two corpses, caressing

for p.

two bodies traverse the expanse of a bleak surface

turgid tendons, split shins, flayed toes

but still walking

propelled by a hunger surpassing the stomach

as lidless eyes dance among the faces

desperate to find a hollowed out counterpart

two bodies come together with clanging cartilage and vacant stares

empty eyes and lolling tongues

tissue skin sheared from the friction of fingers

gnashing teeth reminiscent of romance

hollow hearts and hands, touching and tearing

clamoring for a clavicle

but only grasping guts

devoid of pleasure but programmed by dim memories

of what this once felt like

two bodies moaning in the murk

assuaging and assaulting, seething and writhing

 falling away from each other in the blood wet world

trying to taste the truth of one body to another

but only tasting tin

drunk on the red wine of blood

full on necrotized flesh

satiated by nothing

one body gasps and screams

and shudders and stumbles
stops

then moves past the other

blood on the mouth, hole in the chest

seeking sanctuary in another skin

one body stands alone

and watches the other shuffle away

filled with a mud soaked memory of pain unidentified
flooding back from the faint fog

no marks on the skin, no bruise to the brain

only an internal hemorrhage

one person bludgeoned by the burden of belonging
recalls the ramifications of respiration
and dies again

 then concedes to the cold dark

and crumbles

be my veins

"Love is nothing, nothing, nothing like people say
you gotta pick up the little pieces every day..."
-Liz Phair, Love is Nothing

"For a heart beats the best in a bed beside the one that it loves..."
-Lady Lamb the Beekeeper, Crane Your Neck

For a while, it felt like everyone else was falling in love and I was just falling apart.  It was like some kind of pheromone phenomenon.  Everyone around me was talking and dating, mating and relating, getting engaged and pregnant and coming together.  Normally, I couldn't care less about people and their paramours but when so many people were coming together in such a small amount of time, it threw me for a loop.

And I kind of felt down about it.

I never wanted to be the kind of person who was happy simply because I was in love.  I've said it before and I'll say it again:  you don't need another person to be happy.  I really believe(d) that.  I know my writing and whining about being lonely doesn't always (or ever) reflect that philosophy but even loners get lonely...right?

But what if I'm wrong?  What do I know about love?  I've always thought I had the level head, that my heart wasn't tainted by crushes or heavy feelings and I could dole out decent advice about the topic because I was removed from it.  I could think logically.  But maybe you can only know so much about love from mere observation.  Maybe the best way to know about love is to live it, to love and be loved.

But how do you start to love?  How do you know if you're doing it right?  How does any one of us know?  The heart doesn't come with a handbook.  Love is universal yet it seems the way in which we all come across it and experience it is unique.

And what if happiness, or at least some form of it, does come from love?  If you don't love, are you missing out on happiness?

heterotaxia

"You love, love, love
when you know I can't love
you love, love, love
when you know I can't love you
so I think it's best we both forget
before we dwell on it..."
-Of Monsters and Men, Love Love Love

If someone says they love you but they don't show it, does it really count?

It's like living in poverty with a million dollar bank account no one told you about.  You're rich but you're not rich.  You're blessed but you're not blessed.  You're loved but you're not loved.  

I don't want to say not being in a relationship has been detrimental to my self-worth but I don't think it's helped.  I just keep thinking how I'm 27 and have never connected with anyone on a deep, meaningful level.  And the one time I thought I did, well, it disintegrated and completely changed the way I saw people.  If that strong of a friendship could crumble, there was no hope for me and anyone else.

But stuff happens.  People form relationships and those relationships sometimes end due to any number of circumstances.  And sometimes you're left wallowing in your own cesspool of self-doubt because no one else comes along to help you correct your interpersonal errors.  Sometimes locations and circumstances make it hard to hone in on a partner.  Or even a friend.

There must be some benefit to being told your loved by someone outside your bloodline.  They can be with anyone but they choose to be with you.  They open their hearts to the possibility of pain and see through the marks on your skin and the mistakes in your mind.  Someone out there came to you and decided to stay because you were worth getting to know.  For me, people have come into my life but it's the staying part that seems so difficult.  Do I subconsciously drive people away?  Do they just get tired of my incessant self-deprecation?  Or do they get bored with my personality?

I often feel like a novelty act, a brand new Brannon still in the cellophane and once the protective casing has been cut away and I've been squeezed of jokes and encouragement and conversation, I am discarded.  The newness wears away as the imperfections poke through the shellacked surface that's eventually worn away through long exchanges and lots of laughs and eventual awkward pauses.  Then missed e-mails.  Unanswered text messages.  Phone calls not returned.  There's something about me that hooks people in but once they've penetrated whatever "thing" magnetizes them to me, they realize I am too flawed, too flat, too frail to stick with and they eventually pull out.

I'm not trying to make myself look like a victim.  I know you think I am.  But I'm not.  And I am not blaming anyone who has gone away.  I wouldn't want to put up with someone like myself either!  The novelty becomes a nuisance after a while.  And everyone says they aren't like everyone else.  They'll stick around.  They never do.  Some stay longer than others, but for me, it's just a waiting game.  Classmates never called when class was over.  Co-workers never kept in contact when they found better jobs.  Old roommates haven't written.  It hurts.  It hurts so bad.  But I'm not bitter about it and I don't blame them.  I just take it for what it is: another form of rejection, just a slow kind, a knife plunged inside by inches. 

duck, duck, noose

"I'm sorry for the way I am
I'm tired of waiting for the past
I'm lookin' for a better place
I'm longin' for findin' my way around..."
-Groove Armada, History

I feel like we are living in an age of one-sided relationships.  We as social network users put ourselves out into the world and allow anyone with an Internet connection to get to know us through our words or art or music or favorite movies, etc.  And we never know who's watching, who has taken an interest in us, who forms feelings for us based on mutual love for zombies or writing or puppies or Sweet Brown memes.  We build our personalities through our blogs and Tumblrs and other sites and that creates the potential for trouble.  

The problem with following someone through their social networking sites before you get to actually know them is you've already taken the time to shape who you think they are in your head, forming a one-sided sense of who they are through their words.  And you see these commonalities and connections and when you finally talk to that person, you expect the two of you to click and hit it off right away.  Sometimes it actually happens.  Sometimes it doesn't.  And in the times it doesn't, you feel disappointed.  I've been let down.  I wonder how it didn't work out.  We have so much in common.  We've walked the same paths.  Maybe I'm ugly.  Maybe I try to hard.  Maybe the other person is just looking for a certain type of person to befriend.  Maybe the other person just doesn't have room for one more friend.

I think we've all been through this.  We all know how it feels to follow someone who doesn't know we exist or couldn't care less if they did.  It's definitely disheartening and as painful as it can feel, we shouldn't take it personally. 

I try to remember it's not my fault and it's not the other person's fault.  Sometimes two people just don't connect.  Sometimes you're the one with no interest and sometimes the other person has no interest in you.  I've been on both sides of the situation and both are difficult but at least I can understand when someone does not want to talk to me and I can leave it alone and deal with my issues without pulling the other person into my muddled mind.

Those polar opposite examples sum up my relationships with everyone throughout my life.  It's almost always been one-sided.  Any mutual interests have been superficial friendships or genuine good relationships I eventually wrecked due to my insecurity and selfishness.  But despite these many mishaps, I feel like I've tried to continue to branch out, connect, and make new relationships.  I have not been very successful.

The only problem is when I meet someone new, especially someone I admire or respect as an artist, I over think and over analyze my words and actions.  I want to be cool and smart and easy to talk to.  I want to be funny.  I want to be liked.  And sometimes I think the stress of trying not to show my craziness becomes more trouble than the relationship is worth.  I just don't know how to interact with people in a natural, effortless manner.  I feel like every move and word is calculated and it's exhausting.

The stress makes me want to withdraw.  I don't feel cut out to be a sociable creature.  Nice effort, Bran, but no success.  It messes me up because I don't want to be isolated.  I want to be able to reach out and have someone there.  But am I deserving of it?  Can I handle it?  Have I been mishandling all my relationships and that's why I don't feel fulfilled by any of them?  Or am I just over thinking again?

There is an ebb and flow to every relationship.  I'm not going to be great all the time but I'm just so terrified of losing people that I feel like one awkward moment or social slip would mean the demise of the relationship.  And as lonely as I might feel, the frustration of dealing with forming a fellowship doesn't feel worth the hassle anymore.  Maybe I'm alone for a reason.  Maybe I'm mean to be a loner.  I can talk with people and share and give and take but at the end of the day, all I have is myself, which would be fine if I liked myself, but you've got to like yourself before anyone can like you.  Or some horse crap like that.  I always end up feeling empty.

I walk around this circle of people and inspect and analyze and hone in on those I feel have potential and when I choose, the race is on and they chase me down and knock me over the head with my own insecurities.  But they aren't really doing anything.  I think I'm in control, that I'm choosing carefully, that I don't just let anyone in.  I think I'm being particular in picking these people out but I'm really just picking myself apart.

special

"So one last touch and then you'll go
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me..."
-The Postal Service, Tiny Vessels 

I keep thinking if I can just make good art, someone will notice.  Someone will appreciate.  Someone will understand.  Someone will care.

I'm always looking to be validated based on a product, not personality.  I'm not too fond of myself so I look to my art in hopes of garnering attention.  Sometimes I think it's easier to dress up my writing rather than my mind.

But even trying to do that feels terrifying because art is an extension of one's self and if my art is rejected, so am I.  I'm not ready to face that kind of pain so I don't finish projects.  They stay in a work-in-progress limbo to hold off the possibility of finishing, then failing.

I want my work to matter.  I want to matter.  And yet I'm scared of finding out neither one does.

If I don't have my work or myself, what do I have left to offer the world?  If I have nothing then I am nothing and if I am nothing, why am I here?

I'm no one's number one and it's disheartening.  I know a lot of people care about me but nothing feels like it runs deep enough to fulfill me.

The majority of us have people who care for us.  But it doesn't make us feel any better.  It doesn't ease the loneliness or the separation.  Why?  I wonder if it's because we only have certain people we've deemed appropriate to assuage the agony.  Maybe some people just don't count because we don't care for them as much as they care for us.

That sounds kiiiind of horrible.

But I think a lot of us feel that way.  Otherwise, any person who came along and offered a friendly hand would fix the frustration.  But we still feel bad.

Maybe it's just more gratifying getting recognition from those we admire.  The problem with that is the people I admire usually don't admire me.  Or sometimes I admire them from afar and make them out to be grander than they really are.  And then I feel inadequate around them, like I'm not good enough, like they couldn't possibly be interested in me.  I'm a fan.  I'm a faraway admirer.  I can't be their friend.

Sometimes they do like me.  Sometimes they don't.  And the ones who don't are the ones I want approval from the most.  A lot of us probably feel that way from time to time.  It's like having a crush.  We want the ones we want to want us.  Unfortunately, we tend to discount the ones we don't want who want us.

It's the way relationships work.  It seems most of them are one-sided.  How many times have we had a crush on someone who wasn't interested or never even noticed us?  It applies not only to romantic endeavors but to all relationships.  We have co-workers who didn't give us the time of day or teachers who wouldn't talk to us or cousins who chose not to play with us.  We meet writers who write us off, girls who gag in our presence, boys who bruise our egos.

Sorry, I'm just not that interested in you.

But I could be a good friend.  Someone you can confide in.  Someone who will make you feel good.

Nah, that's okay.  I have my sights set on something else (i.e., someone better).  

I'm guilty of this myself.  And I've been a victim of it.

We want to feel special and there are people out there who are capable of making us feel special so why don't we let them help us?  Is it superficial like some mental caste system in our minds?  Are we categorizing people, sorting them out, putting them in files in order of importance?  Or is it something deeper, something harder to explain?  How do we get to the root of relationships and what we want out of them?

Do we simply want attention or do we sometimes strive for symbiosis?  Do we want to help them as much as they want to help us?  And do we decline their offer of assistance and discount their support and encouragement because there is no perceived balance?  We can't help them so they cannot help us?  Sure, some would eagerly eat all anyone had to offer without thinking of giving back.  But I also think other people do genuinely want to give as much as they take.

I can't help but wonder if I really want to give as much as I want to believe I do and that's the reason I can't accept the affection of others or if, in reality, I'm just a snob about who I take it from.

Are you special enough to help me?  Am I special enough to deserve it?        

role to play (i'm not even who i thought i was)

"But I wish I could feel it all for you
I wish I could be it all for you
If I could erase the pain
Maybe you'd feel the same..."
-Ellie Goulding, Guns and Horses

"How dare you be you, how dare I be me?
The two of us lost in our own fantasy..."
-Liz Phair, Oh, Bangladesh

Reaching out isn’t working out. At least I can say I tried. But after seeing the results, I think it would have hurt less had I not.

I have a problem with subconsciously assigning people roles in my life.  It's messed up because these people don't know I've done it and they have no responsibility to fulfill those roles but when they don't, I get upset and disappointed and have this internal struggle over whether I should be angry or not.

Of course I shouldn't be angry because it's not their fault but in my irrational mind, I just think how could that person not realize they were supposed to be my mentor/therapist/advice giver/comedian/dinner companion, etc.  It's silly that I do this and I don't even know why I do it and why I can't get it under control.

Going back to The Perks of Being a Wallflower commentary I mentioned in my last post, Emma Watson talked about meeting fans and how scary it can be because they have this expectation of what she should be and she has to fulfill those expectations in the minute or so she interacts with them and it's a lot of pressure and I think that logic applies to people in general, celebrity and non-celebrity alike.  It applies to relationships. 

We get involved with people, be they friends or lovers, and after a while, we pick out certain character traits about them we find beneficial to our lives and we subconsciously expect them to pull out those traits and treat us but people are multi-faceted and we can't expect them to perform for us like that.  Comedians shouldn't be expected to be funny all the time.  Writers shouldn't be expected to turn their to-do list into poetry.  Those who give advice sometimes need advice. 

But we build up expectations and wait for them to be met and sometimes they are and sometimes they are not and we are disappointed and disillusioned and then we judge.

I've noticed this often happens a lot with people I admire from afar for a while and eventually try to contact.  I hear them or see them or read them and construct their personalities from the bits of information they've provided and go into the relationship with a specific idea of who they are.  That's not the best thing to do because, as with any kind of self-representation in any form of media, you are only giving a certain aspect of who you are.  It's hard to be well-rounded when you're the one telling people who you are.  How you see yourself and how other people see you can be different.  At least, I know it is in my case. 

But a full personality comes out in intimate conversations and inside jokes, something you can't convey through canvas and cliffhangers.  I'm not saying you can't get a sense of someone through their art or online presence.  Sure you can.  But as I said, you're only getting pieces.  You're getting a persona but only personal relationships fill in those gaps.  The danger is in those personal relationships not steering in the direction you hope based on the information you have gathered.

I should stop doing this because it's harmful to others and to myself.  I get disappointed and then I disengage and might miss out on a good relationship just because they didn't come to the game with the right gear.  Plus, it's painful.  I don't want to be disappointed and I also don't want to disappoint others.  I'm sorry if I'm not who you thought I was.  I'm not even who I thought I was.  

Let's all just stop having expectations, okay?  No one is ever as good as we hope them to be.  And it's not their fault.  And it's not yours.  It's just a symptom of a swelling heart.          

a couple of perks

I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower last weekend and it was great and it made me both happy and sad.  I related to Charlie, the main character and an outcast of sorts.  I could not relate to the Charlie who finally found a place he belonged.  But good for him.

I just wondered if there was a story out there about a boy who never found his place.  Where was the tale of the guy who sat at the lunch room table by himself?  Where's the book about the boy who reached the end and found nothing was resolved?  Stories like that don't exist because people don't want a depressing ending.  They need to have hope for the boy because they are the boy and if the boy doesn't make a connection, they fear they won't either and no one wants to consider that could be a reality for them.

So we set him up with some good friends and a crush and he gets kissed and holds hands under the stars and it's book perfect.  And we feel both happy and sad because we don't have that but the boy is us and so if he finds it, so will we.

But some people know better.

In the movie (and book), Charlie writes letters to someone, chronicling a year in his life, but we are never told who he writes.  And it made me want to write letters to anonymous people, too.  What if I selected an address out of the phone book and wrote to this stranger, told him or her what was going on in my life?  What if I sent several strangers these kinds of letters?  What if I followed up every month or two?  "Hi, it's me again.  This is what has happened since the last time I wrote you."  But I'd keep myself anonymous as well.  A letter written from the heart and sent to one stranger from another.

Of course, it could be borderline creepy.

I think there's something kind of romantic and beautiful about reaching out to a complete stranger, making an intimate connection, sharing personal struggles and triumphs through a filter of anonymity.  I like the juxtaposition and the...well, borderline creepiness of it, to be honest.  I just know if someone sent me a random anonymous letter that let me glimpse into their life, I'd be fascinated.  Well, it was a good life with good writing, of course.  I don't need anyone sending me their school schedule or grocery list.

Oh, and I listened to the author/director commentary after I watched the movie and it was almost better than the movie.  He delves deeper into the book and the movie and the characters and how he felt about making the movie and writing the book and all the feels he tried to capture and it was just nice and warm and beautiful and I recommend it.

avoidance

I admit I've never been the best at social relations but throughout the years, I think I've come a long way from being painfully shy in front of everyone to being able to crack jokes with strangers on occasion.  As much as I've progressed, I realize I still have roadblocks, like when people converse with me on subjects I don't give a crap about.

How do you squirm your way out of inane topics?  Do you pretend there's an emergency on the other end of your "vibrating" phone call?

"This debt ceiling discussion is fascinating but my son got his penis stuck in the swimming pool filter.  Again.  The doctor said he could circumcise himself the next time this happens!"

Do you feign a bathroom emergency and politely excuse yourself from the topic at hand? 

"My apologies.  I'd love to hear about the grooming habits of your ferret but I've got to go to the john and pinch off a loaf."

Or, as I've been forced to do, do you stand there and take your punishment?

People are always talking to me about their kids or home improvement projects and frankly, I don't give a crap about either.  It comes from place of a lack of commonalities between me and the people I interact with on a daily basis.  I'm weird and I'm into weird stuff.  I don't have kids.  I don't like kids.  And I don't like HGTV so the chitchat about your electrical sockets gets lost on me.

And if the topics are boring, their unbearable, like when people want to tell me about dead animals.

Being an animal lover, I don't want to hear horrific encounters people have had with furry creatures, like how their pet goats were violently ripped apart by a pack of wild coyotes or how their fluffy new kitten crawled into their dad's engine and the mess it made when he started it up that morning or how they hit a deer with their car and it's leg got caught in the carburetor and it was dragged three miles until the tendon finally snapped, leaving the poor thing wailing and writhing in the road.  And then they finish off with h a sensitive, "At least it didn't ruin my paint job."

Every time someone starts up with a dead pet or abused animal, the ASPCA commercial starts rolling in my head and the Sarah Mclachlan soundtrack drowns out stories of slaughtered shetland ponies or drowned puppy dogs.

As I've said before, my job isn't physically hard.  But the mental exertion of pretending to be engaged in conversation with customers wears down on me.  To protect my sanity, I usually tune them out and employ the usual head nods and verbal cues to continue their stories.  All the while, I'm wondering when they will stop, or if they ever will.  Is this my hell?  Replacing the inferno with insufferable stories of potted plants and parenthood?  I just don't have the energy.

It's sad to admit I often evade these types of people.  If I see them coming (or in some cases, hear them, because their incessant laughing is so booming), I hide behind fixtures or walk in the opposite direction.  I've even ducked into a fitting room like I'm dodging a grenade and waited there, holding my breath until I hear them pass.

Now imagine having to do this dance daily.  And imagine getting caught like a fly in a spiderweb of stupid stories, tightly bound by social niceties, squirming on the inside but knowing it's futile.  You stand there and give up, laugh out loud and let the poison infect and numb your skull.  

vent-ricles

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

idol disappointment

"What if the kings that we put on their thrones
aren't really kings at all?
And what if they should fall?"
-Showbread, Two-Headed Monster

I think most people look to others for guidance.  It's a big, scary world out there and we are often left to our own devices when navigating the planet.  We seek out others who have done it before us and who have done it better.  We are looking for a compass in the company we keep.

For some reason, a lot of people look up to celebrities.  I suppose it's because they have money and influence and have seen more of the world and its offerings than we ever will.  The sad part is when the very celebrities we look up to are caught smoking crack in their car before ramming into a group of disabled children.  We build these people up in our minds but what are we really building up?  Aren't they just projecting images?  When we see them in the movies and television, we aren't seeing them.  We are seeing the characters they play.  And forget celebrity magazines, even those with celebrity-friendly content.  Sometimes those articles and interviews are just as manufactured as the movies the stars are promoting.

We often forget that these people are actors.  They might seem sweet and genuine but we only get a glimpse of their real lives.  We forget that at the end of the day, they are still human with emotional problems and worries and mishaps.  Money and fame do not erase turmoil.  And when we happen to catch that turmoil on film, we are disappointed.  How could someone so seemingly together fall so hard?

They never said they were perfect people.  Or even good.  They present an image to the world that is often inflated, grander, cleaner than who they actually are.

Fortunately, I've never been caught up in the celebrity trap.  Sure, I've had my crushes but I've  never been infatuated.  I do, however, look up to non-celebrities, people in my actual realm of existence, people I know personally.

That can be just as damaging.

I should clarify that I don't always know these people extremely well or have a close relationship with them.  We interact, talk, communicate.  We share ideas and philosophies but not favorite television shows or recipes.  I don't know who they are as people in regards to every day behavior and interaction.  But I tend to gravitate toward creative, talented people.  And it's that talent that, in my mind, elevates them to someone I could admire, look up to, model my life after in hopes of being that creative or gathering that kind of talent.

And sometimes I leave it at that.  Other times, I slowly get to know them on a more personal basis and realize, despite their talent, they are kind of an ass.  Or a flake.  Even sometimes fraudulent.

It's disappointing, surely, to realize someone with great talent doesn't always have great manners.  It's probably a lot like seeing the shocking surveillance footage of your favorite celebrity cheating on their spouse with someone in a Costco parking lot.

But the ones who disappoint me are human and never said they were perfect and don't deserve to be judged so harshly.  I see their art, their product, but not their person.  I shouldn't let it get me down as much as I do but I'm still lost, still wandering and wondering when I'll find someone I can look up to, someone who can help guide me through this messed up world.

I know some might say that I should be my own guide and I agree but everyone could use some pointers every now and then, right?  No one gets it right every time.  And we learn from our mistakes but we can also circumvent some sticky situations by learning from other people's mistakes.

You just never really know someone, especially through their art because their art is an extension of themselves, skewed because it comes from what they know, not necessarily what is true.  I try to remember that any time I find myself wanting to escalate someone into a higher echelon of influence.

You should remember that about me as well.

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.

that's amore, asshole

Yesterday, I talked to my work girlfriend (WG) about a co-worker of ours and her love life.  She had recently gotten back together with her boyfriend, although I never knew they broke up.  WG told me the co-worker found him talking to another girl.

This was after he had already knocked up a third party and then denied the paternity.  And he doesn't have a job (which is understandable in this economy and nothing to scoff at but he's not even trying, which is the scummy part).  But he couldn't deny he was talking to another girl.  Our co-worker walked in on them having dinner together at a Mexican restaurant.

Their interaction, as well as the burritos, got heated.

"What a scumbag," I said.

"Yeah, I know.  I think he's a piece of crap.  I tried telling her."

"But she still took him back?  Why?"

WG shrugged.

"See, I just don't get this," I said.  "People like him get girlfriends all the time.  And look at me.  Good guy.  Single."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "You just have to be an asshole."

"Oh, really?"  I said. 

"Yeah.  Like, if you're mean to us we wanna work harder to make you like us."

So, that's amore, huh?  Treat a girl like crap and she'll come running.  Of course, I know not all girls feel that way but I think the vast majority of them do.  Especially young girls like our co-worker.  I also wonder if she took him back because she didn't think she deserved better.

Sounded like too much trouble to me.  I just try to be as genuine as I can be.  Sure, sometimes I try to be on my best behavior or censor my dark sense of humor around some but for the most part, I'm pretty much me.  I don't go out of my way to deviate too far from my natural behavior.  And I don't feel like changing that to snag a mate.  If it means it will take longer for someone to appreciate me how I am, then that's fine.  I'm not looking anyway.

But I did want to have a little fun.

Before I walked away from WG, I turned to her and said, "Yeah, and by the way, you should probably get your highlights fixed.  They're lookin' jacked."

She gasped, her eyes wide with surprise, an uncontrollable grin spreading across her face.

"Yeah," I said.  "You're more attracted to me now, aren't you?"

She stood still, her hand on her chest, still smiling.

She didn't disagree.

bumper sticker razor blade beckoning

I stopped praying, stopped talking to God.  I gave him the silent treatment (hey, he started it).  I came to a point where I was just tired of trying to feel something and tired of talking about it and so I just stopped.  Not entirely gave up.  But took a break from calling on Christ and the resulting disappointment.

And then the signs came.

Several days ago, I drove to work and noticed a truck with several bumper stickers attached to the exterior like badly placed tattoos on bare arms.
  

For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. Rom. 10:13

  
Orly?  I've called upon the Lord many times.  Did that mean I was saved?  Was that my confirmation?  It sure didn't feel like it.  Just another random sign that anyone could have ran into or an actual extension of God?  He must have sensed my hesitation because the signs kept coming.

fifty shades of what women want

At the behest of my work girlfriend (who I will refer to as WG for short), I read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I didn't really want to but she kept insisting and I thought it could be something new we could discuss.  We've never talked about books before so I was looking forward to an intellectual exchange regarding fictional characters and their motivations.

But as I read, I kept pointing out problems I had with the book.  Christian Grey was too perfect, too mysterious.  Anastasia Steele was too innocent, too inexperienced.  Early on in the book, she said she didn't know why she was falling for him.

"That doesn't make any sense," I mentioned to WG.  "He's super rich.  He's super handsome.  He's graceful and just distant enough to leave her wanting more.  That's reason enough to fall in love with him.  Any girl would.  Heck,  I think I'd fall in love with him, too."

WG laughed.  "Well, he does have some physical flaws, though.  He's not perfect."

"Oh, yeah?  What?  Is his penis so large he can't find comfortable underwear?  What a tortured soul!'

She laughed again.  Ah, such a nice sound.

"So, what is so appealing about him?"

"I don't know," she said, her kohl-lined eyes wandering off to the ceiling, pondering.  "I guess I just like that he's dark."

"I'm dark," I said.  Hello, I was dead for three years.

"No you're not," she said with a smirk.  "You're just emo.  And you choose to be that way."

Ah, not such a nice sound.  She really knows how to stab a guy right in the face.

"He had a really dark childhood," she added.

"You don't know about my upbringing.  It could have been dark, too."  It wasn't.

"Not like his," she countered.

"You don't know what I've been through!"  Nothing.

I just wasn't that impressed with the book.  I'll admit I jump on literally bandwagons.  I read the Twilight series and The Hunger Games series and I always tried to enjoy the books for what they were instead of what they were hyped to be.  And they were both all right.  But this one I just couldn't seem to get into like the others.  I guess I can understand it's popularity because it's so provocative but honestly, it wasn't as filthy as I imagined, which was admittedly another reason I wanted to read it.  I wanted to see how raunchy it really got.  Maybe I'm just a sick mofo but it seemed a little tame to me.  It's possible things get more extreme in the other two books but I think the first one walked the fine line between kinky sex and all out smut, just enough to titillate and not alienate, which is why it worked so well.  So I give her props for that but the writing is pretty amateur.

connection II

"I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pain, 
it's laughter and it's loving I disdain,
I am a rock, I am an island..."
-Simon and Garfunkel, I am a Rock

"I'm not a popsicle, I won't melt away..."
-Zolof the Rock and Roll Destroyer, Popsicle

The funny thing is, a lot of the time these people come to me.  They seek me out and tell me it will be okay and they're going to stick around and as soon as I believe it, they peace out.  I think it would be one thing if I went looking for that kind of pain but it often falls right into my lap.

I have enough trouble making connections with people and I usually try to keep my guard up but once I think someone is in it for the long haul, I allow them in.  People unnerve me enough as it is even when my guard is up so imagine how they invade my senses when I allow it.  But they tear down my insides and slip out of my skin and leave this kind of emptiness in their wake.  And I'm left dumbfounded.  What just happened?  Where did they go?  Why did they do this to me?

When someone says they will stick around, that's pretty much the kiss of death for me.  That's my signal.  My warning sign.  Exit immediately to your left!  Pain approaches!  Get out while you still can!

I've mentioned this before but it bears repeating.  In high school, many acquaintances entangled in messy relationships often told me they contemplated putting up impenetrable walls forever because of the hurt and rejection they endured in past relationships.  I thought that was silly and told them such.  You can't shut everyone out because you'll end up blocking someone special.

But I understand their defense mechanisms now.

No, I am not going to build a wall forever.  Maybe for just a little while.  Or maybe at least pull back.  If I had my crap together, I wouldn't go through these highs and lows with other people.  I wouldn't need anyone's confidence or affirmations because I would be self-sufficient but because I'm not, I have to rely on other people to feel like anything at all and that is a dangerous position to be in because people are not perfect.  They're fickle and unpredictable and it's no one's job to make you feel better about yourself.  I think in my case, most don't even know they're doing it and once they stop doing it, I feel bitter.  Why did you stop?  Why did you go away?  Don't you know how bad I need you?  But there's no way to win because I need them to define me but once I allow them to, they go in and cause me a lot of mayhem.

I just kind of stand around and do my thing and people come and pick me up.  I don't try to be swept away with their kindness.  I can't help if I'm an easy sell.  Maybe it's because I'm so desperate for companionship in just about any form I can get that I'll go for whatever someone's throwing my way.  Naturally, the insecurities set in long before that person really has any resonance in my life but once they do, I'm hooked.  I'm trusting.

I'm doomed.

I don't know how to resolve this problem.  I suppose if I was stronger, that would be resolution enough.  Another douche ditched me?  No big.  I can move on because my worth does not stem from their opinion of me.  Bah, if only it were that simple.  It is, really, if only I actually believed it.  But I can work on that.  And I should, pronto, before I pull one of those high school moves and shut everyone down to protect myself from hit-and-run relationships.

The really embarrassing thing is I'm not even talking about romantic relationships but also friendships.  Any kind of connection I have with someone, whether it be a special girl or a guy friend.  I like to feel wanted, needed.  Like I'm cared about, however I can get it.  But it never lasts and the first sign of sour things to come is when they tell me they're not going anywhere.  I can think of four people just right off the top of my head who have fed me that line and I don't think they lasted more than a month or so after their declaration.

I'm becoming more and more convinced that I'm simply a loner.  My mind is too fractured to form healthy relationships with anyone, whether it be friend or girlfriend.  It doesn't mean I can't be friendly with people.  It doesn't mean I can't elicit a smile or a chuckle.  Just not love.  Just not loyalty.  Just not anything deeper than a fart joke or conversations where I try to keep up with intellectual discussions and pretend I know what they are talking about.

I'm not even blaming anyone.  There comes a point where you can think that it's someone else's problem, that everyone else is screwing things up but when you consistently face failed relationships, you have to sit back and wonder if you aren't at least contributing a little bit.  Here is where I fully admit that I probably contribute a ton of trouble and therefore run people off.  That's cool.  I don't mean to.  I can't help it.  My head won't allow me to just be comfortable with the way things are.  I'm paranoid, never trusting anyone.  Why do they want to be friends with a fraud like me?  Why haven't they responded to my text?  Are they laughing with me or at me?

I don't know what's going to change my mentality.  I've realized over the years that mental damage is not easily treatable.  That's not to say it's impossible but it's hard enough to even recognize there's a problem in your brain.  We are often unaware of how we behave...or at least I'm usually unaware.  It's only through my lonely introspection do I begin to decipher the day and realize I screw up continuously.  But that introspection only takes me so far, only helps me identify what I think my problems might be.  But where does the resolution come in?  Therapy?  Prayer?  Friendship?  I've tried it all without success.

I often feel that I'll be stuck like this and I often don't even mind.  I've gone so long without really knowing someone on a deep, personal, and intimate level that it almost doesn't matter if I ever do.  You never know what you're missing until you get it but if I never get it, I'll never know.  Blissfully unaware?  

I used to feel the pull of people but now the call of the great void is the only comfort I can find.  

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.

sour cherry

"I want to learn how you save yourself 
for someone who loves you for you
So many times we just give it away 
to someone who couldn't even remember your name..."
-Sense Field, Save Yourself

"We're under the sheets
and you're killing me..."
-Ellie Goulding, Under the Sheets

One day in my art history class, I sat at my desk and looked around me as my professor droned on about Duchamp's "Fountain" and surmised I was probably the only virgin in the room.  I was not interested in a urinal as a piece of art so my mind wandered and landed in sexland. 

Because art history was a foundation class, the students were not separated by major and it was a mixed crowd.  Everyone from the trust fund valley girl fashion student to the animation student who doodled bunnies with manga eyes in his notebook to the chunky girl who wore pajamas to class every day sat among me.  And they had all probably been laid before.  So, why hadn't I?

"Well, look at me," I thought to myself.  Although I was the most attractive I had been in my young adult life, I still felt chubby and untouchable and I thought my physical appearance was why I hadn't yet had sex.

But I knew a lot of trolls who had engaged in sexual activity so that couldn't be it.  Just about anyone can find someone to sleep with.  People are so horny these days that being picky isn't always an option when the possibility of orgasm is within reach.  And it wasn't so much the fact that I thought I wasn't good-looking enough to be touched, but my looks caused a crippling insecurity that made me feel unworthy of intimacy.

I had enough trouble feeling good about the way I looked clothed, with all of my biggest flaws completely covered.  I couldn't imagine stripping away all the layers of protection and revealing everything to a partner.  Nakedness and intimacy opened up a whole new world of insecurity.

What if I wasn't good?  What if I wasn't well equipped or satisfying enough?  What if I jiggled too much or had no coordination?  I can't even pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time so how can I be expected to kiss and thrust and massage all at once?  Did I have the capability to cause pleasure?  Could my tongue tantalize?  Could I cause another to shudder with satisfaction?  It was something I hadn't thought much about.  It was a foreign concept to think I could put my body next to another.

When I was younger, I was fascinated with the concept of kissing.  I never understood how people could be bad kissers.  It seemed pretty simple.  Press your lips together and voila, nerve endings react and fire and pleasure pervade the body.  But when I actually had my first kiss, I understood.  I was so nervous and focused on not landing on her nose that all pleasure drained from the activity.  I tried to navigate my lips around hers without mashing my face into her mouth and the whole thing felt too hard and mechanical.  The thought of tongue usage terrified me so I cut our kissing short.

So with that taste of intimacy, I realized I was either done with it all or simply just not ready.  Through the years, thoughts of kissing progressed to thoughts of sexual intercourse and how much more involved it seemed than kissing but I still wondered how anyone could be bad at that, either.  I guessed it was possible but when you get down to it, don't the same basic mechanics as kissing apply?  Aren't you still just pressing parts together and waiting for the slippery friction to send waves of calm across the body?

I feel like some of you are giggling right now, thinking I have a lot to learn about how bad it can be.  But who will I trust enough to teach me?

Do I even want to know?

haute coffee

While I was sitting in Starbucks, I looked over my shoulder at the group of people knitting in a corner.  And I wanted to belong to that group.  It was an all female group lead by a masculine looking woman with black glasses and a map of the world on her head in the form of dyed blue and green hair.  Their multi-colored yarn and threads were scattered across multiple tables, the needles in their hands dancing and catching light from the florescent lights.  And I wanted to belong to that group.

Well, not that group necessarily.  Knitting is fun and all but not my favorite subject.  The point is I wanted to have a group that I could go to on a Friday or Saturday night, and a place we could all converge to hang out and share ideas and laughter.

There is no such a place in my town.  Or the town over.  Or anywhere near.  I had to drive nearly an hour away to another state just to go to Starbucks.  Our area is just not set up for youth.  All I see at work are old people, women buying clothes for their bedridden husbands.  Women buying suits for their dead husbands to be buried in.  Blue veins and rinses.  Cheap perfume and arthritis.  Liver spots and slipping dentures.

And those who are born here endure eighteen years of pain and monotony and then get the hell out when given the chance.  That only leaves a few young ones left, those like me who tried to get out and failed and those who were never given the chance to escape.

And so I feel lost because the young are a rare breed here and those that are left are all scattered.  There's no coffee shop or building for kids to congregate.  There's nowhere for ideas to spark and flourish, for talent to transcend one individual's temples, for friendships to form with frappes and fritters.  There's not even a place for one individual to rest or write or read a book in a chill setting.

I've been expressing my frustration to a couple of people and they keep saying we should all pool together our resources and open up our own coffee shop.  We all joke and say it should include an internet cafe with state of the art computers and a snack bar with high quality breads and cheeses and truffles and cupcakes flecked with gold.  It would be really upscale and we'd call it Haute Coffee.  It's a nice idea but not one I think anyone would take seriously.

As I said, there's not a lot of youth here.  Haute Coffee would probably be bare most of the time.  Our typical eighty-two-year-old resident would come in and have no knowledge of Macs or macchiatos.  They wouldn't recognize the music unless it was Elvis or Hank Williams Jr.  They wouldn't know how to turn on the computer.

"Hold the mouse?" they'd ask.  "Y'all got mice?  Better call an exterminator or this place'll be shut down!"

It's just best for me to leave.  The town will probably never change.  It's best suited for those winding down their lives instead of those just trying to start them.  Then again, if I stay here much longer, I'll probably begin the process of winding my life down, too.

The Internet has sufficed so far.  I've met some talented and creative people through this outlet and it's been nice but it's still not the same.  Blogs don't equal bodies.  I want a real time connection, a flow of ideas that feed off one another, tiny seeds we plant inside each other's heads, watching as the eyes sparkle and the mouth moves in recognition.

I think I also crave the physical aspect of belonging to a group, something I've never truly felt.  I'd like to know there's a place I could go where I could sit among like-minded people and say that's my book club or knitting circle or Buffy fan club.  I'd like to feel wanted.  Safe.  Occupied with something constructive and motivating instead of taking up my time eating garbage and hating myself for it.

If there's nothing like that here and I can't make my own, the only choice is to leave.  But where would I go?  How would I cleave myself into a community?  Do I just go up to the gal with the Coke bottle glasses and green hair and sit down with my knitting needles and ask her to put on some Tegan and Sara while she showed me how to whip up a cozy winter scarf?

Or what if I started my own group.  The qualification would be pretty simple.  If you don't suck, you can show up.  I guess I've been so starved for quality conversation that my standards might have slipped a little.  I think trying to find people similar to me would be a bit of a quest so if they could just not be intolerant rednecks, I think I could work with that.  If they'll provide the conversation, I'll provide the coffee.

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?