May 2005 Archives

I had to give my dog up. Coupled with my already present depression, things are getting rough.

Scrubs is helping with that.

UPDATE: It is now 12:04AM and I have, quite possibly, the best list ever known thanks to Scrubs. It is:

Out of Anything What Could Any Guy Want to See More

1. Boobs
2. The Rock
3. Beer Sandwhiches
4. World Peace

This show is keeping me sane right now.

As if Guinness wasn't great enough already, someone invented this.

You ever get that feeling that something just isn't right with yourself? Like there's unfinished business. That's how I feel right now. The problem is I'm not entirely sure what's wrong. I have a few ideas, but nothing definite...

Weird the things you think of when you're in this space. When your head floats from topic to topic while you rhythmically carry out your job. I find myself coming back to the same three places and while two of them make sense, the third is presenting something of a problem.

I have Pandora's Box. The issue, then, is whether or not I open it. Should I look inside and see what's there? Or, should I sit back and let it be, content with a pretty box?

Few things compare to listening to The Cure's "Pictures of You" on a coldish, overcast morning staring out your office window.

It has just occurred to me that subtle like a razorblade would be a good song lyric.

I have suspicions it might already be one.

It is late.

In the past 5-6 days I have gotten no more than 15 hours of sleep. I am wearing thin, frayed around the edges. I wanted nothing more than to come home from work and sleep for the next week.

Alas, such was not the case.

However, it is okay. I managed to hang out with my roommate's hot friend and secure a "date" with her for Friday. We'll see if it actually happens. I just want to have dinner with a good friend.

On a somewhat different topic, I realized earlier in the week that I've been in love for 6 years. Six. I'm beginning to doubt that it is what I think it is. Have I just had that much time to build this up on my head? Is this real? Am I faking?

Whatever the case, if the old addage "If you love something and let it go and it still comes back to you, it was meant to be" were true, I believe I have proved one of two things. Either, A) whoever said that is a lying bastard, or B) love is a lazy bitch. I have reasons for believing option C (they don't feel the same way) is not true. Until I know for sure, though, I will wonder.

Time to step up to the plate.

Good night.

Overall, it was alright. There were good scenes and bad scenes. The wrapping up of multiple storylines seemed a little too convenient and I recall some sort of plot hole about half-way through, but George showed me flashy lights and whatnot and I forgot.

Best Quote of the Film:

Nooooooooo!

This one comes to us from an Imodium commercial.

...gently calms the chaos that is diarrhea.

Yay!

One of the things I particularly like about myself is my skill for observation. While it is in no way a honed or marketable skill, I feel it is something I am better at than others. Half the fun of this (Halfling) ability are noticing patterns and inconsistencies in life. This is why I love to watch people interact both with myself and others.

Truly paying attention to someone can give you volumes of insight into their lives. You start to glean facts about them without them even knowing. You start to understand the steam powered cogs and wheels churning inside them. Often, you know where stress points are and what causes them. It gets to a point where you can understand more about someone watching them take 3 steps than you can in talking with the for 3 seconds.

Once you understand someone or something that much the inconsistencies start to come together. They start to make sense as a part of the whole. Before, you saw them only as pieces of a puzzle whose picture you were forced to guess. It all comes to fruition and is made beautiful.

This is why I tolerate hypocrisy and do not always call it out when I see it. My limited time and energy is better spent doing other, more productive things rather than trying to point out shortcomings. It's not my place anyway. For those of you who have asked "Why...?" and not gotten a satisfactory answer from me, I hope this helps. For the others, well...you already know.

Depressants are a beautiful thing. Thank the dear Lord for alcohol. Without it, what would drunks do with their spare time? What would the homeless spend their hard earnred, pan handled cash on? I'll tell you what they'd spend it on! Crack and whores!

But that's neither here nor there. The thing is depressants help you relax though, in the hands of a depressive, this can be bad. In the hands of a depressive depressants can make you believe silly things.

For example, they can make you believe that you will run into hot internet porn stars and they will fall in love with you and you will live happily ever after like Martin Freeman and that other chick in Love Actually. Mostly, though, it makes you want to look at internet porn stars.

Because no one at all demnded it, here is an explanation of what the Inebriation Force is and what we do.

The Inebriation Force is an exclusive group whose ranks are filled with some of the world's greatest heroes. We seek deeper understanding of ourselves and condescension towards others. We know the finest brewers by name. We have drunk with distillers until the sun rises. We can drink more in two hours than you can all night and in the morning we will feel better than you ever have in your entire life. We are a living celebration of alcohol.

Do not ask about initation rites.
Do not ask if you can be a part of the Inebriation Force.
We will contact you should we deem it necessary.
Semper Ebrius.

Marcus fights with honor in Elysium.
Tiberius does not know when to stop.
Gaius leads with courage.
Quintus is Mars incarnate.
The general lives.

For your reading enjoyment, I present a simple list of observations I've recently made.

• All lunch chips (Lays, Kettle Chips, Doritos, etc...) were made for putting in deli sandwhiches. However, of all possible chips to choose from I believe the Sun Chips French Onion flavour is the ultimate deli sammich-snack chip expeirence.
• Anyone who tells you, within 2 dates of meeting them, that they are not into games is definitely into games.
• I have never seen a heard of wild dairy cattle.
• Horace is a terrible name.
• There is a golden ratio between absurd and proper that makes for excellent comedy.
• When writing it is not always important that you know what's going on so much as the reader does.

I woke myself up this morning by crying.

I'm not sure what my dream was about or what happened.

It must've sucked because my eyes still hurt now.

I hate it when my day starts like that.

My friend n8 recently made reference to a previous entry wherein I mentioned a short story that I was having trouble writing. He did not like that I built up some suspense and then delivered nothing. So, as per his request, here is a small piece of it. It is not a standard narrative. It is also a very rough draft. Nevertheless, enjoy.

As Yet Untitled

We stare, slightly elevated, down towards the end of a street, part of the intersection it stems from in view. The night sky is overcast and the clouds hang low in the sky, hugging skyscarpers off in the distance and reflecting the yellow-orange sodium glow of street lamps. The air is cold and damp and we get the feeling that it rains here often though we never see it happen. The skyline spans a small portion of the horizon above the nearer rooftops. We can see a dense gathering of taller buildings; the skyscrapers. Some are completely finished, but have fallen into disarray. Others look as though the architect left halfway through building them, rebar and I-beams still reaching towards the cranes looming above them.

The street we look down is short. To the left is a warehouse and while many of the windows are boarded up or broken, we cannot tell if it is abandoned. To the right is nothing; vacant conrete slabs with small tufts of dried grass grown in the seams. Before us is a large thoroughfare. It is wide and long, streching so far off into the distance towards what we can only assume is downtown that it ultimately fades before we can see it end. The street and thoroughfare abut each other and it looks as if there were some race to make the street longer before the thoroughfare claimed more land.

Standing in the street near the curb where the thoroughfare ends is a huge, grey beast. Its cylindrical head easily measures eight feet across and holds two beady, black eyes that show no more sign of intelligence than ordinary cattle. The short body sits on two legs that are turned slightly inward towards each other. The body tapers quickly towards the back down to a thick tail, giving it a slug-like look. This thing, this bullslug, is no more than 20-feet long. It looks cobbled together in a way. Half-finished. As if evolution, much like the architect of the city the beast now lives in, just gave up on building it halfway through.

The bullslug lurches on cue from a rider on its back. We can see now a length of rope encircling the thing's head, its ends held in the hands of a figure wearing a hooded cloak. As the bullslug slow walks forward, then turning to return to the main intersection we can see that though the figure's face is hidden beneath the shadows of his hood, his eyes glow a dark yellow.

Now, previously hidden by the bullslug, we see a man standing on the sidewalk thoroghfare. His back to us so we cannot see his face. He is of average height and stands alone under a flickering streetlamp. He wears a brown trenchcoat with a high collar that runs down to his calves. A brown, wide-brimmed hat sits on his head casting a shadow down his back and onto the concrete and we think that he might be looking towards the buildings downtown, though which buidling we are not sure. In his left hand he carries a briefcase.

He stands for a while looking towards downtown. Then, he raises his right hand as if to check his watch. Dropping his right hand, he turns his head upwards towards the streetlamp. We can see his jaw now, poking out from the shadows of his hat. The lamp stops flickering and he smiles, drops his head down and starts walking towards downtown, briefcase in tow.

A couple months back I tried getting in touch with an old friend from high school. Despite my "mad internet skillz" (note the 'z'), I was unable to come up with any contact info for her.

This past Saturday she emailed me out of the blue.

We are hanging out Tuesday and potentially Friday.

I am very excited.

To toot my own horn, I'd like to take a moment to say I have the patience of a fucking saint.

And remember, just because you have the audacity to openly judge does not mean everyone does as you.

Remember. Paitence of a saint. And if you think my ego's big, you should see the size of my other-parts.

It is the weekend and I am happy. I'm having a dinner date tonight which should be fun. I think I'm going to stay home all weekend and paint minatures, too. I used to be pretty good at it. Another friend is visiting from out of town tomorrow. And Sunday is Mother's Day. I think I make my mom lunch.

My brother's birthday is coming up. I need to get him something. So, for now, peace bitches.

I want a dog.

A little over two years ago, I lay in bed sleeping and dreaming. I heard from someone that when we sleep we always dream, but we don't always remember it. What marked this night different from those others is that I rememebered that dream. I remember it to this day. It is so vivid I can describe to you in great detail everything about the entire dream. It last, by my guesses, no longer than 2 seconds.

For over a year I did nothing. I remembered this dream from time to time until recently when I discussed it with Jason and Joshua. They convinced me to explore the dream further and, perhaps, write a story based on it. I decided to do so since the ideas we came up with were pretty damn awesome.

That was 3 months ago. In the 2 weeks following our discussion I wrote a little detailing the world I envisioned, but nothing about it's main character or his mission. Since then I have been unable to write. Nothing is coming to me. I cannot describe the world any further. It is perfect in my head, like a stage without players. I wrack my brain from time to time, trying to even start something, but cannot.

I believe that it is part of the story; my inability to write it.