Welcome to Now.

Life is not perfect, it's actually the furthest thing from perfection. Life is a convoluted slide show of things that have happened and places that you have been. It's full of disparate experiences and difficult lessons learned; unfinished business and secrets you wish will never be uncovered. It's everything or nothing, depending on how you look at it. Life doesn't have expectations or a definition, just a long series of asterisk's followed with references at the bottom of the page explaining exactly what you mean and what you've been through. What you live is the trials and the tribulations. The arguments and the apologizing. The break ups and the make ups. The I love you's and I hate you's and I'm sorry's and the I mean it this time's. What you live is ups and downs, wrongs and rights. Being alive is believing you have failed several times over, again and again, only to finally realize that all of your mistakes and missteps have given you the opportunity to succeed. People always say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but that isn't necessarily true. What kills you are the chances that you didn't take and the decisions that you didn't make because you were too afraid of that oblivion of the unknown. What kills you is having reservations about becoming something different because you have become too comfortable with settling for what is, no longer aspiring for what could be. It will be slow and sweet, and a diluted perception will make it seem tragically appropriate. But it isn't. Life is about being stronger before something kills you, before anything makes you feel dead inside. What should make you stronger is the irreproachable ability to change when you aren't exactly sure what to believe in, but are positive that the one thing that you can believe in is you. It makes you stronger to be able to laugh, to cry, to feel vulnerable, to feel special, to feel hardship, to just feel.

We are all here to just feel. Whether it's something, everything, or trying to momentarily feel nothing at all. The greatest mistake in life would be not to allow yourself to be hurt, confused, anxious, or angry, because as a result you would never be able to understand love, dedication, peace, or happiness. My goal is to leave a mark somewhere on this earth, even if it's just an affectionate smirk on someone's face when they remember me or reminisce on a precious time that we had. That's all we can really ask for, posterity taking a longing glance at a photograph or a piece of writing and feeling somehow inspired, nostalgic, or having that bittersweet pang of wishing that you were still around to enjoy the frozen moments. We are merely transient beings in this world, desperately attempting to become eternal, hopelessly chasing immortality. And there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with dreaming beyond our means or dreaming bigger than what other people believe that we are. The reality of dreaming little equates to the actuality of being infinitely smaller than the possibilities that exist. People say that you shouldn't validate yourself through others, but ironically there are many times that others can teach you how to see the validity of yourself. The results of that are immeasurable. Life isn't perfect, but live it. Just live it.

Reflecting...

Everyone has their own perception of mortality, no matter the degree of idealism or optimism they possess. Since the beginning of time, self-proclaimed philosophers have forced out theories and hypotheses; all those books they make you read in AP English or Introduction to Life Studies about why we’re here. About fate, about destiny, about any convoluted reason that we exist. Somewhere amidst the four centuries of the Renaissance we evolved into romantics, engulfed with the idea that humans live for love. From generation to generation since, we have inherited the incredibly impractical conception that our purpose in life is to find true love. “True” love: a coined term invented for the sake of classifying one love from another; as if one love should be more important than another. But reality nearly always contradicts what we distinguish as truth, as true, as love. Like God, love is a faith, a hope, something that we have been programmed to believe in as a justification for our existence, when in fact, there is no reason. No more reason than for a stray cat, a spider, a sewer rat, a tadpole, a goldfish. And there is no problem with that; no cause for a reconnaissance mission to discover some sort of rationale. Philosophers, they talk in circles, and the greatest aspect of their profession, unlike that of an accountant or a chemist, is that no one can prove them wrong. You cannot incorrectly answer a question that has none at all. Love, well, it isn’t forever, no matter what it seems; and we spend entirely too much time dwelling on the idea that it is. Fixated on the thought that it is singular and discriminate, when love is everywhere. We need it. We want it. We feel it. Sometimes we fear it. And other times we embrace it. But we don’t live for it. Mortality is nothing more than a timeline, and on a long enough timeline, everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. Don’t live today thinking there is only one person to take you through tomorrow. But even if you find someone that you think can, remember there will always be a next day. A next love. Another love. Like us, even the best of things don’t last forever.

Marrying my Dog...

It’s the acceptance of affection that keeps our blood flowing; allows us to entertain the miniscule points in a conversation where an eyebrow lifts or an eyelash bats. People will continue to argue our purpose upon this world; whether it is love, laughter, or hope, when it is really only understanding. Daily, we are fighting so hard for a concept which is so simple; maintaining these frozen moments of true intimacy captured in oversized gulps of air. We teach each other to express love in the overwhelming black void of fate, and the unknown; the place of retirement where no one can speak. And yet, we are silent. I love you. I love you not. I am completely wasting your time.

Somehow cowardice begins to overtake courage and redefine opportunity as an occasion that can be recaptured, when it cannot. Human nature has become a vain attempt to establish emotional prowess when the actuality still remains a wounded vulnerability. The heart feeds upon a connection between neurons, all biology and scientific hypotheses that we transform into valid emotions with indescribable consequences. We want love. We want butterflies and elevated heartbeats. You seek the ideal romance in the same manner you search for the ideal pocketbook. The blouse. That which makes you complete.

And yet, the banners and the brand names; and the impossible gains. No, they don’t fill the gaps or eccentricities. We lose faith in the firing of neurons, and become attached for the simple reason that they’re there. You can’t dawdle in a daydream, and you can’t dance around a nightmare. But the person who sees what you want isn’t yet there.

Role Playing

There are times you wish to pluck yourself out of your own life, similar to grabbing the remote control and changing the channel when a sitcom is too boring, confusing, out of control, or when the made-for-TV movie becomes utterly terrifying. Maybe the picture is scrambled or you can see nothing but static.



And so you vie with yourself for the ideal vantage point; simply observing from the outside-in, withdrawn at a safe distance. You desperately need to see yourself as a character instead of the ill-fated antagonist of your own life. It’s an enticing notion to be a star, a villain, or a hero, when there are no strings attached. Thirty minutes. Sixty minutes. One hundred twenty minutes. The credits roll and you change costumes, transform personas; attain a new back story and a fresh handful of tragic flaws.



Unfortunately, no, in reality this is impossible. Instead, you’re left sunk into the couch cushions, curled up into a trembling little ball and trying to watch the frightening parts through your fingers; or fighting back tears during those sad scenes so that no one will be the wiser. Absolutely helpless in watching your own desolation and the heartbreaking scenes where people usually empathize, sniffle, and hold each other. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Everything is fine.

You have to develop this willing suspension of disbelief to make it through the occasions when all elements are appearing to fall into pieces. Sharp and serrated, all points, corners and edges. You get kicked enough when you’re down and you either have to end the show or create a turning point in the plotline. Everyone loves the underdog and they worship the martyr. Sometimes it’s important to remember that the underdog may get beat and broken, but the martyr always dies.

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.

Reminiscing on a Past Self...

I've officially become a neglectful and sporadic blogger, but hey, life happens. At any rate, I was randomly looking for a notebook the other day because I'm studying to be a bartender and needed something to write on. I have this massive collection of notebooks just because I have a mild OCD about writing on clean, crisp paper. This meaning that if I ever spill something on one notebook, or it gets wrinkled, ripped, etc, I have to get a new one. Don't judge me! So anyway, I came across this pile of old ones from around 2005-2006, back when I just graduated from college, before I fully became the cynical bundle of sarcasm that I am now. This was back when I called myself a poet and wanted to perform spoken word. I used to write down and date my thoughts all the time, even if I took up an entire page with just one sentence or phrase, like "I'm trapped in my own life," or "Carpe Omnious." Some of the writing was great, and other parts I couldn't even recognize as coming from myself, all full of faux-romanticism and idealism. Which was a blessing and a curse, because it was a great reminder of the fact that no matter what life gives you, you can't lose your passion. Hard years, hard hearts and hard times shouldn't take away the focus from what you set out to do in the first place; from who you are. So anyway, for anyone that cares, this is me, circa May 2006:

"The sun shines in short gasps of air,
And before the stars appeared I left you there
In the shadows,
Below clouds with ambitious desires,
Fires of a mind aflame, with a heart extinguishing love,
I have become the woman who I always believed I was
Before the mirror leaked the truth.
I bleed reality in choppy sentences and unfinished thoughts,
You recognize my face despite the cost
And the soft spoken, often overanalyzed prose
From a heart never broken, and never disturbed
Those, who have lived this, can only attempt to believe
How you tried to recover the un-shattered pieces.
Pick up those jagged shards, when no help is in need,
This misleading parallel of what was and will never again be;
Incognito in spirit and undercover within words
But, you see me,
You feel the hope beneath your ribcage,
Saved by the harvest of tomorrow, when everything is barren today.
This life is flourishing beneath ground,
Left with the question of who found whom in this tangled web of current infatuations,
All of the promising obsessions in the night,
But passionate whispers across phone lines don’t define facts,
Or make anything that’s wrong, right.
It doesn’t indicate romance
Unless you breathe me,
Speak me,
Love me,
Or leave me.
Have me for the person that you thought I was,
Because,
Just because.

Escape from Solitude

We waste so much time trying to feel numb when we don't, trying not to feel vulnerable when that state of mind is so far from the truth; trapped behind these glass walls hoping never to have to attach an emotion to the pin pricks and the hurdles, the pain, disappointment and lost expectations of success. You learn to wipe away tears to pretend that they don't exist, that they were never there, hiding in these false facades of strength, imposing, posing as impenetrable, and refusing to take leaps of faith. We are enveloped in fears of failure, intimacy, change, these transient variables that choke breaths away into shallow gulps of air, drowning in self doubt. There is a solid reason for the term easy, the word simple, and the mere concept of those quick and painless scenarios that no one will ever care to remember once they are over. I let myself be haunted by these frozen moments of imperfection which are so much more substantial and important than any one second when everything seemed roses. Holding onto, latching onto, grabbing onto, clutching onto anything in a quiet desperation to avoid letting go. Addictions develop from a rampant and collective refusal to accept those sparks flying between neurons in uncomfortable or unfamiliar patterns, nothing but physiological side effects and chemical reactions. And the seconds keep ticking away in metronome beats, oblivious, completely disrespecting the gross misconception that time will somehow proceed with caution while we stew in denial of our own reality. Somewhere along the line initiative became cloudy and misunderstood, disguising itself as haste or impulse, running off into the darkness with instinct when thrown into the face of opportunity. And so we lurk in the shadows or strive to never leave the sunshine, all the while remaining pale or overexposed, ignoring those gray spaces in between. Nightmares are still just dreams, just an imagination wandering the empty sidewalks of sleep, animating the unconscious; fleeting narratives so similar to the unfavorable thoughts and emotions whose acquaintance we try so hard not to make. I’m finished swirling in this pool of vanity and pride, exhaustingly treading water in the effort to stay afloat just long enough to escape being hurt. A body covered in scars tells a thousand tales; metaphorically as does a heart, a mind, a soul. It’s as if we are in actuality lost in the matrix, blinded by the pretty colors of self-deprecation, fabrication, and those little white lies we whisper in our minds. I’m finished fooling myself.

Oh, here it is...

There’s always that one day when you really know it’s summer in the city. You finally break down and have to turn on that window A/C unit. Everyone outside is wearing shorts and flip flops, jogging in the middle of the day. Park benches are full of readers and amateurs with digital cameras, dogs off the leash. Beat cops trying to catch drug trades and college kids sipping 22-ounce tall boys in brown paper bags. You walk into a deli for some iced coffee and ‘Little Red Corvette’ is playing on the radio. I can’t hear that song and not instantly be happy to be alive. It’s impossible. Summer makes me feel like a little kid, all snow cones, pool days, and waking up at 6am for no reason at all. Realistically speaking, however, it’s more like margaritas, bar-hopping, and getting home at 6am for no reason at all, but I digress. No matter what age you reach, your career path, your plans, the summer just has that feel of infinite possibilities. More so than ringing in the New Year or celebrating another birthday. You hear all the Hallmark descriptions about the sun shining and the flowers blooming, and you have your summer blockbuster movies, your outdoor concerts, your trips to Coney Island. Summer is all of those things, and none of them at all. It’s intangible. And it’s so necessary right now. Come fall, we’ll see this whole thing turn around.

Where is Spring?

The human condition is more of a process than a state of mind. It is developing a repertoire of addictions and fatal flaws, all of which make a person less than perfect in the eyes of idealism. We are all unwittingly fighting to be the much adored and all too eagerly martyred protagonists of our transient lives, stars of the epic novel no one will ever read. The tall tale never printed, but passed from mouth to ear and mouth to ear until our considerably mediocre lives are forgotten in a last whisper, disappearing into the thin air like hot breath. You can strive to be a hero or a villain, but for the majority of the time, you can only just be. Be confused or uncertain. Be conflicted. Be angry. Be proud. Be something or anything. Be nothing.
But you can’t ever really be whole. You shouldn’t want to be. You aren’t a piece of fruit, a pizza, or an apple pie. You are not an inanimate object that at one point is whole before it is devoured. People chase this dream of completion that simply does not exist; not in another person, a career, or a desirable amount of zero’s at the end of a paycheck. Strive. Strive. Strive. We are always striving for something instead of realizing the simplicity of it all; piecing together the enigma of ourselves as we want to be remembered. Chances are, however, that no one will be writing your name in a history book. And chances are, even if someone does, on a long enough timeline, no one will care.
I no longer want to waste time figuring things out. I don’t want to be puzzle, some novelty meant as a diversion to pass the days. A jigsaw puzzle is manufactured in hundreds of jagged little pieces. Tongues and grooves, patterns of color, all packed into a cardboard box rattling full of chaos. That is, until the puzzle is complete. You see a landscape of snow covered mountain peaks or a herd of wild horses trampling through a meadow. You see a picture that is finished. You see a frozen moment that is over and done. Sometimes you meet people that seal these puzzles in a frame for display, some sort of unorthodox makeshift diploma as proof that they have too much time on their hands. But most people, they break that puzzle apart, shove the pieces back into the box and slide it under a bed, on the shelf of a storage closet or in the dusty corner of a basement.
Nothing is complete forever, nothing is whole for eternity.
You hear stories about hunters and fisherman who pursue the quintessential catch, the ultimate game. And once they catch it, all camouflage, determination and gratification, they set it free. Because after that, there is nothing left. The future narrows down to a pinpoint. You solve the ultimate riddle and suddenly, there is nothing else. Strive. Strive. Strive. You have nothing left to strive for.
To be complete. To be whole. You are then either consumed, broken down, or inertly sealed away. It isn’t a process; it is a fleeting circumstance, not to be maintained. I don’t need to be complete, I just need to be. That’s the human condition. That’s life.

Back...

Whirlwind. It's a metaphorical tornado; all speed, force, and destruction. It's an inherently violent action, but when someone tells you they had a 'whirlwind vacation,' for some reason it seems positive. Like they had a great time. The thing about a tornado, however, is that it's indiscriminate, enveloping all in it's path, leaving nothing in it's wake. Accordingly, anytime you make such a decision, you don't necessarily have the option of picking and choosing what comes your way. I've realized that you can always change the scenery, but never the situation. Every day is some form of organized chaos, full of infinite variables, and at some point it's important to accept that for the majority, we have little control over our lives on a day to day basis. The recent recession has taught us just that. The irony is that in losing control, we seek to further abandon the idea of control. Which is why somehow, in a devastating economy, liquor sales are stabilized, maybe even improving. Liquor stores are open earlier than most restaurants, and if you walk into a bar at noon, it's probably full, the unemployed and underemployed draining their paychecks on temporary escapes by the glass. It all happens so fast, the greatest nation in the world suddenly crumbling, subtilely falling apart. I didn't choose the best time to make a move, an impulsive change, a whirlwind decision, but there is really never a good time. Nothing is ideal. There is no such thing as perfect timing, just coincidence. Luck. The bad always comes with the good, but hopefully, like a tornado, eventually the winds will die, and the storm will pass.

The little things...

There's something about Sunday. I wake up feeling like doing absolutely nothing but eating pancakes and watching movies, mostly to calm the anxiety of starting another new week the next day. So I woke up today, put on a pair of sweat pants and an old basketball jersey.

I made my cozy little comfort breakfast and proceeded to watch 'The Number 23.'




The movie is pretty nonsensical, far-fetched, and almost unwatchable after the first 15 minutes. Basically, the main character becomes obsessed with the number 23, and goes crazy turning his entire life and the world into a big math problem where everything equals 23. EVERYTHING is 23.

I've probably stretched this little story on for too long, but the point is that, being that I was pretty bored, I went to the bathroom in the middle of the movie without fear of missing anything remotely important or entertaining.




So I'm standing at the bathroom mirror washing my hands, and of course I happen to look at my reflection. Who doesn't? I'm still wearing my college basketball jersey that I had put on earlier in the morning.

What number is on the jersey?

23.

Spoooooooky, right?

Nope, instead of being creeped out I laughed hysterically to myself for 15 minutes, which is actually just about as much time as anyone should spend watching this ridiculously lame movie. But I thought the coincidence was funny.

Also, for those that don't know, Rhona Mitra (a badass better known as the original Lara Croft, Tomb raider) is one of my favorite actresses, and really, the only reason I continued watching Jim Carrey narrate his life in the slowest, most painfully monotone voice possible, was because I heard that she was in the movie. But beware, America, she is only onscreen for 5 minutes. Literally 5 minutes, and you have to watch 75 minutes of garbage just to get to it.





Please don't waste your time.

They really aren't Cheaper By The Dozen...

For the record, Nadya Suleman is a baby-hoarding psycopath. After hearing about this ridiculous single mother with 14 children, including newborn octuplets, I really have to question the sanity of America.




What angers me the most is the fact that in the greater scheme of things, she's broke. As a fellow poor person in these great United States, I'm pretty sure the last brilliant idea I could come up with would be to have 8 babies. I don't even want one baby, and right now I'm collecting spare change just to keep my chihuahua in Kibbles 'N Bits. Surrogacy, maybe. Selling my eggs, sure. But risking my wallet and my vagina for a litter of screaming poop machines is just not my cup of tea.

So now here comes this nutjob with an infant addiction and all I can think is that my income taxes are going straight to her welfare check. I'm not working 40 hours a weeek to buy government cheese for a family of 15 whose mother had 6 fertilized eggs in vitro, a.k.a on purpose. I would be much better able to stomach this debacle if she'd said she had 14 "accidents," (or "surprises" for the the faint of heart). I would even feel much more at ease if she'd said she got drunk one night, took too much heroin, not enough birth control, and had sex with 8 guys at a party. At least then I'd get a good episode of Maury Povich out of it.

You ARE the father.
You are NOT the father!



But no. This lunatic actually admits with a straight face to paying a similarly ludicrous doctor to put 6 buns in her huge, greedy oven (2 of those buns becoming twins, or biscuits?). And twice! I'm sorry lady, but unless you're Angelina Jolie, you shouldn't have 14 children. In fact, please, give her a few.

We outlaw gay marriage, create a system that takes years just for some people to adopt children, and then we let this looney tune run around grabbing up eggs and popping out babies like we're some sort of endangered species in desperate need of breeding.

We're not.
This place is crowded enough as it is.

And please stop doing interviews, this woman needs to go straight to a mental institution (which, coincidentally is where she once worked), and not appearing on the Today Show. If Pampers, or Huggies, or Gerber, or any of those breeding goods corporations start giving her endorsements and free products, I'm running straight to the animal shelter, adopting and then mating 27 cats. I'm not quite sure what point I would be proving, but the idea seems just as rational. And much cheaper. And without the tearing. Or stretching.




I'm just hoping some good can come out of this horrific incident. Perhaps it will cause a boost in the economy by creating jobs, because let's face it, she'll have to hire an entire cheerleading team of babysitters, at least half a dozen wet nurses, and a handful of nannies. When they come of age, she should seriously consider opening a sweatshop. We all know those little hands are great at cross-stitching.

If I wasn't allergic to crying, sick desperation, dirty diapers, and the smell of baby food, I might submit an application. But until then, Ms. Suleman, you and your clan are on my virtual hitlist (meaning I loathe you from afar and you should constantly feel my eyes of judgement).

Somewhere in Between...

The term limbo has several similar meanings (none of which involve a horizontal pole, embarrassment, and back-breaking flexibility). Religious people adopt the notion that limbo is some gray region on the border of Heaven and Hell, like the stuffy waiting room of afterlife. More commonly, it's simply a place or state of oblivion, a home for things that are cast aside, forgotten, or unresolved. Placed on life's transitional little backburner.

More scientifically, the word is derived from limbus, usually associated with the distinctive border between the cornea and the sclera of the eye. It's always interesting how a definition so vague can walk hand-in-hand with one so completely literal and exact.



Limbo. There's something poetic about constantly hovering on a border, a state of sheer indecision. We face it every day as we open our eyes, daylight shining onto that microscopic border just ahead of those delicate optic nerves. You can always make a decision to quit, stop trying. Or you get up and face another day.

Limbo can also be described as a place of imprisonment or confinement. Those times you feel damned if you do, damned if you don't. But you still have to choose. Limbo is never a place that can you stay, it's never really a home.

Melancholy much?

Some people say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes you are led to believe that a long time away from the place that you call home will make you appreciate the small things, the mediocrity. No. Most times a little vacation can make you recognize the voids in your life. We all have our empty spaces and our dark corners where nothing can really hide. We mask and we run, turning out lights and extinguishing candles. Fleeing back to the light of familiarity which is nothing but exactly that: what we know. It’s all about those well-placed reminders, the pint-sized intangibles like the smell of a worn out blanket or a favorite song.

You take these precautions in life to make sure that things will never bend beyond your control. I’ll have a job, and a roof over my head, and reliable transportation, and a meal in my stomach, and clothes on my back, and someone to call at night, and I’ll have some sort of purpose in this ridiculous mess that has become my existence. I’ll have good credit, and an impressive resume, and I’ll have self-confidence because nothing can ever, ever go wrong. People will like me and I will be fine.

But it’s all a mirror image. We become these characters, play these parts, build these facades and perpetuate the charades. It’s a sort of sonar. Waves bouncing back and forth to create a picture of who we really are, or who we want to be. People will tell you jokes so that you’ll think they’re funny or buy you flowers so that you’ll think they’re thoughtful. They’ll ask you about your feelings so they can appear caring and simultaneously convince others that they are a plethora of self-loathing information. He said, she said.

She’ll cry to you so that you can tell her everything will be okay, and you’ll cry back because it feels good for someone to tell you that it can only get better. Before it gets worse. I’m just beginning to question why it is that we lean on people. Why we support people that cannot reciprocate the basics of humanity. People who kick you when you’re down. People that abandon you when you are all but alone. People that will tell you lies and disguise the truth in pretty gift-wrapped packages.

So you start stacking bricks. You begin with one story, spread a layer of mortar and expand to two. You build these walls and use your self-proclaimed fortress as a reason to be dismissive of any brave soul who knocks at the castle walls. Lose yourself in the notion of being completely independent of vulnerability. So I give up. White flag.

Warm sands, palm trees, and margaritas at one o’clock in the afternoon will only teach you that you aren’t taking your life for granted. Life is taking you for granted. People in your life are mostly taking you for granted. I’m not a gambling person for the sole reason that I don’t have much to gamble. But I’d bet that eliminating negative people is a lot more profitable than eliminating life. And vacations are fantastic.

Dangerously delicious...

Warning: Do not eat the following product on an empty stomach...and especially not for breakfast.



And if you do make the mistake of consuming said product in either of the preformentioned conditions, do not, I repeat do NOT flush the internal fire with water. The burning of your stomach lining will only become worse.

That being said, once the hole in my small intestine heals, I plan to finish the bag.

Dedication (or lack thereof)

I've been seriously neglecting my writing. This is counterproductive for several reasons, but mostly because my thoughts are much easier to digest when they are written rather than screamed at an unsuspecting stranger out of bottled up anger. That being said, the New Year's resolution that I never made in the first place will be replaced by the promise that I will write every day no matter rain, shine, sleet, snow, vodka, exhaustion, tequila, annoyance, general inebriation, or how tempting my Nintendo Wii may seem.

That is all.

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.

Trapped in 1988...

It's a very rude awakening to realize that you have the attention span of a six-year-old. I've come to the conclusion that I need to be constantly entertained and/or amused. I wouldn't go as far as to say that I have attention defecit disorder. I don't need to be medicated. This is all really based on my actions and purchases within the last week or two. Somehow I manage to mingle the idea of responsibility with something completely absurd. Impulsive, even. I have a need for sensory overload, like browsing the internet with the television on, the radio blaring, and trying to have a sane conversation on the phone all at the same time.




I'm all about multi-tasking and the word 'simultaneously.' It always makes your tasks seem extraordinary, no matter how ridiculous they are.

He juggled three watermelons while simultaneously whistling the score to Bonanza.

Wow. Magnificent (I so seldom get to use that word).

And so I find myself with this constant need of a backup plan in case something goes awry, and I somehow begin to experience the burden of pure focus. On one thing. Honestly, I'm not sure I am even capable of such a feat.

Last week, for example.

I went to the drug store to buy tampons and walked out with three Pez dispensers.

I went to the office supply store to buy an organizer and ended up with two Hot Wheels cars.

I took a trip to the grocery store for milk and left with a pocket-sized laser pointer.

I went to fill up my tank at the gas station and strolled out wearing a ski hat. In Florida.

I seriously need an accountant and a personal shopper to keep me under control.

The other day I went back to the drug store and bought a jumbo bag of Pez refills.

Something tells me there is reason I don't want or need to have children. It would be like giving birth to a circle of friends. After a few years we'd be sitting around the sandbox with our cherry kool-aid talking about saturday morning cartoons and play-doh.

It's still a wonder adults put up with me. Maybe I do need to be medicated.

It's generic greeting card time...

Some people are just naturally holiday people. They love the gift-giving, the togetherness, the seasonal decorations. Especially at Christmas, you find these people at their prime. Sending out personalized cards, hanging ludicrous amounts of lights in their bushes, buying cinnamon scented candles and singing carols at all times of the day. They walk around distributing candy canes and bake Christmas tree-shaped cookies with red and green sprinkles.



I am not one of those people.

I'm not a Scrooge by any means, I just find the entire charade surrounding Christmas to be more stressful than joyous. You waste 20 minutes and half a tank of gas circling the mall parking lot trying to find a space. You swim through a sea of maniac shoppers fighting for clock radios and perfume gift sets. You spend entirely too much money on things that the recipients might not even like. Frankly, I'd rather no one bought me anything. Let's make a deal, gift-givers. We all just take the holiday to go shopping for ourselves and call it even.



This year, my mother said she really wanted something-or-other, so she would just buy it and have me reimburse her later. Now, that's genius. That's right up my alley. I know Christmas day is all about the surprised faces and giddy expressions, but seriously, wouldn't you rather just get exactly what you wanted? People always ask you what you want for Christmas anyway, and have you make cute little lists. So is the suspense really necessary? I say save that for birthdays and anniversaries. Personally, I'd rather get a present for no reason, rather than at Christmas. If I ever see something I know someone would like, or if they talk about something enough, I'll just buy it. I don't need this commercialized reason. My aunt has given me a card with money every year since I can remember, and it's always my favorite gift to open. It's definitely the most impersonal gift you can recieve, but nothing beats cold, hard cash.



I'm definitely a self-proclaimed cynic about most things, but I've come to terms with that. I find it quite endearing. Especially when I find myself sitting exhausted on the mall fountain desperately trying to decide whether my sister would like ipod speakers or a set of martini glasses? Would my father like a sweater in red or blue? Does my cousin already have this DVD? These trivial decisions are all overwhelming enough, and only made worse by the fact that I am a desperate procrastinator who does all of her shopping in a 2-hour window on Christmas Eve.

And Christmas music. How do I even begin to describe my hatred for Christmas music. In principle, it's perfectly fine. It's all upbeat melodies and talk of doing bizarre things like roasting chestnuts, jingling bells, and one-horse open sleighs. When was the last time anyone rode on a one-horse open sleigh? At any rate, if you work in any sort of retail or service capacity, you understand that they begin playing Christmas music the day after Thanksgiving. Sometimes the day before Thanksgiving. Imagine listening to nothing but Barry Manilow on repeat for 8 hours a day. Imagine doing this for an entire month. I'm pretty sure by that fourth week you would either hate Barry Manilow, develop a nervous tick to the sound of his voice, or learn to completely tune him out.



That's how I feel about Christmas music.

All of this being said, there are a few things that I do enjoy about the holidays. Although most of them involve food and alcohol, I can also say that I like wrapping presents. I'm definitely an overzealous wrapper. I color-coordinate bows and ribbons, and make those little curls at the ends with the edge of the scissors. I get adorable little to-and-from labels, write the names in pretty fonts. It seems that I'd be more of one of those newspaper-wrapping people that use the comics, or leave gifts under the tree still in their Macy's bags. But no, I'm a sucker for metallic colors and Santa prints.



As happy as I'll be when the holiday season is over, and my life returns to semi-normalcy (my life is absolutely never normal), I have to appreciate the spirit of it all. When else can you drink egg nog, chop down forest trees, and say 'ho' without getting slapped? Just think about that the 73rd time you hear "Silent Night."

Feliz Navidad!

Infatuation taking hold...

Wise people always say that life is about making and managing priorities. By wise people, I'm simply referring to those who feel the overwhelming need to intervene in your life with uninvited advice. No one ever ardently seeks these people out to ask for the key to happiness. Or success. Deep down we all know the right things to do and say in order to get what we want, it just comes down to the will and desire to do so. Prioritizing. Managers and corporate big wigs in silk ties love that term. It means giving your tasks a certain order in which to be completed, according to importance. Which is fine, as long as your punched into the time clock, swiveling around the office in your ergonomic desk chair. Working billable hours. Collecting your wages or pooling your tips.

But when people tell me I need to set priorities in my life, I feel the equivalent of being leashed in the backyard like a German Shepard. You keep running and the chain keeps yanking you back, dictating where you can and cannot go. Or as if I'm wearing one of those shock collars that shoot you with electricity whenever you pass the boundaries. Priorities are completely subjective, and as far as I'm concerned, they have been since the beginning of time.

Some people want to be homemakers. Professors. Professional athletes. Mothers. Lawyers. Lovers. Interior decorators. Some people want to lay on the white sand of a tropical island and sip Mai Tai's until their livers corrode.

It's a lot like those bible pushers that tell you to pray. Tell you that Jesus loves you and hand you pocket-sized pamphlets. Ask you if you have accepted the Lord as your savior. They talk about salvation.

I don't need to be saved.
And yet we all need to be saved.

We need to be saved from all of this white noise, speculation and societal guidelines that tell us that we should buy houses instead of backpacking through Europe. Start familes instead of seeing the world. Wear a pantsuit instead of a pair of jeans. Maybe my aspirations contradict the notion of becoming a millionaire, or becoming famous, or popping out 2.5 children and spiralling down the drain of suburbian mediocrity.

Maybe my priorities are different. Maybe I have it all wrong. But nonetheless, they are mine to choose.

One hundred years from now no one will care if you were the CEO of some long ago renamed company, or if some university named a wing after you. You're just an engraved name on a placard. No one really cares about George Washington. The green-tinted face on the crumpled bill you pull from a pocket. He's a dead president. When the lights go out, it really will not matter if I never smoked a cigarette or had a one-night stand. Took chances. Made transient memories.

I don't need a legacy. My priority is to be happy, to make others happy while I have the opportunity.

When you make another person one of your priorities, your life changes. Certain other aspects come screeching to a halt. I understand the point of view of people with career paths and big dreams. You lose focus. But maybe your priority is love. Friendship. Finding genuine people.

I'll never fault anyone for persuing their dreams or making their own reality, whatever that may be. But I can't be faulted for doing the same.