everything is fine

It's been one of those days. One of those long days after a series of long days. One of those days. One of those days where you wake up in a daze and stay that way. And all the things you worried about earlier come back in full. Oh well. I feel like I'm not even awake. Everything today just sort of happened, and not in the way that I would've liked them to. I gave blood today. I've felt pretty bad since. All I want to do is pass out in a little hiding spot for a while. But there's so much work to do. So much more to worry about. I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton. Everything is so hazy. I can't even think coherently. I just want things to go well. It's so much easier to relax when I'm not sitting here over-thinking every little thing. Deep breath.

"There is appropriate," she said. "And there is in appropriate. That is inappropriate ." I bit my tongue to stop from laughing. She sat up in her bed and stared at me. I leaned against the doorway. "Okay." I said. "Do you understand why that is inappropriate?" She asked. "Yes." I said. And then I laughed. This past week has been the longest week I've had in a long time. I don't really mind, it's been a good one. Should've been a month, though. That's what it felt like. Sometimes I think I'm losing my grip on my sense of time. And my memory? Yesterday I saw a caterpillar crawling on the ground. He made his way out of the grass slowly and crossed about two sidewalk tiles. We sat and watched him from the bench. It was a nice day outside; perfect temperature, clear skies. Then a bird flew down and ate the caterpillar. It hopped into the grass under the tree and finished its meal. And all we could ...

I had almost forgotten how much I hated those little worm things that hang on their web lines off the trees. I hate those. A lot. Oh well.

I got rained on when I went to class this morning. I watched everyone run, skip, and jump their way through the rain but I walked. Getting rained on is nice. It's so refreshing. All I could think about was that song. If all the raindrops were other things besides raindrops, oh what a rain it would be! When I got to class I was completely soaked through. It was like I had jumped into the creek with all my clothes on. Then it got cold. I'm not very good at handling cold. And now, of course, it's sunny outside. That's how it goes, I guess. I'm looking forward to this weekend. Unless it's cold.

I took a walk today. I need to walk more often. There's always so much to think about. So much to balance. It was nice, though. Things look much better when you relax. Everything falls into place, right where it needs to. Someone sent me an article about how terrible our future is. It's all very doom-and-gloom. Oh well. That's how it goes, I guess. I'm not too worried. For the foreseeable future, things are the opposite of doom-and-gloom--whatever that may be. I have an urge to look at some stars. Time to get the telescope out.

It's raining right now. I guess the April showers came early. It's good though, we need the rain desperately. We always need the rain. I like to watch the rain fall. Everything looks so green afterward. I want to play in the rain like a little kid. I used to wait for the rain to stop when I was a little kid. The sidewalk in front of my house collected the rain in a puddle and I would ride my bicycle through the puddle as fast as I could, send the water spraying off to the sides behind me. Every time I did it I thought of the scene in Batman when he drives the Batmobile to the Batcave for the first time in the movie. The car sent leaves flying off to the sides, and on my black and purple bike it was the only thing I could ever think of. The last time I rode my bike through a puddle was when I was mountain biking. The puddle was actually a big hole full of mud and I slid out and got stuck. And covered in mud. But I was happy. And I'm having a good time now, too.

If I was an animal, I think I'd be a turtle. Certainly not by choice. Turtles have shells that they hide in when they get scared. They get scared pretty easily, I guess. They bring their shells with them everywhere just in case they get scared. And they move slowly. Super slowly. I guess clams and oysters bring their shells with them everywhere, too. When I was a little kid I believed that if you took a turtle out of its shell, it would then become a frog. I know better, now. I won't be a turtle anymore. I'll be a frog. Or a dog. Or a wolf.

Things work out. I'm pretty happy. Who isn't?

I lie about little things, a lot. It's not out of malice. It's not malevolent at all, actually. It's compulsive. Accidental. It's an accidental joke. I used to try to see what people would believe. So I'd say semi-believable things with confidence and a straight face to see what people would do. It became a habit. And now I lie about little things. Not really lie, I'd say. It's more like I suggest things wrongly. I try to tell people when I do that. "I'm just kidding." I say. Usually. But I try to be as honest as I can. Sometimes that gets me in trouble. Sometimes it's easier to just say, "No, I'm just an awkward person," rather than "No, I get butterflies and my tongue gets tied up." I guess that's okay. It's just to make things easier. Everything can be so difficult to deal with sometimes. I'm still so worn out from the camping trip, but I can't sleep.

Eleven hours is a long time to spend in a car. It's a long time to spend driving. It's a long time to spend staring at the road with your leg locked up on the accelerator. I hate using the cruise control. It feels like I'm not really in control of the car. Oh well. It was a nice, peaceful drive that I was mostly awake for. You tend to see weird things when you have nothing to look at. Makes for good conversation though. You only need one word to make a joke. I was certainly anxious about the trip. I think everyone was in their own ways and for their own reasons. I just wanted things to go right. For everyone to have a good time and walk away smiling wider than they were when the went in and I think it worked. And despite my misgivings, I had the best spring break I've had in a while. I was hanging out with good friends and got closer to friends I wasn't as close to before. No, we didn't do much. What we did, though, was fun. We laughed hard and g...

I saw a couple of friends today. A couple of really good friends. It's always nice catching up with old friends like that. It'd been so long since I'd seen either of them. I never get to talk to Anna any more. It was nice hanging out with her. We just drove around for a while and caught up. These last couple of years we've only been able to talk within the context of meeting with a mutual friend, so it was good to be able to just sit and talk. I talk to Matt online a lot, but that's no substitute for talking in person. We ate and saw a movie. Just an all around good time. I wish we got to hang out more often. I'm so tired, but seeing old faces is such a relief. It's refreshing. I need to make more of an effort to reach out. This summer, I guess. There's just so much to do. I'll make time, though.

People don't change. You might turn around one day and your best friend from middle school might transform into a total stranger a couple of years later. A story on a local news website. A shout-out in the obituary column. But he never really changed. He was always the same person. You just didn't know him the way you thought you did. I hate thinking about that. Everybody has a lot of faces to meet and memorize. Some are just uglier than you might have thought before. Oh well. I can pretend it doesn't bother me that much. That's okay, I guess.

A friend of mine came over this past weekend. It had been a while since I had seen him. A few months? A long time. And the last time we had hung out, we were in no shape to do any talking. I hadn't gotten a chance to talk to him about, well, anything really. So he came over to do a demonstration for his new job. "I work for Vector Marketing," he said. "And I'm selling these knives." He showed me the knife set, which was quite extensive. We cut through rope and leather with them. They were very, very nice knives. Expensive, but nice. He explained his situation to me. It wasn't cheery. It was a mean story that went to a dark place. "But," he said. "I'm doing alright." Alright. It's the best we can expect, I guess, but not the best we can hope for. He could be doing much better than he is. Bad luck? Maybe. It's depressing to see that he's not doing what he wants. He's doing what he can. I wish I...

I fell behind on my cartoon drawing, but I think that's okay since I have such a big stash of them from my earlier enthusiasm. It's not from lack of ideas, it's just laziness. But I'm not going to let that slide anymore. Everything, every day. I need to start writing again. I've put that off for a couple months. I need to put these fresh eyes back to work on my zombie story. Greg and I made a writing pact. We have to fill a page quota every month. I'll get to working on it eventually. I've still got a couple weeks left to procrastinate. I drew a guest comic for a couple of old high school friends who started a cartooning website . They've done a good job with it. I remember trying to maintain a webcomic. That was a pretty terrible time. I posted that garbage on deviantART, too. Oh well. Everybody is young and stupid and hopeful sometimes. I had a Xanga, too. And a LiveJournal. Dark chapters. Of course, now I have a blog, so who am I to ...

I had never heard of Staple! before and so I wasn't planning on going at all. "We're going as a group thing," she said. I thought about it for a while. Webcomic artists would be there. "Alright." I said. And I went. We walked in and split our different ways. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do at all. There were so many people. So many things to do. I only knew a handful of names and no faces. I made my way down the first aisle and glanced back and forth furtively. I stopped when I saw a Spider-man comic. Paul Benjamin. I talked to him for a long time. He had a lot of things to say. I guess you would after you spent a few years as an editor for Marvel before writing for Marvel Adventures Hulk and Spider-man and his own graphic novel. "Are you a writer?" He asked me. I laughed. "I pretend to be." He grinned. "Not like, do you get paid to write. Do you write ?" "Yes." I said. "Is it a ...

She looked around at the group expectantly. "Everything in Texas is..." She started. "Big!" Someone yelled. "Very good!" She said. Then she told them about the anatomy of the Quetzalcoatlus wing. Her audience was captivated. Then we went to the Coelophysis. I showed them an evolution tree of dinosaurs. They were thrilled. Little kids are more fun than grown ups. Everything amuses them. "Will that dinosaur poop the dinosaur bones out that he ate?" They're so eager to learn and share. I wish I was a little kid again. They want to know everything. They're all friends. There's no bitterness or cynicism and they don't judge each other or divide into elitist groups. They're just kids in class. "Everything in Texas is..." " Dinosaurs?! " I'm ready to disappear into the desert for a few days.

The name caught my eye immediately. Jimmy. Jimmy Talarico. It's funny, but I never really knew the last names of my friends when I was growing up. I guess. I looked him up. He looks much different from the Jimmy I remember. The Jimmy from 2nd grade. Jimmy and I played robots, I wrote once. I wonder if he remembers me. The way I remember him. And Anthony Carroll. And Luke and Joe Miller. And Tahsir Rahman. And Caitlin Wright. 2nd grade was a long, long time ago. He's a politician now, I guess. All of his pictures are him dressed in suits, speaking behind podiums. He's very active, politically. I wonder if he still adopts retired greyhounds. He looks very old. Like an aging man. The way he cuts his hair, the way he holds himself. He's not a boy anymore. "God-gosh." He said. He only said it because it irked Luke. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. He ran for a position in student government. His profile is littered with Obama camp...

I won't jump over this ledge, I thought. Because I might fall. So I dismounted my bike next to it. It was a large planter box that separated the mulch from the sidewalk. I stepped into the leaves that had collected against it and fell. My shins hit the edge and my bike fell on top. And I sat there. I wanted to just sit there for a while and watch the fountain. "Are you okay?" The man asked, tentatively. "Yes." I said. I locked my bike up and took my quiz. Later, I stood by the bike rack. There was a little bird hopping around on the ground and I watched him for a while. He pecked at the sidewalk. Then another bird pooped on his back. He paused for a second. The other bird came out of the tree and started pecking at the ground too. The bird with poop on his back continued to stand there. Eventually, he flew away with poop on his back. I shooed the other bird away. Poor birdy bird. I guess everyone poops on their friends eventually.

I used to get nightmares from eating chocolate before I went to sleep as a little kid. I don't know why, but they were always vivid nightmares. Growing up, I always attributed them to the chocolate. So I didn't eat chocolate. Later, I realized that I had nightmares anyway. Once, I woke up from a particularly bad nightmare and sat up in my bunk bed. The idea was that from my top bunk, anything that was coming for me would get my brother first. That would give me enough warning to make a break for it. Babies sleep soundly, though. My room was dark and the curtains were drawn. There was a light coming in from the kitchen. Reluctantly, I climbed down and investigated. My dad was in the kitchen making tortillas. "Do you want one?" He asked. I took a warm tortilla and ate it. We ate in silence until we had our fill of tortillas and cleaned up. "Nightmares?" He asked. I nodded. "It's okay." He said. I went back to sleep. No nightmares....

Finally, I can make boxes in Photoshop. Who knew it was so difficult? I don't know if I'm looking forward to Spring Break or not. I think I am. I definitely want to spend time with my friends, but I like to enjoy nature in small groups. Or alone. Hopefully I can suck it up. I want to go fishing. I haven't been fishing all that often in my life, though. My grandfather tells me fishing stories all the time. Actually, both of my grandfathers do. They both go deep-sea fishing. I want to reel in marlins and sharks. Then I want to punch that shark right in his nose and let him go. That'll show him who's boss. When I was with my dad, we went to the coast. We walked out on the rocks next to a fishing pier. In the shallow pools of water we found a bunch of dead fish. They weren't fish, they were baby sharks. Someone had reeled in a pregnant mother and cut her open and the babies spilled out into the water and washed up on shore. She was hanging up on the...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like to walk alone. It lets me think about things. It lets me create things. The sounds I hear, the things I see--they make scenes in my head. For movies. Or stories. It's nice. Kind of meditative. Just drifting into a different way of thinking. I passed a trash can on my way home last night. Something rustled inside of it. I stopped and listened. The rustling continued. I was alone. Slowly, I stepped closer to it. It was too dark to see anything. I peered over the edge of the can. Black. The rustling continued. I leaned over to get a better view. Suddenly, a large raccoon jumped out of the can. I jumped back. "Ohfuckingshit!" I said. Not very cool. The raccoon climbed out of the can and waddled calmly into the bushes. I clutched my chest as my heart rate returned to normal. Fucking raccoons.

A plane went down into the Hudson River a few days ago. The pilot who brought the plane down is being hailed as a hero. I hate to sound so cynical, but isn't that his job? To fly planes and--in the event of an emergency--land the plane with minimal injuries/casualties and make sure his crew and passengers are off safely? Does it surprise us when people do their jobs correctly? I guess so. Adulation to the janitor who leaves the floor spotless.

In November I decided that I would write a song every day for the entire month. That did not work out as well as I had hoped. Nobody has the time to sit down and write songs like that. By the end of the month I had precious little to show for my proposed efforts: three songs about states I do not like that much, a couple of nonsense songs, and innumerable fragmented ideas. And an ongoing story about zombies. So I laughed it off and moved on with my life. I did not want to think about those songs too much. They are kind of shameful. I walked to my room with my backpack. I haven't used a backpack in a long time. It felt strange to have the weight evenly distributed across my shoulders. My roommate wasn't there again. I emptied out my backpack onto the shelf: two textbooks. Kind of a waste of time, I guess. That's okay. I'm used to doing things like that. As I made my way back across campus my mind decided to think about the songs I had tried to make before. T...

People are not counted among my favorite things, so I was naturally very excited at the prospect of meeting my roommate. The fact that I was headed to Simkins, the testosterone saturated dormitory located as far away from everything as possible, simply added to my enthusiasm. Only the front door was locked with a card mechanism. I assumed that none of the interior hallways were locked--as they were in Jester--because the risk of "bro rape" was either so small it was negligible or so high they gave up on preventative efforts. Either one is okay, I guess. But kind of not. The first thing I noticed when I walked into my hall was the RA's information board. Normally, these boards have information regarding moving in, student health, and campus organizations. Not this one. This one had information exclusively regarding penises. Penises and masturbation. I continued down the hall. The only Franklin I've ever known was a turtle who wore a hat, so my mental image of m...

I saw the ring, but it did not register immediately. What am I looking for? I thought. Everyone was on the edge with tell-tale smiles. It has to be the ring, I thought. There's nothing else I'm supposed to be looking at. Rings... ring... "Oh man!" Was the only thing I could think to say as I realized what it meant, my hands grabbing my head. It was hard for me to believe it. They had talked about it for a while, before. Everyone talks about things they want to do. Talking is free. But before, it had just been smiles and words. Darting eyes and clasped hands. Words don't mean anything. It was the idea. And then on that morning, as far as I was concerned, it became an action. And actions are the only things with real meaning. It took me the whole rest of the day to wrap my head around it. It was shock, I think. My friends are growing up. They're sitting at the big kids' table. It's easy for me to forget that we aren't little kid...

They found her at a hospital in Anaheim, 10 miles away from where she disappeared. Alive. She went home against the recommendation of the hospital staff. A policeman picked her up and dropped her at the mental facility there without filing any paperwork. That's okay, I guess. Everyone gets a little lazy sometimes. It's kind of funny to see the chain effect. I guess I'm supposed to feel relieved at this point, but honestly it's kind of hard to feel anything at all. Everything is so far away. All I hear are names and words. And those do not mean a whole lot. It all turns into drama in the end. Just silliness all around. Now they're trying to fit her with a GPS tracking device like she's some kind of animal. It's hard to care about it all.

My grandmother lives in California with my great-grandmother, grandfather, and uncle. She is addicting to sleeping pills. In fact, she is addicted to pills in general. She will literally take any pills she can find just to take them. She takes money from everyone else so that she can buy pills. She suffers from dementia. She can't talk anymore. Now she's missing. She's been missing for a day. She disappeared when my uncle--carelessly, I guess--took her grocery shopping. No hospital has found her, the police have no clue, and nobody anywhere seems to know where she is. My uncle drove around all night looking for her. He's still looking now. "Someone probably took her in," the policeman said. If that was true, why didn't they call the police? Now she's lost somewhere in Garden Grove, California. I don't really know how I'm supposed to feel about it. I didn't know her very well, honestly. She bought me my first Batman action fig...

My dad left this morning. I guess things can only get better from here; I'm not convinced there can be anything worse. But I'm not holding my breath.

I met my old Spanish teacher yesterday morning for breakfast with a couple of friends. I was late. It was very strange. Sometimes I forget that I'm not a child anymore. I'm a legal adult. I'm not restricted to only being a student. I can be a friend, too. We all traded stories and caught up over bagels and coffee. It was nice. It had been years since I had seen Profa. Four years? Five years? Too long, I think. We made plans to all meet up again in a couple of weeks. That should be fun. I was glad to hear that she was doing fine at her new school, settled back in with her family. She deserves to be happy. We all said our farewells and went our separate ways after a couple of hours. It's nice to know you have friends out there. It's a big world. And the year is almost over. It's been a long year. The world has changed. Everyone has changed. I've changed. Except, I do not think that people change. Faults do not magically disappear and goo...

My dad came home for Christmas. It was the only present worth getting. He went out of his way to arrange transportation for his group--renting vans to take them and their bags to the airport--when the other leaders did not. He stayed up late trying to make sure everyone was accounted for before making his own travel arrangements. He tried to use his frequent flier miles to get tickets for other people. And when everything was done, his group was leaving for the airport while the other groups struggled to find taxis. "They have a nickname for me," he told me. "They call me 'The Prince of Darkness.'" He manages to get into all of the important meetings and pulls strings so that his group always ends up on top with the best arrangements, equipment, and assignments. Nobody seems to know how he does it, just that he does. He's home now, but he's leaving again soon. I sometimes wonder if he ever thinks about himself. I wonder if he ever finds the t...

Christmas does not give me many things to complain about. This is a good thing, I think. It's the one time during the year that people make an effort to pretend to be genuinely interested in being nice. That's okay. It gives you a good chance to look back at the year at all of the mistakes you made. Or the good things you did, if you can remember them. It's nice to just sit down by the fire and relax. And to wait for Santa.

When I was in middle school, I drew cartoons in class. Instead of having a notebook full of history notes, I had a notebook full of cartoons about history. I would make little doodles of historical figures and their stories. It helped me remember things better, for some reason. They were not very good cartoons, admittedly. My history teacher was good, though. Mr. Ryals taught us a lot more than history. He told us stories about his life. His friends. His experiences. He gave us life lessons to take away from his class. "Balance." He said. "You need to find the balance." They were words I took to heart. Before the end of the year was up, he called me to his desk. "Hey," he said. "You should draw cartoons." "I do," I said. "No," he said. "Draw them for the newspaper. I'm serious. You could be a cartoonist for the newspaper." I laughed and said no. "Do it." He told me. "I want t...

I do not trust people. It is not a learned habit but something instinctive, I think. People are inherently evil and malicious unless they make a conscious effort otherwise. People believe that trust is something that they are entitled to. Something they deserve. It is not. Trust is something earned. A reward. Most people do not deserve to receive such a gift, as they would end up abusing it. If there is one thing that people are very good at, it is disappointing you. Everybody has ulterior motives for everything they do. Everybody. No exceptions. Distrusting everyone you meet is a terrible way to go through life, though. It strains your relationships to breaking points and makes you a callous person. Unapproachable. Bitter. That's okay, I guess. If nobody gets close, nobody gets the advantage. I parked the truck far back in the parking lot. I wanted to walk through the cold. I drew my coat around me and walked toward the store. I noticed them at about the halfway...

December always arrives so quickly. You sit down in August and hold your breath for Halloween, but the next time you look up: suddenly, Christmas. It's always like that though. It's not something I really look forward to, either. It can hardly be called Christmas. It's pathetic. And diluted. It's a weak imitation of what it used to be. Of what it's supposed to be. It's like Valentine's Day, hollow and commercialized. And the people that run with it are the worst part of the whole thing. "Happy Holidays!" They say. I understand it's an effort to bend over backwards to accommodate the various religious celebrations of the season, but is it worth it? If someone is going to get upset--during the 'holiday season' no less--because you assumed they followed whichever arbitrary religion, then they probably aren't worth fraternizing with, I think. Is it really a good use of your time to stomp around in circles crying because som...

I have always loved to write, I think. I would write research papers when I was younger just to have something to write about. It was always a lot of fun to me. I loved watching the words form and scroll across the screen as I typed them. I was watching myself create things. It was pretty okay. I had wanted to be a writer when I was young. I was much more idealistic and full of optimism then. What a wonderful dream that would have been to hold on to. I wrote stories long before I ever imagined making movies. I imagined things the same way back then, but instead of planning for cameras I planned for words. I wrote about all kinds of things. I wrote alone and I wrote jointly with friends. Most important to me, however, was that I wrote. I used to write a story every day at school. I would throw them away at the end of class. I wish I had kept them. That's okay. I was never satisfied with my characters, though. They had names and descriptions, but they were still just ...

I do not remember very many of my dreams. It makes me wonder how often I actually dream. I've heard we dream every night. It sounds wonderful. I tend to only remember my bad dreams. It's just bad luck, I suppose. Last night I dreamed I was working in the hospital. I was not in the ER though; I'm not sure where I was. But I was drawing pictures for patients. The patients were mostly children. I drew pictures of whatever they asked onto a dry-erase board that would stay in their room. It made the children happy. I walked into a room where a boy was laying down, connected to all of the monitors. His whole family was there, crowded around his bed. "What would you like me draw for you?" I asked him. "A cat." He said. I started drawing the image but my hand would not respond. Instead, it slowly scrawled out the words " because the boy's sin ." I panicked and tried to erase it before anybody noticed but my hands kept drawing thin...

I was walking down the sidewalk on my way to class, and passed by the library. In front of the building--in the middle of my path--stood a couple. Typical , I thought. It's like being in high school all over again. Couples tend to believe that the world revolves around their ever-ending relationship. They believe that they have the right to do what they want where they want. It stems from each partner believing that they--individually--are entitled to do as they please. So, with little regard for their environment or those around them, couples tend to stand in the middle of everything and mess everything up. It's almost as if they seek out the most high traffic areas to block. It lets everyone else know how madly in love they are, I guess. As I got closer, I realized I had assumed wrong. "Please, I just want you to know I care." He said dully. He moved forward to wrap his arms around her. She pushed him away and stepped back. "Get off me!" She ...