Here's one from the heart, Darling:
can't live here no more
my eyes are on the ceiling
but my head's out that door.
And it's wandering around
a room over or so
and if I just lay here
it won't know where to go.
I've gotta go
I've gotta go
I'll find that better place
and I'll call it my home.
Or I'll wander and wander
just won't wonder alone.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
I Do Not Hook Up
I'm going to Denver on Sunday. Megan's in town and Dad's paying for my ticket back so I can keep Megan company on the drive there.
Okay, so I think I've discussed this before, probably on this very page (but, due to the nature of this writing area, my thoughts aren't given much time to develop and most of these ideas are half-baked, so to speak): it seems to me that there's some kind of tectonic shift that happens around a certain age. See, when a [heterosexual] man is just a boy, even before the age of puberty (you know, before he even really understands why he's doing it), the most coveted thing in the world is a woman (or girl, if this boy is around the prepubescent age (which his mind will, ideally, grow out of as he ages)) with whom he can do as he pleases. When a boy is young, he wants to kiss a girl. Everything ends there because any more excitement would be too mind-boggling. Then puberty comes, and the boy's imagination goes nuts and, well, a kind of "I'll take what I can get" mentality sinks in. Often, a boy will become a man and this mindset will never be replaced. Eventually, a long-term relationship may happen and the man's preferences will be fine-tuned into understanding that letting sex develop over a long period of time with a single person is extremely gratifying (while simultaneously lusting over what he can't have (or cheating and having the best of both worlds... but with a guilty, or merely depraved, consciousness)).
On the other side of the coin is the female mentality. Not being a woman, my take on this subject is purely conjecture, with bits of truth mixed in from accounts I've heard or, more commonly, hearsay from fellow gentlemen. Here it is: from a very young age, women have to be on guard. There are hungry boys and men with weather-tested tactics in manipulation and reverse psychology and what they seek is between (for some men) any woman's legs (for a slightly more honorable man, it's between any willing woman's legs). I think I'm digressing back to the side of the man, but it should be stated that half (which is a very rough estimate) of the fun of snagging a woman is chasing her down (which, for some men, is done literally. These men tend to land in jail).
Anyways, I'll just get to the point: at some point in a woman's life, maybe after she's realized that life is only a fairytale for a select few and that, for the rest of us, many trials and tribulations need to occur and that, for many of us, these don't lead us anywhere in particular. For instance, John once told me that a good way to look at a girlfriend is as a learning experience. Now that I've dated Lucy and Mindy and Angela and whoever else I knew so well that I could pin-point the parts of their personalities that did not go well with my own, I have a better idea of what I'm looking for. Mindy was truly a shot in the dark: I knew I wanted a woman who was willing to kiss me and was not opposed to getting drunk or high. Very loose idea. Then I learned that I did not want someone who didn't get along with my friends and who was clingy and whatever else. On to Angela, I found someone smart but took a step back in the clingy sense. Oh, and marriage. God, what an awful topic to be brought up at such a ripe age. With Lucy, I kind of scrapped lots of ideas I had that were merely ideas (which is to say, things I hadn't learned through experience or with empirical evidence). Once again, I learned that marriage is such an awkward topic (amongst many, many other thing).
Wow, this has some how devolved into an analysis of past relationships. Back on track, and getting to the point: Up to now, every girl I have ever dated under the age of 27 took a good amount of effort to shack up with (well, with a few exceptions). But then there are the girls over 27. Maybe I should make that number 25, cool? Cool. So, every girl I've had any kind of more-than-friends (however slightly)-relationship with has eagerly thrown themselves onto me. I gotta tell you, it's repulsive. I mean, if half the fun of a being interested in a girl is chasing after them, then these girls are scoring, at best a 50% on whatever test I administer them in my mind. Pretty dismal figure there.
So why is this? I don't know... but I can guess:
Being no exception, I take the role of chasing women (along with dating them and trying to piece together a successful relationship with one) as something that one can be good or bad at, just like hitting a baseball. Along the way, I'll learn something that seems like a good idea in every situation, so I'll stick to it. Girls have been known to react in a warm manner to well-placed compliments (guys fall for this much easier. For a man, being complimented on their hat is often misconstrued as "would you like to have sex with me?"), that's an easy one. So, my best guess as to why the over-25 women have thrown themselves at me is because they learned (in a misguided way (dealing with me, anyways)) that the fastest way to a man's heart is down his pants.
Or maybe the two girls I'm referring to are isolated incidents and they were just looking for kicks with a younger dude.
Okay, so I think I've discussed this before, probably on this very page (but, due to the nature of this writing area, my thoughts aren't given much time to develop and most of these ideas are half-baked, so to speak): it seems to me that there's some kind of tectonic shift that happens around a certain age. See, when a [heterosexual] man is just a boy, even before the age of puberty (you know, before he even really understands why he's doing it), the most coveted thing in the world is a woman (or girl, if this boy is around the prepubescent age (which his mind will, ideally, grow out of as he ages)) with whom he can do as he pleases. When a boy is young, he wants to kiss a girl. Everything ends there because any more excitement would be too mind-boggling. Then puberty comes, and the boy's imagination goes nuts and, well, a kind of "I'll take what I can get" mentality sinks in. Often, a boy will become a man and this mindset will never be replaced. Eventually, a long-term relationship may happen and the man's preferences will be fine-tuned into understanding that letting sex develop over a long period of time with a single person is extremely gratifying (while simultaneously lusting over what he can't have (or cheating and having the best of both worlds... but with a guilty, or merely depraved, consciousness)).
On the other side of the coin is the female mentality. Not being a woman, my take on this subject is purely conjecture, with bits of truth mixed in from accounts I've heard or, more commonly, hearsay from fellow gentlemen. Here it is: from a very young age, women have to be on guard. There are hungry boys and men with weather-tested tactics in manipulation and reverse psychology and what they seek is between (for some men) any woman's legs (for a slightly more honorable man, it's between any willing woman's legs). I think I'm digressing back to the side of the man, but it should be stated that half (which is a very rough estimate) of the fun of snagging a woman is chasing her down (which, for some men, is done literally. These men tend to land in jail).
Anyways, I'll just get to the point: at some point in a woman's life, maybe after she's realized that life is only a fairytale for a select few and that, for the rest of us, many trials and tribulations need to occur and that, for many of us, these don't lead us anywhere in particular. For instance, John once told me that a good way to look at a girlfriend is as a learning experience. Now that I've dated Lucy and Mindy and Angela and whoever else I knew so well that I could pin-point the parts of their personalities that did not go well with my own, I have a better idea of what I'm looking for. Mindy was truly a shot in the dark: I knew I wanted a woman who was willing to kiss me and was not opposed to getting drunk or high. Very loose idea. Then I learned that I did not want someone who didn't get along with my friends and who was clingy and whatever else. On to Angela, I found someone smart but took a step back in the clingy sense. Oh, and marriage. God, what an awful topic to be brought up at such a ripe age. With Lucy, I kind of scrapped lots of ideas I had that were merely ideas (which is to say, things I hadn't learned through experience or with empirical evidence). Once again, I learned that marriage is such an awkward topic (amongst many, many other thing).
Wow, this has some how devolved into an analysis of past relationships. Back on track, and getting to the point: Up to now, every girl I have ever dated under the age of 27 took a good amount of effort to shack up with (well, with a few exceptions). But then there are the girls over 27. Maybe I should make that number 25, cool? Cool. So, every girl I've had any kind of more-than-friends (however slightly)-relationship with has eagerly thrown themselves onto me. I gotta tell you, it's repulsive. I mean, if half the fun of a being interested in a girl is chasing after them, then these girls are scoring, at best a 50% on whatever test I administer them in my mind. Pretty dismal figure there.
So why is this? I don't know... but I can guess:
Being no exception, I take the role of chasing women (along with dating them and trying to piece together a successful relationship with one) as something that one can be good or bad at, just like hitting a baseball. Along the way, I'll learn something that seems like a good idea in every situation, so I'll stick to it. Girls have been known to react in a warm manner to well-placed compliments (guys fall for this much easier. For a man, being complimented on their hat is often misconstrued as "would you like to have sex with me?"), that's an easy one. So, my best guess as to why the over-25 women have thrown themselves at me is because they learned (in a misguided way (dealing with me, anyways)) that the fastest way to a man's heart is down his pants.
Or maybe the two girls I'm referring to are isolated incidents and they were just looking for kicks with a younger dude.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Intergalactic Menopause
Where do I begin? Here, I suppose. I mean, it's not like there's anything pressing on my mind (partially true), and there's definitely nothing trying to jump through my hand onto this text writing space thing.
The expression "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" is so vague and annoying, yet, in my current predicament, is as spot-on as a horoscope one reads to mean exactly what they're feeling. Does it make sense that, to keep my distance from certain people, I have to divulge my biggest ulterior motive? Something doesn't add up.
So here I am, trying to sift through these papers of mistakes and regrets before I add anything to the pile. That's reasonable, right? I'm trying to avoid certain poor, miscalculated decisions made by my brother and sister.
Things can get hairy when looking for a balance between courtesy and honesty. I've already stated in plain terms that I am, in fact, an asshole. I guess that's the out I'm looking for: say whatever comes to my mind.
Aside from the death of a friend or family member, the closest to tears I can remember getting was being overly frustrated when closing down the coffee shop one night several months ago. Lucy was waiting for me, which added to my tension. Actually, this is all irrelevant for the story I'm trying to segue into.
Up to the age of 13, I had never gone to a White Sox game that they didn't end up winning. Once, when I was 9 or 10, my friend's dad invited me and my dad to a game. We left early because it was late in the game and the Sox were losing. We could hear the crowd inching towards the edges of their seats as we walked out the gates and into the parking lot. The bases had become loaded and Robin Ventura was batting when the radio in the car came on. We were almost on the expressway when we saw the fireworks.
The 200 level may be my favorite at Comiskey Park. It's the one that hangs below the skyboxes; just a few rows suspended at the perfect level for each sitting spectator the see every inch of every play that takes place. On a particular, warm, possibly August night in 2001, the Orioles were in town and my dad and I were in attendance. I remember pieces of the conversation we had with the scalper who sold us the tickets. He referred to these as the "drop-down seats." My memory of the actual game is too hazy to discern, but I was speechless once the final out was made. Literally. My dad grew frustrated with me to the point of making threats that I have since forgotten. We stayed for the post-game fireworks show, which the team didn't earn. There was no need to celebrate. The mortality in the face of opposition was now real to the point that it glowed and I couldn't help but assume they'd lose every game I would ever attend from then on.
The same feeling came over me in circumstances that were completely different. When the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, I thought to myself, "Now what?" The first occurrence shook my identity of "sports fan" to the very core. The second merely reinforced the idea that nothing really matters. What's the point of playing towards an achievable pinnacle? I suppose it's good and healthy to be goal-oriented, but what's the point if, once the winter passes, you start back at the beginning and hope for the best? Maybe it's because I don't get it that I no longer find sports to be fascinating; they now serve as a diversion from being productive. I am no longer capable of leaving a sporting event with an irrational sense of elation as I have no vested interest.
I've been experiencing a certain tightness in my chest and I don't know why. Well, it could be the excessive coffee intake, as it could be the cigarettes I've recently taken up. Or maybe it's nothing. I guess I'll have to wait and see. And it's not on my heart's side, so who cares? Not me, that's for damn sure.
Huh. I'm just barely halfway through this shift. Nine and a half hours is a long time to be in a coffee shop-- I don't know how some customers sit here nearly all day on a daily basis. I'm supposed to get a drink with Emily tonight and, lemme tall ya, I ain't too enthused. One of the most awkward feelings that I have ever experienced is that of being hit on by someone you want to remain friends with but have no interest past that. It's happened with Bella and it's happening with Emily. But what's a man to do? I've made enough girls cry in my life that I can't bare to be too blunt (which also risks being presumptuous in the case that I'm completely vain and that I'm not being hit on... unlikely, but plausible). This is a reason for my tendency to curl up in my room in the company of books, far from human interaction.
The expression "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" is so vague and annoying, yet, in my current predicament, is as spot-on as a horoscope one reads to mean exactly what they're feeling. Does it make sense that, to keep my distance from certain people, I have to divulge my biggest ulterior motive? Something doesn't add up.
So here I am, trying to sift through these papers of mistakes and regrets before I add anything to the pile. That's reasonable, right? I'm trying to avoid certain poor, miscalculated decisions made by my brother and sister.
Things can get hairy when looking for a balance between courtesy and honesty. I've already stated in plain terms that I am, in fact, an asshole. I guess that's the out I'm looking for: say whatever comes to my mind.
Aside from the death of a friend or family member, the closest to tears I can remember getting was being overly frustrated when closing down the coffee shop one night several months ago. Lucy was waiting for me, which added to my tension. Actually, this is all irrelevant for the story I'm trying to segue into.
Up to the age of 13, I had never gone to a White Sox game that they didn't end up winning. Once, when I was 9 or 10, my friend's dad invited me and my dad to a game. We left early because it was late in the game and the Sox were losing. We could hear the crowd inching towards the edges of their seats as we walked out the gates and into the parking lot. The bases had become loaded and Robin Ventura was batting when the radio in the car came on. We were almost on the expressway when we saw the fireworks.
The 200 level may be my favorite at Comiskey Park. It's the one that hangs below the skyboxes; just a few rows suspended at the perfect level for each sitting spectator the see every inch of every play that takes place. On a particular, warm, possibly August night in 2001, the Orioles were in town and my dad and I were in attendance. I remember pieces of the conversation we had with the scalper who sold us the tickets. He referred to these as the "drop-down seats." My memory of the actual game is too hazy to discern, but I was speechless once the final out was made. Literally. My dad grew frustrated with me to the point of making threats that I have since forgotten. We stayed for the post-game fireworks show, which the team didn't earn. There was no need to celebrate. The mortality in the face of opposition was now real to the point that it glowed and I couldn't help but assume they'd lose every game I would ever attend from then on.
The same feeling came over me in circumstances that were completely different. When the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, I thought to myself, "Now what?" The first occurrence shook my identity of "sports fan" to the very core. The second merely reinforced the idea that nothing really matters. What's the point of playing towards an achievable pinnacle? I suppose it's good and healthy to be goal-oriented, but what's the point if, once the winter passes, you start back at the beginning and hope for the best? Maybe it's because I don't get it that I no longer find sports to be fascinating; they now serve as a diversion from being productive. I am no longer capable of leaving a sporting event with an irrational sense of elation as I have no vested interest.
I've been experiencing a certain tightness in my chest and I don't know why. Well, it could be the excessive coffee intake, as it could be the cigarettes I've recently taken up. Or maybe it's nothing. I guess I'll have to wait and see. And it's not on my heart's side, so who cares? Not me, that's for damn sure.
Huh. I'm just barely halfway through this shift. Nine and a half hours is a long time to be in a coffee shop-- I don't know how some customers sit here nearly all day on a daily basis. I'm supposed to get a drink with Emily tonight and, lemme tall ya, I ain't too enthused. One of the most awkward feelings that I have ever experienced is that of being hit on by someone you want to remain friends with but have no interest past that. It's happened with Bella and it's happening with Emily. But what's a man to do? I've made enough girls cry in my life that I can't bare to be too blunt (which also risks being presumptuous in the case that I'm completely vain and that I'm not being hit on... unlikely, but plausible). This is a reason for my tendency to curl up in my room in the company of books, far from human interaction.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My Poor Friend Me
Man, life is so boring. I mean, I know there are really, really great things going on, and there are also some very terrible things going on, but from a detached perspective of some kid trying to scrape out a living while trying to get drunk a few times a week, nothing really matters. And that's tough. It's tough in a way that's hard to comprehend if you're unfamiliar. You know Adam Dunn? He's on the White Sox and he sucks this year. Like, really badly. Here's why: in the National League he had to play first base or the outfield in order to be allotted a spot in the batting order. While Dunn wasn't a very good fielder at all, he was engaged in every play of every game. Now, on the White Sox, his only job is to hit. While the rest of the guys take the field, he sits in the dugout. Every couple of innings, he's required to stand up, stretch for a few minutes, then try to hit a few 80-100 mile per hour pitches being thrown next to him with the objective of not allowing him to make solid contact (or, ideally, any contact). If I were him, I'd be bored to death every game. I have a similar situation here at work: some days, it's really busy. On these days I get a lot done because I'm up and about anyways so it doesn't take much effort to take on the tasks necessary to, y'know, do my job. On a night like tonight, the last thing I am inclined to do is be productive. It's not necessarily that I'm lazy (though that certainly plays a part), and it's not even that I've come across anything even remotely interesting on the internet (this probably has more to do with laziness); there's no pressing issues, so there's no reason for me to stand up and walk around, so I'm not going to accidentally be ahead of schedule my accidentally taking out the garbage or cleaning the espresso machine. And then 9:30 will come around and some sense of urgency will present itself but, by that point, it will be too late. So I'll stay past 10:30 into the great abyss of time that I do not get paid for. It's terrible and it's depressing and time consuming and it's a great allegory for the way that I live my life.
Happy Saturday! If I had more than this month's rent in my bank account then I'd go out drinking. Or if it was warmer outside then I'd drive around in my convertible all night. But, alas (I kind of hate that word)! I will go home and eat pasta and either shave or watch In Cold Blood. Or both.
Happy Saturday! If I had more than this month's rent in my bank account then I'd go out drinking. Or if it was warmer outside then I'd drive around in my convertible all night. But, alas (I kind of hate that word)! I will go home and eat pasta and either shave or watch In Cold Blood. Or both.
Monday, April 18, 2011
It's a Shame All the Ways We Build Ourselves Up Just To Let Each Other Down.
Justin got stabbed walking home from his bar on Saturday night and this neighborhood isn't getting any better. Nothing was taken but a lot of blood was lost. It's a good thing that his character encompassed the will the crawl towards his apartment, and who knows what would have happened if his girlfriend hadn't been out smoking a cigarette.
My nights have been a little longer and a little drunker while my days have been more exhausted much less focused, like looking through the windshield of my car when the wipers are old and tired and the weather's too messy for them to be replaced.
in 1946 in the middle of Illinois on a particular farm in the middle of a warm October night you poked your head through your mother's legs and so began an eternity that will one day end in an unforgiving asphyxiation with no one to bear witness and and no one to fully comprehend the endless pain that's so trivial at its end. And the choices you made, with the duct-taped couches to what you should have said, they all end down in the same dull grave.
My nights have been a little longer and a little drunker while my days have been more exhausted much less focused, like looking through the windshield of my car when the wipers are old and tired and the weather's too messy for them to be replaced.
in 1946 in the middle of Illinois on a particular farm in the middle of a warm October night you poked your head through your mother's legs and so began an eternity that will one day end in an unforgiving asphyxiation with no one to bear witness and and no one to fully comprehend the endless pain that's so trivial at its end. And the choices you made, with the duct-taped couches to what you should have said, they all end down in the same dull grave.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Digging Deep, Tonight
Somehow, my body still doesn't handle hangovers very well. Maybe it was the limited sleep in a foreign bed, or maybe because, upon awaking, I was immediately thrown into my day.
Don't wanna waste my time
sitting alone in this store
and I don't need no apple--
if it'll just become a core
no, I don't want to work here anymore.
No, I don't wanna work here anymore.
I guess you'll say
we're just better off this way.
Don't wanna waste my time
sitting alone in this store
and I don't need no apple--
if it'll just become a core
no, I don't want to work here anymore.
No, I don't wanna work here anymore.
I guess you'll say
we're just better off this way.
Monday, April 11, 2011
When I Fall I Fall Hard
Uh... yeah.
Today was beautiful. It still is, but I'm currently cooped up in the coffee shop. Yesterday, Will figured out how to put the top down on the Cabrio and now I can't seem to imagine driving in an enclosed automobile. Huh.
On Mondays, it seems that the earlier I wake up, the later I get to the bowling alley. John's usually late, anyways, so it's not a big deal. Today, though, I learned that PBR is only $2... in a bottle! That's good to know. So, within the first two hours of being awake, I had a really strong cup of coffee, two cigarettes, and a beer. I should start every day off like today (as should Chicago's weather, because it was gorgeous).
Anyhow, a brief note regarding that girl... the one, y'know, on my mind: I have a feeling that I'm in for a long strand of unsuccessful relationships. That's what enjoying beer and cigarettes and being in my 20s and having no real goal is supposed to be like, right? Right. So, in the midst of realizing that I have no game and that I sound extra desperate when I try to impress women through text-messages, my future was revealed. The string-of-failed-relationships one. Yeah.
I suppose my plan is to not pursue her over-actively so I can avoid looking completely ridiculous.
I guess if this has shown me anything it's that I'm not very good at reading people. Or that I'm overly doubtful of myself.
It'd be nice to have a cute girl who knows a lot of music (both familiar and unfamiliar), and speaks two languages (though I'm not sure why I find this to be a necessity), and who will stay up late with me to listen to the Clash and drink whiskey and smoke cigarettes (but doesn't have her own pack. Once again, why does this matter?). And it's nice being around someone whom I can say anything to and not feel stupid or unnecessarily crass. Maybe this is just a pipe dream, but I'll keep dreaming it in hopes that... I don't know. Well, in hopes of satisfaction, of course.
I now understand the single life in a way that I didn't before, with all the drinking and the cigarettes and the uncertainty and the coping with wandering through a wondering mind.
Let's see... thoughts... I got nothing. Well, the president's supposed to be in Chicago today, and what sounded like Marine One flew over the coffee shop. Supposedly he's still in DC, though, possibly deterred by all the children getting shot in Chicago these days.
Today was beautiful. It still is, but I'm currently cooped up in the coffee shop. Yesterday, Will figured out how to put the top down on the Cabrio and now I can't seem to imagine driving in an enclosed automobile. Huh.
On Mondays, it seems that the earlier I wake up, the later I get to the bowling alley. John's usually late, anyways, so it's not a big deal. Today, though, I learned that PBR is only $2... in a bottle! That's good to know. So, within the first two hours of being awake, I had a really strong cup of coffee, two cigarettes, and a beer. I should start every day off like today (as should Chicago's weather, because it was gorgeous).
Anyhow, a brief note regarding that girl... the one, y'know, on my mind: I have a feeling that I'm in for a long strand of unsuccessful relationships. That's what enjoying beer and cigarettes and being in my 20s and having no real goal is supposed to be like, right? Right. So, in the midst of realizing that I have no game and that I sound extra desperate when I try to impress women through text-messages, my future was revealed. The string-of-failed-relationships one. Yeah.
I suppose my plan is to not pursue her over-actively so I can avoid looking completely ridiculous.
I guess if this has shown me anything it's that I'm not very good at reading people. Or that I'm overly doubtful of myself.
It'd be nice to have a cute girl who knows a lot of music (both familiar and unfamiliar), and speaks two languages (though I'm not sure why I find this to be a necessity), and who will stay up late with me to listen to the Clash and drink whiskey and smoke cigarettes (but doesn't have her own pack. Once again, why does this matter?). And it's nice being around someone whom I can say anything to and not feel stupid or unnecessarily crass. Maybe this is just a pipe dream, but I'll keep dreaming it in hopes that... I don't know. Well, in hopes of satisfaction, of course.
I now understand the single life in a way that I didn't before, with all the drinking and the cigarettes and the uncertainty and the coping with wandering through a wondering mind.
Let's see... thoughts... I got nothing. Well, the president's supposed to be in Chicago today, and what sounded like Marine One flew over the coffee shop. Supposedly he's still in DC, though, possibly deterred by all the children getting shot in Chicago these days.
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