In Memorium

It should be said that at some point we're all going to die. I'm going to be resting under a gravestone, if they can find my body, and the same goes for you. I may die next year or forty years from now, you may die next month. Accidents happen. The thing is, nobody knows. What strikes me as odd is that we're supposed to ignore the fact that it could come sooner and plan for the future as though it will be there for us. If you've ever watched Dead Poet's Society, or read a book, you know the phrase "Carpe diem" which continues "quam minimum credula postero." It means, "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." We will not be famous, you or I. History books will not teach about us in schools. It will not matter to me, as I'll stop caring what the world does when I die, but while I live, it makes me feel small. No doubt, my ambition will die out as I age. Grandparents rejoice in the legacy that is their grandchildren, and all too many parents place their children as their number one priority in life, even above themselves, abandoning the possibility that greatness is in their future yet. Children serve as a checkpoint that we have accomplished something in our lives, that our life has not been in vain. Children mean something will continue as a result of our life. The frustrations and work they require along the way are nothing by comparison. I find it remarkable whenever I encounter somebody who says they do not want children, for it means they either have not placed a high value on their legacy, or they plan on doing things with themself that will stand on their own. It is human nature to desire kids, to fertilize them in your womb or place them in another's. To deny yourself of this living need is a mistake that will manifest itself through countless lonely nights as one's youth wears thin and death approaches. I would like to have kids sometime in the next 15-20 years. Until then, I will be satisfied fulfilling my own life to its fullest, building wealth, friends, knowledge, a reputation, and a slew of memories and relationships in my wake. Currently, I have little that could keep my dead self happy in the event of my sudden demise. A few saddened family members and friends are all that link my life with the future. It's not enough. I write these thoughts, setting finger to key, to solidify my worth in this world. It works in place of children should I die tomorrow. Only communicated thoughts have any value, and I would rather have a piece of me floating in the cyber-void than have all my thoughts disappear with me, a wisp of smoke. That is what writing is to me. It is the transformation of my self onto paper. Text lasts longer than organs or bones. Homer endures. Shakespeare endures. Everyone else is forgotten. So, while you may feel you're getting to know me uncomfortably well, I thank you for allowing me to communicate my thoughts, for giving value to words which have no meaning without someone to read them, for helping me continue my delusional legacy.

My Secret Paranoia and Compliments.

Seriously. I'm always worried that somebody is out to kill me. When I'm driving in my car, and I pass somebody, for a brief moment I wonder if they have a gun and will shoot me. I look both ways, twice, when I cross an intersection, because I'm convinced one of these days a drunk guy is going to fly through the red light into me at 100 miles an hour. When I was little, I feared somebody would break in my house at night and stab me. I always lock doors. I always keep the shades down. When I'm in a hotel or new room, I almost always consider what objects I will use for a weapon in the event that somebody breaks in with a gun or knife. When I enter a bank or large building, I stay close to bullet-proof objects in case there is a shootout. I don't know how I got it in my head, but since about age nine I've felt that the world was out to kill me when I wasn't paying attention. I hide behind people for a cushion in case a car drives through the building wall and hits me. They're subtle things, but I've done them regularly for most of my life. On the other hand, I realize that my fears are completely ridiculous. If anybody knew I always prepared myself for an attack, that'd be just one more thing to think I'm weird about, so believe me when I say I've never told anybody this. I've always secretly worried that I'm crazy, and that if a psychologist found out, they'd recommend medication. I've never been to a psychologist or counselor. I've never been on any prescription medication (except once for poison ivy six years ago), and I never even took an Advil until High School because 1) I couldn't physically swallow pills--my throat would gag, and 2) I was anti-medication, thinking one day I'd ingest a pill that was poisoned (of course, I said it was because my illness wasn't that bad/they tasted horrible/I wouldn't complain/don't worry about it).
Secret worries are part of my personality. I'm full of doubts. I'm skeptical. If somebody says I look handsome, rather than think they think I'm handsome, I think they're trying to be nice, or they're not a good judge of beauty. Gauging my attractiveness has always been difficult for me, for on the one hand I've dated seriously hot women, but on the other hand, women care less about looks than men and may have liked me for, say, my sense of humor. I can't fully believe compliments from girlfriends, friends or family, because they're probably just trying to be nice. When gay guys hit on me, I think, "what a nice thing to say!" but I can't believe compliments when there is an ulterior motive, like trying to get me in bed. For the most part, women ignore me, and this has convinced me that I'm mediocre looking. The one compliment that has stuck with me came from my best friend's girlfriend, who said that in all seriousness, I was one of the better looking guys on campus. Maybe by this, she meant I was in the upper 50th percentile, but it still cheers me up because she was sincere about it, and whenever I'm feeling down about my looks, I think of what she said. Normally, I would write this comment off, thinking she was trying to flirt with me, but she never lied and she wasn't trying to cheat with me. Anyway, she most likely doesn't remember saying it, but it's stayed with me all these years. It's taught me that a good compliment can be very meaningful to someone's life in the same way that middle school put-downs can. I need to work on giving away compliments. Smiles and laughter aren't necessarily enough. Historically, I've been sparse with giving compliments, worried I will seem like an ass-kisser, or that I'm trying to hit on them. I've just got to put that in the back of my mind and offer a compliment sometimes. Now, when my sister looks irregularly nice, I put away the silent voice that worries she'll think I'm into incest and say, "You look nice today." Mostly, I give away compliments to strangers though, because those are the most meaningful. There are so many negative people in the world; I feel every bit of positive charm I can bring to it helps. Laughter is contagious, and a smile from a stranger can perk up somebody's day. The same goes with compliments. Follow me around for a week and you'll probably hear me say "I don't say this to all the cashiers, but I love what you've done with your hair," "Excuse me, but you smell absolutely wonderful. What is that you're wearing?" and "Damn, how'd you fit that ass in them jeans?" But, the last one I'll only say when I'm alone, talking to myself. Then, I'll rub hot cocoa butter all over my body. Or, maybe I won't. I'll leave to your imagination.

An art expert.

This weekend, I travelled with my dad and his girlfriend to the city. We stayed in a hotel two nights, my dad ran a marathon, we drove to see one of my sisters for a day, we bought some of her artwork, then drove home. My sister Melissa is a very talented artist. Seriously. But, her main job is raising her three kids, aged 5, 10, and 15. On the side she plays on a volleyball team, coaches 16-year-old volleyball, leads Cub Scouts, drives her kids everywhere (viola/piano lessons, sports practice), helps them with homework, cooks, cleans, takes them to Church, takes her art to galleries, manages her website and, lastly, does amazing artwork. The other stuff is important too, the housewife/motherly stuff, but I'm mostly impressed with her art. Her recent pencil series, "organic escapes," is a seemless melding of roots, grass, caves, organs, body parts, trees, and lakes together. The detail in it can hold my attention for hours. We drove to a gallery to pick up her painting called "O.C.D.," Organic Color Design, which I intended to get, but the gallery manager had left early yesterday so we couldn't get to it. The three we bought are currently hanging as a centerpiece in the living room and they make me happy, not only because they elicit wonder, but because the mind that created it is related to me and therefore I may have some of that genius inside myself. I'm not an art expert, but I wish I was. Art isn't just something to look at, it's a feeling. Looking at a piece is like stopping to smell the roses. Although it was my dad's idea to buy some of her artwork, he went about it all wrong. He went about buying his daughter's art in an "I'll buy it but I won't pick it out because I don't care" way, so that he can take either the credit or the blame, rather than presenting his lack of involvement in the art selection as "I can't decide which piece I like best." Although she's an adult, it's still important to receive praise from her father, and he didn't ask questions or show interest with her artwork. Asking questions is extremely important. He left the choosing of what art to buy to me, so I delightedly sorted through her pictures and paintings like a boy in a toy store. Issues like this are where he and I differ. I actively seek to make people happy. I'm blunt with constructive suggestions, and I don't lie (for example, I don't say I like something if I don't), but I know how to get people to like me. My sister Missy is seventeen years older than I am and we see each other about once a year: I know that when dealing with someone you don't know that well, there are easy ways to keep a conversation going and also light up their face with pleasure. It is a fine art. First, find out what interests them. It may be art, music, sports, kids, a job, a project, movies, gossip, books, marriage, politics, the economy or anything. Next, ask them about the things that interest them. Third, come across as sincere: this means be sincere. With body language and eye contact, jokes and curiosity, it's easy to be likeable, no matter our differences. A person will not care if you are very different than them and cannot identify with their walk of life as long as you respect it. Obviously, people like to be thought of as interesting, so show interest. If they know you like them, they will more readily like you. People do not want a "yes man" to agree with everything they do--a differing opinion keeps things honest. Constant agreement leads to suspicion and thoughts of incincerity, which builds a silent tension and lessens respect. For example, if I don't like a meal, I will suggest how it could be better next time. My dad will say he likes it. Over time, my praise for the good meals is sought after and worth more than my dad's because my comments are always sincere, honest. I don't have my career set, but I still command a great deal of respect. My father is normally a very decisive person, but when it comes to dealing with people, he doesn't have it down like I do. He never asks opinions, but he asks my opinion. It feels as though I'm becoming the man of the house in my dad's stead, because I have the answers on how to behave in situations where he is unsure, from his role as a husband to parenting his children. It's an odd role reversal. When someone asks for advice, they secretly already know the answer they want to hear; they simply want it gift wrapped and presented to them properly. Surprise! It's common sense! Clouded issues are clear when you understand the important parts clearly. People already have their tendencies and beliefs stamped into them. Once uncertainty dawns, he/she simply needs to understand how this issue relates to his or her values. Guidance is easy once you understand their beliefs. Maybe I should be a life coach. Ha.

To lay or not to lay...

What's it like to be able to sleep in as late as you want? I'll tell you. It's awesome. (Self high five? Yes! *slap* Booyah!) Day after day, nothing beats the feeling of hearing my consciousness surface under covers and having no inclination to move. But, it would be nice if something did beat it into a small pulp. One of those old, "shit! shit! I'm late!"'s could do the trick, or, a "damnit, I've got a lot of shit to do. I need to get cracking." A "damn, I'm starving/hungover" or "I'm gunna murder those neighbors if they don't stfu." Instead, my neck hurts a little bit and I just kinda sit with my eyes open considering my dream, which may as often relive my video game experiences as it does my tv watching experiences. Josh told me to, so I spent last night watching the rest of Season One of How I Met Your Mother, (a captivatingly awesome, laugh out loud series that later makes me feel like shit for not mirroring their life at all career-wise, socially or relationship-wise), so my dream had something to do with those characters. Even the repeated doorbell rings didn't get me to move, because I figured only bad things could come of it. Just getting up, my hair usually looks like greasy shit, I'll rock stubble like a homeless person, my morning breath smells like morning breath, and since I usually fall asleep in whatever I wore yesterday, my clothes probably smell like "my house is too hot" sweat. Besides, I could think of four possible people at the door. 1) Somebody serving papers for my dad's divorce. 2) Girl scout's peddling cookies 3) Some neighbor stopping by to chat with my dad. 4) My mom, which would lead to my dad dialing 911 to seek murder protection, and a lot of useless drama, since she weighs about 105 pounds and isn't out to kill anybody but herself. If it was somebody we knew, they would shout something. Via voice recognition, we would answer the door. Instead, I lay like a mortally-wounded gazelle, waiting for someone else to answer the door so I could learn who it was ringing the doorbell once every couple minutes while my father showered. What a piece of shit. I know. Social encounters scare me about as much as committment. Neither puts me in a state of paralysis, but if allowed to choose for it or against it, I'd sit in the other room procrastinating my decision. I went back to sleep, because it was 8:15am, and I didn't wake up again until 11:45. I've never been a morning person. Never been a day person either. I like to stay up all night doing my useless routine with the light of my monitor lighting up my room. I'm with the hungover people on this one: daylight sucks. My best friend James called me back yesterday, after he was done coaching wrestling, just as Trueblood: the Last Vampire was starting in the living room and I was all situated to watch it with my dad and his girl in our three separate comfy chairs. We talked about random fun shit--wrestling, family, opinions, recommendations, careers, etc. When we wrapped up, I came back inside to watch the last ten minutes of the movie, which was slow and involved bad acting. I lacked the element of emotion due to my missing the entire movie, so when she killed her mother, I really didn't care. My dad has a different taste in movies, so we don't share that, and besides, he always falls asleep during them, even my favorite movies, so it's just aggravating. To his credit, he did take me to see 2012 a few days ago, which was much better than expected. The trailers lead me to believe it was just great effects and skimped on the plot, but it was solid. Anyway, old Sonatra-like Christmas Classics have been going for hours now, so I need to put on my headphones. I'm going to pretend I'm leaving to take a shower now, so I can put on some new clothes, but really I'm just going to dig into the next 22 episodes of How I met Your Mother. "High five?" "Sorry, I only give out high two's." *Peace*

Other People's Relationships

I live with my 63 year old dad and his Thai girlfriend who speaks almost zero English. He has said, in an email, that he loves her. It disheartens me, because you can't have a conversation with the girl and she would have a lot to say if you could. Relationships need communication above all else. More than good sex, more than respect, more than common interests, communication with your partner is key. The broken English sentences they share depress me, not only because I am obsessed with proper grammar, but because he thinks it suits him just fine. It makes sense, because he's always been someone who talks eighty percent more than he listens, and this way he doesn't have to listen female chatter. He's not nearly affectionate enough for what she needs though. She's lonely in America, spending most of her time on the internet with her 9 year old boy, and friends in Thailand. I'm not a relationship expert, but I wish I was. The number of books I've read on relationships, marriage, dating, human psychology, and the differences between men and women outnumber the days I've eaten based on the food pyramid. As an actor, I can come across as a ladies man if you don't know that my entire relationship history has consisted of three girls. My online friends, intelligent people, take my relationship advice. Because I have no life of my own, I've learned to live vicariously through the stories of others. Books, movies, and the happenings of people I know interest me. Consequently, my advice is always fun to hear because it's always in favor of taking action. My own selfish motive plays a role when I recommend acting stupid so that I can have a story to listen to later on. For example, although I would never cheat on anyone personally, I have recommended to my friend that since she's seriously considering cheating before her marriage goes through, it means she should. I played the devil on the shoulder. But, not a complete asshole, I accompanied it with qualifiers. For example, how serious are you really considering it? She was worried that a lack of male partners would bother her later on in life, and since she didn't want to be someone who cheated in a marriage, if the dirty deed was ever to be done, it was now rather than later. I ask simple questions: are you more likely to regret allowing yourself another sexual encounter or the fact that you never took the chance? Would the man that you intend to spend the rest of your life with understand your point of view if you told him about it? Are you fantasizing about cheating more from a fear of commitment, a real need, or lust? Would doing this leave you feeling guilty knowing it was done to help you feel better? My main advice was to talk it over with him so that she wasn't suffering alone, even though he would hurt hearing it, because feelings shouldn't be kept inside, and a marriage shouldn't start out with secrets. But, ready to hear an interesting story, I wasn't afraid to suggest the taboo course of action. You only live once. When faced between inaction and action, action is generally the better choice. It leads to more interesting stories, the feeling of living, and if it leads to guilt, well then you just need a new way of thinking about it, because why would an otherwise good person be in a place to consider immoral actions if something deeper weren't at the root of the problem? Rather than let it fester, actions should be taken to stir things up. I doubt Hitler felt guilty about the things he did. She later said the email I sent her was exactly what she needed to hear. She took my advice and gave a long tearful talk to her fiance about how she had thoughts of fucking another man. He told her that when he went away for the weekend, she had his honest permission to get whatever she needed out of her system for the strength of their future relationship, because her happiness in their future was the most important. So, although she had the go-ahead, she decided she couldn't go through with it, and spent the weekend thinking about how reassuring her boyfriend's response had been. It's fun to have that influence on someone's life--to be in a place where she talks to you before she talks to her husband about her deepest fears--and to get a wedding invitation to a pen-pal you've never met in person. But, like I said, I can get people to open up to me. It's how I get by. I'll leave you with one of my favorite quotes that I have learned by heart:

"I think it is certainly better to be impetuous than cautious, for fortune is a woman, and it is necessary, if she is to be mastered, to take her by force; and, it can be seen that she lets herself be overcome by the bold rather than by those who proceed coldly."--from Machiavelli's The Prince.

Just start

They say you've got to just start writing. Writers write. I'm not a writer, but I'd like to be. I'm a talkative person but without things to say. That's mostly the problem. My life is, bitchy as it sounds, too easy. I play video games and get older. It's not just me though. The whole world is getting older. My friends are, too. But I'm not maturing. I have no career set out before me. This is only one of the many things that bugs me, and it's certainly not the most pressing. The biggest problem is that there is nothing pressing. I have no sense of urgency about me and I desperately wish it was there. Good writers write shitty first drafts and love that they write shit the first time around. Everyone tells you to "shoot from the hip" and just write like you don't care. I always double-think everything. I think twice and act once, if at all. I have a lot of goals and none of them are getting closer to done. Fortunately, none of my goals are written down, so nobody can say I haven't accomplished them. I can simply say that my goal this year was to mature or get to know myself better, some bullshit like that. At the very least, at the end of the year, I've accomplished my goal of not dying, and nobody can take that away from me (except murderers). Something inside me wants to be somebody badly, and it wants to be somebody that does things. I want to think less. I want to act more. I'm also a mental basket case. Sometimes, when I'm not withering away on my bed, I just watch television. It's a digital age, so I watch it on my computer, but it gets me thinking; most of the things I watch are light-hearted. I enjoy comedies and thrillers, well-developed characters and happy endings. I enjoy dramas when I'm watching them, but when I'm deciding whether to watch a drama or not, I usually think, "I'd rather watch something more upbeat." My parents never got along. I was always expected to be something great, but I was never pushed. I exceeded everyone's expectations on my own terms and became known in my stupid family as a smart kid. But, I'm not here to talk about the past. I may have been smart, but that's not what distinguishes me now. Now, I'm a loser. I pause when I say that, but it's how I'm coming to see myself. I know I have potential to be somebody great, and maybe that separates me, but people should be defined by what they do, not what they could become. I think writing could help me bridge the gap from being a nobody into being a somebody that people respect. Respect is important to me. I'm a quiet person, but I'm also talkative, silly and ill-tempered. I'm random out of a silent-desperation that spurts out of me, shouting to be unique and depressed by the realization that I'm one of the uncountable multitudes. A lot of people get by by having a circle of friends that they talk to. Acquaintances, girlfriends, family--these are the tools people use to feel good about themselves in a world that's too big for a single person to survive. I don't have those things. I live off of dreams and memories, and I'm too damn young to have many of the latter. Living a redundant lifestyle has gotten me out of shape and ill-groomed. I clean up whenever I go out--shower, shave, clean clothes and teeth--but those moments are as rare as I can make them. Fact is, I'm embarrassed by myself. Some people turn a new leaf for the better, but the other side of my leaf was decay and uncertainty. I should be ahead of the curve by most people's reckoning: I'm supposedly smart, hard-working and good with people, but the reality is I'm a loner crushed with self-doubt, a desire to be happy and a cynical mind that foresees unhappiness in every situation. Facing the choice between going outside in the blizzard and staying warm in the dark cave, I stay warm and bored. But, something tells me there's only so much boredom a twenty-something can handle before he does something incredibly stupid. I yearn for that stupidity, and if I was a kid, I'd take that nice man's candy and hop in the stranger's van, because you only live once. My other demon, besides my boredom, is an over-abundance of emotion. Nobody really knows it's there. Indeed, between the ages of perhaps 17 and 22, I didn't cry at all. Not once. And that was despite some intense feelings for a girl that immediately spun me down a well of self-despair, self-analysis, and the desire to shed a tear just to feel human. Feelings were out of reach for me. I think they're coming back though. Last month, I cried to a movie I was watching alone involving the relations between a father and his son. Honing in on that strikes a chord in me, apparently, because I wish I had better relations with my dad. Either of my parents, really. But my mom and I are opposites in literally everything, and my dad, despite his infinite good-intentions for me, lacks the ability to listen or ask questions about me. I consider my greatest asset to be my understanding of people. I know exactly how they like to be treated and I can get even the shyest person to open up to me. People I hate I could get to like me, if it were ever my goal. I care, and always have, about what people think of me, and so I've shrunk away into my little mouse-hole to be forgotten about rather than face the questions that have answers I don't like to reveal. The worst part is, whenever I realize something about me, I wish it weren't so. I wish I were more ambitious, talkative, interesting, good-looking, or intelligent, but I have to deal with what I have. These weren't gifts given to every child. At best, they're skills I can work on. This over self-analyzation, combined with my ability to manipulate people, has landed me in a position where nothing needs to change. All my bills are paid and I could go and get a job anytime I wanted. Depression runs in my family. Maybe that's it. I'm not depressed, at least not more than it's sane to be for someone in my position, but it feels like there's some chemical that keeps me back. I have to fight a war just to go outside, and oddly enough, despite my complete lack of real-world, non-internet related socialization, people think I'm just quiet, content. I have a nasty habit of making people think what I want them to think about me. As far as I can tell, nobody can put the pieces together, because I keep them in a box nobody knows about but me. People think what they like to think, and since my family prefers to think that I'm okay, they don't question it. I would never say this out-loud, but I'm not okay. I know the truth, that the only person responsible for my life is me, so the change has to start from within. I keep waiting for some self-help book to change my life, but it's never going to come. Maybe someday I'll have a dream, wake up from it and just know I've got to make a change. But I dream every single night and it hasn't happened yet. Last night, I dreamed I was a father to a two-year old kid that sat on my shoulders annoying me as I went grocery shopping. Rather than be blissful I had a kid, I was just annoyed that I'd gotten myself into this situation at such a young age, before I had my shit in order and how I would have to deal with this huge responsibility for the rest of my life. I ran into a high school buddy who asked, "is that your kid?" intent on starting a conversation. I muttered a "yeah," hiding my embarrassment, and quickly moved on. The kid's mother and I were broken up, of course, and she and her new boyfriend were out on a date. My old feelings were there for the mother and I later took the boyfriend aside to have a heart to heart with him about treating her like she needs to be treated, in case his head was in the wrong place. Then, I wake up and reflect inside my covers about what something like that could mean about myself. At the heart of it, I think, is the fact that my last girlfriend said I wasn't ready to be a father (and even sex with a condom was too risky) and it bothered me. She had a kid and was a Christian good-girl (it makes sense when you learn the circumstances she had the baby under), and I accepted her because they were things in a person completely opposite to me. Her incredibly gorgeous appearance also helped. She was not obviously dumb, getting by with a simple wisdom that surprised me on occasion, but neither was she clever, spunky, emotional or funny. The fact that we had a relationship at all was more a testament to the fact that I can mold myself into anybody's dream than out of any similarities we shared. Anyway, immoral as it sounds, the point of that relationship, at first, was to get over my last relationship. In that, I was successful. I justified my actions by the fact that I made her happy and want to be with me. That's more important than the real reason you're with someone, and even when I called her the wrong name (the girl I was trying to get over) one time, I quickly sweet-talked my way out of it, made her laugh, and had sex with her despite her vow never to have sex before marriage again. I'm a bad person, but I'm a bad person trying his best to be good. I want make people feel good, welcomed, enjoyed, but my motives are selfish, because I really only care about myself, even though I fancy the idea of being a caring person. My last girlfriend said I was incredibly thoughtful, and that counts for something, even though I was being thoughtful for the sake of appearing thoughtful to someone else. My good qualities are like that: I'm nice because I think being nice will make me happier. Since I have to think, to shove aside my tendency to not care before I act, I don't feel I'm inherently a nice person. A truly nice person does nice things because he knows they make other people happy. I do nice things because I want to be happy, and inconveniently, I can only approach it by being nice to someone else. So, I've got that whole emotionally detached, nihilistic view on life combating my selfish ego going for me. If I were smart, I could put that to use for me. A writer doesn't care what other people think. He just writes the truth, as he sees it. I don't care what other people think. Not strangers, anyway (no offense). I'm too much of a nobody. They say, "You've got to let it all out to let them feel who you really are." If I'm a nobody, maybe you won't feel a thing. But, maybe, and I hope this is the case, you can relate just a little bit to who I am. If not, rot in hell. Writers write. There will be more from me in the future. For now, I'm going to bed.
From me to you,
good night.