Gap baby, indeed.

Some sick music:

 I almost got fired from my job at Applebee's today.  My manager asked me to do something and I simply refused.  It was a prideful thing and I later on apologized to him.  He didn't deserve my bad attitude.  It's just that sometimes, amidst all of the needy customers and demanding coworkers, I get a little short tempered.
I keep thinking that I need to get out of Applebee's.  The only problem with that idea however, is that Applebee's really does allow me to work at the Hale like I do.  I make enough at Applebee's, working just two days a week, to pay the bills.  The money I make at the hale typically is for happy fun play times.  So.  There's that.
Today is the last day that I spend at my sister renee's house.  I'm moving out.  It's strange.  I've been here for just about two years, maybe three.  I'll miss it, a lot, I think.  I'll especially miss my little nephew, Jagger.  You think you have some sort of distant or immediate relative that is super cute and should be a gap baby?  Wait until you  meet my little nephew Jagger.  He's so handsome.  And tall.  And (for a two year old) solemn.
I'm not kidding, the kid can decide when he's ticklish and when he isn't. 
Gap baby, indeed.

I have been buying stuff like crazy to decorate the new apartment.  I'm really stoked about this new dining table that I've got my eye on.  It's a tall table with bar chairs.  It's just a really regal piece of furniture and I'm so so so so stoked.  Yep, I'm blogging about furniture.

I don't like automatic paper towel dispensers.  To be completely accurate, I hate them.  Most of the time, they don't work.  You wave your hand in front of the sensor and nothing happens.  You stick your hand up in the crevice where the paper is actually dispensed and jiggle the little sensor, right there.  Again, you're disappointed to find that your paper towel has not been dispensed.  Finally, you wipe your hands on your jeans or (in horror) you head over to those damned hot air blowing machines.  I'm going to be straight up with you:  If there isn't a paper towel dispenser of any kind and my only option is the hot air blowing machine, I don't wash my hands.  That's how much I hate the hot air blowing machine.
But I digress.
Is it too much work for us to pull a lever and dispense our own paper towels after washing our hands?  Why is anybody wasting their money on these faulty machines?  I swear, half the time they don't work properly.  JUST LET ME DISPENSE MY OWN PAPER TOWELS.

I love that you read.
I would love you anyway.
I'm trying to be better. Every single day.

Everything is free flowing

another crappy video put to incredible music:

What do I think? What do I think??

I had a really serious epiphany today.  For me.  I don't know how much for you.  Like, I don't know that it will change your orbit or anything like that.  I was talking with a very dear friend.  We were talking about circumstances of other people and how we would react to them.  And out of my mouth popped this very profound (or, so I deem) thought:

It's better to be sorry than safe.

I've written and rewritten this paragraph like one million times.  Which is not usual for me.  While I blog, I don't go back and rewrite stuff.  Everything is free flowing.  There is one draft and one draft only.  So why am I so stuck on this paragraph?

There is so much that I want to do.  I want to do everything.  I want to go everywhere.  I know it in my heart; I know it in my bones.  But, it's interesting how quickly and easily the coward inside of me rises.  Excuses become so easily found.  It's like I am my own very worst enemy.  And what am I afraid of?  I want to live my life in a way that I don't regret any of the decisions I've made.  And the only way to do that is to be sorry, not safe (I know, I know, it seems like that's counter-intuitive.).  But it's so difficult to convince myself that that is the best way to go.  I want to rise, I want to be valiant and courageous.  I don't want to take no for an answer and I don't want to settle.  I don't want to settle.  I deserve to be happy and so do you.  So make yourself happy.  Do everything in your power to make yourself so.  Consequences be damned, I'd rather be sorry than safe.

Always do what you're afraid to do.

I need you to understand something:  I hate typing.  I hate the uniformity of it all.  I much prefer to write in my own handwriting.  And who knows?  Maybe I'll stop typing out my blogs and start writing them out.  I could scan them into the computer and just post the pictures on as my blog post.  And then, you would all complain about my cursive.  Or stop reading.  Ha.  Though, i like that I write in cursive.  Typed letters or emails or facebook messages have less value than a handwritten letter, I think.  I don't just write out letters.  Letters take too much effort.  I think I really need to care in order to write a letter.  And I guess, that's what gives it its value.

I have been eating a lot at Arby's lately.  It's kind of my place right now.  I just really like Arby's.  Anyway, two days ago, I decided to go to Arby's at the orem mall.  While there, I met Johnathan.  Johnathan's name tag was spelled out like this:  $$JoHnAtHaN$$.  Do I even need to say anything about that? ha ha ha.  I'll just leave it there.  $$JoHnAtHaN$$ was very helpful in selling me my Big Montana. 

I think that's all I've got for now.  Maybe I'll expound on the better to be sorry than safe idea later on.  I'm not sure, though.  I'm having trouble focusing it.  We'll see.

I love you for reading.
Don't settle for less and learn to play baseball.

It sounds so over dramatic.

classic: Crappy video, great song.

I haven't been alone a lot in the last couple of days, so my thoughts aren't all organized and shiny like usual.  I mean, I usually have thought ideas through and know what I want to say about them, but not right now.  Right now, it's all kind of a mess.  That's kind of how my first blog was.  I didn't quite know what I wanted to write about or what I wanted my blog to be.  I still don't know what I want my blog to be.
(On the one hand, I want to fill it with short stories and poems; I want it to be filled with all of my fiction.  But on the other hand, I just want it to be my ideas and stray thoughts.)

Honestly, I've got things on my mind that I don't want to make public.  But that's not true.  I've got things on my mind that I can't make public.  Eh? See the difference?  I hate writing that.  I might delete this entire paragraph.  It sounds so over dramatic and... high school.

I always try to stop at lemonade stands.  As often as possible, anyway.  What's 50 cents to me?  What's a dollar for heaven's sake?  It's nothing.  So, if I ever have cash and time, I'll stop to buy some most-likely-really-crappy lemonade a few young entrepreneurs (for the record, I spelled that correctly the first time, without spell check.) have made.  One day, I was out in springville and I came across a stand with little kids outside.  I was with my sister and we decided to stop.  As I pulled up, the little kids started hopping around, obviously stoked on their sale.  I hadn't come to a complete stop, but as I focused on their banner and advertised price, I saw that they were selling blue beaded necklaces for $3.

WTF

What kind of venture is that?! I put my foot on the gas and drove away.  I wonder if I crushed those poor kids.  But what kind of crappy business model is that?? Are you ONLY trying to appeal to the women on the road? I was bugged.  This happened like, three weeks ago and I'm still bugged by it.  What in heaven's name am I going to do with a blue beaded necklace? Three dollars?? forget it.

 I want some cookies and lemonade and I want it to cost me only $1.

Do you ever feel like you're too mistrusting of others?  Like, you've become too cynical?  It's a constant battle for me, to be honest.  I'm always fighting this "i know better" attitude.  I'm always wondering at people's ulterior (yes. ulterior. no, not alterior. That's not a word.  It's ulterior. See? snobby.) motives.  But I think I might be wrong in that.  I think that living my life worried about whether or not I am being hoodwinked is not a way to live at all.  I want to be able to take things at face value.  I want to take compliments sincerely and have compassion for everyone. 

I love you for reading.
Tell me you love me.
Don't stop believing.

Back to the chicken tenders.

Some 1980's-I-wish-I-was-Phil-Collins song played on the radio.  Neither seemed to notice.  They both sat there, two grown men, in awkward silence.  Every now and then, the seemingly younger one tried to make conversation and the older one would respond with short, terse, one word answers before returning to his chicken tenders.  Sometimes, he would stare off into the distance as though he was mulling over some great and philosophical thought, then give his short, terse, one word answer.
Time had taken its toll on both of them; on their hair lines; on their waste lines; on their sense of fashion.  One wore nikes with wranglers and the other wore brown loafers with some sort of generic brand of jeans, suspended by a black belt.

Slow clenching and releasing of the jaw; avoiding eye contact.  "How are your chicken  McNuggets?" he ventured.  We're currently at Wendy's.
Profound silence.  Avoiding eye contact.  Looking out the window as his chicken tender is consumed. A man on a motorcycle drives by.  The older, more awkward, silent man watches.  I wonder at his reluctance to answer.
"Great."
Back to the chicken tenders.  A sip of coke.  I sip some of my less-than-desirable orange coke.
The younger one is checking his phone, now.  Nope, no texts or emails or any reasonable distraction. 
Now, the Clash are playing and the younger one stares at a mexican family in a booth across the restaurant.
Perhaps they are work acquaintances, or some sort of distant relative.  I wonder if either of them settled for less than what they wanted in their life.  I wonder if an unexpected baby or injury set them back to the extent that they cashed in their dreams for a bonus and a dental plan.  I wonder if either of them are good singers or if they can paint.  Did either of them ever think about going to the moon?  What happened along the way?
The silent one checks his watch.
Time to go.
They pile up their surplus, dump it into the trash and are gone.  Back to work, I suppose.

So, we'll see.

So, I'm going to try something.
Quite often, I spend the day alone, just kind of doing my own thing.  It's okay, I'm not mad about it; I'm actually really okay with it.  I don't mind doing things alone.
Being in this state of solitude, I have the opportunity to watch people.  I love to watch people.  You see, I recognize that I'm something of a weirdo (aren't we all, though?).  I recognize that there are a lot, a lot of people who i can't connect with.  Thus, it is fascinating to me to sit and watch them; to listen to them.  They love, they hurt, they laugh.  Sometimes they cry.  Most of the time, I can't relate to their sense of humor or their anger.  But I think that's what's so interesting to me.  It's our diversity that makes us beautiful.
Anyway, I think every now and then, my blog is going to be just a description of the people that I'm eaves dropping on.  There won't be a climax or a plot.  It will be just people; just the descritptions of people.  Ha ha.  I bet I'll lose readers this way.  John Steinbeck lost me for this exact reason.  Except instead of people, he would describe dust.  Or crops.  I hate John Steinbeck.

So, we'll see.

Here's what I want to know: How can I meet Katie Holmes?  She's single now, you know?  Her and Tom are calling it quits.  The problem isn't meeting her.  Any obsessive fan can meet Katie Holmes; that's not what I'm interested in.  I want to meet her in a neutral setting.  I want to meet her as an equal.  We can talk about scientology or film or Applebee's (I don't know anything about scientology), the point is, she needs to realize that I'm not freaking out.  that I view her as a person.  And that's when it will happen: she will fall in love with me.  All I need is to meet her in a neutral setting.  I guarantee it.

Today, on my way home from getting work done on my motorcycle, I was riding with the visor on my helmet open.  No big deal.  Until a friggin bee flew into my helmet and stung me.  The side of my head swelled up.  It was awful.  I don't care if all of the flowers die, I want all of the bees to die.  Right now.

I went and watched the sunset tonight.  It was very pretty.  I have proof.  Czech it out:

LOOK AT WHAT A GREAT PHOTOGRAPHER I AM.

I love you for reading.
Let's stop fighting and let's all just hug each other.

At the same time

This is for all of you hipster kids:

Look, this one might be kind of long and all about English.  While I was at Barnes and Noble today, I was really struck with my absolute disdain for John Steinbeck and love for Boo Radley.  At the same time.  It was comforting.  While there, I wondered:
Why are the smartphone magazines in the 'art' section of the magazine rack at Barnes and Noble?
How can books that haven't been released yet be on the New York Times best seller list?  What if they have only been out a week?  Surely, The Count of Monte Cristo has sold more copies than Glen Beck's new book "Coward"?  Why isn't the Count of Monte Cristo on the New York Times best seller list?

I'm afraid of foreshadowing.  No, I'm not afraid of foreshadowing in books or whatever;  I'm afraid of foreshadowing actually occurring in my life.  Like, when people say things like "Today would be the worst day to hit a rollerblader," my heart kind of skips a beat.  What if that's premonition that they're feeling?  Do you see how that could severely affect my every day life?  The simplest, slightest remark could lead to hours of avoiding that very situation that was alluded to.  Life's a hassle, man.

I think, in my heart of hearts, I'm an english major.  I was thinking about today and I think that it's true.  I came up with three reasons:
1) I'm snobby enough to be.  Yes, English majors are snobby.  I've come to grips with it, why haven't you?  There, their and they're? you're and your? c'mon.  People that are more familiar with English  than others use it against them.  Embrace.  We're all friends here.
2) I'm smart enough to be an English major.  See?  Kind of snobby. 
3) There's something subtly sexy about a girl (or a guy, for that matter) that knows how to use a semicolon.  I'm not kidding, when a semicolon is used correctly or appropriately, it gets my motor humming. 

This wasn't as long as I thought it was going to be.  I'm kind of tired anyway. 
I hope you love my blog.
I love you for reading.
Always do what you're afraid to do.

The time I hit a rollerblader

Today, I went toe to toe with the city of orem and I lost.  Too bad.  About a month ago, I rolled right through a stop sign and hit a kid on roller blades.  I am not remorseful; I wasn't moving that fast.  The kid hit me more so than I hit him.  Anyway, I was anticipating witnesses and the kid that I hit to be available for testifying, so I wrote up some cross examination questions and what have you.  I prepared a defense.  But what I didn't anticipate was a surveillance video of me blowing through the stop sign.  That's tough evidence to refute.  So once I finished watching the video, I plead guilty.  No sense in trying to dance; there wasn't any music.  The judge would have found me guilty, regardless.
I did, however, ask for a copy of the video of me hitting the rollerblader for my own "personal records".  So, for your viewing pleasure I present to you:
The time that I hit a rollerblader.

I only get hungry twice a day.  Once at 2 pm and then another at 1 AM.  Tonight, I stayed up way way way late watching The Walking Dead (I hate television.  Honestly, it's all garbage.  But holy smoke, The walking Dead is so so so good.).  I only have three more episodes to go until I'm all caught up.  Anyway, at about 1:30, I was hungry.  So I went and got a number 1 at McDonalds (no pickles, obviously) with a large coke.  I put August and Everything After into my CD player (mp3s are for chumps) and I drove all around.  I ended up somewhere around Salem.  It was a great drive.  I have some things on my mind that I don't dare make public, but it involves the country Greece.  And somebody's birthday.


Anyway, that's my blog for tonight.
I love you.
forgive everyone

and the righteous hurry past.

Music:

I kind of wish i was ambidextrous.  While my parents were moving stuff from their house, it was necessary to take one or two doors off their hinges in order to get desks and furniture out of their home.  On one occasion, we couldn't get the door off because of the weird angle (the hinge was kind of between the door frame and another door frame.  Really awkward.) of the door.  I tried to get a good angle to get the pin out, but I just couldn't.
As I sat there for a solid five minutes, trying to get a good angle, a man from my parents' ward asked if he could try.  He was left handed and you can bet that he had that door off in about 15 seconds flat.  I felt so ashamed. 
Plus, think about how good I would be at baseball if I was a switch hitter,  I wouldn't even need to practice.  They'd be like "you bat left OR right handed? well, I guess you're hired, then."  Baseball isn't even difficult, anyway.

After work tonight, I sat on my sisters creepy street ( It's dark, without any street lights.  It's always really windy in spanish fork at night and  I'm always afraid I'm going to get attacked by wolves.  Not kidding.  No, there aren't any wolves in Utah.) in the grass and stared up at the stars.
Space must be a very lonely place.
We're talking about pure emptiness for millions and millions of miles in every single direction.  We're alone out here.  I focus on individual stars and try talking to them.  I wonder, amidst all of it's violence and malice, if there's anyone out there that's just like me.

Weird thoughts.  yes, I talk to floating orbs of gas millions of miles away.

Also, sometimes I cry when it isn't appropriate.
Exhibit A) For a time, I lived in Orlando Florida.  Those were some of the happiest days of my life.  I was at Disney World one day, watching a really crappy reproduction of beauty and the beast.  Belle came on stage and the Beast wooed her.  As the story reached its' climax and the music swelled, all of the sudden, I started to cry. 
Exhibit B) My sister, Samantha was in a really crappy reproduction of Les Miserables.  Honestly, it wasn't crappy.  It was high school.  Anyway, as she was up there playing her minor role and singing "at the end of the day" or whatever and I just lost it.  It was harsh and angry. 

Okay.  That's enough.
I love you for reading.
I don't seem obvious, do I?

Love and science

Today, I wore socks that are thicker than the socks that I usually wear.

 I love love LOVE Jay-Z:

I don't even want to talk about anything.  I only have one thing on my mind.  It's corny and it's cliche and it's a lot of things that I don't want to be nor do I want my blog to be.
I'm going to talk about love.
Let's be straight: I'm the easy kill.  I fall in love fast.  I go from A to Z and then from 1 to 5 million all within like, two seconds.  I'm a romantic.  All of those stupid cliche sayings are my bread and butter.
But (now bare with me; we're getting into the thick of it) what is love if it's not just a bunch of chemicals swirling around like some sort of electrical storm in your head?
Honestly, here's what love is:  
We all have chemicals in our brains and blood streams, right?  And all of us are unique in the quantity and type of chemicals.  Some of those chemicals make us really happy or really sad;  make us poetic or linear; make us driven or lazy.

Here's an important point:
We are defined by our chemicals.  We don't get to decide our dispositions.

 Moving forward:
Let's say that I have chemicals X,Y,Z, yes?  Let's say that one day, I was walking down the street and I meet a girl with chemicals H,I,J., and there's instant chemistry (pun).  We get along with each other better than she or I have ever gotten along with anyone else ever before.  There's ease in our silence and ease in our conversation.  Our senses of humor compliment each other and we both feel like the other is a great kisser. 

Our chemicals (which we don't have control over) jive with each other. 

But it's almost like we have nothing to do with it.  It's almost like our love was predetermined; all we needed was a meeting place or a reason to say hello.

Do you see what I'm saying? No?  okay.
When we fall in love with each other, it's because the chemicals in brain 'a' excite the chemicals in brain 'b's, causing feelings or thoughts that are not otherwise independently manufactured.

Here's my point: We don't get to choose who we love and there's nothing we can do about it.  Love is nothing more than science.  Two separate compounds coming together to form what we call happiness.

In some ways, love could be considered dementia.

this was a weird post.  I mean, all of my posts are weird, I guess.  But, this post I felt really strongly about.  I don't know.  I am worried this post is incomplete.  Also, I worry that i lost my point.
Did I even make a point?

Great talk guys.
I love you for reading.  Honestly.
may the best of your todays be the worst of your tomorrows.

Could you please, just once, just hear me?

I'm writing this in church. I'm not kidding.
Music: 

I am a writer. I've written kind of a lot. A lot of fiction, anyway. But I never finish my work (nor do I eat the last 10% of my food. Eh? Full circle. Stupid college.). Anyway, ive been reading the works of an author by the name of Raymund Carver. He's a really great short story author. He doesn't say a lot; he says just enough.  And I think maybe he's got it right. Maybe I was never meant to be a writer of novels or epics, maybe I am more of the short story persuasion, yeah?  Just create them, give them life and leave them. 

Today, I felt my first pang of longing for fall.  It came because this guy said the word "enthusiastic" just so and it brought all kinds of desires to dress warm and wear beanies.  Does that ever happen to anyone else?  When someone says a single word, it makes you miss something?  Weird.  I think fall is my favorite season.  I love the colors and the smells; I just really love it. 

I live in my sisters house.  She is the mom of two very cute young men (and I mean way young; like, they're babies).  For my sister, Samantha's birthday, I bought her a fish tank.  However, Samantha didn't take the fish tank from me.  So, I kept the fish tank.  I really grew to love my fish.  I didn't name them because I didn't want to get attached.  I cleaned their tank every week and fed them every day.  A month ago, I had to move from my room upstairs in my sisters house to a room in her basement.  I was stoked because it gave me more isolation.
The basement is a lot more cold, though.  My fish didn't take the temperature change well.  They became lethargic and I could tell that something was wrong.  Then one day, I went to feed my fish and they were all dead.  I think it was the cold.

Seriously, I miss my fish a lot.

I definitely prefer pencils over pens. Well, kind of.  I guess not definitely.  I mean, on the one hand, pens are permanent.  I like my writing to be permanent. But, I think pencils are more romantic, you know? They've got a sort of allure.  Whatever you create can be erased.  It's not a permanent thing.  Even time wears down pencil.  Pencils give a sort of life cycle to writing.  "You had better enjoy this soon because if you don't, it might fade to the point that you can't read it anymore."  Pencils are much more dramatic.  Writing in pencil is more human.  I definitely prefer pencils over pens.

This post has been longer than usual.
I really love you for reading.  I mean that.
Drive fast and take risks.

I still have like, one million questions.

Here's what's I'm listening to:

Will you count me in?
I had an epiphany the other day about my life. Well, I don't know if you could call it an epiphany. Anyway, I was at Barnes and noble, reading my latest fling, and I decided to buy.  I was drinking a coke.  Whilst at the check out stand, I asked the lady if she could throw away my soda.  I still had about 10% left and the lady decided to comment on it. 
"Do you always throw away your last little bit of soda?" She asked.
The question caught me by surprise.  As I thought about it, I realized that I don't eat or drink the last 10% of anything.  I won't eat the crust of my sandwiches (but not all of the crust.  Just the bottom); I won't drink the last bit in the glass; I always leave one or two vegetables on my plate.  And I wonder if that translates into my life. 
As I come to the end of college (one year left, baby) I have this really strong desire to drop out.  I don't want to do it anymore.  I want to get out now and get my life moving, you know?  I haven't even filled out my FAFSA for next year.  And I wonder if that could have been predicted.  I wonder if a psychologist had known that I didn't like to eat my crust, that he or she would have said "be careful when it comes to graduating.  That last ten percent might kill you."

I seriously rode home from bountiful today on my motorcycle today.  Do  you know what it's like to ride a motorcycle for one hour in the pouring rain?  it's miserable, I tell you.  I went up to bountiful to watch fireworks with a very dear friend.  Afterword, we watched the two towers on blu ray and fell asleep.  Much to my chagrin, when I woke up, I found it raining.  And all I had were shorts and a short sleeve shirt.  Ha ha.  I was wearing sandals for heavens sake! (exclamation marks are like laughing at your own joke-- francis scott key).  I couldn't feel my legs or feet; I was sopping wet.
Needless to say, I'll be driving around in my car for the rest of the day; I'm all funned out.

Well kiddos, as is my wont, I am going to keep this short.  I don't want anyone getting bored reading this, you know?  Gotta keep it concise. 

Stick around; enjoy Stevie Wonder.
I love you for reading.
You can't stop me from topping these charts

I think I know too many girls

Here's the song I'm listening to:

There's a  lot of insecurity in starting something new.  I was so so so nervous to start at the Hale, you wouldn't believe it.  What if I was a total amatelur?  What if I couldn't hear it? what if I simply couldn't do it?  All of these doubts scared me to the point that I considered not taking the job.  To a degree, I blame Applebee's.  I got comfortable at Applebee's.,  For five years, I didn't do anything new.  I didn't put myself in a position to fail.  So when the time came to rise, I nearly didn't.  Moral of the story:  Don't get comfortable.  Stay Hungry.  Get comfortable with being out of your comfort zone.  Every day, I am more and more convinced that this is the only way to live.

I hate brushing my teeth.  Honestly, it's a chore that I do twice a day, every single day of my life.  I love showers.  Waking up in the morning and taking a shower is the best.  But it's like... taking a vacation to somewhere far away.  The shower is the vacation.  You get there and it's great. You're relaxing, hanging with your family, maybe and then it's over.  And you find yourself on this 12 hour airplane ride, sunburned, drowsy, cramped and miserable.  The old lady next to you smells like cats and the kid behind you keeps kicking your seat.  That's how I feel about brushing my teeth after I get out of the shower.

Here's a question for you: How is the maximum occupancy of any establishment determined?  I was at Del Taco tonight, doing some reading (let me tell you this: weird people are at del taco late at night) and I saw the maximum occupancy sign.  It was 60. 60 people can be in the dining area of del taco in springville.
I guess my actual question is: Does the guy just walk in, maybe touch a few tables, smell the air and then- through his expertise and wisdom- come to the expert conclusion that 60 is the maximum amount of people?  Or maybe by trial.  Maybe he fills the room with 20 people.  Then 25.  Then 30.  Finally, once he's squished in the corner at 60, is it time to call it quits?

"okay, you're in my hoolahoop and I can see that there's no way for you to get out of my hoolahoop.  Better call this the maximum occupancy."

This is turning into an every night things.  I come home and write my thoughts out.  My hopefully-entertaining-yet-slightly-eccentric thoughts.
I wonder how long it will last.  It can't last.
I love you for reading.
Everyone knows but they won't tell.

I am the entertainer

for realsies, this is what I've got stuck in my head:

and it's more applicable than you might think.

This is honestly what blogging feels like:
I'm standing on a stage in an auditorium- a big auditorium- ranting.  I'm on the stage, alone.  I've got this stupid spotlight on my eyes so that I can't see how many people are out there, but every now and again someone coughs or moves, letting me know that people are present.  And I just keep on talking as my words keep echoing on into oblivion.

I think the next time I'm feeling saucy in walmart, I'm going to accuse the person in front of me in line of cutting.  I'm going to tell them that they know I was there before them and maybe next time they should be more considerate.  If they try to be kind and trade me spots, I'm going to be passive aggressive about it.  I'll refuse the spot in the line and then mutter barely audible phrases like  "what a complete jerk" or "I wish some people would just drop dead".  Maybe, I'll even throw a few bags of chips or knock over a display of chap stick.  Once I get to the cash register, I'll say something like "can you believe that guy? sorry you had to put up with him."

Tonight, after work, I went and hung out with my sister, Samantha.  She's like, one of my very best friends.  I tell her everything.  She gets to hear all of my over-analytical hypotheses and all about my constant social faux pas. (how do you make 'faux pas' plural?).  Tonight, even though she was very tired, she allowed me to come over and complain about the constant punch line that is my everyday life.  She gave me insight, told me where I was wrong, but more than anything, she just listened to me.  And I don't think I'll ever be able to thank her enough for just listening to me.

I'm looking out the window while I type, again.

When the Hale pays me money, I consider throwing the check away.  It feels dirty to me.  This theatre pays me to do something that I love.   That doesn't seem right, does it?  At Applebee's, I get paid to do things that I hate.  It's hard to accept that money does not necessarily come from exclusively doing things that are miserable.  After so many years doing something that doesn't make me happy, it's hard to adjust to the idea that money can come from doing something that you actually enjoy.

 At age 28, I'm doing something that I could do for the rest of my life, and I am being PAID to do it.  Many a man have lived their lives in search of the very thing that I have stumbled upon. 

Is this blog too scattered to be enjoyed?  I try to keep in concise so that people don't get bored.
I love you for reading.
I hope my life works out perfectly.

melodrama

I've got this song stuck in my head:

I don't think I'm going to make my blog pretty, at all.  I like the black background with the white wording.  I want it to just be plain.   I kind of wish I could write in handwriting and post THAT onto the interwebs.

I love, love, love my job at the Hale.  Like, if there is such thing as a calling in life, I think that I found it.  I think that I'm good at it.  I've been doing it for only a month or two, but when I sit down at that mixing board, I still get nervous.  I'm still exhilarated by the whole thing.  I know that I can't be at the Hale for forever, but I think when it comes to my career, I would like to be doing something of that nature.  Strange how life works out.

Last night, after I got done at the hale, I went immediately to my parents house and helped pack up the last of our belongings.  It's such a strange thing, losing your home.  The kind of sadness is almost surprising.  It's like jumping into a pool that you know is going to be cold, I guess.  You hold your breath and hope that it's not as cold as you think it will be.

This time, it was colder than anticipated.

I don't think it was losing the home, as much as it was seeing the sadness on loved ones' faces.  I mean, I was prepared for the loss of the home.  To be honest, I was kind of indifferent.  But the way it has sort of strangled my family into this sad, disdainful company breaks my heart.  I think that is what hurts the most.


I feel like I'm being melodramatic. Or whiny, maybe.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to go to Wyoming to buy fireworks.  Stoked about that.  We've got a band of dudes that are heading up there.  I love the fourth of July.  It's probably my favorite holiday.  I love the barbecues and the pyrotechnics; I love all of it.

I'm kind of bugged that Utah has been on fire for the last two weeks.  I'm bugged at the people that caused the fire.  STOP LIGHTING STUFF ON FIRE, YOU IDIOTS (as I go and by illegal fireworks...).  Seriously, just be intelligent?  Don't go into a field of dead plants and light fire.  Very simple.

Ok.  I'm taking a sunday nap now.
I love you for reading.
Maybe I suck at this.
These are the thoughts that swirl around my head.