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.