Someone told me this the other day

"You will never be happy if you continue to search for a reason for you not be happy." A nameless, wiser (but older) friend said this to me other day. I was blathering on to her about what was not happening in my life and why I was dissatisfied about this and that. At the same time, I was complaining about the inconvenience of newfound responsibilities that were being entrusted to me, which, in turn, could bring additional security into my life (employment wise) that I've been lacking sorely for a long time.

I was shocked when she said those words. Sometimes, I'm so good at telling myself what I want to hear that I, in turn, lose perspective of what is truth and what is my perception of the truth. I buffer myself with excuses and complaints that impede on me being proactive with what I want in life. And I find reasons not to be satisfied with things, but at the same time don't put the effort forth to fix them.

Face it. Ultimately it comes down to two choices. Be happy with your situation or change it. When it comes down to it, those are the two options you have. Stand still or move.

And she's right. I am not happy with my life. Nor should I be. I don't live to a fraction of my talent or my potential, and beyond that, I hardly stay afloat in matters which determine the quality of my life. These are things that need to change. These are things I need to push through. My goal this year was to put myself really in a position where I could begin to pursue writing as serious venture. I genuinely failed at that this year. I think that's been reflected in my failure to accomplish anything significant in my writing.

It's easy to write about changing. It's easy to talk about changing. It's even easy to take the first step. What is daunting is seeing your aspiration and your goal far horizon and realizing that even with the ten steps that you've taken, that tiny spec hasn't gotten any bigger. It's easy to lose count of how many steps you've taken. It's easy to back track your progress and want to walk back to something safe and familiar. It's easy to just quit.

I remember when I first started running. I would run this huge loop around Purdue University. I would use the university buildings as markers. I remember looking the first couple of times that I ran the route I did. I remember how small one building looked in the distance. And I remember just gritting through the pain, putting one foot ahead of the other. No matter how many steps I took it seemed like the building that was still as small as when I start. I had to stop running that day because I had not built up the endurance to finish the circuit. But when I looked back at from where I started, it looked so small in the distance that I had covered. I hadn't realized that even in my failure to finish the circuit, how far I had still traveled.

I believe that in life, who we are is not defined by our successes, but by our failures. Success and change are results of work done brought forth by a failure to act or failure to commit or failure to change. It's hard to me to admit but this year was a bit failure to me. At the same time, I've grown and matured in my struggle. I've more steps forward than I have back. I have more reasons to smile and be happy then to lament about my life.

I guess in the end, it is one just bitch about everything and it's another thing to want something more of yourself but be happy with everything you already have. I have to be reminded of that sometimes.

Moments of adulthood part II

Dammit.

The previous post wasn't supposed to be called 'Moments of adulthood." That was the title of a planned post that I am subsequently writing now.

I'm not sure, by any measure or means, that I would ever be called 'mature.' When I was younger, I arrogantly perceived myself to be mature for my age. (Of course at the tender age of eighteen, I also held many other perceptions, or rather misperceptions that as I grew older, I found to be grotesquely naive. *insert embarrassing generic sex story with innuendos of lack of sexual aptitude or stamina, in a self deprecating sense* made me realize the error of my ways) It was not till I was older that I realized that it was how I viewed the world (very, very uniquely(and by unique, I'm not necessarily saying it in the flattering sense)) that granted me to see certain truths that some would gleam as wisdom, but that didn't necessary equate to maturity. Wisdom is only useful if you follow it. I rarely follow it. (Which leads to a great segue into a metaphor to describe the difference between intelligence and wisdom as I've been told many of times. Intelligence is seeing the rain clouds and equating that to the possibility of showers. Wisdom is bringing the umbrella so you won't get rained on. I always think of bringing the umbrella along (hence I am wise) except then I realize that I was too cheap to buy an umbrella in the first place (hence, I am screwed)). I know many friends of mine (that s at the end of the word friend means plural, the definition of plural being more than one. Yes, I have friends) that are much further along on their respective life paths than I am, and if progress down your own life path is the defining factor in maturity, I am not mature. Doing the running man apparently isn't the greatest way to travel down any path, life or some other metaphor.

So now that I've quite definitively established that I am not mature, I have still noticed that unbeknownst by me, I have magically ascended, or rather descended to a new plateau of my life. Although I'm sure that there have been tell tale signs of this that I lacked the observational skills to pick up on, it was one day in a grocery store in which I came to this stunning revelation. It was as if I had transcended to a new level of understanding. It was during the midweek. I had come off of another meaningless day at my meaningless job. (Now before people go off on this tangent to comfort me that my job has meaning, let me reassure you, it doesn't. The world would keep on spinning if I had never stepped foot in my company that I work for, and it will continue to spin regardless if my employment there remains or is terminated. When I call my job meaningless, it's not because I don't appreciate my employment.(I quite enjoy getting paid, thank you very much) It's not even because I don't work hard at my job (when I have to). It's that in the grand scheme of things, my job really has little influence on the people around me. And that is how I judge meaning. I don't touch people with my job. I don't change people with my job. And that's why it's my job, and not my career. My career, as stalled as it is at this point, is still (and frankly always will be) writing. Even though I do not get paid for it (yet) and I possibly never will, it's something ingrained in me that I won't just give up even if I stop writing. And I don't think I would ever stop writing. I might put it aside for a time, but even as I do that I continue to observe the world around me and think of ways to relay what I see with my eyes, which frankly can be pretty disturbing and awkwardly funny at time. I guess my point is don't waste sympathy or empathy or pity on someone that doesn't want or need it. My job is meaningless. But right now it pays the bills. And I find meaning in what it pays the bills for. This.)

I had no food in my refrigerator, so I drove to the local grocery store right by my house. The grocery store has quite an extensive prepared food section in which I knew I would have a selection of choices to eat from. So I arrived at the grocery store, parked my car, walked through the biting wind to the welcoming, well lit warmth and promise of food that the electronic woosh of the opening sliding door of my grocery store offered. I picked up my little blue basket and cradled it like a fashionista holding her new, trendy clutch and headed over to the prepared food section. And there I was assaulted with choices. For twenty minutes, I paced up and down the aisle eyeing prepared meals of all sorts and varieties, hermetically sealed in transparent plastic tops and behind glass windows. From time to time, I would pick a package up and hold it indecisively for a moment, only to place the package back where I found it. What to eat used to be a simple decision for me when I was a kid. The choice was easy, eat what you want and eat what tastes best. This, of course, equated to a diet of hamburgers and fried chicken when I had the opportunity. But now it seems I feel buyer's regret every time I find myself driving away from a McDonald's drive through or I have a basket of fried chicken in front of me. I even feel it too; when I don't eat reasonably (a very relative term when I use it) well, I start to get heart burn, my energy levels are erratic, and my stomach doesn't seem to function correctly for the next couple of days. (It's like that with drinking as well. When I was younger, I would bounce back the very next morning and not feel a hangover at all. Now it's seems like my hangovers went from the morning after to the afternoon after to even two mornings after, till I feel like a normal person again.) So this is what goes through my mind as wander up and down the prepared food aisle and pick up item after item, only to place them back. After pacing for twenty minutes, I found myself carrying a rotisserie chicken and a caesar salad in my basket.

As I paced up and down again to reconsider my choices, I thought to myself as I looked at the salad which I didn't necessarily want to eat and the chicken that just seemed healthier than the alternatives, "Holy fuck. Did it just take me twenty minutes to pick up a chicken and salad?" At that moment, I looked around and saw people of comparable age to me, dressed more professionally (I, believe it or not, dress like a schlub), but with the same dazed and confused (and hungry) expression on their respective faces, similarly holding baskets of strategically picked vegetables and protein that were edible, although not necessarily enjoyable. And as I looked at my peers' expressions (the well, I'm hungry and this seems healthy and edible (not the this is what I've been craving all day look) look), I realized that I too had the same expression etched into my worn down, just got out of work (yet still devilishly handsome) face. I realized then that my days of McDonalds and Popeyes every chance I had were fading fast in the rear view mirror as I erratically swerved from lane to lane in my metaphorical car driving down my even larger metaphorical life path. I had gone from the age of this is what I want to an age of I should know better. (Should being the most important of the words of the last statement. Popeyes and McDonalds are still options, just not high on the list of options.)

I am one to believe that maturity and change are not events that happen quickly or over one action. When a person tell me that I've changed, that usually reflects a multitude of small, conscientious actions that I've took over a long period of time, not something I just decided to do over night. Subsequently, when I say I had an adult moment, I don't necessarily mean that I am a full blown adult. I don't think anyone who knows me well would ever accuse me of being an adult, except when it comes to clothing size and buying movie tickets (and porn and alcohol). But this moment kind of snuck up on me and caught me off guard, and as I stood in line at the cashier to check out my dinner, I realized that my inner child was again subdued in my life and something that used to be so easy and simple had now become a twenty minutes decision. And yes. The salad hardly filled me and the chicken was dry. Popeyes would have been so much better.

Moments of adulthood

I've been having a lot of trouble putting my ideas down to words lately. My first impulse is to say, 'I don't know what it is,' but I do. It's not lack of motivation. (Although no one ever accused me (successfully) of being industrious.) It's not even lack of inspiration. (In my head, I have things that have been festering for a while and are itching to be picked off like the scab on my wrist (on a side note, hot melted cheese on skin is not conducive to a good cooking experience. It's much like molten lava, minus the whole my hand melting off part)) It's not doubt in my abilities. Well, part of it is doubt in my talent, but in the sense that I think that I am horrible and I suck and I need to grow my hair out long and slick it to the side and get a tattoo of a tear falling for my eye on my cheek and chant Dashboard Confessional lyrics at a spoken word open mic. No, fortunately, my problem is not because I fail in life (yes, emo = fail. You dress like a hobo and pay two hundred dollars to do it. That makes you fail in life. I'm sorry), my problem is that when I write something, I feel like what I write needs to be profound. Like the greatest shit of all time (GSOAT). Like my mythical novel that I've been writing and rewriting for the past year. I am still on the opening section. It's not that I haven't been working on it. I have. But for each section I write, I like it for a day, and then read it the next and fall out of love with the words that I was so enamored for. Then I tear it apart (metaphorically, usually I just highlight and press backspace) and start again. Repeat. Repeat again. And again.

You can see that I have a problem here. I don't know why I put this pressure on myself to be such a perfectionist. Writing, when I did it before, used to come more naturally to me. I would see a story during a run or in a dream, and I'd be able to put words down to tell that story. When I close my eyes and see the images I do, I have a vibrant and vivid story, one full of rounded characters and a compelling plot. And when I write it down, it feel like I bastardize the vibrancy and live in to a pile of horse shit, the kind that has flies buzzing around it.

I know. I know. Masterpieces were not painted in one day or one sitting. Great writers toil for years to hone their craft. I'm like a hungry child at a buffet that has brought back too much food because he doesn't realize how much is too much quite yet. Or a freshman girl at frat party being handed cup after cup of jungle juice. Or me at an open bar. I need to keep my expectations small and plow the shiteous struggle of mediocrity.

I guess in the end, I write, because I am my biggest fan. I want to write something that I would enjoy reading myself. And I don't think I really have written anything yet that I feel that way about. But I know I got to move on. Stick to one idea and try not to tinker with it too much. Keep it simple.

Dammit, my scab is itching again.

I need to stop hanging out with awkward girls….

Well. There you have it. I think the title says it all.

Things are never what they seem…

So every morning, I follow the same routine (well almost every morning, occasionally when I feel up to it, I run in the morning. Lately, I haven't really been feeling up to it, so I've been running later in the day). Alarm goes off. I press the snooze at least twice. Roll out of bed. Urinate, brush my teeth, shower, and then dress for work. Open my brother's door to let the dog out. Head downstairs, pull out a coke zero, sit at the computer or watch the news while I sip on my soda. Walk Linus and then hop in the car and drive to work.

And without fail, the first thought as soon as I walk into the office is what I'm going to eat for lunch. Not what I have to do for today or later that night. Lunch. Food is very important to me.

But oftentimes, the anticipation of an event, like lunch, is much more appealing than the actuality of the event. Don't understand? Good, then you're probably a normal, well adjusted human being. Typically if I don't have to explain my perspective (ie outrageous statements) to someone, it usually means that person is clinically insane. Like I am.

Take lunch for instance. Specifically fast food. We are inundated with fast food commercials late at night when we're watching Robot Chicken on Cartoon Network. Floating images of juicy, larger than life all meat patties topped with delicious ruby red tomatoes and crispy ever green lettuce (I swear to god I am drooling right now) and freshly tossed French fries to the side. We wait in line, taking fragrant aromas of cooking meat and frying potatoes, and pay our obligatory six dollars and fifty cents for a number two, medium sized with a diet coke (I'm trying to watch my caloric intake, I swear). We sit down and unwrap the meal that we've been fantasizing about since the night before…

And are greeted with a flattened, overcooked patty, covered by pasty white thing that hardly qualifies as lettuce, topped with over ripe tomatoes that are about an hour away from being paste. Not to mention that the fries are entirely too salty and then ketchup dispenser is out of ketchup. Not to say I still don't eat it. Bad looking food doesn't necessarily equate to bad tasting food.

Or take sex for instance. I remember younger years when I used to fantasize about my first time. I had porn induced images of bad music playing in the background as me, the young stud, galloping into shrieking ecstasy with my fair lady (aka slutty friend who would take pity on me) on a water bed. Reality was about two minutes awkwardly spent on my basement floor with a girl that I probably would be too embarrassed to introduce to anyone but my drunken self. Sadly, I was not drunk that night. Just horny. (On a side note, as humiliating as it is for most guys to lose their virginity, I swear to God it's got to be worse for women. It doesn't even feel that great. Why they put up with us is sometimes beyond me)

So the whole point of this is sometimes the illusion of anticipation trumps the actually reality of the situation. Things are never as good as they seem as they are in my head. Although, astrologically, I am an Aquarius, and apparently one of the traits of my sign is that I have a tendency to live in my head. But that's beside the point.

I went on a date last Wednesday with a girl that I met through the online site that I was using. Throughout the date and the tryst afterwards at her place, I leapt to a stunning conclusion (for me). I actually enjoy being single. I realized as I took my first couple of step on my own version of the "walk of shame"

walk of shame
/noun/

1. Refers to the walk from a mate's domicile after copulation, oftentimes unexpected, back to one's own domicile or car, frequently with a bedraggled appearance as a result of the copulation that took place before hand
   

to my car, I cringed inwardly because I felt trapped that now I was going to be forced to spend at least one of my free weekend days with this woman that I met only hours ago.

I don't want to take the blind leap forward and plunge into a relationship with just anyone. Frankly, I realized that it would take an extremely special person for me to do that with. And although this girl was fun and nice, there was something not there that I needed to feel. I feel like I need to list attributes that I'm looking for, but even with that list, I'm not sure if that ambiguous, intangible something that I need and am looking for would be necessarily there. I can't quite quantify it. I think I'll just know it, when I see it. Or rather feel it.

On a side note, person I met off the website has not contacted me since our second "date." I am somewhat mildly relieved by that fact because it means I'm off the hook from dating someone that I wasn't really interested in, but at the same time I am curious to why she has not called me back. (I only called her once and left a voicemail. I am not one to call a lot (I totally used to do that. That scene in Swingers when Jon Farveau's character is calling the chick and talking into the answering machine. I cringe because I know what that's like)) Did I smell? Was I a bad kisser? Did I suck in bed? I feel like I need her to answer a follow-up survey to our brief time together.

But alas I know better. At least I think I do.

The best thing about coming home…

Is finding little gems of your past that you forgot you had. The lost photo albums, the forgotten (and frankly embarrassing) year books. The last place soccer trophies that your mom lovingly put right next to your older brother's championship and mvp soccer trophies. (Mine are more special. Smaller, much smaller, but still, regardless, more special (to me)) The first couple of jet lagged mornings after I arrived in Seoul were spent sifting through old photo albums that my mom and dad kept. I came to several conclusions after the fifth album or so.

1. I was a devilishly handsome child. Destructively handsome. How I remained single through this day is some mystery to me.
   
2. My family used to take more photographs.
   
3. Did I mention that I was a good looking kid? Seriously….
   

Realizing the repercussions of conclusion 2, I decided to document my life more actively using a camera. Yes. I am one of those annoying people that take pictures now. Sue me. I came to the realization that I really have no photographic evidence of my own to show for my last ten to twelve years of life. And when adoring fans of mine will inevitably stalk my past for photos of me, I feel as those years will be known as the "dark years", where I was in a drugged fueled haze otherwise known as photographic laziness.

Anyways, the whole reason I bring this up is because I found an unusual gem today. An old diary.

Now I have my suspicions about this diary. It was actually written after I last left Korea so it wasn't left there. My mom oftentimes has a tendency to not respect the personal space that my brother and I, as functional adults need. When she came and visited before, she often time would go through our mail to check our credit card statements, answer our phones, rifle through our personal belongings and such. Normal things that every over bearing mother does. (Wait, no you say? Your mother doesn't do that? She respects the boundaries fiscally and relationship wise that you set up? My mom sounds like a mother from a bad sitcom? Nooooooooooooo…(I found the longer that you stretch the o's in no, the more emphatic and thus effective you make it sound)) Anyways, how one of my personal journals managed to find its way to my mother's apartment in Korea, far, far away from its original resting place in Fairfax, is a subject of considerable amusement for me now. Amusement now, because it's now almost six years removed from the apparent theft and none of the entries really have any relevance in my life anymore.

Besides, I'm happy to have it back, because it was a cool journal. Black, leather bound, with a leather strap to wrap it around to keep it shut. Old school, minus the NON COLLEGE LINED paper. (Non-lined journals are hard to find. They're typically called sketchbooks and are way too big. I personally hate lines. I like blank sheets (even though they intimidate me). What infuriates me more is when paper is lined, it's spaced into huge, bulbous lines that are meant to be filled by infants with crayons. I write small. I don't need the extra room. My large ass takes up enough room as it does)

So the best part (and the worst) of finding an old journal is reading it. And then cringing. A lot. As I read entry after entry about how I loved this girl or that girl and I would never forget her and always love her, I wonder how I wasn't slapped around more as a younger man.

Seriously, the worst part about it was only like six years ago (I initially wrote five, but adding a year adds more distance between me and the sobbing, heartbroken idiot that was writing in that cool journal). At the same time, it feels like it was a life time ago. The person I was then, and the person I am now are, essentially the same, but different. Older, wiser, way more sarcastic, and a lot less forgiving to women and their less than monogamous tendencies. Seriously, I thought I was in love with a girl that managed to have relations with four guys on four straight nights.

I dream about that kind of stamina. (And no, to answer your question, I was not one of the four. I, apparently, had "morals" and neglected to jump on that bandwagon. If I were in the same situation now, I probably wouldn't. Unless I was drunk. And I am drunk a lot)

But seriously. My journal runs like a bad Linkin Park song. It's frankly embarrassing. My first response was to immediately tear out the angsty, tear ridden pages of unrequited love and continue to use the journal as another yet unused notebook filled with characters and plot ideas and such, but I figured for the sake of posterity and the person (sappy, pathetic, and apparently really depressed) that I was, I decided to keep the journal intact, but still use it as a soon-to-be unused notebook for my writing "career." Of course, my second response was to blog about it. And I have poor impulse control, thus here I am, doing what I do best, mocking myself.

So thus, I end, and rightly so, with a poem from the aforementioned journal…

This was scribbled as 'Goodbye, my love.' (In the journal, I forgot the comma)

I just watch(ed) another love leave the stage

Of my life

One last dance

One last glance (oohhhh, it rhymed)

Of a face that will be edged (I think I meant etched) in my dreams for

Countless night(s)

Of a soul that set my heart aflame

Goodbye my love unrealized

I was too timid to act

You were unready to see

My loyalty, my devotion (holy fuck, I sound like a stalker)

And something I know that

Would have been special

Slipped away.

Take care my love unrealized

Your place will remain sacred in

My life

I know that I will soon be forgotten (I wasn't, she still called me from time to time. Got married. Had a kid. But still send me a couple naked pics of her a few years back)

The memory of me blown away

Like leaves caught in a gust of wind.

Time. (Wow. Profound)

Perhaps my heart is a fickle thing

That falls in love so easily (You think?)

But my loneliness is magnified by my loyalty

And what so easily happened

Is not so easily taken away (I probably should have written undone…it sounds a helluva lot better)

The memories, (apparently I didn't drink as much back then)

You eyes looking into mine

Goodbye, my love unrealized

I can only pray that

The thought of you will grow

More unfrequent

And I will learn to love you less

Never able to forget

But maybe, move on

Good bye

Wow. I am speechless. Wait for it. There. I'm wiping a tear from my eye.

Impressions of seoul

I'm not really sure what I was expecting from my visit to Korea this time around. It had been so long since I had last been here and what remained of my memories there had faded to the back of my mind, much like my ability to speak the language. My parents had long ago moved away from the apartment of my youth and adolescence; what vestiges remained of the familiar was wiped away with that move.

My parents are still what they were before. My parents. Only their bed time earlier and their hair greyer, but they are still as I remember, only older. My father seems to smile more than I remember from my childhood. I suppose it is because he two sons have finally made their trip home and he doesn't have to sit watching his baseball games alone with my mother, who doesn't understand the difference between a strike and a ball. My mother is abuzz with newfound energy; she introduces us to everyone, every chance she gets. These are my two sons visiting from America, she announces in Korean almost everywhere we visit.

I didn't understand before, but I realize that my parents are lonely without us in the house. In this culture, where the birds don't leave the nest, they have an empty nest. My mother has no one to fuss about, to nag to, to watch over, to cook for. She loves to cook, but with only her and my father, they often times just eat out. But now she cooks, if only for two more weeks.

Seoul has changed so much. It was like a child when I left it; now it is a city struggling through the growth spurts of a rebelling adolescent. It has turned a dichotomy of the new and old; new, huge apartment towering over old fashioned houses, huge grocery stores neighboring mom and pop restaurants. Twenty four hour MacDonald's have arrived, along with overpriced coffee selection of Starbucks on every corner. Costco is a high priced bazaar of Western goods in a culture that craves anything that uniquely not Korean. The only thing that is seemingly not lost in the translation are the crowds at the aforementioned Costco.

This past weekend was the Korean Harvest Moon festival. It roughly translates to the equivalent of Thanksgiving in the United States. I saw my grandmother for the first time in nine years. She seemed so small and old; her hair was now a snowy white, instead the pepper grey that I once remember. I held her hand as we walked down the stairs. I don't remember if I had ever held her hand before in my nine years here. She gripped it tightly even as we rode the elevator. She told me as the elevator rose to live my life well because my mother (her daughter) worries about me much. I smiled and told her I would. I'm not sure if she heard me though, I spoke softly and her hearing is not what it used to be.

I'm not really sure what else to write at this point. I apologize for the randomness of the blog and I know it's not the normally funny observations I typically have. I just wanted to write something down for now. I'll write more later.

 

The failure of each generation…

This is a disclaimer of sorts. My previous blog entries have been lighter in nature. Not that this is a dark and heavy entry, but not really all that funny. Unless you find me funny regardless of what I say. If that's the case, I suggest psychiatric help (psychologist can't prescribe medication) and lots of it. That is unless you're Olivia Munn or Megan Fox. If you're Olivia Munn or Megan Fox and find me funny, we should talk (about having sex).

My co-worker, Jenn (who happens to be one of the only readers of this blog. Mostly because whenever I blog, I yell across out my door, "Jenn, new blog" and she reads it and says "it's good" or "I liked it." (I know she's lying, but it's a nice lie and it boosts my non-existent ego)), and I were having a conversation about something (I really forgot what we were having a conversation about), but for some reason we got on the topic of evangelicals.

Actually, I remember what we were talking about. I have coworker that I work with. I don't particular like him because he comes across (and when I say comes across, I mean he is) arrogant and condescending. He's a Linux guy, and he pushes Linux and other open source software tools like a crack peddler up in Baltimore (I'm sorry Baltimore. I watched the Wire. I've been to Baltimore. It's a crappy city). Now, halfway being a tech person, I know that Linux is the "superior" OS. I just find it esoteric and time consuming to use. I like Windows, even though it's a subpar OS, because I'm familiar with it and it works. It's a choice that I willingly make. (I made this observation to one of my friends once. Linux people are micromanagers with God complexes. Apple people don't really know how to use a computer. Windows people are defeatists that just want to get the job done and go home) However, his attitude is like that he's found some truth in the world of computing that must be shared and forced upon all. This is a trait that annoys me the most about evangelical Christians. I'm happy and fine that you found religion, but leave me out of your conversion. I don't need your zeal in my life. That goes with Linux as well. This is why I call him a Linux evangelical.

The whole conversation about evangelicals led to a segue to another subject. Jenn brought an overly (yes, it was big) large binder that she received at a conference that she went to about recruiting. Within it specified the recruiting techniques for the different generations: Gen Y and Gen X. I've always identified with Gen X. Gen X sounds cooler. Gen X'ers were children of the eighties, that grew up with Michael Jackson and Culture Club and watched the Wall (the one that used to separate East Berlin from West Berlin (the West were the good guys)) fall down. We matured to Pearl Jam and the angsty cacaphonia of sound of Nirvana, fueled by the angry, anti-establishment (by establishment, I mean police) of NWA and Tupac in the nineties. We were the first generation to really use the internet. We watched Iraq invade Iran. Then Iraq invade Kuwait. And then we invaded Iraq. (Go figure)

If you have any questions in what generation you belonged to, here's the test. If you wore Doc Marten's in high school and rocked a Motorola pager, you're a member of Generation X.

I found that I was on the back end of Generation X and the front end of Generation Y. I am your classic 'tweener. I am the six foot eight forward that isn't strong enough to play inside and isn't quick enough to guard on the perimeter. I am Charles Barkley.

But after reveling in the differences about Gen X and Y, I came to a conclusion about Gen Y. Generation Y is the generation of trophies for participation, because parents didn't want to let any child not be rewarded, even if they lost. They're a generation that grew up on newly minted diseases that lead to newly minted drugs for not being able to concentrate on one thing for long enough. (Not that I don't believe that ADHD is a legitimate disease. I just think it is entirely overly diagnosed.) They're the generation of hand sanitizers and bacterial scares. (I remember in high school when I broke my finger playing basketball. I went into shock immediately, but it wore off when I was walking home. The pain was not fun. My mom took one look at my finger and told me it was a sprain and to go ice it. After two acupuncture sessions and continued swelling later, she finally took me to a doctor and got it X-rayed. Same thing happened when I tore my ACL.)

They are also the generation of conclusions. As I discuss issues with some of my newer and younger coworkers, I find one trait common among them. Dogmatism. Sometimes, having a discussion with them is like having a conversation with a wall.

Passion is fine with me. Faith is fine as well. Blind faith is where I draw the line. Faith without questioning is driving down a road with your eyes closed in a tank. It scares me because I see this generation as a generation that has never had their belief systems challenged because the people around them, influencing them, were too scared to bruise their fledgling egos and damage their confidence. They were given ribbons for being wrong and congratulated for losing. The internet has further exasperated this problem because it just unites like-minded individuals together in forums and chat rooms. It creates this group think mentality that a person doesn't need to have their ideas challenged, thus making them assured that they are right, regardless if it's the truth or not. This is the generation of intellectual laziness.

This is why religion sometimes frightens me. Religion is a conglomeration of conclusion about the philosophy of life. It's a short cut of sorts on how to live your life. Not that these conclusions are necessarily wrong, but it is the struggle, reasons why people came to these conclusions that should be the conviction to follow them. Conclusions without basis, without proper conviction, without the struggle to realize leads to dogmatism. And dogmatism is the epitome of intellectual laziness. Dogmatism is break down of communication. Dogmatism is source of conflict. Dogmatism is the root of violence.

But I suppose it is easy to just shake your head at the generation younger than you, thinking that they don't know how good they have it.

I was playing pool with another coworker once. We were commiserating about the problems we had going on in our respective lives. An older coworker was in the room with us. He smiled politely as we spoke with him. I think it was me that asked him about his past. He told us that he was from Vietnam and that he was born before the war and that he was the oldest of his family. He spoke of the struggle that he went through to survive. He spoke of how he struggled and worked as to teen to take care of his family. He spoke lovingly of his mother that sacrificed everything to allow them to survive.

I wonder how he looked at us. Weak? Undisciplined? I'll never know. All he did was just smile.

Hiking

So I'm pretty sure it's been officially over a week now. I've gotten nine views from users and sent out emails to seven girls. Despite this, I have yet to receive any replies or acknowledgements of my existence.

You are officially reading the blog of the most undateable man on the internet. I swear this is worse than high school. I might have to start writing bad poetry again to deal with my feelings of rejection.

I did get an email today from a random person. I'm pretty sure it was a bot (internet geek term for a spammer) because the email really did not make sense (And the punctuation and grammar were perfect. Unusual for internet peoples) and the account was subsequently deleted immediately. (Further establishing my faith in my choice of websites. Despite being a free website, they do manage to catch spammers)

Anyways, I'm losing faith fast that anything will really come out of this, but, I figure for entertainment value and the sake of this blog, I must trudge on. I'm thinking about changing my profile some. Literally dumb the language down some to make it easier to understand. Maybe tone back the sarcasm. I've even thought about joining a pay website. But I haven't given up hope for bad and awkward first dates from this website just yet (and I am cheap). The glass is still a quarter full, my friend.

After surfing through countless (at this point, I'm probably up to almost a thousand…no joke) profiles, I've found the magic buzzword hobby.

Hiking.

Yes, dear readers, swallow that in. Hiking (aka glorified walking) is among most popular of hobbies that I've run into among user profiles. This leads me to one subsequent question.

REALLY, WHO HIKES?

Better yet…

REALLY, WHO ENJOYS HIKING?

Hiking to me is the chicken of hobbies. It's bland. It's safe. It's unassuming (Everything tastes like it). It doesn't say too much about you. It takes no prior skill or knowledge to do. It says I enjoy the outdoors (aka I'm not allergic to the sun. On a side note, a good friend of mine is actually allergic to the sun. I shit you not. He sneezes every time he's in direct sunlight. True disorder. Wikipedia it) and I like to exercise (but not too strenuously, because it's very likely that I haven't done a significant amount of exercise since high school gym class), but I'm not a jock. It's the ultimate activity for people that have one butt cheek on the couch but are not yet willing to admit that they might be a couch jockey. (That's my replacement term for couch potato. Couch potato is so denigrating. It suggests that I do nothing on the couch. I move, albeit slowly, on the couch. My ass falls asleep if I sit too long. I change channels. That is an activity. I am more active than a potato.) Hiking ranks among watching paint dry in required prerequisite skills for a hobby. All you need to know how to do to hike is walk. Even playing video games take more fine motor skills than hiking. If haven't learned to walk (and your legs are still functional) and you're online trying to get a date, you are a very special person (not special like, Nate, you're a special guy. Short bus special.)

People who claim hiking as a hobby also consider kickball a sport (on another random tangent, did you know that power walking is an Olympic sport? ARE YOU SERIOUS? You can get a medal for walking fast? To clarify, I respect all the athletes in the Olympics. Although they might not play activities that I consider true sports, they perform their respective events at a level that I, as an ordinary person, could never achieve. Power walking, however, does not fall under this category. If I can do it better than the competing 'athlete', it really doesn't belong in the Olympics. And I know I can do it better. It's called R-U-N-N-I-N-G). I considered kickball a sport when I was in third grade and I thought girls had cootie powers and Optimus Prime was still dead.

But, I digress. Maybe this is where I am going wrong. Maybe my general despise for generic profile answers that really are equivalent to saying the alphabet in respect to revealing any facet of my personality is what best represents me on an online dating website. Maybe I should be vague and opaque to who I am and just list that I am single and am looking for an 'easy girl.' (And yes, by easy, I mean slutty) Maybe I should include a blurred and off angle self shot of myself on my profile to leave more for the imagination to fill in. I tend to forget, in the online world, reality is an option, not an absolute.

Hiking, huh?

Do I hike? Hell yes, I do. I love it.

Now, will you go on a date with me???

So it’s been almost a week now…

…and no real progress on this whole online dating thing. When I first envisioned the "experiment," I thought of two scenarios: either I would go on several horrid dates and write an incredible, award winning screen play from my experiences OR I would actually find someone that I was both attracted to and was mildly somewhat normal on the site. Never really had I considered the possibility that I wouldn't have a date by the end of the first week.

Initially, I took the rejection personally. I thought I wasn't an ugly person, but then maybe I was. Maybe it was the fact that I was Asian. I over analyzed the multiple variables that went into why a person would refuse to press the 'reply' button on one of my witty and engaging emails. How these women so deftly could avoid my charming nature and my clever wit.

Finally, I realize what the problem was. I have been sending emails to racist, stupid, butch lesbians.

 

 

…….

Ah. If life was only so simple. No, dear readers, I am not so vain to think that my failures are attributed the aforementioned assumption that the women I emailed were indeed playing for the other team and were of minimal intelligence. I realize that there is a possibility that all five (technically three, since two of the emails have not been read yet) of the emails that I sent to each girl was read and the girl decided that she wasn't interested. I realize.

At least a few people have dropped by to check out my profile. No news of yet. I did begin to let people rate my picture. My scores were shockingly low (dude, some women rated me a one. I am not a one. I might not be a ten, but there is no way in hell I am a one. I have ten fingers and ten toes. I think that, by default, puts me at two level). So low, in fact, I actually posted a more appeasing (naked) photo of myself (bent over, looking back) on the website. Needless to say, my score is somewhat higher (7.5, baby. Show some T&A and nothing can stop you).

I would love to be able to impart some wisdom that I've learned from this whole experience thus far. I can't. I haven't really learned anything at all. So far it's been a great time filler at work, apart from the multiple games of scrabulous being played. I obsessively check the website everyday hoping that maybe someone will message me soon. All for naught.

Day 2…

So it's officially day 2 after, I've put on my profile on the anonymous dating website. After about an hour of browsing through picture after picture and reading description after description (this has temporarily replaced freecell as my 'time waster at work' activity), I've come up with a few conclusions. (On a separate note, I do have to say half the fun of joining "social networking" or "dating" sites is just mowing through other people's profiles. It's like people watching on steroids) First of all, I am shocked that half of these users passed high school English. Even with Microsoft Word's grammar and spell check, their ability to butcher the English language was phenomenal. I mean, I can take a typo here and there, but some of these people are clueless. I'm not sure if I should laugh at or feel pity for a person that doesn't realize that wine (the beverage) and whine (Linkin Park lyrics) are two different words.

Anyways, after hours of searching, I found two likely candidates that. I emailed them both with what I thought to be friendly and funny emails. It has been about twelve hours. The website has a nice option of seeing the status of the emails you sent out. One was read, but not responded to. The other one was deleted.

Ouch.

I realize if my goal out of all of this is to actually get a date with a person, this might be a long and arduous process. Personal humiliation might be in the deck as well.

The website also has a nice little option of displaying who has viewed your profile as well. 48 hours in a two views. The obligatory Asian girls on the site had to check out my profile. To clarify, I am Asian. I do not actively pursue girls of Asian heritage because they are simply the same ethnicity as me. This comes as a shock to some people, but I actually consider personality to be the strongest characteristic that I look for in a girl (albeit personality with a great ass makes for a stronger candidate). I like intelligent, independent minded women with strong personalities. I like sass, I like wit. I like girls that are self assured. Frankly these are not qualities and traits that I have found in many Asian women.

But that does not deter the fact that people often try and set me up with Asian girls or Korean girls simply based on the fact that we are both Asian and that they think that "we would look good together." (Seriously, I don't know how many times I've been told or been set up this way. No joke, no exaggeration)

I smile. Tell them that I'm flattered, but I'm not interested. Thank them. I smile even though I feel like mismatched pair of shoes that has been put together simply because they are the same color. Yes. And that color is yellow. Even though yellow is the last color that I would describe my skin color as. (Dark, tanned flesh would be more accurate)

So 48 hours in, no updates, no emails and the obligatory views from the two other Asian people on the website.

Things are going so well.

 

An addendum to the previous post…

The previous post, "About the author," is actually my profile on an anonymous online dating website that I recently joined. I thought that it would 1) be funny to write about the experiences I had on an online dating site and 2) keep my options open for the chance for a little romance. Really, I've had friends that have had successful relationships that have come out of online dating. Really!

Anyways, I view it as a sort of social experiment. I have quite figured out the variables in this experiment or the procedure. The website will remain anonymous so that it won't taint the online sample of women that are interested or not interested. I mean what's the worst that can happen? I have an online stalker or two…

Anyways, thus far, nothing. I'm going to let my profile just drift around for a little. I'll report later with results, or lack there of.

About the author….

1) I have what has been described to me as a wry, dry, self deprecating sense of humor.

2) I find the most mundane of house hold chores therapeutic. Folding laundry is relaxing.

3) I am addicted to caffeine, embodied in little silver cans of diet cokes(actually my favorite is coke zero, but I am willing to compromise). I have given up cigarettes and potentially would give up alcohol, but caffeine is a war that cannot be won with me. I am not a functional person without caffeine. Fair warning to those who try and pry it away from me.

4) I enjoy puzzles and puzzle games. My latest addiction that consumes my daily attrition of work is online scrabble. I would like to think that I am good at it, but that in turn would be admitting that I am good at something, which in turn would contradict statement 1 and my constant self deprecation.

5) I enjoy pushing myself to limits and testing these limits. I am not really a competitive person, except unending struggle with myself. Hence, I enjoy running. For those who think of running as painful, my answer is ‘pain is for sissies.’ However, despite my enthusiasm to run and work out, I do not want to be deceitful. I aspire to and could easily afford to lose a few more pounds. I have not recently been mistaken for an Abercrombie and Fitch model (by recently, I mean never).

6) As the aforementioned statement indicates, I am somewhat of a sado-masochist. Thus, I enjoy watching mildly entertaining, but otherwise bad movies on HBO. Among my prouder watching accomplishments- Bow Wow’s performance in the stellar ‘Roll Bounce’ and Nick Cannon’s performance in ‘Drumline.’ I am also a fan of romantic comedies (my most recent foray was 'Definitely, Maybe'), although I will not necessarily always fess up to it. I openly embrace my inner dork and my first love is science fiction. Yes, I love Star Wars (first trilogy only).7) I am a huge football fan (on Fall Sundays I have a tendency to become non-communicative)8) An addendum to statement eight, I am a huge sports fan in general.

9) I typically get into longwinded, usually irrelevant conversations about non-important details of something or another(my most recent conversation was about if power walking is an Olympic sport, then competitive eating should be one as well). Typically, the threat of physical violence is the best way to curb these impulses I have.

10) Although I say I am a registered Democrat, I am not. Truthfully, I am fiscally Republican, but socially Democrat (in layman’s terms, I believe in low taxes and the right to choose). I try to keep an open mind to debates, but generally, have little patience for blatant ignorance.

11) I enjoy malty ales and medium bodied red wines. Bass or Smithwicks is my beer of choice on tap. I order my steaks medium rare, more on the rarer side if I have my choice. I am a bit of a foodie, or I try to be. I enjoy eating and cooking(oftentimes, unsuccessfully) good food.

12) I am horrible with names, great with faces.

13) Another addendum to the previous statement. I am generally absent minded.

14) I aspire to be a writer, but I am somewhat bashful to share my work an ideas. I am hardly ever satisfied with my work, and I constantly think that it can be improved. I realized, recently, that people who consistently ask about how my writing is going are doing so more because they genuinely care and want to know, and not to annoy me on reminding me on how little I have actually progressed.

15) I love music of the indie rock genre. Lately, I’ve been listening to more and more lo-fi. By far and away, She&Him's Volume One has been my favorite album of the summer. Zoey Deschanel is a musical goddess.

16) I do own comic books. I make no aspiration to be cool. I watch the cartoon network fairly regularly as well.

17) I believe in God. I do not necessarily believe in the church. Interpret that as you will.

18) I dream in color.

19) For someone who claims to be a writer, I am not as well read as I would like to be. I would name some of my favorite authors, but as I stated before, I am horrible with names and forgot all of them. I am always open and grateful for suggestions however.

20) My dog is a little bit crazy. He twitches and snores in his sleep. Its cute, in a weird, endearing sort of way.

Late night brooding….

So when is a giving a person a business card just giving a person a business card? Or when is giving a person a business card an invitation for <enter crude sexual innuendo here> (it's late at night and it's hard to think of something clever sex joke right now).

The line between friendliness and flirtation is something that I don't think I'll ever be fully aware of. Some members of the opposite gender are so adept at mixing the two together, it is entirely impossible to distinguish the two from one another. The common male assumption (remember to ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME) is that the member of the female gender is flirting with him, which is boosting to the male ego, something, that, if I may mention, is in constant need of boosting. (Now although the line between friendliness and flirting is sometimes blurred, the line between sarcasm and observation is not. For those who do not know me well, the comment about the male ego was sarcastic; ie I know a lot of assholes) The common female reality is that flirting and friendliness are subsequently misinterpreted. Most likely, she was being friendly.

That is the common assumption I make though. Unless a girl woman (I stopped dating girls) has her hand on my crotch and is whispering crude sexual innuendo in my ear, I think the member of the female gender is being "friendly."

This is probably not a healthy attitude. But it's a safe one. Too many times have a misinterpreted her interest in the huge blot of ketchup that is grotesquely hanging off the side of my mouth for the desire to make out. (What? I'm a messy eater.) Or the sidelong glances and tight lipped "what a douche bag" smiles as "checking me out." Or the subsequent proximity or brushing or touching as more than "dude, you're a larger dude and this is a crowded room. It happens."

Even with this unhealthy outlook, sometimes I still get confused. Assuming that no one is really flirting with you kind of bottoms out that thing called self confidence, and the only way to maintain such an attitude is to believe that you have an incorrigible, toad like personality and that you resemble the creepy dude from the Lord of the Rings trilogy that kept on saying 'my precious.' (Yes, I know his name is Smeagol. Yes, I read the LOTR trilogy. Twice) Unfortunately, despite my constant self berating, I cannot entirely convince myself that I am a squat troll. Thus, statistically, a marginal amount of the girls women that I encounter and converse with potentially might be slightly attracted to me. Thus, based upon this conclusion, they must flirt.

But then the question is, is she flirting or is she just being nice?

There are always articles in prominent and not so prominent men's magazines about 'how to read a woman's body language' or 'how to tell that she's into you.' My response to all of this? My next blog that will be entitled 'how to be a sucker and actually believe the stuff you read from a magazine full of buxom, lingerie clad women that interview like they want to have sex with you but in reality don't and the stuff they print about the psychology of women is not true.'

I mean, I guess this is really a roundabout way of saying it, but meeting people is tough. Flirting is awkward. It sucks. But lately, I've been feeling this intense feeling of lack of closeness in my life. I wrote loneliness at first, but when I thought about it, I didn't think it was the right word. I'm not lonely. I have a dog, great friends and family. I'm not alone. I'm not lonely. What I do feel is that as I've gotten older, the relationships that I've made have gotten more superficial. I know, its sounds horrible doesn't it? But it's the truth. Even the closest friends I have, they have trivial problems in their lives and don't necessarily have the time to pay attention to all my trivial problems. Yes, I know not everyone's problems are trivial, but with enough perspective, they usually aren't as big as we make them out to be, but that's beside the point. It's not mean spirited or anything of that nature, it's just the natural progression of life. Even branches of the same tree, although rooted in the same soil, grow apart. I don't question any of my friends' loyalty or even the quality of our friendships. It's just as we've all grown and moved in our separate directions, the daily intimacy of shared experiences was lost.

It made me wonder though. Can this desire for intimacy that I found to be missing in my life be found in anything else besides a significant other? We often bridge the gap of physical intimacy with emotion intimacy. Basically, do I need to be having regular (and subsequent very brief) sex with a person to recapture this essence of intimacy from shared experiences with someone? I find it funny that we often we bridge this aforementioned gap between confidant and sex partner. But it makes sense in an odd way. After all, as we get older, we lie, repress, avoid, change subjects to build walls to protect ourselves. And one of the biggest things that we avoid/repress/lie about is in how we dress. We push up things that aren't really that big, wear larger sizes to hid bulges, wear patterns that "slim." When you're nekked in bed, exposed in all your pale skin that has never seen the sun in ten years glory, this wall is finally gone. (Let me explain naked and nekked as it was explained to me. You get naked to take a shower. You get nekked in order to do something that will make you need to take a shower, later on.) And with this first wall down, it's only natural to assume that most of the rest will come tumbling down.

So is my fate to toil with this lack of intimacy that enshrouds my life until I find someone to have relations with? Or can I find it in other places besides a girlfriend. I don't know. I find myself brooding on late nights wondering if those poor suckers that decided to get hitched at an early age knew something I didn't know. But then I see their looks of unabashed jealousy when I tell them how my weekend which involved beer, channel surfing, and a couch. Maybe I just need to suck it up.

When I told my good friend about these interesting theories, he calmly told me that I should consider moving to New York and come live with him. This would eliminate the daily intimacy lacking in my life, he assured me.

I asked him if he was flirting with me.

Add color here

My friends say I exaggerate things. Like when I tell them that 66 is the worst road in the United States. They're typical response is, "Really, Nate? Is it REALLY the WORST road in the US?" I usually respond that it is, which I truly believe. They in turn, roll their eyes and dismiss my opinions as exaggerations.

But life isn't funny without exaggerations. Take for instance, my life, which seems to be fodder for all my stories. (Despite what you may believe, I have a highly evolved sense of self deprecation and although I write about my life all the time, I do not think my life is interesting. I just have an interesting perspective on my life.) My life is essentially boring. I sleep. I eat. I drink, mostly diet coke. I shit. I watch tv. Occasionally, I'll exercise. Oh, and I write, when I feel motivated. I work. (By work I mean play FreeCell)

There. I summed up the entirety of my daily existence in twenty seven words. If this was a dustcover biography in my future-yet-to-be-published book, it would be followed by a lot of white space. I do despise white space (it intimidates me, click back and read a couple entries about blank pages).

Take my job year long job as a bouncer. You would think that I had so many interesting and funny stories to tell. After a person asked my about it, I pondered for a few seconds. All I could muster was a horrid story about a drunk guy that probably (I didn't see it) got arrested for a DUI. That was responded with a horrid look of fear and disgust. That is when I conveniently took a sip from my ever present pint of beer, to save me from speaking more.

I sat a lot as a bouncer. On really uncomfortable bar stools. It took me about two weeks to master the correct slouch in which I could sit without letting one of my ass cheeks fall asleep. I obsessively checked my cell phone to check the time, hoping that more than the two minutes I knew had passed, had really passed by. I read books, newspapers, anything really I could get my hands on. I found myself reading the back of the label once, because it was more interesting that looking at the stairs (exaggeration, not the stairs, the label). I tried practicing meditation once. It failed miserably, when I realized that I had nodded off to sleep for about five minutes. I drank copious amounts of diet coke and water (sadly, not an exaggeration). This served several purposes. First was to probably rehydrate myself. Although I sat a lot, sometimes I would find myself moving a lot in very crowded rooms with very little air conditioning. (People, when you go out, personal hygiene is not a luxury. Shower. Deodorant. Cologne or perfume if you have the chance. On another note, I know there are some naysayers that are reading this, yes I know, all three of you, that think that diet coke does not hydrate a person. You are wrong. Diet cokes is like the ambrosia that the Greek Gods drank upon the peak of Mount Olympus.) Secondly, to over caffeinate myself. A lot the time, I would be staring, doing the same action, repeated about five million times (another exaggeration). Working, I probably could have been fine only knowing a few key phrases of English; "Yes, I work here," "The bathroom is downstairs," "There's a line to get upstairs," "ID," and "Move." Please was an optional attachment to any of the aforementioned statements (sadly, not an exaggeration). Thus, caffeination was desperately needed considering that my shifts ranged for ten to twelve hours of the mind numbing repetition. Lastly, the reason I drank a lot was, believe it or not, to make myself urinate a lot. Before you click the nice little cross shaped icon on the top of your browser in disgust, hold out to read through my logic. Working as a bouncer, I rarely got a break. During the first couple of hours, the traffic was slow and I didn't really need a break. When things got busy, I couldn't really leave my position in order to just get a breather. However, relieving myself in the restroom was the only break I got sometimes. It was my solace from the helter skelter of the bar scene. It was the only time when people were asking for me in the radio where I could legitimately tell them to wait because I have my penis in my hand. (yes, exaggeration)

So, yes. There. I exaggerate. Life is boring otherwise. I love it when I go to the movies and critics describe a movie as a slice of life. No, really it isn't. Firstly, a slice of my life would last about five minutes of the silver screen. A little montage of a strapping Asian man typing away at the computer, followed by a scene of him playing video games at home. In those two scenes alone, you have described about ninety percent of my day. (exaggeration, actually only about sixty percent) A slice of life isn't entertaining. No one's life is really entertaining. Horrifying? Perhaps. Boring? Most definitely. When I dream about my daily life and I wake unsure if I had a dream or I was just remembering the day I had, I call those dreams nightmares.

Exaggeration is the color to the otherwise bland canvas that I look at every day. It's one of the white lies I tell every day just to make the bitter pill we call life a little easier to swallow. I would think of another analogy here, but I'm kind of getting a throbbing headache right now. Exaggeration is the grease on my chain I call my life? Yeah….

Now I know I’m not ugly

Although, in hindsight, it took me a long time to come to terms with that fact. I went to a high school full of very thin people, living in a country that was extremely image conscious. Being slightly "big boned," (on a side note, what the fuck does that mean. My pediatrician always avoided the term fat. I was fat. I had a gut. Saying I was "husky" or "big boned" was like giving me nutrasweet and telling me its sugar) I was always self conscious of my size. By big boned, I mean I was probably two of the girls in my class. While in the US, my size would have probably been celebrated by the fact that I was mildly athletic and probably could have been a decent football player. In Korea, I was, for lack of better words, a fat guy in a sea of skinny people.

To add to this, whenever my loving and wonderful mother calls me on her now (read previous blog called 'The Lies We Tell') weekly phone call, her first question is, "how is your weight control going?" Of course, I always lie and say it's going great.

Anyways, needless to say, it took me a little while to finally get over my issues with size. Eventually, I've learned to embrace what you have in life, or change it. Subsequently, I've lost give or take forty pounds in the past couple of months. I'm not as much sure as if I've been doing this for self image- I have lost a lot of weight in the past and gained it back, mostly out of self loathing- or the fact that the clothes that I had weren't fitting me anymore and I am subsequently too poor and embarrassed to buy an entirely new wardrobe.

Anyways, the only reason I divulge these terribly honest and frankly a little embarrassing facts, is…actually, I'm not sure if there was a reason. But their kind of funny, looking back at them.

I'm a big zero for three this summer when it comes to dating. Three different girls, three different types of rejections. Although it would be funny for me to dwell into the details of each rejection and explain the semantics of each situation…..actually it would be funny.

Girl number 1

I had known of girl number 1 since high school, which was promising, because we shared a similar background in a sense. Sometimes, I have a hard time relating to the typical high school experience in the US- I guess because my high school experience was so not typical. Anyways, since we had gone to the same high school, there was a commonality there which I thought would be a good basis for things.

She would be what I would term as a late bloomer. In fact, despite the size of my high school being barely under a massive four hundred (380 actually, I think. There were like 76 students in my graduating class) students, I hardly recall any interaction with Girl number 1. I believe the word that I am looking for is wall flower. Anyways, about a year ago, former wallflower Girl number 1 walks back into my world. And she has bloomed significantly since I last saw here. I would go into further detail, however I find that describing how big her boobs were now compared to then is distasteful.

Anyways, I got her number that night. Went out for dinner. It kind of fizzled after that. Stayed in contact, saw her once in a blue moon, and then a couple months ago, went out for ice cream, which turned into dinner and drinks and then sitting by the river just talking. I thought that was a go ahead to ask her to go out on another date. Unfortunately, she is leaving for law school at the end of the summer and cited that for the reason to not get involved with anyone.

I still insist I'm much more fun than law school.

Girl number 2

Now I've know girl number 2 for nearly four years now. We both were involved the literary magazine at my former university. She was an incoming freshman and I was, well, let's just say I was well along the road of my college career, a long winding road with many a side trails and pit stops. Anyways, we always watched movies together. I am somewhat artsy and I can appreciate good cinematography when I see it.

Needless to say, when I first met Girl number 2, she was significantly younger than me and because of that, didn't think it was necessarily appropriate to pursue a relationship with her.

Skip to four years later and now she is going into her senior year of college. Girl number 2 goes to Italy for the summer. She calls me from Italy. Twice. I really don't think much of the phone calls, but the thought still lingers in my head somewhat. I start to see Girl number 2 as maybe something more than just a movie companion. Eagerly, I await her return from Italy and I help her move into her new apartment. We go out for beers that night. Despite there being an obvious lack of chemistry between us and I still find it in my drunken self (this was after eight or nine beers and I was teetering on the dark side of the force) to ask her if she was attracted to me. She paused for a moment.

"I don't think I can see us being anything past friends. I hope this doesn't hurt you." I said it didn't. I lie. I lie a lot sometimes.

Girl number 3

I've known Girl number 3 for about the same amount of time that I've known Girl number 2. She's not nearly as young as Girl number 2, which is always a plus, but she was carrying a lot of emotional baggage (she has a kid and a psycho ex-boyfriend) and had her own issues (she told me that she was bipolar). Despite this, she was a redhead (which I have a thing for) and had a lot of freckles (which I find cute). We had just kind of got back in touch after a long period of prolonged not talking. Pregnancy and taking care of a kid kind of takes you out of the social world for a little while.

Anyways, a more recent wrinkle in a friendship was that we had started meeting up and having beers together. By recent, I mean that we had just done it two times before. I enjoyed her company and she enjoyed mine. Nothing really flirtatious, although over chat, over conversations were borderline flirtatious. I like hanging out with her because she was just as big of a lush as I was and she smoked. I am a part time smoker. I am not a full time smoker because I intend to quit. However, in a world full of non smokers, nothing makes you feel guiltier than lighting up a cigarette and getting the look like "you're killing me and yourself and I hate you for that" that non-smoker often give. That guilt is lifted when smoking around a smoker. And let me tell you, nothing goes better with throwing back beers than cancer sticks.

Most recently we went out. Had few too many beers. We were vibing and I felt like there was chemistry between us. Admitting, I got handsy- although I never really trying to cop a feel or let my hands wander somewhere inappropriate. Mostly like little backrubs and such. I think I might have pecked her shoulder at some point in the night. It gets hazy. Anyways, it was not like these actions were unwelcome by her or reciprocated at some way shape or form. Nothing happened, of course. I walked her back to her car and she drove home.

A few days afterwards, we talk. "I was very uncomfortable that night." I believe those were her exact words. I, being the nice person I usually am, said I was sorry.

I did forgot to ask her when she felt uncomfortable. Was it when she was telling me about how she was having sex with the portly older man that sweat on her that she met on match.com? Or when she declared that she was just a sexual person? Or just when I kissed her on the cheek good night.

So 0-3 this summer. I've come up with five logical explanations.

1. I am ugly.
   
2. The girls I meet are blind, deaf and stupid.
   
3. Law school really sucks
   
4. I need to stop asking out friends
   
5. I am attracted to the wrong type of girl.
   

As far as I know 1 and 2 are not true. 3 is most definitely true. 4 and 5 probably are true, but I'm not sure what I can really do about it.

But at least I know I'm not ugly. I think. Just big boned.

Rapid hope loss

Yeah I know, it's a title of a cheesy Dashboard Confessionals song.

But lately, I feel deflated. Like my tire, that gave out on the middle of 66 on my daily commute.

Sometimes I think that life is like fixing a leak. Every time you have one hole plugged in, another one breaks loose. And then you realize that you don't have any more fingers to plug the hole with. And I'm leaking a lot right now.

Let's cut to the chase. I'm failing at what I've been doing right now. I've been procrastinating, avoiding, hiding away from what I set out to do from the get go. I haven't been writing. I feel like I've put my eggs all in this one basket and put it aside, hoping one day it will magically sprout into something beautiful- without caring for it, tending it, sheltering it, or nurturing it. I have the paint and the canvas; I think I expect to see a masterpiece without touching a paintbrush.

Oh what a fool that I am sometimes.

Life is what you make of it. Brick walls are not obstacles in life; they merely show how much you really want something. Cliches are abundant for a person in my predicament.

I don't know. I don't know anymore. Answers are of plenty, but solutions, now that is a different a different bag. All I feel these days is a mixed assortment of feelings of apathy and frustration. I'm almost thirty and I look back at my life. Should I concentrate on the litany of failures that have amassed behind me or still hope for more in the future.

I hate doubting. Doubt is the delete button that I repeated press whenever I don't think anything I write is good enough. Wait. Had to stop myself from deleting right there.

I hate this innate frustration that I feel that I am not good enough. I cannot finish. People so much more talented than me have failed. What do I have that they didn't to succeed? Drive? Don't make me laugh.

I always thought if I put my mind to something, that I could achieve anything. It was my ace in the hole. I've failed because I never tried, not because I was never good enough. After writing that, I see that that's only an excuse in itself.

Maybe I am afraid to fail. In my mind, remaining ignorant and fantasizing about success is easier and much more fulfilling than actually trying and failing. And I will fail. Over and over again, before I succeed.

I am a writer. My professor wrote that in my journal once. I was taking a creative writing class in college. She asked us to keep a journal and hand it in weekly. She would sometimes respond. I think I had an entry- much like this one full of doubts and insecurities. Questioning my ability to write, to craft words in sequence in a manner that would be captivating and convincing and at the same time entertaining. But all she wrote was, "Nate, you are a writer. Never question that."

But it is one thing to be a writer and then another to write as a profession.

Breathe. In, and then out. Close your eyes, clear you head. Falling is not important. Getting up is.

Why do we fall, Master Wayne? So that we can learn to pick ourselves up.

You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Batman quotes. You got to love them.

Summer days

I'm frustrated.

Summer has always been a period of self realization for me. I guess it started with the long summer breaks from years in school. It was the first opportunity you have to extensively look at what happened to you over the course of the year. Where as in winter, it is acceptable to back it in and lay halfway dormant in the cold months; Spring, you are elated over the end of the long winter months and the ability to enjoy some sun and Fall, which always just seemed like a hustle and bustle between holidays and finishing the work of the year, before the year came to end. Summer was a time that I could reflect.

I am frustrated. Frustrated with my life. My lack of inspiration in my writing. Lack of writing thereafter. It seems such a labor for me to write a single sentence. Nothing sounds write to me anymore. I immediately dismiss my ideas as lame or stupid, while everything seems glutted behind a wall of frustration, unable to get out. I can't see my characters anymore. I can't hear the plots being whispered in my head. Dreams don't come to me of scenes that I should write. I simply wake up every morning and think to take my next step and the step after that.

I know, I know. Step back. Breathe. Regain perspective. Tomorrow will come, the sun will rise. You can place any adage here that is applicable.

Change is so hard. Changing who I am, how I approach things. I think the hardest thing about change is not the realization that you are wrong and that something needs to be different. The actual realization is quite easy to see. It is the acceptance of that realization. Truly accepting your faults and shortcomings, not denying them as a part of yourself, something that is immutable to change itself. Realizing that all my years of experience, my intelligence have lead me to the wrong conclusion, that the way I behave is incorrect. Pride for me is the hardest pill to swallow. It is the things that limits me, my growth, stunts my social life, my love life.

But how to just let go?

It so ironic, that in all my insecurities, pride is what I cling to. It makes me persevere when I should not, but holds me back when I should excel. I don't know. I don't have any answers here, no clever adages to input. Nothing to tell myself.

Dreamless shut lids and conscious nightmares of days in constant repeat,

The number of breaths taken counted,

Bite chewed in succession,

Jargons of words said in succession for no other reason than to simply hear their mere utterance

To drink without thirst, eat without hunger

To have no needs other than to restless slumber

This is the house I build for myself

White washed walls devoid of adornment, windows shuttered and boarded shut,

So that I should not recollect the moments passing,

Feelings to lays dormant,

Paintings of vibrant color that now have been muted by the age

The sun light bleaching the color

Returning to a blank canvas

Be still my beating heart

Be still.

Words from the dictionary

Frustration

–noun

1.	act of frustrating; state of being frustrated: the frustration of the president's efforts.

 

2.	an instance of being frustrated: to experience a series of frustrations before completing a project.

 

3.	something that frustrates, as an unresolved problem.

 

4.	a feeling of dissatisfaction, often accompanied by anxiety or depression, resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems.

 

Writer's

–noun

1. one who writes, especially as an occupation.

Block

–noun

12.	an obstacle, obstruction, or hindrance: His stubbornness is a block to all my efforts.

 

13.	the state or condition of being obstructed; blockage: The traffic block lasted several hours.

Unanswered phone calls and blank pages

I don't answer my phone if I don't recognize the number on the caller ID.

A little of it is because I'm so used to credit card companies calling me offering me new features of a piece of plastic that would just perpetuate the agony of paying them off or bill collectors reminding me politely that I'm late on a payment.

Well, thinking about it further, sometimes when I recognize the caller ID, I don't even answer my phone. I just find it kind of annoying to be reached at any time of day, any where I am. I remember the days without cell phones, where you had to be conscientious about when you called and the frequency of your calls. Now seemingly, that etiquette has been thrown out the window.

My father always called his cell phone his doggy tag. Funny.

So I tell my friend Yune how I've been feeling overwhelmed lately about the magnitude of the things I want to write these days. Sometimes, I feel overwhelmed by this story. I wonder what Da Vinci felt, when he looked around the Cistine Chapel and saw a blank ceiling. Not that I can compare myself to Da Vinci. Wow. That was a horrible analogy. How about this. When I stand at a wonderful buffet, starving, but sometimes I don't know where to start, because there are so many good foods that I want to try.

There's always something to write, she answered to me. I only feel frustrated when I'm not near a computer or a pen.

I have a sign, to the right of where I sit in my office. In big bold letters, its states, 'you could be writing right now.' Like a lot of times in my life, I've found myself lately waiting for something to pick me up and take me where I want to go, instead of just moving and walking there myself. Whether it is fear of failure, fear of success, lack of motivation, or lack of inspiration, there's always some place to go. Some other place to move to. There's always something to write about. Even if it is this mindless drabble in a blog.

I probably should change the title of this blog….

Since I am, at the end of April, going to be no longer employed in the food service industry. Not that the title was entirely accurate in the first place. I don't know, the Chronicles of being a writer and a bouncer and sometimes bar back while also doing IT administration on the side just doesn't really have a ring to it.

So there, I said it. I'm quitting working at the Reef. Not because I hate the job. Albeit, at times the job was stressful, irritating, discouraging, disheartening, and downright gross. I was a spectator of the inevitable nightly de-evolution of working professionals to stumbling, incoherent Neanderthals, reduced to searching for their basic needs; sex to procreate, food to survive, and shelter to sleep. I've cleaned up more bodily fluids than I would like to admit. Night after night, as I watched the twenty and thirty somethings that passed me, I could not shake the unnerving feeling that if the future of this nation lay in the hands of these same people, moving to Canada really did not seem like a bad option.

No really, I didn't hate the job. And in the end, I enjoyed the people I met at the bar. Each was his or her own character in his or her own life drama. Everybody used the word family loosely around the bar and its employees. Although I always felt welcome, I never really felt included. I think some of it might have been my own withdrawal from the situation at whole. I find that I live in my head more and more these days. None the less, I'll miss the friends I did make, and although I don't feel like the end of April will be the last time I see them, I feel as I will see them much less than I did before.

I quit, mostly, because I am tired. I felt like working at two jobs, I was moving at full steam ahead, setting sail with a full mast of wind, but my rudder was stuck. My days felt like an endless repetition of days and nights; where I would wake up every morning and just hope that I could get through the day relatively unscathed. And this isn't what I wanted. I felt like I was running in circles really fast, faster than I had in my entire life, but just around the same track over and over. I need time to get my bearings straight, plot my course to the destination that I want to go. I mean, I know even the most well conceived plans go awry, and even if I get my bearings straight, it doesn't mean I'll get to my destination with any certainty. But it's nice to have a direction. It's nice to have an idea what you are doing.

Wow. This got relatively downtrodden quickly. I guess ultimately, I know that bartending, the "industry", will always be around for me to return to. The Reef will always be a home that I am welcome at. But if I am to succeed in writing, I need to give myself the opportunity to do so now, when I still have a chance, and honestly not that much to lose. So I exit, leaving the door slightly ajar for a potential return. I don't look back because I know it will remain that way.

Forts

1.31.08

Its 3:41pm. After a big lunch. The computer screen’s getting a little blurry. Words are running into each other. The caffeine from my third diet coke of the day is hardly having any affect.

Now, as tempting as curling up beneath my desk sounds, I look at the mangy area beneath my laptop and my phone and I realize that logistically, that this would never be possible. As I look down at my cavernous stomach that just consumed a bacon double cheeseburger and a bacon, cheese hot dog (look, I was hungry and I got confused), I wish back for those days when I was nimble, flexible and small and could make an enclosed area my personal fort. Armed with a blanket and imagination, I was secure from the dangers around me, invisible to only those who chose to see me. Underneath my bed was my own private bunker that not even the most power nuclear weapon could penetrate.

And then I grew. Taller, initially, and eventually wider as my love for double bacon cheeseburgers caught up to me.

As a look the chair across the from me in my office or my desk, I wish for the days that I could nimbly climb into the smallest of spaces and hide away with a security of a warm blanket and lights and sounds of the world would seem like a distant hum lulling me to sleep.

4:14 pm. Caffeine’s kicking in.

white space

As a kid, I remember the thing I used to love the most of was a blank sheet of white paper. It was fuel for my imagination. I could draw worlds on it; planes that could only fly in the wind blown skies of my mind, swords and knights defending castles from cloudy dreams from the night before. I remember as the years went past, I craved for my life to be like a blank piece of paper; I viewed every beginning of every semester as a new chance, a new blank page, a clean slate for me to begin my trek anew and right the academic wrongs from months past.

Strange now that I am intimidated most by that blank sheet. Whether it is the pad of paper in front of me or the white sheet shown on my computer screen, I listlessly look at it with haunted eyes. I wonder where the days of my childhood have gone when I relished the potential creation in the pristine whiteness of a page. Now, I dread the potential ensuing failures that marking it will most surely follow.

Silly, I know. But insecurities and fears are rarely ever founded on sturdy foundations of logic and truth. And a blank page still intimidates me.

The lies we tell ourselves

1/22/08

Lately, I’ve been thinking that my sanity literally hinges on the lie that my mind subconsciously maintains between my self-perception and reality. Like my daily refusal to weigh myself in the morning and my self-evaluation as I walk out of the shower and look at myself in the mirror. You’re not that fat, Nate. Look you can still see some definition. Look at that gun show. Of course, this self examination is always more convincing with a well fogged mirror and my contacts conveniently in a case with solution. Blurry, hazy images always leave much for the imagination to define.

Never mind that my jeans are a little snug. You just left them in the dryer too long and they shrank a little. Or that with certain tee shirt, there are bulges in areas that weren’t quite as bulgey before. These damn European cuts. Today’s XL’s are yesterday’s mediums. Yes, these are the little lies that I tell myself to keep myself sane.

These lies translate to work as well. I lie to my employer daily to seem more productive than I actually am. I’m sure he lies to me in that he acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing and that everything is completely fine even with this economy headed down a one way road for a messy shit can.

Now the question that must be asked is, would we want to live in a world without these lies?

The reason I’ve been thinking about this is the one relationship in my life that I know is completely based upon a lie. My relationship with my parents.

Now I pause for a second for those who are completely shocked by this revelation. Appalled by it. But to these fine, upstanding folk, I simply ask the question, if you’re parents knew everything that you did on a daily basis, do you think your relationship would change?

Mine certainly would. Who can blame them? Your parents, if they love you and typically, they do, have this best case scenario view of you, untainted by your failures, your flaws, or by the fact that you grew up and you are your own sentient, self aware being now. They view you as these beautiful, in shape, successful individuals.

And in reality you are an unattractive, overweight, overworked person that is still scrambling to figure out if the dreams you had once can be reality or if this hell-based nine to five desk job is the best that life can offer you.

And yet we still maintain this lie. We maintain this lie with more lies, blanket statements, avoidance, old pictures, gym memberships, smiles and I love you’s said in half hearted geniunism and such.

Oh. And these lies are much easier to maintain over the phone. Calls once a week. More than that and this act that we put on strains a little.

My point is I enjoy that my parents have a perfect vision of me that I will never nor want to achieve. It’s endearing. It shows that they love me. But in order to maintain this vision of their successful baby child, they must not pursue the truth of the matter. Don’t be a doubting Thomas; searching for evidence for circumstances that might or might not be possible. We’ve lived with this lie so long; and just as I have accepted the fact that my parents are not my god-like figures that I once perceived them as, and I acknowledge that lie that I once told myself, I venerate that. I don’t try to destroy it.

Thus, in conclusion, this is the reason that I do not enjoy having my mother stay at my residence for a month at a time. The lies we live cannot exist in the sun and the air of reality and must be fostered in the dark, damp and warm places like our minds and our hearts.