Inventory

It seems I've fucked my head on backwards quite substantially this time.
Huh.
But let's take a minute and sort through some of the positive aspects of this character I've been developing since I first gained consciousness some 21 years ago:
-I maintain a healthy diet, more or less. Sure, lately my nights have ended after a cream soda or two (I just cracked my second can of the night) and four or five cigarettes.
-My smoking is down because I've trained my body not to expect one during an eight hour shift at work.
-I drink one cup of coffee (16 ounces) per day, always on my way to work.
-Every morning I eat breakfast and approximately every other morning begins with a little workout routine that, though not building muscle, maintains the muscle I have and prevents them from going soft.
-Though I feel I could be reading more, I've finished a couple of books since moving out here and I'm in the middle of three more (one of which was started in Chicago and I haven't picked it up since... maybe that one shouldn't be counted).
-With the exception of the past few days, I've arrived at work on time. With no exception, I've done my job to the best of my ability and have always kept open to constructive criticism.
-I've been making successful attempts to socialize with the friends I have out here. Only a fraction of our time is spent in bars and lots of good (but not particularly great, if I'm going to nit-pick) conversation has come of it.

What most of this boils down to is that I'm physically healthy. Let's refer to Maslow's pyramid:

Bottom Layer:
(x) breathing - sure, the smoking and the thin air make it a little more difficult, but I think I've got it down.
(x) food - I'm pretty pampered in this regard, as I tend to drink Kombucha featuring chia seeds with lunch every day. I eat lots of fruits and vegetables, take a multi-vitamin, and have at least three meals per day.
(x) water - I carry a water bottle in my bag and usually have to refill it every morning.
() sex - this one doesn't warrant an x because I don't have a girlfriend and promiscuity has always seemed kind of dirty to me.
(x) sleep - I get 6-8 hours a night, which I think is the recommended dose (according to whoever it is that prescribes amounts of sleep to my particular age range).
(x) homeostasis - I mean, I feel healthy.
(x) excretion - a bathroom is almost always readily available.

Security of...:
(x) body - I trust my body to be stable enough not to give way any time soon.
(x) employment - I have a full-time job that I will lose if I quit.
(x) resources - Everything I need is at my disposal (except for my amp).
(>) morality - That's supposed to be half an x. I try to live off my own moral compass-- well, I do live off my own moral compass-- but the answers to dilemmas I face aren't always clear.
(x) family - Last I heard, my family is in arguably good health. More importantly (for me), though, they're still around and they always answer the phone when I call.
(x) health - check.
() property - I live in my sister's living room. The closest thing to property that I own is my car.

Love/Belonging:
(x) friendship - lots of my friends keep in touch. I'm a person who needs a good nudge occasionally, and they seem to understand that.
(x) family - I love every member of my immediate family. They all serve a different one of my needs and I always feel that I can confide in at least one of them.
(>) sexual intimacy - I don't really know where I stand on this one...

Esteem:
(x) self-esteem - this was really lacking until I started smoking weed. Or until I started drinking, maybe. Both, though, are symbolic of the core of my self-esteem: "fuck it" is a motto I've acquired to beat back my negative esteem.
(x) confidence - it's not confidence I lack, it's motivation. Why do anything? Do I want to contribute any of my efforts to a cause I'm not entirely for (be it the human race, America, whatever company I'm working for).
(x) achievement - all of my achievements are internal. I've yet to run a marathon, graduate from anything above the 8th grade, or write a song. I have gone vegan, quit smoking (numerous times), and learned how to play guitar.
(>) respect of others - I hate everybody that I don't personally know.
(x) respect by others - more or less. I'll give myself a full x because I can't think of a recent circumstance in which I was treated disrespectfully.

Self-Actualization:
(x) morality - I believe in my moral compass
(>) creativity - writing/playing music and writing are my preferred outlets, both of which could use more nurturing.
(x) spontaneity - I moved to Denver for the hell of it. I spent the night in Kansas City at the house of a girl I had met once before. I went vegan nearly overnight. My mind is sufficiently open, yet never open enough.
(>) problem solving - I'm not the most pragmatic person I've ever met, but when faced with a problem I can usually solve it.
(x) lack of prejudice - I get weird thoughts in my head all the time but they're not from my heart. It's strange. For instance, sometimes I become aware that there's one Indian guy in the coffee shop I'm in, and that everyone else is white, and how could he not be aware? But my soul is aware that race, belief, or the color of one's skin means nothing past where one is from, how they interpret the world, and what their family looks like. None of those hold much weight on a person's character and should be disregarded as inconsequential in circumstances that don't contain direct relevance.
(x) acceptance of facts - lots of facts get mangled by bias. I accept neither political nor religious facts. I know that I am alive, I need the bottom layer or Maslow's pyramid to get by, and that I owe the bank more money than I'd like to.

In conclusion, I lack sex and property, and I come up a little short on morality, sexual intimacy, respect of others, creativity, and problem solving. I suppose I have some work to do.
If all goes as planned, here's my future: school, part-time job, no rent.
Don't tell anyone, Chicago, but we may be seeing a lot more of each other come the beginning of 2012.
Now, I don't typically resolve things on New Year's Day because my hangover tends to demand a return to normalcy. Also, it makes more sense to adjust as you go. Here's my shortlist for potential improvements:
-quit smoking - it's always nice to take a break, especially when I can foresee a long span of circumstances under which it will be nearly impossible to step back.
-stop telling people what they want to hear - it's great to be able to sell yourself, but not when you're unsure of what you're getting into. I returned a phone call tonight and was told to say something that I was unsure of. I couldn't say either way so she drew her own conclusion. Maybe that's for the best.
-beat Dave in a 5k - this challenge was voiced nearly three years ago and it still hasn't happened. It's about time.
-make better use of down time at work - I haven't seen a crossword puzzle since Chicago. I don't read or write enough and my brain feels like a dead horse. People stretch and practice before they play sports of perform music-- my brain is no exception: I can't dive into a challenging book without preparing my head beforehand.

Anyways, my initial reason for coming to this page tonight was to say Goodnight. I've said this before but maybe I'll follow through this time. Maybe I'll begin this again when the situation becomes relevant. Maybe come January I'll know what to do.

Old Soul Song

My mind feels sick to its stomach. Coffee would round out this feeling nicely-- if I had a few cups to go along with it, I'd be agitated. As it is, though, I'm just bummed out.
Megan keeps trying to talk to me about the future when I can barely hand the present. My once-balding car now has a comb-over and the breaks seem to be braking in the way that's counter-productive toward the end of stopping my going.
I was incredibly drunk the other night. I know this because an incoming call from an ex-girlfriend seemed like a great idea. I now know this was not a great idea because of what she said; she said the exact same thing Casey said to me via text message a mere half hour before: "Come back to Chicago." It's kind of funny how the same sentiments can produce wildly different feelings when they're voiced by two completely different people. Everything that looked promising back home now looks bleak and it's one of the worst feelings I've ever known. See, prior to that telephone conversation I filed Chicago in my folder of hopes and dreams, but now it seems to have found it's way into the "reality" pile. I suppose this is only the case because this ex-girlfriend talks to/hangs out with my mom, and even takes little Hank to Bears games. I guess I just can't imagine any scenario in which I would associate with the members of the family of someone who broke up with me.
A few years ago, for my birthday, Hank bought me this book I wanted. I had wanted it since 8th grade and I still want it now, though I've yet to read it. I do this with records all the time, too. And movies. Sometimes I want something that I know I'll get to them eventually. This is the same mindset that makes it hard for me to burn bridges. I know now that my first two real girlfriends are things of the past. I wasn't sure about that when I was 19. But maybe this ex-girlfriend and I will ripen a little more and then we'll find our way back to one another. Or maybe not. Maybe she'll be like the girl in that Richard Gere movie (that I may have just made up) that is in attendance with a melancholic look on her face while he's wedding some other girl. Maybe I'm just a self-centered, presumptuous case that should be exiled from the ones I once loved.
That's what I had in mind in coming out to Denver: exile. But the readiness which some people have in making the flight or drive out here is astounding. I can't say I don't appreciate it because I do, more than anything. It's one of the most flattering gestures for someone to spend that kind of time and money to be in my company. But it's also unexpected.
My mind is rambling. I now feel that I should delve into the personality trait I have that refuses to make the initial effort in beginning a friendship. Maybe it's an under/undeveloped skill or maybe it's rooted in stubbornness-- I can't quite say for sure. Brendan Kelly wrote an entry about how he used to admire the guy at the bar who could sit by himself and not feel the need to make conversation with people. That's me. Quite literally, I'm the guy at the bar who sits on a stool and stares into his beer, or occasionally examines the selection of liquors, or maybe watches a minute of a muted highlight of an earlier baseball game.
Oh! Here's what it might be: I've had some regrettable friendships. That sounds horrible but here's what I mean: when I first started high school I kept an open mind and kind of looked for people who would consider hanging out with me. I found one, this kid Armand, and we soon started getting lunch together every day. Well, it wasn't soon before I realized that I was, in a very real sense, using this kid. I mean, I didn't really like him. He wasn't a bad dude or anything, but I don't have the kind of personality that's meant to be friends with absolutely every person I can kind of stand. So I was using this kid because I had nothing better going for me and it didn't take long to cut all ties once I did find some people genuinely enjoyed eating lunch with. That's a pretty shitty thing to do. If I were Armand I would probably be offended. Or I'd feel used. Or maybe that's just how capitalism works-- go with the person who offers the better product at the lower rate. These new friends offered genuine fun and didn't charge any irritable feelings. So that's what I'm trying to avoid. I'd rather find the right crowd instead of settling on one and eventually upgrading. But maybe that's not a horrible thing to do-- Luke hung out with us for a while, now he doesn't. He probably found his niche elsewhere. Am I trying to take a shortcut around any hard feelings that arise? If so, I'd have to brand myself a coward. Huh.

Exiles Among Us

Listen: I really like talking to you,
even though I rarely know what to say.
So I just end up asking about your day.
It'd be so much easier if I was right there with you.
But like a chump I'm 1,000 miles away.

See, Darling, I could be your one
if you'd just wait for me.
See, Darling, I'm damning us into oblivion
or reality.

I think you could fit me like a shady hat on a sunny day.

I try to look ahead
but it's like i'm looking in a mirror
to a past that'll never happen
and all my friends are there.

I found a clearing in the mountains
all covered in snow
that felt far below my lowest low.

I saw some guy drop his pants in some big, open first floor window
and he just didn't give a fuck.

you remember jeffrey, don't you?
he's at the bottom of lake emerson
in a pair of cement boots.
like it didn't have to be that way,
like we could've done something
could'a forced him to stay.

When I was 18 some guy told me to take what I can get on a first date, but if she goes to far then know it's just play.
When I was 19 I knew a girl who always smelled like a bar of soap and a fresh cigarette, and she said, "your regrets can all go to hell," and I haven't looked back since.
When I was 23 my old man told me that I can do whatever I want so long as I don't mind where it lands me.

c'mon cat, you're making me nocturnal
you're making my struggle eternal
'cause i can't sleep during the day
with that sun just soaking my face.

last summer,
with the bender to end all benders
but i'm still here
and it's december.

Dead Cats Hanging From Poles

This apartment is shitty in a very literal way-- there are three cats, two humans, and one dog; the fecal stench is nearly overwhelming.
Fuck it. I'll have to battle their nocturnal tendencies. I don't have much of a choice due to my tendencies towards sleeping on a nightly basis.

We're Drinkers By Day and Bastards By Dawn

it's hard to see an empty plate
and see something funny
but i just can't eat my soul
to fill my belly

it's always your old man for why you smoke cigarettes
and it's always your old man for why you drink beer,
and it's always your old man for why don't don't give a shit
yeah, "my old man..." is all that I hear.

(ignore)

well i'm skipping town again
ran away from all my friends
sleeping on some bedroom floor
of some girl i've never met before

1,000 miles of road
with the kills on the stereo
'cause i'm tempted to go back home
16 hours to chicago

didn't come to turn around
or to put some fucking frown
on the front of my face
but i just can't stand this place.



it was supposed to be
just a quiet night out
and it was
'til the bar got loud
you started kicking, and screaming, and flailing around
and you got choked out. yeah you got kicked out.

no, i don't want to live here anymore
with that hole in the middle of your door
and wood shavings all over the floor

Behold the Hurricane.

Sorry to wake you, Stella, but I'm having a kind of crisis. It's 1:30 Mountain time and I'm sitting two stories above the ground, which is itself about one mile above sea level, but my heart is about one thousand miles east. It's in Chicago, of course, but a block and a half north of an intersection that I never would have guessed had I been asked one week ago.
I was more than ready to go-- my friends and family had plenty of notice and, emotionally, the ties were essentially severed. And then-- hey, remember that girl I was really into for a few weeks in April? Well, I got in touch with her, told her I was moving, and made plans to grab a drink. I showed up alone and she brought her friend. That's where the trouble begins, of course. The night was spontaneous and drunken and fun and I, without meaning to, slept over at her friend's house. We were much better acquainted by the time we awoke and I was really excited to see if the preliminary plans we made would hold their ground.
Those plans held true and, though the night started off a bit slow as I dragged my feet through a sandwich and a rough first few shots, the night is etched in my mind as quite possibly my best of all time. It was sad saying goodbye to all my friends and I was so happy that everybody I truly care about actually came out (sans Juan). And it was a little awkward because I see friends like Emma and Dez as really, really great but they were strangers to my older friends. But then I stepped out for a cigarette with this girl who has been occupying a very large portion of my mind since I met her last Wednesday evening, and I kissed her and she kissed me back. And then we were normal again and everything made sense and I was leaving the next day but that was just a fact that didn't seem to have any bearing on our comfort level.
We fell asleep listening to our favorite band, to whom we have commemorated their insignia by way of identical tattoos on our respective bodies. And when we awoke she quit her job to stay in bed for an extra hour, and she drove me to meet my friend and I can still feel that last kiss even though I must have tasted like sleep and cigarettes and stale beer.
And herein lies the dilemma: what am I doing with my life? She said she'd come to visit me in October, which couldn't come soon enough. So what do I do? I'm tempted to drive back to Chicago in two weeks just to say hello. Or maybe I could move to St. Louis and feel closer while not failing on this venture away from home. I suppose this is very premature and I should actively try to ignore this situation. I don't know. If there's someone pulling the strings above the residents of this world then that someone is quite an asshole. She was at nearly every show I went to since freshman year of high school.

The Day The End Finally Came

Well, I'm almost done with this blog and this job and this apartment and this neighborhood and this city. Through the frustrations of moving and constantly battling hangovers, it's a great feeling-- my mattress is more comfortable when I know it's holding me over the ground for the final morning and the view from my balcony gets warmer and warmer as the end of my lease draws closer.
I don't really know what I'm doing with my life. I never really noticed until I sat on a porch in a backyard in Sauganash and listened to my friends discuss industry jargon for their prospective careers. The knowledge in my head is spread thin and, as a result, doesn't add up to much.
I met this girl who's very smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny and I'm afraid I might really like her.
This post took the past five shifts to get through. I suppose it's fitting that my writing here should finally fade away.

No More Problems, Problems With Anything

Amy Winehouse is being mocked for dying, Bill O'Reilly believes that, by definition, no true Christian could commit mass murder, and I'm sick of everybody and their rash judgments and outspoken opinions. I don't think it's a stretch to say that most of these people hold their self-image as one that should be revered by everyone.
On facebook, on the day that Amy Winehouse was found dead, an ex-girlfriend of a very good friend of mine said something along the lines of, "How did Amy Winehouse die? Oh wait, hahaha!" I suppose I could be wrong, but I took this to mean, "Amy Winehouse overdosed? Of course she did, hahaha!" In my mind, that's the equivalent of saying, "Your grandmother died of cancer? Of course she did, she had been battling it for the past five years. hahaha!" I don't know. I mean, as far as I know, people seem to have certain proclivities or predispositions towards addictions. Was this facebookie's offhand comment a general denunciation of addicts as lesser people? Or maybe it's blaming her for using her voice to try to make something of her life (funny, considering the aspirations of this particular person)? More likely, I'd say it's disgust that someone seemingly so irresponsible could be ungrateful in an international spotlight (I'd say this would have to be the most elementary of mindsets as fame and fortune aren't cures for... anything).
Underneath it all, this could simply be a grudge against a person I didn't particularly like in the first place. Pretty petty, I suppose, but it's made me a little more empathetic.
Oh, and Bill O'Reilly's just an asshole. Is he really that stupid and self-righteous?
What's happening to me? Am I really passive-aggressively confronting friends' ex-girlfriends and Bill O'Reilly in the one aspect of my life that's meant to be a refuge from the trivialities of tabloids and news commentators with blinders?

The End of That Chapter

My sister died in a dream I had during the morning of the previous Saturday. I woke up crying and feeling isolated-- on top of complete inability to handle the death of anyone even vaguely close to me, my plan for Denver became irrelevant.

After leaving the Redline Tap last night, Erica, Emma, Matsuo and I went on a little joy ride, and ended up at Nick's in Wicker Park. They're really fun, despite my slight confusion over why Emma thinks Erica and I should be, uh, "matched up".

But I know that road. I know where it goes.
I accept what I see and wait to wake up.

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

I put a vague description of my record collection on craigslist and some guy says he's interested in all of them. I don't know if he's serious, or if he has any idea of the size of my collection. Tonight I should make a complete itemization so there's no confusion.
It's nearly 8 o'clock, the sun is shining bright, and nothing really matters. Maybe I'll have an extra beer at the bar tonight, and maybe it will hurt tomorrow. It's very sobering to be disconnected from some kind of project that builds on itself and has some aim or goal, yet to be in that sort of arrangement is just a distraction from the notion that it's all trivial. I'll die, hopefully in a ton of debt, and I'll be free from people running their mouths about trials they read incomplete coverage of in biased newspapers, or people who invoke some Abrahamic God into every occurrence.
Is this more real than I was feeling two weeks ago, or are they equally real but from different planes? When I spend my days biking and reading instead of drinking and smoking, my outlook is significantly more positive. Alcohol's a downer and there's nothing comforting about feeling like a dog on a leash that needs to be let outside every two hours. Cigarettes offer an interesting dichotomy that I'm sure I've mentioned before: when I'm not smoking they become the chains that hold me down, and when I haven't been smoking they represent the perfect companion in a car I'm driving far over the speed limit to prove to myself that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.
And now I've got this moral compass that's full of bad wiring. I've nothing to blame, not even myself.
There's a man in Papau New Guinea, a member of one of the few remaining tribal communities in the world, and he's being sought to stand trial for shooting a tourist full of arrows.

We Are Not Perfect But We Should Try

Keeping my fingers crossed to sell my motorcycle this evening. Some guy's coming over with a bunch of cash and, presumably, a pick-up truck. He said he'd buy it if it's the way I described it on Craigslist. Selling that thing would be a huge step in the right direction-- slightly less credit card debt and a temporary allotment of cash in my wallet. Sweet.
On to yesterday...
The Kevins and I got back to my place from the bar around 5:30. The sky was gorgeous, but it was time to go to bed without setting an alarm. Oh, and Sarges was tending the bar, so he charged me $5 for two shots of Jameson and two beers.
I woke up around three, shaved my face and cleaned my apartment in some pathetic attempt to salvage any remaining scraps of dignity that may not have gone rotten with my guts that put up with that monsoon of bad beer and malt liquor, then sat outside with a smoke and some coffee.
Aaron stepped out and joined me on the porch as my gaze was transfixed on some distant high rise and we sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke,
"Wanna drive to Alaska?"
"Yeah, I do."
So that's the plan. It's in the most rudimentary of stages and most of it is based on hope.
Aaron left and I went inside, read for a while. then watched the Sox game.
I was looking forward to the party that night-- I don't often go to parties and the girl who invited me is cute and fun to talk with. Somehow, though, despite sleeping so late into the day, my will to go became begrudging.
After over-thinking some awkward intervals between responding text messages, I got in my car, went to the liquor store, left because I didn't want to exceed the $10 credit card minimum, drove to Hahn liquors to find it closed, drove back to the first store and added a Red Bull and a lighter to my purchase of six Rolling Rocks, bringing the total to $10,25, then drove to Wayne St. and found parking. Still hesitating, I stopped a few buildings away from my intended destination and slowly smoked a cigarette.
The first five minutes of awkwardly standing in the kitchen and bearing witness to people trying to break into the bathroom to free a girl who locked herself in was intimidating as I thought the rest of the night would involve me being checked on by the two people I half-know. This was not the case, though. See, when I used to go to parties, they often happened to be DePaul or Loyola students. The first few times it seemed like a good idea, then I picked up on something unsettling: what at first I attributed to THC-induced paranoia, I soon decided was happening in reality-- the cold shoulders, disapproving glares, and general iciness towards me because I was obviously out of place. I still didn't quite understand why, though. I mean, I was white and not terribly dressed, just like the majority of the people there. I don't know. It must've been that they already knew each other and, recognizing that no one else seemed to know me, were not willing to make conversation with people who existed outside the safety of being a fellow student. Regardless, last night's party was not the case at all. One girl took it upon herself to interrogate me in a friendly manner. I wasn't made to feel like a spectacle, but I also wasn't cast off as some kind of passing villain.
I talked to her friend the whole night. She's living in Denver now, but she's back for the summer. It was strange, talking to this girl; she's smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny. And tall. But the thing that really got me was how many things we had in common. I got her bad That 70s show reference, but then she told me about David Lynch movies I haven't yet watched. And she likes dogs, not cats, and thinks that, though the Beatles are great and experimental and cool, it's much better to listen to the Rolling Stones on repeat. And we laughed at the irrelevance of some drunk socialist burning an American flag, and how riled up it got one girl. And she's kind of passive anti-religious and thinks smoking's ridiculous, but chain smokes when life gets boring. And she wants me to teach her to drive stick, and said she'd buy my Pet Sounds album.

I Drank And Watched Her Laugh

Dez is a hero of mine. I used to have a little crush on her, but now I see that tying her down would defeat the purpose. She's couch-surfing in Ukranian Village, which sounds pretty sweet (in a "free" kind of way). It's people like her that make me want to sell all my things and start living my life-- no more keeping my records in pristine condition
A guy just stepped in the dog bowl outside the coffee shop. I love when that happens.
Anyways, I won't be alive for very long. Not that I'm a special case, but no one will. It's only tragic when this mindset actualizes itself too far, becoming a seemingly mindless, completely depressed and rundown waitress at Golden Apple. I feel awful for her and can only hope she had fun along the way.
Fuck. Yesterday I fixed my car and it cost twice what I had anticipated. Also, last night I was kind of drunk and pretty tired, so I had to park it on the street instead of in the seminary. I'll be surprised if there isn't a ticket waiting for me because of my refusal to purchase a city sticker on time. Speaking of which, who's the asshole who came up with the idea of a "city sticker"? I'll be glad when I've left you, Chicago.

Week-long Bender in a Day

Yesterday was fairly interesting. Sam got to my place around 11:45 and I started drinking around noon. When we realized that Steve Ryan wasn't going to make it, we called Matsuo as a replacement. He got to my place at the time the Cubs game was scheduled to begin. We shotgunned a few beers before hopping in Aaron's car (he was driving to Lincoln Park and offered to drop us off on his way).
We stayed at Wrigley for a few innings before it became unbearably boring and expensive. Emma was on our car on the train ride back north-- it's always a pleasant surprise to be seen really drunk by co-workers. At Loyola, she headed to Stella and the three of us headed back to my place. Walking down Sheridan, we took a left at... whatever street Chipotle's on. The street curved and became Lakewood, and as that intersected Northshore we spotted two pairs of jeans. Kevin decided to kick them in my direction, repeatedly. His final kick was the strongest as I had gotten ahead of him by about 15 feet. In mid-flight, the jeans coughed up a wad of cash.
We were pretty drunk, and had we not been it's unlikely we would have kicked street-jeans. Thus, it was only appropriate that we spent most of it on beer and whiskey-- Warsteiner and Jameson, particularly.

Vegan Dreaming

I had a un-vegan dream last night. It was pretty bizarre: in this dream, I awoke eating a ham. It was a delicious, juicy ham, but I felt immense guilt over being unaware of the events leading up to me holding and eating such a big, juicy ham in my bed. As I finished the ham (it was already under way, I figured, and it'd be a waste to just throw it away), I noticed some garbage from McDonald's, clearly my evidence of further, non-conscious meat-binging.
That said, it should be noted that this whole vegan thing is going extremely well. The trick for me is trail mix. Well, that's not necessarily the trick, but it's the only aspect I've had trouble fully incorporating into my routine. I've got the apple/banana/vitamin for breakfast, PB & J/hummu/carrots/vegetable sandwich for lunch, and salad/pasta for dinner. Trail mix needs to be munched on throughout the day to perfect the system. There are variations, of course, like Ian's pizza on Thursday's, the random falafel sandwich from Sultan's Market, or Molly's cupcakes, or tonight's Pad See-Ew.
Oh, and water's another, uh, trick. So is vitamin D/calcium infused orange juice. Without enough of these, I will die.

I Remember Hating You For Loving Me

Mr. Kevin Matsuo made an interesting remark on the internet the other day, something along the lines of, "I avoid introspection at all costs." Intriguing, but somehow I don't have the urge to describe its effect on me.
Last night was fun but I probably drank more than I should have. It's nearly 5 o'clock and I'm still feeling the effects, though I've a sneaky suspicion that they can be more accurately attributed to my excessive inhalation of nicotine.
I was feeling careless this morning, and enjoying the company of Earl, Moe, and Matsuo, so I smoked a few for breakfast. My brain feels like a plug that isn't securely in the socket, and it's making me very anxious to get out of town. I just want to sit in a hole and read books and pretend like I know things.

There's an on-going theme in my life, and it's been with me since I first became aware that I'm a human being and not every inclination I have is necessarily a thing worthy of being acted on. So... since the age of 12 or 13, I think. Micah and I were the best of friends-- we played sports or guns or The Game Under the Building until the sun was sufficiently settled, then we'd head inside and watch the Simpsons or Saturday Night Live on Saturday nights, or maybe some funny movie we'd already seen a thousand times before, or we'd play that one baseball game on Nintendo 64. Somehow, there never seemed to be too much debate about what we'd do; everything was fun. Then, when I was about 13 and becoming very defensive (or offensive, I suppose) about the music I was into and whether or not a certain band was "cool", I decided that Micah was no longer cool because his musical palette paled in comparison to his friend Aaron's. Aaron and I started a band while Micah was out of town and, by the time he came back, there wasn't room in my life for two best friends. Things got ugly and our friendship seemed irreparable.
One day, while I was good friends with Aaron and Danny (Danny, by the way, was a friend of Zach's-- another neighborhood friend. I kind of moved past my initial friends into a second tier or a deeper realm. Huh.), I realized that I had a legitimate shot at dating an honest-to-god girl. My ego must have expanded like a balloon in a very short period of time when I realized that I wasn't doomed to the fate of dying a virgin (I tend to be ahead of myself, what that means).
I don't seem to remember my life in the correct chronology right now, so I'll catch this story up: by the time of this first girlfriend, I had somehow, somewhat repaired my friendship with Micah and we were now both at Whitney Young. Oh, and I seemed to be given a sort of choice of pursuit. The girl I didn't choose to pursue, but who seemed very interested in me for some reason, has been dating Micah since high school. Strange. Oh, she kind of showed me that life is a lot more real in reality than it is in my head. For instance, to get a girl interested in me, I didn't need some magic potion or better personality, I just had to relax and be receptive and engaging. Pretty real.
Anyways, where was I? Oh, right. Micah and I were kind of good friends again, and I was also friends with Danny and Aaron at the same time. Oh, and I was in a band with Danny and Aaron, too. This doesn't seem like it actually happened all at once but I can't think of it being any other way. Whatever. So I started dating this girl and went all in to the point that I abandoned all my friends. It was bad. They hated her.
To shorten this story, I'll just break some friendships down to the very bare of it: I've abandoned Micah, Aaron, Danny, and Teela. There's probably a few more (and the way I've handled girlfriends is strikingly similar, but that analysis is for another time), but these are all people that I have considered to be my best friends, at respective times. And then I left them with some flimsy explanation (or none, which has happened).
So I guess I'm an asshole. Huh.

How Am I Not Myself? How Am I Not My Self?

All Christians, as well as many non-Christians, are aware of the story of Adam and Eve. You know, the one where they're the only two people and they're hanging out in some garden in Eden, and the groundskeeper told them not to steal any apples? Right? Right.
Let's adapt the same story to a different template: Adam is a teenager in an American household. His parents put a roof over his head and food in his belly thrice daily. Life is good. Then, because Adam's a teenager and although he knows better, he sees his dad's wallet on the kitchen counter with two hundred dollar bills visibly sticking out. This is a big dilemma that must be resolved immediately, as his dad is napping in the other room. First of all, Adam's never had $200 all at once-- allowance only pays $10 a weekend and it's impossible to save much when a new chapter of Spider-man's life is delivered to the comic book store several times a month and Johnny Depp keeps putting out pirate movies. And $200! Man, that would swing the pendulum of power clearly in Adam's direction. The only problem would be an alibi. The whole wallet could disappear and the old man himself could be to blame, or maybe a few pieces of the bills could be torn off and arranged around the dog's bed in a convincing scene.
Adam, hastily, takes the money and runs (literally). He knows he's disobeyed his father but he also knows that a man makes his own decisions and "I'm 15, damn it! I can make my own decisions!"
Like the apple, $200 is, in the long-term, an inconsequential amount to its owner. It's the self-liberation that's important here: in both cases, Adam decided he was old enough to live out of harmony with the one in charge (be it his father, his god, or mother nature). So, does The Fall the story of some original sin, or is it the story of man deciding to be his own god?

Behind the Wheel of Armageddon

Have you ever tried to make a salad on a counter in a bathroom next to an open toilet that's full of shit? I can now check that off my to-do list.
Aaron recently adopted a puppy. The puppy's name is Slick and he's the smallest labrador I've ever seen. He's been in our household for the past week and a half. Unfortunately, Slick let some worms into his digestive system about a week ago. This caused the poor little guy to take frequent, runny dumps. Aaron kept up at first, running him down the three flights of stairs that lead to the front door and out onto the street. Sure, there were a few accidents, but nothing terrible quite yet.
A week ago today, I got home from work and took a nap. I didn't mean for it to be a long nap because, no matter what, I'm always running late to walk Toby on Thursdays-- Rogers Park to Lincoln Park is an especially long bike ride after working for 7 hours, but a nap usually takes a bit of the edge off, so to speak (obviously). Waking from a light nap and already being aware of my predicament (or time restriction), I ran around my apartment and gathered all the necessities into my backpack. About ready to leave, I walked to the refrigerator, reached in, grabbed an apple (not that I usually refrigerate my apple, but it's the only thing I can think of that would dictate my next move as being towards to sink), then made an awkwardly quick, heel-turn towards the sink when it sunk in... But, for further assurance, I looked back at the floor in front of the 'fridge. Yep. Dog shit. On my shoe, as well as all over the kitchen floor.
Now, if something is even remotely my responsibility, I'll take it in full and rectify a situation. This, I deemed, did not fit under any sort of criterion of which I could be held accountable. I was now running late with one foot in a shoe that smelled like a kitchen that smelled like shit.
I won't detail in depth the process I undertook to clean the shit out of every nook and ridge jutting from the surface of the bottom of my shoe, but it sucked. And the job was rushed. Before leaving, I put a paper towel over each soiled spot on the floor as a heads-up to whoever walked in next.
A few days later I come home to... Well, Aaron made a purchase to remedy the situation. As a metaphorical band-aid, Aaron bought some things that I can only describe as floor-diapers. Giant floor-diapers, that is. Essentially, these are mats designed to be pissed and shit on, but the only real aspect of the design that seems conducive to such treatment is the fact that it's disposable. Otherwise, it isn't particularly absorbent and it does nothing to mask the smell.
A few days ago, Aaron and Slick went to a veterinarian and procured pills to fight the existence of those worms that have been squatting in Slick's digestive tracts.
UPDATE: Slick is taking solid dumps.
Remember last paragraph when I used the words "remedy" and "band-aid"? "Remedy" is a permanent fix and "band-aid" implies something temporary. Well, if the last few days have been any indication, the floor-diapers are more of a remedy than a band-aid.
Two days ago, Aaron jokingly said something like, "Well, I guess I can start walking Slick again." This is fucked up for a few reasons: first of all, why would you stop walking a dog? Maybe cats enjoy an endless routine of wandering around an apartment all day and night, but a dog isn't a cat. Unlike any cat I've ever known, Slick is usually confined to a crate... I'll say 75% of the time. 80% of the time not spent in his crate is spent in the kitchen. That leaves, what, 5% of the time that he's free to roam (which, in this case, means he gets to hang out in the living room or on Aaron's bed)? I don't think it's a stretch to say that Slick has pissed and/or shat his cage. 5% outside of the vicinity of his own feces? That's bad.
This whole situation is kind of frustrating because I don't want to tell people how to do things. I'm saving all that energy in case I have a kid. Does a 22 year-old dude really need to be told that a dog shouldn't be holed up in an apartment all day?
Fine. Fuck it. I'll take care of the damn dog.

Old Flame

There's a lady outside and she's yelling in a high-pitched D minor. There's a single issue of Streetwise in her hand, possibly outdated, and she seems more intent on being heard than selling her product. Tom and Wes are outside and on their cell phones, pacing in respective time signatures, adding variations to their metres to avoid detection as the yelling lady introduces a few steps of her own. The whole scene is like a small parade of song and dance, with yelling into phones or at the top of one's lungs, with left hands holding electronics to the left side of faces and right hands frantically gesturing at people who are untold distances away.
And I'm inside, pouring my third cup of coffee in a robotic manner, like it's constant consumption I run on. That may be the case, I consider, until I'm wired leaving work and agitated upon my arriving home. And the shirt I'm wearing isn't mine but it enlivens my imagination with memories that are very much mine, that involved this shirt on it's previous owner-- an ex-girlfriend. And then there's that inconsequential line from that Tree of Life movie I saw the other night, "The chapter's closed; the story's been told." So I wonder if it's worth remembering things that are over, and if there are still messages and meanings that can be received and deciphered, and whether or not I should force myself to recount these past scenes from my life.

Tonight will be the fourth night in a row that I'll have gone out. Tomorrow will be the fifth. If I'm not careful, I'll be smoking cigarettes on Sunday night, too. That wouldn't be good.

Perpetual Motion Machine

I haven't felt quite like my self, lately, which is to say that I've felt more familiar of my old self than I have in a very long time-- it's been since freshman year of high school that I've felt so self-conscious and awkward and incapable of being close with anyone. What was my solution back then? Designer drugs, hallucinogenic drugs, "to pass the time" drugs, social drugs, alone-in-my-head drugs, boring drugs, expensive drugs, quality drugs... you know, drugs. And through that abandon and recklessness, through the tremendous highs and awful lows, I met a lot of very interesting people that I no longer talk to because I can't handle being sober around them. That's not the best explanation of my reasoning. Hm... well, I don't really hang out with my "drinking buddies" in the afternoon. Unless we're drinking, of course. It seems that most of the people I know only want to drink when we hang out. Initially I thought this was all they wanted to do, but now I think that it's the only category in their mind that I can be a part of. That's not really the person want to be, though, so I disappear to my room for extended periods of time and hang out in books that, looking back, I only half enjoyed.
Some girl who comes into the coffee shop said it's the result of poor self-image that renders me unable to concentrate in public places because I'm too focused on whether or not people are noticing me and potentially thinking I'm ridiculous (in a general way). This happens in a very mild form when I'm at the dog park with Toby. I usually sit off in some corner and do the RedEye crossword puzzle while Toby wears himself out and, while thinking of possible solutions, bask in the emanation of judging eyes stealing glances in my direction as if I'm tragically out of place.

Oh. and this occurred to me the other day: how is it that Darwinism is favoring morons with natural selection? I mean, I'm fairly bright, as are a lot of people I know. In the future for me and my friends and acquaintances, I don't see many offspring. The kids I see on the buses and trains overwhelmingly seem to be the product of incapable parents (be it high school pregnancies or bad dads that skip town). Maybe I'm missing something, but it appears that intelligence is being bred out. I'm glad I won't be around to see it.

You're Innocent When You Dream

One of the stops on the cycle of personalities I travel through is that of a grown man. It is, dare I say, my realized self. In this mindset, I find satisfaction in the completion of tasks that have a clear purpose and meaning, like that of having bought too many groceries and having to pile them into the basket on the back of my bike before riding home 5 miles in the sweltering heat. And instead of stepping out for a cigarette, this version is content with sitting on his back porch while finishing the final two chapters of whatever book I'm reading. And reading before bed, which leads to waking with a clear head, is preferred to drinking myself into a comatose state.
If I ever devolve back to cigarettes and beer and beef jerky, I think I'll eventually wind up back in the head I'm occupying right now. This is the place in which I'd like to grow old and die. And maybe it will grow to be able to contain someone else, but that may just be a dream.

Willful State of Denial

I've heard it said that one's best writing is done in the morning, and that the evening's work must be touched up in a coming morning. I have no reason or evidence that isn't anecdotal, but that would be boring.
It's 10:13 in the AM and I learned something new: on the first Tuesday of every month, Chicago tests its air raid sirens. I've heard them before, but I never knew the test was at a particular time. And, according to my dad (because I'm too lazy to fact-check), the mayor at the time set off the air raid sirens when the White Sox won the pennant. Okay, did some preliminary fact-checking: It was Mayor Daley and the '59 Sox.
It had never occurred to me until last week, when Dave McKinney brought it up: In the United States, Chicago is probably the least desirable place to live. Everyone's fat and depressed because the weather generally sucks and everything's expensive, so the people rob and stab and shoot each other. Lots of people drink to ensure a few hours of happiness every night, but the feeling of hopelessness is tangible.
By the way, socialists are fucking stupid. I mean, I know Karl Marx looks like a great idea when you're 15, and his manifesto was highly influential (and continues to be, for some reason), but there's nothing more absurd than protesting student debt. I let Terra's roommate run her mouth for 10 or 15 minutes the other night and her logic was awful. Maybe there are slicker socialists out there and I shouldn't make such a rash judgment. It's strange meeting real-life people who have such ridiculous beliefs.
Above all, what irritates me is the sense of entitlement that runs rampant through every society of this culture. I'm guilty, too, which makes me just as bad as the next guy, but I think awareness is, at least, a step in the right direction. Here's what I mean: is it really necessary for a single person to cruise around town in an empty sport utility vehicle? And when it's hot outside, is it really necessary for a person to air-condition their entire apartment or house? I know the counter-argument: "It's my damn money and I'll spend it how I please!" That's great. That's fair, too. But it's also very narrow-minded. I mean, I'm no hippie; I think it's perfectly reasonable to expect four or five showers in a week, and I have no idea where my pants were made, but since when has it been expected that steak should be available three meals a day and that $5/gallon is expensive but doable? As much as the American people profess to be hurting, I don't see many corners being cut.

Good Friend, How Loud Do You Want Life To Shout Her Answers In Your Ear?

A few years ago, when I was in the throes of figuring out what was what, I could have argued religion with anyone through the night and into the morning. Now, as the groundwork has been laid and I've moved on to the process of tweaking my ideas, I don't really care to state my opinion because I have it and I believe it and I don't care to try to spread my insight because other people can draw their own opinions.
That said, I am contradicting myself by writing this entry. But hey, I never forced anyone to read my writing (aside from my teachers, I suppose).
When a person is looking for a spouse or significant other, it's usually to achieve a feeling of being needed. That's not quite the right word... How about this: people seek intimate relationships to gain a sense of purpose, to feel like they're a part of something that really matters. It's a feeling that's satisfying and fulfilling and, when that kind of relationship ends, people often feel the urge to stop breathing. That's what, the third tier on Maslow's hierarchy? Sure. But first let's back up a bit.
When a little dude is born, it needs its parents to survive. Its mom breast-feeds it until its old enough for its dad to teach it the infield-fly rule. When this particular little dude reaches puberty, it hits a kind of void in the transition between needing and being needed. All of a sudden, this little dude gets a job and stops begging its dad for twenty bucks on Friday nights. And then this little dude learns how to drive, and how to read between the lines, and all of a sudden this little dude is self-sufficient. Then, one day, this little dude realizes that being self-sufficient is cool, but there's a hole in the middle of its soul that paying its own cell phone bill just won't fill. All of a sudden, it's no longer cool to just get by because its need of feeling alive goes unreciprocated by its environment. Sure, it's illegal to commit suicide, and there are welfare programs to keep people's bodies alive, but merely surviving is unfulfilling for this middle class dude. It's missing a sense of purpose, as if his existence means something.
(It should be noted that this little dude could never see sports as anything more than a triviality used to keep the brain functioning at a low level and, effectively, to kill lots and lots of time. He could never successfully manage to find joy in living vicariously through his hometown team's championship season, and playing basketball in high school made him feel like he was a big part of something that was achieving absolutely nothing aside from distracting depressed people from the notion that their collective existence is meaningless and that their species is about to bubble over and their habitat is in the process of exterminating this unwelcome group that insists on living above the laws of nature.)
Our little dude grew up fairly clever, however: as most of his friends turned to drugs and alcohol and television in an attempt to deny or avoid responsibility for the situation they were born into, our little dude saw through that policy of constant distraction and decided to confront the problems of the world head-on. Having found nothing capable of dispelling this general feeling of malaise, our little dude sought out the purest and least trivial form of coping with a seemingly futile circumstance: an intimate relationship, or company for the journey around this circular track that our culture is stuck on (only circumstances within our culture are repeated. For instance, tribal people in remote regions of Africa won't have to deal with Hitler reincarnated because Hitler was not a product of that hypothetical culture. Maybe an angry gorilla will attack them, and it will be reminiscent of a past, tragic gorilla attack and it will appear as if history is "repeating itself"). And here we are, back at the beginning of this little story.
I guess I began to make a case for marriage being necessary to deal with an unfortunate existence... but that's not what I set out to do. Actually, I don't remember my purpose of writing today. Hm...
Well, let's see. I read this article by Desmond Tutu who linked religious affiliation with place of birth. His point was that religious people (he was really referring to Christians, probably because he is one and, hence, is most familiar with his fellow chumps... but he included) like to tell themselves that their ideology is, indeed, the correct one and that, deep down, all other people are actually Christians who just haven't figured it out yet. Of the religious writings I've recently read, this one irritated me the least. It's good that he's pointing out how ridiculous the notion of one religion being "right" is, but he made a point I can't quite agree with. He said that it's wrong to consider all religions the same. I can't help but disagree. I mean, aren't the various prophets, from Moses to Muhammed, all revealing discussions they had with the same god? Am I wrong here, or are all these holy wars and jihads and quran burnings caused by everyone in the world agreeing on the same god but disagreeing over his message? What kind of god is that? And since when is there one god? And the idea of people being created in a god's image while being horribly flawed says something about the god they believe in. And salvation? Well, if I believed that there was something innately flawed with me and my species then sure, I'd consider seeking salvation.
The agricultural revolution was, what, 10,000 years ago? And prior to that, the human population increased at the pace of a glacier and lived in harmony with the world for 2-3 million years? Then the revolution spread like cancer and the population has been on a very steady and consistent rise ever since. And famine became possible when people stubbornly refused to pick up sticks and move to more ideal conditions, but the surplus of food makes enormous losses of human life seem irrelevant as we keep packing ourselves in.
The hopelessness was settling in 2,000 years ago when, conveniently, a god decided that some of the souls in the human race were salvageable. So he sent his son down, who wasn't very clever. See, this son, named Jesus, took on some disciples but he never took on an apprentice. All his disciples got the gist of it, but none fully understood. When Pontius Pilate decided, on behalf of the people, that this Jesus dude was a real asshole who needed to be nailed down, it was too soon. And then, a few hundred years later, a few people recounted their versions of the disciples accounts of what Jesus said. And now a lot of people can't seem to agree on the vague statements in this book. And a few weeks ago, one guy went so far as to miscalculate the end of the world, only to deny that he was entirely wrong while deciding that another date is more accurate. Huh.

Really, How'd It Get This Way?

I'm kind of restless right now, which has little to do with the copious coffee drinking I've been doing today. I'm on a streak of making bad decisions-- today I bought a record and two nights ago I returned Lucy's phone call. These are two seemingly insignificant and not-necessarily-wrong things that are actually giant steps in the wrong direction (which, in this case, is backwards-- I should know better).
I still haven't told my dad about being vegan, which is another seemingly trivial detail. I know the reaction he'll have when I tell him and I'm not thrilled. He'll say something about the lifestyle being unhealthy, and maybe he'll feel the need to justify his dietary choices. I'll respond by telling him that there's plenty of protein and iron that doesn't come from meat, but he won't be convinced. So I'll ask him where he thinks animals get their vitamins and minerals and nutrients from, and he'll take this as an affront or a cheap shot and he'll sit there quietly, as if I've said something terribly offensive. And I could tell my brothers, but their retorts would be on par with racism-- irrational and invalid. John might understand, Hank probably wouldn't care but might make fun of me (which is to be expected), but Will would probably start some rant about PETA people being fucking nuts.
I'm pretty sick of dealing with people right now. It's not a good thing. Here's why:
when it becomes overbearing to explain my self to the people I like to hang out with, then I isolate myself. Aaron gave me a talking to about this because it's not fair to, y'know, casual friends. Well, not casual friends. Friends in general, I suppose. But is it my fault that I don't always want to go out drinking, and that my imagination is sorely deprived of input so I have no better ideas, so I assume that it's "go drinking with friends" versus "stay home and don't answer the phone"? So, when I perceive my only option to be "go to a bar," then I'm limited by two things: my desire to smoke, and the weight of my wallet. Currently, I have no desire to smoke (but that's a feeling I tend to ignore when I'm drinking, only to regret it for the following three days that it takes me to recover my head back onto my shoulders), and I don't exactly have money to burn on $5 beers.
So that's how it happens, and I stop responding to people instead of explaining them, because in my head I decide that they'll be irritated by my excuse instead of understanding and deciding that it'd be fun to do something else.
I suppose the answer is to stop making decisions for other people and let them decide for themselves whether or not they want to put up with me.

Here's a little to-do list before I move to Denver (more of a list of events): Murder By Death at Wicker Park Fest, William Elliott Whitmore at Lincoln Hall, Alkaline Trio at the Metro, Bouncing Souls/The Falcon at Reggie's, Against Me! at the Metro, Ted Leo at Millennium Park. Sounds like a good summer, huh? And a perfect send-off. Oh, not to mention Boston on August 6th, and maybe New York on July 4th.
Speaking of Denver, I have to tell Jimi and Liam. That'll be awkward. I mean, I really don't see this band going anywhere. Each practice has gotten progressively more boring and the quality of the music is... well, it's also boring. And I'm losing interest in punk rock because it's just entertainment. I still listen to the Cobra Skulls entire discography every single day as I bike around or while I'm on the train, and the Broadways are still fun-- these bands are cool because there's a message more than Less Than Jake's "I wanna sit back, just smoke cigarettes, be the one with the loudest mouth, and be the most close-minded," or Alkaline Trio's "you said tonight was a wonderful night to die." But listening to bands like the Cobra Skulls and the Broadways is even more disheartening. I mean, these bands have a real message, whether it's "faith is a cult" or "see this park? 3,000 years ago the entire world was like this and more," but these messages are in punk rock songs that won't get exposure outside of a very small group of kids that already believe these thoughts and won't be illuminated by a song by a band that's mercilessly beating the dead horse of "punk rock."
So here's how it is: "punk" isn't dead, and it never will be, because it serves the purpose of being a good starting point for teenagers to think they're on to something huge. And these kids will question society and maybe start calling people on their bullshit, all the while becoming more jaded to... life. And hopefully this will be a stepping stone and their minds will forever be open as they go off into the world to get "real" jobs, or maybe they'll bring their "punk" sentiments into the mainstream, like The Clash or, less notably but more recently, the Gaslight Anthem, or, as is usually the case, maybe they'll wear their old punk rock t-shirts when their socially acceptable clothes are in the washer or dryer, and "punk rock" will have been something they foolishly believed in during their high school days. And the latter group will have the feeling that they filled their quota for subversive thoughts back when they were young and, therefore, people who stuck with those mindsets are to be looked at with condescending eyes-- as inferiors who aren't as mature.
If it's still really hot overnight then I may go see the sunrise. I'll probably go home and eat some food, then read, then take a nap. It might be tough to wake up, though, so I might be better off staying awake until 6 or so. Oh, and my bike needs fixing. I think the brakes came undone, which was mildly terrifying. Good thing I wasn't on a major street.

While You Wait For The Others

My mind was just about made up through the course of events two evenings ago. Here's how it unraveled:
Band practice was mediocre. It's always fun rocking out, I guess, but Jimi's reluctance to stray from the over-done guidelines of "punk rock" is restricting and kind of irritating. Driving is also irritating, which was a requirement to make sure Liam and Jimi could make it. They also necessitated rides home. Whatever, that's what I signed up for.
I wasn't able to accomplish one thing on my list that night, which was to get a slice or two of vegan pizza from Ian's. I decided it was more important to hurry home and eat my leftover pasta before Woj and Matsuo arrived. So that's what I did. And I couldn't decide whether or not I'd let myself smoke any cigarettes that night because sometimes my spine is weak.
The Kevins arrived, then Sam and Trevor came over, and we all drank and smoked cigarettes and we went to the Oasis for some reason. And the whole night had an undertone of being mediocre. And it also had an I've-done-this-before feel to it, which is okay when there's variation, but variation was another thing missing. I've read books before, but the one I finished last night was unlike most of the other books I've ever read and it was very entertaining.
Waking up with a padlock on my lungs is a bad way to re-enter waking life. So my mind was made: I'm running away. I'm running away to close the book on nights I've already lived and don't need re-examining. I'm running away from the pressure to smoke when all my friends are smoking that sometimes I can deal with but sometimes I can't.
More importantly is where I'm running to. I'm running to a place with a lower crime rate and more sunny days; a place where the only person I know is my sister, and she doesn't mind my back-and-forth mindsets. I'm looking forward to driving out of the city to sit on a mountain and hear nothing. I want to sit in Tattered Cover for hours on end and know that no one will recognize me. I want to write and listen to music and not feel that anybody's peaking over my shoulder. I want to allow my convictions to manifest themselves in my daily life instead of coming and going with the availabilities of my friends.
Maybe I'll go out there and nothing will change, except that I'll suddenly be very, very lonely.
I wonder who I'll miss. My family, probably, but I probably won't miss drinking or self-loathing. I won't miss bowling, but I'll miss bowling with John. I'll miss having the option to go out late with people I know, though I don't really take advantage of that now.

Huh. So something's that's come to light in the past few days is this: lots of things that I assumed should go without saying clearly do not.

Said All These Chicks, They Smoke These Things

Everyone has an agenda, and that agenda is their own welfare and well-being. That's cool and understandable, but it should be known that there is never an exception-- not the guy that was trying to scam me into paying for White Sox tickets 20 minutes ago, not the crackhead who begs for change or robs some lonely pedestrian, and not the noble priest who always finds an angle to perceive the object of his attention by looking down his nose.
I don't have a steady stream of thought right now. I'm really just trying to process everything that I have ever learned or experienced. It's tough, huh, and I'm only 23 years in.
I'm currently reading a book and it's very enlightening. It stresses the importance of remembering that the human race didn't simply pop up 10,00 years ago and begin building cities and maintaining farms because that was the natural inclination of the species. Rather, the work of patient learning and adapting throughout the previous 2 or 3 million years culminated in a particular lifestyle. But "culminated" is the wrong word, entirely, as the agriculture that spread rampantly 10,000 years ago did so because it was aggressive, not because it was "destined" to be successful. Essentially, this... I don't remember the word that was used. Here's how it basically breaks down: 10,000 years ago there were tons of tribes all over the world, each with their own customs and rituals that had been tested and tweaked through time. Also unique to each tribe was their approach to eating. Often, groups hunted and foraged and maybe had a little garden for tomatoes and chives or something. If food was waning, the group moved on. That said, there were no famines because people didn't insist on staying in a particular place.
Then came along a great idea, coined "totalitarian agriculture," which spread in a kind of forceful way. Well, maybe not forceful. Tricky, though. See, some people would settle down and guard their little farms. This probably spread because it became a hassle to try to forage amongst dirty looks from some farmer dude. I don't know. But it spread relatively quickly (as far as the ol' "grand scheme of things" is concerned) and, as can be seen today, only isolated peoples tucked just past the reach of modern man have been allowed to continue living in accordance to the laws of nature. As I have implicitly stated, the current form of agriculture lives in opposition to the way nature functions and, thus, will be killed off by Darwinism, applied. For instance, people like robbing cows of their milk before they eat them. That's cool, so foxes and wolves also like eating cows. It isn't desirable for cows to be in such high demand outside of the human race, so the easiest solution is to kill off potential predators. This is, in essence, "playing god."
So that's what's on my mind. I think I'll read Into the Wild, but I already have a good idea of how it ends.
Oh, and I met Erik Larson the other night. It's funny meeting someone your mind idolizes (to an extent) only to be reassured that they're merely flesh and bones and blood and hair. He seemed genuine (which is irrelevant) and I'm excited to read his new book.

The Big Three Killed My Baby

Oh, I forgot! The point of mentioning my previous encounter with Lucy was, well... ha! So, it's been said that one's sense of smell is one's strongest of their five. Lucy smelled like lots and lots of perfume. I recognized the smell, which was expensive and kind of nice, but it was almost overwhelming. I mean, personally, I like to keep things subtle. Lucy doesn't.
Anyways, this struck me as worth mentioning because it reminded me of when I was 16 or 17 and trying to impress this one girl-- the more Old Spice spray I used, the better off everything seemed. I was worried one day, though, because I had to wait for her 8th or 9th period class to finish. Basically, I had 50 minutes to myself. As had never been the case before or after this particular afternoon, I decided to play basketball with a few kids I vaguely knew. I held my own, I think, but I also had a good sweat going. It was embarrassing. So, like any normal teenager would do, I doubled the dose of Old Spice spray. It could've burned my eyes out, but she at least pretended to be impressed.
Huh.

Those Who Stayed

This vegan thing is still going strong, and Thursday is Vegan Pizza Day at Ian's. Oh, and now Stella has a few vegan pastries, which is nice.
Yesterday, hm... there was a beautiful bike ride to Lincoln Park, during which I passed Wrigley Field and thought, "Huh, what a gorgeous day for a baseball game." When I got to Toby's house, Mrs. Lerone offered me a pair of tickets to that evening's game (versus the New York Metropolitans), so I took 'em. And it sucked. The wind wrapped around the bend of the stadium and was funneled directly into my mid-section. I was wet and cold and we left in the 5th inning when the wind was too much to bear.
After picking up my bag from my mom's apartment and my bike from under the train tracks, i headed for the platform. It felt like my bag had become snagged on something, but when I turned it was Lucy. We talked for a minute before she caught the brown line and I thought to myself, "How did I ever go back to a past girlfriend after the initial break-up?" I still don't quite get it. I mean, if something doesn't work, why try again? At such a young age, and with something like 7 billion people on this planet. And it's safe to assume that nearly half are female, though any percentage over 25 still allows pretty good odds. This is all beside the point, though, as the thought of a girlfriend is nearly nauseating at this point in my life. Here's why:
When I was with Lucy, I was the best boyfriend I could possibly be... to a point. See, I was nearly obsessive about being a good boyfriend: I took her out on dates, called her regularly to show that I cared, dropped what I was doing when she needed a ride home from babysitting... you know, the little things and the big things. One thing I couldn't do, though, was talk about her to other people. Well, except for the problems. But that's not my point. What I couldn't do was sit in a conversation and say something like, "Yeah, my girlfriend and I like to... (I don't know... uh, go shopping for records together?)" I just couldn't do it. And other people in seemingly healthy relationships do involve their significant other in conversation with ease. So that could mean various things. Maybe I didn't appreciate/respect Lucy, or maybe I took her presence as an affront to my own ego. I wasn't even comfortable telling people I had a girlfriend, though I had no intention of being unfaithful. My immediate conclusion was that I am a flawed human being in regard to intimate relationships, but I think it's safer to say that Lucy was not the right person for that part of my life. Whether or not there is one is a tough question, but no amount of conjecture will change the fact that only empirical evidence can supply a sufficient answer.
I tried to get coffee before the Cubs game last night but Lincoln Perk was closed. I was taken aback, as a side effect of being in a mild stupor, I kept trying to open the dead-bolted door. A lady who seemed to be hovering around the age of 50, with gray hair and a Trader Joe's bag, was nearly as surprised as I was. After a minute of answering the conundrum with a defeated, "Well, I guess it's closed," she asked me about the Chicago flag on my shirt. "Chicago Police?"
"Nah, just Chicago. It's a band... from Chicago."
"Japan?"
"No, no, a band..."
Little did I know, this "miscommunication" was merely a segue for her to begin telling me about various Japanese techniques of meditation. I wasn't particularly annoyed, and I still needed to think of a non-Starbucks option for coffee, so I let her impart some of her knowledge to me. Throughout the conversation, she casually mentioned that my eyes made me look Italian, and that there's something "deep" about me-- neither of which I sincerely understood, especially coming from a first impression of mine (well, I guess a first impression is as strong as any for a physical feature).
Anyhow, work is nearly done and I have a full day ahead of me, including Toby, pizza, band practice, and possibly a few beers before I head home.

Maybe While I'm Not Together I Can Feel Like I'm Not Alone

You learn something new every day, I've heard. True to that sentiment, today I learned that my friend AJ is really into the idea of Intelligent Design. I'm still speechless. My initial reaction was, "you, too!?" until I realized that he's the first living, breathing person I've ever met (over the age of 7) who seriously considers the possibility that humans and dinosaurs cohabited this planet. Wow. I mean, a conservative Republican judge, appointed by George W. Bush to occupy a seat on the bench of the Supreme Court, ruled that Intelligent Design is not science and, thus, not worthy or appropriate of being taught to grade school or high school students. I wish this was all fresh in my mind so I could make a coherent retort that would forever damn his stupid, half-thought-out version of creationism, but instead I just rambled off random lines about the iron catastrophe 5 billions years ago, and dinosaurs going extinct about 65 million years ago, and homo habilis or whomever making an appearance about 3 million years ago. This minor occurrence expanded my concept of the world immensely, just as it was expanded by experiencing the other side of the coin on the issue of eating animals.
Cheap segue, huh? So about this whole dietary change... some weird stuff's going on. Well, not really. Oh, I should mention that I kind of cheated last night, but it was out of courtesy. Aaron made a bunch of vegetarian/vegan food but he cooked one dish in milk. I ate and enjoyed it but told him it wouldn't happen again.
Anyhow, strange things that are actually quite normal. At work I was reading some guy's blog. The writer's a vegan and this particular entry was about why he made that decision and how he felt before, during and after. One thing he particularly mentioned was that he didn't experience any back pain. That's a strange thing to mention, first of all, and second of all, my back was pretty fucking sore the other night. Oddly sore, more so than I ever remember it being. I attributed the aching to having worn the bag throughout the entire RJD2 show, but that doesn't quite add up as the only heavy thing in there was my Nalgene bottle, which steadily got lighter as the night wore on. My back feels fine now but I'll have to look into that.
Secondly, the writer mentioned losing 7 pounds in the first 5 days. That's cool. I'm not looking to lose weight, but whatever. He went on to mention that his, uh, dump-cycle was irrationally out of proportion to his food intake. Me too! See, I've been eating a ton of carrots and berries, and throughout each day I'll have a banana and a bowl of cereal and a p,b, & j and a Clif bar, but nothing that necessitates three or four quality dumps in one day. Holy hell. Anyways, according to this dude, it's the accumulation of a lifetime of "dairy clog." Pretty nasty stuff, but it's nice to not be carrying that around anymore. I suppose that's why I feel more light and more nimble and generally healthier.
What else?
I'm forcing myself to care. Well, maybe not forcing. I've come, through a combination of intellect and emotion, come to decide that not caring is seriously detrimental to my health. Here's a few things that facilitate not caring:
-cigarettes
-alcohol
-weed
-conforming to the tastes of friends
-not voicing how I feel.
But all of these go back to something very liberating, which is why I started doing them in the first place: they all contribute a good, healthy dose of "fuck it" into my diet. I still need that, though, so I don't know how I'll find a balance if I haven't found one yet. That "fuck it" is a great safety net and a strange form of motivation. It's the reason I'm able to tolerate unclogging Stella's toilet, or dealing with people I don't care about. But too much of it leads me to a bar night after night, or out the door for a smoke every hour or so. I'll figure it out.
I'm in a good place right now. Almost everything I'm doing is an investment in myself. See, I've been reading a lot lately because I've found some good books on my shelf. And I'm not wrapped up in the idea of some girl being the answer to all my problems (like I was last week. My emotions overrule my mind, sometimes). And it's good to be conscious of what I'm putting into my body, and what I'm nodding and laughing with, and what I'm agreeing to, because everything I do is a vote and I don't want to scuff up my record with stupid, regrettable things. I don't want to look back and say, "I knew better. I knew I knew better. Was I really feeling to hopeless?" That's the worst kind of pathetic, I think.

Faith is a Cobra

Jesus is supposed to arrive today, I heard. Or maybe it's the rapture. I'm not sure. Both? More than anything, people speaking of the end of the world are amusing.
This world is ridiculous, to say the least. With convenience comes laziness, which is followed closely by boredom and apathy. People take the easy way out, every time. This is a fairly new thing, I think, as both my parents and my grandparents are familiar with the concept of reward after hard work. Or hard work with no obvious reward. So this society has spoiled its inhabitants, it seems, and the only cure is for each individual to take the initiative and start making some mental connections that force themselves to care.
Or maybe it's just as well that some kind of armageddon is headed our way. Sure, it could be of biblical proportions, "Fire and brimstone coming down from the sky! Rivers and seas boiling! Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes... The dead rising from the grave! Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria!" but it's not like the human race isn't stubbornly daring the Earth to end. And because this planet is about as conscious as gravity, it's just going to react without regard for fate or fairness, and without sympathy or restraint.
I really don't care. I mean, I do. I care a lot. The first sentence in this paragraph is a complete lie. What I meant is this: I care tremendously. I try to do as much good as possible, even in hopeless situations. I don't believe morals should be compromised because of circumstance, though occasionally I'm guilty, too. I smoke cigarettes and drive my car. But (and this is a big butt)! I also believe in justice and, y'know, reaping what one sows. We sowed ourselves a pretty ugly outfit out of the only known habitable planet in the entire universe. Sucks, doughnut? So, as happens to every body that's endured terrible conditions, parts will begin to fail. The ozone will go, and the ice caps will melt prematurely (would they ever have, otherwise?), and a pandemic will find its way into the human body. And these are all pretty much guaranteed by every credible expert. There's a museum in Kentucky that may disagree, and some politicians, too, and their followers may adopt their stance, but those people are probably very wrong (unless I'm the one who's been misled).
This whole thing is hilarious and ridiculous but it's also a big downer. Those people holding those signs are looked at in the same light as people with signs proclaiming truths. Anyone who strays from the norm is systematically mocked and degraded, which may be a useful tactic to weed out the weak activists, but is it necessary? I mean, I don't think it's a tactic in the sense that it's being deployed consciously by society as a collective, but more of a tactic in hindsight.
Whatever the point that I'm trying to make, everything I've ever thought boils down to hypocrisy. Once again, I'm guilty as well. And it's sickening. The one that gets me every time is the virtues held but not practiced by people of various faiths. People are all a bunch of lazy assholes who abandon morality when there's too much or too little to do.

Your Blood Destroyer

"Goddamnit!" was the first real word/feeling that I said/experienced as I randomly shot out of bed at 8:20 this morning, already over an hour late for work. I hustled and made it out my door and in Stella's door about 20 minutes into my day (though I didn't pause to check the time, which would have been counter-productive). Oh, but a nice little touch from God or the Universe or some dead hippy was when I opened my computer. See, my phone was kind of not working properly last night. When I got home, it was completely off and wouldn't turn back on for a while. Maybe this is because I keep it filled to the very brim with music. Anyhow, I needed to see something that would tell me that I just barely overslept, and my alarm clock was 10 feet farther from me, so I checked the clock on my computer. My heart did a kind of leap when the clock read 7:29, but cravity quickly reminded my little heart that the leap it took was off a cliff, so it then dove straight into the ground.
I really don't get it. I mean, I wasn't particularly drunk or tired when I went to bed. Sure, I wasn't sober, and sure, it took me just under three songs to fall asleep (the last three off From Here To Infirmary, so maybe that means I was tired).
Oh, so about Denver:
Actually, first, about the band:
The other night I learned how to play "Where Did Our Love Go" by The Supremes. It's a great song and it's really easy and I thought it'd be cool to do as a punk band. So far so good. So I bring the idea to practice. Well, it was a kind of pre-practice thing we did before picking up our drummer and going to the practice space. There we are, sitting in Jimi's living room holding guitars, and I pitch the idea. Here are two reactions, of which I expected one of:
1) "No, that song sucks, and I am ethically opposed to covering someone else's music."
2) "Yes, that's a great idea. It'd be a lot of fun to play a song that won't be expected from us."
Instead, I got a weird kind of variation of the two, sort of. The response I get is, essentially, a list of punk bands who have covered songs outside of their genre. Because a human being with even the slightest interest in music is aware that nearly every band, ever, has covered a song that didn't correspond to said band's exact sound, the only reason I can fathom that would elicit such a response is as justification. If this is the case, then I am at a complete loss for how this band is going to carry on. I mean, I understand... huh. I walked away from the computer for a second after writing "I understand," and I have no idea what I possibly could have understood.
In my understanding, the idea of "punk rock" is partially the sound and partially the attitude (and partially the attitude reflecting itself in the sound). That said, should my new band be thrown in the punk rock sub-genre of "subservient punk"? Maybe it's just conjecture and I'm actually completely wrong and my logic is twisted, but I don't think Joe Strummer consulted his list of punk rock forefathers in search of a green light to permit him to cover "I Fought the Law." I also don't think the Rolling Stones or the White Stripes thought twice before covering "Stop Breaking Down," and I don't think that justification was needed for Alkaline Trio to cover "Bye Bye Love."
This whole thing is kind of sickening. I mean, the impression I'm getting is that I'm starting a band that should not stray from NOFX's formula... but I'm not in NOFX. How does that make sense? It'd be like Stella forcing me to follow Starbucks policies.
I'm thinking I should draft a sort of business model detailing what I want out of my band.
Huh. Something about that line, "I want out of my band" makes sense. I don't, though. I'll use the band as a structure to keep myself making music, to get the ball rolling, so I don't get lazy. I need to get these six songs out of my head and onto a four-track before I lose the will to write anything after.
Anyhow, about Denver: I know I've been so back and forth lately. The band was promising and then reality settled in and it lost the brief hopefulness of really being on to something. And now I'm seeing how hard it is to change under the confines of past hobbies and preconceptions others have of me. And maybe that's cowardly or pathetic, but you I dare you to try and tell Sam that you will, under no circumstance, eat the steak tacos he insists on buying and that, if he knows what's good for him, he better buy me a vegetarian taco. Oh, and if you explain this to Sam, he has to be blind drunk. Yeah, give it a try. I still don't know how it clicked in his head and he didn't order me steak.
I know I'm getting terribly off track, but I smoked some cigarettes the past two nights. I still feel like hell because my lungs just aren't quite right these past two weeks, so that's good.

Romeo Had Juliette

I'm going to officially record this, Monday, May 16th, as day two of vegetarian/smoke-free Scott. I've got a good feeling about this one.
First of all, I did what I could to making cigarette-smoking a part of my daily lifestyle... but to no avail. I tried to smoke whenever I wanted to in order to not smoke when I didn't particularly want to. I bought two cartons of cheap, delicious Lucky Strikes to ease the financial burden. But no, there's no winning with this. My lungs are rejecting the extra layers of tar and grime and my intellect is doing the same.
On to my diet... it's hard to fathom eating any animal by-product after reading what I've read. I mean, I can't un-know something. Once the knowledge is in, I have to deal with it. If I turn away, then I'm a spineless chump. And, as was pointed out, it's really, really easy to be a vegetarian nowadays. Even places like McDonald's and Chipotle have an option. And, in Chicago, there's Whole Foods and Trader Joe's and the Pick Me Up Cafe and the Chicago Diner and Karyn's. I'd be dumb not to cater to my own intellect.
Oh, and that brings up another point: I kind of need to do things the hard way to keep me interested in life. Shaving with a knife, having a selective diet, rolling cigarettes, listening to records, writing letters on a typewriter. It's fun but it all involves a certain degree of skill, which means I constantly have something to strive for, even if I'm not particularly interested in being the greatest cigarette roller in the world. I suppose I could start keeping score when I go to baseball games... Nah. Baseball games are mentally taxing enough. Well, not really. I don't know, I'll consider that next time I go to a game... which won't be for a while. A long, long while (ideally).
So yeah, that train of thought has past the point of visibility, some four miles down the track.
Let's see... well, my lungs feel a little better in this day 2 of inclining health. The sun is out. That's cool. I'm reading again (if 60 pages of one book counts as "reading again"). I really want to ride my bike but I won't be able to until Wednesday (weather permitting). Tomorrow is band practice and maybe a show at the Fireside, which will be my first in about 8 years... wow.
Uh, what else. That girl skipped town. Time to do something with my life. Oh, and my car still doesn't get along with the rain. Too bad. I'm also about to learn how well it runs without gas. Speaking of gas, it's really disheartening to see the dollars add up in my tip jar and know that each and every one will be handed over to the sarcastic guy at the gas station.
Ideally, I'd like to stop driving altogether. I have a plan to sell my motorcycle, but I think it will have to be for a loss because I don't have the motivation of capability to fix it up first. What else? I need to sell a lot of my records so I can have a clear path into my room again.
Uh... huh. Jonathan Safran Foer is a pretty good writer, by the way-- regardless of how bad the motion picture adaptation of Everything is Illuminated was.
So this coffee shop is kind of slow again. I have a feeling that the entire summer will be like this... I better find some better way to occupy my time.

Pay it Back, Pay it Forward.

Not only am I still hurting, but now I feel like a broken record. As cliche as that is, I don't currently possess the mental capacity to piece together a fresh metaphor.
Last night was Zombie Prom. Some of the costumes were really cool and I felt some semblance of belonging (always a good feeling). Most of the night, though, I had this feeling that I really wanted to be somewhere else. I'm not quite sure why, but I have three guesses:
-I kind of miss seeing that one girl, and when I fall it's hard to get my mind into the particular moment I'm standing in. Lame, huh.
-My ego has developed in a strange kind of way where, as I get older, I find a particular comfort being in my usual skin. This is good in the sense that my perceived identity crisis that's been going on my entire life is, well, merely perceived. This is bad because it doesn't easily lend my personality to change.
-Maybe I'm just not comfortable with fake blood leaking into my mouth.
Oh, and this isn't really on topic, but that's okay because I don't think I'm on one certain topic, anyways: I had a realization the other day. Maybe it was this morning, actually. I don't quite remember. But here goes:
No matter what I do, it's kind of going to suck. Ha! That sounds terrible. It's true, though. If I'm in a really successful band or I write a book that sells tremendously well, or if I lose my job and start working at Dunkin' Donuts again, it'll all be the same. Essentially, there'll be good days and there'll be bad days. Sometimes my mood will randomly swing into the gutter, and sometimes it might make a tremendous upswing for no apparent reason. So, that being a known, I might as well trudge through the bad days and keep doing what I know I'll want to be doing on the good days. Life is really short, but it's also really fucking long.
So, epiphanies aside, I think it's about time to take another vacation from cigarettes. Oh, and I'm casually becoming a vegetarian, I think. These two things just make sense, kind of. Well, maybe not the vegetarian one, but let's see:
-Smoking is an obvious one. I always start smoking because it makes me feel free. It reinforces the mindset that I can do whatever I want and fuck overly judgmental people who offer me slogans and give me dirty looks. On the downside, my lungs feel like they're half the size as they were a few weeks ago.
-Concerning food, I read an article called Consider the Lobster. It was about the popular lobster fest in Maine, and delved into whether or not it's ethical to boil a living creature. Obviously, that got me thinking. Since then, the closest I've come to blatantly eating an animal has been a few eggs (which I had bought prior to the article). I don't think I have it in me to go vegan, but when I was a vegetarian for six months a few years ago, I felt great. I never felt bloated and my organs felt like they were functioning properly. It's also fun to have limited options to eat... the whole "paradox of choice" thing, I guess.
Cobra Skulls are on my mind. There's probably a gourd-sized ball of phlegm in my chest.
Wow. This guy who always passes through and orders a medium latte with three or four shots just tipped me $15. Time to pay it forward.

Doin' Time

I think my computer is slowly dying. The blogs I read are all a day or two behind and I'm pretty sure I wrote something for this site the other day that isn't here. I don't know. Maybe it's in my head. I feel like a zombie, still, which is appropriate considering I'm begrudgingly going to zombie prom tonight. Well, begrudgingly in a passive aggressive way. Which is to say, only me and a select few know it's begrudgingly.
So that girl is more or less off my mind, which is good. I guess that's what it feels like to be led on. Huh. It's strange, though. I mean, I haven't seen her in nearly a week, and she still occupies a good portion of the thinking I do, but the issue just seems less pressing as my chances sink farther and farther down into the, uh, abyss. Or something. I'd still drop whatever I'm doing to go pick her up if she needed me to, or I'd ditch my present company to meet her for a beer, or I'd pretend I'm not sleeping if she wants to come over at 4 in the morning to pass out but needs me to pick her up from the train station. That's fucked, isn't it? I mean, I'm 99% certain she would do none of that for me. Hell, allowing me to pick her up at 2 in the morning from home last Friday night seemed overly generous of her.
I guess it's like that guy in San Francisco said, that after a few bad relationships you start to crave someone who puts you through hell. It's an addictive tension, I guess, and it's no more pleasant than fiending for cocaine, probably, and the payoff is definitely up to speed, for sure.
Well, sometimes.

I keep getting these little highs where everything's all right. They don't last long, so maybe what I'm really experiencing are the vast lows where everything is depressing and it doesn't matter where anything goes because every end is irrelevant and the only memory that matters is your own because nobody else can be expected to care (rightfully so) and the best you can do is hope to die alone or around people who don't irritate you too much.
I'm a lot weaker than I used to think of myself as being. Actually, I partially take that back. A lot of my perceived strengths and weaknesses are merely proclivities of which value judgments should not be placed upon. I'm not sure that makes sense on here like it does in my head. For instance, I was talking to Danny last night about various topics. Of particular importance to this paragraph, I mentioned that I couldn't have sex with someone I don't care about. I have-- and it wasn't particularly entertaining or awful-- but now I feel incapable. To some, this would be considered a strength because it's slightly more honorable to fornicate in the presence of strong emotions (this is a generalization of no particular set of moral guidelines. Whatever), and to others this would be a weakness in the same way that being biologically intolerant of gluten would suck because it would severely limit one's beer choices and, thus, make it a pain in the ass to go out and get loaded on a whim. But I don't know. I mean, to me (and, remember, this top of random banging is just an example) this whole thing is about as irrelevant as having a tree in my backyard. I mean, it's a tree, man. It's just there. It rarely serves me a particular purpose yet eradicating it from the premises would be unnecessary because it's not really in the way of anything. It's just there.
So yeah, that's that. All these things I have are just qualities and their utility or appropriateness is relative to whomever decides to judge me. So who cares? The person judging will probably stop caring almost immediately upon making the judgment. And I don't really care.
But should I care? Maybe that's my problem. It all goes back to this quote that's always been stuck in my head: "pride is nothing to be proud of." I hate it so much but I can't help but agree.

I Will Atone

Life is fucking hard, man. Well, no, I take that back. Not entirely, though. Life can be hard, but mine isn't particularly. "Life is tricky," is what I meant. Sometimes you have to try your hardest, and other times you have to exude some kind of I-Don't-Give-a-Damn aura-- and all for the same ends! It's hard to care when I'm in the haze of a second-wind exhaustion, yet it's hard not to care when I'm bright-eyed and bushy tailed and my endorphins are in fifth gear.
It's easy to throw in the towel when you genuinely don't care or are through with whatever it is that you were using a towel for, but it's considerably harder to pretend that giving up is by choice and not by default or defeat.
Anyways, I'm on the verge of doing something very, very drastic: staying put. Ha! Well, what Whitney posted on my wall kind of makes me feel like a deadbeat, but that's what I am, right? Here's the option I'm considering-- but wait! First, some back-story kind of details that may or may not be necessary:
-I love music. Ever since John gave me Less Than Jake's Hello Rockview when I was in 3rd grade, I was hooked. Granted, all the songs were about drinking, and I was under the impression that getting drunk was a side effect that rarely affected people, and most of the songs I was listening to were about drinking, but... meh. The point is, there was Less Than Jake and Blink 182 and all the punk/ska compilations I could get my hands on at Tower Records on Clark Street. And then there was the Lawrence Arms at the Fireside in 8th grade, and people mistaking my reaction to a severe lack of oxygen as being the effects of too much alcohol. I had a blast. Until then, I kind of assumed that people made bands, the bands either made it or didn't, and the ones that made it played giant venues and the musicians who didn't make it became teachers or deadbeats or something. The Lawrence Arms showed me that I can do it, too.
-I hate school. Don't get me wrong-- I love learning. I couldn't begin to count the amount of books I've read, or the conversations I've had with people where I've come away with good knowledge. But, for the same reason that I don't enjoy or appreciate lectures, I can't stand sitting idly by while someone tells me stuff. I need engagement, like a good conversation. Healthy discourse, y'know? I need to be able to constantly ask questions, which I don't feel comfortable doing in a classroom.
-I like to be in control. Now, I don't consider myself a "control freak," by any means. But, if something is going to be produced with my name on it, I need to be the final arbiter over what works and what doesn't. I don't think I could ever write a book or a song with anybody because that's not how I work.
-I love to write. See what I'm doing right now? I need this. Well, that's not true. I can live without writing, but it would be very dull. I can't properly express myself with a paint brush or a hammer or a camera, so I use words.
-My attention span is on the shorter side, relatively speaking. At this point in my life, I don't have it in me to write a book or a short story because I'd have a radical change of mind half way through and decide that I have a better idea that can't be incorporated into what I already have written.
So here's the decision (which isn't yet final, but it's getting there): I'm going to put my entire mind into this band. If it doesn't work out then at least I'll be that much closer with my next band. And, if it doesn't work out, then I can always move to Denver. I'm in no hurry to move, but man! am I in a hurry to leave. With a band, I can tour (ideally) without entirely picking up sticks.
Next is the decision of whether or not to go to school. If I don't go to school, I need a second job. Paying rent and eating is great, but I need to save some money for potential adventures.
Works almost over.