The Dreamer

People live to dream dreams, whether big or small. It’s the sort of obligation that makes us human, and separates us from the beasts. The paradox of it all lies within the question of what defines humanity, an aspect of life which deems a species strong, capable, calculating, yet riddled with holes of weakness and vulnerability. These gaps in our confidence are filled with insecurities, doubts, and plugged closed with those indiscriminate pangs of guilt and the metaphorical corks of ridicule. It is a difficult and complex plight, that of the dreamer. One who seeks hard fought opportunities and seemingly impossible realizations. One who envisions the broad spectrum and the polar differential of reveries and nightmares. One who sees angels and demons so clearly within themselves.




There are accomplices to the dream, criminal in instinct, feeding from the promise of free prosperity and sheer hope; praying to a faux-martyr under the guise of faith. Intangible, invisible, indescribable, and yet somehow completely decipherable, is that whisper in the back of your brain that screams believe when your critics wants you to fail. When the co-conspirators urge you into the darkness with sweet voices and empty promises, meanwhile letting go of your hand one shaky finger at a time. Remaining in the light just close enough to see your shadowy figure in the distance without letting it disappear. Day turns to night turns to day, and the dreamer doesn’t truly sleep; like a vacant movie theater, the film reel still turning, click-click-clicking in the desolate room, images still flashing on the screen. No one to laugh, gasp or cry in the theater seats; creating short stories and building small relationships that no one will see.




No, the dreamer never sleeps, but for those frozen moments flashing in scattered illustrations of what may never be. And so eventually some of us let dreams go; they float away into the wind like grains of sand to collect on someone else’s doorstep like simple debris. But nothing is simple. Straightforward, uncomplicated, plain. These are nothing but the aftermath of the loss, a clean acceptance of what is instead of what can be. People live to dream dreams. But it’s a wonder what to latch onto once those dreams die.

Ruts and Routines...

I am not a creature of habit. For some odd reason I am not consistent in any capacity other than being destructively impulsive. I'm all about restrospect rather than forsight, which is probably why I always find myself in unfortunate situations. This is definitely the root of my increasingly recurring anxiety, which is slowly affecting my sleep patterns. You grow up thinking that your brain shuts down during sleep, sort of like a computer that needs to be rebooted. Your body is nothing but metabolical functions and cell repair, eyelids twittering over the whites of your eyes in an REM cycle.

But no. The day follows you, thoughts trailing into dark corners of your mind, resurfacing only in the unconscious state of dreaming. Tossing and turning, I feel like I spend the whole of 8 hours merely trying to get comfortable. Trying to curl up into the fetal position and find some sort of transient peace. Instead, I wake up aching, breathless and exhausted merely from the effort of attempting sleep. My chest feels tight and weighted like a long-time smoker with congested lungs.

Most mornings, the only way I know I have actually slept are the waking recollections of vivid dreams. Broken memories and fragmented images which seem so tangible and real, but are just obscure enough to be recognized as nothing but my imagination in the night hours. I awaken with headaches, all creaky bones and stiff joints. Cloudy thoughts. That existential feeling of dread, where you question the day's purpose. The purpose of your routine. It stinks of dramatics, reaks of overthinking inevitable things that just are. But we all have our doubts, the prickly notions of ourselves that tug at the back of your brainstem like silent assailants you can't shake.

You can see it in a person's eyes. The one who hasn't slept or who spent the night crying, angry, or worrying about things they can't control. No one is truly immune, it has to happen eventually. Eyes transparent like stainless glass, simply color with nothing behind them but the light of another lifeless day.

I'm not sure when the exact moment occurred that we trapped ourselves in awkwardness instead of bliss. I don't know when we became encased in this vague medium where actions are premeditated and words are left unsaid. I can no longer draw the line between what isn't and what should be.

I suppose that people have different ways of acceptance. Realization is subjective, and it is always relative. You grow to understand differences without neglecting truths in a reality where everything seems so disproportionate. I can't expect other personas to imitate mine.

For a week I'll be happy every day. For a month I will write every single day. For a year I will wake up and go to work every passing day. And then it all stops. It fades to black. That creature of habit sidles up beside me in my dreams, and it all stops as I run screaming. Screaming in my sleep, waking with a strained voice and a need of escape. Find another impulse. Keep running. Keep searching. Keep remaining lost and trying to be found.

Keep trying to break the glass and examine what's inside. Gears grind like the notched wheels of a clock, always turning, ticking, triggering and moving. Clocks do not stop at night. Thoughts do not cease to tock.

She'll understand eventually. She'll get it. I'll fall asleep eventually.

Insomnia, Bad Movies, and Free Lobster...

At 3 o'clock in the morning, a person's base requirements for movies spiral down the drain. You stop being a critic because you are entirely too tired to invest enough energy to change the channel. You watch comedies with siamese twins, period pieces with silly costumes, or a good cop-bad cop, old cop-new cop (red cop-green cop black cop-jew cop) criminal heist gone wrong. If you're truly unlucky and/or temporarily paralyzed, you'll end up with some fairytale-esque teen flick where the ugly duckling becomes the prom queen, the studly quarterback realizes that popularity isn't everything, and we all vomit a little bit in our mouths.

Then 4 o'clock sidles quietly by, and you're plastered to the pillow; glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, and willing to watch anything with pretty colors. As long as it doesn't require too much serious brain activity. Accordingly, this is the dreadful hour that most cable channels air those movies that people went to see in the theater, and upon returning home, told you one of two things, depending on how much they liked you.

"It was pretty good, you should see it," said the person that despises you, secretly wishing you unexpected bankruptcy from paying to see too many horrible movies.

A true friend, however, told you the blatant truth. "Honestly, I'd rather blind myself, cut off my tongue, and go to a strip club on free lobster night, than see that movie again."

While I wouldn't rather maim myself than watch "I Think I Love My Wife" a second time, I'd highly consider a minor flesh wound, or a bad case of diarrhea. There are really only a few reasons (and by this I mean things that are completely absurd) to sit still long enough to make it through this waste of two hours:

*Chris Rock pretending to be an intellectual by wearing glasses, carrying a briefcase, and saying things like "hold my calls."

*The scantily clad and gorgeous Kerry Washington (Nikki Tru...nice name writers, very realistic) settling on a plethora of unacceptable men, i.e. an ex-con, some guy named 'Compassion,' a fat man, and Chris Rock.

*A 2-minute cameo by America's Next Top Model Eva Pigford. (In case you were worried that she had died. Where the hell has she been, anyway?)

*A womanizing and vulgar Steve Buscemi talking about cheating on his wife and having sex with interns (all while donning a reasonably outdated bluetooth headset).

*A Viagra joke that went on, literally and figuratively, for way too long.

All of these points considered, I laughed at Chris Rock getting high and dancing to 'Laffy Taffy.' That was the one and only time I laughed. And while it didn't completely deflect from the ridiculous plot, it did make up for the fact that the term 'nigga ears' was used twice.

By far the climax of this train wreck, was when Richard Cooper (Chris Rock) was reprimanded by his boss for missing an important meeting to do Nikki (Washington) a favor. The boss (Edward Herrmann) tells Cooper that he is on probation and then pauses, clears his throat, creates that air of grandfatherly expertise, and says:

"You know, you can lose a lot of money chasing women. But you will NEVER lose women, chasing money."

At first I thought: how clever, great insight grandpa. And then I slapped myself a few times, blinked, and was offended. Who (in the name of terrible movies everywhere!) said that this was an okay comment?

Damn you, Chris Rock, you can't even make a romantic comedy without being insulting! If it wasn't the notion of two beautiful women fighting over a scrawny nerd in a suit, the glorification of extramarital affairs, promiscuous interns, or comparing life to 'not getting hit by a bus,' then it had to be not so subtly implying that all women are gold diggers. For the love of late-night television, at this point, he is just making bad porn and infomercials look intriguing.

I should start taking sleeping pills.

Geek Confessions.

Mmmm...bed.



For those who do not already know, I have contracted a mild case of insomnia (is there such thing as a mild case? I figure insomnia either is or is not, but I'm just trying to stay positive). Not that I am completely incapable of sleep, it just doesn't occur until I'm basically too exhausted to function. And even then it's for approximately two hours, until the blazing sunrays come streaming through my window and force me back awake.

At any rate, I've been trying to find creative ways to occupy my time, because really there aren't many non-sexual, non-detrimental, non-insane activities to do in the middle of the night, while the rest of the world sleeps. Guitar Hero is always a fantastic idea, but you can only play Aerosmith so many times before you develop carpal tunnel syndrome.

So, while experimenting with my new webcam (don't ask why), I discovered PhotoSuite.

PhotoSuite is awesome. I'm sure it's originally intended for cropping, eliminating red-eye, that sort of thing. You know, normal editing. I, however, have chosen to spend hours doing stupid things like this:

And this...

I know what you're thinking. And yes, if you don't have PhotoSuite already, you should get it now. For no other reason than to send your friends and family ridiculous pictures and/or waste time amusing yourself (again, in a non-sexual way).

On a side note, when I googled insomnia, I got this:

Thank you world wide web. When I typed "insomnia", I most surely meant "interracial cookie."

Alcohol Edumacation: Hi, My Name Is...

I think I just found my vision of the Perfect World...

Oh, right...that's freaking impossible. And anyway, since I've stopped drinking, I'd probably get exiled soon after the vodka-tsunami hit.

Giving up alcohol is always a good thing. Especially when we're talking about health concerns (i.e. my poor, spiteful liver), maintaining control of inhibitions, and preventing inebriated hazards including but not limited to: destitution, imprisonment, unexplained injuries, IHOP, waking up in strange places, slurring, Taco Bell, accidental fires, beverage spills, unintentional violence, bad karaoke, betting on parlor games, stealing street signs, McDonald's, breaking things, losing personal belongings, getting ejected from nightclubs, making ridiculous toasts, getting lost in parking lots, being excessively obnoxious, Burger King, confessing secrets that have no need to be confessed, Denny's, dancing to the music in your head, yelling for no apparent reason, crying over spilt milk, cooking terrible eggs (or other 5am food), hugging strangers, vomiting in public places, falling, overall loss of dignity, and generally making an ass out of oneself.

Not to mention hangovers. And sleeping through morning alarms.

However, after approximately 1:00am on any given night, there is absolutely no reason for a sober person to be awake. None. But I am. Always. Thank you insomnia, thank you so much for shunning the evils of liquor and becoming a part of my life. Because of you I am able to partake in late-night television, be home early on Saturday nights, research useless information on Wikipedia, and aspire to one day have bloodshot eyes and pretty purple bags beneath them. I can't wait, I'm almost peeing with anticipation.

But until then, I will continue to spread my useless knowledge and opinions to the masses.

Dipsomania is a term which describes an uncontrollable craving for alcohol. The term breaks down as "compulsive thirst" but when used, is primarily related to the excessive consumption of alcohol. As a result, a Dipsomaniac (commonly called an alcoholic, but that's such a harsh word) is a person with the constant physical and psychological urge for ethyl alcohol, especially liquor.

By the way, ethyl alcohol, (also ethanol, grain alcohol, or drinking alcohol), is a volatile, flammable, colorless liquid. It is a psychoactive drug consumed since ancient times. After the cavemen discovered fire, they found alcohol (and we wonder why the Flintstones seemed so dumb). Interestingly enough, ethyl alcohol is also found in: thermometers, by-products of petroleum refining, solvents, scents, flavorings, colorings, medicines, fuel for heat and light, and also fuel for internal combustion engines (so that's why whiskey burns my throat). I always knew my stomach was a combustion engine! The good news is that if you're ever broke and out of booze, you can just crack open a thermometer. I'd recommend it on the rocks.

Now that's how to think like a true Dipsomaniac.

Luckily, most Dipsomanics tend to be very amiable, fun, and outgoing social butterflies; they just happen to fall off the wagon every so often, blackout, and make fools of themselves. But I've found that using big words can often get you out of sticky situations. So if you tell your peers that you are a Dipsomaniac, (after scratching their heads in confusion) they won't think you have a problem, they'll just think that you're really smart. They might even think that you're a snob, that's how intelligent you'll sound. You will then be free to sip your martini once more, without the hassle or distraction. Just don't say it when you're actually drunk, because then you'll just sound retarded.

Hey Look!

Bong Spirit Vodka

http://www.bongspirit.com/

(Real) Scorpion Vodka

http://www.thailandunique.com/

Oh the memories...all the Dipso's out there, forget your homies, drink one for me!