Lose Yourself. for Marshall Mathers -or- You're Having the Time of My Life

Having made my rounds of the internet, along with having just begun a book of essays that doesn't seem too appealing, I figure I'm best off jotting down some notes.
Maybe it's the change in the breeze, or it could be the sense that I'm beginning to lose me, but something is insisting that I recalibrate my life. School has become such a burden that I often opt out of studying in favor of doing the dishes or washing my clothes. I've been smoking more cigarettes in the past few weeks than has been normal over the past few months. I haven't read a good book in over a month, when I finished Brigid Pasulka's A Long, Long Time Ago and Essentially True. Aaron suggested we throw a party in our somewhat new apartment and I could only think of a few people to invite. I'm often late to school and work and it's difficult getting out of bed every morning.
My initial response is to question my girlfriend. Not her, but me with her. See, I can divide my everyday life over a few things: school, work, girlfriend, family. School is necessary, I've heard; work is necessary, I know; family is important; girlfriend? My mom was taken aback when I told her that we hang out almost every night (though this has not been the case lately because I'm beginning to boil over).
I broke up with Mindy six years ago for these very reasons. Despite the various relapses, I think it was a good time for it to end.
But if I cut these ties now, then what? My schedule would be less hectic, for one. Well, that's not entirely fair. I'd have more time to myself? Yeah. As opposed to very little. I wouldn't have to feel guilty about waking up grumpy, or for being generally grumpy. I'd get full authority over my life, which means I can say when I stay in and when I go out (always a plus), I could hibernate to abate this financial crisis I have put myself in, and I would only have to worry about keeping myself happy (which is remarkably easier). Cigarettes could be smoked with an easy conscience, and my schedule could go back to normal (which is spontaneous). Oh, and maybe I could go for an entire day without hearing the words "marriage," "children," and "future."
On the downside, I'd have to fall asleep and wake up alone on those cold winter nights, I might not always have someone to talk to, and I'd have one less person worrying about me (for better or worse... which might as well go in the "neutral" section).
I don't know. There's a lot of talk about freedom these days, and how various political ideologies are conniving to take it away while we're not looking. None of that is relevant to my current thought-process, except that the idea sneaked across the front of my brain and that, if anyone is stealing anyone else's freedom, I'm stealing my own. As a teenager, my idea of freedom was smoking cigarettes in my room and drinking beer without guff from my mom. I wanted to stay up late into the night without being told to go to bed, and I wanted to have friends over whenever I pleased. What happened, though, is that my friends went off to college and suddenly I was alone. At some point, I had heard, people mature and drop their bad habits and settle down-- often after they've learned first-hand why it isn't a good idea to smoke in their rooms or drink beer when they please.
Don't get me wrong! Before I go on, I haven't completely stunted my own growth. I know why I should drink four cans of Pepsi a day, and I know that it sucks facing a full day of school and work on three hours of sleep... I just haven't, I don't know. At this point, I'd be devolving, and not naturally progressing-- but that doesn't mean I should suddenly take all this future-marriage-children talk seriously, right? Of course not. That'd be like deciding to cut my legs off because I can't be the fastest runner in the world. Poor comparison, but whatever.
All these thoughts of what's wrong with my life stem from this burnt-out feeling I have. I don't feel too bad about it, considering I work about 30 hours a week, I go to school twice a week (until last week it was four times a week, but I've decided to drop my third out of four classes), and I bike anywhere from 5 to 15 miles a day (when I don't ride my motorcycle). Other causes of stress are financial (I bought too many records and charged too many organic groceries) but that's getting better (I sold the Cadillac).
The worst is over, though. My back bike tire won't get stolen again, and I won't get robbed again [under the same circumstances]. I won't recklessly spend money on things I don't need (I'm getting good at that: I often don't need dinner). I'm proving to myself that, when it's absolutely necessary, I can adapt.
For the time being, I plan on exercising a few freedoms. For instance, I don't feel like going to school next semester.
On a lighter note, I finally washed my pants. They feel fine, I guess, but not as homely. They're just a pair of pants, now, as opposed to my pair of pants.
This weekend is Champaign and Urbana and crappy Halloween costumes enhanced by Bulleit Bourbon. Godspeed.

Under the Blacklight

We all plagiarize, right? Or am I just incriminating myself?
Regardless, I stand by what I said but I don't think it's a bad thing... unless it's done by a sociopath.
Here's what I mean: if I'm courting a girl and I sneak a Dashboard Confessional lyric into my speech, the fact that I chose that particular line says something about me (that isn't simply a narrative on my lack of creativity).
Unclear? How about jokes: like this one:
A man stomps into a bar, obviously angry. He growls at the bartender, "Gimme a beer", takes a slug, and shouts out, "All lawyers are assholes!" A guy at the other end of the bar retorts, "You take that back!" The angry man snarls, "Why? Are you a lawyer?" The guy replies, "No, I'm an asshole!"
That joke didn't come out of my brain, but it happens to fit right in with all the other things I find funny. If I tell someone that joke, they'll get a better idea of who I am and where I'm viewing the world from.
So there's that.
Oh, and I told this really nice girl that I was losing faith [in the Bears] and she took it to mean I was losing my faith [in religion (or Catholicism)]. The look on her face wasn't replicable. If only she knew of my past, with the refused confirmation and various "blasphemies" I've committed.
Anyways, I'm almost done with work so I'll stop before I get into another thought.

The blues, Mary.

The M&Ms I'm eating taste like gasoline. This is the case because my motorcycle was leaking gas, so I kept a rag in my jacket pocket to wipe my engine dry whenever I was stopped at a red light. Will almost completely stopped the leak, so I moved the rag from my pocket to my bag. After I left Will's garage, I stopped at my mom's house to pick up the side-view mirror that had arrived in the mail. While I was there, I looked for food and drinks to steal-- I couldn't take the last roll of Oreos, but it wouldn't be too terrible to take one of the last two Izze drinks. Next to the nearly empty Izze box was a bag of Halloween candy that seemed to be evaporating rapidly. I decided to play the roll of an enzyme, speeding up the process. I grabbed two of every different kind of candy and threw it all into my bag.
So yeah, it didn't occur to me that gasoline vapor could penetrate candy wrappers. It seems that I'm literally eating, breathing, and sleeping motorcycles (not yet bleeding, though, luckily).
So I was thinking: in high school (especially for me, anyways, but I know some people never stop) I was very critical of my parents-- there was nothing they could do right. Now, instead of being vocal about the attributes and actions I don't condone, I quietly keep track and adjust my own behavior. But! But here's the thing: all the making fun and being critical of that I and many other people do may be some big joke by some divine spirit or something-- under the assumption that we all become our parents. If this is a big joke and/or we do end up becoming our parents then I don't think I have much to worry about. My parents are completely opposite in every way imaginable. They are not, for instance, the same sex, nor are they the same religion and they identify with opposite ends of the political spectrum. My personality will probably just be a void when I'm all grown up. Hm.
That's about all that's on my mind. Oh, last night I was having an engaging conversation with Christina's friend (who was very drunk, which I did not notice). Conversations between humans general contain a few pauses, which can be awkward when it's between unfamiliar people. Anyways, during one seemingly standard pause, this girl put her head on the table and was done being sober enough to carry her end of a conversation for the evening. I found it funny.

What a Guy

I haven't been writing lately as a subtle way of snubbing both my creative writing teacher and Jonathan Franzen-- my creative writing teacher because she sucks (which is to say that she assumes the role of a person of authority when it comes to judging writing... she is not), and Jonathan Franzen because of how bad I thought The Corrections was. The initial torture I had him endure was to be alive in a world that included me taking forever to finish his crappy book. Got him!
Anyways, that's about it, which makes me think I'm not doing much writing because I haven't been doing much thinking. Hm...
Well, I have a working motorcycle now, which is very cool. Actually, it's no longer working. It was great for the first day or two, now it's running on one (of two) cylinders. No bueno. Will's coming over tonight to help fix the problem, though.
So that's my life. Oh, and I met with Millie on Sunday. She's great, hopefully I can find some time to practice what she recommended I work on. Besides that... nothing. Florida for Christmas, maybe Urbana for Halloween.
Scooters normally run on one cylinder. This is worth knowing if your mechanic is Will's friend Eric, who supposedly diagnoses scooters with the line, "There's your problem: she's only firing on one cylinder!"

Stolen Tire and a Bad Smell

If 2011 ends up being as good as 2010 is bad, I'm in for a treat. What's strange, though, is that I haven't been too far down (emotionally speaking) (I have become more agitated than I used to be, but that could be my on-going love/hate relationship with cigarettes, or possibly a side effect of drinking coffee excessively on a daily basis).
Today, I walked to my bike and found a unicycle in its place. This unicycle had the body of a bike (my bike, in particular), as well as a chain (which is quite unusual as it is unnecessary to switch gears on a single-wheeled machine).
So there's that: a stolen tire to add to the stolen phone, backpack, and books, compounded with falling off the Stella various times, plus having bugs and a moldy bathroom, as well as roughly $500 of parking tickets this year... it's been a rough one.
On the other hand, I got a new tattoo, a motorcycle, and possibly a Cabrio. I also bought a violin (which I'm now trying to sell). I am currently employed at a pretty sweet coffee shop, and certain people in my family are getting their lives together (always a good thing).
Before I go, I should mention my trip to Intelligensia today. Here goes:
I met Megan 10 minutes after I told her I'd be there. I was upset about my bike tire and the fact that I had to drive the Cadillac (which I don't trust ever since the tires began spontaneously deflating). She saw I was upset and paid for my bagel (at The Bagel... decent place. Also, Aaron's dad's favorite place, supposedly).
On to Intelligentsia... I bought a large coffee, even though I don't consider 16 ounces of coffee to be particularly large. 16 ounces of espresso, on the other hand, would probably qualify as an xxxxl, at least. Anyways, we sat outside with our bagels and coffee and had a chat. At one point, a woman walking her dog and heading in our direction caught Megan's attention. "I'm going to ask her what kind of dog that is," she declared. And she did.
Chatty Kathy's name was actually Diane, but she was fairly interesting for someone who had a lot of arbitrary (relatively speaking) things to say. Very long conversation short: she referred me to a very good friend of hers who is close to having a PhD from the University of Chicago and is starting to teach writing. She's Puerto Rican and spicy (in the words of Diane). The real root of my excitement lies in the notion that this could, if I take this lead, be the yin to the inconvenient yang I've landed lately.

As an aside, I'd like to mention that I have not been wearing deodorant for the past few days. I figure it's not good to rub or spray chemicals into my skin on a daily basis. Because my diet consists of primarily healthy and organic foods, I usually do not smell when I sweat. Today, though, I smell... bad. This is the first day in many that I haven't ridden my bike (or done any kind of exercise or physical activity, for that matter). I now have this suspicion that people are tipping me in a "get your water turned on and take a goddamn shower. Jesus"- kind of way. (My water is on, by the bye).

Page 5.

I wonder why people drink and then I think of Adam.
But my mind didn't just end up there. It never does. Briefly, here's where it came from:
The newspaper is, essentially, a tabloid. I was tipped off by Stephen Colbert's congressional hearing thing on a page (3, I think) dedicated to celebrity something or other and their individual interactions with the world. Before I got there, though, I had been reading the front page. I read half an article, turned to the page with the rest of the story and, instead, found a better-looking one.
One cover story caught my attention in a passing-interest kind of way. A 16 year-old kid had been beaten to death about a year ago and her mom was just getting over it. Cool. Furthermore, she was putting her energy towards prevention (as opposed to strictly grieving). Even better. Still no emotional attachment, though, which isn't unusual when a slightly different rendition of this tragedy can be found in a Chicago paper on a daily basis.
Then I saw it: a little half-article at the bottom of page 4.
Anyways, as it was sinking in, I got to thinking: "what would he want me to do?" Well, here's more insight: I was considering having a cigarette. Lucy hates when I smell like smoke (or have anything to do with smoke, for that matter). I felt like what's-his-name, trying to pick up girls at a funeral. 'Scumbag,' that's the word I was looking for-- trying to use a bad situation for my advantage. So that's when the question came to me: "what would he want me to do?" At first I thought about how cool of a dude he was, and how he'd tell me to stop worrying so much and smoke a damn cigarette. Then I came to my senses and thought, "he wouldn't give a damn what decision I made." See, we weren't even very good friends. In fact, "not very good friends" is still a gross exaggeration. He was.. let's see. A casual acquaintance. If we had ever seen each other in public, we may or may not have even recognized each other. Then I got to thinking about how much I think and wonder and worry about people who are, in all certainty, completely oblivious to my thoughts. Frankie didn't know I thought he was an awesome guy, worthy of admiration. Matt doesn't know how much he has impacted my life, or how I still wish I had his charisma. Uncle JP doesn't know that I try to mimic certain things he has done in his life to better my own. The list could go on forever. Although I do feel shy around people I really admire, I often feel that it is best that these sentiments be kept to myself. If I told Dot how I admired her thought-processes and loved the times we would discuss the rules of grammar, I would only cause a scene. If I told my uncle Bruce, "I understand why you drank. As much as I want to believe it was a cowardly escape from hard feelings, I am not one to judge as I barely scrape by on the decisions I make and still often teeter on the brink of making very, very awful ones," where would that get me? Where would that get him? I don't want to burden seemingly random characters in my life with the idea that I'm secretly a big fan.
I don't know. The world sickens me so terribly sometimes. Naperville might sell itself to corporate advertising. Stephen Colbert made some bad jokes in front of elected officials. A kid I knew who wasn't wasting his life being a scumbag was murdered by the hands of another kid who falsely felt entitled to an irrational jealousy.

Portraits of Stick Figures

There's a man who comes into this coffee shop and his head doesn't seem to be wired properly. He carries around sketches (along with enough copies of these sketches to flyer an entire Glenn Beck rally) that try to explain the problems with the world and the way that the U.S. will, ultimately, fall. Sometimes it's the CIA (today it was the bible) and sometimes it's hot dogs. Though he is virtually inaudible (aside from the occasional guttural noise that slips through is teeth), he insists on explaining his newly conceived process every time he comes in. Today's shift brought to light a fragment of this man's life that I will probably never know: He got into a shouting (which, in this man's case, was slightly above the level at which the average human being carries a conversation) -match with a group of women who may or may not have been prostitutes. Because he repeated himself over and over, I was able to piece together the rhetorical command I believe he was trying to convey: "Go ahead, call the police on me!" Something like that.