State of Day.

I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys. I don't believe in boys.

Falling into the pensive.

I was never good at keeping diaries. Periodically I'd be upset about something or be in an introspective mood and jot out a few random thoughts. Today, I've been forced into blogging out of sheer boredom and in an effort to preserve my sanity. A bigwig from the company headquarters is coming into the office, so my boss is flying around in a panic trying to make us look professional. As a result, I've lost the use of my ipod and my phone has been banned to the dark recesses of my desk drawer. Sad day for me, but hello blog. You will keep me company and shape my mental state for the rest of the day.

I was recently introduced to a song called Hawaii by the band Mew. SO EPIC. It's pleasant enough, but unremarkable until two minutes and thirteen seconds into the song. At that point, I feel like a chorus of angels are sounding off in my brain. I love it, I can't wait to listen to it at full blast in the car. It's pretty much the epitome of the word 'uplifting' and I'm not referring to that showy preach Jesus-worship music you find on obscure radio stations and on your neo-Christian friends' ipods. It's like all the molecules of my body are lighting up. Trippy? Yes. Silly? No.

I love music. I know that pretty much everyone else and their dog will tell you the same thing, but everyone else and their dog can suck my big toe. A good song will awaken a lot of emotion in me, a lot of introspective thinking, and a huge shift in my mood and mindset. If you're reading this you might think I'm being silly or dramatic. I don't care what you think. Music is the only way humans can share an emotion across culture and across language and across prejudices. It can lift you up to unimaginable heights or make you feel like the most isolated person in existence. I find one amazing, incredible, mind-blowing song and I can't wait to share with with someone. And as they're listening to it, I'm sitting on the edge of my seat- just hoping they feel it too.

____


On a seperate but related note:

____

I just happened to glance at my computer task bar, and one of the pages I have up is Dictionary.com. I use it frequently when I blog, I like to check my spelling and double-check on the meaning of some of the bigger words that I use on occasion. I most recently looked up the word 'existence', to check whether it ended in 'ence' or 'ance'. Looking at the minimized page, its heading is written as

Existence | Define Existence

It's just a funny coincidence, taking into account my blog entry from the other day and my unusually pensive mood these past few days. It does make you think though, or at least I hope it does.


ex·ist·ence   /ɪgˈzɪstəns/
[ig-zis-tuhns]

–noun
1. the state or fact of existing; being.
2. continuance in being or life; life: a struggle for existence.
3. mode of existing: They were working for a better existence.
4. all that exists: Existence shows a universal order.
5. something that exists; entity; being.



I am contemplating and formulating the origin of my existence. I'm challenging thoughts I've long believed to be true. I'm exploring the areas outside of my boundaries. I want to live life according to my will and pleasures. If something is wrong, it will be wrong because I believed it was. I'm in no way planning on jumping off the deep end, but I don't want to stick to the shallows anymore.

Thinking back on what I've done with my life in the past twenty-one years, the experiences I've had and the mistakes I've made - I'm content. I think I could be doing more with my time, but I'm at peace with all the decisions I've made. I don't regret anything I've done. I've been stupid and I've been lazy, but I've been good as well.

I'm running out of steam for this blog. The Big Cheese from headquarters moved on to another department, I walked behind him on my way to lunch. My earbuds are back in my ears, and my phone is in my lap. I've got Hawaii turned up loud, and I'm leaning back in my chair.

Today is a good day.

Dirty Cubicles.

Sometimes I wonder what it will be like when I die. And when. And how. I wonder how often other people think of it. We don't think about it as often as we should probably, in fact, I think most people do everything they can to not think about it. We scurry about trying to cram all these meaninless and trivial things into our daily routine, altogether ignoring the fact that at any given second you can have a brain aneurysm and drop dead without warning. What good will your credit score be then? Won't you be glad you purchased that flat screen TV earlier in the week?

I'm sitting here in my little cubicle, plugged in to a headset. I'm nibbling on a bowl of overpriced pasta, sipping on an energy drink because I didn't get enough sleep last night. I've got my headphones in, listening to the steady calming drum beats and atmospheric notes of a song called Blues for Uncle Gibb. I'm taking calls and listening to complaints. I'm plugged in to a job I care nothing for, sitting in a huge building with no markings, talking to customers that I will share five minutes of my life with and then never speak to or think of again. I'm spending eight hours of my day in a little cubicle, five feet wide and four feet deep. I'm surrounded by people, yet I can only hear the dull roar of the crowd. I can't pick out any distinct voices.

Is this really what I want to be doing with my life?

Working a nine to five and then taking the hour drive back home. Putting my sweats and baggy t-shirt on, and flopping down on the couch. Maybe a movie before bed. I'll call my mom on the drive home from work, we'll exchange pleasantries and talk about our days, and then five minutes into the call I'll recieve a pseudo-lecture about how I should be in school, I should be dating a nice Mormon boy, I need to start going to church again. I should be saving my money, I should be more outgoing, I should decide what I want to be when I grow up. I shouldn't drink, I shouldn't smoke, I should eat better, I should call my parents more often. Be nice to my aunt and uncle, get along with your younger sister, help her to make more friends. Say, "I know". And, "You're right". Promise to start doing better. Promise to do what you know is best for me.

Still haven't finished my overpriced pasta. Haven't talked to my mom in two days. I've gone way over my breaktime. Didn't go to church yesterday. Made a mess on someone else's desk. Been ignored for the most part by the guy I like. Thought about my ex and smiled at a random memory, then cursed myself for it. Decided to postpone school for another semester. Came up with some wild, liberating ideas and then cowered at the thought of putting them into action.

This is what I want to do today. I want to stand up, slip on my shoes, and walk out of this building. Drive home, silence in the car. Walk inside the house, get the duffle bag from under my bed, and fill it with clothes. Drive to the bank, withdraw my pitiful pile of savings, and fill up my tank. Then I'll drive. And I'll drive and I'll drive and I'll drive north. I'll travel down deserted sideroads and drive on the freeway going the speed limit and not a mile over. I'll travel through sagebrush and cracked earth, then through fields and dirt lots. The land will be flat for a long time. Then I'll start to see some pines, things will start to turn green. The dry weeds will disappear, dirt will be replaced by moss. I'll begin to pick out signs saying, "Watch for deer", depicting a buck leaping with its hooves tucked beneath it's chest, as if clearing an obstacle in its path.

I'll find the coast, I'll stop at the ocean. I'll get out of my car, sit on the beach with my headphones in and then take them out when I realize that the waves create music more lovely than what man can birth. I'll get up and walk to the edge of the waves and let it roll over my feet. The water will be freezing, but that's okay because I'd rather feel those pinpricks of ice on my skin than feel nothing at all. I don't feel enough these days.

So what's holding me back?

My parents' expectations. My job. My family. My lack of savings. The fact that I should really be saving my money for school.

The world and all it's ideas of what I should be doing with my life is holding me back from
complete
and
utter
freedom.


This is my life. I'll be twenty-one in thirty-four days. I'm in no relationship, I have no house payment, and I have no car payment. I have a car, which makes up for it's lack of style with a fierce loyalty and dependability. I have nothing tying me down.



What are you waiting for?

01/05/2011

Dear You,

I hate your filthy stinking guts. I hate every second of my life that I spend thinking about you, a common occurence these days. I want to take a soldering iron to my brain and burn away every memory I have of the two of us. I want to picture in my mind every good day I had with you, every time you made me laugh so hard I couldn't breathe, every time you kissed me goodnight before you left my house - picture it in my mind then paint it on a canvas, and then hide that canvas in the attic so I never have to look at it again.

I want to rage at you every time something reminds me of our three years together. When I flip through the channels and see that Criminal Minds is on I want to scream and throw my remote at the TV. When I go to Taco Bell and place my order, then start to eat and see those stupid little squares of red crap I want to throw it out the window because you always remembered to tell them "no tomatoes" when I forgot. And then I'd smile at you or squeeze your hand. And now I despise tomatoes all the more.

I don't want to think of what you're doing now, or who you're with, or how your classes are going. I don't want to care about whether you're happy or not. I don't want to hope that you're missing me. I want you to cease to exist. And if you have a new girlfriend I want to punch her in the teeth because that was my spot.

I'm so mad that you haven't tried to call, or write, or text. I told you I never wanted to talk to you again, but forever is a long time. I texted you a month after we hung up, just to say goodbye, because the way we ended the call didn't do our three years justice. I told you, please don't text me back but I have to say this to you. I sent it first thing in the morning and then jumped in the shower, terrified that you would text back but also terrifed that you wouldn't. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I heard my phone go off. I tried to stay away from my phone for as long as I could stand it, then I turned on the screen.

This isn't ****'s phone number anymore, sorry.

So I hate you, and I hate how pathetic I've become. But I hope you're having it hard too, because three years is a long time. I hope you're having a worse time than me, even though I know that's not true. You were always stronger than me. You were always my rock, my foundation. No matter how hard the wind blew or how fast the world seemed to be spinning around me I could always hold on to your hands and feel completely secure. And now you're gone, and it's been six months and I feel a little lost in the world. And for that, I blame you.

Did you know that I can't even look at other guys anymore? If a boy smiles at me as I pass him I quickly put on that fake, cheesy smile of mine and then look at the ground or pull out my phone. Why? Because you trained me to do it, you bastard. When I told you that the checkout guy at the grocery store was flirting with me you pushed me off the couch and wouldn't talk to me for an hour. Even after six months, I can't shake that mentality. So thanks,

Even the fact that I'm writing this is pathetic. You've probably moved on, and here I am, stuck on you.

Still, after writing this I feel purged, as if exhuming my anger and frustration would allow my feelings to finally burn out and blow away. I want to forget you, to set the canvas on fire and never think of you. When a boy looks at me and smiles I want to smile back and say hi. So I'm going to never think of you, or move on, or start taking care of myself or whatever it is that people do when their reality crumbles around them. So goodbye, and I hate your filthy stinking guts.

Dear Henry Charles Piper

Dear Henry Charles Piper,

I'm writing today to tell you that I'm leaving you. Your snotty arrogance, your childish way of folding clothes, and your vapid expressions have made me realize that I would rather be eaten alive by eight hundred rabid chipmunks than spend one more minute as your girlfriend. I'm not saying that we didn't have our good times together, because we did. Sharing ice cream cones at the park, hiding in the bushes around the retirement home and throwing rocks at the elderly couples out taking their walks... I spent some of my best days with you.

Do you remember the time when I had a craving for one of those jumbo pickles they sell at pawn shops and convenience stores, and you went out and broke in and vandalized four shops before you finally found one? I can still picture the look of love and accomplishment on your face when I walked into the police station to bail you out of jail. We sure had a good laugh about that one later, didn't we? Just like that incident will never be removed from your record, our good times will never be removed from my heart.

But no matter how hard I try to hold on to our past, the present still comes up and hits me like my father did when he drank too many peach schnapps. How can I justify our relationship anymore Henry Charles Piper? I've always been faithful to you. I could have dated so many other people during our time together. I even turned down Philly Grayvee. Your remember him I'm sure. He owns the Piggly Wiggly down on 6th street, and drives that sleek red Toyota Corolla. I spent my best years on you, but that's all over now.

I'm leaving, and I'm taking Winkles with me. We'll be long gone by the time you get home. I hope that when you see Winkles' empty cage and read this note that I'll place on top of it, you'll realize that the best things in your life have walked out the door. And tonight, when you sit down on the couch and put on your recordings of Nascar, you'll look at the empty spot next to you and regret every time you came home drunk and yelled at me until I made you a sandwich.

So goodbye Henry Charles Piper. I hope you eat poo.

Bored. Tired. Want to go home.
First thoughts to come to my doughy, squishy, grey brain...

Ready?

Set?

Go.


Blasting off at negative sixty-five miles an hour!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.->>

Have you ever woken up from the deepest sleep imaginable and been surprised to find yourself in existence? Like your life had just started, like Lazarus risen from the dead. I hope you know what I mean. It seems like a miracle, really. Makes you think.

That’s what happened to me this morning. I opened my eyes and,


POW!



Welcome to life! You’re alive!


I stayed in bed for a while, just taking it in.
I wondered what Lazarus’ first day of resurrected life was like. I’ll bet he didn’t go into work and spend eight hours listening to rotten customers. :\

NOT a telemarketer.

I have seven minutes until my shift at Direct Alliance ends, and with every passing second I'm hoping and praying that no one calls in.

Perhaps I'm being a bit dramatic, but if your days were filled with whiney customers and protests over installation costs you might have a little sympathy.



Curses. I was able to write for about twenty seconds before a customer called in. And would you guess it, they were inquiring about installation costs! Not everything can be giving to you free, and if you believe otherwise you had better wake up and smell the coffee! And take off your Obama bumper sticker while you're at it. Two minutes left.



A nice guy with a bizarre first and last name, I couldn't begin to announce it. Now 3:34. I love my job. Ciao.