharp instruments in my mouth and popped my cherry. The actual tooth scraping didn’t bother me that much. It almost felt kinda…good? Hm, maybe I do have a little dentophilia in me after all! Nah, it wasn’t that. It just almost felt like a deep dental massage of sorts. I’ll say it did feel uncomfortable in some areas but mostly it felt like she was scratching an itch that was deep down and hard to reach. Not that it was a pleasurable experience but it just wasn’t as horrific as I had pictured. I just kind of lied there and let her do her work until she was finished with the scraping portion. She then did the polish on my teeth, which was a nice change of pace. The stuff felt and tasted just like that new Crest weekly paste that comes in that small tube… you know what I’m talking about? Yeah, it was good stuff.

After she was done, the dentist came in and he began his poking around. The girl stayed with him and that made me nervous again. This is the portion of the visit where he’d declare my decay and she’d be right there, hearing all of it. But, once again, he did not tell me I needed a root canal or any kind of extractions. In fact, he actually said, “You’ve got good teeth.”

Whaaat?

That was seriously shocking considering last time I was in a dentist chair my age was in the single digits. But, it made me really happy. He was like, “You’re fortunate” and I was thinking, “You’re telling me!” I mean, I’ll be honest, when I was a little kid I didn’t take care of my teeth the way I should have but what kid did!? I think all children are barked at to brush, reamed into rinsing and forced to floss. And as I got older, I started to realize the importance of having a healthy and aesthetically pleasing palate. So I started whitening and investing in good toothpastes and an electric toothbrush. And perhaps the spike in oral health care somehow prevented and possibly reversed any damage I may have caused in my younger years. So, I was really thankful that my teeth weren’t the disaster I was expecting them to be. I mean, I guess just because they might not look the best doesn’t mean they aren’t healthy.

Later on in the day after the dentist appointment, I guess the scraping got to me because my teeth were a little sore and my head hurt a little. That night, when I was brushing, I spit out a mouthful of blood. I suppose I was reopening any gum tissue that might have been torn while that girl got down and dirty with my snaggle teeth. Regardless, it was a little scary. Anytime you start bleeding from the gums, it’s generally not a good sign and if I hadn’t already been to the dentist that day, I definitely would have made an emergency appointment to figure out what was going down. Also, the next day I noticed I had some tooth sensitivity when I would drink something really hot or really cold. I hope that’s normal and that the girl didn’t accidentally scrape some enamel along with the build up. Oy. I have an appointment to go next week…and that reminds me, although my teeth weren’t a total disaster, I did have a couple problem spots. I think I only need two filings, which I think for ten plus years of no dental care, that’s not bad at all. Plus, the guy is going to fix the chip in my front tooth from my horrible high school accident when a jock elbowed me in the face while we were playing volleyball during P.E. So, I’m pretty excited about that and that’s gonna go down next week. I’m not too happy about getting any shots but I gotta do what I gotta do to start taking care of myself and feeling better about my appearance so it’ll be worth it in the end. I say that now but I’m sure once I have a needle sticking out of my gums, I won’t be so sure….

Affectation

The following entry was written in my paper journal while I was still in Savannah. I posted the Flame of Friendship entries because it gives a little bit of back story regarding this entry. While it's not a sequel of sorts, it's almost a follow up to those writings, comparing how I felt about friendship then as opposed to now. I realize not much has changed. Sitting in Forsyth park, I watched the people go by, parents and children, couples, SCAD kids, and saw how the sun shone down upon them all and all I felt was empty.

---

"you woke up an asshole
i couldn't believe my eyes..."
- Rilo Kiley

It's almost amazing to me how easily I can cut people out of my life. I get hurt, I get rejected, I get disappointed and then I get gone. I can't handle feeling like I'm not important enough to consider so I run away from those who are inconsiderate. And it's not like I let go of people after the first rejection. I do try to be reasonable. I always try to make sure it's not just my paranoia talking, that I'm not just making up drama or intentionally looking for their flaws but once I've determined they are truly are at fault, I'll eventually forgive them and continue on with the relationship. Depending on how much I like them, they can hurt me anywhere from several times to just once more before I'm done with them.

I remember this girl, Melody, from my first year. We dated very briefly before she slapped me right in the face by inviting some other guy to sit with us while we were having lunch together. She flirted with him unashamedly right in front of me, eventually phasing me out of the conversation. I did some phasing out of my own after that.

I never spoke to her again.

It's funny because I was seeing potential there. I was in talks with my defenses to possibly let her into my life. And the fact that I was willing to develop some kind of attachment for her, the way a seed of affection was growing and she split it open so callously, crushed something that never got he opportunity to develop as it should. I realized she wasn't worth the hassle of being upset over nor was she worth any other kind of attachment. I hadn't known her that long, hadn't been that close to her and yet she was still able to hurt me, was able to kill a little bit more of my heart and that really opened my eyes. If she could hurt me before deep feelings were developed, just imagine how much it would hurt once I started actually liking her romantically. And it would surely happen. Nope, can't take that chance.

Snip, snip.

And when it comes to Chasity and Maliha, the only seemingly constants in my school experience, I feel like they are prime examples of why I'm not just some jerk who does away with those after the first dam of dissatisfaction breaks. I spent the same amount of time with them my first year. They both made me laugh and frustrated me equally. But with Maliha, I don't care if I never speak to her again. Chasity, on the other hand, is someone I wouldn't mind keeping around, at least for a while. As much as I don't want to, I genuinely like Chasity, even if she does make me want to gut her sometimes. And the difference between Maliha and Chasity is that Chasity is just as messed up as I am but she tries her best and I can't blame her for that. In some ways, I understand her. Maliha, on the other hand, is just an abrasive, overbearing twat.

Snip, snip.

Chasity is a nice girl but she is also the most unorganized, unreliable girl in the world. All of my life, I have taken care of other people and now that I'm shifting my priorities to what I need, I'm realizing I need stability in my friendships. Chasity doesn't provide that for me, thus she's not friend material. But she does provide a good time and a few laughs and I think that's why I still accept her phone calls. It's the degree of connection and affection that I have for these people that dictate how long I'll keep them around before reaching my breaking point. If I like you, I'll put up with a lot but I can't be walked on forever.

Sometimes I think maybe I do place impossible standards on people. I admit that I do take some of the blame when it comes to my failed relationships. I meet new people and instantly hope they'll be something for me and when they can't meet that expectation, I discard them. I just need to start accepting people for what they are, just people, instead of what I wish they would be: a friend, companion, lover. Instead of tossing people aside, I should just place them in an allotted space in my life and be content with that. Maybe that will reduce disappointment. My roommates are just my roommates, not friends. Classmates are just classmates, not friends. Even my "friends" are really just acquaintances, not true friends.

And I've become so disjointed that I don't even know what a true friend is, I just have the feeling that none of the people in my life reach those ambiguous qualifications. And based on my personal experiences, I just don't think friendships last. I know everyone will disagree with me but that's probably because they feel they know what true friendship is and they have people in their lives that they can call friends. I don't. I don't have friends as proof that relationships can retain that spark forever. The Flame of Friendship entries were actually inspired by two failed relationships in my life.

The first one was with a former supervisor of mine. She was my biggest supporter. She was so encouraging of my drawing and especially my writing. She actually made me feel good about myself, like I was someone worth knowing, like I was talented. I admired her greatly. I didn't know her any longer than two years but she was my favorite person. And then I moved to Georgia and she dropped me. We talked sporadically but the conversations faded fast. As much as she encouraged me to go to school, she surely didn't check up on how I was doing, which was terribly. I really could have used her support then but she was no where to be found. When I would come back home for breaks, she'd cancel plans for us to meet or she'd ignore my requests completely. I felt like she was kind of done with me, that if she'd just ignore a few calls, not respond to a few e-mails, I'd get the message and go away. And I did. I had to accept that she didn't want to be a part of my life anymore and I had to let her go. As much as I liked her, as much as I felt for her, as much as she believed in me, more than anyone else at the time, I had to cut her out because the pain of her dismissal wasn't worth the short-lived joy she brought to me. It just kind of astounded me how she went from being my biggest fan to not speaking to me at all. Just like that. It was jarring and disturbing.

Snip.

The other friendship that sparked those entries is the one with my oldest former friend. Her grandmother used to babysit me a year before she was born and when she came along, her grandmother would watch after her too and she became my first playmate. She became my first friend. She became my best friend. We even looked like brother and sister, especially when her grandmother would dress us alike. And she felt like a sister to me. She knew more about me than anyone else, closer to me than anyone else. She was my best friend for almost twenty years. And once again, when I moved away she stopped talking to me just like the first. And I know what you're thinking. Maybe I was the one who left these people behind. Maybe I was the one who stopped communication, that I cut a few strings. No, I tried to keep in touch. In fact, she stopped talking to me a while before I even moved away. She got a boyfriend and I guess he took up all her time and she became so enthralled with him that she pushed me aside. And the day I knew we were done was the day I found out she got married. No, I didn't hear it from her. I heard it from her cousin. She didn't even let me know. Another slap in the face. All of those years of being so close and now we are nothing.

Snip.

I think the nail in the coffin, so to speak, that really killed my affection for people was the relationship with a special girl that I met a few years ago. Yes, it was one of those online long distance relationships. We never dated but I can safely say we were pretty much into each other. I suspect she wanted to pursue a romantic relationship but I didn't want to do that. Long distance is not my style so I told her the only thing we can be is really good friends. I was satisfied with that and thought she was as well. And things were fantastic for a few years. We talked almost every night and she, just like my former supervisor/friend, became my favorite person. Except she was my age. She was an amazingly talented writer and photographer and I respected her so much and I admired her as much as I liked her. And as with Chasity, I felt like we were so similar, sharing the same passions and flaws, so I understood her, could relate to her struggles. And I felt like she understood me as well. I was not alone in my faults.

But I suppose I didn't understand her faults fully because she would never fully let me in and let me know what was going on with her. As open as she was, she was also fiercely private in some areas. She had a habit of descending into a cave every once in a while, temporarily cutting off contact until whatever trauma she had been through was either resolved or sufficiently repressed enough for her to come out of hiding. I understood because everyone has their own way of dealing with problems but she did it again and the final time she did it, I didn't hear from her for months. She stopped all contact and after a while, it just gets old. I can't help her if she won't tell me what the problem is and I certainly can't put myself on hold while I wait for her to get out of whatever funk she's in. There were times when I needed her to be there for me but she made herself unavailable. I realized that I waited on her long enough and her way of dealing with problems is incompatible with the way I feel about friendship. I didn't expect her to tell me everything, detail by detail. I understand that there's always going to be some level of privacy in a friendship. I didn't tell her everything either but she can't just cut me off so completely like that. I realized I had to move on, to grow and experience things without sharing them with her because she couldn't share anything about herself with me anymore. And I think she hurt the most because there was some of that lame puppy love high school butterflies that bubbled up for her like they had for no one else and to see that be squashed was rather sad to me. I took it surprisingly well, though, and I suppose that's just because I'm used to the rejection. And I think she was the final push toward me being the way that I am now. I thought, out of all the friends I had, she'd be the one to last the longest but it didn't happen that way. And if it couldn't happen with her, I don't know if it can with anyone else.

And I understand that to the average onlooker, I might seem cold and distant but can you really blame me? After I've been rejected so many times, it's just hard to get up. Sometimes you want to give in and just lie there and submit to defeat. I've been cut off, x'ed out and pushed down too many times to bounce back so easily.

And I think the saddest part about all of this is how unemotional I am over all of it. I simply do not care. I don't care about my former supervisor and I don't care about my former friend. And I don't care about the other girl anymore, either. Last I heard she somehow found her way out of her blackness and into the arms of another guy. I guess I feel sad that I couldn't be those arms. And that is my cycle of certainty. I'm certain people will come along and I'm certain I'll become attached. I'm certain they'll eventually leave me and I'm certain I'll get hurt. That pain will certainly turn into apathy and then the cycle will certainly start all over again and all I'll ever be is empty. And I know that's normal. I'm knowledgeable enough to know that friends come and go but aren't certain friends supposed to stick around? Not for me. I don't believe in long lasting relationships because I have never been given a reason to. They all leave eventually. The talking tapers off and all there is is silence. And again, I know a majority of the problem is me. I am in no way saying any of these people are terrible. They didn't belittle me or spread rumors. They just cut off connection. Maybe it's 'cause I'm too hard to love. Maybe I'm too damaged and when people find that out they aren't willing to come near me. They have too much baggage to help me deal with mine and that is understandable. I don't think I'd wanna be friends with me, either.

I've learned not to become invested. I've learned to enjoy people for the moment because they won't be around very long. I enjoy people for what they are instead of what I desperately wish they would be. And I've come to a point where all this rejection is just a joke. I have to laugh to keep from screaming. And I've changed. I've become darker than I ever could have imagined. I can shut people out so easily, cut my feelings off like I'm flipping a switch. I guess I've just had to do it so many times that I'm used to it, that I'm good at it. It's almost like I don't even have feelings at all. Maybe I've been hurt so deeply that I've put away my feelings entirely and I'm just faking it all of the time. This person within me is burning my insides because I never wanted to end up like this. I've become so unattached from everyone. I don't talk to or touch people anymore. I've become a ghost, an affectation of what I once was. And I don't know how to fix it. I thought when I moved away that it would be a great chance to start over, that somehow I'd discover the tools to form healthy relationships but I just fell into old habits. And when I moved back home I just left a trail of more mangled relationships and I'm frustrated because I can't seem to get it right. I wonder if I ever will and the saddest situation is the one in which I've given up. It's a situation I'm sitting in now, of being indifferent, of being so low that I'm content not to care...

The Flame of Friendship III: Hot Wax Poetic

Written September 2008.

Candles don’t disappear. Wax doesn’t die. It only changes. It stands tall in the beginning and merely melts under the heat of a flame. And after the fire flickers out, it remains, a hardened pool of wax, essentially useless.

When a friendship is formed, so is a candle. Two people come together like carbon and hydrogen. Warm hearts work to heat a flame that forges a friendship. Commonalities are built up like wax and each conversation shapes the relationship like the shaping and smoothing of a candle. And a pair of people prepare paraffin through conversations and laughter and the candle is erected, being built upon same interests and activities. And once the initial “getting to know you phase” has passed, the relationship intensifies as the candle is lit until the pair is pulled apart once the wicker has been whittled down by the fire and the wax melts away in time.

I don’t even know what a friend is anymore. Did I ever know? Probably. Before life became crappy and complicated. Before I became crappy and complicated. I’m pretty sure I’m too selfish and needy to have a friend or be a true friend to anyone else. It’s almost like, if they can’t do anything for me, I don’t really want to be around them anymore. Disappoint me and I’m done with you. And that shouldn’t be the way it is. Maybe I’m just so worthless on my own, so lacking in self-sufficiency that I depend on others to help me get by and when they can’t, I lose interest.

Is it not disgusting that the people I once really cared about I would rather never see again? This came to my attention when I came back from school. A group I used to be really close with in high school wanted to get together with me to hang out. We were all really great friends in high school. I felt connected to those people, close to them because it was us against everyone else. We were the kids that didn’t automatically gravitate to any one particular clique. We weren’t unpopular but we certainly didn’t rule the school, either. And so I was excited to see them but once I actually hung out with them, I realized I am just not the same person I was all those years ago in high school and they still pretty much are.

I’m not saying that I have grown and they haven’t. I’m not saying that they haven’t made their own strides toward maturity. I’m just saying that I’ve changed in a way that disconnects me from what used to bring us all together. And I’m not saying that I’ve changed for the worse or they’ve changed for the better. We’ve all just changed, period. And there’s nothing wrong with that but for me, I just don’t feel comfortable with them anymore. I suppose going to school really did a number on me. Being away made me miss home but when I came back I realized it wasn’t my home anymore and Georgia certainly isn’t my home. So, I just float between states and struggle not to scream when I realize I have no home of my own and now, not even a group of friends to turn to.

I guess I’m just simply in a different spot than everyone else. I’m still a lost soul, still wondering if I even have a soul at all and everyone else seems to have plans. Everyone knows where they are going and what they are doing once they get there. And I hate when the phone rings because I know I’ll have to pretend to care about what they have to say and I’ll have to fake laugh and feign interest in the conversation. And I hate when they ask what I’m doing later on ‘cause I know they’ll want to hang out and I don’t know if I should make something up or just simply tell them I’m not feeling up to it or if I should begrudgingly agree to meet with them.

I don’t know if I believe in lifelong relationships, such as marriage. I barely believe in long-term relationships of any kind. I’ve seen friends lose long-term friends before and I’ve even had my experiences with losing some of my very good friends as well. A friend of over 20 years got married a few months ago and never bothered to tell me. My mentor/mother figure/friend/former supervisor who always used to encourage my artwork and writing stopped speaking to me after I moved away to college. And it’s scenarios like the ones my friends were in and the one I found myself in that make me think that friendships just don’t last. We come together and then go apart. Some stay longer than others but eventually everyone will leave me. And just to be fair, sometimes I do the leaving.

And yet I feel these stirrings inside when I’m with these people, these former friends who are still actually my friends but not really. I realize I don’t want to hurt them. I realize I don’t want to flat out tell them that I feel we have nothing in common anymore and that I’d rather we just go our separate ways. And I guess that is because I love these people, I just don’t like them anymore. I mean, remember, at one time I was very fond of these people, developed real feelings for them. And that hasn’t gone away. I still wish the best for everyone. It’s not that I detest these people or think I am above them. I am just different and not invested and hollow. And that love is still there, but the wax that held us so closely together has melted and allowed us to just separate from that closeness. I suppose the only thing I can do right now is wait it out until I return to school so I can run away from my problems like I always do. It’s easier to be absent when you’re a state away.

I think it’s pretty funny that paraffin, the wax most commonly used for candles, is derived from a Latin word that means "a lack of affinity.”

The Flame of Friendship II

Written February 2008.

the flames of friendship that burn the brightest
are often the ones that weigh the lightest
don’t you recall how i said it would end?
before they break, they often bend
a few missed calls to give me a clue
and canceled plans to see it through
all friendships carry along expiration dates
love for another can wither away at alarming rates
now i see with you and me there’s nothing left to burn
i realize i’m abandoned and my stomach does churn
i’ll sit in stillness and watch this flame burn away
and mourn my loss ‘cause you didn’t care to stay
i often wonder if you wonder if i’m all right
or if it’s just out of mind since i’m out of your sight
or just maybe you could care less about my situation
from mentoring my life to utter capitulation
so if you are still in the interest of caring
i’ll let you in on how i’ve been faring
i’ve been doing quite all right, i’ve been making it okay
i did it despite your absence, i made it through each day
and maybe you gave up on my plight a little too soon
‘cause now that i’ve left i’ve started to bloom
and perhaps you left my life just a little to early
for if you were with me now you’d be proud so surely
but this wick has burned so blindly at both ends
there’s no hope for reconciliation, no chance for amends

The Flame of Friendship

Written January 2007.

Sometimes, friendships are like candles. They burn their brightest when first lit, when the first sparks of a new relationship are ignited. There's a certain excitement that carries a new relationship forward, that fans the flame, a craving for knowledge about this other person, a craving to find common interests. Certain friends fit certain types of candles. Some friends are more important to us than others, just as some candles are larger than others. Depending on how we nurture these new relationships, we can either develop one of those whopping candles as thick as a tree trunk that'll burn for years and years, or we can develop a tea candle kind of relationship that burns out before the scent even hits our noses.

Friendships can last as long as the two people want them to. You can always work up more wax or whittle away at the wick.

Just as candles can be quite soothing, so are the friendships they represent. Candles can bring light to the dark. So can friends. Candles provide warmth. So do friends. Candles can provide a peaceful tranquility on tough days. So do friends. Sometimes, it seems friends and candles are all we need to know to be happy. But, there's a major difference between friends and candles. You can always count on the candle.

Friends are nice to rely on. Friends are good options to place your trust in. Friends are free and fun. But, sometimes friendships go sour. The spark is gone and there's only the faintest of flames that clings to the candle. Sometimes friends lie. But, with candles, there is always one truth that can be acquired, one promise that will always be kept. No matter how good friends make you feel, no matter the duration of the sensation, the candle will always burn out. Consequently, so will friendships.

Even the greatest of relationships end at some point. The sweet smell of candles are always followed by the stink of smoke, the last remnants of dead wax. The flame has been extinguished with only gray vapor left alive, wiggling and snaking its way through the air until it slowly dissipates, much like the connection between friends it once used to represent, it once used to keep lit. Whether by a falling out or a failure to breathe, relationships burn out, no matter how strong or weak you've made them. Sometimes, it's not your choice in the matter. Sometimes, the other person blows out the blaze, while other times fate fizzles the flame.

Relationships, much like candles, aren't meant to last forever. And much like candles, they are meant to be enjoyed while lit, enjoyed only for the moment, for all moments end. Knowing it'll end will make the smells much sweeter, the light much warmer and the comfort much more cozy. Friends will lead you to the light, but in the end, they will always leave you in the dark, always leave you lonely, always leave you up in smoke.

Nostalgesic

One of the perks of being dead is that I have a lot of time on my hands. With no job, no school and no pulse, there's a lot of free time to think. There's a lot of time to reflect. And there's a lot of time to go through old objects that hold sentimental value.

A few days ago, I went rummaging through the closet to see what kind of dusty goodies I could find. Shoebox after shoebox lined the white shelves that ran the length of either side of the wall. These shoeboxes, frayed from use, spanning the small sizes of my sister's feet to the largest sizes of mine, stacked one on top of the other in a jigsawed pattern of questionable stability. In fact, when I unfolded the step ladder and stepped within reach of the shelf to slide one of the boxes out like a giant Jenga piece, I was pretty sure the whole construction of would come toppling down on me, perhaps crushing me, perhaps a stray knick knack falling out of the flimsy flaps and impaling my eye, perhaps knocking me from the step ladder and stabbing my liver into a sharp corner. Or maybe the box would slide out easily, which is what happened.

The first shoebox contained remnants of high school. My diploma was in there. My cap and stole were folded inside, along with all my medals. My diploma from community college was also in there. Boxed up accomplishments. Honors put on paper and then put away. The next box contained old photographs, tucked away in faded envelopes. Some were of me and old high school friends, friends that have since fallen away and faded themselves. Some were of me when I was my ugliest: fat, my skin marbled with acne, unflattering clothes and a sadness in my eyes that is palpable even through the thin film and fake smiles. I saw the transformation from a cute little boy to a pubescent pathetic. The next box contained all of my old action figures: Power Rangers, Transformers with missing missile pieces, and the occasional special edition Spider-Man with projectile webbing. The final box of the day contained all of my old sketches and story ideas. Reading over those notes scribbled on printer paper made me smile. It was a bittersweet box. Sorting through my drawings, I noticed my older sketches compared to the newest pieces and realized I actually had potential. I think about how talented I would be now if I hadn't ever stopped drawing. I knew I got better from practice but one day I stopped practicing. I think puberty had a lot to do with it.

I think I was so creative and artistic when I was younger because I wasn't bogged down in belonging. I wasn't worried about popularity or the way that I looked. I was all in my head, crafting my own fantasy world that existed in my mind. Nothing and no one else mattered. I'd spend my days drawing these fantastical characters and cutting them out into these paper action figures and playing out these epic wars that spanned universes, or in reality, from the kitchen to the living room. I look back now and wish I would have written down all those stories because I can't remember them anymore. I did write some stuff down and it was nice to read and relive it all again. It was when I became aware of myself as other people perceive me that the drawing and playing and general kid stuff started to melt away.

Fantasy was replaced with frustration. Play-Doh was replaced with pizza dough. Drawing was replaced with a depression like a demon possessing my body. All creativity was crushed in the wake of creating a facade of fakery to impress the popular kids. I spent so much time trying to be like other people that I forgot who I was, neglected the growth of myself as a man. I chased after trends instead of tending to my teenage transitions. And just like that, I let go of myself mentally, emotionally and physically. The typical teenage doldrums everyone goes through was magnified in my mind. Because my family was not understanding and I didn't have any friends to turn to because I wasn't being my real self, I turned to food for comfort. Unfortunately, that food only made things worse. It padded the pain for a while but once I started getting fat, that comfort just provided another thing to freak out about.

Looking through all of my old things brought about a realization, along with a lot of dust: life is a lot like lubricant. It's liquid and unpredictable. It's never stable for too long and always moving with or without you, mostly without you. Situations are slippery and events become elusive. If we aren't careful, if we don't take hold of certain circumstances carefully, they'll slide right from our fingertips. And in my life, I've let a lot of things slide. I've neglected opportunities and passed on plights because I was too insecure, too afraid, too unavailable. Somewhere along the line, depression dripped in and I've been incapacitated ever since. I just need some adhesion to abate apathy. I need some friction to feel again. I need to get a grip and pull myself out of this pathetic fallacy. I just don't know how I can go about doing that. With this demonic depression swimming inside like a snake, how can I move forward? Perhaps an exorcism is in order. But what will do the trick? Maybe prayer or poetry? A cross or a catharsis? Theology or therapy?

All I know is that looking through those boxes provided a reprieve from the daily decomposing. It felt good to go back to when I was young and full of excitement over something. I put everything back in its rightful box and carefully placed all my writings, drawings, awards, life back upon the shelf. I closed the door and thought I caught a glimpse of myself, that little freckle-faced kid running around the house with action figures in hand, making whooshing sounds with his mouth. And I can see him smiling.