everything is fine

"Eh," I said. "I wouldn't." He whipped around in his seat to glare at me. "Seriously, dude?" I shrugged. "I don't know, man." I said. "I'm not into that. She's not my type." He tossed his hands up. "What," he asked. "She's hot?" I sighed. I've never really enjoyed those conversations. Not with the company I held, I suppose, but also in general. It feels out of place. Improper, I guess. But maybe not that. Maybe just frustrating, trying to make your point. "No," I said. "She's just..." "She's not your type?" His girlfriend chimed in. He laughed. "Oh, I have a type?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "It's girls who are actually guys." "Yeah," she said. "I know your type. Blonde, tall, way too skinny. Artsy or indie, kind of punk-ish. Into music you don't like. Unfriendly." I fought back the...

A cynic is just a frustrated optimist . That was the fortune out of the fortune cookie. "How appropriate," they said. "You would be the one to get that." I stuffed it into my pocket because, really, it was an appropriate fortune. I don't even like fortune cookies. They don't taste good. The only reason I get them is to read the fortune. I couldn't care less about the disgusting shit it comes wrapped in. Quite clearly, I remember reading a book wherein a character was described as cynical. That actually happened on multiple occasions. I never knew what being cynical entailed. Being so young, I couldn't decipher the dictionary definition. And my mother never had a solid way of explaining it to me. People who see the bad in everything, I think. It's funny to see how cliques form between people as quickly as they do. Even in elementary school. Little group of best friends. Anthony and Luke and Joe and Jimmy. How they've all grown u...

I went to a wedding the other day. The second wedding I've been to in less than a year. The second time I've been an usher. The second tie I've been gifted. An interesting thing to watch, I guess. My collection of ties has really exploded in the last couple of weeks. Black, silver, purple, red. Slytherin. Not bad. But weddings really aren't my scene. Before the whole thing kicked off, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop with an old friend. Or what used to be an old friend. "I can't imagine it," she said. She didn't look up from her notebook. "I know people in their late twenties who still don't know what to do with themselves. I just can't ever see myself getting married." She glanced up. "You aren't planning on getting married, are you?" I took a sip of my drink. "No." "Okay, good." She said. "I just had to make sure. Getting married at our age is an awful idea. It won...

I have awful body image. I shouldn't, really, but I can't help it. My grandparents used to tell me about what a chubby little baby I was. "You used to be a real chubby baby," they say. "But look at you! You've shot up and slimmed up!" For years they've been telling me things like that. "You and your cousin both used to be chubby babies." They say. "But you got real slim." And I'm terrified of the day my metabolism slows down. Or the day I look in the mirror and can't see my ribs anymore. I don't ever want to gain weight. Or flab. Or pudge. I just want to be skinny as hell, safely below 150 pounds. It bothers people, I think. They think it's just part of the whole being an asshole thing. But no. It's legitimate vanity and narcissism. I was crossing the street the other day trying to get to the bank. A girl walked up to me, trying to hand out books of coupons for businesses around campus. "Would you like so...

I've had this lunch box, this one lunch box, since I was about five years old. I remember because the lunch box I had before it was a garish plastic box with dial latches that never properly shut. Everything would always spill out of it, and a Power Rangers thermos can only take so much abuse. Finally, my mom took me to get a replacement: a red Jurassic Park lunch box. The perfect size for the Power Rangers thermos and a sturdy plastic latch. For the briefest of moments, there was a substitute: a soft red Jurassic Park III lunch box. Well, sack, I suppose. Traded a Tyrannosaurus for a Velociraptor. That didn't last long. Sixteen years later, I'm still bringing that lunch box to work for lunch. Sentimental, I guess. It's just easy to get attached to things. Meaningless trinkets, especially. Not meaningless, really, since they get assigned meaning. A lunch box. A scarf. A magnet. A bracelet. A dreamcatcher. A cup. A pen. It's kind of nice to notice those things. It...

I spent the last few days playing The Sims 3 . And when I say playing, I mean in marathon doses. To the exclusion of a great many things. Like eating and sleeping. Work, almost. I built worlds. Homes, people. Lineages rose and fell. Relationships grew and withered. Loves were endured and hardships were enjoyed. I made people I knew. I made myself. And then, one Sim-day, my Sim grew up. And then the game told me to get my Sim's life in order because soon it would be too late to fulfill all of my Sim's life wishes. And so I stopped playing The Sims 3 . In an entirely unrelated conversation, a friend asked me if I ever wanted to be an astronaut as a kid. I still want to be an astronaut . I'm going to go to space. And to all the continents. And I'm going to summit Everest. And I'm going to be a doctor. And work at the CIA. And write a book. And make a successful band. And write a movie. I refuse to outgrow the dreams I had when I was a kid. Time's running out, and I...

"Is there an Apple store around here?" The old man asked. "I need to get a charger for my Kindle. I want to read a book." I continued sifting through the displays. I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing anymore. "Uh," the young man said. "I think there's another computer store somewhere. Maybe on campus or something." He sounded bored. Tired, uninterested. "Is it an Apple store?" The old man asked. I tried not to get involved. Just not very hard. "The Campus Computer Store." I said, walking toward them. "I'm headed that way right now if you'd like to come with me, sir." The old man looked at me and smiled. "Alright then, let's go." I looked at the young man. "Thanks." He said. And so we walked out of the Co-op and waited to cross the street. "So much has changed here," he said. He looked at all the colorful signs and shops around him. I looked at the ...

I saw a peregrine falcon the other day. An actual peregrine falcon. All those years of watching Kratt's Creatures and Zaboomafoo finally paid off. Except, apparently, Zaboomafoo was a show for little kids. Which did not bother me in the slightest. But it sat there on the tree branch, watching me over its shoulder. I stopped and stepped off the sidewalk and sat down on the slope. And we sat together for a while. He looked around, occasionally, as I wrote in my journal. We sat in silence for maybe half an hour. I looked at him, he looked at me, and the creek bubbled in the background. The sun drifted lazily toward the horizon when the falcon hunched his shoulders. He froze for a moment before exploding off the branch. He shot through the foliage, not brushing against anything, toward a building on the opposite bank. In the air, he snatched a smaller bird away from its nest and spun around. He swooped back through the dense branches and glided across the road, mere inches of...

I couldn't help but stop when I heard it. Stopped and dropped everything and started wandering down the labyrinthine aisles. Navigating the sea of last minute customers, seduced by the siren song that was all too familiar to me. And after a mildly convoluted journey, I stumbled across it. And, naturally, slowly walked toward the display in coordination with the movie. When Jack opened the Christmas Town door, I sat down in the chair. I'd almost forgotten how much I absolutely loved that movie, which is a lie. Maybe it was just the fact that I was watching it on what may have been the biggest television I've ever seen in all kinds of ultra high-definition, Blu-ray, LED screen specifications. Maybe it was the ultra high-fidelity sound system that was blasting it. Maybe it was the ultra comfortable leather chairs they had set out. But probably not. I just love that movie to death and I'm absolutely willing to forgo my Christmas shopping to watch it. I've never ...

There are certain things that I actually get pretty excited about. Things that happen outside, mostly. Both outside of my sphere of comfort and outside of my control. Anyone's control, really. Like sunrises. Normal weather phenomena. It's awesome. But also, I get excited about eclipses. And I was really excited about the lunar eclipse that was supposed to happen. Until I went outside. The fog and cloud cover was so dense that you couldn't see the moon before the eclipse. And even when the moon was eclipsed lunarily , an event which I can neither confirm nor deny actually transpired, there was so much light from everything ever that you couldn't tell it was the darkest night in 456 years. That's something I could've gotten pretty excited about. I wish I were back in New Mexico, almost. Or Arizona. Standing outside in the dark craning my head back to stare the stars. I've never seen such unadulterated expanses of night sky until or since then. Th...

I got a new phone. It's weird because, really, I didn't need a new phone. I would've been fine keeping my old one. Really. But, apparently, it was time to get a new phone. I've only owned three cell phones in my life. I used my first one until it stopped working. I crashed my bike and fell on it and it stopped working properly. It would only receive half of the calls and stopped ringing entirely. I got a bruise and stopped putting my phone in the shirt pocket on my back. This phone, though, is pretty cool. And by pretty cool, I mean I can turn it into a really cool phone. I went for a few days with "Normandy to shore party, come in" as my ringtone. It was hard not to answer the phone as the Commander. But now it's got the Batwave. Complete with the animation. Which means, really, that I've realized a childhood dream. As far as my communication device is concerned, I am the Batman. And that's pretty much all I really need to get throug...

I had almost forgotten how much I loved running. Or, maybe, love is too strong of a word. Generally, even. Either way, I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed running. I was anxious about the whole thing. I mean, it was hard to find the time to run and train up before it. Not that I'd need to train up for a measly five mile run, of course. So we ran cold. It was wonderful. The crowd of people, the energy. I couldn't help myself. I just ran, made my way up the group a bit. Nothing spectacular. I knew those little 50-yard sprints were going to bite me, but I didn't care. I was feeling competitive. I love that feeling. So I ran and I ran until my knee started to bother me. It wasn't much. Just a bit tender. And then it got worse, so I walked for a bit. Just a bit, though. Because if there's one thing I love more than competition, it's pushing things too far. And so, naturally, I sprinted the last mile as best I could. Which is bad, apparently. So t...

It had been such a long time since I'd last seen him. Not terribly long, I suppose, but long enough that I took note. He's doing much better. Health-wise, emotionally. It's fantastic. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen him so happy. He was laughing and smiling and joking around. Not even self-deprecating jokes. Real jokes. And so we walked and we laughed and we caught up on things. Things and people. She's moving all the way to Dallas from Boston. Partly for work, mostly for him. She's good for him, I think. They seem like a good match, at least. Things are going well. As long as he's happy. I'll meet her in a few days and pass judgement. It's nice to hear him finally start talking like he knows what his future holds. Such a dramatic change. You can only beat a man down for so long. It'll be interesting. Seeing them together. Got to make a good impression, I guess.

“Okay.” The medic said. He continued to stare out the window at the city. The empty city. The quiet city. The somber city with its glass and concrete fingers that reached desperately up into the sky. He couldn’t tell if the sun had started to set. It was dark. Every day was dark. It was always dark. “I’ve heard enough.” “And, uh,” the man said, stifling a cough. “It’s like I was saying. We’re just looking to stay for the night. A couple days at most. Just until, you know.” He nodded toward the sleeping boy in the corner. The man looked tired. Frail in the candlelight. His thinning hair and the bags under his eyes made him look so much older than he was. Or probably was. Actually , the medic thought, he’s probably pretty old. He looked over the father again. The man wrung his hands silently. His eyelids dropped and he shook himself awake. The last couple of weeks had not been e...

I've always thought it was funny to see what you absorb from your surroundings. The little personality ticks you get from your close friends. That weird pronunciation that slips through after you watch a bunch of shows where the characters have different accents. The little things that most people would never notice. Other people, I mean. But silently, you would acknowledge it every time. Or some of the time. You would know, some of the time. And I guess I have sort of an obsessive personality. I get attached to things quickly. And strongly. I get into things obsessively. Like Doctor Who . I love it. I love watching Doctor Who . I've watched the 10th Doctor's run so many times now that it's starting to manifest in my personality. The way I speak. The way I stand. The way I run around in my sneakers. The way I let my coat swing around me. It's pretty damn nerdy, but kind of funny. No harm, no foul, I suppose. There's a whole science to it. To the...

There's a certain friend of mine that never ceases to make my day whenever I run into him. There's just something about him. He's the most honest person I've ever met, I think. He's actually happy. And it rubs off. I've only ever seen him with a huge, goofy grin. Energetic and bubbly and hilarious. He's so full of life and faith and everything. I don't even understand how that's possible. I was lucky enough to run into him twice within the span of a couple of days. And it was fantastic. I aspire to be him, one day, probably. So humble and content and legitimate. I mean, it was only reluctantly that he told us he was on the football team. I think that says a lot right there. Truth be told, I barely even know the guy. But I respect him a lot. So that's, you know, that.

I really want to play saxophone again. And immediately. It is a pretty terrible feeling when somebody asks, "Hey, I've got a big opportunity, do you still play saxophone?" and you answer honestly: "No, not really." Maybe it's the music I've been listening to lately. All jazz. Maybe it's the weather. Or some kind of identity crisis. Again. But the whole episode really burned me. I came home and sat on a bed with my saxophone in my lap for a while, just looking at it. Feeling it. The soft pap as I pressed the keys down. The airy buzz. The first sound that's so cold and so warm at the same time. But still so empty. Lonely. But I don't care. I'm going to play it again. And the clarinet, too. I haven't played it in forever. I saw a clarinet lamp and couldn't help but hold it. I miss it. I miss them. I've changed, recently. Irreversibly, I guess. Maybe it's why I've had so much trouble getting back in...

I knew how things would go down even as he walked down the steps. I tried to bury myself in the Sudoku puzzle--which I hate doing--when he walked up next to me. I took a quick glance at his shirt. Hell is REAL, it read. "Have you repented for your sins?" He asked. "Did you know that Jesus Christ our Lord and savior died for your sins? Did you know if you live a life of sin you will go to Hell?" And before I could think of anything to say, I said, "I know the word of the Lord." And so began my 20 minute conversation with the Hellfire preacher. But it really wasn't that good of a story or an experience except for the fact that it made me think about stuff. Entirely unrelated to what I was doing at the time. Because I was in auto-pilot mode. The mode where I detach my mind from my mouth and carry on full conversations with people without actually being invested in it. I realized I've gotten very good at it. I just don't process anything ...

The funny thing is, I actually really enjoy tutoring kids. I mean, I like kids. They're hilarious. I just don't particularly like going there. The bus can be a scary place. Actually, the bus is a scary place. Full of scary people. Which, largely, is why I don't ride the bus home anymore. "Everyone here," he said. "Everyone here is fake." I nodded silently, shooting a furtive glance to the woman behind me. Things were getting out of hand. "People are just fucking fake here, man. Up in fucking Chicago," he went on. "People were fucking real. There was no fucking 'Blood' or 'Crip' shit going around. Look at me." I looked up at him. "I'm fucking somebody. I'm fucking GD governor. GD. Gangsta disciple. I'm somebody, man. People here? They're fucking nobody." "Damn, bro." I said. I checked my watch. And, so, the conversation continued in much the same way for a whil...

Halloween is definitely my favorite holiday of the year, I think. It's certainly the one I look forward to the most. Even more so than my birthday, which isn't a real holiday, I guess. Halloween just has so much to it. Maybe it's the nostalgia of dressing up and being silly and having fun. Or brainstorming and planning a costume. Or partying. Or just dressing up. I actually just like dressing up and playing make believe. There's something about this semester that has really thrown me off. I haven't been drawing what I want to. It's always right up against the deadline, some kind of rushed thing. I mean, everything this semester has been right up against the deadline but even more so with the drawing. I haven't been taking it particularly seriously, which is a shame, I guess. One of these days I will post all of the comics between two months ago and now, since, you know. Whatever.

The lack of writing, I think, is why I've been so wound up lately. I haven't been able to sort through thoughts properly. Haven't been able to compose myself, I guess. I've lost my routine. Maybe I just need to get my groove back. Or get used to a new one. It's just hard. I really don't feel motivated to write. So much for passion. It's one of those things, though, that I sort of need to keep doing things properly. Legitimate diaries and journals get lost or forgotten. Or, well, actually, they don't. I always feel so guilty trying to write in a nice journal. With the nice binding and covers and nice paper. I'll write for a little while and then stop because I worry I'm wasting a nice book with doodles and random nonsense. Nice books like that should be filled with wonderful things. Oh well.

My brother is wrapping up high school band camp. It's kind of funny, because suddenly we have something we can both relate to. Sort of. Not really in a loving, brotherly way. It's more like a begrudging transmission and reception of information. You take what you can get, I guess. After a few days of band camp, I discovered that he had been leaving his instrument in the band hall without a lock. "Nobody steals stuff out of the band hall." He told me. I related some appropriate anecdotes and let him borrow my own lock until he could get one for himself. "I'm going to need that back," I told him. "So you'll need to get your own lock." A couple of weeks later, I reminded him of the terms of our deal. The next day he returned my lock and revealed that he had left his saxophone unlocked. And apparently, for reasons beyond my comprehension, this is my fault.

One of the things I really enjoy about the summer is sitting in my room at night and watching the dramas that unfold on my windows. All of the moths and bugs flock to the window, trying to get to the light on the other side. And, so, it becomes a hunting ground for intrepid geckos. I've seen geckos eating some pretty damn big moths. And they'll fight each other for bugs. I've seen huge moths slam into my window, too. Like, Mothra type shit going on. It scared me pretty bad. I saw a gecko try to eat a cicada, once. The cicada flew away with the gecko. I wish I had that kind of resolve. I'm finding that I don't, especially as I clean my room and sort through my old things. Unfinished stories and projects and songs and all sorts of things. All abandoned over time and forgotten. I won't let that happen to this zombie story, though. Hopefully.

I read an article the other day that stated, with several different levels of confidence, that our personalities are pretty much set after 1st grade. And, so, I thought about it for a bit and tried to remember what I was like in 1st grade. The only thing that really stuck out to me was the memory of my teacher. She was an older woman with a gaunt face. Very serious. Also, very mean. Unduly mean, it seemed. Considering we had just come from kindergarten, a year that revolved primarily around raising chickens and playing games, being forced to exclusively do legitimate schoolwork with no transition was a bit of a shock. And the few times we did anything remotely fun, she managed to suck the pleasure out of them by criticizing us for not coloring inside the lines or some such foolishness. There were, I'm sure, many other examples. But thinking about 1st grade fills me with a sort of rebellious fervor. It was, I believe, the first time I had ever recognized an authority figure...

The other day, as I drove home from class, I realized there was a fly in my car. A tiny little fruit fly, not unlike the ones we studied once upon a time in high school biology lab. It was albino. He flew around for a bit as I drove out of the parking lot. A bit annoyed, I tried to wave him out the window. He would always fly back in and land on the dashboard. Finally, he landed on my finger. I moved my hand about, trying to get him to fly away. But he never budged. He sat on top of my knuckle and faced forward, looking out toward the road. I tried raising my hand to the open window, but he would walk down my arm until I brought my hand back inside the car. And he would face the road again. So I let him drive with me, my ever vigilant fly buddy. During the trip he faced forward, unyielding in the face of the uncertain path. And in that moment, I connected with him. He wanted what I wanted: to move forward. To go somewhere. Somewhere new. To have an adventure . We cont...

The other day I decided that it was finally time to get rid of my toys. It was something that I had been thinking about for a long time, but never acted on for multiple reasons. Chief among them, the fact that I still played with them from time to time. I'm just a boy. I can't resist opening my Lego box or busting out my action figures every once in a while. You just get that urge to sit down and let go of all of the nonsense you're forced to deal with every day. Plus, I mean, some of these toys are pretty badass. I'd sit down and play with them until the sun came up, unfolding a plastic drama on my carpet and realizing I'd never be able to part with any of it. The sentimentality and the creativity they fueled. But, after months and years of telling myself I would and after months and years of being told I should, I did. And it was so easy at first. I mean, when was the last time I played with G.I. Joe? Or those generic soldier action figures? Just as soon as I...

I'm sure I've said it many times over, but shows like The Prisoner really resonate with me. Not the remake, of course, because it was garbage. The actual one. At its core, it was a single man against the system. Maintaining his individuality in the face of conforming to a homogeneous society. But more fundamental than a social struggle. It was the single man resisting the power that was both corrupt and absolute. Even though everybody else complied and tried to break him down, he still held to what he knew to be right and wrong. And that stuck with me. At the end of our conversation, whatever it had been about, my dad turned to me. "It's not something people like to acknowledge. The only rights you have are the ones you are willing to fight for." He pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine. "You are a free man," he said. "Whether or not you realize it. Whether or not you choose to realize it." And with that, we went inside t...

I, really, kind of don't want to be here anymore. Not in the sense that I am dissatisfied with my life or my present situation--which isn't to say that I'm not , because I am in a way--but in the sense that I am dissatisfied with the lack of things happening. I keep looking around. Out the window of my room. Out the window of my car. Out the window of the living room. I want to be on the other side of that glass. That's where the action is. I need, desperately, an adventure. I need to go somewhere. See something. Anywhere, anything. I don't care where or what as long as it's happening. I want to travel so badly. Grab my backpack and my camera and walk away. I'd settle for going to the same state park I've been to a hundred times over. It's this routine I'm stuck in. Seeing the same shit every day, going through the same motions. I need to change it up, break things. I need some vitality--being cooped up is killing me. What I re...

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

I actually can get along quite well with little kids. And in a totally non-creepy way. It's got something to do with me not actually ever growing up completely, I guess. I'm still desperately clinging on to my childhood persona. And it lets me relate to younger people with much success. On of my friends talked to me at length about such things and we decided we were both at the advantage since we both were in the same situation in that regard. It's why I have more fun drawing Ben the Box Boy than all the other stuff. But I don't like kids when they go through my room and touch my things. Or worse, talk to me. My dad had invited some work friends over for the weekend, and one brought his son. As soon as he got inside the house he disappeared up the stairs. When I got upstairs I found him rifling through my bookshelf, toys, and closet. And playing with a yo-yo in my room. The second time I came upstairs he confronted me. "You have a lot of knives sitting ...

I don't really have a good sense of moderation. I never have. It's something I struggle with, I guess. And it seems like it shouldn't be such a problem since balance is one of those tenets I try to base my life around. I guess I have trouble with moderation because I also have trouble with balance. These things are difficult. But it's not so much a difficulty exhibiting moderation with vices--drinking, smoking, gambling, womanizing, thievery, leaving toilet seats up, etc.--as it is a difficulty exhibiting moderation in a reflexive sense. It's something I notice most often, and ignore, when I do something that requires physical strain. Like athletics, competitive or otherwise. Most people seem to have a dimmer switch of intensity, where they can appropriately adjust the output of their intensity in response to factors both environmental and personal. They generally never push themselves beyond capacity unless they truly have to, and they make sure to mellow o...

As not riding it around would make me even tardier than usual, I frequently ride my bike around campus. The other day, as I made my way back to my car after a particular vile round of classes, I found myself stuck behind a massive youth volleyball team. I slowed down and sort of idled along behind them, lost to my angry musings. But, then, a little girl in the back turned to look at me. She smiled and I smiled back, and then she began tapping the shoulders of her teammates. "Hey," she said. "Get out of the way." And so she ran ahead of me, clearing her cow-like team off the sidewalk and eventually we found ourselves at the head of the entire group. She turned to me and beamed proudly. "Thank you so much." I said. "You're welcome." She said. "Team captain, right?" I asked. Her smile dropped slightly. "No." "Ah, well." I said. "Sounds like your coach made a big mistake." I looked up at the woma...

I often struggle--grapple--with my temper. More often than I'd like to admit. Too often, probably. I've done a pretty good job keeping it in check over the years, I think, but every once in a while things get to be a bit much. Maybe it has something to do with faulty temperature regulation. Maybe you just wake up some days and everything in your head lines up such that you don't take shit from anybody the whole day. Or week. Or month. Uncontrolled tempers cause serious problems. This, I know. People tend not to respond well to you when burst into furious flames of unbridled, you know, fury. I have to make a conscious effort every day to keep myself in line. Like yesterday. When my Mexican-American history professor canceled class via e-mail the morning of. When I got my genetics test back and found that they had failed to properly calculate my grade--an error which penalized me significantly--and then forced me to jump hoops to get it fixed. When my American culture pr...

Some people think I take driving too seriously, I think. And it's not that I don't , it's just not what they think is going on. I actually love driving. I love driving around and going places. Partly because of the very mild sense of travel and adventure, mostly because it affords a very unique opportunity to multitask. I like driving because it's a mental challenge. And so people comment that I'm too intense when I drive because, even when I'm with friends and there's good music on the radio, I'm still holding the steering wheel and looking forward. And it's not that, exactly. I'm keeping tabs on everything. I'm watching the guy three cars ahead of me in the other lane getting ready to recklessly weave between lanes to merge blindly on the freeway, I'm watching the woman in my blind spot who is about to cut sharply into my lane, I'm watching the car speeding nervously through the intersection ahead. I'm observing and register...

I've come to realize recently that, visually speaking, I am attracted to very simple things. Clean things. I love modern architecture. Neutral, cold colors. Straight lines and organic curves. Sterile environments. Not to say that I dislike classical or embellished, dramatic things. I just really like simple things. Keep it clean. I've also been considering the types of people I let into my life. Or, rather, the people I let stay . I had some surprisingly deep conversations out at the beach on the subject of friends, and I've been thinking ever since. It's time, I think, to start getting serious about my social circle. About the list of people I designate as friends. And to start holding onto them. Which means, in some cases, reconnecting. A daunting task, surely, but it's worth it. This is what's important--not grade transcripts--to be happy.

A couple days ago I stopped my car just in time to let a crippled bird hoppity-hop his way across the road. He jumped up onto the curb and looked back at me as if to thank me for my consideration before I continued on my way. Then, as I drove home, a typical Westlake mom almost sideswiped me when she dramatically tried to jerk her car into my lane. I guess I can't get too upset at that since I was basically in her blind spot. Oh wait, it was actually the opposite. I was actually mostly in front of her-- she was basically in my blind spot. She sped up in her lane and sort of made a halfhearted apologetic gesture with her bejeweled hand and I sped the rest of the way home, leaving her far behind. Not to be blasphemous, but this is probably how Jesus felt when he did good things and everybody around him was an ass. I really was excited to take these history classes over the summer. "History of Mexican Americans in the U.S." and "Main Current American Culture Sinc...

A couple of days ago, as I was leaving the research campus with my friend to go home, a woman approached me with her bike. "Excuse me," she said. "By any chance, are you headed that way?" She pointed off in the general direction that was the only way to leave campus. "Why yes." I said. "If it's not too much to ask," she started. "Because my bicycle has a flat tire--" "Sure." I said. "We can fit your bike in here, too." And with that, we drove a Belgian woman home. She told us about her family back in Belgium and how we have a better education system here and we're more bike friendly than Europe and how she misses her family and Skypes with them in the evenings. We dropped her off and continued on our original route. Later, as I entered the final stretch of my homeward journey, I saw a large something in the road. As I got closer, I realized it was a large turtle. I quickly pulled off into the should...

When I was on the boat doing science at Galveston, I saw a lot of dolphins. It was a significant experience for me because I have never actually seen a wild dolphin in real life before. It was sort of a dream come true. And in the middle of the shipping channel, no less. They really are amazing animals. It really kills me to realize I'll probably never see dolphins in Galveston again because of what happened to the Gulf. What is happening to the Gulf. It really is a tragedy. On a much lighter note, I started this Insanity workout program and it was so intense that I threw up before I finished the first workout. That is a good sign, I think. It is certainly an incentive to complete the entire thing. Anything that makes you feel that bad so quickly must be good for you.

I thought I had seen people drink before. Hell, I thought that I had drank before. But, clearly, I thought wrong on both of those counts. I cannot, for the life of me, think of a reason to justify all of the drinking that transpired down there last week. There was no rhyme or reason to it, it just was. Field work just makes a man thirsty. Taking this class was easily one of the best things I've ever done. We worked hard every day out in the field. Wake up at 7, leave the beach house by 8, hit the water by 9. My first three field days were in service on the R/V Acadiana , a 58 foot vessel that towed the CHIRP fish , the air gun, and the streamer to measure all the seismic data--looking at the subsurface of the seafloor we drove over. My second ship was the R/V Itasca using the multibeam , sidescan , and grab sampler --getting seafloor surface bathymetry. They were long, exhausting days and we returned to the docks around 6 or 7 every evening. And then, drinking. So much ...

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

It really kind of blows my mind how quickly this semester went by. This last week in particular. Each semester seems to go by much more quickly than the previous one. It's like driving down a steep hill with the accelerator to the floor and hitting a ramp at the bottom and flying through the air but then getting out of the car because it was a simulation the whole time and you aren't going to die--twist ending! These last couple of days I've been having to convince myself that it's not just a long weekend before classes continue. This is summer. It's time to kick back and enjoy things and relax. Except, it is just a long weekend before classes continue. My marine geology lecture starts up on Wednesday. I'm reasonably nervous--being a completely inexperienced and unqualified undergraduate taking a class that is largely composed of graduate students. But I had the professor's assurance that it would be a fun class, and I think I trust him on that. I...

The airhorn sounded and for a brief moment I panicked. For a brief moment I was frozen in place. People scrambled around me, huffing and puffing. Diving behind whatever was closest. Sprinting forward. Gunfire crackled immediately from the distance. I pulled my gun to my chest and rushed for the nearest barricade. They had all gone further up the field from me. Closer to the battle. I peeked around the wooden wall. People sprinted and slid across the grass to get behind barriers and inside bunkers. I crouched down low and ran for the next barrier. And the next. When the barrels I was hiding behind stopped resonating with the plunking of enemy fire, I peeked out again. And raised my gun, and fired. Paintball was actually pretty damn fun. I admit, readily, that I wasn't particularly optimistic about the whole event when we started out. A large amount of college girls coupled with a significant number of clearly experienced players who had also decided to go paintballing ...

The building I walk to in the mornings for classes has a large air intake vent that is part of the outside wall. There are always things stuck up against the grating. Leaves, papers, plastic bags. These things just get sucked up into it, I guess. This morning there was a bird. He had gotten sucked up against the grating. He could fly away from it--maybe a foot--but he would always get sucked back to the wall. I paused and watched him for a second. No matter how hard he tried, he always got sucked in again. And I started thinking. We get ourselves into trouble a lot. Trouble that could be easily avoided. Of all possible places for him to fly, that bird flew right by the intake vent. And then he couldn't get away. That's exactly what happens to us. There's something we know we shouldn't get involved with, something we should do, yet we do anyway. And things often go bad, and we get screwed. And, often, we're too proud to ask for help. Which makes thing...