undersward

I honestly just can't wrap my head around it.
How he can be so starved for my attention.
He calls and texts with updates on his life and inquiries into mine.
"How's your boyfriend?
Does he make your guts turn?
Did I?"
Each conversation, he creates these spaces in which I see him in all his jealousy and frustration and vanity. His 'causal' attempts to lull me into memories of the two of us.
"I love you so much, it's pitiful."
And I couldn't agree more. I have nearly direct control of this guy's emotions and I don't have to do very much at all. Despite the countless times I've told him that moving on would help him in getting over me, still he clings.
He's constantly creating these fallacies about me and about what goes on between us.
He thinks I'm jealous of him because he's going to art school (Right. I'm jealous. Even though I'm sittin' on money to go back to school in a few years, I'm jealous of his education. Yeah. Right.)
He thinks I pray to Buddha because I told him I'm not exactly Christian and that I do Tai Chi (FYI folks, Tai Chi =/= Buddhism. Also, no one prays to Buddha).
He tries to impress me by name dropping famous philosophers or photographers or clothing labels and then tries to hide his hurt ego when it turns out I know more about the topic than he does.
"I can't stand people who correct others. It smells of insecurity and the need for attention," he says. Rewind to an earlier text message in which he grilled me about my usage of punctuation in quotations (where I was right, by the way).

It's just become so sad and partially amusing, just as a cat plays with its dead prey. All of the thrill and excitement is gone. Only the carcass is left and even that's losing its appeal.
The more he drags this on, the less I find myself caring for him. Its become a sort of game where each time he says he loves me or misses me, I think of a way to avoid returning the sentiment because I just can't bring myself to say those things, let alone type them.
And I think I've said this before but the primary reason I remain in contact with him is because he provides entertainment, if it were me, I'd hate for someone to abruptly ignore me or tell me off because I'm trying to maintain a friendship.

Then again, if it were me, I doubt I'd be going about it the way he is.

coruscation

Figured I'd post before the year ends.
Y'know, to round things out.
This time last year I was gearing up for a four month vacation in the sand (read: deployment). I didn't get to go home for Christmas/New Year's due to the uncertainty of when everyone was leaving for the deployment.
This year, I didn't go home for the holidays due to uncertainty of how my office was going to split things up. Normally, we get to choose which week of work we want off (Christmas or New Year's) and the other person works the week that you're off.
But since I'm in a new office with a new supervisor, this week kind of dragged on without any sort of plans being established. My supervisor apologized for the mishap (since, y'know, HE'S going on vacay next week) and gave me the next few days off, which I intend to use to catch up on video games and take care of little errands before the New Year.

I've been reading a lot about Japanese traditions lately and I came across the idea of the yamato nadeshiko, or 'the perfect Japanese woman'. She's kind and graceful, a somewhat tall woman with modest breasts and straight bangs. And while she's sweet and gentle, she's not without her iron will and won't let you trample all over her or the ones she cares about. Surprise, surprise, 'nadeshiko', is also the Japanese name for a particular wildflower:

If you recall there was another flower that I was intrigued by not too long ago. I'm discovering that I really like flowers. I guess, more accurately, I like the lore/mythology behind flowers. I think it's safe to blame it all on the story of Narcissus, who turned into a flower after staring at his reflection for too long.
Not that I want to turn into a flower or anything... but I definitely want flower tattoos.
I mean, don't even get me started on the lotus tattoo I've started dreaming about...

forzando

This is the part where I crack my knuckles and tilt my head from side to side to work out the kinks in my neck, right?
Oh well.
I guess saying I've been busy is a little bit of an understatement but I'll go with it:
I've been busy.
Recently, the new Florence + the Machine album has inspired me to write for National Novel Writing Month. The last album that was released, Lungs, stirred me in a way, the combination of dainty harps and thunderous drums creating images of wailing, wind-blown witches in the dead of night.
In any case, I've got the idea to craft a story around a girl and her musical machine. In my mind, the girl is relatively young and hasn't much in the area of intimidation; that resides with the monstrous machine that follows her around. It just travels by her side, rumbling along on large wheels.
That's all I have so far-- a girl and her machine, wandering aimlessly. I haven't decided if I want another character to tell the story or if it should just be an omniscient voice. I think I want the girl to be, for the most part, mute unless she's singing. Her voice affects people in different ways depending on her intent but all who hear it can agree that it's a thing of wonder. Combined with her music-making contraption and you've got an unstoppable force that can obliterate a foolish antagonist or, as it's rumored,  resurrect the fallen.

I'm running away with things now...
...but maybe that's a good thing.
Anyway, finding time to write will be a definite hurdle, right up there with sitting down and committing to writing and not allowing myself to stop. With that, another small chunk of it'll be reading motivational books for writers filled with exercises and reasoning that'll hopefully get me going.

Agh. My eyes... they're filled with tears from yawning so much. Obviously a sign for bed.

oosphere

Got time to kill before work.

I've been analyzing my procrastination habits lately.
I started a new position at work (I'm now a scheduler of sorts) and while I was training for the job, I was simultaneously doing the actual work for my job... so now I have... nothing to do while we work extra hours due to an inspection.
I spend most of my time doodling around on the internet. I also think it'd be bad form to just whip out my Nook and start reading something (one thing I've learned about working in an office is to always look busy, which, I've also learned, just involves furrowing your brow and doing your best imitation of Rodin's "The Thinker".)
Anyway, I think writing out lists is a better way for me to visualize the things I need to do. I have a friend who left for the Navy and is currently in basic training. I've got his address and I've got pen and paper-- fully poised to write a letter and somehow I haven't written him yet. I fully intend to and I've got the envelope stamped and ready to go, I just need to... y'know, do it.
My room is also a complete disaster area and I could definitely spend some intimate time cleaning it up but video games always trumps cleaning. Always.
Finally, I keep telling myself I'll do this (maybe I should put it on that list I'll never muster up the energy to make), but I want to try and write down the fleeting thoughts I have that I want to write about. There's only one story I wrote a few years ago that was based on a wandering thought and I still think about expanding on it to this day. I just remember sitting down and writing it out, page after page (...there were only, like, three pages...)-- but the excitement! The brainstorming! For some reason, I really wanted to get those words outta my head.
I plan on getting to it sometime.
Someday.
Whenever.
I mean, I got time, so...

fabliau

     Recently, I watched the ridiculously popular film "Bridesmaids" and, as usual, it fell a little flat for me.
     Maybe it's due to the lack of films I've seen over the years, but there haven't been too many current movies that I've really enjoyed.
There's an interesting thing that happens and I'm not positive you'll be able to relate in the way I'll try to explain it, but here goes:
     So, like... you know when you drink something, a juice for example, and there's, what feels like, a hole in the flavor of the beverage? And you can guess that some form of alcohol would best fit in that 'flavor hole', if you will. Does that... make sense?

     Anyway, that's how I've viewed movies lately. I watch them and I try to get engaged, but sometimes there's a gap in a spot that's supposed to be funny or moving or exciting and I see it... but it doesn't evoke anything in me. I just... see it for what it is.
     Prime example was a scene in "Bridesmaids" where, essentially, the main cast of comediennes, for a lack of a better phrase, shit themselves in a public setting. Oh, there's vomit too. Vomit and shit escapades. And I see where the audience would see that as comical and I understand the nature of the crude humor but... it just seems so blatant. Like, trying to be funny.
(Side note: the writer of "Bridesmaids", Kristen Wiig, is someone I don't find very funny in the first place.)


(Side side note: there's also moments in the film that are total buzzkills and it put me in such an off-color mood that I couldn't laugh at any of the later comedic moments.)

     Shifting gears, National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) for September ended and I finished a bit sloppily yet I commend myself for making an attempt at blogging everyday and even reminding myself to blog when it slipped my mind (also thanks to friends and even the boyfriend giving an encouraging word now and then).
     It seems the prompts have continued on into October, giving me the assumption that NaBloPoMo is... well, every month, so I feel as though said prompts could potentially be used in future entries.
     AND, on the topic of writing projects, National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is next month and not an idea has crossed my mind as to what to write a novel about. Still, I'm going to go for it and hope to write more than the previous years.

(...those poor, unfinished documents...)

sanies

"Would you ever want to return to your teenage years or are you glad that era of your life is done?"
--Given the chance, I don't think I'd be in a rush to revisit those years. Not that anything bad happened or they sucked but... I mean, c'mon, compared to being an adult?
Living in my own apartment?
Decent job?
Fantastic boyfriend?
AWAY FROM PARENTS?
Can't beat that. Seriously.

Also, NaBloPoMo only posts prompts for Monday through Friday so, thanks to an anonymous tipster, I found The Daily Post to help me with prompts for the weekends and when the month is over.
Gotta write, gotta write, gotta write.
Since that last question was, technically, for Friday (and I'm counting this post as Saturday's), let's see what The Daily Post has for me:
"Is all fair in love and war?"
--I don't think I've ever been certain on that saying. To me, it sort of goes by honor... like the honorable thing should be done, regardless of the situation.
For instance, I'd never imagine myself in a wartime situation but if it came to it, I'd do my best to engage in non-violent combat, using force, deadly or otherwise, as a last resort.
It's the Daoist in me. Tai Chi has taught me that fighting is the last thing you want to do. And even when you're done breaking your opponent's arm into eight pieces, you stay by their side and help them to recover or wait for medical attention to arrive.
But 'all is fair'? For some reason, I have trouble wrapping my head around that.
Everything is fair... anything goes... no limits and no rules.
All is fair.

What the fucking fuck.

rodomontade

Raaghhh, I've fallen behind again (don't judge me). But, in my defense, this exercise has helped my brain develop some sort of knee-jerk reaction once I realize I haven't blogged for the day.
I'm hoping this will carry over to NaNoWriMo and I'll be able to force myself to write (or continue writing) for the month.
In any case, the prompts I missed:

"If you could return to one restaurant that you've eaten at before, where would you go?"
--Hands down, without a doubt, Mellow Mushroom. Best pizza joint I've been to in YEARS.
(It's funny I used the term 'joint' because Mellow Mushroom has a very... psychedelic, acid trip atmosphere to it... hence the name, I suppose.)
The only thing that upset me was that I couldn't get all of their pizzas at once... something like a sampler pizza. That would put them right over the top.
The location I visited was in Murfreesboro,Tennessee and I was immediately floored by their pizza selection. Just so many different kinds of pizza. I had their Red Skin Potato Pie:

I mean, come on, how good does that look? Potatoes, chives, tofu (in place of bacon), with sour cream and a spicy ranch dressing? Are you kidding? ARE YOU KIDDING? Easily the best pizza I've had.
If only I could find another Mellow Mushroom closer to me...

"What point in time would you like to return to and live again?"
--I'm not sure if this question is asking about a certain point in my life or just a specific point in history...
In any case, if it's my life, it'd be the years I spent in Alaska. Oodles of memories and natural beauty to boot!
Any point in time? I think I'm divided between the 60's and the 70's.
The 60's would be for experiencing that whole civil rights fiasco; I think it'd be a major eye opener. Once, in high school, we had a Spirit Day (y'know, to foster school spirit!) and it was Decades Day, where each grade dressed up as a decade. I believe I was a sophomore at the time and we had the 60's so I threw on a button down, some khakis, plain brown shoes-- as plain and 60's as I could be. Then, I think it was at lunch, I purposefully ripped my shirt (like, borderline tore the sleeve off), and used markers and colored pencils to simulate blood on my undershirt and grass stains on my pants.
When people asked what happened, I explained that, due to it being the 60's and all, I made the mistake of "walking into the wrong neighborhood". Some people got it. Others didn't. I didn't give a fuck.
The 70's would mainly be for all the partying. Cocaine and double-knit pants! Ok, not really for the drugs but that decade, in my mind, was one giant romp from club to club (Studio 54, anyone?) and lord knows I love a party.

"If you could return to any past relationship and experience it again, which one would it be?"
--Well, you never forget the first love, right?
As a junior in high school, still settling into his sexuality, it's a bit startling to discover that the cutest German exchange student in school has a crush on you. We kept our relationship a secret; only close and trusted friends knew. Eventually, he had to return. We were only together for about a month and a half but letting him go was difficult for little 'ol me. Over time, I moved on. We've remained friends via Facebook. But still, you never forget.

"If you could return to any grade in school, which one would you want to do again?"
-- I mean, is this with the assumption that I could change things? If not, I'd pick senior year of high school. I think that's when I started becoming who I am now. Granted, I'm pretty sure my plans for the future back then don't match where I am right now but hey, things change.
If I could change things, I think I'd go back to fourth grade. It's a silly, long story, but there were a group of girls that I wanted to be friends with and back in fourth grade, I was the class clown so they knew I was a goofy kid. Through some kind of misunderstanding, my silly attempts at befriending them caused them to tell our teacher and it became this big, unnecessary mess.
They thought I had some weird obsession with these girls and incorrectly assumed it was some kind of sexual harassment, which is hilarious because at that age, I hardly even knew what sex was (I was a little on the naive side).
So it went as far as separating me from the girls who I just wanted to be friends with and daily talks with the guidance counselor and sometimes my teacher about my feelings. Part of me knows those girls knew what they were doing. The other part wonders if any of the adults in the situation really believed them.
Still, if I could revisit that whole year, I'd do my best to call those bitches' bluffs.
"Me? Sexually harass you? HA. Some hot, tranny mess you are." And then I'd snap my fingers or something and do a runway walk out of the classroom.

pirog

Just returned from a charming weekend cabin excursion with boyfriend and company.
Leaving for home in the morning.
So much traveling.

"What was the last thing you returned to a store?"
-- Again, can't recall, seeing as how I rarely return things. And even if I do make a mistake, like buying a shirt that's a size too small, I'll create a workaround in my mind, tricking myself into justifying the purchase ("...hm... I guess I'll only wear it to bed...").

"Have you ever returned a meal to a restaurant kitchen?  What did you order?"
--What?! No? People do that!? Why?
FYI: I'm a big, fat fucking pig. My stomach is a black hole. Besides, I'm not big on confrontation, especially in a store/restaurant setting.
The only thing that sticks out in my mind is when my family and I went out to Olive Garden and I ordered a soup. When the soup finally came, I noticed it had a sticker in it, y'know, like the stickers that are commonly on different kinds of produce? It didn't really bother me but I think my dad noticed it and asked the waiter for another bowl of soup for me.
The waiter apologized and complied, taking my bowl and bringing me another. About halfway into it, I notice this new bowl of soup also has a produce sticker in it (it's debatable whether or not this was actually a different bowl). Again, we ask for another bowl of soup and the waiter, who was very apologetic once more, rushed back to the kitchen.
Third time's the charm, right?
Nope.
Lo and behold, another sticker in my soup. I kept it to myself this time. Y'know, enjoyed my soup.
And ate around the sticker.
Ate around it so that it was the only thing left in the bowl.
The waiter came back to check on us and appeared dumbfounded when he spotted the sticker sitting ever so neatly in the center of the bowl I cleaned.
After more apologies, the manager came over and our meal was free that night.

But as I said before, I'm flying back home in the morning and intend to bring my good 'ol laptop to blog on the way. While I haven't exactly been up to speed with the day-by-day posting, I'll say that I've blogged more this month than any other month before.
How this will help with NaNoWriMo around the bend eludes me, but I'm still looking forward to tackling it this year.

photostatter

Yeah, yeah, delayed. I've been traveling. Actually, I'm going to be doing quite a bit of traveling in the next few weeks so forgive me.

"Write about your childhood bedroom."
--The only thing that stands out, when I think of my bedroom as a kid, is that there were two beds and yet I was an only child until around '92. Even then, my new baby sister wasn't about to sleep in the twin bed next to mine. Furthermore, when she came of age to actually sleep in her own bed, she chose to sleep in my parents' bed for a few years into elementary school.
The only time the extra bed came into use was when I had a friend in 2nd grade and he spent the night.

"What was the last book you returned to the library?"
--That's something I really don't recall. Last time I checked something out from a library was...

"Have you ever kept a book from the library instead of returning it, paying the missing fee just so you could keep it?"
--Back in high school, a friend of mine suggested the book Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett to me. At first, I was intimidated by the size of it, but, over the course of several months, I read it, found that I enjoyed it, and returned it to the library.
My friend said it was one of her favorite books and that she loved reading it.
So.
Senior year of high school, a few days before graduation, I went back to the library and discovered that no one had checked out the book since I had it earlier in the school year. And with some tricky maneuvering around the library sensors, I was able to liberate the book from my school and present it to my friend as a sort of going away present-- she was moving to Florida.
Now, when I call her from time to time, she tells me that she still has it and still loves it.
I've been thinking of picking up a copy.

(...actually buying one, that is.) 

recrudesced

"If you could return to a place you once lived, where would you go?"

No offense to any of my friends in Virginia, Arkansas, and Florida, but if given the chance, I'd head back over to Alaska.
It's been years since I've visited and with good reason. I went through the first three years of grade school there (if you count kindergarten) and most of the people I knew are probably long gone (add on the fact that it was an Army base and the chances of meeting an old acquaintance are super slim). Still, I think it'd be fantastic to visit and stir up memories that seem like fundamental building blocks of my childhood.
I always found it funny that, upon seeing the Northern Lights for the first time, my father was more surprised over the fact that I knew the technical name for the phenomena at such a young age.
"It's the aurora borealis, daddy," I said nonchalantly.
Such a bratty kid.

(I'd also like to take this time to note that, in an attempt to stay consistent with my monthly blogging, this entry was done on my lunch break while I was on the toilet.

DETERMINATION.)

matrilocality

"What is the first thing you see when you walk in your house?"

The cushions on the couch in the living room are a playful tangerine color and my eyes usually dart to them first.
If not that, then I read whatever message my roommate left for me on the dry erase board near the kitchen. She and I come across times where our work schedules differ greatly and one of the many ways we keep in touch is by the little metal square hanging by a nail on the wall. Sometimes she'll draw a picture or I'll playfully make fun of her, but it's all in the name of companionship.

(also, I'm deathly tired as of late due to an extended work week. I am looking forward to having time off to sleep, visit friends, and more boyfriend time.)

coact

"How do you feel when you return home at the end of the day?"

I think, more than anything, I'm just glad I made it through another day. There's a bit of sadness, knowing that I have to wake up in the morning and head right back to work, but I try to stay in that moment of bliss that usually begins right as I take those first few steps from my workplace.
I actually think I walk differently when I'm going to work and when I'm leaving work.

(That's a lie; I run as I'm leaving work. Run to my car and just speed off into the night.)

francium

And just like that, I'm already behind on writing an entry a day for a month.
But, in my defense, it's a holiday weekend and I've been spending quality time with boyfriend (i.e. sprawled in bed, reluctant to move).
In any case, the prompt:
"What was your favorite part about returning to school?"
--Mainly using all the new school supplies my parents bought me for the year. New pens and pencils, reams of wide-ruled paper, and a binder with dividers to keep the subjects separated.
I think one of my favorite memories of school was third grade. I'd just moved to Virginia and had been out of school for some time after my family and I drove down from Alaska. All I remember was this mixture of anxiety and excitement because, for me, it was a new place and a new school filled with new kids to make friends with.
To this day, I still get that feeling with each new location I visit. It's almost like an opportunity to be a new person, not that it's my goal to do so each time or anything (hello, disassociate identity disorder). But I certainly think that a person's persona adapts to their social surroundings.
As a kid, I grew up the class clown and was often the rascal that the teacher had to put a little extra effort into. Junior high, I mellowed out a bit but still had that silly streak in me that a few of my teachers noticed and enjoyed.
High school is where the classroom goofiness ended and my family of friends began to solidify.
Since I went to a community college, there wasn't too much of a change; most of the people attending were the same faces I'd seen months ago, excited for high school graduation.
Through it all, my love for fresh writing utensils and paper spilled over into the whole 'office supply' territory and now Staples is one of my favorite stores to frequent.

Unrelated: what's the significance of people putting hashtags everywhere? I have a hunch that it's Twitter related (which I don't use) so forgive me if I sound ignorant, but... I dunno... it looks silly to me.

megasporophyll

Stumbled across a site that I found through a friend and I think it'd be good practice for me in preparation for National Novel Writing Month.
All I have to do is blog every day.
There are prompts that I may utilize in these next 29 days but I mostly just want to try and write everyday, something I haven't done in ages.
Lately, the boyfriend has introduced me to the show 'Doctor Who' and I'm enjoying it so far. I'm drawn in by the imagination and mythology behind it all. All of these alien races and distant planets have their own little history. So much characterization. It inspires me a little.
In fact, the other day, boyfriend brought up the topic of what role I'd play in a zombie apocalypse situation and I replied with "awkward comic relief who makes a last stand sacrifice so the others could survive," but it made me think of last year's NaNoWriMo project involving zombies and a character based off of myself (who, as it stands now, is still lounging in an abandoned McDonald's, waiting for his story to get back on its feet).
But the more we talked about it and who boyfriend would be, it helped me flesh out a potentially new character (aka hijack ideas from him).
It's just this feeling of opening that file again and knowing that I've got all that blank page to fill and, for some reason, dreading it.

I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer. I'm a writer.


Dammit.

outshout

So I've kissed him.
And held his hand.
(and thoroughly internet stalked him)
And I like him.
And I want to experience him.
I want to experience things with him.
Like myself.

cornetcy

You know, I never thought I'd be here.
Is this what being an adult is like?
There aren't any rules or things like that. There's just stuff you have to do.
Pay rent.
Pay bills.
Go to work.

In any case, I'm dating a boy.
And by dating, I mean, old-school dinner dates dating.
Tomorrow is my turn; yesterday he took me out for sushi.
He's cute. Sweet. I'll admit, I like him.
There's something about his charm that's refreshing and makes him easy to approach.
I'm not nervous to text him or worried if he'll think I'm a big fat pig (I mean... I ate a lot of food the other night).
He's constantly smiling and, thanks to my goofiness, laughing as well.
I consider this good. Not just me making him laugh but that he and I are taking it easy.
Yet this territory is so foreign, I'm unsure of specific rules. For instance, when I should attempt a kiss. I understand it's different for everyone and I have a feeling that our mutual chemistry for each other would work in our favor.
Still, I just don't want to rush things.

In the past, I've rushed.
Into beds. Into hearts.
Sometimes intentionally. Others, not so much.
But this... this new pace, reminiscent of my high school years, is enjoyable.


(also, huge plus, he likes video games and spends a lot of time on the internet.)

(score.)

deliquesce

I got a little scared a while ago because I feel something mentally happening.
I touched on it in an earlier entry but this apathy and sense of indifference continues to grow.
I'm finding it harder and harder to care.
And lately, it's just been little things--
My mom sent me a text message the other day, telling me to call my grandmother for her birthday and I didn't.
One of my friends is having her first baby and I was on the phone with her when my dying battery ended the call and when I finally charged it up again, I decided not to call back.
I think of things I need to accomplish and the ideas grow stale and get discarded.
There's just no motivation.
Is this depression? I never marked myself as a depressed person. Even more, if it happens to be the case, I don't know what I'm depressed about.
Can you be sad for no reason like that?
I intend to search for something to do, something that'll fill the void or take my mind off of it at least.
I haven't felt good lately.

hoer

... A work in progress...

----------------------------

He'd been staring at his computer screen for who knew how long.
The frustration was a knot of insults rolling about in his mind--
Don't begin with that.
That sounds stupid.
You call yourself a writer?
You know writers actually write, right?
Ha... get it? I'm clever... unlike you."
He heard Roderigo's heavy footsteps from behind, heard him scratching at his belly as he entered the kitchen in search of a snack.
Mo continued the stare down with his word processor.
The stocky Polynesian raided the refrigerator for a moment before retreating to the panty only to wind up empty handed in his quest. The dying sun cast bolts of tangerine light across his tattooed from as he made his way to the desk that had become his boyfriend's ball and chain. "Hey. Wanna eat?"
Mo groaned.
Roderigo poked at him with a thick finger like a bear would to verify if its prey were dead. "Come on, take a break."
Yeah, take a break, the mental humiliation continued, It's not like you were going to write anything anyway. That takes skill and talent. You know... the kind of stuff you lack?
Mo was silent before he slowly lowered his head into his hands, fingers raking over the hair cut close to his head. "Fine, I guess..."
And hour later found them at a local pizzeria that resonated with that mom n' pop charm with trinkets and license plates on the walls and smiling, casually dressed employees and wooden chairs that creaked with the slightest movement.
Mo and Roderigo sat across from each other at a booth. Mo ordered a deep dish veggie and Roderigo went for the Mediterranean pie. There was a silence between them soon broken by the ice shifting in Mo's glass. "Still got that block, huh?" he inquired, his hand playfully swatting at Mo's knee from under the table.
Mo nodded, head resting in the palm of his hand. "I just... I don't feel inspired."
"What do you mean?" the cup of water seemed to shrink as his big hand scooped it up and he gulped away, letting out a sigh when he was done.
"I mean I can't figure out what to write. How to write, even. Where to begin. Who to write about. It's everything... like being stuck somewhere without a map." Mo idly toyed with his straw, jabbing at the cubes of ice in his cup.
Roderigo smiled. "Yeah, but if you start walking, eventually you'll end up somewhere, right?"
"I feel like I don't even have legs to walk on." Mo muttered.
"Then start crawlin'." Roderigo smiled wider while Mo shot him a glare that soon melted into a smile as well.
"I wish it were that easy..."

schmalz

I feel as though I'm discovering little treasures in the sandy beaches of my mind, little jewels and trinkets of self-discovery/realization.
For instance, I've deduced that I don't like talking on the phone. I have friends that often call to check on me (which seems to be a front for them to just talk about themselves) and they go on and on about their relationships and their pets and their work and my vocabulary is suddenly limited to an "uh-huh" or a "really?" or a "yeah" or the oh-so-clever "I know, right?"
I think it ties in with my dislike of general small talk and chit-chat. I feel uncomfortable pretending to be engaged in something so superficial.
Does that make me anti-social or something? A sociopath?
I don't know. I mean I never killed any pets as a child or anything.
Could be the effects of excessive internet usage. There's no face-to-face interaction on the internet-- it's just words and images that you process and mentally evaluate; all the dialogue plays out as a conversation in your head. You don't have to worry about eye contact or bad breath or if the other person has B.O.
It's on some other level.

(Side note-- it took me hours to complete this entry. I kept getting distracted by hunger, a cat, and my roommate playing Heavy Rain.)

paracetamol

I was scolded the other day by one of my superiors because I was a few minutes late for a meeting.
His words dripped with discipline and his face was stern and all the while I nodded, agreeing, a tiny smile hidden behind my lips as I took it all in stride.
When it comes to getting in trouble, I've realized that I walk a fine line sometimes between owning up to my mistakes and simply not giving a fuck.
I mean if it's obvious that I did something wrong, I won't deny it. And if someone calls me out on it, I'll take full responsibility. Maybe it's that constant desire in me to avoid conflicts, but I get a kind of satisfaction when people realize that they've failed to make me feel bad about something I've done.
Yet in that same vein, there are honestly times where the issue at hand seems so insignificant in the grand  scheme of things. This one problem that is beyond resolution or can be easily fixed-- is it really necessary to give it so much attention? Do we really need to expend x amount of energy complaining or worrying about it?
I recall in my high school journalism class, my teacher told us one of the main things you never want a reader to think while they're reading your story--
“...so what?”
And in the event that they DO think that, you better have a damn good reason for them to finish your article.
And those two words frequent my mind at times like regular patrons at a bar. They mosey on in, sit at their usual seats, and wait for the bartender to prepare the same drinks they've ordered for the last four years.
“So what?”
Why is this important?
What impact will this have?
Just how many fucks do I give?

I started writing a little something the other day (!). It's still in the development stages but it's something.
It's like some kind of alternate universe version of me who (surprise) has a severe case of writer's block. Lucky for him, he has a cute, Hawaiian boyfriend to encourage him.
Is it strange that when I decided to create a boyfriend for alternate universe (AU) me that I got a little sad? I picture AU boyfriend in my mind and I see him smile.
I see him scratching the back of his thigh and roaming around their apartment (they live together) in his boxer-briefs. He has dark  skin and is a bit on the stocky side. He has a slight accent. His name is Roderigo and AU me sometimes calls him 'Rigo' or 'Riggy'. I imagine him working with cars, always returning home from work with some kind of grease stain on his face.
...actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to write about just how the two of them met.
Maybe that'll be chapter two.
I don't know where I'm going with it though. Could be a good thing.
As long as I'm writing, I suppose.

Last, last thing--
My paternal clock might be ticking.
As I age and witness friends marry and procreate, I wonder just when I'll be ready to do so.
I mean, I'm in no rush and I don't necessarily see myself settling down soon... but I can't help but think about when I will.
And when I do, what'll I tell the 'rents?
Will I have kids? How will I have kids?
Wait, backtrack for a bit-- how will I be supporting this family?
Where am I living?
Who's living with me? (Hi, Rigo ;)  )
In roughly five years, I'll be 30.
For some reason, diddling around on Facebook and playing games in my underwear doesn't sound as age-appropriate as it does right now (...is it even age-appropriate now?).

...but then I kind of have to think about the amount of fucks I give....

strontianite

We're set to return home from this business trip very soon.
I haven't packed yet.
There's still work to do, after all.

I recently had a bit of an accident at work last week and scarred my face.
Is it bad that I want to heal up quickly so that it betters my chances of getting laid when I return?
I swear I'm not an addict.

When I get back, I'll have a new apartment, a new roommate, and (hopefully) a new car.
There's kind of a reason why I don't plan things ahead of time. I just like living in the moment-- the now after now after now after now after now...

Plus, plans always seem to fall through.

deltaic

You know what, I'm going to admit it:

There's a part of me that's interested in doing adult entertainment.
I'm talking porn or stripping/dancing or even just being an escort.
I don't know what it is (and this goes beyond just being sexless for the past four months).
It's just this lingering idea in my mind. I'm intrigued by it all, really. I want to know how it works. I want to know why it works. I just want to know what it's like.
Whether I actually act on this impulse is still kind of up in the air. I mean, if a good opportunity presented itself, I'd definitely mull it over in my head.
Is this... strange or odd? It's just another line of work, right? It's... like a more extreme version of acting because it's based around sex-- something so natural and instinctual, just packaged up and put on a shelf for a customer to purchase.
Just thinking about it brings this odd grin to my face. I honestly don't know how to explain it. I wouldn't consider it a fantasy... hell, I don't know what to make of it. I just know that when I watch porn or go-go boys dancing or read escort ads on Craigslist, mentally I'm just like "...pfft, I could do that."

This probably stems from my love life (or lack thereof). I'm no stranger to one-time encounters and that disconnect between having sex and making love has become easier over time; the guys I've messed with are faceless compared to the boyfriends I've had.
It also probably stems from the notion that, for the most part, I sort of feel undesirable. Granted, I carry enough confidence to keep myself from being unnecessarily pessimistic, but with my track record, it's obvious that I'm not a top contender when it comes to being 'on the market'.
With adult entertainment, only those interested will bite the lure and for that instant, you're everything they want. You are flawless and serve one purpose-- their satisfaction. You don't have to worry about being rejected-- those not interested simply pass you by for whatever tickles their fancy.
Maybe it does come from a self-esteem deficit...


...but to be wanted...

spinacia

My trip is coming to an end.
I could use that as the blame for the lack of updates but let's be honest--
I'm lazy.
Well, that's not entirely true. I have been a little busy. But when I do get off work and settle down in my bed, laptop at the ready, I have a tendency to blatantly ignore my own blog's bookmark. After all the catching up on Facebook and perusing the interweb for whatever it has to offer, I seem to disregard the thought of writing something. Writing anything.
It's a little peculiar.
Anyway, I may have lost weight. I'm not sure how much. I don't think it's that much. As much as I wouldn't mind chiseled abs and an enviable physique, I don't care that much.
Because, once again, I'm lazy.

...too lazy, in fact, to finish this post...

...man.

palpebrate

It's understandable that one of my friends joked recently that I should write erotica, like Zane.
My last few entries were basically dedicated to the male form and hinted pretty strongly at how much I like it.
This could be due, in part, to the fact that this business trip has kept my sexual activities to a strictly solo affair.

(well... there was that one encounter... but I'll get to that another time)

But yes, I've got a bit of a desire for flesh-- carnal cravings, whatever you'd like to call it.
Or, just... y'know, horny.
It's on this side of my psyche that I realize just how determined some men become just to fulfill their primal needs. When just manual stimulation won't do, they seek others for that heated moment of pleasure, no matter the cost at times.
Despite being in a relationship, they'll venture to another's bed.
Despite the risks, they'll break rules and laws.
Despite their longing for love, their opportunity to make it is reduced to 'fucking'.

It's quite fascinating.

However, this trip has also helped me discover that a stable relationship isn't in my immediate future. My job requires me to travel for lengthy periods at times and my practical mind automatically rules out any sort of commitment.
I know it won't be like this for the rest of my life, but right now just isn't a good time.
It's like a plant.
Sure, I have a great greenhouse for it; I just wouldn't be able to actually take care of it the way I want to.

tokoloshe

I keep seeing this guy whenever I go to lunch.
Nothing stands out more than the immense amount of tattoos covering his arms. I assume there are more, noted by the ink peeking from the collars of his shirts.
He's a beefy, muscled fellow, his clothes hugging his form, giving him a bit of a rounded figure. At times, he wears a cute little pair of wayfarers that make my gaze harder to break.

But I mostly just get tattoo envy.
The ornate decorations scrawled on his arms form some kind of deck of cards theme. I sneak glances as I eat my meal--
each knuckle adorned with a suit: club, spade, heart, diamond
the outline of spades on his elbows
the faces of various royalty intertwined with tribal markings

Lately, I've been thinking of flower tattoos... namely a red spider lily. It's a flower associated with the arrival of fall and, in Japanese folklore, is the flower that grows at the gates of hell to help guide the dead to their next life. Additionally, due to this little piece of mythology, it's said that the lily blooms when you encounter someone you'll never meet again.

I know, I know, a bit melancholic, but for whatever reason, that realm of emotion captivates me quite often.

But, if you'd like a change of topics, I feel as though I've been in some kind of heat lately and find myself mentally evaluating the guys that strike my fancy. I can only imagine the amount of 'physical activities' I'll engage in when I return home.
I mean, as much as I'm stoked to see friends and family

I kind of really want to get laid.

parlando

He's short. I'd say about 5'6" or 5'7". A little rotund but I think he's just built that way; he appears to be more muscle than fat. His voice is slightly nasal and his laugh emerges as these hearty staccato chuckles.
And his eyes.
His eyes are this marvelous mixture of bright browns and intense greens-- 'hazel' just doesn't cut it. They illuminate as the sun catches them just right. The kind of eyes that are intimidating and terrifying when he's enraged and yet amazingly enchanting and beautiful when they're wading in pools of tears.

And it intrigues me because I'm not particularly attracted to him in any sort of romantic capacity. I just find his characteristics more remarkable than others I work with.



I read somewhere that it's simply human nature that causes people to stick their tongues out when they're working on something puzzling or difficult with their hands.
I noticed a co-worker doing it the other night. I was holding a flashlight over his work area but close enough to still see his face. And from the corner of my eye, I noticed a strange bit of movement. I canted my head a little and peeked again to see the tip of his tongue sliding between his lips at a regular interval, in and out. It kind of made me chuckle but I disguised it as a cough; it was chilly outside.

hoicks

And suddenly, there was a fine mess of dust in the air.
The tiniest grains of sand, dancing about on the breeze, creating the gentlest haze that reduced visibility by a fair amount.
A sandstorm? I pondered. I wasn't sure what to expect. Co-workers told stories of massive uproars of wind and sand accompanied by rumbling thunder and all sorts of calamity.
Yet what I saw before me was akin to my hometown's usual bout of fog in the early morning.

I spend a good amount of time looking at the night sky. My mind tries to recall all those kooky constellations and their locations.
Nine times out of ten, I always see Orion (I think everyone does). He helps me sort out just what direction I'm looking in. Then, I try and piece together who else I see.
Big Dipper.
Little Dipper.
Cassiopeia.
Perseus.
But I always forget where Cetus and Andromeda and Pegasus are. I remember the story involving them all from an astronomy class I took in college. That was probably my favorite part of the class-- the stories of the stars in the sky.
After we got into eclipses and penumbras and whatnot, I dropped it. Started getting too math-y.

Lately, I've become aware of how pessimistic people have become. At least, my co-workers seem to be. Whenever the smallest bit of work comes up, their default response is "Well, that sucks."
Does it? Isn't that why we're here? To work?
And in that same vein, when there isn't work and everyone's sitting around, bored, again, they say "...this sucks."
The negativity is just silly to me. Things really aren't that bad. Plus, in my mind, if you think that something is bad or unfortunate right off the bat, you automatically cancel out any chance of it being enjoyable in the slightest degree, no?
Along with that, apparently I have some kind of less-than-sunny disposition (which isn't the case. I'm just in a constant dont-give-a-fuck mode). But because I don't smile often and I'm not energetic or gregarious and playful, something's wrong or I'm sad (perhaps it's my attraction to sad things that has made me appear to be unhappy?)
My joke to myself is that I should probably invest in Botox and plaster a big, fake, smile on my face.
Then, when they ask why that's the only emotion I'm capable of expressing and I tell them, they'll respond:
"Oh, that sucks."

nonproblematically

(from January 18th)

After overhearing my roommates speaking of paying for wi-fi in our room, I decided to chip in.

What?

You try venturing to the nearest coffee shop in order to check your e-mail. It's painful and unnecessary.
Plus, the quality of it is horrible anyway. I mean, as of now, I can't even connect to it. Which, again, leaves me to find something productive to do.
Actually, I finished a book today, something totally worth noting since I hardly read as much as I like to (unless you count the various things I read on the internet).
It was a splendid book, in fact. I've about three more books that I brought with me until I have to search for new material to read.
I'm always anxious when I search for books. I really can't just... (there's no way I could avoid using this phrase) ... judge a book by its cover.
Plus, I have commitment issues. If I buy a book, I feel as though I'm bound to it and I must read it in its entirety. Additionally, I'm just... too lazy to turn around and return a book.
Libraries? Eh, a bit of a germ factor there. I mean, I dunno WHO has touched those books before I have.

You know what feeling I enjoy?
That exhaustion after a long day of work. Because there's nothing else you really want to do but sleep. And when you finally get to sleep, it's possibly the most magical and wonderful sensation in the world.
You don't have to struggle because you've depleted your energy stores and once you find yourself cradled in sheets with a pillow beneath your head and your gaze falls onto the back of your eyelids and it's the end of your day.
Good night.
Buenos noches.
Bonne nuit.
Oyasumi nasai.
Done.
I like that.

liminal

(from January 15th)

It's moments like these when I realize how much time the internet prohibits me from being productive.
In my temporary location, there are wi-fi hotspots that I have to make a little trek to in order to access them.
And, as lazy as I am, I have to be in the mood to actually leave my bed and go outside to find said hotspots.
Not to mention that bags aren't allowed in most buildings so I 'd have to carry my laptop in my hand (which, for someone who considers their laptop as something like a child, is a little too risky).
That said, my internet activity slows and my productivity toward other things increases.
Like writing (hence this entry, which was typed in Word and subsequently posted for no one to read).
Since my arrival, I've had little contact with friends/family, minus the brief Facebook messages and instant messages.
I'm not a big fan of overly complicated procedures either (e.g. the ridiculous amount of numbers to press in order to call someone).
In other news, I didn't want to believe the movie stereotypes of entering a male dormitory with pictures of nearly nude women pasted to the walls...

...and yet I walked into it, women baring it all with the aid of Photoshop, provocative text carefully placed next to them, detailing their bust size and what kinky things they like to do.
I think if my eyes rolled back into my head any further, I'd see my brain.
But, again, I'm left to my own devices and I can finish a book I wanted to read or work on that story I started (!) or maybe take some photos or just go for a walk and discover something.
I'm left to spend time with... well... myself.

brachyura

Leaving for my business trip in the morning.
I'm excited and prepared. One of the reasons I took this job is to see the world and this trip will allow me to do so.
Lately, I've thought of creating a new blog for reviews. This thought stemmed from the constant conversations I have with myself when I vocalize my critique on a specific item, be it a video game, and album, a movie, or even something I've eaten.
It also came from the notion that I sometimes find it difficult to just write without reason. I need to have something to write about (...like, my life) to get my brain churning out words.
Perhaps this comes from years of writing prompts where if I didn't fulfill the requirements, it'd be a bad grade on a paper which could turn into a bad grade in a class which could turn into a lecture at home from the 'rents (and the possibility of taking my video games away, god forbid).
Granted, who'd really want to hear my opinion on this CD or that game; I'm not really 'trained' to be a critic and I don't really claim to be some kind of expert.
But in any case, I think I'd like to translate how I feel about a specific item into words sufficiently.

Hm... that would mean a new blog, new format and whatnot.
Maybe it's a good idea to keep this and that blog separate? (i.e. different hosting sites)
I enjoy Blogspot but I think I'd set up camp for my reviewing blog on some place like Tumblr or Wordpress or wherever.

To be determined...