on writing

Over the past month I've been working on what I hope to be my last zombie novel. I have this weird OCD thing where I like to write things in three (why'd you think I made "Dwellers of the Night" a trilogy?). This project will be my third and, I hope, last zombie novel. I don't know why I'm so into writing about zombies, especially since I'm not into other zombie books, or graphic novels, or movies, or really anything at all. It's quite surprising. Perhaps there's a sort of romantic element involved, because I wrote my first successful zombie novel in high school; maybe there's a touch of charm and antiquity thrown in there. 

This story's more an experiment than everything. I'm toying with a different writing style, and though I'm tempted to abandon it, I'm going to stick with it just to see what happens. Describing this writing style is difficult. You see, the highest level of English and Literature I ever reached was a sophomore college class. I don't know all the technical names, the formats and structures, all that stuff. I just like to write stories, and I'm damned good at it. My writing style has been an eclectic mix largely dominated by the varying influences of Michael Crichton, H.P. Lovecraft, and (more recently) Ernest Hemingway and Cormac McCarthy (though I could just say Hemingway, since what I love about McCarthy is how he took Hemingway's style and reworked it a bit; and the echoes of the Faulknerian tradition in McCarthy take me down happy trails, as well). This writing style could be something glimpsed, perhaps, in Chuck Palahniuk (I'm reading his "Lullaby" right now) or Bret Easton Ellis ("American Psycho," the novel and not the Christian Bale adaptation). 

The story begins in Hilton Head, South Carolina (the beginning part was written in Hilton Head, so why not?), then blossoms in Cincinnati, and then takes a drive up 71 to the Old House in Wilmington, and then cruises right back down to the Ohio River. That's a geographical mapping of the story-line, which follows the Main Character through the first several days of a zombie epidemic (not a pandemic, as I've done in the best), and the story is retold from the main character's perspective as he awaits his final resolution. There's a lot more going on there (sub-plots, turning points, rising and falling action, see what I did there?), but that's the gist of it. My hope is that it's not over 350 pages. I want to keep it small. But my attempts at novellas over against novels always fail, so I'll just accept that it won't be 300 or fewer.

of o.j. and vampires

It's a low key evening with some Magic Hat 9 (a surprisingly delicious beer) and Mandy telling me that it's bullshit that I'm updating my blog only once a week. Umm, okay. That's not what I said. And to prove that her worries are ill-placed, I'm updating with a promised story.

Yes, that's right. A story.

Fun and awkward and real-life.

Sarah B. (she's actually Sarah C. now, but we all still call her Sarah B.) is apparently fed up with my bullshit. Having observed some vegetables on the table, I inquired as to their purpose, and Sarah told me that I should just up and move out because she's tired of all my bullshit, and she doesn't know if she can handle it anymore. Writing it down, it sounds pretty awful. In reality it was hilarious. That's just how she is. 

So the story. I think this happened Saturday. Let me check... Yep, Saturday. I'm back at my parents' house hanging with Sky, feeling kinda sick and drugged up and craving orange juice. Periodically I'll be overcome with an insane craving for orange juice. It's about 11:00 at night and instead of going to bed I go to the Speedway on Austin and Yankee. The petite, blonde, vampire-toned girl was there. Think I'm pale? I'm like an African spider-monkey compared to this chick. And she's super cute, too. I was feeling kinda loopy, what with Nyquil surging through my system, and I made some chitchat with her because I've moved away and I didn't care about making a fool out of myself, and it turned out that we were flirting. She was flirting pretty hardcore, especially this time. It's happened before, but it was just the two of us in the store, and we're talking, and I'm realizing that she's into me, and that I'm kinda into her, and she asked me my name. Apparently that was too much for this little koala brain pigeonholed into eucalyptus daydreaming, and my mind just shut down with alarms blaring, and I said, "Have a good day," (despite it being around 11:30 at this point). I half-walked, half-tripped out the store, hastily and nervously unscrewing the cap to my orange juice so that it sploshed out onto the linoleum as I reached the door.

Smooth, Killer.

Next time I'll just apologize for being a fuck-show.

Leave it at that, see what happens. 

I'm awkward, sure. But I can be charming. As a matter of fact, the majority of my exes always loved how charming and playful I would be, without it being obnoxiously nauseating. But when it's with someone I don't know--such as a super cute girl--it never flows right. Except for every once in a while, with girls I'm for some reason comfortable around after seeing them only a handful of times (how strange that is), this seems to be a rule in my life. Damn my INFP personality type.

t of the store, hastily and nervously unscrewing the cap to my orange juice so that it sploshed out onto the linoleum as I reached the door. Smooth, killer.

the past week

I've been getting into the habit of only posting my "daily activities" (unless they be noteworthy) once a week, a re:cap of the past week. This leaves room throughout the week for special, deep, more thoughtful posts (which, as you can see by looking through the archives, are few and far between; nonetheless, my intentions here are good). So here's the past week re:cap:

Monday. I opened the store with Cat and Jon, and on my break I poured myself some iced coffee and sat out along the tripel fountain. Amanda and Blake came in to eat lunch with me after I got off. I went home and took Sky for a walk 'round C.C.U. Amanda and I ran to Clifton later in the evening to see a mutual friend, and I spent the evening hanging out with Ams and Amos. Nick came by and made an amazing dinner, and afterwards I took one of my spontaneous but predictably-relieving late-night drives, this time through Mount Adams with the heat lightning pooling the mirrors.

Tuesday. A crazy and hectic day coupled with insane heat made work miserable, and I was glad to get home. I met up with an old friend Monica from my C.C.U. days, and we grabbed Skyline for dinner and hung out at the house for a while. We laughed a lot about when I asked her out on a date, she said yes, and then changed her mind. I was pretty traumatized by the ordeal, and the silver lining (if there needs to be one) is that Monica and I remain good friends. This trend--girls agreeing to dates, then changing their minds--tends to be a recurring theme in my life. And hopefully the retainment of friendship (did I just invent a word? check "yes") is a model to be followed as well. She left and I spent the evening writing, playing with Sky (who's in town for ten days; well, nine), and driving past Ludlow on 50 East in the search for a certain type of chocolate milk. 

Wednesday. The most uneventful day of the week, by far. I spent the first half of the evening just watching TV by myself--been getting into King of the Hill lately--and then doing the same thing with Amanda when she got home. Exciting, I know.

Thursday. Carly and Jessica came down to visit me. They got here around 4:00, and we went to the Tazza Mia at Carew Tower to see Amos and Hartman, as well as to get some drinks. We went to some forbidden outlook at Bellevue Park in Clifton, and then we grabbed dinner at The Anchor. Jess' first time. She loved it. As she should. The rest of the evening was spent hanging out in the basement, and Jessica did lots of work on an art model for a kick-ass sculpture she's building for a Dayton-area hospital. They headed back home and I hung out with Amos and Ryan, smoking cigarettes and *attempting to* play Smash Brothers Brawl.

Friday. I'm really liking the people I work with, and my comfortableness around them is growing. It's difficult for me to become comfortable with people (except for certain people, and I never know why that's the case), but here (like at Starbucks) I'm quickly becoming comfortable with them. I spent the afternoon cleaning, and then I met Rob at work for our second training station, where I finally nailed my first heart (post below). We gathered back at the house and tried some of the homebrew peanut butter porter (it still has a little while to age), and we spent the rest of the evening just hanging out. Both Gambill and T.J. came by.

Saturday. Spent the evening back at the parents' house. They're away for a vacation/marathon thing for the next couple days. Basically, my dad's doing the Iron Man, he's a bad-ass, there's that in a nutshell. The blasted heat made me nauseous, and so I spent most of the day feeling quite moist and unhappy. I felt a wee bit better late at night, and I made a run to Speedway for an orange juice (more on that anon). 

Sunday. Tyler came over early in the morning, and we spent the day just watching TV. Dinner from Jimmy John's. I felt sick again, so I slept through half of this planned event. He left around 5:00, and I did some cleaning around the house and then Sky and I returned to Cincinnati. Lots of people were at the house: amidst the usual six housemates, there was also Andy, Josh, Nick, and Mandy's little sister and her friend (who pointed to me and said, "He looks like he's eleven. Is he albino?" Ha. Love it.

So. That was my week.

Nothing really exciting.

But I do look like I'm eleven. And sometimes I look albino.

You can't fault the girl for saying that; she was being honest.

And besides, I've heard worse.

But we koalas, we're finicky creatures.

We'll fucking tear you limb-from-limb.

Just graze your finger over a single leaf of our eucalyptus,

and we'll be on you like sharks in a feeding frenzy over blood,

because sharks, they get all turned on by that shit

like emo girls reading poems.

End Scene.

first latte art

Baller shot collar.
Making it rain. Koala-style.

*random* weigh-in

The "Classic" Picture: shirtless, eating
yogurt, and wearing my pajama pants
(yes those are pajamas, not jeans) and
my boxers hiked up along my hips.

It should be known by now that anytime I jump back up the “monthly weigh-ins” I fail to keep it up. This is mostly due to me just not caring, as well as the fact that… Well, no, that’s it. But here I am yet again, because a milestone’s been reached: 132 pounds, my lowest weigh-in yet (even in high school), but yet not underweight (which is where I don’t want to be). I’m confident that me dropping a good five pounds in a month is due to (a) vacation, where we ate healthy meals except for a few nights dining out, and (b) the fact that my diet has as of late been extremely healthy, mainly fruits, grilled chicken, and vegetables. I honestly haven’t been working out as much (though I’m recently back into the swing of things) so weight loss can’t be due to that. Nevertheless, this was a pleasant surprise. I’ve finally reached my high school weight. It feels weird, and I don’t know if I should be at this weight, but to hell with it, I’ll gloat.

October 2009 to July 2011. How long is that? Quick math (heh) in my head, and in about a year and nine months, I’ve dropped eighty pounds, returning to my goal of weighing as much as I did in high school. Really, it was just something I was doing to try and woo over a foolish girl I was head-over-heels for (what a hilarious and sad story right there), but by the time I didn’t care to even be around her, I’d found that I simply enjoyed the new lifestyle of eating healthy, exercising, and having to buy new clothes (to intensify my earth-tone look, yo). So I just kept going, not really with the overarching intention of losing weight, but just because I liked being healthy. And here we are, at the goal I so earnestly set and then so casually pursued, at my original high school weight.

I’m continuing my healthy lifestyle, which is made simple by the fact that all my meals are generally healthy (as well as free). I usually don’t eat at work, so I take my free meal home with me. Delicious salads with dozens upon dozens of toppings and seven types of meat, and a host of salad dressings (many of them healthy) to choose from. I get enough for half a salad and a whole wrap. It’s filling, freaking amazing, and it’s healthy. Tonight’s salad/wrap consists of—trying to remember, ha—corn, peas, black beans, crunchy Chinese noodles, feta and blue cheese, and an Aegean dressing. And I’ll most likely be watching “Arrested Development” during the escapade.

the second week (?)

Although this is my second week working full-time in Cincinnati, it’s actually been my fourth week since moving all my shit down here. Thus the (?) at the tail-end of this post’s title. Things have continued being great, and here’s the rundown of my day-to-day life last week here in Cincinnati.

Monday. Probably the hottest day of the year yet. After work I picked up Mandy from Fusion Sushi, and although it was only a five-minute drive, we were drenched in sweat by the time we got back to the house. That was only the beginning: we rented a U-Haul in Delhi and spent the afternoon moving the rest of Amanda’s stuff from her apartment into the Claypole House. We were done by 6:00, a good three hour ordeal in the blazing heat. Mandy almost passed out and I had a splitting headache from not drinking enough water. Spent the evening in the cold basement hanging out with Amos.

Tuesday. After work I hung out with Mandy and her friend Kelly at the house. Kelly’s pretty cute, and I told Mandy as much, and she said, “She wouldn’t be into you like that. She thought you were eighteen.” I had a good laugh at that one, I think. Picked up Brittany from the college where she teaches, and then Amos, Rob and I had a work meeting after the shop closed at 6:00. Afterwards we went to Rohs Street in Clifton to hear a band play, and then Amos and I went back early because we were so damned tired.

Wednesday. Mandy and I went for a walk around C.C.U., our old college. It was vacated, obviously (because of summer), and it was weird walking that “hallowed ground” many years later, reminiscing on all that took place there. And the chapel—the birthplace of countless legends. We went to Clifton to see Sarah & Chris, and Begley was there. We sat out in the alley at a foldout table with foldout chairs and smoked cigarettes and drank beer late into the night.

Thursday. I went to Mount Echo after work for a bit, and then I hung out with Amanda back at the house. Jessie came into town for her wedding Saturday, along with her best friend Rae. Jessie, Rae and I went to the Bloc Coffee Shop and they went out for their bachelorette party and I went to bed.

Friday. Work went so well that I even had time to go walk around Fountain Square once the lunch rush ended. Rob and I had my first official barista training session. Learned how to operate the synesso machine, pulled shots and made excellent steamed milk, better than I ever have, and I topped the night off with my first attempt at latte art, which came off looking more like a dick and balls than anything else. “You’re off to a great start,” Rob said. Later on in the evening I went for a drive through Mount Adams and Eden Park like I would do back in my C.C.U. days. T.J. stopped by for a while, and we sat on the front porch long past the fall of night, smoking cigarettes and chatting about life.

Saturday. Breakfast at The Anchor: toast and coffee. A trip to Mount Echo, and then a trip down to the Starbucks in Mariemont for a pumpkin scone and an iced soy caramel macchiato. Blake, Ams and I hit up Rock Bottom Brewery for dinner. I had an amazing vegetable pizza (pic below), but I spent most of Sunday trying to expunge it from bodily memory. At 6:30 we had the Heckenmueller wedding (see previous post), and after the reception a bunch of us hung out at the house.

Sunday. Went to Dayton for a few hours. Saw Mom before she and Dad ran off to New York to visit Niagara Falls and to participate in the 2011 Iron Man. I went to Spring Valley to see Carly for a bit. So good to see her; the aim is to hang out later this week, on Thursday. Maybe hit up The Anchor or something classy like that. Tyler came over in the evening and we had Subway for dinner. When I got back to Cincinnati we made a fire in the backyard and a handful of people came over. I went out there this morning and found the remnants: tons of beer and liquor and wine bottles shattered and molded together in the fire-pit like some grotesque and inexperienced postmodern art.

A new week’s beginning, and it should be good.

Tomorrow: I get to see Monica, the first time in over a year.

Thursday: I get to see Carly, and spend a decent amount of time with her.

And, of course, there are all the everyday antics of the Claypole House.

Life. Is. Good.

wedding day

Tony and Jessie got married today. The wedding was at 6:30 and was quite short. I read from Colossians during the ceremony, the exact same passage I read at Jesse and Mandy's wedding a year ago. It's joyful yet strange to see people getting married. Both my cousins were married last year, along with Nate and a handful of others; and this year, Kyle and Jessie both got married to their respective spouses. These are just the weddings I've gone to; there are countless more taking place with acquaintances and old friends with whom I've fallen out of touch. Years ago weddings depressed me, only because I was a self-centered emo kid with a pie-in-the-sky view of marriage, but now there's great joy--or, depending on the bride and groom, apathy--when it comes to weddings. It's not about "Oh, I wish this were me!" and getting all mentally flaggelated because you're still single; really, I can't believe my old mindset, nowadays marriage is one of the furthest things from my mind (without being removed completely). Now there's great joy at seeing two people connect on a deep level and then decide to spend their lives together. The decision to spend the rest of your life yoked to, in commitment and faithfulness and perseverance, another person, is a beautiful (albeit terrifying) decision. When it works, it's the most beautiful thing in the world; and when it doesn't--almost always due to the failure of one or both parties to actually live out their wedding vows--it's about as scary as going into an ocean with a slit artery because sharks get wet over that shit like an emo girl reading a poem, and who wants that?

city morning

Do I enjoy the drive to work downtown every morning? Yes I do.

pride day '11

The Gay Pride parade was this past weekend. I honestly didn't know about it until I was downtown with Gambill to grab some beers at Rock Bottom. After drinking our beers--I had the Summer Blonde, a delicious brew--we walked around the Square and listened to the bands playing. Men dressed up as women, women dressed up as men. Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" as every other song. The best people watching ever. Talking to some of the people there, including a guy who thought Gambill and I were the cutest couple, it was good to see people being honest with themselves and not cowering in shame or self-loathing. 

Growing up I had these caricature images of gay people ingrained into my mind; I grew up evangelical, but not in the fundamental sense, and no one really talked about homosexuality, except for all those doom-&-gloom type people whom no one in my circles cared about anyways. Nevertheless, I somehow perceived them to be different from me (a straight person). Flash forward to high school, and I start getting to know some people who are gay; and then a good friend of mine comes out and tells me he's bisexual. This came as a surprise because, well, these people weren't any different than me. I honestly find it so ridiculous that straight people, especially straight Christians, will define a gay person by his (or her) sexual orientation, while defining themselves not by virtue of their orientation but by other socioeconomic and existential titles. The whole idea of boiling someone's identity and worth down to sexual orientation smacks of prejudice and stupidity. And this secular idea that gay people just run around and have sex with whoever they can like wild animals in heat? Okay, most don't do that, and besides, when it comes to promiscuity, heterosexuals run the board. Just go to any bar downtown and see a fully straight girl spreading her legs to every conceivable cock. Apparently this is okay because she's straight, but if you're doing this and gay, it's somehow 10x worse? I just don't get it.

Somewhere just legalized gay marriage. New York, maybe? I really don't know because I really don't care. I have no opinion on the matter, I really don't. If I had to choose, I'd say let them get married, because this is America and it's not a Christian nation but a democratic one, and if the people vote to legalize gay marriage, then do it. Please don't interpret this post as evidence that I actually care about whether or not people are gay, nor attempt to discuss it with me further. When it comes to the people I love, care about, and cherish, the last thing I'm taking into consideration is the person's sexual orientation. Besides, who'd choose being friends with a rigid fundamentalist spouting condemnation like a poodle in heat over against being friends with a normal person who actually loves other people? I support gay rights because I support peoples' rights, but I'm not going to define a person by their orientation. kthanxbai

the first week

The first week back in the swing of things has been good. Here’s a re:cap for those interested in my day-to-day life this past week.

Independence Day. I had the day off work so I went down Route 50 to the Starbucks in Mariemont for an iced soy caramel macchiato and a pumpkin scone (perfect pairing). I did a bit of writing, and Brandy came over for a bit but didn’t stay long. I hung out with Amanda for a bit when she got off work, and then I went into the badlands of northern Kentucky to meet up with a friend. Saw fireworks along the entire drive, it was pretty great.

Tuesday. On my first day back at work I sliced my thumb clean open and had to get five stitches. Two posts below you’ll see this event in immaculate detail. Amanda, Blake and I hung out in the basement for a while, and Brandy came over after work. So much laughter and ridiculous stories. “What’s your favorite type of fish? I mean ocean fish. Saltwater. Not brackish or fresh… Marlins?”

Wednesday. Work was crazy, so it was nice to just kick back and relax with Blake and Brandy back at the house. Later on in the evening, a bunch of us—me, Amos, Blake, Mandy, Brandy, John and Missy—went to The Southgate House across the river. The birthplace of the Tommygun, apparently. We watched a band and smoked cigarettes and drank beer and I took this smooth and sexy photograph of me and Blake through the mirror. Classic.

Thursday. The health inspector came into work so things were pretty hectic. I spent the afternoon and evening listening to music and writing. When Rob and Mandy got home from wherever they were, we hung out and I attempted to make a peanut butter and banana smoothie, but it fell through in the most awful manner.

Friday. After work I took a nap and hung out with Rob for a while. At 11:00 we went to Neon’s in Over the Rhine to celebrate Cat’s 23rd birthday. She works with us and is pretty cool. She showed up late, so Rob and I just people-watched as we drank through our beers. People-watching is always fun at bars. Let’s see, what did I notice? How about an old Chinese man running up to strangers and giving them hugs, or two dogs let loose inside and nipping at peoples’ heels, or watching a guy try to tear off a girl’s shirt only to have her screams dissipate into giggles. And then I watched this couple practically dry-humping against the bar suddenly stop when another girl walked in, and then the guy turned all his attentions on the girl but you could tell he was really into the other one. I don’t drink often so two beers put me over my legal limit. Buzzed, not drunk. Just feeling pretty good.

Saturday. (i.e. today) I ran to Dayton for a bit to grab some things, and I spent the afternoon hanging out with Rob and Amos. We’ve got the entire basement clean (thanks solely to Rob being sexy with his shirt off and sweating like a raccoon in Florida as he went all machine down there), and we’ve played some Wii and we’re about to watch a movie—“The Mask of Zorro”—while smoking hookah. In the basement. Because the basement’s cool now, and not just because Amos is living down there.

Yep, Amos moved to the basement, because Amanda wants out of her apartment and all the drama there. It’s just the usual: Sarah being Sarah. Amanda’s going to move half her stuff in here tomorrow, and Monday we’re renting a truck to get all her furniture. I’ll be honest: the thought of driving a giant truck through the hill-country of the ghetto doesn’t sit well with me. I hope & pray I’ll manage all right.

the new job

The new job's going great. Tazza Mia, with three locations in the downtown area. 600 Vine (where I'm at), a store at the Carew Tower, and then a kiosk in the Chiquita Building. My sole job right now is food prep, and I'm starting barista training next week with Rob. Then I'll be doing both food prep and working behind the counter spinning my tricks and making my tips. 

My day generally begins around 6:30 when I wake up. I'm out the door by 7:00, and I park in the ghetto-fabulous Race Street parking garage. $6.00 a day (pretty cheap for the area) and despite being dimly lit and filled with all sorts of monsters, it's damn close to Fountain Square. I make the seven-minute walk through downtown, passing through Fountain Square and then crossing the street to my workplace, where I still have ten minutes to kill before my shift. I have myself some coffee and a cigarette, and then I'm on the floor till anywhere between 3-4:00 (depending on how busy we are). The day's spent tossing salads, doing dishes, making food, having my own party in the small back kitchen. I like the people I work with, and I'm being integrated into the flow of the cafe, so I'm not just "the new guy" but am becoming a valuable member of the team. Rob works there with me, roasting in the corner; Amos works down the street; and my friends Chris and Andy may be getting hired on. The job's great, streamlined, challenging but not overwhelming, and I'm really looking forward to the barista part. 

I do miss my friends from Spring Valley, and I miss the chaos of the morning rush. The thrill, the exhilaration, of being on the bar, cranking out drinks like a moth on meth. I miss working with Carly and Jessica. And I'm excited about being with Tazza Mia, enjoying the job and the co-workers, and I know this won't be something I regret. I can't see how it would be (unless I lose an entire finger or hand next time).

puddlin', puddlin'

The transition from Starbucks to Tazza Mia has been bloody, to say the least.

On my first day back I all but sliced the top of my thumb off—the upper part of my thumb was hanging there like a loose flap, barely attached—and had to rush to the E.R. to get five stitches.

Okay, it goes like this. I’m in the back just doing my own thing, slicing cucumbers like a boss, perfect and straight cuts, really something beautiful. But, you know, I’m alone, and cucumbers, to be honest, have always had this sort of “draw” for me. I don’t know how to explain it; not so much a fetish, more like an off-the-wall fascination. They bring about a heightened sense of awareness to most things. So I’m standing there slicing the cucumber, faster and faster, tunnel vision setting in, and all I know is my hand and the knife and the cucumber flailing about under my power. I’m in the zone and then all I know is pain. My heart freezes. I draw the blade up. It’s speckled with blood. And then my hand: blood’s already trickled down my finger and is pooling like a growing amulet in the palm of my hand. The blood seeps from under the flap’s hood, and it’s coming out like these tiny air bubbles that burst and then bleed blood (which is to reiterate the nature of bleeding itself). The cut’s deep, but it missed the nail and the bone. I say a foul word under my breath—not sure which, to be exact; there’s so many in my daily repertoire—and then John comes in and I look to him and point to my thumb, telling him that I cut myself and he says we need to throw away the cucumbers because there’s blood all over them, and there’s even blood puddlin’ up on the counter’s edge and dripping like an amorphous waterfall to the ground where it puddles again at my feet.

Puddlin’, puddlin’, that’s what the blood’s doin’.

From my thumb to my hand to my arm to the cucumbers to the counter to the floor. It’s kind of like “Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes.” Or like a slinky or that old childhood game where you’d create odd assortments in the style of Inspector Gadget and if you were cool like me you’d play the theme song while watching the marble go contraption-to-contraption, dancing around pulleys and levers and bridges and swings, and we build it all around the concept of gravity which some scientists now are themselves beginning to question (but it was pretty damned reliable with the marble game).

We quickly search for gauze or even a band-aid, but the entire store’s bankrupt. Cat comes back and sees me standing there with razor-sharp eyes focused like an eagle in heat on the razor-sharp wound that’s gurgling like an artesian fountain. She staggers for a moment and then rushes across the street in a mad dash for C.V.S. When she gets back we’ve got my thumb wrapped in paper napkins with a glove overtop and the glove’s thumb area is incandescent with blood, that kool-aid color that makes you crave sugar when you’re nothing but plain-old thirsty. About fifteen minutes go by and I remove the blood ever-so-carefully above the trash can and survey the wound. John’s leaning over my shoulder and two other people are crouched by the door, half inside the room but anxiously remaining there, perhaps fearing that this moment would become catastrophic for their well-being. The upper flap’s still just flapping around like flaps do and the bubbles are coming forth without restraint. So I leave everyone and have to go to the E.R. to get stitches. I get the five stitches, come back, and with my thumb throbbing in pain (once the Novocain wore off), I worked an extra hour and a half to get the store back in working order. No one expected me back, so that made a good impression.

In all seriousness, I really enjoy my job and the people I work with. My knife skills are definitely improving (at a rate quicker than you’d expect for someone with pudgy clawed koala paws), though I’ve got a few nicks along the way. And while I may have almost bled out, the wound is healing nicely, and I’m even able to type. And in all seriousness (again), irony continues to overshadow and serve as the underscore to my life: not ten seconds before slicing open my thumb, John reminded me that if I wanted I could use the steel-mesh glove (it makes me feel like a knight, and that may honestly be one of my primary reasons for now wearing it, even post-stitches). I told him, “I’ve got this down, Man,” and then immediately after I was making it rain (here referencing the spurts of blood as opposed to glitter).

the dayton days [the last week]

Ams at the beach in Hilton Head

Technically, this would be the first (or second?) week of my time in Cincinnati. But I figure a vacation's a good a way as any to end my time in Dayton. So fuck chronology.

Monday. I went to the closest Starbucks here in Hilton Head when I woke up. I sat on the condo patio and did some writing. I biked to the beach, and Ams & I rode the white-capped waves. I did some more writing: 36 pages. I'm a machine lately. Dad made spaghetti for dinner, and Ams and I went biking along the beach at sunset. It was windy and hard getting back. We biked around the resort for a while. Mansions beside the golf course. Night fell and a storm rolled through and when it passed all of us went for a swim at the pool. Mom bought tequila and we took some shots.

Mom's Birthday. We spent the day in Savannah, Georgia. Mom's birthday treat. We rode a trolley around town, heard ghost stories, ate lunch at an old pirate's tavern, visited open-air markets and had dinner and did some shopping down on River Street. Mom had a great day, and I had a lot of fun, too. If I ever strike it big, maybe Savannah's a home to consider? I haven't heard from Jess at all, and I haven't been bugging her. It pisses me off: months of investment and she just turns away. Backstabbed and betrayed. And you wonder why I have trust issues? I'm terrified of investing myself in people. What's happening with Jess is no shot out of the dark, it's a recurring theme. Perhaps it'd be best if she ignored me, and I ignored her, and we went our separate ways. She does her thing, I'll do mine. Then her name will no longer be written in these pages, and I'll have more opportunities to explore and embrace. So FUCK IT. I'm not going to write about her anymore. I've got a new job, a new home, am immersed in friends. I don't have time to be held back by her childish antics. She doesn't deserve to be mentioned.

Wednesday. I dreamt Mandy K. and I were dating and woke up hopeful. Not for Mandy K., just knowing that "life after Jess" will itself open up new vistas to be explored. I ran to Starbucks for a drink and spent the morning on the balcony writing and watching "Lie to Me" on my Netbook. A monsoon rolled through around dinnertime, and we went out to eat: steaks! 

Thursday. I slept eleven hours. Isn't NyQuil wonderful? I went by Starbucks for a drink and to write. Mom, Dad, Ams and I went on a bike ride across the island, stopping at a few shopping centers along the way. Warm and sunny, quite the opposite of yesterday. We had Fuddruckers for dinner. Ams kept talking about Sarah during dinner. I can't believe how badly I was into her. Makes this whole Jess thing feel like child's play. As despairing as I was over Sarah, I can't care less anymore. She does her own thing and I shrug my shoulders without a second thought. My feelings towards her? Apathy tinged with disgust. Point being, I'll be over Jess. A time will come when I won't think about her and I won't care. I'll hear about her exploits and just shrug my shoulders. Here are the steps: 

(1) Move on.

(2) Laugh.

(3) Repeat #2.

Friday. We ate lunch at the condo and then hit up a few shops at the far end of the island, and we went to the lighthouse and ate dinner at South Beach. We loaded up the car and decided to leave Hilton Head at midnight rather than sticking around until 3 AM. Today Carly called me and we talked for a while. Carly's right: I deserve more, Jess deserves less. I'm a (somewhat) mature guy who's honest, funny, faithful, loving, and caring. Not effiminate by any means, but a good masculine guy. Jess is flippant, flingy, just wants to have fun without any commitment or strings attached. She wants to use and be used. It's a good thing, perhaps, that nothing ever transpired between us. I'd probably just end up miserable and disenchanted. 

Saturday. I didn't sleep much during the drive: only three hours. We got back around noon, after dropping Ams off at the Claypole House. I packed the rest of my things, picked up my check and smoked with Jess at work, and then headed down to Cincinnati. I picked up some things from Wal-Mart and pieced my room together. Blake, Ams and I broke it in and spent the evening reading through my old journals. "We're pretty much the same person," Blake said. Amos and I smoked when he got home from work. Jessie and Tony are in town for marriage counseling. So good to see them. Andy Waugh came over, and we all hung out on the front porch and listened to fireworks and smoked pipes. Jessica called me three times today, before and after a Reds Game. We talked for about two hours. It was weird, and it's making me rethink things. 

Sunday. I spent the day lounging around, the activities lost in a fog. Tyler came down, and we smoked too much and ate WAY too much. McDonald's and ice cream. My stomach couldn't handle it, I got super sick, puked and shat all night. Regardless, the evening was good: hanging with Blake, Amos, and Ams. "You're in Cincinnati now," Ams told me. "Have fun and make mistakes!" I'm sure I will.

an ending

Before making my decision to move down here to Cincinnati, my Mom asked me, “Are you sure you’re not just doing this because of [insert girl’s name here*]?” And the honest answer was: “Yes.” I never let her factor into my decision, because I knew my decision needed to be greater than that. Was I aware of how moving to Cincinnati might affect things? Sure. But I wasn’t letting that awareness dictate my decision. She pretty much decided (I assume) that she wasn’t interested, and I’m cool with that. N.B.D. And so letting my feelings for someone I’d never be with factor into a life-changing decision, well, that’s just downright stupidity.

And to be honest, I probably shot my chances to hell when I told her that investment in a relationship was my primary concern. Because I’m an idiot, I failed to realize that most people will take “investment” to mean “dating for marriage,” or at least thinking going into it, I could marry this person, and then dating them; or thinking that the whole point of dating is to find someone to marry. Much of what I said probably came off in this light, but to be honest, marriage scares the shit out of me. I mean, you really really think about it, and it’s a scary thought. I’m not saying it scares me so much that I don’t want it to happen; God knows I want to one day be married and maybe have kids (jury’s still out on that one; I can swing either way at this point). It’s just that marriage with commitment, fidelity, friendliness and love is a wonderful, if not the most wonderful thing, on this earth; but marriage without those things, or when only one person embraces those things, can be a devastating, traumatizing, and downright nauseating ordeal. There’s so much potential for both good and bad that to be flippant about it—as many people are, often resulting in the nightmares of adultery, divorce, or worse yet a life chained to someone you can’t stand—is probably the most foolish thing we can do. I take marriage seriously, and it’ll take a great deal of love for me to say, “Yes, I want to marry you.” But, then, I’ve experienced that love before, so I know it’s real; but that’s not the end of the story. Point is, just dating someone to see if you can marry them isn’t something I’m into. I don’t expect to marry every girl I date, nor do I go into it thinking, “This is a trial run for when we start having babies.” That’s just too much.

So what do I mean regarding investment? I mean finding someone with whom you have great chemistry and then becoming a part of their life. Finding someone you can grow with, have fun with, experience life with, someone you can encourage and support and comfort and tease and be playful with and be there for. I’m not talking about a “fling” (although those have their high points) but a “thing.” And, yes, “things” are more difficult and filled with many more risks; but when investment takes place, two people can connect on such a deep level that for while they’re together, they see and taste life differently, they discover themselves a little bit more. And it may not end in marriage, and that’s totally cool. It’s not all about finding someone to have your kids, its success isn’t measured by whether or not it ends with a ring. Life comes in seasons, and sometimes these seasons include investing deeply in someone and discovering new vistas, and when that season’s over, hopefully we’re better off for it and we’ve got great stories to tell. Relationships with investment, whether they end in marriage or not, are beautiful and wonderful things, and I know this because I’ve had it. And I know it’s something to fight for.

Nevertheless, my failure to be clear may have jeopardized my chances from the get-go. I know I could always call and try to clarify that, but I never do. Not because I’m scared, or nervous, or shy about the subject, but because, really, it’s N.B.D. “No Big Deal.” It’s really no big deal, and turning it into that is just catastrophizing a simple situation. It’s not the end of the world, she’s not the only great girl in town, and the fact that nothing ever happened doesn’t reflect in any way on me or her. Sometimes things happen, sometimes they don’t. We’ve all been here before, it’s not uncharted territory, and most of us know just to shrug our shoulders, laugh about the story, and go on.

And history will tell you that despite many things I hope for not coming about, the truth is that I don’t go long between girlfriends. Amos jokingly calls me “a player,” and while my track record may show that, the truth is that I’m not out there manipulating girls into dating me. A girl comes along, she’s cute, she thinks I’m cute, too, and we get to know each other, become open with each other, chemistry flies up, and we date. We invest, and most often the relationship ends on mutual agreements, always very civil. I may be counted statistically as a player, but the majority of my girlfriends—with the exception of the psychotic ones—will tell you, “He was a great guy and a great boyfriend,” and I’m friends with most of them. Point being, things not working out with this girl isn’t a big-ass deal. I’m cool with it. We’re still friends, and that was my ultimate concern. While I’m not “totally” over her, it won’t be long before both (a) my feelings for her dissipate and (b) my feelings grow for someone else. This is a natural, unforced process; feelings unreciprocated won’t last. So, again: N.B.D.

* Congratulations to knowing what an asterisk means! While everyone who reads this blog knows who “the mystery girl” really is, I’m keeping it “mysterious” just because, well, I want to. It’s been the style all throughout, why change it up?

barnacles

i've just been really into these guys lately

At the age of eighteen, they say your dreams are formed and you have a dream to pursue. At the age of twenty, you’re running for it full-throttle. By the age of thirty, you realize that life’s not conducive to the fulfillment of your dreams, and you try to reorganize your life around that. By the age of forty, you’re not fighting for your dreams but, rather, you’re just trying to cope, trying to endure life’s trials in all the ways you can. Or, at least, that’s how I perceive it. And what I’m seeing is that life is hard—pursuing your dreams or not pursuing them—and that the difference isn’t so much between practice but in mindset. The conclusion I’m drawing, then, is that (a) life’s a bitch and (b) we can either just cope or keep running. Whether we abandon our dreams and just cope, or whether we keep chasing our dreams no matter the apparent futility, life’s still going to be a bitch.

Life’s short, and we shouldn’t waste time.

Have fun.

Be willing to make mistakes.

Laugh a lot and love a lot.

Take everything in stride and with a grain of salt.

Be willing to forgive and be willing to be forgiven.

Pursue your dreams relentlessly.

When I went to college, I “knew” what I wanted to do with my life. By the end, I “knew” I didn’t want to do what I’d originally thought. With a degree useful in only one particular field (a field I don’t want to be in), I’ve been working at a variety of coffee houses for the past five years. I don’t hate it; I actually love it. The atmosphere is friendly, inviting, cordial; it’s laid-back and interesting; it’s lots of fun, and it sure beats the hell out of sitting in a (although it doesn’t pay as much). But I can’t complain: my bills are paid, I have leftover money to save, and I still have money to go on adventures and hang out with friends at bars or restaurants. Right now my aim in life is to make a living off my writing, and I’m taking this aim seriously. I’m an excellent writer, a great story-teller, and I’m creative to the core. I’ve written and self-published a handful of books, many of them doing very well, launching into the forefront of their genres. The most realistic thing I’m hoping for is to work at a coffee shop part-time and to write part-time.

I’m pursuing my dream and having fun in the meantime; I’m not letting the barriers to my dream keep me from running, and instead of coping I’m celebrating: celebrating friends and family, celebrating the littlest beauties in life, celebrating hope and the future, be it good or bad.

And you know what? This whole “rat race” is a bunch of shit. Everyone wasting their lives running after more money, more things. Bigger houses, nicer cars, expensive shit to make you look handsome and impressive. How is that any kind of life to live? The more shit you have, the more you have to worry about. And to make it worse, none of this delivers that which it’s supposed to: happiness. Life’s hard enough already, trying to heal it in the worst way possible isn’t helping. We’ve only got one life so we should live it up. Granted this doesn’t mean being an absolute idiot with total disregard to common sense, but it means not stressing out about every little thing, not making every situation a catastrophe, taking everything with a shrug of the shoulders and a quiet laugh. We should pursue experiences, pursue love and laughter, pursue doing something interesting and being unique and actually bringing something of value to wherever we are.

We take life too seriously. We really do. We lament, we bitch, we moan, we cause drama and then thrive off it. Everything’s defcon-9 and we lose sight of how great life can really be. I’m done taking life too seriously. I’m done catastrophizing every little thing that happens. I’m done making big deals out of merely-shrug-worthy incidents. I want to have fun, I want to take risks, I want to be willing to make mistakes. The Beast inside me has been tamed and caged for far too long. He needs to unfurl his true colors and extend those claws and find that eucalyptus. My goal’s in life are to laugh, to love, to become who I want to be. And no matter what happens, so long as I have friends and family, I know I’ll be all right.

a post for another time

As promised, “a post for another time.” The main reason in my decision to move down to Cincinnati boils down to a single word: stagnation. While comfortable and having a good time in Dayton, I felt trapped there. Cincinnati’s where I’ve always wanted to be. When I graduated college I was living with Amanda and Sarah in a quirky little house on Lehman Avenue, and I had every intention of staying there. My hand was forced, so-to-speak, in my move to Dayton. I never meant to stay there; to be honest, I got my Starbucks job intending it to be a transitional job as I got ready to move back down, but I quickly became comfortable, making new friends and reconnecting with old ones, dating a few girls along the way. I never intended to be there more than a year (nine months was my original cut-off; hey, I was only six months late), but I enjoyed the job. Despite being comfortable in Dayton, my heart still burned for Cincinnati and my life there (and I was down there at least once a week anyways, on average). Cincinnati holds such hope, such promise, such joy and freedom; and in Dayton I felt trapped, by my own accord, and I felt as if I weren’t moving forward. 24 years old and living in your Mom and Dad’s house? Come on, now: it’s good as a transitional phase, but I’d moved beyond that. I felt the blossoming of my person, as well as my life, was held back forty miles north. I wanted forward movement, I wanted to keep growing into who I am, I wanted to be around the people I love, I wanted to live on my own and be with friends, and pursue my dreams in the way I want.

In addition to stagnation, I was bored with life. Not with “Dayton” life, per se, but life in general. And I knew that being in Cincinnati would provide all the rich nutrients and water so that my life could burst back into vibrant life. This is because, of course, of all the friends I have down here (and the friends who will be coming down; Carly and Allison, this is about you!). In the context of loving community, I can really develop as a person in positive ways, spread my legs (I meant wings there, but hell, I’ll leave it) and take flight. I can pursue my dreams with people who have always been encouraging and supporting and enthusiastic about it, and I can work a solid job with good pay and consistent hours with weekends off. Already I’ve been writing (50 pages so far) and the work’s incredible; how cool is it that a certain atmosphere, and communal living, can spawn creativity and passion? I want my life to change, and I know that Cincinnati provides the right environment for that.

And having been back home for about, oh, four hours now, I’ve already had my heart warmed hanging out with Old Man Hudson, Commodore Harvey, Amandaconda, and The Waugh. Reading through my old journals—both in good-humored mockery and legitimate empathy—and sitting on the front porch smoking pipes and watching ridiculous eighties movies… And then, to top it off, Jessie and Tony being in town doing premarital counseling before their wedding in two weeks. Good friends, people I love, this is nice. And it’s my home now.

spinning my tricks

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