Early morning shuffle

By 6:30 AM, I've been awake in the late twilight hours for a little bit. I tossed and turned for a few hours, after spending the day getting sick and being hungover.
Was not expecting that from the relatively small number of drinks I had had the night before. It doesn't help when you look back and can't pinpoint that 'small number', but you know it's in the single digits.
Or at least you think it was.



The 6:33 train leaves Glenbrook station at that time. Mom said it was the one she wanted to be on. We're in the car and I gun it at 6:34, hanging an immediate left out of the apartment complex's parking lot, aimed towards Stamford. The apartment complex's name is Spruce Meadows. There are evergreens dotted around the outskirts of a patch of grass. Smooth.
    "I really wanted to be getting on the train at Glenbrook," she says.
    No shit.
I sped up, racing back roads in hopes to catch the same train further down the line. I zigzag past the high school and down dark roads where ghostly figures in boots and jackets grumble to themselves, scraping the ice from their car windows.
In my head, I'm humming the intro jam to the Blues Brothers. Like this...



She's talking about how we 'wasted our Sundays' being all curled up in fetal positions underneath piles of blankets. She swears she still has a headache. And that she only had three glasses of wine.
I tell her how it wasn't until Sunday morning that I found myself hunched over the toilet bowl, yelling the name of a large-horned, furry bovine. Yaaaaaaaak!



I peel through downtown, get lucky and catch the majority of the green lights.



By 6:42, I pull up to the corner across from the train station. She tells me she's worried about getting in a 'cash expense report' from November. I find myself wishing that I had enough cash that my spending need be catalogued in an 'expense report'. Alas.



"Good bye," she says.
"Love you," I say.



As Mom jogs across the street, I turn the talk radio on and light a cigarette. The air is cold enough to bite the skin off my face. I only roll the window down enough to flick ash through it.
The radio plays a song by Adelle about a lost lover who settles down with another woman. Seemingly content. She sings about how her feelings have never died, how 'for her, it's not over', etc.
I can relate.



Nearly three years ago, I received a phone call. The conclusion of this call left me with a broken heart and an even shittier outlook on where my life was going. I proceeded to drink myself retarded for the next couple of months.
The trouble with Facebook is, even after you've taken the necessary measures in the real world, ending a relationship doesn't mean that you no longer see what the other's up to. I remember a status she posted about how 'She hates all men, and she was glad they were teaching groin kicks in krav maga class that day.'



Excuse me? You left me. Never forget that little fact. I was in love, still in love, and I'm the one who gets left behind. Then I need to see posts about how I'm evil? No, thank you, ma'am.



Several months after the break up, I was walking along a road in Virginia with two friends on the way to a bar. I was still twenty at the time. She called, asking if 'I had time to talk'. My friends saw the look on my face. The sound of her voice, like it was breaking my heart all over again.



I said I was busy. She asked me to call her back.



I did two months later. "Are you kidding me?!" she asks. Then she hangs up.



I guess I am an evil man. The devil. A horrible person only deserving of horrible things.



But in the end, I find solace in the fact that I never strayed from the path my heart has set out for me.



Of course everything will always be my fault in your eyes, and maybe in mine as well. But I want the world to know that you were not without faults of your own.
I want them to know that for nine long-distanced months, I loved a hellkite. An intellectual firecat.
And I always will.
Steps and bounds beyond the silly regrets of high school relationships, where I was used to alleviate virginities when asked to and then discarded when I became attached, there will always be this relationship.
Little over three years ago, I was engaged. I asked the woman I loved to marry me, and she said yes. My feet would never have hit the ground again, had it not been for that fucking phone call.



As I'm seeing it all now, in these still moments before sunrise, it's probably all for the best.



I'm nobody's white knight, but my conscience is clear. Save for the indiscretions of a certain evening involving far too much alcohol and way too many hugs for strangers, but that's another story altogether.



That's it. Now my love is for the redhead on my left, and she actually appreciates it. She appreciates me.

Bananarama.

Yes.
Never gets old. 
Sometimes I just need this. 

Year of Plenty.... (work in progress)

      Father died in the long Fall of 2011 from rectal adenocarcinoma. Which is to say that the pain in my ass had died from just that. The coincidence had me crying with laughter.

      I couldn't help myself at his funeral, happily sloshed and feeling giddy, from bursting out with laughs at the mention of what a "great man" Leopold Artemis Brokenshire Jr., Esq. was; what a fantastic life he had lead.

      I laughed in all their faces.

      Had they spent just a day in my shoes, under the constant abuse- both verbal and physical- they would have been celebrating along next to me. This was the same abuse that chased my Mom to a quiet closet on the third floor, in one of the innumerable guest rooms where no one ever stayed, with a pair of bottles. The first was an '02 Paloma Merlot. The other was a recently filled orange-plastic, prescription bottle: 7.5 mg Vicodins. I found her days later, after the police had been there to question Father and me about her disappearance, her face swollen in cobalt and violet star bursts. Her tongue and lips were still wine-stained. That was five years ago. I had just turned seventeen half as many days before. The coroner said it was a clear-cut suicide. Though, "why the esteemed actress-turned-billionaire's-wife would want to kill herself" was an absolute mystery to masses. I left for college two months later. There was no interest left there for me. Once, I had wanted to follow in Father's footsteps, take the reins of Brokenshire LLC. over from him, as he had from his father, the famous oil tycoon of the same name. I've studied History, Business, Art, Engineering, Music, Physics (both Theoretical and otherwise), Psychology, Bio, Chem., English. You name it, I've had some sorrowfully old, disgruntled professor show me the rudiments.

       These are the same professors who long ago lost their passion for molding young minds and now skate through life, babbling nonsense, living comfortable lives with their tenured minds.

       So, I found myself one final away from attaining my third degree in whatever, when my father died.

       I never went back.

       Now, I'm not a fool; I've had my schooling (as just mentioned), but I've never quite found my niche. In all honesty, the only classes I had ever enjoyed were those on the subject of Philosophy. Historically speaking, the stories we [humans] make up in our mind to get us through the day-to-day struggle of existence astonished me. Greek and Roman gods, Daoists, Shiites, Hindus, even the God(s)-damned Pastafarians had their own story. I never knew what to make of it. I'd like to say I'm an Agnostic, if only because I'm hoping that this isn't it. That this sad, lonely life of mine isn't the only series of experiences I'll encounter before there's no "me" left.

       My name is Leopold Artemis Brokenshire the third. If I had friends, I'd ask that they call me Leo. Or Art. Or Arty. Or Labs McGee. I'm twenty three years old, and life confuses me.

       And I know that there are those of you scoffing at the existential diarrhea that has enveloped my every thought.

       "Oh, he's out 'to find himself'. He could hire a thousand thousand professionals for that. Unhappy with all that money? Snobby little shit."

       And so on.

       I've got two words for those of you out there who think that somehow emotional suffering only applies to the poor: Fuck Off.

       It's true, as sole heir, I inherited the lot of it. All told, that's $19,875,982,417.82-- give or take a million or so. Nearly twenty billion dollars. What's a man to do?

       I had a bonfire. Beyond the lagoon-style wave pool, with pink granite waterfall, past the award-winning rose bushes my Mom had been so fond of, I lit a pyre for Father. The stern, always-smirking portrait he had commissioned of himself, the twelve-piece, cream colored Italian leather sofa sectionals, the red oak China cabinet that had passed down two generations already. Pictures, trinkets, jewelry, clothing. Anything I found, that even faintly reminded me of Father in my whirling purge of the homefront, went into the pile. At the pile's heart rested the '56 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith. I fed the end of an Egyptian-silk bedsheet into the gas tank. I didn't care. When the pile reached a monstrous size, after I had sent the myriad of maids and cooks and butlers and gardeners all back to their quarters, I doused the edges with a tank of gas. I sang and frolicked. Jumped and shouted. Then I lit the mess and scoured the emerald green lawn with a blaze that could be seen for miles. The grass would never grow back.

       The next day, I collected my passport and packed a knapsack full of clothes, a toothbrush, four pairs of socks, a picture of Mom, a carton of Kamel reds, and an empty, leather-bound journal. My first stop was the lawyers. He spoke in grossly patronizing tones, as though sounding out the words slowly would somehow convey their definition to me. I signed some papers transferring all of the money into a single account in my name with a worldwide bank. Banking ideas like "interest" never made sense to me. Where is that money coming from?

       From there, I gave the lawyer strict instructions to wait by his phone. I was planning a trip around the world. I would need access to some funds, of course, but I assured him I was planning to travel on the cheap. I remember the quizzical smirk he had adopted there in his office. As I stood to leave, he rose as well.

       "Mister Brokenshire," he smirked as we shook hands. There was a grating tone to the word 'mister'. As I turned to leave, I flipped him the bird.

       "You'll be hearing from me soon, asshole." I slammed the door behind me.

    

       The previous night, after the glorious bonfire of my Father's former possessions, I had an epiphany. As previously stated, I had never found 'my niche'. I had never discovered a skill or talent and thought to myself "This is what I need to do for the rest of my life". I know other people have and more power to them. I had met plenty of students at University who were digging themselves into lifelong holes by getting loans for their schooling. I saw what it was like to live well below what could be deemed as a comfortable means. But I was utterly jealous of these peers of mine. They may not have had the funding, but they had vision for their life, something I lacked. Funding, however, was not something I ever needed worry about again.

       I set out to discover those trapped by the banking systems. To locate the masses trapped behind counters and in cubicles. Free them from their confines built from the paper-capatilist system we all found ourselves dealing with. These artists, musicians, writers, engineers, inventors, and all in between. This would be my niche. I'd work with financial advisors and get them started. With my money and their talents, we all could have find the love for life that we had been missing. Everyone deserves years of plenty, and I'm going to provide it.

         One at a time.

Bad dream...

           I will never understand the necessity of dreams. I understand how a dream is created in the mind, but it's those same dreams that scare me out of sleeping some nights.

I gather that every face, every location, everything in a dream is extrapolated from a lifetime of memories. It all jumbles together until you're unable to recognize anything. Faces of loved ones are misshapen and constantly shifting in the dream world. But my lack of recognition is not what frightens me. It's how I act in these dreams. There's a monster in my subconscious, and it's name is Andrew.

Scene:

           Me walking alone down the middle of a street. Decrepit houses line both sides of the road in clumped masses. The street may be sloping downhill whilst simultaneously climbing to a peak. It may have been mid afternoon or dusk. I have a smile on my face and I pause to light a cigarette. I pass by a group of guys lounging on the front lawn of one house. I can feel the cold stares I'm receiving from them as they all go silent. I'm twenty feet away when the youngest is sent stalking after me. Since this was my dream, I knew where he was; I knew he was following me. I knew this was his initiation into the "sit-in-the-front-yard-on-these-ratty-old-sofas" gang.

        He broke from is stalk into a jog and yelled, "Hey!" I wheel around and the kid approaches me, his brow wrinkled in fury. He can't be older than fourteen. He's reaching across his body with his right hand. It disappears under his shirt and reappears moments later with glinting steel. Down the side of the gun barrel are the stenciled symbols: Colt Auto .45 . "Give me your money," he says.

        I'm broke, I tell him. He cocks the hammer, which I've always found to be a silly action on a semi-automatic pistol.

       "Give me your fucking money," he growls again. He's inching closer. I open my palms outward towards him briefly in the international sign for please don't fucking shoot me in the face. I have no money. That's the honest truth. In my dream, I recall having just spent quarters all counted out in stacks of four to pay for the pack of smokes in my pocket. That, my zippo, cellphone, and my empty wallet are the only things I'm carrying.

      I don't have any money, I insist. He's livid now. Does he think all white people are walkin' around with stacks of bills in their front pockets? He's within arms length from me, the pistol twitching at the end of a scrawny limb. I know he's about to shoot me. His fingers dance on the grip and he resettles his trigger finger. 

      That's when I make my move.

      I slap the gun with my left hand in an inside-to-outside movement, clutching around the cold barrel, and making sure it's pointed at the empty street behind me. There's a nerve cluster right below the elbow joint on the inside of the forearm. It helps control your ability to make a fist (try it now... make a fist and feel the muscles contract in your arm). That's where I hit him with my right, chopping my hand into his arm. Unable to keep a grip on the gun, his face contorts and he yells. I smash the pistol into his young face, see the spew of blood from his nose. His "friends" are rousing from their resting places like slinking cats. I know the 1911 holds seven rounds. Excluding the whimpering, bleeding child at my feet, there's six of his gang about forty paces away. One scrambles for his weapon, and I shoot him dead from a single shot. I pick them off one by one, as they spray wildly into the street. Asphalt chips and the metallic pang of parked cars fills the air. One stray round catches a tire, which deflates almost immediately. I drop to a knee and make two more kills. There are two rounds left in the gun, and only one of the gang is still standing. Gun smoke and vibrations whirl and bounce off the houses. The last one is sighting his pistol on me. I shoot faster, taking off three fingers of the hand gripping the pistol. The round touches off the dormant rounds still inside his clip and a concussive blast knocks him flat. There's one round left.

       I clear the chamber. Hold the single round with its hollowed tip up to the streetlight. The child at my feet is whimpering. I dismantle the pistol and gently place the round in front of him. I turn and start walking, reaching in my pocket for my cellphone. Before I wake up, I've reached '911' and explained to them what just happened.

       There was an attempted mugging, and I protected myself, I state clearly in the receiver, I'll wait for police to arrive and give them my story. Send the Coroner.

       I squat down by the child and he looks up at me with his broken face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

       "Why?" I ask.

       And then I wake up...

      Needless to say, my dream-self scares me sometimes. This is one of those times. 

Time time time time time....

We're all a slave to it. We're all wasting away seconds, minutes, hours and days at a time. In college, I always joked with friends that I was getting them a box of time for Christmas or their birthday. A box full of free time. Free from responsibility or consequence.

I think it all boils down to the fact that I wish there were real Hyperbolic Time Chambers. I'm a huge nerd. Dragon Ball Z had it right. 

What would you do with a year of free time that would pass as a day in the outside world? That's right, I'd go Super Saiyin, too.

That book you've always wanted to write, the artwork you never produced, those sit ups that just never happened. It would be epic. Change your whole body, rearrange your thoughts. Come out 24 hours later a new and better version of your past self. Maybe with a little bit of that horrible loneliness factor, but it'd be easy with the buddy system. If you're not alone, it may be easier to survive the year. That'd be an amazing experience. Who would you bring? What would you do?

Then consider: all the time of the day we all spend mindlessly droning over profile pics and status updates. The hours spent half-laughing at memes on reddit whilst complaining that there's not enough time in the day. Make the time. If something's important to you, then just fuckin' do it. I need to write. That's right, need. I've opened up these floodgates, and now my day doesn't feel complete without getting some grouping of words down. Maybe it'll make you consider your own lives, maybe it's just helping me through my own issues. Maybe it's still all futile. I don't want to be selling ebooks. Let's stop chopping down trees for paper. I vow to print anything I get published in the future on hemp paper. Grow magical hemp and help save the world. Silly, silly governments. The world would be a much better place if there was mandatory cannabis intake. We'd be docile and friendlier. Yes, we'd be unlikely to support unfounded evidence involving a mass takeover of distant lands of this planet, but everyone would be happier. Even you.

Toke up, take a look inside and reacquaint yourself with yourself. It's time we took those misspent hours of the day and started putting them towards the actual goals we wish to accomplish. Life's flying by, and if you don't move right along with it, you'll be left in the dust, wracked with solemnity and regret. Get over your qualms and just create your deepest desires.

Create. Create. Create.

The Grudge...

    I'm reading this. I've been rocking out two or three books every week for the past couple of months. I figured that the best way to see what's worked in the past as far as story telling and writing is concerned is to emerse myself in the works of others. I haven't done any writing that I would consider a step toward attaining my goal of Storyteller Extraordinaire in many moons. Just recently started this blog, but none of this means anything to me. I ramble on about personal issues with just enough vagueness to make sure that no one knows what the hell I'm talking about unless they happen to be me. Not really an effective way to draw in your reader, verdad?

    Soon to come on this blog will be my own fiction. My words telling stories that I can't excise from my brain. I just play them on repeat, constantly changing events and characters in this story, and nothing of value has been completed. Over the summer I rocked out about 75 pages of writing that I think will either be scrapped altogether or greatly shortened and abused when the editing process comes about. We'll see.

     Vonnegut said in Timequake that there are two types of authors: one whose name I can't remember and bashers. Bashers write word by word, making sure they have it perfect the first time. Constantly editing and re-editing even before the work is completed. This is how I feel. He also said that all male writers have attractive wives. I like that concept. I definitely agree with it. Looking back on my past relationships, I've done far better for myself than my physical looks would have given credit for. I don't consider myself a handsome man, but I know I have my moments and my nice features. Off topic, but in any case, all those exes, they'd make a wonderful calendar spread of the female form. We'll just call it, "Yup, I did."

     Reed Farrell Coleman is a mystery fiction writer. He came to speak to my Creative Writing class once and dropped a bomb. He said, "As a writer, he feels a horrible disconnect from the world, as though he's a miniature version of himself, sitting on his shoulders and peering out at the world." So, in that sense, then is he saying that an author has a more difficult time connecting with the outside world. That statement has haunted me for months now. 

     Because it's how I've felt my whole life. It makes me feel like a liar or a fraud, like I'm just floating through life telling everyone what they want to hear and showing them that I can be the person they want, etc. How often do I lie? I would say only when someone else's feelings are concerned and I consider that I wouldn't want to be hurting said feelings. Unless I hate you. We're just not speaking at that point. If I give you the courtesy of actually speaking with you, chances are I think you're pretty fucking awesome. May sound a little self-obsessed, and I won't deny that, but WE ALL ARE. I understand the need to make connections throughout our life, that it's the normal state of things, but the fact of the matter is that no one really can get into someone else's mind and experience life the way they do. We may talk and laugh and share our jokes, but at the end of the day, I'm alone only with my thoughts even whilst laying next to the one I love. It is the Human Condition, I believe, to strive toward attaining these connections, but knowing deep down that no matter how many friends you have or people you're friendly with, when you go home at night, when you step outside for some fresh air, you are alone. All concerned about our own experiences and our bank accounts and where dinner's going to be coming from. I strive to be alone together with some people. We all see the world differently, and that's the difficult aspect of writing for an audience. I don't know how you think. Shall I just cram my thought processes down your throat?

      Probably.

       I recently broke up with a friend. I use the term 'friend' loosely. He was/is/will always be a douche. It's part of his geneology. We shared some decent times. We did drugs together, hung out, argued a lot. I felt like a different person whenever he was around. He fancies himself Barney from How I Met Your Mother. If I were Jason Segel or whateverthefuckhisnameis who plays Ted Mosby, I woulda cut those ties long ago. It feels good, like some 200-some-odd lb. weight has been dropped from my shoulders. His arogance may have been mitigated if only he had some accomplishments in life that weren't displayed on Xbox Live. Greasy fuck. He took a public speaking course, and I believe that was just about the downfall of our friendship. Everything became a debate after that. And then when you say, "I don't feel like arguing about this." He would counter that statement by arguing that he wasn't arguing. I may not have been in many fights in my life, but there's just some people you know that just deserve a memorable thrashing. They need to feel the hot sting of tears mixing with blood. Their own. Feel the cold concrete and hear my footsteps march away. Enjoy your life, I'm no longer part of it. 

      Now, isn't having friends fun?! Sweet jesus, don't ever let me become that dilluted that I need the company of such an arrogant sociopath.

      The point I was trying to make? Oh, right.

      We are all just a little bit like this annoying friend of mine. The only good thing is that there's common decency, of which I am not lacking. I enjoy hearing about everyone else's day and their experiences. I don't feel the need to "one-up" them at every turn-- constantly perpetuating the "I'm better than you" feelings that bounce around in my delusional skull. The last thing he said to me was that "we'd eventually run into one and other. That no matter whether or not I had decided that I didn't want to speak to him anymore that we'd still see each other on the regular." I've seen him once at a party he wasn't invited to, and barely made eye contact with him, let alone respond when he came shuffling up, patted me on the arm and said "What's up?". I walked out of the party and didn't look back.

      The last thing I said to him in response to his last message was this: No, you won't. That's the point.

      And I feel liberated.

     Crisis averted.

Oh, by the way...

..----::::: Click this, read that  :::::----..

 

        Secrets.

        We all have them. They're the hidden epoxy that holds together any relationship. Behind all the pride and the posturing and the appearances, the truth slinks like a jungle cat in the reeds. Poetic, no? There's just one issue: I don't want to be responsible for the information that I have. Somewhere along the path of my life, I've been the confidant of far too many people. I've done my job well; kept my mouth shut. There are widely known whispers among my immediate family that I still haven't divulged to other members solely due to the pact of secrecy that was taken.

        In my family, there has always been an attempt to soften the blow to any tidbit of dark history. We could be having a harmless discussion about how someone's day has gone and then, "Oh, by the way... I've discovered Dad's secret sex drawer. Oh, by the way... I'm pregnant (that one I received verbatim via text message). Oh, by the way, these are the evil events that lead to your uncle's estrangement." Every year that passes, more familial secrets are passed on as some twisted rite of passage. I was raised with a single philosophy concerning the outlook I should have toward my family: in the end, we're all we've got in this world. A family sticks through the difficult times and strives to help each other out of any situation. Good times and bad. Till death do us part.

         Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming. I have developed a relationship with my mother over the past two and a half years spent as her chauffer. I've heard her vent about work, and my father, and our financial standing, and pretty much anything else she could think about. I'm a good listener. This is one trait that is shared amongst my gene pool. It's frightening when I attempt to catalog the knowledge I've gained just by shutting my mouth the fuck up and opening my ear holes. In some ways, I understand the therapeutic benefits of full disclosure, but at what cost? I'm not claiming some self-righteous goodness or personal purity, but some things you would just rather not hear.

         Instead, I've heard everything. I shake a fist at my memories. I recently saw a posting on Facebook discussing biblical readings and their pertaining toward the quest for knowledge. And (paraphrasing) how the attainment of said knowledge only brings greater suffering. Generally, I assume we can all agree on that statement. They say ignorance is bliss. Agreed. But at the same time, how are you expected to experience life and all it has to offer if you don't understand the intricacies of both the light and dark side of morality? Let this be my confession. I've learned far too much.

         I'm an addict. Have been for many years. Alcohol, cigarettes, sex, cocaine, just to name a few of what I'd consider to be my most destructive vices. The latter of which I no longer partake in, but I had some great times. I've almost ruined friendships following the signs given to me by blood rushing to my loins. Yes, loins. I've cheated on girlfriends. At a bank event at Rockefeller center, I got sauced enough to make out with some middle-aged, mother-of-a-couple, who happened to be a friend of my Mom. I once slept with three women in a day, and although some childish man-boy alter of my ego is high-fiving himself with those memories, I feel disgusted by some of my actions. I've both taken advantage of and been taken advantage of. I've stared at a face in the mirror, studying its bloodshot, rimmed eyes and bags in such a state of numbness that it was only when I moved did I recognize myself. Yes, that fucked up. Name it, I've probably peed on it whilst blacked out. For a while, the whirling miasma of my brain activity kept me from sleep. I've uttered the phrase "I hate people" and genuinely meant it (and recently, as well). I've dealt with depression and insomnia, fantasized about murder. About quiet rooftops and high-powered rifles. I've got the Army ROTC to thank for that marksmanship training. What would any of that solve? I may be living my life as a better person day by day, but I've wronged far too many people with my secrets than I'd care to count. If I believed in Heaven and Hell, or God, I'd be certain of my eternal resting place. I'm very much a work in progress. Case and point: my current girlfriend, my loving and supportive girlfriend of over two years is the older sister to one of the youngest loves of my life. I came clean and told a girl just how I felt about her, opened myself up to all the hurt and pain that was about to come crashing down. She never did respond to me. I smoked myself into a mentally retarded stupor devoid of all moral decisions. I thought she had snubbed me. I had heard she was sleeping with an ex-boyfriend of hers. That secret made my blood simmer. I wasn't privy to the fact that she may have felt the same way about me. That she may have loved me as well. I escaped to Tennessee with my friends and burnt all the stress out of my form during a festival of musical fantasies. The THC-induced stupor changed my outlook on life; I became a soldier of Love. A shining beacon of life. I was having sex with her sister no less than 90 days after having uttered the words "I love you". That's evil, but it's lead to something beautiful. There's always a silver lining, I guess, but that doesn't make me feel any better for the wrongs I have committed. Taylor, I am sorry.

       And there's no way I could ever apologize for it now, but that's not going to stop me from trying.

To all that have been wronged by my secrets, I am truly sorry. If it's any consolation, it is memories of my horrible actions that continue to haunt me, in this, one of the happiest chapters of my short life to date. Those secret memories are the reason why I'm awake at five in the morning, pouring my thoughts out in text. To then post them on the internet. For the world to see. That's frightening.

       All I'm trying to say is we need a little disclosure in this world. Secrets are tearing my insides apart. Should I tell you that I've never stopped loving any of my past girlfriends? That I had my first kiss on January twenty something of my fifteenth year of existence, and then three short months later was no longer a virgin? I feel like a bastard. I may claim utter acceptance of myself, and currently that may be true, but in the past I really fucking hated the person I was becoming. There's no room for trust from others when you can't trust yourself.

Thinking of you...

       You can always hear from anyone about "the one that got away". At least gentlemen have this phenomenon take place in their minds. I mostly see when it's the ladies speaking about their ex's that there's never an amiable reminiscence, it's usually "he's such a scumbag... Can you imagine him doing that? Etc." Like somehow we've all wronged you. I'd like to say that throughout my dating history there have only been two occasions when I have been the "Dumper" and not "Dumpee". Looking back, I was incredibly foolish. Remember the girlfriend with the many boyfriends? I left someone for her. That latest delve back into the Latina Tunnel o' Love lasted two months, when the friend I had walked away from and I had had the most amazing summer of my life. We were kids, and I still feel like a kid in many ways, but looking back is trying to comprehend a 16-year-old's decisions when it comes to girls and sex; the crazy amalgam of hormones and emotional connections.

"Hello ma'am, would you be interested in some sexual positions and emotional investments?"

       For a while, that's all I thought about. And then you look back on the countless smiles and hugs, the heartfelt kissing til your lips are sore and you're entirely enslaved by their every movement. As I sit and reminisce, I know that it's not always going to be same. I know that time has passed and things have changed, but it feels like the same possibilities lay around the next corner.

       It's upsetting when your hopes always tend to backfire. 

       I have a tendency to make things more awkward for myself. I let people know exactly how I'm feeling, and twenty minutes later we all get to find out how those feelings that I'm having will not be coming to fruition.  

       Act normal, you shan't want to rock the boat!

       I am a master of my emotions, but only after the first sign of disappointment. We met again, after the long years, and I, desperately wanting to begin anew, getting lost in those same eyes, I played the part of Casanova well. I listened, made jokes, kept physical contact, enjoyed myself and smiled the whole way through. I heard about how things weren't going well and how there was a way to act happy whilst trying to hold everything together. I was thinking about sandy feet and soft pillows and she bore through me with her stare. I bought it. I wasn't led on maliciously, just need to be more careful when there's been drinking involved, I guess.

       And the following night, I was a true gentleman. I shook the hand of her best friend and he and I laughed and drank, cheersed our glasses and drained them. It was tearing at me, and I needed answers. I got 'em. Nothing had happened, but I felt as though I was being hushed into making everyone else see that nothing had happened. Does that make sense? No? Good. 

         I've spent 6 years living with my mistake. 

        What will be will be, and I just hope that our paths cross again.

But I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends to the dead...

On another note: Abercrombie, the "kid" version of A&F has recently started selling crotchless panties for their teenage patrons. The world is fucked, and I'm beginning to feel the disconnect more and more every day. Disgusting.

Thinking of you...

 

Our farmhouse...

        Imagine: leaving your life of solitude behind the computer screen and traveling into the woods. Each morning the members of the commune would rise and begin their work: feeding the chickens, milking the cows, tending to the llamas (yes, llamas), working the fields and general upkeep. Become self-sufficient. Pump water from a well to irrigate the fields. Collect solar energy for heating and electricity. Grow hemp; use it to make clothing, fuel, paper, and countless other products. 

         You know that book you want to publish? Do it. 

         You see the beautiful forests for hiking and exploring? Walk in them. Breathe the fresh air. 

         But who are your companions? Who are these workers striving for a simpler life? Friends, family, any and all welcome if they do their share of the work. Together anything is possible, so why not attempt to create a life of peace? Utter tranquility.

         There would be freedom from judgment and worry. Work the fields, breathe the air, follow your dreams. This life is the one you're living now, and we can't waste it away hoping for it to get better on its own. We need to make the changes. We need to find our bliss and run with it. I'm a smith of words, or at least I fancy myself one. It was a long process full of dips and turns to find out that the written word was my passion. I need it like I need that fresh air.

          Imagine our fore fathers. The settlers of America weren't intending for Black Friday sales with greeters being trampled by the masses scrambling to purchase the new whatsitcalled which has a new 8.0 megapixel camera with adjustable shutter speeds and twelve different flash settings. This was a land that provided for the tribes of Native Americans and life for them may have been hostile at times, but it was peaceful. There was a oneness with the environment. Now we're all slaves to the clock and to the banking system. We set aside our silly dreams of a peaceful existence so we can break our backs working meaningless jobs. This land was meant to be something better, not some horrific parody of "Reality TV" and believing that we're all meant to be rich and famous.

           I say fuck your wealth. Fuck those slips of paper that we've all given so much value to and find your peace. Sure, there's start up costs and maintenance costs, but becoming a self-sufficient commune was never made out to be a simple thing. The fact of the matter is maybe we've all considered this idea from one time or another, but in a discussion with a friend via text messages, we set our minds to find this simpler life.

           Join the movement. Get involved. Keep the ones you love close, whilst learning that we're all in this together. We may experience our lives as separate entities all processing the reflection of light off the world around us, but as human beings, our abilities to connect and create and reason are unmatched-- and none of this world's issues should exist. I'm talking about a separation from the masses. A seclusion of creative minds. A collaboration spanning the mediums. Artists, scientists, engineers, authors, musicians, and appreciators. We need to band together. Time is slipping by minute by minute, but we can step outside the binds of the expected life. We can create an opportunity for ourselves to live life to its fullest, to chase any and all of our wildest dreams. There is nothing that can't be done. With enough Love, the world can be taught to change. 
Know this: I love you, and you deserve to be happy. We all deserve to be happy. Let's build some happiness together.

A little bit about myself...

So I figured starting this up has been far too long overdue.

I've had blogs in the past, which ultimately contained my verbal harassment of ex-girlfriends who turned out to be dating me on the side of other relationships. No, that didn't happen with more than one girlfriend, but yes, it did happen more than once with her.

A little about myself: I'm too trusting. That's what I've been told. I believe I'd like to chalk it up to my ability to see the fair qualities of anyone I meet. Some people are just lonely and need an ear to listen. On more than one occasion, I've been the awkward person listening to some drunk at the bar rattle on how everyone needs to be "donating more blood" and how "we must learn to love ourselves before we're able to love anyone else". I do love myself. And I love everyone else. It's a horribly, wonderful curse.

I'm 23 years old. I feel as though I'm floating through life inconsequentially. I'm worried when winter comes it's going to suck the lifeforce from my pores, trap me in a world of constant darkness, and I'm going to fall into a hole. I have the support of a wonderful family and a great girlfriend. But, I feel a disconnect from it all. I'm a slave to my memories and my emotions, the latter oftentimes stirred up by the former, of course.

Scene:

A five year high school reunion. Over 100 faces from a life that I had started to forget all packed into one half of The Ginger Man in Sono on November the 25th, 2011. Initially, pockets of the old cliques started forming, everyone whispering to themselves how "this is weird". I assured people I had hardly ever spoken to in high school that it "was only weird, because they said it was weird". And then I'd strike up a conversation. 

The goal of the night was to ingest more than $50 worth of booze in a two hour span of open bar. I believe we all succeeded to our heart's content. But in the writhing masses, when you're pressed against bodies to let servers with saucers full of drinks squeeze past, there was no where to glance without catching eyes with the vaguely familiar faces of ones' childhood. It was brutally amazing. Awe-inspiring to me, and a wonderful time was seemingly had by all. I refused to talk to those who strived to make my life a pile of shit whilst we were in school. This manifested itself in a "I'm going to walk up to a group, strike up a conversation with just one person, tell a hilarious story or joke, get laughs from everyone present and then ditch those fuckers". That sounds malicious, doesn't it? It may have been. I really just didn't care to talk to some people, and that's the short of it. Did I mention that copious amounts of Gin was involved? No? Well, good, 'cause I actually held myself together rather well.

Whenever you hear someone recount a life they once had in school or in younger years, I feel like there's always some level of regret, no matter how your life turned out. I strive to keep the best memories as the most vibrant in my mind. I think of Starbuck's coffee and walks on the beach. I think of laying in the grass at Tilley Pond, soaking up the sun. I imagine that somewhere deep in my heart that I'm still sitting in a car parked in a driveway that's no longer mine, trying to stay there for just a few minutes more.

I don't think of how I turned and left it all behind for the girlfriend with many boyfriends. I don't think about how I've been trying to get it all back every day since then. I don't think about the painful longing that has sutured itself to my heart valves (or frontal lobe, whichever you feel more comfortable with). 

            She said,"Recently, I was out drinking with a friend, and this friend and I have a terrible knack for getting FAAAAR too drunk and then recounting our past."

           "Well, that seems completely normal."

           "We definitely talked about you and me."

           "Funnily enough, I was recently recounting those memories myself."

           "With who?" she asked.

           "Myself."

         I didn't speak to anyone I didn't want to. But I spoke to far more familiar faces than I had initially intended.

The issue with my childhood was there was limited physical abuse as far as bullying went. We all discovered the power of words at a very young age. Some were used to tear peoples' worlds apart. Some were used to bring luminous entities together so we could all see them shine. The abuse at the mouths of others was incredibly worse than a beating ever would have been. The abuse everyone felt was one of seclusion. I'm a very tactile-focused person. I strove for physical contact; was very affectionate with my friends. Hence the wrestling team.

         Definitely a hugger.

         That being said, I still would have preferred the beating. Not because I would have been beaten up, but because most things are resolved after physical conflict. Especially something as insignificant as a schoolyard brawl-- we all could have been best friends (whenever you hear someone recount a story of a fight they had long ago, the end result always seems to contain the combatants realizing their own faults and becoming incredibly close), but our town is one of exclusivity and private roads. There's always a trickle down effect, and we perpetuated what we were learning about the world around us. 

         But in five short years, all of that changed. For some of us, it took much longer to get over the pettiness of our childish behavior. To become accepting of all, no matter their financial standing, race, sexuality, etc. For some of us, and I'd like to selfishly include myself, this had never been an issue.

         I have the capacity to love anyone.

        That's my super power.

        All this being said, I feel proud to have grown up with the group that I did. If anyone deserves the Most Improved Award, it's us. Our five years out in the world-- higher education, partying and experiencing life-- has created a greater understanding of the fellow man. We've all chilled out a bit and become comfortable in our own skin. People call it "finding yourself", but we've all known who we are. It's just a matter of accepting ourselves. It makes you hungry to meet new faces, see the ones you can't stand to live without, become in touch with your deeper desires. It makes you strive toward the ultimate happiness of creating your own life.

        And it makes me feel like my life has been head tossed on its ass. All I know is that I have six months to figure it out. Winter's almost here, but I'm steeling myself for sunny forests and smiling faces. Summer's almost here, too.