Ache

I could really use a wish right now.

First off, my hair's too long.

A lot of people don't think that that's really much of a problem, but in all honesty my hair tends to bug me. It's one of the few things I'm actually self-conscious about. There are occasions that come along where I wish I could cut it all off.

But for some reason I can't.

I guess it's the dream of just cutting ties and heading out on the road. I honestly love driving. There are few things I find more comforting, freeing or pure. Long drives through the night, with good music blaring and the world just outside, not within. My own little retreat from the world, in the world.

I love highways and city lights. Deep grey thrown up against a peering night sky, clouds fogging up what little light can be exchanged through the city curtains.

I think one of the greatest appeals of driving is that it's purposeful. You may not have a destination in mind, but the sheer activity of movement, of interacting with a machine, or gliding along through the night across the man made landscapes of cement and steel, it feels given. It feels like you may actually have a purpose, even if you don't.

Sometimes I feel like I'm feeling my life from weekend to weekend, month to month, holiday to holiday. Like, what happens in the meantime, that thing that's supposed to one day help me make money and get a job is some sort of sick dream I wish I could wake up from. It's just annoying.

I played video games with friends tonight. And I talked with people, and made plans. And it felt good. And I forgot that 7 am comes a hell of a lot earlier than 7 pm. And I'm not saying I wish I could just give it all up and just hang, but sometimes I wonder.

I mean honestly. What's the point of a job? To make money to support yourself, support a family? What then? What's your family for? Are your kids supposed to go through the same shit just to wind up doing the same thing you did for them so that they could wind up doing the same thing you did for them? It's a self-perpetuating cycle that I can't honestly see a point in. Sure, it's good to provide a living, but what is that living if it doesn't provide an end? What sort of outcome can you get from supporting life?

More life I suppose. Contrived, it means a continuing of human life. You've done your part in keeping mankind going. High five. Now go die so the next generation can be successful.

Is that honestly all it really is?

I don't believe it. I like to think that beating the shit outta your friends in Mortal Kombat vs. DC means something, that it means that the happiness you're experiencing is what you should ultimately try for. But it doesn't help perpetuate life, it doesn't help do anything really, Except maybe get you a few more gamer points.

But is happiness really that worthless? Should we sacrifice that, those moments, so we can study for tests, practice for interviews, work on homework and shuffle papers? It just seems empty. Few things seem to contain substance that are supposed to these days for me.

Maybe I'm burned out, just disillusioned. Missing her. Scared of tomorrow. Whatever. But honestly, it seems like that should mean something more, that car ride in the night, that perfectly executed combo, that laugh from them.

I like to think that does more to relieve the ache than a promotion at a desk job. But perhaps I'm just burned out.

Life Changing Moments Told In Screen Caps

In honor of my roommate telling how to finally use screen captures (you hit function, not control...) I give you a major turning point and decision in my life, told through sloppy visual computer picture aids.

You see, I'm trying to decide my Major. My ultimate choice would be Philosophy. I like thinking, and the classes I've taken in philosophy are really great. The spirit of it and the quest for understanding is really meaningful for me, and I really want to learn more. The one issue with my passion for the subject is I've never been entirely sure what I can do with my life with it. Today it was time to change that, and finally make the decision as to what I would Major in in college.

Sitting on the Gettysburg College site today, I decided to figure out at least where I could go with a Major in Philosophy. I punched in "Major" in the search box, and stumbled upon a feature I had either passed over or not seen on the Gettysburg College site. There on the page telling how you apply for Majors was a little link entitled "What Can I do with this Degree?"

(Click to enlarge the pictures if you really need to see that badly. The line I'm talking about is at the top center in blue.)

Curious, and needing to figure out what direction my academic life should take (and where Philosophy could fit into that), I ventured forth and clicked. It took me to a list.

Being ever more curious, I indulged in seeing what some majors were like. I clicked through Computer Science and Political Science. I decided to see what it said for English Majors as I do like writing.

Wordy and longer than all the others. Did I really expect anything else?

I then proceeded to check out the Theatre Arts description and it's potential uses for my life's course.

Pretty standard, global, and nice. I liked the two descriptions, but still I was not convinced. Maybe a double Major in Theatre Arts and English would be good, but Philosophy...

I was excited, expectant. I know Philosophy isn't terribly exciting for some, or useful in any real sense, but I've never really cared. I love thinking, and I love all the sorts of world issues you encounter in thinking through thinking. It's my type of subject, and it has been important in the shaping of the world. I don't really know what I want to do with my life, so Philosophy has always seemed like it could give me some answers, or at least helped me down the path.

The only problem I've ever encountered with this approach is the one mentioned before: what do modern day Philosophers do? What do Philosophy Majors do after they get the degree? I really had no clue, but I knew that I loved the subject. If I could only understand where I could go with it, it would probably be the perfect choice.

Anticipation building, I clicked on the link to read the description and see where my future with a Philosophy Major could take me.

Double Major in Theatre Arts and English it is then. Thanks for bearing witness to this life changing moment of mine.

Sweater Vest Thursday

It is common knowledge that at least one Thursday of every month requires a sweater vest. Most people think that this Thursday is the third Thursday, but since Sweater Vest Thursday is a fashion holiday, it really occurs more on a whim.

It's a sacred part of Thursdays (whichever one they may be). So sacred, in point of fact, that should you forget your sweater vest on such a Thursday, much like this one, you will be hated by all and shunned until that time as which you can receive one and partake in the holiday.

Thus starts my tale of daring adventure.

It was today, though probably more like yesterday now, or even the day before that. It could, in point of fact, be several days past by now, but also several years. It really depends upon the time in which you are reading about this.

But enough about Al.

It was a Thursday at some point in the past, which may or may not be recent depending upon the observational time of this writing in correlation to when this actually happened. But I can assure you, it was a Thursday. I had previously discoursed with my compatriots the previous night about the merits of sweater vests, and in so doing we came up with a holiday of right jolly fashion: Sweater Vest Thursday, that most sacred of days. We would celebrate it simply by wearing a sweater vest the day after, and enjoy the multitudinous magnificencies of our over clothing.

I discovered that night after, however, that my particular sweater vest had taken leave of reality, chiefly my room.

It still remains at large. But after washing it a few times it should got down to a loose medium.

After about an hour of struggling to obtain it, I threw in the proverbial towel and went to sleep, disappointed in my failure of living up to the expectations of the holiday which I myself had created.

The nest day provided no comfort for my folly. My compatriots, priorly mentioned, were utterly disappointed in my appearance. I realized I must render the situation better, and thus I took it upon myself to make it so.

I set out on my bicycle, with a rough knowledge of a "shortcut" a friend had told me about to get to the local Wal-Mart. After roughly 20 minutes of pedaling in what I thought was the right direction, I realized I was utterly wrong in that assumption that it had been anything close to what may even be considered "right." I preceded to pedal twenty minutes back along the highway, observing several glances from the people I had passed the first time, all befuddled in nature.

I set out the long way, through town center, around that round about, and out along the busiest highways for miles. Surprisingly, this was by far the easiest and most pleasant part of my morning foray. It was mostly downhill and while I did almost get hit by three cars suddenly turning into a diner, I managed to live through the ordeal, none the worse for wear, and arrive at my destination of purchasing that elusive garment, the sweater vest.

I took leave of my bike at a bench, and proceeded inside.

This was the most fortunate part of my day, as there was indeed a 2 for 1 sale on all sweater vests in the store. It was miraculous, a divine inception of sweet sweatered vests, all mine for the taking. I shelled out my monies, and after a interlude in which the cashier figured out how to work the new system, I received my purchase.

It is at this point in our tale where things could have, and should have ended. As you have clearly read, I had at this point in the journey purchased my sweater vest, and thus was in fine form for the day's festivities. But you see, it is rarely that I get to go out to Wal-Mart, and I had been lacking in juice in my living quarters for several days. All there really was to drink where I lived was water and Natty Light, which is to really say that all there really was to drink was water, as I do not drink, and if I did drink, I would not waste my brain cells on something as unrefined and repugnant as Natty Light.

Thus, as I took leave of the store, I saw across the highway that Wal-Mart, with all of its 100% natural apple juices, and crunch bars, and Nerf guns and the like. You see, my Nerf gun (a shotgun which had quite a nice range) had been trashed by my suite mate, and seeing as no replacement had yet been offered from him, this too was a large draw for me to obtain.

And I rarely went out and shopped, so why not indulge a little?

It is again at this point, I should remind you, when things began to go wrong when they really should have ended.

Getting to the Wal-Mart was easy. As was obtaining the Nerf gun (a maverick with a drum barrel for the darts), the 3 jugs of apple juice, and the various candies and of course deodorant.

You can never have enough deodorant.

My petty purchases purchased, I proceeded to pause at the place where the public transit should arrive. 15 minutes I waited for the trolley and whence it came I realized I had a conundrum: I still had my bike with me. The woman driving the trolley had no clue as to how to attach my bike to the front, so with much awkward effort, I wrangled the rapscallion onto the trolley.

The trolleys are rather nice in my town. They are old fashioned, a throwback to 1940's Chicago styling, and very comfortable to be transported in in my opinion. The driver was lovely, and we talked about many things that a passenger and a driver are want to talk of: the weather, my courses and credits (as she called them), where she lived, where I lived, and vague comments about children and bikes.

After a short drive, we arrived at the main hub by the theater, about a 15 minute walk or 5 minute bike ride away from where I live.

It is again at this moment when yet another poor choice was executed.

I decided to get off the bus.

I was a bit impatient after having sat at the hub for ten minutes, and figured with proper balancing of the juices in their respective bags and holding the nerf gun under my arm I could easily make it back to my living quarters. After getting the bike off of the trolley, again with awkward maneuvering, I set up my purchases upon my bike and set off.

Now, the theater is actually quite large. It houses an old train station, with railroad tracks beside it. Very picturesque. It is over these tracks I attempted to go, and it is that choice which finally pushed my up till then very good luck over board.

I crashed. In splendid fashion, sweatered and sweaty, juice flying across the tracks, my telephone being run over and lost into the rocks. I somehow managed to stay atop my bike and only came off once I hit gravel, which did not take kindly to being interrupted in the midst of all its sitting. Thus, it slid and slanted and took me down in a most sweatered and vestly way.

Onlookers will tell you that it was quite a bemusing and somewhat distressing spectacle. But I wouldn't know.

I attempted to gather my belongings and use the bags to balance them on the handle bars. But to no avail. I finally crashed again on a corner near an old frat building. Exhausted and grumpy, scuffed and with a hit upon the head from the last landing, I gave in.

I attempted to get a hold of a friend and ask them if they could come and help me, as my bike and self were not really in proper sense to be going anywhere soon. It was only after 4 phone calls, 2 texts to different people, and finally a phone call to another person that I got a hold of someone who could place her on the line with me.

What is the point of owning a cell phone and having the ability to communicate instantly if when someone tries to do so you do not? Nothing I say. What a society we live in where we have that advantage to abuse. I digress.

Needless to say, she did not want to help me. Angered, I hung up with a final "fine." Agitated, bruised, and with no means I could see of transporting my stuff, I was at a loss. I rather regret these actions and this anger, as it was not at all about the person whom I called, but rather the fact that I been so pathetic and weak.

We often find ourselves express our anger at others when it should itself be expressed at us. This is my sincerest regret that I did not do that.

I was stranded at this point.

It occurred to me several minutes later how wonderful bike locks are. Their coiling nature is very good for holding bikes to things like gates and posts. Thus I set about holding 3 containers of juice and a large box to the bike with it.

It worked almost great.

After seventeen minutes of pushing my bike across campus in a somewhat strange fashion, and after hauling all of my newly gotten nicities through the window of my room, I locked up my bike, went inside, and sat down here to write this.

Next time, ride trolley the entire time, buy less things, and above all else, do not forget my sweater vest.

Happy Sweater Vest Thursday everyone.

Chili Chili

Let's talk chili.

You may remember at one point I mentioned that I would make the winning eats recipe from a prior post from a while ago. I decided to make them all and rate them.

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First one: Sweet Chili.

2 cans Hormel chili
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons honey
1 stick of cinnamon

It's a simple dish for the cost conscious college student. All the materials can be gathered from Wal-Mart (much as I despise it, it's the only thing around). You follow the directions for making the chili and add the other ingredients in relatively early in the process while it is still beginning to heat up. Make sure to stir them in. For the cinnamon, just crush it up and put it in. No worries.

To be honest, it's a sexily delicious dish. The juxtaposition of sweet and and very spicy is delicious. If you're craving that sort of home comfort but looking for something sumptuous, this is your dish.

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White-trash ambrosia, or as I like to call it, Cheesy Chili

2 cans Hormel Chili
1 block velveta cheese-like-product (I personally used that cheese in bag you get for tacos with a quarter brick of sharp cheddar that was lying around)

Place together in bowl.
Microwave until melty.
Stir.
PIG THE HELL OUT.

Another relatively "harmless" chili, the mix of dairy and spice has always been a wonderful one in my opinion. With Hormel chili it works especially well. It is indeed a good taste. I recommend putting in enough cheese until your chili takes on either a light brown or a very dark rough orange color. It's not done until then.

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This'll be the first in what I hope will be a more positive take on the college experience from me. I like having a place to vet my frustrations, but I keep forgetting that people actually tend to read this stuff.

Meh, still a revelation for me. So, no worries, I'm not manically depressed and in danger of being suicidal. I'm just in college. There's a difference, but only sometimes. ;D

Ail in F Minor

I don't even wanna hear it.

There's those moments in a day when you wish you could just slam on your headphones and drift up and away into someplace which is far away, like space, but more like the rim of a cloud in substance.

My eyes shutter with the drop of each beat. I try to blur out reality with the sound of heavy metal screaming against my skull.

Honestly, I know I'm supposed to give my best. But what's my best supposed to be if it's not even worth giving? I have serious doubts about this reality, but I'm pretty sure they're mutual. So does that make it okay?

If I could ride my bike off a jump, if I could gain enough momentum, I think I could break the sky and just drift up into that space along the clouds. I woke up this morning and it was cold, which I appreciated, because it meant I could feel my heart beating.

It's a sycophantic sort of relationship I have with myself. I think I'm losing too.

If homework was a bridge and I was a chain I think the clattering wouldn't end. It'd break, and it'd fold up into that deep nothing I wish upwards, and it'd still linger on to cross.

I've got that wrench in my stomach, that deep pit I wish I could retreat into. But let's be serious for a moment. I can't actually suck myself inside an emotional pit churning in my stomach. That might make me human. And that's unrealistic.

I've got that song on repeat. I've got it banging against my eardrums so hard I can feel it in my heartstrings. I feel grounded, but at the same time if I could just get up I think I could fly, even with the weight, even with the painful frustration of passing on another attempted failure at concepts I know but don't care to engage with.

Because let's be serious. I'm just doing it for the money, so that I can go here. That passion died out when it was beaten out of me, measure by measure, until that spark I held as a kid couldn't even stand without help. And who walks when they'd rather fly?

It's a catch 22: I'm only doing it for the money, but for the money I gotta do well. But I don't care about it because I'm just doing it for the money, so I don't do that well. But I have to do well for the money.

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, and pirouette.

I've got that song on repeat till it bleeds. I hope it does, but I'm afraid it might hurt. And that'd mean I'm human. Another little catch there.

It's amazing what letters and numbers do to a perfectly capable and sane person. The symbolism we a lot to such things has an amazing capacity to ruin us completely.

I turn up the volume to blister levels. Maybe if I can't hear I won't be able to read. Better logic has proved to be successful. Maybe this one will too.

I think the main failure of the human race is the decision that we had to assign meaning to bullshit in order for us to have a productive society. What does a computer really mean? I look at it and I see circuitry, metal casing, a mouse, plastic. And yet, contained within that energy is another world of interactions with people I have never met, am not with, and in many cases may never know. It's a fascinating example of one of the many cages we've built ourselves in.

I think I'd be pretty good at hunting. Or at least gathering. Torch the banks and boil the money for stew and roughage. Let's just wipe our asses on the flags and cut down the monuments and testaments to humanity's ability to completely fuck everyone with made up shit.

I could enjoy living a short life trying to float up with stars. And just drift. Do we really need a meaning for what we see in the mirror? Isn't it good enough that we can see, that we have a mirror, that we know that the thing looking back at us is us? At what point in history did we decide that the things we had weren't good enough, that we had to probe, and pick, and investigate, gouge and tear up every possible part of the human experience for investigation. Isn't it enough we have a human to experience for us?

I don't know if any of this made any sense or not, but I sure as heck could use just about anything to get my mind off that F I just got. And sometimes unadulterated literary rage is good for that.

It's also good to just drift away. Unfortunately, I forgot my wings. This is still the next best thing.

Outer World

Are you glad I found you?

We all make choices at points in our life, and at the time, we may not even be aware we're making them. They're shadows of actions, whispers of the shades we leave from our movement and interaction, that, while they occur, we don't really much think about them.

And then you throw on your sleep, and you look at that mirror on your door, and you realize that somewhere down the line of life you stopped being young, and started being hurt. It's not some kid looking back, it's a person of...

Something.

We all make choices, and sometimes we regret them. Sometimes we don't. But most of the time, we're not thinking about making them, we just are. That's the majority of how we live our lives these days, most days, old days: we just are. We're not actively thinking about how we react to any given situation. We do our work, eat our food, it's not like we consciously make these choices. They just are.

And somehow in the phase of these repetitions of half mind we allow those actions we should care about to fall in line. Sometimes, we're shadows, casting more of ourselves about without realizing what the effects are.

And then we make choices, just like we wake up. It's not a conscious thing, change. But that mirror tells you that somehow, it was in some way. That off hand comment, that decision to walk back with someone else, that call you didn't make, that lie you didn't tell, they all are staring back.

And sometimes, you're not sure you want them to.

Where the hell did I go? How did I make those choices?

Who knows.

Nights spent talking, spent walking, spent driving away from those things you didn't choose to do or not do, but didn't know you were or weren't doing at the time. It's like a dark road in a crowded light-less neighborhood. It's all there, the people, shades of life in rest, but you're the only real one alive. And you don't know how they got there, but there they are.

It's like holding smoke at night.

We all make choices at points in our life, and sometimes you look back and wish they'd been different. But how could you have changed something you didn't even know was really happening at the time? You'd have to have been you now, but that's the issue.

You are.

I wish I could lay down on clouds. I think if all that space night nothing could just hold me close for a moment, even a moment, I'd find something that'd make me think I was dreaming.

I've got that pit in my stomach again, and it's not about the blanket or the bed, but the butterflies I haven't had. And that mirror where things I didn't know I did look back and me and lay a little while upon my head.

I think night is an emotion.

Reasons and Reflections

Let's be honest here: I procrastinate. I'm surprised that I've even written this many blogs. Usually I get bored with writing them about the time I realize that nobody actually reads them. But with this, it seems to be different.

You see, for some odd reason, I've actually gotten quite a few people who have told me that they have read my blog. Which is surprising, since I tend to think it's utter crap most of the time. I suppose it maybe my humor, or the fact that I'm not afraid to bash myself with said humor, or that fact that I'm pretty open with my humor and bashing and life and hence it may or may not make for an interesting read.

Or maybe it's just the fact that I tend to write like a schizophrenic monkey on a bad acid trip. Yeah, that's probably it.

Not that I know what an acid trip would be like. I don't do drugs. Or drink. Or believe in god. I tend to shy away from such addictions and replace them with wholesome, life enhancing methods of living. Like video games. And Dungeons and Dragons. And collecting pretzels. And writing crap blogs I think nobody will read and yet I always get overwhelming and surprising responses for and so I continue to do so even thought I highly doubt my ability to accurately portray anything that may be considered "true."

It's a character choice.

Speaking of choices, I'm going to choose to make that dish I promised you guys tomorrow. I've selected the final dish, but I suppose you'll just have to read it to find out what it is.

Cliffhanger. Are you hung?

On the whole reflections thing: being twenty is pretty cool. You can never be called a teenager again, and people give you that sort of knowingly appreciative look when you say your age now, like they understand that you're growing but since you're 20 you've automatically reached a point where you can now be considered to not be a whinny self indulgent parasite.

At least, that's the theory.

I know people say 20 is the lamest age, but that's just because people have to wait to legally drink another year and it teases them. Me? I don't drink (if you didn't get that, you may want to figure out whether you do or not, otherwise, call a doctor). So it's perfectly acceptable (all of these parentheses are throwing off the flow in a way I cannot seem to correct).

In summation, I like being twenty. School is pretty good. And I'm actually learning that people aren't always sacks of lying hating scum that should be not trusted at all costs. It's a pretty good development. I'm looking forward to the next chapter of it.

As for her, I miss her. I feel adrift without her. I know this is all so melodramatic, and you can't wait to read about how much more I miss her. I'm sorry. It's not original and it is cliché, but it's not my fault if it's my life. I plead the fourth wall. I love her, and it's these moments of appreciation that I think is what makes a real relationship. When you find yourself thinking about the other person, not because of something bad, but because you genuinely miss their presence.

Who would have ever thought I had such a heart?

Memo to self: Gladiator and over exposure to British accents may cause verbosity beyond measure. I think I'm better tonight than I was right after watching Gladiator. It was bad.

Hence, my procrastination.