Nights with a forgotten hoodie.

The scent of you. Intoxicating like

 nostalgia perfume.

 A flick of hair shooting skyward.

 The musty remnants

 of us upon sheets

not forgotten.

 The fighting pulse of suppressed memory.

They are glued to me, keep me bound

by the same heartsick melody.

With phrases in the "what if"

and written

in the key of "meant to be".

You have bitten me with every gentle press

 of parted lips and sideways glances that hither

"come."

I have forgotten you, but you spring forth when unguarded.

Deep breaths of friends

when we've parted and I'm assaulted

for a moment

by your scent.

Womb

Though the days flew past her driveway, she never once thought about the way the wind used to feel on her skin. Though the sun rose and set in the confines of her windows, she never once wondered about its warmth on her face. And though the nights seemed only to stretch longer and darker, she never ventured past the threshold of her doorway. The entirety of her world was confined to this little house. Within the walls removed from a world she had once tried so lamely to embrace. 

The seconds stretched out for days. The moments simply hung in the air keeping every weighted breath suspended between the previous and the next. Things were not in slow motion. Everything moved twice as quickly. There were just more languid moments shoved into those previously brief spaces. It hadn’t occurred to her to care before.

Her hands shook as she replaced the phone to its original position on the kitchen counter. The cool of the smooth teal tile shocked her hand. Outside of the involuntary reflex of her fingers, no emotion registered on her face. The news no more a surprise than the rising sun. She had been warned of this possibility. Though, now, the idea that she had been warned at all seemed ridiculous. You can’t prepare someone to lose something they never had and, now, never will. Her eyes moved slowly across the bowls and ingredients piled upon the counter; assembled to make herself breakfast.

            Her actions were deliberate. She paused too often and her breath was too steady. She gently lifted an egg from the carton and rolled its smooth surface in her hands. The weight always amazed her. Something so small, and so fragile, carried with it so much weight.  Decisively, she struck it against the edge of the bowl breaking, forever what had never been and emptied its contents into the waiting flour.

“Two eggs.” Her voice echoed across the room startling no one but herself. The cacophony made her painfully aware of the permanent vacancy in the chairs around her.

            The high wooden back on her stool dug into her flesh and pinched at her elbows. Outside the world was blanketed in white. She sat perfectly still wishing to hear the rustling of leaves. But the snow mocked her, no leaves would be found. She swore that if she tried hard enough she could will into existence one leaf that would be perfectly green. Flawless, it would sprout out of the ice covered branches. One leaf would be all it would take to solidify in her the hope she never allowed herself, but the leaf never came.

            She took out a second egg. Tracing the familiar shape with her eyes and wishing things didn’t have to be the way they were bound to be. Once again, she felt the weight. The full, crushing weight of what she held, what she used to hold. She clenched her hand into a fist causing shards of shell onto the floor and yolk to run like rivers from her fingers.

Dermis Deep Memories

When I was younger I would sit at the feet of my grandfather every Sunday when his army buddies would come over and swap stories, drink beer, and take a second to breathe after the long days on the farms many of them owned. These men, all around the age of 70, were well worn from life but supremely happy. Their faces were cracked with wrinkles washed into their cheeks and foreheads with the ebb and flow of emotions that accompany a well- lived life.  Their hands and arms were scarred by their days before and after their tour in the pacific; cuts and scrapes from moments I would never know anything about. On a few of these men, right next to these same origin-less scars, were the now faded black lines of tattoos acquired long ago. Every once in a while one would point to a worn and misshapen image on his bicep and tell a story about a bawdy night the gang had in bar on some little island in the middle of the ocean. I never understood the emotion that would wash over their faces then; an emotion that I now recognize as nostalgia, all I knew was that these warped images held in them a world apart from the one these men now knew and the simple act of looking at them took them back to that place, if only for a moment. It was these moments, surrounded by men much wiser than myself, which impressed upon me the importance of memories; making them, keeping them, and having a reminder to remember them.

            As I got older, it was made abundantly clear to me that the tattoos I loved as a child were viewed in a less than positive light by the other adults around me. My father, most notably, associated tattoos with the criminals he saw stream through the doors of the city/county building he worked in. This fact later, when I started getting tattoos of my own, became a major point of contention between the two of us. The negative correlations he made didn’t make much sense to me. In my mind, my father saying all people with tattoos were criminals was the same as saying all Asian people drive poorly; it just seemed ignorant. So, with the cavalier disregard possessed by every teenager, I received my first tattoo three days after my eighteenth birthday.

            The tattoo itself is small, no bigger than a fifty-cent piece on the outside of my left ankle and was a symbol that I had discovered searching the internet. It wasn’t until later that I realized that the ‘trigram’ I had picked out was most notably associated with Led Zeppelin. I knew going into to it that I had picked John Paul Jones’s symbol; I just didn’t think other people knew that. So, by the time it was on my ankle I had already been asked twice if I was a Zeppelin fan.

             Most of the time I forget I have it now. When I do notice it, I remember what it felt like to be eighteen; a feeling that, as I get farther away from it, begins to feel less like a memory and more like a different world. In truth, I don’t know if I remember much of anything from being eighteen. I remember the big life events; graduation, my sister’s wedding, and my father’s stroke but I don’t remember the everyday. I wouldn’t remember what it was like to get dinner with friends and what it felt like to be heartbroken at eighteen if I didn’t have this now completely insignificant tattoo. This tiny permanent mark anchors me to a moment in time I would have otherwise forgotten. Often, it is the moments that seem the most insignificant that, with time, we learn to miss the most. Seven years later, I still remember sitting around a table at the Applebee’s downtown with a group of my friends. I still remember being devastated that the guy I had been “dating” had shown up with a girl just to spite me and I remember an hour later walking into a tattoo parlor for the first time and never looking back.

            These tattoos that cover my body are just as much a rite of passage as the tattoos received by some African women when they reach marrying age or young Polynesian boys who are literally marked as the next chief. The difference being that these young boys and girls rarely have a choice about when, where and what they are getting tattooed. I do have these choices. Because of this, I choose to mark myself with images that remind me of times worth remembering and situations worth learning from. In some small, yet still meaningful way, the tattoos I have chosen tell my story to the world around me. In the same way children are marked by their societies in Africa and on the Polynesian Islands, my tattoos are the marks of my societies; they tie me to the cultures I came of age in, matured in, and currently live in and even though these societies may change, my experience within them does not.

            On the inside of my right wrist is tattooed the word “aplomb” atop an ichthus; a simple drawing of a fish used by early Christians. For a large portion of my life, I considered myself a Christian. This tattoo was, initially, to remind me to not let my temper get the best of me and that the grace to compose myself would come from Christ. At the time, it helped me visualize the person I wanted to be and brought me closer to the people around me struggling with the same questions of faith. Over the six years I have had this tattoo, I have changed. I no longer consider myself a Christian and I no longer associate daily with the people who I once shared so much with. However, these people and this faith forever changed who I was and permanently altered my life’s path. People who meet me now are always taken aback by the very visible presence of this little fish on my wrist. To them, it doesn’t seem to represent the person they have come to know; a person who loves to study faith but has very little of it herself. I have been asked a few times why I don’t have it changed. My answer is always the same; to change this tattoo would be to erase a time of my life. By changing this tattoo I would be forcing myself to forget those same feelings and people who shaped me and ultimately made me into a better person. Many people believe, as I do, that tattoos represent, in some way, the person the owner wants the world to see. If the world is going to see me, I want them to see all of me; past and present. Not just the person I happen to be in the moment.

            By the time I was twenty, I had three relatively small tattoos. My parents, begrudgingly, began to ignore them and I continued to get them. My mother, always the better communicator of my two parents, was the first to question the permanence of my body art. She too had seen the faded and disfigured images on the arms of her father and his friends and was amazed that I would want such images on my own body. In truth, I didn’t really think about the long term visual implication of my tattoos until she asked me. Consciously, I knew what would happen to them as I aged but with the blindness of youth I simply ignored the very really future. What was strange was that the very things about old tattoos that scared my mother were the things I found I loved most about them. None of the men sitting in those beaten up lawn chairs ever hid their tattoos away. They wore them as badges of honor. Sagging faced pin-up girls became a beacon of longevity.  It wasn’t the tattoo itself that reminded these men they were still alive, it was the years lived with the tattoo and all the memories that came along with those years.

            Sometimes, but not often, the stories they told while pointing to their tattoos were tinged with regret; moments that could have been lived better. One man had the symbols of his battalion tattooed on to his forearm. Otto, a kind man with soft eyes and a ready embrace, would look at his tattoo and remember, what he called, his “great cowardice.” He would tell a story about being so scared in his foxhole that he froze in action, watching his brothers in arms fall around him. What amazed me, even as a child, was that while Otto very clearly felt shame for this, his voice was always resolved. His eyes would harden on a spot off in the horizon as if taking a silent vow to those fallen brothers. Every time he looked at his tattoo he re-lived that moment and felt that shame and every time he looked at it he resolved to never let it happen again. Regret is never easy to live with. It strips you from the inside out and forces you to question even the smallest of decisions. The beautiful thing about regret is that, given time, it changes form. It morphs from a debilitating gut feeling to a vow-inducing lesson. Because of Otto, I never shy away from getting tattoos when my life becomes almost too much to bare. Though sometimes difficult to look at, these tattoos give me my greatest hope and an invaluable reminder of my past.

             One of these tattoos, a cottonwood leaf on the back of my neck, started as a simple tribute to the one place I will always call home; Nebraska. My move, sometimes called my “great migration” by my mother, was instigated by a desire to start anew after a severe depression. This one rash decision, made over exactly one week, served to be one of the greatest and worst decisions of my life. At twenty-one years old, I dropped out of school, packed my things and said good-bye only to my family. Even then I knew that no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t run forever; I knew I would be back. Three days before I headed south I received my fifth tattoo.  The cottonwood leaf, from Nebraska’s state tree, accompanied me as I moved over 800 miles from Lincoln to Austin, Texas. This leaf, out of sight but never really out of mind, became a brand and, when brought up in conversation, served to keep me tied to a place that, at the time, felt like the source of unimaginable sorrow.

            As more and more time passed, and introductions turned into friendships, I began to learn a lesson many people learn but few accept: all relationships take work. These new friendships soon became more complicated than the ones I had fled from. After two years, I decided to pack up once again and move back home. Now, when people ask me about my leaf tattoo I am washed in the shame of a failed escape and resolved in my decision to return. It is still there as a constant reminder of a life I could have, but shouldn’t have, lived. As much as I loved Austin and as much as I sometimes miss my time there, it was never where I was supposed to be and the added shame that I chose to run from, instead of face, my problems only serves to amplify the lessons learned from that experience.

            Through all of the painful memories and questionable decisions, I have never once felt regret. My experiences test my resolve daily and keep me questioning every step before I take it, not after. I live my life with the knowledge that on a day that will come sooner than I would like, I may not be able to recall the simplest things. So, I rejoice in tattoos more permanent than my memories. Their stories are my stories and when I have been silenced by old age, they will remain as a testament to the memories I can no longer recall. Tattoos are more than just a pretty design. They are complex symbols telling stories of the life of the owner. Within the intricate needle work and colorful designs live the breaths and memories of the people who choose to cover themselves in ink; witness and memoir to a life well-lived.

A Note to New Beginnings.

It is amazing how it is, very rarely, the full nights or experiences that we remember. But rather, the singular moments, the off-hand remarks, the moments of prolonged eye contact. The moments you always assume will mean nothing. Those are the moments that end up meaning everything.

I still remember, quite vividly, sitting in the living room of a friend's apartment during a New Year's Eve party. At that point in my life, I was trying to cultivate my persona as a writer. I always carried with me a standard composition notebook, as I do to this day, in an attempt to always be at the ready should some unforeseen moment worth note flutter into my life. That night, as conversation bounced off the walls around me, I sat, legs tucked under me, scribbling in one of these notebooks. In all likelihood these scribbles were merely some meaningless drivel that seemed poignant in the moment. Listening to the conversations around me, I became absorbed in the world between reality and fantasy familiar to avid people watchers.

 In attendance at this party was a young man, who later in life would prove to be one of my worst mistakes. He was charismatic and handsome and I was hopelessly enamored. As I scribbled away, he silently crouched next to the arm of my chair. Never once did he try to read what I was writing but instead he simply watched me absentmindedly scratching at the lines on the page. When I finally looked up, his eyes hung on to mine. 

"Do you know who you remind me of when you write like that?"

"Who?" I asked. 

"Me."

That simple exchange held in it the hope that would, ultimately, cause the majority of the heartbreak I felt in my early twenties. As early as later that night, he would go on to choose one of the endless parade of women, slightly more attractive than I but never as good, to warm his bed and I would go on to spend that night on the back porch; rocking myself back and forth. In a ritual I would repeat multiple times over the next few years, I fell asleep crying. 

When I think of that night, I always forget the cold night air or the happy giggles of the couplings though out the house. Instead, I remember that singular exchange. I remember the smile and the eyes that spoke to a part of me that, until that moment, had never been seen. I remember the look that never really released me. I don't choose to remember anything but that moment because, in the end, it is that moment that really meant anything. Even if that something didn't end up as I would have liked it to. It still meant something because it changed the trajectory of my life forever.

These ARE a few of my favortie things.

As uncomfortable as it is for me to admit it, I have an annoying habit. 

Let me just start by saying that I like a lot of things. And when I like something I like it. That is the end of the story, for the most part. I don't usually change my mind. I also fall for things...fast and hard. This often leads to me saying something is "my favorite." It happens a lot. The habit has been noticed by my close friends and then mocked. I don't particularly see this habit as a problem, other than it makes me seem flighty and noncommittal. Which I am not, so now is the time for change. Unfortunately, I will still probably call things my favorite when they are not, in fact, "my favorite." It is bound to happen. However, in hopes of defining, more for myself than for someone else, just what I do consider my favorite I have compiled my short list. In no particular order.

1. Having a deeply profound conversation with a complete stranger.

2. Having borderline meaningless conversations with my best friends.

3. Damn near any shade of green you can think of.

4. Potatoes, in any known incarnation.

5. The first time I smell fall in the air, particularly after a long, hot summer. Or the first time I smell spring after winter.

6. Staying up until 4 in the morning to write because the ideas will fly away if I don't capture them on paper. 

7. The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald

8. Rooms filled floor to ceiling with books. Bookcases in general.

9. Fresh flowers. (Lilacs, lavender, and antique roses)

10. Helping a friend who will appreciate the gesture, not expect it.

11. Old Photographs; the idea of, in some way, connecting with people who are gone from this world.

12. Doing little things for people...just because. 

13. Music that takes me away from the moment and forces me into my own mind.

14. Campfires.

15. Beating myself at my own game.

16. People who are willing to display strong emotion.

17. Being alone, in the woods at sunrise.

18. The way I feel after taking a shower for the first time in a few days.

19. The way it feels to build (or rebuild) something with your own two hands.

20. The 1956 Jaguar Roadster. Yes, a car, I know. But look at this thing. Everything about it is sexy.

Oh, and Goodfellas has to be one of the greatest movies of all time.

What classifies someone as crazy?

What makes someone so outside of reality and normal society that they can no longer be trusted with holding up the ideals that make our society what it is? 

Because that is all crazy is, isn't it? 

Just another way of saying that that person is no longer capable of keeping up the charade? 

I don't believe myself to be crazy.

But by saying that, doesn't that make me the crazy one? 

I really would prefer not to know. You see, the truth is, no matter what someone tells me I am always going to be the person I am. I am not going to change unless I will myself to do so.

 Sure, I may learn the appropriate response and I may learn to keep my mouth shut but those thoughts and feelings that keep me in some perpetual state of gloom and paranoia are always going to be present. 

There is no treatment, only training. 

I found this on the PostSecret website this morning.

As life so often goes, I have been thinking about just this sort of thing a lot lately. I never wanted to be the type of person who would sacrifice my own happiness for the sake of someone else's. And yet that is the exact person I turned out to be. I used to believe that there was little I could do about this. That this personality was just one that I had to deal with. It was just something I had to accept. Now, I know that I don't have to and that I don't want to. 

A few years ago I tried to take my life into my own hands and moved to Austin. The first couple weeks were a whirlwind. I went to as many shows as I could, I deep-water free soloed for the first time, and I found a job working with amazing people that I came to accept as my family while I was down there. The strange thing was that in that moment, I didn't appreciate anything that I was doing. I spent all my time wanting my friends to be there with me. I wanted to share this experience with everyone I loved back home. Looking back on it, I know that this is the real reason I decided to move back. I was looking for an excuse. So, when I was faced with the decision to stay and tough it out or move back home and have a go at a relationship I had wanted so badly for years, I caved under the pressure, packed up my life and moved back home. To say I regret this decision would be, in many ways, a gross understatement. Upon my return, I discovered I wasn't really all that missed. The relationship I had returned for dissolved in a matter of moments and my friends seemed nothing but ambivalent to see me. The truth is, I felt ashamed. Even on the 14-hour drive home I knew what I was doing was the wrong thing to do. 

In the end, I suppose the decision to come back has served some sort of purpose.
But my whole point to this is that I had made most of my decisions in reaction to or in preparation for the actions and decisions of other people. I hadn't really ever taken a second to think deeply about how I was going to go about getting what I wanted or becoming who I wanted to be. Part of me probably thought the whole process would just happen through osmosis. After coming to this realization, I got beyond upset. I was livid. I didn't understand how I had allowed myself to forfeit the only true source of power I had as a person. I lashed out at the people around me and starting picking fights with some of my dearest of friends and it made me feel awful.  In my lame attempt to take back the control over my life that I thought I had lost I caused a lot of people a lot of hurt. Looking back on this, I don't know if I regret my actions so much as I regret their consequences. I know that at that time that is what needed to happen in order for me to be the person I was supposed to be. I needed that moment to lash out against the person I had been for so long. However, I do deeply regret the hurt it caused and if there was a way for me to go back and learn the same lessons without the pain of my friends as a blood ransom, I would.
After all of that, the interesting thing is, I still find myself thinking of other people's happiness, but I don't let them get in the way of me achieving what it is that I want to achieve. I still love my friends with my whole heart but will no longer allow them to make me feel like I have no voice. I know what it is that I want. I know who I want to be and in that knowledge I understand that sometimes I will have to sacrifice a relationship that I have put both time and effort into. This is a fact of life that I have learned (however begrudgingly) to accept.

Here’s an observation.

People Suck.

Concise, I know.

But allow me to illustrate my point with something thing that seems entirely unrelated.

I love Jane Austen.

Every red-blooded woman does. Reading these novels is almost treated as a right of passage. Unfortunately, my upbringing was no different. I read early and I read often. My hormone-riddled mind lusted for the tender exchanges. Crack pipe quality lusting. It was pathetic.

 However, I think the truth to why I love Jane Austen so much lies not in the striking similarities that can be drawn between her world and my own, but rather the drastic and often depressing differences. Sure, I can see bits and pieces of myself in Elizabeth Bennett and I can grasp the pain of waiting right along with Anne Elliot, but those are the types of emotions that are always going to resonate with love-starved, melodramatic, teenage-girls all over the globe. And while these things are certainly entertaining, I find the things I can, in no way, relate to infinitely more interesting. The world described within the pages of Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, and Northanger Abbey is one that is tempered with the same kind of civility that I look for in a world that just simply, doesn’t care. There, behaviors are demonstrated that I've never seen in person. The famous fight between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, is simultaneously vicious and demure. It is restrained and refined, but utterly devastating. I can see these characters display a basic level of civility to even their most loathed of enemies that I don't see when I look at the interactions I have with people I consider my friends.
In short, most of the people written into the pages of these books don’t suck.

Most people in the world around me do.

I guess, I would just like someone to pinpoint the place in time when people stopped caring about the people around them. When did it become okay for not only children, but grown adults to be sullen, despondent, arrogant, and rude?
I certainly don’t know when it happened, but I have my theories.

For those of us between the ages of 20-26, there was an idea starting to infect the world of child care when we were coming of age. Teachers, parents, and others put in charge of our rearing started leading us to believe that we were all little princes and princesses who deserved respect. This was, quite possibly, the single largest piece of bullshit ever fed a generation. Now, don’t get me wrong, I strongly believe that people should have a healthy dose of confidence, but by allowing kids this sense of self-importance these adults are responsible for every douche bag, pseudo-adult that has ever thrown on a pair of skinny jeans. 

I remember being in the 6^th grade and watching as the little brats in my class were coddled and made to believe that their bad behavior was due to some outside force. Maybe their mothers didn’t love them, their father was an alcoholic, or some equally devastating, yet, all too common reason. Fine. I understand the physiological toll that this type of upbringing can have on a person, but I don’t believe that these things allow anyone to get away with being rude. You can call me insensitive if it makes you feel better. The truth is, people have been treated badly sense the dawn of human civilization. There is absolutely nothing special about the mental development of my generation that would make this level of nursing acceptable. In the end, it is the fear of damaging a child that can led to their ultimate destruction.

So, through all of this, what you are left with is an entire generation of people who believe that they are more important than everyone else. They don't know or understand common courtesies and don't see anything wrong with it. Some even wear it as a badge of pride. (For the record, calling yourself an asshole doesn't make it any better. It proves my point. If you know you are a jackass, do something about it.) I’m sure some of this has to do with technology; how easy it is to just not respond to a text message or return a phone call. I understand the temptation to tell someone you didn't get it or your phone died. I just don’t understand how anyone could believe themselves to be so vastly superior to the people around them that they go out of their way to demonstrate it with such a glaring example of disrespect. That and, lets be honest, technology may make the graceless behavior easier, but it is, certainly,  not the source.

The thing that can be so frustrating about this is that it really isn't that difficult to just do the right thing. You almost have to go out of the way to be inconsiderate of the people around you. Everyone knows that if someone calls you (or texts you) the best course of action would be to call them back. People know this and choose not to. But why?

Because their friendship with you is not as important as they view themselves to be.
 
Now, I understand that some times a response is not necessary. Say, if the conversation is over.  However, there are instances when to not respond is tantamount to a slap in the face. If someone asks you if you have plans and you don't want to see them, not answering their call only makes things worse. A negative response is, in many ways, better than no response at all. Would it be all that difficult to tell them you are otherwise engaged?  Whatever you do, do not allow them to believe you may show up.
Unfortunately, this has happened to me personally a few times. Most of the time its not a big deal. I meet up with someone else, have a good time, go home, crisis averted. But occasionally, I have been let to sit at a bar with my gin and tonic, all the while possessing the expectation that the offending friend will either show up or call me. Ultimately, neither of those thing happen and I feel like an utter piece of shit.
It is, in the end, a simple act of neglect. By neglecting me, what these people were telling me is that my very existence was not enough to justify a 30 second phone call.

Jane Austen never had to worry about these nuanced interactions. She never had to debate whether she should have any of the Ms. Bennetts call, text, or Facebook message their love interests. She didn't did really even have to imagine a world where people were generally callous. I'm in no way saying things were entirely better. I happen to love my female liberation, or the fact that I am not required to be introduced to someone, but that style of life echoes back to something simpler.

Ultimately, you cannot teach children to demand respect for themselves. You have to teach them to give it to those who deserve it. You have to teach them to value their friendships and not to take them for granted. And you have to remember that there are always going to be people who forget these things. I will always love my friends, I will always forgive them when they mess up, and I will always go out of my way to be kind to people. After all, this is not the world of Elizabeth Bennett, it requires more and gives less and I have found that, in a world such as this, the only thing you can do is love people and hope they love you enough to return the favor.



"There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."
-Jane Austen (Northanger Abbey)

Give It Up.

I am not, by nature, a competitive person. 

I don't think there is really all that much in life worth being competitive over.

I care about things, deeply. And I will fight for the things I care about. But it seems to me that if I have to fight with someone over something I would have to care about that something an awful lot.

True love?

Worth fighting for.

Who has bigger boobs?

Not. 

This tid-bit of information now exposed, it should be said that me and people like me see through this bullshit in about 0.002 seconds. Some of you may think that you are being sly, or slick, or charming, but the truth is you just look like the type of person who would gladly gnaw off their left thumb than be wrong even once. When people like me meet people like you, most of you will get away with it. Sad, but true. Pointing it out, often, only makes things worse and  I, personally, don't have the energy to fight for the last word.

And I don't care all that much.

So, though out my years of existence I have deduced that there are a few different ways that this competitive gene manifests itself in people. As I have said previously, this usually isn't a big deal. Yes, I will judge you, but no, I will not call you out on it. 

The first of the data set can and should be described as the " I-know! I..." They can be spotted by the use of the phrase, I know! I... which is then usually followed by a story of their own.

Notice the abundance of the word I. These are the type of people who cannot help but turn your story back around on themselves. They can skillfully take a decent conversation and turn it into a way for you to feel like shit and for them to feel like something only slightly better.
Mushrooms, maybe.
Whatever the case, often they go out of their way to make sure the story they are telling you cannot possibly be "beat" or "one-upped."

Say you have recently found yourself going through a prolonged illness or injury.

The "I-know! I..." will take the sharing of your pain, not as an attempt to express your frustration with the situation but rather as an invitation to explain to you why you don't really have it that bad. They will always have had an injury much worse, even if they didn't. The "I-know! I..." is also very fond of randomly interjecting these same type of stories into a conversation even when said interjection has little or nothing to do with the topic being discussed.
The truth about the "I-know! I.." is that they are probably the least annoying of the types on this list. They mean well, but they simply cannot help themselves. This isn't saying that they shouldn't be called out eventually but I warn you, calling out this particular type of person can result in a perceived over-reaction. Given that the "I-know! I.." commits a rather small infraction, often it's not worth the argument that might follow.

The second of the data set can be called the "naner,naner,naner" so called because of the elementary way in which they like to win.
Nanners can be most closely linked to the teacher's pet from your days in elementary mediocrity, although they do share characteristics with the tall kid who would hold your backpack over his head and make you jump for it. These people have at least some legitimate claim to the throne upon which they so haughtily sit. They usually have some grounds on which to brag and because of that it is inappropriate to be angered by their achievements. What isn't inappropriate is to be pissed off when they never let you forget it.
By referencing that one time they urinated off the top of an outhouse, or killed a man in Reno just to watch him die, they will find some way to stake their flag of achievement into your otherwise painless and normal existence.Nanners can either be former high achievers or current high achievers, it matters not.
Now, the truth about the Nanners is that they know exactly what they are doing and, usually, they just don't care. Motivations differ Nanner to Nanner, but often it stems from lack of self confidence. This fact might incline you to take it easy on the Nanner: don't. The last thing they need is someone going along with their ploy. But don't call it out either. No, the best course of action is just to simply be supportive. When they nanner all over you just bring attention back to the things about them that really make them special.
Point out their sense of humor if they have one.

The third and most enraging of all the manifestations I lovingly call, "gum-shoes" for their uncanny ability to get stuck to your life and never leave. These annoying little pricks go out of their way to take away all you hold dear, simply because they can. The kicker is that once they have it, and they will, they prance about, making sure that you notice just what is going on.
Say you are up for a promotion along with the gum-shoe. Now, everyone in the office knows you deserve it. They know how much work you put in and that you are the best person for the job. The gum-shoe is the type of person who will go out of their way to point out your flaws without ever once mentioning their own. Now, its good business sense to promote yourself in these situations but what is different about the gum-shoe is that they don't promote themselves they demote you. Now, once the gum-shoe gets the promotion, which they will, they will use this new found power to make your life a living hell. Don't get me wrong gum-shoes don't limit this to the workplace.
I have had friends, actual human people, be used as pawns in this asinine game.
This is the same kind of behavior we see though out middle and high school and often this is exactly where the gum-shoe learned that they can get away with it. I will not point out why this, in itself, should be reason enough for anyone to analyze their behavior. Instead, I will simply say that any recourse you would have taken while under the age of 19, should be viewed as a non-existent option once grown.
The gum-shoes truth is even more disturbing than that of the Nanner. While the Nanner is aware of what they are doing, the gum-shoe actively plans just how they can make this life of yours more unbearable than it already is. The motivation for the gum-shoe is almost always a sad, sad mix of a sub-par self-confidence and a view of you as a perceived threat. The only way to deal with these people is immediate confrontation. Do no be afraid.

Clearly, these aren't the only classifications but they are the most common.

I will not fight with people like this. Often, I won't even go out of my way to deal with people like this unless absolutely necessary. They get too much joy out of your pain. The games they play with only further complicate your life, if you allow yourself to think about them too much.
I guess, at the base of all of this is the idea that these people are just as hurt as you and I and just didn't learn an appropriate way to deal with it. I wish the world could slow down long enough for them to realize that there are only a few things worth fighting for and if people would go out of their way every once in awhile, you may not ever have to fight at all. It really is all about kindness, even to the people you don't think deserve it. Be kind, be soft, but never let people treat you as if you don't matter.
You do.

The source of anger is almost always hurt. 

I am beyond guilty of often confusing the two. There are certain things, when done, that will always cause me hurt and, ergo, will always make me angry. I pretend to understand why these things spur this response and perhaps there is some deep psychological synapse firing, but in the end none of this really matters. My scars do not have to impact the way I behave.  I have fairly competent reasoning skills and I like to believe that equips me with the ability to think though my pain and come out clean on the other side. 

Unfortunately, this is not the case.

 For whatever reason, I have grown up following the school of thought that says if something gets to be too much to deal with, run away until you've built up enough emotional strength to get though it. 

I am not crazy.

I know this is, probably, the worst possible way of dealing with things. 

The problem is I can't seem to think of anything better to do. I know, rationally, that the best course of action would be to sit down with the source of my problem, talk it out, and move on. But what happens when talking isn't an option? Or, when people simply don't want to listen? More than once I have gotten hurt so badly, and become so angry that the idea of even living in the same town as the person who hurt me seems unbearable. In these cases I move. Often just out of the city for a bit. Once, all the way to Texas.

As I've said before, I am terribly guilty of living my life for others. Because of this I tend to get myself into uncomfortable situations socially. Now, it must be stated that I do play both sides of the field. But I never lie, and I never take up arms for either side. Both sides know exactly what the Swiss and I have in common. I get slammed between that metaphorical rock and a hard place more than I care to. Most of the time I do my best to not let it bother me. I wriggle my way out by appealing to both the rock and it's similarly hard companion and establish for myself a few moments of clear thought. Being forced into any situation is difficult, but when you are shoved between two friends the need to treat the situation gingerly can backfire quickly. 

It should not be assumed that I never have an opinion. Conversations with me quickly prove this to be unequivocally false. My opinions are many and varied. There are just some situations where your opinion is not only not needed, it is a hindrance. It is these situations that get me into trouble. 

In any argument there is truth on both sides of the story. There may be more truth on one side than on the other but it does exist on both sides. Keeping this in mind and applying what has already been learned here today, you should be able to assess that the problem I run into is deciding what part of what side of the story is true. I could spend the next three days talking about perception and how just because something seems to be an affront to your person, it may not have been. But I would be wasting my bad ass word per minute skills, because perception is just another way of saying ignorance. 

Rationally, as humans, we have to have some knowledge of the people around us. But, in the end, all we are left thinking about is ourselves. There usually isn't very much wrong with this, in fact, it keeps us alive. But, it becomes a big issue when we forget that it is this same single-minded view of the world that creates issues that don't  really exist. All those times I have been hurt before probably don't exist like I believed them to. All I know is that they hurt and it is the deep emotional response that causes all the problems. Because we think about us all the time we want or believe others do to. So, we take every comment, every canceled plan, and every side-ways glance as a reflection of the animosity and hatred they feel, when in reality all it probably is just what they say it is. 

Sometimes, its not. 

Look, we all play games. Every one of us. Life is hard and getting along with people can be challenging. So, we create these little tricks and maneuvers to help us navigate those murky waters. Some people play games that help preserve and others are all about destroying, the point is that people don't really know what they are doing. It's just what has worked for them in the past. Some people don't understand that the same actions that seem like second nature to them are actually hurtful and damaging. Holding on to a relationship long after its over isn't good for either person, and perceiving threats where none exist just creates walls that eventually have to come down. 

There really isn't a solution to this. Not really. In Utopia, people would think about others more and not be so quick to jump to conclusions. But this is not Utopia and it never will be. What we have is a world that is fragmented into bits and pieces, each one holding up a person or idea. These pieces are not like those of a puzzle, that share a common beginning and therefore could, at one point, be put back together again. These pieces are individually shaped by who we are. The edges round out through the wear and tear of daily life, and by the perpetual need to bump into others. Eventually, these pieces lay smooth and the water flows as undisturbed as possible, but there will always be those who resist the change and make those of us living down stream deal with the rapids they create.Inevitably, this will cause hurt, but the knowledge that this hurt is temporary and largely in our own minds can hopefully put to rest the nagging voice that tells us otherwise and we can begin to understand that the only thing we should worry about is how we talk to, talk about, and treat other people.

Nothing more.

Sometimes when I'm sitting, quietly, I can feel my dreams kiss me. 

Their lips rest softly on my cheek and remind me I'm alive. 

Somewhere along the line I started living my life for other people. I started feeling ashamed of who I was and became a care taker by default. I thought there wasn't very much interesting about me, but the people around me always needed nurturing. If I could not develop my life into something worth living than I would spend my time nurturing that something in others. This will always be a part of who I am. I care too deeply for the people around me. So deeply, that instead of saying something bothers me the moment it happens, I will lock it away and pretend it is my fault. Ultimately, I will have a moment of clarity and realize that there is nothing wrong with me and spew forth the rotten, vile, hurtful things that have been decomposing in my gut. I will hurt someone. 

I don't like to be alone. I don't like the feeling of having to deal with things by myself, but I am also too stubborn to bother anybody with what is going on. I will ask for help once. If no one thinks it's a big deal, I must be making mountains out of molehills. I'm strong, but I have been holding on for a long time and even the strongest muscles can atrophy.

 

How is it that you can be surrounded by friends and still feel so alone?

The difficult part of all of this is that I don't really expect people to understand. I don't. The strife stems from a deep desire to be more than I am and an understanding that that may never come. It stems from the fear that no matter what I do there will always be someone better to choose and I will be left to flounder. 

Moments of clarity give way to debilitating doubt and I am left to wander. 

Through all of this I know, at my core, that it is these characteristics working in perfect harmony with the rest of me that makes me an amazing person. I know that my caring and my strength make me the type of girl I should be happy to be. I also know, that stumbling upon someone who appreciates it enough to love me, is rare. To deny that I want a family would be the worst kind of lie. To deny that I want love would be suicide. The question is, what kind of love will I be left with? Will the universe ever see fit to bestow upon me the happiness I see in the relationship around me? Or, will I, instead, be relegated to world? 

It seems silly to worry. And to some, the idea may be ludicrous. But to me, love is the thing I live to give and long so desperately for.

Oh, the turth of it.

I am afraid to admit that I have never been the best role model. 

The problem is I would much rather a child think for themselves.

People don't let children be children enough. By a certain age we all but lose the ability to fully tap into our imagination. We are told by the adults in our lives what the reasonable and responsible thing to think is and just assume that we can't have both. 

Children are amazing. They carry entire worlds in their minds. 

I remember imagining but I don't remember how to do it. And that makes me angry.

Why would I ever want to take that away from a child?

I remember when I was younger being absolutely positive that there was a God and that Jesus was exactly what I was told he was. I remember having this unshakable faith that things were just as my pastors had said they were. As I got older I, naturally, began to doubt. The things I was being taught on Sunday didn't line up with the things I was being taught Monday-Friday.

I knew heaven wasn't "up there" because I knew that there was nothing other than sky and planets and solar systems until forever "up there." I also knew that hell wasn't
"down there" because all that was "down there" was magma and mantel and eventually China. I knew this, and I knew that the people surrounded me on Sunday knew this too.

So why were we all just standing here?

I think the problem wasn't that we were all misinformed. I do think there is a God of sorts. I just don't think he is a external paternal figure that lives outside of ourselves, in the clouds above our heads. 

To me God has always been the power, the energy that exists in the universe. When talking about the big bang, you will always hear people say that it started when energy collided. To me, God is that initial energy, bit and pieces of which ended up in each and every one of us. We carry that spark of life in us. The energy that existed at the dawn of time will continue to exists in all of the universe until the end of time. We are merely just a conduit. And in order to understand God, we must first understand ourselves. 

That is why this child-like faith the church asks you to have isn't good for the church. It prolong the numbing of reality. I believe in things. I have faith. But that faith is supported by science, not diminished by it. The idea that science and religion cannot and should not live harmoniously is slowly tearing the church apart. 

I will be the first to admit that I am not a big fan of the organized church in any manifestation. While they have done some amazing things, they don't always. The history is gruesome and enraging. But if the church wants to have any future they have to change the way they think and change the way they present their message. 

I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested. 

John Shelby Sponge really is a genius.

I don't know what I am going to do when the time comes that I have children. I almost think that it is inevitable that they are going to end up a weird amalgamation of the beliefs held by my husband and myself. I just think that the idea of raising a child to blindly believe is dangerous. You can have faith. Just know what you have faith in. Educate yourself and fully understand it. Dive deep into the world. The bible was written. Understand the time it was written in and the history. If they choose to have a traditional faith, I won't hold that against them even though I don't. As long as they are educated in that faith and keep an open mind. 

Contrary to popular belief, there is not one true religion. There is not one truth. The truth is something that is reached in many different ways, at many different time, by many different people. We all solve problems in our own special way, why would religion and faith be any different? The differences we share are what makes this world beautiful and yet it is always the differences that spark the most trouble.

Instant Classic?

So, this morning I was in the middle of my usual routine, reading the chapter I had fallen asleep finishing the night before, and I was struck with a paralyzing thought.

What will my children be reading?

Currently I am fully enjoying my second reading of 

which I can only hope my children will have a fondness for when they reach an age to truly appreciate the humor, as dark and honest as it is. 

The fact that I would find a book like this at all is somewhat shocking given that my parents and I have vastly different taste in reading materials. My father loves the long and epic, Minchener in particular. I don't much care for 200 pages on the uprising of the Rockies and therefore this was never something that was ever remotely interested in reading. I will say, to my credit, that I made it through this little jem,

and promptly contemplated never reading a book again.  My mother, on the other hand, who is a much more prolific reader, prefers crime novels like those streaming from the pens of Patterson and Kava. This is a genre that, while I don't particularly care for, I don't take much of an issue with. At it's core these types of books understand that literature is entertainment and most of them are quite entertaining. Call it lowbrow if it makes you feel better, but all in all not the wost reading decision one could make. 

The truth is that my taste is a little all over the board. I will read just about anything. Recently, I have gone out of my way to read what many would consider "the classics." I have read everything from this painfully long and still some how captivating work,

(Which, by the way, I would not read in the winter unless you want to tickle the homicidal maniac sleeping in the dark recesses of your mind.) to arguably the best book of all time.

It might be fair to say that I haven't really found my niche. Maybe, I never will.

With all of this information in hand the question of my progeny's reading choices is borderline frightening. Let's just cut to the chase and say exactly what I am wondering. Am I ever going to have to suffer though my children carrying around copies of this monstrosity?

Is this what kids are going to look back on my generation and think? I would like to believe that the crap that floats to the top will one day be scooped away to make room from some newly foul form of fiction, but the damage has been done. This will exist in the collective unconscious for the rest of my life. Now, as for those of you who are going to ask the inevitable question, have you even read it? The answer is yes, all four of them. I approached them gingerly. I reserved my opinion until after I had consumed and no, this is not good writing. It appeals to the inner hope of every female adolescent and therefore the success is understandable.

However,

the writing is crap, the characters are undefined and poorly developed, and it REEKS with the lusty desire of a woman living out fantasies that will never come to fruition. Really, it just presents a really twisted way of looking at love and relationships. I wouldn't recommend it.

That being said it is almost inevitable that my to be children will one day read these books. Their young minds will take to the crack filled pages like a junkie on a pipe and I will loose them forever. I will just sit at the foot of their beds and plead with them.

WHY? Why does it have to be Twilight?

I will fight through the pain and stare on with anguish in my eyes. Then one day I will present them with an ultimatum.

They must either pick up,

or get out of my house.

Why I hate Lit classes: A essay on teaching for people who aren't completely inane.

I rather enjoy the English language.

So much so I decided to peruse it at my local center for high education. The truth is, I get my jollies off just like any red-blooded Lit nerd. I love adding meaning when there is none to be found. It sends a shot to my loins to multiply the sexual undertones and project my own feeble existence to the characters in the books I read. But, at the core of it I am still rational enough to know that Literature is nothing more than complex entertainment. I understand that Mr. Darcy doesn't really exist. Although, who wouldn't want to wake up to this?

I dare say no one. 

Anywho, I begrudgingly digress.

This knowledge of the entertainment quality found in literature makes sitting through a Modern Lit class almost impossible.

May I ask when it became okay for teachers to assume the worst in their students?

The assumption that young adults either do not have the will power or the life experience to fully understand a piece of writing is not only a gross underestimation but also a little insulting. 

A English professor, who will not be named for fear of douchbaggery to follow, informed me that my fellow students and myself were incapable of fully understanding the text and therefore were simply regurgitating his ideas. 

This is offensive.

Your ideas are not really all that good, supported, or thoughtful.

The years you have spent teaching have taught you nothing other than the ability to leech ideas off of your more intelligent students.

And finally,

Not everything is about sex. Yes, some things are about sex. But somethings are not. Sometimes a knife is just a knife, and sometimes I just want to stab you.

You teach at a community college.

 

Now for something, well, different...

It should go without saying but I am going to say it anyway. Long time, no blog. My schooling and I never were the best of friends and I have yet to perfect the fine art of both doing well in school and having a social life. Early morning work hours don't help much either.

Anyway,

A few weeks ago I was finally able to enjoy a night out with the best people I know; my boys. This is in no way a reference to My Boys, which two of you may have seen. (I count myself as 50% of that estimate.) No, my boys are a trifecta of people I keep at close hand, consisting the Jew, the Gymnast, and the Jack

Not this Jack 

This Jack

 

It is a rare moment indeed when I get to see all of them in the same room but I swear snowflake pigs flew in hell the other day because I was allowed by the grace of Yahweh to not only see them, but spend a prolonged period of time with them sans girlfriends! (Do not read this a my dislike of their female halves, I love their girlfriends, but you know...)

I stand out in the rat pack for two reasons; I am female, and I am single. It puts and interesting slant on things. I tend to be the one pointing out all the attractive young men and they all get to chime in. Most of the time the comments never stray far from, "Go get it!" Of course, much debauchery ensued. It was after a few of these moments that one of my boys (the Jack)pointed out that all of the men I was pointing out...looked the same. In fact, it was declared that I had the most specific taste in men than any woman that he had ever known.

Sigh.

I will be the first to admit that whom I am attracted to doesn't exactly vary. Beard. Check. Boyish pudge. Check. Lumberjack like appearence. Check aaaand check. Zack Galifinakis is one of the most attractive men in the world. 

(So was this guy...

before he slimmed up and shaved his face.) 

I can safely say I have no idea where this infatuation came from. I didn't even know who Paul Bunyan was until I was in my mid-teens. And I live in Nebraska, we don't even have trees. (We are, however the birth place of Arbor Day.)

I guess what I am getting at here is that, given my track record, maybe I should diversify my bonds a little bit. You know, think outside of the beard.

I'll let you know how this goes.

Kaera

Someone tell me I'm not crazy.

Most of the time I don't really care what people do. It can and has been some pretty creepy shit but I keep my mouth shut and prefer not to say a damn thing. As the balding man sitting in the corner of your bedroom would say, watching is more fun anyway. But sometimes I am forced out of my quiet room of judgment and feel obligated to look someone straight in the eye and ask them, "I'm sorry, but what the fuck do you think you are doing?" It isn't something I do to make people feel bad, I do it because there is no sane human being who would look at these actions and NOT say something, at least to themselves. I, however, have no filter in places like this. So what I say to myself gets passed like glorious projectile judgment onto the unsuspecting dumb ass.
Now, I said it takes some freaky shit. But it also takes some stupid shit.
Do NOT ask me what time a particular event is taking place when no less than three feet from my face and one foot from your hand is sign telling you your precious water aerobics class is at 10. This by itself would not get you covered in my verbal vomit but when you then proceed to cover your hands, arms, AND LEGS in the sanatizer that sits right next to that same sign, prepare for something to fly right at you.
I'm sorry, what the fuck do you think you are doing?
First of all you are not going, you are coming INTO the gym. Which means that you are sanitizing your entire body in preparation to go...into the pool. That is filled with chlorine. Doing this with out an ounce of realization does not make it endearing, it makes you stupid.

My last word on politics . . . probably.

I like to think of myself as a somewhat politically minded person.

I don’t blindly identify with either side of the bird but I do like to pay attention to the actions that are being taken by our elected officials. I feel it is my responsibility to figure out for myself what the truth is and not depend on any outside news source to supply information to me.

This means I go out of my way and read the actual document if I feel the need to.

I know.

I know.

I am probably the only person who actually reads these densely packed pieces of legislation. I also realize that this often includes the senators whose soul purpose is to educate themselves and vote according to their constituents wishes. Really, that is the depth of their basic job description. Allow me to redirect before this tangent goes too far in the wrong direction.

Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em.


Anywho, like I said I like to think of myself as somewhat politically minded. So, what my naive little brain cannot possibly wrap itself around is just how it is that people can take perfectly sound political arguments and turn them in to festering pots of personal prejudice and call it commentary. And yes, I am commenting on both sides of the isle.

For me reproductive rights are only a personal issue when you find your self in the position to need them, until then it is constitutional. So yes, I get angry when people say the reason they voted for a particular candidate was because they “share the same belief system” which often translates into “we are both white protestant Christians”, because frankly, your religion has no place in my constitution. And yes, I get angry when people tell me that there is no reason why a mosque should go in around ground zero, because the last time I read the 1st amendment I didn’t notice a “…but Muslims” addendum.
Like I have said before and what you are likely to hear out of me again, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Both conservative and liberal alike have agendas, they do. The only way to know for sure it is know for yourself.

I have always lived with the idea that there is no way to get everyone to agree on one thing let alone everything, but if you can get people to analyze their own behavior though the eyes of truth instead of posturing for the world you might be able to turn this world into a more tolerant place.

Than again.

4am.

I have to work at 5 in the morning.
This sounds worse than it ends up being.
The truth is your body can get used to just about anything, which includes getting up, Monday through Friday, at an ungodly hour.
I have had this particular shift for about four months which is just enough time for me to start to appreciate the things I experience at this time of the morning. I have decided that my sudden acknowledgment for these sights mean one of two things. Either I am 1) growing up and coming to terms with the reality of a full-time job or 2) I have completely lost my mind. But, as per always I assume that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.  You see, at 4 in the morning Lincoln tends to be at its most beautiful.  I have lived in bigger cities, ones that never sleep, but Lincoln likes it slumber and it is sleeping in. The twenty minutes I spend driving to work allow me just enough time to smell the bread in the bakeries, see the dew cling to the streets, and maybe most importantly, not see a single soul. Don't get me wrong the streets here are never crowded, except, perhaps on Fall Saturdays. Lincoln is, however, the type of town that you are almost always guaranteed to run into someone you know. Which makes Lincoln both, simultaneously, wonderful and annoying. I can get ready to go out at night with the mantra, "I will not see Greg tonight, I will not see Greg tonight", running over and over in my head and undoubtedly Greg will be the first person I bump into. In this way Lincoln doesn't let you get away with anything. But, it is on those drives at 4 in the morning that I feel like I did when my father and I shared a secret as a child. I feel like I am privy to a side of this city that no one else is. I feel as if I am in on a secret that no one else knows. 
I talk almost constantly about moving again. I have gone back and forth between different cities and Lincoln for quite sometime. I move away, get bored, move back, get bored, and move again. But I always come back.

Kaera.

The almost prerequisite "Welcome" post.

Well.
The truth is I am torn.
And not in a pop-music, Natalie Imbruglia kind of way. No, my, uh, tearing (?) is not nearly as emotional. It has more to do with my unwillingness to post an official "welcome". I suppose I should take this time to introduce myself and explain exactly what it is I will be talking about. However, this is surprisingly difficult to do when you, yourself, have no idea what it is that you are doing. That isn't to say that this space has no aim; no direction. Just that that direction will be somewhat free flowing and observational.

For example, as I sit here, I am watching the second season of the X-Files. A show that, to me, was always somewhat of a mystery in my youth. I very distinctly remember my parents, my sister, and I watching these same episodes. Sitting on our, now, long forgotten gray couch, eating popcorn. But I cannot for the life of me remember any of these episodes, the experience is completely new to me. And I sure as hell don't remember Jack Black, Lucy Lu and that Dr. from Law and Order: SVU being on the show. Then again, I was eight.

What I am trying to get at here is that I am just going to talk about what happens to be on my mind. And bring light to otherwise overlooked situations that I find to be of some importance. 

Please, take the time and stop back later. God knows, it can only go up from here.