Monthly Archives: August 2009

There’s a Reason You Drink Beer, Sniff Glue, and Eat Catfood Simultaneously.

When i was growing up, Savage Garden’s “truly, Madly, Deeply,” was basically an anthem for my view on love. The fact that there was this hope of finding someone who i loved truly, madly, and deeply drove me to live my life everyday. the reality was that i was a romantic even at the age of 11. an even deeper reality was that i had no rational idea about love, my own parents were not inspirational, but a song by a shitty pop band was. the chances of Savage Garden even believing that were non-existent. slowly, the idea of love became something that people just loved to hear.

my first girlfriend, whom i will refer to as “D.” shattered that mentality. i loved to love. untill she shattered that new mentality as well, when she had anal sex with three guys and even made a documentary about it. so i was back to square one. all that could be done about that was to just recline my seat and marvel at the wonders and capabilities of human life.

a few successions of horrible flings spanning through itineraries of the perfect girls has not changed my mind about love. i became rather despondent to allowing myself to become vulnerable. that superficialities were reciprocated by my own superficialities because, well what the hell is the point in letting you in if you’re going to fuck shit up anyway?

then i met someone. a clever girl, whom i found intellectually stimulating, who wasn’t fat or ugly. by this point, i had completely given up on the idea of falling in love, but i was prepared to say it in order to rest my cock inside of a vagina. not with this girl. she was so compelling that i had to fabricate reasons to why i shouldn’t hit on her. i had to tell myself she looekd fat at certain times and she looked ugly when she wore this, just anything that would pull me out of the spiral of curiosity. that failed miserably. the fact was that she was drop dead gorgeous, and even more convincing when she’s four feet in front of you. Her personality even glowed in correspondence to mine. she was perfect. then came the question of how i was going to fuck it all up.

because of my pre-existing notions on love, i had already pessimistically assumed she would do something slimy to ruin everything. but she didn’t, and still hasn’t. she lied about how many guys she’s slept with but that’s it. and that was to protect me and to boost my own ego. quite a dangerous risk if you ask me. but she admitted it later. so as of yet, she’s still been marvelous.

now i’m starting to feel afraid. i was doomed from the beginning. i can’t allow myself to accept her as the one honest relationship i’ll have. and if i did, i’ll be crushed into a depressing state of existentialism where she’d single-handedly and unintentionally control how i’ll look at relationships for the rest of my life. i couldjust accept it and roll with the punches, but that little anti-love voice in the back of my mind still coaches me the same way a coach that never wins a game coaches me. it sounds like it knows what it’s talking about, but it’s track record in results fucking blows.

If no one really cared for you the right way, then you may be suspicious of anyone really caring for you at all. my good friend Charity said that, and it’s especially true in my case. (on a side note, it doesn’t help when the person giving you excellent advice is someone you’d like to bang in a bondage fantasy.)

anyway, i love my girlfriend. and i want to let her love me.
[
(the previous picture i had up caused unecessary problems, so i’m uploading the rightful one now, a little too late.)
and as an update, now i find myself wishing she would let me love her.

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Metaphoric Fecies

Emotional offsets always have two values. A face value and a beneath-the-surface value. Reactions to the face value will always be first and foremost, however, the second, will always be a driver for pessimism. Only because people are filled with metaphoric fecies and through time and time again, it has been proven. not a single smile goes unquestioned.

but that doesn’t mean i’m a pessimistic person in nature. it just means i play the same game you play, and raise you a ten.

i don’t think i speak for myself when i say, i don’t trust anyone. there exists a few select people in my life worthy of trust. one of them being the dumbest person i know, in fact, the one’s i trust are the among the the lowest forms of intelligent life. the rest are clever like foxes, striving and caniving to feed their egos and self preservation.

does that mean something? when the intellectual are more dangerous that the “huh, what does that mean,” bunch?

unfortunately, the intellectuals or even fasade intellectuals are where i have my mental stimulations.

Ive come to the conclusion, youre an idiot, but so am i.

I've come to the conclusion, you're an idiot, but so am i.

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The Sweet ain’t as Sweet without the Sour

I was 23 when it happened. “Fell in love,” as most would say. Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m too young to fall in love, even younger to think about marriage. Yet, every now and then you hear of a story that starts out like this and that story, til this day, hasn’t finished, and perhaps I was coerced into believing it could happen to me through hearsay. And it did. She proposed to me during my vacation to Chicago, on a frigid horse-carriage ride through the South Loop. I said yes, kissed her, and ended up fondling each other for the duration of the ride across Michigan Ave. Beneath the blankets.

Two seraphically blessed months later, she passed away. I never got the chance to go through the whole wedding ceremony, never got the chance to hate my step-parents, never even got a chance to fight so bad, one of us would scream, “I want a divorce!” She just packed, and caught the next flight to St. Peter’s gate.

I didn’t feel so surprised, I felt like how I had my coffee. Unsweetened, no cream, and overcharged. I kept the ring she gave me, Juicy Coutour was etched on it. No she wasn’t so perfect, we seldom are, but her alchemy fit mine just enough to make fire. Except the departure was not as warm. Her vitality, her memory, her sweetness, her little hidden mole, stripped by the inevitably sour course of life. Was I still too young to have fallen in love, or thought about marriage? Or was she too young to die? I feel her with me, in everything I do, and it’s terrible. It’s not as sweet as they make it seem in the movies.

i got dumped twice that night by the same indecisive girl

we both died

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Peregrine

there are physically attractive women everywhere. it’s quick and easy to fall into the gravitational pull of human aesthetics. such trivial yet physical matters are nice, yet the branch that really matters is the intelligence and passion born of living, the ability to move and to be moved by subtleties of the mind and spirit are what really counts. it takes people years to realize this, but took me a short epiphany when i decoded the small footprints along a deserted beach. when i think of all the cargo in the ships that never made it to the shore. when i watched all the curtained faces of people walking down artificially lit streets. and when i think of how long i must walk till i see my campfire in michigan or new york or Illinois before i know i’m home.


Nothing (but Flowers) by the talking heads

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The Cowboy, the Lion, and the Wolf

there’s a certain breed of humans that’s obsolete, or at least, nearly so. the world has been overrun by organization and has become so inimical, we gasp for air habitually, but not silently. everything is in it’s right place, and there’s a place for everything. regulations laws, even social conventions. Hierarchies of control, plans and now, budgets. a stuffy room full of wrinkled suits and name tags. not all of us are the same, yet some will flourish in the world to come, but a few of us will not. movies, computers, technology all portend a beehive of organization. In an older world, we were able to do things machines couldn’t do, we could run fast, we are strong, quick, aggressive, tough. and we’re given things like courage and other emotions sacred to us. even hurl a spear in combat or for survival.

eventually, we will be replaced by robots and computers that can be programmed to do exactly everything i’ve aforementioned. we can manage those machines but even that task will be replaced by something designed for that sole purpose. and even handling those machines would not require courage or strength. we are outliving our usefulness at a quick pace. just a sperm bank is necessary to keep the species going. most men are rotten lovers, as women say, but even intimacy can be substituted with science.

Our emotions are becoming routine charms and eccentricities are artifice, the cowboy, the mountain lion, and the gray wolf vanish with the loss of free range. travelers are no longer welcome.

Perhaps we humans are still in command, and perhaps there really will be a conventional robot war in the not-so-distant future. If so, let’s roll. I’m ready. My toaster will never be the boss of me. Get ready to make me some Pop-Tarts, bitch.

Fundraising with beeming Intensity

Fundraising with beeming Intensity

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Fourteen

Animosity has always been the emotion premiered when i thought about my father. It’s not like he did anything to purposely hurt me, it’s just the way i’ve always felt. i didn’t meet him until i was eight. Up until then, i was drowned into the early promotion and responsibilities to adulthood. i was passed around different friends of my mother’s until i was five. some, better caretakers than others. but who was i to complain? who was i to have an opinion? i took care of my 2 year old baby brother at the age of 5. We couldn’t afford a sitter and my mother had to work 7 days out of the week doing who knows what, in order to keep the house. she was always sweet to my brother and i, but personally, i think she was too tired to yell. i was man of the house at 5. not in that, “you’re so cute, but daddy’s away for the weekend,” type thing. it was more like, “you don’t have a choice, so don’t let me down,” type way. fuck… just my luck…

then, when i turned eight. a strange looking man appeared. he had an eighties mullet, in a nineties world. a mustache that screemed bloody murder with tattoos that looked tougher than the rambo trilogy. he extended his finger to the buzzer from the front gate, and i was the eight year old bouncer. i was petrified because the only visitors we had gotten, were bored little school children who had loved the extracurriculars of teasing, yours truly, so much, that they followed me home in order to give me extended assignment sheets of, “we’re gonna make your life a living hell.” those were my schooldays and schoolnights. 16 hours of ridicules and having to tell my mother not to worry because they were just friends having fun. why couldn’t it just stay that way? now this guy from last decade shows up, ringing my bell. i ignored him, because there isn’t much authority delegated to you at the age of 8. besides taking care of the livlihood of an even younger child barely graduating into the stage of toddlerism from infancy. no sweat.

The story does, however, change drastically when an unidentified stranger hops your front gate and walks slowly to the house your eight year old self is in with a five year old brother. what do you do in that situation? well, you don’t call the police. because mother would be in trouble for leaving my eight year old self with my five year old brother at home. that would be a big no no. a neighbor perhaps? nope. because when an ye ldcalls a neighbor sounding like he’s about to have his house broken into, he’s automatically assumed to be playing a prank. jeeze it sucks being eight, and more mature than some thirteen year olds. what is ther left do? hide!

since that day, that fun-filled day of medeocre easter egg discoveries, i’d found out the tattoo’ed fence-hopping stranger was my father. actually, he a was a very gentle gentleman, never beat my mom, or pillaged anything or anyone. however, when you become a man at the age of 5 with your own child to take care of, letting a stranger into your life is more impermeable than one would think. Of course, it’s not like we didn’t try. I remember endless outings with old friends of my mothers designed to assimilate a father figure into our family. i also remember being disgusted everytime someone said i looked just like him. i’m glad my baby brother was unaware of all this, otherwise, he’d have turned out like me. fortunately, he’s grown up to be a normal person.

Today. i went out into the living room. i had never really dwelled into the living room of our houses because i knew that creature resided there. he was always there. that… thing with the mullet and the tattoos, it breathed fire in the medium of cigarette smoke, and captured innocent villagers in the form of my only mother. either way, with sword in hand, i crept into its forbidden lair. i pointed my nose everywhere, like a puppy would do at a strangers house. though this creature was responsible for my creation, i had hardly felt a bond to it. we were more like friends than family. but even more so like acquaintances than friends. we had never done anything a father and son would do, he never taught me how to bat a baseball, or drive a car, or pick up girls, or even shave. he was there to nod his head in acknowledgment, even if i had taken a life i unrightfully took.

“you made it in AP english? that’s cool mickey.” “you got your license? that’s neat mickey.” “your score was 92% on your MCATS? good job mickey.” “you ran over a baby in a stroller then reversed onto it’s mother ruthlessly? i couldn’t be prouder, mickey.”

in that living room however. deep within his throne of nonchalance, i discovered something. one of those kitchen tile tablets with a tiny handprint on there.

it reads, "i love you, dad"
it was in my favorite color, navy blue, and the handprint was soooo tiny. i smiled at it for a moment then tried to reminisce the schoodal whence i created this strong gesture. then i remembered, i had never done anything for him. then i wondered, if my baby brother was the one who had made it for him. i remember him not possibly being old enough to have remembered him being an outsider into our three muskateers union, yet his less than triumphant return from something was my first childhood memory… perhaps my brother was a young genius? i started to feel jealous now. i had no idea why. i snagged the tablet, and looked for a signature.

“Dylan.”

who the fuck is Dylan?! why is this kid leaving my father handprints?! and at that moment, all fourteen years of my animosity subsided and turned into regret. i could have spent those fourteen years getting to know my father again. but i was simply an idiot kid revelling in his adult splendor. i wasted fourteen years on a hatred that was only meant to be a brief exchange of hateful words. my mother waited, why couldn’t i have shown such patience? what i understood from Dylan’s handprint was this; our family doesn’t know a Dylan. adult or otherwise. Dylan’s handprint tablet was purchased at a secondhand thrift store, along with the new old looking flower vase that incidentally popped up at the same time that tablet did.

...son of a bi*ch...

...son of a bi*ch...

at the moment i pieced that together, is when the regret set in. the fact that he would buy a child’s handprint at a secondhand store, was enough to exemplify the mutual regret he shares. he didn’t want this to happen. but it did. not only did he lose part of his life in a prison, but he had lost a two sons. He’s the one who’d lost the most in this family boardgame. and now i’m worried it’s too late to change that… a measly fourteen years later.

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Wired

technology should extend only to dolby surround sound systems and flatscreen tv’s. maybe the playstation 3 and xboxlive subscriptions. but everything else should be DIY. we have souls to keep you know…

Human frustration can be measured by how many electrical wires and cords one has in their lives.

follow the lines

follow the lines

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