It's been too fucking long. Shut update.

It's only because I've been teetering on the edge of some sort of self-acceptance. That being a very unfamiliar place, as twenty years of my life were spent blatantly hating myself for reasons beyond even me. And the other two years...well, let's just say I guess I was comfortable with myself from when I was just born until I was two because I don't remember anything. How generous.

Since I last posted anything in what? January? I've felt pretty decent, it would be safe to say. I had my moments. There are some demons' mouths over which you can only keep your hand for so long. And boy, did that demon dig his black, long fingernails in to my neck last night.

It was the second time this situation occurred. I'm kicking with my dudes at a bar, feeling pretty sweet because my dudes are badass. Drinking, of course. I see two bitches whom I've never seen before. We exchange glances a couple of times at the bar, and you don't go out with friends to keep to yourselves. At least not often. These two sit near where my friends and I are sitting, pretty much shouting, "hey, talk to us!" I give them a couple minutes to simmer down, or maybe give myself a minute to grab confidence enough, and I say hello. Something none of my other friends were going to do, or ever do. I mean it's a little audacious, but not really. The girls weren't that good looking at any rate, but the fact that their body language was screaming as it were, I went for it. They were cosmetologists. They were very dumb. They were from Pittsburgh, in town for a wedding, to do the bridal parties' hair and that's all. We all talked--Ted, Koobey, and I--about pretty much nothing. Koobz was taking to the light haired one, very dainty and very married. So much for that institution, because she wanted him pretty badly from what I could see. The other girl: relatively extensive cleavage, dark hair, eyes not memorable enough to know the color, smelled nice. She was the one I was focusing on mostly because I got the most responsiveness from her. Things were going well by way of my feeling sturdy, then I got the notion to get this bitches number (this is because Ted's family has a cottage in New Castle, just beyond Pittsburgh and I thought it'd be a good idea to keep contact with them in the event that Ted and I kick it at that cottage and want company outside of each other) and she said she didn't like giving her number out to strangers. I'm not used to rejection anymore, at least not in this shade because I don't usually go for such a thing because I don't care really. I think I don't care.

Anyway, I was done with that bitch. Me; a stranger. After that, she drank a little bit more and started taking kindly to Ted. I don't really know what else to say about it. I wasn't necessarily hitting on these girls. If they wanted to take anything to some sort of other level, I doubt I would have partaken. It's the principle of the thing; I initiated everything, therefore I should hold the highest respect amongst my dudes and these bitches.

She then appeared like a ghost. This apparition with absolutely no mercy.

My ex-girlfriend, at a bar where I was. She's not even 21 years old. I collected she must have used her older sister's ID. I honestly could have killed the doorman, stripped him of his responsibility and his head, that dead weight burden on his neck. And this all took me back: the strike out I had just endured, and with lovely sprinkles this ex motionlessly grasping me back into the state of mind that would make most shudder. I felt the mental warmth of home. I felt the slap in the face from the phantom hand. That demon I mentioned before was whittling away my any sort of self-sufficiency that I had prior.

I took off, I needed air. I went to another bar alone, stumbling. I put back the most oxymoron-ically titled brew possible for my state of mind at the time. Arrogant Bastard Ale. Bastard, maybe. Arrogant? not in the slightest at this point.

okay, this was good. it felt good. kind of.

There's This Landfill

...Over which I stand and glance and dance and cry and roar and weep and laugh. Every time I'm there I'm there and I can't help it. The torture it is to be the person that I am is quite worse than physical torture (though it is in some ways [solely in the mere being]) can be on the body. I have the inclination that I rule and rock'n'roll and kick more ass than anyone existent or imaginable. How? I can only answer that by stating how much I completely loathe myself in every way, shape, form, make-up, and pattern than anyone has hated anyone or oneself in the history of time and the possible extension of time in the future. The way that these two things are made possible, I don't know. I can't realize if I should love myself for the fact I can simultaneously love and loathe myself; or if I should hate myself for that fact. To me, it seems preposterous, yet it makes perfect sense for it is me.

I'm also concerned for my fellowman; for if I love myself so, but loathe myself uncertainly deeper or less deeply than anyone I hate currently, have hated or will ever hate, including myself, where does that leave him? Where does that leave anyone with whom I consort? I feel as though I am less than those with whom I consort, but it's in my unidentified nature to put those about whom I care forward before myself. Is this ridiculous or is this honorable? It's my mind that can't decide. Am I a fool or shall I carry on? Do I need pride, or is this pride that I've found a mere illusion, an allusion to a certain way of thinking, to which I've reverted? Is my self-hatred a bomb, and this mindset a half-shelter so that I might walk away alive, but with wounds to speak of?

All-in-all, this leaves me in an eternal war. One whose end will only be known when the battles cease; when I die. And in death, I won't know the outcome because there's no knowing after death, only darkness. Therefore, I will not voluntarily bring upon myself my own death. I only suppose it possible that my inner-peace treaty will be signed, but I hope not. Only in my confidence have I felt so able to thrive in public and social situations and it has felt so good to not feel like a troll amongst those who are weaker of mind than I, and it is the state of mind of one that reflects on the outside; how others will view you. And it has been my hatred for what lies inside my skeletal frame and in the mirror that has kept me writing and writing and writing. So both sides I'm thankful I have. Thankful toward the working of my mind.

I'll be schizophrenic, I'll be bi-polar gladly. The character depth I have will only be known to me and anyone who can deal with my ranting, raving, flailing, conceited, convinced, unsure self-detesting. That person will more than likely never be found. I'm one of a kind in a human race. I'm not arguing this as a positive or negative thing, but uniqueness can only be positive if you ask me, or anyone with a functioning brain.

Writing this I hope has inspired an outside source of thought, concern, criticism, respect, and admiration. If you enjoy me more for it, I completely understand. If you now hate me, or hate me evermore so , I understand more than you know.

Rakes & Leaves:

Since my last post, I've turned 22. I awoke way too early for it being my birthday. The day was a gorgeous one; breezy atop warm autumn temperatures. I felt productive somehow and went outside and raked leaves for about ninety minutes. It got me contemplating a metaphor I started contorting in my mind for a while. If one were to attribute raking leaves to one's life it could fall too such symbolism where the fact that you can't get every leaf could represent the fact that you can't win them all. Then I started branching off to different types of rakes with varied effectiveness for different people and their attitudes and accomplishments. This in turn depressed me a bit because I watch others bring in piles and mounds of positive happenings and outlooks (their 'rakes' are full and strong, barely sparing a leaf) while I've not much to show for 22 years (as if I were using the wrong end of the rake in my attempts to bring my life together). I'm not through with the thought. It's still brewing.

My mother has left town to visit my brothers in California, along with her went my one half brother, his wife, and their two daughters. I have had the house to myself all week. I haven't done much to utilize the privacy for Todd and I have been kickin it a lot, and I had Andrew and Kevin over the night before last. It's a little sucky that my mom left me alone here for my birthday and Thanksgiving but I'm not one for making a big deal out of my birthday so I'm not expecting anyone else to do so.

Shan and I were planning to have dinner to celebrate. I showed up and there were a few other people there, which was fine but I wasn't expecting it. She made these stuffed tomatoes filled with baby shrimp and a light sauce. I had three total and followed them with four or five vodka in pomegranate 7ups.

I'm one hell of a wing man. Kevin and I went out and kicked it with his ex-girlfriend and some of her friends who were obsessed with karaoke. We went to one bar we'd never been to, one member of this party sang to some song I've never heard. And on to another bar immediately after that for him to sing "Cry Me a River" by JT. Me and Kevin had some beers and called it a night.

The weekend isn't over, and my mom won't be home until Friday. Looking forward to some spectre of a close-future good time. Hopefully.

Friday night I was obliterated due to inconsideration of my alcohol intake. I drank at a bar then at a party. I did drink in moderation at the party, but that was after three drinks were already in me from the bar. I'm not used to the integration of the two.



Needless to say, I wasn't happy with myself nor my actions. I won't get into particulars, but me and Todd woke up in his car in a random driveway and all my knuckles were either bruised or, in one case, skinned down. My brother did show up to the party, I hadn't seen him in a while and it was pretty sweet.

I treated Shan's under aged ass to some beers at Kent's BW3's because I'm nice. We were meeting up with my brother to watch the Cleveland Browns game. We didn't see him much there though, and now he's back in California.

Today, however, was pretty damn sweet. Todd and I hit up this gorge in Akron, and the path along it. The wooded areas across the ravine were meshed with warm fall hues. The timbers clashed, but at the same time complimented, for not all the leaves were changed from green just yet. We made our way down slippery leaves and loose dirt to the water's edge to walk over jagged rock formations. The air was warm for November 14, it will probably be the last we will see of the sixty-degree range. I'm glad we spent it the way we did for sure. We skipped our work out but all the work from climbing up and down the steep dirt and root staircases was a bit of exercise.

Lately I've been trying to change something that's unconsciously been on my mind damn near forever. I'm trying to avert my thoughts of self-insufficiency in some situations; the thoughts that make me feel as though I solely have work to do to get something, or to keep something, intact. I'm hoping I can't force myself to charismatically demand collective effort from all parties in situations that make me feel as such.

Party on.

Two Real Feet Through a Real Doorway

The week has been dry when it comes to happenin's I guess. Work and working out. Todd and I hit up the Euro Gyro and had a few drinks on I forget what evening. That was pretty cool.

I was also thinking about my milk carton theory of personifying a missing thing and tossing my face on a milk carton (when you read that you might get 'tossing milk on my face'); being found is becoming more and more unappealing to me. I don't know what it is that's making it this way, but I'll report it when I figure the shit out.

I was thinking last night (after I shot ruby red grapefruit juice out of my esophagus and nose simultaneously) how no one really puts their minds and ability for commitment to anything anymore. I'm not sure why I would say, "anymore" as if I knew if anyone ever did. I won't list particulars on what sparked this, nor will I spell out why I set myself apart from these symptoms of half-assedliness.

People seem never seem to have two feet over a threshold of any kind of doorway or door frame at all to me. And if they do, it's either of the following: it's a petty reason inspiring the thought and effort; the 'doorway', so to speak, is in fact important, but the one foot they do have through inside is constantly switching from that one foot to no feet, to two feet, to no feet, et cetera; the commitment they're exercising is just metaphorically their shoe sitting inside the door while their lopsided ass is waddling, doing whatever else outside; or it's just a shoe print or a footprint from them once having that foot inside and they're still staking claim to it.

It befuddles me into obscure analogy-obsessed rants such as this, but I welcome the thoughts. I just know when I have my heart and all behind something. Even if I have to step out for a short while, I'm always back. Two real feet through, what is to me, a real doorway. The same goes for my friends. This all in a way leads me to the fact that I keep it real, and you will know who else does by who's nearby when I'm smiling. My friends all have a commitment they've made for themselves, and even if they stray they always know it. It never stays that way.

In a retrospectic-retroskeptic thought, I guess maybe those who don't keep it as real as we do have got it all figured out. Why concern yourself with anything one perceives meaningful when death is imminent and forever and life is just in no way worth it? Why try to provoke thought when it'd be much easier to loaf in ignorance and bask in euphoric apathy? This portion circles me back to enjoying the process and, usually, the result of hard work and pain. Feeling shitty is my calling card, and I willingly accept that.

Have you seen me?

My costume was sweet for Kent's 'Hover in the Streets of Kent a couple days before Halloween' Halloween event. It's subtle in the way that there were only two parts to it: the mask I made from burlap and twine, and a few strands straw duct-taped just inside the cuffs of my long sleeves. I couldn't see very well through the limited eye holes, but I heard from Todd and Koobey that it freaked some bitches out. When I did see others' reactions I was pleased at the reflection of disturbance that briefly overtook their expressions. We ended up at a party on campus, a few friends of ours, and I was unmistakably the involuntary life of the party somehow. All I did was toss giving any sort of a fuck out the window and dance to some hip-hop. I was surrounded by my two favorite types of people: those whom I've met and that seem to enjoy my presence, and those whom I've not met and aren't talking shit for one reason or another. For the white boy that I am, I got a damn good amount of rhythm in me. I'm basing that judgement off the fact that a few fly honies were into cutting some rug with me. Ego boosts such as this are always welcome.

Sunday night this redneck dude was calling me and Todd fags because we were taking goofy camera phone pictures of each other in our haze of fatigue from the night before's Halloween happenings. It wasn't cool. Homosexuality doesn't offend me, but this bitch was obviously saying it with white supremacist condescension in his tone. Todd is now out for blood on people who fuck with any of us, I'm out for blood if anyone draws blood from any of us.

T. mo and myself have started a semi-regular exercise/workout session. It's not too intense but for me, being the complete opposite of athletic my entire life, just routine muscle toning is difficult enough at such an early stage combined with a late start. I'm pretty sure I'm a born late bloomer. It'd be embarrassing to go through all the things that I felt got around later than most of my peers in my early adolescence, but two I can think of off the top of my dome are the fact that I don't have a car, and this small fitness kick I'm on. Anyway, I'm not trying to beef out or buff up, or boff many roast beef curtains (wait, that's not true), I'm merely trying to sculpt something of a man's body out of my boyish, transparent physique. It's going well, though as little as you, as a reader, might care.

Friday marked Todd's 21st birthday. He wasn't too excited and we didn't get wild at some bars or anything. A collaboration of Todd, Koobey, Me, Jamie, and Kevin grabbed dinner at Luna's. Then to a couple bars just for the sake of it, I guess. It was my idea, I wanted a couple beers and some social setting. It didn't end up sucking at all, it was relatively entertaining in its mild-medium tumble of a night.

Have you ever been shut out from something you absolutely adored? Each time you thought about it made each day without it make it seem like its absence was actually moreso resembled its dead weight presence dragging behind each step of your stride? Can no one else understand or respect the fact you miss it so, along with all that it signifies and symbolizes?
It's a lame reference, but in the movie "The Last Kiss" starring Zach Braff (lameness reduced since he doesn't narrate anything with annoying little mindful thoughts his character almost sounds like he actually hadn't had scripted for him) there's a line of dialogue that I've adopted as my own personal motto almost: "You can't fail if you don't give up." I'm embracing that small proverb because it applies to almost all things. For now I'm personally applying it to my above alluded-to milk carton-type missing concern. It's almost as if my face is on the milk carton and what I'm actually missing is just pouring away without any concern for the most recent picture of me on the right side between the front's label and the back's nutrition facts. Last seen on: a cold day more than a year ago; Last seen with: his wit's end close by.

But I can't give up now if that's my new motto. That milk carton rant was just a short stream of conscience. Just riding something out until the point of death, that conviction appeals to me somehow. Death without achieving your goal isn't failure to me at all really. This wouldn't have to apply to everything, only the things you deem and perceive as important enough. It could only mean one thing or maybe ten things. What I'm getting at is:
Reverting back to the milk carton analogy, a piece of the clothing I was wearing the day I went missing was recently found not far from where I was that day. Investigators are gathering more and more clues from just this article of torn and worn attire that will hopefully bring me back home in one, breathing piece.

The day following my last post, Todd and I set out for Louisville, Kentucky. His dad lives in the area and needed Todd to set up a new computer for him. That task took only a short while, he also had to teach his dad's girlfriend how to use the computer or something. I don't know, I was watching Dr. Phil while he was showing her whatever he was showing her.



Okay, so Tuesday night around ten we arrived at Todd's dad's house. We settled in a little to where we were sleeping. Then we set out for the city of Louisville, a short distance across a bridge over the Ohio River, which is an amazing body of water. Nothing really came up that night except the fact that in Clarksville, Indiana (where the house we stayed at was) had a liquor store open until two in the morning. Indiana sells alcohol until three in the morning. I couldn't pass it up, I just went inside and grabbed a pint of Seagram's 7 and sipped on it a bit.



The drive up and arrival sparked our appetite so we went to Denny's. There, we put on our famous and deadly accurate southern accents to those with whom we came in contact, mostly our waitress. It was cracking us up. Throughout the 36 or so hour trip it became a theme; sarcasm+accent. It was deadly played out after not too long though. Anyway, at the end of our meal, when we were paying, I told the waitress, "That was a fine meal. My compliments to the chef." It was in my accent. It was ridiculous and funny as hell. We retired after that.



Morning came, I slept alright despite the unfamiliar environment. Todd and I cleaned out the gutters around the house for his dad. Todd actually did it, I took a shower. Then we did some push-ups to pump our chests and arms up for the day. It was cold and gloomy so we needed our jackets. We hit up a dam in the Ohio River which was very serene through the gloom of the day. We walked over moist sand, checking out all the exposed tree roots who had the soil around them eroded away from the flooding of the river. The shore also had some really pleasant and jagged rock formations.



We headed to Louisville and ate at a Chipotle-esque establishment. I don't remember the name. It wasn't that good really. After, we headed back. I drank a bit on my 7, Todd had wine. That is all.



Early Thursday was ideal to head back we decided. Along the way home, outside of eating, we stopped at Big Bone Lick Park (yes) and did hella hiking. The park alluded to the observation of wild bison. Signs every hundred yards or so with the word 'bison' on them with an arrow. We came to a fenced pasture with pretty large mounds of what we assumed to be bison shit, but we saw no bison. But some trails branched off this main one, so we took an uphill one which lead to an elevated lake of decent size, Big Bone Lick Lake (yes). More trails followed, one upon which Todd could keep it in any longer and took a dump in the middle of a path, on a rock. It was the hardest I've laughed in a long motherfucking time. I didn't see much of the process but it was so damn funny.



Ohio sprung from the horizon as we were on the highway honking at those next to us, bothering them as they were just trying to get to their destination. It was a way to pass the time. We rolled through Columbus and did the same thing to pedestrians. It's fun to watch unfamiliar heads jolt and unsure hands gesture.

Next post on Halloween weekend and getting ridiculed at Luna's.