Posts

Posted on

brotherly love

Bridges yet to span.
Dangit. In a shortcut attempt to go back and add a bunch of entries into the “Halloween” category – I wrote a small SQL statement to update the category value for all entries containing Halloween-related keywords. Too bad I didn’t bother to understand how the post-to-category mapping works, and I ended up making all Halloween-keyword-havin’ entries belong to only the Halloween category, erasing any other categorizations they used to have. Owell, add it too my to-fix list.

Anyway, in that vein. Sunday Erik came over and we worked a little on the Halloween props. Since last years witch project ended up being a static prop, I wanted to choose a better location for her this year. The peak of the roof in front was my 1st choice, but I needed a way to hang her a few feet out from the roof so she’d have room to hang freely. Erik came up with a pretty simple solution that incorporated a decorative thingy on the front of my house, and we were both really pleased with the results. You’ll have to imagine her broom and some colored spotlights on her, but here you go:

 

When I was in Taiwan a couple weeks ago, I was preparing to leave on my last morning in town. It was 6am, and I was hastily bundling items into my suitcase, scouring the floor for stragglers. Before I got on the interminably long flight, I wanted to sync-up my work mail so I could do some offline replying/housecleaning. Staring at the mails piling into my inbox, one from my Mom caught my eye. “Frank,” read the title. I double-clicked it up.

I haven’t written about this before now because I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to say about it, not because it didn’t matter to me. I wanted to make that clear up-front.

The missive went about explaining that my lil’ bro was in the ICU at the local hospital. He’d been “jumped” by some gentlemen the evening prior outside a bar, and was beaten unconscious. He had swelling between his skull and brain, thus the residency in ICU – but all expectations were for the swelling to go down and his condition to stabilize. I read the rest, and decided to call my pops just before I walked out the hotel door to find out the latest. Frank was out of ICU, but fairly well doped up to relieve pain. He’d certainly got a thrashing: a bad concussion, likely broken nose, two black eyes, and a Frank-head shaped dent in the steel frame of the car into which is head was repeatedly banged. He would be laid up for a few days at least, and likely would not have any permanent aftereffects. Well, good, I thought… at least he was alive. But man, what the heck?

So you want the rest of the gory details here, but there aren’t any. He got out, he got better, he’s OK now. But guys, the reason I’m writing this is not to tell you the story of my brother getting his ass kicked (as compelling a story as that may be). The reason I’m writing this is to examine my reaction to my brother getting his ass kicked. And, if I write this the way I want to, I may risk sounding callous, aloof, over-cool, whatever… but I’m just gonna run with it, OK? OK.

My immediate reaction was a bit of a surprise to me; it was almost just like reading about the story as if it hadn’t happened to lil’ bro. I wasn’t scared, sad, shocked, upset; I wasn’t much of anything. My first reaction was to call my parents to check on his current condition. Upon hearing he was doing better, my mom suggested I call him at his bedside – a thought that didn’t appeal to me much at all. I dunno, maybe I won’t sound callous because I can’t really explain it. It’s odd, like, I somehow knew it wasn’t that big of a deal. And, I don’t mean to trivialize it, I just mean… I wasn’t as surprised, looking back, as I’d think I’d have been. If I get brutally honest with myself, I think I know the reason that I wasn’t so surprised. Lean in, I’ll tell you if you don’t think I’m an animal for saying it: I wasn’t surprised because, somewhere deep in me, I half-expect stuff like this to happen to my brother. Bad shit happening to Frank just doesn’t shock me anymore.

No! Wait! I don’t mean it like that. I mean, I feel like my brother has been dealt an undeservedly large hand of bad luck in his life – not that I “expect” this kinda thing because of him or something about him. Also, you have to realize that I tend to have a very hard-to-elicit “shocked senseless” reaction. I wrote about it once, how bombshell news tends to phase me… my almost too-laissez-faire attitude toward ground-shaking happenings. I think my somewhat ho-hum reaction to Frank’s incident is a product of these two aspects of me working together.

I still feel like I need to expand here, because I’ve done my brother a disservice – which is mostly because I do pretty poor at putting down complex feelings in paragraph form. Hey, it’s hard, try it. Bitch. Anyway, like I was saying (poorly), I just feel that, compared to me, my brother has had his fair share of crap. For some reason, I got handed this extremely dumb-luck driven bloom into adulthood, while his has seemingly been one stormy sea after another. Maybe this is unfair; perhaps, perceived from his point-of-view, he’s simply had an enjoyable and hard-won road to grown-upness, much as I perceive my own trip. Maybe it only seems rocky to me, looking in from the outside where I truly have no idea what’s going on. I guess I can’t be sure. But I do know that, wrong or not, it sure seems to me like, compared to my brother, golden apple after golden apple has been presented to me on silver platters, or simply dropped into my lap.

I hate that I feel this way; hate that I feel like I’ve had such an easier go at it than Frank has. But, that’s how I feel. It brings guilt. It’s hard-to-explain guilt though, because I feel bad for feeling guilty – if that makes sense. Who am I, so richly blessed, that I have can afford the luxury of feeling bad for my poor little brother? It’s like the first class passenger who looks down his nose at the poor steerage shuffling past into the Super Saver seats… taking mock pity on the lot that life has given them. What right do I have to even feel guilty, have things been that super-duper for me? It’s bullshit. Frank and I are just the same, he’s dealt with what I’ve dealt with, I’ve dealt with what he’s dealt with. Right? Anyway, all of this becomes immediately unimportant the second I sit down with him and have a couple beers.

OK, enough of that.

Sharaun bought some stretch-top pants at the maternity store on Friday (yeah, her belly pretty much dictates a wardrobe change at this point), and when she got home and took them out of the bag, the store had stuffed all sorts of associated-marketing goodies in. There was some boob-lotion, some Strong Mom vitamin drink, and this little green and white piece of paper. On this little green and white piece of paper were some words, so I decided to read them. The words on the little green and white piece of paper were telling me about this Mastercard I could get. Nothing new there, with the amount of credit card offers we get in the mail – I could apply for three or four new cards every day. But the green and white paper-pitched Mastercard was different from those other Mastercards. The green and white paper Mastercard earned money with every purchase you made – money that went into a fund; money that went into a fund for your child’s eventual college education. I stared at the paper for quite a while, y’all.

College? Hey, Lil’ Chino? Listen up. I think you still have a vestigial tail at this point and Mastercard wants me to think about saving to send you to college? I don’t even own my diploma yet, and Mastercard wants me to start saving for yours. Hey, Mastercard? Listen up. Why you gotta scare a brother like that? That’s just not cool man, totally uncalled for. College?

G’night friends and family.

Posted on

ivy covered tears

Stoopid and dum.
Another evening spent with friends drinking beer and eating food; I live a decent life, y’know?

So yeah, this new Wolf Parade album is good, I can’t argue with that. It reminds me of the Arcade Fire; it reminds me of Modest Mouse; it’s way better than their last album (unless I just dismissed it without enough focus, which is entirely possible). Anyway, I’m diggin’ this new one a lot.

I read this page with interest the other day, casting my memory back to my days as a young engineer-in-training. I graduated high school in the top ten of my class, which I don’t think really says much… that shit was so laughably easy anyone willing to go one bongless night a week had a shot at valedictorian. After high school, I decided to take a full scholarship to the local community college – and buy CDs with the living expense and book stipends while staying at home with my folks. Two years at this high-school+ didn’t really give my brain much of a workout above and beyond what high school had. I still skipped class 50% of the time, crammed the night before exams, and basically stood laughing and masturbating on the supposedly college-level course material. (Dave, why did you say “masturbating” in that last sentence? Man, that’s a good question… I think I used it to communicate just how ridiculous what was supposed to be “higher education” was, and to show my complete lack of respect for it.) Anyway, two years walking the not-so-hallowed halls of that GED warehouse and I was on my way to a real school, a state school.

Somewhere along the line, I’d decided I wanted to be a math major. I ate up math; loved it hardcore. I wanted to get deep into the fringe maths, Galois Theory, automoprhisms, all that abstract stuff. However, shortly before I actually had to register for classes at State U, I realized that there was no money in math. There was, however, money in other math-intensive fields like engineering. I liked computers, I liked math – computer engineering seemed right. So, I set about enrolling for all the courses I’d need to get on the path to my newly chosen degree. That first year, I had to take a few “general education” courses that didn’t fully transfer from my fake-college – namely Physics I & II. In high school, I was a physics champeen… I rocked that dang class. Came out with a shiny new A and carried it through the year. That is to say, the prospect of taking physics at State U did not scare me in the least.

Oh shit was I naive. Physics at State U kicked my ass. I had never really heard the term “weed out class” before, but apparently State U made the “pre” engineering degree courses harder than a Viagra overdose victim’s peener to try and “filter” out those prospects who might not have the gumption to complete the higher level courses. Physics at State U was effing torture. I couldn’t believe it, I used to be good at this stuff… what was wrong with me? My first semester at “real” college – I bombed Physics I. The same simple Newtonian stuff I breezed through in high school mopped the floor with me at State U. Not even six months into college-proper and I’d already permanently damaged my GPA. I was thrown for a loop, and considered whether I was really cut out for an engineering degree. However, I decided to have another go at it – and the second time I made it. Physics II was no walk in the park either, and Statics put me through the wringer again… nearly handing me my 2nd F. Thusly, I came to realize – I was not good at physics at all; in fact, I sucked at physics. I made a mental note to stay away from all physics… as I just couldn’t get it, no matter how hard I tried. I mean, it’s statics folks, everything equals zero. How hard can a math class be where you always know that whatever you write down will equal zero?! I’ll tell you: frickin’ hard.

There were some bright spots, I trounced Differential Equations, dominated Discrete Mathematics, and walked all over Statistics (not the wimpy statistics, the one taught through the mathematics department – with triple integrals and shit). But for the most part, the College of Engineering kicked my ass. I mean, at certain points throughout my quest for a degree I literally thought I would have a breakdown. The workload often kept me up till the AMs, and I always had the feeling that the material was on the very fringes of my ability to comprehend and process. At one point I was loaded down with 16 credit hours, in a vain attempt to make up for the failed physics class, and I did have a true breakdown. Here I was, twenty-something years old and crying on my bed that I couldn’t do it, that it was too hard. For me at least, it really was that hard. Because of this, my stellar standards of high school performance didn’t carry through to college – and I ended up with a degree that was a year and a half late in coming and a GPA that demonstrated the hanging-on-by-fingernails nature of my accomplishments. Somehow though, I managed to keep my scholarship the entire time (they lowered the required GPA the semester I bombed physics, pursuant to the serendipitous nature of my life)… and didn’t end up too terribly in the hole for my ass-whooping of an education. And what’s more, I was an engineer! I had a paper from State U that said so, and I knew words like inductance and linked-list.

I wanted to write more, but then I decided that this was enough. Goodnight.

Posted on

my lungs hurt

Teeter. Totter. Tatters.
Big plans to work on the coffin tonight, and finally post some pictures of the progress. Big plans fell through. An old war buddy asked me over for beer and pizza; I obliged. Close to one foil-covered side of Djarums, four beers, and too many slices of pie later, I’m sitting here in front of what I wrote earlier today, ready to post it without so much as a proofread. That’s just how I do folks; that’s just how I do.

Today at work…

Gee, kinda sounds like the beginning to the old “Show and Tell” thing you used to do as a kid in grade school. Can I get sidetracked for a minute here? Yeah? OK. Show and Tell was awesome; you could get up there and monopolize the floor with personal stories about nothing. It was encouraged bragging, “Yesterday I went to a fancy restaurant and my dad let me get the ‘All U Can Eat’ shrimp; I ate 45.” I can remember doing “joint,” or tag-team, Show and Tells with my best-bud Shaine… we’d regale the class with stories, making them laugh while confirming our ultimate coolness to ourselves. Anyway…

Today at work, I was in training from 8-5. Not bad really, since I’ve been a bit lax with what I’ve been doing during each day of late anyway; the 8hrs away from the normal grind was quite welcome. A day of training on how to manage people. We learned great things like how to “caringly” tell someone they have offensive BO, and how to properly reward good work. Now, a lot of the stuff is common sense, everyone knows that telling someone they did a good job will encourage that person to keep doing a good job. But, some of the stuff is actually quite relevant and interesting. What’s also interesting, at least to me, is that I feel there’s a unspoken theme running under the proceedings. That them being that: most folks in the class are there because they are good at reading and manipulating people and situations. Sure, it sounds negative – but I think it’s true.

In class they call it “utilizing,” but it shares an awful lot with “exploiting.” In class they call it “guidance,” but it shares an awful lot with “manipulating.” It’s very much psychology… you learn it when you’re young. Subtle ways to make things work the way you want… little under-the-radar (of most) techniques to influence decisions and steer people to your liking. It sounds evil, but it’s not really… it’s just some people having access to more data than others – because they have the ability to “mine” it from places where others may miss it. A good leader knows how to deftly drive things and leave participants thinking it was all their idea. But a good leader must also be honest and have integrity – so it’s a fine line. The Prince is a good place to start… every manager should read that book before Good to Great or High Output Management; just to level-set on the realities of leadership as they have been since long, long ago.

OK, after all that, lemme state that I’m not all for management or control through fear, nor am I for some subversive form of uber-political management. So what am I for? I dunno. Being funny, being open, and being natural. Wanna work for me? I thought not.

Sharaun and I have been kicking around names for Lil’ Chino of late. Thankfully, we won’t carry the fetal-name through into the “real world.” We’ve mostly discussed boys names, since I’m still holding tight to the idea of one. A week from today though, we’ll know for sure… and we can center on one or the other. My mom, and Sharaun’s mom, and Sharaun are all convinced we are having a girl – so I’m a bit outnumbered. Actually, I’m still trying to get around the fact that we’ll soon be parents. All this time I’ve been able to still consider myself fairly young; at least, I still don’t hold the handrail going down stairs for fear of a broken hip. But, for some reason, the prospect of being a parent makes me want to do strange things like buy matching furniture and dust… it’s the damnedest thing.

Big week next week: find out how sexy my baby is, and hit the skies again bound for Shanghai. 100k+ miles in the air this year, that should be good for something right? Free upgrades from First Class to Handjob Class, perhaps? What, I ask too much?

Goodnight.

Posted on

high-jumping with a motorcycle


The blog is prophetic; we had a real storm last night – thunder and lightning and all. A rare occurrence here in Northern California, although you’d think I’d have gotten my fill back in Florida.

The coffin-sitter Halloween project is coming along nicely. I finished the base and sides of the coffin this afternoon – and did a rough-fit of everything to gauge the realism of the finished product. I also placed orders for the key pneumatic ingredients: the cylinder and the solenoid valve. I found both online. Spending a little time shopping around, I was able to get the parts quite a but cheaper than the place I initially intended to buy them from. Got the cylinder from a dedicated pneumatic store and the solenoid for a deep discount on Ebay. Friday, Ben and I went by the local goodwill and picked up the corpse’s burial suit and shoes, all for $20 no less. Apart from assembling the coffin itself and rigging up the pneumatics, the only missing ingredient is a nice creepy mask for the corpse himself. Oh, and I still have to finalize the triggering method – meaning, how and when will the corpse actually sit up out of his coffin.

I gotta find a way to cash in on this Kabbalah thing. I’m sure ancient Jewish mysticism would be incredibly interesting to me, it’s right up my alley. But, that wouldn’t stop me from making a buck off its sudden popularity. With celebrities eating it up, John “Lemming” Public is all over it. Have you seen the Kabbalah brand energy drink? What genius! Not only are they in on the energy drink thing, but the Kabbalah too? Now that’s marketing to your unapologetically idiotic demographic in its best. I just need one killer product; the perfect blend of Kabbalah, RSS, reality TV, low carb diets, pilates, TiVo, extreme sports, and podcasting. Masses of drooling retards would line up for that crap.

We’re going after the Red Bull market; but Kabbalah Energy Drink tastes better. And, it’s infused with Kabbalah water, which is holy water.

Kabbalah Energy Drink spokesman Darin Ezra

You gotta be kidding me… I need to get my Scientology butter and Mormon beef jerky to market ASAP before these idiots wake up. Wait, what am I saying… we breed idiots now, and teach them to embrace it at that! It’s a goldmine!

Over the past month, work has gone from autobahn to school-zone… leaving me confused and unmotivated. Just a little over a month ago, I was something important. I was making decisions and exerting influence. Now, I’m planning… years into the future. It’s still important work, and I know I’m still contributing – but it’s not front-lines and the difference in the reward I feel is significant. I suppose it’ll just take some adjustment before I’m comfortable with the new pace, or before the pace changes again to something more immediate-reward based. I’d just been doing the same thing in the same ways for so long, I got accustomed to coming in and having my head spin until I left… then going home and knowing I took care of shit. Now, I go in and sort of map out what needs to get done, at a very non-breakneck pace and quite meticulously. When I get home now, it’s hard for me to gauge just how I effected any bottom line. Thus the funk I’ve been speaking of. Oh, I’ve been through this before at work… the whole peaks and valleys thing, and it’s always the same. Feel a tinge of guilt in the lollygag pace of the valleys, and feel like Superman through the fast-paced peaks. So, my focus shifts to other things: babies, holidays, finances, etc. I suppose it’s pretty normal.

Y’know, when I wrote the post x-rated last week, I had it in my mind that I wanted to put something down that was a little explicit, a little uncharacteristic for me and for sounds familiar, and hopefully something well-written. I had one reader, whom I often see in person, mention to me that it was indeed quite explicit – which made me very happy, actually. Some part of me wants to write about things like that all the time, not necessarily sex stuff… but just stuff that comes from memory and bangs off my fingertips with ease. Stuff that people may not expect or stuff that is surprisingly open. It seems to me that, over the years, I’ve written so much down – but that there’s so much still unwritten which might make a good entry. I just have to reach down and find it, then put it down. After all, it’s why I started keeping a journal in the first place… to help my ailing memory one day – to be able to bring it all back. Selfish, I know.

‘Night.

Posted on

ready for grey skies

Buzzzzzz...
I’m ready for some thunderstorms, for some grey skies.

Halloween-centric weekend. Spent time planning and beginning working on this year’s prop – the pneumatic sit-up coffin guy. When I made the decision to go air-powered this year, I needed to get an air compressor first. So, I headed over to Home Depot and picked up their cheapest and smallest, a 1.75gal for $99. I was happy with my frugal yet functional purchase. Then, Anthony called and said he’d seen a massive sale on compressors at another store, where there was a 21gal for $169. That’s 10x the capacity for less than 2x the price, not to mention a lot more oomph. So, from needing only a minimalistic compressor to run some Halloween props, I ended up with a massive beast capable of running full-out impact wrenches and air hammers and all sorts of other wife-wrath-inducing air tools.

I’ve always wondered about the “birds and bees.” No, I don’t mean I wonder about it like that, I think Lil’ Chino is enough evidence that I at least understand what is meant when one says “birds and bees.” What I mean is, I was never taught about sex via the birds and bees story – and to this day I have no idea how a story about bees, or birds, or the way they interact has anything to do with explaining sex. Even the great repository of knowledge that is the internet is kinda light on the details of how a story about birds and bees can be used to explain human reproduction. Anyone know how this story supposedly explains sex to a kid?

I have nothing more. Sorry.

Posted on

x-rated

Steamy.
Slump in full effect, I came home early today. For some reason, I got to writing… and the following was what resulted. And, despite the title, it’s no Penthouse Forum… but I suppose it could leave you nostalgic for those red-cheeked teenage days spent in backseats and darkened theaters. Enjoy.

So we found ourselves alone in some alley behind the buildings, not the most romantic place. It was in one of those “old town” places that plenty of American towns have. The throwback towns, facades crafted to recall the glory days… packed with specialty shops and antique stores, little cafes and toys tores where everything is wood and handmade. The kind of place where they have annual street parties with vendors and open markets – you know, Old Town. Ahem… so there we were, in the alley, not the most romantic place. Thankfully, romance has nothing to do with lust and sex. Against the dirty stucco wall I held her arms to her side and kissed her. At least a foot shorter than me, I had to stoop while turning my tongue over in her mouth. Her boyfriend was out there somewhere, on the other side of these buildings somewhere. Her boyfriend and my girlfriend, my friend and her friend, our friends. My hand wandered under her shirt, pressed the soft skin of her side; still kissing. Being so wrong made it so fun, they were right out there somewhere; could turn the corner into this alley at any moment; could find us. What if she tastes you on my lips?

Later that night our double date to the go-cart track and arcade place on the beach, where all the cool kids go. You know the place, the one with the mini-golf course that has a volcano and a windmill, and the huge maze you can pay $2 to run through. The maze full of twists and turns and dead-end presswood walls painted in circus colors. Grab my hand, let’s get lost, they are in here somewhere too… this could be even better than the alley. These presswood walls don’t even extend to the ground, feet run by on the either side. Hearing shouts and talking as people rushed past us, yellow and blue presswood walls separating them from us. Us: the four feet on the other side of the wall from them. The four feet that weren’t moving at all, the four feet that were standing still and, if you listened close, making hushed gasps for breath between sloppy kisses. They’re in here somewhere, running through these same presswood walls, separated from the ones they held hands with on the way in tonight; they’re in here looking. Any minute now they could turn the corner into our three-walled presswood room. You actually listened to me on the phone this afternoon and wore the overalls, they are always the easiest to get into. Down the side, I slip my hand between the denim and your skin. What if he smells you on my fingers?

The preceding paragraphs, while fine enough on their own, could stand for a bit of background: When I was 15 or so (pre-driving, if I remember right), I was dating a girl. And, as often goes in early teen relationships, one of my closest buddies at the time was dating one of my girlfriend’s close buddies. It was the kind of thing that worked well for double-dates and whatnot, teenagers eat that crap up.

Standing in a field a mile from anywhere in every direction. We brought a blanket and some soda. The sun is shining bright and it’s not cool, it’s downright hot. You smelled so good; clean and fresh, and your light brown hair was newly washed and dried, shining in the sun and sticking a little to your damp forehead. The heat from our walk makes your scent stand out, stirred up with sweat and wafting upward. Standing, I look down on you, your fingers working my zipper, pulling my shorts to my ankles. Your lips pink and full from kissing, the blanket tousled from our rolling around. As I stand, I shoot defiant glances into the the distance; the trees and tall grass where anyone could be watching – but no one is. I look up to the clear blue sky, the birds our only audience. Us: the birds and I, we watch from above, watch your mouth work. At this moment, if I’m not king of the world then no one is. That day, in the woods, my open eyes watched her closed ones; her head moving slowly at my waist as I gathered and caressed handfuls of her hair – truly king of the world for the moment.

The preceding paragraph, while fine enough on its own, could stand for a bit of background: When you are too young to get a hotel room or go back to each other’s apartments – you turn to the woods. All kids should get to make out in the woods, there’s nothing that compares to being half naked and experiencing first sins alone in the wilderness; pine needles sticking to exposed skin as you moan and pant like TV has taught you. That particular day in the woods stands out, and was with that first girlfriend from above – pre double affair.

Enough of this filth!

Even though PF and other music ‘zines have lauded his every effort, I’ve never been able to get into nouveau-folkie Devendra Banhart that much. Oh sure, I downloaded all the albums and listened to them diligently. I could hear talent, but they were just a little too slow for me – maybe it was a temporal thing, sometimes uber-slow or sober albums only work during certain times of year or under certain circumstances. So, when I read the expectedly glowing review of Cripple Crow, his latest effort, I wasn’t surprised. I figured I should follow the drill though, download the album give it a fair shake, and delete it a week later. This time though, the planets were aligned, the time was high, whatever – and the album hit me just right. This is a solid album, reminding me most of Donovan, and at times Dylan or the stripped-down component-Beatles of the White Album. (And I swear I wrote my review before reading PF’s, it’d take an idiot to not compare this to Donovan, Dylan, and the Fabs.) Oh, and I just found out that my newly-loved Field Music album is made up of members of other bands… who’d’a thunk?

Goodnight.

Posted on

pulling up grass

Koff.
Today I got all developer and GIMP’d up a favorite/bookmark icon for the blog. If all works well, instead of the plain Firefox or IE page icon in your bookmarks, you should now see a little green thing that matches the page’s banner scheme. Ahh… so much work for something so few people care about.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me folks. I’m feeling supremely frustrated, or burdened, or something. I’ve got this strange sense of desperation, invoking my fight or flight response – which for me is nearly 100% flight – which leaves me with an overwhelming desire to run away, to drop out. I get like this sometimes, I don’t know what it is. I just get to feeling like I need to take off, mostly from work. Just take a vacation and get away… completely disconnect from everything that’s running around in my head. It’s times like these that I fall back on my fantasy of taking Sharaun and running away to some remote location, a desert island, perhaps, and just doing nothing – just enjoying each other. I’ve been like this since I was a kid, I guess you could call it temperamental or sensitive. In gradeschool, I used to just decide to spend an entire recess sitting alone in the far corner of the field on the playground. I would cross my legs and pull up grass and make chains from those little flowers (yeah, yeah, insert gay jokes here, it’s cool). In some ways, I did it because I knew it would draw some folks out to me… curious as to what I was doing. But, for the most part, I did it to just get away and sulk, or think, or not think, or… whatever. All my life, I’ve always loved being alone with things I enjoy. Listening to music alone, working in the yard alone, reading a book alone, being alone with Sharaun, etc. It’ll pass, but maybe I should consider some time off… just for the heck of it.

The other day in the airport, Tony and I happened to strike up a conversation with a girl who was studying to be a veterinarian. Our conversations turned to equine surgery and pet insurance and all other various nutty topics. At one point, she mentioned something about taking care of a cat with diabetes – giving it special food, insulin, taking it for regular checkups, etc. That’s when I made my mistake, as well as an enemy for life. I mentioned that, should my cat come down with kitty diabetes or feline AIDS or tore her tiny ACL – she’d be out of luck. That’s right, I like our cat – but not quite enough to spend multiple hundreds of dollars for kitty surgery. I’m sorry; you’re a cat – you’re pretty replaceable. You can get a new one of you for like $20 at the pound. When you’re born, people give you away – that should tell you something. Anyway, this girl was shocked at my callousness… that I would dare consider a cat expendable. Thankfully, our plane began boarding before she could report me to PETA. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I even try to write…

Sitting here on the couch when I should really be doing dishes instead, they’re up there taunting me, being dirty on purpose.

Goodnight.