everything is fine

It's hard to hide who you are, especially when you put everything in the open. At least, it's hard to hide who you pretend to be. Sometimes I wonder why I've made such a bitter voice. What would they think if they heard it? They think I'm happy. They're right. Will they still think that?

"There have been a lot of burglaries in the neighborhood lately," she said. My mom detailed out the series of recent robberies. "A couple days ago, a man woke up during the night when his garage door opened. Some burglars had broken into his car, opened the garage door, and came into the house. They started stealing electronics and stuff." "What did he do?" I asked. "He and his family hid in a bedroom upstairs and called the police. The burglars were gone by the time the sheriff arrived--it takes the police thirty minutes to respond. A few cars have been broken into for radios and things. Some people who run early in the mornings have reported seeing them breaking into the cars." "What do they do?" I asked. "I don't know if they call the police or not. There was a man who caught them breaking into his car one night." "What did he do?" I asked. "He came out with a gun and shot up in the air. It scare

What exactly is it that I do with my time? One day I'll figure it out. But until then, I'll just keep doing whatever it is.

"Have you ever been passionate about something you weren't good at?" For a second I didn't know how to respond. So I thought. "No," I said. "I get passionate about things I'm good at, or at least the things I try to improve at." It seems silly--impossible, even--to be passionate about something and at the same time be satisfied with being bad at it. "That's a good point," he said. "That makes sense." It was such a strange idea. I can't imagine why anyone would be satisfied with being mediocre at anything. I can't stand being bad at the things I do. Maybe that's why I don't do much.

As I rode my bike away from my class, the first thing that caught my eye was the enormous colored display of fetuses in various stages of development/abortion. As I got closer I could make out the details of the smaller pictures and, eventually, the text that accompanied the images. Then I saw the other sign. "Warning: graphic images ahead." The display blocked most of the street, forcing people to mill around beneath it. I came by after my classes were done to read what people had written on the signs marked "Free Speech Board." Most of the text detailed how disgusted the authors were by the pictures of aborted fetuses and mentioned how the images encouraged them to advocate abortion even more. I sat on my bike and read through both sides of the board, following the succession of thoughts indicated by the myriad of arrows. I was about to leave when a girl near me decided she was fed up with what she had been reading. She huffed and puffed and grabbed a marker

I've been having some vivid dreams. Vivid, realistic dreams. The kinds of dreams where you wake up and can't tell whether or not something actually happened because the dream was so realistic. Vivid, realistic, recurring dreams. It was the things that people said to me and the things I read. The same things happened over and over again. I woke up convinced that they had actually happened until I checked my facts. It's such a strange feeling to realize that you made everything up. It makes you think about the things you didn't make up. At least, the things you think you didn't make up. It's hard to tell what people are thinking. What they want. Harder, still, when you don't talk to them. As much or at all. It does not make that much difference, I think. That's okay, I guess. I'm probably content to just continue coasting along until I eventually realize that I've been lying to myself about whatever it is I've been lying to mysel

I like to be stressed out. I really do like the feeling. The uncomfortable anxiety that feels like your insides are gnawing their way out. It's one of those things that, even though I might not be outwardly enjoying it, I really am enjoying it. And I know I'll look back and love it. I need something to worry about all the time. When I'm not stressed out, I feel like I'm not really doing anything with my time. With my life. I feel like I'm not living. So I look for things to stress out about. Sometimes I make things more complicated than they need to be just so I can get that kick. Because I like feeling bad. I hate it when things don't go right, but I really love derailing plans. Conflicting ideologies are not a big deal, I think. I also hate leaving people out of plans. I hate doing it because I hate it when it happens to me. I wish everything could go according to plan.

I always enjoy meeting up with old friends. You get to see how they're doing and what they're planning on doing. It's just nice to see that everyone is doing fine, even if everyone is crazy in their own way. Oh well. I've been trying to be nicer to the people that I meet. Relatively nicer, I should say. It has been going well so far, I think. I wonder sometimes if I should go out and meet more new people. It's all practice to be a gentleman. And less cynical. I used to think that people basically had switches where they could change aspects of their personalities whenever they wanted. I would walk outside and switch into 'happy' mode, even if I wasn't feeling it. I eventually grew out of that phase and learned that people are just born with naturally terrible personalities. And that we have to work to be good. I still think in terms of switches, though. Old habits die hard, I guess. At the very least, they make you look dumb. I need to find

"You still have all of those?" Twelve colored belts divided between two hanging racks. "Yeah," I said. "They mean something." I glanced over at the belts. They were covered in dust and tucked behind the door. "To me." I added. My earliest memory of martial arts was from watching Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers. I used to watch the first episode on VHS over and over again. There was a scene where Jason is leading a karate class. Bulk and Skull walk over to him and ask him to show them how to beat people up. Eventually Bulk declares that he can do anything Jason can--and better. So Jason does a bunch of karate moves and Bulk tries to copy them and eventually fails. The move that gets him is the 'tornado kick.' I fondly remember rewinding and rewatching Jason do that kick and then trying to do it myself. Eventually, I learned how to do it. No couch pillow could handle the force of my tornado kick. Jason was actually the rea

Lately I've been tempted to go through and mend all my broken friendships. I guess it's a seasonal thing. "Hello," I'd say to people. "I have made some bad decisions, some possibly related to our ex-friendship. Now I'll try to fix those, I guess." I suspect that some of those people would be displeased to hear those words from me. That's okay. Maybe some of them forgot already. That would save me a lot of effort, I suppose. But it wouldn't help with the temptation. Oh well. Clearly I spend my time wisely. Idea courtesy of Terrible Crossover Fan Fiction Idea Generator. My friend decided that he's going to be more of a gentleman. He woke up and realized that the world doesn't have very many of those types of people anymore. I agree with him. Now he's making a conscious effort to be a better person. I think I'll join him. Because he's right: the world is full of self-serving, self-absorbed idiots. We need less p

I watched Brick again the other day. It'd been a while since I'd seen it, so I was pretty excited. But I'd forgotten how close to home some of it hit. That happens sometimes. That's okay. Sometimes I forget that people actually read this. I'm always surprised when somebody comments on it in real life. I never know how to respond. They'll make a reference to something and after a while it'll occur to me that it was related to something I wrote. It's easy to forget you are not always anonymous when you write things on the internet. It puts things in perspective, I guess. I never seem to know what I want. I get that impression when I talk to people about things. Self-sabotage, bad luck, I might even just like being unhappy. Does that even make sense? It's almost like I try to be unhappy. Who knows.

I've been listening to a lot of Frank Sinatra lately. My dad used to listen to him all the time. If I don't concentrate on it, I can sing along with pretty much any Sinatra song. Ask me to do it by memory and I wouldn't know where to start. Oh well, I guess. That's okay. It's kind of funny to think about stuff like that. Things our parents do in our childhoods that imprint on us. Condition us. I've tried to figure out all the different ways in which the actions of my parents influenced me. I know I picked up my dad's dry sense of humor. I wouldn't call my humor witty, but it's sharp. Cruel, I suppose. I hardly pay attention when I say those things. Someone will say something, I'll catch a mistake or an opportunity (which are often the same thing), and cut in with some snide remark. I forget what I say almost immediately. Oh well. Music? My dad always had music playing. I could have picked up on that, I guess. That might be why I&

For the past few days I've been thinking about scary things. A lot. Because it's fun. Ghosts and monsters and all of those types of things. The paranormal really pushes my buttons. Then I drove to the store and had a terrible time. I kept seeing things out of the corners of my eyes that weren't really there. Faces in the windows when I backed out of the driveway. Dogs running into the road that never showed up in my headlights. I heard my phone ringing but it wasn't. There were voices outside of my car when there wasn't anyone around. I'll admit this: I get spooked easily, given the proper atmosphere. Or even just regularly. If I think about things, I'll get spooked. Excluding nightmares, I can only think of one time I've truly been scared. There is a difference between being spooked and scared , I think. We were SCUBA diving in Cozumel, once. We went through some kind of cave-like structure in single file. I was having trouble staying do

I am completely enamored of this tablet, but I'm starting to become afraid that it will consume all of my free time. And my busy time. When I got home today, this was all I did. Oh well. It's fun. And I'm getting better at it, I think. I am a poor judge of that. I tried to use Adobe Illustrator but it was too hard and I gave up. I'll learn how to use it later, I guess. It made my squiggly lines into beautiful squiggly lines. That is as far as I got into the program. I'm home alone this weekend, and I intend to use that to make some music. Also, to study. I've been thinking about a movie idea lately, but I don't have time to make it. I don't think anybody else will want to make it either. After I thought about it a lot today, I thought about making it into a graphic novel. I think that idea is far beyond my skill level. For now. That's okay.

On the radio today there was a story about a cashier from Whole Foods who got in a lot of trouble for chasing down a shoplifter. Apparently there is a store policy where employees are not allowed to touch or detain customers. Apparently this is widespread. "At least he did the right thing," I said. My mom turned to look at me. "He might've done the right thing," she said. "But it wasn't worth it." "It's always worth it." I said. "It's not worth it for the store. They should've just let it go. They can recoup that loss pretty quickly." "It's the principle." I replied. She took a deep breath. "I once knew a family that started a grocery store in a shadier side of town. It was the first time any of them had ever tried to run a business. A man tried to steal a 6-pack of beer and the father shot him in the parking lot when he ran. After the extraordinary court costs, they didn't have

I am beginning to suspect that, simply by virtue of using a tablet, your pictures are automatically splendid. Coloring things in like a kindergarten student suddenly becomes acceptable and artistic. It certainly does not make me feel good, but it is an ego boost. I talked to Joe a few days ago. "You should come out and jam with me Tuesday nights," he said. I thought about it. I haven't played saxophone legitimately since I stopped taking lessons with him. "I was thinking about making a band on my own." I told him. "No," he said. "You'll pick up bad habits." I thought again. I really miss spending all that time playing music. I brought my guitar to school with me, planning to write a bunch of silly songs and make a sillier band. I haven't tried very hard to do either of those things. I haven't even taken it out of the case. I can barely even play clarinet, now. I need to change that. Those are my instruments. I c

I am terrible at shopping. It's not that I don't buy things I need, it's that I buy things I think I need. Which is why I left the computer store with a tablet a couple of weeks ago. My original intent, I assume, was to render pen and paper obsolete. I am going green , I imagine I said. I made no effort to try and draw with it because it was too hard . Then I stopped being lazy and figured out how to draw with it. I am a cartoonist for the paper, again. I reached out and grasped the uppermost echelon of shitty drawings. Indeed, I am a master. Now I have to draw more. Which is not so bad, I think. I hope I don't run out of ideas. Or get fired.

I used to ask him to read to me. Before I knew how to read for myself. Even after I knew how. He always read with a calm, low voice. It was comforting. It was distant. Safe. Mostly, I just wanted to hear his voice--the stories came second. It's been years since I asked him to read to me. But that makes sense. I can read for myself. I don't hear the movie voices reading. I don't hear my fake voices reading. I don't even hear my own voice reading. I hear his. And I wish I was six years old, curled up on the couch again. Looking at the pictures. Looking at the bookmark. Watching the pages turn. I don't know how many times I asked him to read Alice in Wonderland to me, but it was a lot. I wish he could read to me again. I haven't heard from him in a couple of weeks now. It was different when he traveled to different states. We wouldn't hear from him because he was too busy. But it was just a matter of time before he'd call. He always ca

I am not so good at meeting new people. I can make good first impression, I guess, but after that I lose interest. In meeting them. In maintaining a relationship. Also, it happens with people I already know. I seem to find a lot of excuses not to interact with people. And I make empty promises to "hang out" sometime. I feel bad, but that's how it goes. I think that on some level it's because I want to be depressingly alone. Poor me, I guess. That's okay. I'll figure it out eventually. Going to the gym is not something that I do very often, at least not with the intention of working out. I went with Chang today. He is trying to become a real man and I am tagging along. I can do one pull-up. That is why I don't go to the gym. I need to play some music. I wish I knew more people who felt the same way. I'm still holding onto the dream of making 'Tyrannosaurus Rocks.'

The year has been going by so quickly. It seems like classes started yesterday, yet here we are in the third week. I'm tired already. I need to finish my certification and get my EMS license. I really want to work in the hospital. I need something to do besides school. So I guess I complain a lot. People seem to agree on that. That I complain and that I'm an asshole. That's okay, I guess. I don't think that I complain more than other people. I just do it at a level of quality where people remember it. I don't believe that. I can't remember the point I was trying to make. I am actually a whiny bitch who would rather act like a five year-old than an adult. I'm working on it. Simkins is far away from everything, but I kind of like that isolation. It means I have to walk everywhere, and at night that is actually pleasant. There is nobody else around. I really want to make a movie. A black-and-white detective movie. I've got all these scenes