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.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 9, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 5, 2007
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.
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.
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