Trunk First

February is a brutal month. It packs all the misery and dread of the other winter months, only in a neat and tidy twenty eight days. Or twenty nine, depending upon the mood of the beasts that control such things. Or really, just the year.

Regardless, packing all of those horrible emotions into the smaller window, like packing an elephant into your duffel bag, requires some creativity on the party of February, and every year, it manages to surprise me with new and wonderful ways of doing so. Ironically, if I were a stronger, more secure, less emotionally stunted and socially retarded person, I would have asked her out earlier, possibly avoiding the horrible fate which befell me, which would have helped me become the more balanced, well adjusted individual who is absolutely no fun to mock and who does not share his misery with all of you well meaning passers-by, mostly because he lacks sufficient misery to do so.

Such moments of consciousness, when I discover such insight, only contribute to adding, piling on perhaps, accumulating you might even say, to my horrible amount of regret and gloom. I coulda been a contenda. Or at least, I can say that in earlier age, an earlier personality inhabited this husk, not yet shattered into glass, blown over the edge. Then this body was taken over by me.

And I, My Friend, am No Jackson Pollock

Hallelujah, Babylon is fallen. With the wind in my hair, I am the steed of the sky, wishing for the prayers of others. The pearl of the bluest waves is in the oyster of my bluest days. Who is to blame for the follies of all men, if all men fail at the same opportunities? I am merely a caricature of the God who created me. The color of hell is the color of heaven from a distance.

This really does mean something, in an abstract, modern art sort of way. I swear.

Whim

I’m sure that this is the most common, obvious thing in the world, but occasionally a song really penetrates us, says those things we have flailed at helplessly, sums up our emotions and provides more evidence of our own futility expressing ourselves with words and sentences. One of these songs has hit me pretty hard recently, so to quote:

It’s just another day, another episode
Of hiding under the world
It’s just another ray of merciful hope
I don’t expect anymore
I’m already insane
I’m already in pain

And if this time, you don’t rescue me
I won’t blame you at all
Cause you see, I know that I’ve gone in too deep
For you to risk the fall
I’m already insane
I’m already in pain
I’m already insane

I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge

Never thought that I would be the one
With the winning hand
So you see, it’s no blow to my sophistication
That I’ve gone crazy again
I’m already insane
I’m already in pain
I’m already insane

I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge

I’m already insane
I’m already in pain
I’m already insane

I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge
I am dust, blown away over the edge

I’m already insane
I’m already in pain
I’m already insane

"Dust” - Van Hunt

It’s said everything I wanted to, only with an eloquence and beauty that I aspire to, only to fail like a chimpanzee trying to do calculus. The words are brief and relatively simple, but really pack a punch, at least to me. When I’m exposed to words so gorgeously composed, I have the conflicting inspiration, a goal that somehow this expression could possibly carry some weight, and the pain of the horrific realization that my own art will probably never do the same.

Unreasonably Bad

I’m really sorry to do this, but I’m going to subject you to my horrible brand of poetry, designed to salve some self-inflicted wounds, and remind myself that the only thing I’m truly qualified to write is code and the occasional technical email (although really, I’m not qualified to write those either – don’t tell my boss).

It’s understandable, quite reasonable even
That the trembling grey clouds gathered in menace
Are swallowed by the blue skies and sun
When you smile
And it’s not a stretch, pretty sensible really
That the slender necks of the daffodils
Struggle against the wind to lean towards you
To better hear your laugh
And who could really argue or disagree
With the stars, normally stuck in their tedious glow
Who would sacrifice everything to shine a little brighter
If it would catch your eye
And it’s certainly within comprehension
That the earth would silently quiver in delight
When you remove your shoes
And dig your toes in the dirt
So it’s understandable, quite reasonable even
For me to fall hopelessly and helplessly in love with you
But it doesn’t make any sense at all
For you to be so in love with me too

I know. It’s horrible. Sorry.

This Contract is Binding

Since we’re already on the topic of dreams, it’s reasonable to share another one I experienced recently. Less humorous, but still delightfully filled with my own pain and self-torture.

The beginning is a bit foggy to me, but at some event or location, I was introduced to a gorgeous young woman, who began to flirt with me (which clearly distinguishes this dream from reality). Turns out, not only is she drop dead beautiful, she is smart, funny, and generally incredibly fun to be with – and Halle Berry’s daughter. Now, I don’t really follow any of these celebrity life things, but somehow I doubt Ms. Berry has a 25 year old daughter, just looking for a gawky, pale, unambitious layabout. Anyways, we hit it off, go on a couple of dates, whatever, and end up together at her house. Anyways, after spending the evening together, I leave at which point I have the dramatic realization that even though this woman is pretty much perfect, I still feel unfulfilled about the relationship.

Because no matter how unbelievable another woman may be, I have some potent feelings about another. I have been contaminated, marked, branded, and cannot give my heart to anyone else, because it no longer belongs to me. I cannot rescind the offer, steal it back, or destroy the contract. Its possession is entirely in the hands of another. This is the most terrifying, dreadful, beautiful feeling that can envelop a person. I cannot claim any purity or innocence on my own behalf, but I suppose this is the closest I will ever come.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

Shit has gotten a bit dreary and heavy, and for that I apologize. So I’ll thrill you with a fantastic tale, the likes of which you have never been exposed. A tale for the whole family, enthralling and delightful for everyone who has ever breathed the sweet aroma of that wonderful entity we call love.

Actually, now it’s destined to be disappointing due to my oversell.

But here it goes. I haven’t been sleeping particularly well recently, and I’ve been having quite a few dreams recently, most of which will remain locked up in those disturbing and destroyed remnants of my mind. But one night, between waking up, looking at the clock in hopes that I slept more than a couple of hours, I had a particularly strange dream.

It began at the gates to an unnamed and indistinct amusement park. I had no reason to be there, except to fulfill the needs of the plot. So it was sorta like a Hollywood movie, except without the handsome leading man. At some point, I walked by the friends of my crush, and asked where she was. They responded that she had gulped down a bit too much of the alcohol earlier, and then may have gotten herself into a little bit of trouble with an officer of the law, leading to her being in the joint. And they decided to enjoy the afternoon and spend their money on more interesting things than bailing her out.

Seeing my chance to earn a couple of brownie points, I went to bail her out. Somehow, I did so at some odd computer terminal involving robotic police, but that’s neither her nor there. After getting her out, I realized why her friends were letting her hang there. She was so drunk that she could hardly hold her own head up. But I was unfazed, and decided this was my chance to impress her. So, I busted out my boom-box, popped in an old school tape, pressed play and took my spot on the floor.

As the first strains to Michael Jackson’s Bad began to ease out of the speakers, I started an obviously well practiced and disturbingly Jackson-esque performance of the song. The singing and dancing were right on – the high pitched squeals, the crotch grabs, the weird lip flexing – I was more Michael Jackson than he is anymore. To my surprise, she could not keep herself awake to enjoy or be astonished by this visual and auditory marvel.

Certainly, any embarrassment which occurs in real life would pale to this fantasized one, and I suppose puts at least a slight bit of perspective on the events of the past week. But why, even in this nightmare, I would ever consider trying to impress anyone with a Moonwalk entirely escapes me. I should probably have some limbs severed for even dreaming such bizarreness. Clearly I shouldn’t be allowed to poison any other human beings by passing these genes along.

The Socks Go in the Laundry Basket

I wish I understood – well, anything really. But specifically, why women act the ways they do. I’m not one of these people, completely flummoxed, complaining about the silly ways that we perceive those of the opposite gender to behave. I’m not at the bar, gripping my third beer, telling uninterested listeners about how she wants me to pick up my towel, and why I, as a man, simply cannot oblige that request.

I pick up my towel. I put the toilet seat down. I don’t mind cooking and / or cleaning up. But the lady who has ensnared my emotions has me entirely baffled. It has been less than a week since I decided that previous humiliations were clearly not enough, and that I had to embarrass myself in front of the person I most wish to impress. Since then, we’ve barely spoken. And I just don’t know what it means. My optimistic friends try to convince me that it means that she digs me so much that she worries that even coming too close to me would make her heart flutter and make her physically unable to control herself.

Possible, but more likely she feels uncomfortable about being around myself, given that I am entirely hung up on her, and lack any of the qualities which women look for in a man. And, feeling it slightly more digestible to ignore the situation and myself than have to talk to and reveal a painful truth to me, she has tried best to avoid crossing my path.

This may or may not be the actual case. However, my complete lack of understanding of people and their behavior results in me simply assuming the worst case scenario, almost regardless of the actual truth of the situation. Since I don’t know what anything means, I just assume everything is somehow related to the horrific nightmarish fears that play over and over in my mind, and always culminate in scenes most closely resembling heavy metal music videos. Meaning, not pretty.

Between Coffee Breaks

So, quite fortuitously, I found some peace of mind today. Okay, not really, but that would have been fantastic. Instead, I went to work, considered the moral and ethical implications of training chimps to clean my house (available for bananas on the dollar), and then came home. And I was only 18% less coherent after a day of work, which is indicative of myself doing as little as possible to get by.

Real work is a strange beast. It is tolerable in short bursts, but deflating and destructive over long periods, like two or three hours. So, we break up the monotony of what we get paid for with extended coffee breaks and social interaction with our fellows under the guise of work related discussion. But even these seemingly job related conversations are merely a diversion, a way to briefly escape the drudgery of real work.

And to think, I actually like my job quite a bit compared to the average person. But it’s a job, and once I realized that it was neither social hour or paid butterfly flittering (read: fun for the whole family!), my interest level dropped. Despite the fact that seemingly every day I believe that it has bottomed out, it continues to sink lower. But they keep sending me checks every other Friday, and I keep showing up.

Psychological Reimagining is Tiring

I think that it is common perception that self expression is a therapeutic and enriching mechanism. And so, because I love regrets, misery, and that whole potential future which will never be thing that we all do to ourselves, I’ve been contemplating who I would be if I didn’t have this outlet.

Most likely, I would be a shell of a man, huddled in the fetal position in the corner of a small dark room, muttering to himself about missed opportunities and undiminishable (which the spell checker says isn’t a word, but I do, and I am always right! Usually right. Occasionally right. Okay, so once in the third grade I answered a times table question correctly. Okay, it’s probably not a word.) pain. Actually, that’s pretty much what I am anyways, only just in the metaphorical sense instead of the literal sense. To add to my self loathing, I realize that I have been indulging in horrible, selfish self-pity the likes of which the world has never seen before (my only real talent is pain-wallowing, as noted above). And I know that it won’t solve my problem or really cause anything except the exact opposite outcome that I want. But I feel so self-righteous in my misery, and the self-consciousness which reveals to me the worthlessness of wallowing only causes more disappointment in myself, and perpetuates the ugly cycle.

This is the part where I come up with some enlightenment, and share how I’ve discovered a mental approach which has led to reduced acne, fuller, shinier hair, and all of the missed dreams to come true. But I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow.

The Long and Short of It

I was worried that this would happen. I can’t write anything. Really. Not a damn bit of interesting material is going to come out today. In fact, it’s taken me twenty minutes just to write this. So for those of you who wished these entries were short and meaningless, your ship has come in. Congratulations.

Dimpled, Witty Pro Bowlers

Now that I’ve taken the first step towards either unbridled joy or horrific, soul shattering, life ending, breath abating, head in my hands, tears on the pillow loneliness and desperation, I wonder what step two should be. Maybe I should look into adding more alcohol to my diet, or additional injections of old blues songs for pain-wallowing. I’m always up for some pain-wallowing.

As for the girl, she sort of ignored me today. And the flowers have disappeared from her office. I don’t know what that means. But it does mean I will increase my prescription of Tony Rich songs and weeping softly in a corner, at least a little bit. Doctor’s orders. Maybe I need to get a new Doctor. I think mine hates me – or is incompetent. He once looked at a rash on my arm, said I had Supercallifrash, and prescribed me to rub a towel soiled with cream of mushroom on it twice a day while singing Ray Charles tunes. It did get rid of my rash though.

I guess I’m supposed to be nice now, and try to convince her that she should ditch the guy she’s seeing right now, and start dating me. But what if he’s a professional bowler or something? I can’t compete with that. Or what if he has, like dimples on both sides of his mouth, which show up when he smiles after he has said something witty? And she smiles and thinks, yeah, this thing will never end. Cause he’s a professional bowler with dimples, and all I got is a lousy scar on one side of my face that looks kind of like a dimple. But it's a fraud! I might as well just give up. Cause that bastard definitely won’t want to let her go. She’s perfect. And he probably knows what wines to order with dinner without asking the snooty waiter for advice. I hate people like that. Life sucks.

Three-Fifths of an Entry

So occasionally, I write bad poetry. Which I then force upon the unfortunate public by screaming it loudly at passing traffic. Actually, due to my complete lack of confidence in myself, I hide it a cheap journal made from recycled paper. Cause if I’m a waste of space, oxygen, and other resources, I’ll try to use only three-fifths the resources of a normal, useful member of society. But the weird thing is, now I can’t write anything. To write, I seem to need to be in a specific range of misery and turmoil. Too much happiness and joy makes me use phrases about kitty cats playing with balls of twine, and not in any sort of sarcastic or ironic way. Too much intensity to my brooding makes me impotent as a writer. My thoughts are single words, often the type used by pirates, like Arrghhh!, Hoy!, and Egad! (okay, that’s not that piratey). And yes, my spell and grammar checkers hate me.

The only good thing about this sort of internal conflict is that it is supposed to fuel creative inspiration. At least if I’m miserable and frustrated, I can delight in that I can allow my pain to spread and live longer than me (according to a recent fortune teller, I am due to be killed in 2031, probably by angry and overworked grammar and spell checkers which gain sentience and attack their worst tormentors). I think this is stealing away even my ability to write down and document these horrible emotions. So, in the upcoming weeks, I will probably be unable to form simple sentences, and will be devolving towards complete neanderthalism. Might as well practice my grunting now. Urrghh. Grunt. Arrr.

Punctuation

Life is just a long collection of small and miniscule events, punctuated by the occasional big event (typically some sort of unforeseen disaster). However, there seems to be some sort of uncertainty of measurement principle involved. Either we are unable to identify the magnitude of an event, or the direction of the event (either positive or negative), or maybe even both. Only in hindsight can we accurately gauge whether an event was good or bad, and how much of an impact it had. That is, sometimes a string of seemingly small events causes massive life changes. And sometimes we can tell that an event was big. But we don’t know whether the result will be honeymoons on tropical islands, sipping fruity drinks and walking funny for weeks after, or rolling around in a pit of despair, clinging to the idea that somehow things could have been different if only we were smart enough not to think we could get away with sending a chimp to cover for us at our job. Cause we were too hung over to show up. And we though the chimp could handle the workload roughly as well as we could, given our current condition.

And no question about it, today was big. Fortunately, no chimps or other small primates were involved – only me, although I have about the same level of intelligence. I awoke this morning, and while I struggled to wake up and dazedly added milk to Cocoa Puffs, I realized there were messages on the machine. The first two were wrong numbers. The third, however informed me that the lady I had sent the flowers to was curious as to the identity of the sender. And so, she called FTD (two plugs in one paragraph – email me for my address for my free stuff, please) to request that information. The called me to ask for my consent to release my name and address. Which made it my move again.

So, I spent the day interrogating my coworkers for advice (could have used that chimp to do some of my work, since I got none done), and came to the conclusion that I should tell her I sent the flowers and ask her out. However, realizing that going into a situation like that with no preparation would almost certainly result in me blurting out something about velociraptor vaginas or how I once asked an antique lamp for a date, I realized I would need a plan. So, I spent several more hours considering my approach, including about seventy four different directions the conversation could go, possible topics, exact responses to expected questions and comments, appropriate hand gestures, various levels of smiles and the correct circumstances for their use, and of course training my brain to avoid mentioning dinosaur genitalia or any of my ten greatest shames. In the end, I had filled two large binders with information. Which was worthless, because one of the bullet items on page 135 was to not bring large study binders for use during conversation.

After being pushed and prodded, I went up to do it. And chickened out. I left, with her still at work, a perfect opportunity wasted. I drove to a local bar, to drown my sorrows like most do, and parked my car. At which my point I was about thirty seconds from lovesickness induced incapacitation, and so left, and drove back to work, where she still waited. I headed up to the third floor, washed my hands and face, paced about my office for a few minutes, washed my face again, paced more, washed one more time just in case I missed something, and headed to my office to pace more. I took a few breaths, grabbed a coin, and flipped it.

Heads, I ask her out. Tails, I go and get drunk. Tails. Best two out of three. Tails. Three out of Five. Tails. One last time. Tails. Okay, fine. Fuck fate. I headed towards her office. The moon was perched in the night sky, carefree to the destiny of this average American idiot, but shining the same. She was strolling out at the same time, so I stopped her in the hall.

I asked for a minute or three, and asked her about the roses she had received a couple of days earlier. She did a couple of mental computations, and quickly knew who to blame. I was the culprit. She began to smile, but not a full, gee whiz and holy smokes, smile. It is a smile I’m very familiar with. I call it a three-quarters smile, but really it is the province of several different emotions. Typically, I see it in a gosh, I’m flattered, but my boyfriend is actually handsome and you’re not really type of way. This was approximately that, with the addition of at least I know who sent me the flowers. Unfortunately, I launched into a line which might as well be printed on my tombstone. A line which will follow me, anywhere I go, until the seas swallow the trees.

It would be unfair to save my shame by paraphrasing, so I quote (and it is burned into my memory, prominent among my other catastrophically dumb sayings, so quite accurately) “You’ve probably figured it out, but I dig you a little bit.” Yes, I actually said that. I will refrain from defending myself, because I really have little way of regaining any of my pride anyways. I then asked for some of her time, knowing that the smile meant the chances were roughly equivalent to the Golden State Warriors’ chances of making the playoffs this year.

She let me know, quite gently actually, that she had been seeing someone for a couple of months, and that she could not. She then added, she didn’t expect me to wait, but if it didn’t work out though…

A ha! A ray of hope! The moon does look down with sympathy upon the ragged and destitute! There is a God, who throws us bones occasionally! Or maybe she was just being nice. I don’t know. So I went to the bar and got drunk, rehashing the story to everybody and anybody, several times while so completely wasted that the stars of the story were Han Solo and a pine tree with the ability to predict Super Bowl winners. I may be drunk still.

Alas, I have now spent every second since, every conversation since, every dream, every hand gesture, every song on the radio, every moment of work, every fidgety nervous thought, considering every potential direction, meaning and possibility from those words. And to save my sanity, and yours, I will leave them in my brain, torturing me, like an executioner with a feather and desire to see me squirm (yeah, I’m quite ticklish – add that to the list of reasons I seem more like I’m 15 than 25).

It was big, that I’m sure of. In which direction, that I don’t know. But it does mean you’ll have to put up with more of my shit for a while longer.

You Smell Good, Me Not

We men are an interesting breed. We grow up, struggle to find some sort of identity and character, develop our personality and values. And immediately modify all of those the second we discover a woman we have a thing for. Shortly after, we discover that all of those changes have made us better, more agreeable, easily digestible human beings. Our rough edges are sanded, our surfaces polished to a shine, and our familiar odors (or stenches) are replaced with scents which are combinations of things like Lilacs and Jasmine. More than anything else, this is what we hate about women.

By ourselves, we are Neanderthals, only we are barely conscious of this fact. And if everyone else picks their noses and throws their own feces, who complains? Who throws stones, when your fellows have hard heads, and stones of their own? No one. Then someone ventures a little farther out of the cave, and enticed by colorful visions of groomed hair and scrubbed faces, discovers a new species of creatures, most easily recognizable by their differences from our tribe. Such as the ability to intercommunicate amongst themselves with more than primitive grunts and threats of violence.

Once this species is discovered, men are constantly under pressure to improve themselves in order to gain their favor. Women have no pressure to do such for men. Because we would be overjoyed to gain their companionship regardless of their reluctance to use three different soaps to correctly clean and moisturize their skin. Cause we like them. And we need them. They hold all the cards. And yet we’d all still cut off a few digits to end up with the right one.

Just Plain Creepy

Well, I sent the flowers, and she received them. I saw her traipse down the hall towards the lobby, and then return to her office with them. It might as well have been into a dark chasm, never to be heard from again. It’s strange, because a large part of me just wants her to enjoy the flowers, and that would seem to indicate that any sort of gratitude would be unnecessary. Hell, sending them anonymously almost insures that I won’t receive any. Somehow, some part of me was hoping that she would receive the flowers, and magically understand some sort of fantastical hidden truth about the state of the universe. This would lead her to me and my office, where we would delight in our new connection. Or something like that.

But really, it was more similar to the nature of the rest of my life. Something small happens. And then nothing. Lots and lots of nothing. Which I magnify and overanalyze until I’ve driven myself crazy, each gesture somehow a hidden sign or indication of something larger.

But, so far, there has been no communication between her and myself, no indication that she has any idea that I’m to blame for the flowers. Maybe that’s for the best. I have really no idea about how to communicate and play well with others. Social interaction is a language without vowels, which twists my tongue around itself into yoga positions. Thus, I end up with people furrowing their brows and shaking their heads trying to understand my strange, alien speech. In other words, I have no idea if anything I do is even close to appropriate or normal. More likely, it’s just plain creepy.

Motherf&%!er, if You Want this Encore...

So, tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day. Being slightly less cynical than many, I think it’s a nice holiday. If you’re dating someone, it’s an excellent opportunity to be corny and sappy, and get away with saying the things that would usually get you a roll of the eyes. And then get laid for saying those sweet things. I guess that’s part of my problem – I love romance. I love happy endings. It’s just the other person that keeps getting in the way of my enjoying all those things. It’s why my organs just can’t seem to get along. Because every person I’ve ever been with, half of me is looking for the Stevie Wonder chorus to be sung by the passing bluebirds, the fireworks to explode overhead each time we kiss, and the credits to roll with all of us completely sure that our heroes will end up passing away with their limbs entangled, like in that classical myth. The other half is confronted with the ugly realities that this person has toe-jam, and maybe complains a little too much about the heat in the room, and makes the stupidest noises ever when she's talking to her mother on the phone.

On top of that, all those things which seem so sweet and clever in the movies end up being weird, creepy, or stalkerish once you’ve pulled them off to your stunned and terrified girlfriend. And frightening off the person you’re trying to impress or express yourself to rarely results in the improvement of your relationship. Turns out, the world is more like Jay-Z lyrics than Stevie Wonder lyrics.

So when I come back like Jordan, wearing the four five
It ain’t to play games with you, it’s to aim at you
Probably maim you
If I owe you, I blow you to smithereens
Cocksucker, take one for your team
And I need y’all to remember one thing
I came, I saw, I conquered

So I’ve probably already ruined it with my teddy bears and puppy dogs approach. Not that I like either of those things particularly, and to tell the truth, I dig a lot of Jay-Z. But I’ve clearly taken the other approach, mostly because of my complete lack of coolness, smoothness, or anything resembling either of those qualities. Combining that with my other deficiencies, and I’ve gone with what I’ve got – sincerity and humility. It ain’t much, but when you get desperate, you’ve got no choice. And I am desperate. I’ve been in love before, clearly with excellent results, but it’s never been like this.

I swear I’ve turned around and seen her face on the heads of unknown restaurant patrons and all of the other signals which clearly mean something, like my brain is cracked and is oozing out of my ears while I sleep. Or that I’m the creepy guy in this story who is way overly infatuated with a woman I don’t know that well. Only in the movies is that okay. There, you become the hero of the tale, and women consider you sweet and loving. In reality, they call the cops and get restraining orders.

So the point of all this is, with it being Valentine’s Day tomorrow as I write this, I’ve decided to pull one hand off the trunk, and take a small careful step out on the limb. Almost certainly, the end result will be me plummeting towards a ground which I realize to be both far away and hard. And possibly covered with glass shards. And bees. Or dogs with bees in their mouths, or maybe Richard Simmons robots (obligatory Simpsons reference). Regardless, the results won’t be pretty. Whenever I have the sense of impending doom, it’s usually been over small things. The big things never give me that sense, because like most of us, my brain refuses to accept that the big things could ever go so horribly wrong. So I’m not sure what it means that I have these moths (ladies get butterflies, gents get moths) flying complexly choreographed routines throughout my stomach and adjoining passageways.

What I decided was to send her some flowers anonymously (though I’m about 95% sure that somehow my name will be revealed to her), and see what her reaction is. If it’s positive, maybe I’ll take the credit. Otherwise, I’ll pretend that I have no idea who sent it – I’m currently preparing various denials and rehearsing reactions to dozens of potential permutations of the questions she may have. This may sound like overkill or plain oddness, but clearly you’ve never been around when I’ve had to fib or lie spontaneously. Picture the most obnoxious, annoying giggle that teenage girls have ever made, and that’s usually my best attempt in similar situations. So I’m trying to take no chance with this one. I suppose that’s really impossible – the whole idea is to take a chance and put myself out there.

So now I’m about to hit the hay, and if history is any indication, lie there for several hours while I consider all the ways that things can and will go wrong, preventing me from attaining the one thing that I’ve always treasured and prayed for more than anything. But maybe this is a good sign – vh1 soul is now playing a string of Stevie Wonder videos.

Writers Have Talent

For those of you still with me, I first encourage you to seek psychotherapy, because you clearly have mental issues leading to serious masochism. Anyways, I think that telling this story should begin with an apology. Typically, I feel like most of my conversations should begin with one, since most of the things which empty out of my mind are uninteresting, self involved tripe which causes the intelligence of anyone unfortunate enough to be listening to plummet downwards. So, for this story, which I will hopefully keep brief, I feel I owe a significant and sincere apology to all of you. I’m sorry. I’m going to use words that aren’t really words, and add lots of tangential comments, often in nested parentheses, and do a myriad of other things which will make you hate me with all of your might if you’ve studied the right ways of writing.

I especially feel compelled because clearly I am not a writer. In fact, my life can be defined more by what I’m not than what I am. I’m not particularly successful, or intelligent, or talented, or handsome. Even with all those nots, one that stands out is that I am clearly not a writer. Writers typically have talent, and some sort of form of artistic aspirations, and the hope to add to the beauty and joy of the world. I have none of those things. I write for the most selfish reason of all – because if I don’t I think I may spiral out of control, eventually out of the atmosphere and directly into the sun. And somewhere, deep inside, I truly am hopeful that somehow this situation, and my life, will turn out okay. I’m miserable, but I do have to accept the fact that it may not be a permanent, ingrained personality trait. I don’t like the idea of fate – and the idea of being fated to be untolerably despondent is as bad as the idiots who claim that everything always turns out okay, that some sort of invisible hand is spinning the dials behind the scenes to ensure that our petty lives will somehow end up all right.

So, to be honest, I just don’t care if you get anything out of this. If you get a single chuckle, or claim to your uninterested friends that my story is some bit of life-altering magic, sprinkled out to you in your time of need – fantastic. But if I don’t get something out of it, well, I’d just as well you put the damn thing in the blender after the first page while cursing in French about the total lack of sophistication of American writers. Even though I’m not one.

Nucking Futs is the Stupidest Way to Begin an Entry Ever

Nucking futs. Nucking futs, nucking futs, nucking futs. I’m going nucking futs. Have you ever thought that, were it physically possible for such things to occur, that your brain would slowly begin to swallow itself up, inside out, all the while making horrible slurping noises? If not, then I really have nothing to say to you. Change to another blog – I just can’t relate to you, and you’re simply going to give up after a couple of paragraphs anyways.

The rest of you, well, I applaud your courage. Now that we’ve gotten rid of those others, I’ll let you know why my innards are trying desperately to cannibalize each other in some ritualistic orgy of organ on organ violence. Why my liver and pancreas have decided that my soul doesn’t have enough substance for both of them, and so they need to have a shootout between ribs five and six. Well, you probably already know if you’ve ever been in love.

I’ve never loved somebody without it being a completely crushing, horrific experience. It drains all my energy until my body, limp, beaten, fatigued, and defeated, surrenders entirely to the ravages of a civil war which exists between my various organs. Inevitably, my brain and heart begin with differing views of the situation. They decide the opposition can’t be reasoned with, and begin to persuade the other elements of my body to pick sides (the stomach is always the most desired part to receive support from). Of course, these confrontations never have winners, and typically leave both generals wanting to sacrifice themselves for their own honor and pride after being unable to lead their side to victory.

However, the complex support system of the body, combined with reasonable doses of narcotics and serotonin brings everybody close enough to okay to put it off until another day.

This time’s a little different though. More intensity, more passion, more insecurity, more fear, more despair. The battles usually don’t become this forceful until after I’ve at least gone on the first date. But here, the timeline has been a bit compressed. Don’t know what it all means yet. Well, maybe I do, but am afraid to say it out loud – that would indicate some sort of acceptance of it. And that I don’t agree to. The muscles in my neck certainly don’t – they haven’t been willing to hold up my moderately sized and weighted head for the past few weeks. This has been more than mildly embarrassing, trying to carry on normal conversations (clearly a significant challenge for myself even when all my body parts are in agreement) while my head bobs and weaves, like the facsimile of a fighter seen in those over the top boxing movies, or a helium balloon tied down but the victim of a firm breeze.

And so I’m certainly not convinced that those same tricks I’ve used in the past will be enough. The same strategies used to finally get both sides to agree to a truce may not be sufficient this time. So I may just have to let them figure it out themselves – I just have to figure out exactly what that means.

Okay, so enough of that damn metaphor, or allegory or whatever. The girl - yes it is a girl smart ass - and I have been friends for a little while. Or, sort of. We work together, and she’s friendly to me, we’ve seen each other at a few social events outside of the job. Nothing with just the two of us, or anything like that.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. Every once in a while, I stop, and consider where I am, and what I’m doing, and the possibilities, and have to just curse. Then I bow my head, try to guilt God into making her fall for me also, and then feel my conscience trying to escape the trapping confines of my soul for brighter pastures.

Anyways, I have absolutely no real reason to believe that her feelings reflect my own. Only the fragile hopes tied to minute moments, exaggerated in my memories by a heart which needs something to go on.

You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it. I’m going to ask her out. Period. Period. And she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Isn’t it always?

My Life as an Idiot

Ahh, the smell of clean parchment. Or whatever the internet equivalent is. Anyways, I've decided to sully this beautiful place, where we freely exchange information, ideas, and low quality pornography with my own ramblings, mostly connected to my own idiocy. It's really a selfish desire of my own to write such that what remains of my brain has some sort of outlet. But I'll put it in a nice public place, in an effort to help decrease our rapidly declining intelligence further and possibly destroy the mental stability of others. Cause I like to share.