new year's evisceration

For the first time, I actually followed through with a resolution.  I wanted to lose weight.  I did.  I didn't lose as much as I wanted but that's no matter because I still did it and consistently worked on it all year.  I have not conquered my weight and I suspect I never will but I do feel I have a better grasp on it than I used to so I consider that a victory.

But I'm not done.  I still want to lose more.

And I want to do more.

For 2013, I want to become more financially responsible.  I'm old now and I literally cannot afford to be so careless with my spending.

I want to finish my book (and get published if possible).  I'm so close already.  I've finished writing it and I've done a first edit.  I need to finish my second edit, write up all the changes, get some "test" readers, take their opinions into consideration, then publish that baby so I can start seeing the ones of tens of dollars roll in.

I'd like to re-discover my passion for drawing.

I want to find God again.  This one is a bit ambitious since a lot of people spend their whole lives trying to find God.  Not sure I can do that in a span of one year.  Maybe I just mean I want to find peace with how I feel about God.  Confession time: I don't think I'm a Christian anymore.  It's not that I don't want to be but I don't think it's fair to the true Jesus followers to call myself one because I would set a bad example to others.  But hopefully I can either come around (still waiting for God to come around) or I will just remain agnostic or maybe I'll go in a completely different direction and become a Buddhist.

I want to accept myself for who I am and who I will never be.

I tried the whole "alive" thing earlier this year and having a pulse hurt worse than withering.  I've retired the resurrection and have returned to rotting.  Sorry to disappoint.  I've made peace with it, though.  I don't have time to worry about a beating heart when I've got bills to pay.  I'll get all that sorted out later when I can concentrate on it.  For now, I'll just continue to coast as a corpse.

Cheers to the new year.

vent-ricles

Feel free to skip this as it has no significance other than me ranting about retail and who really gives a crap?

bran before and after

I waited a whole year for this picture.

When I saw the picture of my sister and me together last Christmas, I was heartbroken.  I was so big.  How did I get that large and not notice?  I'm sure I was in denial, sure I could ignore it until things in my life changed for the better so I could focus on bettering myself.  But nothing changed and when I saw the photo, I knew I had to be that change.

I told myself I would not repeat that Christmas picture looking the way I did.  Long time readers will know I've been dieting and exercising all year.  I've lost approximately 50 pounds.  I've probably gained at least 10 of them back in the past 2 months (I've been too ashamed to weigh myself lately so I don't know the exact number) due to birthday bingeing but that's another entry for another time.  For now, I want to focus on the positive.  Yes, I actually can do that sometimes.

I was excited to take this year's Christmas picture, anxious to see the changes.  It wasn't as big of a transformation as I was hoping.  Sure, clothing and lighting and angles play a significant role in revealing the body but I thought 50 pounds would show a more dramatic change. That's not to say I'm not happy with the difference.  I definitely look better and I'm happier where I am right now.  I can mostly tell in my face, which is good.  But I still have a belly.

I'm working on it, though.  I didn't put the weight on in a year and it will take more than a year to lose it.

I'm cool with that as long as I'm always making progress.

Starting January 1st, I'm going to begin my diet and exercise anew and at the end of the year, I'll take another Christmas picture and hopefully I'll see more positive changes.  And no man boobs.

Left: Christmas 2011 with my sister.  Right: Christmas 2012 with my sister.

christmas kitty

Our tree came out really well this year so I thought I'd share some pictures.  I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas/desired holiday of choice/day off from work and/or school.  

Not the standard tree topper.  I like it.

Moses says, "Where are all my presents?"

"Seriously.  I'll lie here until you bring them."

"This is where I want you to put all of my presents.  And then I'll eat the bows."

let's get drunk and kiss

"Excuse me for this
I just want a kiss
I just want to know what it feels like to touch..."
Kelly Clarkson, Can I Have a Kiss

Tuesday was my birthday and I've been trying to write this entry ever since then.  I've just been so tired from the long hours at work and general exhaustion and sadness.  I also believe I have a touch of ADD because I seriously cannot concentrate anymore.  I used to be able to sit down and pound out entry after entry with no problem but now it takes me hours, sometimes days, to write.  For once, I don't blame it on nature or nurture.  I think I did this to myself.  I've conditioned myself over the years to become an inefficient multi-tasker.  I'm usually writing while watching television and listening to music, eating, clipping my toe nails, doing my taxes and tempering eggs all at the same time.  I need to focusss.

My birthday was pretty blah.  It wasn't bad.  It wasn't the worst day ever but it wasn't good, either.  I had to work, first of all.  When I looked at my schedule and saw I'd be spending my birthday in that crap factory, I didn't even put up a fight about it.  I just shrugged my shoulders and put on my big boy briefs (and a bow tie) and walked in like I owned the place.  When you get older, you have to do stuff like that.  You grow up and your special day isn't that special to anyone else outside you and your immediate family.  Sometimes it isn't even that special to them.  But it's no big deal.  Just another day.

But it kind of sucks that the magic is gone.

After work, I drove home.  That night drive was the best part of the day.  Swooping through the orange and white lights.  The darkness pulling at my eyelids.  I just thought it would be nice to have someone I could share my special not-so-special day with so I could feel a little less alone, at least for the night.  And if lips wouldn't help me forget my crumbling world, maybe liquor would.  We could go out and get drunk and make out.  A swirl of inebriation and untangled inhibitions, taking a break from my brain for a while.  Release and regretful decisions.

It's something that comes so easily, something is taken for granted.  What might seem trivial to so many seems tremendous to me.  The intimacy.  The charged current.  The confidence to caress.  But it's all lost on me.  It shouldn't be so scary or foreign or vital yet I need to feel the closeness of body, the intensity of mind, the comfort of desire.  Yes, I'm wanted.  Yes, I'm needed.  Yes, I can be touched and be made to feel worthy of someone else.  Yes, I can give and receive pleasure.  I know it.  I don't feel it.

I don't think I ask for much.  Just to be happy and lie on the cold ground and have someone hold my hand a while.

my lorazepam says i'm happy for you

"We'll never be the same, never feel this way again
I'd give you anything but you want pain
 little water please, I taste you all over my teeth..."
-Jimmy Eat World, Just Tonight...

"She'll break your heart like she broke mine
bipolar, baby, make up your mind..."
-Forever the Sickest Kids, Bipolar, Baby

Wednesday at work, I had lunch with work girlfriend (WG) as we tend to do when we work the same shift.  Everything was fine and well until we clocked in to go back to work and a coworker walked toward us.  The coworker pointed to WG's hands and said, "Why are you hiding that?"

I looked over to see what the coworker was talking about and WG, who conveniently had her left hand covered with her right, uncovered lefty and held it up.

The coworker looked at me and said, "He did a good job, didn't he?"

Confused, I didn't reply.  I just looked at WG.  She held her left hand closer to me and pointed to a shiny silver ring.

"What's...that?" I asked, still confused.

"I'm engaged," WG said.

And my reaction went a little something like this:

"Da fuck?"

holding severed hands

"You wish that you won't wake up but you can't even get to sleep
six feet under for these six months, just dying to be buried..."
-Sacha Sacket, Sweet Suicide

"I'm waiting for blood to flow to my fingers
I'll be all right when my hands get warm..."
-Dashboard Confessional, The Best Deceptions

I've come across peculiar customers throughout my years in retail.  One gentleman used to come in through the rear entrance of the store and always went through my area to get to the jewelry department.  He was a tall man in his late 40s with a big, round belly.  He always wore polo shirts, shorts, and white crew socks that stuck out from tennis shoes, no matter the weather.  His shaggy hair was brown and unkempt, swept across his brown eyes and over his ears.  He had bristly hair that hung down from the nostrils of his Roman nose. 

He liked to pass the time talking to the jewelry associates, sometimes spending a whole hour looking at jewelry and chatting.  Sometimes he branched away from jewelry and talked to other associates in other departments.  Eventually, he made his way to my department to talk to me.  He spoke with a deep, booming voice and also with a lisp.  As he talked, his tongue darted between his small, brown teeth, muffling his "s" sounds.  Right away, I could tell he had a mental handicap.  He often spoke in circles, repeating himself as he stood with his hand propped on his jutted hip.  He talked about the weather a lot, hoping for rain or wind to break the southern heat.

I noticed he wore women's jewelry.  His hands waved in the air as he talked and I noticed several rings on his fingers.  The bands were thin gold that supported small diamonds.  He also wore a delicately thin necklace with a heart pendent nestled in the hair that crawled up over his open shirt collar.

I inquired about his taste in jewelry to one of my coworkers one day and she said the rings and necklace belonged to his dead mother.  He wore them to feel closer to her.  I didn't know if I thought that was touching or creepy.  Maybe a bit of both.

He also bought a lot of women's panties and his name was Roger.

But out of all his eccentricities, his incessant talking was the most problematic.  He talked about things I was not interested in, therefore it was painful to stand through one of his rants or daydreams.  He also often showed up when I was busiest and, not wanting to be rude, I stopped what I was doing to listen to him talk about hoping to win the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes and what he would do with his windfall.  I mostly nodded and even chuckled when appropriate.  Sometimes I folded a stack of shirts and then picked them up and slowly walked away from him to give him the hint that I needed to get back to work but he never picked up on any of my cues.

He made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn't articulate.  He wasn't rude or intimidating.  He was just awkward and I'm awkward as well so we didn't make a great pair.  I found myself hoping a customer would need help or the phone would ring so I could shimmy my way out of his conversational grip.  It came to a point that when I saw him stomping my way, I sprinted in the opposite direction so as to avoid his laser gaze.

I've known him for years.  He was one of many customers that I'd see and feel that sense of familiarity coupled with a bit of unease, but nothing I couldn't handle.  In his own way, he was a part of my routine, a consistent face, an expected presence during my time at work. 

While I was on vacation, he shot and killed himself.

One of the scariest moments of my life was when I had to talk a good friend out of committing suicide.  We were only children back then, in the middle of our teens and awkward with acne and agony.  I wasn't writing down my life back then so the events are foggy at best but I remember I caught wind that she was thinking about taking her life and so I called her on the phone at two in the morning and tried to calm her down.  She sobbed and I stuttered to find the words to talk her out of it.  I threatened to drive to her house in my threadbare pajamas if I had to just to get her to not hurt herself.

I remember the panic in my stomach and this heavy feeling of hopelessness that wrapped around me like a lead blanket.  I suppose she was feeling the same hopelessness, just filtered differently than mine.  I asked her to consider how killing herself would make her parents feel, would make me feel.  Through sloppy sobs, she told me she didn't care how it would make us feel.

I was hurt and offended but I pushed through my feelings to try to save her life.  Eventually, through an hour of calm coercion, she settled down and decided not to do it.

I didn't realize until several years later what it meant to not care about the ramifications of suicide.  I went through life with darkening eyes.  I felt the pain intensify every day, the hurt bubble up and bloom out over everything until it was all I could see.  All the laughter in my life didn't make a difference and was rendered ineffective, like putting sugar on a suture.  I realized I wanted out.  I realized how selfish it might be.  I realized I didn't care.  I saw how my friend's unconcern for my feelings was not personal.  I didn't want to hurt anyone but I was hurting more than anyone realized, more than I could express.  I was living in a skin that sizzled and the only way to stop it was to slide out of it.  Sometimes, pain is stronger than love or fear and you find yourself willing to do anything to end it, no matter who it might hurt.  It's not something you want to do but something you feel you have to do.

I think my friend didn't kill herself because she wasn't really ready.  I don't think I had much to do with it.  I was an ear and an assuring voice.  She just made a rash decision, a moment goaded by a bad day or dialogue.  I think if she was really ready, I wouldn't have been able to change her mind.  We always hope we have some kind of influence, that our love or language will steer the outcome toward life.  But I don't think that's so.  When someone is ready to go, there's no stopping them.  It may seem like a personal blow to you but it's not.  You can be there and try to create a connection.  You can reach out and hold their hand to comfort them but then you realize their hand is severed from their body and you're only holding onto a few fingers and a fledgling hope that somehow you'd be enough to make a difference.

You're not.

I kept thinking about Roger.  I didn't feel bad about him.  I wasn't upset over his death.  I wasn't going to miss him but he stayed on my mind and I wasn't sure why.  I guess I knew him enough to think it was a shame he passed away but it was also mixed with a perverted kind of reverence.  Some people think suicide is taking the coward's way out but I think it's kind of brave to belly flop into the unknown like that.  He was the first person I actually knew who had committed suicide.  This guy I saw around my store for years wasn't going to walk in with his tennis shoes and shiny gold rings on his thick knuckles anymore.  Why did he do it?  How had he summoned the sadness or courage to pull it off?  What was going through his mind?  Did he have anyone to talk to?  Did his impairment have anything to do with his death?

The possibility of ending my life is always there, always peeking its head out from under the shame and rage that fills my body.  It calls to me, reminds me it's there, waiting.  It all presses down on me until I feel crushed under the weight of every person and voice and insecurity and I have to put my hands up and wonder if I really want to die at all.  I say I do, under my breath when things go bad.  I say it almost every day.  I joke about it too much to be healthy.  But do I really mean it or am I exhaling empty threats?  

I keep imaging scenarios in which I'm faced with true death. What if a disgruntled customer comes in and points a gun at my face? Am I going to press my head against the barrel and tell him to do me a favor or am I going to piss myself and scream for mercy? If a truck comes barreling toward me, am I going to whip out of the way or am I going to stand still with a welcoming smile?  If I'm ever diagnosed with cancer, am I going to fight it or fall frail until I break apart?  Am I all talk and no toxins?   

I guess I'll never really know unless I'm confronted with the true possibility of biting it.  There's a wholly undiscovered world on the other side of a gun.  But I'm scared that world is as empty and cold as the one I'd be leaving and that's why I haven't pulled the trigger yet.  It's the unknown we fear, the possibility there really is a hell or there is nothing at all waiting for us.  We wake in emptiness and live in it and die in it and then we are extinguished.  We have to face the possibility that we are not important and our lives don't mean anything and neither do our souls.  We're all born and suffer and die and then grafted onto the Great Void and it's terrifying to think that there is no point to anything because pointlessness leads to chaos and chaos leads to death and no one wants to die. 

I have no roots, only regrets.  I have no wings, only chains.  I have nothing.  I think about my friend's nothing.  I think about Roger's nothing.  I think of the nothing hidden away inside everyone.  One day, I will be nothing.

I'm just exhausted.  It's that simple.  I'm tired and I want out.  I'm tired of living inside my head instead of living in the world. I'm tired of constantly feeling like there's nothing more to life than what I've already experienced.  I know there's more to life than what I've lived and that's almost worse because I know there's love and happiness out there and the fact that it dangles out of reach is what corrodes my insides.   My life is shallow and trivial and I've become petulant and pathetic.  I see the world through morose-colored glasses glued to my face.  The tentacles come out and lap at my face and neck and chest and sink thoughts of death and dying into me.  They slide the slime of self-hatred across my body, slicing at me until the light pours out.

I'm not ready yet.  But I'm making plans.  I've said to myself that I'll give it a few more years.  I'll give things a chance to turn around.  I'll try to turn things around myself.  I'll be proactive in producing better days.  But if I don't see a change, I'll have to get up and get out because I can't go on like this much longer.  And the consequences won't matter.  The words won't make a difference because I've come across worlds my whole life.  Words feel good on the surface but it's the actions, the feelings, the love behind them that make them effective.  And that's what's been missing all this time.  And it's kind of too late to correct that because that love would have kept me from ever getting to this point.  I'm beyond it now.  I'm coasting. 

One day, I will sever my hands so no one will be able to reach me or come running in their threadbare pajamas.  I'll be beyond help by that point.  In a lot of ways, I already am.

It'll take a miracle to move me.

santa claws me in the face

Thursday afternoon, I put on my frayed trainers and headed out the door.  The weather was perfect for a good walk to I had to go out and enjoy it.  I knew I only had a few days of good weather left before the air turned too cool to go outside.

Things were great.  I wasn't too hot.  I wasn't too sweaty.  Ear buds were firmly in place, pumping music into my extremities.

And then the school bus passed me.

It's always awkward when vehicles pass me.  I can see people crane their necks to look through the rear view mirror at the bearded stranger walking down the dirt road.

It's worse when it's a bus filled with curious and obnoxious children.  That particular bus has passed me a few times and I always caught glimpses of smashed noses and oily forehead prints on the smudged glass.

Being the beautiful day it was, the bus windows were down to allow the sweet little bastards angels to enjoy the cool breeze.  As the bus rolled past, I saw a white ball whirl by me and hit the blades of grass at my feet.

I looked up and saw glowing brake lights as the bus skidded to a stop.  Through the blasting music, I heard the bus driver's booming voice spill over the open windows.  I surmised he was yelling at the littering little snot.  I was only feet from the bus so I slowed my pace.  I didn't want to pass by and risk being pelted with more paper or insults.

"What the hell is this guy doing?" I asked myself about the driver.  The bus just stood in the road, the brake lights illuminating my embarrassment.

Finally, I just turned around and walked in the opposite direction.  I heard the squeak of the tires as the bus started up again.  I didn't look back until I was down the hill.

Oh, why do I always find myself in these awkward situations?  I kept thinking what the kids must have been thinking.  "Hey, John, let's throw this piece of paper at the fat loser walking in the dirt road!"  I don't like being "that" guy, the one people think they can push around or make fun of.  Especially when it's a bunch of middle school shits playing the bully. 

I looped back around to the spot where I was almost hit with the wad of paper and found it on the ground.  I picked it up, smoothed it out and saw it was poorly colored paper Santa.

By the way, you did a crap job putting that Santa together, Pablo Prickasso.

I just wanted to burn some calories and clear my head, not catch a paper cut from Kris Kringle.  Thanks for the holiday cheer, Timmy. I hope you get coal and canker sores for Christmas. And people ask me why I don't like kids! 

beard is good

Having lost a little over 50 pounds and wishing to change my appearance further, I wanted to grow a beard.  No Shave November was coming up so I thought it would be a great time to try it.  I have always wanted to, mostly just to see if I could, but also to see how I'd look with one.

I thought growing a beard would reduce blemishes while covering up current ones (which it has).  I thought having a beard would save time not having to shave (which it hasn't because trying to groom the beard is just as time consuming as shaving it off).  I also thought it would be cool to grow a thick beard and use it as a shield.  You know how some people can hide behind their glasses or heavy makeup?  I don't have those options so I thought I could keep people at a distance with my beard.  For a dude who sometimes strongly craves a connection with others, I also want to push myself away a lot of the time.  I know.  It's messed up.

I actually stopped shaving mid-October when I took my staycation because I have never grown one before and I knew Thanksgiving was coming up so I wanted to try to get a pre-beard going so I could shape it up and make it presentable in front of the relatives in time for the holiday.

After a week of not shaving, I went back to work and was surprised to find a positive response.  For me, I thought I looked just kind of dirty.  But all the girls not only approved but gave me a lot of compliments.  It was nice.  It was also very surprising.  I always thought girls generally shied away from fuzzy faced men.  Sure, there are ladies who are happy with hirsute gentlemen but I thought they were in the minority.  I was wrong.

Amazingly, the general consensus was that my beard is good.

I've learned a lot about my beard this month.  First of all, it's a multitude of colors, ranging from brown to blonde to-get this-red!  In fact, a large patch of hair on my right cheek is a nice coppery color.  Who knew I was a ginger?  I guess that partly explains why I have no soul.

Also, it grows in every direction possible.  The hair on my left side grows down.  The hair on my chin grows to the right and the  hair on my right side actually grows toward horizontally across my cheek.  This has made it difficult to maintain the uniformity of the beard while trimming.  I don't know if trimming is allowed during No Shave November.  It probably isn't but I work with the public so I have to maintain some sense of being groomed.

Not only did I want to cut down on the mountain man look but I also hoped frequent trimming would tame the quickly growing hairs while allowing for the tiny baby hairs to catch up and fill in.

Now, No Shave November is over and although I didn't exactly grow the beard just for November but in some ways, I'm ready to shave it off.  Now I face a seemingly unimportant decision:  do I shave or do I keep it?  It's not a decision I'm taking lightly.  I'm not developing an ulcer over it or anything but I've worked really hard on this bad boy.  I've clipped and trimmed and plucked and sculpted and shampooed and washed and itched and scratched and sure if I shave it, it will grow back.  But it took a long time to get it the way it is now and I don't want to have to go through all that prep again.

Plus, I'm saving a lot on razors.

writing my second novel

I participated in National Novel Writing Month again this year.  I did it back in 2010 and skipped 2011.  I almost didn't do it again this year because I have too many other book projects I should focus on but then I did it anyway and actually started on the 2nd.

The reason I participated in 2011, and one of the basic ideas behind National Novel Writing Month, is because I wanted to write a book.  I had been working on my memoir for years and not making much progress and so having guidelines really helped me discipline myself.  I had a goal and I managed to not only meet it but surpass it.  It was a great feeling and once I knew I could actually write a book, I was satisfied.  I think that's why I didn't do it the next year.

But this year, I decided to do it again.  In one way, I wanted to see if the first book was just a fluke because I actually had no trouble writing it.  Every day I sat down, the words flowed and it was a good feeling to know there was a story inside me.  The other fun part was I had the flimsiest idea and yet I let the story tell itself and nothing ever felt forced or rushed.  It just fell into place.  I wanted to see if I could recapture that.

In some ways, I did.  The idea for my first novel was a very basic idea that I had been floating around for maybe a year or two.  My idea was that I would maybe write a short story based on the idea but I never went as far as to develop it into something.  With this book, however, I had a good idea of how I wanted the story to go.  I've had this concept in my head ever since 7th grade and so I've had many years to mull it over in my mind and kind of expand the story.  It's a dumb story but yet it's one I've kept going back to and thinking about and so in a way, I feel I need to write it down and tell the story.  Because of that, I thought it would be a good idea to use for National Novel Writing Month because neither the story or NaNoWriMo are too serious so they fit together.

The cool/weird/disheartening thing is the story isn't finished.  The story in this book is finished but the story itself will continue.  I don't know if I should wait until next November to write the next part or get started sooner.  Well, I actually need to finish my memoir first and after that, then I can decide which project to tackle next.

It's been a long month and I'm glad I did it but I'm also glad it's over.

black fried day

I'm full of cake and milk and malice so bear with me.

Thanksgiving wasn't as terrible as I anticipated.  We usually all congregate at my dad's mother's house, as per tradition.  But, through the years, every time one of my male cousins reaches sexual maturity, he knocks up some girl and then has to visit her relatives for the holidays.  This has led to a decreased number of relatives who come over.  Fine by me.  This year, it was mostly my sister and me and our cousin and his boyfriend.  We all sat in the living room while the relatives with children sat in the kitchen and the older relatives sat in the dining room.

My sister and cousin mostly talked about drinking.  I don't drink so I didn't have much to add to the conversation.  And as much as I might have residual ill feelings toward my sister, she's quite the comedian.  My cousin's boyfriend really took a shine to her with her quick wit and sardonic delivery.  I'm telling you guys, she's more cynical than I am.  But she's funny so she can get away with it.  I just sat back with my lemon pie and listened.

At one point, some random toddler waddled in and went over to where my sister was sitting and just stared at her.  Shannon visibly tensed up as the little girl bore a hole in her head with her inquisitive eyes.

"Who is that?" I whispered to her.

"I don't know but she's freaking me out."  Then, she got up away from the girl, cringed, then sat closer to me.  The little girl kept staring.  Shannon kept freaking.

I'm telling you guys, she' dislikes kids more than I do.  She's a bitchier, female version of me.  I can respect that.

Black Friday wasn't as bad as anticipated, either.  Had to be there at 6AM instead of the usual 3:30AM.  I did have an irrational fear of sudden diarrhea, though, based on the enormous amount of fried turkey and greasy mac and cheese I ate the day before.  Fortunately, I made it through without any oozing.  The five shots of Pepto I did before I went to bed and the five more after I woke up might have helped me out with that. 

Surprisingly, I also didn't have many rude customers.  Although, I did have a few gray hairs who came up to me and said something along the lines of, "Excuse me.  I have two shopping carts and three shopping bags filled to the brim with clothing and there's approximately twenty people in line behind me but could you tell me the price of each piece of clothing as you scan it thanks!"

And I'm all like:

But I did have time for a cold pop.

chap flap

A few days ago, at work, a female coworker (FC) came up to me to get more change for her register.  I'd guess she's in her 50s but I think her smoking has played a part in her looks.  For all I know, she could be 36 but her face is a spiderweb of wrinkles underneath a dull gray bob of hair.  Her bright blue eyes are bloodshot inside a ring of thick clumped mascara.  She always smells of coffee and cigarettes, which probably contributes to her brown teeth.  She's also from Arizona so she's not a stuffy Southern prude so I know I can have fun with her.

FC:  "So, I bought some men's sleep pants the other day."

me:  "Oh yeah?"

FC:  "Yeah."  She waved her hands over her crotch.

me:  "Problem?"

FC:  "Well, I forgot about that front flap.  I'll have to sew that up.  It's chilly."

me:  "Oh, yeah.  A little breezy there?"

FC:  "Yeah!"

me:  "Chapped lips?"

FC:  "Huh?"

me:  "Nothing." 

dented hearts

"It's so easy from above, you can really see it all
People who belong together, lost and sad and small
But there's nothing to be done for them, it doesn't work that way 
sure we all have soulmates, but we walk past them every day..."
-Ben Folds, From Above

"Some men die under the mountain just looking for gold
Some die looking for a hand to hold..."
-Brand New, At the Bottom 

Work girlfriend (WG) went on vacation a week or so after I did.  She scampered off to Tennessee with her boyfriend.   Naturally, I didn't hear from her the entire time.  When I was gone and she had no one to talk to, she blew up my phone but when she was gone and had her boyfriend to hump and hug, she forgot my number.

A few days before she left, she sent me a text:  I'm so freaking lonely.  I say I like being a loner but I hate being alone.

Oh, I had to groan.  She has a boyfriend.  She shouldn't be lonely!  And then I stepped back and tried to examine the situation and see it from her perspective.  I try to understand that you can be in a relationship and still be lonely.  You can be in a crowded room and be all alone.  I do try to see that.  But, I just found it annoying that a girl in a happy, healthy relationship complains to me, the lord of loneliness, that she's "so freaking lonely" because she doesn't have her boyfriend right beside her at that very minute, although she was about to embark on a week-long vacation with him.

It's like going up to an Ethiopian child and saying you're starving because dinner is in three hours and you're not sure you can hang on 'til then.  And you say it while eating a bag of chips.  Ya feel me?

So, I wanted to shake her.  And days before, she told me she hadn't been single in five years.  So, again, she shouldn't be lonely.  Right?  Going from one relationship to another for five years straight, I think her perception of loneliness has been skewed.

But I stepped back again.  Who am I to say she doesn't feel loneliness?  Maybe she just feels it in a different capacity than me.  Maybe her loneliness stems from lacking a physical connection.  She knows her boyfriend loves and cares for her and if that was me, I would like to believe that it would be enough.  Even if I couldn't see the person every single day, knowing they were thinking about me and caring about me would make me feel better, less alone.  But maybe it doesn't work for her like that and she needs that physical closeness.

For me, I feel loneliness in every aspect.  I have no physical, mental, emotion, or spiritual connection with anyone.  I'm not just talking about romance, ladies and gents.  The only connections I share with some people are a mutual enjoyment of writing and maybe zombies and a couple of dick jokes.  Not exactly deep and meaningful.  So while my loneliness is all consuming, it doesn't negate hers (although it feels like it should).

Her loneliness is transient.  Mine is chronic.  But both are valid.  I try to believe that.

And it's just hard because I want to tell her she should be grateful for her boyfriend.  It's not like she's in a relationship just to be with someone.  But she seems genuinely happy.  She's not hanging out with him until something better comes along.  No, that's what she does with me.  And so I just wonder what more she needs.  At the end of the day, despite how she feels, she has someone she can "come home to" so to speak.  I've got my pillows and a carton of ice cream.  But I can't be like that because, as I said, her troubles are no less significant than mine.

But when it comes to loneliness, I'm an expert and I can't take her seriously.  In fact, if it were doled out in credits, I'd have a Ph.D. in Dented Hearts by now.  It's hard for me to understand because I've never been in the position of being with someone and still feeling hollow just as she can't understand my emptiness because she's been attached to a string of guys for half a decade now.  I try to be reasonable.  I really do.  But I don't feel bad for her.  It's hard to when all I can hear is the crinkling of her potato chip bag in my ear.

god complex

"If you grew up going to church, at some point in your 20's you'll probably stop going to church.  If you grew up with faith as a central part of your life, at some point in your twenties faith might move to the outskirts of town next to the trailer park and three-legged squirrel refuge. Your twenties are a process of making faith your own apart from your parents and childhood. Sometimes that means staggering away so you know what you’re coming back to."-Paul Angone, All Groan Up

"Free from the torment of sin
all this I'm giving up..."
-The Used, Light with a Sharpened Edge

I feel like I've been shedding a lot of old notions about God and humanity over the past several months.  I've heard before that sometimes our emptiness is God carving us out so he can fill us up again.  I can only hope that's what's going on with me.

I've stopped praying entirely.  I've been angry with God.  I've been rebelling, pushing my self-inflicted boundaries, joking about going to hell and rolling my eyes to all the religious symbolism embedded in my town.  Days go by and I don't even think about it.  God is not in my life and I don't cry or fret.  I just float.

I've never been so far away from God before and I feel like I've entered this new state of being.  I don't know if it's good or bad.  I'm slowly breaking away from all of it and there's a part of me that feels tremendously guilty and there's another part of me that feels nothing at all, the same kind of nothing I felt when I was more religious.  When I have God in my life and when I don't, I still feel jaded.  That muted feeling has been my only constant since the mess of my life started.

Despite my anger, I still find myself wanting to defend God against the non-believers, to those who portray God as a fag-hating proponent of 'Merica.  That is not God.  God is love.  God wants nothing more than to love and cherish all us and have us be happy.  It's that simple.  But am I right about that?  How do I know who God really is?  It certainly isn't from first-hand experience.  I was taught God was one of love but what if he really does discriminate and decimate?

One problem with people's views on God is that a lot of people pick and choose what they want to believe.  That's why we have denominations.  One person didn't like one aspect of Christianity so they started their own.  The other problem is everyone thinks their way is the right way, which seems pretty egotistical to me.  I thought the only right way was God's way.  And we can't choose which parts we want to follow and which parts we want to disobey.  At least, not if we want to be good Christians.

Of course, I'd like to believe that God is one that loves and accepts everyone.  That doesn't mean it is true but I hope it is.  Unfortunately, there are also a lot of people who believe God is about death and vengeance and punishment.  That doesn't mean it is true but they hope it is.

I admit I don't know much about God but I feel I have a better grasp on him than the majority of the Christians that live here.  They know a textbook God through a pastor chosen to recite the words from the Bible and interpret them based on his opinions.  And people come and sit and follow his interpretations, not because it's what God teaches, but because they agree with the pastor's opinions.  If they can get behind what he says, they treat it as gospel.  If not, they simply move to a different church that lines up with their own pre-existing values and morals. 

But their version of God doesn't hold up when applied to a real-world setting.  They think it's about following rules.  They believe if they go to church and pray before bed and vote Republican, they'll get into heaven.  Stay away from the gays and lesbians because they'll turn ya!  Don't mingle with people of other faiths because they could cause you to question your own and we can't have independent thought!  Stay pure until marriage because sex, out of all the sins you can commit, even though they are all supposed to be equal, is the worst!  Well, besides being gay.

But the world is filled with gays and atheists and Muslims and the whole lot of them are having sex.  You just can't avoid that stuff and you can't act better than them because, as Christianity teaches, all of mankind sucks.  You're in the same tuna boat as the lesbians, the same burning building as the terrorists, the same blood-stained bed as the man who beats his wife and the woman who cheats on her husband.  We're all guilty of something and we shouldn't pretend to be pious because we have the Bible app on our iPhones.

You can't pray the gay away.  You can't make someone believe in God.  You can't take back your virginity before your wedding night.  And sometimes you get cancer and sometimes someone you love dies in a violent car accident because of a drunken driver and sometimes you lose your job right as your wife tells you she's pregnant and sometimes you can't get pregnant.  And all the while, these Christians say to give it to God but what happens when God does nothing with what you've handed him? 

They say God will make it better.  But then, what if he doesn't?  Then they say that it's a part of his plan.  There's no accountability.  Christians flip flop more than politicians sometimes.  God blesses us with the good stuff but is nowhere to be seen once the shit hits the fan.  Yes, God blessed her with a new home and him with a promotion.  No, God had no hand in her melanoma or his molestation.  We can't sincerely say God will make it better when sometimes he doesn't.

How do we know when he's ever involved at all?  People talk of free will all the time.  God gave us free will and that's why life sucks.  When is it God's will and when is it free will? 

I feel I know enough to realize God sometimes takes a lunch break just as we have our legs broken but I also know that it's not about the rules.  One day, I watched an interview with my favorite band, Showbread.  They happen to be Christians and they were talking about why they were a band and what Christianity meant to them.  The lead singer, Josh, said it wasn't about following a set of rules but having a personal relationship with Jesus.  That changed the way I viewed Christianity from then on.  Until then, I thought it was about following rules, about staying on the straight and narrow, because that's what I was taught as I grew up in and out of the church and through Christian friends.  But I realized rules don't lead to relationships and so I changed my focus from trying to stay good to trying to get to know God.

In fact, I've learned more about Christianity through the band and their lyrics than I have through church or conversations with Christian friends.  I've come to know God better through the band and have learned that God is acceptance and not alienation.  However, who's to say that the band is right?  And who's to say I'm not just another Christian switching seats until I find one I can go along with?  Maybe I'm just as guilty as those who frustrate me.  But I suppose the difference is my beliefs don't demean or discourage anyone else.  I don't think it makes my beliefs more correct or better but at least I know I'm not spreading hatred and I think that counts for something.

Of course, despite feeling like I knew God in a better sense, despite my prayers and attempts at making a personal connection with something I couldn't see, hear, taste, or touch, nothing got better.  I stayed sad.  I stayed numb.  I stayed hopeless.  But I tried to keep the faith.

But eventually the anger surfaced.  I was angry at the Christians who spouted on about God without really knowing what God was about.  I was angry at God because I couldn't understand how all these people felt the pull of his love and I begged for it and felt nothing.  Why was he so out of reach?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually angry with the God I thought God was supposed to be, the one I learned about in Sunday School, the one splashed across television, radio, and on the lips of the idiotic and patriotic.  Maybe I got it all wrong because God was given to me all wrong.

But like I mentioned earlier, how do you get God right?

I tried to figure it out for years.  I prayed and read the Bible and went through the motions but no answers came.  God did not smile down upon me and I eventually gave up.  My faith waned and I felt disconnected to the one thing I had held onto throughout the passing years and the changes to my body and attitude and spirit.

I'll never know if my God is the right God.  In fact, no one will until we die and the great veil is pulled back to reveal a hand or a hatchet, a spacious room or a blank space.  And that frustrates me because I'll always wonder if I'm pondering my version of God or the God that actually exists (assuming he does).  It makes me want to push way more because there are so many differing ways to worship, so many differing opinions on who God is that it overwhelms me.  If I can't get it right, why bother at all?  Is believing in the wrong God the same as not believing at all?

Sometimes it feels easier to let it all go.  God is complex.  Too complex for my cranium to comprehend.  I'm not saying I am rejecting God or giving up on him but I am giving up on trying to feel something.  I'll always remain open and receptive to God's love but I'm too exhausted to seek it out at this point in the game.  I've put so much energy into trying to be a good kid and it's gotten me nowhere.  I've put so much energy into trying to figure out who or what or how or when God is that my mind pleads for rest.  I've been blessed.  I've been cursed.  I've been damned.

I don't think I'll ever understand why. 

thoracic cavity

Wind separated leaves from limbs in the darkness.  They pirouetted down onto the boy and girl as they lay in the grass beneath an old tree.  Ligaments wrapped together, he supported her neck with his shoulder and she slid her hand underneath his shirt.

"You're not as dead as you think," the girl said.

"Oh yeah?  How do you know?" the boy asked.

"Because of this," she said.  "Us here.  Now.  Sharing this moment.  Connected to the earth.  To each other.  Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's sufficient," he said as he brushed a fallen leaf from the girl's hair.  

"You can't fool me.  You wouldn't be here with me, like this, otherwise."

The boy shrugged.

"It's all of us," the girl said.  "You are alive because I am.  Because the world doesn't spin for the dead."

"Oh, God," The boy rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh.

"No, seriously," she said with a giggle.  "Your eyes sparkle like the shooting stars above us.  Your stubble is gritty like the dirt beneath us.  And your chest," she said as she gently pressed on his sternum, "is warm from the blood rushing through us.  I know you're alive because I can feel it in you."

"Actually, I just had a sip of this white chocolate mocha," the boy said, raising his Starbucks container.  "What you actually felt was it pass into my stomach.  That's all."

The girl stared with blank eyes as the boy drained his cup.

book notes #11: collaboration

Holy crap.  About a week ago, I finished the first edit of my book!  One step closer to publication!

And it only took a couple of months, which is good considering it took several years just to write the first draft.  I hope the second edit will go even faster.  I've actually already started it and it's amazing and slightly disheartening how I keep finding things I want to change/cut out.  I just keep wondering how I didn't catch all of that stuff the first time around.  But no one ever does so it's okay.

I read a quote from an artist (who I can't remember) that said (I'm paraphrasing [this person really resonated with me as you can tell]), "You never really finish a piece.  You just stop and move on to the next."

I can relate.  I think I usually stop drawing or writing because I get tired of it.  I create stuff as a means of expressing my thoughts and feelings and once I've properly poured out my heart, I'm over it.  When I feel the content is there, I'm satisfied and don't get caught up in the technicalities of grammar and punctuation.

But then there are times when I want to make something really important and really good.  I spend more time on it and polish it up and try to make it something that rises above my normal mediocre output.  And with those special pieces, I'm never really done.  I go back and tweak and perfect but it's never perfect.  Eventually, I stand back and realize it's the best I can do, although it's not what I pictured in my head.

But I don't want to perfect something to the point I poison it, you know what I mean?  It's like you say you're going to fix just one thing, a brush stroke or accidental charcoal smudge or improper syntax and then you see something else that needs to be fixed, a bum note or flat delivery of dialogue, and by the time you've ironed out all the little blemishes, the final product has become grossly altered and no longer represents your vision.

Maybe that happened to Picasso.  He saw the nose on one of his portraits was leaning to the left so he fixed it, which threw off the eyes so he had to shift them around, which screwed up the mouth and by the time he finished swapping and sorting, he had created Cubism.

Anyway.      

The next step is to get a couple of test readers to tell me if it's any good.  I'll be looking for more of a content critique rather than grammar and punctuation.  I just need to know if it's a good book!

I've gotten some positive feedback on my writing here and I appreciate it so much but the compliments are based on reading me a few times a week.  As we all know by now, I'm quite a downer.  I think reading my depressing ramblings spread out every couple of days or so is fine.  People can handle that.  But when I pour all that negativity into one long book, I am afraid it'll be off putting.  So much cynicism.  The reader will have to pop a couple of Zoloft to make it through chapter 5.

The other day, I was thinking about singer/songwriters.  A lot of times, they collaborate with other more seasoned singer/songwriters to elevate their ideas into better products.  It seems common with music but not so much with books, unless it's a real writer helping a celebrity put together a memoir or cash in on their fad success with books written about fictionalized versions of themselves.  Sure, sometimes well known authors collaborate together but I see them doing it more for fun, rather than one writer helping the other create a better book.

Sometimes, I think it would be great if I had a writing partner.  I've stated before that I don't have a ton of ideas but I do have a couple of small pieces of ideas stashed away collecting dust because I don't know where to take them or how to bring out the value of the ideas.  I have lines of poetry and very few short story ideas but they stay shelved because I am not good enough to bring them to life.  But I could if I had a collaborator. 

I think it would be nice if I could have a fellow writer to bounce ideas off of, someone I can feel comfortable sharing possibly bad ideas with, someone I can be totally open with and trust they'll steer me in the right direction, tell me when something is good, tell me when something is cheesy, and turn that cheese into a masterpiece. 

I think it would also help my productivity.  I often stay stuck on a topic for days or even weeks (I even have ideas I've been sitting on for years) because I can't break through the wall of confusion/insecurity/cluelessness.  But if I had someone to write with, they could help me break down the barriers that keep me from a good poem or awesome essay.

But the problem with collaborators is I often wonder how much input these singers and/or authors have in the creation of a song or book.  Do they simply add a sentence or two or change up a couple of lyrics and slap their name on it and then say they wrote it?  When I hear artists say they write their own songs, it often annoys me because their liner notes say they wrote the song along with three other people.  How much credit can you really take when you are one of several?  How much is yours and how much are you saying is yours? 

I wouldn't want people thinking that about me.  I don't want to be known for great art or writing if the majority of it wasn't mine.  Heck, I'm not even sure I'd like it if I couldn't claim 100% ownership.  What if someone came up to me one day and said a particular line in a poem or a particular piece of dialogue from one of my books completely changed their lives and it just so happens that one line or that one passage was the one line or passage I didn't write myself?  I'd feel fake and icky.  I don't want to feel that way.

But then again, it's all art and it's all about creating and putting it out there for others to enjoy and does it really matter who it comes from?  As long as I'm always straight up and honest and say I am only one person in a team effort to create the best art possible, then what's wrong with that?

And really, does anyone ever create something 100% themselves?  Even great writers who can write an entire book on their own have to report to editors who give suggestions. 

Then there's the challenge of finding a collaborator.  No one I know in real life likes to write so I'd probably have to joining some kind of writing group but I hesitate to do that because I'm not really a writer.  I write but I just can't take myself seriously enough to go that deep into it, to step into a literary world where poetry pulses through people's veins and books are stored in their heads waiting for them to sit down and extract them.  The only thing I've got floating around in my head is fart jokes and dessert recipes.  I wouldn't want to be laughed out of a group. 

I'll just have to settle with doing the best I can on my own for now, maybe getting help here and there and if I'm lucky enough, stumble upon someone who gets my writing and gets me so they can help me elevate it to the level I want it to be so I can feel like a real, accomplished writer.  

halloween and stuff

Happy Halloween, boils and ghouls.  I carved a pumpkin on Sunday...or I attempted to.  It turned out crap 'cause I tried to get fancy with it by shading and highlighting and...no.  Carving isn't as easy as it might seem at first.  Maybe if I had a couple of pumpkins to practice with, I could have gotten the hang of it but my hand started cramping so I just gave up.  Anyway, here's some pictures of the gutting process.

Our stray cat who adopted us wanted to help.  "Here, gimme that knife.  Let me show you how to do it."

staycation and aftermath

Went back to work Monday after my wonderful week-long holiday.  It was fantastic.  I didn't do a thing and have no regrets.  I did, however, eat a ton of crap.  Over the course of seven days, I ended up eating a pumpkin cheesecake, a pumpkin cupcake, another pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cheesecake ice cream, pumpkin spice cake donuts, pumpkin spice latte, and a pumpkin spiced danish.  Now, my reasoning is pretty simple.  All the pumpkin-flavored items are seasonal.  If I didn't snatch up that goodness, I'd have to wait until next year.  I was literally eating that stuff like it was going out of style...because it was.

I also enjoyed watching AMC's Fearfest, which included a Friday the 13th marathon and random horror movies.  I also Netflixed the Saw movies and played some Resident Evil 6.  Also, the premiere of American Horror Story: Asylum and freaking The Walking Dead!  It was all about the gore and the gluttony and it was great.

It was just nice to relax and enjoy waking up late and going to bed late and being lazy.  I didn't even shave.  I've been wanting to grow a beard for a while now, mostly because I never have before and wanted to see if I could pull one off.  No Shave November is next month and I thought I'd participate but I also wanted to get a couple of week's head start.  I thought if I grew a pre-beard now, it wouldn't look so shabby when Thanksgiving came around. 

And then I went back to work and any energy I had managed to recover last week was gone within the first 15 minutes.  But everyone liked the facial hair.  I expected negative reactions but they were actually overwhelmingly positive.

Work girlfriend's jaw dropped and she gasped.  I thought it was out of disgust but she later told me it was because she thought I looked really attractive, to the point she couldn't look at me without getting a little excited.  That was a good little confidence booster.  And let me just add really quick, because I've already said I didn't want to really mention her anymore, she text blasted my phone the week I was gone.  It was actually kind of annoying.  It's like, go text your boyfriend.  I'm unavailable over here, being awesome growing a beard and blowing heads off zombies.  Back off my dick, ya know?

Anyway.

So, work sucks.  I came back with an IDGAF attitude, which probably wasn't the best because I had to train two new girls my first day back.  Work is gearing up for the Christmas rush so they've hired a bunch of losers to stand at the counter and struggle to make change for the next two months and I'm over it.

It was also brought to my attention that a lot of drama went down while I was gone.  I'm starting to believe that, while there's always going to be some sort of drama anywhere you go, it seems to be more concentrated in small towns.  Forgive me if I'm wrong but I just think that drama, much like pregnancy, is prolific simply because there's nothing better to do.  It's like, we can either go into the woods for a quick poke or start a rumor about Leona and her body pillow.

I just feel like, why can't we all get along?  What do you get from lying or telling half-truths or flat out making crap up?  We all hate our jobs and we all hate the customers so why can't we come together to counteract our putrid patrons?

I'm just tired of the same crap and feel like I can't trust anyone there.  They're all so sneaky and it's unfortunate they spend their energy being destructive.  I understand I'm one cynical mofo but I don't go around tearing people down every chance I get.  So, basically, everyone can suck it.

Man, I love October.    

you broke six of my arms when i tried to hug you

“For me, writing these stories about my actual life is a way of imbuing them with meaning. Even though I know that rationally my life is completely meaningless. It gives me pleasure to find meaning in it."
-Alison Bechdel

"I didn’t wake up to find myself as a bug
I’ve been one for much longer than I care to recall..."
-Showbread, Naked Lunch

Life often feels hopeless.  What does anything matter?  Ultimately, I'm not sure anything does matter.  Yet, we keep on going.  We keep working and drinking and hurting and loving.  We are pushed up from the earth and ride this big swirling planet until we are planted back into the floor.  Nothing changes and the world is no better for having us stomp all over her.

But here we are.  We carry on.  We do it because we have to.  The world, life, responsibilities, money, rent, bills, and family push us forward.

I am also pushed forward.  I have to go to work because I have student loans to pay back.  I have to pretend I like people to keep my job.  I have to hurt because that has been my designation in life.  And I have to write because of that hurt.  It's one of the only forms of therapy that eases the pain, like  a grip loosened on the heart.

I have to catalog my bits of brain matter.  I am not a writer and I am not an artist but I need to put something out into the world, to break off pieces of myself and send them hurdling through time and space.

But why?

Is it because I have gone unheard for so long?  It seems that way.  Over the years, my existence has morphed into an insignificant insect.  I have my place in the world, just alike any other bug, but I keep getting swept into a corner.  Unrecognized.  Unheard.  Yet, I have a voice and a mind and an essence that feels compelled to be acknowledged.

But what can a bug contribute to the world?  Not much.  But maybe it can contribute to a select few compassionate enough to acknowledge the bug's being, as minuscule as that being may be.  When you've spent your life on the floor, observing from a distance, being stepped on and shooed away, you learn a few lessons and see things from a different perspective.

But the lumbering hopelessness still whacks at me like a shoe.  What kind of reach does a bug have?  What if it can only touch others in its size bracket?  What if I'm relegated to reading to the worms and water bugs?  And if that's all it can do, isn't that enough? Is it better to change one life or many?  If life is so precious, then wouldn't making a difference in just one person's life be worth the effort?

Is accomplishment measured in quality or quantity?  In mass or meaning?  How many people or pests will it take to feel satisfied? 

Bugs carry on, too.  Ants march in line and spiders spin their webs.  Some are crushed, some are swooped up and eaten.  Most are never known.

The butterflies and beetles are just trying to live their lives the same way humans do.  Who said they never mattered?  

I keep trying to measure my talent.  How good am I?  Am I good enough?  Will I ever be as enticing or shocking or endearing as those I compare myself to?  I'm different, not so much better or worse, not even that unique.  What can I offer that someone else can't?  What good can I do?  What's inside that matters to those outside?

I will never be Hemingway or Rembrandt but that's okay.  I have these pops of clarity and I realize I have thoughts and opinions to offer and some like it and some don't.  Everyone has critics.  Everyone has inadequacies.  It's when you can stomp on the insecurities that you find yourself free to feel and express and create. 

You don't have to be the best.  You don't have to be the most eloquent or articulate.  You don't have to be amazing.  You don't even have to be that significant.  You just have to make a connection, have to hurt and hope you learn from it, have to be brave enough to share it with others so that they may learn as well.  We're all so much more alike than we can even comprehend.  Words and sounds and images all send us to the same place, evoke similar emotions, define pain and praise people.  And you don't have to be a wordsmith to strike a chord.

You just have to want to.

the vacant lot

"And I wish that plant life would grow all around me
so I won't feel dead anymore..."
-Owl City, Plant Life

"We're temporary anyway..."
-AFI, I am Trying Very Hard to be Here 

I keep saying it would be nice if I could have been successful at a young age, a youthful entrepaneur or something.  I keep saying it would be nice if I could have fallen in love.  I keep saying it would be nice if I had lost all this weight long ago and never looked back.

My life is not how I pictured it to be.  Sure, a lot of people's aren't but I think it presses down on me a bit more than it might others.  At least that's how it feels.

I think of how much time and energy I wasted on stupid things.  My youth is gone and I have nothing to show for it except stretch marks and a rapidly depleting bank account.

But then I keep thinking about the end of my life and how it won't matter.  The accomplishments, or lack thereof, won't make a difference when I'm decomposing.  The lack of success and notoriety and influence.  The lack of love and overage of love handles.

It would have been nice to have experienced the thrill of passion and exhilaration of adventure.  Maybe it would have given my life some measure of satisfaction and happiness but when my heart stops beating, the money won't matter where I'm going.  The love I shared won't matter where I'm going.  It'll all disintegrate.   

I suppose the influence and impression I could possibly leave behind would have been nice as well but ultimately, I guess that doesn't matter, either.  Some people leave a part of themselves behind for others carry on.  Some don't.  I most likely won't ever get to deposit myself into anyone's heart.  Maybe I'm just one of those who are quietly born, quietly live, and quietly die.

There's nothing wrong with that.  It doesn't mean I never meant anything. 

I was a person at one point.

vestiges of humanity

"I am so scared of what will kill me in the end
for I am not prepared
I hope I will get the chance to be someone
to be human..."
-Ellie Goulding, Human

"I'm not attached to your world
nothing heals and nothing grows..."
-Marilyn Manson, Great Big White World

What does it mean to be human?  Is it our physical makeup, the fact that we get up and walk around on two legs?  Or is it something more abstract and intrinsic?  Is it logic and intricate thought?  Morals and judgments?  Is it love?  Faith?  Boredom?  Is it the invisible wires and nooses or the concrete machinery and hands that hold us to humanity?

Is it textbook or contextual?

I go through periods of wanting desperately to make a connection with someone, to feel grounded to the earth by love and affection and mutual respect and admiration.  There are also periods when I want to be completely isolated and left alone to rot away inside myself.

The unfortunate fact is I usually get my wish when I don't want it.  When I'm by myself, I want company.  When I'm in the presence of people, I want to dash away.

Loneliness once made me its bitch but one day I turned around and drop kicked it into the ether.  I've been better ever since.  That's not to say I still don't feel pangs of loneliness.  It's an unrelenting feeling always scratching at the skin on my chest, begging to get in and make itself home.  But I keep it away with distractions.  I go through an assembly line of lethargy consisting of waking up, eating, Internet, television, eating, eating, pooping, eating, more television, eating, going to sleep, and repeating it all the next day, all in an effort not to face myself or what my life has become.

I'm going to die and it's just not going to matter.  I don't think I've greatly affected anyone and it makes me a little sad to know I quietly slipped into life and will exit the same way.

To some degree, all of our lives are meaningless, at least when you look at the big picture.  The husband who dies doesn't matter to you unless you're his wife.  The child who dies is quickly forgotten unless you're her parent.  We all come and go and the world does not stop to scream and that's okay.

We all can't be in the history books but because I am not influential to anyone in my personal life, my ambition spread to the world.  What if I could impact the masses?  I always hoped I could leave some lasting impression through my art.  But I'm not an artist anymore.  I hoped I could leave a legacy with my writing.  But I'm not a writer anymore.  Okay, so what am I?  What can I do well?  What can I accomplish?  What kind of mark can I leave on the world?  Wait, maybe I need to lower my standards.  What kind of mark can I leave on people?  Still not so sure.

I'm not the boyfriend who taught the girl how to love.  I'm not the child who taught the parents how to think.  I'm not the artist who taught the world how to see.  No one carries me in their iPod or Kindle or in their hearts or minds.

"He's dead.  That's a shame.  Who's on Letterman tonight?"

I've kept my capillaries to myself and consequently, I've converted into a claustrophobic outcast.  I don't know what it means to love another person.  I can relate to people and their situations but beyond that I just don't get it.  What makes you like someone as a friend, as a lover, as a spouse?  I can't comprehend dizziness over another individual, kisses that weaken muscles, love that causes tears.  Is that what being human is all about?  Is it connecting, sacrificing, giving oneself to someone else?  Or is being human a process, a journey of faith and interaction and giving?

I've given humanity a shot.  I've tried to be kind and considerate.  I've sacrificed my own comfort and happiness many times to improve the quality of other people's lives.  I've been respectful.  I've been a team player.  I've hurt with a smile, cried with a laugh, died with a joke.  I've hugged and held hands and kissed and never felt anything but a sweeping sickness in me telling me it wasn't right.  I wasn't meant for it.  Sometimes I keep trying.  But mostly I'm over it.

I cut people out of my life easily these days.  I used to hang on in hopes something would spark but I see now it's mostly useless.  The only genuine relationship I had was something I screwed up, which tells me I am just not capable of maintaining a connection.  If they don't leave me by their own volition, I will force them to with my frustrating nature.

I'm consistently disappointed with people because they do not carry out the roles I have set for them.  It's not their fault and I don't know why I do it.  Maybe because I never had a group of people in my life who came along naturally to fulfill certain needs.  Now, I have to make up for that lost fulfillment by coming across those with roles to occupy.  These people don't know they are playing a part and it frustrates me when they don't act the way I want.  I construct these elaborate dramas to feel included.  To have a story to tell.  To cover up the truth of my deviancy.

"Yes, I've been involved.  Yes, I've had my heart broken.  Yes, I've loved and I've lost.  Yes, I've experienced."

No, I haven't.

Instead, I fall apart and break bonds.

I can't accept anyone for anything other than what I want them to be and that is selfish and shameful.  But no one sees that because I'm playing a part, too.  I take on the role of human, someone who complies with love and decency and understands the value of relationships.  But inside, emptiness is the only thing I understand.

path

I'm not even an outside person but the cool breeze has been so nice I honestly felt guilty for not going outside and soaking it up.  It seems it's hot the majority of the year, freezing for a portion of it, and then there's about two good weeks of perfect weather.  I didn't want it to go to waste so I have been walking outside more.

There's a dirt road next to my house that I walk along.  Sometimes the foliage gets a little overgrown and it does a number on my legs.  Lately, they've been breaking out into a rash (even when I wear athletic pants to cover them) and there's also the occasional douche bag that doesn't slow down when they pass me and it kicks up dirt into my eyes.  But when the weather is cool and the sweat is flowing and no one is around but me and the cows, it's great.

salt soul

I finished Insanity on a lackluster note last week.  I had a lot of plans with people after work and that made it hard to exercise because I got home late and had to be up early for work and I also gave myself the lame excuse that one more week wasn't going to make a difference.  I didn't have a six pack before that last week and I wasn't going to have one after.  I think I worked out three out of the six days I was supposed to, which isn't terrible but I really wanted to finish strong.

Not a great end but the fact that I pushed myself for two months and sweat buckets each time is great.  I have muscle definition in my arms and I can do way more push ups and crunches than before I started and I have way more stamina...ladies.

I want to go back to the 8-week workout I started back in January.  I thought it would be a good idea to cycle through all my fitness programs  but I also want to take a week to do some lower intensity workouts, like my mom's walking DVDs, before I hit it hard again.  You know, something to give the old knees a break from all that Insanity pounding. 

Just for kicks, I popped in my P90 DVD two nights ago and breezed through the workout!  Insanity has really gotten me in better shape.  I remember huffing and puffing through P90 when I did it several months ago but this time around I was really able to keep up.  That was a good feeling.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still tubby and tire easily...just not as tubby and don't tire as easily.  It's improvement and I'll take it!

I've also tried to incorporate walking outside because the weather has been gorgeous lately.  I'll post pictures of my route on my next entry.

I've been a bit more relaxed with my workout schedule.  Since I'm not following any program, I don't feel as compelled to be strict, which is good and bad.  I haven't reached my goal weight so I shouldn't be so relaxed but at the same time, I have worked hard this year and I'm really just taking an easy week or two but I do intend on going hard again, even through Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With my work schedule and family obligations and tons of turkey, I'm sure I won't be able to exercise every day but that's okay.  As long as I keep going.

I think I'll be able to.

It's only the days that I want to exercise that I don't that bother me.  I also need to add that I've been eating badly lately.  Lots of candy.  Slipping in more and more fatty foods.  I need to reel the cheating in big time.  I'm being too lenient with my diet.  I can understand slacking off on the exercise after the boot camp from hell I went through for two months but food should remain non-negotiable. 

So when I eat crap and then don't exercise on a day I'm supposed to, it worries me.  Sometimes I don't get up and go but other times, despite my internal conflict, I push it all aside and just do it.  By the time I've got my shoes on, all hesitation is gone and I'm good to go.

I just feel better when I exercise.  Don't get that statement wrong.  I haven't turned into one of those people.  I don't physically feel better but I do mentally.  It's one more victory, one more fight against the calories I've consumed, one more attempt at creating a balance.  I'm starting to see that every bit of physical exercise is worth it, despite how I felt about the last week of Insanity not making a difference.  Sure, I wasn't going to get ripped but I could have burned off some of those extra candy calories. 

It's just when I wake up in the morning and I'm hurting, when it's difficult to bend my legs to get out of bed, I love it (although it's actually not good because it means I didn't sufficiently stretch) because it makes me feel like I really worked out, really pushed myself.  It's like how I feel when I sweat profusely.  I know I accomplished something.

I also hope some of that salt has seeped past the skin, that a switched has been flipped on, that I'll continue to be physical because I know I need to be.  Food is such a temptation for me and I am still so weak, despite the weight loss, despite turning down doughnuts, I still struggle.  And exercise is a good way to offset the days when I can't say no.  I hope exercising becomes a part of me, something I do regularly.  It doesn't have to be every day but at least four times a week.  And not even every week.  Maybe some days I can do five days a week and others three.  I don't have to be strict about it but I need to be firm, to keep myself accountable and remind myself that I need to get up and go, to feel the fat fall away as the sweat pours out. 

p.a.p.p.

"It's like a splash of water to my face when I suddenly realize
that you could never find a place for me in your eyes
and I don't know why I keep thinking
one day I'll turn around, I'll see your hand reach out
I'm only fooling myself..."
-Kate Voegele, Only Fooling Myself

Work girlfriend blew me off twice in a matter of minutes.  On Tuesday, I said I'd wait an hour after work today so we could hang out when she got off and she said that was good and let me get excited and then said she had other plans.  I told her we could hang out some other time.

Later on, she said she'd wait an hour after she was done with work that day until I got off so we could have some frozen yogurt at a new place that opened up in town.  I got excited again and then a few minutes later she said she had take care of some things and couldn't wait until I was done with my shift.

If she's got plans, that's fine.  I just don't get why she said she'd hang and then take it back.

Yet, last week, she asked if we could do lunch together since we were put on the same shift, which is a rarity.  I said I would but then realized I didn't have to work that day after all (the whole jury duty thing messed up my schedule) but I told her I would go into town and do lunch with her anyway since I already said I would.  I really didn't feel like going into town on my day off but I went anyway.  I didn't take it back.

It was such a small thing but it confirmed to me that she won't go out of her way to see me like I would to see her.  That makes me want to withdraw, to cut off whatever relationship beyond work we have.

It feels kind of silly.

Her boyfriend goes away for work a lot so I think I'm her substitute boyfriend until he gets back.  It's like she's split her boyfriend into two physical beings.  I'm the fun, flirty part of the relationship.  He's the sex and intimacy.  And I understand that we all have our favorites at work and we all play a part and fill a role but she interacts with me outside of work, too.  She texts me throughout the day on an almost daily basis.  She's even told me that she talks about me to her friends all the time.  And in a sightly stunning revelation the other day, she casually mentioned it was her ex-ex-boyfriend's birthday and I said as a joke, "Oh, you still remember?  Still got feelings for him?"

"Yeah," she said.  "I mean, I wouldn't run off with him but sometimes, yeah."

"Hey, now, you're only supposed to have feelings for one guy.  Me!"

She looked at me and smiled and said, "Well, sometimes."

"Really?  I was just kidding.  I meant your real boyfriend."

"Come on, Bran, don't make me blush!"

I'm going to start a campaign called People Against Penis Placeholding, or P.A.P.P. for short.  Kind of like Mothers Against Drunk Driving (M.A.D.D.) but more important.  Please girls, don't do this to guys.  It's hurtful.

I'm starting to see she likes to talk to me or be around me when it's easy for her.  But she wont' bother when it takes effort.  And that hurts.  And it reaffirms my belief that I invest more into people than they invest in me.  And that's why I don't even have relationships with people.  That's why I seem cold and distant.  It's because I don't want to get pulled into something and then torn out of it.

I have to admit, she roped me good.

Makes me want to withdraw from everyone.

I know it's such a small thing but this is the kind of behavior I've gotten from girls...and people in general...all my life.  I'm never special enough to be someone's number one.  I'm the backup.  I'm the guy people talk to when everyone else is busy.  I'm the last resort.  And that's cool.  I accept that.  It's just not fun to be reminded of it, especially by someone you might like slightly more than a friend.

All these little incidences have added up to the point of zero tolerance and all present and future violations against my heart means you're out!  I just don't have the time or temperament to feel crappy over a non-existent thing.  She can sleep easy because she has someone waiting for her when she gets home.  She's got her choice of men, taking something away from a guy who never had anything at all.

I never wanted to be the kind of guy who griped about...girls.  I don't do relationships.  I don't do liking people.  I don't do heart.  That's not me.  And this is a good example of why.  My circuits are sparking and I don't want to talk about her anymore.

georgia on my grind

I'm still toying with the idea of going back to Georgia during my time off from work.  The only thing really holding me back is that 8-hour drive.  If I could just have someone chauffeur me around, that would be great because I'm pretty lazy and I'm not sure if it's worth the effort.  I also have to take into account gas money and the cost of a hotel.  I could manage but the money would be better spent elsewhere.  Then again, it is my vacation and I deserve to splurge a bit.

It would also be nice to at least have someone to go with me to keep me entertained and possibly halve the driving duties.  Work girlfriend said she'd go if she weren't...you know...the actual girlfriend of someone.  So, little good that did me.

Ideally, I'd go back to Forsyth Park and watch the puppies play as I wrote a masterpiece of some kind.  The problem is I have no ideas.  But going there could produce some.

It could help me with the memoir I'm writing.  Maybe taking a walk through the historic district would drum up some long forgotten (or repressed) memories.  I like the idea of walking next to those cobblestone roads once again, retracing my steps from when I was greener and impressionable, seeing things now through more experienced eyes.

I need to get away and I need some inspiration.  I also need someone to drive me.

I looked through several of the pictures I took while in Savannah and it depressed me.  I realized that I missed out on so much and made so many mistakes.  I wish I could go back and do it again (don't we all).  Sometimes I wish I had never gone in the first place.

2006.  My first day in Savannah.  I was very happy.