sort of like church

This entry is going to be a two-parter so hold on to your taters.  I wanted to write about a Tumblr post I read from an author I follow and then I realized that I need to talk about the guy who wrote it so I decided to split up the topics for your convenience/dread (Gosh, more long posts, Brannon, back the eff off).

parallels
I was perusing the public library one day when I came across Isaac Marion's Warm Bodies.  The cover looked interesting so I picked it up and discovered it was about zombies.  Instantly, I was sold.  I took it home and read it and realized it was not your typical zombie tale.  It was a zombie story with heart.  In fact, the story is told from the perspective of a zombie.  And he has a heart!  Or, well, he's trying to have one.  I liked the book and could really tell that the author was trying to inject more than blood onto the page.  There was a love story there, as well as questions on life and death and the nature of existence and all that good philosophical stuff.

As I do with any book/movie/television show I find interesting, I did some research on the book and Isaac Marion.  Turns out, Warm Bodies was originally self-published.  He wrote it when he was in his mid-twenties and actually landed a movie deal through his contacts in the industry (The movie comes out next year).  A book deal soon followed.  So, while he found his success backward from how most people do, I thought it was awesome that something he put out himself still managed to catch the attention of movie studios and publishing houses.

Due to his movie and book deal, he has a good chunk of change now and through his Tumblr and Twitter, I read along as he traveled across the country and independently put out his second book, The Hungry Mouth, a collection of short stories, which includes a prequel novella to Warm Bodies.  He personally sent me a copy.  Okay, and he sent 500 other people copies too but the point is we are practically BFFs. 

And because we are "so close", I get to see who he is behind the books.  He's a real guy.  He is sarcastic and crass and likes beer and sex and beards and other macho things.  But he can be charming and sensitive through the interaction he has with his readers.  He often hands out advice and his perspective on things.  I like that he's accessible.  I guess he's not famous enough yet to blow off fan inquiries so I appreciate that.  He's also an artist.  He paints.  He writes.  He plays music.  He just finished a screenplay.  He is multi-talented.  I also get this sense that he's a bit restless and is always looking for creative outlets to express himself and it reminds me of me.

We're not totally alike but I do see several parallels between us.  He grew up in a religious environment and had a downfall with religion later on in his life.  Before the success of his book, he worked unsatisfying jobs to pay the bills.  He expresses himself through different mediums.  It's both comforting and inspiring to see he was once where I am now. 

I hope, as with any budding author, if I ever put my book out, it might fall into the right hands just like with his book.  I don't see anyone making a movie out of my story but it might be traditionally published and exposed to a wider audience.  That would be great.  And if I could have the opportunity (and money) to travel, I would.  The guy gives me hope. 

He also lives in Seattle and seems to like it well enough.  I've heard good things about it from people who have been there or currently live there.  I even thought about moving there before, which led to an idea of sending him a desperate e-mail saying I was also a struggling writer and would love it if he'd house me in Seattle while I found myself (and a job).  But then I realized he'd probably get a restraining order against me so I squashed the idea.

sort of like church
As I mentioned, I also follow Isaac on Tumblr and he infrequently posts his thoughts on certain things.  Several days ago, he posted about a bar that offered cheap tacos and beer every Tuesday.  He and his friends gather there and enjoy each other's company, as well as the cheap tacos and beer.  And he wrote something that made me pause:

Taco Tuesday will always be there for you, a regular, reliable community event where friends can get together and share life.  Sort of like church, but with less self-hatred and irrational dogma and more beer and ground beef.

He brought up a good point about the self-hatred.  Ever since I was a little kid, sporadically attending church with insistent classmates, I've been taught that people are sinful and deserving of hell.  Everyone of us, from little kids to big adults to the clean to the dirty to the mean to the considerate.  It's only through Jesus that we can be saved.  Seems a little unfair that we are born sinners.  You can't help your eye color and you can't even help your soul.  That is, until you are old enough to understand Christ (but who ever really gets old enough to do that?) and ask to be saved.

And I can't tell you how many Christian songs out there have self-deprecating lyrics.  Even one of my favorite bands, Showbread, often put themselves down when responding to fan compliments.  They are quick to explain that any talent, any inspiration comes from J.C. and not them because they are losers and sinners.  I know that in many cases, this is a display of humility but come on. It all feels a little too harsh at times.

I don't even disagree that we all suck.  It's true.  We're all sinners.  We all screw up and fall short of God's glory.  BUT.  This is expected.  God himself knows this.  We know it.  It's no huge secret.  So why is it that we have to be constantly reminded of our shortcomings?  Why do we put ourselves down over something that we don't have much control over?  I'm not saying that because we are sinful, we should just give in and indulge in our sins.  Not at all.  I'm just saying we know we will never be perfect so why should we dwell on it?  We should be as good as possible, of course, but we shouldn't beat ourselves up over a few mistakes here and there.

There seems to be so many negative aspects to Christianity that have bogged down believers.  I know I'm one of them.  It would be nice if we could switch the focus from hellfire to helping others.  Pointing the way instead of pointing fingers.  Being kind instead of accusing.  Accept that we are sinners and move on to more constructive things.

I have a problem with that myself.  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own negativity that I think I inadvertently spread it around like smearing ink.  But embedded deep within all the negativity is the knowledge that God is supposed to love us despite our setbacks and unsatisfied lives.  That's another tough one for me.  I just don't feel that love, that acceptance.  Everyone keeps telling me Jesus is talking to me.  But all I can hear is the negativity, the low growl of disappointment and defamation from devils but grow deaf in the presence of deities.  Hopefully I'll find the strength to work on that one day.

Until then, I need to work on myself, find out how I can climb out of this well of misery and shake off the skepticism and despondency.  I've got to change my focus from regret to revival.

pot/luck

"The idea that creative endeavor and mind-altering substances are entwined is one of the great pop-intellectual myths of our time."
-Stephen King, On Writing

I've never tried drugs and I've never consumed alcohol.  In fact, I'm pretty anti-drug.  With that being said, I have been curious about what it would be like to be under the influence.  Not only would it provide a temporary escape from my crappy existence but I also wonder if it would help ease the tension of my writer's block.

I just don't have ideas.  All these writers keep talking about these ideas that constantly flow through their heads and I just don't have that going on.  Is it because the creativity isn't there?  Or is it just blocked?  And if that's the case, how can I unclog the ol' cranium?

If you've ever seen someone drunk or on drugs, it's pretty apparent their mind has been shifted to some degree.  It's as if their mind has gone to a different location where they see and hear and feel things differently.  Their on a different plane of existence.  So what if that mind shift could be focused into a creative outlet?  What if drugs open up different doors that usually remain closed?  Some novels considered to be classics, such as Naked Lunch, have been written under the influence of mind-altering substances.  Then there are others, such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, that while maybe not written while on drugs, are about drugs and considered important works.  In his book On Writing, Stephen King states he doesn't even remember writing Cujo because he was so drunk.

For me, I wonder what would happen if I decided to dabble in drugs.  Would it help or harm my craft?  Stephen King doesn't think it'll do anything for me.  In his book, he goes on to say: 

These concepts are very familiar to most alcoholics; the common reaction to them is amusement.  Substance-abusing writers are just substance abusers--common garden-variety drunks and druggies, in other words.  Any claims that the drugs and alcohol are necessary to dull a finer sensibility are just the usual self-serving bullshit.

Basically, if you're an artist, you're an artist.  If you're a drinker, you're a drinker.  There's not necessarily a correlation between the two, except to say many artists are more inclined to become addicts but that doesn't mean the addiction fuels the art. 

And my professor in college thought along those same lines.  He also once told us that drugs had no effect on creativity.  If it were any other professor, I'd would have thought they were just trying to be responsible and tell us that drugs are bad, mmkay?  But this guy wasn't like that.  He was the type that would go drinking with his students.  He was open about his personal life and his own experiences with narcotics and I didn't see him being the type of guy who would lie and say drugs didn't contain any magical talent enhancing abilities when they in fact did.  But he was adamant that it wasn't the case.

But I still can't help but to wonder.  It's got to do something to you, besides give you the munchies.  If it transforms your behavior, why wouldn't it transform your creative output?  I don't know.  Maybe drugs don't enhance creativity but rearrange it.  You're brain goes through a tumbling when intoxicated, so why wouldn't your talent?  And maybe it's just chance if the stuff that comes out is good rather than just plain incoherent.

Where do those ideas come from?  Where is talent conceived?  Is it pot or is it luck that creates a piece of art?  Is it dope or daydreaming that creates the artist?  I haven't decided but I'm curious to find out.  That's not to say that drugs should be a quick fix for stifled ideas.  It shouldn't replace hard work and constant practice.  But what if it gave your mind a little push, a complement to the creative process?

I doubt I'll ever find out.  I'm too much of a goody-goody to actually do drugs so I suppose I'll resign myself to just pondering it.  With my luck, it wouldn't do anything good for me, just make me act like a fool.  I can do that while sober, thank you very much.  I'll just stick to being drug-free and mediocre.  At least for now.

scatman

Yesterday at work, I was with a customer when this older guy walked into my department.  I've seen him before and he's pretty smelly so I silently cursed to myself and hoped he would just shuffle on out of my area.

He didn't.

He waddled up to my register and put his hands on the counter.  He was a hunched over man in his late 50s/early 60s.  His faded denim shirt hung loosely over faded denim pants that hung loosely on his slanted hips.  His receding gray hair was parted to the side and matte with unwashed buildup.  His blue eyes bulged from their sockets underneath overgrown gray eyebrows that poked out nearly as far as his eyeballs did.  Deep lines formed vertical lines from the corners of his hooked nose.

His hands were rough and splotched with brown stains around his thick yellow fingernails.  He wheezed and breathed deeply as he stared off to the right of me.

"I need some boxers, size 36," he said with a loud urgency.

As he spoke, I noticed a smell beginning to form around him.  I knew he was a pungent one so the odor wasn't entirely unexpected but it increased in depth  and intensity as he stood there.  In fact, in seconds, it pummeled each one of my nostrils with a one-two punch.

"Okay, sir, let me go grab those for you," I said as I made my way around the counter.

I passed him and looked back and that's when I saw it.

THE MAN DONE POOPED HIS PANTS, Y'ALL.

My chin clenched as I looked in horror at the dried brown splatter spread from his lower back to just above his knees.  I actually did a double take to make sure I was actually seeing this.  Suddenly, my eyes were glued to the brown glue smeared along his back pockets.  I smacked into the underwear display, which snapped me out of my trance.

Are you effing kidding me? I asked myself.  I mean, really? Thank goodness we had his size.  I didn't want to take up too much time to search for them and let that smell fester up there at my counter.  I quickly snatched up a pack, took a sharp inhale of breath and made my way back to the counter.

The odor was so bad it felt natural, necessary even, to cry at that point.

I rang him up and fortunately he used his debit card.  I glanced back at the brown stains on his hands and what I assumed was general filth took on frightening new possibilities.  I did not want to exchange cash with those possible fecal fingers.  I mean, even if I were to sack up and accept the money, I didn't want to pass it along to any other customers.  That paper could have been tainted with all kinds of diseases.  Tapeworms.  Hepatitis.  Salmonella.  Campylobacter.  Oh, the horror!   

I bagged his underpants and held back tears as I wished him a good day and sprinted away from the area.  I practically pole vaulted over the counter.  I didn't want anyone walking up and thinking I was responsible for that sewage smell.

He slowly scooted out and left behind an indelible funk in his wake.

A while later, two tween girls stepped into the man's turd trail and said aloud, "Like, oh my God, what's that smell?"  The other girl crinkled her nose and made a gag face.

The smell lingered and I went to every department asking for air freshener.  I went to the department next to the front door and explained the situation.

"Oh, God, yes, I smelled it," a coworker said.  "We were just up here talking and he passed by and it hit us like a ton of bricks."

"Yeah, and did you notice the back of his pants?" I asked.

"What?  Oh, no, I mean I looked back and thought I might have seen..."

"Oh, yeah, you did.  I got an up close look at the goods."

"Oh, God!  Did he really?"  Her eyes bugged out almost as big as the man's.

"Well, that certainly wasn't chocolate milk back there."

She also made a gag face and then mercifully found some air freshener for me.  She then walked around my department and spritzed the stuff all around.  It only helped marginally, making my department smell like a perfumed turd but eventually both smells dissipated.

I don't tell this story to make fun of Mr. Shitty Britches.  Maybe he was suffering from dementia or had a loose bowel/disabled olfactory condition which rendered him incapable of determining when he dookied.  If I even make it to his age, I might end up pooping myself on the regular, too, so I try to have compassion.  I don't mean to be insensitive but unless you're a nurse, you just don't sign up for that kind of clientele.  I was just taken aback by his behind.  How do you handle those kinds of situations?  I tell the story only to say that he is one of many types of unsavory customers I have to deal with on a daily basis.

Most of the time, these people offend my patience and intelligence with their dumb questions and bad attitudes, but more times than you'd think, they find ways to physically repulse me as well.  Whether it be the typical customer steeped in the smell of coffee and cigarettes (a strikingly sickening smell), body odor and bad breath, or, in some extreme cases, someone like Mr. Shitty Britches.

It further serves to degrade the condition of the store and my soul.  People keep telling me I'll find people like that anywhere I go but I have to say, this place gets more than it's fair share of freaks and foul-pantsed patrons.  You have to admit there's a certain class of customer who does and does not shop where I work.  I mean, you probably don't find that many men with loads in their pants at Nordstrom.

I swear, if the job itself doesn't kill me, the customers with their fecally transmitted illnesses will.

book notes #9: content

I previously mentioned I don't feel like much of a writer, yet here I am talking about writing my book.  Seems slightly nonsensical but the way I see it, Snooki isn't a writer either but if she can put out a book, so can I.  I still stand by my previous statements.

With that being said, it took three ink cartridges but I finally printed out my entire book.   I have already edited 126 8.5" x 11" pages and have 196 more to go.  For the size book I want it to be, it's going to be 589 pages (holy crap) so that means I have to do some major cutting.

It dismays me to report, however, that during my vacation from work, I did not touch my book once.  I wrote several blog entries and picked up The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing a Memoir and Stephen King's On Writing, both of which I also haven't touched, but as far as finishing editing the first draft, um...I didn't.

But from the editing I have managed to accomplish, I've noticed several problems cropping up.  As I'm reading and editing, I'm thinking of more stuff I need to add to make it coherent.  When I kept track of my first year of college through my blog and with personal journals, I didn't go into exact details on the events that took place.  So, as I'm reading this book, I'm getting a lot of reflective chapters with back story tacked on.  I have to take those tacked on events and put them first so the reflection makes sense.  I think that will help the flow.

I don't like starting every chapter with, "Two weeks prior, this happened" or "she made that face because she still couldn't get over that time a month ago when I..."  I feel the constant back and forth of shifting from past to further in the past makes things a bit murky.  It's a lot like trying to put together a puzzle and that is tiresome.

I realized I also almost fully neglected to talk about my classes, except through reflection afterward.  I have to find a way to talk about my classes first and reflect later.

One way in which I have been trying to cut down on the content is by removing a lot of my tendency to over explain what I'm feeling.  I'll go off on an alliterative tangent and before I know it, I have a whole paragraph that says the exact same thing in different fancy ways.  It's a style I've unconsciously developed over the years and something I'm really going to have to to try to cut out.

I also wonder if I should stick strictly with my time at college.  I included chapters during my Christmas vacation and Spring break while I was at home.  But even though I was at home, all I wrote about was school so I think those chapters are still important.  I thought about taking those chapters and condensing them to the most basic point and sprinkle it in the chapters where I'm actually at school.

And I've noticed that I jumped right into my craziness in the first couple of chapters.  I'm finding it hard to sympathize with me as a character in the book because it comes across like I'm devastated right when I step foot on campus (which I pretty much was) but unless the reader knows my back story, how excited I was for college and how it all blew up in my face, I don't think the reader will get it or will understand why I became so broken so quickly.

My last concern is the fact that I don't even know what I want this book to be.  At first, I wanted it to be a book about my first year of college.  Fine.  But what is that comprised of?  Is it more about me or the college experience itself?  I've put in so much background information about myself, like my struggle with weight and religion and all of those topics come up during my time in college and, once again, for the reader to fully understand how I feel about each scenario, I feel I have to give some additional information.  But that's additional pages.

Obviously, I need to get it together and figure out a proper direction for the book before I get in too deep with the editing.  The truth is, I'm finding it hard to cut out too much because I feel like, even though it's entirely too long, everything I've included has some importance to the overall story and to understanding me as I am.

I suppose if I were to release other books, I could spread my back story out a little bit over the course of those books but I don't know if there will be other books.  It's almost like I'm trying to tell my whole life story in this one story, cramming twenty years into just one year, like I'm trying to include college life and life in general and me breaking down and trying to build myself up.  It's all encompassing and more than slightly overwhelming.

This is going to take longer than I thought.  

      

getting to know gluttony

I don't want to say my mom is the reason why I'm fat but...it is her fault.

I kid.  Sort of.  But my mom equates food with love and living in the South, food is fried.  We fry everything.  We fry chicken and potatoes and vegetables.  We fry desserts.  We'll fry anything.  We'll fry milk if you give us the chance.  So my mom equates fried food with love, which means I was doomed from the start.

My mom learned that kind of love from her mom, who probably learned from her mom.  I don't think that's an unusual parenting style, especially in the South, but it's a slippery slope.  I don't see much wrong with showing someone you care by feeding them as long as that's not the only way you show love.  You also have to teach your kids to have a healthy relationship with food, just like you'd teach them how to have a healthy relationship with people.

My mom skipped that part.

My parents were not very affectionate, especially my father.  Once again, not unusual, but Mom's love shined through the most when she cooked.  She conveyed her love through cornbread instead of kisses and while she just did what she knew, it had an unintentionally negative impact on me.

When I was younger, Mom asked me what I wanted from the grocery store.  I told her I didn't want anything.

"But the kitchen is practically empty." 

It wasn't. 

"I just hate the idea of you and your sister walking into the kitchen and not having anything to eat."

That sentence struck me.  My parents have been very fortunate to have always been able to provide us with more than we needed as kids.  I don't think her concern came from a place of fearing she might not being able to have access to proper nutrition, but came from a place of fearing she might be a bad mom.  I say that because she never said she worried about us opening the closet and not having clothing or opening our backpacks and not having enough school supplies.  It was all about the food.

And so my mom passed down the notion of food and love to me, whether she meant to or not.

Even as far back as recent months, as much as I've tried to diet, I still look to her as a compass of sorts, following her lead when it comes to eating.  I tried to be good and follow a strict diet but if I see her eat a small plate of food in the middle of the night, I feel like it gives me license to do the same.  Or if she asks if she wants to go get a pizza for us, she knows I'm going to say yes.  Sometimes I'm only as strong as she is.  And when she gives in, I have no trouble caving as well.

I'm not exactly sure how my weight gain started.  I don't think it was anything tragic that led me to the linguine.  At least not at first.  I was an active child.  I often played with my cousin, who was around my age.  But as I grew older, I simply grew out of playing outside.  I was not a rough and tumble child.  I was sensitive from the beginning.  I was artistic.  I liked to draw inside instead of kick up dirt outside.  I simply think the combination of an ever stocked kitchen coupled with inactivity caused my initial weight gain.

I didn't notice my extra bulk until a classmate of mine pointed it out in fourth grade.  We had all come back from summer vacation and the first thing he said to me was, "You got fat over the summer."  I'll never forget it.  It was the moment I became aware of my appearance.  And over the years, I've only become more and more aware of myself to the point of obsession.

That was around the time I went from eating out of pleasure and convenience to eating so I could comfort myself.  I took those notions of love and feel good feelings I inherited from my mom and ran with them.  Any time I felt bad, I used food to recreate those feelings, to cover up any pain I felt.  And this continued into adolescence.

When I hit puberty, everything only got worse.  Not only was my stomach expanding but my face exploded with acne.  I was an awkward mess of excess oil and body parts padded with fat.  And so I ate to forget the freak show in the mirror.  I felt ugly and inadequate and eating only made things worse in the long run but I either didn't realize or didn't care at the time.  As self-aware as I thought I was, all that weight certainly creeped up on me.

But eventually, I got sick of being so big and so I lost around 20 pounds during the summer after 11th grade.  I came back to school and felt and looked decent.  After I graduated, I continued the weight loss journey and ended up losing a little over 60 pounds and went to college with a better attitude and a better body.  But I hadn't defeated the cause of my weight gain.  I was still insecure.  I was still sad inside.  I still felt inadequate.  Somehow I had found the resolve to lose weight despite my overwhelmingly negative attitude about myself.

And then my first year of college destroyed me and once again, I turned to food to cope.   But only for a while.  Eventually, I got a hold of myself and dieted and exercised away all the weight I gained that first year.  But the issues remained, nagged at my mind and wouldn't let me forget the gross, fat guy I still thought I was.  I buried the feelings with school work instead of food.  I hadn't overcome my issues, only ignored them again.

It was only when I graduated from college and moved back home that I let food back in again.  It was like meeting an old, familiar lover.  And we made sweet, sweet love.  60 plus pounds worth of love.  I was more depressed than I had ever been and I did not care about anything except filling my stomach up with everything I could get my hands on.  I was in self-preservation mode.  If I didn't reach for pie, I probably would have reached for pills.

All the weight I lost, all the hard work I put into changing my body and my mind slowly unraveled with each passing day.  I packed the weight back on over the course of two years.  And I ignored it.  I didn't want to face myself and so I simply didn't.

And one day I looked at myself and saw that I was back to where I started.  Overweight and still miserable.  I realized I hadn't changed, hadn't learned, hadn't accomplished anything.  I felt like I had wasted my youth.

For me, food was the only constant in my world.  It wasn't just my comfort.  It was my companion.  It was my best friend.  And although some best friends can be destructive, I didn't care about the long-term damage.  I was looking for the short-term solution.  I couldn't just give up on food.  I felt like I was abandoning someone who had been there with me through thick and thin (both literally and figuratively).  Me giving up food would be like me telling you to suddenly cut your best friend out of your life.  I just couldn't do it.  It was a ridiculous notion.

But one day, just like that one  magical day in high school, I said I was tired of being like this.  I didn't want to see another birthday as big as I was.  I didn't want to ring in another year overweight.  Since January, I've made the decision to lose the weight I had gained not once, but twice.  And I've managed to lose 39 pounds so far.  I still have a long way to go and I've hit several obstacles along the way but I've done it before and I'm confident I can do it again.

But it's still hard.  Even now, despite how far I've come in trying to recognize bad food behavior, when I'm at my lowest, all I want is food.  It's still the only thing that soothes me.  No person, no god, no orgasm, no compliment or accomplishment is as satisfying as food.

And I even tell myself to stop.  I'll grab some chips or reach for the frozen pizza and I'll pause and tell myself it's not going to help.  It's only going to make things worse.  But I eat the chips or the pizza anyway.  I don't care if it's going to make things worse because I'm hurting in that moment and need to make the pain go away.  I say I'll deal with the consequences later.  I never do.  I deal with it by eating more pizza.  By eating  more cake and pie and chips and candy.  I deal by not dealing.

I've realized that it's easy to lose weight.  That's a bold statement with the seemingly insurmountable weight struggle so many people are going through but it's simple science.  More calories burned than consumed.  In fact, you can even pinpoint how much weight you want to lose on a weekly basis.  1 pound equals 3,500 calories.  Eat 500 less calories than you normally would every day and in 7 days you will have saved yourself 3,500 calories, which totals 1 pound.  The trick is finding out how many calories you usually eat and how many calories you need to consume to maintain or lose more.  But that's the basics.

But my point is, physically, losing weight is easy.  It's the mental part that is the hardest.  Diet and exercise can change your body but what is going to change your mind?  It's all a head game, a constant fight with the demons inside you pointing you in the wrong direction.  And until you tackle those demons and exorcise them from your brain, you'll always be in the middle of sensibility vs. gluttony.  I should know.  I've been caught in the crossfire more times than I can count.

My mom's not really to blame.  I was just kidding.  If anything, the combination of fried food love and my stunted social skills and possible mental defects that no one had any control over is what contributed to me being this way.  It's all just circumstances, random events and chances that led me here.  But I'm at a place now where I can take responsibility for my own body and actions.  Looking into the past and finding the cause of my weight issues is good because I can learn and grow from it but I don't play the victim here.  Not in this case.  I don't look back to blame, only to resolve.

I've managed to lose the 39 pounds despite not having dealt with my issues.  And until I do, it's very likely that I'll gain the weight back.  That's why it's imperative I try to fix the inside while simultaneously correcting the outside.  The problem is I just don't know how to do that.  So until I do, I have to stay on top of my eating and working out.  I gained all the weight back because I didn't stay on top of it.  I let myself go.  I allowed my inner insatiable beast to roam free in a playground made of pasta.  I've temporarily caged him but with makeshift bars.  He's still clamoring to get out.

I can only hold him back for so long.

a vampire bites a zombie (and vice versa)

"Something deep in the human heart breaks at the thought of a life of mediocrity."
-C.S. Lewis

I've battled with myself for years over my drawing and writing abilities and I can never seem to come to a satisfactory conclusion.  I might draw better than the people around here who can't tell the difference between Picasso and a pickup truck and I might write better than the people around here who can't .

I'm talented for my small town but as far as the world is concerned, I'm mediocre.  And that's on a good day.  I will never change lives.  I will never write an epic or paint a masterpiece.  And because of that, it makes me wonder what the point of any of it is.  I'm not innovative or changing the landscape of art.  If anything, I'm just peddling more average content around that does not stir the heart or stimulate the head.

I realized why that is.  It's because I am not an artist.  I am not a writer.

I'm not talented.  Just tortured.

Now, let me explain.

salt skin

I only have about two weeks of my old school Power 90 left.  I'm trying to fight through the monotony of the same routines every night.  Seeing muscle form under my arm fat helps out with that.  And while I'm exercising, it's not even that bad.  It's just getting started.  It's always getting started.  Putting on my shoes and firing up the DVD and taking those first steps.  Somehow, for the past 70-something days, I've managed to block out the lethargy and get it done.  I can do it for another two weeks.

The weirdest part is I actually look forward to the sweat.  I suppose it makes me feel like I'm really doing something.  If I can finish a workout and not be drenched, I feel I haven't exerted enough effort.  Sweat is how I determine how well I did (or didn't) do during a particular workout.

I almost like the feel of perspiration running down my face and torso.  I like the way it flings off me when I punch and kick, the way it snakes down my torso, caressing that sexy muffin top.  It's oddly sensual.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not some dripping Adonis.  I'm still a fat sweaty guy but knowing I've worked my body up into a slick machine with tight leg muscles and a heart drum solo-ing in my heaving chest pleases me, makes me feel like I'm one step closer to attaining attractive.

It's a lot like coming down after sex, minus the humping.  Erratic breathing balances out and the cool saline strokes your body and you sit in the wake of activity and listen as your heart rate slowly regulates in the stillness.  I like that feeling.  It doesn't last long but I savor those moments of recovery.

But once the afterglow has dimmed, I pretty much feel like crap again.  Where are those endorphins everyone is publicizing?  Exercise is supposed to make you feel better, more energetic.  But I don't.  I wake up in the morning and feel totally wasted.  Yeah, I get enough sleep so that's not the problem.  It's probably my crap nutrition.  Just because I've been cutting out the grease doesn't mean I've been eating healthily.  I go throughout the day in a fog and then come home and sit around until I have to get up and exercise again.  That fog also plays a part in my reluctance to get back up and work out once more.  But I manage.  I only ever feel decent when I'm almost finished with my routine and then do those final stretches and revel in my salt skin for a few minutes.

And then it's back to being a bum.

As many years as I've exercise and as much as I've always hated it, for whatever reason, here and now, I can actually see how people enjoy exercising.  That's not to say that I do.  I still hate it.  I'm definitely not going to adopt some mountain biking, Muscle Milk drinking, kale eating lifestyle, but I can see how it appeals to others.  I almost wish I could be like that.  And maybe one day I will be.  If only I could find a way to hang on to that fleeting feeling of sweaty satisfaction.

touch me, take me

"And I say baby, yes I feel stupid to call you, but I'm lonely..."
-Maria Mena, Sorry

"I'm addicted to myself
can't make time for no one else..."
-The Downtown Fiction, Get it Right

I find myself loneliest on the weekends.  I check Facebook and Twitter and all my usual sites and there's usually not much activity from Friday night to Sunday night.  I always assume it's because most people are out and about actually doing stuff.  With other people.  And I sit at home, refreshing every two minutes in a desperate hope for recognition, attention, connection.

I'm usually really good with my loneliness.  When I was younger, I hauled it around like a giant wooden cross on my back but now it's more like a pendent around my neck.  It's always there but much easier to carry.  But there are times when it weighs me down.  It's usually when I'm alone and bored and my mind isn't fixated on some other internal trauma.  The boredom opens a gateway for the dormant longing to come sweeping in again.

Sometimes I want nothing more than to have a good conversation with someone.  But no one seems to be around.  I've even thought about handing out my number and asking people to call me maybe.  The only problem with that particular strategy is I only want to talk to people for as long as I want to talk to them.  I want to fill a void without the obligation of continued conversations.

I fear once I open up certain lines of communication, there's a sense of having to keep them open.  Is it possible to have just one good conversation and leave it at that?

The problem is I don't like talking on the phone.  I never have and don't know if I ever will.  I only ever have small bursts of desire to talk on the phone, and that's really because the ones I want to talk to are the ones I can't see in person and it's the only other choice.  Texting is impersonal and because so many people are so far away, communication by phone is the only happy medium.

But talking on the phone can be frustrating with dropped calls and reception issues.  I have an acquaintance from high school who occasionally calls me and it's always more of a hassle than enjoyable because he always sounds muffled and his words are often lost in static.  Conversation doesn't flow very well.  But when it's my only option, I guess I take what I can get.  I just don't want it most of the time.

I don't want to give someone an intellectual booty call.  Minus the actual booty, of course.  And much like booty calls, I would be using someone, just utilizing their minds instead of their bodies.  I don't want to be that way.  I'd like to be reciprocal when it comes to communication but sometimes I think I just don't have the energy for it.  And that makes me feel selfish, which is the reason why I haven't tried to telephone anyone in the first place.  I don't want to call just to vent or to fill some kind of lonely void and brush them off once I have.

Separation is always slicing through me.  I'm so confused when it comes to people.  I want to like people but sometimes people make it hard for me to like people.  I think I even make it hard for me to like people.  I am a dick a lot of the time.  And I can blame that on the dicks in my own life but there's really no excuse.  I've allowed myself to become so vacant and distant because of a few nasty people and when the desire for human interaction comes barreling through my body, I just try to deal with it because I don't want to unnecessarily hurt anyone like I was hurt.   

I'm stuck in a limbo of lethargy and longing.

Of course, telephone conversations are more practical than a kiss and a cuddle, which is what I really crave when I'm at my loneliest.  I'd love it if I had someone to call up and invite over to stay with me.  But all I have is my extra pillow that I push up against me every night so as to have something filling up the space where someone special should be.  And because I have no physical interaction, I compromise by craving calls.

As I wrote this, I had a realization about romance.  Just like how I'm preoccupied with my image because I know I have the potential to be good-looking, I'm preoccupied with being in a relationship because I have the potential to be an amazing boyfriend.  Despite any hangups I have about people and myself, when you take all of that away, there's actually still a heart filled with love and a boy that wants to give it to someone.  That part of me has dwindled over the years but it's still there, underneath it all.

Naturally, it wouldn't be easy.  As loving as I think I can be, I'm also as jealous and insecure.  What I'm trying to say, though, is when things would be good, they'd be really good.  But I don't want to think about all of that.  I'd just like to have someone to hold.  People have sex buddies.  Can't I have a cuddle buddy?

I need skin on skin therapy.

Or at least someone to call and complain about not getting it.

supermarket checkout

Like I said I was going to do, I went out during my first day of vacation.  It took an hour's drive just to get to the city and I spent all day walking around the different stores and shops.

While I was in the mall, I looked around at all the clothing and realized I couldn't wear any of it.  Although I've lost weight, my body is still so poorly shaped that nothing fits me well.  Shirts always fit me in the shoulders and chest but because I have a big belly, they get tight when they reach my midsection.  And because of my big belly again, along with absolutely no butt at all, my pants never fit right.  They're always too tight in the front and too loose in the back because I have no rear to hold them up.  I constantly walk around pulling my pants up and I feel stupid.  And constantly uncomfortable.

Also, t-shirts are made so thin nowadays that I can't wear them, either.  They tend to cling to all the wrong spots, drawing attention to my knockers.  I'd like to be a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy but I always wear undershirts to smooth things out before I put on a polo or button up.  I hate it because wearing so many layers is hot and uncomfortable.  But I have to. 

I'd like to think I would dress well if I had the body for it.  I think I know what clothes look good and there are times when I think I can pull a decent outfit together but the fit always brings my look down from sharp to shitty.

I felt a little down so I left the mall and went to a supermarket to soothe myself.  Maybe I'm just weird but I enjoy going to supermarkets and drugstores just to see what they carry.  Every place seems to have something different.  Sometimes you can find hidden gems there. 

As I wandered through the store, I saw an attractive girl wheeling her cart around.  She was on her phone, absentmindedly chatting away in a pink top and short shorts.  I just happened to come up behind her as I made my way to the bakery to do some browsing and wishing I could eat everything in site when she looked back and saw me and then looked forward again.

We eventually parted and I wondered if she thought about me at all, if she gave me a second glance when I wasn't looking, if she checked me out as I walked on by.  I doubt it.

And that's what sucks about going out in public.  I can't even look at clothing or grab some chips and dip without feeling depressed.

I realized I wasn't that guy in the supermarket that girls check out.  When I'm over looking at the fruit, no one wants me to thump their melons.  I'm not that satisfyingly attractive person you pass by on your way to the peas, the one who breaks up your mundane chore of grocery shopping.  I'm not the one you hope you keep running into on every aisle, the one you secretly want to talk to about toothpaste brands while you try to hide the very visible  Kotex and Preparation H in your cart.  I'm not the one anyone gets a small thrill out of seeing, even if they never do anything about it but go home and wish I had noticed them as much as they noticed me.

I never get checked out at the supermarket and it's disheartening. 

It's those small bites of recognition I crave.  I don't know why.  I've never been conventionally good-looking so one would think I'd be used to it by now but it's something I cannot let go, something I still want, still need.  But why?  Why am I so preoccupied with my looks?  Why can't I just accept my face the way it is?  It certainly won't be changing any time soon so why is it that I cannot just accept me for what I look like?

I think a big part of it is knowing I have potential to be attractive.  I know I'm not hideous.  I'm average at best and that's doing a lot better than some people but I feel I have the capacity to bump that up to slightly above average and with my insecurity, I'll take any marginally higher percentage of attractiveness I can get.

I feel I'd look better if I lost weight and dressed better.  I feel I'd look better if I could ever get my skin to stay under control.  I feel I'd look better if I could straighten my nose and teeth.  I feel I'd look better if I had more hair on my head and less on my body.  And these are things that can be fixed.  Some of it easier to fix than others but it's all possible and I keep holding on to those possibilities and keep thinking if I could achieve all of those corrections, I would feel good about my appearance.

I think that's actually progress from how I used to feel.  In the past, I hated my entire body and face but I've come to some realizations over the years that I've already inflicted too much damage to recover from.  I can lose the weight and get abs but I'll always have stretch marks.  I can fix my teeth and nose but my eyes will always be uneven.  But I can deal with that, I really can, because those are things beyond my reach.  I realized it's pointless to much emphasis on worrying about those irreversible changes.

I know I'll never be really hot.  It's difficult to deal with sometimes but as I get older, I think I've gotten better at coming to terms with it.  But I still concentrate on wanting to reach the highest level of good lucks that I can.

I've been told my mind is attractive and while it's flattering and ultimately the best compliment, it's not enough for me.  I think the reason why is because so few people see my mind or the real Brannon.  They see the goofy side, the shy side, the one who makes deadpan jokes and drifts through life with no real goals or ambition.  They see the real world me.  But those people don't have access to my thoughts.  They don't know how I really feel about people or the world or the god that hovers and never helps.  They don't see the reflection or sensitivity.  They just see the blemishes and receding hairline and blank looks when I don't know how to respond to what they've just said.

I am only comfortable expressing myself when I write.  It's when I can slow down and clearly convey my thoughts and feelings.  The best part is I can go back and edit myself, correct my misspellings and misgivings and no one is the wiser.  I don't have that luxury in a real-time conversation.  Once it's out of my mouth, it's out in the open and I've taken things too far or made things too awkward.  I am not a great communicator.

So, for me, being told I'm physically attractive is a quick fix.  No one has to take the time to see the real me or find my mind intriguing through my writing.  There's no investment on anyone's part.  It's quick and it's dirty and it's satisfying.  In my uneducated opinion based on a lack of deep, meaningful connections with people, I think those second glances would be just as gratifying as a good compliment about my brain.  And deep down, I know that's sad and wrong.

It's easy to recognize, not as easy to overcome.

post-vacation vacancy

My staycation is over.

I had to go to back to work three days ago and not ten minutes into my shift, I broke out into a major sweat.  The air conditioner must have broken while I was away.  And it does it every year.  Every summer, more specifically.  Of course.

And maybe half an hour later, a group of scuzzy white boys came in and spat chewing tobacco on the fitting room floor.  Our customers are all class.

Yeah, I was back in full swing.

I was so stress-free while I was on holiday.  Sure, I pressured myself to write more and work on finishing the first edit of my book (which I didn't even touch), but other than being my own bully, things were great.  Even greater when my parents were gone for two days.

I felt content.  My skin was clearer.  I was refreshed and much less despondent.  But of course, as soon as I walked into that low rent cesspool of losers, the emptiness sank in again.  All energy regained in those several days was drained in several minutes, due to the intense heat and intense idiocy of customers and coworkers alike.

It just showed me how much that job is killing me.  The mental energy I have to expend to put up with everyone is incredible.  It's no wonder I'm not inspired to write or draw or do anything creative.  The first thing I want to do when I get home is eat and then take a nap so I can wake up and go right back to bed.

I only worked two days and now I have another day off today and I need it.  I don't even have any plans.  If I couldn't get anything accomplished in seven days, there's no hope for a productive one day.  But I'm fine with that because although I didn't do anything constructive, I still did what I wanted, which was....

This.

You're pretty much looking at my vacation.  Nothing fancy but effective.  Regrets?  A few.  Refreshing?  Definitely.

preacher punch

"But following Christ does not mean following His followers. Christ is infinitely more important than Christianity and always will be, no matter what Christianity is, has been, or might become." 
-Anne Rice

"Your lips touched every hand but mine
If you choose me, I’m waiting for you
Always waiting..."
-Flyleaf, Tiny Heart 

Living in the deep-fried South, I'm surrounded by a lot of religion.  And a lot of hypocrisy.

Working with the public, I encounter a lot of religious people.  And a lot of them are obnoxious.

It's astonishing to see someone's sweet Christian demeanor diminish as soon as there is a problem with their purchase.  Por example, a lady called me one day and inquired about the status of her order and when I couldn't find it in the computer system, she proceeded to freak out on me and told me I'd better find out what happened to her order.  I told her I would call her back after I got off the phone with another department and that it wouldn't take more than a few minutes.

After I sorted out the situation, which took about three minutes, I called her back and got her voicemail.  That irritated me.  If she was so adamant about finding out what happened to her order, why wasn't she waiting by the phone to hear from me?

But the part that really got me was when she left a Bible verse on her voicemail, followed by a sweet as pie "God bless."

I had to laugh.

She finally called back an hour or two later (because she was really concerned about her order).  I told her that her order was found and was actually supposed to be placed on her doorstep the next day.  She calmed down then and said, "Thank you, sugar."

"No problem, ma'am.  God bless!"  Bitch.