I often wonder to myself as I try and write, what if I don't get published? I finally figured out what my answer to that question.

 

I'll write a book about it and submit that as well.

None of the revelations that I am writing right now are shocking or rather profound. But then again, I don't really think any of the observations I make are.

I had an engaging conversation with an acquaintance riding in the car the yesterday. The candor of a conversation with someone that you hardly know anything about sometimes still surprises me. I'm not saying that I spilled my life story in the hour or so car ride we shared, yet still, I talked in depth about things that don't come up typically in daily conversations with people that are my friends.

And then it hit me. A challenge. A question that made me think. Something that I didn't have a canned response to. Something that made me look around and see the walls that I had surrounded myself with. Complacency is a sneaky thing. It wraps you up and a cocoon of good enough's and alright's and half hearted efforts with no risk of failure. (If you don't succeed, redefine success. That way you never fail)

I'm reminded of myself as a child. Children are fearless. I don't think I knew the meaning of failure because I never gave up. I never saw falling short as a setback, just as a stopping point to check from where I came and focus in on how much I had to go. Life was about measuring growth- how much taller I was, how much faster I could run, how many words I could read. I learned to ride my bike, not being discouraged by my failures, but focusing on the task ahead and my desire to join the kids that rode of the cooler big boy bikes without the training wheels (aka my brother).

And now I am fearful of failure. Strange because I've failed so entirely in the past. But then, it was in my control. I chose to fail because I didn't participate. I didn't attend. I didn't care. You live in a world of false confidence. I could have if I tried. That wouldn't have happened if I did this. But eventually this bravado rings hollow. Why then choose the path of apathy? It's much easier for me to accept a failure of my own making then to fail through the judgments of others. It's much easier to live in a cocoon of complacencies then in the shambles of plans that went awry.

We make our own illusions. Misguided comforts to patch easily wounded egos. It's easier to avoid that confront. Remain silent then speak and let your voice be heard.

But sometimes, you're lucky because you see a glimpse of what is outside and you realize that there is still very much that you want to do with yourself and your life before you are satisfied. And you realize that you are only in a façade of happiness. Sometimes all it takes is a single question from a single person that might know you well, but at the same time makes you stop and consider the lies that you have been feeding yourself. Your canned answers to questions asked. A pinch that awakened you from an imagined reverie.

I'm glad there are still people in this world like that.

Jovial fat men

People have been pissing me off a lot lately.

I find myself tiptoeing closer to that tenuous edge of the point of I-will-likely-do-or-say-something-I-will-eventually-regret. (Who says little boys don't grow up? I gained the maturity to realize that I do stupid things. Now, do I have the wisdom to prevent myself from acting upon these impulses? That has yet to be seen) But back to the point. People have just been pissing me off lately.

And nothing I do makes me vent this anger. I tried to laugh it off. I try to bury it. I try to run it off. (I've discovered that angry running leads to often-too-fast-running that leads to the cramping and the shin splints and the other ailments that ail an overweight and out of shape twenty nine year old reflecting on his mortality) I try to do this and I try to do that. But the fact still remains, people piss me off.

I hate to admit it but lately I've been getting angry at soccer, something that I supposedly do to blow off the steam that accumulates at work. I know. This is something that I'm supposed to enjoy and take lightly. But I guess the blatant idiocy of other people makes even the running and kicking of medium sized balls less enjoyable. (Plus the constant reminder that I am out of shape is not just a sobering realization. More like a kick in the ass every week)

I hate it that a fatter guy than me on the team feels the need to tell me how to play my position. Especially when it is evident to me and other people around me that

1. He is fat, in fact fatter than me
   
2. He's fatter than me
   

I know. I'm petty. I'm making light of his obvious inability to not eat, but still, it is mild idiocy like this that makes not enjoy the thing that I am supposed to be enjoying. I know I, myself am not an Adonis (I'm still skinnier than him). I should make myself humble and just accept his direction and constructive (and often times wrong) criticism. I should. (But I won't)

And that's the problem. I won't let go. I hear the back of my head going tick, tick, tick. And another problem. When in the past, I used to get angry and stomp off and destroy something (it was quite constructive, my destroying of things. Usually involved fist into walls and other inanimate objects. Once again, I was young and I thought, in my great, unfathomable intelligence and intellect, that my fist could somehow displace the now-quite-obvious plethora of structural integrity and strength of the objects that I was striking. I know better now.), now I find that clever and frankly horrid and mean things (albeit funny, if you have a twisted sense of humor) leap out of my mouth. It's like the filter that once was there that slowed down these witty and crass (can something still be witty, if it is crass? Can it be witty because it is crass?) comments from ever escaping my lips until two hours after the incident occurred has be decimated by the tenacious erosion known as sarcasm. (Okay, none of the comments are witty. They're just crass)

Perhaps it's the corrosion of alcohol on my brain. The higher brain functions involving social etiquette and good naturedness have been rendered nearly obsolete, devolving me into a snide and cynical being full of anger.

Wow. I just became my tenth grade math teacher that used to ridicule me for never quite knowing the right answer to any of the questions than me. (She was fatter than me as well. Am I noticing a trend of sorts?) So much for the illusion of jovial fat men.

God, I need to lose weight.

The mind of a man

A friend of mine asked me as we were running last night if I thought a man and a woman could be friends.

First of all, let us all dissect and analyze the previous statement. Focus on the running (or my version of running, which some people interpret as fast walking while wildly swinging my arms and wearing far too tight shirts and pants that accentuate the jiggle). I'm going to go on a tangent about running. There are several types of runners out there. Plodders, heavy runners, light runners, morning runners, night runners, the 'please let this be over' runners, the 'running is my life' runner and so on. From there on, it boils down to three types of runners: talkers, silent runners, and music listeners. Talkers are self explanatory. They enjoy conversing as they run. It makes the run go by faster if you distract yourself from the constant explosion of pain in your lungs and heart and legs with every stride you take (at least for me). The music listeners are also self explanatory. They listen to music as loud as possible to distract themselves from the overwhelming pain that is creeping in their lives as they trudge down the path/sidewalk/road. Silent runners (who are alien to me) enjoy running for the sake of running and choose not to have a distraction. They like their coffee black and their liquor straight as well. In fact, it's best not even to pour their respective liquid into a glass. Just hand them the bottle and/or the coffee pot.

The point of all of this is the fact that I am actually a music listener. I like listening to high energy music when I run, because it distracts me enough from the details of the task at hand (how long I have left, how much my feet hurt, why this hill is so long) and in turn lets me focus on what's important (one foot ahead of another, left foot, right foot, left foot, -oh is that a pole? I probably should move out of its way-) Now, the problem with this is when you run with a person of a different genre.

My friend is a talker.

Call me crazy, but when I run with a talker, I feel obligated to leave my ipod at home and talk. Not that I don't mind the conversation. It's great to catch up and just hear and talk about a person's day, especially someone that you live with and/or are close to. Our respective lives are so busy, that even though we see each other daily, honestly, we don't get to talk as much as you would think. So I don't mind the conversation at all.

My body, however, does mind. I feel bad for my friend when my answers are so convoluted by my constant need for oxygen. (word…..gasp gasp….string of words….gasp gasp gasp) Not to mention that the oxygen deprivation to my brain makes my answers lack cohesive logic.

Back to the point at hand, yesterday, my friend asked if I thought men and women could be friends.

Now at one point in time, I would have responded with a resounding yes. I was also younger and more naive and less experienced with the gender known as the female, and the complexities involved with relations with them. So my answer changed from a resounding yes to a somewhat unsatisfying 'well, it depends on the person.'

In my oxygen deprived state, I tried explaining the mindset of men and how it is different than that of women. I think I was unsuccessful in my attempt to describe the feral beast known as the male sex drive. Instead, I tried to explain it as 'hope.' Once again, I don't breathe too well when I try to converse and run at the same time. Given that explanation, it's quite easy to explain how I mixed up the words hope from horniness.

Let me explain. As a well adjusted male, I, on some subconscious level, instinctually think (even as a fleeting afterthought) about having sex with essentially every female that I meet (age appropriate, of course). Men will deny this all they want (just like men deny watching porn) but this is how a good majority of men think. Most of these thoughts are just fleeting and don't really substantiate as full fledged thoughts because as we have grown to be well adjusted adult males, and we realize that there are societal and moral complexities that would never allow us to act upon or even fantasize about these thoughts.

Now, from what little I know about women, I know that women can pine the same way after men. However, women, by nature, are more discerning. They look for attractive qualities in a mate. Men, on the other hand, are not. When I wrote the above statement, I meant it for every woman I meet, regardless of attractiveness level. (Okay, so this is going to sound horrible. And I swear that I am not that bad of a person. But like, when an ugly and unattractive girl passes by, the thought related to sex that whizzes through my head is something like, 'I wonder how many beers I would have to drink before I would allow myself to bask in the gloriousness of her ugliness, nekked?')

Now, knowing this fully about myself, I (surprise) still have female friends. The context in which you meet really can determine the manner of the ensuing relationship. If I met a girl when I had access to a lot of girls in my life, like in high school or college, usually, thoughts like that could be easily squashed and dismissed and the ensuing friendships would be platonic. If I met someone as my friend's girlfriend or if I, myself (this hasn't happened in a while), was in a relationship; likewise, the sex thoughts are quashed and dismissed. Meeting people in a professional environment, where often times sex is the last thing on my mind (except those few years where I worked as a male escort), thoughts sex are, surprise, easily dismissed.

Also, this is another point to clarify. Just because the thought go shooting through my head of sex with the woman that I just met, it doesn't mean that I want to have sex with them. It's just a thought. Whether you want to do it or not is a discussion of attraction and given my track record, that might take multiple blog entries to explain.

I guess the point being is for every attractive woman that I meet for the first time, there is always some sort of fundamental attraction that belies my interest in her, if I show interest. Every one. Women, again, are different. They discern qualities beyond that of just physical attractiveness (thank god). When I make friends with women these days, sadly, as a single guy, the tendency is that it is more for selfish purposes of sexual conquest (yes, I said it) rather than more altruistic purposes. Of course, there are always an exception and circumstances that add complexities to this, but in general social situations, you can pretty much use this rule as a guideline for social interaction with men.

Even as I write this, I can think of addendums that I would like to add, where in fact this rule did not hold up. Such is with many things with life and generalizations. My friend, the contrarian that she is sometimes, cited an example that happened to me recently. There was a girl that was her friend that I drunkenly kissed at a bar. We were becoming friends before the incident, and after the incident, needless to say, my interest in her was heightened. Since alcohol was involved, details of the situation were hazy to the other participant, and it soon became obvious to me that alcohol was the deciding factor in the situation, rather than attraction. Well, now, previously stated make out buddy, is seeing and/or dating another guy.

My friend unintentionally accused (I apologize to my friend who is going to read this eventually. Accuse is a strong word and not what I wanted to use, but I just had a foot long sub and my brain is only functioning at a sub par level. Synonyms are not coming to me) me of losing interest in her when I discovered she really didn't reciprocate the level of attraction I had. I had to think about that for awhile before I really knew what to say to that. I am a simple person. I've always been told that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I've never been one for subtlety or manipulation; I always lacked the requisite cleverness for that. When I kissed her in the bar, it wasn't just the caught up in a moment thing. I remember the drunk things I do. I remember how soft her lips were, her eyes looking back at me, how smooth her skin felt. So when I had to just force myself to kind of let go of that memory (yes, I know it was one night and I probably made waaaay too much of it, but it was a nice feeling those thirty seconds it happened (much like most of my sexual experiences)), the only way I knew how to do that was to distance myself from that memory. And the source of it as well. I second guessed my actions; did I do this because I wanted to be friends with her or because I was attracted to her. I don't know. When you kiss me, it complicates things and it takes a little while for me untangle things.

But in the end, if I didn't want to be friends, I wouldn't try to untangle things and would've just cut things off where they were. And I didn't. I think most women should give men the benefit of the doubt about things like this. If you don't reciprocate interest in a guy, things are going to be different. It happens. But, if the guy sticks around and still wants to be a friend, it should mean something to you as well.

So can a woman and a man be friends? I guess it depends.

Where I’ve been for the past couple of months….

I think I'm worn out.

Emotionally I feel a little drained. Physically, I feel tired all the time. Creatively, I feel constipated. I managed to get by the work week with a constant source of caffeine streaming through my body. But even diet coke (gasp) is losing its battle with my creative apathy and general fatigue.

I'm twenty nine years old. You know what I hate most about facebook? You get to see where people that you once knew are. And for me, a twenty nine year old that doesn't have a clue to really where he's going with his life, seeing people arriving at destinations and going directions; I hate to admit it, but it stirs up feelings of envy and jealousy. Like the thought that that could be me beatifically smiling in these pictures with girlfriends, fiancés, and wives in exotic locales and destinations.

Instead, I find myself single and lonely, and lacking inspiration to finish anything I start. I'm stuck in the same place, running circles in my mind. I've just gotten fatter.

This scares me. I feel myself growing bitter and resentful for my status, but in the end, I have no one else in the world to blame for where and who I am but myself. Thus begins the long and often bumpy downward spiral into self loathing and self destructive behavior, one that I have somehow managed to side step thus far (then again, taking oneself not so seriously is a talent in itself). But I feel myself slipping. I feel myself lashing out. I feel angry and resentful to the people I love the most. I feel emptiest around the people that know me best.

Is it bad that I feel more comfortable around strangers sometime rather than people that I've known for more than half my life? I don't know what this says about me. I sometimes feel as if my childhood friends are more friends of my brother and that know me by association rather than the shared experiences of growing up together.

I don't know why I feel this way. I wonder if I always have. Whatever the case, I realize that I need to let go of this bitterness that I'm seemingly clinging to before it really does rip me asunder, emotionally, physically, spiritually and creatively.

As a self loathing adolescent, I used to hold on to these emotions. I was always felt intense, passionate feelings and emotions. I learn to cope with the intensity of what I felt by internalizing them, burying what I felt, how strongly I felt, letting myself float into a void. This, of course, manifested itself into deep cycles of depression soon after. It's so funny how these things work – we create these defense mechanisms to protect ourselves from pain and hurt, but these defense mechanisms that we create turn out to be greater monsters than we originally set out to protect ourselves from. My depression turned to be a greater detriment to any pain or hurt that I would feel. It was suffocating. The loneliness I felt. I remember writing a poem as a teenager (yes, I was THAT guy that wrote poetry) describing the way I felt as standing knee deep in a stream of water, but still dying of thirst. Happiness was all around me. I had great friends. Functional parents that, although were not well equipped to handle me, still loved me none the less. Yet I let myself fall into this void and not recognized these things. Or feel these things. I would find things to hate about myself, hate about my situation, and cling to them, intensify them, let my subconscious coalesce with them, all in order to numb myself from feeling.

God. It sounds so stupid now. The stupidest thing is sometimes, I still find myself repeating this behavior. Finding things to numb myself with emotionally. Whenever something goes well in my life, I find fault in it as for it not to threaten this imperfect void I have around me. I guess some habits are hard to break.

But now the things that I hold onto are beginning to embitter me. Rather, they have embittered me. I think each of us is born with a darkness inside of us. It's some nasty side of our personalities that we don't let other people see and for good reason. You hide it under smiling masks and chivalry and polite manners and joking tones, but it's still there, lurking to rear its ugly face. I only bring this up is as I'm slipping deeper into my void, I feel like that part of me, my own darkness, is manifesting more and more in my personality. Needless to say, I don't like it being there.

So the trick is to just let go. Life is too short, right? Now, just to figure out how to do all this without the aid of alcohol.

reboot

I forget that I am indeed a talented writer sometime. Sometimes, when I want something so much, I lose perspective and focus too much on what I have yet to do. I know it's not like I have overwhelming accomplishments and accolades, but still, when I read my past writings, I'm reminded for why I write. Not simply because I like it, but more so because I like what I write and I think I am good at it. I think that's why I keep my blog. I'm really bad at keeping things that I've written in the past, I very much have a tendency to just delete files and start with a clean slate. As blogs become idle, I tend to delete them. I'm beginning to see how that's becoming a bad habit. My work, no matter how embarrassing or bad, is still my work. How can you reflect on how much you've grown, if you don't have your embarrassing awkward photos from the past to reflect on? I know I've grown a lot as a writer. My voice in my work used to be no more than just a whisper; now, it's a raging, self deprecating stream of consciousness that flows out of my mind, usually at the most inappropriate of times and places (much like diarrhea).

The point being is that I read my blog this morning, and I'm glad I did not shut it down. I know it's been sitting here, languishing upon its perch in the internets' cluttered grounds, its beady judging my laziness and lack of motivation. I read my past blogs, and found myself smiling at the puns and jokes I told. Sometimes, time grants you a perspective on the quality of things that you couldn't recognize and realize before. I found that it wasn't my genius that was lacking. It was I, who was lacking perspective to recognize my own genius. (and my love of writing in parenthesis about topics that are completely non-topical. Like porn. Or food. Or both.)

Ah. The struggle to create. The change. To grow. The infinite, daily struggle. I noticed that some of my blog posts have sounded like broken records in that aspect. But, in all honesty, it is a big part of my life right now. I mean its not like I got much else going on in my life currently.

I kissed a drunk girl on Friday night. I'm not sure if she knew what she was doing or if I knew what I was doing (I was likewise inebriated, yet reassured that I was making good decisions), but I knew I was in trouble when she asked if she could sit on my lap. I cringe when I think about it, I was random and unexpected and she's a little out of my league, but before I completely destroy my chances with self deprecating statement and recently rehashed insecurities, I'll just enjoy the moments for what it was and hope, just maybe something more will come of it.

I think I'll just leave it at that for now. I'm going to enjoy the rest of my day with a run since the breeze feel good as the sun kisses my skin. G'day, gentle readers.

Random musings

I wonder if I'm depressed.

I'm old enough that I see the warning signs creeping up. Slowly, I find myself becoming less productive at work. Well, then again, let's be honest, I'm never really productive at work so, I suppose using that as a barometer for overall productivity in my life is like sending me to get lunch at Popeyes when I tell you I'm on a diet.

I am on a diet by the way. The growth of the stomach is somewhat alarming. And by alarming I mean disturbing. When you have to hold your breath when you want to bend down to tie your shoes, it's time to think about a salad instead of the Mcflurry that you've been eyeing.

But, I digress. I feel like being depressed is being stuck in life. Sometimes, stuck is nice. Stuck is static. Stuck is content with the things around you as they are. But the more you look at it, the more I live my life, frame by frame repeated day to day, the colors begin to blend together as the days do. Monotony and complacency begin to lose their charming comforts and I begin to wonder how much of life has past me by. I look back to days gone past, things that I once was, hopes that I once held, friends that I once talked to. For me it's scary to think that the best of me is in days past. Call me the eternal optimist, but I only hope that this day will eclipse the day before and what I once was will always pale in comparison to what I can be.

I dunno.

Making my own momentum is hard. Change is hard. Getting moving is hard. Life is hard. Big surprise.

I had a weird dream yesterday. I was with someone, an acquaintance that I've always thought was cute, but not someone that I actively pursued. Who she was wasn't really important, but in my dream, the feelings that I felt so real and strong. And then wake up and realize that what I had just dreamt was merely a dream and the feelings that I had begun to be associated with this girl were just random synapses in my brain.

Strange. Part of me pangs to feel that way about someone again, even if it is an artificial feeling.

My dreams got to stop messing with me.

Savor the moments of life; the pang of sadness of loss, the reality of situation that is so much bigger than the petty complaints that we cling to, the levity of laughter, and the ethereal lightness of your feet when you dance. All you can be is yourself and hope that somehow that it is just enough to make someone else's life a little bit better.

I know it has been a while since I last wrote in this thing. I guess I've been struggling to write recently, beyond the normal struggles that I normally face (yes, sheer laziness and general apathy for those who need everything spelled out).

My birthday has come and passed again. I'm twenty nine now. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed with twenty eight. I didn't get laid nearly as much as I thought I would (not by lack of effort). The bartending thing just kind of blew up in my face and the writing has been pretty stagnant. So far, not a good qualities to be describing a year. But if I could take away from anything from this last year of my life, I guess it's a sudden appreciation and realization of who I am. In a sense, when I almost lost a sense of who I am and my voice in my writing while I languished between job to job, I found in the stillness of trees through a window of a bus, shuttling me through the mist covered mountains of Korea that I could hear it again, as witty and self deprecating as ever.

So why haven't I been writing? I blame Kevin mostly for introducing me to this game called Resistance 2. The co-operative aspect of the game is phenomenal. For those who don't have it, I highly suggest purchasing it. Beyond that, I think I've been muddling over a mild winter inspired depression. I hate the winter. In its crystalline whiteness I feel like hibernating. (well, my version of hibernating, which involves a ps3 controller and a twitching dog at my side)

I went out on the night of my birthday to a bar in Dupont Circle. I went with little expectations for the night. My opinion of birthdays has always been one of mixed feelings. You feel like shit when no one remembers. And then you feel too embarrassed when too many people make a big deal out of it. When I realized that more than one person asked me what I was doing for my birthday, I probably should make plans (had it been only one person, I would have probably ignored my birthday and bought myself an ice cream cake). I made last minutes plans, not really expecting anyone to really come. But come they did. Really, I have friends. (And on a more infantile perspective, I cannot write the word 'come' anymore without cracking a smile. If you need an explanation why, you don't watch enough porn).

Being surrounded by friends on Saturday made me realizes something. Maybe like those hours spent on the bus in the mountains of Korea, I caught a glimpse of the person I am again, not the one that has shut himself behind locked doors for the past several months. Big surprise. Your friends remind you of who you are. Friends and copious amounts of alcohol. (Vodka and cranberries are the devil).

I have always known that I live well under my "potential." But being around my friends that night, I saw how much of life that I have been missing. The smiles and laughter, the stories told, the memories shared.

So I've started again on the arduous process of change. I'm running again. Writing again. Planning things past my next meal. Where this will take me, I don't know, but it feels good to be moving again.

Friendship

I hate facebook.

There I said it. Why, my good readers ask? Because it usually reminds me of how crappy of a friend that I truly am.

In my three years on the largest social networking site in the world (I think, it's either the largest or a close second behind the myspace), I've managed to accrue two hundred and fifteen "friends." I use the term friend loosely in this instance; I recently "reconnected" with someone that I haven't seen since the fourth grade via the facebook. I also use the term "reconnected" loosely here. It usually consists on one to two messages asking how've you been for the last so and so years replied with a two sentence summary of two decades (which for me is surprisingly easy, it usually consists of the statement, 'not much')  and paltry a friend request symbolizing the friendship we once had, though a cannabalized version of friendship that only facebook provides. Of course, by being my "friend," I have the ability to stalk you know and know every intrepid detail about your online world.

There. That is what puts it best. Facebook has managed to make me more of a stalker than a friend. I no longer need to actively interact with my "friends" anymore (god forbid, a phone call is simply too much effort these days (even text messages is becoming a chore)); I merely need to check their facebook to see what's going on in their lives. I have discovered the people are in a relationship or have broken up through facebook. I see how people look now, years after I stopped talking to him or her. And my favorite is seeing who ex's are with, and inevitable comparison between that person and myself, wondering where I failed and they've succeeded (Yes, I even succumb to these emo moments once in a while. Although I have one ex that I check in particular just because keeping her life is like watching a soap opera. It’s just so damn entertaining!). A person went as far as invited me to his wedding through a facebook message. (He didn’t technically invite me to the wedding via a facebook message, but rather asked for my address. When I mentioned that I was in Korea at the time, he linked me to his wedding website and asked if I wanted to attend. I felt pretty much like a used condom.)

I hate facebook because it makes me miss people. Friends that I stopped talking to. Friends that left empty spaces in my life. The fights we had seem so trivial now. I told a friend once that sometimes having a relationship with someone and being “right” are on opposite ends of the spectrum. The only reason I could say something like that is by the friends that I’ve alienated by being right. By being stubborn and not swallowing my pride. I’m not saying to allow myself to be a doormat for people to walk on, but at the same time sometimes just lying and agreeing with someone for the sake of being their friend.

I find that adulthood is less about sticking to your morals that were pounded into you as a child and was told to you by countless people was what would make you a better man and woman, and more about keeping the people you care for around you, near to you, providing for them, caring for them. And sometimes in that process, you find yourself lost in moral ambiguity and those same absolutes that were pounded into you just aren’t as important. That is what I find is adulthood to me.

I miss my friends. I feel happy when I see their smiling faces in their tagged pictures that they post. I feel happy knowing that they are in successful relationships and are doing well with their careers. I want to share in their happiness as I did once before, as a part of their lives. But I can't. I want to write a message, just saying hi. But I won't. Part of me feels like it's a lost cause. Another part of me doesn't think, no rather knows, that even though they are the people that I remember and that the memories we share are not forgotten, that they have changed and so have I. 

I feel pang of jealousy when I see some these friends and some of my friends that I still am in contact with in pictures together. I wonder what I did wrong and what they did right. 

And ultimately, I wonder if people think the same of me. If people hover their mouse over my tagged photo and want to share in my happiness.

Isn't facebook just stupid?

Or is it just me? 

I gnash my teeth and shake my fist at the world…

A friend of mine gave me her blog a long time ago. She's probably forgotten that she gave it to me, or thought I didn't read it. I mean I can't blame her. It takes a lot of hard work being this egocentric and right all the time. Sometimes I don't have time for the small people.

It was different reading someone else's blog. I write my thoughts on here with the intentions that someone will (all two of you) read it. Despite what people say about my frank and not so reserved bluntness when it comes to divulging the details of my life, in all honesty, I do not feel that I really expose myself on this forum in a way that you could not gleam from a conversation with me over a nice frothy beer. I protect myself with humor and never write down anything that I can't laugh at or was willing to be ridiculed about.

My friend's blog is different. It is an intimate journal of her thoughts. I almost felt bashful while reading it; as if I was peering through a crack in a curtained windowsill and catching a glimpse of something that I was not intended to see. I was astonished and awed by the honesty and the heartfelt words written. Sometimes I think good writers become too clever with the words they string together and they sometimes forget the emotions expressed with simplicity. No thirty minutes soliloquy can eclipse the emotions displayed in an "I love you" or "I'm sorry" or "It's going to be okay" sometimes.

I don't really know why I'm bringing this up right now. Yesterday, I had a miserable day. Everything I felt seemed inhumanly compressed inside into a ball of frustration. I felt caged and shackled, like an animal gnashing his teeth at the bindings that kept him down.

I haven't updated in a while so this is my update. It sucks. I know.