life is terrible

I wonder, sometimes.

2011-10-25T23:55:00.000-07:00

I am standing on the edge of a cliff face. A breeze whips past me as I stare out into the darkness. It's a familiar sight, comforting. The river bends below me. It stretches out, away from me at both ends. The arch of the bridge traverses the river, silhouetted by the house lights and golf course below us. So far away from us. The highway reaches out before us, straight into the hills and disappears on the horizon. It is silent. There are no cars. No planes. No animals. It is just us standing on top of the cliff. As it should be. It's late. A late weeknight. Just a normal Tuesday night to the world. I step away from the edge.

In 5 minutes, I will be 22 years old.

It's a turning point in my life. A fixed checkpoint. I'm only 21 years old, I'm not an actual adult yet. Maybe legally. But I'm still a child. I'm immature, I laugh at fart jokes. I laugh at everything. Why would I take anything seriously? 21 years old and we still have no responsibilities. We can buy alcohol. It's okay to drink until you black out, you're only 21. Nobody expects you to actually do anything. It's a magic age. But at the end of that period, it stops. You cease to be a kid. 22 is the end of the road.

You're unambiguously an adult.

And it's frustrating. I've come a long way since 16. I've come a long way since 18. Hell, I've come a long way since 21. But I don't feel like I've come far enough. I've made so many mistakes. I've wasted so many opportunities. Made friends, lost friends. Had new experiences, forgotten old ones. I feel like I've been coasting. That I'm planning on coasting for longer. I have no idea where to go from here because I have no idea if I am currently where I ought to be.

I'm studying something I find personally unsatisfying. I'm doing research in fields that I'm not especially invested in. I write comics for a newspaper that nobody reads. I'm just frustrated that after 22 years I haven't done anything worthwhile with my life. There's nothing to leave behind. The only thing I've really done that matters is meet people, and people tend to forget these things. I haven't done anything to make the world a better place and it upsets me. We are such brief creatures. I don't even want an exciting life--I just want to know that what I'm doing matters.

In 1 minute, I will be 22 years old.

I am speaking. Rather, words are falling from my mouth as the clock ticks down. The task was to recount my entire life, but I am distracted. Easily. Often. The song plays in the background and they are watching me. I stare into the darkness and hope they can't tell I'm avoiding their gaze. Though I'd like to look down at the Earth from above. My friends. My closest friends, old and new, with me on top of this cliff. I would miss all the places and people I love. I am explaining how the only things that really matter in our lives are the friendships we make. Family is a lifelong obligation, but friendship is a conscious effort. Suddenly, I'm not so worried about getting older. So although I may go, I'll be coming home soon. In 10 seconds, I will be 22 years old. We raise our bottles up, ready to toast. In this moment, everything is brilliant. 'Cause I don't want to live on the Moon.

I am 22 years old. This is the best birthday I've ever had.

Like the river, I been running ever since.

2011-07-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

I am running with a purpose. I have a mission. The pavement is unforgiving under my heels. There is no comfortable roll in my stride, only a dull thud and a rebound. I ignore it. These shoes are not made for running. In fact, as I understand it, they are not made for many things beyond walking and fashionably lounging. These shoes were designed with limitations. I can't help but cringe at the word. Limitations. I hate the word. No, the concept. The idea of it. A limit. A boundary. An innate disadvantage.

I am sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. It seems to be the same spot every time. Light from the window strikes the floor just beyond my feet. I stare ahead at the opposite wall. It is familiar. Not too much so, though. I can almost see the exact spot I always start staring at. He sits at his desk, staring at the computer. A mix of work and personal indulgences litters his screens. There is constant white noise. The scrolling of the mouse. The steady clack of the keyboard. Mouse clicks. The creak of his chair. It is how most of our talks go, the few that we have. The only interaction between us is our voices. They--we--are similar. People mistake my voice for his on the phone all the time. I can hear the difference, though. His voice is tired. It is a grave voice. It carries on it more weight than it should. It is distant, almost entirely disconnected from what he says and how he says it. He doesn't speak much but when he does, people always listen. That is the main difference.

My gaze wanders down, to the belt in my lap. It is a tangled mess, carelessly pulled off. I grab the end in my hand and rub my thumbs over the embroidery. My name, my full name stitched in yellow. Gabriel Alvarez. On the opposite end of the belt, a single gold stripe. The belt is worn, some of the edges have begun to fray. I drop it. The black cloth stands out against the white of my uniform. As I look down, my tunic falls open slightly. I trace the red band down my collar all the way to the bottom of the tunic. For the first time, I am disillusioned with it. For the first time, it is just a bunch of expensive fabric and cloth. I am disappointed. I look up again. Leaning against the opposite wall are the trophies I have just earned. Earned. My fingers curl as I think about it. I am disappointed. I am bitter.

"What happened?" He asks. I can hardly help myself, I am ready to fight. "You were there." I am curt and my voice is low. He doesn't move or react. He repeats his question. "What happened?" I pause for a moment to compose myself. "The judges were dirty. They wouldn't call anything against him. He kept kicking my back and below the belt." I rub my thigh slightly. The bruise is a reminder of how effective rules can be. "And?" He asks. "All of the judges and the other guy were from the San Marcos school. He was doing that shit right in front of them and they never called a single penalty against him."

He leans back in his chair with a long creak. It seems like he's not paying attention to me at all. The more I think about it, the more upset I get. My hands snatch my belt up again, idly fiddling. He stares up at the ceiling, perhaps in thought. "And what did you do?" I think back.
His leg is up, he is balanced on one foot. It is a popular tournament tactic. Poise for a kick and strike when the other gets near. He stares at me, waiting for me to move in. He knows I am upset. It takes nearly all of my focus to stop myself from kicking his knee out. I can see the judges in my peripheral vision. They are unsure what to do. I clench my fist. He thinks this is a good tactic. He thinks I'm going to make a mistake. He thinks this will be an easy point. He doesn't know me. I jump forward faster than he expects. There is no accident in my action. I get too close for him to kick and grab his leg. My foot hooks around his and I punch him in the chest as hard as I can. He falls flat on his back, stunned. He has to catch his breath. The side judges pull me away. I wink at the head judge. Two strikes for me. One more and I'm disqualified. We start the next round. His heel comes down on my thigh. It is a strike made with confidence and control. My stance weakens. The head judge meets my gaze. He will not call the penalty. I am disillusioned. I drop my hands and let my opponent hit me in the chest. His kick barely makes contact, most of the sound comes from the snap of his own uniform. I remove my mouth guard. "This is bullshit." The judges glance at each other.
"You lost your cool." He answers for me. "You lost your composure and you lost the match." "It's not that simple," I reply. "He was fighting dirty!" He looks at me. His eyes are stern. "So? Fight dirty. If he's not going to follow the rules, you shouldn't either. You should have beat the hell out of him." I motion to the red stripe on my uniform. "Yeah, I'm sort of obligated to always follow the rules. I'm an instructor." He stands up and begins to leave the room. "You should have taught him a lesson, then. Gabriel, follow your own rules. Those are the ones that actually mean something." He lingers for a moment in the doorway. He does not look back. "And remember, there is only one rule in fighting." "What's that?" I ask. "Win." He stomps down the stairs and I am left alone in the room. Slowly, I fold my belt and heft it in my hands.

I keep my head down and continue running. My favorite stretch of sidewalk. The tree branches stretch low over the walkway and the concrete slabs are cracked and jagged from the tree roots. I sprint and leap across the broken panels. My legs are beginning to wear out. Yet, I run. I won't stop. I can't stop. It feels like I've been running my entire life. Running and trying desperately not to look back. At what? I don't have anything to run from, yet. If I'm feeling optimistic, I never will. Maybe. I leap over the textured panel in the sidewalk ramp. It is a graceful motion, or feels like one. I wipe the sweat from my brow and choose to imagine it was graceful. I am trying hard to be someone. Someone else? Someone I am not. Not yet, at least. Too hard, maybe. But I am not perfect. I can't be. No one can ever be perfect, infallible. But that won't stop me from trying. I can't be perfect but I can be better. Better than I am, now. And then I can be better than that. And better than that. I speed up and jump over two sidewalk panels.

It is late. Or early. It has been a long day and a longer night. It is not significantly different from any other day or night. I look out the front door. The door knob bothers me. It is new, modern. It does not belong there. It does not even cover the hole in the door where the keyhole used to be. I can still see the outline of the old door knob. I'm not sure why it bothers me so much. One of my feet is on the landing, the other is on the next step. Around us, people are milling about and speaking. I am herding cats. Drunk cats. The thought makes me more tired. She looks down at me through the staircase railing.

"What do you want to do?" She asks. Her voice trails off. Sleepy. I glance around, trying to keep tabs on the people I am supposed to escort. "I want to be Batman." It is an immediate and idle reply. She makes a hurt sound. I look up at her through the railing. She is holding onto the rails as if imprisoned by them. She looks genuinely hurt, injured. "No," she says, almost pleading. "No, be yourself. Just be Gabe. Please." I am surprised by the sincerity. Taken back, even. It is not the first time I've heard someone say that. It certainly will not be the last. But it strikes me. Lingers in my mind. Haunts me. "Okay?" She continues. "Just be Gabe." Maybe it will be the last. "Okay," I say.

I sprint across the street. I am not interested in waiting for the crosswalk. Be me. Be myself. I would much rather be someone else. Too many fictional characters to aspire to be. I have listed them before. A personality quiz once asked. I didn't have to think very hard. Different characters from different mediums and different eras. With a set of very similar characteristics. I imagine a Venn diagram with me in the middle of the massive overlap. I can't be me. I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. I can't bring myself to be content with me as I am. Because there's room for improvement. I can be better. So I don't want to be me. I want to be someone better. I'll never be anyone else, I know. But I can try. That's why I keep running.

She looks at me across the table. Her face is serious. I am used to that face. I see it a lot. Still, I brace myself. Defenses up. I try to hold back my smile. It is a struggle, but I manage. The sun penetrates the blinds and the table is totally illuminated. Magazines, laptops, papers, and plates. No one will ever make eggs like that. It is almost difficult to keep my eyes open. Her parakeet chirps in the next room. She is searching for words. The wheels are turning her head. It is a familiar lull in the conversation. I give up and smile. "What are you thinking about, baby babe?" I ask. I almost laugh. It never ceases to be an amusing pet name. I run through the list in my head: doggy dog, horsey horse, fishy fish, buggy bug. I jump out of my head and back into the conversation. It is always a difficult transition. "You," she says. My smile becomes forced. "Oh?" I ask. I am apprehensive for the rest of her answer. "You just make me sad sometimes." She says. My smile disappears entirely. "What?" I ask. I struggle for coherent words but my head is starting to spin. "That's not right. I don't want to make you sad." I kick myself as I drool fragments of thoughts onto the table. "I just feel like you're a martyr sometimes, you know?" She looks at me. I am not sure how to respond. "Are you saying we should have, like, a feast for me every year?"

"Don't be shitty." She says. Her eyes are soft. "I just feel like you do all these things--and you're so passionate about doing them--and you never... You do everything, all the time. You are always doing something--for other people. And it's... And whenever things don't work out for you--a lot of things don't work out but--when that happens it's not as important to you as making sure things happen for other people. It's not fair. You should be majoring in RTF, you actually have--you're actually creative. It's just not fair."

I grab her hand. She is beginning to cry, I can tell because she won't look at me. "Hey." My voice is low. "Hey, look at me." She blinks. I reach out and touch her cheek. "Hey. Look at me." She meets my gaze. Her eyes are blue and green and brown all at the same time. "I'm not a martyr. I'm just me. Everything will work out eventually. Right? Everything ends up pretty okay. Right?" She nods. I pull her to her feet and we hug. She sniffles into my shoulder. Her parakeet is silent. "Okay then," I say. I glance down at the checkered floor. It is a comforting kitchen. "And if it's not pretty okay, well, who cares." I close my eyes.

Her voice trembles. "I do."

I am jumping over every other sidewalk tile. It is less of a run at this point and more of a frenzied hurtle. It wears me out before I finish the block. It becomes an effort to clear the tiles. I clear half a tile and stop jumping. I can't help but shorten my stride, decrease my pace. How much longer until I get to their house? A mile. It is an arbitrary estimate. It is just a mile, I tell myself. I remember a story I once read about Bruce Lee. He and a friend are running, and Bruce Lee wants to run further. The friend is too tired to keep running beyond what they normally do. "If I run anymore," he says. "I'm liable to have a heart attack and die." Bruce responds, "Then die." The friend runs the entire rest of the way. When confronted about it later, Bruce tells him: "If you always put limits on what you can do, physical or anything else, it'll spread over into the rest of your life. It'll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level." A man must constantly exceed his level. The phrase stays with me after I read the story. To be better, I must go past my limits. I refuse to accept that I have a limit. I refuse to define my personal shortcomings as a tangible mark. I have no limit, or at least no limit I've seen so far. Which means I can always keep going. I grit my teeth and jump a tile and a half.

Finally, I arrive at their house. It is a resting point for me. Briefly. I need water. It is difficult for me to speak, my throat is so dry. I drink too much, too quickly. The problem of a life without limits is a poor sense of self-control. In some regards, at least. I sit on the floor as I let my stomach settle.

It is the end of the first race I have ever run. It is only five miles, but I am not a runner. It is a lengthy marathon for my untrained body. My muscles burn and I cannot wipe the sweat from my brow fast enough. I can see the finish line ahead of me. Only two blocks to go. I try to push harder. There is not much left in me, I am at the end of my ability. The girl in front of me collapses to the pavement and vomits. I run around her to the final gate. A man stops me before I can cross the line. "Hold on," he says, pointing back at the girl. "Wait for her." I am confused. "Why?" He looks at me, his hand still beckoning me to stay. "She would have crossed the line first." I look back at her. She is sobbing and trembling. People are pulling her to her feet, out of the puddle of her vomit that is rapidly evaporating. I look back at the man. He watches as they escort the girl to the finish line. I cannot comprehend the logic behind this action. Possibly because there is none. Maybe she was faster than me, but then she fell down and threw up--something from which I managed to abstain. The rule is arbitrary. In my mind, I reject it. He releases me to walk across the finish line. As I cross, he hands me a patch. I examine it briefly. The race logo is on it. I toss it aside and stare at him. "Fuck off."

"You want me to what?" He asks. I repeat my request. He looks back at me, unsure. "That doesn't sound fun." "It's not supposed to be." I reply. "That sounds pretty masochistic." He says. He sprays water across a small section of the lawn. He is trying to maintain the health of his grass in small portions, to manage the water usage. The front lawn of the house is yellow grass save for several squares of green. "I know." I say. He turns off the hose and begins organizing his tool shelf in the garage. "I don't think you understand how hard I would have to work to get into drill sergeant mode, Gabe. I'd be working just as hard as--if not harder than--you. And you want to work out until exhaustion? Aren't you running home?" I shrug. "Yeah, it'll be great." I follow him back into the house. "I don't think so, Gabe." He says. "Did you even eat today?"

I am sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. It seems to be the same spot every time. The light from the moon is drown out by the lamp. I stare ahead at the opposite wall. He is leaning back in his chair, reading something on his computer. Downstairs, she is vacuuming. The ice in his glass jingles as he takes a sip. Cuba libre, with a lime. It is the first drink he ever taught me to make. Actually, it is the only drink he ever taught me to make. So far. "I never said you had to be cynical." He says. I glance at him. "Aren't you?" He thinks for a moment. "There is a difference between being cynical and being critical. I've always told you to be critical of everything." "Yeah, and to not trust people." "No," he says. "I never told you to mistrust everybody." He takes another sip. I take the opportunity to speak. "This world is awful. Being alive is suicide. I mean, have you seen how awful this place is? The people that are in charge of things are terrible. The people that tag along behind them are even worse. Look at our deviant, devolving culture. I've read about the many horrible things we do to each other. I've seen the atrocities people commit. On multiple scales. Yeah, maybe some of them are extremists. The extreme people do horrible things. They're horrible because they believe in something. The rest of us are horrible because we don't." He looks down at me. "Have a lot of world experience, do you?" He asks. He is tired. Of arguing and in general. I wonder if he will give up. "I'm not asking you to change who you are. Just be willing to give people a chance." "And be disappointed?" "Some of them might surprise you." "I kind of doubt that." He laughs. "Boy, you have a lot to learn." There is a pause as he takes another drink. He stands and walks over to me. "Learn to pick your fights, Gabriel. You can't fight everything." I look up at him. It is a challenge. "Watch me." He turns and walks out of the room. "Keep that up and you're going to have some hard lessons coming your way."

He is on the phone in an argument with someone--his mother. I wait for a minute, stretching my legs before I start. I plan to take a longer route home. There is a map in my mind and I can visualize the path I will take. I hit play and begin running. One block. Two blocks. There is a sharp pain in my knee. It is familiar. Expected. There is no surprise. I grit my teeth and continue running. I am running with a purpose. I have a mission. And the mission isn't over. It's not for fun anymore. This is the serious part. The part where I push too hard--and harder, still. My mind shifts. I am focused, driven.

She is sitting on the bed, looking up at me. The sun is setting and the room is yellow. Golden, even. I lean against the door frame. It is difficult not to cross my arms as she talks. "Do you even care about anyone?" She asks. "Of course." I say. "I care about everyone." "Yeah," she says. "I know you care about everyone. You worry about everyone. But do you actually care about or worry about anyone?" "So is 'anyone' no longer included in 'everyone' now?" She glares at me. "It's different." I am not sure how to answer without exacerbating things. I am not looking for a fight. She continues. "You don't even care about yourself. You're a fucking contradiction in every aspect. Do you hate everything or love everything? I never know. I never know what to say to you because I don't--I just think--oh fuck." I am not looking at her, but I can see her turn away.

"I just feel like..." She chooses her words. "Sometimes I look at you and I don't know who you are. I don't understand you. I don't understand your rules, I don't know what you're thinking or why." Suddenly I am glad I am leaning against the door frame. I feel weak. Empty. Lost. I wonder if that is the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. "You know me better than anyone else." I try to argue but I am struggling to keep my balance. She shrugs her shoulders. "What does that say about you? I think--I honestly think--you aren't happy." I take a step forward, ready to challenge that. "That's not fucking true and you know it." She looks at me. "Yes it is. I think you're much happier when you are unhappy." "I'm happy with you," I say. I mean what I say but I know I'm losing the fight. "I don't think you are," she says. "And I can't make you happy. It's too much. You are too fixed. You're so cynical and pessimistic and I can't, I just can't. You are exhausting."

I realize this is the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. I feel alone.

It is time for a challenge. I watch the cars drive by. It is a surprisingly busy street. They never seem to stop coming. I wipe the sweat off my sunglasses. My window of opportunity is coming. One car in my lane, several in the other. I try not to smile as I brace myself. The cars get closer. The window is closing. My muscles are tense. For a brief moment I know this is a bad idea. The thrill outweighs the risk. The car is close, almost too close. I push and start to run across the road. My foot slips in the gravel. For a second, the world freezes. For a second, all I can hear is the sound of my shoe sliding behind me. My hands claw at the pavement, my legs unable to propel myself forward. I hold my breath. My heart hangs for a moment. I am suddenly very aware that the small opportunity I have to cross this street is rapidly narrowing. Four lanes. I can see the cars in my peripheral vision. All of them. My leg is finally in a position to let me run. I feel the impulse run down the length through my toes into the pavement. It is a sharp pain in my knee, but very necessary. A car honks somewhere behind me as I clear the intersection. I keep running and refuse to look back.

"So, what's your deal?" She asks. I am uncomfortable enough, or believe myself to be. I glance back at the hallway. I want to run. I do not want to be here anymore. "What do you mean?" I ask. "I mean, what's your deal? You look tired." I laugh. "I always look tired." "Just look?" She is a nice woman, sincere. I let my guard down. "Well, I'm always tired. There's always lots of stuff to do." "Yeah, like what?" I think for a minute. "Just...stuff, I don't know." "Come on, tell me." "You know, just trying to balance everything. Work, school, friends, my own stuff." "Maybe you should stop trying to carry the weight of the world by yourself." I am surprised at how blunt she is. "What?" She waves me off. "Oh, please. I can see right through you. You're a good kid. You don't have to be a superhero. Just relax a little and be a normal person, worry about yourself a little." "But I can be better than a normal person." She shrugs. "Sure, but do you have to be? Is that something you really need?" I'm called to the other room. She nods at me as I stand. "Think about it."

I stumble, but don't fall. It is getting difficult to lift my legs. But I can't stop. I have to keep running. Every step is painful. I am no longer limping. Both knees ache and buckle with each step. I start walking. It is an uneven shamble and it makes me laugh. It is impossible to have a bilateral limp. My throat is dry. Swallowing is nearly impossible. I am also unable to spit. I continue to walk. My body is ragged and tries to bend. I force myself to stand up straight, making it more difficult to catch my breath. I have walked four blocks. It is unacceptable. No limit. I have to be relentless. I cannot yield.

"A writer? A fucking writer? What the fuck are you going to write about?" She is furious. "Let me tell you, Gabriel. You want to be a writer? You're going to work a shit job, have no money, and never get published. What the fuck have you ever written?" It takes nearly all of my focus not to clench my fist. I keep my voice low, a casual speaking tone. "Yeah, well, that's just, like, your opinion." "Oh it's just my fucking opinion? You've got a real shitty attitude. You are twenty-one years old. You are supposed to be a fucking man. You know what you are?" I shrug slightly. I can almost feel the heat radiating from her boiling blood. "What's that?" "You are a spoiled little shit! Ungrateful! You are a selfish, immature brat! You only care about yourself and what makes you feel good. What the fuck do you do all day? You don't do shit around here. You are god damn lazy!" She stands in front of me, her hands on her hips. I keep my composure. "I mean, I'm sorry I'm not the son you wanted." She throws her hands up. "Yeah. You know what? You aren't the son I wanted. I am disappointed. You are a disappointment. What a waste this whole thing has been. You know what I should have done? I should have gotten a fucking dog instead." She is trying to hurt me, but I have stopped caring. I cannot even stop myself from laughing. "Well, there's always David." She scowls at me. "Oh, you think this is funny, do you?" "I mean, I can cry if you'd like. Learned that one in acting club." She shakes her head and walks away. "Fucking disappointment."

I am running. From something. From anything. From everything, and everyone. I am trying to burn every bridge I run across. It is a feeling I'll never be able to run from. I've accepted that. But it won't stop me from trying. Nothing will ever stop me. I am a fire burning my way across the world. My legs are in what seems to be an immeasurable amount of pain. My knees, my hips. It feels like the bones are all grinding against each other. I clench my fist and drive forward. If it kills me, it kills me. I whisper it to myself. Three blocks left. Two blocks. One block. Pain shoots through my legs with every step. I yell and growl to push myself on. My body refuses to respond to my demands. I sprint--or do my best approximation--into the parking lot. My legs are shaking, my breathing is frantic and jagged. I make my way to the pool. My legs give out from under me as I lower myself to the water's edge. I all but collapse into pool. The mission isn't over.

For the moment, I am Indiana Jones. I am lost in my own world. There is no pool, it is an underwater cave with a lost artifact. For a moment, I am really enjoying myself. "What are you trying to prove," she asks. "And to whom?" The pool is silent for a moment. Everybody looks at me from across the pool. I am hanging on the rock ledge. I am alone. The question is a laser beam that cuts through the foggy layers of imagination I've created. I struggle to jump out of my head and into the real world. My arm reaches up behind me, blindly grasping at the pool thermometer I've left on the ledge. "I need to get the artifact to a museum," I say. "Fair enough." As I swim back to the shallow end, I think. What am I trying to prove?

I have lost count of how many laps I've swum at this point. I am exhausted. My entire body is shaking. It takes me a couple tries to pull myself out of the water. Sprawled out on the textured poolside, I stare up at the sky. The sun is hidden behind clouds. My breaths come quickly. My throat feels like it might crack and split apart. My knees ache. I close my eyes. With no effort, I could fall asleep there. Any limit I had was certainly passed much earlier in the day. A man must constantly exceed his level. I smile. What am I trying to prove? There is no answer. Not one, at least. Everything. And to everyone. And nothing to nobody. Or anybody. I struggle to think coherently. The real question is why do I run. I run because I need to get away from who I was the year before. The month before. The day before. I run because I want to get away from the mistakes I've made, the shortcomings I perceive in myself. I'm trying to prove to myself that I'm not who I am. That I'm better. That is the mission.

And the mission is never over.

And the drums, the drums, the drums, the drums.

2011-06-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

"Well," he said. "I had an idea and you just totally shot it down." I sighed. I was suddenly exhausted. Too many similar, circular arguments in too short of a span of time. "You didn't give me an idea," I replied. "You just got upset and defensive." He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he said. "You can just be the only innovator." "Was your idea communicating?" I asked. "Because that's not an idea. That's not a suggestion. That's something I'm actually trying to do with you and you keep fighting me."

I had been so excited to play music with him, too.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm in a band but..." "But what?" I asked. "I don't know," he replied. "They just aren't on my level. They're good but just not as good." "Is that frustrating?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "I have to write out music sometimes because they don't know what to play." I thought for a moment, choosing my words with delicacy. "Why don't we play music together?" I asked. He thought for a moment. "Okay." He said. I thought back to my friend and his brother, who seemed to play together frequently. "Let's do it," I said. "I've got an idea."

"What, you think I can't play drums?" He asked. He was getting riled up again. "Can you keep steady 16th notes?" I asked, snapping out a tempo. He stared me down while tapping his hands on his legs. The rhythm fell uncomfortably, but he was determined to make a point. It was a struggle to keep calm. "Are you kidding me?" I asked him. I was done with the conversation. "You and your ego." "What," he stated. "You thought I couldn't drum." "You can't." I replied. "You told me you have never played the drums before. You told me that in confidence and I believed that. I still do. You want to communicate? I'm trying to. Meanwhile, you are fighting me every chance you get."

His head dropped.

"I know you can play guitar. I'm sure you have a great sense of rhythm. That's not the point. I'm trying to arrange these songs to fit our strengths. The fact is, I'm comfortable on the guitar. I'm comfortable on percussion. I'd say I'm stronger on those instruments than you, would you agree?" He didn't respond. "There's a reason I asked you to play the piano. There's a reason I asked you to play the bass. There's a reason I asked you to play the saxophone. It's because I think you're stronger on those instruments than I am. Yes," I said. "I think you're probably better on saxophone than I am." Still, he didn't respond. "I asked you to do this because I wanted to. That was a conscious decision. I actively decided that I wanted to play music with you. I wanted to work with you. I am 100% invested in this project. I honestly want to do this." He stared down. "If you aren't into it, tell me. If you don't honestly want to do this, tell me. This is only going to work if you're 100% in. 99.99% is not good enough. That's not acceptable to me, so don't waste my time." He looked up at me, finally. "If you want to leave and do your own thing, fine. Do not think for a second that I need you for this. I can do all of this by myself just as easily. I asked you to do this with me. Think about it and give me an answer."

And I turned and walked away.

People are difficult, sometimes. Most times. All of the time, honestly. People are near impossible to deal with at any given point in time. It astounds me, often, that anything worthwhile is ever accomplished. That anything lasting is ever made. Teamwork is just an incredible thing. It's the simplest, most difficult thing we rarely execute. Pride is a delicate thing that we can't help but wield wildly. What an awful thing. So easily injured and yet so often put in a position to be injured. I can't remember the last time I was so disappointed.

Jokes.

The miracle of life.

2011-06-04T22:32:00.000-07:00

I make what I consider, given my vocal propensity to do the opposite, a marked effort to abstain from writing about particularly vulgar or insensitive things. It has been, I think, a good policy so far. Certain experiences, however, simply beg to be shared. Especially when they involve restroom visits.

It was a routine procedure, using the urinal. One that really requires no thought. The restroom was empty, at least as far as I could tell. I didn't really expect anyone to be using it so late at night, though. It was a stuffy, mostly unventilated room. The air was especially thick, given the frequent visitation by Barton Springs swimmers. I approached the urinal and began. It began to dawn on me how exhausted I actually was. A long day after a long series of days. A man and his son entered and shuffled behind me, making their way to a stall. "Do you have to pee, daddy?" The boy asked. "Uh," the man said. "No, but I think you do?" They entered the stall and I looked around lazily.

I am not necessarily afraid of flying bugs, I just have a definite aversion to them. It's my belief that if a bug can fly, there is a high probability that it can do something like sting you. I also believe that if a bug can fly, it will always fly at you. And as soon as I saw it, it did. It was not a small bug by any means. It was a winged behemoth, buzzing an erratic course and struggling to keep its immense carapace in flight. It was also extremely close to me.

I suddenly had to devise and execute an expert plan that would allow me to finish my business and also prevent the giant bug from landing on me. Various options presented themselves in my head. I could smack the damned thing out of the air and continue in peace. I could put myself away and get away. Instead, I panicked. I jumped back away from the bug--and the urinal--with my hands flailing wildly trying to scare the bug away without touching it. Meanwhile, concurrent with the emergence of my survival instincts, the rest of me danced a panic dance around the bathroom.

The toilet flushed and the latch on the door opened. I froze for a moment as the door started to open. My eyes wide open. My hands in the air. My junk hanging out the front of my pants. I spun on my heel as the boy and his father exited the stall. After a brilliantly played coughing fit, I made myself presentable and washed my hands. "Hey," I said to the man, nodding my head. "How's it going?" "Not too bad," the man said, raising an eyebrow. Thoroughly pleased at the deft handling of the situation, I exited the restroom.

Some days just really dig into the low points.

Been a long time.

2011-05-30T13:45:00.001-07:00

We laughed as we drove. The road stretched out in front of us, silence punctuated with green fireflies floating overhead. The music carried on quietly in the background, just audible over the steady rumble of the car. I tried to remember the last time we'd spoken so frankly but nothing came to mind. It was a simple realization. We'd never really spoken before. So many similar and even shared experiences that we had never tried to connect over. So many opportunities for bonding squandered. We were entirely different people yet somehow almost exactly the same. "So, five or six months, right?" I asked. "How serious are you and Kara?" He paused for a moment. "What do you mean, serious?" I kept my eyes on the road. The streetlights whipped past like slow motion strobe flashes. "What do you think I mean, serious?" I could see him turn to look at me in my peripheral vision. "I mean," he said. His voice suddenly had gravity. "We've held hands before." I took a moment to process what he had said. I turned to meet his gaze. The red light filled the cabin. "Oh," I said. "You are very young." He smirked. A familiar smirk. I'd seen that smirk before. On an older face. In a mirror. "That was a joke." He said. I turned away, pressing down on the accelerator. "Damn it, David." I said.

Maybe not just almost the same.

I lingered in the doorway for a moment, trying to discern what the commotion was about. "Did you even eat today?" She asked. Her voice was stern, hostile. "Yes." He sighed. "What did you eat?" He paused and stared at her. "I had a sandwich." "When?" Her questions weren't slow enough to ride on the coattails of his responses. "Earlier." "Earlier when?" He was quiet. It was an awful lie. Skills take practice and time, I suppose. "The only thing you had today," she said. "Was a glass of chocolate milk. That is unacceptable." Surreptitiously, I pulled a glass from the cabinet. She continued to lecture him on the merits of nutrition as I opened the fridge and pulled the carton out.

"What's going on?" I interrupted with a certain measure of disinterest.

She turned to me as I poured myself a glass of chocolate milk. "This hard-headed boy won't listen to me. All he had today was chocolate milk. He didn't eat anything and he's trying to lie about it. He just won't listen." I returned the carton to the fridge and she returned her attention to my brother. "That's why you're so skinny. Because you don't eat. You're going to get sick if you don't eat food and just drink chocolate milk all day." She turned around and raised her hands to me in frustration. I shrugged with insouciance and sipped my glass of chocolate milk. She paused for a moment before retreating from the kitchen. She called out to my father. "Do you know what your sons had to eat today?"

And, for a moment, we shared a good smirk.

No story to be told.

2011-05-29T23:52:00.000-07:00

The ribbon is failing. The letters barely register on the paper despite the reassuring click-clack of the keys. The metal grinds and creaks. The letters are ghosts on my canvas, faint echoes of ideas and words struggling to overcome age and inherent neglect. Click-clack. The paper travels steadily across my field of view, accelerated by dedication and patience and a strange willingness to sort through feelings and thoughts. Two of the keys stick. I reach in and flip the arms back. Click-clack. Writing with a purpose.

Ding.

I push the carriage back and continue typing. It takes effort to press the keys down, there's a greater distance to travel before the letters swing up and strike the paper. You really have to want to write. The ribbon refuses to stay in place for any useful period of time. Most of what I write is lost as faint blemishes on the page. It does not discourage me. The sun sets quietly outside of my window but I am preoccupied. I am collected and focused. Finally, I finish. I pull the sheet away and hold it up. A masterpiece. A beautiful, honest work. The page is mostly blank. Only a handful of words can be discerned. Run. Heart. Music. Lost. I crumple it and toss it into the wastebasket. I behold my typewriter. It stands out to me in this house. This house of so many things and thoughts and ideas. It does not belong here. It is an anachronism. It is a foreign object. I return it, delicately, to its box and place it next to my bag.

My lovely typewriter.

It's been a long time since I've been home. It's a strange feeling, almost. I don't belong here. I am a stranger in this house. Everything looks just as I left it, but it's different. There's a different atmosphere. Not necessarily a bad thing, this just isn't my home anymore. There's distance that I'm not crossing. Sometimes you have to want to be home. And I do. And this isn't it. I need to take my typewriter and go home.

I also need to find my despair bracelet, which has disappeared. The threat of crippling depression looms over me every time I glance at my wrist and am not immediately comforted by the black shackle of despair.

Happens all the time.

2011-05-24T06:54:00.000-07:00

"That's right! I remember now! His name is GAYMAN!!" I had to brace myself against the streetlight because I was laughing so hard. The more I thought about it, the funnier it got. "GAYMAN!? Let me think... Oh, right! I told you to come!" I couldn't help but snicker about it while we waited for the bus to arrive. And I couldn't help but giggle to myself on the bus. And I couldn't help but burst out laughing again on my way to work.

I mean, come on. That's hilarious.

I don't remember when I grew up, probably because I try so hard not to. I desperately don't want to accept the fact that I can't be eight forever. I remember when they took nap time away. Then they took snack time away. Then they took recess away. There was a time when I couldn't fathom spending my time anywhere besides the playground. Or not reading books for fun. Or spending my weekends working. And, yet, here I am. At work in my funny shirt and raggedy jeans, dragging my sneakers down the hall as I try to generate reports on the file conversions I've processed and import data to various programs in an efficient manner. I used to wonder about the names of the people who were staring at the same stars I was. Now I wonder how to export navigation data from GeoFrame. I used to watch the day pass by in the park. Then, from the window of a lecture hall.

I don't even have a window now.

Little kids are funny. They walk differently than we do. Not because they aren't in control of their bodies, it's more fundamental than that. They keep their bobbly little heads up, staring off in the distance. Their mouths are open and their little kid eyes are amazed at the simple act of bipedal motion. And they look at where they're going, not where they are. So they stumble over everything with their little kid feet. But they just go. This act of acceleration does not impress adults anymore. They have the idea of destination in their heads. They know where they're going, there's no point in looking around at all the noise and distractions everywhere. They have work to do. They're busy. Eyes down, trying not to step in or trip over something. Adults are just so damn unhappy.

I saw some little kids playing in a sandbox the other day. They were pouring sand on themselves and laughing hysterically. I couldn't help but wonder what was going through their minds as they did it. What they were imagining. I thought, for a moment, about the last time I'd been so amused.

But all I could think about was the work I had to catch up on.

Pinky promise.

2011-04-19T18:45:00.000-07:00

I was surprised at how attached I was to the play when it ended. Or, at least, surprised at the realization of how attached I actually was compared to how attached I thought I was. Seeing all those people on the stage for the last time, it didn't really register. We were all still on such a high. Even with the final words and goodbyes.

It didn't ever click.

Monday came. And there I sat in my apartment, watching the digits on the clock blink in the dark. 8:00. 8:01. 8:02. And there it was. That restless feeling. Not like before. Not like finishing marching season. Not like finishing a movie. Not like finishing a song. Not like coming home after a long trip. A different restless. The bad kind. It was an empty feeling. Like I was supposed to be somewhere I wasn't.

We sat down in the room on the side, away from the other people. The strangers. All the strange, strange people speaking loudly and singing songs in harmony. Acting strange and playing strange poison dart games and pantomiming strange fantasies. "We don't belong here," I said. "Yeah," she said. "I know we don't." I couldn't help but let my gaze wander, watching and judging all the strange people gallivanting around the room. "Look at these people," I continued. "We really don't belong here."

But, I couldn't help but think. It would be pretty cool if we did.

Honestly, I didn't expect to get so close to those people. Those people. Like they're some different breed of animal. Those boisterous people with their inefficient rehearsals. At least they were honest and sincere. And they weren't theater people. At least, not like I'd imagined. They were just regular people. Well not regular people, I guess.

Friends.

"We all need to hang out!" "For serious, though. People always say that and it never happens." For a brief moment, I am not my usual self. I am actually earnestly hoping to see these faces again and hear these voices again. For a brief moment, I refuse to accept that it is the end of this group. For a brief moment, I think that these friendships will last.

Maybe not so briefly, actually.

You have to promise.

2011-04-12T13:42:00.000-07:00

"You should be a voice actor," she said. "Seriously, do it. Promise me that you'll at least try to act." I smiled an empty smile and continued tying my shoes. "I promise." I said. "Pinky promise?" She asked. With some reluctance I hooked my pinky around hers. "Pinky promise." Then, I put on my jacket and walked out the door.

As far as goodbyes go, the whole thing was so appropriate.

In high school, I never particularly liked actors. Theater kids, I mean. Or theatre kids. It wasn't an active dislike, really. I'd never been slighted by them or wronged in any way. It was a tolerance for the most part punctuated with bouts of annoyance. Or not even that, really. I just never had any interest in being a part of it. I could never get myself to be quite so melodramatic about everything that ever happened. This was somewhat funny to me at the time because of how badly I wanted to make movies.

I wanted to be a director. I also enjoyed writing quite a bit. But I also wanted to act. Not so much because I wanted the glorious opportunity to be a star but more because I wanted to live out my childish fantasies of being a vampire hunter or spaceship captain or secret agent. And I did. And, to an extent, do. But it was never anything worth taking seriously. I was content to just watch movies and television shows and daydream about being the characters.

And then, one day, my friend said to audition for an upcoming play.

"Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog!" She exclaimed. "Seriously, you have to do this! Promise me that you'll do this!" I smiled a polite smile and continued drawing. "I promise." I said. "Okay." She said. "If you don't, I will be so mad." Then, I put on my backpack and walked out the door.

And, the next day, auditioned for Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

It was intimidating, really. But it went well. Well enough for a callback. Well enough to be cast as Dr. Horrible. A dream come true, really. But copyright laws are a funny thing. Terrible, actually. In my life, I think, there are only two significant personal disappointments. One of them is forfeiting my chance to audition at the State Jazz competition and the other is watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog go up in smoke. These are things I will carry to my grave.

Oh well.

It came down to a choice. Stay or leave. I talked to my parents and my friends. "Just quit," they said. "You signed up to be Dr. Horrible, not some random character in some random play. You don't owe them anything now." I could see the logic behind the argument. And there was a part of me that was tempted--really--to do it. To just walk away. "See how easily they gave up?" She said. "Are those the types of people you want to be around?" It was something to think about.

"Yes." I said.

Because, I guess, it wasn't really about the play. It was the people. These new people I was forced to spend all this time with. To bond with. To have fun with. To work hard with. Friendship is a funny, fickle thing. Difficult to earn, harder to maintain. And, yet, there it was. Somewhere in the middle of all these headaches and heartaches and stressful rehearsals were these ridiculous friendships. It barely makes sense, really. I hate admitting things like that, but it's true. I somehow made a bunch of close friendships in a matter of weeks with complete strangers.

And I never had to think about it before, but it's starting to dawn on me. Our time together is coming to an end. I won't be spending all my free time with them after this weekend. And, I guess, that scares me a little. Knowing that our long nights of rehearsing and stressing together are over. Knowing that friendship is a funny, fickle thing. I don't want to lose that. And it's so easy to. So easy to make promises and plans politely and then watch them collect dust. I wish we had another couple of weeks to rehearse. Not because we need it, but because I want to spend more time with these people. Truly, it is a terrible feeling.

But I just grew up in the last four weeks. Found a new interest--passion, even. I'm going to miss these people. I'm going to miss playing pretend games with them. It's like being a kid on the playground again. I'm not the only one pretending we're in a spaceship. Or that we're secret agents. Or that we're hunting vampires.

I get to add another regret to the list, now. I wish I'd done all this sooner.

Let's listen to Pearl Jam.

2011-04-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, I had one of the best teachers ever. Not just because he was a fantastic teacher but because he was also a fantastic person. I've almost certainly talked about him before, but it bears repeating. He shared stories from his life during our classes. Told us about the mistakes he had made. Like going to college with his then-girlfriend instead of his friends. They had broken up, leaving him at a college away from all his close friends. "The lesson," he told us, "is that sometimes, yeah, bad things happen. But these can end up helping you in the long run." He paused, then, and let it sink it for a moment. "I guess sometimes shitty situations turn out well. I ended up focusing on my work and doing well." Then he paused again. "Alright, you know what, just forget it. But remember that good things can happen, okay?"

"When you finish your assignment, turn it in on the schtool."

Just like he said would happen, the only things I remember from that class are the things he told us about life. Like balance. Finding balance. Arguably the most important thing he talked to us about and the thing I still struggle with. Work, play. Alone time, social time. Friends. Everything needs balancing. The second most important thing was something he said to me, specifically. Every day during class I would draw comics of historical events or whatever he was lecturing about at the time. He would read through them and approve. Toward the end of the year he called me to his desk.

"Gabe," he said. "A lot of teachers would tell you to stop drawing comics in class, but I am not a lot of teachers. You are good at this--at drawing comics--and you are only going to get better. I know college is a long way off, but I want you to promise me something. Seriously, I want you to promise me that you will keep drawing in college. Join the school newspaper and draw comics. You have to. You'd be great at it."

And he looked me in the eyes and nodded. "Okay, Mr. Ryals." I said.

A few weeks later he announced he was leaving the school, and soon after that he was gone. Impossible to contact ever again. Years later, I found him on Facebook. It was something he rarely checked or updated. It made sense considering he'd gotten married and had a kid and started a restaurant in a different city. It was something he said he'd always wanted to do. And there he was, doing as he said.

During a creative lull, I brainstormed ideas for a new comic. I'd gotten tired with other things. Random this and that. Medical jokes. It was time for something simple. And I thought about Mr. Ryals and the things he'd told us. His friend Sam the baker. His friend Ben the box man. The fake example name he used all the time, Frances Francis.

So I made Ben the Box Boy.

It had nothing to do with his friends or stories, but it was my way of saying "thank you, Mr. Ryals." After a couple years, he found it online. And liked it. What a cathartic experience.

You're lucky you're pretty.

2011-03-08T20:46:00.001-08:00

Friends are a difficult thing to balance, I've found. Groups of friends, I mean. That also seems to be a universal phenomenon. Associating with several different groups of people. Different interests, different personalities. All just representative of different aspects of your own.

And, naturally, these do not mix.

It's like old friends and new friends. But, instead, it's just friends who don't mesh. Maybe one group is very mellow and tends to fall into routines. Maybe another is lively and energetic. And fun. These people would never have fun with each other. Or, maybe they would. But the catch is that you wouldn't be able to balance between being the mellow friend and the energetic friend. Things just don't work like that. If only.

And, so, decisions are made. Tough, often. Who do you snub tonight? Tomorrow? Next weekend? And then, who gets snubbed more frequently? Eventually you just sort of fall in with one group of friends. That's really all anyone can manage. Otherwise you can't keep up a set appearance. People won't be able to pin you down under one image. I am starting to understand how easy it is to drift away from best friends. Just like my parents.

But that is just a part of growing up, I guess.

Now I know much better.

2011-02-21T09:36:00.000-08:00

I think I have writer's block. Probably. That or I'm just fabulously uninspired these days. That's a thing that happens, I guess, with some cyclicity. I tried to sit down and write about zombies the other day. It didn't go quite as well as I hoped it would. Lots of writing, erasing, rewriting, and erasing. I remember when I sat down and wrote fifteen pages in one sitting. Now I'm under the impression that it's a good night if I can sit down and write fifteen words that stick. All of the ideas are bouncing around up there, it's just that I can't get them to precipitate the way I want them to. My sounding board has up and left. I've lost my ground. Which, I guess, means it's time to start a different project.

Maybe I'm just working too much. Too much work, not enough outlet.

We made $150 playing the street corner on Saturday night. Just an hour of playing. And I busted the drumhead. Split it wide open after the first song. And yet, things still went well. They thought that was the coolest thing. Someone tipped us with a six-pack of beer. Leslie came and danced with us. Someone tried to patch my drum with duct tape while I was playing. Also made $20 after the split. And, most importantly, had a lot of fun. It makes me wonder, really wonder, why I would ever think about doing anything else. Besides, you know, play music all the time. That would be a fulfilling life.

What are you laughing at.

2011-02-14T19:00:00.000-08:00

When it comes down to it, I really don't have much to say about Valentine's Day, I guess. I certainly have some acquaintances who seem to have their hearts set on condemning the holiday. It is apparently the most painful day for them to endure whether in or out of a relationship. No pleasing some people, I suppose. I admit to some pleasure from instigating Valentine's rants. In the end, though, it's just another day that slips by. Like weekends and birthdays.

My original plan was to stay in and catch up on assignments and do more writing. My friend, however, insisted that we go out. And so, somewhat reluctantly, we set out to the pub on a Monday afternoon. We'd been friends for some time by that point, but not particularly close ones. Simply nature, I suppose. Small talk here and there. But we spent a few hours together and talked about all sorts of things. Life directions, how great it was to be a kid, plans. And then we bonded over some mild vandalism.

And in the end, we walked away from our night snickering like eight year old boys. It was a pretty good night, I guess.

Vroom vroom, motherfucker.

2011-02-06T19:50:00.000-08:00

I finally got my bike fixed the other day. It wasn't terribly expensive. There were a lot of things that needed fixing. And now, fixed. It was a fantastic feeling, riding it again. Such elegant machines. Such graceful transportation. It's a fluid exercise, really. You move and it answers, moves with you. Complementary elements. Riding a bike is a lot like dancing.

That would be me being clever.

It snowed the other day. There was ice, too, I guess. So the city put gravel out on the roads to help college students drive poorly. And so, since it's not icy anymore, the roads are covered in loose gravel. And so, I crashed my bike. I hit the patch of loose gravel at a very manageable speed and my tires slid out from under me.

There's still some gravel and such in my palms that I can't quite get out.

I had to get John's help with my knee. This picture really makes it look not that bad at all, but there was a surprising amount of dirt and gravel and tar in it. I'm only mildly afraid of admitting I wasn't ballsy enough to sterilize it myself. It just hurt too bad.

The worst part of the whole thing is that my favorite jeans are bloody and torn. Which is also sort of the best thing, I think. That's character.

Stop the world.

2011-02-05T13:08:00.000-08:00

I hope I never get tired of hearing the sound of snow under my feet. It's a unique sound, really. Those crackles, those staccato crackles like walking on sand or gravel or broken glass. So familiar. Predictable. Typical, almost. It's a sound we hear all the time. But underneath it there's another sound. This constant munch. Difficult to describe, but it's always there. The sound of snow compacting under your shoes. This cartoon-ish squeezing noise. Not quite a squish. Just a steady munch. Persistent and reliable. It always sounds the same. Comforting, almost.

Munch, munch, munch.

It snowed here, like it so rarely does. A precious occasion that finds everyone roaming the streets at three in the morning, bleary-eyed and absolutely giddy. Mature young adults when they go to bed but rowdy children the second they're roused from their beds. Laundry basket sleds, miniature snowmen, and names scrawled on the windshields of uncovered cars. It's amazing to be reminded that people still know how to have fun. Real fun. Running through empty city streets with your friends in awe of how fantastic everything is. So much better than grown-up fun. Alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs. Legitimate, at least.

I remember the first time I saw snow. I must have been six. In California. One one of those rare occasions we found ourselves in California. Weddings and funerals and drama dressed up as loving family visits. But there we were, standing on the ski slope. People running around, sliding, skiing, trying to get up or down the hill without falling. This huge hill that stretched up beyond what I could see. A long white slope that faded into a white sky. I was too small for skis. Too small for snowboards. It was fine, though, I didn't need to go up the hill. I was content to play around in the little snow patch at the bottom. I didn't know how to make a snowman. It always seemed so easy in movies. Just make a snowball and roll it around. But that's not how it works, apparently. There's some kind of secret to it.

So I made little snowballs and stomped around. And rolled around in it. I wasn't some little kid in a flamboyant snow suit, I was Luke Skywalker escaping the wampa cave on Hoth. I was so excited I filled a plastic grocery bag with snow and stuck it in my grandfather's freezer to save until the next time we came to California. The next time we came to California for the next wedding or funeral seven years later, nobody had any idea what I was looking for when I rummaged through the freezer.

I would've been happy to just stand in place and stare at the snow under my feet.

And I hope I never get tired of looking at snow. Not just because I've only seen it a couple of times in my life. Not just because it's some beautiful symbol of nature's splendor. It's more than that. I walked out into the street, alone. Snow flurries whipped around me and stuck to my coat as the wind cut through all my many coats. The street--my street--was a perfectly blank canvas. Everything was covered in white. An entirely unspoiled world. And I walked. I walked down the road and around the block and through parking lots and up stairs and down ramps and through alleyways.

Behind me, my footprints. Confident and completely alone. A single line of steps stretching out into the white unknown I'd come from. Shadowed depressions on the surface of the moon, wrinkles in the paper. Evidence that I had been there. Before me, nothing. An empty map. I was an explorer, a pioneer. I was the first person to traverse this new world. My footprints were the only ones there. I was the only one who had ever walked or stood there and I was the only one who ever would. And I stood and enjoyed that.

The next night I took another walk. There was still some snow on the ground. It was hard to believe, really. Even harder to believe was the patch of untouched snow I found. Blocks of wet, dirty sidewalk and suddenly, this. It was like someone had spilled whiteout on that stretch of concrete. And so, for the last time, I walked across it. My own claim of ephemeral Earth.

Munch, munch, munch.

Here goes no mercy.

2011-01-31T20:53:00.000-08:00

"Eh," I said. "I wouldn't." He whipped around in his seat to glare at me. "Seriously, dude?" I shrugged. "I don't know, man." I said. "I'm not into that. She's not my type." He tossed his hands up. "What," he asked. "She's hot?" I sighed. I've never really enjoyed those conversations. Not with the company I held, I suppose, but also in general. It feels out of place. Improper, I guess. But maybe not that. Maybe just frustrating, trying to make your point. "No," I said. "She's just..."

"She's not your type?" His girlfriend chimed in.

He laughed. "Oh, I have a type?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "It's girls who are actually guys." "Yeah," she said. "I know your type. Blonde, tall, way too skinny. Artsy or indie, kind of punk-ish. Into music you don't like. Unfriendly." I fought back the reflexive denial so I could hear her out. The more she went on, the more I thought and realized she was actually doing pretty well. My face must have given it away. "Did I pretty much hit the key points?" She asked. "Damn." My friend said. "She got you." She sat back in her seat, smirking.

And I used to be so good at hiding that.

It's just kind of funny, I think, how people can get comfortable. With each other, mostly. Enough so to make assumptions and draw conclusions about them. Regardless of accuracy. Sometimes it's because they feel like they always need to have input on everyone, acquaintances and strangers especially. Those are the worst types. Sometimes, though, it's because they're just good. They can look through a person and see motives and logic and reasoning. They just understand what's going on in those jumbled, muddled thoughts well enough to explain them better than the thinker.

Those are also the worst types.

Fix it for a cost.

2011-01-21T21:46:00.000-08:00

A cynic is just a frustrated optimist. That was the fortune out of the fortune cookie. "How appropriate," they said. "You would be the one to get that." I stuffed it into my pocket because, really, it was an appropriate fortune. I don't even like fortune cookies. They don't taste good. The only reason I get them is to read the fortune. I couldn't care less about the disgusting shit it comes wrapped in.

Quite clearly, I remember reading a book wherein a character was described as cynical. That actually happened on multiple occasions. I never knew what being cynical entailed. Being so young, I couldn't decipher the dictionary definition. And my mother never had a solid way of explaining it to me. People who see the bad in everything, I think.

It's funny to see how cliques form between people as quickly as they do. Even in elementary school. Little group of best friends. Anthony and Luke and Joe and Jimmy. How they've all grown up. Jimmy used to be that little kid that played Jurassic Park with me. He used to be Ian Malcolm, I would be Alan Grant. Now he's a super liberal political enthusiast and I still wish I was Alan Grant. Luke and Joe used to love playing with action figures. Now they both have jobs. And Anthony used to be my best friend. See how well that turned out.

His sister really grew up, though. Anyways.

A boy transferred into our class. From Saudi Arabia. Tahsir. He was different. He was a different color, his lips were perpetually chapped, and his name was strange. And for that he was shunned. A class of little second grade shits echoing their quietly racist upbringings on the playground. We were young, then. Young and stupid and naive. "Why don't you go away." "Yeah, Trashir." We strung together insults as best we could, being seven years old at the time.

After enduring a verbal barrage one afternoon, he turned to me and waited. I didn't say anything, but something clicked in my mind. A realization that everything about everything that had happened was wrong. I looked back at the playground and soccer fields and basketball courts at all of the kids who found it easy to hate somebody without reason or remorse. And I gave up. I gave up trying to continue going along with them. I became friends with him. Good friends. But I was disappointed in myself and in everyone else. And I held it against them. I root for the underdog. I get angry when I see things that shouldn't be. Things that are wrong.

But lots of things are wrong. Lots of things will always be wrong.

I moved away a couple of years later. A new school full of new kids with new ideas to be inspired by and disappointed in. We tried being pen-pals for a while, after he moved back to Saudi Arabia. But I changed my e-mail address. We didn't even drift apart, we just stopped talking. I reconnected with him, recently. For what it's worth.

Playground pessimism, I guess. You never really outgrow your childhood.

Don't look so miserable, there's cake.

2011-01-18T20:49:00.000-08:00

I went to a wedding the other day. The second wedding I've been to in less than a year. The second time I've been an usher. The second tie I've been gifted. An interesting thing to watch, I guess. My collection of ties has really exploded in the last couple of weeks. Black, silver, purple, red. Slytherin. Not bad.

But weddings really aren't my scene.

Before the whole thing kicked off, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop with an old friend. Or what used to be an old friend. "I can't imagine it," she said. She didn't look up from her notebook. "I know people in their late twenties who still don't know what to do with themselves. I just can't ever see myself getting married." She glanced up. "You aren't planning on getting married, are you?" I took a sip of my drink. "No." "Okay, good." She said. "I just had to make sure. Getting married at our age is an awful idea. It won't last." "Yeah, well, it's the popular thing now. Haven't you heard? It's cool to get divorced."

Damn, I thought. Wrong crowd.

Another wedding crossed off the list. Because there is a list. How many more to go? Two, three? Who can even keep track of it, really. It shocked me before, really. It was an eye opening experience. We're adults and we can make indelible marks on our lives if we want. It doesn't really scare me, now. Knowing that we've actually made it to being grown ups. It just makes me feel tired. Mature, even. "God, you're fucking old." I guess I really can't help but agree.

During the wedding ceremony, as I sat on the cold bench beset by strangers, all I could manage to think about was what would happen if I died. How would my boss know that I wouldn't be coming in to work anymore? And how would my friends know I wouldn't be showing up to any parties again? My parents don't care enough about my actual life to have ever met or remembered any of my friends. They don't have contact information. They wouldn't know how to tell anybody, and so they probably wouldn't. Maybe they'd send a mass text to all the contacts in my phone. "Hello," it would say. "Don't call or text this number anymore because Gabe is actually dead in real life. Sorry!" I feel pretty awful about it because it was so inappropriate for the context. But it's valid, I guess.

Then, I escorted the groom's mother back down the aisle and made my way to the reception. I left the whole thing early, made my way back home. I never really managed to shake the thought from my head.

Oh well.

Trust me, I'm a doctor.

2011-01-13T20:12:00.000-08:00

I have awful body image. I shouldn't, really, but I can't help it. My grandparents used to tell me about what a chubby little baby I was. "You used to be a real chubby baby," they say. "But look at you! You've shot up and slimmed up!" For years they've been telling me things like that. "You and your cousin both used to be chubby babies." They say.

"But you got real slim."

And I'm terrified of the day my metabolism slows down. Or the day I look in the mirror and can't see my ribs anymore. I don't ever want to gain weight. Or flab. Or pudge. I just want to be skinny as hell, safely below 150 pounds. It bothers people, I think. They think it's just part of the whole being an asshole thing. But no.

It's legitimate vanity and narcissism.

I was crossing the street the other day trying to get to the bank. A girl walked up to me, trying to hand out books of coupons for businesses around campus. "Would you like some coupons?" She asked. "Sure," I said, since I don't know how to say no to people like that. I took the book from her and she flashed me a big smile. She had braces. As reflex, I think, after months of conditioning I threw out a line.

"Aren't you a little old for braces?"

I smiled back, showing mine. She frowned. "No." She said. She turned and tried handing out coupons to other pedestrians. Unsure how to follow up such a catastrophic failure, I continued on my way. God damn you, Dr. Gallagher. I'll never use one of your pick-up lines again.

This right here's as high as it gets.

2011-01-12T07:57:00.000-08:00

I've had this lunch box, this one lunch box, since I was about five years old. I remember because the lunch box I had before it was a garish plastic box with dial latches that never properly shut. Everything would always spill out of it, and a Power Rangers thermos can only take so much abuse. Finally, my mom took me to get a replacement: a red Jurassic Park lunch box. The perfect size for the Power Rangers thermos and a sturdy plastic latch. For the briefest of moments, there was a substitute: a soft red Jurassic Park III lunch box. Well, sack, I suppose. Traded a Tyrannosaurus for a Velociraptor. That didn't last long.

Sixteen years later, I'm still bringing that lunch box to work for lunch.

Sentimental, I guess. It's just easy to get attached to things. Meaningless trinkets, especially. Not meaningless, really, since they get assigned meaning. A lunch box. A scarf. A magnet. A bracelet. A dreamcatcher. A cup. A pen. It's kind of nice to notice those things. It's just clutter, really. No real reason for it all to be sitting around taking up space. Just a mess nobody else would pay any attention to. Emotional, I suppose.

Wah wah wah.

New wonders undreamt of.

2011-01-11T21:34:00.000-08:00

I spent the last few days playing The Sims 3. And when I say playing, I mean in marathon doses. To the exclusion of a great many things. Like eating and sleeping. Work, almost. I built worlds. Homes, people. Lineages rose and fell. Relationships grew and withered. Loves were endured and hardships were enjoyed. I made people I knew. I made myself. And then, one Sim-day, my Sim grew up. And then the game told me to get my Sim's life in order because soon it would be too late to fulfill all of my Sim's life wishes.

And so I stopped playing The Sims 3.

In an entirely unrelated conversation, a friend asked me if I ever wanted to be an astronaut as a kid. I still want to be an astronaut. I'm going to go to space. And to all the continents. And I'm going to summit Everest. And I'm going to be a doctor. And work at the CIA. And write a book. And make a successful band. And write a movie. I refuse to outgrow the dreams I had when I was a kid. Time's running out, and I've got a lot to do. I've been wasting my life. Twenty-one years and nothing to show for it, really. Except, what. Potential?

There's lost time to make up for.

Who wants all that garbage.

2011-01-07T12:45:00.000-08:00

"Is there an Apple store around here?" The old man asked. "I need to get a charger for my Kindle. I want to read a book." I continued sifting through the displays. I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing anymore. "Uh," the young man said. "I think there's another computer store somewhere. Maybe on campus or something." He sounded bored. Tired, uninterested. "Is it an Apple store?" The old man asked. I tried not to get involved.

Just not very hard.

"The Campus Computer Store." I said, walking toward them. "I'm headed that way right now if you'd like to come with me, sir." The old man looked at me and smiled. "Alright then, let's go." I looked at the young man. "Thanks." He said. And so we walked out of the Co-op and waited to cross the street. "So much has changed here," he said. He looked at all the colorful signs and shops around him. I looked at the name badge on his chest. "So you graduated from the law school then?" He looked up. "Yes, I graduated from Harvard and came here for law school. My granddaughter is trying to get into the art school or something." He sighed. "But her GPA isn't good."

I cleared my throat. "Well, welcome back to Austin, sir."

"Where are you from?" He asked. "Are you a student of the University of Texas?" "I'm from Austin, I'm a senior here. I love it." He looked up at the tower. "Back when I was in school, someone climbed up into the tower," he said. He paused for a careful moment, considering the memory. "With a rifle and started shooting everybody."

"We're just going right up into this building," I said, motioning toward the FAC.

"Oh, wonderful." He said. He looked around the mall as we walked up the steps to the lobby. "This is such a beautiful campus," he said, indicating the cobble sidewalk and decorative planters. "Do you ever come out here?" I looked back. "Not as often as I'd like, but I enjoy it when I do." "I used to come out here all of the time with my girlfriends." He chuckled. I couldn't help but smile.

"They're all dead now." He said, his smile disappearing.

After helping him find a cable that he eventually decided not to buy, he made his way back to the door. "I'm going to buy a real book." He said. "Thank you, young man." "You're welcome, sir." I said. He lingered for a moment before turning back to look at me again. "Enjoy everything you can, young man. Like books." And with that, he was gone.

And then I went home and played The Sims 3 for a couple of hours.

New new doctor.

2011-01-01T12:25:00.000-08:00

I saw a peregrine falcon the other day. An actual peregrine falcon. All those years of watching Kratt's Creatures and Zaboomafoo finally paid off. Except, apparently, Zaboomafoo was a show for little kids. Which did not bother me in the slightest. But it sat there on the tree branch, watching me over its shoulder. I stopped and stepped off the sidewalk and sat down on the slope.

And we sat together for a while.

He looked around, occasionally, as I wrote in my journal. We sat in silence for maybe half an hour. I looked at him, he looked at me, and the creek bubbled in the background. The sun drifted lazily toward the horizon when the falcon hunched his shoulders. He froze for a moment before exploding off the branch. He shot through the foliage, not brushing against anything, toward a building on the opposite bank. In the air, he snatched a smaller bird away from its nest and spun around. He swooped back through the dense branches and glided across the road, mere inches off the pavement. He landed in a clearing and began eating the other bird. It was incredible to see.

And, then, I continued on my way.

Last year was not a bad year, really. There were some good parts, some bad parts, and some parts that just sort of happened. Just another normal year. I had a handful of resolutions lined up, but the more thought I put into them, the less important it seemed to keep them. So I narrowed it down to a handful. Reconnect with old friends. Push myself harder. Take more risks and never worry about the consequences. Balance. And, now, I'm ready.

A new year full of new adventures and new disappointments.

Never felt so good, before.

2010-12-24T11:35:00.000-08:00

I couldn't help but stop when I heard it. Stopped and dropped everything and started wandering down the labyrinthine aisles. Navigating the sea of last minute customers, seduced by the siren song that was all too familiar to me. And after a mildly convoluted journey, I stumbled across it. And, naturally, slowly walked toward the display in coordination with the movie.

When Jack opened the Christmas Town door, I sat down in the chair.

I'd almost forgotten how much I absolutely loved that movie, which is a lie. Maybe it was just the fact that I was watching it on what may have been the biggest television I've ever seen in all kinds of ultra high-definition, Blu-ray, LED screen specifications. Maybe it was the ultra high-fidelity sound system that was blasting it. Maybe it was the ultra comfortable leather chairs they had set out. But probably not. I just love that movie to death and I'm absolutely willing to forgo my Christmas shopping to watch it. I've never seen that movie look so good. Better than real life looks.

What I wouldn't give to live in Halloween Town.

But that really got me in the Christmas spirit, I guess. Almost enough to go shopping again today if not for the rain storm. Not quite enough to decorate the tree, though. The tree with one string of green lights and one string of blue lights that create a decidedly dichromatic Christmas tree. There aren't even any ornaments on it. Or presents under it. Merry Christmas, my family style. There's no fire in the fireplace, no little Christmas candle-holding houses, and no stockings. There's a box marked 'Christmas' sitting in the attic, though.

Unopened.

Peregrine propensity.

2010-12-21T00:52:00.000-08:00

There are certain things that I actually get pretty excited about. Things that happen outside, mostly. Both outside of my sphere of comfort and outside of my control. Anyone's control, really. Like sunrises. Normal weather phenomena. It's awesome. But also, I get excited about eclipses. And I was really excited about the lunar eclipse that was supposed to happen.

Until I went outside.

The fog and cloud cover was so dense that you couldn't see the moon before the eclipse. And even when the moon was eclipsed lunarily, an event which I can neither confirm nor deny actually transpired, there was so much light from everything ever that you couldn't tell it was the darkest night in 456 years.

That's something I could've gotten pretty excited about.

I wish I were back in New Mexico, almost. Or Arizona. Standing outside in the dark craning my head back to stare the stars. I've never seen such unadulterated expanses of night sky until or since then. Thens. Those times. I want to be back out there in the middle of nowhere. Not walking down abandoned neighborhoods around campus. I don't want to go home. Just somewhere else. Anywhere. To the aquarium, desperately. Or anywhere, desperately, I guess.

I'm not terribly picky.

Helping them move all of their things into the van today didn't help relieve that feeling particularly well. I'd like to pack all of my things up and drive into the sunset. Oh well. Maybe one of these days I will. But probably not. It wouldn't be responsible or mature. Apparently it's real good to be one or both of those things.

What a nice break this is.

Time to do some Christmas sings.

2010-12-17T19:20:00.000-08:00

I got a new phone. It's weird because, really, I didn't need a new phone. I would've been fine keeping my old one. Really. But, apparently, it was time to get a new phone. I've only owned three cell phones in my life. I used my first one until it stopped working. I crashed my bike and fell on it and it stopped working properly. It would only receive half of the calls and stopped ringing entirely.

I got a bruise and stopped putting my phone in the shirt pocket on my back.

This phone, though, is pretty cool. And by pretty cool, I mean I can turn it into a really cool phone. I went for a few days with "Normandy to shore party, come in" as my ringtone. It was hard not to answer the phone as the Commander. But now it's got the Batwave. Complete with the animation. Which means, really, that I've realized a childhood dream.

As far as my communication device is concerned, I am the Batman.

And that's pretty much all I really need to get through the day. Also, it plays music. Which means I get to have a soundtrack. My life gets a soundtrack that other people will be able to hear. Now, all I have to do is queue up the proper tracks.

I'm so excited for this break. So many big plans. Writing every day. Drawing every day. Music every day. Art every day! It's going to be the best Christmas break ever. I still want to go on a trip, though. My dad just bought some new tents to replace our old one that tore on the last camping trip. Maybe I can grab the small one and just wander off into somewhere for a while. My phone has a video camera in it, which means I can probably make a horribly shitty rendition of my soon-to-be hit program Gabe Goes Places.

But I bet it's really cold outside, so that probably won't happen.

Moving from left to right.

2010-11-30T00:57:00.000-08:00

I had almost forgotten how much I loved running. Or, maybe, love is too strong of a word. Generally, even. Either way, I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed running. I was anxious about the whole thing. I mean, it was hard to find the time to run and train up before it. Not that I'd need to train up for a measly five mile run, of course.

So we ran cold.

It was wonderful. The crowd of people, the energy. I couldn't help myself. I just ran, made my way up the group a bit. Nothing spectacular. I knew those little 50-yard sprints were going to bite me, but I didn't care. I was feeling competitive. I love that feeling. So I ran and I ran until my knee started to bother me. It wasn't much. Just a bit tender. And then it got worse, so I walked for a bit. Just a bit, though. Because if there's one thing I love more than competition, it's pushing things too far.

And so, naturally, I sprinted the last mile as best I could. Which is bad, apparently. So that'll be fun, I guess. I think I can get a really good last run in before all of that business comes to a head. Or maybe frisbee. That'll really make things fun.

Get 'em, Gooseboy.

2010-11-27T18:57:00.000-08:00

It had been such a long time since I'd last seen him. Not terribly long, I suppose, but long enough that I took note. He's doing much better. Health-wise, emotionally. It's fantastic. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen him so happy. He was laughing and smiling and joking around. Not even self-deprecating jokes.

Real jokes.

And so we walked and we laughed and we caught up on things. Things and people. She's moving all the way to Dallas from Boston. Partly for work, mostly for him. She's good for him, I think. They seem like a good match, at least. Things are going well. As long as he's happy. I'll meet her in a few days and pass judgement. It's nice to hear him finally start talking like he knows what his future holds. Such a dramatic change. You can only beat a man down for so long.

It'll be interesting. Seeing them together. Got to make a good impression, I guess.

A long equation of letters.

2010-11-16T19:48:00.000-08:00

“Okay.” The medic said. He continued to stare out the window at the city. The empty city. The quiet city. The somber city with its glass and concrete fingers that reached desperately up into the sky. He couldn’t tell if the sun had started to set. It was dark. Every day was dark. It was always dark.

“I’ve heard enough.”

“And, uh,” the man said, stifling a cough. “It’s like I was saying. We’re just looking to stay for the night. A couple days at most. Just until, you know.” He nodded toward the sleeping boy in the corner. The man looked tired. Frail in the candlelight. His thinning hair and the bags under his eyes made him look so much older than he was. Or probably was.

Actually, the medic thought, he’s probably pretty old. He looked over the father again.

The man wrung his hands silently. His eyelids dropped and he shook himself awake. The last couple of weeks had not been easy on him. He looked so tired just sitting there, as if the effort of sitting up and staying awake came at a tremendous cost to his body. He was exhausted. So tired. So pale.

So sick.

The medic watched him, hefting the pistol in his hand. Cradling. Contemplating.

“And, uh, I don’t remember if I told you or not,” the man said, extending his hand across the table. “But I’m Roger. And my boy is Taylor.” He held his hand out for a while before setting it back down on the table. His eyes dropped.

“I know who you are.” The medic said.

The man seemed genuine. His story was consistent. He was eager to join in and help. Eager to survive. The light flickered and danced on the table with every breath the men took. The medic leaned back in his chair, shooting a quick glance at the woman. She leaned against the wall, watching from the shadows.

Her hand rested comfortably on her hip, a finger’s length away from the pistol that hung from her belt.

The medic looked over at the boy, huddled under a pile of jackets and blankets. Shivering. With fever. The boy and the father had nothing with them save for the blanket they carried. They had no supplies. No water, no food, no medicine.

No weapons.

The medic stood from his chair and took a deep breath. He looked down at the man. Into his desperate eyes. He forced a smile.

The father sighed, relieved. “Oh thank you.” He said. “We’ll—“

“No,” the medic said. “You can’t come with us.” Behind him, the woman stepped away from the wall, hands disappearing in the dark. He raised his pistol. “Show me your arm.”

The man stared at him, eyes flicking around the room. “What? Why?”

“Now.” The gun clicked as he released the safety.

The man began to push away from the table. The chair squeaked against the floor. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean to. We’ll just go. We’ll leave now.”

The medic stepped around the table. “Show me your arm.”

The man cowered on his chair, tears streaming down his ashen face as he pulled up his sleeve. His forearm was discolored with subtle shades of purple and blue and red. He dropped his sleeve down again without revealing the full extent of his wound. His head fell into his hands and he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. Please let us go.”

“Isaac,” the woman whispered, stepping away from the table. Her bony fingers wrapped around the pistol comfortably.

“I know.” The medic said.

There was a flash of light and a loud retort as he pulled the trigger. The pistol shuddered in his hand with a confident pop and a brass shell clattered away. The man slumped over without a sound. It’s not worth a follow up, Isaac thought. The medic stepped over the body and made his way to the corner. Each step was deliberate. Each boot step echoed with a dull thud, and the rubble beneath his feet crackled quietly. The boy had not moved from his position. In fact, the boy wasn’t moving anymore. Isaac kicked away the pile of clothes to reveal the child.

“Lillian,” he said, motioning for her to come.

As she approached him, the medic lifted the boy’s shirt, revealing a large festering wound—a gash across the young boy’s belly. Torn, Isaac thought. And bitten. And not well bandaged. He looked up at the woman, who stared down with her hand over her mouth.

“Both of them,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He said.

“Both of them.” She turned away, zipping up her jacket again. “No more, Isaac. No more people.” She paused at the top of the stairs and waited for him to join her.

He stood slowly and raised his pistol again. Another one. He squeezed off the shot and holstered the gun. He lingered for a moment. Blood began to seep through the blankets and curled around his feet like crimson tendrils. It wasn’t fair.

“No more people.” He muttered.

There was blood on his shoes. There was always blood on his shoes.

The cloister bell rings.

2010-11-12T23:42:00.000-08:00

I've always thought it was funny to see what you absorb from your surroundings. The little personality ticks you get from your close friends. That weird pronunciation that slips through after you watch a bunch of shows where the characters have different accents. The little things that most people would never notice. Other people, I mean. But silently, you would acknowledge it every time. Or some of the time.

You would know, some of the time.

And I guess I have sort of an obsessive personality. I get attached to things quickly. And strongly. I get into things obsessively. Like Doctor Who. I love it. I love watching Doctor Who. I've watched the 10th Doctor's run so many times now that it's starting to manifest in my personality. The way I speak. The way I stand. The way I run around in my sneakers. The way I let my coat swing around me. It's pretty damn nerdy, but kind of funny. No harm, no foul, I suppose.

There's a whole science to it. To the personality-absorbing-manifesting-emulating... thing. It's pretty interesting stuff. I wish I understood it better. It is a science, I think. Depends on who you ask, I guess. Oh well.

Maybe I just need to play dress up more often.

Wash, rinse, spin, repeat.

2010-11-08T23:23:00.000-08:00

There's a certain friend of mine that never ceases to make my day whenever I run into him. There's just something about him. He's the most honest person I've ever met, I think. He's actually happy. And it rubs off. I've only ever seen him with a huge, goofy grin. Energetic and bubbly and hilarious. He's so full of life and faith and everything. I don't even understand how that's possible.

I was lucky enough to run into him twice within the span of a couple of days.

And it was fantastic. I aspire to be him, one day, probably. So humble and content and legitimate. I mean, it was only reluctantly that he told us he was on the football team. I think that says a lot right there. Truth be told, I barely even know the guy. But I respect him a lot.

So that's, you know, that.

The cold beneath my fingers.

2010-11-05T10:14:00.001-07:00

I really want to play saxophone again. And immediately. It is a pretty terrible feeling when somebody asks, "Hey, I've got a big opportunity, do you still play saxophone?" and you answer honestly: "No, not really." Maybe it's the music I've been listening to lately. All jazz. Maybe it's the weather. Or some kind of identity crisis.

Again.

But the whole episode really burned me. I came home and sat on a bed with my saxophone in my lap for a while, just looking at it. Feeling it. The soft pap as I pressed the keys down. The airy buzz. The first sound that's so cold and so warm at the same time. But still so empty. Lonely. But I don't care. I'm going to play it again. And the clarinet, too. I haven't played it in forever. I saw a clarinet lamp and couldn't help but hold it. I miss it. I miss them.

I've changed, recently. Irreversibly, I guess. Maybe it's why I've had so much trouble getting back into writing. It seems like no matter how hard I try, I can't be as cynical as I used to. I just can't do it. Even if I wanted to, which, I realized, I don't particularly. It's kind of funny, I guess.

But only kind of.

Non-denom nom nom.

2010-11-02T22:08:00.000-07:00

I knew how things would go down even as he walked down the steps. I tried to bury myself in the Sudoku puzzle--which I hate doing--when he walked up next to me. I took a quick glance at his shirt. Hell is REAL, it read. "Have you repented for your sins?" He asked. "Did you know that Jesus Christ our Lord and savior died for your sins? Did you know if you live a life of sin you will go to Hell?" And before I could think of anything to say, I said, "I know the word of the Lord."

And so began my 20 minute conversation with the Hellfire preacher.

But it really wasn't that good of a story or an experience except for the fact that it made me think about stuff. Entirely unrelated to what I was doing at the time. Because I was in auto-pilot mode. The mode where I detach my mind from my mouth and carry on full conversations with people without actually being invested in it. I realized I've gotten very good at it. I just don't process anything they say and just sort of respond in such a way that it's random but still makes sense in context. I don't get anything out of it and don't actually put anything into it, but they walk away thinking it was a legitimate conversation with somebody who really cared about what was being said. It's sort of a mean thing to do, I guess.

But I've gotten pretty good at those things too.

"Well, I won't hold you anymore," he said. "And I wasn't telling you all that stuff because I'm looking for pity or anything." I cut him off and shook his hand. "The Lord will provide." I said. He looked up at me as he shook my hand. He looked like he was about to cry. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much. It was great to meet you, Jack."

I smiled back at him once as I walked down the stairs and back home where I ate lunch.

Here's where I disappear.

2010-11-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

The funny thing is, I actually really enjoy tutoring kids. I mean, I like kids. They're hilarious. I just don't particularly like going there. The bus can be a scary place. Actually, the bus is a scary place. Full of scary people. Which, largely, is why I don't ride the bus home anymore.

"Everyone here," he said. "Everyone here is fake."

I nodded silently, shooting a furtive glance to the woman behind me. Things were getting out of hand. "People are just fucking fake here, man. Up in fucking Chicago," he went on. "People were fucking real. There was no fucking 'Blood' or 'Crip' shit going around. Look at me." I looked up at him. "I'm fucking somebody. I'm fucking GD governor. GD. Gangsta disciple. I'm somebody, man. People here? They're fucking nobody."

"Damn, bro." I said. I checked my watch.

And, so, the conversation continued in much the same way for a while until another man came to the bus stop. "Hey, 'scuse me." He said. I turned to look at him. "Hey, yo, what time is it?" I raised my arm to tell him the time. The GD governor stepped in, pushing my arm down.

"Nah, don't tell him shit. Hey," he said to the other man. "Fuck your shit."

They exchanged a few mildly to extremely offensive words before things settled down again. After a few minutes of being lectured about how real the Gangsta Disciples were and how fake Austin was, the other man approached us. "Hey, I got a question for you." The governor turned him and cut in. "Get out of here what that shit--"

The other man got up in his face and screamed, "Shut the fuck up before I kill you!" Everything got quiet. I'm going to die here, I thought. "Now," he said, turning back to me. "How come when I asked you what the time was before you looked at me all shitty like?" "No," I said. "Right, no, I was going to tell you--"

"Hush up, don't answer that shit." The governor interjected. "Hey get the fuck on out of here," he said to the other man. "Else I'm going to beat the shit out of you."

This riled up the other man and they both started going at it. They began to grapple there at the bus stop and I stood there, a bit confused as to what I ought to do. The other man swung is arm at me, trying to connect and trying to grab me. "I got urges!" He yelled. "I kill people! I kill people on the weekends! I got urges to kill people!" I scanned up and down the street, looking--praying--for the bus to come.

"Get over here, baby boy!" The woman cried. "Baby boy, get on over here, get away from them!" I snatched my bag and slipped to the old woman's side. "We going to get on that bus and get the hell out of here." She said.

"Get back over here you cracker bitch!" The other man yelled.

The bus came, the woman and I jumped on and, after making some quick suggestions to the bus driver, began our journey home. "Go home, baby boy." She said. "Don't ever come back to this damn place. Just go on home and don't look back."

"Okay," I said.

Then, for the rest of the bus ride home, she told me about her life as a drug addict and prostitute.

Tomorrow's not what it used to be.

2010-10-31T20:57:00.001-07:00

Halloween is definitely my favorite holiday of the year, I think. It's certainly the one I look forward to the most. Even more so than my birthday, which isn't a real holiday, I guess. Halloween just has so much to it. Maybe it's the nostalgia of dressing up and being silly and having fun. Or brainstorming and planning a costume. Or partying. Or just dressing up.

I actually just like dressing up and playing make believe.

There's something about this semester that has really thrown me off. I haven't been drawing what I want to. It's always right up against the deadline, some kind of rushed thing. I mean, everything this semester has been right up against the deadline but even more so with the drawing. I haven't been taking it particularly seriously, which is a shame, I guess.

One of these days I will post all of the comics between two months ago and now, since, you know. Whatever.

Hold the fruit.

2010-10-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

The lack of writing, I think, is why I've been so wound up lately. I haven't been able to sort through thoughts properly. Haven't been able to compose myself, I guess. I've lost my routine. Maybe I just need to get my groove back.

Or get used to a new one.

It's just hard. I really don't feel motivated to write. So much for passion. It's one of those things, though, that I sort of need to keep doing things properly. Legitimate diaries and journals get lost or forgotten. Or, well, actually, they don't. I always feel so guilty trying to write in a nice journal. With the nice binding and covers and nice paper. I'll write for a little while and then stop because I worry I'm wasting a nice book with doodles and random nonsense. Nice books like that should be filled with wonderful things. Oh well.

Surgery and satisfaction.

2010-08-18T21:18:00.001-07:00

My brother is wrapping up high school band camp. It's kind of funny, because suddenly we have something we can both relate to. Sort of. Not really in a loving, brotherly way. It's more like a begrudging transmission and reception of information. You take what you can get, I guess.

After a few days of band camp, I discovered that he had been leaving his instrument in the band hall without a lock. "Nobody steals stuff out of the band hall." He told me. I related some appropriate anecdotes and let him borrow my own lock until he could get one for himself. "I'm going to need that back," I told him. "So you'll need to get your own lock." A couple of weeks later, I reminded him of the terms of our deal. The next day he returned my lock and revealed that he had left his saxophone unlocked.

And apparently, for reasons beyond my comprehension, this is my fault.

Scribbled and erased a thousand times.

2010-08-17T08:01:00.000-07:00

One of the things I really enjoy about the summer is sitting in my room at night and watching the dramas that unfold on my windows. All of the moths and bugs flock to the window, trying to get to the light on the other side. And, so, it becomes a hunting ground for intrepid geckos. I've seen geckos eating some pretty damn big moths. And they'll fight each other for bugs. I've seen huge moths slam into my window, too. Like, Mothra type shit going on. It scared me pretty bad. I saw a gecko try to eat a cicada, once. The cicada flew away with the gecko. I wish I had that kind of resolve.

I'm finding that I don't, especially as I clean my room and sort through my old things. Unfinished stories and projects and songs and all sorts of things. All abandoned over time and forgotten. I won't let that happen to this zombie story, though. Hopefully.

Might just let it go.

2010-08-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

I read an article the other day that stated, with several different levels of confidence, that our personalities are pretty much set after 1st grade. And, so, I thought about it for a bit and tried to remember what I was like in 1st grade. The only thing that really stuck out to me was the memory of my teacher.

She was an older woman with a gaunt face. Very serious. Also, very mean. Unduly mean, it seemed. Considering we had just come from kindergarten, a year that revolved primarily around raising chickens and playing games, being forced to exclusively do legitimate schoolwork with no transition was a bit of a shock. And the few times we did anything remotely fun, she managed to suck the pleasure out of them by criticizing us for not coloring inside the lines or some such foolishness. There were, I'm sure, many other examples. But thinking about 1st grade fills me with a sort of rebellious fervor.

It was, I believe, the first time I had ever recognized an authority figure as one undeserving of respect. In fact, in my 1st grade mind, she deserved nothing but disrespect. As such, my other memory of 1st grade involves parent/teacher conferences and stern talking-to's. And the next year, we went back to playing games and learning in a way that was both constructive and fun. I never forgot that experience, though. The other 1st grade teachers were so nice to their classes.

1st grade was a real bubble buster for me, I guess. It was a good lesson to learn. And, I suppose, a pivotal moment in my personality development. Because authority is earned, not delegated. But really I just wish we could've played games or some shit instead of doing math worksheets.

Please don't get too excited.

2010-08-07T21:46:00.001-07:00

The other day, as I drove home from class, I realized there was a fly in my car. A tiny little fruit fly, not unlike the ones we studied once upon a time in high school biology lab. It was albino. He flew around for a bit as I drove out of the parking lot. A bit annoyed, I tried to wave him out the window. He would always fly back in and land on the dashboard. Finally, he landed on my finger. I moved my hand about, trying to get him to fly away. But he never budged. He sat on top of my knuckle and faced forward, looking out toward the road. I tried raising my hand to the open window, but he would walk down my arm until I brought my hand back inside the car. And he would face the road again.

So I let him drive with me, my ever vigilant fly buddy. During the trip he faced forward, unyielding in the face of the uncertain path. And in that moment, I connected with him. He wanted what I wanted: to move forward. To go somewhere. Somewhere new. To have an adventure. We continued our trip in respectful silence. Finally, we arrived home and I stepped out of the car. I raised my hand and he turned to look at me with his red eyes. "Good luck out there," I said. He nodded and flew away.

Keep the car in drive.

2010-07-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

The other day I decided that it was finally time to get rid of my toys. It was something that I had been thinking about for a long time, but never acted on for multiple reasons. Chief among them, the fact that I still played with them from time to time. I'm just a boy. I can't resist opening my Lego box or busting out my action figures every once in a while. You just get that urge to sit down and let go of all of the nonsense you're forced to deal with every day. Plus, I mean, some of these toys are pretty badass. I'd sit down and play with them until the sun came up, unfolding a plastic drama on my carpet and realizing I'd never be able to part with any of it. The sentimentality and the creativity they fueled.

But, after months and years of telling myself I would and after months and years of being told I should, I did.

And it was so easy at first. I mean, when was the last time I played with G.I. Joe? Or those generic soldier action figures? Just as soon as I'd spotted them, they were packed up in bags and boxes, ready to disappear. And then, the old books I never read. And I cleared the clutter off my bookshelves and consolidated everything to maximize space.

Then, I sorted through the Star Wars action figures. It was almost a mindless operation. I'd grab a handful of them or one of the vehicles and drop it into the cardboard box. I didn't want the Tatooine Landspeeder with the faulty windshield anymore. I didn't want the Naboo Speeder they'd bought for me to play with at the wedding in California anymore. I didn't want Prince Xizor or Grand Moff Tarkin. Or the rest of the characters I never really liked. I did want, however, Luke Skywalker. The figure I'd gotten for Christmas and held onto so tightly while watching Return of the Jedi again, lightsaber in his gloved hand. I did want Han Solo, frozen in carbonite. The figure I convinced my mom I needed to have in order to finish my collection of protagonists from Return of the Jedi. I pulled aside just a couple of memories for myself, and put the rest away. It was easy enough. Just cleaning.

Finally I got to the Lego box.

The bad Lego sets left immediately. The knock offs, the sets I never liked, the little $2 ones, the old kits I never played with in the first place. But, as the remaining bricks dwindled, I came to the real reason I still had a Lego box in my room. Among the handful of vehicles that remained, a collection of unattractively constructed ships and cars that had cannibalized greater builds, sat my prized fleet. Three jets I'd built years and years before. They were, in many ways, perfect. The look, the design, the capacity, the function. Even seven or eight years later I was still proud of them. And among those jets, the first one I'd built. It even had "wing lights" to differentiate port from starboard. And a space for the engine. And turbines. I played with that ship for years. I did research into jets and jet design and engineering before I finished building it. I read books, searched the internet, and studied pictures. In the end, I built a Lego jet that I was more proud of than many other things I'd done in my life. In the end, it was a bunch of random bricks that a boy squeezed together. In the end, it wouldn't fit in the bag whole.

And in the end, I broke it apart.

It was a horrible, gut-twisting feeling. As I peeled away the layers of Lego bricks, I could see where the dust had settled and outlined where they had once sat. It wasn't just a Lego jet I was dismantling and dropping in a box to give to some unappreciative child. It was my childhood--an integral part of it, at least. With effort, I dropped all the pieces into the bag and put it with the others. I saved my little Lego pilot, though. My Lego avatar who flew that jet to Hell and back a hundred times over. Who climbed mountains and explored the ocean and colonized space and defended foreign civilizations. Through whom I lived vicariously.

I hate growing up.

My life is my own.

2010-07-15T19:29:00.001-07:00

I'm sure I've said it many times over, but shows like The Prisoner really resonate with me. Not the remake, of course, because it was garbage. The actual one. At its core, it was a single man against the system. Maintaining his individuality in the face of conforming to a homogeneous society. But more fundamental than a social struggle. It was the single man resisting the power that was both corrupt and absolute. Even though everybody else complied and tried to break him down, he still held to what he knew to be right and wrong.

And that stuck with me.

At the end of our conversation, whatever it had been about, my dad turned to me. "It's not something people like to acknowledge. The only rights you have are the ones you are willing to fight for." He pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine. "You are a free man," he said. "Whether or not you realize it. Whether or not you choose to realize it." And with that, we went inside the house and went our separate ways.

I try, or at least go to great lengths, to abstain from political discourse in a public forum. It is a virtual absolute that, despite their emphatic assertions otherwise, people are just as closed-minded as the worst. We have opinions and we hold them so closely that any efforts to change our minds only serves to cement those beliefs. This is especially true with politics. Unconsciously, friends think differently of each other when they discover their political leanings. It's terrible, sure, but what can you do.

Except avoid it all together.

But there are certain things that have been happening recently, political in nature, that have drawn me increasingly further out of my neutral position. Notably, the advent of things like the local police department's "no refusal" policy, mandatory DUI/DWI checkpoints, and forced blood draws. I mean, sure, I hate drunk drivers as much as the next person but not to the extent that I'm going to consent to any of that shit. The police chief was quoted as saying, "My intent in the future is to make it so there is no such thing as a refusal." The people I've talked to don't seem to be concerned, though. I must be overreacting, I guess, because I don't have a problem with any of it.

They may have the power to make rules, but they don't have the authority to make me follow them--especially when they're wrong. It's not just some bullshit fantasy of heroic rebellion or some prepubescent pseudo-anarchist shit, it's a response to a fundamental violation of what I believe to be just. And the alarmed response to the people who are so uninterested. I'm not sure why people think we live in this "college bubble" where the real world doesn't touch us. That's the compliance I can't stand. That's the attitude that makes it illegal for us to refuse being subjected to a blood test at a police checkpoint.

That's the attitude that allows worse things to happen.

Just the stirring in my soul.

2010-07-12T19:43:00.000-07:00

I, really, kind of don't want to be here anymore. Not in the sense that I am dissatisfied with my life or my present situation--which isn't to say that I'm not, because I am in a way--but in the sense that I am dissatisfied with the lack of things happening. I keep looking around. Out the window of my room. Out the window of my car. Out the window of the living room. I want to be on the other side of that glass. That's where the action is.

I need, desperately, an adventure.

I need to go somewhere. See something. Anywhere, anything. I don't care where or what as long as it's happening. I want to travel so badly. Grab my backpack and my camera and walk away. I'd settle for going to the same state park I've been to a hundred times over. It's this routine I'm stuck in. Seeing the same shit every day, going through the same motions. I need to change it up, break things. I need some vitality--being cooped up is killing me. What I really want is an adventure where the likelihood of something going terribly wrong is virtually a guarantee.

You know, something fun.

Surrounded by all this pavement.

2010-07-11T22:39:00.001-07:00

I watched them as I quietly locked up my bike. They were in the alley. Or, rather, she was in the alley and so was he. He was getting more aggressive, and she was trying to leave. They hadn't noticed me and I wanted to keep it that way. He didn't look like somebody I wanted to tangle with. But the fact was, they were where I wanted to be. "Leave me alone," she seemed to say, trying not to make a large scene. "I said get over here, bitch." He seemed to reply. He continued to get up close to her even as she tried desperately to get away. I kept my head down and hugged the wall as I tried to pass by, unnoticed. He puffed out his chest and knocked her to the ground. I stopped. He continued to get up in her business and, finally, jumped on top of her. "What now?" I imagined him growling at her as he dug into her back and stepped on her head.

I stepped out into the alley.

"Hey," I challenged. "Leave her alone." He turned to look at me, and climbed off of her to his feet. She pulled herself up. "Get out of here." I said, and with that she made her hasty escape. He and I sidestepped each other, locking eyes. His eyes betrayed a fiery rage and I responded with an icy glare. We continued to walk our circle in the alley, a tense dance that seemed to be a prelude to violent transgressions. "I'm going to give you one chance to walk away." I said. He paused for a moment, perhaps considering the gravity of my threat before taking a step into the arena we had carved into the stone. He continued to stare me down, unfazed by my posturing--emboldened, even. I stopped as he took another step toward me. And another. I took an aggressive step toward him and he flew away.

I fucking hate pigeons.

I was sitting at a stop light the other day when a bird landed in the intersection. A young pigeon, I guess. It kept dodging the cars that were turning left but absolutely refused to fly away. Finally, an 18-wheeler drove through the intersection. It was at this point that the young pigeon decided it was most opportune to fly away. He jumped up and spread his wings just as the truck drove through the intersection, smashing the pigeon into the grill and continuing on. I never saw the pigeon again, partly because my light turned green.

But mainly because birds are not very smart.

Walking the dog.

2010-07-05T22:25:00.000-07:00

I actually can get along quite well with little kids. And in a totally non-creepy way. It's got something to do with me not actually ever growing up completely, I guess. I'm still desperately clinging on to my childhood persona. And it lets me relate to younger people with much success. On of my friends talked to me at length about such things and we decided we were both at the advantage since we both were in the same situation in that regard.

It's why I have more fun drawing Ben the Box Boy than all the other stuff.

But I don't like kids when they go through my room and touch my things. Or worse, talk to me. My dad had invited some work friends over for the weekend, and one brought his son. As soon as he got inside the house he disappeared up the stairs. When I got upstairs I found him rifling through my bookshelf, toys, and closet. And playing with a yo-yo in my room. The second time I came upstairs he confronted me. "You have a lot of knives sitting around in your room." He said. "No," I replied. "I don't." He led me back into my room and showed me the knife collection that had apparently been left on my bookshelf. The camping knife from the top of the shelf, the pocket knife from my desk, the pocket knife from my backpack, the dive knife from the dive bag in the closet--all unsheathed and unfolded. It was beyond him, apparently, to figure out how to put them away.

Or, you know, to just not go through somebody's things in the first place. I find myself consistently disappointed in the parents I see these days who seem to be unable to control their children. Is it so hard to discipline your kids? To instill a sense of boundaries and proper behavior? This kid was going into 6th grade and he, for whatever reason, felt he had the right to go through everyone's personal belongings. We were apparently not the only family who fell victim to his marauding.

I put my hand on his shoulder and firmly guided him out of my room. "I'm not entirely sure what makes you think you're entitled to go through my things," I said softly. "But I can assure you that you are absolutely not. You are not welcome in my room, you are not welcome upstairs, you are not even welcome on the stairs." I continued guiding him down the stairwell as I spoke. "You can sit on the sofa in the living room for the remainder of your visit," I said. "And if you get up from it for any reason, we will have a serious problem. Am I understood?" He looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes. "Yes." He said. "Yes?" I asked. "Yes, sir." He said.

And, to his credit, he stayed on the sofa until he went home.

Mental see-saw.

2010-07-04T22:10:00.001-07:00

I don't really have a good sense of moderation. I never have. It's something I struggle with, I guess. And it seems like it shouldn't be such a problem since balance is one of those tenets I try to base my life around. I guess I have trouble with moderation because I also have trouble with balance.

These things are difficult.

But it's not so much a difficulty exhibiting moderation with vices--drinking, smoking, gambling, womanizing, thievery, leaving toilet seats up, etc.--as it is a difficulty exhibiting moderation in a reflexive sense. It's something I notice most often, and ignore, when I do something that requires physical strain. Like athletics, competitive or otherwise. Most people seem to have a dimmer switch of intensity, where they can appropriately adjust the output of their intensity in response to factors both environmental and personal. They generally never push themselves beyond capacity unless they truly have to, and they make sure to mellow out to avoid unnecessary exertion or injury.

Which is totally stupid, I guess.

I have a switch with two functions: mellow and maximum intensity. I don't want to settle for trying pretty hard. I won't. Unless I, you know, don't care. But it's that switch that makes me try to sprint up Enchanted Rock. Even if I'm dragging my limp, exhausted body up to the top I'll be doing it as fast and as hard as I can. It makes me sprint up the hill that's too steep for my bike. It makes me sprint and make hard stops and turns even after my knee is worn down to the bones until the game is done. It drives me forward regardless of the personal cost.

I feel like that's a good thing. It's a good thing to do. I mean, why wouldn't you do something at your maximum ability? It's such a waste.

Eye for an eye gives us a better perspective.

2010-07-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

As not riding it around would make me even tardier than usual, I frequently ride my bike around campus. The other day, as I made my way back to my car after a particular vile round of classes, I found myself stuck behind a massive youth volleyball team. I slowed down and sort of idled along behind them, lost to my angry musings.

But, then, a little girl in the back turned to look at me.

She smiled and I smiled back, and then she began tapping the shoulders of her teammates. "Hey," she said. "Get out of the way." And so she ran ahead of me, clearing her cow-like team off the sidewalk and eventually we found ourselves at the head of the entire group. She turned to me and beamed proudly."Thank you so much." I said. "You're welcome." She said. "Team captain, right?" I asked. Her smile dropped slightly. "No." "Ah, well." I said. "Sounds like your coach made a big mistake." I looked up at the woman I presumed to be her coach and raised my eyebrows. The girl smiled widely and I continued on my way.You know, it's not often, but every once in a while I'm reminded that people aren't so bad. Even if it is a precious minority, it's enough, I think, to balance out the rest of them.

Light bulb full of anger.

2010-06-24T07:11:00.000-07:00

I often struggle--grapple--with my temper. More often than I'd like to admit. Too often, probably. I've done a pretty good job keeping it in check over the years, I think, but every once in a while things get to be a bit much. Maybe it has something to do with faulty temperature regulation. Maybe you just wake up some days and everything in your head lines up such that you don't take shit from anybody the whole day. Or week. Or month. Uncontrolled tempers cause serious problems. This, I know. People tend not to respond well to you when burst into furious flames of unbridled, you know, fury.

I have to make a conscious effort every day to keep myself in line. Like yesterday. When my Mexican-American history professor canceled class via e-mail the morning of. When I got my genetics test back and found that they had failed to properly calculate my grade--an error which penalized me significantly--and then forced me to jump hoops to get it fixed. When my American culture professor droned on about how awful and arrogant the military is and how much he hated it for an hour and a half.

He actually equated the US to Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan. And everybody nodded, knowingly.

Then, when I was preparing to return to my car and go home after an utterly disappointing and frustrating day, I pulled off to the edge of the sidewalk to get my music playing and drink some water. During this span of two or three minutes where I didn't move from my position, a girl who was so engrossed in her texting almost walked straight into me on my very much parked bike. At the very edge of the sidewalk. "Oh my God." She said, offended. "Ass." She added as she continued to walk blindly down the sidewalk. As if I had been the one to walk straight into a parked bicycle. Incensed, I resumed my homeward trek.

The best part of the day came when I reached the intersection, a four-way stop. As I am not a douchebag bicyclist, I pulled to a stop at my stop sign. I deferred right of way to the car that had stopped a second or two before I had and then, as it passed, started across the street. I was, by all accounts and purposes, following the standard rules of the road. The woman who had been behind the other car, however, decided that since I was on a bicycle I did not count as an entity to which right of way could be deferred. And so she sped across the intersection and cut me off, an action which--in order to avoid a crash--required me to jerk my bike to a stop and her to actually swerve out a little bit. She was close enough that I could see the ratty tennis shoes that were sitting on the passenger seat. She shook her fist angrily at me and shouted some profanities that implied that I was at fault.

That was a tipping point as I flipped her the bird and tried, in vain, to chase her down the sidewalk to get her license plate. Unfortunately, she had already blown through the next stop sign and was long gone.

Days like that remind me why I'm such a bitter person. Days like that make me question why I bother trying to be a nice, compassionate person. Why I don't just have my guns blazing everywhere I go. It would, I think, save me a lot of headache in the end. People certainly deserve the worst, especially when it comes through in their own actions. And that is something I truly want to believe. I don't, because I can't, but that doesn't mean I can't wish. Especially on a day like that.

My Mexican American history class was canceled again today. Only this time he didn't send us a last minute e-mail. He let us show up and find out for ourselves. Today is starting to look pretty good.

White-knuckle daydreaming.

2010-06-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

Some people think I take driving too seriously, I think. And it's not that I don't, it's just not what they think is going on. I actually love driving. I love driving around and going places. Partly because of the very mild sense of travel and adventure, mostly because it affords a very unique opportunity to multitask. I like driving because it's a mental challenge. And so people comment that I'm too intense when I drive because, even when I'm with friends and there's good music on the radio, I'm still holding the steering wheel and looking forward.

And it's not that, exactly.

I'm keeping tabs on everything. I'm watching the guy three cars ahead of me in the other lane getting ready to recklessly weave between lanes to merge blindly on the freeway, I'm watching the woman in my blind spot who is about to cut sharply into my lane, I'm watching the car speeding nervously through the intersection ahead. I'm observing and registering all of these warning flags of other drivers to avoid and assigning priority levels based on the immediacy of danger. And, of course, listening intently to the music. And listening to the passengers. And keeping an ear out for my phone. And thinking about where I'm going and how best to get there. And, finally, dealing with whatever memories get triggered by the plethora of stimuli I assault myself with. And, so, I zone out when I'm actually driving. It happens a lot, actually. I go into a sort of auto-pilot. Some subsection of my consciousness deals with the actual navigating and reacting while the rest deals with everything else. It's like a driving intuition; I just trust myself to manage the driving.

There's also an amount of brain power--and this should go without saying--devoted to worrying that my auto-pilot is going to get me into a car accident. Again.

Reprioritize for success.

2010-06-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize recently that, visually speaking, I am attracted to very simple things. Clean things. I love modern architecture. Neutral, cold colors. Straight lines and organic curves. Sterile environments. Not to say that I dislike classical or embellished, dramatic things. I just really like simple things.

Keep it clean.

I've also been considering the types of people I let into my life. Or, rather, the people I let stay. I had some surprisingly deep conversations out at the beach on the subject of friends, and I've been thinking ever since. It's time, I think, to start getting serious about my social circle. About the list of people I designate as friends. And to start holding onto them. Which means, in some cases, reconnecting. A daunting task, surely, but it's worth it.

This is what's important--not grade transcripts--to be happy.

The knowing look and we nod silently.

2010-06-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago I stopped my car just in time to let a crippled bird hoppity-hop his way across the road. He jumped up onto the curb and looked back at me as if to thank me for my consideration before I continued on my way. Then, as I drove home, a typical Westlake mom almost sideswiped me when she dramatically tried to jerk her car into my lane. I guess I can't get too upset at that since I was basically in her blind spot. Oh wait, it was actually the opposite. I was actually mostly in front of her--she was basically in my blind spot. She sped up in her lane and sort of made a halfhearted apologetic gesture with her bejeweled hand and I sped the rest of the way home, leaving her far behind.

Not to be blasphemous, but this is probably how Jesus felt when he did good things and everybody around him was an ass.

I really was excited to take these history classes over the summer. "History of Mexican Americans in the U.S." and "Main Current American Culture Since 1865." These are basically the first humanities classes I've taken at UT. It's weird to think about it, but I've actually only taken science and math so far. Actually, pretty much exclusively science up until this point. And the thing about science is that you never really get that human perspective. Science is sort of an ongoing quest for knowledge that is blanketed with anonymity. If you think about it, it's really just a presentation of facts, methods of finding those facts, and the possibility to discover more facts using new methods. There's never an individual context for it.

But there is in a humanities course, which is why I was looking forward to it. It's nice to step back and look at people as people and not organisms.

Unfortunately these professors had different plans for their classes than what I'd hoped for. Not to betray personal political beliefs or biases, but all these professors do is indoctrinate their students with liberal dogma. There is, essentially, no transmission of historical facts or information of knowledge beyond a general sentiment that if you hold political views that differ from the professors then you are some sort of uneducated, backwards piece of shit person who doesn't deserve to be alive. It's disgusting, really. If they slipped in their personal political opinions every once in a while then that's fine, so long as they acknowledge that it is their own. But when sizable portions of class time are taken out for them to rant about how dumb religion is or how stupid conservatives are it gets to be overbearingly ridiculous. At this point, I have no respect for these professors. Admittedly, though, I did not hold them in high regard before classes started.

It's not a problem that you see in science classes, which is probably why I quite naively skipped into class the first day. Science seems to transcend all of that bullshit. Even where political views could be incorporated into lectures or opinions over controversial topics could be suggested, I've never actually observed such transgressions in a science class. The professors respect their class too much, I guess. Or, I think, they simply realize that the scope of science will never be bounded by the humanities. They realize that the pursuit of knowledge draws them to the universal scale--far beyond the supposed cultural epicenters that these professors seem to think constitute the entire world.

It's a wonder to me that these people are actually employed as and call themselves teachers, what with their heads being so far up their asses.

The goodest, even.

2010-06-06T08:02:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, as I was leaving the research campus with my friend to go home, a woman approached me with her bike. "Excuse me," she said. "By any chance, are you headed that way?" She pointed off in the general direction that was the only way to leave campus. "Why yes." I said. "If it's not too much to ask," she started. "Because my bicycle has a flat tire--" "Sure." I said. "We can fit your bike in here, too."

And with that, we drove a Belgian woman home. She told us about her family back in Belgium and how we have a better education system here and we're more bike friendly than Europe and how she misses her family and Skypes with them in the evenings. We dropped her off and continued on our original route.

Later, as I entered the final stretch of my homeward journey, I saw a large something in the road. As I got closer, I realized it was a large turtle. I quickly pulled off into the shoulder and sprinted back up the road. I darted out and grabbed the very confused and upset turtle, carrying him to the grass he was headed for. I dropped him off and continued on my original route.

A couple of seconds later, a mere few meters from my driveway, I saw a man who had pulled over to the shoulder with car problems. His car must have overheated because he was pouring water into it. But I kept going and went home because I had been working on science all day and I was exhausted.

Two out of three good deeds isn't that bad, I think.

Yesterday, as I was driving to the grocery, I spotted another turtle in the road. I drove right on top of him, in fact. In my rear view mirror I saw that it was another scared turtle. So, naturally, I pulled the most ridiculous u-turn ever conceived which involved crossing literally every single lane of traffic and a slight bit of drifting. I pulled into the opposite shoulder and prepared myself to sprint across the 4 lanes of traffic to grab the turtle and save him.

But then maybe eight cars drove by and crushed him several times and I went home feeling guilty. If I'd been just a little bit faster, I could've saved that turtle. Then again, I guess, if he had been a little bit faster he wouldn't be mushed up.

Then again, he was a turtle.

Finger pointing good.

2010-06-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

When I was on the boat doing science at Galveston, I saw a lot of dolphins. It was a significant experience for me because I have never actually seen a wild dolphin in real life before. It was sort of a dream come true. And in the middle of the shipping channel, no less. They really are amazing animals. It really kills me to realize I'll probably never see dolphins in Galveston again because of what happened to the Gulf. What is happening to the Gulf.

It really is a tragedy.

On a much lighter note, I started this Insanity workout program and it was so intense that I threw up before I finished the first workout. That is a good sign, I think. It is certainly an incentive to complete the entire thing. Anything that makes you feel that bad so quickly must be good for you.

I'm a geologist, not an alcoholic.

2010-05-31T21:41:00.001-07:00

I thought I had seen people drink before. Hell, I thought that I had drank before. But, clearly, I thought wrong on both of those counts. I cannot, for the life of me, think of a reason to justify all of the drinking that transpired down there last week. There was no rhyme or reason to it, it just was. Field work just makes a man thirsty.

Taking this class was easily one of the best things I've ever done. We worked hard every day out in the field. Wake up at 7, leave the beach house by 8, hit the water by 9. My first three field days were in service on the R/V Acadiana, a 58 foot vessel that towed the CHIRP fish, the air gun, and the streamer to measure all the seismic data--looking at the subsurface of the seafloor we drove over. My second ship was the R/V Itasca using the multibeam, sidescan, and grab sampler--getting seafloor surface bathymetry. They were long, exhausting days and we returned to the docks around 6 or 7 every evening.

And then, drinking. So much drinking. Too much, possibly. Although I firmly believe that when you sign up for a class and, in the middle of said class, find yourself being forcibly pulled into a hot tub to drink and smoke cigars with your professors at a beach house, you have done a good thing. My liver disagrees, I'm sure.

And now, despite the 8 or 9 hour long class days, I find myself still enjoying the course. It almost makes me want to drop medicine plans and become a marine geologist. Almost.

And the doll house looks at me.

2010-05-21T22:57:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I start feeling like I want to explore religion again. It's a cyclic sort of mindset. Comes and goes like some sort of wave function. I think about doing it, but then I never really do. I always back out and return to my ambiguously spiritual mentality. I'm drawn to the guidance, I think. In the face of a lot of contrary sentiment, I have a lot of respect for religious people. That sort of thing takes a lot of inner strength and dedication. Having faith, I mean. Those people get a lot of flak for having a set code of morals and values that they--mostly--stick to, which is something I'll never be able to understand. I'm just too antsy about making philosophical decisions like that. Too obsessive about trying to find the balance in everything. I'm not religious or logical, I'm somewhere in the middle. I'm spiritual. Or, at least, I think I'm spiritual. Or, I want to think I'm spiritual.

Or, I think I want to think I'm spiritual. Who even knows?

Even though the conversation happened weeks ago, I'm still being haunted by something a friend told me. "One day," she said. "Somebody will be the last person in your group of friends left alive. And when they die, all of those memories and stories will disappear." It just keeps echoing in my head. It's not so much depressing as humbling. We just aren't that important in the long run, I guess. Which is probably why people like religious things. It gives them a purpose and a mission in life. A way to justify being alive, which is not something everybody can do.

And on a lighter note, my friends are getting married in the morning. It makes my head spin. I feel like I need to start living my life. I barely have any direction in the things I do. People are making plans and doing things and going places. I can look forward and see the timeline I've sketched and I can see that it's just not going to allow for the things that people are supposed to do in order to have fulfilling lives. I mean, yeah: I do want to get married and have a family. Eventually. But there is just no feasible way to fit that into my schedule for a long time. It's not even on my radar, really. It's way in the distance. But I can feel that clock ticking every once in a while.

It is the crocodile in my ocean, and I am the captain of a sinking boat.

He won't see me.

2010-05-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

It really kind of blows my mind how quickly this semester went by. This last week in particular. Each semester seems to go by much more quickly than the previous one. It's like driving down a steep hill with the accelerator to the floor and hitting a ramp at the bottom and flying through the air but then getting out of the car because it was a simulation the whole time and you aren't going to die--twist ending! These last couple of days I've been having to convince myself that it's not just a long weekend before classes continue. This is summer. It's time to kick back and enjoy things and relax.

Except, it is just a long weekend before classes continue. My marine geology lecture starts up on Wednesday. I'm reasonably nervous--being a completely inexperienced and unqualified undergraduate taking a class that is largely composed of graduate students. But I had the professor's assurance that it would be a fun class, and I think I trust him on that. I'm really looking forward to the whole thing, even though we're only going out to Galveston. Not only for the fact that I'll be a) getting a great tan before summer even starts or b) cruising on a boat and kicking it in a beach house for a week, but c) the course actually sounds really interesting. Studying the lasting effects of recent hurricanes on coastal sediments? Yeah, that's pretty cool.

Here's hoping that there's no oil where we are.

I spent a few hours fixing up my bike today, in preparation of the coming semester. I'm just about ready to deal with a life of living off campus and commuting every morning. Except for, you know, not actually having a place to live yet. I probably really need to get on that before I get totally fucked.

This is roughneck two-zero-one.

2010-05-08T21:14:00.001-07:00

The airhorn sounded and for a brief moment I panicked. For a brief moment I was frozen in place. People scrambled around me, huffing and puffing. Diving behind whatever was closest. Sprinting forward. Gunfire crackled immediately from the distance. I pulled my gun to my chest and rushed for the nearest barricade. They had all gone further up the field from me. Closer to the battle. I peeked around the wooden wall. People sprinted and slid across the grass to get behind barriers and inside bunkers. I crouched down low and ran for the next barrier. And the next. When the barrels I was hiding behind stopped resonating with the plunking of enemy fire, I peeked out again.

And raised my gun, and fired.

Paintball was actually pretty damn fun. I admit, readily, that I wasn't particularly optimistic about the whole event when we started out. A large amount of college girls coupled with a significant number of clearly experienced players who had also decided to go paintballing that day. And then a couple who were clearly prepared to take out some bitches with their extreme guns. And then this Boba Fett-esque guy--who liked Ben Folds--standing off to the side looking menacing.

And of course, my fire team of protagonists.

As we loaded our weapons and prepared our gear, I sized up the opposition. "Don't take this seriously," Ashley said of the Women in Medicine paintball excursion. "They're just out here to have fun and goof off." "I know." I said. I thought back to the words of advice my dad had given me before I left.

"Remember: what's the most important thing?" He asked. I thought for a second. "...Have fun?" I asked. I knew better than that. "Winning." He said. "Keep your head down, gun up, move fast, and take every shot you get." "Alright," I said.

In the distance, gunfire erupted and women screamed. I could hear a man's voice yelling orders, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I opened my eyes. Under a gray sky, the battle raged. I looked out the window of our bunker to see the dead filing down the path. I'd been in their numbers twice already, and had no intention of joining them a last time. A fallen teammate glanced over at us with somber eyes, his gun held in the air. "Let's push." John said. And with that, we left our fort and jumped into the riverbed.

Through the brush we could see our allies slowly converging on the last enemy stronghold, a series of forts at the top of the hill. We moved quickly over the rocks and through the weeds until we reached our teammates. We took a knee on opposite sides of the path and got briefed. Our leader fired a couple of shots and turned to us. "They're in those far buildings--" Shots rang out before he could finish, sending him diving for brush cover. In the distance I could see the would-be snipers, poking their guns over the top of their fort--blind firing. I crept forward and squeezed off suppressive fire. The man turned to us again. "You aren't going to kill anything from back here, move up!" But all I heard was: C'mon you apes, you wanna live forever?

And I put my head down, pulled my gun up, sprinted for the next barricade, and pulled the trigger.

I want to die there too.

2010-05-07T22:45:00.000-07:00

The building I walk to in the mornings for classes has a large air intake vent that is part of the outside wall. There are always things stuck up against the grating. Leaves, papers, plastic bags. These things just get sucked up into it, I guess. This morning there was a bird. He had gotten sucked up against the grating. He could fly away from it--maybe a foot--but he would always get sucked back to the wall. I paused and watched him for a second. No matter how hard he tried, he always got sucked in again.

And I started thinking.

We get ourselves into trouble a lot. Trouble that could be easily avoided. Of all possible places for him to fly, that bird flew right by the intake vent. And then he couldn't get away. That's exactly what happens to us. There's something we know we shouldn't get involved with, something we should do, yet we do anyway. And things often go bad, and we get screwed. And, often, we're too proud to ask for help. Which makes things worse. Maybe our feathers get jagged and ripped up.

Finally, I called the attention of a maintenance worker. He put up a ladder and pushed the bird away from the vent, and away it flew. Sometimes all we need is a little help to get back on the right track. A little shove from a guy on a ladder and then we can go back to flying and pooping on stuff.

I ended up being late to class.

But we saw Ben Folds, which was exciting. I actually think I enjoyed seeing him play alone more than seeing him with his band. There was more charm to the concert. And his piano is just so beastly. Ridiculously full sounds were coming out of it. But, despite him playing all my favorite songs, that wasn't really what I remembered the most. Halfway through one of his songs I looked off into the distance. I could see the corner of a building from where I was. It must've been two or three blocks away. But a light came on in the corner room, and someone walked in. They did some stuff in the room but ultimately came to the window. And they stood and looked out at us, hand to the glass. Alone. "If there's a God," Ben sang. "He's laughing at us. And our football team." When the song ended, the person left the room and turned the light out.

It made me kind of sad, actually. But, I guess, that's how things go. We just keep moving on, moving on, moving on.

Greatest show in heaven, hell, or Earth.

2010-05-05T07:34:00.000-07:00

It was totally by accident that I found it. I mean, I never check that e-mail address and I probably never would have if it hadn't been brought up in conversation. But I did and nestled somewhere between the dozens of spam e-mails sat a message from an old friend. September 20, 2009. What was I doing in September? Writing pseudo-angsty bullshit, probably.

But my friend was not.

It was a heart-felt message about friendship and it killed me to be responding to it seven or eight months after the fact. Communication is a difficult thing. I often feel like I'm not as great a friend as I could be. As I should be. And I hate that. I should be more supportive. I should be more accessible. I should be more open. I should be better. It's something to work on, I guess.In my never-ending and often reckless pursuit of adventure, I impulsively signed up for a Marine Geology Field Course this summer. Go to the coast for a week? Alright. Go out on boats into the ocean? Alright. Adventure? That sounds like one to me. Except, with every new bit of information that comes my way I'm realizing a little more that I'm actually in way over my head. I don't have any of the pre-requisites for this class. And I keep forgetting that it's a class and not a fun thing that I signed up for.
I'll have to remember to get my smarts on while I'm getting my sick tan on.

I haven't really been taking my comics too seriously lately. I think I'm just burned out on everything. Classes and drawing and doing stuff. I just want to go bunker down under a tree and play some music. Watch clouds go by, waste a whole day, all that kind of bullshit. I need to detox. But, per usual, there is no such thing in my forecast. No rest for the wicked kind of stuff.

Oh well.
I went swimming the other day. With my awesome swimming shorts that I'd never wear by themselves because of my sickeningly pale legs and poor body image. They definitely made a difference though. I could tell there was an improvement in the quality of my swimming because I was actually swimming laps. Encouraged, perhaps, by my awesome swimming shorts. I can only hope that

Waiting and such.

2010-04-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

A doctor came to speak at our lecture series the other day. Honestly, I don't even remember what kind of doctor he was. I don't remember any of the questions he answered. I don't remember any of the anecdotes he related. I don't remember any of the insight he imparted on us or any of the wisdom he shared. Except for one thing, which really resonated with me at the time.

"The biggest challenge facing you as pre-health profession students," he said before the lecture ended. "Is the overwhelming cynicism of our society."

He's right. He's right, and it's awful. I'm a pretty cynical guy, but at least I know it's a joke. That everything is a huge joke. But everybody is so jaded these days. We just can't stand to entertain the thought that maybe--just maybe--things aren't as bad as we think they are. As we want them to be. That maybe--just maybe--people aren't always selfish pieces of shit.

There have been a lot of little kids rampaging through campus this week. I didn't really pay any attention until somebody pointed out the mobs of highlighter shirts roaming the streets and sidewalks. I guess they wanted to dangle the carrot of success in front of kids early. Some people put together a little carnival in front of the gym, too. A ball pit, some inflatable bounce houses and some other things. Just people doing nice things.

But, instead, we see through the charade. We see a generation of guilty parents and teacher taunting a generation of apathetic, underachieving students with an illusory life of success. We see a generation of underachieving college students reaching out to the next generation of hopeless students in an effort to look like they actually care about somebody other than themselves. The elementary school kids leave with ideas and dreams about the future they'll never aspire to. They leave with unreasonable ideas about college--a carrot that statistics say they'll never taste.

That can't be right though, can it? That feels like a wrong assessment. Even I'm not so hopelessly misanthropic that I actually believe any of that. Those teachers are struggling against a defeatist culture that no longer believes in people. Those college students are struggling to reach out and do something for someone other than themselves out of a sense of community. And, maybe most importantly, those elementary school students are starting to dream about the things they could grow up and do. Things that they could aspire to accomplish. People they could aspire to be. Reasons to justify being alive.

Who the hell are we to berate other people for trying? They're actually getting out there and doing things. What do we do? Make snide comments from the other side of the window and snicker about how shitty everybody else is. When I was a little kid, people took me to a lot of different places and told me a lot of different things. They told me that I could do anything I wanted with my life. Somewhere, somebody is telling those kids the same thing. Maybe they don't realize it now, but they will: it's true. And they deserve a chance and the benefit of the doubt, at least.

Even if not a single one of those worthless little miscreants ever aspires to anything more than a sordid life of generally being a piece of shit.

I am not a number.

2010-04-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

I was watching some people parallel park the other day. It blows my mind--really--how bad people are at driving. One guy tried to park his little compact in a huge space. He put his nose straight in and then tried to back up and straighten himself out. He went back and forth a few times, angling his car this way and that until he ended up in the middle of the street. Then he pulled forward and tried to back into it. He angled too sharply and ended up running right into the curb. He pulled forward and backed into it again and again with no progress. Finally, flustered, he gave up and sped away from the spot.

Another girl tried to park her car in the first spot on the row. She pulled up along the length of curb in front of the spot and her friend jumped out to spot her. The girl tried to back up slowly into the spot--a technique that required driving straight for about 10 feet--but ended up rubbing and scraping her car against the curb before she made it the entire distance. So she pulled forward and tried again. This time, she decided to try something new and cut her tires back and forth. She bumped into the curb a few times while her friend guided her efforts. Without using hand signals. And without actually communicating. Women, right? In the end, I left. It was just to painful to watch her idle backwards into the curb repeatedly.

Both drivers were Asian, of course.This week, I got to help make this comic. It was pretty cool.

But, more excitingly, I might get to shadow some physicians. Battlefield physicians. In Afghanistan. Maybe. We're starting to look into the details that would allow for such a thing, which would be pretty damn exciting. How many people get the opportunity to do that? I'd get to jump out and see some real trauma. Some real emergency medicine. I don't think I'd make a very good hostage for insurgents, though.

I mean, how silly would they look when they release a video of their hostage prefacing his recording with, "Dear diary..."

I think I've been getting more hostile and surly lately. These last few weeks, I guess. I should probably get a handle on that. Don't want people to get jaded. Oh well. We'll see what happens.

Approximate extinction angle.

2010-04-28T23:04:00.000-07:00

Where do my days go? I seem to have a real hard time keeping track of my time these days. Like, tests and deadlines and such suddenly seem to go by. Suddenly there is only a week left in school. When did that happen? Feels sort of like a rug was pulled out from under me but I'm only just now realizing it. I think I'm ready for everything scholastic to be over.

Which will never happen.But, one can hope, I suppose.

Angry crow takes flight.

2010-04-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

People say the dumbest shit sometimes. We were walking down the street earlier today and overheard a conversation between a boy and a girl. She was clearly very worked up about something. Or at least acting like whatever she was talking about was something she felt strongly about. You can always tell because someone like that will walk sideways alongside you as they'll try to face you directly when they talk at you. It's a tactic to convince you that they believe what they are saying. He didn't look particularly interested. "One American baby," she said. "Is, like, forty African babies." That was the entire snippet of conversation we overheard.

What the hell does that even mean?

This quest is too hard.

2010-04-21T19:10:00.000-07:00

I really like movie soundtracks. I was thinking about it the other day. I feel like I've missed out on a lot of really good cinematic experiences because I didn't sit in a theater and hear which ever iconic theme play. Like Star Wars. I saw Star Wars when they re-released the original trilogy, but the significance of the experience didn't hit me until later. It's like hearing the Superman theme play before Superman Returns. I never got the opportunity to hear that anthem blasting in a theater until then. Or Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, which sucked. But at least I got to hear the theme--for myself--in the theater. Or Casino Royale. Waiting an entire James Bond movie--which was totally worth it--to hear the theme I already knew so well.

I'm really sure what it is I'm getting at, but in an incoherent way movie soundtracks have a significant emotional impact on me. Also, I just really fucking like listening to them.

I feel like my brain is melting out of my skull. I'm so unprepared for this exam it makes me want to, I don't know, do something that isn't study.

Peeled out on and sploded.

2010-04-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

Not that I am--or ever was--a particularly unshapely guy, I'm starting to feel pretty out of shape. Not grossly so, mind you, but just maybe a little mushy on the edges. And I'll be honest: I do not like it. The other day I ate an obscene amount of food and was still feeling overly full well into the next day. Then, when I didn't feel so full, I felt sore. Sore. I ate so much food that my body was sore. That, I think, is pretty terrible. I mean, damn. Who the hell gets sore from eating food?

I do, apparently, and I am ashamed.

I'm going to start exercising some more, though. And by exercising some more, I of course mean I'll start exercising period. Because I actually don't make it out to the gym anymore. I got some pretty radical swimsuits though, so I hope that's enough of a kick in the dick in the balls to start swimming. Swimming regularly. And running. And I need to go mountain biking. And rock climbing. All I'm saying is that my cheeks are a little too soft for my liking. I'm supposed to have a gaunt, skeletal face. Also, my butt jiggles.

And I actually don't like that.

While the record goes 'round.

2010-04-18T19:07:00.000-07:00

It feels a lot like I'm losing my struggle against every day. All my time just sort of disappears and I never really feel like doing anything. Like drawing or writing. And those are things I need to do. Also, studying. The year is just catching up to me, I guess. I can feel it in my increasingly slouchier posture. I thought I already fixed that, too.

Just a few more weeks.

I tried to pee the other day, but I had a problem. I couldn't find the fly to my boxers. So I searched, frantically, to find it. It's certainly normal for it to shift one way or the other during the day, but I couldn't find it. Oh no, I panicked. My boxers don't have a fly anymore. In the end I had to pull everything down to go about my urgent business. I later found out that I had been wearing them backwards the whole day. And I realized something.

If you take something for granted long enough, you are bound for disappointment.

Clothing yourself is a lot like maintaining a relationship. You have to be active about it. You have to choose a complementary ensemble. Things have to fit together stylistically. They have to fit you. Your clothes have to be appropriate for whatever it is you're doing. It's easy to be predictable. Wear the same wardrobe all the time. Fall into a routine. Continue going about your business with glassy-eyed contentment. But that is not a mélange that screams success. The important thing is that you have to be aware of what you're doing when you put clothes on your body. Because if you don't, they'll break up with you.

And by break up with you, I mean it was not a very good analogy.

I overheard a couple breaking up next door the other day. They were both sobbing and pleading with each other. At least, she was pleading with him. I couldn't understand anything he said because it was just unintelligible sobbing at different pitches. I even opened the door to improve my eavesdropping experience and still couldn't understand what he was bawling about. She was apologizing for cheating on him more than once and also upset because he had also cheated on her. Her main point of contention was that she had cheated on him once, told him, and recently cheated on him again with a similarly alacritous response while he had secretly cheated on her between those two incidents but only recently admitted his transgressions. From her incredulous and desperate responses, I was able to gather that he was breaking up with her.

Outside of Wendy's the other day, I came across another couple in the middle of a tearful breakup. Here I mean that he was crying. But he was also trying really hard not to cry. Also, he was trying to maintain his posture so that people wouldn't be able to notice his please don't break up with me slouch. So we got to see his please don't notice my 'please don't break up with me slouch' slouch. From her belongings I assume she had just come from Relay for Life and had been stopped by her recent ex-boyfriend desperately trying to salvage a relationship that had obviously fizzled out. After some pleading and begging and sniffling, she agreed to let him come into Wendy's with her and make a case supporting the reestablishment of their relationship. She made some snide comments about him to her friend as they ordered and smiled condescendingly when he choked out a teary-eyed list of reasons why it would work out.

And, of course, you know. It was over.

Except for all the other feelings.

2010-04-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what constitutes good writing. Is it proper grammar and spelling? A strong sense of eloquence and erudition? It's honesty, I guess. You have to write honestly. About honest things. Man, who even knows. I don't. I haphazardly string incoherent thoughts together before I fall asleep and somehow that qualifies as good writing. So if I tried, I could be a great writer?

Water soluble beverage powder.

2010-04-12T21:20:00.000-07:00

This medication was prescribed because it will help me. It'll help improve the quality of my sleep so that I don't feel awful during the day. It'll help me start feeling pretty good again. It'll help me feel better, not that I feel particularly terrible. I've had it for, oh, a couple of weeks at this point yet I haven't taken any of it. Why haven't I taken it? Because I am a self-saboteur. Because I don't take care of myself. Because I'm afraid it makes me weak. Because I'm afraid it'll become a crutch. Because I'm afraid of medication in general.No, because one of the side effects is possibly wetting the bed. I don't want to piss all over my bed during the night. I feel like that won't really improve the quality of my sleep.It's just apprehension, really. And I've already been set straight on this whole business, which is why I now find myself staring down two doses of this stuff and setting an alarm. It's an experiment that I don't really want to take. Side effects include depression, and the last thing I want is to deal with that. I don't have the time or energy to be depressed. I guess I'm just deflecting because I'm afraid it won't actually work, and I'll go back to where I am now.

Maybe the depression comes from pissing the bed.

No, it's just a name I use instead of my real name.

2010-04-10T14:11:00.000-07:00

I saw The Hurt Locker the other day. I actually quite enjoyed it. I was worried that the whole we don't film movies with tripods anymore and we like fast zooms would ruin it for me, but it wasn't to the point where I had to close my eyes or leave for a few minutes to steady myself. Like District 9 did. But either way, the last bit really stuck with me. He tells his son that you start life loving everything around you, completely fascinated by everything. And then, he continues, when you grow up you find out you love fewer things until you realize maybe you only love one or two things.

Or maybe just one thing.

I'm finally starting to figure things out. I, near the end of my junior year in college, have finally declared a major. No longer am I an undeclared third-year geoscience student. No, I am officially a general geology student going for a Bachelor's of Science. I even know how long it'll take me to graduate from college. I'm actually going to graduate. I actually know it's in the near future, rather. No longer am I simply drifting from semester to semester and signing up for whichever classes I think are good. I have a plan. I'm going somewhere, finally.

It's sort of a relief, but sort of not.

I mean, it's great to have that peace of mind. I'm excited. But the real world is coming up soon afterward. And by the real world, I mean hopefully medical school and the things that entails. The things that I've put precious little thought into. MCATs and applications and all kinds of things that everybody else seems to be on top of. It's not off in the distant future anymore. It's two years from now. I know how quickly two years can go. Hell, three years have past since I walked onto campus. That's crazy.

I don't know if I'm ready for all of that.

I think I want to do medical school through the military. Aside from it seeming like a very, very reasonable route in terms of finance and experience, it's sort of something I want to do. I guess I come from a military family. My dad and my grandfathers all have ties to it. So it's always been there in the back of mind as, well, something. Certainly not an obligation, certainly not a passion, but just sitting there. I don't necessarily think of military service as an inherently good or bad thing like some people tend to, I just sort of think of it.

It's sort of a call, somewhere inside of me.

I think I have a sense of duty, which is what draws me to medicine and makes me consider military service. One of those I ought to do this kind of things. I don't think it's out of a sense of patriotism. I'm pretty sure that trait has been successfully bred out of me by society. I think it's more of a somebody is going to have to do this and since nobody else wants to, I will sort of thing. I feel like that a lot. But also, I want to do something exciting. Doing those clinicals for the EMT course really stuck with me. The excitement of jumping out of the ambulance with a bag on my shoulder knowing that I was running straight into a real emergency situation. The excitement of running into the crash room as everyone scrambled around me and my EKG cart. The excitement of walking into five different rooms and finding five different people with five different problems.

That happened a year and a half ago and I still get excited remembering it. It was a rush. It was scary and exciting and I got such an adrenaline rush out of all of it. It was an adventure. And I am a sucker for adventures and excitement. Which also makes me think about military service.

And it kind of worries me. Like, am I thinking about military service because I'm an adult thinking critically about the most efficient route to a career in medicine or am I hoping to get an adventure out of it? If I go into the military, even as a doctor, I'll probably get deployed. Sometimes people have to kill other people when they get deployed. Sometimes people watch their friends get killed when they get deployed. I don't want to get excited about that. I don't want to figure out I get an adrenaline rush out of killing somebody. I know it isn't likely that a doctor would end up in a situation like that, but what I don't become a doctor and end up as a medic? A combat medic might end up in a situation like that.

The idea scares me, but not enough to actually deter me. And that scares me. I hope I'm planning my life around things because they are good things and not because I want to be amused.

I guess I'm worried that I might not know what it is in life I actually love.

Lost in the tundra.

2010-04-09T21:11:00.000-07:00

I don't know about all of this religious stuff but according to this guy, I have the Spirit inside of me now. I opened myself to the Lord and now I'm on my way to knowing the Word. I don't feel anything though. He said as long as I said the prayer it would be sincere, but I don't know if it was sincere or not. I guess I just need to do more thinking about it.I don't really want to think about difficult things like that right now. Difficult things like faith and the future and things like that. Because who even knows what to do with that. I kind of just want to hang out and watch Batman.

And I really just have no drive to write about anything. I just need to think about stuff.

Down the rocky road.

2010-04-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

So I may or may not be freaking out about college at this point, and by may or may not I of course mean absolutely am. I mean, I'm just totally fucked. I have so many requirements as yet unfulfilled. It's awful. I just feel so lost and unprepared--and all of a sudden, too. I'm so behind on my geology plan--my fucking major--that it's pathetic. In fact, I haven't even declared a major yet, apparently. I'm wrapping up my third year as an undeclared geosciences student. There's just something wrong with that. And I've barely even considered pre-medical requirements.Recommendation letters? Three of them? From who? I don't know any of my professors well enough to ask them for anything. I don't have any hospital volunteering stuff. I'm not, like, the president of some organization. I don't even think I'm in any organizations. I don't go to UT Grotto meetings anymore. I don't even know when they are. For fuck's sake I don't even go to the Undergraduate Geology Society meetings and I'm an undergraduate and a geologist.

I'm trying my best not to just freak out completely and shut down because I know that won't do me any good. At least, I think it won't. Man, who even knows. Right now, tonight, I have no idea about anything, really. For the next couple of hours I'll overreact and just let myself be overwhelmed and deal with it all in the morning.

What is the deal down there, anyways.

2010-04-05T21:59:00.000-07:00

It's bizarre, I think, to realize something like that. To sit there eating my blueberry pancakes and suddenly come to that realization. I just watched a family fall apart. I saw a family completely disintegrate over the course of a week. My dad told me my mom and her sister are like gasoline and fire. "They're just waiting." And now, with no parental ties to keep them together, all of the siblings split. A weekend was all it took for that part. My mom and my aunt won't ever speak again. And my uncle?My uncle spent most of his best years taking care of his parents--my grandparents. My mom moved out of state, my aunt moved to a different city, but he stayed and lived with both of them. He took care of his mom when she got sick with her cancers and degenerative addictions and whatnot. His hair, what's left of it, is completely gray. He married and divorced once, before he dropped everything to take care of his parents. He's still single. When his mom died, he went nearly catatonic for a few days. Just completely emotionally devastated. Then, his dad died. And now he's just completely, well, broken.

Everybody felt bad for him. I felt bad for him. My dad felt bad for him.And then my dad came back from California.

I've learned, from my many years of experience, that there's a dark side to everything. Everything is two-faced. There's the decoy and the truth. And the truth is never the face you like to see. Knowing that is why I have a hard time investing myself completely in anything. Some people call that cynical.

The truth to this story is that maybe my uncle isn't quite so deserving of pity. The house is filled to the brim with filth and garbage. He hasn't had a job in years and hasn't tried particularly hard to find one. He actually didn't really take care of anybody, he just watched movies all day. And the best part--my favorite reveal--he asked his dad for money. His dad, a 70-something retiree slowly dying of cancer, heart disease, and monetary hemorrhaging. My dad came back from spending a weekend with him and told me the man is headed straight for a homeless shelter. "There's just nothing else you can do with someone like him."

I mean, the guy is only, like, 40. I hope I don't get relegated to a homeless shelter when I'm his age. I hope I actually manage to do something with my life. I hope I grow up and do good things. I hope I grow old and leave behind a book of all the great things I did. I hope I die and everybody goes to my funeral remembering something nice I did for them. And I hope that the flip side to it all, the big reveal, is that I actually did all of it.

And I hope that whatever family I leave behind doesn't just completely fall apart as soon as I shut my eyes.I think people are a little put off that I'm not upset about my grandparents dying. I am absolutely okay with cracking jokes about it, too. I mean, it happens. What are you going to do, cry about it? Grandparents die every day. It can't always be somebody else's grandparents every time. I'm not that special. That's just how it goes. I'm not upset or sad or emotionally moved in any way. I'm just tired. I just want to sleep it off. That sounds pretty nice.

I know a couple of people in California who are sleeping it off right now, actually. Lucky.

You ended weak, but you started.

2010-04-02T20:34:00.001-07:00

This is something I feel very strongly about. So strong are my emotions about it, in fact, that I have haphazardly drafted this singular post about it on the fly. I hope, for your sake, that you are seated as I deal with this incredibly important social issue and say controversial things--the likes of which give women the vapors.

Shorts.

I fucking hate shorts. I hate them because you can't look cool in them. Think about it. Have you ever seen an action hero save the world wearing shorts? No. Action heroes wear pants. Men wear pants. People who save the world wear pants. Pants, pants, pants. Nobody wears shorts excepts, like, stoners, lazy guys, and dudes. And bros. Those archetypes do not do adventurous things. Indiana Jones? Pants. Robocop? Pants. Flapjack? Pants. Bear Grylls? Pants. Australian stereotypes? Shorts. Australia really likes to try to censor their internet content.

That doesn't sound so awesome and/or manly to me.

To prove my conclusion that shorts are lame, an experiment was carried out. I put on my Indiana Jones hat and looked at myself in the mirror. In shorts, I looked like a dumbass. Wide-brim hats are pretty fucking sweet, but nobody wears them in shorts. Then you can see the leg hairs and the socks and you look like a scrub. The shorts make you look like a goofy kid. An amateur. In pants, I looked like the rugged world-weary adventurer I really am, ready to tackle a laundry list of impossibly harrowing tasks.

In conclusion, I accidentally deleted everything I had originally written after the first paragraph. I blame the shorts because they suck and, damn it, I just don't look good in shorts.

We'll never stop this train.

2010-03-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

What a weekend. I mean, I don't really know what else to say besides that. It started off great. Ashley and I spent some time together after having dated for a year. That was nice. We ate a whole cake in less than a day. But it was a damn good cake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting. Like, damn. Does cake get any better than that?No, probably not. And then both of my mom's parents died. Nobody really saw that coming, so it's been a rough time trying to sort everything out amidst people being people (read: disgusting, selfish animals) and people being stupid (read: people).And then I got sick and had a great time waiting in the lobby of the St. David's Emergency Department. Nobody else was there for any obvious sort of medical emergency, and that made me really mad. I mean, I was sitting there convulsing for a few hours while Joe Moocher and Jane Addict toddled off to take up all the beds in the department. We are in for some trouble times, I think.

But that is to be expected because we are all shitty people inside who will eventually leap at any opportunity to show it so long as we benefit in some way. Our only consolation is that we have cake.

No, they won't take your license.

2010-03-24T21:26:00.000-07:00

Not really the news I wanted to hear. It's just been one of those weeks. But it is not the time to be trifled with such things.It is the time for studying a lot.And worrying about everything.

Also, how does twelve sound.

2010-03-22T22:02:00.000-07:00

There were a lot of things on my plate, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. It never gets to that point. Anything that comes my way is dealt with immediately. Maybe it's not attended to, but it's at least considered. I triage everything. But then, today, I mistakenly thought I had another chemistry lab write up due tomorrow that I had completely forgotten.
And that was the straw.

I just sort of shut down for a few minutes. Five, maybe ten. I just sat there and silently freaked out. It was a real "all systems: fuck" sort of thing. For a few minutes, I was convinced I wouldn't be able to do anything and that it was just all too much. For a few minutes, I was completely overwhelmed. And it was a bad feeling because I never am. I refuse to believe it's possible. So I kicked myself and got to work putting things in order and set up the rest of my night.Then, I was allowed to start chewing again. Which, admittedly, I do not like as much as I imagined I would. It feels weird since I haven't done it in so long, but I'm mostly okay with that. I will endeavor to persevere.I also don't like life all that much. It's not nearly as good as Planet Earth.

Your life and sharkolepsy.

2010-03-21T22:24:00.001-07:00

The first memories that came to mind? Drinking Mr. Pibb in the office. Buying a Batman action figure and Batmobile toy set. Her housemate gifting me my first camera. The toys she gave us every time she came to visit that we never, ever played with. I don't really look back on any of these memories with any particular sentimentality. They are just things that happened in my life with no real emotional investment.

In fact, I was more upset when I heard her dog had died.

Which makes me feel kind of bad. I mean, I didn't share blood with the dog. But my mom was crying when she told me the dog died. She just sounded tired today. I'm not numb, I'm not detached. I'm just... unaffected. My grandmother died in her sleep and all I will do is shrug.I was watching life today on the Discovery Channel. Makes me want to go travel places and see things and take pictures of cool stuff. I want to go to the weird things in Venezuela and find the weirdo frogs. And I want to see some Komodo dragons.

Also, I can't stop laughing about sharkolepsy because I think that's the funniest thing ever.

I finally talked to an old friend tonight. We hadn't talked in forever, so there was quite a bit of catching up to do. I wish we had kept up like we used to, because there was a lot thrown out there and it made me feel bad. I should've been more involved--more invested in keeping that friendship at optimal level instead of letting it slip like I did. I'll be more on the ball, now. He also made me realize how much I swear. I need to stop swearing so much.

Yeah, but will it be hot or cold today.

2010-03-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I never really had a solid grasp on things that I should have. Concepts, I mean. Like weather. I used to wake up every morning and ask my mom what the weather would be like that day. "Is it going to be hot or cold today?" Meaning, would I be able to wear shorts and a t-shirt on a normal January day. Eventually, she told me to check the temperature by feeling the window. That didn't really help either.

Also, I never really had a real good perception of time. And I still don't.

Like, how the hell is spring break over already? It's basically time to go back to school and I haven't done absolutely nothing. I was supposed to do a bunch of chemistry lab stuff so I could be ahead and relax for a while. I was supposed to draw a bunch of comics so I could be ahead and relax for a while. I was supposed to do something--anything--scholastic and I have done absolutely nothing.

It is terrible.

By hook or by crook.

2010-03-18T20:15:00.000-07:00

Man, it's kind of crazy how tiring it is when you spend the whole day sleeping. Like, damn. I could use a nap. But we'll see how all this stuff turns out. I'm not particularly riled up either way. If he says yes, then okay. If he says no, then okay. It really isn't that big of a deal. It really won't affect me all the much. Except, maybe my mom will try to be a nicer and maybe my dad will grow a little more distant and maybe my brother will keep on doing the dumb things he does regardless.

But, I mean, you know; it's whatever.

I'm going to take a trip this summer. I've decided. An epic trip. Some kind of awesome adventure. I really want to canoe the Colorado River all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. It's something I've been wanting to do for years, and I'm going to make it happen this summer.

Somehow.

I love/hate this wagon.

2010-03-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

It was, admittedly, not the best camping trip I've ever taken. But despite people being unnecessarily tense in the beginning, I was pretty damn excited to be going out somewhere. After following some questionable directions and almost missing an exciting turn, we made it to Lost Maples.

Which was actually a pretty nice place.

The trail to the campsite wasn't difficult or particularly long and the creek that weaved across it was a welcome change from the usual sight of bicyclists weaving across sidewalks in front of you. There were some cliff faces that ran along the length of the trail and, really for the first time in a while that I can remember, I could hear the birds chirping and singing in the trees around us and the frogs making frog noises down by the pond. Even though we were dragging an absurdly heavy wagon and a deluxe wooden edition of Scrabble and too many things in general and camping completely surrounded by other people, it was nice to finally be getting out into nature.

Of course, by the time we finished moving things between the cars and the camp site it was getting dark and we had to start making dinner.

There just wasn't enough time to explore there, which sucks. I wanted to set off down some other trails and go explore the rest of the park but nobody wanted to do it at night and when some people went up the giant hill behind us, I was already pretty tired from everything else.

The next morning we went to Enchanted Rock and were much smarter about what we brought with us, and only had to make one trip. It seemed like things were going much better, albeit a bit rushed. We climbed up the rock, didn't really take a second to enjoy being there, and went straight through the cave. Which is always fun. Trying to bring people through something like that, I mean. It was still fun when we came out in the rain and tried to navigate the steep face down. There were some spots where I actually felt pretty uncomfortable, and I like to consider myself a pretty adventuring guy.

The rain never stopped and it made dinner actually pretty miserable, but somewhere under all of that misery I was still having fun. It was how adventures were supposed to be. Unpredictable. The adventure was how you responded to terrible things happening. Like thunderstorms.

And now I'm home, unpacked, clean, and exhausted. The only thing is that I don't feel like I just took a nice camping trip. I feel like I just ran around and stressed out for a couple of days in the woods and came home. We got to the parks, set up camp, ate, slept, and went home. Where was the part where we sat down and relaxed? There really wasn't a point in the trip where I felt like taking pictures of anything, which kind of sucks because that's never happened before. I don't know. It feels like I just missed out on the whole purpose of the trip I just took. I'm still wound up and itching for some kind of adventure and relaxing nature time. And now it doesn't sound like we're going to take anymore camping trips.

That's not exactly news I like to hear.

No, Holmes, no!

2010-03-10T20:28:00.000-08:00

All I ever think about these days is how much I have to/want to study. I hope that's not how I have a good time, now. Would I rather go hang out with peeps or would I rather sit in and study?It is a difficult question to answer.Just a couple more days and then I can focus all my energy on the next greatest idea I've ever had: iconic detectives and sharks.

Because I don't look cool in shorts.

2010-03-08T20:56:00.001-08:00

I don't know what the deal is, but I always get bored with whatever it is I'm doing while I'm doing it. So the endings of my stories always end up fizzling out. It's not for a lack of enthusiasm, though. Well, it is. I just get bored and move on to the next thing. Maybe it's some sort of self-sabotage where I stop myself from finishing something good because I don't actually want to achieve anything. That doesn't bother me as much as it should, I guess. But look at this; this is garbage.I think, really that I just need a break. Camping will be a good time to just unwind. And reflect.It blows my mind to think about what was happening an entire year ago. How different things were.

Ventilation is only mechanical.

2010-03-06T15:26:00.000-08:00

I tried--I really tried--my best to keep an open mind about the whole ordeal. I mean, every piece of literature he sent to us about it desperately begged us to be very patient and understanding and, well, open-minded. But I will very eagerly admit that it was difficult. "Welcome to, ah, Sun-Do meditation exercise!" He would say, very cheerfully. And so it went every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for three weeks. People asked where I was going and I explained that I was going to waste an hour and a half doing nothing.

Sun-Do is, apparently, some sort of Korean meditative breathing exercise. It involves stretching, yoga, some light cardiovascular activity, and--obviously--breathing. Focused, rhythmic breathing set to a chant that I do not know.

When we finished filling out our comments forms on the last day, he called us in to impart some final words of wisdom. "I just have two things to say," he said. "One: it is, ah, recommended that you practice Sun-Do three times a week." He paused and nodded at us knowingly before continuing. "Two: it is important that you realize that you are breathing. Every time you take a breath, you should remember that life is precious. That you are breathing is a miracle. Babies breathe with their lower abdomen, and babies have no stress or anxiety like we do. So we breathe with our lower abdomen to not worry so much. We breathe like babies. Just remember that life is precious every time you breathe."

I went home and gloated like a smug asshole. I mean, what the hell was he even talking about, right? With his fractured English and goofy meditation exercises--how was I supposed to take any of that seriously? So I put it out of my mind, reassuring myself that the only thing I was going to walk away with from this thing was the $30.

Ashley and I walked through campus today on our way to study, we talked for a bit. It was Explore UT, so there were a lot of middle school students milling about in their brightly colored t-shirts with paper hats and other such ridiculous things. A lifetime ago, we were kids. And we looked up to the high school students and the college students who were so cool, so old, and so mature. We wanted to be in their places so badly because they could do anything they wanted. Those were the people that grew up to be presidents and astronauts and award winning scientists and famous musicians. They could do anything and all we could do was wait until we were old enough.

And now, suddenly, we are old.

Growing up really isn't a great as we thought it would be then. We should've listened to our parents who told us we would wish we were kids when we grew up because it sucked so much. I, for one, didn't believe them. I remember being a little kid and knowing that I was going to be a famous paleontologist. Knowing I was going to be a famous clarinetist. Knowing that, whatever I imagined, I would be something. I knew that things would be much better when I was older. For all of the things I've learned in school and class and time I really don't know anything anymore. It's more of a hope. I hope I'll be a doctor. I hope I'll do anything with music in my life. I hope that something--anything--significant happens in my life.

Kids are so simple. So happy. They don't have to worry about the logistics of becoming a president or astronaut. They don't even know that there are hurdles and obstacles in place--it doesn't matter. They just don't see problems everywhere that we so desperately look for.

And now we are the hip college students that the middle school kids are looking up to. They are hoping that one day, by the grace of God, they will be as old and cool and mature as we are. They are hoping that they'll doing be what we're doing--becoming presidents and astronauts and scientists and musicians. Realizing our dreams without compromise or fear of failure. Hoping desperately for some kind of miracle to come down on us and make everything amazing.

And then, as we trudged up the steps through the throngs of lost people shuffling through campus, I processed what he had said. We are so caught up in wishing for a miraculous event to touch our lives that we forget the most important one--breathing. I closed my eyes and started to breathe. And with every breath, I remembered that life is precious.

I think, perhaps, that maybe he had the right idea.

The mechanism is unimportant.

2010-03-06T09:49:00.000-08:00

Wow, is it really Saturday already? The days go by so quickly now, it's kind of upsetting. There just aren't enough hours in the day to do enough of anything that would matter. It's not going to be a particularly fun weekend and it'll be an even less fun week what with all the tests and labs and reports being due. I mean, I guess it's cool to get totally fucked over with assignments and responsibilities leading straight into spring break. We are college students after all.

But couldn't we have gotten an organic chemistry test in there too so there would be at least one fun thing going on this week? Yes, I really enjoy things related to organic chemistry.Spring break is going to be pretty fun, I hope. I'm not really looking forward to it yet because I have so much I need to worry about first. I'm already starting to feel much better during the brief moments I spend walking around outside in the beautiful weather and I'm looking forward to staying out in it for a few straight days. And now, back to the grind.

That damn kid.

2010-03-03T13:19:00.000-08:00

She got me, and she got me good. It was over before I realized it had happened at all, and even then it took me a bit to process it. We had been doing chemistry homework and talking about things like stuff. "I loved physics in high school," I said. "How come you aren't a physics major, then?" She asked. "Well, I didn't love it that much." I replied. "Besides, my dad was a physics major and I don't want to have one of those follow in his footsteps kind of things going on. I want to do my own thing, something I really love."

"So is that why you're a music major?" She asked. "Yeah!" I replied excitedly. Fractured images of sheet music and hazy memories of playing some kind of instrument flashed with every blink I took. "Because I love it so much!" And, for a moment, I was a music major. I was a music major and I was, well, ecstatic that I had been for my entire collegiate career.

But then I realized that I was not, in fact, majoring in music. And as I sat despondent and collected my things, she shuffled away smugly. Damn.

And so, since I can't major in music, I've settled for the next best thing! I'm going to realize my one, true lifelong dream of being a jazz pianist since my one, true lifelong dream of being a jazz guitarist fizzled out and my other, true lifelong dreams of being a jazz saxophonist and clarinetist are currently on hold. In basically all my breaks today, I ran straight to the piano room and played for as long as I could. I figured out and played on Solar and, well, I think I can pull this off. I just need to get my comping down and then: being a badass. And getting a trio together. Bass players, drummers: I am passively looking for you.

Also, I am drawing the shit out of these comics. I spent, oh, about too many hours working on this one and I can honestly say that, even after I've had a chance to blank out and come back to look at it, I'm happy with it. I am proud of this work. Without a doubt, this is the best comic I've ever drawn.So far.

Side effects include constant irritability, being an ass.

2010-03-01T21:54:00.000-08:00

It was a typical day in MUS 307. A typical day where nobody pays attention to anything the professor talks about. A day where people play shitty flash games instead of take notes. A day where people sit and refresh their Facebook newsfeed instead of follow the slides. A day where people roll their eyes and go to sleep instead of listen to the music examples. A day where people get up and leave ten minutes before lecture ends instead of having the God damn decency to stay the whole time and pretend to be interested. I mean, if you're going to be so unaffected by the music we're studying in class then why the fuck did you take the class in the first place? Fuck it makes me mad.

And I haven't even started talking about that fucker who sits in the back and tries to whistle along with every song that gets played in class. Alright, dude, we get it: you are just too cool and you know everything about jazz, ever. You know every standard ever written and everybody's solos by heart. Now how about you develop some fucking pitch consistency you warbling twat.

Deep breath.I think these comics are going pretty well, actually. Everything's looking pretty nice, I think. Nicer, at least. I will have to solicit some solid feedback, because I feel like that's what I'm lacking most at this point.

The more I think about, the more I am convinced that jazz truly is the ultimate form of music. I've been almost obsessively listening to Bill Evans play Solar at the Village Vanguard and it has been some kind of religious experience. There is just so much at work there. The ideas, the development, the executions, the interactions. It just blows my mind how cerebral the whole thing is. It's genius--jazz is genius--and it's so subtle. It's not a huge, in-your-face ordeal. Because it doesn't have to be.

It's raw emotional expression. Pure music. And nothing else can really compare to it. Maybe it's too boring for those people who can take naps during the songs. I guess jazz just isn't ADD enough for them. There isn't enough glitter or lace or fishnet stockings or dyed hair or tabloid drama to really capture their interest. Maybe the bass is too involved--they can only deal with quarter note bass loops that serve no purpose other than to make your subwoofer 'go boom.' Maybe it's too subtle, if there is even a thing. I think what it re--

Wah wah wah, God damn. I think I just need something to do. Like, do I need a hobby?

Any number free to wander.

2010-02-28T22:42:00.000-08:00

I had so many things I wanted to do this weekend. The most important thing was to backup everything I needed on my computer so I could format and install actual Windows 7 and not just pretend Windows 7. I remember what happened last time I ignored the "you have X hours until your copy expires" and it was horrible. In preparation for the whole system maneuver, I was going to draw up a queue of comics to send in for the week just in case something went wrong. And organize everything I was transferring, deleting what I never used or looked at to regain some space since I'm such a horrible hoarder. Instead, I have 10 hours until my copy expires and I'm just now getting started on this stuff.

Obviously I got a decent start on this.

But I guess whatever happens this week will be well deserved, considering how much effort I actually put into this--and considering how much I should have. It was a weekend well spent, though. Some silliness, some assholery, and some pretty nice weather all tied together with some pretty expansive and focused music listening and adorned with a good bit of solid working on shit ahead of time so that I would have time to take care of my computer situation so that I'd have time to just relax.

Ah, shit. Right. Well I at least drew a comic.It didn't quite turn out the way I had imagined, but mostly because I didn't imagine it very hard. I'm still experimenting with things and stuffs. The difference now is that instead of kicking dirt around I'm moving forward--although tentatively--with an actual storyline. I wanted to name the story 'blunt trauma.' There was probably a way to make that a little more obvious. I didn't want to use boxes since I was using those for his discontinuous and confusing thoughts. It'll get better, I think. It's tough because I have to figure out how to reintroduce the characters I've already introduced because each semester is a new thing. Even though I've already got a preexisting universe set up. But hey, that's fun stuff.

I got this Nuvigil prescription filled this weekend--all three hundred something dollars of it. It does make a difference, of that I am certain, but I'm still wary of wanting it for the wrong reasons. Like, instead of wanting it because it helps me focus and makes me feel not sleepy maybe I actually want it because I want to be broken. I want to have this problem or that problem so I can point at it and say, "Hey look everyone! I've got a problem and I solve it by popping these pills in the morning! It was never really a big deal before but now it's just a crippling thing and so I'm special!" Because I really don't want that--that's stupid. I guess I'll just keep doing whatever for a while until something.

Probably just lay awake in bed all night and angst over how impossibly difficult my life is because my agonies and tribulations are so much more numerous and terrible than anybody else's.

Yeah, buzz the shit out of them.

2010-02-26T23:56:00.000-08:00

I'm just so tired. And ready for spring break. I just want to step back from all these assignments and tests and things that need studying. I need that moment of liberation. That feeling of freedom that comes with being outside for a few days. I just need to feel a little unbound.I'm feeling a bit snubbed as it is now. There's just so much to have hanging over my head.

Time out.

2010-02-24T21:38:00.000-08:00

Well, now we're getting things back together.But it'll take more than this. I mean, this could be better.

And I hope they burn in hell.

2010-02-22T20:35:00.000-08:00

I am really tired of living with or near people. I hate having a roommate. I hate coming home after a long day to sulk in my room only to find myself in the company of a noisy person who likes to watch sports talk shows with the volume too high. I hate living next to people that can use my bathroom. I came back to the dorms this weekend to find my sink covered in hair from somebody shaving and knocking the razor in it. It was black hair. I didn't shave and my roommate doesn't have black hair. These are people who seem to have no problem peeing on the toilet seat and leaving it like that.

They are animals and I hate them.

But, regardless of my unrivaled hatred for the subhuman cretins with whom I involuntarily share my living space, I pledge not to do anything aside from be passive aggressive. I won't put bleach in their contact solution, I won't secretly take chemicals from the lab and mix it into their mouthwash, I won't put my bodily fluids on their personal belongings.

Damn is it tempting, though.I am so disappointed with my comics now. I mean, sure the artwork is improving I guess, but I'm honestly just drawing to practice drawing. I'm not even making comics, really. There is no purpose to what I'm creating, I'm just filling space and wasting time. I want to start this story arc--an actual story arc--but I keep spinning my wheels on it. I'm not even doing six panel comics because I'm so lazy.That's not okay, and it's making me really mad. I should be doing better work than this, but it's so hard to find the time to do it. I mean, there aren't even jokes here damn it. It's pathetic.

I guess I can keep making excuses for why I'm not doing it. That's the easiest thing.

It's always go time.

2010-02-19T22:42:00.000-08:00

My brother got suspended from school for fighting. Some kid spent the year bullying him and his friends and the teachers didn't do anything. He followed him into the bathroom where they exchanged unpleasant words and he started hitting David. And David went off on him. So did his friend, when David told him what happened. Just got up from the lunch table, went into the bathroom, and hit him so hard he cried. Put some solid hits on a bully. I mean, yeah, David lost his cool, but the guy had already hit him twice. Twice.

Once is grounds for overwhelming response in my book.

And aside from that being a great story about your buddies getting emotional and backing you up when something happens, it's a pretty good story about a jackass getting his ass beat like he deserves. I was proud of my brother for doing that. Violence is certainly not the best method of resolving conflicts, but damn is it satisfying when used.

I mean, how do you stop a bully from bullying? Asking politely?I hate to say it, but I just don't feel alive unless I'm stressed out and falling apart. I am a stress junkie. It gives me a big thrill. Gets my motor running. It's why I put everything off until the last minute. Can I cram all of these things into this amount of time? I'd better--and I will. That's not healthy, I guess.

But it's just so much fun.

I can do this.

2010-02-17T21:08:00.000-08:00

Man, I need to work on these backgrounds. They are lacking.Also I need to, you know, study the hell out of this chemistry. And geology.

Wear the dress I like so well.

2010-02-16T21:23:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to push the character designs for these character. I hope I'm ready to keep up with it. It'll be a pretty big commitment to draw them as not stick figures. And pretty soon I'll being drawing them less and less like the cartoons I love so dearly and more like realistic drawings because I can't help but obsess over the things I do. I want to be better. I just can't get comfortable with where I am. It's like that with a lot of things, I guess.I'm just about ready for this week to be over.

Don't think too hard.

2010-02-16T09:10:00.001-08:00

I don't think I got enough done this weekend. Well, I mean, I know I didn't. Otherwise I wouldn't be scrambling to do things now. This week is just not going to be good. Just things and things and things to worry about. And do. Sort of do. Days to limp through.

This weekend went pretty well, I think. The song even came through at the last second. A little up and down in the week leading up to it, but those things happen. And honestly, it doesn't really bother me all that much. People are different and like different things, and that's okay. It's better that way, I think. It keeps things interesting. We have different lives to live and, for the most part, it's better to keep it that way.Talking--or, rather, not talking--to the oral surgeon about when I can chew again was a little disheartening. I was really looking forward to eating normally again in a month, but the next appointment is almost at the end of March. After spring break. I guess that's okay. I'll just figure out something else to look forward to.

And it's just.

2010-02-11T21:12:00.000-08:00

My head is spinning with thoughts. It's just, you know.I'm totally finished with boy & robot. Time to start doing emergency medicine again, I guess.

This city is dead.

2010-02-10T21:59:00.000-08:00

The sleep doctor told me I might be narcoleptic. Then he gave me some pills to take in the mornings so that I'd feel awesome. So I guess we'll see how that goes. Fingers crossed. I don't know how I feel about potentially being narcoleptic. Well, I mean, besides tired.I restarted my zombie story and I think it's going quite well. Better than before. And before that. And before that.

You're in my, my, mine.

2010-02-09T20:11:00.000-08:00

I think I'm tired of being here. I want to go home. I'm tired of having a roommate constantly sniffling and cackling six feet away from me. I'm tired of drunken neighbors pinballing down the hallway. I'm tired of hearing suitemates shoot urine into the toilet like well pumped Super Soaker. I'm tired of the doors slamming and the chairs scooting and the fire alarms and seeing people everywhere.

And all the noise, noise, noise, noise.I think I really just need to recharge outside. Go out and reconnect with the Earth.

Have an adventure.

Go have fun with your friends.

2010-02-08T21:16:00.000-08:00

I used to hear the people above me having sex all the time. It was very noisy. The bed was noisy. She was noisy. The people banging on their door telling them to be quiet were noisy. The chair they somehow incorporated into it was noisy. It was funny at first, bearing accidental witness to what should've been a private moment, but then it became annoying. And then it became just another thing that you blocked out.

Then they started fighting all the time. It was very noisy. He was noisy. The things he threw were noisy. The things he hit were noisy. The door slamming shut behind her was noisy. Her footsteps as she ran from the room were noisy. And then he would throw and hit more things.

And then it would get quiet again. Just another thing you blocked out.

It makes me wonder, though. About how much people really know about us. About our lives and the people in them. How much they know without letting on. I heard a faceless, nameless relationship fall apart through a foot of concrete. Who is eavesdropping on mine?And how much have our friends figured out about us? Do they know us better than we think? Should they?

These are thoughts that keep me awake at night.

I am the warden and the prisoner.

2010-02-07T21:24:00.000-08:00

I feel really bad for not having accomplished anything this weekend. Especially since, I mean, you know, I had a lot of stuff to do. But what can I do now? Besides complain and feel bad, I guess. I really need to bunker in and get serious about school again. I just can't get out of this man I really don't care mind set.

It is no good.

But we played music today, and it was a good time. I played saxophone, and that felt really good. Even though nobody could hear it. It was legit--for the 10 minutes I managed to play it. I need to build my chops back up. Once upon a time I could wail on that for hours. Now I'm reduced to mere minutes. And I won't be satisfied until once upon a time is right now because I fucking love playing that horn.

I also need to write some lyrics and music. Working with these dudes on their songs and writing things with them is pretty nice, but I need my absolute creative freedom. I've got a style and a vision I need to work toward.

And Valentine's Day is coming. So I, you know, need to get cracking on a song for that.

That's the life for me.

2010-02-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

I have a demon inside me and its name is adventure. It constantly aches and calls for more. I just need to do things. To go places, see things, meet people. New things, always new things. Only new things. It's not a want or a desire--it's a need. I need to get out there. I need that thrill.Taylor and I used to sneak out of gym class early. It's not like we skipped class, we just left a couple minutes before class got dismissed. I mean, we would've just sat on the floor otherwise. But it was a rush. Waiting for the coast to be clear and walking out the back door and around the school right before the bell rang. It was an adventure every day--how smooth could the operation go?And then one day we got caught. We ran right into Coach. "Why?" He asked me. He wanted me to blame Taylor. He never liked Taylor. "Because it was fun," I said.

And I like adventures.