Wreckful and Graceless

The past week has been less than eventful. Christmas was fun, I saw family and friend, ate food, went out and partied, the whole nine yards.

Yesterday I went snowboarding, lost the goggles that I found last year (that bitch goes full circle doesn't she?) and as Irony would have it, also lost my keys (since I'm supposed to get my license back today)

Life is grand.

This post actually deserves a status update, although Karma has sunk her claws into me yet again, it seems Irony could not hold it's weight- my keys were actually tucked in a forgotten pocket in my pants, 1 of about 10,000, so it's no surprise I missed it. I'd be the first one to admit that I'm awfully forgetful, usually having left my common sense along with whatever else I'm missing, but I've never been fool enough to leave my keys or wallet in an unguarded pocket while bombing mach-10 down a mountain, avoiding skiers in tight jeans (?????) and Sean White clones who'd rather daydream about nailing the big one while sitting in front of it than actually try it,  or the rail-leeches that gather like birds, always clogging the entrance to the terrain park with their indecisiveness. My advice? Go as fast as you can, look where you want to land, and grow some nuts for God's sake. Of course I never have time to actually give my advice while barreling through a group of lurkers, gladly snaking anyone that dares cut me off to my obstacle, but anyone foolish enough to ask me for advice anyhow will usually only receive a two-worded retort- "Go faster."

Life is too short.

Oh yeah and the way I lost my goggles is kinda funny after my spiel about speed.

I was going wayyyyyyy too fast (I didn't know the word's 'too fast' were ever appropriate to put next to one another, except when describing a sexual scenario, or something fun that ended before it started) for the size of the jump I was hitting, but reckless as I am, I said fuck it and went for it anyway. Needless to say I overjumped the landing by quite a lot, sending me into the dreaded cartwheel of death that has no doubt claimed many peoples goggles, hats, gloves, and ski poles (if you swing that way). I made it out unscathed, except my pride of course, and decided next time down I was going to hit it at about 30 mph LESS than I did that time. I didn't even realize my goggles weren't attached to my skull until I got to the bottom, I was still reeling from my brush with death. The funny thing is, I was wearing them, so I must have been cartwheeling hard-they flew off my fucking face!

The debate J and I had over snowboarding versus skiing with the Russians was one of the highlights of the trip for sure, after finishing a bottle of Beam on the lift they were trying to convince me and him that skiing was more "graceful".

Yes, because that's what I want to be referred as, gentleman, "graceful".

Of course a swan reference came up, although I determined that if you attach a set of wings to me, I'd become a bat out of hell, certainly not a swan.

They found this funny, and said that I was just reckless, thats why I didn't want to be graceful.

I laughed but could only agree.

I'll take reckless over graceful any day. 

Let it be known:

Ah fuck it I didn't really know where I was going with that one anyway.

But I seriously am really f-ing bored right now. Bored out of the seemingly endless corridors of my mind, treading familiar ground and avoiding some hallways altogether for fear of rekindling some old flame long buried with doubt and denial the double D's of anyone who can convince themselves or anyone else that they've truly forgotten or moved on.

I'm talking about the elephant in the room.

The one that never forgets?

They say they never do, you know

(you know)

better than anyone else that that's seldom the case, the elephant does forget

(nothing at all)

the elephant forgets your birthday and the elephant forgets your anniversary and the elephant sometimes forgets to call and the elephant forgets that it annoys you to death when he snaps his teeth at you and the elephant forgets that it feels like the first day of my life

You see how easy it is? To just venture down a corridor you wanted to avoid, but felt an alarming compulsion to go down anyway? Something about entering that seedy shop with the polarized windows, checking your back to make sure no one saw you? Not being able to take your eyes off that clip of someone brutally assaulting another human being, even though it's making you sick to your stomach and oh God you might just throw up right here right in front of the television but you're not going to do that you're not going to you're going to toughen up and stop being such a bit

Yeah thats the same feeling.

Sometimes avoidance is not enough, you have to actually brick by brick cement yourself on the outside so you're never ever tempted to let yourself go that way again never ever again, never going to face that particular tune, going to lock that monster back in the closet and board it up good and tight and maybe throw a couple of nails in it just for good measure. Seal it shut and never look back and maybe venture down a hallway with some windows, something to let the light shine through

(and gosh it's been awhile since we've been there hasn't it?)

and guide this ship back to port.

I imagine I'd make a poor mason, I have a real tough time building a sturdy wall. My bricks are really marshmallows in disguise, they don't hold their shape for very long and give in to any sort of adverse coaxing with a minimal amount of resistance. I've been wandering around mental archives for about an hour now, and I've passed many walls I thought I'd built that were nothing but oozing piles of debris and the beady eyes of some unknown

(or well-known, much too well-known)

thing beckoning me forth, daring me to face it.

But I won't, because if I do, I might not make it back out. No, I'm sure I won't. Absolutely sure. There's a song I wrote, or I guess it's sort of a song because a song should have accompanied music and should probably be finished to call it a song but we'll call it a song all that glitters is not gold and so on and so on but it go's something like "no matter how deep down I dig, memories keep resurfacing" and oh how they DO! Buried, blocked in nothing seems to work. I've tried drowning them in alcohol, paralyzing them with medication, burying them in the day to day dirt of busywork, suffocating them with smoke, and now blocking them in with marshmallow bricks. If they won't go away, fine but I don't want to have to look at them. I'm obviously a dirt-under the rug, out of sight out of mind, if you don't mind it don't matter kind of guy. 

It appears I've made it out of my mind somewhat intact now. I'm focusing a little more clearly, and I'm actually feeling somewhat creative. Nothing makes me happier than creating something I know I'm going to end up destroying sometime after. Although the advent of the computer has assured some things will escape my critical wrath and become forever immortalized in an endless sea of 1's and 0's. After all, you don't have to throw something away if you can just put it under the rug.

Yup, I suppose that's as good a place to end it as any.

Farewell, Valued Reader

you know who you are

 

The Cat-Woman Seduction and the Copper Taste of Captivity: Yet Another Dramatic Title for an Odd Series of Dreams

It is raining today. Rainy days are for hibernating with another warm body, kicking back with a good book, or trying to interpret the mysterious morse code of precipitation tapping on the roof overhead.

I will be doing none of the above.

 A plane passed by last night, very low and very loud. I think it was carrying my friend from Colorado but I won't be sure until he becomes conscious, most likely sometime around 1 or 2PM. I'm the only one I know cursed with the early-bird disease, and some company besides a usually blank screen would be nice. Actually, I shouldn't say I'm the only one, danbaerpig just texted me telling me he had a wonderful night with his ex. I guess miracles do happen to some.

I had another series of bizarre dreams last night, in fact so bizarre I cant' even share all, even to a ghost audience. For starters, I woke up bleeding on the sidewalk. Not just bleeding, pouring. I was wearing plaid shorts, Jordan kicks, and an oversized Insane Clown Posse hoody (if there was any speculation as to whether or not my brain hates me, that should settle it there). I'm bleeding from under my fingernails, my eyes, my teeth.... pretty much any place that blood can leak it was. As if the blood isn't enough, there's mud everywhere. Everywhere. I'm waltzing around in these fresh ass Jordan's, and there's fucking puddles of mud balls deep. Man everything sucks. I feel a sudden compulsion. I go into the first house I see and am confronted by a spanish woman. She gives me a set of about a thousand keys, and does not instruct me otherwise. She says I must go pick up her daughter Ana. I take the keys, and without further instruction, swallow them one by one. There is a flicker, and I am on the porch of another house, millions of miles in the sky. I am on my knees, sticking my fingers down my throat and purging the thousands of keys I swallowed. Apparently my digestive system doubles as a key mangler, because the only thing I was vomiting was blood and twisted metal. When I finally purged the last key, a beautiful girl entered, picked one up and seemed to be satisfied. I know the girl, and am excited to see her. She invites me inside, which is stifling hot and infested with cats, for wine and I comply. Her room mates have apparently died, judging from the stench and decomposition quite awhile ago, and this was the reason for the cats excitement. They were having quite a feast. Oddly enough, neither her nor I minded the presence of the half-eaten cadavers, and we drank our wine and chatted like old friends. We made an intimate bond amongst the dead and then I discovered the purpose of the key. She exited through the front door, and locked it. From the outside. She was leaving me to die with her dead room mates and creepy cats. I awoke in a cold sweat, no doubt resulting from the open window, trying to get the taste of copper out of my mouth and the sound of phantom cats meowing from my ears. Apparently I had bitten my lip, and my blood was the copper I was tasting. I must have been fucking gnawing on it, it was running down my face.

Is that weird or is that weird?

Swallowing keys, intimacy, corpses, cats, Jordan's?

Well, I suppose it could've been worse. It could have been swallowing cats, intimacy with corpses or swallowing corpses, intimacy with cats.

Yes, when put that way it could've been much worse.

Six Six Six Pack

Randa, beer me please.

That's the phrase I use to let the beautiful bar-tender at the local watering hole know that my tank needs filled.

And it's damn near empty now.

I wish drinking at 2:22 PM on a gray slush and salt Thursday seemed like a feasible, if not encouraging, idea. 

I think that might be a comma splice but who's checking?

No one, unfortunately. And man that's one bitch of a word to spell. I almost left the red squiggle to haunt the line undisturbed.

Well thats all she wrote.

Or he wrote rather.

I'm going to refill.

Tending to the Bar: A Slab of Wood, and Altar of Hope(less) and Someone to Pass the Time with Nowhere

Bar-tending? Me? Probably not, but it's the only place that seems interested in yours truly at this point. Why did I add such a long, pointless title, when I could have just as easily summed it up with "Bar-tending Interview"? I don't know but I got to go now.

God on Computers

This was certainly blog-worthy. My younger brother recently was cursed with a computer virus. His computer was, in no shortage of terms, fucked. My mother, being the devout Christian she is, suggested praying. Of course, I dismissed this as ridiculous, surely God does perform miracles, but what does He care about a laptop computer(what with hunger, war and other things that I'd assume take precedent). 

Well after two days of us toying uselessly with it, only to have it freeze on the same error screen or refuse to turn off (even with the battery removed...), one woman's brave stand seemed to be the only thing that could sway it otherwise.

The computer works fine now.

Completely out of the blue.

Amen.

Blog or Die

There are so many freaking blogs. So freaking many. Why am I choosing to use freaking instead of the more defining "fucking"? I don't really know. Just feels natural. Until a contraction sprang up. Now that fucking annoys me enough to use the word fucking. But now, where were we? Ah, yes. Blogging. It seems like every cool blog I read hasn't been updated in 2 years, and for every cool one that has been, there were 2 more cool ones that hadn't. If I had any kind of mathematical skills, I'd generate a ratio or something to better exploit that, however the gift of diction, or so I like to think, has been bestowed upon me, not arithmetic. Anyhow, I found navigating around my new community rather difficult, frustrating at best, and found it difficult to subscribe to chosen blogs etc. I mean, I think I was successful in some attempts, but not all? Who knows. I hope anyone who attempts to read mine doesn't have as much trouble as I did. I found many interesting blogs about trannies and hobo strippers. What are the odds that anyone will find my life remotely interesting with competition like that?Oh and is that a proper place to insert a link? Should I link to the respective sites out of courtesy or etiquette? Someone please enlighten me. I spoke to my good friend David, valued for his cynic approach to any and everything, and he assured me that the last two hours I spent attempting to network and find interesting blogs, although only slightly interested in personal gain, has been a complete waste of time. Thank you, David, your words of encouragement inspired this entry.

On Weird Dreams and the (In)Significance Of

Can't sleep. That shouldn't surprise you, it certainly doesn't surprise me. Its 4 AM and immediately I am annoyed that my spell-checker doesn't insert a ' in between the n and the t of contractions. That means every time i type one, I have to manually insert it or look at the hideous red squiggle. It becomes a nuisance. Anyhow, it's no longer 4 AM. The clocks never cease their endless cycle, and my blogging is no exception to it. I arose, began to type, took a bathroom break, and lay back down in hopes of reaching sleep. I apparently did, and 5 hours and 15 minutes later I have returned.

I had a strange dream last night, post attempted blog I think. It involved me being held captive, my unknown captor wielding a large blade. The androgynous being had bound me to a chair in a windowless container, although I can't recall what specifically bound me there; rope, chain,  or fear. In any event, my captor taunted me ruthlessly with the blade, caressing my face like a lover would and only drawing enough blood to remind me it was indeed a knife and not a finger. I'm not sure how long this macabre affair lasted, but it ended when in two effortless swipes, both of my ears were severed. Apparently gravity had no say in dreamland, because they floated in space. Blood poured out into the air instead of down, and my captor and the room slowly dissolved. I was back in my room, it was 9 Am, my sheets were a mess, and my mother was mumbling something about a computer virus. I told you I have whack ass dreams.

Now for interpretation....is it even worth interpreting? Perhaps I'm destined to hear something that I don't want to hear; is it time to face to music? Still yet, maybe the sexless captor is my desire, trapping me and taunting me until I give in and feed it? It probably doesn't mean anything. It's most likely an overactive brain keeping itself busy by pulling random images and thoughts together in a weird mosaic of REM activity. I studied Van Gogh briefly in Art class, and he had his whole 'ear thing' so maybe that was my subconscious trying to imitate one of the greats. Imitation is flattery so they say. And speaking of feeding desire, I am reminded of a poem I read in a counselors office at school. It involved an Indian elder consulting a child on human nature. He said there are two wolves in each of us, a good wolf and an evil wolf. Both are hungry and demand constant attention. And the child asks, which wolf gets bigger? The elder wisely replies "whichever one you feed." I thought that was deviously twisted, and asked myself which wolf do you feed?? The only answer I, or perhaps the wolves, could come up with was "whichever one is hungry."

Disappointed, Outdated and Slightly Jaded

So I just navigated to the writopia blog to see what it was all about. Turns out its only for 'tweens', or in human-terms, people aged 9-19. I'm 22. Now I feel old. 

The First (and maybe last) Blog EvEr

Let me start by saying it's snowing, I don't have a job or my license and my Snapple is roughly the temperature of the urine I was gracious enough to add to the septic stew rushing under our streets in New Holland, PA. So how did I, playing the part of the stereotypical "Graduate-With-An-Associates-In-Table-Waiting-Until-I-Get-A-Useful?-Bachelors" end up blogging to no one in particular? Well for starters, I can't sleep. I don't know if it's the self-inflicted brain damage, (although I can remember not being able to sleep well before 9th grade health class turned me on to the chemical wonders that middle school DARE had only skimmed the surface of), the stress of spending 4 years at a community college only to graduate with a degree I don't know what to do with besides transfer, or the fact that whether or not I find a job, the Man will continue sending me bills for things I didn't know I even had. I joke about taking the Van Wilder approach, but the jokes really on me since I didn't do half of the cool shit he did, including but not limited to screwing Tara Reid. And speaking of stress, I can feel my heart-rate increasing at the thought of how many run-on sentences I may or may not have just created- my browser has a handy built-in spell checker, but would it tell me if I was fragmenting or running-on? Is whoever reads this going to think, "no wonder he can't find a job, he has a degree in english communications and the arts but doesn't know a run-on sentence when he makes one"?  You must forgive me if thats the case. I hate rereading what I write, unless I plan on editing it, and I don't feel this should be edited. It's supposed to be off the top of the head, like the scalp of a raping white intruder on stolen land. Now what was I talking about before? Insomnia? Right. I figured a blog would give me something to do at 3:30 AM when no one in their right mind or with any kind of mentionable obligations is conscious. All my friends are aware that any one of them is subject to a random text at some ungodly hour, but many have countered this with the old 'power the phone OFF' trick. In fact, I annoyed my ex-girlfriend so much with random texts, that we got into an enormous fight, resulting in immediate deletion from Facebook (the ULTIMATE face-smash), and a back and forth insult-a-thon in which I, being quick with my tongue and never wanting to turn down a good fight, clearly was victor. I'd post some of the funny things I said because I know she'll never waste her time reading anything remotely associated with my name,  but just in case some of my awful thoughts came true (knock on wood) I probably shouldn't. Maybe in another blog, because I promise, some of them were golden. I should have probably started blogging then, because it was around 2:30 AM and I was alternating between manic rage and tear-soaked remorse, but instead I wrote a poem. And it wasn't even a lovey-dovey poem before you go lumping me into that category, it was about a recurring nightmare I've had. Thats another problem I have with sleeping. It's not as if sleeping itself isn't difficult enough, my brain never seems to shut off!! I watched Waking Life once, a very intense movie, and I found myself envious of the main character, who seeks to learn how to control his dreams. I cannot control a single thing in any of  my dreams. In fact, I think me dreaming is my brain actually trying to kill me for whatever sick, twisted, brain-reasons it has. They always involve physical harm inflicted on me somehow, or some kind of problem that gets worse and worse- for instance getting left behind somewhere, then realizing that I don't know where I am or who I was with or why they left me there. I truly believe that my brain is under my control when it's awake, but becomes it's own power when I sleep. So my insomnia is actually a defense mechanism implemented by my body trying to survive against itself. Sound plausible? If anyone has any other ideas I'm open to suggestion.  What else is appropriate to include in one's First Blog? So far we've determined that I handle stress poorly, am absolutely plagued by it, and that I can't sleep. We've also learned that I'm a thrill-texter, have weird-ass dreams and that I graduated yesterday with my Associates in Communication and the Arts. In lieu of not giving internet land my whole package yet, (and yes, that is a phallic reference), I'm going to sign off, most likely for about 20 minutes until I'm bored again. Ta-Ta