Category: Other Words

Below is a brief article I wrote for BG’s back in 2001. I thought I was doing the world a favor by illuminating the ambiguities and subtle nuances of the slang term “bling-bling.” Ironically, this word is no longer a word tossed and batted around exclusively by ballers and bitches; wordsmiths and casual dictionary-readers can now find this term in the prestigious Oxford English Dictionary. This is the first sign of the apocalypse. I believe Rev. 12:4 reads something like, “Just before utter darkness and despair drapes the Earth, the world shall descendeth into a new babel, where only pimps and playas shall speak freely and clearly. Fah shizzle, mah nizzle.”

Hakuna matata, right? If it’s taken 2000 years for the first sign to occur, then it will take at least a few hundred for the next one, right?

Wrong, Reduxers. To recall an elected official mainly because of the vociferousness of his critics and replace him with an Austrian-born body-building immigrant is certainly a crime against the natural inertia of the universe (otherwise known as Allah). No self-respecting politician’s resume should include Kindergarten Cop and Last Action Hero. The final two signs of the rapture? I don’t know, but this whole Paris Hilton thing isn’t looking too good for humanity. Hell has certainly felt a little cooler than it should. Anyway, without further adieu:

Smooth Mikey O’s Guide to Urban Colloquialisms

Hello kids. In an effort to make everyone more cognizant of those slang terms they hear on the MTV, I will break down one of the most popular terms in music- bling bling.

bling-bling as a verb- to arrive in a city or town with one’s entourage; also: to display all your finery. i.e. I walked into the church bling-blinging. All the hoes said, “Take that chain off boy, you blindin’ me.”

bling-bling as a noun- one article of obvious opulence, namely diamonds, platinum and gold. i.e. She had on a platinum bling-bling; it was so bright, it blinded me.

bling-bling as an interjection- a phrase denoting surprise coupled with excitement. i.e. Bling-bling! I just won the lottery!

Below is a brief paragraph illustrating all three forms of bling-bling.

Bling-bling! I just got outta jail for ‘saltin’ and smackin’ my baby mama, and I finna hit up the pawnie to get all my bling-bling back. After that, my posse and I, we be hittin’ up that trick Sharonda’s illin’ Courvasier and crack party, and I be sure to bling with that dope plat’ chain I picked up at the Lakewood swap meet.

To hear more urban colloquialisms, be sure to tune into MTV’s TRL with Carson Daly. He will be sure to toss around words like ‘def’ and ‘da bomb’ and ‘phat’ so much that you’ll think you died and went to Compton.

Cheers.

Today marks the first day of my extended stint as the phone support chump (did I say “chump?” I meant “representative”) at Auctionworks. Thus far, it has been tremendously busy, so much so that I haven’t had time to use the bathroom. First the site went down, then eBay went down, and then the Valdez went down.

[Okay, if it were really that busy, there would be no way I could be writing a post to my blog. “Blog.” Haha, such a funny word. God bless the ‘Net, coiner of the world’s silliest terms and jargon.]

In reality, I am sitting here, staring out the window at a rooftop some 50′ below me where some men are spreading gravel (or whatever they put on roofs). I cannot help but envy these men. Sure, they are working in near-freezing temperatures and blustery winds, but what they are doing is so much easier than what I’m doing. Moreover, while I adore learning, the combined stress of work and school is nearly too much for my little head to handle. If I could forgo my higher education in exchange for a steady income, I would do it in a heartbeat. Writing is my only passion, and I guess I’m attending school mainly to improve my prowess.

I’m on cup numero tres of coffee. Things should get interesting here in a few minutes when the caffiene makes its way into my bloodstream. I like coffee because it gives me the little edge I need to stay focused on whatever it is I am doing. I have a feeling that I will be getting intimately familiar with my coffee-maker next semester at UGA.

Well, considering I spent a few hours pouring my heart into this thing last night, I don’t have much else to report. I’m feeling rather creative today, so I may try and post some fiction later. Until then, Reduxers!

–Post over, Mikey out.

Heh, so yeah– I know I said I would pick up the recount of my Turkey Day adventures in Titusville in the sunlit hours of Wednesday. I didn’t, however, specify which Wednesday it would be. The past two weeks have been very busy. Among exams, Christmas parties, procuring lodgings for next semester, and generally loafing about, I have not had time to conclude my holiday narrative. And so, I figured I would seize this creative urge I have had percolating inside me and finish the saga. What am I doing up at 6:30 in the morning you ask? I have been adventuring in Middle Earth vicariously by viewing Peter Jackson’s Tolkien trilogy. Yes, trilogy. Kim’s LOTR party culminated with the midnight showing of Return of the King. It’s now three hours after the movie has ended, and I am still awake. I don’t know how I’m still awake, but nevertheless, here I am. It was funny– I got home from Kim’s at 5:30, just in time to see Stuart pulling out of the driveway on his way to work. I am so happy my job does not require me to wake before the sun does; I don’t think I could do it. Anyway, TURKEY DAY RECAP, pt. 2:

After we left the house of Grammy (I love the monikers families coin for their elders), Bo and I went with my cousins on the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL. Three hours, two bars, a Corona and a Cape Cod later, I came to the realization that Titusville is a terrible place in which to go bar crawling. Our first stop was a bar whose name I can no longer remember, but the music was a mix of modern and classic rock staples. For example, the Rolling Stones’ hackneyed “Satisfaction” was wedged neatly between “Come Out and Play” by the Offspring and some crap ballad courtesy of Staind. At this nameless bar, the people with whom I was with talked about the various places my cousins’ classmates ended up after high school. Our second and final stop on the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL was the Riverdeck Lounge, which adjoins one of the several aged hotels in the city. When we entered the Riverdeck, our caravan literally tripled the patronage of the bar. After standing next to the river for half an hour or so, the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL came to a close.

My thoughts about the whole experience? I hate drunk people. I think it’s ironic exactly how mindless the drivel such people spout when they are convinced what they are saying is worthy of being included in the next Bartlett’s compedium. For instance, Alfred (one of my cousin Lara’s friends) offered this pearl of wisdom: “I like my women like fire and ice, not warm water.” If you can unmask the meaning shrouded somewhere in that nebulous statement, please email me. I’ve had many sleepless nights trying to decipher it. Al said this like he thought someone from the newspaper was eavesdropping on his Bud Light-fueled conversation, so I just know there’s something to it.

Anyway, after the bar crawl concluded (or fizzled, more accurately), Bo and I went back to the hotel. Still hard-up for a good buzz, he and I went to the lounge at the hotel for a few more cocktails. After a couple of Heinekens, I had reached my limit– so much so in fact that I spilled my third Heineken not once, but twice– once on the bar and once on the pool table. Also, while lounging in the … lounge, we chatted with the “Real British DJ” who was spinning discs in the all but abandoned establishment. I always find it interesting how people end up in their permenant stations in life, and so Bo and I joined our inquisitive forces together and put this guy through the ringer. Below are a few of the questions we gave Geoff:

“Where are you from?”
“Why Titusville? Why not Miami?”
“Pilot’s license, eh? How’s that working out for ya?”
“Is your wife American or British?”
“DJ, huh? Got any Blur?”
“No Blur, eh? Any Radiohead?”
“No Radiohead? And you call yourself a DJ?”

As I fell asleep early Thursday morning, I remained focused on Saturday. Not only was it helping me get through the trip, but it was also assisting me in keeping the room from spinning too terribly. Later that morning, I awoke with a headache and beer breath.

PSA: Kids- make sure you down at least a glass of water and take out your contacts before retiring for the night following an evening of prolonged imbibing of spirituous beverages. Furthermore, always, always, ALWAYS remember to brush your teeth. To wake up with last night still in your mouth is no picnic.

Following some Excedrin and a shower, I accompanied my family to the Denny’s which is attached to the Ramada Inn where we were staying. [I’m not sure which establishment is riding the coattails of which. Both are merely marginal at best in their respective industries, so neither one is exactly classing up the other.] At breakfast, I came to the realization that I so rarely have a sound breakfast that my taste for one has all but disappeared. While Paul was ordering pancakes and eggs, and while Bo was requesting the Meat-Lovers’ breakfast (and subbing bacon for both the country ham and sausage, netting him a heart-stopping 10 strips of the salted pork), I was ordering fruit salad and cereal. As breakfast was winding down, I dared Paul to drink one of the Land O’ Lakes creamers that was sitting atop the table which was presumably for someone’s coffee (I take my coffee black, which, in my opinion, is the only way to drink it).

“No. There’s no way I’m drinking those.” (I had given him three to drink).
“Come on! I’ve done it before. Hell, I’ll even give you five dollars if you do it.”
“No way.”
“Alright, fine– Noah, do you want five dollars?”
“Okay, okay. For five dollars, I’ll do it.”
“Glad to hear you’re working with me. I’ll even allow you a chaser between each one.”

He drank them. He chased them. He gagged on them. But he didn’t get his fiver.

Moral of this anecdote? Never, ever trust me to give you five dollars for a stupid dare. In fact, if anything you’ll be the one paying me. The pleasure I derive from watching someone drink something as disagreeable as half-n-half is worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox. Viewing one’s voluntary idiocy at my prodding is truly intoxicating.

Following breakfast, we went to the beach. I had a great time, despite the fact that we were there during high tide and to venture into the sea was truly a workout in aquarobics. After frolicking in the sand and sea for an hour, we went back to the hotel to freshen ourselves up for the Thanksgiving festivities that were being held at the Penney Ranch in Mims, FL.

My uncle Mike’s house and property are beautiful. His house sits atop a five-acre plot of oaks and palms. Family and friends were all over. Food and drink were plentiful. All were good. Delving into specifics would make this narrative even longer than it already is, so I will spare you the details. It was a great feast and an even better time. While I was lazing in one of the hammocks, digesting and dozing from the tryptophan, I was studying the stony, beaten orb that is our moon and thinking. I thought about many things, but my mind kept meandering back to the same thing– Saturday.

After several rolls of film had been used to take pictures of various groups of people (cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, cousins and in-laws, uncles and dogs, aunts and the turkey), I was able to pack it up and head back to the hotel. Once there, Bo and I returned to the lounge to have a few cocktails and chat with the local flavor. While there, I heard a few lurid bar jokes, and I watched some guy who appeared to be a veteran of some war carry on a conversation with himself. I can only speculate what it was like behind his eyes. The world can be such a devastating place, and to see someone who has lost his grip on its partner-in-crime, reality, really saddened me. After the drinks, I went to the room and spent a few hours re-reading and laughing at old AIM logs (I’m such a loser) until I fell asleep.

Friday, I went to Cocoa Beach. It was so strange playing in the ocean the day after Thanksgiving while people elsewhere were braving icy winds and preparing for winter’s imminent arrival. The beach was fun; I had a good time body surfing and trying to spook my brother and cousin by randomly stating “something touched my leg” while we were swimming about in the shallows of the sea. The water was great, but the beach itself was not. With the day prior being Thanksgiving, the coast was littered with the relics of previous evening beach parties: beer bottles, chunks of Styrofoam coolers, condom wrappers, et cetera. It made me sad to think that some people are so into their own things that they cannot take the time to clean up after themselves.

After the beach, Mom took Paul, Noah, and me to Ron Jon’s Surf Shop. Much like every other retail store on the day after Thanksgiving, the place was a flurry of Christmas shoppers and so-called bargains. Despite the crowds, the three of us each managed to hit Mom up for something. I got a hat; Paul got a new skateboard deck; and Noah got a new necklace. When we got back to the hotel after first stopping by the liquor store for Cape Cod “fixin’s,” I showered and took a nap. Meanwhile, Mom took Paul and Noah to the local skate park so the boys could work off some of that pent-up energy.

When I awoke, night had fallen, and my family had yet to fetch me. Dinner was being served at Grammy’s, and I was stuck at the hotel. But not for long. Before I could get off the phone with Mom, my aunt Kippy was already on her way over with the three kids to get me. Following dinner (a repeat of Thursday), we returned to the hotel, and Mom and I played our token game of Scrabble.

Naturally, I left the table victorious, and Mom was left ruing her defeat by uttering long sobs of exasperation and embarassment. She has even challenged me to a rematch when I see her on Christmas Eve. I don’t understand why- she has already suffered enough; I guess she’s trying to pander to the masochist in her by inviting another sound thrashing at my hand. Very well, Mother! On Christmas Eve, heads will roll yet again.

[In all honesty, it was a close match; 283 to 267. It was my big 42-point play that gave me the cushion I needed to procure a victory.]

After Scrabble came bed. After bed came sleep. After sleep came Saturday. And with Saturday came the trip home.

All in all, I had a great time in Florida with my family. I was unsure I would be able to tolerate my brothers’ dogs during the car rides to and fro Florida. Ironically, the dogs presented no problems during those times. They were only an issue when they just had to be brought to the beach. Public beaches have banned pets because of the irresponsibility of many owners. My brother and his wife are very attentive to their pets, so this law wasn’t made because of them. In fact, Bo and Leslie are almost dangerously into their dogs. I’m sorry, but referring to your dog as “son” is just sickening to me. Even more gut-wrenching is claiming that your dog not only knows that it’s Christmastime, but that he also believes in God.

I know Bo and Leslie will read this. I don’t care. In fact, I’ll say it again, just to drive my point home. THOSE TWO THINGS YOU TWO CONSIDER YOUR CHILDREN ARE DOGS. THEY ARE NOT KIDS; THEY ARE DOGS, AND THEY ARE NOT MUCH OF DOGS AT THAT. YOU DIDN’T COPULATE TO CREATE THEM; TWO DOGS DID. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE STOP CALLING THEM YOUR CHILDREN. IT’S DISTURBING TO ME. YOU ARE NOT THE PARENTS OF MARLEY AND MAGGIE; YOU ARE MERELY THEIR OWNERS. ALSO, NEVER REFER TO ME AS THE DOGS’ UNCLE UNLESS YOU NEVER WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN. I AM COMPLETELY PREPARED TO TAKE A COUPLE CANINES HOSTAGE TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW I’M SERIOUS.

I was also concerned that I would not be able to tolerate my younger brothers, but they were well-behaved for the most part, excepting a few moments of obstinacy. It is so strange to think that these two boys are my brothers, and despite my objections, I continue to love them. We have had some difficult times with one another, but they are still both great kids. Even stranger is the rate at which they are aging. Paul is already 14, and Noah is 7! Before I know it, Paul will be graduating and on his way into this wasteland that we call adulthood. Try and fight it, my brother! Stay with Mom as long as you can!

Well, I think that about wraps this edition of the Redux up. Look for updates soon, although I am not exactly sure when. I’m really busy with this thing called Life.

–Post over, Mikey out.

Thanksgiving. Supposedly, the day started when the Pilgrims, fresh off their disease-infested boats, were able to rely on the kindness of strangers, the so-called heathens already dwelling on the land. In perhaps one of the last compromises between the white and red man, the two groups of people were able to set aside their cultural and pigmentary differences and enjoy a meal together. From that little tale, we get Thanksgiving.

It’s a good story, but I think that’s all it is– a story. It almost sounds like an urban legend to me– just like the Kentucky Fried Rat. Well, in light of the current iteration of the day, that’s all it is– a story. Nowadays, Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the retail bonanza known as the holidays. The media hasn’t forgotten the meaning of Thanksgiving, but they have certainly chosen to focus more on Christmas and less on the secular holiday that comes a month before. Thanksgiving is a formality. It stands in the way, like a belligerent younger sibling, between Halloween and Christmas. Because the Christmas season has recently been expanded to include pretty much every month except February, Thanksgiving is an anti-climax. Malls are already ensconced in Christmas wreaths and trees in late September. By the time Turkey Day hits, people are already expecting Christmas. When they get Thanksgiving, they simply go through the motions, without necessarily pausing to reflect on the day’s importance, historical or otherwise.

I find this unfortunate because Christmas has lost much of its luster for me in recent years. That could be due to the string of stupid, thoughtless gifts I have received (honestly, a sock-warmer?), but I think there are other reasons. Christmas has lost religious significance to me because I, like Marx, have realized that religion is merely the opiate of the masses. Religiosity is not as detrimental as some addictions, but church-goers are far more dangerous to me than the local smack-addict or crack-whore. They spread their ignorant ideas to unenlightened people. They do evil things in the name of something that is supposedly all-good (sidenote: Evil exists. Explain that one to me, holy rollers. God’s all-good, and He created everything. Even evil? Oh wait, that’s right– mmm…could it be? SATAN?!) Anyway, Christmas was originally a pagan festival (much like it is today) until the pre-Schism, pre-Reformation Christian church decided to do away with the celebration of the monotany of the oncoming winter and stick Jesus in there. When was Jesus born? Good question…considering that nearly every culture has its own calendar, and no one was around to firm up the details, let’s say he was born on December 25th. And the public? Oh, they ate it up. Just like their Turkey Day feasts.

I guess my point is that every holiday has no real significance to me. They were all just days invented by other people to commemorate things that may or may not have happened. I am told that on this day I should be feel thankful for what I have; on this day, I should remember those people who have died before me; on this day, I should kiss someone because they’re Irish (that’s one I’ll never figure out). Frankly, I am tired of being told what to do.

The above was written prior to my trip to Florida for Thanksgiving. Actually, it was written during the sojourn down to Titusville, which may account for the vitriolic tone of my writing. I was tired; I was ill; I was grumpy. Although I am still skeptical of organized religion, I must say that I had a splendid time on my trip to Florida to celebrate Thanksgiving.

The plan was to leave bright and early Wednesday. Well, when 6 am rolled around, it was not so bright, but definitely early. When going over my itenerary with Kim, she suggested that instead of trying to wake up at 5:30 (or sleeping in the car, which was my original intention), I simply forgo Morpheus’ arms in the evening, so that sleeping during the trip would be much easier. This sounded like a good idea, so I played video games and packed until it was time to depart.

As soon as we (my brother, his wife, and their two Yorkshire pups) hit the road, my head hit the pillow. It was 6:14 AM. Sleep was the only thing on my mind. A mere ten minutes into the trip, I heard the nasally baritone of one of the DJ’s on Bo’s favorite sports talk radio station. I had no choice but to crank up my personal CD player even louder, the strains of the Amelie soundtrack taking me to a place far, far away from the Toyota Forerunner. I didn’t care about Michael Vick dressing out for practice. I just wanted to sleep. And so, despite the sports talk and the constant rolling down of the window for my brother’s cigarette breaks, I somehow managed to sleep.

When I awoke, I had the famililar feelings of fatigue. My body was weary, and my mind was slightly delirious. It was only 8:23. I had gotten a couple hours of sleep, not nearly enough to provide my much-needed third and fourth stages of sleep. To help pass the time, I suggested to my brother that was play the always fun, always monotonous “I’m going on a trip, but first I had to stop by (insert local mega-store here)” game. Bo is a sucker for car-ride games, so he obliged. Feeling rather randy, I furthermore stipulated that we start at the end of the alphabet and work forward. And so…without further adieu, here’s what Bo and I took to Florida:

Zoologist
Yellow yams
X-ray Technician (not Cami S., she’s a bitch)
Waiter
Victrola
Undertaker
Tiger Tamer (Roy Horn, who’s currently recuperating by taming kittens instead of tiger cubs)
Sexy Sluts
Radiohead 🙂
Quacky Queer
Professor of Paleontology, specifically Ross Gellar
Oscar presenter (not winner, mind you– presenter)
Ned Flanders
Marijuana
LSD
Knitter, specifically Leslie, who has recently undertaken Project: Scarf
Joint Roller (one who defected from the Dominican Republic, where he rolled cigars)
Ice Sculptor (one specializing in vodka-urinating statues, a la Dennis Kozlowski)
Homosexual Horticulturalist (also a hogfat renderer)
Gay Gardener (one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Freedom fighter from the Operation: Iraqi “Freedom” campaign
Eerie Eccentric Elephant Rider (another one of Bo’s– pretty weak, if you ask me)
Douche bags
Crazed crooners
Bo Ollinger
Alice from Carroll’s Wonderland books

That was probably the highlight of the actual car ride down to Florida. I spent the rest of my time looking out the window, playing Walter Mitty, wishing it was Saturday, and hoping I could fall back asleep.

[Sometimes I amaze myself. I was able to remember the answers to the game a week after it was played. Not bad.]

When we arrived at our hotel, my mother and my older brother were appalled at the establishment’s deplorable conditions. Granted, things were dirty, and the help was surly. I reminded both of them that things could have been worse. We had cable, A/C, and carpet in the rooms. What more could one want? This was Titusville, Florida. It wasn’t Atlanta; it wasn’t even Birmingham. Titusville is a Podunk town; worn and run-down, forgotten by its residents and tourists alike. To expect more than what we got was ludicrous in my opinion. Once we settled into our slightly squalid surroundings, I took a shower to rinse the exhaustion and stale smell of car ride off me. After my shower, Mom took me to the convenience store for Coronas.

Sidenote: When providing the trip itenerary for me, Mom’s plans included copious amounts of lounging by the pool and drinking. Not surprisingly, her maternal duties precluded her from enjoying this activity for largely the entire trip. Excepting a pair of delicious Brandy Alexanders prepared by my uncle, the only time Kerry drank was during Friday evening’s game of Scrabble. Sometimes, I wish my mom didn’t have to be a mom all the time. She’s an awesome lady when she isn’t worn thin from the constant mothering my younger brothers require.

No offense, Paul and Noah. Well, maybe a little. STOP ARGUING ABOUT STUPID SHIT THAT’S ALREADY HAPPENED!!!

After I had a couple beers, we went over to Grammy’s for dinner. My aunt had prepared us some kind of Mexican casserole. It was edible, and so I ate it. That was dinner.

I’ve picked up the habit of inspecting the various and sundry books people choose to adorn their shelves, and so when I was at Grammy’s, I went from room to room, checking the bookcases and armoires for rare finds. Did I ever find any! Not only did I discover a nifty tome on gnomes and a manual on etiquette circa 1954, but I also found a first-edition printing of my favorite Hemingway novella, the Old Man and the Sea! After picking them out, I approached Grammy, seeking her approval for my choices. She complied, and I’m three books richer! I also put my name down for the gigante Merriam-Webster’s nomenclator she has, whenever the time is right.

My grandmother and I have the most perfunctory of relationships. This is not because I do not love her, but more because I do not know her. She has always been a bit a coot, and so visits to her house have been few and far between. She’s getting on in years, and her time here is limited. I am happy that I got to see her again; it may have been my last time (dread the thought, but it’s a possibility all the same). Approaching her about the books was difficult. Asking a stranger for a hand job may have been easier [Okay, okay. Sorry. First, that was in bad taste. Second, I don’t talk to strangers.]

I’ll pick this back up in a bit, things appear to be getting a little blue. I figure this is enough to get you salivating.

It just occurred to me that the past few posts I’ve made about myself have been things I conjured from thin air. “Fictive truth,” I like to call it. Elements of myself have been interpolated into characters that have the same name as me. For the layperson, that means some of the stuff I write is kinda true. But then again, there is no such thing as absolute truth. Well, not written truth at least. Everything is a recorded from a memory, an experience, or otherwise. First-hand accounts are often most accurate, but who’s to say the story-teller won’t elaborate and exaggerate parts of his narrative? And with each version that’s recorded, there is more margin for error.

Anyway, I thought I would write something a little bit more introspective tonight. Badly Drawn Boy, be my muse, and lead me to a masterpiece!

The past few months of my life have been some of the most difficult. A sadness dwells within me, and when it bubbles to the surface, it rocks my mind and emotions. I seem to have had this blot of despair in my life and on my mind for a long time. As long as I can remember, really. It’s tidal; it ebbs and it flows. It peaks and bottoms-out. Sometimes I go months without feeling this sense of malaise and misery; other times, I wallow in its shadow for weeks at end.

If I was presented with the challenge of determining the root of this sadness, I would be unable to propose a theory in which I was 100% sure. It’s a lot of things: middle kid syndrome, cataclysmic events early in my life, disillusionment, doubt, et cetera. To discuss any of these possible causes would be an exercise in patience, possibly futility. I believe they are all equally responsible in influencing my current disposition, which marked by a tender fragility. In any event, things seem to be getting better. I have been going to therapy and trying to approach things with a new lust for life. I am learning that it’s easier to pick up and move forward with your life than it is to concentrate on the things you would have done differently. As Paul Simon put it, “a good day ain’t got no rain…a bad day’s when I lie in bed and think of things that might have been.” I have to remind myself of this almost daily.

It has been a difficult journey, but I have traversed it one piece. Problems remain, but then again problems will always remain. Life wasn’t meant to be easy. If it was, then it wouldn’t be life. Life isn’t made easier by some of the poor decisions I’ve made, but I am wiser for most of those follies. I wish I could have done things a little differently, but if I had, then I wouldn’t have met the people I have. Humans are social creatures, and for some reason, the majority of us thrive off companionship with others. If human companionship is unavailable, then we as a species latch adoration onto other things, like plants and animals. Well, mainly animals– I don’t know how many people who get pictures of their plant taken with Santa Claus. We feel the same sense of fufillment with plants as we do with animals, though. It may not be hard to keep a plant alive, but there is something comforting in knowing that you can.

Hmmm, botany ended out the last paragraph. Not exactly related to my original vision. Damn this stream of consciousness! I know I want to write more about this, but it’s still tough to get my head around. I’ll probably attempt this subject again after a while. Instead, I give you this…

Thanksgiving is this week. What are some of the things for which I am thankful?

–My health: My body still works after 21 years of use. It better keep up for a good while because I think I voided the warranty on it when I tried to give myself a tattoo.

–My family: Sometimes they make me wish I was adopted. Other times, they tell me just the thing I need to hear to make me smile (or even angrier sometimes). Most the time, I’m annoyed with them, yet continue to love them.

–My friends: I don’t have many friends–maybe a dozen or so. Each of them provides with something that endears them to me, a certian idiosyncrasy, a certain nuance to his or her character. They are the thing for which I am most thankful because I feel my friends understand me better than my family.

–My talents (if I have any): It’s great knowing stuff. I wouldn’t trade my intelligence for anything. Moreover, I get a lot of people that commend me for this crap I’m doing now. While I appreciate the adulation, I don’t know if they are just telling me these things to placate me or if they are being sincere. Confidence in my output is not something for which I’m known. Sometimes, I feel satisfied with my attempts at creativity; other times, I curse myself for being so this and so that. Most the time, however, I bungle through, hoping the final product is at least a glimmer of the original vision.

–My job: I’ve got a good, stressful job. I work from home, and I make about $22,000 a year. Not bad for a 21-year-old that doesn’t like jobs. I don’t know how long I can continue, though. The stress is starting to mount, and I have become burned out lately.

Completely or somewhat related, I think Badly Drawn Boy’s Hour of the Bewilderbeast is one of my favorite albums ever. For some unknown reason, I can relate to every song on this CD at this moment. Oh yes, I know why…

I don’t feel like reviewing the entire album because I want to go to bed (but maybe one day soon), so I will leave you with the lyrics to one of the songs:

“Once Around the Block”

You quiver like a candle on fire
I’m putting you out
Maybe tonight we could be the last shout
But I’m fascinated by your style
Your beauty will last for a while

You’re feeling instead of being
The more that I live on the inside
There’s nothing to give
I’m infatuated by your moves
I’m gonna search hard for your clues

I want to repair your desire
And call it a gift that I stole from just wanting to live
Now I see the vision through your eyes
Your innocence no longer fuels surprise

Trying to outrun your fear
Running to lose
Heart on your sleeve and your sole in your shoes
Take a left,
A sharp left
And another left, meet me on the corner
And we’ll start again.

Way unrelated: My mouth still tastes like coffee, something I drank oh…EIGHTEEN HOURS ago.

–Post over, Mikey out.