Barreling

There comes a point when something happens that heightens awareness indefinitely.  Senses are sharpened.  There’s only cautious rest but no complete comfort.  In a heartbeat, you are a blood pump away from a phone call that can rip away at insides and silence smoky rooms.  Concern is undulating but never ceases.   Tension thickens the air.  Attempts at humor are hard-pressed and smiles are uneasy.

Inevitability comes upon you like the speed of a train.  Slow in the distance in one moment and barreling over you in the next.

The hardest part isn’t collecting the pieces of yourself once it has passed.  The hardest part is seeing what it has done to everyone else, the lasting effects of leaving loved ones behind.

Perturbulence

Yesterday:

As soon as I got into work, my manager asked me to stay all day instead of the three hours for the register training.  Not wanting to make a bad impression on my first day back, I begrudgingly agreed.  I'm starting to remember why I didn't like that place.  No one is reliable.  They believe in hiring a bunch of teenage jerk offs, the kind of kids who are only their because 1) their parents made them get a job 2) they need money to pay for their beer/weed 3) they have a toddler that was born in middle school to take care of.  That means sick children and prom and graduation and "well, I just don't feel like coming in today" so someone is always calling in or having to change their schedule so they can be free for Friday night football.  Which means my schedule is messed up because I'm always the first one they call when someone else calls in.

Let me just say, this is actually a good thing.  It means they know I'm reliable.  They know I'll do a good job when I come to work.  They know that I need the hours.  It's a nice gesture.  With that being said, I hate to have my schedule changed.  Like, hate.  Honestly, I don't care what schedule they give me.  I'll work morning, evening, night.  I'll work one day a week or seven days a week.  I'll go with the flow as long as that is what I'm scheduled for.  I can't tell you how many times I looked forward to my day off only to be called in.  That really wrecks my mood.  Now, if I was scheduled to work the next day, then that's great!  I was meant to and I'm mentally prepared for it and it's gravy but when I'm mentally preparing myself for a day off and I'm thinking of all the wonderful things I can do and then someone calls and tells me I have to come into work, it really annoys me.  I really don't like change, whether they are big or small changes.

At the end of my shift, my manager comes up to me and asks me to change my shift for the next day!  Once again, I agreed. 

During lunch, I went to the new McDonalds.  The one in town was torn down to be rebuilt with two drive-thrus and one of those coffee bar deals.  Because I only thought I'd be working three hours and didn't bring a lunch with me, that looked like the best option.  Well, the line was long because the McDonalds had been shut down for a good while and I guess everyone else was missing those Mcdelectables.  I noticed people looked confused as they went through the two lanes.  People were braking and accelerating, not knowing when their turn to go was.  I guess they don't handle change very well, either.

As I was waiting in line, I checked my voicemail.  It was a call from an employment agency I applied with a few weeks ago.  The lady said she had something going on in my town and wanted me to call her back.  My heart swelled with the possibilities.  And then I remembered I just accepted this job.  I quickly thought of a scenario.  If it was a regular Monday through Friday job, I could still work at JCP on the weekends.  I'm sure all those snot-nosed a-hole teens would love to take the weekend off so they can fornicate and frolic.  I'll work for them.  I'm a loser and don't have dates with girls or parties to go to.  It was pretty much perfect.  And that extra weekend money would be a great help.  Well, I called the lady back and get this.  She didn't have any work for me.  She wanted to know if I knew of anyone that wanted to do fiberglass work.

"I know you were interested in clerical," she said, "but I don't have anything right now with that.  I'm still looking, don't worry.  I haven't forgotten about you but this fiberglass is blowing up!  I figured since you lived in that town you might know some people who wanted to do fiberglass!" 

So, this tich calls me, not to help me find work, but to help her find work for other people!?  Really?  Really?  My heart deflated.

Then I spilled my sweet tea all over my shirt and lap.  They hadn't put the lid on very well and as I lifted the straw to my lips, liquid cold spread across my body.  I grabbed a handful of napkins to absorb the liquid but those cheap, flimsy napkins started coming apart from the vigorous rubbing.  Crap!  I had to be back to work in just a few minutes!  Would it dry in time?  Would it leave a giant looking stain like I had wet myself?  I haven't even met all my coworkers yet!  What were they going to think of me and my stained and napkin lint-ridden clothing?

Fortunately, everything dried up and there was no noticeable stain.  It was quite shocking, actually.  The universe missed an opportunity to humiliate me.  I'm sure I'll just get it worse next time around.

I then saw everyone I knew.  A former coworker that used to work there when I first started five years ago came in and was like, "Dude, what are you still doing here?"  Embarrassed, I explained to him that I had in fact left for a few years to attend college.  I then said, "Look how well that worked out!"  I wanted to crawl into the giant bin that holds all the plastic hangers.  I then saw old classmates, which was great.  "Hey, yeah, went to college and now I'm back here!  Things are going great.  I'm pathetic and thanks for shopping with us today!"

And old customers are the wooooorst.  So far I've encountered the old-lady-who-buys pants-for-her-male-relative-even-though-she-doesn't-know-what-size-he-is-or-what-style-he-likes type of customer.  She had me running around the store looking for acceptable alternatives to Dickie pants.  She then asked the same questions over and over again.  That was yesterday.  And wouldn't you know she came back this morning, bright and early, to annoy me again.  The pants didn't work out.  "These are a gift," she tells me.  She can't simply order some Dickie pants from our website because his birthday is in two days and they won't arrive in time.  Hm, how about instead of purchasing him some irregular looking pants that he probably won't like anyway, why not opt for something more practical like a shaving kit or socks or a prostitute.  Something he can use that's one-size-fits-all (hehe).  Then, today, I encountered the old-racist type of customer.  He was looking at suits and asked me where the suits were created.  "You thank the Japs made these?"  I'm sure tomorrow I'll encounter the old-man-who-doesn't-talk-back-when-you-speak-to-him and the old-man-who-throws-his-money/credit card-at-you.

I forgot to mention that because the schedule was changed both days, I had to work by myself both days.  I was originally scheduled to work with someone so they could help me familiarize myself with the registers, which are, by the way, new registers that they got after I left.  So, it's literally like I'm starting over.  Some of the procedures are familiar and coming back to me but some things are done differently now, which I think almost makes it harder for me because I have to unlearn the old procedures and learn the new ones.  My manger was around when I needed help but I would have preferred someone to be with me at all times.  Obviously, I'm a very insecure person with absolutely no confidence in my ability to run a register, interact with a customer or even make correct change. 

I know it's all so ridiculous and I did it for two years with no problems but I just feel a lot has changed in five years.  I've become way more introverted, way more cynical and, frankly, way more dumb.  And I feel my manger was way too much faith that I'll just kind of pick up right where I left off.  That's the bad thing about being such an exceptional employee.  People expect a lot from you.  And that's a lot of pressure to live up to those expectations.  Or I suppose that's a lot of unnecessary pressure that I'm putting on myself.  And when I say exceptional employee, I'm not bragging.  I really was one of the best employees they had and that's not because I was just so fantastic.  It all goes back to what I was mentioning earlier.  Everyone else just sucked, therefore making my mediocre abilities really shine.  I was the rare breed of teenager that followed the rules and did what I was supposed to.

And now I'm the not-so-rare breed of old man stuck in a crummy job in a crummy economy with a crummy outlook on life.  It's been a turbulent two days already and I'm exhausted.  To make myself feel better, I think I'm going to have to spend part of my first paycheck on True Blood: Season 2!!  After waiting forever, it's finally out.  Netflix won't have it for another month because of some stupid agreement they have not to release certain titles until thirty days after they've released everywhere else and frankly, I'm just not that patient to wait another month to see creatures of the night suck blood and ladies of the night sucking...well, other things.  Softcore vampire porn FTW.

Retail Hell Revisited

In my last entry, I forgot to mention that I did accept the position at JCP.  Today was the first day of training.  First, let me say that I got an e-mail from the bingo facility saying that they were not reopening.  This is twice now.  I'm glad I didn't agree to go back there.  I feel that place is going to be in limbo for a long time and there's not enough stability for me to return.  I might only be working part-time but at least it will be consistent part-time instead of irregular bouts of full-time work.  So, I feel good about the decision.

Kind of.

I really don't want to be a Danny Downer but I'm still fuzzy over returning to JCP.  I mean, it almost feels like I'm going backward.  I'm going back there and might be going back to school soon and it'll be just like when I was twenty again, as if the last four years of my life didn't even happen.  But, then again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

Today was training and it was a bit more intense than I had anticipated.  Some things have changed and I've gotten rusty with the skills that I used to know.  I'm sure once I get out on the floor by myself I'll find my groove again but dipping my toes back into used water isn't that much fun.  I don't know, I just feel lame.  I know I shouldn't but this just isn't where I wanted to be at this age.  I was hoping to have a good job doing what I love but I guess all college graduates hope for that and some get it, some don't.  I think it would make me feel better to know I wasn't the only chap in this position.  Well, I know I'm not.  There are quite a few people that have communicated to me that they or someone they know graduated from college and are working crappy jobs just to get by until something better comes along.  It's somewhat helpful but it's still annoying.

And everyone is new.  There's only a handful of people left that I worked with and the rest look...uh...unsavory.  I gotta be honest, I don't really have any intention on making friends there.  I really just want to earn a paycheck so I can eventually afford the equipment and software to continue my animation.  And hopefully the job will help get my mom off my back somewhat.  I brought my schedule for the rest of the week home and she said, "Are you going to be able to get any more hours than this?"  I wanted to punch her in the face.  I already told her it would be part-time and that my supervisor said she'd try to help me out as much as possible.  What more can I do?  Take my manager into the back office and toss her salad to bump myself up a few notches on her priority list?  Back off.  My mother should just be glad I was irritated enough with her nagging that I went back there for a job in the first place.  I could still be sitting on my doughy duff doing nothing.  At least I'll be getting out of the house and we'll be out of each other's hair.

Except for having to push credit card applications on people, I don't see it being too stressful.  In fact, I'm hoping it might be slightly peaceful.  As far as I know, I'll be back in my old stomping grounds in the men's department and not many people shop there.  I'm sure I'll spend most of my time folding shirts, which is fine with me.  It gives me a chance to kind of chill and think my thoughts.  Plus, I really enjoy it when I can straighten an entire section of clothing.  I'm really OCD about things being neat and orderly (outside of my own bedroom) and so I enjoy it when it looks nice in my department.

Yet, I can't shake this feeling of retreading, of beating a dead whore.  Ideally, I would be working at a new job where I can learn new skills that might be beneficial in the future.  I don't think I'll learn anything new here.  It will be more of a refresher course.  Then again, I'm not sure I want to learn anything new.  As I said, this might be a good thing that I'm already familiar with policies and procedures.  I can jump in, do my thing, collect a paycheck and get out of there.  If I'm not worried about my performance, hopefully I'll be able to concentrate on my writing and art.

Speaking of art, animation software and equipment is ridiculously expensive.  It's going to be tough trying to save up for that while paying for student loans.  I was told I could request a forebearance to delay the payments for six months, which I will be doing.  Check this.  The guy I talked to said my payments would be six hundred dollars a month!  I told him that would be an impossibility so he put me on hold, came back and said he could only get it down to about three hundred a month, still more than I wanted to take on.  I'm already paying two hundred a month on a different loan.  Mom said she'd pay half if I'd pay the other half, which makes things a bit easier but I don't want to depend on my parents so much.  They pay for all of my expenses and I'm at a point in my life where I should be capable of taking care of myself.  I'm embarrassed.  I understand that some things are out of my hands.  I understand the economy's in the pooper and jobs are hard to come by but if I was better, smarter, worked harder and was more talented, I'd have a good job by now.  Or maybe I'm too hard on myself.  I suppose it doesn't matter now because what's done is done and I just have to do what I can with what's going on.

Or something like that.

Ret(d)reading

This job thing is getting kind of funny.  Funny as in annoying like a giganto hemorrhoid. 

After the Birmingham debacle where I realized the job/apartment/real life thing wasn't going to happen and that my sister was as bitter as a used tampon, I gave up on that dream and set my sights on local work.  When I went to see the ladies from my old job to pick up my book, I casually mentioned that I was looking all over for work with no luck and jokingly said, "Hey, you guys aren't hiring, are ya?" with a bit of a chuckle in my delivery.  Naturally, they weren't.  In fact, my old boss said they had just laid some people off the week before.  Besides, my job was a temporary one that they had never even done before.  They had gotten behind on their work, which isn't surprising because of the chatter that goes on around there and so I was basically just hired to take care of the little things they had no time for while they handled the major responsibilities.  Eh, it was worth a shot.

So, a few days ago I took a trip into the dreaded JCPenney and groveled for a job.  I worked there several years ago and hated it.  Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word.  The work was a breeze but my coworkers sucked.  After two years, I was just tired of all the backstabbing and b.s. that ran amok in that establishment.  That's when I took the temporary job described above.  The good thing was my manager loved me and I left on good terms.  When she left, she told me if she ever had any openings she'd hire me in a second.  See, this is what I'm talking about.  I am a good worker!  I can do any job (within reason) that people give me as long as I'm properly shown how to do it.  That's why it's so frustrating when I apply and apply and never hear anything back, and even worse, when I go in for an interview and they don't pick up on my glowing personality or willingness to go the extra mile to do a great job.  Then again, I suppose I know I can work hard but they can't get that from a resume or from just an interview.  Seeing is believing but it's hard to see something when you won't give a brotha a chance, son!

While working at the bingo facility, I realized that JCPenney wasn't that bad at all.  I got to dress up and wear a tie and look nice and basically fold shirts for four hours.  As long as I didn't have any pissy customers and no one was trying to sling their gossip at me, I was content.  Heck, there were some days I even had small windows of time in which I could write poetry (thanks to the extra rolls of receipt paper and a multitude of extra pens lying around).  I tried to remember why I disliked it so much in the first place but couldn't remember any solid reasons.  I suppose working in a chimney facsimile and having to scrape ashtrays really puts things into perspective.

Well, the groveling paid off.  My former (and soon to be current again) supervisor said she had a position but it was part-time and wouldn't be too many hours.  I told her that was okay because few hours were better than none and maybe on down the road more hours would open up for me.  First, I had to take the stupid online job assessment test that almost all jobs make you do nowadays.  During Christmas time last year, I had applied to be a temporary replenishment person there just for the holidays.  I had to take the assessment test and failed, although I had previously worked there for two years and was well qualified for the job.  That's what ticks me off and probably why I didn't get a call back from a lot of potential employers in Birmingham.  Those stupid tests.  First of all, they are dumb.  How about asking me those questions during an interview so I can explain myself?  A lot of the answers they gave you to choose from were black and white while the questions did not have a black and white answer.  Many of the questions were also worded so poorly that no answer would ever be appropriate enough.  I told this to my manager and asked her to help me out with the assessment test this time around so I wouldn't fail again.  She did and after it was over she agreed that the questions were lame.  She was a department manager that had been there well over twenty years and even she didn't know the answer to some of their questions.  I felt validated.

But, with her help I passed and she even said she would put in for me to make the highest salary available, which I thought was really awesome of her.  Actually, she was one of the reasons I didn't like working there.  She's slightly cold and not easy to talk to or joke around with but I guess overall she was a nice lady (as evidenced by the salary raise).  She said I wouldn't be able to start until the beginning of the next month but I was fine with that.  It would give me time to process the fact that I was going to be working there again.  As I left the building, I had a sinking feeling.  All those negative memories of working there starting flooding back, yet, once again, with no real solid reason why that place sucked balls.  I'm sure all will be revealed in time.

But it doesn't stop there.... 

Wouldn't you know I got yet another out of the blue call from my former supervisor from the bingo facility.  They are planning on reopening again.  The company tried to pull this shizzle once before, which resulted in me totally dumping my diet due to a depression over having to return to that dump.  As soon as they said they were going to reopen, they didn't.  And here they are, trying it again, asking if I'm available.  "There's a good chance we'll be shut down again," he added.  Well, if the idea of going back to that smoke-filled clusterfudge of mullet-headed hillbillies and and old money grannies wasn't tantalizing enough, knowing the place will probably be shut down as soon as they open up really sweetens the pot for me.  All this after I just secured a new job.  After my former supervisor helped me fill out an application and pulled her weight to get me the highest salary within my position. 

timing timing timing.

If I want to think about it logically, the best choice would be to go back.  Forty hours.  Better pay.  Benefits.  But what's more vital to me at this point in my so-called-life?  Money or mental stability?  Sure, I might be earning more but what would I do with that extra cash but waste it on Sara Lee frozen cheesecakes and a glock to finish myself off.  No, maybe sacrificing buying material goods to clutter up my room with will be worth it if I can clear the rubbish from my head.  It's all so annoying but I'm going to try to deal with it the best I can.  Part-time work will probably be better for me anyway because I think I want to go back to school.  I will have to get a grant and/or scholarships to go to school because I certainly can't be adding on any more student loan debt but if I can afford school, I will be going back.  I actually kind of want to.  This whole real world experience isn't for me.  Not now, anyway.  I think I'd be much more comfortable sitting at a desk rather than sweeping up after a-hole gamblers.

It'll be real nice when I can find some employment stability.   

Spasms

I woke up last Saturday and went to the bathroom.  After I peed, I put my hands on my hips and dipped my head back to stretch my back.  Big mistake.  A tiny explosion of pain blossomed across my lower back, sending my head forward causing me to grab onto the sink to catch my balance.  I stood hunched over as the pain pooled to every corner of my lower and middle back and hugged at my sides.  The pain momentarily stopped my breath and as the pinching settled into me, I tried to catch my breath.  It only made the pain worse.  I hobbled back into bed and hoped the pain would go away, that maybe I had simply stretched too hard too fast after being asleep and settled into sleep, that maybe it was a temporary pull of a muscle and it would stop hurting after a while.  It didn't!

This isn't the first time I've had back trouble.  Several years ago I had lower back pain that nearly incapacitated me.  I took medication but never saw a doctor or anything.  I always assumed it was the way I slept the night before or something of that nature.  And as mysteriously and suddenly as the pain came, it left.  And now I'm hurting again, although I know it was caused by my improper stretching.  It still sucks.  I took it easy the rest of the weekend, staying in bed watching a supernatural movie marathon on Lifetime (shut up).  On Sunday, I ached as I watched a few zombie movie commentaries.  It's kind of weird how time flies when you're paralyzed to your bed and learning about undead philosophy.

The pain was better for about a day and then it started hurting again and to make things even better, I got up a few mornings ago and hurt my back again.  I suppose any progress I might have made was quickly crushed as I found myself in major pain again.  I'm sitting in bed right now, a heating pad pressed between my eighty-four-year old man back and two fluffy pillows.  It hurts to breathe, dude!  I swear I'm deteriorating.

In completely unrelated news, I went back to Birmingham a few weeks ago for a job interview.  When I was at my sister's house, I applied to approximately thirty businesses and only got a call back from one.  I didn't do very well during the interview but I was still hopeful, perhaps even positive, that I would get the job.  I didn't.  Suck on that, positive people.  Positivity doesn't work.  So, I went back home dejected.  About two weeks later, I got a call back from another business I had applied to.  They called me in for an interview so that night I packed all my junk and went back to my sister's house the next day.  After resting from the nearly 200 mile trip, I went into the interview and killed it.

The lady who interviewed me had a slight hunchback and ashy hands.  Her untucked, outstretched and faded blue polo shirt hung over her ill-fitting khaki pants.  It was a lame customer service job, something I previously swore I would never do again but seeing as I was desperate for any kind of work, I was just happy to be called back by someone.  Plus, I know customer service.  Yes, I know my writing makes me seem like this huge jerk that no one can get along with but I assure you I'm not like this in person.  I can turn on the charm.  And did I ever!  She threw the usual customer service oriented questions my way and I threw the answers back at her with all grace and confidence of a seasoned customer service associate, which I am.  Then, she told me the job would be part-time.  Crap.  I couldn't support myself on that.

After the interview was over, I was a bit disappointed but decided to use my time in Birmingham to look for other work while I was there.  Maybe go through the paper, shoot some more resumes off to different companies, make the most of my time there instead of driving the near 200 more miles back home.  But, after I looked online and then through the paper and saw nothing, I decided to go back home anyway.  Shannon came home from work and started grilling me about jobs and I realized I didn't want to stay with her any longer than I needed to and I just felt like there was no reason for me to stay anyway.  So, I went back home.

The next day, I got a call from another company I had applied for.  Great.  This was Friday and they wanted me to come in on Monday for a...wait for it...group interview.  No thank you.  I agreed, not realizing what the lady had said until after I had hung up.  The anxiety creeped in.  It's rough enough trying to do an interview one on one, much less in front of a group of other people trying to get the same job as you.  I quickly realized I would probably have a panic attack so I called back the next day and politely withdrew my application, even going so far as to apologize for causing any inconvenience.  The dude hung up on me.  I was annoyed the rest of the day but I felt better knowing I wouldn't be working for jerks like that.  I felt like I had made the right decision.  I then made the decision that I wouldn't take that customer service job, either.  Sure, I could try to find another part-time job but it took four months just to find that one and there was no guarantee I'd find another, much less one that would work around someone else's schedule.  I decided to just wait it out until I found a full-time job.

So, I waited patiently for the customer service job to call and offer me a position.  I knew they were going to call back because I was fantastic in the interview.  Now, those who know me know I am not one to brag.  I don't think highly of myself and am conceited in no way whatsoever so when I say I was amazing, you know that I was.  Well, Monday came along and I didn't hear anything.  Then, Tuesday.  Then, Wednesday. They never called.  I was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, abashed, nonplussed and, if I'm going to be honest, a little gassy.  I couldn't believe they didn't call me back, especially after the ashy lady who interviewed me even suggested me for a higher position than the one I interviewed for!  I can't say I was upset not to have the job.  I was upset that they did not want to have me.

So, back to zero.

I'm thinking about becoming an escort.  You know, for people who are into chubby guys with an aversion to sunlight and leafy green vegetables.  That is, assuming I could put my back into it.

Zombie Honeymoon (2004) Review

In Sickness and in Health

Denise and Danny are newlyweds who are starting their new lives as one flesh.  Unfortunately, things get messy when Danny is attacked by a zombie and slowly turns into one.  Will Denise stick with Danny, even when he begins to rot and his hunger for human flesh grows too strong to ignore?

This is probably the first romantic zombie movie I've ever seen and definitely the first zombie movie that's based on true events.  Well, the zombie part isn't true but the characters of Denise and Danny are based on the director's real life sister and brother-in-law.  In fact, the entire movie reflects their real lives together.  The real Danny and Denise were newly weds who quit their jobs to move to Portugal.  Danny was a surfer and wanted to live where the waves were beautiful and accessible.  Right before they were supposed to leave, Danny died in a surfing accident.  The director created this movie as a valentine for his sister and her strength and ability to get through such a tragic loss.

As with the real people, Denise and Danny quit their jobs and beginning to build a married life together.  One day, at the beach, a zombie emerges from the waves and attacks Danny.  He dies in the hospital but then comes back to life.  Mistaken for a miracle, Danny is actually slowly undergoing a transformation into a zombie.  Soon, it becomes apparent that Danny is not quite okay when Denise catches him munching on a fat neighbor.  From then on, Denise struggles with this new found kink in their plan as Danny struggles (and often fails) not to eat people.

What I liked about this movie was the character development.  I really cared about Denise and Danny and really rooted for them.  The film wouldn't have worked if these two characters weren't likable.  The chemistry was great between the two leads as well.  I could really see the connection between them and almost read the heartbreak on Denise's face when the ugly truth about Danny's condition came out.  In fact, the movie slowly burns along and the zombie action doesn't take place until about halfway through the movie.  The director took the time for us to get to know these people and care about them before plunging them into terror.

Even the zombie mayhem wasn't overly done.  This isn't a typical zombie splatter fest.  Yes, there as blood and even a bit of gore but it was controlled and not done just for the sake of gore.  The focus here was not on eating hearts, but breaking them.  

My only problem with the movie was the uneven mix of drama, comedy and horror.  For example, after Denise catches Danny during one of his all you can eat body buffets, it is very much played out like he's been cheating on her.  Denise is frightened and disgusted and in a bit of shock.  Danny, covered in blood, tries to calm her down and explain his actions to her.  The tension is real and thick.  After a great deal of hesitation on Denise's part, she decides to work it out with Danny.  Suddenly, the couple's friends ring their doorbell and from there they launch into a bumbling, comedic clean up scene where they try to wash the blood off the floor and hide the dead body in the bathroom.  These kinds of jostling transitions in mood didn't feel right to me.  It almost felt like the flick didn't know where to go with its direction and so it went everywhere.  That's really only a minor peeve, though.  Overall, a great flick and a romantic and kind of sad one as well.

If you like your love notes written with blood and brain matter, you might enjoy this movie.

4 out of 5.

Comparaplegic

So, I included the previous posts kind of as a back story so that people could get a better idea of where I'm coming from when it comes to writing.  I think they sum up my thoughts and feelings (and insecurities) on the craft pretty well.  Now that I've kind of caught you and myself up on the subject, here's a more recent rumination on writing.

I went to see the ladies from one of my previous jobs a few weeks ago.  I saw them right before I left for Birmingham because I was so hopeful that I'd find a job there and not return back home and I wouldn't see them for a while.  I needed to pick up the book that had my essay published in it.  I let them borrow it to read my essay.  I had put off going back there because of my weight gain.  I mean, those ladies are awesome and I enjoyed working with them and even visiting them after I had left the job but they were still ladies, southern ladies who liked to gossip.  The last time I visited them to give them the book, they had raved about how great I looked.  I had lost weight and my face was looking particularly clear and smooth during my visit.  I didn't want to go back there looking gross.  Not only would I spoil that last image they had of me but I'm sure they'd talk.  They loved to talk smack about people.  I wouldn't want my last visit to be the one they talked about over and over again.  "Gosh, Brannon's really packed on the pounds, hasn't he?"  "Yeah, all those greasy foods have made him fat and clogged his pores!"  Of course, I could be wrong.  Maybe they wouldn't talk about me.  But, considering the fact that they all talk about each other made me think otherwise.

But, since I was leaving for a long time (I thought), I decided to get my book back and see them one last time before I departed.

I asked them what they thought and they all really liked it.  It made me feel really good to hear that.  They said they even showed it to their boss and he laughed so hard he started crying.  Now, I don't know if that was an exaggeration ('cause it wasn't that funny) or if he is just really sensitive to snarky writing but it still made me feel really good either way.  Of course, that was the first time they had ever read anything I had written so maybe they were just impressed that I could put together a story at all but it still made me smile.  You know what my mom said when she finished reading the story?  "Thanks for making me look bad."  How supportive, eh?  Not only was my mom in the story for about two seconds but the part i wrote about her had nothing to do with the overall message.  So, I was glad to hear something positive from someone else for a change.

It just feels good to have my writing recognized and even somewhat praised.  I have this constant struggle with myself to realize or reject the fact that I can write.  I know it sounds like old news because I'm always talking about it but I talk about it because that nagging doubt in my head never goes away.  I'm constantly worried that someone will find out I'm a hack, that even if I am talented, the talent will slip away eventually.  Plus, I've never put together anything more ambitious than three essays for my nonfiction writing class in college.  I've never written a book or anything more than a short story here or there.  I don't know how to put together a story and I don't have ideas that flow out of me.  This is what makes me question my writing capabilities.  Shouldn't writers be able to write about anything?  Wouldn't real talent shine through the description on how to brush your teeth or when writing about the mundane task of ordering a pizza over the phone? 

Maybe it's not even about my writing but just about being insecure.  It's not just writing.  It's my animations and drawings and the way I am as a person.  I basically don't feel good enough at anything I do.  I've basically never felt good enough.  It's kind of weird because it's not like I haven't been encouraged over the years.  All my art teachers in school said I should pursue it in college.  And when I started writing, I had some encouragement there as well.  My nonfiction writing teacher told me to keep writing.  Why would he do that if I sucked?  I can still remember him coming up to me and saying, "This is a damn good essay" and the almost dizzying good feeling that came over me.  So, why is it that I still feel inadequate?

Maybe it could be the fact that I always compare myself to everyone else.  If I could simply recognize my abilities instead of comparing them to someone who is better, I wouldn't feel so bad.  The truth is, someone will always be better than me.  No matter how great I become, if I do become great at all, I still won't be as good as the next writer or artist or comedian or serial killer.  I just have a hard time separating myself from everyone else.  It's like I'm crippled by my inability to just recognize myself in my own capacity to write or draw or whatever else I do, frozen by a lack of faith in myself and my art.  If only I could just be okay with what I do.  If only I could strive to do the best work I can do, not the best work someone else can do.  I just need to be the best I can be because, really, I am all that I have.  To wish I could be as talented as someone else is like wishing I had wings to fly like a bird or fins so I could swim like a fish.  It's impossible for me to be that good because I'm simply not built that way.  I just need to learn how to use these arms and these legs and these abilities instead of wishing for other qualities that I will never possess.    I just don't know how to go about doing that.

On Writing VI

Written September 2009.

I’ve been planning on turning my diary entries from my first year of college into a book ever since I finished that awful experience.  That was approximately two years ago.  It wouldn’t be too terribly hard.  It’s not like I’d be writing the book from scratch, relying on my failing memory for material.  I wrote it all down as it happened.  If anything, all the entries need is a little editing and then some extra writing to tie everything together.  Doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.  I guess I’ve been too lazy and too scared to actually make it happen.  A part of the hesitation lies in how I want to approach the book.  Do I want it to be strictly journal style or do I want to make it have a novel feel?  I suppose it doesn’t matter which way I go about it because there is still a ton of things to consider, like character development and pacing and conflict. Where’s the rising action?  Where’s the engaging dialogue?  I didn’t record very many specific instances of dialogue so I’ll have to rely on memory for that.  And lastly, where is the resolution?  I don’t really have much of one.  If anything, I learned that everything sucks.  I’m just worried the book will fall flat.  It will contain no redeeming value, just some jilted kid complaining for three hundred pages.  No one wants to read that.  And that’s where my fear comes in.  I fear no one will care, no one will want to read it, and most terrifyingly, no one will think it’s good. 

When I think about it, it’s not like my college experience was exactly interesting.  Nothing crazy actually happened, at least externally.  Most of the drama came from my head, which means the book would very much be a slow burn, a psychological portrait of one young man’s descent into disappointment and eventual emotional death.  Who wants to read that?  No one.  No, people nowadays are more interested in high-class cocaine scandals and bisexual orgies.  People want to read “Gossip Girl” material, something Perez Hilton would post on his website on any given day.  I’ve kept tabs on what titillates the audience and mostly it’s anything that’s shallow and juicy, situations like insignificant struggles, like who's the richest out of a group of friends, a Prada bag battle and surface concepts of love that last a week at the most are what make ears ring.  Pretty people with problems.  Well, I had a lot of problems but they sure weren’t pretty.  And neither was I.

And then the question of who I want to write the book for comes up in my head.  They say to know your audience.  I always struggle with walking that fine line of creating things mainly for myself while making it appealing to others.  Everyone wants to be able to make a living doing what they love.  I love to write and would very much love to be a full time writer.  But you can’t just write for yourself.  You have to make it relatable.  You have to invite the audience in instead of shutting them out and I feel if I wrote the book exactly how I want to, no one would want to read it.  I feel I’ll have to punch it up a bit to make it more interesting.  Now, that doesn’t mean to lie but to just provide more facts that I wouldn’t exactly share in my vision of the book.  I would very much like this book to be a success, despite the fact that I’m self-publishing it and I don’t have a lot of contacts or connections to spread the word that my material is even out there.  And because I would like this to work out, I’m feeling extra pressure to make sure it’s nearly impeccable.  And there’s just so much to consider.  I don’t want it to just me whining all the time.  No one cares about whiners.  I started reading the reference materials and in the first few pages, I nose-dived into a depression and the rest of the writing is just me sinking further and further into sadness.  How can I reconcile that?  By having some grand moral at the end of the book?  To let the audience know that I came out of that experience stronger?  No.  I can’t do that because that’s not how I feel.  In fact, I feel worse than ever.

In the beginning of Judith Moore’s book Fat Girl, she states that there is no moral at the end of her book and that she did not intend for the reader to glean any lesson from her story.  At the same time, she’s writing about something incredibly relatable.  I read the book and all the while I was nodding my head and saying, “Yes, yes, I feel the same way.”  So even though she never had a clear epiphany planned in her story, she was still able to capture my interest and my sympathy and I really enjoyed the book.  And I think people can relate to my book.  I don’t know anyone who had an amazing college experience all the way through.  Everyone has had some rough patches, and if they haven’t, then they were incredibly lucky.  So, even though my book may be relatable, it doesn’t mean it will be good or interesting.  Because so many people do have bad experiences in college, what is going to make my experience stand out?  What’s going to make it shine and be something that people will want to read and understand?  I don’t think there’s anything outstanding about it.  In fact, the whole book is terribly negative and depressing and it’s not my intention to depress anyone so it makes me question writing it at all.  I’m just trying to show people where I’m coming from, trying to find some kind of validation and appreciation for what I had to endure.  It felt like Judith Moore was venting in her book.  I got the sense that the book was cathartic for her and that’s what I want for me.  Switching gears from books to television shows, I keep thinking about the series finale of Roseanne and her final monologue.  It perfectly articulates why I want to write this book and why I write in general:

I made a commitment to finish my story even if I had to write in the basement in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep. But the more I wrote, the more I understood myself and why I had made the choices I made and that was the real jackpot. I learned that dreams don’t work without action. I learned that no one could stop me but me. I learned that love is stronger than hate. And most important, I learned that God does exist. He and/or She is right inside you, underneath the pain, the sorrow, and the shame. I think I’ll be a lot better now that this book is done.

Ever since I started taking writing seriously, I’ve felt it was healing.  In fact, I feel all the writing I’ve done over the past couple of years have slowed my decline into insanity.  And the Roseanne quote is so accurate.  When you write about your life, you really are forced to examine the choices you’ve made and why you did what you did.  If I can get this book written, it’ll force me to face my decisions and maybe I’ll finally get why I did the things I did so that maybe I won’t hate myself for making the wrong choices.  Hopefully the process of writing through my dilemmas and sharing my story with the world will help me heal.  Plus, having my own published book will just be awesome, even though it is self-published, which presents my other problem: I still question my talent.  It’s not like some publisher contacted me and threw money at me to get this thing written.  It’s not like it’ll ever be on the shelves.  The best I can hope for is Amazon.com but even that sounds pretty neat to me.  I guess I’m just worried that I’m not qualified enough to write something as challenging as a book.  Sure, I can squirt out the occasion good essay and I get lucky with a decent poem now and then but a book?  I feel like I might be writing off more than I can chew.  I’d hate for someone to read it thinking, “This person has no business writing a book.”  Then again, successful authors such as Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Anne Frank and William Faulkner, just to name a few, were all rejected several times before someone finally said they were good enough.  I guess that gives me a bit of hope when I inevitably get my own rejections and negative reactions to the book.  I understand that not everyone is going to love me but as fragile as I am, I can have one hundred praises and one complaint and I’ll fall to pieces.  Where does the acknowledgement of talent lie?  Within a ton of readers, book sales, lists, awards, money, or within ones own self? 

I guess all I can do is keep writing, keep working on the book and be proud of it no matter how it turns out.  It is my first, after all, and I will no doubt make mistakes, mistakes that I can learn from when I work on the next book.  Maybe as I write, things will unfold naturally and I’ll find a pace that will be appropriate and when it comes to some kind of grand revelation at the end, there might not be one just yet because my story isn’t quite over.  At the very least, I think it will provide some much needed closure.  I think I'll be a lot better once this book is done.

On Writing V

Written February 2009.

It’s weird to realize I’ve had my physical journal for around three years now.  I bought it when I first came to college.  I thought those moleskin journals were artsy and sophisticated so I picked one up.  And yet it’s not even halfway full.  It’s not like I haven’t been writing.  I’ve done plenty of that.  I just mostly type on my MacBook.  I guess I just have so much to say that if I were to write it all down by hand, I’d develop carpal tunnel for sure.  It’s just easier to simply type everything out.  But I still genuinely enjoy writing by hand.  Plus, it’s a lot more convenient to carry about my small, physical journal than it is my MacBook when I’m struck with inspiration.  Mostly, I guess the physical journal is more for note taking, for jotting down ideas when a great line pops into my head.  It wasn’t meant to be used to write entire pieces of writing, although I have done that on occasion.  I’ve written entire poems and stories, wholly and unchanged before in the physical journal.  I suppose it just all depends on how inspired and passionate I am about what I’m talking about.  I can be moved to write from one line to four pages at a time. 

But I’m not inspired nor passionate anymore.

Maybe I’m too distracted?  Or perhaps I’ve purged all of that passion already?  Maybe there’s nothing left to bring up and out?  I’m sure there is (at least I hope so) but there must be something blocking my brain.  I haven’t written any good quality poetry or reflections lately and it saddens me.  I look back on old poems and essays and it’s like reading a stranger’s words.  I don’t remember writing a lot of them, almost like someone took over my hand, as if I was being possessed by the words I was writing.  Sometimes I read some of my old work and I impress myself.  Wow, how did I come up with that?  How was I able to make the words flow?  And the most important question is how can I do that again?  I haven’t impressed myself lately.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost it but how can I have lost it when I continually use it?  They say “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it” but I write daily.  It’s frustrating and sometimes I feel like God has given me talent by inches.  He holds an invisible string that is slacked and stiffened according to His mood, or perhaps, my work.  It’s not like I’m blaming God for my sudden slump but since I believe talent is a gift from God, I feel like He must have a hand in my hampered abilities.  Perhaps I haven’t paid Him back in praise and now He’s repossessing the vehicle for my emotional expression?  No, I’m sure it’s not God.  He has plenty of talent to toss around and He has given us the free will to use (or abuse) that talent how we see fit.  It’s just me.  I’m sure it’s just people, places, and my own putridness that help to conspire against any progression of talent.

And it’s not like I expect everything I write to be a masterpiece but I just wish my writing was consistently good, that there was always a nugget of knowledge embedded in the zombie metaphors and blood spattered similes.  I want my writing to have purpose.  What good is it to write pretty poetry that exemplifies empty emotions?  What good is it to write a fancy story that doesn’t promote passion? 

I am not unique.  I do not see things in a totally original way but I do see things quite differently than others and I try to show that through my writing.  ‘Cause I think the way I see things requires and open mind and that’s really all I’m asking for, for my writing to open up people’s minds, to get them to think just a bit harder because if they think harder, hopefully, they’ll think smarter and thinking smarter will lead to more understanding which will lead to less fear which will lead to less hate.  And less hate will open up a whole new world for all of us.

On Writing IV

Written January 2009.

I’m finding myself at a loss for words…yet again.  With the exception of the last few days, I sit in front of my screen and I open up my word document with all of these topics I want to discuss and I am so overwhelmed because I don’t know where to start.  If I’m not passionate about a subject, I can’t discuss it and articulate what I want to say in the manner in which I want to present to others.  This is where I get locked up and bogged down because while I don’t feel good about writing on a certain subject, other topics continue to flood my mind and they won’t leave until I have written it out.  So, here I am, writing down ideas and not expounding upon them.  The ideas pile up and I start to feel swamped with subjects and I get mentally constipated. I guess my only option is to simply rough it out.  Push through and write about something even if I’m not feeling it.

I kind of have a hierarchy of importance when it comes to the things I want to talk about.  There’s the every day observations that kind of just come to me that aren’t necessarily important.  And then it progresses to poetry to personal reflections about myself to the way I see the world to short stories.  And the unimportant stuff I usually write about, even if it isn’t the spectacularly sweeping masterpiece I had hoped it would be.  The important stuff I refuse to write half-heartedly.  I think there’s some stuff in my head too important to mishandle.  Stuff so important that if I don’t express it in the proper manner, the meaning might be lost or misunderstood.  Although I don’t think my ideas are the most amazing and my delivery the most heart melting, I still think it all deserves the best I can give to it. 

I think this works out perfectly.  In keeping with my resolution to write daily, I can go through my list of topics and get crackin’!  If I’m not feeling particularly in the mood to write, I can at least pick a topic that I feel is least important and write about it and post it and at least get it out of my head and out of my word document.  Did you know that I have nineteen Word document pages of stuff I want to talk about?  I mean, it’s not all like one sentence ideas.  A lot of it is unfinished entries, unfinished poetry and the beginnings of stories but that’s still a massive load!  And I really need to start releasing some of this.  I like to think this Word document is a physical representation of my head.  It is cluttered and filled with some important stuff and some not so important stuff and mostly stuff that just needs to be let go.

On Writing III

Written October 2007.

"I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within."  -Gustave Flaubert

I still have a hard time calling myself a writer.  I still can’t define what a writer is.  Can anyone be a writer?  Sure.  I suppose, in a way, anyone can.  Overall, we are all writers.  We’ve all written down our thoughts down at one point or another, whether in a small locked journal that we kept under the bed or for a writing assignment in school.  We write because we are instructed to.  We write because we are frustrated.  We write for leisure.  But where is the line drawn between a casual writer and a serious writer?  Is that line within us, or do other people define that distinction?  Can you only call yourself a writer if it’s what you do as a profession?  Can you call yourself a writer only if you’ve been published? 

I started out writing ‘cause I was jumping on the blog bandwagon so many years ago.  What once started out as a hip thing to do, filling my electronic pages with mindless daily duties became something more for me.  I realized writing was a medium in which I could manifest my maniacal mind.  I realized I could turn to writing when I couldn’t turn to friends.  And it was much healthier than turning to food.  I realized writing had become a sort of therapy for me, but much, much cheaper.  I realized I could express myself in writing in a way that I could not with drawing or painting.  I realized that I could probably be more honest with pen and paper than I could looking into the eyes of another and feeling ashamed by what I felt.  There’s no judgment when it’s just me and my thoughts.  It’s just raw, honest emotion.

I started writing stories.  I wrote the kind of stories I wish I could read.  I injected personal problems into these fictional characters that came from my fingertips.  By doing so, I breathed life into these otherwise two dimensional beings.  I took my pains and transformed them into what I thought at the time were good stories.  I realized I could change that pain, maybe even reverse it, through writing.  Writing felt good.  Cathartic.  Throughout the years, I realized my writing had changed drastically.  I realized I wasn’t essentially documenting my days anymore.  I was recording my ruminations.  I was chronicling my contemplations on my life and myself.  I felt I grew as a writer and as a person through my own words.  I learned a lot about myself in the process.  When I would sit down and want to write about hating myself, I was forced to examine why I felt that way.  I was forced to examine why my self-esteem was so low.  I was forced to examine how I turned out how I did.  And although I can pretty much tell why I am the way I am, I’m still not completely there.  I haven’t gotten myself completely figured out yet.  But I’m so much farther than I was.  And I credit most of that to writing.  Without writing, I wouldn’t have been pushed to pursue a reason for the way I felt about things, people, and myself. 

And, as with everything else creative in my life, I found frustration with writing.  When I first discovered writing, it was a new toy.  All these ideas and thoughts and wonderful pieces of pure brilliance came out of me.  All of these emotions that had been built up within me now had a way out and were they ever eager to break free.  I was a machine.  Eventually that steam stagnated and I found myself with a constipated cranium.  I found it harder to write about the same issues that I had already covered.  It seems to me there are recurring themes in my writing and each time I try to once again tackle one of those themes, I find myself being redundant.  It’s hard to inject freshness into a stale idea.  Yet, I’m forced to because I can’t seem to get over certain aspects of my life.  And what helps me get over those certain aspects?  Writing about it.  So I find myself writing about the same things, while at the same time trying not to replicate my regrets or restate my sorrows.  There was something so refreshing about finding a new tool to tackle my mental anguish.  But now, I find myself slipping away from that sense of satisfaction that I felt so long ago when I first discovered, “Hey!  I think I have something here!”

I’ll sit in class while I’m taking notes and a line of poetry will pop into m head and I will think, “Oh, that’s good.  I gotta use that.”  And it’s usually not enough to make a legitimate entry out of, yet I do try.  In some ways, I find some ideas irrelevant and unnecessary, while in other ways I find it a unique trait to be able to center a story around such mundane topics like as washing towels or resting in the raw.  The trick is to make it entertaining.  I believe a great writer can make wallpaper interesting.  Oh, someone already did (thank you Charlotte Perkins Gilman).  I feel I should start filtering my thoughts a bit more.  Just ‘cause it’s a nice thought doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good enough to translate to my diary.  I was looking through my old diary and was amazed at some of the stuff I wrote.  It was quite good.  Usually as an artist’s talent grows, they feel the opposite way.  They usually believe the more they work, the farther along they become in their abilities, the better the product.  Since I feel like my writing has worsened, maybe it means I’m losing it.  Of course, I’ve felt this way before and then went on to write some of the best stuff I’ve ever written, but that feeling is inescapable and scary.  And I’m so worried it’s a sign of my declining talent.  What once was a diary used for contemplation and culture commentary has now become a medium in which I drivel on about the mundane misadventures of my moldy existence.  And I just don’t like that.

I don’t know if I’m qualified to call myself a writer anymore, if I ever was at all.  It's just that so much goes through my mind and I don't have the time or the energy to get it out, to write it the way I want, to translate it the way I feel I need to to get the most impact.  So instead of taking the time I feel I need, I simply scrawl it all down in hopes that I'll free up enough brain space to write about the important things the way I want to.  I have so many ideas clogging up my brain that I have to free it any way I can.  Even if that means writing garbage until I can recapture that magic medium once more.

On Writing II

Written July 2007.

What allows people to declare they are a writer? Does one have to be good or simply have a passion for writing? Is the word "writer" used too loosely today or can the word be applicable to anyone who enjoys the craft? I suppose it all has to do with what people's definition of writer is. Could a writer be someone who simply keeps a journal or diary of their daily activities or does writer have to be someone who goes beyond simply chronicling their lives? Does it have to involve imagination and fictional storytelling? Does it have to involve poetry? Does it have to be a profession for someone to say they are a writer, or can it be a hobby?

I guess what immediately comes to mind when I hear someone say they are a writer is "Oh, they must be good." And that's when I have a hard time calling myself a writer. I almost feel like I'm being pretentious or giving people an impression of a skill that I'm not entirely sure I possess. Heck, I don't even like calling myself an artist and I even know that I'm somewhat talented in drawing and painting. It seems there's just some sort of block against me saying anything good about myself or even giving myself a bit of credit. I suppose it just seems weird for me to call myself an artist or a writer when there are people out there who are so much better than I am. Compared to those people, I feel I don't have the right to call myself these things. What have I contributed to the world of art to be privileged enough to place myself among them? Frankly, nothing! I mean, the things I've thought about or contemplated or written isn't anything a million other true writers haven't already covered and covered better than I have.  I haven't written anything new or innovative.

And I suppose the reason why I'm even thinking about it is because I have really discovered over the past year or so that I truly enjoy writing. It has become a part of who I am. I identify with writing. I love the process. I love the feeling I get when I put something down and then read back over it and I can feel proud of what I did. I can also recognize when I'm not very good but at times it doesn't matter 'cause I never said I was a professional. I'm an amateur at best. Writing is actually something I stumbled upon by accident. I've never even considered writing to be a big deal to me until I started keeping a journal a few years ago. And even then I didn't take it seriously. I merely chronicled my daily events. And then I started to write down my thoughts, those emotions and feelings that were once only relegated to my pillow right before I would go to sleep. And once I started writing everything down, it felt good. And then when I started getting positive feedback on some of my stuff, that made me feel even better. It also ignited a hope in me, a hope that maybe I'm decent at this writing thing.

And as I began to take it more seriously, I thought to myself, "Wow, you know, this is something I wouldn't mind doing professionally." And I began to think of all the great things I could do with a pen and paper. And my secret dream is to become a novelist. I also wouldn't mind being a writer for a television program. The only problem with that is I'm not creative enough. It's the same problem I have with my art. I feel like if someone tells me what to draw or what to write about, I can do it just fine, but when I'm left to my own devices I can't seem to come up with anything on my own. And this seems to totally contradict the very nature of an artist. It seems that true writers and artists reject such restrictions. True artists and writers want complete freedom to create their own works, to reach inside of themselves and pull out whatever has been lying dormant for so long to not only release all that emotional angst but to create a highly original and beautiful piece of work. I'm just not like that. I'm lacking the motivation and the creativity. And because of that, I feel stuck. How can I pursue a career as I writer when I feel so uninspired, so unoriginal and uncreative? And besides, fiction is not my forte. I feel my best writing comes from the moments when I simply sit down and search my soul. And I just write what I find. But how can I make a career out of that? Am I supposed to just sit around all of my life and wait for a series of epiphanies to pop up so I can write them down and cash another check? What if the epiphanies stop coming? What if I reach a standstill in my self analysis? What if there's no more of me to discover? And really, how many people are gonna be super psyched to read yet another book about me? I'm sure one memoir would be enough for everyone.

Sometimes I get bored and like to go through people's random diaries to hopefully find something intriguing to take up my time for a while. I hate to say this, but more times than not I spend the majority of my time trying to find an interesting diary to read instead of spending that time actually reading something good. So, when I do find a good diary, it's a treat, a golden nugget in a sea of senseless words.

And it seems I don't come across good ones very often, but when I do, they are amazing, so amazing, in fact, that it makes me question the quality of my own writing. These people are so amazing and so on point with everything they write. Each entry is a new revelation and it's beyond my comprehension as to how they can come up with all these amazing commentaries on life and love and the human condition. Reading these incredible diaries spurs two reactions within me. First, I enjoy reading these entries 'cause it makes me feel like there's actually people out there who think and feel. Secondly, it makes me feel like my writing is crap, which just reinforces the idea that I already had that I'm just not good enough to take it as seriously as I would like to.

I understand there are varying degrees of talent out there. I understand you don't have to be the best of the best to be published or to have a hit animated television show, but at the same time, it does require a great deal of that talent stuff. And I feel I just don't possess it. And although you don't have to be the best, you at least have to be better than the other guy if you wanna get hired. And I'm the other guy. And sometimes I wonder why I even bother when I don't feel I'm even good enough to win against someone else, when I'm not even confident to think I could be as good as any of my classmates.

I don't know if I want to be an animator anymore. I would like to be a writer but I just feel I don't have the kind of imagination it takes. This leaves me very stuck. All I do know for sure is that I have a passion, a passion for what I'm not sure, but for something creative and something inspiring. I wanna bring laughs and entertainment to the world and at the same time I want to bring out a means for reflection. I wanna get people to think. I want to reach people. I just don't know how to extend my hand. I don't know how to get to everyone. I'm confused and I'm frustrated and I just wanna know where I belong in the great wide plan to save the planet.

All I know is I just really, really want to.

On Writing

Written March 2007.

I've often sat and wondered if writing was some sort of gift from God. Well, no doubt it is, but what I mean is, I wonder if He sent that gift to me to help me cope with my sometimes crippling crises. And I wonder this because it seems as if my passion for writing came out of nowhere. As far back as I can remember, I've never even considered writing as a medium in which I could express myself and release my emotions. For me, it was always art (drawing, painting, the dream of one day learning to animate). But, the funny thing about art is I never used it to express myself. I never used my drawings or paintings to reflect how I was feeling inside. I suppose for me, art was where I went to get away from all those feelings instead of facing and funneling them into something positive. Instead of using pencils to penetrate the pain, I used erasers to escape everything. For me, drawing was the way I didn't have to worry about how I looked or how I felt. Drawing was my little escape, the one place where I could be outside of who I was at the time. The product of my paintings usually had little or nothing to do with emoting. I liked drawing people. I got lost in the lines in their faces and fixated on their features. For me, the final product of my drawings were not expressions of myself, only the end result of an escape process.  Really, just a stress reliever, a way to relax.

But, my perfectionism kicked in hardcore a few years ago and I've sort of put drawing to the side. What was once a therapeutic past time soon turned into an exercise in frustration. I just couldn't draw the way I wanted. My pieces never looked as good on paper as they did in my head. So, I stopped and therefore stopped the little emotional release I was allowing myself. Then, several years ago, my friend heard about LiveJournal. We decided to both create accounts just for fun.  I had never really written anything outside of the classroom up until then. And as an amateur blogger, I did the typical writing (writing about my day, writing about what I had for dinner, writing about what I watched on television the night before.) But, somewhere along the macaroni and cheese I had for lunch and my dismay over the end of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I started slipping in how I was feeling.

What once was a chronicle of my daily activities turned into a record of regrets and ruminations. It was the weirdest sensation. I actually felt a little bit better about things after I wrote them down. I realized that I finally had a way to funnel my frustrations. It was like I didn't have to keep everything inside after all. Up until then, I kept my thoughts and feelings to myself. My family isn't the type to share and I've never really had friends that listened to me. I always listened to their problems and dished out advice. And because I was their high school therapist, I knew they had a lot of baggage so I didn't want to burden them with mine. Therefore, I kept it inside.  Then I discovered writing.  What a sweet release! As the years progressed, so did my writing and the seriousness with which I wrote. I realized not only could I express how I was feeling, but with writing, I could express anything. I could express how I wanted to feel. I could express all those things I've always wanted to say in person but couldn't. I could express my dreams and my hopes, my fantasies and the way I wish things were. I realized writing is an entire world on its own, a world that I had access to, a world where I could do anything or be anything I wanted. Writing soon took over as my stress reliever. I realized I could do so much more with writing and go so much farther than with my limited abilities as an artist.

And the thing about writing is, unlike drawing, I don't feel as self-conscious about it as I do drawing. I suppose it's because I know that I'm not a real writer. I'm a real artist (or I used to be) but writing is just sort of a hobby. I guess it makes me feel safer about it, knowing that if I don't take it too seriously, then I won't be judged by how good or bad it is 'cause it's just something I do in my free time. But, I'm starting to take it seriously and it seriously scares me. When I was a little lad, drawing used to be so much fun. When I wasn't concerned with accuracy or if it really looked like the person I was drawing, I was good. It was a fun process and I enjoyed it. But, the moment I took it seriously I grew to despise drawing. When I took it seriously, I felt like it became work and then it wasn't fun anymore. And now I'm starting to take writing seriously and I'm just so scared that it won't be fun anymore, that I'll get as frustrated with it as I did with drawing and painting. And then I'll stop doing that, too. And if I do, then where will that leave me? How will I express myself? Interpretive dance?  Hemp jewelry?  It worries me a lot. I feel like God realized that drawing wasn't cutting it anymore, so maybe he sent me the gift of writing to compensate. I corrupted His gift of art and now I feel I'm corrupting His gift of writing, too, and maybe He's not gonna be so willing to hand out any more talents since I've messed up the others.

But, sometimes writing is really frustrating. Sometimes my mind goes ninety miles an hour and I can't catch up with where it's going. I'll sit in class and I'll have an epiphany and I have to write it down that instant or I'll lose it. It's like my mind can comprehend something and only keep it for a little while. My notebooks are a funny sight. Included in my class notes are scribbled realizations scrawled in the margins. In some of my notebooks, the back of them are solely dedicated to lines of poetry or things I would like to discuss so my mind will be appeased. And what really gets on my nerves is the fact that I think when I'm in class, but not when I'm in my room. It's like my mind's priorities are really screwed up. When I should be concentrating on class, my mind is pondering the universe, yet when I have all the free time in the world to write or think, I don't want to. My mind is tired and would rather soothe itself with a nice nap or mindless television that doesn't make me think too hard.

My mind is confusingly configured.

It feels good to have the weight of problems lifted when I write. It doesn't make them go away entirely. The problem is still there, but the pressure is relieved a bit. And now that my mind has found some semblance of relief, it seeks that relief all the time. It constantly seeks to alleviate the pressure it puts on itself. My mind is consistently trying to purge my thoughts. This leads to an uncomfortable uneasiness when I can't just sit down to pen and paper right then and there. My thoughts try to claw their way out and continue to scratch at the inside of my skull until I can release them. And maybe that's why I think all the time. My mind has found some sort of escape for my emotions, so it's making up for all the times I buried my pain. And perhaps in my effort to help myself, I'm only causing more damage.

But, at the same time, I can't help but to feel healed. Writing really is therapeutic to me. It helps me get out a lot of emotion and pain. It's even a good way for me to convey the seldom times of satisfaction. I do believe writing has saved my life in many ways. It's been an emotional outlet. It's kept me from going insane many a time. For me, writing has been a great tool to help me figure out myself and figure out why I am the way I am. Writing helps me make sense of my senseless life and the senseless world around me. Writing has been a great way for me to chronicle my introspection, to write down all of the realizations I come across about myself and about life in general. Writing has helped me to deal with some of my sadness and anger. Writing has been a good way to keep record, not of just the wrongs, but the rights in my life. I've had some good times and now that they are immortalized in words, they are forever a reminder of the happiness I've had.

And the storyteller aspect of my writing is another way in which I can deal with things. There's a lot of things in my life I've never done. There's a lot I missed out on. There's also a lot of things I wish I could do that I know I never will. Writing is my way of doing those things, of experiencing those pleasures I missed out on so long ago. I can create characters and have them go through the things I wish I could have. And because almost all characters I create are some forms of me, an extension of my internal self (because that's all I know to draw from) it's almost like I am going through those situations, too. I can vicariously live through the characters I create. In these worlds, I can experience love and romance, passion and pleasures. I can take out my anger on the unclean. I can exact my revenge on the wicked. I can claim victory over evil. And in my world, although the hero endures tragedy, he always wins. He does find happiness in the end. It's my way of wishing happiness upon myself, my way of reassuring myself that although times are painful now, happiness is waiting in the form of hope. And if I can just hope hard enough and write about it well enough, maybe I'll find it. And I realize my vicariousness my cause concern for some. I can't just sit in my room and write about falling in love or write about going on great adventures. I should make them happen. And I realize this. I'm not going to get lost in my writing. I'm not going to become a slave to my fantasies. It's all innocent. It's all just safe little stories that allow me to vent or convey a situation.

And all of this just came to me one day. What started as the typical teenage babble about the mall turned into some serious soul searching. And I'm thankful to God for giving me a tool to be able to do that. 'Cause not only do I want to help myself, but I want to help others. I used to want to help people with my art, but when I pushed art aside, I had no way to help people. But, maybe I've found a new way. And although I've never considered an occupation that involves writing, I definitely wouldn't be opposed to it if the offer came up. I also become increasingly excited at the idea of having my writing published. I do believe my new dream would be to have my collection of essays turned into a book or to write an original story of my own. But, we'll see how that turns out. I won't pursue it, not just yet. For now, I'll just keep my words intimate. I'll just keep my thoughts between you and me. I'll just share myself with a few friends at a time. Besides, I think I like things just the way they are....at least for now.

Honeysuckle

meet me where the honeysuckle grows

the spot laid out for you and me

fragrant like these fingers

soft like this skin

 stems writhe in the grass

from palpating petals

nectar nudges along the fringe

of frivolous abandonment

plucked at the peak of pulsing

lifted off the ground

collapsing into the earth
laughing

with sticky sweet smiles

Snot Job

Back to the ENT today.  I have this increasing suspicion that this guy doesn't quite know what he's talking about.  He keeps changing the name of my cyst.  First, he said it was a branchial cleft cyst and now he's calling it a thyroglossal duct cyst and next thing you know he's going to claim the squishy ball in my throat is my dead twin brother's testicle, the only remnants of him from the womb when I absorbed him into myself, via Vanishing Twin Syndrome.  Also, when we first talked about treatment options, he said excising the cyst wouldn't be a problem and it would leave a very light scar.  Next appointment, he says it will leave a big scar and it could possibly damage my vocal cords.  Now, not only is he saying it will leave a big scar but it could possibly reoccur, which would require another surgery to remove it.  I don't know if he's getting his diagnoses mixed up or if he's learning more information as we continue to meet or if he's just down right making it up as he goes along but the constantly changing information makes me uneasy.  At the same time, I'm kind of tired and in no mood to see another doctor.  I've resigned myself to the fact that the lump will probably never go away.  He'll continue suggesting new treatments and I may or may not try them, depending on what I can afford, and I suppose we'll see how it goes.

And let me just reiterate how fast this guy talks.  Every time those white flecks of saliva start getting worked up in the corners of his mouth, I know he's really going on a tangent.  I almost want to hold my hands out and beg him to slow down before his teeth fly out of his face.  And today, he told me his son's friend accepted a full scholarship to SCAD in Atlanta.  I died a little inside from envy.  The then went on to mention me to this person and how I have been struggling to find a job, which segued into him going on about politics.  I checked out during his spiel because a) I don't know anything about politics and would have been lost and b) I hate politics.  Everyone who is into politics thinks they have the solution the world's problems and I find it annoying.

After he got back on topic, I snapped to attention as he went on to tell me what I was allergic to.  I was tested for twenty-three allergens and came out allergic to fifteen of them, all to varying degrees.  I was dismayed to find that I'm allergic to dogs!  And 3 out of 5 allergic, too, so it's not anything minor.  I'm also allergic to pecan trees.  We only have about seven in our backyard!  Obviously, I can never go outside and pet my dog or sit under a tree ever again.  I kid but it's still troubling.  I'm also allergic to ragweed, pigweed, all kinds of grass and even the occasional cockroach.  It seems the worst offender is dust mites.  5 out of 5.  But, there is some good news!  I'm glad to report I am zero allergic to cladosporium herbarum and aspergillus fumigatus!  What a relief, eh?  Oh yeah, and I am zero allergic to my cat.  So, that's cool. The doc wants to put me on some hardcore allergy drops in hopes that not only will I be able to interact with my dog again, but that the reduction of mucus will hopefully reduce the lump.  I'm not very hopeful.  But, what the hey, let's give it a whirl.  

In other breaking news, I did not hear back from any job that I applied to when I was visiting my sister.  What...a freaking waste of time/disappointment.  I mean, I didn't even get a call back to be a cashier at Old Time Pottery!  Come on!  Any unmarried seventeen-year-old mother can be a cashier at Old Time Pottery.  And not to brag but my application was flawless.  You couldn't tell the difference between the print on the application and my own writing.  I even included my resume.  And nothing.  Some have suggested it's because of my college degree.  These places must think I'm overqualified.  I have a problem with this.  Yes, I do understand the concept of being overqualified but it still ticks me off.  I realize that by me taking a job at, let's say McDonalds, I would be depriving some young punk with no work experience the opportunity to be employed there.  Since I'm more educated, I should be able to find a better job, right?  Well, let's not forget that I graduated at a really bad time.  The economy is in the pooper so the fact that I'm even applying to McDonalds should probably tell the hiring manager something, ya know?  If I was the hiring manager and had to choose between some sixteen-year-old douche with a bad attitude or someone with a degree of any kind, I'd be going for the one with the degree because I know between the two of them, the person with the degree will probably be responsible, on time and dedicated to doing a good job.  I mean, you can't get a degree unless you possess these traits.  And for fast food, I wouldn't feel too bad for that kid 'cause there are plenty of other establishments he could apply to.  There's a Starbucks on every corner nowadays.  Barista it up, bud, I'm snagging someone with school smarts!

So, I was thinking I should leave my SCAD time off my resume.  If I do that, I'll have three years unaccounted for.  What would I say I was doing the whole time?  Maybe I could say I impregnated three different girls and really need the job to pay all my baby mamas?  I honestly don't know what to do.  I'm not good enough to get a job in animation but I'm overqualified for everything else.  It's frustrating and the part that makes me the angriest is that I can do any job here as long as I get the proper training.  I'm not saying I can do any job ever but we aren't exactly dealing with rocket science in the deep south.  Customer service, cashiering, banking and serving food and drinks are pretty much my only options and I'm confident that I can do it all yet these a-holes don't think so.  I just need monies, dang it.  I'm capable.  I'm educated.  I'm dedicated.  I can do whatever you throw at me.  I don't understand the problem.

I have to fill in three years with some kind of experience.  I could say I traveled.  I wouldn't technically be lying.  I did travel back and forth for school.  Ugh.  I need suggestions.  Halp!

Oh, My Gash II: Cut up Carpels

It never fails.  Any time I feel really down about something, I’ll inevitably see someone far worse off than I am who actually has a better attitude than I do.  Some would say that’s inspiring but I find it annoying.  I was watching Mystery Diagnosis, an amazing show, and this old lady developed some kind of disease that left her unable to use her hands.  She was an artist and painting was her life so the immobility was obviously devastating.  It also affected her speech and now she talks with a slur that makes it hard to understand what she’s saying.  Although they found and corrected her problem, the damage that was done was irreversible.  Yet, at the end of her segment, she slurred out, “I’m very fortunate.  I have it better than a lot of people.”

Maybe so.  But, she’ll never paint again.  That can’t not hurt.  Perhaps she has already dealt with that and is seeing the bigger picture.  Or perhaps she’s putting on a brave face for the camera. 

The next segment was about a girl who developed some abnormality shortly after birth, which left her permanently disabled as well.  Once again, at the end of her segment, in her barely decipherable speak, said, “I’m very happy.  A lot of people are worse off than I am.”

Good for those people.

As for me, when I see stuff like that, it just makes me feel way worse about myself.  Not only am I going through whatever crap the universe has decided to hand to me at the time but I have to listen to people who have it way worse than I do talk about how lucky and happy they are.  Makes me feel like a real a-hole.  And I suppose even thinking like this also shows how selfish I am.  Looking at those poor people, I immediately resort to thinking about myself and my own problems.  What a schmuck, right?   

But then I remember my whole paper cut concept and I feel a bit better.  Sure, someone will always have it worse than us but does that mean we can’t complain?  Does that mean we can’t express frustration?  Must we always censor ourselves and suppress our feelings just because we aren’t starving on the streets?  It feels like I’m walking this fine line between trying to appreciate what I have while lamenting what I don’t. It’s just that when I see people worse off than I am it really makes me feel bad for complaining, as if God or the universe or whatever is reprimanding me for being so petty.  And I’m tired of feeling guilty for complaining that I can’t find a good job or anyone to call a friend.  When you think about the potentially devastating impact of these things, they don't seem that petty.  Without a job I probably will end up starving on the streets and the lack of a good, solid friendship in my life has left me emotionally dead.  So, maybe I don’t have it that great after all.

I honestly don't know who I am anymore.  There's a part of me that wants to lash out but that's just not me, not the person I used to be.  And is that because I have suppressed that part of myself all this time or am I just now being tempted to bring out my temper?  Am I strong enough to resist or am I just weak enough, just hurt enough, to give in to the grief and unleash my bitterness on everyone?  Then again, who am I to say I deserve to be a terrible person?  I'm quite aware that in the grand scheme of things, I have it very good and a lot of people do not but does that cancel out my own hurt?  Should I be required to rescind my own rage just because I'm not handicapped or intellectually disabled?  Should I ignore my own pain, bottle it up inside because I don't have the right to be angered by the outcomes of my life?  I just can't do that.

You have to know that I can't help the way I feel.  I can try to lead my emotions in a certain directions but at the end of the day, I'm going to feel how I feel and I have no control over that.  And I'm an expressive person.  It's the reason why I got into art when I was young.  It's the reason why I write now.  To not be angry or sad over things, to start burying my feelings like I did when I was younger, would kill me now.  I hid myself for far too long and I'm still dealing with the consequences of that choice.  I can't go back there, can't keep it all inside and more than anything, I can't feel guilty for feeling the way I do.  I know I keep saying that but I'll probably keep feeling guilty anyway.  I mean, I openly acknowledge the good along with the bad.  I would never keep it a secret that I've had a decent home life and that I've never struggled for food or clothing.  I've always lived comfortably, yes.  But I'm piss poor in other aspects of my life such as relationships and experience.  Especially in love.  Not just romantic love but love in any form.  I've been denied affection, denied human interaction and that can have a bigger and longer lasting impact than just being fat or having a crappy job.

I go back to thinking about those people on Mystery Diagnosis.  Maybe the reason why can can smile their crooked smiles is because they have a support system to back them up, to look after them and love them.  'Cause isn't love what it's all supposed to be about?  They've found their happiness through connections, through friends and family.  Maybe they don't need to worry about the small things I regret because those things are inconsequential when you have something bigger in your prescence, something more palatable.  Something I can no longer taste.

The Comeback (2005 TV Series) Review

Valerie Cherish was TV's IT Girl. Now IT's a different story.

Valerie Cherish is a washed up sitcom actress.  Her big comeback comes in the form of a new television show and a new reality show that will document her rise to relevance.  Or, at least that's the hope.  Unfortunately, Valerie stumbles through heartbreaking (and hilarious?) obstacles on her journey to becoming a star again.

I just have to say that this is probably the most depressing "comedy" I've ever seen!  The whole series is only thirteen episodes and each episode is soul crushing.  I think there is a difference between getting into whacky situations and just downright being trampled by life and poor Valerie is trampled in every single episode.  I mean, I sat there just feeling so sorry for this lady.  This isn't a case of her farting in front of the audience or having her period in the middle of a sex scene.  This is about her career, self-esteem, identity and life basically being whittled away on screen!

The most tragic part to me is how Valerie keeps on trucking although everything falls apart.  Some people say she was naive.  Some people say she was clueless.  I don't agree.  I think she knew exactly what was going on but she tried to make the best of it.  I don't know if that was just her personality or if she was going it for the cameras but, God bless her, she was a trooper.  First of all, the television show that was supposed to jettison her back into the limelight is retooled and her starring character is turned into a frumpy side character called Aunt Sassy.  Her costars are a bunch of beautiful twenty somethings.  One of the writers of the show absolutely hates her and all the while the creators of her reality show might not be portraying her in the best light.  Each episode is an exercise in humiliation and because I saw the entire series in one sitting, it became almost unbearable.  Perhaps if I would have seen the show weekly and taken it in small doses, it might not have been as traumatic as it was but watching it all in one large lump only emphasized her agony.

Here's what I liked:  the show was a great satire of reality television, not only revealing some behind the scenes happenings on reality television (such as how the producers have to get permission from restaurants and other businesses that the stars of the show enter or how anyone not associate with the show has to sign a release to appear on camera and how that really interrupts the flow of not only the show, but of the people's lives they are capturing) to how reality shows aren't real at all.  I mean, none of these are big secrets anymore but maybe some of that information was new and revealing during its time.  Not only was the show full of jokes but the show itself was a huge joke.  And this is kind of a small thing but I really liked how Valerie got along with her cast mates, especially the young and beautiful Juna.  So many times you see women brought together who feel they are in competition with each other or act catty toward each other but Juna seemed to legitimately look up to Valerie and Valerie seemed to legitimately look at her as someone she could teach and protect.  I liked that.

Here's what I didn't like: Valerie Cherish was not a great person.  There were many times where her kindness felt disingenuous.  When someone would tell her something personal, she'd interrupt them with a "Put a pin in that, dear" as a way to shut them up because she just wasn't interested.  And when a girl broke off a key in her dressing room, Valerie ran away because she didn't have time to help her.  She even adopts a puppy and then pawns it off on someone else because she never actually wanted it, only took it to look good.  She's also not the best step-mom to her husband's daughter, ordering take out instead of cooking and never taking the time to bond with her unless the camera is on her.  She is also quick to abandon her castmates in favor of going to a party with more famous actors.  And then there's the ending of the series when her character really comes out.  And as mentioned before, any of the kindness she did show is put into question because you never know if Valerie Cherish really is nice sometimes or if she's just trying to make herself look great for the viewing audience.

Here's why I think it didn't work:  the show was just way too depressing.  Listening to the commentaries, Lisa Kudrow and her co-creator Michael Patrick King said they wanted to make the show dark but comedic.  I think they made it more dark and less comedic.  Yes, the show was funny in some parts but it was mostly just sad to see the destruction of this lady on camera.  Next, as mentioned before, Valerie isn't that likeable.  Now, I'm not saying that she's completely unredeemable but you do get the sense that she cares more about her career than those around her.  It's hard to root for someone who seems just a bit self-absorbed.  That, combined with her hopeless situation makes the audience just want to give up.   I know I did.  At the same time, I would have watched a second season.  But I don't think the rest of the world was willing to.  At the end of the series, I think people realized that she was kind of a fame whore.  And frankly, what else could they do to her in the next season?  Have her husband leave her for her gay hair and makeup guy, Mickie?  Have her show canceled?  Have her get cancer?  No thanks.  We don't wanna see that.