everything is fine

It's been a day. It wasn't really a good day or a bad day. It was just a day. A long day. I saw the doctor this morning. She told me I had a sprained ankle and that I couldn't participate in any physical activity for one or two weeks. No biking, no climbing, no Judo. I have a Judo final next Thursday. We'll see what happens, I guess. I felt tired and disconnected all day. In a haze. But I was anxious. Stomach churning anxious. John and I went bike shopping today after class. It was a lot of fun. I rode a lot of different mountain bikes and road bikes and BMX bikes. We spent a few hours doing that, and it was time well spent. Except it was really hot outside and we were wearing khakis, of course. It was a sweaty time. And while we were doing this, my bike got stolen. My heart is broken. I called the campus biking organization immediately and filed a stolen bike report with the UTPD. They sent an officer over to talk to me. We met up and walked over t...

When I was younger, I talked to my dad about my plan to make a movie. "I'll have to get in contact with the people in charge there to make sure we can film there." I remembered what had happened the last time we filmed without checking. Escorted out of the building by the bank security guards. Twice. My dad turned to me slowly. "In my infinite wisdom," he said. "I've learned a very important life lesson." I sat down on the couch next to him. "Don't ask for permission," he said. "Only ask for forgiveness." "Okay." I said. And I went back to my room. I've tried to apply that mantra to my normal life ever since, although I think that it is a generally bad idea. I do not need to justify being more impulsive or reckless than I already tend to be. How do you balance that? I need to figure it out. One of the things about being reckless is that you can go through life at full speed. You don't have to...

My favorite kind of juice is pineapple juice. I was thinking about that today. Kind of funny how that worked out. I went to the store and bought a gallon of pineapple-orange juice the other day. I've been taking sips from it all day. When I was in Mexico they had fresh pineapple juice. "Una piña." You'd say. Then they would bring you a glass of pineapple juice. It was good. I tried to eat a whole pineapple one time, but my tongue started to hurt and I couldn't taste anything for a few days. It was a bad idea. I took a walk today. I saw a grackle eating a gecko. It made me sad. I also saw a group of women huddled around a forgotten wallet as a bus stop. They were too scared to open the wallet to see who it belonged to, so they poked at it with a pen and wondered what they ought to do. I can't remember what else I saw.

I make bad decisions sometimes and I don't think I worry enough about it. Moderation, impulsiveness, and self-control: I have problems with them. Or lack them. But, I figure, if things work out in the end then it's alright. So it's okay, I guess. Or close to it. I am not all that worried about it. I feel like I have something important to say, but I can't think of what it is. It's just this feeling over having something on the tip your tongue. No words, no ideas, just a feeling. It's frustrating. I should make something up. There's a rope swing outside my dorm. I swung around on it. I pretended I was Indiana Jones. But my arms were too tired from rock climbing to keep holding me up. I also had Dippin' Dots today for the first time in my life. I was not impressed.

Chang and I went rock climbing today at the gym. It's been a long time since I've been. I used to really love climbing at the rock gym. $25 for a day with harnesses and ropes. "On belay!" You tell your friend. "Belay, on!" They reply. And then you climb up. Unless you go bouldering, which is also fun. I love the feeling of stretching to grab the next ledge. The feeling after you push yourself up the wall, desperately reaching up in a frantic, panicked sort of way. The feeling of spreading your legs apart farther than they probably should and contorting your body in ways it probably shouldn't. The feeling of losing your grasp on the wall. And falling. It's great. It's challenging. Sometimes it's impossible, but it's fun. I just don't get to do it all that often. But I want to. I just wish the shoes were more comfortable. I hope I'm sore in the morning. That might be the best part. Waking up and feeling sore in ...

I played some music today. It was alright. I got to use my rocking guitar. It was just the two of us; he played the drums. We sat down and wrote out a song and talked about being a band and stuff. It was just alright. It didn't really go anywhere. Or, it did, but it wasn't quite where I wanted it to go. I might have been expecting too much when I went in, but there was no click. We weren't in sync. It was alright, but it wasn't like it used to be. Like I'm used to. That's how it goes, I guess. I've been thinking lately about the things that make me afraid. It's a long list, indeed. I don't know why I'm scared of most of them. That seems kind of silly. To be afraid of something without having any good reason to be afraid. So I won't be afraid of them anymore. I won't be afraid of the things on my list. Except for things like spiders and other buggy bugs. I found a soccer shirt of mine from second grade. I recognized the...

My friend wrote some music. Lyrics for songs he wanted to play with his band. He seemed pretty excited when he showed them to me. I got excited. I remember the first real song I wrote. Spencer sent me the chords over instant messenger. Dm, Dm7, G, Gm. I can't forget that progression. I played them on my guitar. I remember it clearly. My desk was in the corner near the door. I strummed on my old guitar. It felt so awkward. I tried to think of words. Nothing came to mind. I got frustrated and stopped. A few hours later I sat down and just wrote. Write what you know , they always say. So I tried. I was excited to have a song. We recorded ourselves playing various tracks and plastered it all together in a mashed up song. A mashed up, finished song. I still get embarrassed when I hear it in my head. It was my first song. A shot in the dark. It was cliche, but it was mine. My accomplishment. I was proud, for a while. And so was he. I liked what he had written....

I accomplished almost nothing today. I had a list of things that I wanted to do. Needed to do, really. Draw a comic. Plan my schedule. Get my advising bar cleared. Study for my lab quiz. Write a poem. Instead, I had lunch at Zilker park. Now I'm sunburned. But it was a nice day. And, despite the fact that I've let too much gather on my plate, I'm feeling pretty good. I can feel some panic rising in there, which is good. A little panic is healthy. I'll get my stuff done. Just have to make sure I'm going about it the right way. This has been a nice week. Not the smoothest, but it's been good so far. Nice weather. I am out of allergy medicine.

It was such a nice day that I couldn't help but ride my bike around. I put Beck on and cruised around campus with my sunglasses. It's starting to feel like summer. Sunny days, smiling faces, flip-flops, and pale skin. It's okay. A few hours in the sun will solve that. I want to go on an adventure somewhere. Dogs and bicycles and friends and music. Not too much longer. John told me about joining the cycling club on campus. I was immediately excited. Ever since I found out about the Texas 4000 team riding to Alaska I've been wanting to get more into biking. Maybe even get a road bike? That's a big leap, though. A bicycle is another instrument. It's a big obligation. Got to ride it around. I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of commitment. I'll stick with my mountain bike for now. I'm going to go riding this weekend. I'm too excited. I want to have at least one solid crash. Or ride off into the creek. That's probab...

My dad called. I talked to him for half an hour. It was the first time I'd gotten to talk to him since he left. I was glad I was at home when he called. It was a very short thirty minutes. It's been a good weekend, I think. The song worked out. I need to take my contacts out. I left them in last night. I need to take a nap. It's been a long weekend. In a good way. I guess it's not quite over.

Music is a hard habit to break. It's hard to turn your back on it. And it's impossible to run away from it. I don't get enough music in my life. I can feel it inside. I need to break out my instruments and play some. Need to play some music. My friend just sent me the score to a song, arranged for a jazz band. I tried to transcribe it, once. And now I have it. And now I'm not in jazz band. It's okay. I just jammed out with a friend for the first time in a long time. I'd never really played with him before, but it was going good places. We wrote a song. It's a goofy little song about... relationships. Or, a relationship. A certain type. Not a real relationship. And the frustration associated with said non-relationship. It's light and energetic. It's fun. I also wrote another song. More or less a stream-of-consciousness experiment. It turned out well, I think. I rhymed it as much as I could. I think I'm being so clever. Oh w...

I read through some old journals the other day. The ones I had forgotten about. The ones I had missed when I cleared them all out. I'd stumbled across the collection before and tried to read through them. They didn't last long. Page by page into the shredder. All those thoughts and memories and ideas just broken pieces in a bin. But I missed some. She found one and she read it. There wasn't any reason to be ashamed, but I was. I didn't want those memories anymore. I had already moved on. But they were there. And later, I found the rest of them. I felt guilty. Guilty that I had tried to hold on to them and that I had tried to get rid of them. I read through some of my more recent journals. Too many voices. I keep things. I keep junk and papers. I keep broken things. I keep secrets. I can't help it. I hold on to them. I always panic when I wonder what would happen if I didn't. Maybe I ought to try, anyway.

I think I'm a good listener. Or, at least, I'd like to think that I'm a good listener. Every once in a while, though, I am not always a good listener. I'm easily distracted, I guess. I tend to zone out in the middle of conversations--usually right around the part where something important gets said. Then, there is a slight pause in the talking and I realize that I have no idea what the other person just said. "It's okay," I say. Then, later in the conversation, I try to figure out what they said through context clues. Or I don't and have no idea what they said. Sometimes I get caught, though. "What?" They say. "It's...okay?" I reply. "What's okay?" Then I take a shot in the dark or answer as vaguely as I can. " That...that's okay." They either accept it and move on or say, "You have no idea what I just said, do you?" "Nope."

My body can't decide if it's tired or not. I keep drifting across the dividing line between "fully awake" and "on the verge of exhaustion." It's a nice feeling, except I haven't done anything to justify feeling that way. That's okay. Video games are a pretty good reason, I guess. My mind is so scattered. Can't concentrate. We went shopping today. It was pretty fun. I didn't buy anything impulsively, so that was good. Just play it cool. Everything is good. Be cool.

Questions don't bother me. People worry about questions making you feel awkward or uncomfortable, but it's not like that. For me, it's not like that. I like being asked questions. The awkward, uncomfortable questions especially. Those make things fun. It's only when I can't think of a good answer that things start to fall apart. I feel like I always need to have a solid answer for anything. Or at least a witty comment. Or a snide comment. Or a bad joke. Or anything, really. That's alright. I did my research and now I'm writing my answer. Probably not the best way to go about doing it, but that's how it goes sometimes. I like to be thorough. Or I'm just bad at answering questions. It's been a good week so far. I'm excited for the weekend, though. Maybe.

When I was younger I had a recurring dream where I would die in a car wreck. I never figured out what I hit. I was driving one second and the next I was mangled up in the car. In the dream it was nighttime and I was twenty-two. I don't know why such a specific age, but it was an important fact in the dream. That dream made me a very aware driver. I haven't had it in over a year, now. So that's good. I guess that's more of a nightmare. She sent me a quote from FML earlier. A guy asked his date how she thought she would die and she said something crazy like, "By being made into a wallet." I've been thinking about it ever since. I have no idea how I'm going to die. That's such a far off thing. You have to get married and buy a house and have kids before you can do that. Dying is something for grown ups. It's hard to think about it. It's hard to accept that possibility. I used to have a fascination with death. I guess everyone ...

I get nervous sometimes. In all kinds of situations. With all kinds of people. I get nervous when I'm on the spot or if I have to talk about something I don't usually talk about. I lock up and shut down. I suddenly have nothing to say. No stories, no jokes, no insight. Just squeaky, jumbled explanations. That's okay. It's good to be uncomfortable every once in a while. It keeps you on your toes. I drank a lot of tea and honey today. I talked to the woman who runs Project Victory. I drew a comic. I plugged in my fridge. I saw someone I like to see. I ate an English muffin. I didn't take too much allergy medication or ibuprofen. I rode my bike. I hung out with some peeps. It's been a good day. I have a feeling it'll be a good week.

I haven't written in my real journal in a while. A few months, really. Basically when I started writing in this. And I update this a lot more often than I did the journal. Oh well. That's how it goes, I guess. I just haven't had a lot of thoughts I've felt like keeping to myself. Well, until recently. That's okay. I haven't drawn a comic in almost two weeks? One week? It's been a while, but I'm not really all that worried about it. Well, maybe a little. I'm a little worried about it considering that it's my job. I'll probably draw one this week. In color. Got to get back on track with that stuff. My allergies are killing me slowly, but I've been drinking a lot of tea and honey. It's a good combination, and an even better excuse to eat honey. My throat hurts. It's a good fight. "Don't you ever give up?" She asked. If I was that kind of person, I thought, we probably wouldn't be here right now. ...

I am tired. It was a long trip last night. Long, but fun. I'd forgotten how tired you get down there. I think my elbow pad made me bruise around my needle mark. Oh well. The shower and food afterward were both excellent. As tired as I was, I had trouble sleeping. Easily distracted, I guess. But I had fun. Now there's a lot to clean up. There's a big pile of dusty clothes in the back of my truck that needs to get washed. I'm finding it difficult to motivate myself to do that, though.

There is a lot of stuff looming on the horizon. Tests and deadlines and large choices and a candle that is quickly burning down. Lots to study for. Lots to draw. Lots to write. Lots to do. That's okay, I guess. We're going caving on Friday. It's going to be awesome, I know it. And I'm going to sleep like a rock afterward. I was walking out of class today when a guy in a bike shirt stopped me. "Hey," he said. "Do you like riding bikes?" "Yes," I said. "Good," he said. "Want to ride a bike to Alaska?" "Sure." He gave me a slip of paper and a brief rundown. In a couple of years I'm going to ride a bicycle to Alaska. That's that.

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...