art

"'Cause we all know art is hard
young artists have gotta starve
Try, and fail, and try again..."
-Cursive, Art is Hard

"Art is not the world, art is in our hearts..."
-Showbread, Stabbing Art to Death

"Let me ask you something, what is not art?"
-Unknown

I used to draw.  A lot.  My childhood was spent with a Slim-Fast in one hand and a pencil in the other.  I often sneaked into my sister's room and pulled out her charcoal sketches of dragons and Axl Rose she kept underneath her bed.  And I copied them.  I learned about lines and shading sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by the waxy smell of drugstore makeup and wall-to-wall posters of hair metal bands.

An artist was born.

I devoured sketch pads and ground colored pencils into stumps.  As much as I loved toys, I loved drawing utensils equally.  I couldn't wait to try a new type of marker or a new color of crayon.  I drew my favorite superheroes and created my own action figures out of paper.  But I was never incredibly creative.  My artistic endeavors were derivative of the enormous amount of Saturday morning cartoon I consumed and my eventual discovery of anime, which I was into way before it became so huge here in America.  I was ahead of the game back then.

I learned to shade and highlight.  I learned about depth and perspective.  All from doing it on my own, from observing, from drawing, from constantly creating.

I was good at copying.  Any attempts to be original were mediocre at best.  But when I was younger, I wasn't preoccupied with being original or unique.  I just genuinely enjoyed drawing and having fun with it.  I was good.  It gave me pleasure.

But sadness and insecurity crept in and my mind became poisoned and I became a perfectionist.  People noticed my talent and were impressed.  And somehow, people began to inflate my abilities.

"Brannon drew a picture of my daughter and it looks just like her!"

"Brannon doesn't even use an eraser!"

"I heard Brannon doesn't need to draw from pictures, or from life.  He can draw from memory!"

"One time, I saw Brannon sneeze on a piece of paper and then when I looked over his shoulder, his snot was in the shape of Mona Lisa!"

None of this is true, of course.  But for some reason, in some people's minds, I'm better than I actually am.  And that was a part of the insecurity.  I felt I could never measure up to people's outlandish expectations.  I was my biggest critic.  Eventually, nothing I drew matched the image I had in my head and it frustrated me.  I knew I was better, more capable, but for some reason, I couldn't translate the image from head to paper.

There were times when I got away with reaching people's expectations, or at least that's what they told me.  I did a few commissioned drawings.  But eventually the stress became too much and I stopped charging because my art was not worth anyone's money.  And eventually I stopped doing drawings for people all together because I couldn't afford to jeopardize the reputation bestowed upon me by others.  I never lived up to the hype, never went along with the adulation and as much as I tried to downplay what I could do, no one believed me and I suddenly I was a small town art prodigy.  And wanting to please everyone, I didn't want to produce low-quality work and prove everyone wrong.   

I had been painted into a corner, so to speak.

Art became a source of frustration instead of pleasure and so I stopped drawing as much.  And then I went to college to study art.  No one had any preconceived notions of who I was or what I was capable of and suddenly I was a clean slate, an out of practice clean slate.  And I felt like I was starting from zero while all my classmates were already prodigies themselves.  I was in over my head and terrified I had made a huge mistake.

But I finished college, got a degree, and graduated with honors.  I guess that means something to someone but it doesn't mean anything to an animation company.  They want to see your demo reel and it doesn't matter how great your grades were in college, if you don't deliver mind-blowing art, you're done.  There's hundreds of other wide-eyed kids in line behind you who have dedicated themselves to their art.  They didn't hide behind rumors of grandeur.

I abandoned art after college.  I didn't feel good about my abilities and wanted to go in a different direction.  I just wasn't sure about the direction I wanted to go in.

Let me let you in on a little secret I've been keeping about my relationship with art:  I DON'T FREAKING GET IT.

i am not my beard

I buzzed my beard off the other night because I was tired of the rough texture.  I went to work the next day and was met with audible gasps.  Not good audible gasps, either.  More like shock and terror.

"What did you do to your face?"

"Where's the beard?"

"You...you shaved it?"

"Grow it back!"

People acted like I was missing an eye or a nose instead of facial hair.  I know they didn't mean to make me feel bad but they did.  I didn't realize I was some gargoyle and the only thing that kept people from bursting into tears at the site of me was my beard.  It was a mask, a filter, a softening lens that cranked down my deformed face.

Or maybe it was just the shock of seeing my face look so different so fast.  As I grew the beard, everyone was slowly introduced to bearded Bran, including myself.  And taking it all off with a few strokes of the clippers was a bit jarring.  I had the beard for nearly three months and it just became a part of me as if it were always there and suddenly it wasn't.  I didn't recognize the smooth stranger in the bathroom mirror.

I didn't like everyone's reaction.  I didn't even like my own.  I didn't regret buzzing it off but I do like the way I look better with a beard.  But my face feels so much better without one.  When I had the beard, I combed and clipped and conditioned and even through in some argon oil to soften the facial hair but it still felt too rough for my liking.  And sometimes when I slept on my side or stomach, the facial hair against the pillow really irritated my cheeks.

I also realized maintaining facial hair was actually more intensive than just shaving it clean off.  There's a lot of maintenance involved.  Clipping.  Washing.  Conditioning.  Keeping the neckline even and clean.  Trying not to get food or bugs or girls' fingers caught in it.  Serious upkeep.

Yes, the beard will come back but I won't do it for anyone else but myself.  This is kind of a big deal because I've always been so used to doing things the way others wanted, living and looking the way others have dictated.  But I'm not doing that anymore.  In fact, I am thinking about holding off on growing the beard back even longer than I normally would just out of spite!  Take that, jerks.

It's gonna be my choice, no one else's.  And I'm going to rock it either way. 

I think just about every guy has done this at least one time when debearding.

simple moves

I have to say, I've been working out consistently and killing it during many of the sessions.  Just like I did last year, I started out on January 1st and got up and put my trainers on and poured sweat and shredded muscle tissue.

It was actually a lot easier this time around, too, because I'm used to it now.

YES.  I'M USED TO IT.

Prior to last year, working out was equivalent to eating dog crap but now it's no thang.  It's weird but kind of awesome.

That's not to say I haven't had my bad days.  I'll get up and go through the motions sometimes.  And I used to feel bad about it because I feel like if I'm going to work out, it needs to count.  I don't want to waste my time flailing around and not burning enough calories to matter.  But I saw a quote on Facebook that said something like the only bad workout is one you didn't do.  Made me feel better.  Made me realize it does matter.  It does count. 

But, as I said, sometimes I really put 110% into the workout and by the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my body hurts and when I wake up in the morning in pain, I like it.  I know it's actually not good for you to be sore like that but it makes me feel like I really did something so I welcome the pain.

job limbo

Last March, a co-worker of mine walked up to me with the biggest smile on her face.

"Heeey, what's up?" I asked, unnerved.

"I have a question for you and I want you to keep this between us."

"Okay..."

"I know I'm not supposed to do this but I am starting up a business and I want to take you with me."

"SIGN ME UP," I said. I didn't know what the business was. It could have involved me fisting dwarves on the Internet for the website humantootsiepop.com. I was up for it.

She smiled even wider. "Excellent!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

precursor

There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty cool.  There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty terrible.  When I feel like I've completely blown it, someone comes along and makes me think I'm okay.  When I think I'm okay, someone comes along and makes me think I've blown it.  I'm in a constant state of transition, swapping between great and egregious, turning from someone pulled together to someone falling apart.

I'm always torn up inside.

I feel like a lot of people have had their hands in my actions and voice, especially my words.  And I struggle between listening to people I consider wiser and more experienced while still trying to stay true to myself.  When it comes down to it, I write for me.  Writing is my therapy and because of that, things are written from my perspective so naturally things will be skewed.  As much as I try to create a balance in my writing and in my thinking, things will probably always sway in a dark direction.

The fact that quite a few people can relate to what I write is why I post it online.  I could keep a handwritten journal but if my writing is beneficial to anyone, then I want to share it.  But at the same time I don't want to change my content to appease anyone.  Sure, I'd love to be more positive, would love to write about the happy things I encounter but that's just not where I am at this point.  If anything, I feel like changing my content would betray the reasons why people come to read me in the first place.  If what I was writing before was attracting readers, why should I change it to try to keep them when I might end up putting them off?

I do understand the notion of making my writing more accessible.  I need to make my writing shorter, which makes it easier to read and digest.  Shorter paragraphs.  Shorter entries.  Less negativity.  I understand but I don't want to make my writing something more than it is.  I don't want other people to do that, either.  Yeah, I talk about wanting to die and hating life but who doesn't feel that way sometimes?  I just happen to feel that way often.  And I just happen to share it while others do not.  But it's really just me venting.  No more.  No less.  If people like it then that is fantastic.  Welcome aboard.  If someone doesn't, if I'm too negative, if I make others frustrated with my brick wall doldrums, then the great thing about this website is there are hundreds more people to read.  Most are way better than mine.  And that's okay as well.

I know I have a problem with being down a lot.  I know that it can wear on people's nerves.  Believe me.  I have to interact with those kind of people on a daily basis and it's exhausting.  But I always hope my writing is less lamenting and more lyrical than the average despondent young adult male.  Yes, it's mostly negative and gets uncomfortably dark sometimes but I see it as a sense of straight forward observation rather than whiny bleak despair.  More poetic and less pathetic.  But maybe I've been wrong.  I'm sure I've turned away quite a few people with my constant barrage of bad luck behavior.  In fact, I know I have.  The funny thing is a lot of those people were no better than I was.  And less articulate in their misery.

But then I have to go back to the notion of staying true to myself.  No one has to read me.  If I went back to getting two or three notes, then that would just have to be fine because I don't want to be false and feign a certain feeling just to provide a relief to the reader.  Does that sound selfish?  I'm sorry.  But see, I get no relief myself.  You can turn me off but I can't turn off the suffering that spins in my head.  I don't particularly enjoy going over the same themes of weight and image and lacking confidence and talent but that's what stabs at me until I bleed it out in blog form.  Maybe one day I'll have written it to the point of finding peace.  Or exhaustion.  Or death.  Either way, I'll be done and it'll be nice to rest.

Although I'm fine with writing about depression in my entries, I always thought I was a pretty decent person to be around in real life but every once in a while, someone will point out that I'm negative outside of my writing.  No one wants to be around a Danny Downer but I guess I never realized how bad I was.  It's just a case of someone slapping me across the face with how dumb I am sometimes.  It often leaves a nasty bruise of embarrassment.  Now all I can think of are all the times when I possibly pushed someone away with my self-inflicted insults and attacks on my own body and behavior.  I think I've messed up a lot.

It's okay, though.  I write so I can figure that kind of stuff out.  I use it as a tool to untangle my many shortcomings and hopefully one day overcome them.  You've just caught me in the sorting phase of my fractured fallout from dying without ever having really lived to finally finding a heartbeat again and being left to deal with the ramifications of such a piss-poor existence.

fluctuation frustration

The compliments keep pouring in...

Last week, I rang the doorbell at work to be let in and a coworker unlocked it for me and as he opened the door, he said, "Get your skinny ass in here!"

That was a nice way to start the day.

Later on, another coworker and I were talking and she said, "Are you still on that diet?"

I nodded.

"Well, there's almost nothing left of you!"

That was also nice.  And it was flattering but there's plenty left of me.

A former co-worker came in just a day or two ago and also commented on the fact that I had lost weight.  And today, a co-worker that only comes in once a month asked me if I had lost some weight.

"About 47 pounds now," I said.  I've been fluctuating between 47-48 for the past two weeks or so.

"And I'm just now noticing?"

It seems to be that way.  I received a few remarks here and there when I lost 20 pounds and then a couple more once I hit 30 but mostly no one said anything.  But now that I'm almost at 50 pounds down, it's getting noticed from all angles and of course, it's fantastic.  But I just don't get it.  

As I've mentioned before, I still have that "fat guy" mentality.  My brain can't keep up with my body in terms of being fat and skinny.  I feel like I don't see what others are seeing.  Sure, my chest looks a little flatter to me.  My arms are more defined.  But I can't get past my large stomach that pushes against my shirts or the way my thighs still jiggle when I work out.  It's almost as if my smaller parts accentuate the larger ones.

It's frustrating being so close to the 60 pounds I wanted to lose and realizing a couple of things: my weight loss is slowing down and it's getting harder to lose that last little bit and keep my willpower up and I see now that 60 pounds isn't going to be enough.  Once I hit my goal, I'll take a bit of a break.  Maybe have a pizza.  And then I'm going to have to go back at it.

I also realized that I've dedicated this year to losing all that weight.  I've been dieting and exercising almost every day since January.  I took some time off when I had my throat surgery but once I was healed, I picked up where I left off.  I've been so focused on losing weight, concentrating on portion control and cardio, that I have neglected my movie watching and book reading and book writing.  I have almost completely abandoned my memoir.  I just honestly feel like I'll never get it finished because I keep stopping.  I almost don't even want to talk about it/write about it anymore because it's embarrassing that I've been spouting off about it for all these years and still have nothing to show for it except a half-edited first draft.

But I guess it's not so bad.  Once I get my weight under control, that will be one less thing to obsess over so maybe that'll open up space in my head for creativity and give me more room to write.  But still, I can't help but to feel bad that I took a year out of my life just to correct a problem that shouldn't have been there in the first place.  And it seems like a waste.  But I can't look at it that way, I know.

One thing at a time.  Lose the bulge, write the book.  And I can remember that it was worth it 'cause I'll look really good for my book jacket photo.

dysmorphism

As I previously mentioned, you can look in my closet and see I can clothe a multitude of men in various size ranges.  I've kept my clothes from when I was fatter and thinner.  In some ways, it's good that I keep the smalls and the extra larges waiting in the recesses of my closet because I honestly never know when I'll need to pull them back out.  My weight has fluctuated so much in the past that I can never what size I'm going to be from year to year.

I talked with two co-workers the other day and somehow we got on the topic of pants and I pulled up my droopy khakis and said, "Yeah, looks like it's about time I get some smaller pants.  Again.  This'll be two sizes I've gone down now."

One co-worker, a short black woman with sarcastic inclinations looked me up and down and then peered at me over her thick-framed black glasses.  "Okay, now, how far are you wanting to get?  You're going to blow away here directly."

It was a nice compliment but I didn't understand her.  I was far from blowing away.  In fact, I'm still about 20 pounds over my college weight.  I mentioned this to her and she told me I was too skinny in college.

"I looked through your Facebook pictures," she said.  "To be honest, you looked kind of sickly.  The way you are right now is perfect.  I can't imagine that handsome face sinking in any more."  The other co-worker, a petite white girl with a wide smile looked at her and then me and nodded in agreement.

Maybe I look perfect to her but I'm still a long way from being happy with my body.  It also made me realize I never really know what people think of me.  I can always assume the worst but that's not always the case.  In her eyes, I look fine.  She wasn't secretly thinking I was fat and disgusting, like assumed everyone else does.  And the bigger question: if I can't see myself the way I am in a physical sense, am I also seeing myself differently in the ways I behave and interact with people?  Is that why I get along with mostly no one?  Am I a flaming asshole and everyone can see it but me?

But going back to the physical, I know it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks of me but it does.  And maybe it's okay to care, or at least take it into consideration.  It's when you become obsessed with it that things begin to go awry.  And, of course, I'm in the obsessed category.  But I didn't need to be.  Here are these two people who think my size is perfectly acceptable.  I wondered who else felt the same way.  I'm always so fixated on the negative aspects of myself that I either don't notice the good stuff or simply gloss over it.

As much as I'm obsessed with what people think of me, I'm also concerned with how I see myself.  Compliments don't go very far with me.  Don't get me wrong, I love them.  When people notice I'm thinner or that I'm having a good skin or hair day, I love it.  But their compliments don't dictate my confidence like it used to.  At least not in regards to my physical appearance.

My size is my own.  For some, I am fine.  For others, I am still too fat.  And as hard as it is for me to contemplate, the chubby chasers out there might think I'm too thin at this point.  So it doesn't make much sense to worry about how others see me because there will always be someone who is not satisfied with my body.  And even further, someone who is not satisfied with my behavior or attitude.  As much as I've tried in the past to mold myself to fit everyone else's standards, I can't do that anymore.  I won't do that anymore.

I'm trying to be happy with myself, to look in the mirror and feel good about what that guy says instead of everyone else.  I want to feel good about how I'm looking and acting and feeling.  Other people matter but I realize that I only have myself when it's a said and done and I have to love who I am, through and through.  No one else is going to be there to help me love me.  I don't love me yet but I do see I need to get there at some point.

I'm really trying to simultaneously improve what I can while accepting what I cannot.  I have these fleeting moments of self-acceptance, or as near to that as I can muster at this point in the game.  I'm trying to get to a place where I am comfortable with myself but it's hard when I continue to destroy my face and body.  I lose weight and feel good and then I gain it back and hate myself and all the progress is undone.  I'm constantly building up and tearing myself down and it's exhausting.  I have no consistency in my life.  I tread and drown and rise up and dive back into the depths.  But mostly I float, letting the world pull me along and drag me under.

All the while my eyes are closed.

wardrobe malfunction

On Sunday, I went shopping from my own collection of clothing.  When I packed up my belongings after college graduation, I placed the majority of my clothes in three giant plastic bins.  When I got home from school, I unloaded the bins from my car but not the clothes.  They went into storage.  What was I using them for?  I didn't have a job and didn't have a legitimate reason to get out of my sleep pants.  Pajama Jeans and Snuggies hadn't yet come onto the scene so my elastic cotton bottoms and oversized t-shirts comprised my wardrobe.  I like to stay classy when I can.

And then I gained all that weight and I knew nothing would fit because, out of the articles of clothing I did take out, they were too tight.  I reasoned the rest would be as well.

But now that I've lost 47 pounds, I'm almost back to my college weight.  I decided to bust out the old clothes and see if any of them fit again.  Much to my surprise, a lot of them did.  I tried on every piece and kept the ones that still fit/I still liked and removed the ones I was no longer interested in having.

Some were still too tight but it didn't bother me because they were size small and I was just flabbergasted that I was ever able to fit into a small at all.  It just confirms the fact that I cannot see my body how it is.  I thought I was fat in college but I was wearing size small?  That doesn't make much sense.  I neatly folded the shirts and sweaters and placed them back in the bin and hoped the next time I busted them out, the ones that were still too tight would finally fit again.

And I had a lot of clothes.  I went through my closet and removed the shirts and jeans that are now too big for me and put them in with the pile I no longer wanted.  I've done this more times than I care to admit.  It feels like I'm always shrinking and expanding, buying up a size and then down a size and that makes for a very cramped closet.

I usually wear the same couple of shirts and jeans all the time because they are comfortable and they fit and I like the way they look.  As I eyed all the clothes I had collected over the years, sizes ranging from small to extra large, I realized I didn't like a lot of my clothes.  When you're a bigger guy, it's hard to shop.  The things that look good on thin people don't look good on you.  You get to be a certain size and everything hangs on you like a shower curtain.  And that's the way I was for a long time.  I often bought clothes because I needed a larger size, not because I liked the way they looked or felt.  I had given up, shopping out of necessity instead of pleasure.

But my body has changed again and I don't feel as defeated when it comes to clothing.  I still don't feel great about it.  I'm still big.  But not as big and shirts and jeans aren't as intimidating.

It was bittersweet going through the mini mountains of stretched out shirts and faded jeans with the beginnings of holes worn into them.  I've made so much progress but it feels kind of empty because I'm just re-losing the weight I already lost.  Most people I know in real life who I don't see on a regular basis probably won't even realize I had to lose the weight all over again.  It's not exactly brag-worthy.  Oh, yeah, remember how I lost all that weight?  Well, I regained it all and then had to lose it again just to go back to being chubby.  My life is a mess and I can't control my weight.  How are you doing?  You gonna finish that?

If only I could have just kept going, kept losing while I was already halfway thin.  Maybe I'd finally be in great shape today instead of working so hard just to be back to where I was three years ago.  I try not to dwell on those kinds of thoughts, though.  They don't help matters.  A lot of people don't realize that I have an illness or addiction or eating disorder or whatever you want to call it.  It's a struggle every single day not to give in to the temptation that taps at my brain.

I'm still not where I want to be but at least I'm not where I was.

insanity

I'm on the third week of the Insanity fitness program and it's every bit as intense and intimidating and painful as the advertisements suggest.

I feel like there's nothing left of me after every workout.  I'm pouring sweat within 5 minutes of the typically 40 minute programs and I'm completely drenched by the end of it.  I've never sweat like that before and have never felt so exhausted by the end of a workout.  My arms and legs are screaming and my lungs are gasping for air and I feel like I've just endured a boot camp session from hell.

But my title doesn't refer to the program.  It refers to my mental condition regarding my continual struggle to lose weight.  I noticed my weight loss started to slow down so I began the Insanity program to kick things back into gear.  Additionally, I started taking Alli consistently and have tried to cut sugar out of my diet.  I hoped the pounds would really drop with all that going on but they haven't.  Yeah, I'm still losing but it's still going so slowly.

I hit a plateau recently where I could not get under 200 pounds.  It was so frustrating because not only was I not losing any weight but I could not break that 200 pound barrier.  It was also frustrating because every plateau was time wasted.  When I committed to losing weight back in January, I wanted to lose 60 pounds in 6 months (10 pounds a month, average of 2 pounds a week, which is safe and recommended) but it's now the 8th month and I've only lost 44 pounds.  I'm very behind and it scares me because I do not want to be overweight for Christmas.  I know I have a few more months left and I even told myself that I had a couple of months of cushion room in case I didn't make my goal right on time but that cushion is slowly dwindling.  And now that I'm running out of time, I'm feeling the pressure to knock of these last 20-30 pounds.

But fortunately, I have finally broken the 200 pounds mark and I am down to 194.8 and it feels good but I am just so impatient and just want the weight to be off already.  I'm already exhausted from the Insanity workouts and frustrated because I can't eat pizza and all I want to do is inhale one so bad.  I know having a cheat day every once in a while is acceptable but not for me.  I'm an all or nothing kind of guy and I've put up a dam when it comes to food and as soon as I let a little grease slip through, the dam will break and I'll find myself on the floor, clutching a Little Debbie in both hands with lard dribbling down my chin.

Despite the 44 pounds lost, I'm still fat.  How much more do I need to lose before I feel good about myself?

There's been this wave of weight loss at work.  Several of my coworkers have gotten on these health kicks and have lost anywhere from 10-20 pounds and they are thin and look great and they didn't have as much to lose or had to work as hard as I have and it sucks because I've lost twice as much as they have and yet I'm still bigger than all of them.

They've reached their goal and can move on with their lives.  But even when I reach my goal, I won't be able to move on with my life.  This is forever.  I'll be on a diet when I die.

It also upsets me that I can't see my progress.  Well, I can.  I look in the mirror or see older pictures of myself and I can see a thinning in my face and frame but I still think my perspective is skewed.  I don't see enough change to be encouraged.  I have a problem seeing my body they way it is.  When I was heavier, I mostly ignored my condition.  I ate because I was depressed and couldn't see the damage I was doing.  I was in survival mode, eating so I wouldn't throw myself onto railroad tracks.

But when I finally faced it, I couldn't see how big I had gotten.  You have to remember, I was thinner in college, the thinnest I had been in my young adult life, so I graduated being as close to thin as I have ever been.  I fell into an intense depression after college and I went into my room at 174 pounds and came out of my room at 238 pounds and although it didn't happen overnight, it felt like it did.  I think in some ways I still saw myself as still being thin because the weight slowly crept up on me.  I was used to seeing myself as thin and since I didn't face myself as I gained the weight, I went along unaware.  I wouldn't have noticed at all except for the fact that none of my jeans or shirts fit anymore.  And they weren't just a bit snug.  I literally couldn't put my clothes on.

And now that I've lost weight, I can't see how smaller I've become because I've shifted my perspective to being "the fat guy" again.  I couldn't see how big I had gotten and it's only now that I've lost quite a bit of that weight that I'm starting to see how big I was/still think I am.  My body is always changing and my mind is always working to keep up with the bingeing and purging of fat.

It's hard but not impossible.  I'm going to keep going and I'll probably continue to be unsatisfied with my performance and the slow rate of weight loss, all along beating myself up for over eating and under exercising.  But it'll be all right because I'll get there.

But this is forever, remember.  So when I get there, I'll have to then shift my focus and fight to stay there.  No matter how much weight I lose or gain or maintain, I'll always be the fat guy.  I'll always have that mentality, always think about how what I put in my mouth will make me fat again.  My head goes to fat content and calories and the fear that comes along with it all.  There's no taste without trepidation, no dinner without despondency, no satisfaction without slicing myself open.              

musculature

Saturday night, I had a date.
.
.
.
.
.
.

With a pizza.

I so looked forward to getting off work and grabbing a mocha frappe and then coming home and getting it on with a spicy Italian pie.  We chatted for a bit (preheat oven) and as soon as the oven dinged, things got hot and heavy pretty fast (400 degrees for 12 minutes) and we had an enjoyable time together.

Now that's amore.

And for liquid afterglow, I drank down the frappe like my happiness depended on it.  'Cause in many ways, it did.  It was over way too soon but I was ravenous.  My carnal cravings had kicked in and needed to be satisfied.

And several weeks ago, I went to dinner with an acquaintance and had a cheesy turkey sandwich with sliced and seasoned potatoes.  Then we went to Starbucks where I got a 5,000 calorie frozen coffee drink and (this is embarrassing) then we drove across the street to Taco Bell where I got 4 Doritos Locos tacos.

So, in case you weren't aware, I haven't been doing well on my diet at all.  Of course, I blame my rude acquaintance and the fact that my social life, work life, and life life sucks for why I've been sucking up food like a gluttonous vacuum.

Despite that, I've actually been pretty consistent with my working out, which surprises me.  I hate exercise more than I love food and so I'd almost rather not eat than work out.  Maybe there's been a shift in my head.  And maybe the working out has offset the terrible eating and that's why I haven't gained any more weight.

But I certainly haven't lost any.  The sixth month of the year is winding down, which means I should be sixty pounds lighter.  I'm only thirty.  I've been down thirty pounds for three months now, fluctuating between gaining two pounds and losing three and gaining one and losing one, etc.  And it sucks.

But muscle does weigh more than fat so maybe I'm still slimming down (albeit extremely slowly) and the scale is just representing the muscle that I've put on.  I can tell there's more definition in my arms and my legs look and feel pretty good.  It's just my meddlesome midsection that's holding me back from feeling good about myself.

I've been doing the old school Power 90 (I'm almost at day 60 with only a month left) and I can tell my endurance has increased.  I can last longer, go harder, and can do more push ups and crunches than when I first started.

The worst part, as it's always been, is getting started.  The monotony has settled in big time.  I'm just tired of putting on my shoes and turning Pandora on and listening to the same ten songs (although I choose different stations frequently) and doing the same routine day after day.  I was excited to switch to the second phase of Power 90 but I forgot the only difference is there's another round of cardio at the end of each segment.  Nothing else is switched up.  I know I can do different workouts but I really want to see these 90 days through to the end.

But once I get up and get going, it's not so bad.  Because I'm so familiar with the routine, I know when I'm close to being done and knowing I'm almost finished helps push me through the last little bit.  And I enjoy the sweat.  When it rolls down my face and stings my eyes, it makes me feel like I really did something.  I've started to enjoy the ache of exerted muscles, the fatigue, the wobbly limb feeling of giving it my all.

Also, I've had to switch to a smaller belt.  I've already bought smaller work pants and will have to buy more soon.  I bought smaller jeans today.  My pajama tops are getting looser and my torso isn't rubbing up against the fabric like it used to.  It's nice.

I've also been getting compliments from people, which is also nice.

But I'm still not where I want to be.  I feel like I need to crank up my diet and start eating better.  At the same time, I haven't beaten myself up over my nutritional mishaps like I used to in the past.  I've just realized that I'm weak when it comes to food and that's okay.  I can say no to bad food choices five hundred times in a row but that doesn't mean I've conquered it.  I never will but that doesn't mean I can't put up a fight.  That also doesn't mean all the times I've given in will negate all the times I didn't.  For example, despite those four Doritos Locos tacos, I'm still getting thinner.  It's taken a bit more time, sure, but it's not as if that one delicious mistake has caused me to gain all my weight back.

I don't want to be the poster boy for cheating on a diet but really, it's not that huge of a deal.  Just don't cheat every day with every meal and you should be fine.  It's taken me a long time to learn that and I feel good knowing that it is okay to have a taco here or a pizza and frappe there.

I was so excited to come home and enjoy this.  Who needs a companion when you have carbs? :| If only carbs could cuddle.

content

I've been thinking about rebranding my blog, possibly even renaming it.  I've had this thing for close to four years now and I get very little traffic and few comments so I must be doing something wrong.

My number one mistake is that I don't advertise my blog.  I could use Facebook and Twitter but I haven't done that yet.  The main reason is because the blog is too personal for people I know in real life to read it.  Isn't it funny how I'd rather perfect strangers read my most intimate thoughts rather than friends and family and coworkers?  Well, I guess it's not that funny because I talk about most of them.  It makes sense that I wouldn't want them to read it.

I also think about how awkward it is having other people I know reading about my business.  I give the entire world access to my mind but that's only if they can find it.  If people stumble upon my madness, that's fine.  I'm just not handing out invitations.

So, where does that leave me?  I could start another blog that's not as personal, one where I talk about my writing and future books and throw in some sporadic introspection.  Or, I could take this blog and scale back on the personal stuff and focus more on promotion.

I hope to release my first book by the end of the year and inside I'd like to put a link to this blog.  I hope that will bring some traffic here but I just don't know if I want to keep my blog name.  It expires early next month so I have a chance to change it.  If I'm going to, this is the time to do it.

The name of my blog and the blog itself was spawned from my death.  The name was good because to me, it surmised what the blog and my life/death was all about, which was constant decay day after day.  But now that I'm alive again, it feels like time for a change.  And I think I need to change my blog name to something a bit less gloomy.  While I think the everyday entropy concept still applies, I'm not sure of the accessibility of the name.

But there are some problems with changing the name/site.  First of all, I write because I have to get things off my chest.  It's my therapy and if I have to hide things or pull back on certain aspects of my writing to protect the feelings of those who might read it, then the writing wouldn't be as effective to me.  I don't want to have to censor myself because that is too much work.  It's hard enough organizing my thoughts into (hopefully) coherent writings so I couldn't imagine having to take said writings and then edit them for content.  It wouldn't feel genuine.

I write about so many dark things and I just don't want people to think I'm morbid.  Oh wait, I am.  So I guess it doesn't matter what they think 'cause they'd be right. 

There's also the worry that by changing my name and/or content, I might lose the small readership that I do have.  What if people can't find me anymore?  Naturally, I would give ample notice to the changes but what if the casual reader who doesn't come by that often doesn't get that notice?

As I was writing this, I tried researching how easy it would be to change my name and it seems a lot more complicated than I thought.  You've got your dead links and affiliate domains and other cyber language I cannot understand so I'd rather just keep the name until I'm more educated with this whole interwebs thing.

I still have the content to contend with, though.  Should I pull back or push forward?  Should I take a giant leap and put all of myself out there or keep some of the privacy?  Or should I do nothing and not advertise through social networking sites and just let people come to me?

persistence

"I wanna be able to eat spaghetti bolognaise
and not feel bad about it for days and days and days..."
-Lily Allen, Everything's Just Wonderful

Last week, I finished an eight week workout program.  I planned on taking around two days off before starting something else.  I ended up taking three days off, and in that time, starting eating too much.  I knew I needed to try to counteract that.

I felt I had been too lenient with my diet, and although I hadn’t been scarfing down cheeseburgers, I just felt I had been eating too much.  It doesn’t matter if the food I’m eating is low fat/low calorie, if I eat a ton of them (which I thought I had been doing), then those calories add up.  Low calorie is not an excuse to gorge.

So, last night I decided I needed to work out.  But I was tired and I didn’t want to.  I told myself I’d do it the next day, that I would even do a double workout.

But I know myself better than that.

I just got up and did it.  At first I thought I’d take things lightly, maybe do a mile or two but then I realized if I was going to go, I might as well go hard (hard as in moderate).

It felt good to just get up and do it.  It felt good to see myself changing, to see myself starting to make better choices.

Just like when I go grocery shopping and my stomach growls at the candy and pizzas but I just keep going.  I look away and reach for the lower fat, healthier options.

It feels good to be able to leave all of that stuff behind me.  And it feels good to get up and go because I know I need to.  That’s not to say that this is a new lifestyle, that I will continue to make good choices.  But every bit counts, does it not?  Every calorie saved is important.  Every calorie burned is important.

And even if I screw up today, I can feel good knowing I at least did something good for myself yesterday.

Because that’s all I have: today, yesterday, tomorrow.  One day at a time.  Sometimes one hour at a time.  One choice at a time.  One decision at at time.  One workout at a time.  One baked instead of fried at at time.  One serving instead of two at a time.

This is a process.  This is not a cure.  This is not a solution.  This is a struggle, a life-long head game, a siren that will always call to me, an addiction that will carry me to my grave.

I just hope, once I'm there, I can finally enjoy a pizza without guilt as the garnish.

animals are cut in two

"the same thing that happened to the animals
will have to happen to you..."
-half-handed cloud, animals are cut in two

I'm experiencing carnivorous inclinations.

Last October marked three years since I became a vegetarian.  It's been a rough three years.  Well, sort of.  There's a part of me that wants to say it's been easy because I don't really crave meat and haven't for a long time now.  But, the hard part is the alternatives.  There are very few choices for me.  Yes, I'm a vegetarian.  And yes, I don't like vegetables.

So, what does that leave me?

A whole lot of junk food.

It was easier living in Savannah.  There were more markets and more meatless alternatives out there.  Now that I'm back in this hick town, however, there's one grocery store that caters to the carnivores.  If you're not down with meat and potatoes, you're screwed.  I didn't think about my lack of food choices so much when I was back in Georgia but it's become glaringly apparent now that there just isn't anything good or healthy to eat in this town.  And this is one of the reasons why I've gained so much weight over the past year.

It also doesn't help when I go to restaurants where there are very few vegetarian-friendly choices, unless you want a salad.  Well, I don't want a salad and I don't want a bunch of tasteless steamed vegetables plopped on a plate.  Same with fast food joints.  Yes, I know I shouldn't even be going to a fast food place but sometimes, when you're hanging out with someone and they wanna get something to eat, that's the only choice there is, especially here.  So, I usually end up getting fries and a soda and then feel like garbage for the rest of the day because carbohydrates and carbonated water do not make a meal.

And this is where I feel conflicted. 

Sometimes, I just think it would be easier if I ate meat again.  Maybe I'd even lose weight.  If I could eat a more substantial meal, like chicken and fish and a nice side dish, I wouldn't feel so unsatisfied and wouldn't reach for fattening foods so much.  I'd have more options at restaurants.  Things would be easier.  But I suppose the things in life that you believe in don't always take you down the easiest of roads.  Does that mean they are worth the sacrifices?  Sometimes yes.  Sometimes no.  I guess it all depends on how strongly you feel about whatever it is you're having to give things up for.

Yet, it seems every time I start leaning toward the lean meats, I experience something that strengthens my veggie resolve.  Usually it's me witnessing one of those darn ASPCA commercials featuring the ruthless Sarah McLachlan.  She'll really give your heart a swift kick to its balls, I tell you what.  Or seeing a screen grab from PETA's "Meet Your Meat" videos on my YouTube page.  Or it's simply just me thinking about why I started being a vegetarian in the first place, how I wanted to not be a part of the ugly business of animal torture and slaughter.  Not to mention all the terrible stuff they inject into the animals that then go into you when you eat those animals.  Ugh, and if you've ever seen the infamous chicken nugget pink tube of goo picture, that should convince you to at least step back and think about what you're actually eating.

Unfortunately, during my time as a vegetarian, I've started to learn that meat alternatives really aren't that great for you, either.  I've been informed that many soy-based foods are pretty bad for you, especially the genetically modified soy.  Which is in pretty much everything I eat.  I've heard it messes with your hormones and causes estrogen production and all sorts of nasty things.  Being a dude, especially a fat dude, I already have to worry about man boobs and I don't need any help from my morning bite of vegetarian sausage.

That's if you can believe all you hear.  Of course vegetarians would tell you meat is bad for you.  Of course one mushroom based meat alternative company will tell you that soy sucks as well.   Eventually, someone else will come out and say shrooms aren't the way to go, either. 

So, if all of what everyone says is true, I'm actually screwed either way.  I can go back to meat to avoid the dangers of soy or I can keep myself-meat free to sideswipe all the additives.  The best option would be to eat organic meats that should be free of all the hormones and ground up extras like skin and eyeballs and...testicle balls.  But, as I said, I live in a hick town and those organic meats aren't readily available and the ones that are available are more expensive.  It seems hopeless.  It doesn't matter what I choose because my hormones are off and my internal faculties are most likely fried.

I just feel like if I ever did go back to eating meat, I would feel terribly guilty.  I'd feel like I failed at something, that I let myself down and the animals (yep, I know that might sound silly).  It's not like I think me not eating meat will change anything.  I know it won't.  I guess I just feel better knowing that I'm not actively participating in the torture and slaughter of animals.

For those of you just tuning in, let me say that my being a vegetarian is a personal decision.  I am not out to convert the world to vegetarianism.  I do not care if you eat meat.  I will not think less of you nor do I think higher of myself for not eating meat.  I have no problem with those who make their living raising and selling animals that will eventually be killed for food.  I don't even necessarily have a problem with animals being killed for food.  My problem is how it's done.  I don't like the fact that most animals nowadays are born into suffering until they are ripe enough to be slaughtered.  They spend their lives in filth and fear until they are rounded up and split down the middle and that's not something I can be okay with or ignore.

It's quite obvious to me that I'll need to further investigate the pros and cons of both vegetarianism and carnivorism.  It's also quite obvious to me that this will be quite the struggle for some time to come.  The funny thing is if we started farming people for food, I don't think I'd feel nearly as bad biting into a baby burger as I would a piece of veal.

Just kidding.

maybe.