Too Many Tragedies and Disasters

Someone asked me today, "Did you hear about the Boston disaster?"

"It's not a disaster, it's a tragedy," I corrected before I caught myself.

That's what's been done to me over the years. I separate such horrible events like what happened today in Boston into two categories: tragedies or disasters.

It's been a long Monday, the longest in a few years I feel. 4-15-13 will become the next date seared on the memory of our national consciousness. Just another date to add to a growing list.

I reflected this afternoon on how many tragedies and disasters I've experienced in my brief 24 year lifetime. Just to name some off the top of my head, without any research: the OKC bombings, Columbine, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, the Virginia Tech Shootings, Sandy Hook Elementary, and now the Boston Marathon.

Those are the ones that stand out to me for various reasons. Each experienced a loss of life that was unexpected and horrifying. Each was unique in its circumstance yet all shared one common theme: how much sorrow they brought forth from me.

And yet, with all that sorrow, I feel numb. Just doing a comparison between my parents and myself, the first 24 years of their life did not have as many horrifying events in it, at least not that I can recall immediately. If I researched it I'm sure I'd find that bad stuff happened then too, that they too experienced their share of tragedies and disasters.

But I'm calling it different for me and my generation. For those of us who grew up as the world became smaller and information became easier to access. We don't have to go back and dig out old newspaper clippings and photos from the attic to remember our tragedies and disasters.

All we need to do is search Google.

In minutes after the Boston Marathon tragedy occurred, pictures began flooding the Internet. Most of them depicted people in states of shock and horror. Some of them depicted blood splattered against the sidewalk, some of people suffering from bloody injuries, and some of just chaos.

We will forever be able to revisit this day thanks to the Internet. Just as we're able to revisit 9/11.

Am I saying it's on the same level? No. 9/11 was a disaster. Today was a tragedy. But both suffered losses of life and both were unnecessary and cruel. The toll, emotionally and spiritually, will be high for both.

But I feel like with every new tragedy and disaster, I grow just a little more numb. I feel like we, as a nation, are going that route. We're not a perfect country and we're not a perfect people, far from it, but we should strive to not become numb at these things. We should strive to remember the pain and the hurt, to let the tears be shed and let the anger be heard.

We should strive to feel.

Because the day we don't, the day we accept one of these tragedies or disasters at face value, the day that it doesn't register for us, is the day that the true disaster as occurred.

That day is the day the enemy has won. When you make a people numb, when you remove their ability to feel, everything else is easy.

I want to cry for Boston but I find myself unable to. It's sunk in and I feel it there, waiting, the pressure behind my eyes great.

But no tears will shed. I can't cry for them. I can only feel sorrow and express it in this limited manner.

But if you can cry, please do so. There's no shame in it. There's nothing wrong with it. Cry for those of us that can't. Cry for those in Boston who cannot cry anymore. They deserve to elicit tears of sorrow, of compassion, from others.

And once you're done crying, once you've mourned, please remember them.

Feelings are fleeting but memories last. If you remember them, they will not be lost.

They deserve that, too.

One Brain, Two Sides: Why I Hate/Love Bikini Season

*I've had some wine. Just letting you know.*

It's here. Winter has ended and Spring is just beginning and all the big retail stores have broken out the dreaded bikini advertisements. You can't walk into one of these stores without seeing the bikinis front and center, the girls in the pictures above the clothes posing in them.

Don't mistaken me for some Bible thumping zealot, I'm not ... but this time of year is the worst for me at least. The Winter is a nice break from all that ... it's hard to make big fluffy jackets look sexy. Sorry, Winter wear is designed to keep you warm not make you look hot.

But the Spring stuff is designed to make you look hot while also being cool. Confused? So am I. I don't get it but I hate this time of year.

I also love this time of year.

Let me explain (if it isn't already apparent where this is going).

My hatred of bikini season stems back to when I was a younger lad ... like 12. I was just on the cusp of teenage life and beginning to notice that A) girls were becoming more interesting to look at and B) I was in no way shape or form within their league.

It's a sobering piece of news for a 12 year old but I figured it pretty early on. After all, I was on large adult t-shirts and big jeans (32s I think). I was not in good shape and I even passed out one day in P.E. due to the heat. Alabama weather is not kind to the large when they try to run laps in 90+ degree weather.

My hatred stems, in part, from the fact I never was able to take advantage of my teenage years in pursuing the pretty girls in bikinis.

My hatred also stems, in part, from comparing myself to the girls in bikinis.

"Wait a minute, you're a guy ... why the hell do you compare yourself to them?" You ask.

Let me tell you, thinness is thinness. Whether it's a guy or gal, the comparisons are always there. Always. I don't expect anyone else to agree with me but I hate bikini season simply because of all the girls in the ads that have these unbelievably thin bodies and ... well, I didn't then. I still don't (though I'm much closer).

I've only recently begun comparing myself to the other fellas because before there was no point. Fat kid. Always a fat kid. Will never be anything other than the fat kid. Why bother?

But there's no way to escape comparing myself to the girls in bikini season. Not only is it hard to look away from them in bikinis (at least the ones that can actually pull it off) but it's also really hard to reconcile what I see with what I feel.

What do I feel? This is where the love of bikini season comes in. I mean, come on, pretty girls in bikinis for the Spring and Summer ... pools, beaches, and waterparks full of many of these pretty ladies?

Fellas, fellas, fellas ... what we have here is a kid in a candy store. The imagery is strong, to say the least. As a guy, as all guys are, I'm wired for visual cues. Why do you think sports on TV have all these fancy graphics? Men like visual flair. We like visual fun.

And bikinis are the definition of fun, visually speaking. What exactly are we missing? We have 80-90 percent of the female body on display and it's VOLUNTARY. We didn't have to beg. We didn't have to pay. We don't even have to know them, most of the time we just look and admire ... it's the best no string's attached thing.

No one gets hurt. Nothing gets messy. It's just a pretty girl in a bikini, our minds, and our eyes.

... and it sucks. This brings me back to why I hate bikini season. It's horrible. Sure, it's visually appealing (to say the least) but the images are haunting.

It's hard to get rid of them. Eventually, over-saturation just desensitizes you to the point where you don't notice looking anymore. It's just a checklist mentality ... see a pretty girl in a bikini, look, catalog, and move on.

That's not right.

You know what else isn't right? The fact that so many girls feel pressured to wear the bloody things. And that pressure makes them want to look like the girls in the ads and makes them think less of themselves than is true.

"How do you know? You're a guy. You don't get it," you say.

Oh, I get it. I see it. I've had the fortune of knowing many pretty girls in my life. Each of them had their physical flaws, each of them had their own quirks, but all of them have one thing in common. When I tell them "You look great" in response to some self-depreciating dig at their looks (I know those types of digs, I made my living on them for years) I get the same look. That dismissive smile and some excuse that justifies why their dig is exactly right and my opinion is complete BS.

I hate it. Ladies, please, listen: I can't speak for other guys but I can speak for me and when I tell you you look great, believe me. Because I will tell you when you don't. I don't do subtlety. I do blunt.

And bluntly I tell you, I'm tired of you girls throwing yourselves under the bus. I get it, the world around you says you need to be thin and pretty looking and have plenty of make-up on to cover the blemishes just to GET BY in this messed up place. I get it.

"Really? How?" You ask.

How? Because I'm dealing with the male equivalent of it now. When you're the fat guy, you don't have to compare yourself to the thin guys. You're never going to be there and history is full of great fat guys who made it work. We fat guys look up to the great fat guys and aspire to be them. In a man's world, being fat is much easier and far more forgiving than in a woman's world.

But I'm not fat anymore. I am thin, technically and literally speaking. This still bothers me but I'll get used to it eventually.

What I'm having more difficulty getting used to is trying to fit into one of two thin guy camps: the six-pack ripped guys or the stick-thin guys. Now that I'm thin, I have to aim for one of those two things according to the man's world. You don't want to be the thin-fat guy ... you don't want to have any fat on you as a thin guy because that makes you look like a lazy SOB for not putting forth the effort to get truly thin.

I can never be the stick-thin guy. Sure, I can get into skater clothes but that says less about me and more about the mainstreaming of skaters. No, I don't have the body type to be that ... I can feel my hip bones as it is.

So that leaves me with the ripped/six pack guys and I have a problem there too: I got a ton of loose skin on my midsection that won't go away and just sits there, sadly.

Meanwhile, in virtually every movie I watch the guys take off their shirts and are ripped. The underwear models are ripped. The suit guy models are ripped. What the hell, Batman?

I get it, ladies. It's not exactly the same but I feel the similarities are strong.

I'm sorry, ladies. Men have played a part in spreading this lie that all women must look good in a bikini and must strive for that body. I'm no feminist, don't confuse me for that, but part of the blame falls on men. We find it visually appealing, those bikini bodies but you can't take that to the bank.

The visual eventually means nothing. You remember when VHS used to be best thing ever? You remember when DVDs came along and things looked so much better than VHS? Then Blu-rays?

That's what it is for men and bikini season. It's all that and eventually it doesn't matter anymore ... we don't buy the Blu-rays for the upgrade in visual quality, we're looking for better features ... we want to know the deleted scenes. We want the director's cut. We want to know the inside and out of that movie and how it was made.

It's the same way with you ladies. The visual stuff in bikini season is what appeals to us at first but we eventual grow dead to it and we want to know the deeper stuff. You must forgive us for being so drawn in by your beauty and you must forgive us for telling you have to look THAT way to even be considered beautiful.

You don't. As I've discovered, the body will only go so far before it says "No more!" Listen to your body and don't force yourself to be thin for the sake of looking good in a blasted bikini. If you want to do that, then do but make sure YOU want it ... don't do it because of pressure from the outside.

I hate bikini season. I hate it for all the ads and the sights. I hate it for what it makes me feel ... a strange mix of guilt, admiration, and lust all rolled into one. I hate what it does to my female friends who feel badly about their bodies because they feel they don't look good in a bikini.

Hear me, ladies: You look great. It's the truth, so take it and run with it.

Thanks for reading. Have a good night folks.

Can We Evolve?

I got hooked on watching some documentaries tonight on Netflix and came across one dealing with racism in the early 60s and the 1962 Ole Miss football team. Now, I have no love for Ole Miss (back when I was in Mississippi I was Mississippi State all the way) but this documentary was a good one. It did really dive deep into the time there but it didn't surprise me in the least with the things that went on.

I grew up in the South. I've heard all the stories, read all the stories, watched all the stories, talked to people who were there ... the South is and always will be tied to that era and the sins committed in it. But the writer of the documentary said that Ole Miss had "evolved"since then and cited statistics, cited things that had transpired in the time since ... he cited all these things yet I found myself sitting there, skeptical.

I was in Mississippi for a few years in the late 90s, and most of 2000. It wasn't so different then as it was being portrayed in the documentary. Things looked better but that was a function of Mississippi getting better at hiding things.

Which brought to mind a question ... can we evolve?

I don't mean in the sense like higher levels of beings. I don't expect us to get omnipotent powers or gain the ability to fly. I mean, can we grow, as an individual/people, to a point where we qualify as "evolved"?

When I think of evolution I can think only of Pokemon. Pokemon (most of them) evolve. Pikachu evolves in Raichu (though few actually do so because Raichu isn't that cute looking and we're all nostalgic for Pikachu thanks to the animated series). Growlithe evolves in Arcanine (Charizard is still better, IMO).

You get the point. The Pokemon undergo a physical and statistical change that allows them to grow into something more. Evolution allows them to get stronger, to get faster, to learn better moves, and allows you as the trainer to develop a better team.

But can we evolve? Evolution is generally seen as a change that ... well, we can see. I think, for the purposes of this question, we should focus on evolution as it pertains to mindset ... as it pertains to internal composition.

So, speaking on that, I still question whether we can evolve. People change but slowly ... very slowly in some case. I grew up in the South and a lot of the stuff that happened in the 60s still happens today. It's quieter but it's there.

Are people capable of evolving to a point that certain mindsets and ideas are rendered primitive? Will we get to the point where we've grown enough to replace Thundershock with Thunderbolt (to continue the Pokemon thing)?

I don't know. I'm torn on this subject because it seems that I'm a good argument for evolution and against it. Speaking about just myself here, I know that physically I am more "evolved" than I was this time last year. Two years ago I was a completely different looking person.

Mentally and emotionally ... I don't know if I'm "evolved." A lot of the same things that haunted me in the past haunt me today. My ideas are certainly different but by no means are they so different that they can't be related back to previous ideas. I build upon old thoughts and old feelings. I have a tough time forgetting those things.

So, can we evolve? Can I evolve? Are we, as a people in the South, doomed to live out our past sins? It seems that rather than move on or move forward, we relish the past. With every passing year the South seems to idealize the past.

Am I doomed to that fate as well? It seems with every passing year the past looks better and the future more bleak. The future is an unknown quality ... stick with what works. I like sticking with what works, but what works in some respects doesn't in others.

I don't know if we're capable of evolution as it pertains to mindset. At least, not so drastic a one that it will get noticed. Maybe for humans it comes in small clips and it's something that happens over the course of a lifetime, of generations.

We can't all have flashy evolutions. It doesn't happen when we reach a certain level or obtain a certain happiness.

But I question if it does happen and if we have that capability to make it happen for ourselves.

Something to ponder, I guess. Thanks for reading folks. Good night. 

Optimism Isn't So Easy Anymore

Recently, I've been called something that not many would call me before ... a realist. I've never been a realist before. I don't usually take that view but I've come to the conclusion that I am becoming more of a realist.

I used to be the eternal optimist, the go to guy for wishful thinking. It was easier in the past because my optimism was fueled by the sure-fire knowledge that I could be as bright, as cheery, and as wishful as I wanted ... it was better to be that for me because it kept reality at bay.

The reality was that, in the past, I was never going to even approach the optimistic dreams I had. I was never going to get there so why focus on that fact ... why not focus on the dream? Sometimes the dream is more important and in the past it was.

In the past I was a severely overweight guy with just optimistic thinking.

In the present I am a much thinner guy with reality staring me in the face and my optimism nowhere to be found.

Now that I'm thinner, now that I'm in a shape that isn't round, I can achieve all kinds of things that before I was optimistic about.

The problem is none of those optimistic dreams had any real meaning. They were placeholders, if you will, there to just keep me focused on the good things that MIGHT happen but likely wouldn't. Now that I'm in a position to achieve some of those optimistic dreams I find them to be ... pathetic. Sad.

No, no ... I find them empty.

Yes, empty is the word.

They weren't dreams that had any long term meaning ... they were like pieces of chewing gum. I sat there and chewed on them, enjoying them, but now that I'm not the fat guy anymore that gum has lost its flavor. It's a rubbery nothing that offends my taste buds.

So, I spit it out.

I'm just not sure what to put in its place.

Optimism was easy when the dreams were just ... dreams. I have plenty of dreams. Some recurring and many brand new. I remember my dreams in the morning and if I find them interesting enough, I put them down in my dream log. It's cool to look back on some of them and use them as inspiration for some creative project.

But I'm finding it harder to do that with the ultimate creative project: myself. I have all these old dreams, these optimistic unachievable dreams that no longer hold any meaning for me ... they were just there to make me feel better before. What do I do with these dreams?

Do I adjust? Do I admit to myself that these dreams weren't real dreams but merely something for me to chase, a mirage? At one time these dreams HAD to mean something to me, if only for a short while, but they've been rendered meaningless now.

Do I remember? Do I chase after these dreams? I feel like that's me reaching back to something familiar.

I like the familiar. I like routine. I like habits. I like predicting things and having them play out as predicted.

I'm slow to change. I'm stubborn and often I find myself coming to a conclusion long after everyone else came to the same conclusion weeks/months/years before.

Reality stares at me. My optimistic dreams are within my grasp if I really desire it but I don't. I don't want to reach out to those old, familiar dreams. They were formed by an individual who wasn't looking to achieve them ... he was looking to use them as comfort. As a crutch.

I need new dreams but I want them to be hopeful, to be optimistic.

I don't want to be a realist gone cynic. It's too easy to be that and I shouldn't be that jaded (as many tell me). I want to be able to think happy thoughts and put those thoughts into a goal.

But happy thoughts are hard to come by to these days.

It's hard being an optimist, hard thinking happy thoughts, when I worry so much. God, I worry a lot. I try not to stress, I try not to worry, but at night I worry ... I have too much time on my hands at night I suppose.

I don't worry about myself. I'm dead last in the worry category ... I can adapt. It might take a while, I might kick and scream, but I will adapt.

I worry about family. I worry about friends. I kick around so many scenarios in my brain about things that could happen I lose sleep. Some nights I don't sleep.

I never had that problem as the eternal optimist. But as a realist? I have problems turning off the "being real" portion of my brain. Often it goes further than reality would actually allow it. My imagination is a powerful ally and enemy.

It's not easy being an optimist anymore. I miss it.

Thanks for reading folks. Have a good night.  

Macaroni is Macaroni

Today was a pretty good day I feel. I had fun, I did good (in my estimate), and didn't screw up too badly. But I did screw up on microwavable macaroni. I made it wrong and got called out for it.

And I am unbelievably pissed I did it wrong. Irrationally so. I took a twenty minute shower just to drown out some of the anger, just to take the edge off, and it did. But as we speak I'm angry about macaroni and the fact that I messed it up tonight.

No big deal, right?

Should be. But I'm pissed. I screwed up easy to make microwaveable macaroni.

Simple.

Easy.

Screwed up.

I'm stressing over it. I want to punch a hole in a wall. Lots of holes in one wall, maybe two if I get into a real good groove.

It's a simple task, one that I should be able to do at the not-so-tender age of 24. I can make microwavable food, I've spent years doing it in various parts of my life but I can't seem to quite get this particular brand of microwavable macaroni down.

I got called out on it. I got defensive, waged war for a good ten minutes, and then ate a glorious dinner.

But it's just pathetic. I should be able to make microwaveable macaroni without much trouble. It's easily done by others. I can't seem to get it right.

The day was good. It was a good day and I'm sitting here focusing on failing to make macaroni right.

I briefly entertained the idea of taking the macaroni and stomping it into oblivion on the driveway outside. Though it would have been amazingly emotionally satisfying it only proves the point that I'm obsessing over something that doesn't matter. 

It's just macaroni.

That's all.

I want to go outside and walk/run just to get this out of my system. It's really anal and completely stupid. It's cold outside. I just took a shower. I'm at the end of the day where I can unwind, relax, and chill.

But I am quite wound up.

It's just macaroni.

Certain factors have triggered this. I had some caffeine this morning. I'm kinda stressed about my weight (it's lower than where it was last weekend but not where I want it to be). It's nearly Valentines Day (I HATE YOU). Getting through this week will be a challenge but I knew that this weekend.

So I did what I had to, took care of what I had to, to get through this week. Next week will be significantly easier for me to get through than this week (I think) but I don't plan that far ahead. Plans=failure.

Which is the bottom line here: I hate to fail. It's a toxic thing to me. It makes me go into rage mode. I don't like to lose.

I'm a sore loser. Always have been. No one in my family likes playing any board games with me because if I lose I make other people miserable. I don't mind losing I just mind failing to win, if that makes any sense.

I'm better at it than when I was a kid but, honestly, this is a core character flaw that hasn't been solved. I still fail and I fail to deal with that failure (the ultimate source of frustration). Is there anyway to get passed this?

I guess a deeper understanding of myself would help. Writing helps. I hopped on here to blog about this to write this out and it has helped. I'm not beating the crap out of my keyboard like I was ten minutes ago.

So, I'm a sore loser and hate to fail. Okay ... that I knew but I still hate going into rage mode over something as stupid as macaroni.

I wish I could say I was better than that but I've proved tonight I'm not.

It was said to me, in the great ten minute war, that I'm going to have trouble dealing with life if I can't accept a little failure.

It's a true statement. I have trouble dealing with life, as has been proven in the many blog entries here and in my own actions, so I can't debate that.

I'm not sure how to fix it or if it can be fixed. I feel this is likely a permanent core character flaw.

But if I can change my body as radically as I have, I figure I at least have a shot at an internal change too.

Said shot feels very small right now.

It's just macaroni.

Thanks for reading folks. Good night.

Sometimes Failure is a Good Thing

"You never really know until you try." We all here this phrase and it's one that sticks in my craw. I don't like this phrase. It implies not trying is a bad thing. It says to me "Zach, if you don't try that's akin to failing and we all know that failure is a bad thing."

Well, I stand (sit) here before you today to say failure can be a good thing sometimes.

What has brought me to this conclusion?

The best worst idea I've had in a long time: drinking some Jack Daniels.

(WARNING, gory details to follow. If you have a weak stomach, just exit now.)

Now, by this point, most know that I'm a lightweight. A few glasses of wine and I'm drunk. Wine ain't got nothing on whiskey as far as alcoholic content is concerned. The Jack Daniels I had was 40% by volume.

Yesterday (that would be Friday) I had it in my mind to get completely trashed. I was overdue, usually I get drunk once a month and it's a nice release, but I was three months behind and in the type of mood where bad decisions are easy to make for dumb reasons.

Yesterday, I made a bad decision and got me a 375 milliliters of Jack Daniels (not a bottle, more like half a bottle). It was ... awkward, to say the least. Jack and I have not encountered one another since Spring Break 2008. That was the first and last time I ever had Jack Daniels. Of course in 2008 I was heavier, so it didn't wreck me nearly as bad or as fast as it did this time.

Anyways, I had me some Jack Daniels and by some I mean most of that little bottle I got. I used my brand new Star Trek shot glasses (including two Scotty's, so I got really wasted), jumped on a Skype call with some friends, and started drinking. After the fourth shot I don't remember a blasted thing but witnesses claim it was utter hilarity before I signed off and flopped into my bed.

That was around 8PM I suppose and the next five hours I was out like a light.

When 1AM rolled around, I was suffering from an unstoppable nose bleed and was at the beginning of a massive hangover. The next three and a half hours were spent kneeling before my toilet, spewing my guts everywhere, and wondering why I thought this was a good idea in the first place.

I mean, seriously, this was such a bad idea that EVERYONE agreed I shouldn't do it. Everyone on the call. Everyone who knew my plans. Unanimous agreement that this was a bad idea.

Well, it was. I hadn't touched Jack Daniels since 2008 and I don't plan on doing it ever again. We're adding Jack to the permaban list immediately.

I've spent most of today in a daze, drinking Vitawaters, and taking lots of naps.

How, you may ask, has all this brought me to the conclusion that sometimes failure is a good thing?

The Jack Daniels was a culmination of a ton of events but primarily a week of really bad choices on my part food wise. I have not been eating as cleanly as I should of late and that helped lead me to a nasty 147 reading on the scale. My clothes were starting to get a little tighter and I was starting to get a little anxious.

Anxiety and I don't mix well. In the past I would deal with anxiety by eating bad food.

... pretty much did that this week. I''ll gladly admit I was a poor human being for most of the week in my humble opinion and the easiest way to get things back on track was to get completely wasted.

When I get wasted I really, really, get wasted. I used Jack Daniels not only to get drunk but to also shed some pounds. I'm proud to report that it worked, I weighed in at 145 this morning.

If you find that disturbing you have every right to. Just know that I planned it as such.

Anyways, the failure of myself this past week in eating clean resulted in a night of misery, a day of fasting, and a cleared mind.

I still had some Jack Daniels left, actually, but I poured it down the drain. That's where it belongs.

Some observations for those of you considering taking a night to get completely trashed. This will likely serve as a reminder to myself more than anything not to do this again.

1. Lots of Blood

For some reason the large amount of Jack Daniels in me caused a massive nosebleed which drained into my stomach in that five hour blackout period I had from 8PM to 1AM. I was not only blowing out blood but also vomiting it. This I did not anticipate and is worrisome according to the more veteran drinkers I know. I'm not sure why there was so much blood but whatever the case, it made things a lot messier than they had to be. I promptly threw everything in the wash the first time I woke up this morning.  

2. Strange Nightmares

You ever have your nearly six year old laptop grow a set of razor sharp teeth and eat your hands? Well, it happened to me in one of my crazed drunk dreams I had during the three and a half hour period of ultimate misery sitting on my bathroom floor. I passed in and out of consciousness but I remember that dream.

I suspect it was my anxiety about buying a new laptop (which I ordered today and should see late next week) and the feelings of guilt I have for replacing my old one I'm using now. God, we've gone through a lot together ... I have pictures of it when it was virtually brand new. But it's hanging on by a thread and we've both come to the conclusion that it's time to move on.

Still, getting a new laptop is a huge investment and one I didn't make lightly. Weeks of research and polling led me to buying one today ... I can only hope it lasts as long as this one. I doubt it'll do more than three years.

3. Garlic and Whiskey Don't Mix

In brilliant fashion, I decided the best thing to eat while getting boozed up was some garlic Parmesan potato chips. Since this was my big blow out for the week and the last day I would be eating uncleanly, I decided to go for broke (and they were on sale, two for five). It was a poor choice. Spring Break 2008 I had microwave burritos and pizza with the whiskey ... the heavier stuff appealed to me then. It didn't yesterday. I would have been better off with them, maybe, but I anticipated I'd see whatever I ate again anyway.

Still, major nastiness. Worst taste ever. Don't mix those two. Ever.

So, you see, failure did result in a few good things for me. I've had a hard reset and it wasn't fun, but it's over now. I can start fresh this week and I can do right, as I am fully capable of doing. Was it the simplest way to go about this? No. But simple and I don't really mix. The simpler something is the harder it is for me to accomplish.

So I took the hard way (getting completely trashed) and it was easier for me. Strange, yes, but strange pretty much sums me up.

Do yourself a favor folks and just stay away from the hard liquor. Wine is so much better.

Thanks for reading and good night.  

Too Many Beginnings

I just got done watching a movie tonight that I had never heard of, that I only clicked on for the title. That movie was Pumpkin, starring Christina Ricci. I love Pumpkin. Pumpkin pie. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin muffins. Pretty much anything pumpkin related.

This movie I found myself loving from the beginning and I must claim it as a surprise Netflix gem.

But this movie got me thinking. Life has too many beginnings.

Let me explain. It's late and I'm probably making less sense than usual. What I mean is that, in life, there are phases. We all begin as cells, then we become babies, get born, turn into little kids, transition into pre-teens, then teens, then young adults, then adults, then senior adults, then we die. That's pretty much it, right?

In all that, we begin again. Over and over. Life has too many beginnings. We begin one thing and before that's over we begin something else. There is no closure. No ending.

I think, overall, that's the message the movie conveyed to me. The main character, she started out in life thinking one thing, but began to evolve over the course of the movie. She found herself beginning to change and that change scared her, that change she tried to force away but it kept coming. It eventually won out. Her previous way of life had been obliterated before her, by her own hand, and yet she was beginning a new way of living.

But I can't believe a new beginning ends anything. A new beginning is a beginning, it can't be an ending AND a beginning wrapped into one. This observation stems from personal experience more than anything. I have a bad case of writer ADD and I hardly finish anything. I begin plenty of things and jump between them.

I feel like life is the same way. I begin something and then begin something else. There is never any conclusion. All those beginnings pile on, and on, and on, and I wonder what they're all for.

What's the point of beginning something but never finishing it? That's what I ask myself all the time when I start a new story. I begin it, I'm enthused by it, and then it becomes just like any other story ... it eventually hits a point where I don't want to write for it nearly as much and I want something new.

It's a high, I think, a high that I get when I start a new story. When I have all the possibilities and choices before me, when nothing is set in stone.

I think that's the thing about life and all it's beginnings. Some of these beginnings are natural -- the ones that we grow into -- but some we force upon ourselves. Do we force these beginnings on ourselves to recapture that high from starting something new?

I think that's how it works for me. I don't know if that's how it works for anyone else.

But I'm tired of all those beginnings in life. Some of them are necessary but a lot of them I feel I just do to get that high.

Life has too many beginnings. I want ends.

Don't read into that as "OMG, HE'S SUICIDAL!!!" Please. I'm far too stubborn for that.

But I wonder what ends are waiting for me. Part of me believes it's got to be all bad stuff. Karma has a way of getting back at you and I've been ridiculously fortunate in life. There has to be some sort of payback, some sort of disaster, awaiting at one of those ends. Something I began will finally reach its end and I will suffer for it. 

Part of me believes that the beginnings and the ends, they don't matter. No matter how good or bad one or the other is, all that matters is what happens in the middle of the beginning and the end. It's the middle, the long stretch between those two points, that determines what happens to you. Whether you come away a better person or a worse one.

That's a scary thought in some ways. I feel like I'm in the middle of a lot of things right now ... and the decisions I make now will determine what path my evolution as a person takes. Better or worse.

I can't say with any certainty that I'm becoming one or the other.

But at least I'm aware of it. Maybe that shows something positive.

Thanks for listening folks. Good night.