Goodbye 25, And Good Riddance!

I have to say that 25 may be a milestone, but in this case it was a rather shitty one. Twenty-five has been full of disappointments, letdowns, and betrayals. As I say goodbye to 25, I say Good Riddance! You have been one of the worst years in my life. Congratulations for sucking so hardcore.

As we leave 25, let’s think of some tragic mini-milestones:
»We said good-bye to one of the best managers I’ve had the privilege of working under in a long time.
»We lost friends we thought were going to be there 5, 10, or 15+ years from now – turns out sometimes people are just not who you think they are.
We’ve learned:
»That even if it’s not your fault, someone out there is more than happy to blame you for it regardless.
»Sometimes public knowledge is a secret – go figure!
»You will miss those people who turned out not to be friends, and you’re just going to have to grin and bear it, because it never pays to try and keep in contact with them.
»That sometimes falling in love means nothing at all.
»What it means to be an American, and all the things we’re willing to fight for and against.
»Blood is not always thicker than water.
»If violence against another is violence against the self, you might as well hit the other person, because self-mutilation causes more concern.
»Religion is ridiculous regardless of the institution.

For all the hell that 25 gave us, it did at least try to redeem itself. We found old friends we thought were long lost, who had in fact been searching for us for quite a time. And we discovered what to do with our career and where the future will take us.

So goodbye 25, I’m not sorry to see you go. Good luck to everyone that is or will be 25 soon – you’re gonna need it.

Attack of the Cat: E2

Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of things out of the corner of my eye. Now I say things because a lot of it I’m not catching, and what I do catch just isn’t there upon closer inspection. Like spiders, lots of spiders. And I’m sure you’re thinking, well maybe you really did see a spider you daffy bitch. But no, I really did not. If I really am seeing these spiders, then we’re all fucked. Because the smallest one I’ve seen lately was the size of a baseball and the biggest one the size of a golden retriever. And always out the corner of my eye. That and people. Lots of people. And lots of random whosiwhatsits that I just have no idea on. So that’s fun.

Other than that, I’m moving. Yet again. In the past two years I’ve moved five times. Which might not seem like a lot, but when you do the math it does turn out to be quite exhausting. And if we factor in the past five years total, then that’s an average of three times a year. Seriously! Who needs to move this much?!? Fuck me I’m tired! Although this has led me to some conclusions. My next apartment will be by myself. No roommates. At all. For at least one year. Fuck the haters, the gossips and the frienemies, I’m done with all your mundane bullshit. So I will spend a goodly amount of time all by my onesies. Cleanse my aura and get back to my roots and all that jazz.

Also I’m seriously considering life abroad. I’m thinking France, specifically Paris. I think every artist should live in Paris for a while, or hell, maybe just everyone. I think it’s good for you. Maybe some other places too. Just immerse yourself in foreign culture and drown for a bit. Plus the cost of living is pretty comparable to where I’m at now, so couldn’t be that hard. And all I’d have to do to prepare is brush up on my French a bit, which will take all of a month. So no worries there. Now just to explore the local culture and nab my passport. Just in case all lights are go.

I am so tired of moving. Seriously…

My Muse, My Friend

You know, I just don’t understand you. And I wish that I did, or at least knew more about you to make the confusion a bearable placating thing. I’d like to be a friend. But somehow I think I have fucked things up along the way, and while I have vastly tried to fix things, I often feel I’m making more of a mess. I might convey this sentiment to you, if it didn’t feel like every effort is an unwarranted intrusion into your life.

I want to be a part of your life, but I think you may have misconstrued the implications of my desire for you. To be sure I have no ill intentions or misguided delusions of intimacy and that is not exactly what I strive to clamor for. That’s not what this raucous is about. I have never thought that asking to be someone’s friend would be so complicated and tedious a task, but you seem to effortlessly excel at it.

Perhaps it is arrogance, but I cannot bring myself to try and correct you. I think it’s more like to be fear. And maybe I do want more out of you than friendship, but it’s something I’ve already taken. Whether you want to be or not, I’ve made you a muse. Or maybe Fate has, she tends to be a mucker. My many misadventures have seemingly led to you, and so I will take this if this is all I have to gain from you. And let me assure you, it is not enough.

I want to be close. I want to be friends. I want to be the kind of people who call each other in the middle of the morning/night/etc because it is all suddenly so overwhelming and the sheer magnitude of it is crushing down and you can rant and rave endless and know the other person is listening and even if they haven’t had that exact feeling they know where you are coming from and have some thoughts to express and some suggestions to make. And even if all the advice fails, you know it is all going to be fine because you both can share in that moment and be free to be afraid together, knowing in the end the storm will pass and it will be good again tomorrow.

I am not searching for a savior, saint or prophet. Nor would I expect you to fulfill those roles. I am merely asking for a companion on this long lost road, on this distant journey to many misadventures. And sadly I’m finding the place I believe you should belong, despairingly vacant.

Time Wounds All Heals

There are those moments that are so overwhelming they cannot help themselves but to induce a deep state of mourning. Often it is nothing so tragic an event to warrant it, but a simple phrase or gesture, so seemingly benign as to completely and utterly discombobulate. Often I find myself without the wherewithal to go about business as usual. And so I retract and make myself small, an easily overlooked nuance.

This is not to say I go off into some deep dark cave and commence to wail about all the things I’ve lost, rather to the contrary. I find myself in these instances more often than not going about business as usual. A state which is not indicative I care less, just that I retract mentally and continue about my daily routines in a manner which lends to benevolence and commonality so as not to draw suspicions. I find it easier to process in a style that most would find, and have on the occasion I allow the observation, to find it jerky and to frighteningly out of sorts. I can move through the five stages of grief in as little as a day.

I am tragically adept at something no one should become so skilled at.

It is something I have come to deal with. Having skill sets no one wants. The irony in this is a priceless gem. Because the skills no one wants are almost always the ones they need – or will at some point, and so my advice is a hot commodity. I have the ability to see both sides of the issue clearly and argue the points for and against it. This lends logic to passion and passion to logic. Thus creating a conundrum of profound proportions.

And so I sit here, staring at this statement. A simple phrase which has no bearing upon my life or the rules and morals by which I gauge my everyday self –and yet the impact is severe. I am so unsure of what to do when I read this, the simple insecurity is a catastrophe in and of itself, and in the end the most I can do is hold steady and find myself amused. A heartrending find which no action I may take will undo or remedy and the best thing to do is merely ride it out. Breakwater.

I would like to tell the person that they are wrong or that they do not know of which they speak. However, I have no grounds to stand upon and thus no judgment to lend. So I find myself without a voice or a port in the storm. Time wounds all heals and if I wait just a bit longer the hemorrhage will ebb and dawdle or cease. And I have come to find I no longer mind the bleeding.

Attack of the Cat

It’s slow going here most days. The weather outside would be surprisingly warm tonight, if I didn’t live in Florida. One of the conveniences of living in a subtropical climate is the ability to go swimming almost completely year round, and often as late into the night as you’d like. Unfortunately, the only way for it to be this comfortably warm this late into the evening is by it being equally hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk by nine most mornings. In a state that spends nine months of the year in summer, we snow bunnies can be quite reluctant to enjoy the day.

I will not lie; I am a night owl by nature. Everyone that I can relate to in my family is a night owl. We may adjust ourselves to suit our jobs, school, etc – but make no mistake, the first opportunity we have to stay up until sunrise and we’re all over it like white on rice. We also benefit by being insomniacs, thus capable of running perfectly fine on as little as two hours of sleep.

This would seem irrelevant, excepting the fact that the town I reside within is almost completely diurnal. The tragedy of small cities. The danger in small cities and towns with night-owls is the ego. Oh sure, you might not think anything of it at first, “This is nice, quiet.” Sooner or later you’ve developed this whole “I own the night,” thing and start coming up with paranoid-delusional reasons as to why others are alert at such late hours. It seems oddly appropriate that most of these scenarios are made up while midnight trollings through Wal-Mart. By the way – if you are ever trapped there after two a.m.: Duct-tape Bowling.

This is a lot of meandering – and if you’ve happened by looking for a point I’m afraid you should call the game now, pack it in and go home.

I’m staring that the belly-button rings sitting on my desk just beneath my monitor. They’re nothing special, just large globular neon-pink marble acrylic balls. I love that you can find objects in various places for significant price differences. At Sally Beauty – they are $10 a piece, somewhere in the Market of Marion, I got them 3 for $10. Mix-n-match – imagine that.

If you ever get a chance, you should listen to Coast to Coast. I’m not sure if they’re affiliated, but they do have a website, and if you search hard enough online – which is to say not very hard at all – you’ll be able to find free broadcasts of the show without need of a radio. Just in case you are like some writers around here who only listen to the radio as a way to wake up in the morning.

I have come to the tragic conclusion that I just don’t want a job anymore. I neither care nor have the motivation to go out and seek one. Don’t get me wrong, I currently have a job which I love – the hours and pay are shite so I need to move on. But I don’t want a job. I want to write and do my art and get paid for it. Grants are hard to find unless you’ve been published as a writer, but I am avidly looking. And I am working at a double major in college to get some lame pays-the-bills shindig. I just don’t necessarily want it. And as my month of nearly paid vacation comes to a close, I find myself in mourning.

And to pack it all in, I’m not entirely sure if work is the only cause. It may just be I’m tired of here. Which is quite possible. The tragedy of being tired of where you live is the fact that most all of your friends and family are there. Abandonment has never been so complex.


Holy sh*t dude, I totally forgot I was in the middle of something. haha I went and altered the look on my dA and got to chatting with a friend and completely forgot what I was doing. So sorry to have forgotten you – but I suppose that’s where we’ll end it for now.

=^ ^=