So How About that Band

In the traditional gluttonous fashion of a white American male, I stuffed myself until it hurt yesterday. I also imbibed a few goodies to make the day a little... softer, shall we say. Then I sat my bloated carcass down on the couch and watched a Band of Brothers marathon. I did not say a formal thank you for anything until I was leaving and uttered the obligatory "Thanks for everything" to my hosts. Now I'm still bloated and kind of tired with things to do that I really don't want to even think about (and these are very simple things, I assure you).

To conclude, I will say that I don't think I'm half the man I used to be, but I'm definitely, at most, half the man I was supposed to be.

Percepitation and Malinformagnanimity

I have no more hopes for when I die. What I mean to say is that I have no aspirations to leave a legacy or a memory. I have existed in my present state for so long, I can't remember where childhood idealism ended and the "adult" perception of reality began. I suppose the ever coveted independence which came with the dire price of responisibility had a profound effect on the way I act, think and live. I know so little about the outside world. I am aware of cultures and lifestyles, but I have no experience or true knowledge of them. When I really stop to think, I feel so ignorant. At the same time, I am somewhat apathetic; but as much as I try, I will never be truly apathetic. I think that would bring with it a state of numb bliss that I can only hope for. My own personal nirvana.

Animals vs. People (or, how I learned to become bitter and jaded before I turned 30)

I either don't or won't understand... I think I've gotten past the can't stage. In my haste, I will, for the most part, ignore all proper punctuation and spelling unless it just falls out of my head that way. Editing sucks. While it serves the purpose of making things readable and maintaining the flow of the written word, it's a pain in the ass and makes one think too much. Thankfully I have a built in editor who works constantly which is probably why I take forever to write anything and almost never finish or publish my work in any medium.

But here's the thing: I WANT you to read it. All of it. Every nasty detail, every pathetic rant, every embarrassing anecdote, every goddamned thing that comes out of my fucked up brain. Whether it makes sense or not. I want you to read the stuff that will make you think I hate everything. I want you to read all the confusion and negativity that clogs my knotted mind to the point where I can't think. I want to rip open my consciousness and spread its contents like an airborne plague. I want you to judge me and love me. Love my bitterness, my weaknesses, my jaded observations, my pointless ramblings, my vulnerability that I try so fucking hard to hide. I want you to think you know me better than I know myself. Get inside my head and make yourself at home. Leave dirty dishes on the coffee table, drink the rest of the milk straight from the carton and leave it in the fridge after it's empty. Have sex in my bed and don't wash the sheets, pee in my shower, break a window or two.

And when you're finished, do me a favor and burn the place to the ground.

Coming to Grips With the Slouch

There are children roaming around the house I live in. Every day, they randomly bounce from corner to corner, making their child noises and getting yelled at by their parents. They are unattended and ignored, unless they get in trouble. In the house I live in, there are only pets and adults.

Trying to be Creative Again

I'm trying to regain/maintain the creative streak I used to possess as a kid. I feel that the older I get, the more distracted I become by reality. I don't want that to happen. I jotted this down tonight without editing it or having much of an idea for a plot. I've decided random stream of consciousness writing might be the trick to stimulating my creative juices. Here is said jot (slightly edited):

He sat in the wooden rocking chair by the door. A few days may have gone by since he last stood. Not sure. His windows had been blacked out with spray paint, all clocks unplugged. No calendars, no phones, TV, radio. Completely shut off from the outside world. The wooden chair rocked slowly back and forth on the wooden floor, creaking and groaning. The arms had nicks and gouges where his fingers hand been picking and gnawing when he first sat down. He stared at his bed a few feet in front of him, dimly lit by the single hanging bulb that occasionally flickered and buzzed. He had no thoughts. He hadn't felt tired or hungry or bored. The steam heater spat and hissed. It might be day. His internal clock, slowly shutting down and forgetting, told him it might be day. No matter. He started to nod. Not falling asleep but fading away. Finally nearing the end. He vaguely wondered how long he would be in his dim yellow room before anyone discovered him. Again, no matter.

I'm Raising My Eyebrow in Thought

This weekend was filled with triumph and tragedy. So much so that it tires me to even think about attempting to recount it all. Suffice it to say, I'm exhausted on every level and I just want to be completely free of any obligations for the next 48 hours but the world won't let me... and so I trudge on. But I could really use a hug.

$10,000 down, another $15,000 when the job is done

In the past, people have told me that I have an intense aura about me. I've also been called unapproachable, even intimidating (the latter seems completely unfounded as far as I can tell).
Well, we can now add cold blooded to that list. At school people have been joking about contracting me to do "dirty deeds" (not done dirt cheap). I asked my teacher where all this was coming from and came to find out that I have that callous, kind of intimidating look and somebody else in the class threw out the descriptor "cold blooded". I have been sporting a beard for the about a month now and I have an old, longish leather jacket that most likely perpetuates the look. My good friend Mike said I look like a car jacker the other day. To a lesser extreme, I've also been called a mountain man.

And I'm completely digging it.