It’s the weirdest thing. I can’t seem to go out and have fun without my mind wandering to the darkest parts of myself, picking apart the most painful aspects of social functions. What’s left of my heart swells with excitement from the anticipation of fun and yet my mind won’t allow for such happenings. The latest entropic episode occurred at the Showbread concert a couple of weeks ago. They are my favorite band and I was seeing them live and really pumped about it but yet I just couldn’t have a good time. Sure, the performance was great and I got lost in the rawness but it was the wait that whittled away the anticipation and excitement. There were five bands before Showbread performed so I definitely had a lot of time on my hands. Time to think. And it’s never a good time when I’m thinking. Thinking always takes me to the sad place within myself, that retrospective spot that’s as sensitive as newborn skin. One thought leads to another and then another until I’m unhappy for a seemingly unrelated reason that has nothing to do with why I felt sad in the first place. It’s a chain reaction of reflection linked by loneliness. Ah, that loneliness, that itch that runs so deep only a chainsaw could satisfy it. Doesn’t all the sadness and frustration stem from that one little itch? It seems so for me. It’s the common denominator of my depression.
As I mentioned in a previous entry, I was surrounded by dozens of hipster teens and it basically made me feel old and fat. I’m pretty sure I was a good five years older than the oldest kid there and, consequently, I felt pretty out of place. I felt like I had taken a wrong turn to the show and ended up at Stephanie Stephano’s sweet sixteen. I swear, if they had busted out a Coke bottle and birthday cake cones, I would have bolted. No, I was at the right place, wrong age. It’s no surprise, really, as I’ve always felt more like seventy-three than twenty-three. Yep, Old Soul Syndrome. I don’t know, I’ve just always had this thing with youth. I’ve never felt young and good looking and so now I’m preoccupied with obtaining it in some form or another. And I guess I never felt like I was able to act like a kid when I was one and now I resent others who embrace their youth. It’s no one’s fault and I shouldn’t be projecting my negative vibes on anyone but it just feels a little unfair. Sitting in my chair at the concert, because my old bones can’t hold me up on their own anymore, I looked around and saw all of these fresh-faced kids paired up, holding each other’s tender hands and smiling into each other’s glistening eyes and it made me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. So many young faces, so many problems with it all.
First of all, they all looked like they had it going on. All the guys were slim and fashionable, poster boys for American Apparel. And not a pimple on a one of them. All the girls were pretty in punk, way better looking than the girls I went to high school with, and then I realized they were probably all fifteen and I felt like a dirty old man for checking them out. I guess the dimly lit room was a bit of a factor because I understand dark helps with looks. It blots out blemishes, slims silhouettes and basically hides slight imperfections but the blackest part of the universe couldn’t salvage my style. Although the penetrating black that peppered throughout the building couldn’t hide my hideosity, it seemed to make everyone else look better. All these kids with their straight hair and streamlined style. I definitely didn’t look that great in high school. I clean up decently nowadays but it’s still taken me years just to look mediocre. And if only I had a sense of fashion in high school, if I knew how to dress and how to style my hair, maybe I would have had more confidence and would have had the courage to be more outgoing and meet interesting people and go to concerts like these kids. That confidence could have opened up the way for potentially incredible experiences. Instead, my looks forced me to remain dormant, to retire to my room weekend after weekend, with nothing to comfort me but a cheesy movie and cheesecake.
Seeing those high-schoolers reminded me of my high school years and reminded me of why I hated high school, reminded me of the immense rejection I felt every single day. There I was, feeling the effects all over again, realizing I didn’t belong in this crowd. I was left out in high school and here it is, approximately five years later, and I’m still left out, still feeling like a huge mess, untouched and not confident. Ugly then and ugly now. I know, for such an ugly guy, I put a lot of emphasis on looks. I just feel if I would have looked better I wouldn’t have been so insecure and afraid of everything and every one and every opportunity that came my way. Maybe I would have bloomed socially instead of wilting. You’re supposed to make friends in high school, date, develop social skills, forge relationships with people, begin the process of finding out who you are, begin breaking away from the parental units. I never got to experience any of that. High school is a good prep for college, not only in academics but socially and personally as well. And I messed up high school and that directly influenced college sucking so much. And not only that, but I repeated the whole process in college. As much as I said things would change when I moved, as much as I said I would come out completely different, I was still insecure and cut off from people and basically made another huge mess out of the college experience. Sure, I did change in the fact that I now have disdain for just about everyone but I wouldn’t quite call that progress. Bitterness wasn’t exactly the great transformation I was hoping for. And now, I sit back and wonder what else I’m going to mess up. There are times when I feel I am absolutely screwed, that I have completely hurt myself for the rest of my afterlife. College didn’t work out and now I have a mountain of debt waiting in the wings for me as I struggle to find any kind of job at all. I don’t know how I can come out on top when I keep being pushed down again and again.
Ah, those children with their smooth faces and swelling hearts. They have their whole lives ahead of them, time to make decisions, time to make and mend mistakes and the time to figure out their lives. At this point, what is their biggest worry? Crothety Mrs. O'Leary's math test on Monday? Nah, they've got their girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and that one night of raw rock and nothing else matters. But it all matters to me, the fact that I'm old and damaged and I couldn't shut my mind down long enough to just enjoy the night. Sure, I got lost in the beat of the music but fell languid in the car as I drove home. I don't understand why I can't just have a good time like all the rest. My mind won't allow it. Reminders of my inadequacies always sink in some way or another. It floods every feeling and drowns any kind of positivity until even seeing my favorite band perform live leaves much to be desired.
I feel like nothing will be okay ever again.
Hm, the more I think about it, I'm thinking a birthday cake cone sounds pretty good right about now.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Card-Carrying Corpse
"The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living."
-T.S. Eliot
I am not a zombie. Ha, I wish. No, my status as a dead guy is much less interesting. Actually, I don’t even know what kind of dead I qualify as. I’m not the uber awesome rotting carcass that eats the flesh of the living. I’m not even the moderately neat “walk through walls ghost” kind of dead. I’m just a guy who got caught up and cut up in the sharp knives of the world and didn’t make it out alive. My feelings were filleted and all emotions were excised. I’m trapped in some kind of limbo, a sort of purgatory on Earth. By all outside appearances, I seem alive, if not a bit pallid. And that’s what’s so frustrating about this whole situation. No one knows that my heart doesn’t beat for them or anyone else and I certainly can’t even tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m just a corpse. And so I have to go on pretending that I’m fine, that I’m alive and somewhat well while I stumble through my death trying to make sense of it all.
I’ve always heard that death was a release, that death was freedom. That’s crap. If anything, once I died, I was disconnected from all that I knew and held dear and because of that, I was able to look outside of myself and see how boxed in I always was, still am. I guess you could call it a temporary out of body experience, a short shift in my point-of-view. I saw everything from a new perspective but instead of opening up my perceptions, it only closed them in further. I feel more trapped than ever. Death is not the end of pain. Death only exacerbates the emptiness. Sorry to burst your bubble. Not only do I have to go on like a living person but I have to figure out why I’m here now. What purpose do I serve at this point? How do you connect with a cadaver? How do I help people when I’m far from saving myself? Am I forced to stick around until I make some sense of the life I used to have, until I can figure out why and how I made such a mess of things when I was still breathing? Is that the purpose? Is that why I haven’t moved on?
What’s going to happen once I do figure things out, if I ever do? Will I be reinstated into life or will I finally pass over? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I was shoved into this realm of restlessness without an instruction manual, left to feel my way through the doldrums of death, all alone and just as messed up as ever. Wouldn’t you think death would offer at least a few perks? Maybe to reduce my craziness or at least provide some sort of insight to work with, anything but leaving me stranded with the same damaged brain and body that got me into this mess in the first place. Unfortunately I wasn’t offered any kind of benefits package. I’m going to have to work my way from the bottom up, to discover each revelation on my own, to work for my salvation. Is it even possible? What is there to learn? What am I supposed to know that’s not only keeping me here but will help me on the other side? What does it even matter anymore? I’m dead. I’m disconnected, I’m exiled from everything just like I always was so I don’t understand what the point of any of this is. Life made no sense when I was alive and there were days when I just wanted to die to escape the nonsensical role I was given. Well, I got my wish but nothing has changed, nothing has gotten any better.
The only explanation I can think of is that we either all have a purpose or we all need to figure something out until we can pass over. Once we do, we can move on. These lessons are usually reserved for life but I guess sometimes something gets messed up. Wires are crossed. Numbers get switched. Life turns into an uncontrollable mess and death can come unexpectedly before those lessons are learned. And I guess that’s what happened in my case and so here I am, a consequence of the universe’s inability to keep up with the lives and destinies of around six billion people. I mean, really, is it that hard to do? Someone’s gonna get fired for this.
You know, when I went through my teenage years, I felt like my ability to analyze myself and others grew along with my age and my waistline. Ever since I was able to tap into myself in a deep way, I’ve been trying to figure out who I was and why I was. When I began writing, it helped that process, allowed me to not only think about my feelings, but organize them, lay them out in a way that was not only aesthetically pleasing but created a reference point for future pondering. Yet, I felt I never made much progress. Sure, I came close to figuring out why I became overweight, why I never had any real friends, why I always felt insignificant but nothing ever changed. As much as I wrote and as much as I learned about myself, nothing ever stuck. Those epiphanies lasted as long as the length of a page and never extended beyond that. As I was writing, I was learning but as soon as I was done, I went back to the way I was. It seemed as though I never absorbed what I was trying to convey, like there was some kind of revelation repellent coating my heart and mind. Sure, I was able to shoot it out into the world but couldn’t get it to penetrate me. Needless to say, these life lessons have not carried over into my death. I almost feel like I’m starting over. Despite my rotting frame, everything else feels fresh and new, each journey into myself is as if I’ve never been there before, as if I’m meeting a stranger within myself. This is why I have been reading over past pieces of writing and posting them here. I’m trying to reconnect with the lessons I've "learned" while writing them, hoping that if I read them over, if I go back to them, that they will teach me something and that it will finally stick this time, that I’ll gain something and maybe even touch upon that lesson that I was always supposed to learn while alive, so that I may move on to a proper death. The sad part is, it could take years. It took me years of writing to go from suicidally insane to just majorly effed up. What progress. So, obviously this won't be an overnight process. You can't rush the undead.
And so here I am, dead and still interacting with people and pretending to care about old friends, still eating and defecating and sleeping and hurting and doing all the normal things living people do, wearing a mask of humanity and worst of all, still looking for a job. The dead have to eat, too. But, shouldn't death be a full time job? An hours journey into one's self is just as grueling as a full day of work. Especially when the boss is annoying as I am.
I just think being a zombie would be so much easier. They don't have to worry about rehabilitating their souls, rewinding past ruminations or reversing rigor mortis. They are mindless and therefore blissfully apathetic. And they get to eat unashamedly. It's the perfect kind of undeath.
-T.S. Eliot
I am not a zombie. Ha, I wish. No, my status as a dead guy is much less interesting. Actually, I don’t even know what kind of dead I qualify as. I’m not the uber awesome rotting carcass that eats the flesh of the living. I’m not even the moderately neat “walk through walls ghost” kind of dead. I’m just a guy who got caught up and cut up in the sharp knives of the world and didn’t make it out alive. My feelings were filleted and all emotions were excised. I’m trapped in some kind of limbo, a sort of purgatory on Earth. By all outside appearances, I seem alive, if not a bit pallid. And that’s what’s so frustrating about this whole situation. No one knows that my heart doesn’t beat for them or anyone else and I certainly can’t even tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m just a corpse. And so I have to go on pretending that I’m fine, that I’m alive and somewhat well while I stumble through my death trying to make sense of it all.
I’ve always heard that death was a release, that death was freedom. That’s crap. If anything, once I died, I was disconnected from all that I knew and held dear and because of that, I was able to look outside of myself and see how boxed in I always was, still am. I guess you could call it a temporary out of body experience, a short shift in my point-of-view. I saw everything from a new perspective but instead of opening up my perceptions, it only closed them in further. I feel more trapped than ever. Death is not the end of pain. Death only exacerbates the emptiness. Sorry to burst your bubble. Not only do I have to go on like a living person but I have to figure out why I’m here now. What purpose do I serve at this point? How do you connect with a cadaver? How do I help people when I’m far from saving myself? Am I forced to stick around until I make some sense of the life I used to have, until I can figure out why and how I made such a mess of things when I was still breathing? Is that the purpose? Is that why I haven’t moved on?
What’s going to happen once I do figure things out, if I ever do? Will I be reinstated into life or will I finally pass over? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I was shoved into this realm of restlessness without an instruction manual, left to feel my way through the doldrums of death, all alone and just as messed up as ever. Wouldn’t you think death would offer at least a few perks? Maybe to reduce my craziness or at least provide some sort of insight to work with, anything but leaving me stranded with the same damaged brain and body that got me into this mess in the first place. Unfortunately I wasn’t offered any kind of benefits package. I’m going to have to work my way from the bottom up, to discover each revelation on my own, to work for my salvation. Is it even possible? What is there to learn? What am I supposed to know that’s not only keeping me here but will help me on the other side? What does it even matter anymore? I’m dead. I’m disconnected, I’m exiled from everything just like I always was so I don’t understand what the point of any of this is. Life made no sense when I was alive and there were days when I just wanted to die to escape the nonsensical role I was given. Well, I got my wish but nothing has changed, nothing has gotten any better.
The only explanation I can think of is that we either all have a purpose or we all need to figure something out until we can pass over. Once we do, we can move on. These lessons are usually reserved for life but I guess sometimes something gets messed up. Wires are crossed. Numbers get switched. Life turns into an uncontrollable mess and death can come unexpectedly before those lessons are learned. And I guess that’s what happened in my case and so here I am, a consequence of the universe’s inability to keep up with the lives and destinies of around six billion people. I mean, really, is it that hard to do? Someone’s gonna get fired for this.
You know, when I went through my teenage years, I felt like my ability to analyze myself and others grew along with my age and my waistline. Ever since I was able to tap into myself in a deep way, I’ve been trying to figure out who I was and why I was. When I began writing, it helped that process, allowed me to not only think about my feelings, but organize them, lay them out in a way that was not only aesthetically pleasing but created a reference point for future pondering. Yet, I felt I never made much progress. Sure, I came close to figuring out why I became overweight, why I never had any real friends, why I always felt insignificant but nothing ever changed. As much as I wrote and as much as I learned about myself, nothing ever stuck. Those epiphanies lasted as long as the length of a page and never extended beyond that. As I was writing, I was learning but as soon as I was done, I went back to the way I was. It seemed as though I never absorbed what I was trying to convey, like there was some kind of revelation repellent coating my heart and mind. Sure, I was able to shoot it out into the world but couldn’t get it to penetrate me. Needless to say, these life lessons have not carried over into my death. I almost feel like I’m starting over. Despite my rotting frame, everything else feels fresh and new, each journey into myself is as if I’ve never been there before, as if I’m meeting a stranger within myself. This is why I have been reading over past pieces of writing and posting them here. I’m trying to reconnect with the lessons I've "learned" while writing them, hoping that if I read them over, if I go back to them, that they will teach me something and that it will finally stick this time, that I’ll gain something and maybe even touch upon that lesson that I was always supposed to learn while alive, so that I may move on to a proper death. The sad part is, it could take years. It took me years of writing to go from suicidally insane to just majorly effed up. What progress. So, obviously this won't be an overnight process. You can't rush the undead.
And so here I am, dead and still interacting with people and pretending to care about old friends, still eating and defecating and sleeping and hurting and doing all the normal things living people do, wearing a mask of humanity and worst of all, still looking for a job. The dead have to eat, too. But, shouldn't death be a full time job? An hours journey into one's self is just as grueling as a full day of work. Especially when the boss is annoying as I am.
I just think being a zombie would be so much easier. They don't have to worry about rehabilitating their souls, rewinding past ruminations or reversing rigor mortis. They are mindless and therefore blissfully apathetic. And they get to eat unashamedly. It's the perfect kind of undeath.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Results Are In...
Well, I just received a letter from the company that I had to take the aptitude test for and surprisingly enough, I passed. I pretty much didn't think I would because of all of the unanswered math questions I left behind at the end of the test. Maybe the ones I did answer were correct and that was good enough for them. I'm still not very excited because there were still around twenty-five to thirty other applicants that probably did better on the test than I did. For example, if I made a ninety-two on the test, that sounds pretty good but if there were twelve other people that made a one hundred on it, and there's a large number of applicants and they have to be narrowed down, the ones that made the better score are the ones that will be considered. The lady who administered the test said those of us that pass will then be considered by the appropriate supervisor who will then select a few candidates to interview. Like I said, although I might have done well enough to pass these numerous tests so far, I might not make the cut in the end and I won't be called for an interview. And even if I am called for an interview, there's a good chance I could screw it up majorly. Or maybe it might not have anything to do with me at all. I was told throughout college that I shouldn't take rejection personally. There are so many factors that goes into the hiring process that I probably will never even know about and the final decision might not have anything to do with me at all. I guess all I can do is just take it one day at a time and hope that they will in fact call me in and then hope that I'll charm them into thinking I can do the job and then hope that they fall for it.
It's pretty frustrating, though, because there have been so many hoops and hurdles to go through to get this job. First of all, I had to take a speed typing test at the local career center and then fill out a four page application. An entire month later, they then call me in to take this two hour aptitude test and that's where I am at this point. If they call me in after this, I'll then have to endure a grueling interview. It's like, I don't know, I don't think the position is that important to be going through all of these steps. I'm pretty sure my typing test and application (as well as my attached resume) should tell you all you need to know about me and whether I can do the job. I understand the interview is necessary but I don't think all the other stuff is. I don't know. Maybe I'm underestimating the importance of my job, especially considering the fact that they still haven't totally explained what the position entails. I guess it's a pretty big company but still. It just seems unneeded and highfalutin if you ask me. I don't know, I've just made it this far, though all the various tests and all the freaking waiting and so I hope I get it. We'll just have to see.
In other job related news, I've been getting these phone calls on my cell phone saying that they saw my resume on the internet and think I would be great for insurance sales. Like, really? There's no where on my resume that even suggests I'd be into that sort of thing. I don't even know if these phone calls are legitimate, actually. Ever since I smeared my resume all over Craigslist a few months ago, I've been getting a ton of spam e-mails and I'm pretty sure these phone calls are all a part of that. It's just really annoying to see a number pop up on my cell phone and think it's a legitimate job offer only to find out it's not. I get my hopes up so much only to have them dashed.
I saw an opening for a photographer/reporter for the local newspaper. There's a part of me that is interested, depending on what I would have to do. If I went to places and interviewed people and snapped a couple of pictures, I think that would be fun. But, with me living in a town where sports is a religion, I have a feeling I might have to go to all the local baseball and football games. Totally not my scene. But, who knows, maybe I'll get to go to car accidents and photograph mutilated bodies strewn across the highway. I wouldn't mind that. I can just see myself getting a call about a homicide case or a house fire and driving up on the scene with my tape recorder in hand and digital camera around my neck, ready to catch all the late-breaking news. I mean, it would combine writing, which I love, and photography, which I have a definite appreciation for. But, I'm not a photographer and I don't really know what kind of quality they are expecting. Then again, this is just a podunk town so I'm pretty sure the people at the newspaper aren't expecting Herb Ritts quality. All I can do is go in and inquire about the job specifics. I might decide that's exactly what I'd want to do. I always have to keep my options open. Even though the big company job would probably pay more, I can't focus on that job exclusively because if it doesn't work out, I would have missed all these other opportunities. I can't screw myself over like that.
It's pretty frustrating, though, because there have been so many hoops and hurdles to go through to get this job. First of all, I had to take a speed typing test at the local career center and then fill out a four page application. An entire month later, they then call me in to take this two hour aptitude test and that's where I am at this point. If they call me in after this, I'll then have to endure a grueling interview. It's like, I don't know, I don't think the position is that important to be going through all of these steps. I'm pretty sure my typing test and application (as well as my attached resume) should tell you all you need to know about me and whether I can do the job. I understand the interview is necessary but I don't think all the other stuff is. I don't know. Maybe I'm underestimating the importance of my job, especially considering the fact that they still haven't totally explained what the position entails. I guess it's a pretty big company but still. It just seems unneeded and highfalutin if you ask me. I don't know, I've just made it this far, though all the various tests and all the freaking waiting and so I hope I get it. We'll just have to see.
In other job related news, I've been getting these phone calls on my cell phone saying that they saw my resume on the internet and think I would be great for insurance sales. Like, really? There's no where on my resume that even suggests I'd be into that sort of thing. I don't even know if these phone calls are legitimate, actually. Ever since I smeared my resume all over Craigslist a few months ago, I've been getting a ton of spam e-mails and I'm pretty sure these phone calls are all a part of that. It's just really annoying to see a number pop up on my cell phone and think it's a legitimate job offer only to find out it's not. I get my hopes up so much only to have them dashed.
I saw an opening for a photographer/reporter for the local newspaper. There's a part of me that is interested, depending on what I would have to do. If I went to places and interviewed people and snapped a couple of pictures, I think that would be fun. But, with me living in a town where sports is a religion, I have a feeling I might have to go to all the local baseball and football games. Totally not my scene. But, who knows, maybe I'll get to go to car accidents and photograph mutilated bodies strewn across the highway. I wouldn't mind that. I can just see myself getting a call about a homicide case or a house fire and driving up on the scene with my tape recorder in hand and digital camera around my neck, ready to catch all the late-breaking news. I mean, it would combine writing, which I love, and photography, which I have a definite appreciation for. But, I'm not a photographer and I don't really know what kind of quality they are expecting. Then again, this is just a podunk town so I'm pretty sure the people at the newspaper aren't expecting Herb Ritts quality. All I can do is go in and inquire about the job specifics. I might decide that's exactly what I'd want to do. I always have to keep my options open. Even though the big company job would probably pay more, I can't focus on that job exclusively because if it doesn't work out, I would have missed all these other opportunities. I can't screw myself over like that.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Rhinosinusitis, Baby!
It's official. I'm that can of soup with the dent in it that no one will buy. I'm the puppy with the different sized ears that no one wants to adopt. I am the lone irregular shirt marked 80% off at The Gap. I am that misspelled tattoo. I am damaged goods.
I had to wake up super early this morning to get dressed and go to the doctor. Let's see, he's about the fourth doctor and second ENT that I've seen, all in the hopes of determining what this lump in my throat is, the one I affectionately call the Branny Bump, aka Goiter McGoiterson, aka Chick Magnet. I have to admit, the lump is way more persistent than I am as he's stuck around for three plus years. Sure, he'll go away for a few months but always come back to visit when I get a cold or when allergy season rolls into town. Douche.
So, basically I wasn't satisfied with what previous doctors have told me. I've gotten everything from birth defect to possible Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma (sweet!) but the general consensus has always been, "We don't exactly know what it is or the cause of it but we should probably dig it out!" Um, no thanks. Maybe I'm just a little scalpel shy but I'm not titillated about anyone Ginsu knifing my throat all willy nilly, especially without knowing exactly what's going on inside me. It didn't help when I watched an episode of Mystery Diagnosis when this woman had a large lump removed from her neck and, in the process, had one of her salivary glands or nerves or something severed and it jacked up her face and she ended up looking like a stroke victim, half of her face paralyzed and her speech slurred. That really scared me. And with my luck, that's exactly what would happen. I can't imagine having a smooth operation. They'd end up severing a nerve or decapitating me or even worse, circumcising…oh, wait, never mind. You know, it's like I can either look like I've swallowed a golf ball or look like Larry Flynt. Take your pick.
At this point, though, I was just thinking that I didn't care. I just wanted it out of me. I mean, maybe I'd be okay. Maybe the operation would go smoothly and I could walk about the streets without worrying about angry villagers with torch applications on their iPhones. I'm just tired of looking like a freak, of always being aware that I've got a lump there and that I shouldn't turn my head too much or lift it too much because that makes it all the more noticeable. You know, it's just hard because I'm already self-conscious enough and that was just some totally cruel and unnecessary extra "freak attachment" that was placed upon me without my consent and I was tired of it. I guess I'd rather take that chance and risk further disfigurement for that ever elusive chance at normalcy.
We went out of town for this new guy and I felt a bit better for doing so. I don't want to say that the medical care in my town isn't sufficient for me but I've heard some not so amazing things and after my encounters with them, I wasn't quite comfortable going back. I felt like I wanted a definite diagnosis before any sterilization, lubrication and evisceration began. We walked into the doctor's office and it looked really nice inside. As I was filling out my paperwork, I noticed they had advertisements for facial care products and services such as Botox and facial rejuvenation. It almost looked more like a plastic surgeon's office.
I was called in and the nurse anesthetized my nose and throat so the doctor could stick his snake cam up my nostril. It wasn't as sexy as it sounds. It didn't exactly hurt, just felt like it usually does when I go too deep when picking my nose. And speaking of the doctor, he was pretty cool. He was kind of goofy and talked at a frantic pace. I almost couldn't keep up with his breakneck language. And then he went into Docto-speak, basically explaining what he believed was wrong with me using those hundred dollar words and then breaking it down into laymen's terms.
Here's the situation: In high school, some dumb jock jumped in front of me to hit a volleyball that he was sure I was going to miss. In the process, he slammed me in the nose with his mountain of an elbow and fractured it. And chipped my front tooth. But he won that point and that's all that matters, right? Well, turns out his meatheaded need to score not only fractured my nose and caused it to become crooked, it also caused my septum to become deviated, something that the doctor who treated me for the fracture failed to mention (which is another reason why I wanted to go to someone different for this latest examination). Seems as though this severe deviation caused some drainage problems that effed up a branchial cleft cyst, which just so happens to be a birth defect that I've always had. When I got severely sick a few years ago, that cleft was affected by my sickness, which caused it to inflame and enlarge. Isn’t that great how it all just worked out? Man, I always knew I was defective. And I always knew I hated volleyball. I tried to tell them! It really makes me think, too. I wonder what other kinds of damaged I have lying dormant in me, just waiting for some kind of sickness or other trigger before it surprise attacks my body. So, it seems as though each doctor I’ve seen discovered something about my situation but could never put it all together. The first doctor I saw thought I might have a branchial cleft cyst but never mentioned my deviated septum. I went to an ENT and he discovered the septum issue but acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And as soon as he said I had a deviated septum, I kind of put two and two together and thought maybe since I had that, the phlegm wasn’t draining properly and maybe it was going into some sack in my throat or something. I assumed this because the lump only gets large and painful when I’m sick and when I’m sick I produce a lot of phlegm. It just seemed logical that there was a connection there that the first guy seemed to miss. Well, this guy finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together and said, yes, the breaking of my nose triggered the inflammation of the cyst. So, I've basically been spending this summer undoing all the damage this jerk off jock inflicted upon me so he could win the big game. And the funny thing is he probably wouldn't even care that he's done all of this to me, that his douchebag decision to jump in front of me would cause a chain reaction of bodily malfunctions that have marred and scarred me. Not like it matters to him, though. I'm sure he's off being successful somewhere, humping his football and getting his.
The doctors plan of attack was to first fix my nose. He said he hoped straightening out the septum will allow for proper drainage, which will shrink the cyst so that it’s small enough to become virtually undetectable. I liked the fact that he didn’t want to go cutting into my throat straight away like the other doctor. He was thinking the least invasive, the better. I concur! He said he’d want me to wait around six months after the surgery to see if the cyst goes away and if it does not, then he’d want to go in and remove the cyst. He reassured me that he would go in through a neck crease, though, to minimize scarring. I appreciated that because one of the fears of mine, besides losing the ability to move the left side of my face, is having a huge scar running along my throat. Not only did this guy sound like he knew what he was talking about but he put me at ease about it as well. Not only do I trust him not to paralyze me if he does have to cut into my throat but I feel confident that I won’t look like a recovering slasher victim afterward.
All in all, I feel much better about everything. Turns out the cyst removal might not be necessary at all and recovery from the nose surgery would only take around two days. I think the most reassuring fact about this whole situation is that I feel like I’ve found a doctor that not only knows what he’s talking about but is comforting as well. Another good thing about having the surgery is the fact that I'll hopefully breathe better and not have as many nasal problems. I can breathe out of my nose pretty well, according to what I know but I've had this problem so long I might not realize I could be breathing better. It's like the first time I got glasses and when I put them on, I never even realized how blurred my vision was. Might be the same way with breathing. I also hope it will alleviate my generally annoying nose problems, such as having chronic runny nose and constant snot storage, or what the doctor says is rhinosinusitis. It might even help the next time I get sick because when I get sick, I produce an inhuman amount of phlegm. I know. Try not to get too turned on as I describe my alluring qualities.
I’m scheduled to have my sinuses scanned in a couple of weeks. The doctor will look at them just to make sure that surgery is the way to go and to see if there’s any other funky stuff going on and I’m guessing if that all works out, the next step is surgery. Kind of scary but I’m just glad to finally be making some progress at getting rid of this lump that has haunted me over these past few years. Although I might not get as many ladies without that magical mass secreting the sexiness, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I had to wake up super early this morning to get dressed and go to the doctor. Let's see, he's about the fourth doctor and second ENT that I've seen, all in the hopes of determining what this lump in my throat is, the one I affectionately call the Branny Bump, aka Goiter McGoiterson, aka Chick Magnet. I have to admit, the lump is way more persistent than I am as he's stuck around for three plus years. Sure, he'll go away for a few months but always come back to visit when I get a cold or when allergy season rolls into town. Douche.
So, basically I wasn't satisfied with what previous doctors have told me. I've gotten everything from birth defect to possible Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma (sweet!) but the general consensus has always been, "We don't exactly know what it is or the cause of it but we should probably dig it out!" Um, no thanks. Maybe I'm just a little scalpel shy but I'm not titillated about anyone Ginsu knifing my throat all willy nilly, especially without knowing exactly what's going on inside me. It didn't help when I watched an episode of Mystery Diagnosis when this woman had a large lump removed from her neck and, in the process, had one of her salivary glands or nerves or something severed and it jacked up her face and she ended up looking like a stroke victim, half of her face paralyzed and her speech slurred. That really scared me. And with my luck, that's exactly what would happen. I can't imagine having a smooth operation. They'd end up severing a nerve or decapitating me or even worse, circumcising…oh, wait, never mind. You know, it's like I can either look like I've swallowed a golf ball or look like Larry Flynt. Take your pick.
At this point, though, I was just thinking that I didn't care. I just wanted it out of me. I mean, maybe I'd be okay. Maybe the operation would go smoothly and I could walk about the streets without worrying about angry villagers with torch applications on their iPhones. I'm just tired of looking like a freak, of always being aware that I've got a lump there and that I shouldn't turn my head too much or lift it too much because that makes it all the more noticeable. You know, it's just hard because I'm already self-conscious enough and that was just some totally cruel and unnecessary extra "freak attachment" that was placed upon me without my consent and I was tired of it. I guess I'd rather take that chance and risk further disfigurement for that ever elusive chance at normalcy.
We went out of town for this new guy and I felt a bit better for doing so. I don't want to say that the medical care in my town isn't sufficient for me but I've heard some not so amazing things and after my encounters with them, I wasn't quite comfortable going back. I felt like I wanted a definite diagnosis before any sterilization, lubrication and evisceration began. We walked into the doctor's office and it looked really nice inside. As I was filling out my paperwork, I noticed they had advertisements for facial care products and services such as Botox and facial rejuvenation. It almost looked more like a plastic surgeon's office.
I was called in and the nurse anesthetized my nose and throat so the doctor could stick his snake cam up my nostril. It wasn't as sexy as it sounds. It didn't exactly hurt, just felt like it usually does when I go too deep when picking my nose. And speaking of the doctor, he was pretty cool. He was kind of goofy and talked at a frantic pace. I almost couldn't keep up with his breakneck language. And then he went into Docto-speak, basically explaining what he believed was wrong with me using those hundred dollar words and then breaking it down into laymen's terms.
Here's the situation: In high school, some dumb jock jumped in front of me to hit a volleyball that he was sure I was going to miss. In the process, he slammed me in the nose with his mountain of an elbow and fractured it. And chipped my front tooth. But he won that point and that's all that matters, right? Well, turns out his meatheaded need to score not only fractured my nose and caused it to become crooked, it also caused my septum to become deviated, something that the doctor who treated me for the fracture failed to mention (which is another reason why I wanted to go to someone different for this latest examination). Seems as though this severe deviation caused some drainage problems that effed up a branchial cleft cyst, which just so happens to be a birth defect that I've always had. When I got severely sick a few years ago, that cleft was affected by my sickness, which caused it to inflame and enlarge. Isn’t that great how it all just worked out? Man, I always knew I was defective. And I always knew I hated volleyball. I tried to tell them! It really makes me think, too. I wonder what other kinds of damaged I have lying dormant in me, just waiting for some kind of sickness or other trigger before it surprise attacks my body. So, it seems as though each doctor I’ve seen discovered something about my situation but could never put it all together. The first doctor I saw thought I might have a branchial cleft cyst but never mentioned my deviated septum. I went to an ENT and he discovered the septum issue but acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And as soon as he said I had a deviated septum, I kind of put two and two together and thought maybe since I had that, the phlegm wasn’t draining properly and maybe it was going into some sack in my throat or something. I assumed this because the lump only gets large and painful when I’m sick and when I’m sick I produce a lot of phlegm. It just seemed logical that there was a connection there that the first guy seemed to miss. Well, this guy finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together and said, yes, the breaking of my nose triggered the inflammation of the cyst. So, I've basically been spending this summer undoing all the damage this jerk off jock inflicted upon me so he could win the big game. And the funny thing is he probably wouldn't even care that he's done all of this to me, that his douchebag decision to jump in front of me would cause a chain reaction of bodily malfunctions that have marred and scarred me. Not like it matters to him, though. I'm sure he's off being successful somewhere, humping his football and getting his.
The doctors plan of attack was to first fix my nose. He said he hoped straightening out the septum will allow for proper drainage, which will shrink the cyst so that it’s small enough to become virtually undetectable. I liked the fact that he didn’t want to go cutting into my throat straight away like the other doctor. He was thinking the least invasive, the better. I concur! He said he’d want me to wait around six months after the surgery to see if the cyst goes away and if it does not, then he’d want to go in and remove the cyst. He reassured me that he would go in through a neck crease, though, to minimize scarring. I appreciated that because one of the fears of mine, besides losing the ability to move the left side of my face, is having a huge scar running along my throat. Not only did this guy sound like he knew what he was talking about but he put me at ease about it as well. Not only do I trust him not to paralyze me if he does have to cut into my throat but I feel confident that I won’t look like a recovering slasher victim afterward.
All in all, I feel much better about everything. Turns out the cyst removal might not be necessary at all and recovery from the nose surgery would only take around two days. I think the most reassuring fact about this whole situation is that I feel like I’ve found a doctor that not only knows what he’s talking about but is comforting as well. Another good thing about having the surgery is the fact that I'll hopefully breathe better and not have as many nasal problems. I can breathe out of my nose pretty well, according to what I know but I've had this problem so long I might not realize I could be breathing better. It's like the first time I got glasses and when I put them on, I never even realized how blurred my vision was. Might be the same way with breathing. I also hope it will alleviate my generally annoying nose problems, such as having chronic runny nose and constant snot storage, or what the doctor says is rhinosinusitis. It might even help the next time I get sick because when I get sick, I produce an inhuman amount of phlegm. I know. Try not to get too turned on as I describe my alluring qualities.
I’m scheduled to have my sinuses scanned in a couple of weeks. The doctor will look at them just to make sure that surgery is the way to go and to see if there’s any other funky stuff going on and I’m guessing if that all works out, the next step is surgery. Kind of scary but I’m just glad to finally be making some progress at getting rid of this lump that has haunted me over these past few years. Although I might not get as many ladies without that magical mass secreting the sexiness, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Craptitude Test
Today, I had to take an aptitude based placement test for a job that applied to around a month ago. I was surprised to receive a letter from the company considering how long it had been since I had applied. But, sure enough, the letter said I was scheduled to take the test today and so I did.
So, I walked into the testing area and the place is filled with middle-aged women. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the letter referred to me as Ms. Brannon. I guess the general consensus is that the position I applied for was more of a woman's job but screw that, I am just as competent as those premenopausal Maudes. I took my seat at the end of the row next to a lady and waited for the other people to arrive. I scanned the room and realized I was up against some definite competition. Not only were there at least thirty other applicants but they were probably all much more experienced than I was. I wasn't feeling too good about this. Plus, there was a pretty hefty booklet in front of me as well as an answer sheet and some blank pages that I assumed were to do mathematical work on. Crap. Math. My downfall. It felt like I was in high school taking my ACT test (or SAT for those of you that took that one). A part of me felt like it was hopeless but it worked in my favor because I felt more relaxed. If I screw up it's not like it's going to matter, like I'll be publicly embarrassed or anything. No one even knows who I am.
The actual test began and it was incredibly simple. Boosted my confidence a little bit. Well, until the math. It was the last section and the most dreaded. It started out well enough with questions that had to do with correctly identifying and writing out numbers and then it got into a little addition, some subtraction and then it got tougher with multiplication, division and then I hit a wall with the fractions. In fact, I didn't even get to the fractions. The test was timed and the math portion was twenty-five minutes long and I hadn't even made it half way when the proctor told us we only had five minutes left to complete it. I pooped in my pants a little bit. When she called time, I had around ten answers to go. Not good. But, what could I do? She said pencils down.
I pretty much don't feel good about this job. Not only were those ladies probably more experienced but they can probably actually do math. Growing up with calculators, my mental mathematics are frail and laughable. Oh, well. I didn't have any expectations going into the testing or for the job so I can't say I'm let down, which is a good thing. As I've come to realize, expectations equal disappointment. The lady said the company would be sending out letters telling us if we had passed the test or not. It's not so much that I'm worried about not getting the job, I'm just worried about getting that letter telling me I had failed hard, at least in the math section. I already know I'm kind of dumb and I just don't need that reminder. And have it in writing, no less.
The chances of me becoming a male escort are getting greater every day...
So, I walked into the testing area and the place is filled with middle-aged women. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the letter referred to me as Ms. Brannon. I guess the general consensus is that the position I applied for was more of a woman's job but screw that, I am just as competent as those premenopausal Maudes. I took my seat at the end of the row next to a lady and waited for the other people to arrive. I scanned the room and realized I was up against some definite competition. Not only were there at least thirty other applicants but they were probably all much more experienced than I was. I wasn't feeling too good about this. Plus, there was a pretty hefty booklet in front of me as well as an answer sheet and some blank pages that I assumed were to do mathematical work on. Crap. Math. My downfall. It felt like I was in high school taking my ACT test (or SAT for those of you that took that one). A part of me felt like it was hopeless but it worked in my favor because I felt more relaxed. If I screw up it's not like it's going to matter, like I'll be publicly embarrassed or anything. No one even knows who I am.
The actual test began and it was incredibly simple. Boosted my confidence a little bit. Well, until the math. It was the last section and the most dreaded. It started out well enough with questions that had to do with correctly identifying and writing out numbers and then it got into a little addition, some subtraction and then it got tougher with multiplication, division and then I hit a wall with the fractions. In fact, I didn't even get to the fractions. The test was timed and the math portion was twenty-five minutes long and I hadn't even made it half way when the proctor told us we only had five minutes left to complete it. I pooped in my pants a little bit. When she called time, I had around ten answers to go. Not good. But, what could I do? She said pencils down.
I pretty much don't feel good about this job. Not only were those ladies probably more experienced but they can probably actually do math. Growing up with calculators, my mental mathematics are frail and laughable. Oh, well. I didn't have any expectations going into the testing or for the job so I can't say I'm let down, which is a good thing. As I've come to realize, expectations equal disappointment. The lady said the company would be sending out letters telling us if we had passed the test or not. It's not so much that I'm worried about not getting the job, I'm just worried about getting that letter telling me I had failed hard, at least in the math section. I already know I'm kind of dumb and I just don't need that reminder. And have it in writing, no less.
The chances of me becoming a male escort are getting greater every day...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Follicular Homicide
When you think of men, one of the things that probably come to mind is hairiness. And it seems like a lot of men take pride in their hair, whether they are lucky enough to have a thick, full head of hair, a wicked awesome beard or a Tom Selleck approved chest pelt. When it comes to a man’s hairstyle, it seems to be something that goes through different trends every few years or so, not on a monthly basis like most women’s hairstyles. I suppose that’s because women have more hair on their heads to deal with, which opens up the door for a wide variety of styles. Men, on the other hand, usually keep their hair in the short to medium range, limiting the variety of creativity in the cut. Body hair is also something that seems to come up as either fashion forward or a fashion faux pas. Once again, it falls under the spotlight about every few years. Furry bodies are either revered or reviled, going from beastly to beautiful.
When it comes to the hair on a man’s head, no man is more envied than the one that has a full, thick head of hair. Oh yes, women just love to run their delicate fingers through those follicles, don’t they! And it reminds me of a time when I used to have a thick head of hair. In high school, I jumped on the shaggy haired bandwagon and let my usual closely cut hair grow out a bit, going for a more relaxed and ruffled look. My hair turned out to be thick, dark and curly. Cocoa colored curls ran down my scalp and women loved it. I loved that women loved it. And then something tragic happened: college. Yes, that hair that used to be so thick and luxurious soon became thin and lifeless. I attribute my receding ringlets to the immense stress I dealt with while in college but I suppose the blame wouldn’t be complete unless I also pointed the finger at family. I don’t know the entire story about balding and heredity. I’ve heard it comes from your father’s side, your mother’s side and even a combination of both. Either way it goes, I got the short, split end of the genetic stick.
I remember cutting off all of my hair one summer just to keep cool in the sweltering southern heat. When I tried to grow it back the following winter, I realized it wasn’t coming in as quickly or as thickly as it used to. The hair appeared finer, duller. One day, with a lump in my throat, I grabbed a hand mirror and checked the crown of my head with the bathroom mirror. I was horrified at the sight before me. I saw scalp. And I’m not just talking about where the hair was parted thanks to my ever-troublesome cowlick. There was some definite thinning. After witnessing the clearing of my crown, things only got worse. At one point, I even had a hairstylist say to me, “I’m not going to cut your hair in the front right here because, well, you have a receding hairline so we’ll just leave this to cover that up, mmkay?” Ouch. She said it in a snotty manner, too. I knew I was going bald in the back but never really paid any attention to the front. Naturally, I had to confirm the deforestation of my forehead after leaving the salon. I went to my mirror in my room, lifted up my hair and sure enough, the hairline that used to run straight across my head was now wavering and wandering at each end to find the crown of my noggin. As much as I’ve had self-esteem issues, battled my weight and always felt like an overall fugly fellow, it only furthered my frustrations knowing that I was seeing the first signs of baldness. And at twenty-three, no less. To combat my thinning hair, I began taking supplements that promised to promote hair growth and even switched to shampoos that proclaimed to reduce hair loss. I even considered Rogaine at one point. Picture me in Rite-Aid having a staring contest with that blue box. I never did purchase any because, frankly, I wasn’t ready to take that step, to admit that I was that bad off. Not yet, anyway. Not only was I dealing with the loss of the hair on my head but I have also struggled with the fact that the hair on my face is also lacking.
During my first year of college, I roomed with a hardcore pogonophile who frequently brought up the subject of beards. I remember instances in which we’d walk to class together and he’d point out the guys walking by us that had what he considered cool beards or other guys who had “pussy” beards, as he called them: the patchy, barely there kind of facial hair that looked like a fourteen-year-old face planted himself into the dirt. He constantly trimmed his facial hair to stubble length and then grew it out again. To me, I think he took pride in the speed at which he could grow a full beard and constantly pleasured himself by proving how fast he could grow it over and over again. It made him feel manly. Before we left for Christmas vacation, he told me he wasn’t going to trim his beard at all the entire time we were gone. When school started back again in January, I was met by Grizzly Adams. He looked creepier than usual, especially when he stroked it and smiled at me. Ugh. And after several weeks of forcing me to sleep with one eye open, he shaved everything off except for the bush above his lip. He then used my hair wax to fashion himself a greasy handlebar mustache. He thought it was awesome but it was, in actuality, sleazy. One time, he even suggested we have a beard off, a contest consisting of rules that I’m still unclear of. I assumed it was to see who could grow a beard the fastest or maybe who could grow the best looking beard. I politely declined, partly because I thought it was stupid and partly because I didn’t want him to know I was actually afraid all I’d be able to produce was a “pussy” beard.
You see, ever since I started shaving, I just always have. Up until the point my roommate suggested our chin tuft tug of war, I had never allowed my facial hair to grow because I was never sure of what the end result would be. I started shaving later in my adolescence, in my late teens I think, and even then a quick stroke with the razor and I was good for a few days. When I would go a few days without shaving and some hair did start to sprout, it was less than impressive. Instead of a five o’clock shadow, I looked like I had broken out into a bounty of blackheads. Those were signs to me that I probably wouldn’t be able to grow and/or pull off a decent beard. Besides, even if I was able to sport a significant ‘stache, I wasn’t looking forward to that awkward transition period between clean shave and full beard, much the way it is when you go through that weird phase when trying to grow out the hair on your head. Yet, I still thought about it and wondered how it would change my appearance. It was only after graduating from college that I seized the opportunity to find out what kind of manly fuzz my face could muster.
Since I no longer went to school and had no job, I realized that no one had to see me for a while so I decided to be a hairy hermit and try to facilitate some facial growth. It didn’t work out so well. Turns out, the hair on my face comes out pretty sparsely. I gave it about a month, I think, of not shaving before I had to rescind and reach for the razor. I was hoping that the longer the hair got, the thicker it would appear and maybe kind of fill out but it never did. The beard never got full, only long and scraggly. I looked pretty bad. Plus, I didn’t like the way it felt. It was itchy and hurt when I put my face on my pillow. I don’t see how guys with beards can stand it. I became frustrated with my facial hair and decided it wasn’t worth the ridiculous look and irritating discomfort. That night, I had the best shave of my life and my face felt and looked much better for it.
So, here I am, unable to grow a beard and balding. I fear by the time I’m thirty, I’ll end up having more hair on my back than my head. I have to be honest, I feel a little bit cheated. While girls can play with the hair on their heads, guys can change around the look of the hair on their faces, almost like a toy atop their lips. Not for me. I can go smooth and maybe get away with a couple of days worth of stubble but that’s about the extent of the acceptability of my facial fuzz. I almost don’t feel like a whole man, unable to do the one thing that most men can do. I know I’m not in the minority here. It’s probably more common than I realize, as everyone’s hair growth is varied but I still think it sucks. Maybe I’m just over thinking this whole situation. Really, why is hair such a big deal in the first place? Whether you have a lot or a little of it, whether you gain it or lose it and whatever you decide to do with what you have, what does it matter? I suppose it all comes down to aesthetics. And in this day and age, as far as looks are concerned, guys are put under just as much pressure to pluck as the ladies. In the end, it’s nature that’s going to decide the state of your hair and you can fight it all the way to the Bosley clinic but if you’re hairy you’re hairy and if you’re bald you’re bald. You can get it lasered off and transplanted on but it’s troublesome and expensive and maybe we’re all better off letting nature run it’s course. Maybe some girls prefer the smooth faced smooth scalped look. Maybe some girls just don’t care. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer. The hair’s there, just waiting for the right time to mature to fuzzy fruition. Or maybe I should just accept my smooth status and think about all the money I’ll save on shampoo and shave gel.
When it comes to the hair on a man’s head, no man is more envied than the one that has a full, thick head of hair. Oh yes, women just love to run their delicate fingers through those follicles, don’t they! And it reminds me of a time when I used to have a thick head of hair. In high school, I jumped on the shaggy haired bandwagon and let my usual closely cut hair grow out a bit, going for a more relaxed and ruffled look. My hair turned out to be thick, dark and curly. Cocoa colored curls ran down my scalp and women loved it. I loved that women loved it. And then something tragic happened: college. Yes, that hair that used to be so thick and luxurious soon became thin and lifeless. I attribute my receding ringlets to the immense stress I dealt with while in college but I suppose the blame wouldn’t be complete unless I also pointed the finger at family. I don’t know the entire story about balding and heredity. I’ve heard it comes from your father’s side, your mother’s side and even a combination of both. Either way it goes, I got the short, split end of the genetic stick.
I remember cutting off all of my hair one summer just to keep cool in the sweltering southern heat. When I tried to grow it back the following winter, I realized it wasn’t coming in as quickly or as thickly as it used to. The hair appeared finer, duller. One day, with a lump in my throat, I grabbed a hand mirror and checked the crown of my head with the bathroom mirror. I was horrified at the sight before me. I saw scalp. And I’m not just talking about where the hair was parted thanks to my ever-troublesome cowlick. There was some definite thinning. After witnessing the clearing of my crown, things only got worse. At one point, I even had a hairstylist say to me, “I’m not going to cut your hair in the front right here because, well, you have a receding hairline so we’ll just leave this to cover that up, mmkay?” Ouch. She said it in a snotty manner, too. I knew I was going bald in the back but never really paid any attention to the front. Naturally, I had to confirm the deforestation of my forehead after leaving the salon. I went to my mirror in my room, lifted up my hair and sure enough, the hairline that used to run straight across my head was now wavering and wandering at each end to find the crown of my noggin. As much as I’ve had self-esteem issues, battled my weight and always felt like an overall fugly fellow, it only furthered my frustrations knowing that I was seeing the first signs of baldness. And at twenty-three, no less. To combat my thinning hair, I began taking supplements that promised to promote hair growth and even switched to shampoos that proclaimed to reduce hair loss. I even considered Rogaine at one point. Picture me in Rite-Aid having a staring contest with that blue box. I never did purchase any because, frankly, I wasn’t ready to take that step, to admit that I was that bad off. Not yet, anyway. Not only was I dealing with the loss of the hair on my head but I have also struggled with the fact that the hair on my face is also lacking.
During my first year of college, I roomed with a hardcore pogonophile who frequently brought up the subject of beards. I remember instances in which we’d walk to class together and he’d point out the guys walking by us that had what he considered cool beards or other guys who had “pussy” beards, as he called them: the patchy, barely there kind of facial hair that looked like a fourteen-year-old face planted himself into the dirt. He constantly trimmed his facial hair to stubble length and then grew it out again. To me, I think he took pride in the speed at which he could grow a full beard and constantly pleasured himself by proving how fast he could grow it over and over again. It made him feel manly. Before we left for Christmas vacation, he told me he wasn’t going to trim his beard at all the entire time we were gone. When school started back again in January, I was met by Grizzly Adams. He looked creepier than usual, especially when he stroked it and smiled at me. Ugh. And after several weeks of forcing me to sleep with one eye open, he shaved everything off except for the bush above his lip. He then used my hair wax to fashion himself a greasy handlebar mustache. He thought it was awesome but it was, in actuality, sleazy. One time, he even suggested we have a beard off, a contest consisting of rules that I’m still unclear of. I assumed it was to see who could grow a beard the fastest or maybe who could grow the best looking beard. I politely declined, partly because I thought it was stupid and partly because I didn’t want him to know I was actually afraid all I’d be able to produce was a “pussy” beard.
You see, ever since I started shaving, I just always have. Up until the point my roommate suggested our chin tuft tug of war, I had never allowed my facial hair to grow because I was never sure of what the end result would be. I started shaving later in my adolescence, in my late teens I think, and even then a quick stroke with the razor and I was good for a few days. When I would go a few days without shaving and some hair did start to sprout, it was less than impressive. Instead of a five o’clock shadow, I looked like I had broken out into a bounty of blackheads. Those were signs to me that I probably wouldn’t be able to grow and/or pull off a decent beard. Besides, even if I was able to sport a significant ‘stache, I wasn’t looking forward to that awkward transition period between clean shave and full beard, much the way it is when you go through that weird phase when trying to grow out the hair on your head. Yet, I still thought about it and wondered how it would change my appearance. It was only after graduating from college that I seized the opportunity to find out what kind of manly fuzz my face could muster.
Since I no longer went to school and had no job, I realized that no one had to see me for a while so I decided to be a hairy hermit and try to facilitate some facial growth. It didn’t work out so well. Turns out, the hair on my face comes out pretty sparsely. I gave it about a month, I think, of not shaving before I had to rescind and reach for the razor. I was hoping that the longer the hair got, the thicker it would appear and maybe kind of fill out but it never did. The beard never got full, only long and scraggly. I looked pretty bad. Plus, I didn’t like the way it felt. It was itchy and hurt when I put my face on my pillow. I don’t see how guys with beards can stand it. I became frustrated with my facial hair and decided it wasn’t worth the ridiculous look and irritating discomfort. That night, I had the best shave of my life and my face felt and looked much better for it.
So, here I am, unable to grow a beard and balding. I fear by the time I’m thirty, I’ll end up having more hair on my back than my head. I have to be honest, I feel a little bit cheated. While girls can play with the hair on their heads, guys can change around the look of the hair on their faces, almost like a toy atop their lips. Not for me. I can go smooth and maybe get away with a couple of days worth of stubble but that’s about the extent of the acceptability of my facial fuzz. I almost don’t feel like a whole man, unable to do the one thing that most men can do. I know I’m not in the minority here. It’s probably more common than I realize, as everyone’s hair growth is varied but I still think it sucks. Maybe I’m just over thinking this whole situation. Really, why is hair such a big deal in the first place? Whether you have a lot or a little of it, whether you gain it or lose it and whatever you decide to do with what you have, what does it matter? I suppose it all comes down to aesthetics. And in this day and age, as far as looks are concerned, guys are put under just as much pressure to pluck as the ladies. In the end, it’s nature that’s going to decide the state of your hair and you can fight it all the way to the Bosley clinic but if you’re hairy you’re hairy and if you’re bald you’re bald. You can get it lasered off and transplanted on but it’s troublesome and expensive and maybe we’re all better off letting nature run it’s course. Maybe some girls prefer the smooth faced smooth scalped look. Maybe some girls just don’t care. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer. The hair’s there, just waiting for the right time to mature to fuzzy fruition. Or maybe I should just accept my smooth status and think about all the money I’ll save on shampoo and shave gel.
Past:
Present:
Future??
Present:
Future??
Friday, August 21, 2009
Willy or Won't He?
Written November 2008.
I am going to be a nude model.
Ever since I took that life drawing class in school and had to draw all of those nude people, I’ve come to appreciate the human form and found beauty in the bodies that I drew: the soft curves and skin textures of women and the hard edges and hair patterns of men. It’s all quite fascinating how we all essentially have the same parts but they can be so different at the same time. A multitude of shapes and sizes and colors and coverings. And what I really found fascinating was that these people were far from perfect. You would never see these bodies gracing the cover of a magazine. Yet, a lot of the models seemed very comfortable with their bodies. Their bodies are imperfect, yet they are perfectly comfortable with themselves. Sure, some of them could be so hard up for money that they would be willing to go nude for aspiring artists but I like to think that they do it for the sheer mutual respect and admiration for the human body.
I advocate nudity. This might sound strange coming from the king of modesty. For example, did you know I don’t own a pair of shorts? I don’t like showing off my legs. And if I weren’t so hot natured, I would wear long sleeves every day. I like to be as covered as I possibly can without interrupting comfort. That’s why I like winter so much: layers. But, the more I see nudity, the more I witness naked bodies, the more comfortable I become with the concept of nudity. I don’t feel as prudish as I used to feel. And the more I see imperfect bodies, the more I become comfortable with my own.
I get so caught up in perfection. I always wish for a model quality body/face/hair/etc. But, when I see these people, I realize that they aren’t model quality but they are okay with themselves and that gives me a bit of hope. They’ve already accepted who they are and they are much happier for it. I always thought I’d only be happy if I had a six pack but I guess I never managed to realize that I could be happy without one.
Take a minute for that to absorb…
And now throw it out of the window.
I want to get ripped and then be photographed nude.
I think my self-acceptance can be a dual process. I think I can learn to love what I have while simultaneously improving upon it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wishing for better for yourself, as long as it doesn’t get you down or become an obsession. And for me, I’d love to achieve the body I’ve always wanted (in a healthy manner, of course). And once I do, I want to document my success.
I’ve always been shy, not only with my body but with my feelings. Some parts of me just want to be done with it all. It’s pretty exhausting being so secretive all of the time. And it’s not even that I try to be but I suppose I’ve just never had anyone I could really talk to about anything deeper than pop culture. I would like to change that. I’m tired of being ashamed of how I feel and how I look.
When you are naked, you have nothing left to hide. It’s liberating. I’m sure it feels great. It can be scary, but good, to be so exposed. Once you let it all hang out, there’s nothing left to worry about. After everyone has seen the most intimate parts of you, there’s nothing else to fear. How can you hurt me when you’ve seen the worst of me, seen all that I have? You can’t dig at me when I have nothing to hide from you. I mean, if I’m willing to show my willy, there’d be no doubt that I was an open person. And that’s what I’d like to be.
I’ve heard some female celebrities’ reasoning for going nude in such magazines as Playboy was that their bodies aren’t going to last but for a few more years and so they wanted to show what they had before it all went south. Paraphrasing, I remember one celebrity saying “These boobies are only gonna stay up so long! I wanna get them on film before they hit my knees.” That’s reasonable. And that’s another reason why I want to do it. I'd like to snap some photographs before my balls hit my knees! Some people want to capture their youth and beauty while they still have it and for me, I want to capture the progress I’ve made over the years. Once I get ripped, I want to have it captured forever in film so that one day, after it’s all gotten saggy and flabby, I can say that I was once a young stud. The only problem is, now I have to become a young stud.
Just to clarify, my motives are not sexual. I wouldn’t want any shots taken of me stroking it on a bear rug or anything. My photos would be tasteful, natural. I’m looking at it from an artist’s standpoint, as an artistic endeavor, as a mode of self-expression, as a time capsule for my handsomeness and youth. Although, if it were to make me feel sexy and help me get in touch with my long dormant sexuality, then that would be pretty awesome as well. I just want to look sexy and feel sexy and have a picture that corresponds with that feeling.
I think it would be good for the self-esteem. Photography can be an insecure person’s friend. It all goes back to imperfection. No one has the perfect body, even if they appear that they do. There’s no telling how much plucking and tucking it takes to get someone to look the way they do and even that is manipulated when it gets scanned into the computer. At the same time, I keep thinking of the expression “you can’t polish a turd.” And as sophisticated as photo editing programs are nowadays, you can’t turn a troll into a treasure. So, even if most pictures are Photoshopped within an inch of their lives, the starting image still has to be somewhat decent. So, if after all the airbrushing and cutting and pasting, I can look and my nude picture and find myself handsome, take some comfort in knowing that some of that handsomeness is natural and not cooked up using fog or filters. It’s still me, maybe improved upon, but it’s me.
They say even models feel insecure. Well, they don’t look it in those pictures. And if models can feel insecure every day and still take amazing photographs, why can't I as well? And what's so wrong with letting those pictures make me feel good for once in my life, even if it's all airbrushed, even if it's not real. It's something, it's as close to beauty as I'll ever reach, it's all that I've got.
I am going to be a nude model.
Ever since I took that life drawing class in school and had to draw all of those nude people, I’ve come to appreciate the human form and found beauty in the bodies that I drew: the soft curves and skin textures of women and the hard edges and hair patterns of men. It’s all quite fascinating how we all essentially have the same parts but they can be so different at the same time. A multitude of shapes and sizes and colors and coverings. And what I really found fascinating was that these people were far from perfect. You would never see these bodies gracing the cover of a magazine. Yet, a lot of the models seemed very comfortable with their bodies. Their bodies are imperfect, yet they are perfectly comfortable with themselves. Sure, some of them could be so hard up for money that they would be willing to go nude for aspiring artists but I like to think that they do it for the sheer mutual respect and admiration for the human body.
I advocate nudity. This might sound strange coming from the king of modesty. For example, did you know I don’t own a pair of shorts? I don’t like showing off my legs. And if I weren’t so hot natured, I would wear long sleeves every day. I like to be as covered as I possibly can without interrupting comfort. That’s why I like winter so much: layers. But, the more I see nudity, the more I witness naked bodies, the more comfortable I become with the concept of nudity. I don’t feel as prudish as I used to feel. And the more I see imperfect bodies, the more I become comfortable with my own.
I get so caught up in perfection. I always wish for a model quality body/face/hair/etc. But, when I see these people, I realize that they aren’t model quality but they are okay with themselves and that gives me a bit of hope. They’ve already accepted who they are and they are much happier for it. I always thought I’d only be happy if I had a six pack but I guess I never managed to realize that I could be happy without one.
Take a minute for that to absorb…
And now throw it out of the window.
I want to get ripped and then be photographed nude.
I think my self-acceptance can be a dual process. I think I can learn to love what I have while simultaneously improving upon it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wishing for better for yourself, as long as it doesn’t get you down or become an obsession. And for me, I’d love to achieve the body I’ve always wanted (in a healthy manner, of course). And once I do, I want to document my success.
I’ve always been shy, not only with my body but with my feelings. Some parts of me just want to be done with it all. It’s pretty exhausting being so secretive all of the time. And it’s not even that I try to be but I suppose I’ve just never had anyone I could really talk to about anything deeper than pop culture. I would like to change that. I’m tired of being ashamed of how I feel and how I look.
When you are naked, you have nothing left to hide. It’s liberating. I’m sure it feels great. It can be scary, but good, to be so exposed. Once you let it all hang out, there’s nothing left to worry about. After everyone has seen the most intimate parts of you, there’s nothing else to fear. How can you hurt me when you’ve seen the worst of me, seen all that I have? You can’t dig at me when I have nothing to hide from you. I mean, if I’m willing to show my willy, there’d be no doubt that I was an open person. And that’s what I’d like to be.
I’ve heard some female celebrities’ reasoning for going nude in such magazines as Playboy was that their bodies aren’t going to last but for a few more years and so they wanted to show what they had before it all went south. Paraphrasing, I remember one celebrity saying “These boobies are only gonna stay up so long! I wanna get them on film before they hit my knees.” That’s reasonable. And that’s another reason why I want to do it. I'd like to snap some photographs before my balls hit my knees! Some people want to capture their youth and beauty while they still have it and for me, I want to capture the progress I’ve made over the years. Once I get ripped, I want to have it captured forever in film so that one day, after it’s all gotten saggy and flabby, I can say that I was once a young stud. The only problem is, now I have to become a young stud.
Just to clarify, my motives are not sexual. I wouldn’t want any shots taken of me stroking it on a bear rug or anything. My photos would be tasteful, natural. I’m looking at it from an artist’s standpoint, as an artistic endeavor, as a mode of self-expression, as a time capsule for my handsomeness and youth. Although, if it were to make me feel sexy and help me get in touch with my long dormant sexuality, then that would be pretty awesome as well. I just want to look sexy and feel sexy and have a picture that corresponds with that feeling.
I think it would be good for the self-esteem. Photography can be an insecure person’s friend. It all goes back to imperfection. No one has the perfect body, even if they appear that they do. There’s no telling how much plucking and tucking it takes to get someone to look the way they do and even that is manipulated when it gets scanned into the computer. At the same time, I keep thinking of the expression “you can’t polish a turd.” And as sophisticated as photo editing programs are nowadays, you can’t turn a troll into a treasure. So, even if most pictures are Photoshopped within an inch of their lives, the starting image still has to be somewhat decent. So, if after all the airbrushing and cutting and pasting, I can look and my nude picture and find myself handsome, take some comfort in knowing that some of that handsomeness is natural and not cooked up using fog or filters. It’s still me, maybe improved upon, but it’s me.
They say even models feel insecure. Well, they don’t look it in those pictures. And if models can feel insecure every day and still take amazing photographs, why can't I as well? And what's so wrong with letting those pictures make me feel good for once in my life, even if it's all airbrushed, even if it's not real. It's something, it's as close to beauty as I'll ever reach, it's all that I've got.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Employment Exasperation II
I had to buy some new pants for my interview today because I'm such an unemployed fatso that I've been doing nothing but sitting around the house and eating and none of my nice pants fit anymore. While I was in town, I stopped by JCPenney to ask if they were hiring. I couldn't believe myself. When I left those doors three plus years ago, I vowed never to enter them again. And there I was, doughy and desperate, wondering if there were any openings for me should I find myself unable to find any other job and should the gun suddenly jam when in my mouth. And unfortunately they weren't hiring. My goof proof backup plan was now kaput. Incredibly scary. My former manager said I could swing by in October and come on board for holiday help. Eeh. Yeah, I'm really hoping I'll have something before then and even after the holidays are over, they might not need me. So I'd end up right back to where I started: unemployed and fat. This is definitely not where I was seeing myself going after graduating.
The more I thought about it, the more the whole out of left field interview seemed. Who was this lady and where did she get my resume and what the heck was the job position she gave me? So many unanswered questions but I felt I was locked in. I had already spoken to her twice over the telephone, both times totally faking my way through the conversation, acting like I knew what she was talking about. I couldn't call her a third time and ask her to once again explain everything to me. What if it was a good opportunity? What if the job would be potentially phenomenal? I'd ruin any chance at it by shining my idiocy her way. Yeah, I was just gonna have to fake it to make it and at some point during the interview, I'd have to chime in with an "Oh, by the way, why the heck am I here again?"
In actuality, I was dreading the entire thing. But, I kept thinking that at least it would be good interview practice. And who knows, maybe she'd give me the job details and I'd be into it. With very few companies responding to my resumes and the now defunct retail escape plan, I was in no position to be shrugging off this totally random job offer.
This morning rolls around and the lady calls me. She said her daughter was going into labor and she was going to be with her and couldn't do the interview today (freaking yes!!) but that I could come in and fill out an application and take a CD that would provide all the baiscs of the job. Sounded good to me. Actually, it worked out really nicely because I wouldn't have to worry about the embarrassment of being interviewed for a mystery job that I knew nothing about and this was the chance to find out what the heck it was before I got too deep into it.
I get there and a young woman in a flowered dress with herpes lip was sitting at a table talking on her cell phone. When she saw me she quickly said, "I'ma have to call you back," and then hung up. I introduced myself and she told me to take an application and then asked if I could be back Monday at one. I took the opportunity to ask her what exactly the job was and what it entailed. Turns out it's door to door insurance sales. Definitely not what I was looking for. In fact, I kind of hesitated when she said that and I mentioned that I hadn't really applied for that and Herpes Lip told me that the lady had probably gotten my resume from the internet and pursued me instead of me pursuing the job and thought I might make a good candidate.
That's weird because:
1) If she found me, she probably should have mentioned that fact instead of just saying, "Hey, would you look to come in for an interview for a job you've never heard of with a company you didn't apply for?" (And in her defense and as I've already stated, I probably should have been more inquisitive as well)
2) My resume was tailored to clerical/office work. I never mentioned anything about sales so I don't know why she thought I'd be a good hire.
I even asked Herpes Lip if there was any chance at office work and she shook her head and said that there wasn't. She said there was only one secretary, her, and she wasn't planning on quitting for a long time. Well, okay then. I went ahead and told her the job wasn't for me and that I wouldn't be coming back in on Monday for that interview. I then excused myself from the room.
Yeah, I pretty much knew that wasn't going to work out but, hey, it was an experience so whatever.
But it's not over.
I got a letter from a company that I did apply for this morning asking me to come in next Tuesday and take an aptitude test. I was kind of surprised because I applied for that job several weeks ago so I had assumed they had hired someone else. But, here I am, scheduled for an aptitude test. And now I'm getting nervous again because I have no idea what the test will entail so I don't know how to prepare. I'm scared there will be a lot of math, my greatest downfall. Once again, I'm going to try not to get my hopes up because I might bomb the test and even if I pass that, the last step is surviving the structured interview. It's almost annoying the hoops and hurdles I have and am going to have to endure to get that job. I had to take a speed typing test first and then fill out a six page application. Next, I have this test and then after that, I've got the interview. Sheesh. But, it is a good job so I guess they gotta weed out people so they can hire the best of the best. The only problem is, I'm not the best of the best. I'm mediocre at best. And so it continues...
The more I thought about it, the more the whole out of left field interview seemed. Who was this lady and where did she get my resume and what the heck was the job position she gave me? So many unanswered questions but I felt I was locked in. I had already spoken to her twice over the telephone, both times totally faking my way through the conversation, acting like I knew what she was talking about. I couldn't call her a third time and ask her to once again explain everything to me. What if it was a good opportunity? What if the job would be potentially phenomenal? I'd ruin any chance at it by shining my idiocy her way. Yeah, I was just gonna have to fake it to make it and at some point during the interview, I'd have to chime in with an "Oh, by the way, why the heck am I here again?"
In actuality, I was dreading the entire thing. But, I kept thinking that at least it would be good interview practice. And who knows, maybe she'd give me the job details and I'd be into it. With very few companies responding to my resumes and the now defunct retail escape plan, I was in no position to be shrugging off this totally random job offer.
This morning rolls around and the lady calls me. She said her daughter was going into labor and she was going to be with her and couldn't do the interview today (freaking yes!!) but that I could come in and fill out an application and take a CD that would provide all the baiscs of the job. Sounded good to me. Actually, it worked out really nicely because I wouldn't have to worry about the embarrassment of being interviewed for a mystery job that I knew nothing about and this was the chance to find out what the heck it was before I got too deep into it.
I get there and a young woman in a flowered dress with herpes lip was sitting at a table talking on her cell phone. When she saw me she quickly said, "I'ma have to call you back," and then hung up. I introduced myself and she told me to take an application and then asked if I could be back Monday at one. I took the opportunity to ask her what exactly the job was and what it entailed. Turns out it's door to door insurance sales. Definitely not what I was looking for. In fact, I kind of hesitated when she said that and I mentioned that I hadn't really applied for that and Herpes Lip told me that the lady had probably gotten my resume from the internet and pursued me instead of me pursuing the job and thought I might make a good candidate.
That's weird because:
1) If she found me, she probably should have mentioned that fact instead of just saying, "Hey, would you look to come in for an interview for a job you've never heard of with a company you didn't apply for?" (And in her defense and as I've already stated, I probably should have been more inquisitive as well)
2) My resume was tailored to clerical/office work. I never mentioned anything about sales so I don't know why she thought I'd be a good hire.
I even asked Herpes Lip if there was any chance at office work and she shook her head and said that there wasn't. She said there was only one secretary, her, and she wasn't planning on quitting for a long time. Well, okay then. I went ahead and told her the job wasn't for me and that I wouldn't be coming back in on Monday for that interview. I then excused myself from the room.
Yeah, I pretty much knew that wasn't going to work out but, hey, it was an experience so whatever.
But it's not over.
I got a letter from a company that I did apply for this morning asking me to come in next Tuesday and take an aptitude test. I was kind of surprised because I applied for that job several weeks ago so I had assumed they had hired someone else. But, here I am, scheduled for an aptitude test. And now I'm getting nervous again because I have no idea what the test will entail so I don't know how to prepare. I'm scared there will be a lot of math, my greatest downfall. Once again, I'm going to try not to get my hopes up because I might bomb the test and even if I pass that, the last step is surviving the structured interview. It's almost annoying the hoops and hurdles I have and am going to have to endure to get that job. I had to take a speed typing test first and then fill out a six page application. Next, I have this test and then after that, I've got the interview. Sheesh. But, it is a good job so I guess they gotta weed out people so they can hire the best of the best. The only problem is, I'm not the best of the best. I'm mediocre at best. And so it continues...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Employment Exasperation
So, I was lying in bed like a loser this morning, watching The Food Network and feeling like crap when I got a phone call. Turns out, it was a lady from one of the numerous jobs that I had applied for that wanted to conduct an interview with me. I perked up and grabbed a Post-It to write down all the information on. As she talked, I scribbled away, not really comprehending any of it, just excited that in two months of job searching, I finally at least landed an interview. I hung up with the lady and then it hit me immediately. What was the job for?
For a while there, I was sending in resumes every which a way. It didn’t matter where it was located, how much it paid, or what company it was for. If it looked like I could do it, I applied. What sucks is that most of the websites that listed jobs never explicitly stated the specifics of the job or the company that was hiring. So, after I ended the conversation with this woman, I realized I had no idea what the position was, the salary or even where the job was located. My chest ignited like fire and my cheeks splashed with red. Oh, crap. All I knew was the company name and where she wanted to do the interview. I was so excited I never thought to ask her the specifics. Well, I kind of did but then I didn’t want her thinking I was dumb for not realizing what the job was for. I’m sure if I would have explained the situation she would have understood but I had already ended the call and I didn’t want to call her back and look even dumber. But, if I didn’t ask, how could I prepare myself?
Calling her back-
Pro: If I called and explained the situation, she could tell me what the job was for and I could properly set myself up for a great interview.
Con: I didn't want her thinking I was oblivious because I felt that would show that I wasn't on top of things, wasn't aware of what was going on, which would reflect badly on me and she wouldn't hire me. Plus, the longer I waited, the more suspicious I looked. I mean, if I wasn't sure of the job specifics, why didn't I cal her back right away? Calling right back might be understandable, but waiting the several hours that I waited seems kind of silly.
Faking my way through the interview-
Pro: Maybe I could wing it and she’d never realize I had no idea why I was there. (Wow, does that not feel like some rejected sitcom script or what?)
Con: She’d catch me off guard with a question that I had no way of preparing myself for and she wouldn’t consider me. Plus, I’d be embarrassed in person rather than over the phone if I had just called her.
So, I decided to call her back and just get it over with. I mean, I didn’t want to waste my time or hers by applying for a position that I either didn’t want or wouldn’t be qualified for. I ended up calling her back and she seemed to be fine with me being all dumb and just telling her that I had put in resumes all over Alabama for the past two months and I’ve kind of just lost track of my applications. I didn’t detect any irritation in her voice and she assured me that it was fine. She then explained the position to me and I still didn’t get it! Once again, though, I just nodded my head and smiled and was like, “Okay, I just wanted to confirm the position! Thank you!”
First of all, I have no idea what the position entails. Secondly, I do not remember even applying for that at all! Especially because the job is located in a town nearby that I haven’t even applied to in a month or two, or maybe never at all. Plus, the job position doesn't sound familiar or even sound like a job that I would apply for. But, I mean the lady got my resume from somewhere and thinks I’m qualified for the job, at least on paper. So, who knows, maybe this will work out. Maybe this is just some cosmic random opportunity that has been granted to me. I’m going to try not get excited. Because I have no idea of what I’m gonna have to do, I might realize I can’t or don’t want to do it. Or maybe the lady will think I’m a total loser during the interview and not hire me. There are so many things that can (and with my luck, probably will) go wrong. All I can do is go in with no expectations and just see it as a learning experience, a practice interview for when another job comes around. At least I will have sharpened up my interview skills. The interview is tomorrow at three and I’m queasy. As much as I am trying not to be excited, I can’t help it. What if this is what I’ve been waiting for? What if I’m finally gonna be employed? Or what if it turns out disastrous and I end up right where I started? As pessimistic as I am on the outside, there’s this annoying sliver of hope that is buried in me like a knife and I hate it because even when I try not to be excited about something because I know I’ll get screwed in the end, I can’t help but to hope for the best.
I guess we’ll just have to see what happens. I’m sure either way, it will be very interesting.
For a while there, I was sending in resumes every which a way. It didn’t matter where it was located, how much it paid, or what company it was for. If it looked like I could do it, I applied. What sucks is that most of the websites that listed jobs never explicitly stated the specifics of the job or the company that was hiring. So, after I ended the conversation with this woman, I realized I had no idea what the position was, the salary or even where the job was located. My chest ignited like fire and my cheeks splashed with red. Oh, crap. All I knew was the company name and where she wanted to do the interview. I was so excited I never thought to ask her the specifics. Well, I kind of did but then I didn’t want her thinking I was dumb for not realizing what the job was for. I’m sure if I would have explained the situation she would have understood but I had already ended the call and I didn’t want to call her back and look even dumber. But, if I didn’t ask, how could I prepare myself?
Calling her back-
Pro: If I called and explained the situation, she could tell me what the job was for and I could properly set myself up for a great interview.
Con: I didn't want her thinking I was oblivious because I felt that would show that I wasn't on top of things, wasn't aware of what was going on, which would reflect badly on me and she wouldn't hire me. Plus, the longer I waited, the more suspicious I looked. I mean, if I wasn't sure of the job specifics, why didn't I cal her back right away? Calling right back might be understandable, but waiting the several hours that I waited seems kind of silly.
Faking my way through the interview-
Pro: Maybe I could wing it and she’d never realize I had no idea why I was there. (Wow, does that not feel like some rejected sitcom script or what?)
Con: She’d catch me off guard with a question that I had no way of preparing myself for and she wouldn’t consider me. Plus, I’d be embarrassed in person rather than over the phone if I had just called her.
So, I decided to call her back and just get it over with. I mean, I didn’t want to waste my time or hers by applying for a position that I either didn’t want or wouldn’t be qualified for. I ended up calling her back and she seemed to be fine with me being all dumb and just telling her that I had put in resumes all over Alabama for the past two months and I’ve kind of just lost track of my applications. I didn’t detect any irritation in her voice and she assured me that it was fine. She then explained the position to me and I still didn’t get it! Once again, though, I just nodded my head and smiled and was like, “Okay, I just wanted to confirm the position! Thank you!”
First of all, I have no idea what the position entails. Secondly, I do not remember even applying for that at all! Especially because the job is located in a town nearby that I haven’t even applied to in a month or two, or maybe never at all. Plus, the job position doesn't sound familiar or even sound like a job that I would apply for. But, I mean the lady got my resume from somewhere and thinks I’m qualified for the job, at least on paper. So, who knows, maybe this will work out. Maybe this is just some cosmic random opportunity that has been granted to me. I’m going to try not get excited. Because I have no idea of what I’m gonna have to do, I might realize I can’t or don’t want to do it. Or maybe the lady will think I’m a total loser during the interview and not hire me. There are so many things that can (and with my luck, probably will) go wrong. All I can do is go in with no expectations and just see it as a learning experience, a practice interview for when another job comes around. At least I will have sharpened up my interview skills. The interview is tomorrow at three and I’m queasy. As much as I am trying not to be excited, I can’t help it. What if this is what I’ve been waiting for? What if I’m finally gonna be employed? Or what if it turns out disastrous and I end up right where I started? As pessimistic as I am on the outside, there’s this annoying sliver of hope that is buried in me like a knife and I hate it because even when I try not to be excited about something because I know I’ll get screwed in the end, I can’t help but to hope for the best.
I guess we’ll just have to see what happens. I’m sure either way, it will be very interesting.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Raw Rock Kills!
Saturday night, I dragged an acquaintance of mine, Rebekah, with me two hours to go see Showbread play. Their new album, The Fear of God, released last week and it’s amazing! I have to be honest, I wasn’t feeling it at first. I usually fall in love with their stuff at first listen but this album took a bit longer to like but I’m fine with that. As I’ve always said, the songs that are catchy at first get old the fastest but the ones that take a little longer to appreciate are the ones that have staying power.
So, we get there and we were the oldest two up in that joint! I swear, the average age was a ripe seventeen years old! And talk about hipsters! They don’t have that many tight leggings in ballets. Needless to say, I felt very out of place. You know those guys in their mid-thirties that tries way too hard to be hip and hangs out with the young kids and slaughters contemporary slang? Yeah, I was that dude. I was so glad Rebekah came with me because at least I had someone to talk to.
There were five other bands before Showbread played and they were all actually really good. At the last couple of Showbread shows, the opening bands ranged from alright to garbage so I was glad to see they had some good people playing. There was a local band that especially intrigued me. Very Paramore-ish. The girl even sounded like the delicious Hayley and had that whole “hair shake” thing down pat. They were the best but unfortunately, every time she said their name I couldn’t catch it. I’m sure if I did some online investigation, I could track them down. I would like to hear more from them but I’m too lazy at the moment so I’ll probably put it off until I forget about them entirely. Eh.
It was time for Showbread to play and it was the best show I’ve seen them do. Not only did they play songs from their new album but pulled out some oldies from their former albums. It was so awesome to hear all the old songs I had listened to for so many years being played live. It was like a greatest hits performance. It was intense and loud and jarring to the heart and fantastic! After their performance, I tracked a lot of them down and had my picture taken with them, all except for Patrick. I forgot about him entirely. I had really just intended to take a picture with Josh Dies ‘cause I have during all the other times I’ve seen them so I figured I’d make a tradition out of it but since they were all clumped together I didn’t want to be rude and push them all aside to just take a picture with Josh so when I had my picture taken with a few of them I decided to go ahead and get all of them. Since it was a spontaneous decision, I wasn’t thinking about who all I had gotten but it’s okay, I’ll get them all next time! Unfortunately, the pictures came out horrible. Not that there was anything wrong with any of the pictures, I just wasn’t happy with how my appearance came out is all. Oh well. I’ll just keep them for my own private collection or whatever. I didn’t want to keep anyone from seeing any other fans, I kind of quickly flagged them all one by one, snapped a picture, told them how raw they were, and sent them on their way. But one of the newer guys took the time to talk with me for a bit, which was pretty cool. He was really nice and seemed genuinely excited for Rebekah and I to be there.
Their new album, The Fear of God, is out now and I would encourage everyone to pick it up. As always, even if you don’t love the music, you should read their lyrics. Absolutely incredible. In fact, I'll be super nice and provide the link for you. Click here! The stuff from Anorexia Nervosa and The Fear of God is my favorite material. Enjoy.
So, we get there and we were the oldest two up in that joint! I swear, the average age was a ripe seventeen years old! And talk about hipsters! They don’t have that many tight leggings in ballets. Needless to say, I felt very out of place. You know those guys in their mid-thirties that tries way too hard to be hip and hangs out with the young kids and slaughters contemporary slang? Yeah, I was that dude. I was so glad Rebekah came with me because at least I had someone to talk to.
There were five other bands before Showbread played and they were all actually really good. At the last couple of Showbread shows, the opening bands ranged from alright to garbage so I was glad to see they had some good people playing. There was a local band that especially intrigued me. Very Paramore-ish. The girl even sounded like the delicious Hayley and had that whole “hair shake” thing down pat. They were the best but unfortunately, every time she said their name I couldn’t catch it. I’m sure if I did some online investigation, I could track them down. I would like to hear more from them but I’m too lazy at the moment so I’ll probably put it off until I forget about them entirely. Eh.
It was time for Showbread to play and it was the best show I’ve seen them do. Not only did they play songs from their new album but pulled out some oldies from their former albums. It was so awesome to hear all the old songs I had listened to for so many years being played live. It was like a greatest hits performance. It was intense and loud and jarring to the heart and fantastic! After their performance, I tracked a lot of them down and had my picture taken with them, all except for Patrick. I forgot about him entirely. I had really just intended to take a picture with Josh Dies ‘cause I have during all the other times I’ve seen them so I figured I’d make a tradition out of it but since they were all clumped together I didn’t want to be rude and push them all aside to just take a picture with Josh so when I had my picture taken with a few of them I decided to go ahead and get all of them. Since it was a spontaneous decision, I wasn’t thinking about who all I had gotten but it’s okay, I’ll get them all next time! Unfortunately, the pictures came out horrible. Not that there was anything wrong with any of the pictures, I just wasn’t happy with how my appearance came out is all. Oh well. I’ll just keep them for my own private collection or whatever. I didn’t want to keep anyone from seeing any other fans, I kind of quickly flagged them all one by one, snapped a picture, told them how raw they were, and sent them on their way. But one of the newer guys took the time to talk with me for a bit, which was pretty cool. He was really nice and seemed genuinely excited for Rebekah and I to be there.
Their new album, The Fear of God, is out now and I would encourage everyone to pick it up. As always, even if you don’t love the music, you should read their lyrics. Absolutely incredible. In fact, I'll be super nice and provide the link for you. Click here! The stuff from Anorexia Nervosa and The Fear of God is my favorite material. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Showbread Experience
Showbread is, hands down, my favorite band. I actually found out about them in a horror movie message board, which I find perfect for my situation. Someone had asked if there were any songs written about horror movies and a respondent chimed in and said Showbread had written a song about the Evil Dead trilogy called “Dead by Dawn.” Being a huge fan of the Evil Dead movies, I was intrigued. He then said, “Ironically, they’re a Christian band.” I was even more intrigued. So, I downloaded the song and thought it wasn’t half bad. It was pretty screamo, something I wasn’t accustomed to listening to at the time but I gave it a chance and listened to it until I fell in love with it. I then proceeded to check out some more of their other songs until I finally just bought the entire album. It quickly became my favorite album and the one I was most proud of owning. Up until that time, I was just into generic pop and I wasn’t very adventurous with my music. But Showbread opened up a whole new world of music variety for me, for which I am very thankful. The cool part about them is they never do the same album twice. While their album No Sir, Nihilism is not Practical was electronic and screamo, their album Age of Reptiles was more melodic hard rock. Showbread themselves don't even really know what their music can be defined as so they just use the term "Raw Rock" which I think couldn't be more perfect. After listening to their music, I tried to expand my tastes by finding bands in a similar style to them. While it was a nice venture, nothing was ever as good as Showbread.
I have a thing. When I am interested in something, be it music or movies or an actor or whatever the case may be, I’m going to do my research and find out as much as I can about it. So, I looked up as much stuff about Showbread as I could. I found out that the lead singer, Josh Dies (how cool is that name?) loves horror movies, zombie movies in particular. I was liking the band more and more! I also found out they were from the Savannah, GA area which was super awesome to me because that’s where I wanted to go to school. I figured I could catch a lot of their shows there. Also, I was inspired Josh Dies to get my lip pierced ‘cause I always thought his lip piercing was cool and I wanted to have one like it.
They were unlike any Christian band I had encountered before. They screamed. They were covered in tattoos and piercings. They sang about zombies and loved watching horror movies. The band’s inspiration comes from non-Christian bands like Nine Inch Nails and of all people, Marilyn Manson! And the Christian thing wasn’t just a label they threw on themselves. When you read anything Josh Dies writes, his beliefs and intentions are always blatant. They don't allude to religion in their songs, opting instead to come right out with their intentions. Even the zombie songs have a religious connotation weaved within the words. The whole band’s main mission is to spread the word of God. They just do it in their own way and I respect them for that. Because of their songs, style of music and even dress (Josh Dies likes to wear fishnets and eye makeup on stage and during press photos), they have been accused of not being Christian. I find it kind of sad that both Christians and non-Christians alike both have this incredibly narrow view of how Christianity should be and how a person that is a Christian should be, all the way up to how they should praise God. I felt like the band really expanded my ideas of Christianity and made me more comfortable with how I was as a Christian. Being someone who also loves horror movies and is pierced and is just generally into the darker side of life (and death), I realized it was okay to be who I was. I can watch people being killed by Freddy Krueger. I can wear a black shirt and listen to singers like Marilyn Manson without having to worry if I’m crossing some kind of line. Being into what I’m into does not have to compromise my Christianity. The band actually strengthened my beliefs to a major degree, another thing I am thankful for.
Although I fell in love with Showbread’s previous albums, I was most excited about their double concept album, Anorexia Nervosa. The premise was so epic in concept and scope that there was no way it wasn’t going to be amazing. To give you a gist, the two albums are a soundtrack of sorts to a story that was created. The story is about two twin sisters, Anorexia and Nervosa, as they try to find some sense of purpose in life. Anorexia thinks to reach the sky is the greatest honor there is to know so she builds a tower. Anorexia thinks to submerge herself into the depravity of the dirt would be the greatest adventure there is to know so she digs a hole in the ground. Each album is named after a sister and each song on each album accompanies a chapter in each one of the sisters’ story. The really awesome part of the whole concept is each song is timed to correspond with what’s happening within the story. Each chapter comes with time markers that correspond to different times in the song so as you listen to the songs and read the stories simultaneously, the sound of the song will change depending on the change of mood or action in the story. Of course, when I received both albums, I immediately locked myself in my room, put away my homework, transferred the songs to my iPod, opened up the story and started up the music and immersed myself in the world of these two sisters. I was absolutely blown away. Not only was the story dark and beautiful and the concept amazing but the lyrics spoke to my heart in a way that no other song, no other poem, no other piece of writing ever has.
After the release of Showbread’s double concept album, Anorexia Nervosa, I knew I had to see one of their shows. I was fortunate enough to be able to go to two of their shows last summer. I know, last summer...and I'm just now getting around to writing about it. I suck. The first show was in Jacksonville, Florida. Unfortunately, I was butt deep in finals at the time of the concert but I did not let that concern me. I drove the two hours it took to get to the show and had a blast! It was my first kinda indie concert, I guess you’d say. It wasn’t some huge production like a big name star would have. It was a small, intimate club setting. It was very chill. In fact, Josh Dies came out when I was at the merch table and asked if anyone wanted to finish his milkshake. Some guy immediately raised his hand and Josh handed him the half empty cup. He then darted back from where he came. Now, I have never seen a celebrity before and for most people, Josh would hardly be considered a celebrity but he was in my mind because I had admired him for so long. So, to see him up close, even if only for the few seconds it took him to pass along his drink, it caught me off guard.
I stood through a few other opening bands before Showbread came on and when they did, it was amazing. I walked up to the open area in front of the stage as they began the show. Being around other people that were fans like me, feeling the music flowing through me, seeing these guys who I have looked up to so much, up there in the flesh. All that energy that’s put into their music is personified on stage with everyone getting lost in the music, stumbling around and head banging, bodies flailing, lights blinding and flashing erratically, drums pounding in my chest, screams rattling my ears, energy affecting my mind, body and spirit. It was just incredible to see all of that live and in person. At the end of the set, a few of the band members stayed on stage and jammed on their instruments. They seriously went on for like a good half an hour straight just free styling, almost like they were in a competition with each other to see who could go the longest. That was a show in itself. At one point, Josh came back out again and unplugged their instruments so they'd stop playing. Later, they all came back out and trashed the stage. It was awesome.
Then it was time to meet the guys in the band. I felt so nervous, like I was going out on a date or something. Firstly, I met Ivory. He's a former vocalist of the band and had announced a few weeks earlier that he'd be stepping down. I was kind of bummed about his departure and wondered how it would work without him being there. He sang guest vocals on one of the songs on the Nervosa album, I believe it is, and when the band began playing the song, Ivory showed up on stage and performed his vocals! It totally caught me off guard because I didn't expect he'd be there since he left the band but I guess it was a special occasion because that show was their first one in their "You Can't Save Yourself" tour. When he got up on the stage, everyone went nuts! It was great.
As I said, he was the first one I met. It was so surreal just seeing him stand there, just like any regular guy. I shook his hand and we engaged in a bit of small talk. I told him I was going to school in Savannah and he told me that’s where he was living and like a geeky fanboy I was like, “I KNOW!” Haha. He was interesting and I got my picture taken with him, of course.
I also met Patrick, who plays bass and is Josh’s brother. I shook his hand and told him this was the first show I had been to and that I was glad that it was a Showbread show and he smiled at me and told me that was cool. And then it was time to meet Josh. I waited close to the stage for him to come out and after he finished talking to a bunch of people, he came up to me and I shook his hand. I was such a freaking dork. I told him my name was Brannon and he was like, “Nice to meet you, Brannon.”
“Oh, awesome, you got my name right. People usually get it wrong and call me Brandon.”
“Well, I listen!” he responded.
Then I kind of went into this dumb spiel about how he was incredibly inspirational to me and all of that and he seemed genuinely touched by my lame sentiments so that was nice. And then I asked to take a picture with him and since no one was around I took the picture myself but of course, I was so nervous I didn’t know how to operate the camera. So, after some fumbling, I took the picture and after some more groveling, I let him get back to whatever he was gonna do before I showed up like an overzealous fan. Gosh, I said some other dumb things that I can’t even remember anymore. Heck, I couldn’t even remember them right after I said them. I felt like I had come off as a real nerd. I guess I just wanted to seem cool, wanted him to like me, and we all know that when we try to be cool, we are at our lamest. That was no truer than that night. I had to get away from him before I said something really dumb.
Two months later, they did a show in Mobile, Alabama and I had to drive two hours once again to get there but it was totally worth it! I even took a friend with me and she enjoyed the show as well. I met up with Josh again and got him to sign my wallet and had my friend snap a picture of us! It was great! And the best part was that he remembered me! I know it had only been two months but he had been touring that whole time and probably saw a lot of people. Maybe I stood out in his mind as being the dorkiest. Ah, I try not to worry about that stuff. I just think it’s cool that he remembered me and hopefully he sees me not as a dork but just as a guy that has been touched and changed by his band's music and he can look at me (and all the rest of the Showbread fans) as people that are positively affected by what they do and are receiving the word of God and are better for it.
I think most of all, Showbread and specifically Josh Dies, since he's the main lyricist, has inspired the way I write. The band's lyrics are so dense and dark and beautifully black and somewhere in all the intricate relgious references and allusions to literature, some songs are so beautiful and filled with redemption and love and it's some of the most moving stuff I've read/heard. Every time I go to write a poem or essay, I always try to write like him. And as a Christian, I sometimes feel like there are certain feelings that I feel guilty for feeling about. A lot of people have the misconception that if someone is a Christian or has God in their life that their life should be so much better, that everything should be perfect. It's not that way at all. At times, I have a real crisis of faith. At times, I feel absolutely miserable. I've been to some really dark places in my life concerning my mental and spiritual states and what I love about the band is the fact that they explore those dark places. A lot of what Josh communicates in his songs is imperfection. He explores those feelings of hopelessness, even in the presence of God. He explores greed and selfishness and how we all fall short of the glory of God. But that doesn't mean that God isn't there. And it feels good to know other people of faith feel this same way. I'll leave you with a few links to some Showbread info if you are incline to learn more about them. I also want to post some of the lyrics that have really spoken to me.
May raw rock kill you forever and ever, amen.
I have a thing. When I am interested in something, be it music or movies or an actor or whatever the case may be, I’m going to do my research and find out as much as I can about it. So, I looked up as much stuff about Showbread as I could. I found out that the lead singer, Josh Dies (how cool is that name?) loves horror movies, zombie movies in particular. I was liking the band more and more! I also found out they were from the Savannah, GA area which was super awesome to me because that’s where I wanted to go to school. I figured I could catch a lot of their shows there. Also, I was inspired Josh Dies to get my lip pierced ‘cause I always thought his lip piercing was cool and I wanted to have one like it.
They were unlike any Christian band I had encountered before. They screamed. They were covered in tattoos and piercings. They sang about zombies and loved watching horror movies. The band’s inspiration comes from non-Christian bands like Nine Inch Nails and of all people, Marilyn Manson! And the Christian thing wasn’t just a label they threw on themselves. When you read anything Josh Dies writes, his beliefs and intentions are always blatant. They don't allude to religion in their songs, opting instead to come right out with their intentions. Even the zombie songs have a religious connotation weaved within the words. The whole band’s main mission is to spread the word of God. They just do it in their own way and I respect them for that. Because of their songs, style of music and even dress (Josh Dies likes to wear fishnets and eye makeup on stage and during press photos), they have been accused of not being Christian. I find it kind of sad that both Christians and non-Christians alike both have this incredibly narrow view of how Christianity should be and how a person that is a Christian should be, all the way up to how they should praise God. I felt like the band really expanded my ideas of Christianity and made me more comfortable with how I was as a Christian. Being someone who also loves horror movies and is pierced and is just generally into the darker side of life (and death), I realized it was okay to be who I was. I can watch people being killed by Freddy Krueger. I can wear a black shirt and listen to singers like Marilyn Manson without having to worry if I’m crossing some kind of line. Being into what I’m into does not have to compromise my Christianity. The band actually strengthened my beliefs to a major degree, another thing I am thankful for.
Although I fell in love with Showbread’s previous albums, I was most excited about their double concept album, Anorexia Nervosa. The premise was so epic in concept and scope that there was no way it wasn’t going to be amazing. To give you a gist, the two albums are a soundtrack of sorts to a story that was created. The story is about two twin sisters, Anorexia and Nervosa, as they try to find some sense of purpose in life. Anorexia thinks to reach the sky is the greatest honor there is to know so she builds a tower. Anorexia thinks to submerge herself into the depravity of the dirt would be the greatest adventure there is to know so she digs a hole in the ground. Each album is named after a sister and each song on each album accompanies a chapter in each one of the sisters’ story. The really awesome part of the whole concept is each song is timed to correspond with what’s happening within the story. Each chapter comes with time markers that correspond to different times in the song so as you listen to the songs and read the stories simultaneously, the sound of the song will change depending on the change of mood or action in the story. Of course, when I received both albums, I immediately locked myself in my room, put away my homework, transferred the songs to my iPod, opened up the story and started up the music and immersed myself in the world of these two sisters. I was absolutely blown away. Not only was the story dark and beautiful and the concept amazing but the lyrics spoke to my heart in a way that no other song, no other poem, no other piece of writing ever has.
After the release of Showbread’s double concept album, Anorexia Nervosa, I knew I had to see one of their shows. I was fortunate enough to be able to go to two of their shows last summer. I know, last summer...and I'm just now getting around to writing about it. I suck. The first show was in Jacksonville, Florida. Unfortunately, I was butt deep in finals at the time of the concert but I did not let that concern me. I drove the two hours it took to get to the show and had a blast! It was my first kinda indie concert, I guess you’d say. It wasn’t some huge production like a big name star would have. It was a small, intimate club setting. It was very chill. In fact, Josh Dies came out when I was at the merch table and asked if anyone wanted to finish his milkshake. Some guy immediately raised his hand and Josh handed him the half empty cup. He then darted back from where he came. Now, I have never seen a celebrity before and for most people, Josh would hardly be considered a celebrity but he was in my mind because I had admired him for so long. So, to see him up close, even if only for the few seconds it took him to pass along his drink, it caught me off guard.
I stood through a few other opening bands before Showbread came on and when they did, it was amazing. I walked up to the open area in front of the stage as they began the show. Being around other people that were fans like me, feeling the music flowing through me, seeing these guys who I have looked up to so much, up there in the flesh. All that energy that’s put into their music is personified on stage with everyone getting lost in the music, stumbling around and head banging, bodies flailing, lights blinding and flashing erratically, drums pounding in my chest, screams rattling my ears, energy affecting my mind, body and spirit. It was just incredible to see all of that live and in person. At the end of the set, a few of the band members stayed on stage and jammed on their instruments. They seriously went on for like a good half an hour straight just free styling, almost like they were in a competition with each other to see who could go the longest. That was a show in itself. At one point, Josh came back out again and unplugged their instruments so they'd stop playing. Later, they all came back out and trashed the stage. It was awesome.
Then it was time to meet the guys in the band. I felt so nervous, like I was going out on a date or something. Firstly, I met Ivory. He's a former vocalist of the band and had announced a few weeks earlier that he'd be stepping down. I was kind of bummed about his departure and wondered how it would work without him being there. He sang guest vocals on one of the songs on the Nervosa album, I believe it is, and when the band began playing the song, Ivory showed up on stage and performed his vocals! It totally caught me off guard because I didn't expect he'd be there since he left the band but I guess it was a special occasion because that show was their first one in their "You Can't Save Yourself" tour. When he got up on the stage, everyone went nuts! It was great.
As I said, he was the first one I met. It was so surreal just seeing him stand there, just like any regular guy. I shook his hand and we engaged in a bit of small talk. I told him I was going to school in Savannah and he told me that’s where he was living and like a geeky fanboy I was like, “I KNOW!” Haha. He was interesting and I got my picture taken with him, of course.
I also met Patrick, who plays bass and is Josh’s brother. I shook his hand and told him this was the first show I had been to and that I was glad that it was a Showbread show and he smiled at me and told me that was cool. And then it was time to meet Josh. I waited close to the stage for him to come out and after he finished talking to a bunch of people, he came up to me and I shook his hand. I was such a freaking dork. I told him my name was Brannon and he was like, “Nice to meet you, Brannon.”
“Oh, awesome, you got my name right. People usually get it wrong and call me Brandon.”
“Well, I listen!” he responded.
Then I kind of went into this dumb spiel about how he was incredibly inspirational to me and all of that and he seemed genuinely touched by my lame sentiments so that was nice. And then I asked to take a picture with him and since no one was around I took the picture myself but of course, I was so nervous I didn’t know how to operate the camera. So, after some fumbling, I took the picture and after some more groveling, I let him get back to whatever he was gonna do before I showed up like an overzealous fan. Gosh, I said some other dumb things that I can’t even remember anymore. Heck, I couldn’t even remember them right after I said them. I felt like I had come off as a real nerd. I guess I just wanted to seem cool, wanted him to like me, and we all know that when we try to be cool, we are at our lamest. That was no truer than that night. I had to get away from him before I said something really dumb.
Two months later, they did a show in Mobile, Alabama and I had to drive two hours once again to get there but it was totally worth it! I even took a friend with me and she enjoyed the show as well. I met up with Josh again and got him to sign my wallet and had my friend snap a picture of us! It was great! And the best part was that he remembered me! I know it had only been two months but he had been touring that whole time and probably saw a lot of people. Maybe I stood out in his mind as being the dorkiest. Ah, I try not to worry about that stuff. I just think it’s cool that he remembered me and hopefully he sees me not as a dork but just as a guy that has been touched and changed by his band's music and he can look at me (and all the rest of the Showbread fans) as people that are positively affected by what they do and are receiving the word of God and are better for it.
I think most of all, Showbread and specifically Josh Dies, since he's the main lyricist, has inspired the way I write. The band's lyrics are so dense and dark and beautifully black and somewhere in all the intricate relgious references and allusions to literature, some songs are so beautiful and filled with redemption and love and it's some of the most moving stuff I've read/heard. Every time I go to write a poem or essay, I always try to write like him. And as a Christian, I sometimes feel like there are certain feelings that I feel guilty for feeling about. A lot of people have the misconception that if someone is a Christian or has God in their life that their life should be so much better, that everything should be perfect. It's not that way at all. At times, I have a real crisis of faith. At times, I feel absolutely miserable. I've been to some really dark places in my life concerning my mental and spiritual states and what I love about the band is the fact that they explore those dark places. A lot of what Josh communicates in his songs is imperfection. He explores those feelings of hopelessness, even in the presence of God. He explores greed and selfishness and how we all fall short of the glory of God. But that doesn't mean that God isn't there. And it feels good to know other people of faith feel this same way. I'll leave you with a few links to some Showbread info if you are incline to learn more about them. I also want to post some of the lyrics that have really spoken to me.
May raw rock kill you forever and ever, amen.
From "The Pig" (Anorexia):
Why does it seem that all is slipping further from me?
I build and build and reaching up my arms can not reach anything
Give me something, anything
Why is it bleak and barren?
Don’t I deserve the world after building building building?
You dangle happiness before me yet keep it out of reach
My well is dry and still I try to fill it up I seek and seek and seek
Nothing lasts except the empty swallowing my soul
But I will rise above this world and I will fill my holes
From "The Death" (Anorexia):
When I was a baby I could close the world up in fleshy pink mitts
Now the world flays the infant palms and the bones drip out in its spit
When I was small I reached up so high and grasped at the morning star
Now the wormwood topples down on me and smashes all my parts
When I was a child my bones spread out like peacock feathers alive
Now the feathers wilt like cancerous boils leaving sagging pores in my hide
When I was of age I saw a gate so wide and a path so broad for the taking
But the road to everything led to a cliff where I sprawled out naked and aching
Now that I'm old I see the light and I see it was never there
Everything leads to nothing nowhere and I don't even care
From "The End" (Anorexia):
Where is the light that I thought I was promised?
Where is the truth, and the hope and the way?
I've lost my footing, my spine, my eyes
Everything keeps slipping away
Where is the storybook ending
The love, the joy, the laughter?
Is all there is just nothing at all
Is there anything that matters
Is this all we get for our lives?
And after everything, why is it still so lonely
So blank, so dry, so numb
Are we brought up just to crack and bleed out
Unravel, coming undone
Is this all we get?
Is this all we get for our lives?
Is this all we get?
From "The Vulture" (Nervosa):
Ask me how dying feels so good
Do you ever wish you'd never been born?
Ask me
Do you ever wish you'd never been born?
That's me
The resonance becomes a fist and numbs my face, my teeth, my backbone
I'm learning that it gets easy to shut it out
And soon the life comes leaking out, it throws in death and dies alone
Tastes like copper losing taste smeared on my mouth
So speak to me my little child
You dying baby
Stooped in ink, formaldehyde, the bubbles pop
Why can't you grow?
I want to know
Am I so far gone?
Just writhing in the dirt
I'm lost and going on
From "The Pig" (Nervosa):
there was a time when i was blank and see-through
but never white as snow
just made of rippled glass
i thought that it was sealed, but now i know
in goes a tiny seed that splits open with rotten spice and sage
and then the numbness is consuming me
just like a sweeping plague
my soul is cheap, lay on top of me
I peel myself up off the floor
Say "I can't do this anymore"
But then my soul has run away
So I lay down another day
From "The Dirt (Alpha)" (Nervosa):
Before there was anything
I loved you endlessly
There are no words to make way for this truth
This love for you inside of Me
And if I paint a sky with bronze
Or blanket you with stars
It's not enough to prove to you
This love inside My heart
What if I knit you together
Inside your mother, with artistry?
Crafted in My very image
Because I need you here with Me
What if I gave everything
Just to have you close to Me?
What if My love was the only truth
Would you believe it could set you free?
There isn't anything
That you could ever do
Not death or life, not depth or height
Can ever take My love from you
There is no greater love than this
That a man should lay his life
Down for his friends
And though I already have
I'd do it all again
Regenerative are My bones and My skin
My nerves are dismayed by intrusion
Yet if you are gone, for short or for long
It all aches with no sought restitution
I would do anything for you
It's obvious and in plain view
Like the life that I've laid before you
Everything that I've done is for you
So look for me with open eyes
Knock and I will open the door
I have loved you before there was time
And I will love you forever more
Why does it seem that all is slipping further from me?
I build and build and reaching up my arms can not reach anything
Give me something, anything
Why is it bleak and barren?
Don’t I deserve the world after building building building?
You dangle happiness before me yet keep it out of reach
My well is dry and still I try to fill it up I seek and seek and seek
Nothing lasts except the empty swallowing my soul
But I will rise above this world and I will fill my holes
From "The Death" (Anorexia):
When I was a baby I could close the world up in fleshy pink mitts
Now the world flays the infant palms and the bones drip out in its spit
When I was small I reached up so high and grasped at the morning star
Now the wormwood topples down on me and smashes all my parts
When I was a child my bones spread out like peacock feathers alive
Now the feathers wilt like cancerous boils leaving sagging pores in my hide
When I was of age I saw a gate so wide and a path so broad for the taking
But the road to everything led to a cliff where I sprawled out naked and aching
Now that I'm old I see the light and I see it was never there
Everything leads to nothing nowhere and I don't even care
From "The End" (Anorexia):
Where is the light that I thought I was promised?
Where is the truth, and the hope and the way?
I've lost my footing, my spine, my eyes
Everything keeps slipping away
Where is the storybook ending
The love, the joy, the laughter?
Is all there is just nothing at all
Is there anything that matters
Is this all we get for our lives?
And after everything, why is it still so lonely
So blank, so dry, so numb
Are we brought up just to crack and bleed out
Unravel, coming undone
Is this all we get?
Is this all we get for our lives?
Is this all we get?
From "The Vulture" (Nervosa):
Ask me how dying feels so good
Do you ever wish you'd never been born?
Ask me
Do you ever wish you'd never been born?
That's me
The resonance becomes a fist and numbs my face, my teeth, my backbone
I'm learning that it gets easy to shut it out
And soon the life comes leaking out, it throws in death and dies alone
Tastes like copper losing taste smeared on my mouth
So speak to me my little child
You dying baby
Stooped in ink, formaldehyde, the bubbles pop
Why can't you grow?
I want to know
Am I so far gone?
Just writhing in the dirt
I'm lost and going on
From "The Pig" (Nervosa):
there was a time when i was blank and see-through
but never white as snow
just made of rippled glass
i thought that it was sealed, but now i know
in goes a tiny seed that splits open with rotten spice and sage
and then the numbness is consuming me
just like a sweeping plague
my soul is cheap, lay on top of me
I peel myself up off the floor
Say "I can't do this anymore"
But then my soul has run away
So I lay down another day
From "The Dirt (Alpha)" (Nervosa):
Before there was anything
I loved you endlessly
There are no words to make way for this truth
This love for you inside of Me
And if I paint a sky with bronze
Or blanket you with stars
It's not enough to prove to you
This love inside My heart
What if I knit you together
Inside your mother, with artistry?
Crafted in My very image
Because I need you here with Me
What if I gave everything
Just to have you close to Me?
What if My love was the only truth
Would you believe it could set you free?
There isn't anything
That you could ever do
Not death or life, not depth or height
Can ever take My love from you
There is no greater love than this
That a man should lay his life
Down for his friends
And though I already have
I'd do it all again
Regenerative are My bones and My skin
My nerves are dismayed by intrusion
Yet if you are gone, for short or for long
It all aches with no sought restitution
I would do anything for you
It's obvious and in plain view
Like the life that I've laid before you
Everything that I've done is for you
So look for me with open eyes
Knock and I will open the door
I have loved you before there was time
And I will love you forever more
Friday, August 7, 2009
Red Blood Runs Black
"All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood."
-Rainer Maria Rilke
My blood type is O, the “universal” blood type. In the past, it was generally regarded that O blood could be given to anyone. These days, it’s not always the case but I believe O blood is still safe to use in a pinch. Alternately, only other people with O blood are able to give to me, which narrows the field a bit. Although O is the most common blood type, it is the least donated. So, not only do I have to have a specific type of blood given to me but there’s not much of it to go around. And I couldn’t help but to make a correlation between my blood and my behavior. A lot of the time, I feel like I am a “universal” giver. When I was alive, I gave a lot of my time, patience, loyalty, attention, understanding, concern, compassion, counseling and a lot of love to a lot of people. I never felt like I got much of that back. I don’t blame these people, run to call them selfish or find myself bitter about it. I know none of those people intentionally denied me all the qualities I gave to them. It’s just that they had their own troubles to deal with and never realized they were taking more than they were giving. I didn’t help matters by placing myself in the position of parent rather than pal. I was always so quick to try to take care of these people in a more paternal way and I suppose that’s how most of my friends began to view me. I was the go-to guy when they had a problem. I dispensed admonishments and accolades. In some ways, it feels like my friendships have always been more like business exchanges. They came to me for a service. I had a supply of goods that was always high in demand. People always came to me for advice and encouragement, for an objective point-of-view or reassurance. Everyone was always quick to purchase a product but never solicited a sale of their own.
I have to wonder, are other O people like this? Does our blood dictate our direction? Are we a slave to the sauce that sloshes within us? Do we have a choice in the matter or is our behavior, our personality, so ingrained in us that we have no other choice but to give in to the blood? All of my life, I’ve given and given, pulling away portions of myself and sharing them with those around me. Along the way, I lost my sense of self, forgot that I also mattered, that I needed to do some taking of my own. And I'm beginning to see it’s not selfish to realize that. Life is all about the give and the take and we should take freely as long as we don’t get gluttonous. We should also realize that when we don't need to take, we should be giving back. And I never wanted to take too much because I didn’t want to be selfish, didn’t want to put my needs before anyone else’s. While I think it’s a noble notion, it’s also quite naïve because one day I looked down at myself and realized all that giving had emptied me out. Sometimes I feel like I have nothing left to offer. It leaves me feeling useless and hollow. I don’t have any more time, patience, loyalty, attention, understanding, concern, compassion, counseling, and especially no more love, to hand out anymore. All I have left to call mine is the blood that runs through my veins. And I even give that away. I just fear that when the day comes for me to need something, whether it be crimson or catharsis, if blood is any indication of circumstance, the supply will fall short.
-Rainer Maria Rilke
My blood type is O, the “universal” blood type. In the past, it was generally regarded that O blood could be given to anyone. These days, it’s not always the case but I believe O blood is still safe to use in a pinch. Alternately, only other people with O blood are able to give to me, which narrows the field a bit. Although O is the most common blood type, it is the least donated. So, not only do I have to have a specific type of blood given to me but there’s not much of it to go around. And I couldn’t help but to make a correlation between my blood and my behavior. A lot of the time, I feel like I am a “universal” giver. When I was alive, I gave a lot of my time, patience, loyalty, attention, understanding, concern, compassion, counseling and a lot of love to a lot of people. I never felt like I got much of that back. I don’t blame these people, run to call them selfish or find myself bitter about it. I know none of those people intentionally denied me all the qualities I gave to them. It’s just that they had their own troubles to deal with and never realized they were taking more than they were giving. I didn’t help matters by placing myself in the position of parent rather than pal. I was always so quick to try to take care of these people in a more paternal way and I suppose that’s how most of my friends began to view me. I was the go-to guy when they had a problem. I dispensed admonishments and accolades. In some ways, it feels like my friendships have always been more like business exchanges. They came to me for a service. I had a supply of goods that was always high in demand. People always came to me for advice and encouragement, for an objective point-of-view or reassurance. Everyone was always quick to purchase a product but never solicited a sale of their own.
I have to wonder, are other O people like this? Does our blood dictate our direction? Are we a slave to the sauce that sloshes within us? Do we have a choice in the matter or is our behavior, our personality, so ingrained in us that we have no other choice but to give in to the blood? All of my life, I’ve given and given, pulling away portions of myself and sharing them with those around me. Along the way, I lost my sense of self, forgot that I also mattered, that I needed to do some taking of my own. And I'm beginning to see it’s not selfish to realize that. Life is all about the give and the take and we should take freely as long as we don’t get gluttonous. We should also realize that when we don't need to take, we should be giving back. And I never wanted to take too much because I didn’t want to be selfish, didn’t want to put my needs before anyone else’s. While I think it’s a noble notion, it’s also quite naïve because one day I looked down at myself and realized all that giving had emptied me out. Sometimes I feel like I have nothing left to offer. It leaves me feeling useless and hollow. I don’t have any more time, patience, loyalty, attention, understanding, concern, compassion, counseling, and especially no more love, to hand out anymore. All I have left to call mine is the blood that runs through my veins. And I even give that away. I just fear that when the day comes for me to need something, whether it be crimson or catharsis, if blood is any indication of circumstance, the supply will fall short.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Pherammonia
Written in Forsyth Park in Savannah, early 2009.
I like to people watch. I like to see how people relate to each other, how people respond to someone else’s body language, someone else’s voice, tone and articulation. I look at these people and wonder if I’d like to talk to them. I wonder if they’d ever like to talk to me. I see people pass by and usually they have someone with them. Girlfriends, best buds since high school, married couples, young lovers, old couples still holding each other’s hands, or even people with their dogs. Little children. Grown adults. Teens. People my age. And sometimes I see these people and so desperately want them to notice me, to sit down on the wooden bench next to me and strike up a conversation. I feel squeezed out of socializing and sometimes I can’t stand it. And I don’t mean to. I suppose it seems like I’m putting myself in that situation but I don’t come to the park to feel lonely. It’s just actually quite a nice place to visit. When the air is just right and the scent of flowers float around and I can hear far away giggles, inspiration can be found. It’s conducive to writing. But it comes at a cost. I see people together, couples, friends, lovers, connections, and I see that I am all by myself, that I have nothing but this notebook to give myself to and I find that disheartening. If only someone could be perceptive enough to reach out, to sense that separation within me. If only someone would be so kind as to do something about it, to want to seek me out and get to know me. As much as I like to be my myself, there comes times when I don’t want to sit alone, when I don’t want to feel those pangs of loneliness anymore. I sit in a huge crowd of people and know one acknowledges that I’m there and it’s no one’s fault because I’m just a stranger and you don’t go up to strangers and start talking to them. But isn’t that how you make friends? Aren’t we all strangers until one person compiles enough courage to turn a stranger into a friend? I suppose the park isn’t the best setting but I don’t have to just be sitting in the park. I can sit in a classroom or a bar or any general area that’s populated with people and I can go unnoticed, feel a mixture of isolation and desperation. Please, someone, anyone, talk to me. I’m too scared to talk to you so please come to me. If only someone could be brave enough for me. This notebook gets me by but I want to be able to get feedback from someone. I can’t socialize with a journal.
And I wonder why I don’t have more friends. I wonder why the friends I used to have are growing more and more distant. I know it’s my fault but there’s a part of me that feels like it’s not all my doing. Why is it that I can make friends so easily online but in person, I’m just a bumbling idiot? Maybe it’s because I feel safe, protected, when there’s a screen and several hundred miles separating us. It’s easy to put up emotional walls when there are literal ones between us. I’m uninhibited, not caught up in my own insecurities so my mind is free to be funny. I’m not distracted by my shyness or fear that they are judging the way I look or smell or act or sound. Words coming through the screen are sterile. You can inject a certain amount of tone and inflection depending on how you weave words together but all in all, it’s up to the other person to interpret not only what you said, but how you said it and what you meant by it. But in real life, all the signs are there, all the inflection and tone and body language that comes along with conversing and maybe it’s something in how I act that puts people off. Maybe I act weird or maybe I’m just not as bright or sharp when I’m in front of a physical person because all of those insecurities creep in and make me nervous and make me stutter. On the computer, I am in control of how they feel about me through my words. I’m good at playing with words. But when I’m physically in front of someone, all my protection is no longer. There are too many variables, too many aspects of myself that I cannot control. They aren’t just reading my words. They are hearing them, seeing my mouth move, looking at my hands and my stomach and crooked teeth and smelling my cologne and breathe and experiencing the very essence of me. And I suppose there’s one part, or maybe several parts, of me that people just do not like. Maybe my attitude is too unpredictable. Maybe I’m too goofy. Maybe it’s something internal. Or is it something that just naturally oozes out of my pores, like a layer of human repellent? Do I send out some kind of creepy vibes? Is there something about my presence that people consider deal breaking? Is it that my physical face does not match my photographs? Is it that my physical voice does not match my electronic instant messages?
They say that people possess these pheromones that act as a natural attractant to other people. A chemist named George Preti discovered that women with irregular menstrual cycles became regular when exposed to male underarm sweat. There’s been a study that indicates that the right hypothalamus in the brain responds to airborne sexual sweat. It seems there’s definitely something in the air and either I’m immune to it or my natural scent has soured. What is so wrong with me that I can’t connect with people in real life the way I can on the web? Is it the stuff that smells and if so, does mine not smell as sweet as the rest? Do I not have an attractive smell at all? And if the pheromones aren’t missing, then what is? I understand that I do not have the most experience when it comes to interacting with people. I spent all of my teenage years being fat and confined to my room because of the humiliation over my body. I missed out on those crucial years of socializing and romanticizing with people and now I feel out of the loop. I feel so behind that I almost just want to give up. I’ve lived the singular life all of my twenty-three years and now I almost don’t know any different or any better. I’ve never even felt a strong attraction to anyone because I don’t even know what attraction really means to me. I’ve felt so disconnected from everyone for so long that I don’t even know what I want in a friend, much less a lover.
Where is there to go from here? I don't know what I want from people yet I do know I want companionship. And I feel my need is deeper than romantic love. I'm so over that. No, I want that basic human connection with someone else. I simply just want a friend. I can do without romance but I'm not sure I can survive on myself alone. I'm worried that people will continue to slip in and out of my life and I'll never find consistency. Friends will come just long enough to get me by, just skidding along the surface of contentment, until they leave and I find myself floundering again. It's all about that continuing quest for stability in friendships. My foundation has been shaken up so much that I don't know which way is up and I don't know where to turn. And as silly as it seems, I hope against hope, wish although my faith has dried up, that someone will come along and be that stability, that rock that I've been needing to keep me centered. I look for it everywhere there's a crowd, from a class to crossing the street to sitting down on a wooden bench at the park. I look at these people and wonder if I’d like to talk to them. I wonder if they’d ever like to talk to me. I see people pass by and usually they have someone with them. And, just for once, I wish I wasn't the one sitting singularly.
I like to people watch. I like to see how people relate to each other, how people respond to someone else’s body language, someone else’s voice, tone and articulation. I look at these people and wonder if I’d like to talk to them. I wonder if they’d ever like to talk to me. I see people pass by and usually they have someone with them. Girlfriends, best buds since high school, married couples, young lovers, old couples still holding each other’s hands, or even people with their dogs. Little children. Grown adults. Teens. People my age. And sometimes I see these people and so desperately want them to notice me, to sit down on the wooden bench next to me and strike up a conversation. I feel squeezed out of socializing and sometimes I can’t stand it. And I don’t mean to. I suppose it seems like I’m putting myself in that situation but I don’t come to the park to feel lonely. It’s just actually quite a nice place to visit. When the air is just right and the scent of flowers float around and I can hear far away giggles, inspiration can be found. It’s conducive to writing. But it comes at a cost. I see people together, couples, friends, lovers, connections, and I see that I am all by myself, that I have nothing but this notebook to give myself to and I find that disheartening. If only someone could be perceptive enough to reach out, to sense that separation within me. If only someone would be so kind as to do something about it, to want to seek me out and get to know me. As much as I like to be my myself, there comes times when I don’t want to sit alone, when I don’t want to feel those pangs of loneliness anymore. I sit in a huge crowd of people and know one acknowledges that I’m there and it’s no one’s fault because I’m just a stranger and you don’t go up to strangers and start talking to them. But isn’t that how you make friends? Aren’t we all strangers until one person compiles enough courage to turn a stranger into a friend? I suppose the park isn’t the best setting but I don’t have to just be sitting in the park. I can sit in a classroom or a bar or any general area that’s populated with people and I can go unnoticed, feel a mixture of isolation and desperation. Please, someone, anyone, talk to me. I’m too scared to talk to you so please come to me. If only someone could be brave enough for me. This notebook gets me by but I want to be able to get feedback from someone. I can’t socialize with a journal.
And I wonder why I don’t have more friends. I wonder why the friends I used to have are growing more and more distant. I know it’s my fault but there’s a part of me that feels like it’s not all my doing. Why is it that I can make friends so easily online but in person, I’m just a bumbling idiot? Maybe it’s because I feel safe, protected, when there’s a screen and several hundred miles separating us. It’s easy to put up emotional walls when there are literal ones between us. I’m uninhibited, not caught up in my own insecurities so my mind is free to be funny. I’m not distracted by my shyness or fear that they are judging the way I look or smell or act or sound. Words coming through the screen are sterile. You can inject a certain amount of tone and inflection depending on how you weave words together but all in all, it’s up to the other person to interpret not only what you said, but how you said it and what you meant by it. But in real life, all the signs are there, all the inflection and tone and body language that comes along with conversing and maybe it’s something in how I act that puts people off. Maybe I act weird or maybe I’m just not as bright or sharp when I’m in front of a physical person because all of those insecurities creep in and make me nervous and make me stutter. On the computer, I am in control of how they feel about me through my words. I’m good at playing with words. But when I’m physically in front of someone, all my protection is no longer. There are too many variables, too many aspects of myself that I cannot control. They aren’t just reading my words. They are hearing them, seeing my mouth move, looking at my hands and my stomach and crooked teeth and smelling my cologne and breathe and experiencing the very essence of me. And I suppose there’s one part, or maybe several parts, of me that people just do not like. Maybe my attitude is too unpredictable. Maybe I’m too goofy. Maybe it’s something internal. Or is it something that just naturally oozes out of my pores, like a layer of human repellent? Do I send out some kind of creepy vibes? Is there something about my presence that people consider deal breaking? Is it that my physical face does not match my photographs? Is it that my physical voice does not match my electronic instant messages?
They say that people possess these pheromones that act as a natural attractant to other people. A chemist named George Preti discovered that women with irregular menstrual cycles became regular when exposed to male underarm sweat. There’s been a study that indicates that the right hypothalamus in the brain responds to airborne sexual sweat. It seems there’s definitely something in the air and either I’m immune to it or my natural scent has soured. What is so wrong with me that I can’t connect with people in real life the way I can on the web? Is it the stuff that smells and if so, does mine not smell as sweet as the rest? Do I not have an attractive smell at all? And if the pheromones aren’t missing, then what is? I understand that I do not have the most experience when it comes to interacting with people. I spent all of my teenage years being fat and confined to my room because of the humiliation over my body. I missed out on those crucial years of socializing and romanticizing with people and now I feel out of the loop. I feel so behind that I almost just want to give up. I’ve lived the singular life all of my twenty-three years and now I almost don’t know any different or any better. I’ve never even felt a strong attraction to anyone because I don’t even know what attraction really means to me. I’ve felt so disconnected from everyone for so long that I don’t even know what I want in a friend, much less a lover.
Where is there to go from here? I don't know what I want from people yet I do know I want companionship. And I feel my need is deeper than romantic love. I'm so over that. No, I want that basic human connection with someone else. I simply just want a friend. I can do without romance but I'm not sure I can survive on myself alone. I'm worried that people will continue to slip in and out of my life and I'll never find consistency. Friends will come just long enough to get me by, just skidding along the surface of contentment, until they leave and I find myself floundering again. It's all about that continuing quest for stability in friendships. My foundation has been shaken up so much that I don't know which way is up and I don't know where to turn. And as silly as it seems, I hope against hope, wish although my faith has dried up, that someone will come along and be that stability, that rock that I've been needing to keep me centered. I look for it everywhere there's a crowd, from a class to crossing the street to sitting down on a wooden bench at the park. I look at these people and wonder if I’d like to talk to them. I wonder if they’d ever like to talk to me. I see people pass by and usually they have someone with them. And, just for once, I wish I wasn't the one sitting singularly.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A Mouthful of Blood
Had another appointment with the dentist yesterday afternoon. The agenda was to fill another tooth and extract one of my top teeth that grew on the inside of my mouth instead of being in line with the rest. There wasn’t anything wrong with the tooth but it formed a triangle with the surrounding teeth, which made it more difficult to clean/floss/remove food, etc. I wasn’t as nervous this time around because I knew what to expect. And as soon as the lady put the gas mask over my nose, I started inhaling deep. During the first go ‘round, I felt like it took a long time for the nitrous oxide to kick in so I wanted to get that gas a moving as soon as possible. And I felt like it did. I don’t know if they cranked up the dosage because of the tooth removal or if it was because I was breathing deep or what but after a few breaths, that tingly sensation swam to my hands and toes. I closed my eyes and tried to center myself because, although I wasn’t nervous about the filling because I had just had that done a few weeks ago and it wasn’t bad at all, the idea of having a perfectly good, strong, solid tooth yanked out wasn’t something I was too excited about experiencing.
After a good while, the dentist came in and I told him about the tooth that I chipped the day after my last appointment. The first thing he did was smooth it out, which was no big deal at all. Then he began drilling into my lower tooth. Despite the gas and anesthetic, I felt it. I felt it down my jaw into my chin. At one point, I thought I felt that baby right down to my toenails. It wasn’t the worst kind of pain but it was definitely uncomfortable. It hurt a lot more than the last tooth he worked on. It seemed like he took longer to fill it as well. In fact, I thought maybe he had already started working on my upper tooth. It’s so weird because you hear metal clanking and teeth being scraped and drilled but you don’t exactly know where it’s coming from because you are so numbed up. I didn’t even know where my tongue was in my mouth. They could have pierced it and I wouldn’t have noticed. And earlier, the dentist asked me if I could feel when he touched the area around my top tooth and I didn’t feel anything, no pain, no tingling, not even him touching that area in the slightest. So, I thought maybe he gave me a stronger dose of the anesthetic and maybe he had already taken out that tooth. Wow, he took out the tooth and I didn’t even notice! How awesome is that? I tried to find my tongue and when the dentist and his assistant had their hands out of my mouth, I attempted to sweep it over the area of the tooth to see if it was in fact missing or still intact. I couldn’t tell.
Well, a few minutes later I could definitely tell that it was still there and holding strong!
The dentist said, “Okay, you’re going to feel a little pressure” as he clamped down on my tooth. I felt a whole lot more than a “little pressure.” In fact, it felt like he was trying to decapitate me. I felt my whole body give under the strength of his pull. I don’t want to say it was the kind of sharp pain like a stab or slice. It was definitely a pressure sensation but a painful pressure, if that makes any sense. Anyway, it was extremely uncomfortable, so much so that I felt it in my ear. The pain came in short bursts, I suppose as he pulled and then rested, pulled and then rested. I think he might have even partially tried to cut the tooth out ‘cause I heard some buzzing going on. And then the pain stretched into longer periods, as he really put some elbow grease into that tooth. Meanwhile, I’m lying in the chair, my hands sinking into the arm rests, my eyes closed, trying to concentrate on my breathing, trying to focus on music and poetry, all the while this girl on one side of me is sucking up the saliva from my mouth while the dentist on the other side of me removes my tooth, bit by bit. I heard it snap a few times and chipped tooth landed in my throat. This happened about two or three times and it worried me ‘cause I was thinking if he had chipped down my tooth to a stump, he won’t have anything to hold onto to be able to pull that sucker out.
And the smell was horrible, like a burned batch of Captain Crunch. I know that sounds really odd but that’s the closest comparison I could make. Or it was some kind of breakfast cereal but it was nauseating whatever it was. The pulling and sawing and the horrible smell all made my head pound like a jackhammer. I was coming close to reaching my limit. For a while there I was going to ask if we could take a break because I wasn’t sure how much more of that intense pressure I could take. It was getting pretty bad.
And then he told me it was over. I was shocked because I didn’t necessarily feel the tooth come out. I guess I had so many other sensations going on that the feeling of my tooth slowly tearing away was lost in the mix. I realized my knees had been tensed up the whole time so I finally let them relax and said a quick thank you to God. While it was incredibly unpleasant, I realized that it could have been a lot worse so I was thankful that it wasn’t. I mean, I could handle it. I wasn’t reduced to tears or girly screams, so I was happy about that. The dentist then stuck some gauze in my mouth to cover the hole where my tooth once was and asked me if I could hold it there with my tongue. I still couldn’t even feel my tongue so there was no way I was gonna be able to stick it there. He laughed at me and then the hygienist laughed at me and then I laughed at myself. Someone else came in and raised the chair. As I slowly came up, the dentist started throwing a lot of information my way. I was still a little unnerved by the procedure so I wasn’t hearing everything he was saying. All I gathered was that I wasn’t supposed to spit or smoke for a few days. No problem there. He also told me he wrote a prescription for pain meds and told me to change the gauze every forty-five minutes.
As I was paying for the appointment, I touched my face and was horrified. At first, I thought the gauze was hanging out of my mouth. Then, I realized it was just my lip. I felt lower and my whole chin was numb and puffy. It was totally creepy. I was also slurring my words like a seasoned alky. I then went to Rite-Aid to get my prescription filled and then went home. I rinsed my mouth out and before I put in fresh gauze, I felt the hole in my mouth with my tongue. It was so creepy. First of all, it felt huge because it was one of the larger back teeth. Secondly, it was pretty sensitive and still bleeding. The coppery taste of blood cascaded across my tongue and made me wince. Surprisingly, I wasn’t hurting that much. I guess it’s because I was still pretty numbed up and I went ahead and took some Oxycodone as a preventative measure, so the pain wouldn’t have a chance to kick in. Unfortunately, it made me feel really queasy and not very good. You know that sensation you get in your chest and butt when you feel nauseated? It’s that fuzzy fiery feeling and you feel like you need to vomit? Yeah, that’s how I was feeling. So, I took a nap and then took another pill before going to bed.
The gaping hole is still a little bit sore. It doesn’t necessarily hurt but it’s tender to food and drink. I’ve been eating soft foods and trying not to consume anything too hot or too cold. It’s already getting old chewing out of just one side of my mouth but I’ll get by. Hopefully I’ll be fully healed by the end of the week or sometime around there. I don’t think I’m going to take any more pills because they just make me feel sick. The dentist said I could just take some over the counter medicine if I’d rather so that’s what I did today.
The good thing is that I’m done with the dentist. No cavities and no extraneous teeth to deal with and hopefully if I don’t mysteriously chip any more teeth, I’m good to go for a while! Pretty excited about that. The next thing to tackle is braces but I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get them ‘cause I still haven’t found a job yet. I'm worried that I'll finally be able to afford braces only when I get old and by the time I'm finished with them, my teeth will fall out and I'll have to get dentures. But I suppose that's a long way down the road and I shouldn't worry about it now. Maybe I'll get lucky and win the lottery. Or maybe I'll just have to keep the teeth I have. At least they're healthy.
Ouchies.
After a good while, the dentist came in and I told him about the tooth that I chipped the day after my last appointment. The first thing he did was smooth it out, which was no big deal at all. Then he began drilling into my lower tooth. Despite the gas and anesthetic, I felt it. I felt it down my jaw into my chin. At one point, I thought I felt that baby right down to my toenails. It wasn’t the worst kind of pain but it was definitely uncomfortable. It hurt a lot more than the last tooth he worked on. It seemed like he took longer to fill it as well. In fact, I thought maybe he had already started working on my upper tooth. It’s so weird because you hear metal clanking and teeth being scraped and drilled but you don’t exactly know where it’s coming from because you are so numbed up. I didn’t even know where my tongue was in my mouth. They could have pierced it and I wouldn’t have noticed. And earlier, the dentist asked me if I could feel when he touched the area around my top tooth and I didn’t feel anything, no pain, no tingling, not even him touching that area in the slightest. So, I thought maybe he gave me a stronger dose of the anesthetic and maybe he had already taken out that tooth. Wow, he took out the tooth and I didn’t even notice! How awesome is that? I tried to find my tongue and when the dentist and his assistant had their hands out of my mouth, I attempted to sweep it over the area of the tooth to see if it was in fact missing or still intact. I couldn’t tell.
Well, a few minutes later I could definitely tell that it was still there and holding strong!
The dentist said, “Okay, you’re going to feel a little pressure” as he clamped down on my tooth. I felt a whole lot more than a “little pressure.” In fact, it felt like he was trying to decapitate me. I felt my whole body give under the strength of his pull. I don’t want to say it was the kind of sharp pain like a stab or slice. It was definitely a pressure sensation but a painful pressure, if that makes any sense. Anyway, it was extremely uncomfortable, so much so that I felt it in my ear. The pain came in short bursts, I suppose as he pulled and then rested, pulled and then rested. I think he might have even partially tried to cut the tooth out ‘cause I heard some buzzing going on. And then the pain stretched into longer periods, as he really put some elbow grease into that tooth. Meanwhile, I’m lying in the chair, my hands sinking into the arm rests, my eyes closed, trying to concentrate on my breathing, trying to focus on music and poetry, all the while this girl on one side of me is sucking up the saliva from my mouth while the dentist on the other side of me removes my tooth, bit by bit. I heard it snap a few times and chipped tooth landed in my throat. This happened about two or three times and it worried me ‘cause I was thinking if he had chipped down my tooth to a stump, he won’t have anything to hold onto to be able to pull that sucker out.
And the smell was horrible, like a burned batch of Captain Crunch. I know that sounds really odd but that’s the closest comparison I could make. Or it was some kind of breakfast cereal but it was nauseating whatever it was. The pulling and sawing and the horrible smell all made my head pound like a jackhammer. I was coming close to reaching my limit. For a while there I was going to ask if we could take a break because I wasn’t sure how much more of that intense pressure I could take. It was getting pretty bad.
And then he told me it was over. I was shocked because I didn’t necessarily feel the tooth come out. I guess I had so many other sensations going on that the feeling of my tooth slowly tearing away was lost in the mix. I realized my knees had been tensed up the whole time so I finally let them relax and said a quick thank you to God. While it was incredibly unpleasant, I realized that it could have been a lot worse so I was thankful that it wasn’t. I mean, I could handle it. I wasn’t reduced to tears or girly screams, so I was happy about that. The dentist then stuck some gauze in my mouth to cover the hole where my tooth once was and asked me if I could hold it there with my tongue. I still couldn’t even feel my tongue so there was no way I was gonna be able to stick it there. He laughed at me and then the hygienist laughed at me and then I laughed at myself. Someone else came in and raised the chair. As I slowly came up, the dentist started throwing a lot of information my way. I was still a little unnerved by the procedure so I wasn’t hearing everything he was saying. All I gathered was that I wasn’t supposed to spit or smoke for a few days. No problem there. He also told me he wrote a prescription for pain meds and told me to change the gauze every forty-five minutes.
As I was paying for the appointment, I touched my face and was horrified. At first, I thought the gauze was hanging out of my mouth. Then, I realized it was just my lip. I felt lower and my whole chin was numb and puffy. It was totally creepy. I was also slurring my words like a seasoned alky. I then went to Rite-Aid to get my prescription filled and then went home. I rinsed my mouth out and before I put in fresh gauze, I felt the hole in my mouth with my tongue. It was so creepy. First of all, it felt huge because it was one of the larger back teeth. Secondly, it was pretty sensitive and still bleeding. The coppery taste of blood cascaded across my tongue and made me wince. Surprisingly, I wasn’t hurting that much. I guess it’s because I was still pretty numbed up and I went ahead and took some Oxycodone as a preventative measure, so the pain wouldn’t have a chance to kick in. Unfortunately, it made me feel really queasy and not very good. You know that sensation you get in your chest and butt when you feel nauseated? It’s that fuzzy fiery feeling and you feel like you need to vomit? Yeah, that’s how I was feeling. So, I took a nap and then took another pill before going to bed.
The gaping hole is still a little bit sore. It doesn’t necessarily hurt but it’s tender to food and drink. I’ve been eating soft foods and trying not to consume anything too hot or too cold. It’s already getting old chewing out of just one side of my mouth but I’ll get by. Hopefully I’ll be fully healed by the end of the week or sometime around there. I don’t think I’m going to take any more pills because they just make me feel sick. The dentist said I could just take some over the counter medicine if I’d rather so that’s what I did today.
The good thing is that I’m done with the dentist. No cavities and no extraneous teeth to deal with and hopefully if I don’t mysteriously chip any more teeth, I’m good to go for a while! Pretty excited about that. The next thing to tackle is braces but I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get them ‘cause I still haven’t found a job yet. I'm worried that I'll finally be able to afford braces only when I get old and by the time I'm finished with them, my teeth will fall out and I'll have to get dentures. But I suppose that's a long way down the road and I shouldn't worry about it now. Maybe I'll get lucky and win the lottery. Or maybe I'll just have to keep the teeth I have. At least they're healthy.
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