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.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
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. GouvĂȘa
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.
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. GouvĂȘa
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.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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