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.

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.

It's Monday Morning

And I would kill for a chance to drive.

It's the first day of Autumn. You know which one I'm talking about. The one where the rain doesn't quite fall so much as linger, where the heat of summer is replaced with that first biting chill of winter. It's nothing too cold, but the system shock comes from having been cradled in the dying embers of spring's first warmth for nearly 3 months.

And now it's cold. And wet. And gone.

Washington is suddenly Pennsylvania.

6 hours ago I was dreaming for a way to get
Back where the sun was always wet
Just her and I and our blanket of tears
It's not miles that seperate but years

I've got a five speed bike and a two speed heart
And 2500 miles that break half apart
It's raining cold like you wouldn't believe
And I've still got 3 years until I leave

No back, no front, no way to go
Except straight up, hope that bar is low.

It's 8 am, just puddles of life
And I'm going no where
It's 8 am, just puddles of life
And I'm going no where

Maybe that'll be a song one day. Who the hell cares?

I've gotta get some sleep at some point today, but I think I'd rather hogtie people. I dunno. It's a toss up. Maybe I'll play god too. But that's only if you're free.

Sleep would be nice, but I've still got an afternoon I have to (don't want to) have to do.

Maybe I'll sleep later.

Unreasonable

There is a very limited amount of reasons I should ever be awake this early on a Saturday morning.

1. Because she is too.
2. Because I need to get up early to do something awesome.
3. Because the world is coming to an end due to zombies/robots/ninjas/pirates/zombie robot ninja pirates/some other deadly thing which would make the world a really not so great place to live in as it was before that I would not agree with yet would find totally awesome to try and fight off for the survival of humanity.
4. Bacon.

She's still 2500 miles away,  I don't really see any zombie robot pirate ninjas (trust me, I've looked) and there is no bacon. None.

So why am I up? Must be number two. But waking up this early to sing with 200+ alumni of the 75th Anniversary choir would only be awesome if it wasn't at the dawn of my sleep day and hadn't already consumed and would be consuming an unnecessary portion of my friendship, sanity, and sleep.

Thus, there is no reason to be up this early. Thus I should go back to sleep.

...I wonder if my choir director would buy this line of reasoning?

Maybe, but I'd probably have to give him a free sample first.

And Then It's Monday

A little math.

I don't think 11 hours of my life has ever been more painful. I literally could scream. It'd be painful, and it'd be tearful (much like I am now) and it'd blur and break and then

It'd probably be Monday.

Weekends are supposed to be rest and comfort, not feeling like you just shat out a pointless amount of time that tore away the one time you could actually get ready for the week. Tomorrow's gonna come, and I'm gonna want it to be Friday again.

And it needs to not be like that.

I can't handle things sometimes, and when a day's worth of time cleaves you out and lays you wide for no uncertain amount of time, and you wake up from the retreated stupor of your mental shell, you realize that the one thing you'd been looking forward to, to get you through the psycho scrabble of a week's work and toiling on your own,

is gone.

I need something to punch and cry into. At the same time.

These times are supposed to be good right? That's what we all saw on TV. That's what they told us in all those graduation speeches about coming into your own and reaching the start of a new beginning for yourself.

It's bullshit.

It's the same life you've been living, except now with no one to really catch you when you fall. When you fall it's all you can do to keep your wings even and your fingers digging into the side of whatever you can reach to slow you into the descent of your own black chaotic id of pressure, 

and time, 

and nothing, 

and pointlessness, 

and depression,

and anger,

and those broken screams.

Tomorrow's gonna come, and she still won't be there. I can roll the dice all I want to, but that won't change the chances of me waking up next to her, waking up on a Saturday morning somewhere far away from this with her, and at a time when I'm not trying to fight off a sickness of both health and mind.

Chocolate is pretty good for this sort of stuff. I had a whole bag of M&M's my nice roommate got for me just now. Didn't even ask. I can't even explain how grateful I am.

It helps. But it doesn't fix.

Sure, the chemicals I imbibe will create an influx of endorphins which will rush around to wherever the hell endorphins like to chill and hopefully stop making a new ocean on my keyboard and desk.

I like this desk. The keyboard I'm still iffy about.

One of these days I'll actually sleep. I'll wake up, and I won't have to do anything. And the next day I will have the same nothing to do. And it'll be nice.

But right now, it's all those hours, literally wasted, literally tasting of salt, and I've gotta find a way to calm it down.

And there I am. Calm. That sort of dull deadness you get after you realize you've exhausted all the water your body can produce out your eyes. My desk is that ocean, and I wish it would lead somewhere.

But it doesn't. It's only in my mind that I sail away to find and bring her back to a place where Saturdays are an always.

The broken screams, the calm, that little hope for her, it's all psychological.

It's amazing how perceptions can create such vivid worlds to get lost in.

I've got less than half a day until I've got to start another. Thankfully, it won't be hard. I don't have too many obligations, and unlike the fiasco of a yesterday that is now my tears, it will be productive.

I think I've arrived at a sort of acceptance. Another fallacy: it's never about overcoming something. That means you had to beat it, had to make it feel your pain somehow, show whatever it is who's boss in this whole thing. It's good for a bit, but you can't fight such pains of society and life.

At one point, you've got to terms with the simple fact that as long as you accept the bad, there will be good. And as a long as you accept the good, there will be bad. It's not anything philosophical, it's just reality. And I think I can be there, now.

Just in time for Monday.

Between

Some theme music, if it pleases you.

So I'm sitting here listening to my roommate giggle. He has a beard, is quite tall, and is rather inebriated right now.

I just got done with playing Splinter Cell: Conviction for nearly the whole day. Somewhere in there I ate Chinese food, pretended to be British, and took a break from pretending to be a secret agent by pretending to be a Halo Spartan.

Oh yeah. And there was some flicking and dastardly castle defending at one point too.

The whole time, I've been thinking about how much I miss her, and wish she was here. I pour pixels and plastic dreams into a cavity left by her snuggles. And it helps for a while. But much like my girlish man beard of a roommate behind me, it can only be so distracting before you realize what you're missing out on.

Oh, right. There was the 6 hours I devoted to making up a fantasy world for ten different people in which I elicited their help in said creation. Dungeons and Dragons works much better than pixels, but the poison's not strong enough still.

It's like trying to use marbles to finish a jigsaw puzzle. Sure, it works for a bit, vaguely amusing in that sort of "this will never work but lets keep failing" sort of way. But marbles tend to roll about where flat, perfect, cuddly jigsaw pieces should fit.

And let's not forget the midnight hunger.

Night has a way of becoming a second day for me. But it's not really a new day. It's just all the stuff I didn't get to do in the day, but seems cooler because I'm doing it at night instead. But eventually the stomach ache turns out to not be from hunger pangs, and the lack of attention reveals it's focus to be about a continent's away.

And I'm left at a keyboard. Somewhere between giggling beards and thinking of what I've gotta do tomorrow. Soft hair and tea sipped through licorice straws is my dream in this half state. But unlike other dreams this one's gotta wait.

Because it's a Saturday night. Far enough away from work and school to not care about the consequences of actions, but close enough to Sunday to keep provoking thoughts about what my time should be spent doing. A mind is certainly a terrible thing to waste, but so are these precious midnight hours tailor-made for cuddles that cannot be.

I really need to find a different word. Thesauruses really are a very underused life saving device. Far too many people end up saying the same thing twenty times in a row to describe the thing they just said. If there's one thing pretending to be British has taught me, it's the importance and versatility of a good English tongue. That, and that street corners can be lonely after 6 weeks of waiting.

And then I hear those bearded giggles.