I was driving home from an overall weird & slightly uncomfortable experience last night when it dawned on me: a lot of my personality or, more specifically, my interests have stemmed from me trying to impress a guy.
It's true, in a shockingly high number of instances.
I started listening to Dashboard Confessional to impress David, Dropkick Murphys to impress Scott, and Ben Folds to impress Joe. I started reading Russian Literature and Chuck Palahniuk to impress Brian, comic books to impress Joe, The Walking Dead to impress Jarom, and Heart of Darkness to impress J.R.. I started watching Sons of Anarchy to impress Andy and Dr. Who to impress Joe. I started dabbling in photography to impress Sage and philosophy to impress Gus & Brian. There are other examples but this is probably sufficient to make my point.
The thing is while I became interested in these various things to impress a guy, I now genuinely like them and enjoy participating in them. I've read boatloads of Russian Literature & comic books, and everything ever written by Chuck Palahniuk. Ben Folds & the Dropkick Murphys are two of my favorite bands (Dashboard was for a very long time in my life but I have since grown out of them). I love Sons of Anarchy, Dr. Who, photography & philosophy.
It makes me feel weird knowing that the initial interest in these various things stemmed from trying to get a guy to notice me. But I don't think it should matter now. I mean, if I didn't enjoy these things, I probably would stop doing time, right? But I really, really do enjoy them. I guess in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter where the origin of your interests comes from as long as your continued interest is genuine.
Love you.
Mean it.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
When It Was Enough
It's when the night has become unbearable and my bedroom feels like a cage
I think back to that single solitary night.
You walked in with a mason jar of whiskey and a half-grin on your face.
We sat and talked and drank and talked and once we were both blissfully drunk,
we walked out the door and headed south
because sometimes conversations aren't suited for kitchen tables.
We walked to the waterfall across from the Braithwaite
and I finally confessed how much I hated my life,
how I wanted to be back in Cedar.
I cried as we sat on that bench and you held me
And told me you loved me.
And I know it wasn't the same as when I said it three years before
but it was enough to get me through that night
and subsequent nights since.
I think back to that single solitary night.
You walked in with a mason jar of whiskey and a half-grin on your face.
We sat and talked and drank and talked and once we were both blissfully drunk,
we walked out the door and headed south
because sometimes conversations aren't suited for kitchen tables.
We walked to the waterfall across from the Braithwaite
and I finally confessed how much I hated my life,
how I wanted to be back in Cedar.
I cried as we sat on that bench and you held me
And told me you loved me.
And I know it wasn't the same as when I said it three years before
but it was enough to get me through that night
and subsequent nights since.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
20 Feet Away
He's within my line of sight, maybe 20 feet away.
And I'm terrified.
A letter has been sitting in my wallet for months now,
its intended receiver is just 20 feet away,
20 goddamn feet,
and I can't move.
Suddenly it seems stupid.
A letter written in black ink on college ruled notebook paper.
It was on a Monday during a late night English class.
I wrote it instead of paying attention.
A short letter saying thank you.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now,
I'm 20 feet away from the man I owe so much to.
I'm starting to think maybe I should throw it away.
20 feet away and my hands are shaking.
I've been meaning to give him this letter for months
and haven't seen him once.
It seemed easy enough.
Just give it to him, make an excuse to leave and get the hell out of there.
Go hide away and let my cheeks burn furiously in private.
20 feet away,
and I feel so stupid.
For some unknown, frustrating reason I care what he thinks of me.
I haven't seen or talk to him in months
and I still care what he thinks.
He's better than me, you know.
He's better than all my ex friends & ex lovers,
better than pretty much everyone I know.
20 goddamn feet.
Love you.
Mean it.
And I'm terrified.
A letter has been sitting in my wallet for months now,
its intended receiver is just 20 feet away,
20 goddamn feet,
and I can't move.
Suddenly it seems stupid.
A letter written in black ink on college ruled notebook paper.
It was on a Monday during a late night English class.
I wrote it instead of paying attention.
A short letter saying thank you.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now,
I'm 20 feet away from the man I owe so much to.
I'm starting to think maybe I should throw it away.
20 feet away and my hands are shaking.
I've been meaning to give him this letter for months
and haven't seen him once.
It seemed easy enough.
Just give it to him, make an excuse to leave and get the hell out of there.
Go hide away and let my cheeks burn furiously in private.
20 feet away,
and I feel so stupid.
For some unknown, frustrating reason I care what he thinks of me.
I haven't seen or talk to him in months
and I still care what he thinks.
He's better than me, you know.
He's better than all my ex friends & ex lovers,
better than pretty much everyone I know.
20 goddamn feet.
Love you.
Mean it.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Being a Good Writer or Being a Coward.
There was this time where I texted this guy and asked him to tell me a secret.
This was months ago, late at night. When it's that late, I felt alone and when I feel alone, I become terrified. I don't know. Maybe I was hoping he'd make me feel less alone, less terrified.
He wrote back, "Ninety nine percent of the things I've ever written are complete fiction."
That's a direct quote. I saved it on my phone. Even after we stopped talking, even after I screwed up real bad & was too afraid to ever talk to him again, I still kept that message.
He's a fantastic writer. And I'm not just saying that cause I know him or thought he was attractive. I mean he is a goddamn great writer. I read his stuff as often as I can & I know I'm nowhere near the same level he is. Hell, I know few people who are.
That message has always stuck with me. It's a nice contrast, I guess. Ninety nine percent of my writing is completely true, in one sense or another. I can't write fiction or anything that isn't true. My own experiences, my own pain, my own happiness, my own life, essentially, always comes out. I guess you could say I'm a bad liar. I can't write something without part of myself being on that page, in full display, for anyone to read it. I've never regretted infusing my own personal stuff into my writing. It's the only way I know how. I just don't see the point in telling my story but changing my name to Maria or whoever.
And I don't want to call him a liar, but I don't think I believe him. I've read his stuff. He says it's completely fiction but there is real truth, love, pain, etc. in everything he writes. And I don't know if his ability to convey all of that through fiction is a sign of being a good writer or being a coward.
Maybe it's both.
I don't regret many things in life (I find regret to be a stupid emotion) but I regret not forming a friendship with him. And I may not care what the vast majority of people think of me, but I care what he thinks of me. I haven't seen him in months and I still care what he thinks. I don't know if that's pathetic or tragic.
Maybe it's both.
Love you.
Mean it.
This was months ago, late at night. When it's that late, I felt alone and when I feel alone, I become terrified. I don't know. Maybe I was hoping he'd make me feel less alone, less terrified.
He wrote back, "Ninety nine percent of the things I've ever written are complete fiction."
That's a direct quote. I saved it on my phone. Even after we stopped talking, even after I screwed up real bad & was too afraid to ever talk to him again, I still kept that message.
He's a fantastic writer. And I'm not just saying that cause I know him or thought he was attractive. I mean he is a goddamn great writer. I read his stuff as often as I can & I know I'm nowhere near the same level he is. Hell, I know few people who are.
That message has always stuck with me. It's a nice contrast, I guess. Ninety nine percent of my writing is completely true, in one sense or another. I can't write fiction or anything that isn't true. My own experiences, my own pain, my own happiness, my own life, essentially, always comes out. I guess you could say I'm a bad liar. I can't write something without part of myself being on that page, in full display, for anyone to read it. I've never regretted infusing my own personal stuff into my writing. It's the only way I know how. I just don't see the point in telling my story but changing my name to Maria or whoever.
And I don't want to call him a liar, but I don't think I believe him. I've read his stuff. He says it's completely fiction but there is real truth, love, pain, etc. in everything he writes. And I don't know if his ability to convey all of that through fiction is a sign of being a good writer or being a coward.
Maybe it's both.
I don't regret many things in life (I find regret to be a stupid emotion) but I regret not forming a friendship with him. And I may not care what the vast majority of people think of me, but I care what he thinks of me. I haven't seen him in months and I still care what he thinks. I don't know if that's pathetic or tragic.
Maybe it's both.
Love you.
Mean it.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Kelly Pretends To Be a Music Critic
Last night I went to Muse Music for the first time in nearly seven years. The summer I was 15-years-old, my two besties and I spent every Friday night there, gladly giving up our hard earned allowance to pay the cover. It has changed a lot since I frequented it as jail-bait. I like the setup now. It's a cafe in the front with a "stage-esque" playing room in the back that reminds me of what I imagine Oregon grunge bands first playing in.
The reason I revisited the place of my misspent(?) youth was John-Ross Boyce & his Troubles were playing. Even though I've only seen them play twice before, I thoroughly enjoy their performances and this one was their best yet. However, the first band was so god-awful, it bears repeating.
The first group consisted of five guys, 1 singer, 2 guitarists, 1 bassist, and 1 drummer, who all could be considered on the "edgier" side of hipster, if there is such a thing. Their "songs" consisted mostly of deep guttural screaming (i.e. what I imagine Satan himself sounding like, if he actually existed) and some higher pitched unintelligible singing/screaming (i.e. what Satan would sound like if he had his balls chopped off).
Apparently, their E.P. is called "The Decay of Human Existence," or some bullshit like that. A title like that sounds so trite and cliche, I started to feel bad for them. However, despite their complete lack of coherent and discernible lyrics & the intense desire I had to smack them for thinking they're a hardcore mix of Ozzy & The Used in Utah, their music didn't sound too bad. It was simple but clean & interesting enough and you can't complain about that, I suppose.
The one guitarist, whom I'm sure any able 5-year-old could beat up without difficulty, seemed to have an affinity for squatting up and down in a way somewhat reminiscent of a frog. It was terribly awkward to watch, especially when he kept doing it over and over and over. In fact, the entire band, minus the singer and drummer, seemed to enjoy squatting down as low as their tight pants will allow and thrashing their heads about. The frog-squatter wasn't too bad of musician. He played a few solos here and there that spoke of actual talent. I just wish he knew how utterly stupid he looked up there during his frog-squatting sessions. The bassist seemed WAY too into whatever the hell he was doing and, since I could never figure out what that was, he looked just silly.
Overall, first prize for the band Dismemberment of Me goes to the drummer for being the only bandmember who didn't look like a total asshole-tool on stage. But as a whole, this was a total suckfest.
Love you.
Mean it.
The reason I revisited the place of my misspent(?) youth was John-Ross Boyce & his Troubles were playing. Even though I've only seen them play twice before, I thoroughly enjoy their performances and this one was their best yet. However, the first band was so god-awful, it bears repeating.
The first group consisted of five guys, 1 singer, 2 guitarists, 1 bassist, and 1 drummer, who all could be considered on the "edgier" side of hipster, if there is such a thing. Their "songs" consisted mostly of deep guttural screaming (i.e. what I imagine Satan himself sounding like, if he actually existed) and some higher pitched unintelligible singing/screaming (i.e. what Satan would sound like if he had his balls chopped off).
Apparently, their E.P. is called "The Decay of Human Existence," or some bullshit like that. A title like that sounds so trite and cliche, I started to feel bad for them. However, despite their complete lack of coherent and discernible lyrics & the intense desire I had to smack them for thinking they're a hardcore mix of Ozzy & The Used in Utah, their music didn't sound too bad. It was simple but clean & interesting enough and you can't complain about that, I suppose.
The one guitarist, whom I'm sure any able 5-year-old could beat up without difficulty, seemed to have an affinity for squatting up and down in a way somewhat reminiscent of a frog. It was terribly awkward to watch, especially when he kept doing it over and over and over. In fact, the entire band, minus the singer and drummer, seemed to enjoy squatting down as low as their tight pants will allow and thrashing their heads about. The frog-squatter wasn't too bad of musician. He played a few solos here and there that spoke of actual talent. I just wish he knew how utterly stupid he looked up there during his frog-squatting sessions. The bassist seemed WAY too into whatever the hell he was doing and, since I could never figure out what that was, he looked just silly.
Overall, first prize for the band Dismemberment of Me goes to the drummer for being the only bandmember who didn't look like a total asshole-tool on stage. But as a whole, this was a total suckfest.
Love you.
Mean it.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
#12: What is the most attractive thing that a member of the opposite sex can wear?
Okay, bear with me cause this may get confusing.
The most attractive thing a guy can wear is a suit. Now, not just any suit will do. When I say a suit, I do not mean an off-the rack at Sears suit. I mean a nice tailored suit that fits him perfectly. The tie and shoes must match the suit and, for God's sake, no novelty ties. Those are always, always a bad idea. If I see a guy wearing a tie that has a pattern of footballs or what-have-you, I don't even bother. We are adults, gentlemen. It's time to start dressing like one.
I also like little details that are different or legitimately vintage. This may include a vest, a pocket watch, cufflinks, a newsboy hat, a scarf, etc. Little details like that subtly show off his personality and own style.
Now, what's even more important than the kind of suit the guy wears is the attitude he has when he wears it. There must be an air of formality, since suits are not to be worn just any time. But, as always, a casual feeling must be dominant. That's why the little details like a vest or a newsboy hat are so important. It shows that the guy owns the suit, not the other way around. So many times I find guys wearing suits but it's so obvious they are uncomfortable in their attire. It's as if the suit owns them. If you're going to wear a suit, you'd better goddamn rock the hell out of it. It's like me and a dress with heels. I don't wear them very often (actually, hardly at all) but when I do, I wear them, I own them, and I rock them. Commit to your attire. And if you're not comfortable in it, don't wear it. Period.
Love you.
Mean it.
The most attractive thing a guy can wear is a suit. Now, not just any suit will do. When I say a suit, I do not mean an off-the rack at Sears suit. I mean a nice tailored suit that fits him perfectly. The tie and shoes must match the suit and, for God's sake, no novelty ties. Those are always, always a bad idea. If I see a guy wearing a tie that has a pattern of footballs or what-have-you, I don't even bother. We are adults, gentlemen. It's time to start dressing like one.
I also like little details that are different or legitimately vintage. This may include a vest, a pocket watch, cufflinks, a newsboy hat, a scarf, etc. Little details like that subtly show off his personality and own style.
Now, what's even more important than the kind of suit the guy wears is the attitude he has when he wears it. There must be an air of formality, since suits are not to be worn just any time. But, as always, a casual feeling must be dominant. That's why the little details like a vest or a newsboy hat are so important. It shows that the guy owns the suit, not the other way around. So many times I find guys wearing suits but it's so obvious they are uncomfortable in their attire. It's as if the suit owns them. If you're going to wear a suit, you'd better goddamn rock the hell out of it. It's like me and a dress with heels. I don't wear them very often (actually, hardly at all) but when I do, I wear them, I own them, and I rock them. Commit to your attire. And if you're not comfortable in it, don't wear it. Period.
Love you.
Mean it.
I Miss the Real You
Look,
I know we haven't known each other for very long and there are plenty of people who know you far better than I do. But don't you go telling me not to worry or that you're just fine cause I know you well enough to know that you're not. Something's off. Something's wrong.
And just because I don't know what it is or how I can help doesn't mean I don't care. You keep using excuses like you're working or you're busy with something but I've been around you before when you're working or your busy with something and it's different. You were happier, more willing to engage with others, with me. You'd share stories with us (you always have the best stories) or you'd be willing to weigh in on a crucial debate (like who is the best Batman villain if you exclude the Joker). Now you've become introspective, isolated. You've cut yourself off from everything around you and have become morose and melancholy. I'm worried about you, love. And don't tell me not to worry. I can't help it. I care about you, goddamnit. And I want to help, if you'd just let me in.
What makes me so worried is because this isn't the guy I know. When I first met you, you were so honest, so open about who you were. It was refreshing. Now you're closed off, not letting anyone in. What happened? What changed? I know that drive home was only one night but you've been honest and open with me since then.
I hope you know you've been one of the things I look forward to every day. I look forward to talking with you, to you making me laugh or smile. And now when I see you, it breaks my heart because I know you're hurting and I don't know how to help. I can't keep asking questions knowing I'll keep getting the same answers. And I can't keep buying you bottles, hoping that you'll figure a way out of your melancholy on your own. If you don't want me to help, that's fine. I get it. But please, let someone in long enough to help.
I miss you, the real you.
Love you.
Mean it.
I know we haven't known each other for very long and there are plenty of people who know you far better than I do. But don't you go telling me not to worry or that you're just fine cause I know you well enough to know that you're not. Something's off. Something's wrong.
And just because I don't know what it is or how I can help doesn't mean I don't care. You keep using excuses like you're working or you're busy with something but I've been around you before when you're working or your busy with something and it's different. You were happier, more willing to engage with others, with me. You'd share stories with us (you always have the best stories) or you'd be willing to weigh in on a crucial debate (like who is the best Batman villain if you exclude the Joker). Now you've become introspective, isolated. You've cut yourself off from everything around you and have become morose and melancholy. I'm worried about you, love. And don't tell me not to worry. I can't help it. I care about you, goddamnit. And I want to help, if you'd just let me in.
What makes me so worried is because this isn't the guy I know. When I first met you, you were so honest, so open about who you were. It was refreshing. Now you're closed off, not letting anyone in. What happened? What changed? I know that drive home was only one night but you've been honest and open with me since then.
I hope you know you've been one of the things I look forward to every day. I look forward to talking with you, to you making me laugh or smile. And now when I see you, it breaks my heart because I know you're hurting and I don't know how to help. I can't keep asking questions knowing I'll keep getting the same answers. And I can't keep buying you bottles, hoping that you'll figure a way out of your melancholy on your own. If you don't want me to help, that's fine. I get it. But please, let someone in long enough to help.
I miss you, the real you.
Love you.
Mean it.
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