Corpse Crush

A work of fiction, written February 2007.


I knew he’d be here. He always adored football. He’s with his friends now, practicing. And he’s just as handsome as when I saw him a few days ago. Or was it a few weeks? I forget. Time seems meaningless around him. Actually, everything seems meaningless around him, except for his arms around me. I love to watch him play. I believe I could stay here forever and just watch his body move. It’s hot today. Maybe he’ll peel off his shirt. He is so gorgeous. Brown hair. Beautiful brown eyes. Tall. Dark. Handsome. What more could anyone ask for? So strong, too, the way his muscles flex when he moves. And that tooth. Cutest thing in the world.

Millie had repeated Greg’s description in her mind a thousand times. Although her head was fuzzy, she knew she’d never forget his face or where to find him. As Millie would repeat the specifics of Greg’s face, she would always find something new about him that made her fall in love all over again. This time it was the trail of hair that bloomed on his bellybutton and snaked its way down his abdomen and into his underwear. Millie had caught a glimpse of it when Greg had jumped up and extended his arms to catch the ball, his shirt lifting up in the process. Millie had seen him shirtless before and always noticed the hair but something about this time made it particularly sexy. It was the teasing aspect that turned her on. Just a glimpse of that hair that lead to other places. Millie found herself falling in love with every inch of Greg’s body, even the inches she didn’t know about yet.

Millie stood on the outskirts of her high school football field, safely behind the diamond patterned fence. She watched as Greg played football with a few of his friends. This became a routine for Millie. At least three times a week, she would pass by the football field after school to see if Greg was there. Sometimes he was and sometimes he wasn’t. He and his friends didn’t have a set schedule to play, only when the mood struck them or one of them didn’t have to go to work. When he wasn’t there, an ache of disappointment would fill Millie’s insides. Sometimes other girls would stay after school and join Milie in watching Greg play, although they never actually joined her. They would stand in her general area, sometimes smile at her, but never talk to her. Millie didn’t mind. She knew she was Greg’s biggest fan, that the bubble headed blondes could never love him like she did. No, not in the slightest. It was this fact that kept Millie from getting jealous of the prettier, skinnier girls.

Not that Millie was ugly or fat. She just lacked a little self confidence and thus, only felt that way. In fact, Millie was quite cute, if not a little plain. She kept her strawberry blond hair a little past her shoulders, mostly always straight and parted down the middle. Millie didn’t wear makeup as she always felt fake under it and a bit clownish. The reason could be that Millie was never taught how to apply makeup correctly. She wouldn’t dare ask her mother because she was prone to applying too much makeup herself. And Millie didn’t have any girl friends so she never bothered. And she didn’t need to. Millie’s complexion was fresh and creamy, a welcome change from her bout with acne she had had a few years before. Millie always looked neat and clean but never went out of her way to look gorgeous. If any random stranger were to comment on her style, one might say she’d be a very gorgeous girl if she would only fix herself up a bit more. A little blush, a little mascara. Some would even say it seemed like she tried to underplay her figure. And they would be right.

Millie went through all the typical teenage trauma: terrible skin, awkward growth spurts that left her body out of proportion and gawky, bad fashion choices. Middle school was a terrible time for Millie. Her fragile self-esteem couldn’t carry the burden of her braces so she became a hermit. But, once Millie hit high school, she had outgrown her problem skin and no longer needed her braces. Something else happened to Millie as well. She grew breasts. Big, round, beautiful breasts.

While other girls were developing early, Millie remained flat and frustrated. Millie’s mother swooped in to save the day with a typical Mom’s “when I was your age” speech. She assured Millie that one day she would develop and that she was just a "late bloomer." Millie always cringed at that awful and outdated expression.

“I didn’t develop until I was fifteen,” her mother told her one day. This did make Millie feel a little better and even more so when she looked down at her mother’s chest. Despite being a forty-two-year old woman who breastfed both Millie and her little brother, Billie (which consequently did lead to a bit of sagging) Millie’s mother had quite an ample bosom.

Those will be mine one day Millie thought to herself in wide eyed wonder.

Sure enough, that summer, Millie began to grow. It was as if a signal were sent to her breasts telling them they were lagging behind. And they were catching up very fast. A few weeks and several trips to the mall for new bras later and Millie had a beautiful new figure. She could only imagine the surprise on the faces of all those she knew when she came back to school with one new hairdo and two perky breasts. She was even asked by a few envious girls if she had a boob job over the summer!

Millie’s beautiful new body did backfire to some degree. Not only did she feel good about her new body, so did a lot of the boys in her grade. Millie’s new look lead to lots of attention from her male classmates. Some of it was good but most of it was creepy. Millie would sometimes catch guys staring at her chest in class. This made Millie very uncomfortable and so she withdrew from people again. She also began to wear the most unflattering clothes she could find. Millie was insecure in middle school because she felt she wasn’t pretty enough and now, in high school, she was feeling insecure for being too pretty. She wondered if she’d ever feel good about herself like the other girls.

To get her mind off of her troubles, Millie would draw. It seemed Millie had a hidden talent for art, a talent found while seeking solace from the cruel world when she was “ugly.” As Mille battled through her awkward period, her weapons were pencils and paper. Millie expressed her emotions through her art. Even Millie’s mother was surprised at her daughter’s talent, as she could barely draw a stick figure man. Then, she remembered Millie’s father used to draw when he was a very young child. Perhaps it was another gift he passed along besides his nose and deep gray eyes.

What once was a passion for Millie fizzled itself into a hobby once school started back. She wasn’t able to draw very much until she was able to take an art class. Her teacher, Mrs. Bentley, was thoroughly impressed with Millie’s work and encouraged her to enter the different local art contests that were held in the area. She entered in several, placed in many and even one a few first prize ribbons. Not too bad for an amateur artist.

Millie fell in love the day she was harassed by a group of football players in front of her locker after fourth period. She was exchanging the books in her backpack when Peter (known as Pete the Perv to all the girls in school) walked up to her and put his elbow on a locker next to hers. Standing next to him was his right hand man, Kent. There were two other guys standing with them but she didn’t know their names. They were in a grade below Millie and the only people Millie knew were people with which she shared classes. But, Millie knew that collectively they were known as the Circle Jerks, not only because they were jerks, but because a year earlier they were all caught by Coach Bowers in the locker room engaging in a mutual masturbation session. No one dared call them that to their faces, though, as the few people who did ended up with bloody noses and bruised bodies. But, when they weren’t within earshot, people would say under their breath, “Watch out, the Circle Jerks are coming!” Then, people would scatter like dropped marbles. And they scattered for good reason. Pete the Perv was the leader of the sleaze gang and he was the biggest womanizer to ever enter Green Hills High School. He was a serial cherry popper and was proud of it. His two passions in life were football and sex, not unlike other men, but Peter just took it way too far.

Peter relied on his good looks and fake charm to bag the girls. He wasn’t a stunning looking guy, but he did have a boyishly handsome face and a decent body from all those years of being on the football team. It also helped that he was rich. He went through condoms like Kleenex. Peter would find a pretty young (and naïve) girl, make her feel like she was the prettiest girl in the world, then, just as he would gain all of her trust, he would have sex with her and then dump her. That is, unless she was a great lay. In that case, he would bang her a few more times and then dump her. His philosophy was “befriend 'em, bed 'em, then beat those bitches to the door!”

Peter left a seemingly endless trail of broken hearts and broken hymens. After being used, the girls were confused and more than anything, they were angry. Despite his experience, Peter wasn’t very good in bed. He wasn’t very well endowed, either, and didn’t know what to do with what little he had. And although these poor young girls were virgins, Pete liked it rough. He would mount them and then drive himself into them as hard as he could, pump a few times and then climax, releasing the most unattractive squeal of satisfaction. But, the girls were never satisfied. And because of the way he had viciously violated their insides, they were not only left with bruised hearts, but with bloody bed sheets as well.

Millie silently groaned to herself when she saw Pete the Perv and his gang come up to her.

“Hey, there, Millie,” he said it a sickeningly sweet voice. He barely knew Millie and had never even spoken to her until he noticed the two attractive growths on her chest.  His glassy brown eyes zoned in on the buttons of Millie's cardigan, the way the fabric stretched across her breasts, the way they slightly rose with her breath.

“Hi,” she said in a politely dismissive tone. Millie quickly zipped up her backpack, crossed her arms over her chest and gave Peter a politely dismissive smile.  She tried to walk away but Peter stopped her and softly grabbed her arm. The spot where Peter put his hand sent ripples of goose bumps up and down Millie’s arm.

“So, I noticed you’ve done some growing over the summer,” he said in a cocky manner. His tongue poked out of his mouth and slid across his thin lips, leaving them wet and shiny.  Kent and the other two were leering at Millie. She could actually feel their eyes fondling her chest. “Can I squeeze them?”

Peter wasn’t good with tact.

“Okay, I’ve really got to get to class,” Millie said firmly. She shrugged off Peter’s arm and started again when he stopped her again. He grabbed her arm once more, this time a little harder.

Peter stepped closer to Millie, his thin, wet lips only centimeter's from her ear.

“I don’t think you answered my question,” he said, almost hurt.

“The answer is no,” Millie said flatly.

“No one says no to Peter Caravelli,” Pete said, as if she should have known better.

“Well, I just did.”

Peter’s grip on Millie tightened until he started to hurt her. Millie’s eyes grew wide with fear. Peter started to say something else when a booming voice interrupted his own.

“Hey! Stop it, Peter!” Greg shouted.

Peter looked over and saw Greg walking up to him. He let go of Millie and then smiled a sickeningly sweet smile at Greg.  It was the kind of smile he'd flash anytime he got in trouble or if he was trying to impress a girl.  Millie could see how his smile would soothe anyone he angered and trap any girl he wanted to conquer.  It was a good smile, an attractive smile, one that lit up his whole face and invited his eyes to become brighter.  It was deceiving.  If she didn't already know what a sleaze he was, she might have been charmed.

“We were just having a nice conversation,” Peter said.

“I highly doubt that. Now, why don’t you and the rest of the Circle Jerks go away,” Greg said.

Fire rose in Peter’s eyes. The sweetness on his lips dried up into a frown.  If it were anyone else but Greg, that person would have been paralyzed. But, Greg was probably the best football player on the team and Peter looked up to him for his skill, respected him. Peter let it go because it was Greg. He and Kent and the rest of them slinked off down the halls and out of sight.

Millie and Greg locked eyes. In that split second, Millie felt something she had never felt before.  She felt love for a man. Her father died when she was three and she had no memories of him.  Any that she might have had when she was younger slowly faded away with age. She had no uncles and only a few male cousins but they lived out of state so she never saw them. It was mainly just her and her mom. Millie never had a male figure in her life. Millie had never loved a man before. That was, until now. And in that split second, she not only felt love for Greg for saving her from Peter, but she felt a lifetime of love for him. She fell in love with those brown eyes of his and fell in love with his heart.

Millie knew of Greg, just like she knew of a lot of people without ever actually knowing them in person. Millie knew that Greg was on the football team and that he did well in school. She also knew Greg wasn’t a typical dumb jock. His name was always found on the honor roll and he would speak to everyone in the halls, no matter if they were rich or poor, black or white, gothic or preppy. Greg was just a friendly guy who had love in his heart for everyone and he spread that love around. And now Millie was catching some of that love and sending some back to him. Millie had always found him attractive from far away, but now that he was closer, she could see what a truly handsome guy he was. His short, cocoa colored hair shined like glass under the florescent lights. If Millie had to define its style, she would have said “just after sex bed head.” Greg was tall, over six feet Millie guessed, and quite lean. He wasn’t muscle bound and he certainly wasn’t skinny, but just the right amount of muscle. His tight t-shirt defined his toned arms perfectly. He was a shirt and jeans kind of guy, wearing his letterman jacket on cold days. His sparkling eyes always gave off a sense of warmth and openness. The brown reminded her of hot chocolate and she was instantly comforted by them, warmed by their gaze. Greg’s skin took on a golden hue due to his many football practices outside. And now that he was smiling at her, Millie noticed his teeth. They were pearly white, but not perfect. His right canine tooth slightly crossed his lateral incisor. This broke Millie’s vision of his perfection at first, then only reinforced it. That slightly crooked tooth showed that Greg was real, not some unattainable Adonis. He was genuine. His imperfections made him perfect. Millie called them his “unperfectly perfect” teeth.

“Sorry about Pete the Perv,” he said.

“Oh, um, it’s okay,” Millie stammered. “I guess it’s a good thing you came along. Since he’s your friend he listened to you when you told him to leave.”

Greg laughed and Millie melted underneath the sound.

“He is not my friend! He is on my team, but that’s where our relationship ends. He’s a total jerk and treats women terribly.  Actually, he treats everyone terribly.  Listen, if he ever gives you trouble again, just let me know, okay? I’ll have a talk with him. For some reason, he listens to me.”

Millie fell a little more in love with him. He not only had a beautiful face, but a beautiful soul as well.

“I’ll do that, thankyousomuch,” she said way too fast, a huge smile spreading across her face. The intensity of his beauty was too much for her to take and Millie had to look down at her shoes.

“Well, I think the bell is gonna ring soon.  I gotta get to class before I'm late. I’ll see ya around, Millie. It’s Millie, right?”

Oh, my God! He knows my name! He knows my naaame!

“Right!” she said in a high pitched giggle. Millie heard the word reverberate in her ears and quickly realized how stupid she sounded. She wanted to die.

Greg only smiled his “unperfectly perfect” smile and then waved goodbye to Millie before heading off to class.

Millie’s smile only grew as she closed her eyes and sunk in the events of the last few moments. She thought to herself, I just talked to the man I’m going to marry.

Although Millie had never had a crush on a boy before, she knew that this wasn’t just a normal crush. She knew this was real, true love. Millie never doubted her feelings for one second. She was enamored with this Greek god, this beautiful being who had swept in and swept her off her feet while protecting her from Pete the Perv.  The shrilling sound of the bell crashed inside Millie's head and brought out of her daydream romance with Greg.  She practically floated to class.

Memories flooded back to Millie as she stood on the football field. She recalled her first meeting with Greg and the encounter with Peter. A streak of hatred ran through her body at the mention of Peter’s name, although she didn’t know why. Millie had forgotten a lot of things over the past few days. Or weeks, or months? Millie put one hand through the chain link fence and pretended the material between her fingers were Greg’s fingers. She caressed the fence in hopes that somehow she could transfer the sensation of her fingers over to Greg just by the power of her heart. Millie looked down and noticed a red card in her other hand. She turned it over and looked at it. A Valentine. Suddenly, Millie remembered. It was Valentine’s Day. And she remembered making the card for Greg.

After meeting Greg for the first time, the next few weeks were filled with Millie seeing Greg in the hall and he would always wave and flash his flawless smile at Millie. Millie would drink up every drop and feel full for the rest of the day, satiated by the daily slices of Greg she would get to indulge in. They never had time to talk as they were always walking to their next class. Not that Millie would have spoken to him, anyway. Millie was painfully shy despite her beauty. And she doubted Greg even thought of her more than just another victim of Peter. But, she loved him regardless, whether they talked or whether she’d silently see him pass by. As long as she could look at him, she realized she was okay. He was her link to her world. And her world was Greg.

Millie decided to use her art to show Greg just how much she loved him. Millie didn’t have any pictures of Greg and would feel way too awkward asking for one, so she dug out her old yearbook from the year before and found Greg’s picture. He looked younger in the picture. His face was a bit fuller, his hair a bit longer, but that smile was still the same. And those beautiful eyes. Millie decided to take Greg’s proportions from the yearbook and draw him as he was today, more mature, more chiseled, more beautiful. Millie never had a problem drawing people. Sometimes she was so good the drawing would look photo realistic. But, knowing the picture was going to go to her future husband, Millie put herself under a lot of pressure and she had a hard time getting it right. After several nights of crumpled paper and broken pieces of chalk, Millie finally finished. She stood back, her cheeks and forehead smudged with charcoal, and was happy with the final product. She just hoped Greg would be as well.

Millie had planned on giving the drawing to Greg the next day, but before she could put the picture away, she had second thoughts. Would that be weird? Would he think I was a creepy stalker? We’ve only talked once. What if I scare him away? No, I can’t do that. I can’t give him this picture. Milie put the drawing of Greg away in one of her drawers.

Now, looking down, she remembered that she realized it wasn’t weird or creepy at all, but a beautiful thing to do for someone else. And she felt in her heart he’d think so, too. Millie was struck with many realizations in the moment that she glanced down at the Valentine card with Greg’s picture in it. Millie remembered her newfound bravery in the decision to give the picture to Greg. Her head began to spin with memories and realizations.  Millie wanted to express her love for Greg even though she knew he would never fall in love with her. Without the worry of wondering about his reaction to her declaration of love for him, Millie knew she’d be able to give him the picture with a little Valentine thrown in, in honor of the big day. Millie knew Greg wouldn’t fall in love with her. Everything was coming back. It was very clear in her head now. Millie wasn’t feeling insecure, only certain of this. She wasn’t worried about her silly problems she used to have. It’s not that Millie didn’t feel pretty enough or thin enough. No, Millie had a much bigger problem.

Millie was dead.

Click "Read More" below the links to finish the story...

Heart in a Headlock

"They can't touch you. They can't hear you. But if you can solve the mystery of your own death, then you'll have the chance to live again."
-The Invisible

Okay, just what the heck am I doing here?  For a while there, I really lost myself.  It’s not that I ever knew who I was in the first place but there were times when I felt I at least had a grasp on this Brannon person.  It’s sometimes stunning how you can be you, be inside of yourself and live your life and never really even know who you are.  Now, I’m realizing it’s totally possible.  And it felt like just when I was making some progress, just when I was getting to know myself, I changed so drastically that everything I thought to be true turned out to be dead wrong.  I was a stranger inside of myself, therefore I felt uncomfortable and alone, shut out from the familiar and stranded in a foreign body.   

Situations in my life did not turn out how I had hoped.  I thought once I started college, everything would turn around.  I naively thought I’d make friends and be recognized for my art and caring nature and I would find love, peace and satisfaction.  Instead, I was met with heartache, regret and restlessness.  I realized my dream school wasn’t as shiny as they had projected and realized that people weren’t as good as I gave them credit for.  I graduated a bit disenchanted and it only got worse once I moved back home and found myself under the overbearing and controlling nature of my mother.  I was out of school, out of work and eating to ease the boredom and disillusionment.  I stayed inside and away from people and got fatter and fatter, undoing three years of weight loss.  Everything was spiraling out of my control and I felt helpless and powerless.

And so I turned to writing, as I always have, to deal with the mounting messes in my head.  Thus, I started the Everyday Entropy project.  In a lot of ways, it actually started itself.  Everyday Entropy is essentially about me trying to understand, explore, accept and eventually overcome my “death,” which is really just a metaphorical veil for the downward spiral of depression and the trembling transitions I find myself undergoing.  There were several reasons why I chose to write from the perspective of a dead guy.  Firstly, I’ve always been interested in the darker nature of things.  I think anyone that knows me or has read my writing for a while will know this.  And because I’m not really a fascinating person on my own, because my writing isn’t all that interesting, I thought I could try to put a slight spin on the same old boring blog by writing about my rotting.  I don’t know if it's made things more interesting or pretentious but at least I'm trying here...

I also felt like starting Everyday Entropy fresh out of college would be a great way to chronicle that unsure time that most college graduates find themselves wading through.  You know, what do you with yourself after you’ve been in school for the majority of your life?  It’s time to find a job and possibly move and leave behind your friends and family and try to start a new life for yourself and that’s a huge change and a lot of pressure.  I thought it might be interesting to write about how my post-graduate “afterlife” goes.  I always thought it would be great if my story started out tragically and ended up having a happy ending.  Wouldn’t that be a wonderful read, to see me go from some dead dude to somehow finding all of my decomposing dreams come to life?  How gratifying would that be for the reader, and for me as the author of the story?

You can’t get much more alienated than being dead and I’ve always felt pretty alienated from the rest of humanity.  I don’t think that’s necessarily a terrible thing.  Sure, it’s quite lonely but it’s also given me incredible insights.  I’ve always felt on the edge of people, always felt like I’ve never been so involved in anyone that I’ve been able to allow myself to take a few steps back to see the big picture.  As emotional as I am, I’ve always felt I’ve been able to be objective when needed, not afraid to dish out advice that people might not want to hear but would ultimately be beneficial for them.  I’ve never took a friend’s side just because I liked them or blindly agreed with an opinion that I thought was outright wrong.  I’ve always tried to be analytical and see things from both sides.  I’ve been able to put my feelings aside for rationale.  It’s always seemed that things that make the utmost sense to me are completely lost on others.  This has always made me feel different, slightly outcast.  And who’s more outcast than the dead?  I felt like I could explain my thinking better by just saying I was dead.  It gave me a reason for being different, for understanding the things that “living” people could not comprehend.  I was outside of the world, no longer attached and thus able to see things from a different perspective.  I was now on the outside looking in.

Another inspiration for this blog concept is the amazing show, Dead Like Me.  I really liked how the undead character of George saw the world from a different perspective after she died.  It seemed like she understood more about life after she didn’t have one anymore.  It fit my situation perfectly and I adapted that style to my writing.   

I somehow felt like I was being cheated, that life wasn’t fair.  I felt like I had been slapped in the face by the universe.  I’m just a small town boy trying to find happiness, taking a chance on doing what I thought I loved, blindly and naively pushing forward with confidence that it would all work out, that my decisions would be worth it in the end.  How many times do you hear people telling us to follow our dreams?  If you do, you’ll succeed!  So, I did.  I followed my dreams but I didn’t succeed.  I failed.  And I realized that not everyone can do what they love.  It just doesn’t work out that way.  You can love something all day long, have a strong passion for it but if you aren’t good at what you love, you won’t get anywhere.  And even if you’re good, that’s not good enough.  You have to be the best, stand out from the crowd, be marketable.  That happy ending you hear about is mostly crap.  And I found that out the hard way.  I was so traumatized, so hurt, so disappointed and so rejected that I didn’t want to deal anymore.  And because my feelings were in the toilet, I found it a lot easier to just pretend I had no feelings at all, to just be dead so I wouldn’t have to deal.  I chose to reject all emotions and put up a wall of rot, a macabre mask in which I could justify my negativity.  I mean, I’m dead so I have the right to complain, right?  Who wouldn’t be a little upset about that.

And over these few months, I learned that it takes a lot of energy to be dead.  I wonder if that’s why I’m always tired.  Or maybe death doesn’t have anything to do with it at all.  Maybe harboring onto all of this bitterness is what makes me so exhausted.  I think the cranky sadness that I carry in my shriveled heart is probably what keeps me anchored to atrophy.  How can I ascend with all this weary weighing me down?

Sometimes, there are days when I feel I catch a glimpse of life, of a hope for happiness.  It’s ever so brief and fleeting but it temporarily floods my capillaries and makes me twitch.  I have this vision of letting all the hurt go, of tearing it out of me and chucking it as far away from myself as possible.  I fantasize about living.  I fantasize about breathing again, allowing the air to flow through my lungs so as to clear out the cobwebs.  I dream about the blood rushing back into my body.  I dream about my heart being filled.  I dream about the day when I don’t have to act like I’m dead so I can make sense of my life and myself. 

I never meant to stay dead.  I had hoped that one day, things might work out for me, that I would find a good job and move out of my stagnant home life and pull myself out of this hellhole.  I very much wanted to create a life for myself, to become independent and stable.  Then, I’d be able to crawl out of my death shell and rejoin the living, all the while writing about it, chronicling the changes from rolling around in my grave to walking on air.  And with this new job prospect, it seems like I might be able to do that.  Of course, I don’t want to count my corpses before they hatch but I’m hopeful…for the first time in a long time, I’m hopeful.

Even before I received the job offer, there were times when I was tired of being troubled.  I’ve come across a couple of positive people in the last few months and a part of me was inspired to be like them, to be like I used to be.  I wasn’t always so cynical, you know.  In fact, I used to be a really positive person.  Life managed to beat that out of me, though.  But there are days when I miss it, when I miss being hopeful and a good influence on people.  I miss encouraging others.  Now, I can’t find it within myself to be positive for anyone because I just don’t believe in giving people false hopes.  I believed in false hopes and ended up being screwed over royally because of it.  I don’t want to do that to anyone else.  And when I look at these shiny, happy people, there’s another part of me that’s disgusted with them.  How can they be so happy when there’s such misery?  How can they sit there and smile and believe in a future when the future is so foul?  Maybe I’m not so much disgusted with them, but with myself and just jealous that they can still remain positive through everything and I’ve given up so easily.  In reality, I’m not dead.  I’m just weak. 

And so I don’t know where I am right now.  I found a sort of comfort in my coffin but sometimes I do yearn for the light.  There are times when I can remember myself, the way I used to be, the young man that yearned for love and warmth and wanted to touch people through his words and his message, before that message became muddled and tainted.  Is he still somewhere inside, resting underneath the rotting?  If so, how do I reach him?  I’m torn because there’s a part of me that feels like this new version of myself is just a natural progression of what I’m becoming, which is a monster.  And I’m okay with that.  Yet, there’s another part of me that wants to return to romance, to love and life, a part of me that wants to be that kind soul that I once used to be.  I suppose the ultimate question is, which one is my true self?  Although I’m “dead,” I’m still trying to find out who I am, still trying to figure out if I should be a complacent cadaver or reach out for resuscitation.  Who am I?  What am I?  A man or a monster? 

And why does either choice sound so equally terrifying?      

Open the Window

Well, you know things can't be too easy for the Bran man.

It suddenly dawned on me on Sunday that I completely forgot to ask if the new job was full-time or part-time.  I had always assumed it was full-time although the job application never explicitly stated so.  Even during the interview, I can't remember the man saying that it was full-time.  He did talk like it was but, once again, never explicitly stated either way.  Crap.  This could be potentially troublesome.

What an idiot.  How do you apply for a job and go in for the interview and then accept their offer without knowing that one crucial detail?  It's like getting married to someone and then asking them to tell you their last name or jumping out of an airplane without checking the safety of the parachute.  You assume you'll be okay but it's something you should probably know ahead of time.

The knots began forming in my stomach.  All this positivity and prayer over a part-time job?  Wouldn't that just suck a big one? 

"Of course, it was full-time," I tried to assure myself. 

Everything about the job specifics and everything about the interview suggested it was full-time so of course it was.  I was ninety-nine percent sure.  Of course, that one percent was all it took to screw me over and I didn't like those odds.  I had to work on Sunday and had planned on quitting that day but ever since I realized it might be part-time, I decided not to jump the gun and quit just yet.  If the job was part-time, I literally couldn't work there.  It's a nearly two hour drive and getting so few hours would cover gas and that would be it.  No way I could move there and pay rent and live off of part-time.  And I don't want to quit my current job and then find out the other job is part-time and then have nowhere to work.  As much as I disliked my current job, I didn't want to lose it 'cause I need to be earning some kind of money.  I tried to play it safe.  And the knots tightened.

I ended up going in to work and being pretty ticked off at myself for not confirming the job status when I had not one, but two opportunities to do so.  I'd have to call them the next day to confirm.

But it wasn't that easy.  I couldn't just call up the company because they are a new business and don't have a number listed on Google or even on their homepage.  I ended up having to call the building where I did my interview and fortunately they were able to transfer me to the appropriate people.  I called at nine in the morning and asked to speak to the man who offered me the job.  If anyone could tell me, he could.  I also compiled a list of other questions, like if the training was paid and what the dress code would be like for the job, just common inquiries to somewhat cushion the stupidity of the full-time question.  I mean, really?  I didn't want the guy thinking I was dumb for asking about the job hours after accepting the position.  I was just going to slip that question in among the other questions so that I wouldn't sound like such a glaring idiot.

Well, the call went to his voicemail.  Awesome.  I left a message and waited.  I hated the waiting.  Hour after hour passed and I never got a phone call in return.  It's not so much that I was being impatient.  I just needed an answer at an appropriate time so that I could call up my current job and quit that shizz and not have to go in to work that day.  And because I had no idea how the resignation process works, I didn't know if my trainer would be involved or if I'd have to speak to someone from Human Resources or what.  I didn't want to call my trainer at the last minute, right before classes started, and tell her I was quitting and tie her up right before the class started.  So, I had hoped that he would quickly call me back to confirm the fulll-time status so I could quit and get it over with and not have to go in to work.

Hour after hour and no call.  Fantastic.

I finally decided to call back, after much hesitation.  I didn't want to seem pushy, calling after I had already left a message.  I had all these worries running through me, either looking stupid or pushy or both.  This guy was gonna think he had made a mistake by hiring me!  I don't want this dumb, pushy guy working for me!  I know, I'm neurotic and overthink things.

I decided to call anyway, despite what this guy might think because I needed some peace of mind.  I needed to know that this was, in fact, going to work for me.  I was finally able to get in touch with Nick, the guy who offered me the job.  During the Q&A, he did confirm that the job was full-time and with benefits, too (a bonus)!  What a relief.  I knew this was true but as I said, that one percent chance could have bitten me on the butt.

Unfortunately, it was three o' clock and I had to be at work at four.  It was too late to quit.  Even though I disliked my place of employment, I didn't want to leave a bad impression.  I didn't want to be one of those people who quit five minutes before clocking in.  The thing is, I was still in training and not out on the floor so it's not like I would be leaving anyone up in the air.  But, as I said, I didn't know if my trainer would have to fill out paper work with me and I didn't want to tie her up with me when she had a class to prepare for.  I decided it was too late to quit so I went back in to work, much to my chagrin.

And because I didn't know if I'd have to have my trainer involved in my resignation and becuase I didn't know who else to tell, I decided to tell her after work so that she could tell me what I needed to do the next day and if she had to be present, etc.  It was awkward because I hate face-to-face confrontations but it needed to be done so that I would know what to do the next day.  I kind of hovered around the room as everyone else left for the day and when everyone was gone, I went up to my trainer and told her I needed to speak with her.  I told her I had received a job offer that I was really excited about and had accepted it, therefore I couldn't work there anymore.  She said she was happy for me and sad for herself.  Well, of course she was!  I was awesome!  I talked to her a bit about my decision to leave and why I took the new job offer and she completely understood.  She said she'd never discourage anyone from taking a job that will help them progress toward their goals.  All in all, the conversation wasn't as wierd or awkward as I had thought and I was thankful for that.

So, it's over.  I'm happy.  I'm relieved.  I feel good about the present and about my future.  I'm trying to be optimistic cautiously.  I don't want another SCAD repeat where I put all of my hopes and dreams into one place only to find utter disappointment.  No, I want to go about this potential new phase in my life with reserved positivity.  I know things won't be amazing.  I'm just hoping for some satisfaction.  I'm ready to be independent and support myself and be self-sufficient.  I wanna be able to poop with the door open and make my coffee in the buff.  I'm ready for the freedom!

Employment Exuberance!

I got the job.

I feel like I'm going to throw up.

You know, in a good way.

I'm kind of in shock and kind of don't know what to do with myself.

Most importantly, I can quit my crap job that I have now and totally write about the experience later!

And a big thank you goes to God, who I prayed to so hard my head would hurt.  I've definitely strayed over the last several weeks and although things are still strained between us, He definitely blessed me with this opportunity so thank you, thank you, thank you.


But, right now, I need to puke.

Employment...Excitement?

Had a job interview yesterday.

"But, wait, Bran, don't you already have a job?"

Why, yes I do, thank you for asking.

I'm sure this will come as a huge surprise but I really dislike my current job.  I disliked it from day one and it's basically only gotten worse with each consecutive hour I'm there.  I just took it because my mom has been nagging me to take it ever since I graduated from college.  It's the only thing around that's offering full time and benefits.  Honestly, it's not worth it.  It's near minimum wage and there's just way too much B.S. to put up with for it to be worth the money and my mental anguish.  It's not even so much that I have to be in love with every job I have.  I've worked jobs that I really liked and other jobs that were just okay and I went in everyday not really feeling one way or another about it.  It was just a blah job, a paycheck and nothing that affected me too badly.  But when you just genuinely hate something, it really does have an effect on your well-being.  So, I immediately started putting in applications in other places and got a call to come into this one business.

I would say, for the most part, the interview went really well and I'm pretty excited about it.  It involves something I've never really done before but would be interested in learning more about.  I'll be getting paid about a buck and a half more than I am now, plus tips!  That's decent money, at least for around here.  Well, it's not exactly around here.  It's two hours away.  And that was the first concern the guy brought to my attention.  I simply explained to him that it had been a short-term goal of mine all along to move to that town where the job is located.  I told him I was hoping to find a job like this that paid well enough for me to eventually get my own apartment and live there.  And after a few paychecks, I'll be able to do that.  So, the drive situation won't be a problem.

I've put my dreams of animation on hold for something slightly more practical like moving a few towns away to start some semblance of a life of an independent twenty-three-year old guy.  I just want a nice job and my own place and be an eligible bachelor.  I don't think that's too much to ask for.  I mean, I would say I'm definitely compromising here.  When I first got to college, I thought I'd end up graduating and immediately moving to New York or California and working on big budget movies.  Obviously, that didn't work out so at least let me get outta my parents' house!  Geeeeez, man.

I also didn't ask a lot of questions and that was mostly because I was so focused on trying to maintain eye contact with this man.  I have a real problem of not looking people directly in the eye and I usually look at their face as a whole or focus on their nose or lips or the table and so I was trying to look into his eyes and pay attention to what he was saying at the same time and it was so much work that I couldn't generate enough mental facilities to come up with good questions.  Of course, as soon as I got in my car, my head spilled over with all kinds of great questions.  I've always heard if you don't ask a lot of questions, it makes it seem like you aren't actually interested in the company.  A small blow against me. 

Despite the gas/distance and no questions issue, the interview went really well and let me just say, I am pretty proud of how I handled myself.  I wasn't too terribly nervous and answered all of his questions quickly and with graceful articulation.  That is such a huge improvement because a few years ago, I probably would have doubled over with anxiety cramps when faced with an interview.  I just went in confident, knowing I am capable of doing the job.  I am intelligent and experienced and well educated and there is no reason why I can't do this job or be hired to perform the duties as assigned.  And the guy seemed like he liked me.  While mentioning some of my qualities, he said he shared some of the same so we made a small connection over that and I basically just explained my situation to him and told him I could handle all of the job duties he threw at me, citing my previous customer service experience as examples of how I would handle certain situations.

I'll find out next week if I got it.  The wait is going to be excruciating.   

As much as it hurts to do, I'm just desperate enough to dip my toes back into the positivity pool.  I'm trying to be positive about this job, trying to will it to fruition.  I feel good about this and want this to work and so it will work.  This is hopefully the beginning of some serious changes.  Hopefully this is my chance to come back to life, to breathe once again.  This could be my hope for happiness.

wish me luck.

Good God

Thanks to Chris Carrabba for once again perfecting in a song a feeling I cannot articulate myself. 

Dashboard Confessional- Get Me Right

I make my slow way home
Limpin' on broken bones
Out of the sickest heart
  Across the county lines
Onto your wooden stairs
I know you can repair
I know you've seen the light
I know you'll get me right
Right, right, right

I own a sinner's heart
I know the rain falls hard
I know the currency
I know the things you'll need
I hope he hears my prayers
I see you cut your hair
I know you're safe inside
I know you'll get me right
Right, right, right

Oh Jesus, I've fallen
I don't mind the rain if
I meet my maker
I'll meet my maker
Clean
Jesus, the truth is
I struggle so hard to believe
I meet my maker
I need my maker
To cure me of my doubting blood
And drain me of the sins I love
Take from me my disbelief
I know it should come easily
But it remains inside of me
It battles and devours me
It cuddles up beside of me
  And whispers, it convinces me
I'm right

Karma Chameleon

"No good deed goes unpunished."- Clare Boothe Luce

Story of my effing life.

Isn’t it weird how you can be a nice person, try to always do the right thing, use manners, give to others, etc., and still be hit by a wall of crap? Why is it that the three-fold law only applies to us when we’ve been bad?  Why is it that when we extend our hands to help others, the universe slaps it away?  And more importantly, if we aren’t treated as nicely as we treat others and all of our good deeds are rendered unacknowledged, why do we even bother being nice at all anymore?

I think we can all agree that goodness is subjective.  What’s good to you might or might not be what’s good to me.  Yet, I’m pretty sure we can all agree that killing and stealing and things of that nature are a big no no.  What about premarital sex or underage drinking?  In some people’s eyes, that’s sinful, illegal and morally wrong.  Other people would argue that it’s okay as long as no one gets hurt.  As for me, I’ve always tried to take the “best possible behavior” path.  I never drank or smoked when I was underage.  Heck, I still don’t do any of that now that I’m legal.  Personally, I don’t want to engage in those particular activities because they could lead to trouble and I’m all about staying out of trouble.  And that’s a good thing.  No drugs, no sex, no stealing, no disobeying parents, no bad grades, no swearing.  And once again, that’s subjective.  Most people don’t see those as too terrible but for me, those behaviors themselves might not be so bad but they might lead to something wicked.  So, I avoid them.  That might make me vanilla but it makes me pretty safe.  I’m straight-laced and satisfied.

Yet my life is still in the crapper.  Where is the good stuff I believed to be waiting for me for being a good person? 

Yes, I understand that life doesn’t work that way.  This became crystal clear when I read a quote somewhere that stated “To expect life to treat you fairly because you’re a good person is like expecting a bull not to charge at you because you’re a vegetarian.”  It really clicked for me right then and there when I read that statement.  I guess I never really realized that before.  So, why is that I believed that in the first place? 

I suppose it’s because we have all been conditioned in some way or another to believe that if we are good people, good things will happen to us.  We’ve always been told if we are good little boys and girls that we’ll go to heaven, that Santa will bring us a lot of really awesome presents, that we can go out for ice cream after dinner.  Good behavior=Good life.  Darn, we’ve been lied to.

And it’s not like I’ve been a good boy to get good things or to be rewarded in some way.  I’ve always genuinely liked being good, liked helping people.  I used to genuinely care about people.  It used to swell my heart to help.  I always thought of being compensated for my compassion as a bonus.  Sure, it would be nice if I were given as much as I gave but my main focus was other people's happiness.  Unfortunately, over the years, I never really saw that same treatment returned to me.  As much as I asked about my friends, they never bothered to ask about me.  As much as I gave my time and energy to others, I never saw them return the favor.  And while I spent my years focusing on the well-being of others, I ignored my own physical and mental health.  My head became overheated and my heart hampered.  And slowly, everything around me began to crumble. 

Cut to me realizing just about all of my friendships were shams and the few genuine relationships I thought I had were slipping away.  My dream school turned out to be a nightmare and I lost control of my weight.  I graduated but my diploma doesn’t mean a thing because I can’t get a good job.  I’m in debt up to my receding hairline and I’m scared to death I’ll never be able to pay off my loans.  I was forced to move back home with one parent who is too controlling and another who is too apathetic.  I was forced to take a crap minimum wage job that I already hate after only a week.  I’m fatter than I’ve been in four years.  I have this lump in my throat that still hasn’t gone away as promised by my doctor.  And overall, I’m sad that I’ve never been able to have a healthy, long lasting friendship with anyone and I’ve never been romantically involved with a girl.  I feel insurmountably lonely and on top of it all, I honestly believe I’m losing my mind.  This is just not how my life was supposed to turn out.

To make matters even more intolerable, several of my former friends have turned into alcoholic sex fiends since high school graduation and they are doing just fine.  One friend is, in my useless opinion, a straight up alcoholic and a sex addict but despite that, he’s got a great job and he’s even moving to New York next year to pursue whatever it is he's trying to pursue.  He uses people to get what he wants (including me) and he’s unprecedentedly shallow.  And he does drugs on the regular.  He likes to steal as well.  Another former friend turned into a giant ho after high school and has cheated on her boyfriend of two years multiple times.  She also likes to partake in the Patrón and have sex with random guys.  And she's living it up.  She went on vacation to California this summer while I was having shoddy dental work done.  They’ve both been in long-term relationships in the past, experienced real love and they both seem like they are living the good life of indulgence.

And how can I talk about bad people without mentioning my lovely former roommate, Keith?  He was an epic douche bag but he had his stuff together.  At first he had a girlfriend when I lived with him but after they broke up, he brought girl after girl to our dorm so despite his rudeness toward me, he had game when it came to the ladies.  He often brought his friends over to play Guitar Hero.  Strangely, I liked most of his friends.  They seemed like interesting people and I always wondered why they liked him when he was so mean spirited.  And I remembered how I never had any good freinds despite being sweet as pie.  He was also a musician, which I highly respected.  He had his own band and they actually had a few CDs.  He worked in a recording studio back at his home and he just basically seemed like he had himself and his life figured out.  Sure, he was a giant dick but he knew it and he owned it and he’s never looked back.  I’m sure wherever he is, he’s doing well and probably writing a hate song about me, if he hasn’t already done so.  He’s just another example of someone who can be so cruel to others, so selfish and vain and still be doing well, still be happy.  Of course, I know there is probably some pain behind their closed doors and it would be foolish of me to think that they aren’t getting their own dose of bad karma coming their way but even still, they are having some fun.  They've experienced a lot of highs (and not just because they got high) to go along with their lows.  But not me.  It's always been one low after another.  I sit here, fatter and more miserable than ever and I’m not having any fun, unhealthy or otherwise.  And I'm angry and confused because it's not fair and I know that being nice doesn't give you a one way ticket to Happy Village but it should, shouldn't it?  Doesn't it seem unfair that in this world of cruelty and killing that someone chooses to spread goodness instead of garbage and yet they keep getting kicked to the floor while those that enforce evil are enjoying their excesses?

It’s not like I sit and wait for good things to happen to me.  I do actively seek them.  I went to my college of choice to be happy.  It took jumping through a lot of hoops and hurdles to get there but I did and I was determined to start my life over and find my happiness.  But it seemed like the universe was determined to keep it from me and everything went wrong.  I actively tried to make friends and they either fizzled out quickly or panned out over time.  I actively tried to find a good job but no one called me back and I was forced to work this minimum wage fiasco and be surrounded by a bunch of thirty-something rednecks for eight hours a day.  I actively tried to make myself look better by losing weight and trying to learn about fashion and grooming and then this lump appears and makes me feel like a freak.  It doesn’t matter what I do, what I say, how I approach something, how positive I try to be, no matter how hard I try to make things work, it all turns to crap.  My nose is sore, not only from the surgery I had this summer, but from door after door of opportunity slamming in my face.

It’s pretty sad how I’ve deteriorated over the years.  Even before my untimely death caused my skin to split and shrivel, I’ve been emotionally decaying.  It’s hard to stay happy and positive when that positivity is consistently burned out by God or the universe or random chance.  It makes me want to give up on trying, to give up on helping others when no one has bothered to help me.  I’ve become a mess because I’ve ignored my own needs and desires to tend to others and it makes me want to shift the focus back on to me.  It seems like the people I know have put themselves first, carved out their own happiness and enjoyed a lot of lewd gratification in the process.  And I think, if they can do it, why shouldn’t I?  Maybe I should just be selfish and not care about others, not worry about their needs or sensitivities.  Maybe I should speak my mind and tell people just what I really think of them.  It would be nice to get that load off of my chest instead of balling it up and burying it.

It's quite sad, really, how much I've changed.  I wasn't always like this, so intensely bitter, so irrevocably sad and so uncontrollably lost.  Even when I was that depressed little outcast in high school, I still had hope.  I always looked to the future, looked to college to cause a change.  I always looked to others to help me help myself.  I even looked inward and hoped that one day I would get myself figured out, that I would work toward peace.  Life has let me down.  Other people have let me down.  And, of course, I can't point the finger at everyone and everything else without blaming myself as well.  I've definitely let myself down.  It's me against the world against myself and at times, it feels like those are insurmountable odds.

 Showbread- The Pig (Anorexia Version)

"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"

Employment Exasperation III: A Journey's End

They say you can't avoid death and taxes but what they don't tell you is that after you die, you still have to pay taxes.  The only thing more permanent than death is greed.

When I started this blog, I was a freshly dead college graduate looking for any kind of work just to get back into the fold of things.  I had to keep busy to keep from rotting.  I had put aside my dreams of becoming an animator for a more practical position, just to earn enough money to be able to continue practicing my animation skills until I was good enough to actually create a portfolio and demo reel to send off to animation companies.

I had really wanted to do office work and put in application after application for about three months straight, looking every single day online at different job websites for positions, checking the newspaper and even asking around.  Nothing ever came of it.  All the while, there was an available position lingering over my head, a job my mom pushed and pushed me to take.  I avoided it as long as possible because I did not want to work there.  It's not a classy job.  It's the job where you'll find all the high school dropouts and pot heads.  But, it's an easy job to get.  They'll hire anyone.  But I was trying to find something better, something I could be proud of.  Unfortunately, nothing ever developed and I had to swallow my pride, give in, and apply.

I got it, big surprise.

I can't talk about the job because I was specifically told not to and I don't want to get into trouble/fired for "advertising" or even talking smack about the place or my fellow employees but I really want to.  I've only been working for a week and I already want to pull a Plath.  Is it possible to die twice?  Sometimes I'd like to find out.

I'm just pretty bitter because this is the first job I've ever taken that I didn't want in the first place.  All of my other jobs have been desirable, at least at first.  I'd either grow to love or hate them but I hated this one from the start and it hasn't failed to meet my rock bottom expectations.  But I have no choice.  It's full-time and I'll be getting benefits, which is quite necessary since my student loans are going to start being due in December (Happy birthday, you owe us 100,000 dollars!) and I need to start helping out with the family finances.  Plus, I keep hearing other people at the job talk about how much they love it.  I even know a girl that works there and told me "it's really not that bad, I promise" and she says she loves what she does.  And I have other acquaintances that say they love their jobs and it's like, "Great, throw it in my face that you like what you do while I have to sit here and suffer for eight hours a day."  Simultaneously, I do recognize that I'm fortunate to have a job at all, regardless of whether I like it or not.  Still, it doesn't make it any easier or make me feel any better.

I just keep trying to remind myself that I can't just quit because I have bills to pay and I have animation software and equipment that I need to buy and even that causes concern for me because I work pretty crappy hours and I basically sleep all day until time to go to work and then I don't get back home until 1 in the morning and I go straight to bed.  So, when I do get all of my equipment, when am I going to find the time and energy to animate?  I know, I know, make the time but it's just not that practical when I'm either exhausted or emotionally wrecked, or oftentimes, both.

This will probably be the last time I speak about this.  Any rants or raves will have to go into my handwritten journal because of my paranoia of being caught on the internet.  I just wanted to bring it up because I kind of left my chronicled job hunt up in the air but now that I have a job, I can put this chapter of my afterlife to rest.

That is, until I can finally quit!  I just have to, you know, win the lottery or get hit by a school bus and then sue the bus driver, the school, all of the children on the bus, the city, and anyone else within a two mile radius.

Douchey Couture

Standing there under the fluorescent lights, the shadows spilling and filling in the hollow area under my eyes, my forehead glistening with sweat like a well-lit vampire, my hair curling up and tightening in response to the heat, I looked at myself in the mirror and wanted to cry.  Here I am, up a size and the shirt is still too small, too revealing.  My chest stood out like the burgeoning breasts of a twelve-year-old girl.  My stomach bulged out from the painfully thin material of the shirt and spilled over the one-size-up-but-still-too-tight jeans.  The whole reason why I went shopping in the first place was because none of my clothes fit anymore.  I expected to have to go up one size but the clothes I was trying on proved that going up only one size wasn’t going to be enough.  Have I really gained that much weight?  How did I let it get this bad?

This is so obnoxious.  I’ve always struggled with shopping.  I know next to nothing about fashion and I don’t really have a style.  I’ve tried in the past.  I had a preppy phase and then I tried to do the faux punk thing and nothing ever really felt right to me.  It all felt manufactured and fake.  So, when I go shopping, I never know what to look for.  I don’t have that one store that has everything.  And mixing and matching is hard.  When I do find a shirt or pair of jeans that I like, the next hoop to jump through is the size of the garment.  Since my weight fluctuates so much, I never know what I’m going to be.  It doesn’t help that every store has their own definition of what a medium or large is.  Therefore, everything needs to be tried on and I have to go through the process of undressing and dressing and facing my fat self in the mirror under the unflattering lights.  The worst part is when I find something I really like and then I try it on and it doesn’t look good on me and I don’t like it anymore.  As I pull the shirt over my head, I send out a small prayer in hopes that the material will effortlessly glide over my fat stomach, that the fabric will smooth over and camouflage my man boobs.  And usually, it doesn’t.  Then the disappointment and sadness sets in and I just want to give up and leave.

Shirts are made so thin nowadays.  I don’t know if that’s because it’s trendy or if they are meant to be thin to allow for layering but it’s frustrating when you’re fat.  Thin shirts are clingy and hug all the lumps and bumps instead of hiding them.  It’s frustrating because I find lots of cool shirts that I’d like to wear but I can’t because they won’t look good on me.  Most guys can walk in, grab something they like and walk out the door.  I can’t do that.  It’s a production when I go shirt shopping.  I have to try it on and then decide if it’ll work if I wear another shirt under it or over it or if I need to just go up a size.  If I do have to go up a size, that won't necessarily fix the problem.  At this point, I’m mostly a large.  If I go to an extra large, that’s usually too big because the shirt bottoms end at my thighs and the sleeves go past my shoulders and that just looks sloppy.  But it hides the gut.  So, I can walk around wearing oversized shirts or shirts that show the belly bulge.  I can’t win.

I usually layer.  It mostly covers everything up but it's uncomfortable.  I'm a hot-natured person and being fat makes me even hotter.  And it's no fun having to layer when I can break a sweat walking to the mail box.  And just to top it off, I live in the south where the summers are sweltering and the winters are...well, still hot.  Just imagine all that sweat between my skin and all that fabric, tight and uncomfortable, clingy and cumbersome.  I'm constantly tugging at my multiply shirts and wiping my brow and I hate it.  I just wish I could wear one freaking t-shirt and a pair of jeans and go.

I really hate my body and I know that it's no one's fault but my own which makes me hate myself.  I work so hard to lose weight and as soon as I start to feel good about myself, I always always mess it up.  I don't know why I always do this to myself, always put myself through this cycle of starving and bingeing.  I'm just so weak and unable to deal with my problems in a healthy way so I always turn to food.  I don't want to deny myself all the food I love because I feel like I've been denied so many other things in life, like love and friendship and recognition.  Food is all I have left and if I can't eat, I can't be happy.  Of course, that happiness is always short-lived, especially when I find myself in a dressing room trying on a giant tent of a shirt and realizing I can still see my nipples trying to bust through the threads.  It's all so discouraging.

I just wish I knew how to dress myself.  I just wish I had a nice body to dress.  With a thinner frame, I'll have more options for personal expression through clothing.  Most of all, I just wish I could gain control over myself instead of spiraling out of control every few months, resulting in yet another ill-fated shopping trip that always leaves me feeling more depressed.  Until then, I'll just have to settle for looking like a freaking frumpenstein.

I Love You, Man

Back off, Brody Jenner.  This entry is not directed toward you so stop looking at me with those sultry brown bromantical eyes of yours.

I was watching I Love You, Man the other day and it provided not only a decent comedy but reanimated a long-buried concern for me.  In case you haven’t seen the movie, Peter Klaven, played by my celebrity doppelganger, Paul Rudd, has just proposed to his girlfriend and realizes he has no best guy friend to be his best man.  It made me realize that if I were ever to get married, I don’t have a best friend to be my best man, either.  I find myself very much in the situation he was in at the beginning of the movie.  I understand in today’s world, the gender lines are often blurred and if I wanted, I could probably have a girl be my best (wo)man.  If Patrick Dempsey can be a bride’s maid in the movie Made of Honor, then why can’t I have my bestie gal pal hold my rings in her Chanel clutch and toast us at the reception?  Oh, wait, that’s right, because I don’t even have a girl best friend.

But the fact remains that out of all the people that I’m acquainted with, ninety-nine percent of them are girls. 
   
I’m sure a lot of this has to do with nature plus nurture.  I’m just naturally not a manly man.  I’m not into beer and sports.  I’m pretty sensitive.  I’d rather work on my character than my car.  I’d choose drawing over deer hunting any day.  I prefer music over muscle.  I like to express my feelings.  I write poetry for crying out loud.  And living in the south, there aren't many guys that share my interests in art and culture.  I've grown up with football playing, giant truck driving, tobacco spitting, Wrangler wearing, gun polishing "good ol' boys" so I guess it goes without saying that I was never able to connect with these country bumpkins.     

Additionally, I've been surrounded by women my whole life.  I always go to my sister first as being a huge influence on me.  She's my only sibling and someone I've always looked up to.  While my dad has always been in the picture, we have nothing in common because he is very country and I am not.  Once again, it's that conflict of interests.  Both my grandfathers died when I was really young and none of my uncles are good role models so I was kind of left without any kind of positive male influence.  Therefore, everything I've ever learned or have been taught has been funneled through a female filter.

I've never gotten along with many guys for the reasons listed above.  Most guys that I knew tried to act hard all the time.  Their idea of a good time was riding through pastures drunk while blaring Toby Keith out of their tinted windows at three in the morning.  There's just no common denomenator of interest.  Girls were always much easier to get along with because I don't feel threatened by them and I can be myself without being self-conscious.

It's always bothered me that I've never had a best guy friend.  I've always felt like I've missed out on something.  Who was I going to talk to about girls and gas?  Who could I have asked about how to act on a date from the perspective of someone who had been in that position before?  Who would I have talked to about...just guy stuff?  I don't know anything about male bonding.  I don't have a best man.  I don't have a best friend.

I suppose it wouldn't be as hard to find a cool guy friend if I didn't live here.  I just need to venture to a place where the guys are less...hickish?  Not that there's anything wrong with being a hick or whatever but that just doesn't mesh with my personality.  And it's not that I'm too good to be friends with people like that, just incompatible.  I just...don't know.  I suppose I just feel like not having a guy friend is just another social marker that I missed, along with attending parties in high school, dating, learning how to flirt and hug and kiss and just generally learning how to socialize with other people.  I'm pretty lacking.

I could look on the bright side and realize that the chances I'll ever marry are pretty slim at this point so I won't even have to worry about finding myself in wacky situations with outrageous characters, a la the movie, in order to find the right guy to stand with me as I unite with the right girl.  If all else fails, I can just sign up to be on a celebretard's homo-erotic reality show.  Oh, wait, no I won't.  I'm not that desperate for male companionship. 

Reading Rainbow was Canceled so There’s no Reason to Live

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  The Accelerated Reader program in school really screwed me over.  You guys had this, right?  You know what I’m talking about?

I’ve pretty much always based my behavior off of my acquaintances.  Thankfully, I had some pretty straight-laced friends in high school so instead of imitating underage drinking or toilet papering houses, I imitated going to church and reading books.  I was never a huge reader.  I did enjoy the occasional good book but I never voraciously ripped through the dusty stacks at the local public library.  Yet, I always admired the idea of books and reading.  It seems like reading is a good drug.  It provides that sense of escape but in a healthier manner.  In fact, books might even help you come to terms with what you’re escaping yourself from.  Of course, it doesn’t have to be like that.  Books can just be for entertainment as well.  That’s the beauty of books.  They can encompass a variety of functions, from fun to funneling frustrations into something slightly less scary.  As well as admiring the idea of reading, I’ve also always admired my friends who liked to read.  They always seemed so intelligent and I wanted to be intelligent so I started reading like they did.  Eventually, reading became a pleasure for me.  Being that chubby insecure child that I was, reading was a way for me to put my worries on hold, to run away from my regrets and fall into a world not my own, to experience another type of existence.  I found that aspect of reading to be quite fascinating and addicting.

Then, AR started and reading became a chore.  It’s true, you can enjoy something all day long but as soon as you are forced to do it, it’s simply not that fun anymore.  So, with AR, reading became mandatory and the books that I would usually take time to enjoy became deadline reads that forced me to push an interest in what I was reading, drilling it into my noggin with each new chapter instead of planting a seed of interest and letting it bloom with each new page.  Being forced to care about a character or situation just isn’t as satisfying as when you can just let it happen organically.  Not only were my friends avid readers but quite competitive as well.  They competed to see who could get the most points and were always checking out those huge books that were worth more.  I ended up having to read twice as many small books just to keep up.  Sure, I could have grabbed a large book here or there but most of them just sounded boring and while I was already becoming irritated by the fact that I had to read good books in a rush, I couldn’t imagine being forced to read boring material.  That’s even worse.  So, the once simple joy of reading starting to become an assembly line of books, quizzes, points earned, rinse, repeat.  And that’s on top of the book reading I had to do for my English classes and various chapters in textbooks for other classes.

I was so glad when I was finished with the Accelerated Reader program.  Unfortunately, when I entered high school I came face to face with more forced reading in the form of a Nazi English teacher.  She had a penchant for assigning two and sometimes three books at one time.  Large books.  I had her once in tenth grade and again in twelfth grade and she honestly burned me out on reading.  After I was done with her class, I don’t think I picked up a book for months.  It took a lot of time to get into reading on a voluntary basis again.   

Unfortunately, over the years, I’ve developed quite the case of A.D.D. and I can’t seem to concentrate on books the way I used to.  Also, reading makes me sleepy!  I can sit down in the middle of the day and feel wide awake and three chapters in I’m drooling on the cover.  It’s like, if I’m not spazzing out then I’m zoning out and so reading just isn’t as focused and pleasurable as it used to be for me.  It doesn’t help that the last few books I’ve read weren’t that great.  It just seems like I can’t find a good book.  I don’t really even know what I’d be into at this point.  I’ve never had a specific genre that I’ve enjoyed more than another.  I like it all, really.  It’s just that nothing has really gotten me worked up or too excited lately and it makes me sad.  It makes me even sadder that I’ve found this passion for writing and yet I am not much of a reader.  It doesn’t seem to make much sense.  To read is to learn how to write and reading would probably help me out so much but I can’t find the concentration. 

And poor Reading Rainbow was canceled recently.  I used to love that show.  It seems quite fitting regarding my situation.  It's like the end of an era.  Without other like-minded, gap-toothed kids enthusiastically recommending their favorite books, how are our little ones supposed to know what to read?  I guess they'll have to learn about it on the streets.  And where am I supposed to learn about books?  Where am I going to find that passion for reading again?  Where's the concentration, the motivation, the caffeine?  I feel bad because I have so many stacks and stacks of books that I keep buying and never actually read.  I guess none of them are interesting enough for me to actually want to start reading again.  I need to be on fire for a book.  I just can't think of any great titles.  Maybe I just need to sit outside with a giant cup of coffee and a zombie novel.  Perhaps that will cure me of my reading block.

Has anyone read anything amazing lately?  Any recommendations?   

Pill Plague

I don’t understand how people can live their lives pilled up all the time.  I’ve been on a combination of antibiotics and steroids for almost a solid month now and sometimes I think I’m never going to feel right again.  I know I keep talking about this but it is honestly worries/intrigues me.  I mean, I have been outside of myself for approximately four weeks now and it seems like it’s always been this way and always will be.  It’s so weird how medication can affect you.  I have been in a dizzying fog this whole time and it’s pretty miraculous to me how I manage to get out of bed, although I don’t do anything when I do get out of bed.  I certainly haven’t been living.  I feel like I’ve put my life on hold until I can finally be well but I’ve lost so much time in the process.  I can’t think straight and nothing makes sense to me and yet there are people that actually choose to live this way.  The pill poppers and the prescription drug addicts are probably wicked jealous of the stash I’ve managed to accumulate over the past several weeks.  Of course, they probably take pills that produce a better form of fogginess than what I have but even still, I just can’t see how people would want to go around so disconnected.  They must be in some serious pain to prefer to endure daily dizziness to dull their doldrums.  And I find that sad.  I’m in pain, too but that doesn’t mean I want to exchange my hurt for a haze.  Rather than trading one troublesome feeling for another, how ‘bout let’s just feel good for a change?

At this point, I don’t even want to take another Tylenol for the rest my life.

Yet...I do have those anti-anxiety pills in the bathroom that I sometimes contemplate.  The doctor gave them to me because he said there might come a point in my recovery where I'd wake up and not be able to breathe and it would make me panic.  I never ran into that problem so I never took any pills but sometimes I wonder if popping one or two wouldn't just make me feel a bit better.  Or at least more at ease.

I've never been a big fan of taking pills to make me feel better.  Almost all of my friends in high school took one anti-depressant or another and the pills either didn't work that well or made everyone feel numb.  Ideally, I don't want to feel numb.  Of course, sometimes I'd rather feel nothing at all than the intense feelings I can muster up.  And I have to wonder, what's better: emotional or empty?

I'd love to just be able to gain control over myself and the way I feel about things.  If only I could somehow grow into a more positive perceptions and learn to master my negative notions.  It's not that I want to get rid of negativity all together because I believe it's healthy to embrace sadness and anger sometimes.  Without those feelings, there is no balance.  Yet, I don't feel balanced now.  I feel next to nothing but hurt and frustration all the time and that is not healthy.  Where is the happiness?  Where is the excitement?  Where's the hope?  And are pills the way to dampen depression or will they simply put a warm blanket of blasé over my heart?

I guess this is my chance to find out.

I have a whole bottle of pills that I could sample at my discretion.  Then again, that's something that shouldn't be toyed with so easily.  I heard you can't just take those kind of pills and then stop.  You have to gradually ween yourself off of them so what would I do once the bottle was empty?  I couldn't refill just to come down from them.  I suppose I'd have to ration accordingly.  But what do I know about how to come down off of pills?  Nah, I'm not going to do that.  They might not even be strong enough to make that big of a difference.  It's just a thought is all.

I guess I just sometimes feel so desperate for relief that I contemplate whether I'm willing to try new and broader methods of dealing with my pain and sometimes that includes pills, something I told myself I wouldn't resort to doing.  I take my last bit of medication tonight so I hope that in about a week or so, once everything is out of my system, I'll start returning to normal, which isn't much of a relief because even my normal is still pretty flawed.  At least I hope I won't feel so drastically disenchanted.

Fall

Dear October,

Hi.  Nice to see you again.  I have a little problem.  You're the best month of the year but I've never felt worse.  Do you think you could do something about this?  Sure enough, everything around me is falling apart, starting with myself.  I've practically given up on all of my beliefs in a matter of months.  I have no interest in getting together with people that I used to consider friends.  I can't find a decent job.  I can't find a crappy job.  I feel uglier than I ever have in my life and I just want to dig a hole and crawl in.  I've basically lost control of my life and I'm terrified.  If you could please provide a bunch of monster movies on television and a lot of Halloween candy all month long, that would be great.  And please throw in several breezy evenings so that I can enjoy the cool sensations on my skin.  Although it won't solve my problems, at least it will keep me distracted long enough to stave off the imminent insanity.  At least for another month.  Thank you.

Sincerely,
Bran