Blood: Eternal Entropy

My dinner sat across from me on my couch. I admit I was both intrigued and angered by her lack of fear in regards to my condition. My immediate reaction was to tear her to pieces. How dare she not tremble in my presence! But what had angered me had also sparked a curiosity within, a dull burning I had not felt in years. It was some sort of...desire, a lust for more than nourishment. It was a lust for knowledge, a lust to know more about this meal. It was a lust for expression. Instead of being scared, this girl was stupid with excitement over meeting me, an actual existing vampire. She even informed me I was the reason she went to that particular club. She had heard it was a popular vampire hang out. And that’s why she made sure she went alone. She then proceeded to deliver a sob story that I didn’t really care to hear.  Something about intentionally  making herself an easy target with the short dress that exposed most of her tight body, the hair that was styled within an inch of its life, the makeup like plaster.  All of it in an effort to be picked up, all in an effort to find someone to show her a little love. Man after man had taken her and thrown her away, much like I was going to do, all because she thought she couldn’t do better. She felt her life was miserable, meaningless, so that’s why she wanted to become one of us. So utterly misguided.  She had naive fantasies of how much better things would be for her as a night walker. She dreamed of the power and the strength and her ability to finally be the one in control. And of course, who wouldn’t want to live forever? Her pathetic story only made me want to kill her even more, to put her miserable existence to an end. And then she asked me about the blood. Did I truly crave it? Was it enjoyable? Did blood taste different from victim to victim? Oh, the blood. It is so much more than a liquid that spills down the throat. The power of blood cannot be comprehended until you have turned and tasted the intoxication of crimson. Until then, that wet matter that courses through your body cannot be truly appreciated.  Lesson one:

Blood is actually a disgusting form of food. Vampires do not gain pleasure from piercing necks. Blood is thick and viscous, a texture that slips sickeningly past the tongue. It's warmth is not satiating, but sickening. It's coppery coating glues itself to the tongue and sticks to the roof of the mouth. It doesn't go down easily.  It's a struggle to swallow, yet uncompromisingly irresistible.

Despite my immortality, I am dying every day. I am immortal, yet I am decaying. My skin is tight, but my mind is loose and unraveling. According to your narrow view of time, I have been a vampire quite a while, a few decades.  But when you think about how long I'm going to be around, it only amounts to the bat of one of your fakes eyelashes.  And despite time being a dead, obsolete device to me, I cannot imagine stretching myself into eternity. I cannot comprehend forever. I am locked into this body with no escape. For anyone else, it might be a dream come true but I am existing in a nightmare. Eternity isn’t such a dream for someone who hates themselves. You see, I have a slight problem with self-loathing.  I'm a bit depressed.  Or, I was when I was alive.  Turning into a vampire didn't change that.  I grew stronger, sharper, but felt as discontent as ever.  Don't think you'll change for the better, either.  You'll still be as sad and pathetic as you are now.  You humans always dream of better things, always wait for some kind of mystical transformation that will never come.  You don't make the effort to change yourselves.  You sit on your hands and wait for someone or some thing else to do it for you.  When I realized my sadness would be my only true companion until the end of everything, I considered ending myself right then. I've played with the idea of stepping into the sun and smelling the sweet sulfur as my skin burns, cracks and dissolves in the daylight. But, there’s something that keeps me in the shade. It’s the drive to live, the drive to maintain. It’s a drive that is even stronger than the human will to live, that instinct to just exist.  You see, there is evil in all of us, lurking in our limbs. It is while we are human that we learn to control this evil, to conquer or at least contain our foul tendencies. But, becoming a vampire unleashes that evil in us.  It's a door that comes off the rusted hinges, a gaping wound in which all the agony comes spilling out.  It consumes our corpses and causes us to rise again, to spread our evil like a disease through the blood. And that evil is eternal. Weak humans have the choice of ending their lives. Vampires have no say in the matter. Evil has a will to live that is stronger than anything I have ever felt in my years of existence, in life and in death. It is a presence that shall never perish.

To make matters worse, vampires are ultra sensitive to everything around them. In a crowd, I can feel whatever anyone and everyone else is feeling. When I walk into a club, I am bombarded by sexual tension, excitement, obsession, depression and desperation. I've come to learn that these clubs and crowds of people are more messed up than they let on. Humans are blinded by bodies.  They cannot see past flesh, cannot comprehend beyond the tongue and hands and genitals.  Words so easily fool you.  You all are not intuitive enough to see what people are like on the inside.  Even more pathetic, you do not care enough to try.  But as for me, I can't help but to know what you all look like without the protective coating of flesh and clothing.  Let me tell you that no one is normal. I can feel everyone's flaws. I can tap into everyone's pain and it's sickening. Being human casts a veil of protection over your heart because you can't handle the reality. Humanity hazes your vision of the true world. It numbs the nerves. But, for me, I can feel every prickling portion of pain of those around me. I am exposed to the suffering of souls. I am never at ease. The pain is ever present. But, that is just one part to my assortment of abilities.

We are also imbued with powers of persuasion. Our eyes can pierce souls. Our hands can provide pleasure. Our kisses are quite literally intoxicating. And these abilities are solely for the purpose of obtaining prey. These skills help us survive. And the pain gives us the drive to devour. For you see, the only substance that can stifle my suffering is blood. My sexually hypnotizing nature is what helps me get what I need, built into me like the speed of a cheetah or the powerful jaws of a shark, and the pain that pummels all of my parts is what keeps me coming back for more.

Blood is like a drug. It numbs these foul feelings that consume me. You know, I never realized how bad humans had it until I was surrounded by their suffering. I thought my own depression was as bad as I'd ever feel.  Taking on the suffering of others only compounds the hatred I have for myself.  It amazes me how you all can continue to live under the circumstances of the world.  How you all don't slit your wrists or shoot yourself in the head is a mystery to me.  I wonder what keeps you all going, what makes you wake up into a world of chaos. It’s been so long since I’ve been human, I don’t even remember what it’s like to live for something. What do humans live for?  What is there to live for, anyway? You all lug around your loneliness and carry your pain in your pocket and yet forge ahead in these frustrating times. It’s a conundrum. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you all don't kill yourselves.  If you did, I'd go hungry.  I mean, you really don't want to die, do you?  It's not the death you're seeking, it's the release from the pressure, that vice grip on your heart.  You only see the end product, the vampire you'll become.  You don't think about the process, how you'll have to endure death to enter eternity, how my venom will trickle through you, burning at every cell, taking you over from the inside out, killing you endlessly.  Is it worth it to you?  You think you know pain.  Your pain has all been in the mind.  You have never tasted pain, never even come close.

No, blood is nothing you’d want to have taint your tongue. It has the texture of phlegm. It stains the mouth. It burns the throat. Yet, from the first sip, you’ll never recover. Believe me, there’s no going back. When I was human, I befriended several drug addicts, even ate a few after I turned, and their tales of drug lust are nothing compared to going too long without blood. That’s an indescribable pain that cannot be articulated.  It's worse than the pain of humanity, more searing than the flames of hell. Cigarettes, alcohol, methamphetamines, Coke, X, all dissolve in death. But, blood sticks to your bones. All those synthetic addictions pale in comparison to the taste of blood, how it transcends all troubles, how it temporarily kills that pain that crawls up my neck and digs into my brain. It’s something I hate, yet can’t “live” without, just like how I hate you humans but can't go on without you, either. I’m in a constant struggle between lust and loathing. The thing I need the most, yet hate the most, can only be provided by the things I need the most, yet hate the most. As with any drug, the euphoria of flowing blood soon fades. Then, it’s time to kill again. I don’t particularly enjoy killing people, just so you know.  Yes, I'm a monster but I'm not a monster just for the sake of being one. Don’t get me wrong, I could care less if you humans live or die.  You all are as inconsequential to me as a cockroach.  As long as there are enough of you blood bags to keep my belly full, I could care less about the rest of your population.  Yet, I take no particular enjoyment in taking lives. I’m not some sick serial killer who seeks satisfaction from slashing throats. I only kill to live. Am I really any worse than you who kill animals for your sustenance?  Sure, they are simple creatures in comparison to you but you are a simple creature in comparison to me.  In fact, I’m doing humans a favor.  Death opens the door to peace. I unlock that door.  The question is, do you deserve death, that final path to peace? Maybe I don't get much pleasure from killing but I do enjoy a little torture.  You anger me.  You make me out of my mind with your stupidity.  Maybe I should grant your wish.  If I were merciful, I'd drain you and let you die.  But, maybe I should I extend your suffering into an incessant existence, present you with this "present" you have deemed the perfect solution to quell your crushed heart. Maybe I'll make you my pet.  Should I spare you the torment of a truly tortured existence or let you find out for yourself how horrific my "life" really is?

To be continued...

Blood: Prologue to a Puncture

A work of fiction written July 2007.

When she asked me to tell her about myself, I thought why not. I had some time to...kill. After all, the night was still young and I had no need to go out again. I knew from the second I saw her that she’d be coming home with me.

I first noticed her across the dance floor in a trendy club uptown, some cramped building with monochromatic colors and minimalistic furniture.  I was leaning against the wall with an overpriced drink in my hand, a few ounces of ruby-colored vodka.  I was looking, waiting, salivating.  Suddenly, like a curtain that unveils to reveal a grand prize, the sea of people parted, leaving her single in my sights. She was standing at the bar, a mixture of nerves and excitement along her brow, just above her immaculate eye makeup. I could tell this wasn’t the first time she had been in the club. She looked around, not as if she were new, only slightly uncomfortable. I guessed she had been here before, but with girl friends. This was the first time she had come alone. Her brunette stick straight hair was parted down the middle and arranged in front of her breasts which were barely covered by her tight fitting shimmer dress. The strobe lights illuminated her hair and skin in a technicolor of tints. Her face was lineless, clueless.  Her body taut, tasty.  She was young, tender, smooth. Most importantly, I could tell she was easy.

I slid my way past the gyrating bodies and headed straight for this girl, this tasty morsel who out-shined the rest of the plastic people who were slinging their drinks and grinding their crotches into each other. She noticed me coming toward her and turned away. A shy smile spread across her glossed lips. In that instant I knew she would do whatever I wanted. I slid my way next to her and introduced myself. Her smile grew wider and whiter. Perfect teeth.  Fake.  I knew she thought I was hottest guy in the club. I was.  I wasted no time and quickly offered to buy her a few drinks. We engaged in small talk but I knew it was all just a formality and ultimately she’d be back at my place. It was all just meaningless dribble to me. I could care less about this girl and realized she would be a lot hotter without a tongue. Right from the first look into her cloudy eyes, I could see her desperation to be loved. I could smell the loneliness clinging to her clothes. It mingled with the mint in my drink and the delicate perfume which hovered over her like a halo. Her smell made me as intoxicated as I was trying to get her with every fresh drink I put in front of her. She lapped them up like a dog.  Like a little bitch.  She was my favorite type of girl: lonely, painfully insecure. These types were the easiest to bag. After I quelled her comprehension with a couple of Cosmos, I instructed her to leave with me. Yes, instructed. She was not in the right mind to deny me.  The alcohol had allowed me to dominate this girl, although I imagine I could have without it. Still acting like a dog, eager to please me, she agreed to leave with me, a total stranger, a man she had never met yet intended to let screw her. She was desperate for a little attention, hungry for a little affection. I was hungry, too.

On the way to my apartment, she clung to me tighter than her dress clung to her hips. She was a really sad girl. Terribly insecure. She was looking for a strong, handsome man like me to suck away that sadness. I was more than obliged.

I opened the door to my place and she opened her mouth to tousle my tongue. She wasted no time. It had been a long time since she had been in the company of a man. Her hands were everywhere, her breath smelled Jolly Ranchers and innocence.  She peppered my face with soft kisses, her lip gloss smearing across my cheek. I hate when girls do that. Disgusted, I pulled her face off of mine and pushed her onto my couch.  She landed with a soft thud, a coy smile carved into her mouth, her eyes illuminated by lust.  By this reaction, I could tell she liked it a bit rough. Not only was she pathetic and miserable, but there was a touch of kink in her as well.  I could work with that.

I straddled her on the leather couch and with every deep kiss, her moans got louder and I became more aroused. She was dumb and disgusting but she was also smoking hot. I went down to her throat and tickled it with my lips, flicking my tongue over the length of her neck. Her head went back and her shimmering hair fell away from her shoulders. The couch squeaked in response to her wiggling. I love that sound. I placed my hand on her head and clutched a clump of hair, then roughly pulled her head to one side. A giggle floated up from her face.  Yeah, she definitely liked it hard. Maybe she even enjoyed a little pain. I wondered how much she liked. I wondered how bad it would hurt before those screams of pleasure pushed into pain. I’d find out soon enough.

I licked her neck until it was nice and wet, ready for me to penetrate.  A delicate blue vein ran right below her bejeweled ear, presenting itself like a gift.  Just what I was looking for.  I caressed it with my fingers, cajoled it to rise from her skin and finally knew it was time. With her eyes closed she would never see me coming. I opened my mouth and allowed my teeth to elongate. They pushed forth out of my gums and formed razor sharp tips. I went down on her neck slowly, savoring those last few seconds before desire turned into death, licking up and down, softening the skin for easier injection. Just before I could penetrate the soft flesh of her throat, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

Sometimes I have these girls in so much ecstasy they lose all sense of time and location. They usually close their eyes and submit to my seduction. Sometimes they do catch me right before I bite but it doesn't stop me from doing the deed. I prefer them never to notice, as their screams disturb the neighbors. I then have to go to the trouble of speaking to those worthless bags of flesh and apologize to them by lying and say I was having rough, loud sex. That usually gets them off my back, although they are left feeling awkward by my direct openness.  Idiots.  I looked at this sexy, yet stupid girl and she wasn't screaming. She didn't look horrified at all. Actually, she looked quite amused. Her sparkly eyes lit up in wonder. I had to lean back in my perplexity. Her smile became huge. My teeth immediately retracted in disgust and confusion.  An unfortunate case of involuntary shrinkage.

I didn't really know how to go about dealing with this new turn of events so I simply asked her why she was smiling. She excitedly told me I was a vampire.  She acted as if it were some revelation to me, as if she was telling me I had won a million dollars.  I knew who I was but she had no idea the danger she was in.   Her voice rose in an annoyingly high pitched tone that scraped my ears. She told me she had always wanted to meet a real vampire, always wanted to be turned into one herself. I had to laugh at her idiocy. Was she being serious or was she just delusional with fear? I shot a look into her eyes which caused the sparkle to fade. She became the confused one. I informed her that she in fact did not want to become a vampire. It was nothing like in the movies or in those homoerotic books. It was actually a sick existence. But, she only looked at me like I was lying to her, as if I was trying to convince her of something she knew to be untrue. I could tell she was stupid when I first met her, so I guess it was no shock that I couldn't persuade her into believing something she had already made up her mind about.  Stupid, ignorant, stubborn humans.  She was in the dark on the issues and she was intent to remain that way.  I'm I'm to be honest, I was slightly surprised, slightly intrigued to see there was no fear on her overly made up face. This confused me and when I get confused, I get angry.  And when I get angry, I get mean.  And when I get mean, I leave nothing left.  I leave no nerve untouched, no vein uncharted until I place my meal into such unspeakable pain that they beg for death, pray for it.  And I deliver it at a dawdling pace.   Normally, these little girls only have two reactions to me: I make them hot and then I make them scared, which makes me hot. That was the way it has been for years and years. This one was ruining my rhythm.  I was ready to kill her right then and there but something held me back, an indistinguishable something that prevented the puncture.

I guess this girl had piqued my curiosity. I guess there was nothing wrong with keeping her around a little longer, just to see how idiotic she could be. She'd be my entertainment before she was my dinner.  She made herself comfortable on my couch and then propped her chin on her hand. She leaned forward and asked me to describe my “life” as a vampire. I had simply planned on tearing her throat out and after disposing of her body, catching up on some sleep. But, this girl’s stupidity was intriguing. I had never met anyone who was genuinely excited to meet the deliverer of their death. Perhaps it was her inebriation or sheer lack of brain cells, but I suppose she still believed I was interested in her for more than her body. I suppose she believed I wouldn’t harm her. I suppose she believed I’d even grant her my gift. She was lucky I wasn’t too hungry and didn’t have any plans for the rest of the night. I didn’t mind stringing her along for a few hours longer. I know it’s incredibly rude to play with your food, but I have to admit it was a different feeling knowing she was still so into me even after she knew what exactly I was. Besides, I hadn’t engaged in an actual conversation with anyone for years now, if you don't count the usual small talk to lure unsuspecting blood bags back to my apartment. So, I decided to set her straight on what being a vampire truly meant. I leaned back on the other side of the couch and began to explain to her why exactly she should never want to be like me...

To be continued...

Piranha 3D (2010) Review

This Summer 3D Shows Its Teeth

Underwater tremors unleash a slew of ravenous, prehistoric piranhas on the unsuspecting horny teens partying during Spring Break.

What a blast!  If you've seen the trailer for the movie or heard any of the reviews, then you should know the movie is completely silly and made to be enjoyed, not analyzed or deconstructed.  Yes, this movie is all about the boobs, blood and laughs.  And that's okay by me!  As far as story, well, there's not much to it.  As described above, a bunch of flesh-hungry fish are unleashed onto a large group of teens celebrating Spring Break.  This thin plot is there to offer reasoning for why the piranhas are suddenly there, tearing large-breasted women to pieces.

A group of seismologists (AKA more victims) team up with Sheriff Julie Forester (played by the still smoking hot Elizabeth Shue) to investigate the fissure caused by the tremors.  Once two of the members are attacked, one of the piranhas is captured and taken to a marine biologist.  He tells them it's bad, bad news and Julie decides to shut down Lake Victoria, the hot spot for all the Spring Breakers.

Meanwhile, Julie's son, Jake, gets caught up in the Spring Break madness and inadvertently gets caught up in a "Wild Wild Girls" softcore porn shoot.  He takes the "Wild Wild Girls" crew along with his friend/crush, Kelly, on a boat right into the path of the piranhas.  To make matters worse, Jake's little brother and sister find themselves trapped on a small island with no way to escape. 

Julie's cries for the closing of the lake go unheard as the Spring Breakers ignore her warnings and booze it up.  That is, until the piranhas show up.  Gory carnage ensues!

Forget plot, forget story, forget believable characters.  This movie is all about the piranha attacks.  I was surprised that there were very few attacks throughout most of the movie.  While there are a few attacks here and there, the real good stuff doesn't kick in until the last block of the movie but believe me, it is worth the wait.  There's also plenty of female flesh to satisfy any red-blooded hetero male.  And hey, there's even a little peen (no pun intended) for the gay guys to gobble up (pun intended).  And in a pleasant surprise, there was even some tension injected into some of the scenes.  And lastly, it was pretty darn funny in some spots.  As for the 3D aspect, some say it wasn't worth the extra charge.  As far me, I'll agree that the 3D probably wasn't utilized as well as it could have been but I still thought it was effective enough to justify the extra cost.  Side note:  Being able to watch the Resident Evil trailer in 3D alone was worth the two bucks!

All in all, the movie was ridiculous, fast-paced and over the top.  It won't win any Oscars but it doesn't aim to.  It just aims to have fun and I think it accomplished it well.  I would definitely watch it again.

4 out of 5. 

Books & Blogs

I'm finding it increasingly unsettling to try to write a book and keep my blog updated.  How is it that I can split two paths of creativity and expression and give my all to both?  And I wonder to myself do authors also keep journals?  Does Stephen King write his thoughts in a notebook when he's not working on a draft of his next book?  And if so, how can he separate his characters from himself?  How does he express his everyday thoughts creatively while thinking up a whole new world and make it all good?  I suppose it might be easier for him and other writers who write for a living.  You probably find the time, energy and creativity when you don't have to go to a crappy job that zaps everything you need to create beautiful work.

I don't want to act like I have a huge following.  I certainly don't.  I've had this blog for a year and never managed to get more than eleven followers and I actually just recently lost one.  I don't get many views and an average of one comment per post (Thanks Katrina!).  But, I hope the more I write, the more I talk about things, the greater the chances I'll write about something someone wants to read.  And I hope the more I can write readable, relatable things, the more people will continue to read and stay interested in what I have to say.  And maybe they'll tell their friends and people will come and read and stay.

And to build up a following, I have to keep writing, keep putting myself out there.  And the reason why I'm doing this is so that when (or if) my book gets published, there will actually be a group of people out there who will actually buy it.  But how can I get this book written, concentrate my energy on that, when I have to keep writing in here to keep the interest up?  Sure, if I didn't have to work a job that killed me just a little bit more every day, then it could be easy.  Break it up.  A few hours on the book.  A few hours on the blog.  And let's not forget about working on my animation when I get all my stuff together to do it.  Honestly, it doesn't feel too overwhelming.  There's enough hours in the day to do a little bit of everything but as I said, when I come home from work, I am absolutely exhausted.  I've noticed that not only has my writing decreased in frequency but in quality as well.  And I'd hate for anything creative I do to suffer on account of work.  Especially when I'm working toward making writing and animating my work in the future.

I almost feel like at this point it might be good to go ahead and focus on writing the book and then I can try to build a following because the book is already there.  I guess I'm imagining the book selling really well as soon as I put it out there but it most likely won't.  At least, not at first.  As soon as it's done, I can start promoting it and start work on writing in here again and maybe people who read the blog will buy the book and those who buy the book will start reading my blog and it might work out.  Or maybe it won't.  Who knows.  And maybe it will take a while for the book to be a success, if it becomes one at all.  I mean, I guess it would make more sense to make the product and then build an audience rather than build the audience and then have them all wander off while I go away and work on the product.

The only problem is that I feel I have to write or I will explode.  A part of it is keeping my writing out there and another part of it is that I must write in order to keep my brain from clogging up.  It's not about me writing these epic pieces that touch lives and inspire the masses.  It's not about everything I write being perfect.  It's basically just about me dumping all my depression onto paper or into this blog so that I can get it out of my system so that I can focus on something else to worry about.  It's about expression.  It's about release.  And the fact that I'm so insecure and such a perfectionist makes me feel like it does have to be epic and it does have to be inspiring.  Because I'm such a messy person and because my life and body is in shambles, I feel like everything I present to the outside world has to be perfect to make up for my imperfections.  That's why I'm the best freagin' shirt and pant folder at work.  That's why my stacks are always so straight.  That's why my handwriting is so neat.  That's why I'm a maniac.  It's kind of funny how I have to express myself to release the crazy but I make myself crazy by perfecting that release.

I think writing this book will be a good release for me, too, which is another reason why I have to do it, despite putting it off year after year.  It's a release on a grander scale, a more epic episode of expression.  There's a lot of things I haven't shared yet, small things, large things, internal things that went on that I need to talk about to hopefully fill in the gaps between what I've told and how I feel.  It might be stupid and that's okay as long as I get it all out, tell it my way and take the weight off.  So, instead of worrying about the everyday niggling problems, maybe I should focus on getting rid of that overwhelming weight of my college experience, funneling it all into a witty yet reflective memoir that people will hopefully enjoy, relate to and be somewhat enlightened from.

Or maybe it'll be garbage.  Either way I have to do it.  And although I have tons of notes on things I want to write about, maybe I need to shift my focus from blog posts to pages in my book... 

Dressing the Dead

"Will you help me?" the lady asked.

"Sure," I said as I walked over to her.

"I don't guess you carry any of these socks in a single pair?"

"No ma'am," I responded.

"Oh, okay.  I guess I'll just get these and give the other two pair away.  I'm ready, now."

The lady put a couple of packages of underclothes on the counter, along with a pair of socks, jeans, a belt and a button-up blue shirt.  As I was scanning her merchandise, she asked me if I'd separate the briefs, undershirt and socks and put them in a separate bag.  As I started to do so, she stopped me and said she only needed one item from each package.  That was a bit of a strange request and I guess she recognized my slight confusion on my face, most likely due to my uncontrollable eyebrows.

"I only need one shirt, one pair of socks and one pair of underwear.  They're for my son.  I'm burying him in these."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly.  She looked at me through her oval glasses and nodded, a slight smile on her face to show recognition of my condolence.

"I don't even know what size he was.  I just hope this works.  If not, I guess the people at the funeral home can make it work." 

She was an older lady, the skin along her jaw slacked and the usual lines and wrinkles that come with age were present on her face.  Her hair was salt and pepper, the gray wiry and coarse compared to the otherwise smooth texture that was pulled back into a loose bun.

"He would have been fifty in three weeks," she added.  I just shook my head and gave her a look of sympathy.  What else could I say?  There's nothing I could have said, especially not knowing the circumstances and not knowing her well enough to offer any kind of comfort without stepping over some boundary of intimacy between two strangers.  There are things you just don't blurt out to someone you don't know, some things you keep to yourself and some details you don't dare attempt to extract from people you don't know. 

I felt bad for this lady, having to bury her son, something a parent shouldn't have to do, no matter how old they or the child gets.  Even at her age, I could see the grief resting in her features.  I was surprised at how it surprised me, as if the older you get, the less you care.  I've heard it a million times that your children will always be your babies no matter how old they get and this lady showed me the truth in that by the way she leaned on the counter and clutched her chest.  I was half-worried that she might pass out or have a heart attack right there in front of me but she kept herself together pretty well.

I took out a second bag and took out one shirt from the package of shirts, one pair of underwear from the package of underwear and one pair of socks from the package of three.  I then put them in one bag and the remains in another.  She then asked me to place the shirt, belt and jeans in the bag with the single pair of underclothes.  As I was doing so, she said, "He was never a the 'suit-and-tie-type.'"  I prepared a dead man's final wardrobe, touched the underwear that would go around his dead waist, touched the shirt that would go around his dead torso, touched the socks that would go around his dead feet.  It was almost creepy but just mostly sad.  This was going to be the last thing he'd ever wear and I was seeing and touching it.  And it felt like I was taking some small part in sending him off, however odd that might sound.  After the transaction was over, the lady left with her two bags, one filled with her dead son's clothes and another with the remaining items that she would have to find something to do with at some point.  That would probably come much later, after the dressing, after the funeral, after the tears.

I'd say at least about once every week or two I'll have a man or group of men or a man and his sons come in looking for a suit to wear to a funeral.  It's always a stressful situation for me because the customers are usually a little on edge over the shock and sadness of someone close to them dying, which makes my anxiety skyrocket because I don't know if we are ever going to have what they need.  Because we are one of the only places locally that sells suits, and a limited selection at that, we are kind of the last resort, so when we don't have what they are looking for, it only causes their heated emotions to boil over.

I still remember an incident from six years ago when I first worked at the retail store.  A man came in looking for a suit and shirt and tie and he absolutely freaked out on me for some reason that I can't remember now.  The details have slipped away over time but some things I still recall, like his scraggly beard and polyester striped golf shirt.  I remember him ruining my night as well.  He actually came in the next day and apologized, explaining that he had lost his father and was grief-stricken.  I thought it was pretty decent of him to come back and do that and it made me feel a bit better.  Fortunately, I haven't had any more situations like that and so far, everyone's been able to get by with something without blowing up at me.

It's kind of funny how you just can't skirt around death.  It's everywhere and as soon as you try to go out of your way to avoid it, it comes back and makes itself known to you all over again.  You can't even get a reprieve in a retail clothing store. It comes in the form of formal attire with black slacks and saline in the eyes.  And it reminds me of my own expiration, how I'm dead to so many things these days.  I thought I had come to terms with it and tried to move forward, had almost forgotten about it entirely but now I'm brought back to bereavement. 

Is it possible to shake death?  Will I ever feel alive or should I just succumb to the swelling black hole in my heart?  What will my mother bury me in when this body full of bugs and bitterness finally gives out?  And will I even care?  Considering where I might end up, it might be the biggest of my worries, or by far the least...

Esophagash (Or Why I Will Never be OK with Myself)

Guys check out other guys.  It happens.  It's not gay and it doesn't besmirch a guy's masculinity.  Most guys won't admit this because most of them reel against the slightest behavior that could be misconstrued as homosexual in any way.  It's not about being sexually attracted to other guys.  We do it the same reason girls do it:  we are checking out our competition.  The fat guys wish they could be like the skinny kids and the skinny kids wish they could be as muscular as the jocks.  There will always be that one guy who never gets pimples.  There's the dude with the best hair, the best abs, the best teeth, etc.  And it's common to notice these things and it's common to compare your teeth, skin, hair, body to someone else.  And it's normal to feel jealous.  I, myself, am jealous of just about every guy I come in contact with, the ones who are naturally hairless or can easily fit into a size thirty jean, the ones who are attractive without trying too hard.  These are the usual characteristics that I envy.  But, how bad has my self-esteem gotten when I find myself envious of other guys' throats?

I've always been fascinated with and freaked out by Adam's apples.  I think the fascination comes from the connotation of adulthood that goes along with those burgeoning bumps in the middle of adolescent throats.  The wispy hairs that grow along the upper lip, the genitals that are gearing up to be open for business and that throat protrusion all spell maturation.  I had a male acquaintance in high school that developed an Adam's apple early on and I always admired it in some sick way, always thought of him as maturing faster than I was, although I was a half a year older than him.  At the same time, Adam's apples send a shiver down my spine and make my skin shrink up in disgust, the way the hard bulb bobbles up in down in the throat when the owner laughs, weeps or talks with too much excitement.  It's not something I can explain.  I feel the same icky way about veins.  The blue strings that lay underneath the skin along the inner wrists and the gross veins that stick out like water hoses on some people's necks.  Ugh, it gives me the creeps!  Despite the grossness of Adam's apples, I've always wanted one, nothing too big or conspicuous, just a nicely shaped Adam's apple that gave my throat some definition.

Well, I got the Adam's apple I always wanted, only in the form of the cyst that grew on the right side of my throat.  Not quite the definition I was looking for.  It seems suitable, though, as everything else in my life that I ever wished for has come to fruition in a damaged state, slightly askew and never just as I had imagined.  Not only did this knot in my throat look unattractive, it hacked away at what little confidence I had built for myself over the years by losing weight and learning to how to dress in a decent manner.  It seems every time I'd break through one wall of insecurity, another would pop up, just as the cyst does to remind me never to get too comfortable with myself because I am, after all, still deformed.

Now, I look at guys with good throats, with or without Adam's apples, and see how normal they look.  There are no freakish protrusions where there shouldn't be, no goiters or cysts to wreck an otherwise normal head and neck.  I see them hold their head up high without the worry of unnecessary bumps or bulges.  They can safely lean their head back when laughing without having to worry if anyone caught that grotesque lump under the surface of the skin.  I find it sad that I find myself jealous of something that most people barely notice, something most people wouldn't consider coveting.  Isn't it bad enough that I'm fat and my hair is thinning and my teeth are irregular?  Do we have to add on yet another defect, something else that I have to feel ashamed of, something else to strip the security from me?

It's not all about looks.  I don't want to act like the beauty queen who had her face scared by a stray bullet or battery acid.  There's an internal pain, of course, but there's also a physical pain that comes along with this condition.  Just like people who deal with acne.  We put so much emphasis on the aesthetics of pimples that we forget how much that stuff hurts.  I still get a whopper of a pimple every once in a while and the pain is deep and constant, regularly irritated by facial motions.  And that's the way it is with the lump in my throat.  It not only hurts to see it in the mirror or in pictures but it physically hurts me sometimes as well.  There are days when it kills to swallow because it hurts so badly.  And not only is it just another defect but another source of great pain.  Most people don't have any kind of throat irritations unless they are sick and most people only get sick every once in a while but it strikes me at any time.  In fact, it hurts right now.  The pain comes and goes when it pleases but I'm always living in tepid worry that the pain will return, that the size and tenderness will also return and I wonder how long it will be before it gets inflamed once again.

The most frustrating part is there is literally nothing I can do about it, at least according to my current ENT.  Then again, I wonder if I should go by what he says.  After a series of doctors giving me different scenarios, this guy seemed to know what he was talking about.  He told me it was likely a result of my deviated septum and so when that was corrected, the lump should have went away.  It didn't.  In fact, it got slightly larger.  He then said surgery was an option.  Light scarring, no problem.  During the next visit, he said it might not be the best choice because it would leave a big scar.  During my latest visit, he then decided to share with me that it could possibly come back if I had it removed, which contradicted all he had been telling me all along.  I don't want to say I don't trust the guy or that he was lying.  Maybe he was just learning more and more about it as he was going along, which is perfectly fine but it just kind of sucks that he makes the surgery out to be a simple process and then changes his tune a few weeks later and tells me it'll leave a disfiguring scar and could possibly come back in time.

So, there are no options left to reduce or get rid of it.  It's a part of me, something I will most likely have to live with, something I'm reluctant to add to my collection of deformities.  So, I will sit and wallow in the waste that is my self-esteem and see the guys with the throats as smooth as glass and realize no girl will ever kiss me there.  No special gal will caress my neck without running her finger over the lump, which will mostly likely give her the skeeves and take her out of the passion.  No vampire would ever bit me, either.  I'm sure my lump is the equivalent to biting into a piece of gristle while enjoying a nice steak.  A lot of people find throats sensual.  I don't have a lot about me that is sensual to begin with and the one spot that most people don't have to worry about is wrecked on me.  Typical.

That's it.  I'm done with, finished.  There is no cure, no pill, no potion, no cream, no laser that will lob this right off.  There is no quick fix.  No fix at all.  So, all I can do is sit and sigh and look forward to scarf weather.

A Fistful of Fiscal

Ugh, I hate myself.

I'm a fool with my finances.  I'm dangerous with my debit card.  I discard receipts and never check out my bank statements.  I buy a lot of crap that I don't need and sometimes don't even want.  I have several automated deductions taken from my account each month, some that I've completely forgotten about.  So, it shouldn't have come as a surprise (although it did) when I checked my account online and saw that I had no money.

I've been saving up for a Wacom Cinitq for the past two months, ever since I started working steadily.  According to my paychecks at work, I had earned approximately two thousand dollars, which is roughly how much a Cintiq costs.  Although I had earned that much, that didn't mean I actually possessed that much.  Although I'm pretty aloof with my spending, I knew I had probably spent a good portion of my earnings on...well, junk.  So, before I made the leap to buy that precious Cintiq, I went to check to see how much of that two thousand dollars I still had in my account.  I figured I might be off by a couple hundred dollars and that in another paycheck or two, I'd finally be able to afford the equipment so I could start animating again!  My heart sank when I saw how much I actually had in my account.

Turns out out of the two thousand dollars I had earned, I actually only had three hundred dollars of that in my checking account!  I was pretty devastated.  Not only was I nowhere near close to having enough money to purchase the Cintiq, I was angry that I had managed to fritter away almost two thousand dollars in approximately two months!  What the heck was I buying?  Well, according to line after line of Sonic, McDonald and Wal-Mart purchases, a bucketful of french fries and Chapstick.  How depressing.

It's almost like I'm starting over.  All the frustration, long hours and worry from work added up to nothing.  All I can do is start being super careful with my finances.  I've already cut out all the fast food over the past two weeks and that has already helped increase my checking account and decrease my waistline.  I will also no longer be purchasing any books and instead utilize my local public library.  I will also no longer be buying small snack foods or candy while in line at the grocery story or while making trips to the convenience stores.  I will only eat what's in the kitchen instead of buying extra food based on a particular craving I might be having that day.  No more buying snacks or drinks at work.  No more being wasteful.  I just have to keep that Cintiq in my mind any time I want to buy something stupid.

That Cintiq will be mine, darn tootin' freakin' A!  I'm looking toward a November-ish purchase.  Unless anyone wants to pitch in!  I might be able to get it sooner.  I'm still open to the idea of donations.  Contribute now and I will make a short cartoon just for you!  Or when I finally create my own cartoon series, you will be a voice of one of my characters!   The sad part is maybe I could have already had some new material by November if I could have purchased everything by now.  Or what if I would have already had my website set up to show my animations to potential companies.  What if I could have already had a job in November and wouldn't have to endure this retail hell anymore.  Sad times.

Oh, well.  The only thing I can do is just start saving and get stingy.  And check for every freaking penny on the ground I can find.

Let's make this happen.

Disqualified

Went to the college yesterday morning to figure out what I wanted to take and if I could pay for it.  First, I talked to the drafting teacher.  My mom has been pushing drafting on me for years.  "With your drawing talent, it would be a great choice for you!  They say they always need people and everyone who graduates gets a job!"  Firstly, drafting doesn't necessarily interest me that much.  It's more about technical drawings than creative ones.  Plus, after talking to the drafting teacher, I realized it definitely wasn't something that interested me.  He started talking about mechanical drawings and fractions and my eyes kind of glazed over as I stared at his salt and pepper goatee.

Secondly, I went to talk to the office administration adviser.  I understood the program to be general office administration with a medical option you could tack on if you wanted.  Well, when I sat with her she said it had changed into entirely medical.  It threw me off a little bit since I realized drafting wasn't for me and so I had my mind set on the office admin.  Then, she randomly asked me if I'd be interested in computer science.  As my eyes glazed over again, I told her I didn't even know what that was.  She then sent me to the computer science adviser who I actually knew.  I went to high school with her daughter.

She then explained what the program entailed and I sort of understood what she was talking about.  I asked her what kind of jobs I could get and she said anything from general office work to IT to networking or something like that.  When she said general office work, I stopped listening.  I mentioned that I was interested in the administration as well and she said that computer science would be a good option because it basically is office administration while going deeper into computers.  She said I'd be more marketable, which is what I wanted to hear!  I decided that would be the best program for me because I could still hopefully find a general office job or I could maybe find something else that has to do with what the program teaches.  She mentioned I'd learn how to write programming in Java and learn basic HTML and that sounded pretty interesting.  I mean, there will always be computers and every company uses computers so I'm sure there will always be a demand for people to be able to fix them and maintain them.

So, I'm feeling pretty good about my decision.  I go to the financial aid office and wait in line for an hour.  All the chairs were taken up so I had to stand the whole time.  My spine started to tingle in the most uncomfortable way.  I shifted my weight from foot to foot every five minutes and glanced at the clock every two.  Maybe only two or three people came in after me so as the line dwindled down, I was finally able to get a chair to sit in.  Two minutes later, I was called in.  Of course.

So, I sit down with the financial aid lady and after an hour of waiting, it took her all of ten seconds to tell me I didn't qualify for a pell grant because of my four year degree.  She said there were a couple of options I could try, such as a technical voucher which is almost like a scholarship and there's another option that's based on my income.  She said those options were probably already used up since it was so late in registration.  She sent me to a lady who gave me a form to fill out.  She also told me it was probably too late to apply this semester but I could try again for next.

I left a little sad, a bit disappointed but overall not entirely upset or anything.  I was excited to go back to school but because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do and if my financial aid would go through, I didn't get my hopes up too much.  Plus, I figured since I had to get up early and wait in that line, I pretty much knew there wouldn't be any good news at the end of that experience.  And maybe I'm at a point where I'm just desensitized to disappointment.  I suppose I could have paid for the semester.  I have been saving up for animation software and equipment but I figured if I could get one of those waivers and go to school for free, that would be the best option 'cause I'd still be able to buy the cintiq and programs to continue with my art.  Plus, I have been looking forward to getting a cintiq for the longest time and all the money I've been saving up has been geared toward that so I think I'll just buy one and then start all over and begin saving for classes, assuming I can't get any financial aid.  Meanwhile, I can still work on my art and animation and heck, if I can manage to throw some stuff together and send it off to companies, I might be interning or working and won't even need to go back to school.  Who knows!

School Nazi says, "No school for you!  Come back, one semester!"

Work and School Symbiosis

Work:  Still sucks but I've been trying to get by.  The hours are long, the paychecks are small and the customers/co-workers are annoying.  I've contemplated trying to look for something else while I work there except I don't think I'll find a job that pays as well as this one and is as close to home as this one.  So, I'm kind of trapped and I'll be sticking around until I can find another job or.....

I'm fired.

The queerest thing has been happening lately.  The cash drawer has been coming up short multiple times.  This latest case was a large, heart sinking amount of money.  When the drawer came up short the first time, I immediately thought to myself what am I doing wrong?  There haven't been any situations in which I think I might have messed up with a customer's transaction and I always count my money back to the customer so I can't really see it being my fault.  Of course, it's entirely possible I did screw something up.  See, in this particular store, all associates share a register so it could be anyone's fault and the store wouldn't have any real way of knowing who's mistake it was.  But, it's only been happening since I started back.  Naturally, that doesn't look too good for me.  At the same time, these people know me.  I worked there for two years prior without any incident.  And just because I left and went off to college and it made me a cold-hearted snake doesn't mean it made me a thief.  I would hope they aren't suspicious of me but I'm a very paranoid person and I am worried that they are.

There are a few possibilities here.  First, maybe I am screwing something up without realizing it.  Secondly, someone else is screwing up without realizing it.  Lastly, and I hope the least unlikely, is that someone is messing up on purpose so as to get me terminated.  The reason why?  I'm taking all the good hours.  The reason why?  I'm a great worker.  Once again, this is where the paranoia kicks in and I wonder if a certain someone has it in for me.  I know exactly who it is, too.  And I honestly wouldn't put it past this person.  Because while we all share the same drawer, the drawer only come up short when me and that one particular person work together.  Coincidence or conspiracy?  I can only hope that the situation resolves itself and I'm cleared of any accusatory thoughts.  Still, I will worry because, in the end, it really could be my fault.  Just not on purpose.  It just doesn't make sense that anyone, especially me, would take money from the company.  Everything we do is tracked so if a drawer comes up short, they'll come after everyone who used it, which would include me.  And since there's only two or three people that work there at a time, that puts a large target over me.  Plus, with me being new and it just now happening, that doesn't help my case.  And since it has happened twice before, why would I push my luck with a third time and by taking such a large amount of money?  And as I said, because jobs are hard to come by and because I do have such high expenses, why would I put my job in jeopardy like that?  It's almost like those red herrings you see in movies where the evidence mounts so highly against one person that they couldn't possibly be the killer.  I am not the killer, guys.

I just hope they realize that.

In other news, I might be going back to school in a few weeks.  It all depends on how much financial aid I can get and whatever I can afford after that.  I also have to pick a program.  I'm leaning toward either drafting or office/medical administration.  My mom really wants me to do drafting because she thinks I'll be good at it because of my drawing ability.  I think it will be boring because I think all you draw is buildings, right?  Plus, I hear there's math involved and I am terrible at math.  I would rather do the administration thing because I got a taste of it working in an office years ago and really enjoyed it and would like to work in that kind of office environment (i.e. not working with the public) again.

I have a few reasons for wanting to go back to school.  First of all, I don't want to work at this retail store anymore.  The sooner I can graduate and find a job in my field of study, the better!  Of course, that's easier said than done because I had high hopes I'd be able to find an art-related job after graduating from SCAD and that didn't work too well but at least I'd be working with two degrees instead of just one.  Hopefully my opportunities would be increased, if even by a fraction.  Second, if I'm going to school my hours at the retail store will be reduced, which is also a good thing.  The less time I'm there, the better I feel.  Plus, maybe that other associate will get their hours back and won't feel the need to (allegedly) dip into company funds and hope the blame falls on Bran.  Lastly, if I'm in school, I won't have to pay my exorbitant student loans until after I graduate.  I can't depend on getting another forbearance because the first one only lasted a month and a half after they told me it would last six months and so they might not give me another one at all.  I don't understand how all that works but I know I can keep them at bay if I'm in school.

But what if I can't afford it?

It's possible that any grants I might receive will not be processed in time.  I have to apply to the school on Thursday and declare a program and then register for classes on Friday.  My financial aid won't be processed until my SCAD transcript is sent to them and that won't get there until tomorrow.  I don't know if it'll be done in time.  And even if it does get done in time, I might not be eligible to receive any money.  I have been saving up from work but I really wanted that money to go toward animation software and equipment.  I think I just have enough to use that for school but then I'd have to start all over for the animation stuff.  And if I can't go back to school, I guess I could go ahead and purchase the animation stuff and then once I get that paid for, start saving up for school, which will be hard to do with those monthly student loan payments.  And that's assuming I'll still have a job if this money thing doesn't resolve itself.  I mean, I'm sure I'll be okay about the job because they really don't know how the money got shorted.  They won't wipe out the entire department over this.  But, still, I'm sure people will form their own opinions and look at me with scrutiny.

Ugh, all this after working seven days in a row, seven hard days of huge back-to-school sales and a tax free weekend on top of that.  I'm wiped out and now I have to spend my two days worrying about this money thing.  But, what if it's already been resolved?  All this worry for nothing.  But, what if it hasn't been?  I hate that nagging unease, especially when I'm trying to recover from such a long week of work.  Such is my life.  There will always be something to worry about.  But, I digress.

Going back to school (so to speak), I suppose I could just take a few classes here or there.  It would be easily affordable and maybe I'd still have enough free time to maintain enough hours at work so my paycheck won't take such a hit so I'll still be able to pay the student loans and save up whatever's left for the animation software and such.  I guess I have a few options.  I just don't know which option is the best.  I know the best case scenario would be if I didn't have to pay for school at all and I could take all my money to buy the animation stuff and get all those expenses out of the way so that what little money I earn from the retail store can all go into saving for the student loan payments I'll eventually have to make after graduation.  By that time, hopefully I'd have enough saved up to make those payments comfortably.

If my blog was more popular, I might would ask for donations.  I don't think I'd be able to squeeze five bucks out of my current "barely noticed" status.  Maybe I should pimp myself out to every social network or maybe create an incentive.  Hey guys, donate now and I'll include you in the acknowledgments in my first book or I'll create a short animated film just for you!

Hm.. I wonder if that would work...?

Carnival God

"I don't believe in love," I told Chasity.

"Well, then you don't believe in God," she responded in a matter-of-fact fashion. Her head was lowered and her eyes rose up to me, her mouth open. Then her eyes rolled down to her spicy tuna sushi roll as she plucked one up with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth with a suctioning sound.

"Uh, you know what I mean. In a romantic sense."

The setting: An Asian restaurant in Savannah.  Chasity and I met up to catch up with each other.  We hadn't been spending too much time together because of our busy schedules and because her new forty-one-year old boyfriend was taking up what little free time she had.

"He's greaaat," she said, using a baby doll voice that most girls use when describing a male of special interest or a really cute puppy. And this is how we got on the topic of love, which led to God. About the time of our conversation, I had been crushed by a number of people and was conceding to my bitterness, embracing it even. I was also funneling those bitter emotions into my senior film, so that bitterness was skidding on the surface of my skin, real and raw within me.  Consequently, I was a bit allergic to Chasity's warm and fuzzy feelings that radiated off her stuffed cheeks.

No, I didn't believe in love but I was okay with God. Or so I thought. Of course, Chasity was right, even if I didn't want to admit it. Christians believe that God is love and love is God. It's basically interchangeable. And to say you don't believe in love would make most people think you don't believe in the god that is love itself.  I tried to cover my butt by saying I was talking about romantic love but really, I was talking about all love.   You might be thinking, "Well, what about your parents and the love they have for you?"  Yeah, I guess they love me but I almost feel like parents/family don't count because that kind of love feels more instinctual, somewhat forced.  Like, would they really love me, still want me to be around, if I wasn't there child and their responsibility?  I think about that a lot.

The kind of love I'm talking about is the kind of love you choose.  I think it's much harder to choose to love someone rather than love someone just because they've always been in your life and that love is really more of a concept rather than an actual affection. 

And I feel like, in my life, people have chosen not to love me at a certain point. It feels like people just kind of cut contact with me after a certain length of time, whether it be after a few months or even after a few years. Now, I don't want to act like it's entirely everyone else's fault. It's certainly possible that I could be to blame but I honestly don't know what I've ever done differently to make people turn away. I'm like a new toy whenever I meet someone new. They open me up and play with me and once they've put me through all the motions of being funny and informative, and when the novelty of my spring-loaded missile launching and laughter wears off and after my hair has been cut and I've been dragged through the mud, they are done with me. I am thrown at the bottom of the toy box and I'm forgotten as only a six-year-old with no attention span can forget something.

As I've said, this might indeed be my fault. Perhaps, like a toy, I can only do certain things. I'm only so pliable. I have a certain amount of weapons and can take on only so many attachments. So maybe it's my own limitations that limit the love people had for me. Perhaps it just comes down to the fact that I'm not all that interesting after a certain point. Maybe after a while, I have nothing more to offer. And maybe that's okay.

I don't want to just come right out and say I feel betrayed because that sounds way too over dramatic and lame and like I'm a victim and it's me against the world. But, it’s the closest comparison I can come up with. Saying I’ve been betrayed also negates the fact that I am responsible for the dissolution of friendships and as I said, I'm sure I'm also responsible. Yet, it still hurts to the point where I don't understand the concept of friendship.

I don’t refer to people as friends anymore. It’s a foreign concept to me now. Using that word leaves my tongue thick and dry.  What is a friend? What’s the difference between a friend and an acquaintance? Similar interests? Respect? Loyalty? Love? I much prefer to the term acquaintance because that is what I am comfortable with. Acquaintance has the feel of friendship but without the close connection, without the promise of always being present. Acquaintance is safe and lacking the strings of attachment and the insecurity of abandonment. I don’t use the term friend and I no longer actively acquire friends because friendship is too volatile, too slippery and unpredictable. It takes work and the social, moral and connective skills that I believe I no longer possess. It takes care and heart and genuine kindness, abilities that have been lost to me long ago.

I also don’t use the word love in reference to people anymore. This is probably the saddest thing of all. I don’t tell people I love them except for my mom but that goes back to the parent thing as described earlier. And when I do find the words dribbling out of my mouth, I literally have a reaction of revulsion. It’s as if the word has stuck to my lip like a string of snot that catches on your mouth when you blow your nose. It’s as if I’m making some grand declaration of something I cannot uphold, as if I know I’m lying and everyone else does, too. When I was younger, even as my love was being whittled away by the world, I had held on for as long as I could. I tried to spread love, tried to show that it was at least good for other people. And even when I felt my own ability to love was collapsing underneath me like a creaky foundation on which I could no longer stand, I had hoped love for other people. Now that’s gone as well. It’s not like I wish hate upon the masses but wishing love for people is hard because it’s difficult to wish something for someone when you simply don’t believe in it. It would be like me wishing for a leprechaun to slip out from under your bed and pull out a giant cauldron of shiny gold coins for you. Sure, it would be nice if it happened but I won’t hold my breath for its occurrence.

And I have to wonder, if God and love are one in the same and I have sworn off love with the utmost conviction, has that lopping off of love somehow crossed over into my fading faith?

A year or so ago, I never would have imagined I would have sunk as low as I have. I never would have, could have imagined my faith being virtually gone. I’ve never been an upstanding Christian but I tried in my own way, despite my human weakness, to be as good as I could and to be a good example for others. And then college happened and everything spun out of control and after college I was trapped at home and with no job and I almost felt abandoned not only by people that I once held close, but by God for not providing. Yes, I know that is so entirely selfish of me to think that way. But, I did. Plus, working at the electronic bingo facility put me in a funk. Is this what God wanted for me, after all the hard work and ambition to do better than work a menial job and this is what I get? Not to mention the fact that everyone else around me seemed to be doing great. It’s not that I believe Christianity is an exchange of good behavior for good jobs, friends and money. I know it doesn’t work like that and I never expected it to but at the same time, there’s that ingrained sense of “Hey, what about mine?” that goes through my head. It’s almost as if all the goodness I ever did wasn’t worth anything, especially after seeing not so nice people getting their way. I thought God would help me out a bit more than He did.

Putting the rewarding aspect of Christianity aside, I also just wanted to hear from God. I wanted God to tell me that, even if He wasn’t going to help me out right now, to at least let me know that things would be okay in the future. I needed some reassurance, some guidance, some validation. I never heard from God or felt Him touch me in any way. I prayed so hard and squeezed my eyes and hands so tightly together that they cramped up. I bore a hole into the blackness cast by my eyelids and felt my heart jump forward in sincerity. The sincerity was met with silence. And this is the way it has always been. I have prayed for salvation more times than there are grains of sand and yet I never felt saved. I never had that feeling of serenity wash over me like I had seen and heard of. For a short amount of time, I found some solace in the notion that God treats you like you’d be treated by people on earth. Some people like touch. They like to be touched and like to touch others. Some people don’t like touch as much. I am someone who doesn’t necessarily like touch so that’s why I don’t feel God physically. Now, I’m not so sure about that answer. I think it's almost a cop out, an easy excuse as to why I don't feel God. I pray and pray and nothing ever changes and I never feel better. Christians tell me I’m not praying hard enough or long enough, that I’m not reciting the right words when I pray, that I’m not reading my Bible, that I’m doing too much talking and not enough listening. I think those are all convenient answers. I also think that it shouldn’t be that hard to talk to God. If He is everywhere and so accessible, why should I have to follow a certain set of steps just to say “wassup”? If I’m really in need of Him, shouldn’t He come swooping through? Religion shouldn’t be about rules and regulations. If it’s all about love, why can’t I skip the red tape and just get to the heart of the matter?

God is like a carnival game.  The game operator tells you the rules just like a preacher would.  It all sounds simple enough.  You knock down the milk bottles and get a prize, say a prayer and be absolved of your sins.  But as you go through the motions, you realize it's not as simple as that.  See, you have to hit the middle milk bottle that holds them all together and you have to pray with all of your heart, not a fraction of your heart or half of your heart.  The Holy Spirit pops in and out of your consciousness like a whack-a-mole and every time you think you've made contact, it slips away and leaves behind a black hole of emptiness, mocking you with a buck-toothed smile, teasing and always out of reach.  You spend so much time trying to knock down those bottles and so much energy trying to find God until you grow tired and weary with empty pockets and empty pews.  After a while, you wonder if it's all rigged.

It doesn't help when I'm exposed to all these stories about God coming to people, reaching out to them and changing their lives, these people who never even wanted to know God.  If He can so easily work his holiness on these people, why can't He for those who actually want it?  I'm jealous of those who are secure in their Christianity, in their God who they know loves and cares for them.  I'm jealous of those who sought and found God and those who were sought out by God.  It seems so easy for some and so impossible for me, reaching my hand so far out only to feel the humid air, dislocating my shoulder and setting in more pain, building it and spreading it out.  How much more pain will it take until submission feels sincere?

I'm left, like I always am, wondering what to do about it all.  I've gotten good at expressing my problems, spewing syllables and slime and slapping them together into these unfocused diatribes in a desperate hope that I can make sense of the mess that I have become and the mess that has been made of me by outside factors.  Yet, the sense never comes.  Questions produce questions while answers flitter away.  Relationships are hard.  Consequences are hard.  Decisions are hard.  But when it comes to God?  How do you make your way around that obstacle?  Emily Dickinson said the brain is the weight of God.  God is only as vast, as powerful, as potent as my brain can imagine but if my brain is defective, does this impairment keep me from knowing God as I should?  Am I just incapable of being in alignment with God's love because my head won't allow for it?  Or maybe my head has nothing to do with this divine separation?  No one has enough head space for God.  Yet, there He is, living within so many people.  Maybe it just goes back to what I told Chasity that night at the Asian restaurant.  I don't believe in love.  I no longer have the capacity to feel anything positive.  It's not a depressing sentence, just a declarative one.  'Cause I'm actually fine with my heart condition these days.  So, maybe closing off my heart to all things closes it off to God as well.  I might verbally state I want God to fill the void but subconsciously I'm still warding off all who try to enter.

Once again, it all comes down to me, comes down to the fact that it's my fault.  Same old story.  Yet, I can't keep wondering why God can't come to my rescue, saving me from the world and from myself.  Despite all the internal conflict that might be hampering any kind of connection I'd want to make, why can't He just cut through the cords of contention and pierce my pathetic heart?  I guess no one will give you a plush prize for free.  Expressing a desire for it isn't enough.  You gotta pay up, take your shots and want it bad enough to keep fighting for it despite the odds, despite the dwindling resources.  And maybe sometimes you have to stop and go home.  But the carnival isn't going anywhere and that prize will always be sitting on the shelf, waiting for you to come back and take another swing.