Cars are Mechanical Clothes

Cars, just like clothes, often times reflect the kind of person we are. Clothes are obvious reflections. If you see some guy wearing Tap Out or something glittery and tight, chances are he is a douchenozzle of the highest caliber. Maybe that's a strong generalization. It certainly violates the whole "Don't judge a book by it's cover" rule. But fuck the rules. (At least for the purposes of this bad post, we'll say fuck the rules)

Cars are just clothes that we drive. They make an impression whether we like it or not. I realized this as I was driving into my class today. Some asshole in a big lifted truck with half the paint missing, cut me off and then proceeded to give me the bird for no reason. From the comfort of my own car I blurted "Oh yeah, nice truck. Now everyone in the trailer park knows that you have the park's smallest penis and that you're the coolest piece of shit there." He might have been a nice guy and was just having a bad day. Or my perception of the cigarette smoking jackass in a wife beater, tattered backwards hat and driving the giant insecure-of-my-phallus-mobile just might have been at least partially correct.

If you see someone driving a Jaguar or an Astin-Martin, you don't need to know too much about that person. You already know that person wears a tuxedo just to take a crap and probably hunts people for sport and jerky. You would probably assume this just by seeing a guy in a tuxedo who doesn't look like he is going to the prom. You would probably assume he drives a nice car......or that someone drives the nice car for him while he drinks champagne and eats imported crumpets in the backseat. It makes sense.

People probably see me driving my RAV4 and just assume I might be some hot-ass soccer mom, only to find I'm a dumpy white male. When I had my VW Vanagon, I'm sure a lot of people assumed I was some sort of stoner or hippie, and possibly a drug dealer (or a combination of the three). But again, they just saw a pale white teenager who looked incapable of trouble or fun. Of course, people don't always fit the descriptions of their cars or their clothes.

But most of the time, it's pretty damn close.

The Right Ingredients for Productivity

Today has all the right ingredients for a productive day. I got plenty of sleep last night. The perfect amount of sleep, in fact. I didn't sleep so much that I was tired and groggy from having slept so much. I didn't undersleep to the point that I'm tired, groggy and pissed off. Just the perfect 9 hours of sleep. Additionally, I've imbibed the perfect amount of caffeine. Not so much that I'm irritated, grouchy, impatient and unfocused. But not so little that I'm waiting for that sweet time caffeine reaches that sweet saturation point in my bloodstream. I'm in a good mood. There is not a single person in the library with me. I'm all by myself. No one to bother me. No annoying sounds coming from other assholes. I have all day to finish my homework.

If you were to make the perfect meal, this would be it. Everything would go right in the kitchen. That's just how today feels. Some of that might be the caffeine talking. Some of it might be my delusional good mood. Who knows.

For now, I just know that today is going to be good and productive.

I promise you, shit will get done today.


(And yes, I'm aware of the irony that I would be getting more shit done if I wasn't writing this blog instead of doing my tasks.)

Intentions

Sometimes we all dabble in self-loathing. Much to our chagrin we all do it. We all feel sorry for ourselves at some point or the other. Some more than others. I haven't quite figured out how or why we feel this way, especially when things aren't particularly bad.

Someone called me "tragically flawed" the other day. I know I'm flawed. We all are. Part of being human is to be flawed and to grapple with it. But to be called flawed to the point of tragedy? That seems a tad bit dramatic. I certainly have my share of flaws. Some awful and some minor and stupid. Being told you're not living up to your potential in so many words, hits home a bit.

After thinking about it, I don't think I'm tragically flawed. At the very least, I know for better or worse that my intentions are good. Most things I do come from a well meaning place even if I'm not in a good place. I keep a cool head in the midst of chaos. Arguments. Work. Stress. I rarely freak out. It's my one of my most bland signature traits. That has to count for something, right? Good people can make bad decisions as long as though bad decisions don't come to define you. It seems that everyone knows someone who falls into this category. Maybe an alcoholic or a drug addict, who is a good person but made a bad decision to be taken by those things. Being a good person isn't so black and white as being the most magnaminous person on earth. We all have our faults and vices. Some of those faults and vices consume us. Sometimes they are just isolated bad mistakes. Deep down, most of us are good people. Or so I tell myself. It would be impossible to make good decisions 100% of the time. Perhaps that's a good thing. Without a little antogonist, we can't grow. But for some people, a big mistake does define them. They fall behind and stay behind. Maybe it's just the luck of the draw on who gets to persevere and who doen't. Maybe some just want to overcome more than others. Maybe some are victims of social circumstance.

I don't have the answers. I only know that we are an inherently flawed species. Individually, some of us are more flawed than others. Globablly, we are a mess with glimpses of beauty and greatness. Imperfection isn't just a characteristic, it's a way life. We can't get rid of it. We can only hope to be less imperfect and strive to do the most good for the most people with the little time we have.

Firmly October

Today is the first day of October and already it looks so........October-y.

It is one of my favorite months, don't get me wrong. But today has a strong feel of late October, not the beginning. There is snow in the high elevations of the mountains, the clouds are dark, the winds are chilled and my spirit is cold. I have already responded to this Octoberness with my usual angry clout.

This morning I found myself quite irritated and inconvenienced that I ACTUALLY had to put on a jacket. A fucking jacket?! Already? It's October 1st! Why in the hell should I need a jacket right now? Normally at this time of year I'm strongly milking wearing a t-shirt and jeans in mildly warm, sunny weather. But today, I have been coerced by the forces of nature to wear an outer layer of clothing to protect me from the chilly elements.

Some of you might be thinking I'm just being dramatic and that 50 degrees is not that bad. Others of you might be wondering how I can possibly like October when this is the nature of the month. To both groups, I gently but firmly extend my middle finger in your direction. I very much disapprove of cold weather in all of it's many satanic forms.

Cold wind? Fuck that.

Below 70 degrees? What is this? Antarctica?

Cold rain falling on a cold day causing additional coldness? I'm looking up plane tickets to Arizona.

Forced to wear a jacket or hoodie? My day is partially if not completely ruined.

7 day weather forecast indicate "more storms ahead"? I'm calling in sick and not leaving my warm apartment until it clears.

Is it now November? Hermit mode, activate!


I'm sure I'm forgetting other groups of people who have differing opinions that directly conflict with mine. Like the groups who advocate pumpkin flavored bullshit, cute clothes, people who claim this is "ideal weather," and people who love Halloween and all tacky decorations relating to Halloween,

There is just not enough middle fingers for me to raise for all of those opinions.Even if I used my middle toes it still wouldn't be enough. So I'm hoping it all goes back to being an unseasonably warm October. High 70's and low 80's would be ideal. I can still wear t-shirts, jeans and on really warm days I can get away with shorts.

That's the world I want to live in.

Future Goal

I don't believe in having more than 1-3 personal long term goals at a time. I think more than that is hard to manage. I think some can do 5 but that would suck the life from you. Long term goals take a while to build upon, obviously. Working on more than 3 at a time, even incrementally seems like a lot to manage in the grand scheme of other things you have to manage in life.

My first two goals are career related and therefore not worth mentioning for the purposes of this post. What I'm really here to talk about is my third personal goal:

One day, I want to be able to just make off-color, vulgar and non-sequitur remarks with complete immunity without the help of advanced neurologic disease.

Why? Well why the hell not? Why wait till we are old or senile to be able to take pleasure in saying whatever we want? I want to be able to look people in the eyes and gauge their reaction as I casually stroll into a room and casually remark that "it smells like buttsex and wet crackers in here." I don't care if it's true. I just want to watch the shock of someones face as they grapple with that self-induced sensory assault. Memories will be pulled to remember what wet crackers smell like and what buttsex might smell like. They will be forced to wonder if I'm pulling that comment from personal experience or if I'm just being a horrible human being. Forever after that, they will associate whatever smell I commented on with those words. Many will object. Acquaintances will be lost. Friends and family will be offended.

I find so many people saying things like "I wish I could just say whatever I wanted like my grandma with Alzheimers" (or completely lucid old grandma who just doesn't give a shit). But why wait till you're that old? Why not start sooner? I wouldn't start now. I'm young enough still that if I say things like "When I close my eyes, I see celebrities from the 80's entirely composed of colorful polygons chasing cats in groundless, dark void" that it would be considered creepy. It would probably buy me a one way ticket to a psychiatric unit. Now if I said something like that in my late 50's or 60's before such diseases start to set in, it's just an eyeball roll or one of those things people just say "Oh that's just Johnny for ya." I'm too old for it to be mistaken for me hitting on people in a creepy way. But not old enough that people are wondering if I have mounds of plaque in my brain.

The trick would be to start this trend in my early 40's. I would say a few off remarks a year. Nothing too crazy. Just 2-6 per year. Then let it just gradually build to the point that it just becomes my baseline in my 50's and 60's. People who know me won't notice the transition. People who don't know me will be utterly disgusted and weirded out. But they won't be able to do anything about it except verbally protest my insane language. Perhaps others will choose to shut me out with body language. Others will just walk away. Their forms of protest will fall on to my deaf ears. I won't care by that time. They can just bite me.

I won't be totally uncivil. I won't walk into a fancy party and ask people if fornicating with rabid badgers in public should be made illegal or made into a civil rights crusade. I'll know when to pull my punches. After all, I'll still be working presumably at that time. I can't risk my career. In the workplace, my comments might be less vulgar. But they would still be off. In public, I might be tempted to ask a gas station attendant if they had ever heard of scalp herpes and if it smells like incest. Just something weird enough to raise eyebrows but harmless enough that I can't get in real trouble.


Just 20 more years and I can start on it.


*sigh*


Just 30 more long years till I can start living in the world I want to live in. A world where I can say whatever I want with impunity.

Dreams and Wishes

Some things in life are just dreams and wishes. I'm not talking about hoping for that million dollars in a contest or to be randomly approached by a strange man who introduces himself as "The Doctor." I'm talking about unrealistic views about yourself for the dreams you wish to accomplish.

As we speak, I'm flanked by two people who apparently aren't open to realizing who they are. To my right, some overweight asshole in his 40's is asking strangers which school has the better basketball team so he can transfer there and play on the team. I try not to be judgmental, but correct me if I'm wrong, but college basketball traditionally lets players on the team if they are in shape and usually young. I don't know too many fat people on college basketball players who are young little alone fat people who are old.

To my left is some girl who is telling everyone in earshot that the reason why her and her friend are not friends anymore is because her friend "loved her too much." And that "this always happens." People just seem to "love her too much," which causes tension in their friendships because she can't understand why everyone loves her so much. Talk about hiding from yourself. I've seen this person a handful of times and have had the unfortunate privilege of listening to her talk on all occasions. Again, I try not to be judgmental but I can safely guess that this is not the problem with her friendships. It is more likely that she is a self-centered piece of crap who wishes people would love her unconditionally and love her so much that it hurts. I'm guessing no one lives up to that ridiculous standard.

It's infuriating to listen to this. Some things are just dreams and wishes. Sometimes you have to look in the mirror and realize that some things are not as possible as you once thought.

Follow the Leader

It's kind of weird going through my A-EMT certification course. It's good information to know and review again. But it reminds me most of how far I've come. I remember taking my EMT-Basic class 8 years ago and being scared shitless. Especially during the part where they forced you to take command of a trauma or code scenarios. I hated those times. I hated being the leader. I feared it. It scared me.

I wasn't confident enough to run it myself. Not without help. How could I possibly do this? How does anyone do this on their own? You can't know everything. This is hard. I remember sweating bullets the entire time doing my scenarios. I often failed them and forgot minor things. People in my groups were always frustrated by my lack of leadership. I stuttered a lot. The people in my group weren't allowed to help. I could see the looks on their faces every time I missed something or said something wrong. A few times, people who were better at this than I was pushed me aside and took control. I admired those people and hated myself for not being more like them. How could they possibly be a leader? Why am I so weak and timid?

Flash forward 8 years later and I find myself in the leader position very comfortably when it comes to my job. In the certification class, I'm frustrated when I'm not in command. The people around me are inexperienced. Some are comfortable with taking control while some were like me. Scared to take control, afraid to screw it up. I never thought I would be one of those people. I never envisioned myself being able to be in control and to lead others in a medical emergency. I must seem like an asshole to the people who are timid just as I thought the people who were the leaders were assholes just because of my inability to be like them.

I've come a long way. I never would have thought I would be good at this job or be a leader at it. It sounds boastful and I don't mean it to be. I've just always been timid. I've never been the type to jump into leadership roles, especially if the stakes were high. Strangely, I can't imagine it any other way. Maybe it's because I'm passionate about medicine that it allows me to be this way. I'm not like this in any other aspect of my life.


I don't think anyone would actually call me a leader. I don't think people would say they would follow me into battle or take orders from me in bigger scenarios. I guess it's just fascinating to think of the people we become in certain aspects of our life. I just never thought leadership would be an aspect I would ever be apart of.

Love at First Sight

The whole concept of "love at first sight" is completely foreign to me. Well, I guess that would be a lie to some degree now that I think about it. I have found myself falling in love with several shallow material objects throughout my life. I have personally fallen in love with cars, drums, guitars, foods, coffee mugs, shirts, this tablet that I'm writing this post on and other such things. I see some of these objects and suddenly I can see myself spending the rest of my life with them. An example would be that I almost bought a gun a couple of months ago based on love at first sight. There I was, a man and a deadly firearm, deadlocked in a gaze. I knew it was wrong. I knew I couldn't afford it. But it felt so right. I had some money saved away. I could have it, right? Sure I could. Times would be tough at first but we would work it out. We'd still go out to the desert when we could to go shooting. I'd keep it clean and make sure it was properly lubed at all times. There would never be a day of regret for me and my shotgun. Our love would be like rain.

Aside from those beautiful love stories, I have never understood love at first sight between two [real] people. I'm not going to say the concept is impossible. Just highly improbable. For the record, I don't claim to be an expert on love in any way. I'm about as loveable as a whiskey soaked baseball glove left out in the sun of an abandoned town. I'm hard and crusty and probably have a family of rats living in me somewhere. Plus I love a very select few people. So needless to say, my expertise based on experience is sorely lacking. But looking at the concept of "love at first sight" from a purely objective and logical standpoint has given me some insight. And that insight tells me that it doesn't make any fucking sense.

Love at first sight is a nice concept from the outside. It completely eliminates the uncertainty of dating, getting to know one another, or if the person is right for you based on similar interest. There is no guessing with this concept. All of that work is done for you. You don't have to worry if they won't like your sense of humor, your parents, or your utterly disgusting habits (and believe me, all of you sloppy assholes have plenty of disgusting habits). All of that uncertainty has been taken care of because you saw that person and just knew all of that was a nonfactor. To cap it off, the person you're falling in love with at first sight is probably pleasing to your eyeballs. Yeah, they are probably really good looking. They are great to look it. It feels good to look at them and be near them because they aren't offending any of your five senses. You'll be hard pressed to find a chick-flick where the love at first sight concept works with an attractive person falling in love with someone who looks utterly disgusting. You might be tempted to bring up the movie Shallow Hal but you'd be incorrect for doing so since Jack Black isn't a heart throb and he was metaphorically falling in love with her personality. Not the same. As superficial as it may seem, looks matter to some degree. In fact, studies show that people who fall in love tend to fall in love with someone who is of about the same level of attractiveness as they are. Which makes sense. Ugly people tend to date ugly people. The slobby homeless guy isn't pulling in supermodel material. Probably not even middle class average material. That homeless guy is going to be with some other toothless homeless chick most likely. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. The point is, if love at first sight were a thing, it probably wouldn't discriminate on looks. You would have an innate ability to detect personality as well. But since that isn't the case, you probably just fell in love with how attractive they were to you.

Now the people who have love at first sight stories are the lower end of probability. Like I said, it's not impossible but improbable. It does happen, just not often and on complete luck. You just happen to fall in love with someone who also believes in the concept who in turn falls in love with you. It's just not likely. It happens. But it's coincidence, not cosmic fate since the universe doesn't give a shit one way or the other if you're together or not. Planets still rotate, stars still explode, and Michael Bay keeps making bad movies. The world and the universe gets along just fine whether or not you're together. It just happens that of all the billions of people, you happened to fall in love with someone who believes in the same concept within your zip code most likely. Don't confuse that statement with "It's fate" or "That makes it more special." It just seems to me that people who believe in that concept are more apt to wanting to believing that because it takes out all the guesswork and potential heartache. If you sift through it long enough, you find someone who believes the same. It's easy to let fate take the wheel because you don't have to do any work if the concept works for you.

Conversely, those same assholes don't get to complain that they can't find anyone nice or anyone they can instantly fall in love with. If they don't want to put in the work to getting to know someone because of fear or laziness and just want to wait for it to be love at first sight, then strap in.

It's going to be a long wait for you.

5th Grade Sarcasm: A Flashback

Growing up I had parents who were ninjas when it came to the use of sarcasm and humor. They always appeared to be funny without error. My dad tended to be more dry and crude with his delivery. My mom was a fan of using word play and cunning observations about people and situations. As my role models for sarcastic humor, I feel like I inherited a pretty even combination of both aspects.

Studies show kids can start detecting sarcasm around 6-8 years old and start understanding and using sarcasm between 10-12 years old. As a child, I was an early bloomer in using sarcasm. I'm not sure if that had more to do with genetics, environment or occasionally falling in with the crowd of the smart ass bad kids. 

A shining of example of my budding understanding of sarcasm was in the 5th grade. It was the end of the school year. My elementary school did pioneer themed activities for the last few weeks where you dressed as old-timey 19th century folk. Other activities involved playing old games that the pioneers would have had, making your own butter, and making your own toys. It was fun for the most part, but there was a lot of unfun labor involved. Now I get they were trying to show what it was like to live like a pioneer back then. But holding the attention of four 5th grade classes combined is impossible. A school gym full of hyper 11 year olds is no place to show kids how to make their own butter over the course of 3 days (Which was just shaking buttermilk and a handful of marbles in a jar for hours.) At one point, we had to make our own toy. The toy of choice was the Jacob's ladder. If you're not familiar with the toy, here is a picture. You're probably familiar with it. 

Basically you fold it up, hold it at one end and the unfolds in kind of a fun way. To accomplish this, they gave us all 12 blocks of wood that were intentionally 2 inches too big. So we had to sand them all down by hand symmetrically. If you're not familiar with the process of sanding something by hand with a strip of sandpaper, I recommend you find out. You'll be bored and frustrated in the first 30 seconds. Now force this process onto an 11 year old and see how long it takes them to complain of boredom. (I'm guessing that number would now be measured in nanoseconds with all the cell phones and tablets and what not rotting attention spans.) As me and a few friends started the project, we very quickly jumped to the conclusion that this was fucking stupid. Sanding? At school? How was manual labor supposed to be fun? I remember very distinctly being surrounded by the bad kids that I admired. I wished I was more like them. I wanted to be their friend and impress them. But I was historically very shy so I rarely said much. But that day I was feeling particularly daring. I had people to impress. I started to loudly remark "Wow, this is a blast! I sure do like sanding wood. I hope there is more sanding to do this week." It caused all the kids around me to laugh and start copying the phrase "this is a blast!" The teachers were less than thrilled with my grasp of sarcasm. They were even less thrilled to see that the concept had started to spread through the kids faster than herpes at a whorehouse. Soon all the kids were sarcastically remarking how much fun they were having. I'm guessing not all of them grasped why it was irritating to the teachers or funny to us. Some were just copying just to copy. 

I was on a roll and wasn't about to stop. I took it a little bit further by remarking how I wished I could sand at home and not just at school. I childishly snickered that I wanted to be a professional sander when I grew up. Kids laughed. I laughed. For about 5 minutes I was funny, seemingly outgoing and popular. But like any good dictatorship knows, if you take out the leader of any revolution it will quell the rebellion. The teachers quickly singled me out as the cause of the sarcastic uprising and took me to another room. I panicked. It was the first time I had ever gotten in trouble like this. My teacher lectured me heavily about being disappointed since I had never gotten in trouble before. I held back the tears and apologized for my insolence. 

My teacher forgave me and allowed me to return to my classmates. As I returned, the other kids looked eager for my return. Perhaps they were hoping I would lead them to a new era of smart ass comments that went beyond the words "booger" and "poop". But alas, I was subdued and defeated. Once my peers figured out that my spirit had been broken to speak out again, we all went back to quietly sanding.

Shitember

September always blows. There are no good sides to September. Sure, you could argue for the mild weather or the Labor Day holiday. But doing so is just lying to yourself.

Admit it. You hate September as much as anything else. Perhaps with prejudice or even a passionate dislike.

We all know that deep down inside September is a marker for change. Whether it's school, weather,or work, something about September is forcing you to change a routine that you have grown accustomed to.

I'm here to tell you right now that Shitember does not care about you. The only thing Shitember cares about is Shitember getting through its 30 days of hateful transition. It even mocks you as you make transitions. It will have fluctuating weather. Some days it will be a wonderful pre-autumn day. Other days it will get ball blisteringly cold just to remind you that the cold weather is coming near. Perhaps rain or snow will be present just so Shitember can laugh at your painfully rusty driving skills.

School is back in session for either yourself or your kids. You can tell yourself this is a good thing. But again, Shitember has other plans. Your semester will be easy at first because it's the beginning. But before you know, you're getting raped by tests and assignments. You might tell yourself that your kids being away is a good thing. But then they come back with all kinds of paperwork to sign and a syllabus detailing what your kids are learning. A reminder that your kids are getting older and more advanced in their thinking. A reminder that you're getting older. This is good right?

Wrong.

You're living a lie.


September blows and you just need to accept it and start looking forward to October. Or if you're like me, you start looking forward to next June.


Ah yes. That next June will be sweet when it comes back around in 9 months.

Just you wait.

Prom: A Flashback

A few days ago at work, a couple of co-workers reminisced about their high school experiences and prom. I've always found it kind of funny how people hold on to high school experiences as if it's the last great thing to happen to them. I've never really understood it. But I have to admit talking about prom did stir up some old memories worth musing about.

I went to the prom my junior year. It was only one of three dances I attended during high school. I made it a strong point to go to as few as possible. I hated dressing up. I hated dancing. I hated the idea of spending money on such things. I hated the idea of overly romanticizing the idea of "high school love." Even back then I had a pretty fine grasp that most high school relationships didn't last. I was under no illusions of those lasting forever (though some people still pull off the high school sweethearts thing in this day and age).

Anyway, suffice it to say I was not overly enthralled with the concept of attending prom. But I did so for two reasons.

1. My parents strongly encouraged my participation despite my personal views on the matter, which I was quite vocal about. They insisted that I would regret not going and would appreciate the memory later. They were mostly wrong on both accounts.

2. I had a girlfriend at the time. My first girlfriend. I was trying to so hard to be good at the whole boyfriend thing so there was very little that I wouldn't do to try to make her happy. Even so, I was terrible at that.


Now that I've mentioned my girlfriend at the time, it's probably important to point out one thing: Her attraction to me was strictly predicated by her rebellious phase at the time. I wasn't her type at all and the stark contrasts between us did not provide for a cute "opposites attract" sort of deal. It was quite lopsided. Here are the contrasts:

• She was a super hot popular girl. I was a pretty ugly face in the crowd. No, this is not a play for compliment fishing. I've always struggled with severe acne. At the time, My face was smothered in thick red zits. I was taking Accutane for it so my face was also super dry, cracked and red all the time. I have pictures for proof............which I will not be posting. 
• She was taller. I was short. Now she wasn't an Amazonian woman. But she had an inch or two on me. Which wasn't hard. I had stopped growing around this time. 
• She was the bishop's daughter. I was fairly agnostic.
• She was social, outgoing and gregarious. I was a quiet, introverted shut-in that was cold to people I didn't know or care for. 
• She was athletic. I had vowed to never ever play sports again.
• Her father wanted her to date a prospective missionary or return missionary. I was not ever going on a mission.
• Her family wanted her to date someone with goals and directions. I was playing drums for a shitty punk rock band with aspirations to do that for a career. 
• She was a straight A student. I was a veteran at failing classes that bored me. 
• Oh did I mention she was hot? Looking the way I did at the time didn't exactly make me a lady killer. It was as though I had been magically teleported to an alternate universe and won the jackpot for attracting women with my gross physical attributes.

You get the idea. It was clearly a rebellious phase sort of thing to piss off her parents. I didn't know that. I was comfortable with idea of thinking I had just gotten lucky. Our personalities clashed frequently. I was methodically boring. She was randomly spontaneous. I felt bad for all the fights and thought the problem was me. To make up for it, I decided to ask her to the prom knowing that is something she wanted. Plus she was finely chased. I wanted to take her so no other asshole would get the chance. 

After singing her a song with my monotonous voice, she was somehow convinced either out of greed or pity to go with me. I had no idea what to do to get ready for the event. Luckily, most of my friends were old hands at this. They seemed to attend every dance ever put up by the school district. I asked for advice on tuxedos and what to wear which was just as simple as I thought it would be. Just get a fucking black and white tuxedo and make sure it fits. Perfect. But I wanted to add my own little zing for some reason. I thought it would funny to complete the ensemble with a top hat, a cane and a monocle. The tux came with a hat for an extra $10. Sold. I got the cane from a second hand store. The monocle took a bit of time but it was well worth the $60 I paid for it. She did not know any of this was coming.

I showed up to her house to pick her up in the full suit. The top hat was put on as straight as possible. The cane casually swung off the top of my forearm. My monocle was safely attached to my left eye. Her parents answered with both a look of shock and disappointment. They tried to laugh it off, but their irritation was apparent. She came down the stairs and looked wonderful. She saw me and went from excited and happy to severely annoyed. She smiled for the cameras but later said that I had to take off the extras for when we met up with her friends for fear of embarrassment. I said I wouldn't wear it the entire time, but had to at least a little since I went through the trouble of getting them. She reluctantly agreed. I was in a good mood that night. I was more outgoing and talkative than usual. I talked to her friends (whom I hated) as if I were the younger version of the Monopoly guy. I would casually make comments about the economy, various properties from the boardgame, the weather and how a stiff bottle of scotch would suit my fancies just fine. 

Nobody found it funny. 

I was trapped with no where to go. The one time I decided to not be the social outcast she knew and tolerated had to be at prom. Interestingly she spent a lot of time before this point trying to change my social awkwardness into being more active and fun. Apparently we had different definitions of being active and fun. As the night went on, she relaxed and didn't care about the top hat as much, but still really hated the monocle. She thought that was "just going way, way too far." The more she whined about it, the more I felt compelled to put it on. This is a $60 dollar monocle. Why in the hell would I not wear it? I can't think of a single other occasion I'll get to wear this. Rationalizing to wear it for prom was hard enough. But after that, I wouldn't get a chance to dress facetiously snotty again. I had to use it.

After a rough beginning of trying not to argue about my tuxedo accessories, we went to dinner. The dinner at some Chinese restaurant was almost a poisonous adventure. Apparently, there was nuts on just about all of their food. This led me to have a sparse dinner of salad and bread with the walnut chunks picked out.  The dance was almost as awkward. I had no idea how to dance and ended up stepping on her huge dress constantly. Nothing really happened afterwards. We watched a movie at my house which we both fell asleep. I took her home at like midnight and we uneventfully parted ways. She never really forgave me for the tuxedo. 

It's too bad. Because it was fucking brilliant comic genius. 

Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder in my sleepy stupor.......

My mind bounces back and forth between the mediocre and the bad.

Questions invade my mind, but I repress the urge to answer them knowing that I won't like the answers.


Am I good person?...........

Am I not worthy or good enough?........


Try as I might, I can't help but fall victim to my insecurities and flaws. I fight back. I fight them hard. But feeling tired lowers my motivation to fight. Rather I feel encouraged to accept facts that I'm not sure are true but I can't prove to be untrue.


Do I have friends or am I merely tolerated?

Does everyone know something that I don't and I'm the odd one out?


I want to believe I'm stronger than this. Every fiber of my being tells me that I am but I can't help but feel defeated against an enemy I cannot see. I want to believe that these feelings are all just because I'm tired and tomorrow everything will go back to normal.


When I'm well rested, am I just better at hiding my inner struggle?

Am I half the terrible person I think I am?


Why do I feel like this? Do I make myself feel like this? Do they make me feel like this? Who or what does this to me? I feel so lost and alone and I can't figure out why. Why now? Why is it at this very moment I feel this way? I didn't want or need to seek company. I just can't help but feel.......misplaced.


That's the word I'm looking for.


Misplaced.


As If I don't belong here. Or anywhere for that matter.




I simply just don't belong.

Pre-Writing

I've always somehow managed to convince myself that I'm unable to write a paper unless I writing something else before. It's a shoddy lie at best. Even I don't believe it. I know I'm just stalling.

Stalling.

That's what I'm doing.

Stalling.

I should be writing a paper that I don't care about, despite the subject being about football. But I can't.

I've also managed to convince myself that if I try to write this paper before I'm ready, all kinds of horrible side effects will ensue. Undesirable side effects.

The bad kind.


Hairy palms. Sweaty palms. Constipation. Diarrhea. Priapism. Impotence. Blindness. Hypersensitivity to light. Nausea. Extreme hunger. Socializing with strangers. Stroke. Heart attack. Rapid unibrow growth. Ass cancer. Sudden allergy to coffee. Frequent urge to urinate. Urinary retention. Irritability. Friendliness.

Well I can't have any of that. I have a paper to write. How can I possibly be expected to concentrate with those types of symptoms dogging me? Short answer: I can't.........Nay, I shouldn't. It would be an academic mockery if I were to write under those types of conditions. No writer worth their salt writes like that. Well I want to be worth my fucking salt.

Speaking of salt. Why is anything worth their salt? Salt is good but it's essentially worthless. It's in everything from milk, bread and about 98% of foods made in America. Doesn't that make it less of a worthwhile quantity if it's used so frivolously? If it just disappeared it would be a bummer. Or if there were some sort of shortage. But I don't see salt becoming a hot demand anytime soon since it's in everything already.


I'm totally not feeling the whole writing vibe right now. This hasn't warmed me up at all. It's like the quarterback taking practice throws before the game, but all those practice throws went wayward and hit spectators instead. Or the pitcher throwing practice pitches, only to find that he was nailing the catcher in the face or the nuts. I'm a despondent athlete of writing. Warm-ups don't help. Coffee isn't helping. Everything is a distraction. My computer. My watch. This window. My phone. My cup of coffee that is too fucking hot to touch. My water bottle as I inspect it for floaty things that have no business being in my water. This desk, because now I realized it's dirty which is having me long for a rag or sanitation wipe to clean it up with. This music, which Pandora is on some sort of Smiths kick today. I love the Smiths but I have like 12 stations on shuffle. Why are you playing the Smiths constantly? Even when I have it on the Smiths radio, I don't get this much Smiths, so what's the big fucking deal Pandora? I need variety. Quench my thirst for variety by not giving me 45 minutes worth of mostly the Smiths.

Additionally, I need more coffee. I haven't drank all mine yet because the cup is too hot, but I already know I'm going to need a enough coffee to jump-start Peru's economy single handedly. Caffeine is my secret weapon against myself. It focuses me, but I seem to have built a resistance to it the last couple of days. Which blows my nads. I need coffee to work for me today. Not when it bloody well feels like it.


Now I feel the sudden urge to just go out and take pictures of things. I fucking hate photography. I don't like taking pictures. I don't like being in pictures. I don't find it fun or amusing. Yet I have now suddenly convinced myself that this activity would be fun. Why? Because it would beat writing this paper. I would do photography in my free time and convince myself that I like it to keep me from writing this paper. That's exactly what I would do.

For those of you who might have wondered what goes through my head sometimes, this is it.

Sad, huh?

The Biography I'll Never Have

I find myself wondering what will happen when I finally kick the bucket. What will be my final biography? Or even my obituary? Will I do something grand enough to earn my own prestigious Wikipedia page? I doubt it. But if I did, I hope that my brief biography is so absurd that many will questions its validation.


Ideally, it would start like this:

Johnny Walker, author of the best-selling books, "Pardon Me, But is that Your Penis in my Soup?" and "I Swear I Didn't Mean to be so Charming: My Sexual Harassment Lawsuit" and of course  "I Just Shit My Pants: My Grand Journey to Below Rock Bottom," finally died today at the frail, empty age of 114 after jumping in front of several bullets for the Pope's secret illegitimate son.


The mid-section would just document my odyssey of failure and other mediocre achievements. I imagine my other "achievements" would just be failures in disguise but would seem like achievements because they were the first failures of their kind. There would probably be a section about how I spent millions of dollars that I borrowed from various banks to launch coffee beans into space with a trajectory for the Sun's orbit. This would ensure that I get the most extreme coffee roast possible. But it would fail one of two ways. Either I would just launch it directly into the sun on accident or the beans would come back too burned and full of deadly radiation to make coffee from. My next round of failures would probably be a bad batch of TV pilots that just remake Sanford and Son 6 different times with an all white midget supporting cast. Or possibly be a failed criminal kingpin of the no longer lucrative business of robbing trains for cattle.

I would hope the next section would deal with my bizarre personal life. Perhaps being known as a person who collects fine mustards but uses them to paint his house odd hues of yellow and uses the jars to collect hummingbird urine believing it has healing properties. Or maybe I'll have a neat subsection about my crippling addiction to plastic surgery; having everything enhanced well beyond societies standards for tolerably attractive.

I can't think of anything else absurd to say. Maybe I'll continue it later. Or maybe I'll leaving you wanting more on my fictional biography.

I Wish I Was an Inventor

Everyone wants to be an inventor of Edison-like proportions, churning out one successful idea after another nearly seamlessly. It would be a sweet self-employed job if you were any good at it. The problem with this is that almost no one is really an inventor. Most people are just hacks. 

Yep. Hacks. 

There I said it. 

Everyone seems to invent the same thing at least 8 times, claim it as their own, go to the patent office, find out someone else has already successfully executed and marketed the idea, go back home and tell people in the company of their friends and family they invented it first or tell people they invented it and act completely unaware it's already out on the market, then go on to fail to invent anything else and return to life as usual.

Everyone knows someone like this. An uncle, a friend, a crazy co-worker. Someone out there you know is a self-proclaimed inventor who "invented" something we already enjoy but takes every opportunity to lament a story of woe about how they were going to or wished they would have because they would now be drowning in money and bitches. (Yes, I'm aware of the clunky, run-on sentence but I don't care so suck it.) 

I'm not making fun of these people. I get it. I really do. It all makes sense. If I was a successful, marketable inventor I would be as smug and pretentious as possible. Who wouldn't want to be that person? The person who invented that thing that everyone uses? I would use my accomplishments as first sentence ice breakers when joining conversations I wasn't invited to. 

I could see it now. A group of people would be standing around mumbling amongst themselves about the new guy at the office or something similarly uninteresting. I would briskly and casually enter their conversation circle. Everyone would turn to look at me and wonder "Who the hell is he? Do we know this guy?" A brief silence would befall this group of strangers, now about to become my newest group of fake suck-up friends for the next hour or so. My hands would be in my pockets as I slowly rock back and forth on my heels a couple of times. My moment is now to break the ice and let everyone know who I am. Not by name though. That would be too formal for an inventor of my caliber. The first line out of my smug mouth would be:

"So I'm relatively certain I'm the guy who invented the perpetual motion machine......"

The circle of strangers would now collapse and gravitate towards my greatness, shaking my hand, asking me how I'm doing, offering me stogeys and priceless family heirlooms to bribe me into a less superficial friendship. I would accept all their gifts but not their acquaintanceships. I would casually remark about how I managed to invent my device and offhandedly mention how my product does nothing more than provide electricity and power for the entire world. No big deal. I'm no hero. Just a guy in a tweed jacket who somehow made a difference for all the little people out there. After I got tired of the phonies, I would look at my $4000 dollar watch that's not even set for the correct timezone and excuse myself citing important meetings. People would try to get my number as I strolled out, but I would condescendingly tell them that a guy as rich as me primarily communicates via telepathy with other rich people. I would also state that I  use phones to exclusively dial late night 1-900 numbers to "fight off cases of the lonelies." With that, I would put on a fedora that I wasn't wearing before, tip my hat to them, remove the fedora, then step on to my private 4 story helicopter and fly away to my sky mansion.

Seriously. Who doesn't want to be that guy?

Stunted

Emotionally stunted.


I've heard those words before and not just because I've said them.


I've never really been good at dealing with my feelings or emotions. When I do have them, I don't cope with them well. When I don't have them, I wonder if I am devoid of the human experience.


When I do feel something, good or bad, I feel too much. Become too invested. Feel too much of one extreme or the other. Really good. Really bad. Too much happiness. Too much pain. Too much fun. Too much depression.


Other times, I feel like I should feel something but don't. Not because it doesn't matter to me or isn't important. I just fail to have an emotional response towards some situations and people. There is no consistency or patter as to when I don't feel something. It just doesn't trigger a response. Am I just too distracted or absorbed with what's going on in my head? Or is my mind protecting me from myself? Protecting me from my own intense emotions? Keeping me on the straight and narrow of logic and reason?


I've always known this about myself. I've always been a little guarded and a little shy. I let few people into my life; my inner circle. I don't value hundreds of thousands of "friends" or acquaintances. I always feel the more people I know, the more of a liability they are to turn on me or use me. While the acquaintances I do know are good people, I can't help but have my guard up at all times. I have built walls around me tall and thick to keep them out. I've defended these walls for years. No one gets by unless I let them.


I'm not unfriendly. People at work know me, but they don't really know me. We are friendly and get along well. We have fun and we joke. But outside of the confines of the professional environment, we are awkward strangers. While many of my co-workers are friends outside of work, I have broken that barrier rarely and generally briefly. They know facts about me that most people can learn by looking at my Facebook, but they don't know me. I've generally kept it that way by my own accord, not theirs.


I can hold conversations with other people and strangers if needed. I work in the medical field so I'm required to have some social skills. But that's easy. There's no expectations of who I should be other than friendly and competent. Meeting new people outside of work is hard for me. I stay quiet and observe while I get a feel for who is who. Even if I see them multiple times and I'm not sure about them, I keep my guard up. I can hold a conversation and be friendly, but I assume they don't like me until I feel the contrary.


It's all a contradiction really. Everyone has already jumped to that conclusion by this point. How do you get people to like you if you don't open up or be more proactive? How do you expect people to be your friend when you can't let them be your friend? Long story short, I'm not sure. I don't have any answers for it. Just more questions. Do I even want people to like me? I can only feel when it strikes me to feel. I worry that when I don't feel that I may be wasting my feelings elsewhere on things that don't matter such as when some women label themselves as a self-proclaimed "high maintenance bitch." Or wasting my feelings on road rage or worrying about all the worst case future scenarios that aren't likely to happen.


Sometimes I feel too little towards the people who want to be the closest and worry too much about the things and people who matter the least. Sometimes I feel nothing in the face of absolute chaos and feel too much when in the spotlight of other people's thoughts. Sometimes my emotions overtake me like a tsunami and other times they are completely absent when I need them the most. Is it that I think too much and care too little? Do I spend more time thinking about feeling more than I do actually feeling?


So how do I deal with emotions then? Not very well. My top options are usually self isolation to think it all out and writing or often times a heavy combination of the two. In the last couple of years, exercise has been a good outlet but it doesn't seem to solve everything the way isolation and writing does. For a while, food was a resource for me to use. Fast food has been my achilles heel in a lot of ways. Eating away the pain, leading to massive weight gain and physically feeling like utter crap as a result. Thank goodness I'm not an alcoholic or drug addict or I would be a wreck. If fast food is my worst way of dealing with things, then I should consider myself lucky. Other methods I have used have generally dealt with going out fishing or hiking by myself but I find that's more of a subcategory of isolation.


More questions. More questions. Why do I bother writing this down if it doesn't change anything? Why write this all on here for the world to see? What does it matter? Questions. Questions. Questions. No easy answers.


All I know for sure is that currently being isolated and writing this down has made me feel better.

Lost People

It's funny running into old memories of people you used to know. It seems to happen to me every few years or so. Something triggers a nostalgic trip to the past featuring people I used to know. Which usually forces me to Facebook stalk them to figure out what has happened to them. It's strange to catch up so superficially. You can't tell that much through pictures. I found myself tempted to send them a message to say hello, make it less informal on my part. But in the end I held back and rationalized that some doors are best left closed. It was strange seeing some of their faces and contrasting against my memory. So much has changed since the last time I have seen them. In my mind, they still have the same youthful faces from when we last talked. But now, time is starting to take its toll. We aren't just some young 20-somethings getting into stupid trouble. Like it or not, we're all adults now with adult lives and adult responsibilities. Some had children of their own, some had big jobs and others stayed the same.

It would be impossible to adequately remember every single face we have ever known. Our brains simply don't work that way. Lesser acquaintances are forgotten in favor of remembering more relevant and recent ones. After all, the older lesser acquaintances serve no more of a function for your mind right? So these people are whisked away to the dusty corners of our mind until we happen to find something that reminds us of them again. As humans, we have a way of egotistically thinking that just because someone isn't actively existing in our lives that that person doesn't exist at all. From a certain perspective that's true. But in a far bigger way, it's hopelessly false. People keep living their lives whether you're there or not. When we run into these people again, we almost exclaim to ourselves "Holy shit, you exist still!?" as if they dematerialize into the universe the second we stop seeing them.

I ran into another person I've lost touch with a long time ago. A 21-year old version of me. I found some old photos of myself floating around on someone else's Facebook account. I was fucking fat. I'm sorry but there was no other way to put that. I forgot how heavy I got. At first I was embarrassed about it, but then I got mad. It was like that moment in Spaceballs when the president gets put through the teleporter and comes out the other side with his head on backwards, to which he exclaims:

"Why didn't anyone tell me my ass was so big!?"

That's exactly how I felt looking at those pictures. Why didn't anyone tell me I had gotten so fucking fat?! It was bad. No one told me how I was busting out of my clothes from weight gain........the bad kind of weight gain. But I remember back then, I thought I didn't look too bad. What the hell was I doing deluding myself into that mind set? I was one weird guy. A lot has changed since then in a mostly good way. 

I don't really have any meaningful or insightful conclusion for this post. So I'm just going to end it..............

Now. 

Short People Problems

I've been short most of my life. I only say "most of my life" because through elementary and middle school, I generally kept up in terms of size with the rest of my classmates. I even had a brief spurt in 5th and 6th grade where I was one of the tallest kids in my class. By my sophomore year of high school, I had just about stopped growing. Needless to say, I've had plenty of time to digest the fact that I am indeed short.

I'm not complaining by any means. I'm comfortable with my height. I long ago accepted that I'm not going to wake up and magically be 6 foot, or even a few centimeters taller. I'm fully aware that I will not be an all-star basketball center or the starting quarterback to a football team. I realize that my stature is not intimidating to even 6 year olds who are about half as tall as I am. I won't be picking fights with strangers at bars knowing that my size alone is reason enough to not fight back. This is as good as it gets. I suppose the real point I'm trying to get at is that I don't understand "short man syndrome" or "The Napoleon Complex." I can see where a man might get insecure about not being taken seriously or feeling less manly. I get it, but I don't subscribe to it. I don't get feeling the need to compensate for it as if it were some sort of handicap. It's not like being blind where you have to compensate by having great hearing, or the loss of a limb(s) where you compensate by being physically more capable elsewhere..........For survival purposes. For the purposes of self-sufficiency. There is nothing to compensate for by being short. Worst case scenario, I can't reach something high up on a shelf or some high hanging fruit. Who cares? Get a chair. Climb the tree. Use some tools. Compensate by being smart and resourceful. Not arrogant and douchey. Instead of claiming how easy it is for you to get the can of beans on the shelf without the assistance of a stool or jumping, why not just own it? You can't change it. Being resourceful and efficient is far superior to being insecure about it. Why overcompensate with grand stories about how strong you are? Or delude yourself into thinking you're just as tall as the next? I simply don't understand the insecurity. You can be assertive being short. But you can't be an arrogant douche making claims you can't back up. And even if you can back them up, who cares?

No one.

No one cares that you're short.

If you're next point is to bring up studies that show that taller men tend to get hired more, are more trusted, have an easier time getting dates, and appear more threatening, just don't. It's a tired point. It's not an excuse to hyperactively compensate. Compete with the size of your character. Compete with the size of your work ethic and the size of your heart. In the end, that's all that matters. If people see that you are good hard-working person, then the rest will fall into place. That's not to say there aren't people out there who won't judge you by such superficial matters. But they matter little in the long run. What matters more is what you do with the time you have and not with the height that you don't.

Getting Older and Older

The other day, it was once again brightly highlighted how old I'm getting. I was taking care of a 19 year old patient who was afraid to get an IV. I confidently assured her that I had done this for almost 8 years and that there was a low chance of me missing.

8 years..........

First off, let's forget the disappointment I feel for still being at the same entry level job for so long and just jump right into how long 8 years is in comparison to my patient. When I started 8 years ago, my patient was 11, not even in middle school. 8 years ago I was barely 20 years old and living with my friends. I had been graduated from high school for 2 years by that point. To add insult to it all, I realized the patient was born in 1995.

What was I doing in 1995? Oh yes, I remember. I was watching the original Power Rangers, learning addition, and failing at cursive writing. While the patient was drinking out of a formula bottle, I was playing Super Nintendo and excelling at dodgeball. While the patient was choking on their own spit, I had a wide vocabulary of 3-4 syllable words and a fine grasp of one syllable swear words.

Holy shit I'm old. Whenever I meet someone in their early 20's or even late teens, I'm still in the mindset that I'm really not too much older than they are. But in reality, I'm much closer to my 30's now than I am my early 20's or late teens. My youthful looks are slowly starting to degrade into my actual age. More and more, patients and strangers are able to accurately gauge my age.

Another hint of my growing age has been confronting loud music. In the privacy of my own home or car, I love loud music. Not ear-ringing loud music. But loud enough to enjoy it. In fact, one of my favorite things ever is to roll down all my windows on the freeway and blast my music. On the city streets, I have it loud but feel obligated to turn it down at stoplights or slow traffic. Not everyone needs or wants to listen to what I'm listening to. With strangers, I struggle with understanding people who have spent several hundred dollars to get a super sound system with a huge sub-woofer and stereo boxes. I get it to some degree. I'm guilty of wanting a better sound system in my car, but only for the benefit of me being able to hear my music better, not everyone else. Do people really have to blast it so loud that the bass rattles the bolts of their own car while making my teeth involuntarily chatter? What's the gain here? In high school, it was kind of cool. But after that, it's actually really annoying. 99% of these people who do this are men. Do they hope the loud noise actually attracts women? That might sort of work in high school or perhaps an older woman who hasn't let high school go yet, but I can't see the general female population getting into that. Or maybe I'm about as clueless as to what women want now more than ever. I've tried to reason with it in my head. Maybe it's an old evolutionary biology sort of thing. Maybe in the ancient days, loud noises were what attracted mates in a our primate years. I can see somewhere down the line that banging sticks or rocks together the loudest just might have scored you some sweet reproductive action. (Keep in mind I have done zero research on this and am just making this up.) Or maybe women nowadays might be fooled into thinking that if you can afford thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment for your car that you might also be able to afford thousands of dollars worth of material crap that they want as well. I'm no ladies man. I never have been. But never once have I ever heard any girl or woman utter that loud sound systems are cool or hot. Never once have I heard any girl or woman proclaim that a loud sound system is the quickest way into her pants and heart. I most certainly have never heard any of them say in public or privately that loud sound systems in cars is a worthy investment.

I still have a hard time accepting that I'm approaching grandpa status. With my deep-rooted introvert behaviors already making me a bit of an old soul already, I can't imagine how much older I'll feel in just 2 more years. It's bad enough I have sports injuries to nurse, where I've never had a problem with injuries before. My knees ache and creek. My back pops. Loud noises irritate me to the highest degree. Too much conversation in a big room is still enough to have me longing for time isolated in a giant forest.

I'm old.

There I said it.

Are you happy now, World? I'm old.

Not a Handy Man

Some people are handy with just about any task. Some have the talent of being able to build and fix just about anything. Some can sit at a computer and figure out technical problems. I've met some who are handy with weapons and knives. There are others are who are gifted with mathematics.

I envy those people.

I'm essentially useless in handy tasks. I can do the basics on a variety of things. And I do mean the very basics. I can operate a hammer or a screwdriver if need be, but no one would make the foolish mistake of asking me to help them put together cabinets or work on a housing project. I can work on cars a little bit. But no one would be stupid enough to ask me to repair their car. I can troubleshoot generally easy computer programs, but no one is going to pay me to fix their computer.

My only handy ability is really bad jokes. Really bad poop and dick jokes. That's about it. If someone were forming a crack team of super handy intellectuals for a heist, I can't imagine I would be drafted into such an elite group. You would have your Tom Cruise look alike who would be the brains, a Toby Maguire wannabe who was the computer exper/resident nerd, the actual Jason Statham as the weapons expert, a few others with useful talents and then me........

I can imagine an old man who would be the mastermind of it all going through the roster of his crack team aloud. He would get to my part and say,

"And then there's Johnny. An expert in semi-comical dick jokes, he is capable of rattling off a minimum of 10-12 phallic jokes per hour. Which would be great if we were competing at the local improv."

I can't imagine a high stress situation where the team is working together in a high stress situation during a heist, on the verge of getting caught, and one of them turning to me and yelling: "Johnny, we need that dick joke yesterday!" I would fumble through my words, unprepared for the pressure of having to tell a bad joke that would help the heist go smoothly. Somehow, I would use my wits to tell the perfect joke and then suddenly the safe opens! We are rich. So rich we can own a small piece of Alaska collectively. And it was all thanks in part to my uncanny ability to tell bad jokes at the wrong time.


That's the type of universe I want to live in.

Death of a Stranger

A few days ago while driving home, I noticed there was a car accident. The car was rolled on its side with significant damage. Police were there and had managed to secure the scene with no sense of urgency. I assumed the person in the vehicle was fine. As I drive around the accident it became obvious to me that the person in the vehicle was not fine. They were dead.

It was likely that the person was ejected and possibly rolled over on by the vehicle since the body was so close to the car. The police weren't in any hurry because even they knew, this person was dead. I didn't bother stopping to help. There would be nothing I could do except prolong suffering of someone who was likely too far gone.


There it was. A body on the road. Alone. Motionless in a large puddle of blood.


For some reason this bothered me. I've worked in a hospital setting for over 10 years. I've seen people die in front of me. Talking one minute, dead the next. I've seen people die tragically. Trauma. Overdose. Freak accidents. I've seen people die young and some die with nearly a century of life under their belt. I've seen it all. In the hospital and in the field. Death is something that has never bothered me as it is just a part of my job and everyday life.

Yet my heart broke when I saw the body of that young woman, nicely dressed in a business skirt and blazer, lying alone on the side of the road. No one there to cover her up to keep people like me from gawking. No one by her side so she didn't have to die alone. Nothing. She was dead and alone and no one knew or cared.

This person woke up in the morning. Got dressed and lived life as they always would. Not expecting to die. Not expecting to meet their fate. To them, their day began just as any other day would. To them, tomorrow was just going to be another day like the one before it. Nothing was different. There was no way to expect the unexpected. It was likely a preventable death by wearing a seatbelt. But no one expects to die. Everyone lives like they are always going to live..

In a way, I think we all hope that our deaths mean as much as our lives. That we died with passion. That we died knowing that we will be missed. That we died making a difference to those that matter most to us. That we died being remembered for the best of who we were and not the worst. This anonymous stranger deserved more than to just die alone on the side of the road. She deserved more than to just be a footnote in a strangers blog who happened to pass by their corpse. A stranger died for no reason. Didn't make the news. Didn't mean anything. It just happened and that was the end.

I guess this was just a reminder that our lives are fragile. No one is invincible. No one is immune to death. We can be here today and gone tomorrow just by chance. Be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Contract a deadly virus or have a disease we didn't even know we had. There is no guarantees of a tomorrow or even the rest of the day you're living now. It doesn't matter how healthy you are. It can happen to anyone.

I hate the old cliche to live like you're dying. It's impossible to live like you're dying every day. Not without forgoing every day life and becoming incredibly selfish. It's simply not practical. But it's just as impractical to live like you will never die. You can't do it without being reckless or lacking a sense of urgency. Cherish the days you have with your friends and family, but don't overstay your welcome. Spend money on yourself every once in a while, but have some stored away for your rainy days. Be kind to all those around you, but still remember that not everyone likes you. You don't have to take shit from people, but you also don't need to make enemies; enemies stick around for a while.

I guess it all comes down to moderation. You never know when your time will come to face death. You may not even know when it hits you. Or you may have to confront the fear of your ending over a slow time period. Life is simply too long and too hard to live in either extreme. The safest course is to live like you're preventing your own planned demise every day. Exercise. Eat healthy. Wear your seatbelt. Drive safely. Wear sunscreen. Don't drink or do drugs. Simple things that arguably sometimes take the fun out of life.

The most practical plan would be to live like you have people who care about you.

Airports and Hospitals

For some reason, I have always had an affinity for hospitals and airports. The hustle and the bustle of people going to and fro in a major work setting has always been appealing for me. I always look forward to going to the airport, even if I'm not flying. I enjoy the crowds of people, which seems counterintuitive to my general hermit-like nature. The other strange thing is, I don't fly or travel very often to enjoy the airport. Which isn't by choice mind you. It just hasn't been a huge priority with my finances or schedule. I can't really put my finger on why I like the airport. There is something about it that I genuinely enjoy.

I can easily figure out why I like the hospitals. As a kid, I would go see my dad at the hospital where he worked. I liked the big building and how it seemed almost endless. There were people in scrubs and uniforms, buzzing about like worker bees, all with their specific functions and tasks. It was immediately appealing even if I didn't understand most of what was going on. To this day, I love going to different hospitals. It's still just as appealing me to me now as it was then. I suppose that's why I prefer to work at one.


What's the point of this post, you ask?


Writers block. I've been trying to write other crap but have not managed to write anything relevant. Even this piece as I write it feels like crap. I can't write lately. But I figure if I write something, it might get my brain working again.

But it hasn't.

So you're screwed with this senseless writing that doesn't pay off at all.

Goodbye Unlucky 2013, Hello Non-Superstitious 2014

I've never been one for superstition. However, I found that the year 2013 was generally unlucky for me. Having looked back on the year, it was full of the good and the bad like any year, but it felt......unlucky. It felt like I could not catch a break. For every one good thing that happened, two bad things followed. Some happened at the hands of my own decisions, but many were out of my control. I soon felt that my optimism for the year 2013 was running out of steam.


This time last year, I was celebrating once again at Joe and Randi's place. Once again, it was joyous time for everyone to get drunk and be in each other's company. It started with beer pong, progressed to drinks, and ended in Joe's ice tent in the backyard smoking fine cigars.

January was cold. In fact, it was downright frigid. That's the most I remember. Just utterly cold and dry temperatures that made me unhappy. I started a new semester retaking an old class I loathed to begin with.

February and March were very much the same. Cold. Dry. Stagnant. I could feel myself get out of shape. It wasn't all bad. But it wasn't all bad either. I wrecked my car in the snow on a curb and had it fixed for over a month.

April, I started crossfit, one of the best decisions I ever made for my health. I worked out twice a day and ate healthy. I seem to got through this cycle every year. But for the first time, I felt like I was really in good health.

May was fine. As per usual, it ends with a trip to Memorial Weekend that was fun but stressful. I felt as though I was playing camp "medic." Helping put medical problems out like fires. I felt the weight of the pressure upon me as I helped treat my own family members.

June/July started another summer school odyssey. I remember being strong and consistent with my work out and eating healthy. I loved the routine. I loved what I had done for my health. I saw the departure of 3 good doctors from the workplace, all of whom had influenced me positively in medicine. Very little fishing or fun was had. I remember going to Idaho a couple of times to see my grandparents. They were trips that I genuinely enjoyed and wish to do more of.

August/September/October I fell into a slump. Nothing felt right. I started another semester, but I couldn't get myself going. Work was hard. Home seemed chaotic. I fell out of my work out routine. One of the few things that kept me sane and happy. I moved out to Salt Lake which has been the brightest part of the last few months.

November/December have felt better. Not great. But better. Slowly getting out of a slump. Having my car break down for good, the search for a new one. It's been a lot of change lately. Matt moving to North Dakota. Having a good birthday.


Change. That's what best summarizes the year 2013. There was a lot of it. So much I almost haven't been able to keep up. So much of it, I haven't been able to decide if I'm still the same or if I too have ridden the waves of change. If I have changed, has it been for the better or worse. I feel darker inside, yet I know this is all just temporary and soon things can and will be better. It wasn't a strong year for me. So much happened that it's impossible to write it all down. It's impossible to define it all. I imagine I'll look back on this year someday. Maybe I'll chuckle and realize it was for the better the way things turned out. Maybe I'll shake my head and vow for it to never happen again. I don't know.

All I do know for sure is that 2014 can't be any worse. I only hope that I can make it better. Make better decisions. Be a better man. Be a strong man. Make 2014 what 2013 should have been. Last year, I had such hope for 2013 and I tried my hardest to live up to that hope. But life had other plans and no matter how strong my spirit, it all eventually overcame me.

See you in hell 2013. You had your moments. You had your times. But mostly, I didn't feel good about myself or about life despite my best intentions and actions to make it better. I hope that 2014 provides me with the strength and energy to continue to make good decisions. I hope I can still try to be a better person, to try to make others lives better. I cannot speak for the future and what it holds for me. I can only speak for myself and what I intend to do to make my future better.

Inconsistently Writing

I feel like I haven't had as much time to sit down and write like I would want. Things feel......rushed. Pressured. As if there were not enough hours in one day to accomplished all that I wanted. It could be worse, I suppose. Not writing on a blog for 3 people to read is the least of my concerns. Still, I miss writing here. I wish I could come up with some sort of dynamic and super complicated plan to fit it all in. But I imagine such a plan would require a Ph.d in physics and an extensive amount of knowledge in the concept of time and how to manipulate it.

Unfortunately, short of having a flux capacitor and a DeLorean, I don't believe there is any way for me to make time my slave. Which is probably a good thing. If I had more time, I would probably just waste it all with napping and using the internet to look up funny pictures of people in bad Star Wars costumes. I wish I didn't have so much to do. 

Oh well. I'll deal with it. And I'll try harder to write. 

Maybe. 

"Falling" Into Stereotypes

Today is the first day of October. In my mind, that signals the first day of Fall. I know that fall technically started 9 days ago, but it just didn't feel like it. October always signals Fall for me. As if on cue, today is the day I noticed leaves actually changing. I've actually been looking for leaf changes and haven't seen them at all. Not a single tree turning color. As I pulled in to school today, thinking about October and Fall, what do I see? Trees with changed colors! They weren't that way when I was there 2 days ago! It truly is the first day of Autumn in my mind.

It kind of seems stereotypical. I think it's Fall and the leaves change colors. Seems kind of like a bad stereotype. It's what you expect and so that's what happens. It wouldn't have surprised me if other stereotypes grouped under the newly changed trees just to make it the ultimate stereotype meeting place. Underneath, there would be Mexicans eating burritos with Asians eating only rice. Maybe a snooty professor in a brown jacket with taupe patches, casually smoking a tobacco pipe pondering complex problems; possibly while stroking his beard.



But reality is boring and there is no such thing as a meeting ground for stereotypes to meet up.

Must...Complain...About...Cold Weather

Are you kidding me? September isn't even dead yet and already there is snow in the mountains moving in like bad deadbeat neighbors. There goes the neighborhood! It's tradition for me to complain about the cold weather the instant it starts to move in. But this early? Really?

I realized how disappointing my Summer was today. I hardly went fishing or hiking. I got screwed. I just thought I had more time. But now Fall and Winter is slowing coming upon us.

Am  I being a tad bit dramatic?

Most likely.


But I can't emphasize enough how I hate this. I just want to wear shorts and t-shirts all year round. But unfortunately, the universe hates me with a passion equivalent to the passion of soccer fans and right wing neighborhood militias.

A Dog's Life

As I was preparing to leave my house this morning, I noticed all three of my dogs were just laying on the floor doing nothing. It's 10  in the morning! Do something! I looked at them and said sarcastically "Don't get into too much trouble." They all looked at me as if to say "You idiot, we're dogs. We don't know what you're saying." As I casually strolled out the door to go to my chemistry class, I thought how boring it must be to be a dog. They are dogs. They can do almost anything they want all day! They can run, play, hump, poop. Anything at all. But here they are, just laying there like lifeless lumps

.........I thought to myself as I strolled out the door to my chemistry class.......

Who am I kidding? I'm the boring one. I just literally pitied my dogs for getting to be lazy while I spent my day off learning about precipitation reactions. But maybe my dogs are boring. Dogs have no concept of time. They don't understand life anymore than they understand death. They don't understand the concept of living life knowing that they could die tomorrow of natural or tragic causes................

............I thought to myself as I strolled out the door to my chemistry class..........

Damn it! I can't pity them for that. In their mind, they probably think they live forever so laying around and being lazy is a good use of their perceived infinite life. I would do the same. In their mind, they can always sniff another dogs butt whenever they want or hump that other dog when it feels right. No hurry. Life is forever. But maybe dogs don't understand emotions, or fun like humans do..........

.........I thought to myself as I strolled out the door to my chemistry class.........

Double damn it! I have every advantage in the world. I should be living out my life knowing that I don't have a lot of it in the relative scheme of things. I do know that life is finite. I do know what fun and emotions are. I know that today I could be here and tomorrow I could be gone. Who knows. My dogs get to hang out and do whatever. I get to study chemistry and hate myself for it. I should be out fishing. I should be out travelling the world........

.............I thought to myself as I finished my 6th page of chemistry notes..............

All this school crap better pay off some day. 

September is Half Over

This month has really flown by. Before I know it, it will be October and I'll be forced to wear hoodies and look at tacky Halloween decorations wherever I go. I really don't mind the Month of October. It's easily my 2nd favorite month. It's cold, but not too cold. It's warm but not too warm. It's festive but not terribly commercial. Football season is in full swing. The colors of the leaves change dramatically. Overall, It's a pretty awesome month. The only downfall of it all is how it marks the true end of warm weather and gradually slips into winter.

Anywho, that's neither here nor there. The point is, the days of September are nearly over and I didn't even realize it until someone informed me today that in 2 weeks the month will be over. Where does the time go? It still feels like September 3rd. I guess a lot has been happening to me lately. It's been a month of change and transition that I have not quite wrapped my head around yet. So much going on. So little time to sit and just process it all. My days are full but my life feels scattered. I haven't yet picked up all the pieces of what's going on and put them back together. It's nothing tragic. Just different. Just not what I thought. Just stuff I wasn't prepared for.

I suppose it's not all bad. I've never been a fan of September anyway. So ending this month isn't a terribly horrible thing for me. The best thing for me to do right now is to take life's lemons, clone them, make super lemons, then sell them to an overcrowded market at an unreasonably inflated price.

That's the best I can do.

5 Months is a Long Time. Did You Miss Me, Internet?

Well I haven't been entirely absent from the internet. My other blog website, Walkerpedia, has taken up most of my writing time. It's a little bit more successful than this blog of ranting and pointless thoughts. I think up to 8 people read that one while this one sports a muscular following of 2.

I don't know why I stopped writing on here. I just sort of did for no particular reason. Lack of time maybe. Lack of anything to say. I don't think it matters one way or the other. The point is I'm back.........maybe. I don't know. We'll see if I can stay focused long enough to keep writing on here. I'd like to. But I'm also lazy and have a hard time delegating my time appropriately.


Anywho, back to my old ways of filling your heads with my pointless thoughts.


Today I wondered what it would be like if I had become a DJ. It's not a profession or hobby I've ever been particularly partial towards. Truth be told, I don't care much for the genre of music that DJ's are capable of producing. I think it's an interesting genre but I've never much got into it. I think the most fascinating aspect of being a DJ is coming up with your own DJ name. I've found that many of the names are moderately to extremely douchey. Like DJ Smooth or DJ Beautiful and DJ Freestylez. Just terrible names. Some of them can be funny and I feel like that's where I would excel. I decided that if I should ever somehow become a DJ, my name would be DJ Diddles Your Mom. I imagine that for the people offended by my stage name but still admire my music would likely abbreviate my name to DJ DYM. That might wrongfully lead potential fans to believe that my DJ name is pronounced like DJ "dime" or "dim." Such a mispronunciation would cheapen the gross cleverness of my name and everything that it stands for. There would be no way around it. Nothing I can do to stop it.


I guess that's just part of the high price of being an artist.



Admit it. You missed this.

So Very Tired

School. Work. Gym. 

I'm so very tired. Finals are around the corner. 2 weeks actually and I don't feel anywhere near prepared. Seems like there is so much to do and so little time to do it. 

I can't wait for this semester to be over. I can't wait to have just a tiny break away from it all. 

Slacking Again

Ok, so it's been about 2 weeks since my last post. I haven't posted at all in April. I've been kind of lazy lately. In general, I've had very little motivation for anything. School. Work. Writing. I don't know why. I feel drained of my life.

I blame the internet.

And baggy pants.

And grand corporate marketing.



It's most likely school. I have to keep reminding myself that in less than three weeks, this semester will be over. I just have to stick it out.

Coffee Mug Reunion

Yet another beloved item of mine went missing a couple of months ago. My favorite coffee mug was lost on an on ice fishing trip somehow. It went on the ice with, but somehow never made it back. I know what you're thinking and no, it did not fall into the water, and no I did not leave it on the ice somewhere. My best guess is that it fell out of my backpack while walking back to the truck.

Anywho, the point is I haven't been able to find a replacement for the last couple of months. It used to be really easy to find in stores. But suddenly, I couldn't find it anywhere. I called every store that might have it and no one seemed to. My next best bet was to order it online. However, this was further complicated by my lack of funds and sometimes motivation to do. I kept holding out hope that I would be able to find it at a store somewhere. I finally broke down and ordered one off of Amazon.

At first, I was ambivalent about having to order it online. It's just a coffee mug, right? Once I got the box in the mail, it was obvious that this was not just any coffee mug. This was THE coffee mug. I didn't want any other mug. So much so, I had to go online to obtain it. I pulled it out of it's wrapping and I knew this was meant to be. It may not be my original mug but damn it, it's the mug for me.

Needless to say, the quality of my life has improved substantially since I received my mug yesterday. Life is back to normal. No more wasting cups. No more cold coffee after 20 minutes of buying it. No more wondering where my coffee cup may be. Being reunited with this mug gives me feelings of hope and joy. Much like old lovers reunited after being distant for so long.




Joy for me.

Spring Tease

It does this every Spring season. Every March and April has about 3-10 days of awesome Spring weather. The sun is out, everyone is in short sleeves, sometimes shorts. The world just seems like a brighter place again. No snow. No cold. Just sunshine, raining down its harmful UV rays upon your skin. But it's ok, because it feels good. The cancer feels good. A warm day of sunshine is just what you need to feel alive some days.

But just like every year, the weather goes back to shit in a matter of 24 hours. One minute you're enjoying the sunshine, the next day you're confronted with driving on icy roads because nature has decided that snow is somehow much better than sunshine. Even as I write this, I'm watching the snow fall to the ground. It's as if nature is laughing at me. Mocking me. As if it were to say:

"I'm glad you liked the sunshine. But I'm more happy when you're miserable. Here's some snow, asshole."


Nature is a dick.

Caffeine Makes Me Friendly

Any time I have to present a report or do a speech for school, I make sure to get loaded up on caffeine. My regular amount of caffeine is no longer enough to prop me up. It's just enough to make me mildly pleasant in the morning. However, a little extra is just about enough to make me gregarious, social, and seemingly friendly with strangers.

I've always known this fact about myself. A caffeine overdose is just what I need to get me going. I get too much energy. I get a little jittery but it's worth it. All that excess energy gets put towards social endeavors because there is no where else to put it. I find myself chatting up strangers in line places. My recessive gene social skills suddenly become dominant. I can speak in front of crowds well. I can soothe say my way in and out of things. I become impervious to criticisms. Yes, the perks of a social butterfly become my essence when excessive caffeine is in my system. My mom's side of the family is known for this type of thing. While I retain some of that skill for work and forced social situations, I'm usually silent and keep to myself.

Like a drug, the caffeine wears off. I go from invincible, back to human. I get hungover on the lack of caffeine and find myself to be irritable. Suddenly, everything and everyone bothers me. But it's ok. I couldn't imagine wanting to be friendly all the time. I couldn't imagine being so talkative. I'm much happier in my comfort zone of being equally less friendly to everyone, all the time.

Stupid Mischief

As I was driving out of work today, some teenager with a skateboard under his arm pretended like he was going to jump in front of my car on a busy street. Initially, I was mad. What if I had swerved and hit the car next to me? What if I over-corrected and crashed into something else. What if I swerved into him? I was going rather fast since it was a busy street. If he did cause me to crash, he would have to hope that I was injured or dead. Otherwise my first task once my car was stopped would be to jump out of the car and harness my temporary adrenaline-fueled retard strength to kick his ass. I don't care if he was a minor and I went to jail for it. But then I realized this is all stupid. None of those scenarios were likely to have happened. Aside from that, that's the exact same kind of shit I used to pull around that age.

The other day there was a group of 13-15 year old boys walking down the street. As I passed them, one of them thought it would be funny to make eye contact with me and then grab their crotch with a smile on their face. At first, I was mildly annoyed. Then I was pretty entertained. Again, I was reminded of how I used to this exact same thing. It was so entertaining to do stuff exactly like that.

Honestly, there is no real harm in it. The odds of a driver being so offended by you grabbing your own crotch on the street and saying something about it are low. I can't imagine someone pulling over and saying

"Hey young man, I would appreciate it if you didn't grope your crotch in a humorous fashion in public. It offends me to the deepest core of my beliefs. If I see it again, you're in trouble."

No one would do that. That's more trouble than it's worth to even address. It made me wish I was that young again. Society frowns on grown men doing this kind of stuff because it is assumed that we should know better. I knew better back then. I was just able to hide behind the "young and stupid excuse." I only wish that I could just do that kind of stupid stuff now. It's so cheaply amusing. It's funny and generally harmless. I look young enough still that I might still get away with it, but it's not the same without a group of equally irritating friends to help you.


I want to be young and irritating again.

Lack of Words

I've had a difficult time concocting something good to say on this blog. I have so many projects in the air as far as writing goes. This blog. Mustache blog. False Wikipedia biographies. Personal journal. School papers. I'm stretched thin as far as creativity goes. 

Soon it won't be so bad. Perhaps soon this blog can return to it's former glory of not being so pointless. 

Unfortunately, it won't be too soon. So you're stuck with my shitty half-assed posts in the meantime. 

Bummer. 

Journals Reflect the Ghosts of Who We Used to Be

In class recently, my teacher tried to explain that journals and diaries reflect the people who we once were. And perhaps when we pass on, they'll one day make it so others can understand us a little bit better. It's a novel idea. I like it a lot. Though I doubt that anyone would gain a greater understanding of me from reading this blog or my deeply personal journal. If anything, I think it would leave people more perplexed and confused. Perhaps on some level, it might bring closure to some to read things I never told them, or to read things they never knew even if it was pointless.

It is true that older writings are ghosts of who we used to be. When I read older entries in old journals, blogs, poems and diaries, it's like staring the old me in the face. I can remember who I was (or who I thought I was), what I thought, what I believed in, where I was going (although where I was going at the time was uncharted territory), the people in my life, the way I felt when I wrote it, a large portion of what I was thinking.

When I read some of those entries, I don't like who I see and what I remember. I don't like the decisions I've made or the thoughts I had in my head. Other times, I'm left wondering what the hell happened to that part of me or wonder why I'm not like that anymore. I don't totally resent myself when I read these old writings. I can't change who I was, the things I had done or the stupid things that I had thought. Often times, these older counterparts of myself made for some of the better stories I have to tell in my life. The older versions of me weren't totally horrible either. But they weren't satisfactory versions either. Choices left unmade or made poorly. Thoughts that were selfish and unfinished. But I guess I can't blame myself for being young and ignorant.

I sometimes wish I could meet those older versions of me. Just jump into a DeLorean and race back 8-10 years. My best guess is that I would probably want to kick my own ass for being that way. Though it would be comical, it would probably cause some sort of butterfly effect ripple in the timeline as I know it and change me. It wouldn't be worth it to fuck with physics just to teach myself a lesson about being an arrogant prick.

I suppose if it does come down to it, that people will seek answers from my writing after I'm gone, I hope they at least think I'm a good person. If not a good person, I imagine that I'll fit into the category of the complex and misunderstood.

I wonder what I'll think when I read this again in a few years....

Cracked Phone

I dropped my phone the other day when trying to leave work. Now it has big ugly cracks across the screen. I hate that. I always think it looks trashy to have a phone that looks so broken. But I'll just have to deal with it.

The irony is, I had it in this huge case that would pretty much protect it from a nuclear blast. But I took it off last week because of difficulties with hearing people and people hearing me. I figured it would be fine. I never drop it anyway. It just so figures that I drop it when the case is off.


Life hates me.