But Who's Counting?

4 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days ago was the worst day of my life.

Love you.
Mean it.

Happiness Is...

When I was in grade school, (I want to say first or second grade) we had this performance thingy. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. When all the parents come to the gym and sit in metal folding chairs, holing video cameras to capture every goddamn boring moment of the show. In grade school, you did about three of these a year. Anyway, the one I'm referencing here was entitled, "Happiness Is..." It was all about what made us happy. (We were on the cutting edge of education at my school) We even sang this stupid corny song that went something like, "Happiness is two scoops of ice cream, having a birthday, telling the time..." (Imagine a bunch of children, in their screechy voices singing that. It's amazing more elementary school teachers don't commit suicide...) Those were good examples for grade school. Hell, ice cream and birthdays are still pretty awesome nowadays. Telling the time isn't so cool anymore.

Flash-forward about a decade or so. The Timpview High School Drama Department is driving back to Provo after a great weekend at the Shakespearean Festival in Cedar City, Utah. I am sitting next to my good friend, Jacob Ludlow. Somehow we start talking about happiness and we start naming things in the same format as that grade school performance. We would say things like, "Happiness is the smell of puppies." "Happiness is straight superior one's." "Happiness is my dad's spaghetti sauce." It wasn't long until those around us, all of whom were our friends heard us and started throwing in their suggestions. Pretty soon we had the whole bus coming up with ideas of what happiness is. It was one of the most fun bus trips I have ever taken in my life. When we arrive in Provo and got off the bus, we all felt awesome about life.

I don't know why I was thinking about that today. It was one of those thoughts that just appear. And it made me smile. So in honor of those awesome past memories, here is my list of what happiness is. Enjoy.

Happiness is baby quail.
Happiness is babies laughing.
Happiness is BSing a paper and getting an A.
Happiness is a great movie.
Happiness is a book that you fall in love with.
Happiness is that feeling of constantly falling in love.
Happiness is a cup of tea with an old friend.
Happiness is laughing so hard you think you're going to vomit.
Happiness is finding money in your pocket you didn't know was there.
Happiness is waking up early & realizing you don't have to get up yet & going back to sleep.
Happiness is getting your car washed.
Happiness is that feeling when you can finally go to the bathroom after holding it forever.
Happiness is new Moleskin notebooks.
Happiness is delicious irony.
Happiness is finding out someone you respect holds the same views you do.
Happiness is watching your favorite sports team destroy the competition.
Happiness is surprise presents.
Happiness is when you find out someone knows something about you not because you remind them but because they have been listening.
Happiness is inside jokes.
Happiness is when a stranger is the only person to get your random pop culture reference and you two share a moment of humor.
Happiness is freshly baked bread.
Happiness is dutch oven cooking.
Happiness is camping.
Happiness is warm summer nights.
Happiness is cuddling in bed with someone you love.
Happiness is having books read to you.
Happiness is finding your old toys.
Happiness is helping strangers.
Happiness is new shoes.
Happiness is family parties.
Happiness is that one friend who knows you better than anyone else.
Happiness is that one person who you know will always be on your side.
Happiness is hearing your phone ring with a specific tone you've set for your crush.
Happiness is winking at a stranger.
Happiness is road trips.
Happiness is Cedar City, Utah.
Happiness is dogs who are always excited to see you.
Happiness is warm towels.
Happiness is new episodes of your favorite show.
Happiness is opening night of an anticipated movie.
Happiness is goofy friends.
Happiness is having the kind of friends with whom you just pick up where you left off no matter how much time has passed.
Happiness is that person who has changed your life.
Happiness is that stranger you look forward to seeing every day.
Happiness is little curiosities.
Happiness is surprise cards in the mail from your mom that make you laugh.
Happiness is getting mail that's not bills or advertisements.
Happiness is toy stores.
Happiness is reading outside.
Happiness is getting that perfect picture.
Happiness is camping.
Happiness is hearing stories about your grandparents' lives.
Happiness is knowing there are people out there who care.

What is happiness to you?

Love you.
Mean it.

My Logophilia

The other day I was discussing tattoo ideas with a friend. I have always wanted a tattoo for as long as I can remember. However, there has never been any image that has strongly resonated with me to the point I'd permanently put in on my body. I'm not an image/symbol type of person. The only symbol that I've felt close to is the symbol for the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense from the Hellboy comics.

I started reading those comics during my horrible transition form Cedar City to Provo. Those comics struck a chord with me. I had the symbol made into a sticker for my car. But other than that, no real image has ever been significant to me.

However, I do admit I am a logophile. A logophile is a lover of words. I love how every word has a precise definition & meaning and how you can convey your feelings or ideas with exactness by using one word over the other. There are millions of words in the English language and using the rules of grammar, we can communicate with others. There are some of us who are able to use the same words & rules and string them together to create beauty. Using the right words in the right order can make someone laugh or cry or think or just stand in awe. I love it.

So I wanted to share with you some of my favorite words & their meanings. I know not all of you are logophiles like me but I hope you enjoy this rich accumulation of awesome words.

pejorative: expressing contempt or disapproval.

unwittingly: not done on purpose; unintentional.

inadequate: not adequate; lacking the quality or quantity required; insufficient for a purpose.

genuine: truly what something is said to be; authentic; (of a person, emotion, or action) sincere.

lie: an intentionally false statement; used with reference to a situation involving deception or founded on a mistaken impression.

liar: a person who tells lies.

uncomfortable: causing or feeling slight pain or physical discomfort; causing or feeling unease or awkwardness

disparage: regard or represent as being of little worth.

inalienable: unable to be taken away from or given away by the possessor.

megalomaniac: a person who is obsessed with their own power; a person who suffers delusions of their own power or importance.

requiem: a Mass for the repose of the souls of the dead; an act or token of remembrance.

vain: having or showing an excessively high opinion of one's appearance, abilities, or worth; producing no result; useless; having no meaning or likelihood of fulfillment.

insinuate: suggest or hint (something bad or reprehensible) in an indirect and unpleasant way.

gregarious: (of a person) fond of company; sociable.

deism: belief in the existence of a supreme being, specifically of a creator whodoes not intervene in the universe.

pretentious: attempting to impress by affecting greater importance, talent, culture, etc., than is actually possessed.

rogue: a person whose behavior one disapproves of but who is nonetheless likable or attractive.

ideology: the ideas and manner of thinking characteristic of a group, socialclass, or individual.

hyperbole: exaggerated statements or claims not meant to be taken literally.

collude: come to a secret understanding for a harmful purpose; conspire.

assiduous: showing great care and perseverance.

fastidious: very attentive to and concerned about accuracy and detail; very concerned about matters of cleanliness.

yuppie: a well-paid young middle-class professional who works in a city job and has a luxurious lifestyle.

hipster: a person who follows the latest trends and fashions.

sabbatical: a period of paid leave granted to a college teacher for study or travel, traditionally every seventh year.

hiatus: a pause or gap in a sequence, series, or process.

propaganda: chiefly derogatory information, esp. of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view

disillusion: disappointment resulting from the discovery that something is not as good as one believed it to be.

innocuous: not harmful or offensive.

capricious: given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behavior.

tempestuous: characterized by strong and turbulent or conflicting emotion.

rapture: a feeling of intense pleasure or joy; thetransporting of believers to heaven at the second coming of Christ.

savvy: know or understand; shrewd and knowledgeable in the realities of life.

depraved: morally corrupt.

misogynist: a man who hates women.

misanthrope: a person who dislikes humankind and avoids human society.

Love you.
Mean it.

There I Go Using That Word Again.

Hey,
It's me again.
Of course, who else would it be?

I spent last week in Cedar City. I needed to get away for a bit so I went home. And yes, I do consider Cedar City my home.

I got to see Gus. He came to the party Sean was having. You remember Gus, right? I dated him after Greg, who was after Sage, who was after you. I faintly remember you two having a class together. Was it philosophy? I don't remember. Gus is smart, wicked smart. (I also faintly remember writing these exact words to you before.) We have the same kind of conversations that you and I used to have, although you two couldn't be more different. Gus is a legit bohemian. I'm dead serious. He's unemployed, spends his days writing, painting, drinking wine or whiskey out of a mason jar. There's something about that kind of lifestyle I can't help but find attractive. Do you know the poet Charles Bukowski? I've been reading a lot of his stuff lately. He once said, "A free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it--basically because you feel good, very good when you are near or with them." That's how I feel about Gus. He's a really good guy. He's one of the very, very few guys who "gets" me, who understands me. I really shouldn't have let me go. Religion & Russia were the causes of our end, though more the former than the latter. Looking back, religion has cost me more loves in my life than anything else. So it goes.

He looked good. Handsome. Healthy. His eyes are still blue. Really blue. Trustworthy blue. The best goddamn blue eyes God ever created.

I'm starting to forget the color of your eyes. I mean, yeah, I know they're brown. But what kind of brown? Coffee brown? Dark Chocolate brown? Mischievous brown? Sinister brown? I don't remember what I felt when I looked at them. I always felt safe when I was with you. Was that because of your eyes? I don't remember. I desperately want to but I can't.

I ended up going home with a guy who wasn't Gus. We'll call him Jack. I've gone home with him before. He's in the military. He keeps everyone at a distance nearly all the time, even me for the most part. He has let me in a bit but only when we're alone in bed.

Jack believes in God. He believes in God and in prayer and that God listens and answers prayers. Of all the people on this planet who have a good reason to not believe in God, Jack is right at the top. Yet he believes in Him. Fervently. He and I talked about God before we went to his apartment. I told him I do believe in a God, in a divine creator of everything but I don't think he gives a shit about any of us. We can pray all we want, he's not going to do anything. He's deistic. The only way anything changes in this world is if we go and do something about it ourselves. But Jack just laughs at my cynicism. He doesn't try to change my mind. He just believes and doesn't question.

My editor/friend, Andy, referred to Cedar City as my Mecca. I like the association, though Mecca isn't exactly the right word. Mecca is a holy place, a center of religious pilgrimage. Cedar City is more like my asylum, a place offering shelter & support to the mentally ill. That's me and that's Cedar City. It's my refuge, my sanctuary, my home.

There I go using that word again. Home. You're probably laughing at me, thinking I'm silly for calling Cedar City my home. You and I know I've spent 80% of my life in Provo. But that's not home for me anymore.

Home is Cedar City, Utah in a shitty three bedroom house rented by my Numero Uno. I had friends & lovers and no reason to be anything but myself. And I can never get that back.

I miss you.
I hope you're doing well.
Thanks for listening.

Love you.
Mean it.

One Last Hoorah

barefoot the entire night
I have shoes
but this night calls for freedom
and a short ruffled skirt
and a white flowy top
I feel infinite
and this night is mine, mine, mine.
a night that brings old jokes
and old lovers
and a suffocating reminder
of how my life used to be.
but I don't want to think about that.

Yet in walks a part of my past
disheveled brown hair
familiar half smile
and the bluest eyes
how could I forget those?
he greets me the way he always did,
a simple, sincere
"Miss Cannon."
and I'm reminded how good I once had it.

And I know this night
that is still mine
won't end in those eyes
in those arms
with the only guy who has ever
"got" me.

it will end in the indifferent arms
of a warm body
who smells like cigarettes & stale beer.


love you.
mean it.

Rear Window, Twelve Years Later

I was ten years old when I saw my first Hitchcock film.

It was a Sunday afternoon in late spring. Church was over and my family had just finished dinner. My dad was flipping through channels when he called me over.

"Come watch this movie with me."

It was Rear Window.

Sitting there, I became engrossed in the film. My ten year old mind was hard at work absorbing the plot and characters. It was visually fascinating. The neighbors all had their little sub-stories to understand without the help of dialogue. All I could rely on was body language and subtleties.

As the plot progressed, my anxiety increased. It was the first time I could remember feeling true tension in a film. I was "on the edge of my seat," if you'll forgive the old cliche. I concentrated with the attentiveness of a practiced detective. As the stakes got higher, my anxiety increased. I kept looking at my dad for help, for reassurance that everything would be okay. Whenever I did, he'd raise his eyebrows and his eyes would get wide as if to say he didn't know what was going to happen either.

Vividly in my mind I can remember watching Grace Kelly looking around Thorwald's apartment and seeing Thorwald walking down the hall to his apartment. He would catch her and there was no way of warning her. I was in a panic. I wanted to yell or throw something or do anything to warn Grace Kelly. But like our protagonist, I was helpless.

After the movie had finished, I sat in awe. I never knew movies could be like this. I was used to Disney animated musicals with wisecracking woodland creatures, magic, and pretty princesses. But this, this was something different.

We went over to our neighbor, Kent & Sara Nelson's house to visit. Kent & Sara had been my surrogate grandparents for as long as I could remember. The entire visit, I would talk to my dad, to Kent, to anyone who would listen about this awesome movie. Of course, Rear Window was not new. It had been made 33 years before I was born. Hell, it had been made six years before my dad was born. But I could not believe how different it was. The way the movie was told, it was new, exciting, engaging. I had discovered the secret to great film and everyone needed to know.

Now, 12 years later, I watched Rear Window again. I had not watched it since that first time when I was ten. Since then I had seen hundreds if not thousands of movies. I knew what I liked and what was shit. I had seen more films by Hitchcock, my favorite being Psycho. But it was like nothing had changed. I was still spellbound, captivated, intrigued. I was again caught up in anxiety and sheer panic for Grace Kelly, even though I know how the movie ends. I fell in love with it all over again.

Rear Window is why I love movies. Movies can be great in two ways. One, it has a great story. It's tragic how often Hollywood forgets this. The basis of a great movie should always be a great story. If this isn't an option, there is always the second way: is visually intriguing. Case in point, Avatar. The story is nothing new. It's basically a combination of Pocahontas, Star Trek: Insurrection, and a micro version of any chick flick. But holy crap, when you saw that movie on the big screen in 3-D, it was stimulation overload. It looked awesome! But when you take both those elements, good story & visual intrigue, (add some great acting a la James Stewart, Grace Kelly, & Raymond Burr) and they sync and harmonize, you get a great movie. You get a better than great movie. You get a film that will last, that is memorable. You get a movie that reminds us why we love watching movies in the first place.

Hats off to you, Mr. Hitchcock.

Love you.
Mean it.

Jenny Mocha Chip

Today my dog, Jenny, was put down. She's ten years old. Or I guess she was.

We got her as a puppy. She was so cute. A 10 pound chocolate labrador. We named her Jenny Mocha Chip. The chip was from a little patch of darker fur where her tail started. Whenever you called her name, she'd cock her head to one side, like she was trying to figure out what we were saying. Whenever she was tired, she would hide underneath our legged couch were we couldn't reach her.

She was such a scaredy-cat. She hated the vacuum, the broom, large boxes, loud noises, etc. But she was loving and caring. She loved us. We nicknamed her our great protector. Anytime the doorbell would ring, she would bark like crazy. She'd keep up barking until the person was inside. Then they were bestest of friends.

She loved to have her bum scratched. So she would stick her head between your legs, walk through them and stop at the perfect place for you to scratch her bum. It always freaked people out when she did it for the first time.

It'll be weird to hear the doorbell ring without her barking. A lot of things will be weird without her I guess.

She's my third dog to leave this world. First was Lucy then Charly. So I guess Jenny will have company until we can join her. They'll get along great.

R.I.P Jenny. Love you, pup.

Love you.
Mean it.

Name That Scent

This may sound silly to the rest of you.
But to me, this is very annoying.

You see, I started using a new deodorant the other day. The scent was called "Sexy Intrigue." How stupid is that? What could possibly be sexy or intriguing about deodorant? There was another one that was called "Mysteriously Romantic." WTF? Again these are deodorants. There is nothing mysterious or romantic about them. Their purpose is to keep me from sweating and smelling gross. That is NOT sexy. Period.

Who picks the names for the various scents us women can choose from? Are these names suppose to make us more likely to buy the product? I used to have a perfume called, "Twilight Woods." Were the advertising people just cashing in on the word twilight and hoping girls wouldn't realize it had nothing to do with the terrible books and movies? My current perfume and lotion of choice is "P.S. I Love You." Again, nothing to do with the movie. I guess if your boyfriend ever smelled it, he would think, "P.S. I Love You." I don't know if I buy that but whatever. There's also some that actually attempt to give you a hint as to what it might smell like. Like "Blushing Cherry Blossom," "Winter Candy Apple," & "Festive Vanilla Fig." I guess they have to add another random word in there.

Those are all from Bath & Body Works. Victoria's Secret likes to delve more into the obscure/innuendo type of names. My favorite scents are "Love Spell" and "Pure Seduction." So when guys smell me, they're suppose to fall under my love spell or be purely seduced. Trust me. It's false advertising.

In the course of writing this, I found out that I have an endless amount of bottles of lotions, body wash, body butter, hand creams, perfumes, body splash, etc. Do I really need this many options when it comes to what I smell like? And what happens if I use a different one for washing my body, putting lotion on, hand cream, and perfume? Would the combine to form an ultra-super scent that no human male can resist??? No, probably not. It'll just smell confusing.

Love you.
Mean it.

Just for the Record

This morning, I'm grateful I woke up next to Scotty Dog rather than that guy named Scott.

I'm grateful Josh has found someone. He deserves it.

I'm grateful Ali & Greg are moving out this week.

I'm grateful Sean is still my Numero Uno.

I'm grateful Andy gave me a chance to write for the Review.

I'm grateful my Babygirl still works after 6+ years.

I'm grateful my tumor is content with just chilling in my head and not causing problems.

I'm grateful John cares about me.

I'm grateful Jon found a job.

I'm grateful Cindy is in our family.

I'm grateful there aren't as many cats in the neighborhood so we can enjoy baby quail.

I'm grateful I had the chance to know Kristy. She's one of the greatest people I've ever met.

I'm grateful for the Zebra F-301 BP pens.

I'm grateful good books, good movies, and good stories.

I'm grateful I'm taking a trip to Cedar City in a week.

I'm grateful for my friends out there who know the real me and still love me.

What are you grateful for?

Love you.
Mean it.

p.s. Thanks to Andy for the idea.

You Know Me

The guy I wanted to call mine
has a girl he calls his.
That's okay.
I guess.
He's looking for a wife
of a type I refuse to be.
I mean,
there's only so much quoted scripture
I can take
before I need a shot
of vodka
of rum
of whiskey
of anything really.
Once he joked
he felt hung over
from staying up too late.
I couldn't bring myself to tell him
how hang overs
really feel.

Code to Live By Part Two

In case you missed it, here's part one.

34. Don't lend out your books. Ever.
35. It's always the days you look and/or feel like shit that you'll run into either an ex, a current crush, or someone from high school you haven't seen since graduation.
36. There's a fine line between sarcasm and blasphemy.
37. There is no politically correct way to tell someone to kiss your ass.
38. No one likes a soap box, so try not to get on one.
39. Don't piss off your pimp.
40. Be wary of those who proudly admit they are opinionated.
41. If you want to achieve greatness, stop asking for permission.
42. Don't let your life become ordinary.
43. If you're going to tell a story, be quick about it. You may use a pause for emphasis but don't make it longer than necessary.
44. Having a cup of coffee with an old friend is the most effective way to keep yourself from wanting to step in front of a bus.
45. There is a huge difference between living and existing.
46. You don't do homework after 10 o'clock on weekdays and you never, ever do homework on Friday or Saturday nights.
47. People do stupid things when they think they're in love. Now, people who are truly in love, they'll do whatever it takes. The former should never be trusted and the latter should never be doubted.
48. Stand up for what you believe in. Even if you're standing alone, even if you're shaking, even if you know you'll be crucified by the majority, stand up. Don't back down and don't let them know how scared you are.
49. If you're brave enough to make a decision, you must be brave enough to handle the consequences.
50. Give credit where credit is due.
51. At any given point in time, you are either living or you're dying. There ain't no third direction.
52. Ice cream is always a good idea. It doesn't solve anything and it may not make things better, but it sure as hell won't make things any worse.
53. Your world is continually getting smaller. Prepare accordingly.

Love you.
Mean it.

Bookmarks That Tell A Story

If you know anything about me, you know that I read a lot. And when I read I usually use any random piece of paper as a bookmark. This is very convenient at the time. However, it becomes a royal pain in the ass when you try to find that damn piece of paper.

I've been trying to find an appointment card from my Endocrinologist. I figured that I had left it in a book I was reading at the time she gave it to me. But that also poses a problem considering at any given time, I may be reading 2-5 books. Then I remembered she gave it to me after I had moved back home so I might have stashed it in another book, thinking I'd remember to take it out later (apparently, I don't know myself very well).

So in the course of trying to find that damn appointment card, I looked through every single book I own. All 311 of them (according to my latest Delicious Library count). In my fervent search, I found lots of other random pieces of paper I had used for bookmarks. They are as follows:

A notecard with a quote from the song "Artist in the Ambulance" by Thrice--No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

Two paint cards (the kind you get at a hardware store when you want the right color), one orange, one green--Math Through the Ages by William P. Berlinghoff & Fernando Q. Gouvêa

A piece of paper that says, "I don't know if you despise me or if your general apathy and sarcasm towards everything just happens to include me." This was a thought I had about a classmate, Dallin Bundy--Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels & Stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A ticket to a Utah Grizzles game when I went on a date with Zeph Fargergen (real name, I'm not kidding)--Serial Killers and Mass Murderers by Nigel Cawthorne

A laminated card with Fyodor Dostoyevsky's picture on one side and a 2008 Russian calendar on the other--God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut

An actual bookmark from the Yellowstone Association--East of Eden by John Steinbeck (this book also had chocolate pudding stains from when I was foolish enough to bring it to the Alpha Phi Annual Pudding Wrestling Activity)

A folded Post-It note that says, "Don't let the bastards win. -Bennion Rhead Cannon." Ben was my granddad and that was his motto--Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

A 10% off coupon for the grand opening of Aeropostale--The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis

A picture of my friend, Brian Chamberlain--Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Brian was the guy who got me to read Atlas Shrugged

A small brown paper bag from Yellowstone--The Field Guide to Geology

A receipt in Russian--Ben Hur by Lew Wallace. Ben Hur cost 113 rubles, just so you know.

A DVS shoes sticker--The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

A Borders receipt--Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. Interestingly enough, the receipt isn't for Catch-22. It's for The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

An actual bookmark from Yellowstone with the words, "In wilderness lies the hope of the world" along with a picture of Old Faithful--Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

A picture of an ex-boyfriend, David Martin--Dracula by Bram Stoker (if you knew about my relationship with David, you'd know why his picture being the bookmark for Dracula is so wonderfully coincidental.)

A business card for a professional massage therapist--Ghostgirl by Tonya Hurley

A real bookmark from Braun Books--Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner. (It's weird because I didn't even buy Freakonomics at Braun Books)

A tithing envelope from 2 bishops ago--Believing Christ by Stephen E. Robinson

An index card that says, "Kelly Cannon hates Walt Whitman"--The Norton Anthology of American Literature, Volume B.

Two connected movie stubs from The Chronicles of Narnia--Nothing Feels Good by Andy Greenwald (This book isn't actually mine. I borrowed it from my friend Josh Spongberg and never returned it)

A Russian Metro card--War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy

An entry ticket to the Kennedy Space Center--How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie

An empty paper thing that band-aids are kept in--Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott

A cardstock notecard that held a Alpha Phi Red Dress Pin--Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Another Russian Metro Card--The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

A real bookmark of a picture of Albert Einstein--The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Yet another Russian Metro card--Confession of an English Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey

A beat up index card that says, "I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me." (a quote by Beatrice from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing)--The Karamazov Brothers by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The wedding announcement for my friend Davey Morrison-Dillard--The House of the Dead & Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoevsky

A picture of a statue of William Shakespeare in Cedar City-- Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare by Stephen Greenblatt

An appointment card from the Vet for my dog Ralphie-- The Next American Essay edited by John D'Agata

In addition to all of these were business cards I had made myself when I was terribly bored, tiny fake money from the last Alpha Phi/Sigma Chi Italian Wedding, and those little cards you stick in your graduation announcements that say your full name and your class year.

I couldn't believe all of the bookmarks I had found. Some of them obviously were random but they all signified the time and/or place I read that book. Some were unintentionally hilarious (Dracula & David. HA!), some were a little sad (Atlas Shrugged and Brian), some brought a little memory and a smile (Kelly Cannon Hates Walt Whitman...) and some didn't make any sense (a receipt for Sylvia Plath in my Catch-22???) but they all told a little story of their own. Each bookmark was a story that also kept my place in another story. Most of the time I just stuck that piece of paper in there without a second thought. But now, looking back, I'm glad I chose that particular piece of paper.

Oh, and if you're wondering, no. I never did find that damn appointment card.

Love you.
Mean it.

Hypothetical Situation

Say I were to look over at you and ask, "You wanna go somewhere?" just as casually as I would if I asked you for the time. You would probably confused at first, looking into my eyes trying to detect twinkles of sarcasm. When you realize I'm being serious, you'll ask, "Go where?" to which I'll reply (still casually), "I don't care, really. I just want to go." You'll still look skeptical. So I'll lay out my thoughts to you, "Look, let's just get in the car and start driving. See where we end up."

Now, let's say you say yes. We go out and get in your car (cause mine always serves as an extension of my room, full of books, clothes, and shoes and today is no different) and we start to drive. We start talking and you're amazed by how free I look. The windows are down, the wind is whipping my thick, curly hair in every direction. With a laugh, I pile my hair up on my head and secure it in a messy bun with one of the hair ties I always have on my wrist. With my hair up, you notice a scar on my neck just right of the no man's land that's not quite my neck but not yet my shoulder. Maybe one day you'll find out that's my favorite place to be kissed.

Despite how free I look, you feel uneasy. You're so used to driving with a destination in mind. Driving just to drive is foreign to you. Every now and then, I'll tell you to turn. You have a brief thought that maybe I have a planned destination. But all I'm doing is keeping you away from the freeway . Freeways are boring.

You finally ask if there really is a destination. I look at you and say, "Nope." I notice a flash of bewilderment on your face and I can't help but laugh. I put my hand on yours. "Relax. Just enjoy driving." I let my hand linger just a bit longer than necessary. This causes that wonderful instantaneous jolt of excitement.

We keep driving and talking and laughing. You begin to relax as you learn to enjoy the drive. You realize how great it is to just be in this moment with me, to enjoy a moment of freeing abandonment. You feel so infinite and you finally do what you've wanted to do since we met. You reach over and take my hand. As our fingers interlace, you're amazed how easy, how natural that was. You try to remember why it took you so long to do it. But that thought and all others disappear when you feel my hand squeeze yours. There's plenty of time to think about everything but right now, you're just going to enjoy this moment.

But what if, when I asked you to go, you say no. You give me some excuse and I don't push to change your mind. We chat a bit before you go to work on whatever excuse you gave me. And you'll never know about enjoying the drive or feeling infinite or how good it feels to have your hand squeezed by mine. And by then end of the day, you won't be able to shake the feeling that something important is missing, an unsettling feeling that you missed something that you might never get back.

Love you.
Mean it.

It Hate This Time of Year

I hate this stupid holiday.

Okay, it's not a stupid holiday. Independence Day is pretty cool. There's fireworks, BBQs, family, not to mention it makes the foundation of our country. Or at least when we say it was founded. If we would have lot the war (which we really should have considering England was the most powerful country on the planet at the time) we wouldn't have been "founded" so much as thrown a minor tantrum.

But Independence Day in Provo sucks. Provo is known as Freedom City, U.S.A. The city throws a huge Freedom Festival, sparing no expenses and making driving anywhere a hellish ordeal. People come from all over to celebrate our freedom, mostly for the Stadium of Fire. It's a huge concert held at LaVell Edwards Stadium and there's a fantastic fireworks display at the end. They usually book some pretty cool singers/bands/performers, most of whom can be categorized as being very, very patriotic (or just a country singer whose voice sounds so backwoods that any poor soul who listens to them speak automatically loses 10 points on their I.Q. See: Toby Keith) or just someone who will bring in big numbers (see: Miley Cyrus. THAT was a fiasco of the ages...). Luckily for them, they got both this year with booking Carrie Underwood.

If you don't want to go out and battle insane crowds of overweight and undereducated Americans, you're pretty much stuck at home or within walking distance of anywhere you might want to go. Considering that my general distaste for humanity is higher than normal on just a regular day, I am confined to my house/neighborhood.

This poses a problem for two reasons. One: the city, in order to prevent some idiot from lighting the freaking mountain on fire (again), no one is allowed to light fireworks past Timpview Drive (aka 650 East). My home is past Timpview Drive by two blocks, which means no fireworks. No fireworks equals no happiness. True Story.

Reason Two: my family has been irritating me more than usual. Now, before you all stop reading because you think I'm going to get all Disney-Channel Teen-Angst on you, give me a little credit. I recognize that no one wants to hear about how "unfairly" I've been treated. It bores me to even think about it. So just be satisfied knowing that I'd rather not be stuck with them. This is where another problem comes in. It doesn't deserve to be called number three so lets call it Problem 2.5. It's Greg's birthday. Today we celebrate the fact he exists. Normally I have no problem celebrating his birth but this year, it just comes at a bad time. Greg has got me so angry lately, it's amazing I haven't attacked him with a blunt and heavy object (yet). And because of the irritating fact that he's my brother and family is important, I'm not allowed to leave until we have sufficiently celebrated his existence, which means I'm stuck here, smiling and singing "Happy Birthday" while trying to suppress the desire to stab him in the eye with a plastic fork.

Of course, even if I were able to leave, I really have nowhere to go. Yesterday after Greg and I had yet another argument (one where I called him a self-righteous prick, but only because he was acting like one) I left the house. I could not even stand to be under the same roof as that pretentious waste of space. And I drove to UVU. There was no one there. It was 6:30 on a Friday evening. But I sat in a chair in the Student Center (if you're ever there, notice how it's all chairs. There's not a couch to be found) and I just sat until I felt like I could return without a) beating him to a bloody pulp or b) call him a lot of terrible things that would just get me in trouble. Besides home and UVU, I really have no other place to go. How depressing is that.

Anyway, like most things I write, I started off talking about one thing and by the time I reach the end, it's all been about something else. In this case, I started off being mad at being in Provo on Independence Day and I ended up being mad at my brother. This happens a lot.

Anyway, happy 4th of July everyone.

And Greg,
Happy goddamn birthday.

Love you.
Mean it.

It's Getting Worse

I've seen your face a lot lately.

I mean, I've seen your face everywhere ever since you left but it's been getting worse lately. I don't know why I always do a double take. I know you're not here. You're on the other side of the country, if you're still in the country at all. I guess I just miss you. Even after four years, I miss you. That's probably silly, right? I mean, even if you were within 20-miles of each other, I don't think we should see each other. You're married now and even though you only talked about it that one time you were drunk, you love her. Best just leave things be.

I'm starting to get the hang of living in Provo again. It only took me 3 months, 2 weeks, & 5 days. School's getting easier and I'm starting to feel connected to people again. My depression has started to get under control. Or at least during the daytime. Nights are bad but they've always been for me. You know that, more than most people.

The other day I was talking to this guy I know/semi-trust and we got on the topic of sleeping with your boyfriend/girlfriend. Not sex but just spending the night, you know. He had never done it and I told him it was one of the most enjoyable things a person can experience. I told him at night when both of you are in bed, you're both cuddling, talking, laughing in the darkness. You each steal a kiss or two. And then you both fall asleep, wrapped up in each other. And when you wake up in the middle of the night (like I always do) he still has your arms around you. It's as close to a perfect moment I think I'll ever get. And when you both wake up in the morning, you take your waking slow (like that one Theodore Roethke poem). You both talk and cuddle and laugh and just enjoy the fact that you're in bed with someone you care about. It's wonderful. It's beautiful. And it's something I miss so much it hurts. When I was telling him this, I was remembering you and Sage. I spent the night with you two more than any other guys. Now you're both married. Sage married Jessie, by the way. She was your roommate's (was his name Tristian? The one-armed, half-Japanese, half-hawaiin skater kid) fiance for a while. But something happened in the semester I was in Russia and the following summer and they were together by fall semester. I always hated her. So it goes.

I don't know why I keep writing you these letters. I guess it's just easier to talk to you than some nameless void. I always trusted you and you always listened. I'm slowly becoming aware of my life turning into something I don't recognize. It scares me, more than I'd like to admit. I guess I like writing to you because you made sense in my life. And having sense in my life is a precious commodity nowadays.

I miss you.

Love you.
Mean it.

Things On My Mind

I've had a lot on my mind lately.

I just finished my first semester at UVU (my eighth in college) and before I had a moment to breathe, I started my second semester. I don't like them being so close together. My hope and excitement of a new semester is contaminated by the remnants of cynicism from the last. Which is a shame considering that this new semester I sincerely like my classes. American Lit, Intro to Film, and Contemporary Critical Lit. Thank God my American Lit class starts at 1865. In America, nothing remotely interesting was written before the Civil War, with the exception of The Scarlet Letter and Moby Dick. My film class is tons of fun. Not to mention, the professor seems to like me since he'll mention a movie and I'm the only one who has seen it. That's due to the fact in Cedar City, there's not a whole lot to do so watching movies was a way of life. I miss those Bad-Ass-Movie-Nights. More than I care to admit... My Critical Lit class is difficult but there's a cute red-head guy who sits next to me. He has a scruffy beard and a Mac so he can't be all bad, right?

I've been writing for the UVU Review. I just handed in my second article, which will be the top story for the Culture section. It was on Miss Utah, a chick from UVU. I don't care for pageants for reasons I'm sure you all are smart enough to figure out. But I liked writing it. I like writing in general. I don't know why I do it sometimes. Every now and then I'll read some work from someone else, someone I know personally and I get so depressed because I do not feel my work is nearly as good as his. It's beautiful and tragic at the same time.

Guys seem to finally be coming back into my life, though as fast as I want them to. I'm impatient, I guess. And I hate the whole unknowing involved with liking someone. I don't know. It's all so stupid. I mean, I've been alone for a long time now. And I was alone a long time before my last relationship. Maybe it's because it's summer. Summer never really held much Romanticized views for me. It's too hot. I burn easily. And I always feel so gross when I sweat. But on warm nights when the sun is setting but it's still light out, I would like to lie in the grass next to someone I care about. But wishful thinking...

My room is in disarray. It reminds me of a Charles Bukowski poem, though I don't remember which one. I really should clean it. I don't mind my room being messy but if anyone ever comes into my room when it's like this, I want to kill myself. It's embarrassing, one of the few things I find embarrassing. Maybe that's just wishful thinking as well, to think someone would come into my room soon.

I've been craving a road trip lately. I don't really care where I go. I just want to go and see where I end up. I want to see something new, something different. I don't want to go on my own. But I can't think of anyone I'd want to come with me. Okay, that's a lie. I can think of several people I'd like to come with me. But I don't think they would for reasons that will remain my reasons. Besides, school is still in session. I have a week long break in August. That's my "summer vacation." Oh, well. Besides, my Babygirl isn't well. Her battery is dead. And when I say dead, I mean DEAD. I've jumped-started her three times, drove hundreds of miles, and her battery still won't charge. It's d-e-a-d. So I've been driving my sister's car while she's up in Yellowstone with 4/7ths of my family. I never knew I could become so attached to a car. But I am. My Babygirl is apart of my identity. Driving my sister's Ford Taurus (affectionally called Hector) I feel like a fraud. That car is not me, it's not mine. I'm a poser, driving a car that is not who I am. It's a weird, uncomfortable feeling.

I'm babbling now, I know. But like I said, I've had a lot on my mind...

Love you.
Mean it.