Résumé Writing

I just finished writing my résumé. As with all good résumés, mine employs action words like “developed,” “maintained,” and “organized.” It is has a simple layout and uses short, descriptive sentences. Even though it is somewhat debated among résumé advisors, I decided to have an “Objective” section. I am rather proud of summarizing things so concisely and efficiently, even if I used two pages to do so.

But this is not an employee résumé. I will not be turning it into any potential employers because this résumé is a summary of my life, complete with important events and relationships. For example, my “Objective” section is as follows: “To glorify God by enjoying Him forever.” I debated using “To be happy” instead, but there really is no happiness if it is not about something. Of course, I also have an “Education” section, but below that are the “Relationship History,” “Greatest Compliments,” and “Excellent Friendships” (which really doubles as my references) sections.

The Relationship History section begins like this:

Jennifer Howard
January 1998 – December 2000
Dating with Discussions of Marriage

• Introduced to her at church and developed a friendship
• Requested her to join me for prom and organized the trip
• Maintained a dating relationship for two years until I moved away to college
• Ended the relationship when I realized we could never end up together

The next entry covers my failed engagement relationship, and is followed by one that began on the Internet. At the end of the section I summarize the few, but still significant, various drunken make-out sessions and hook-ups with girls. I can only use the term “girls” to describe them because I honestly cannot remember most of their names. I assume the reader now understands why I will not be turning this in to potential employers.

Under the Greatest Compliments section are a few of my favorites:

“I feel so much safer knowing someone like you is defending this country.”
“I have learned more from being your friend than an entire lifetime at church.”
“If I could only have one other person with me on the planet, it would be you.”
“If I ever end up going to war again, I want you fighting right next to me.”

That last quote came from my Drill Sergeant in boot camp. The date they were received and the speaker’s name are noted in proper format for a professional-looking résumé. I had difficulty recalling these exact quotes, so it took me some time. The “Excellent Friendships” section was difficult to write also, but for a different reason. Due to spatial concerns (one can never overwhelm the reader of a résumé with too much content), I had to narrow it down to three. Clearly, this section overlapped with my “Paradigm Shifts” and “Challenges so Hard I Wanted to Quit” sections because my most excellent friendships were born out of such moments.

The vulnerability present on these two simple pages is terrifying. There it is, my life, with all of its accomplishments, compliments, friendships, mistakes, and intentions gone sour. I think the format made it easier to write, and makes it easier to look at, given that it is simply a basic summary in a presentable layout. These pages contain the most concise and accurate (to me) portrayal of who I am and who I have been. It wasn’t as depressing to write as I first thought. In fact, I feel a sense of relief or release or self-actualization or something else a psychologist would say. In any case, it was a great exercise, and I will probably do it again in a few years’ time.

Intercessory Prayer or Senseless Rage?

I have this weird thing that happens sometimes. It happens when I know someone I care about is hurting or at risk. Sometimes I am so motivated by another person’s troubles that I would like to speak to someone about it immediately. This is not the small sort of thing that happens when a steak is cooked too rare at a restaurant and needs to be sent back, nor when the incorrect amount of change is given and needs to be settled. I am speaking of the type of senseless outrage that inspires me to kick open the gates of Heaven, calmly walk past angels and beauty, approach the throne of the Almighty upright with shoes still attached, and politely ask the Lord of Hosts just what the fuck He thinks He is doing to my friend’s life. And as senseless as I know it is, and as outrageous as it appear to others, I think God actually likes that about me. In fact, I think He made me that way.

My favorite story in the Bible is probably about Jacob wrestling God. To sum up, Jacob wrestled God for an entire night and, despite the Lord disabling his hip during the match, Jacob holds on to Him and states, “I will not let you go unless you bless me,” which He does. Abraham also did this by saying to God Almighty, “Far be it from you to do such a thing,” while they fought over the fate of Sodom. Stubborn. As. A. Mule. Nothing really sums up the Lord’s power and compassion to me like these stories.

I would absolutely love to wrestle Jesus. The closest I can get now is to simply yell at Him about an issue. I do not argue, I tastelessly express my displeasure, because there really is no arguing with God. I mean, I do argue and reason, but that is not the point. No, I merely take out my frustrations on Him and I do not tire until He responds. I am honestly quite surprised that I am not struck down by lightning during these times, but that is a part of the lesson. My God listens.

At first, I am like a challenger entering the ring. I have a score to settle and I do not care about having an objective opinion on the matter. There is no person on earth I could do this with, because I would, frankly, hurt them badly. It goes beyond venting. I wouldn’t stop until I had destroyed either them or myself. And that’s pretty much what happens when I challenge God to a wrestling match. We tend to roll around with the aggressiveness that would traumatize any mother to watch. I pound Him with, “Why would you do this?!” “Some love you have!” “At what point did you not expect me to be upset?” “How can you just sit there while this happens?” I pull no punches, leave no doubt unturned, and throw low blows. I fight dirty, bringing up my personal past hurts and questioning just why He hasn’t learned to meet those needs in people yet. In a sense, I fight like an angry child.

At the time, I simply do not care. I have no morals, no authority, no allegiance to any set standard of behavior. I give no fuck. I am enraged about the issue and the only thing I can do is take Him to task about it. I have listening long enough to know how I feel and I bring that to the Lord with an aggressive agenda for our meeting. I am General Custer, one of the 300 Spartans, a nerd approaching the playground bully, David running at Goliath.

I cannot help but think that during these times He is simply playing with me. He is toying with me, but not in a condescending sense. It is more like when a dog owner plays tug of war with their dog, or when two puppies threaten each other with open but soft biting jaws. The dogs fight with all their might, but are not capable of injuring the other. I guess it is best described in the serious events of a son challenge the authority of his father, or when two brothers must wrestle to test their strength. I need to be deeply reminded of my personal relationship to God. We are unique, and my relationship to Him is like no other. I must know that He cares about me, about what I care about. I need to feel His concern, His resistance, His response; and so I push Him and press Him for it. I need to know where we stand with each other, if He still cares, if He still loves me, and if I still love Him. I am overwhelmed by the need for Him and He must know it.

As we fight, I learn. He makes me feel His concern by pressing further how much I need Him. He emphasizes my need, so that I am like a helplessly crazed lover saying to the beloved, “I need you.” No other relationship would accept this dependence, but He invites, even pursues my need. It is the basis for every good thing in my life. It is here that I stop fighting, and I simply break down. The arms or paws or jaws or whatever I have been threatening with ungodly harm become my refuge, my retreat, and my pillows. A cloud to hide behind, a pillar of fire to shield me. It is a sweet surrender. I love these calm moments after everything has come out. The thunder and rain has just stopped and I am left damp and calm.

Once I am understood, and He has given me an audience, I feel confident again. I am confident because I know I will be coming back to do the same thing soon, but He is ready and willing to take me on. There was never a more caring father, brother, or friend.


Here is an exerpt from The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis showing an exchange between Fledge the horse, and Polly and Digory the children, concerning Aslan the Almighty Lion:
“I am hungry,” said Digory. “Well, tuck in,” said Fledge, taking a big mouthful of grass. Then he raised his head, still chewing and with bits of grass sticking out on each side of his mouth like whiskers, and said, “Come on, you two. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty for us all.” “But we can’t eat grass,” said Digory. “H’m, h,m,” said Fledge, speaking with his mouth full. “Well–h’m–don’t know quite what you’ll do then. Very good grass too.”
Polly and Digory stared at one another in dismay. “Well, I do think someone might have arranged about our meals,” said Digory. “I’m sure Aslan would have, if you’d asked him,” said Fledge. “Wouldn’t he know without being asked?” said Polly. “I’ve no doubt he would,” said the Horse (still with his mouth full). “But I’ve a sort of idea he likes to be asked.”

Thoughts on humility, confidence, and insecurity

It is no secret that confidence is a desirable trait for any person. Confident people are seen as attractive, reliable, and generally “safe” for anyone. They typically achieve much in life, as much as their potential will allow. Truly confident people rarely have insecurities, those troubling doubts about personal worth, security, or lovability. But exceptionally confident people, who look much different than the normal sort, have balanced it with humility.

I love humility, but humility is too often confused with insecurity. The fact that I know my negative traits does not make me insecure. I know my strengths as well. It is perceived worthlessness, unlovability, or inadequacy about these traits that forms into the stickiest fears and doubts. Weaknesses are not insecurities by themselves. Weakness must be mishandled, denied, or compensated for in order to become insecurities and truly ruin confidence. Insecurity says, “I don’t think I can do that,” but Humility says, “I cannot do that, I can only do this.” Both of them are right, but they are not the same.

Humility is true confidence in action. It is not the type of confidence you will find from the guy who approaches you in the bar and introduces himself as your next boyfriend. Generally, he probably just wants to buy you a drink so you won’t notice or care about his overbearing cologne, hairy back, or sexual motives. He wants you to believe his hair, compliments, and carefree attitude are more important than his carelessness, eyes, or body language. He probably owns a big gun, which I do too, but that is not the point. This guy, with his elaborate dancing techniques, chauvinistic yet sweet manners, or exaggerated similar interests is the top card on the house of cards. He is Daffy Duck dressed like Bugs Bunny, or Eeyore acting like Tigger. Insecurities are negative traits covered up by ego and they will come out when the guy at the bar has run out of pickup lines, flattering words, and hilarious but one-lined jokes.

Why do I know this guy? Because I have been this guy. The aggressive jackass traits of socially confident guys appear to me the same as stage fright in teenagers. Puberty didn’t last long enough for them to realize how silly it is to strike a pose and how endearing it is to be honest. It is the difference in affection one would feel for a prim and proper cat as opposed to a mellow lap dog. We laugh at the cat, and love the dog. Still, people go to ridiculous lengths to proposition themselves. They’re like rap stars on the red carpet, wearing everything from feather hats to clocks, as if they were living on stage rather than with the audience.

Confidence without humility comes from those who are secure because they simply have no insight into their weaknesses. For the fun-loving, Tigger-like confidence, ignorance is truly bliss. I enjoy the company of such people, but I would never trust them. Given the right person, situation, or event, the confident person can turn into a coward without ever having realized his weakness. When a bad day at work turns into a kicked-in door or a casual conversation with another turns into a jealous outrage, you have discovered what that laissez-faire personality knew nothing about.

I have met some rather unintelligent and ugly people who were far more attractive than the most accomplished athletic thinkers because, despite their lesser skills and clumsy flaws, they were neither shy, overly-humorous, nor compensatory for them. They were humble, which only comes as a result of honesty, giving no room for baseless insecurity, and thus giving off an endearing confidence. The arrogant, conceited, or otherwise confidently defended egos only attract mistrust.

Christian Hedonism, I guess

The degree to which simple pleasures can be corrupted into harmful evils is constantly shocking to me. I often wonder, “How could such a good thing be so wrong?” A harmful action tends to always have some innocent goal. Even serious offenses like murder, rape, and insulting words can all be motivated by a natural and good desire to experience peace and happiness. To hunger for love, happiness, and peace cannot be bad because they are features of the Creator that command desire. Since God created all good things, and us in His likeness, can we not say He also created in us a divine desire for those things? Conversely, there is no good thing that can be manufactured from the sources of Hell. In and of itself, there is nothing even tempting about Hell. But tragically, it only takes a simple enjoyment of pleasures at the wrong time, in the wrong way, or in the wrong place that can turn them into devilish actions. Worse still, people frequently make such mistakes and turn them into habits. It is quite sad, really, because it seems so simple to just enjoy pleasure purely.

In fact, it is the strongest pleasures, like love, which can do the most damage. As we know, we often hurt the ones we love the most, I know I do. But why? Even in simple friendship, which is probably the easiest of relationships to keep unscathed, we still betray trust and offend each other. Is this really necessary? None of it is ill motivated. There must be some inherent flaw in the system of individuals and each other that trips up our God-given desires. It is this constant transition between goodness and evil that supports my belief in Satan as a fallen angel, obedience as a process, and Jesus as a way to salvation.

The good news, the greatest news, is that no true pleasure can be spawned from pure evil. Everything that feels good, brings happiness, or satisfies is inherently from God, and God's pleasures are more powerful than any cheap imitation. Mercy triumphs over judgment, love covers sin, and a well-placed compliment can make a bad day into a great one. Like a waterfall constantly flowing over a cliff, pleasure purely enjoyed can be cleansing from evil and it is constantly being created, like time itself.

I guess this is why vulnerability and forgiveness are such powerful actions. They are the catalysts for changing pride and conceit into humility and love, and thus any harmful action into a healing one. The most frightening part of this change is the approach or process we must go through in order to pursue it, and thus, do the right thing. We must go through a stage where two irreconcilable thoughts are present in our minds, like the justification for revenge and the reasons for reconciliation, and one must win. We simply cannot stay in this state for long.

It is here where our pursuit of joy is the most practical, most right thing we can do. The desire for love, companionship, friendship, and comfort both given and received can overpower any evil because they are divine desires themselves. We must think of the highest rewards, meditate on them, even dream of them so that we feel a love for them so strongly that they begin to define us. The only failures and hurts I have caused in my life, which there are many, have come when I have stopped pursuing my most satisfying dreams.

"If there lurks in most modern mind the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased." --C.S. Lewis

I Met a Girl I Have to Write About

I met a girl I have to write about. She is gone now, perhaps for good, but I needed to write down the thoughts that have subjugated the time surrounding my sleep. Since I met her, the vast majority of my thoughts have been about her and the vast majority of my actions are attempts to escape thinking about her. The proverbial hooks are strong with this one. Looking back on it, everything about her was surreal.

She was intelligent, even brilliant, almost crazy. She knew of her ability to take on the greatest thinkers in history, which made her slightly conceited but very confident. She was more articulate and persuasive than a university gang leader. Attractive was not the word to use here. Holy hotness does not come close. Everything about her was an intriguing mix. Her face was beautiful and cute, she smelled of jasmine and apple scented cream, her eyes were hazel and blue. Oh. My. God.

On the other side of the conversation is me, insecurities and cigarettes, all of which have doubled in production since I met her. In general, I am confident of myself in most areas, but I am utterly fragile in just a few. And, by some strange stroke of luck or magic, all of these chinks in the armor have been reincarnated from the pages of my journals since meeting her. I have smoked twice since starting this piece. Everything from fear of abandonment, loneliness, failure to establish myself in life, to physical body type has been brought up. I have been terrified, confused, hurt, jealous, happy, ecstatic, and anxious simultaneously, at many times in the day, for weeks. I have not been calm or at peace. I feel like I am getting sick on an amazingly fast rollercoaster and yelling “Slow the fuck down!” as I pass by the control center.

It seems to me that the smartest people in the world are also the most manipulative, and so I am inclined not to trust her. This is a blanket assumption, but I must consider it. One simply cannot know when they are truly being used, especially if one does not care whether they are or not, which I frankly did not. Most likely, I am like every other guy she has met, because from what I have gathered from my friends, being attracted to her is not unique. Intimacy with this girl is practically impossible for me. She shares so much of it, and invites it even more. I fear I would not be unique, and thus, easily abandoned.

Does she have any faults? Absolutely. Perhaps the reader will be relieved to know that I am finally being realistic here. A glimmer of hook sticking out of the bait, maybe? Posted warning signs on the doors and windows? Sure, there are plenty. But she tells me about them. She is honest and vulnerable. I could hurt her if I so desired because she gave me that opportunity. But I am so inspired by her exposure that I only want to protect her. I feel privileged to know her weaknesses, not empowered. I would sooner loose a limb than say a hurtful word or have a selfish response to her. She might be crazy, but she might also be the right type of crazy. An insanity that perfectly fits with mine. Two more cigarettes down.

But let’s be realistic. She is gone now. I am slightly saddened about ever meeting her because of this fact. Like jumping on a large trampoline together, she skyrocketed the degree to which I have since experienced my life. My life since has been both broad and wide, such that I have done so many new things I cannot recall them all and I have done them with such a depth of thought and personal investment that I feel slightly traumatized. It was an amazing experience, and I greatly appreciated having it. Hopefully this is my last thought in the afterglow and I can move on with my life without waiting too anxiously for someone like her to come along again. So, insecurity tells me that she is gone now, probably for good, probably didn’t mean much, probably enjoys the company of many others far more than me. These are not entirely true, but I must mention them, because they are part of working through fears to openly and confidently enjoy life. There is little left to do and I am indeed left with some great memories.

I Hear the Words

Hearing the music from outside
I wander in the dimly lit room
Colors near, silhouettes far
I look for a chair, for my space
I need my space, my privacy, my mood lighting
I have so much to do today.
I slip down into my nervous skin
feel the weight of my own feet put pressure on the ground
The chair shifts slightly as I lean forward
and cover my face to hide from the floor.
I need an open channel, a medium for communication
I need my paycheck so I can pay my bills
Breathing control, concentrate, knock, seek
I listen, perhaps He is trying to talk to me?
I hear the music, the voices, the noises,
the Sunday morning service
Let us simplify
I hear the words
They tell me to exalt Him, to lift Him up
I want to talk to Him first, to explain myself
I introduce myself to Him every week
Again, they say exalt Him
The repetition is soothing, but I know all of these songs have a chorus
How do I talk to Him?
My channel is not yet open to Him,
I do not feel connected. I want to belong.

I have not forgotten You
You were the One I have felt, nearly touched.
You were the One who took away my ability
to control my own body for two hours on October 19, 2001
You were the One they told me I had received,
and You were the One who numbed my pain.
You gave me chills and tickled my feet.
I had forgotten these, even though I tattooed my arm to help remember,
so I am sure I have forgotten many others.

Give me a command Lord.
I want to be doing the right thing, right now
even if it is only for a brief moment.
I have some change in my left pocket, does anybody need it?
What do you want me to do? To be? To go?
I sit silently waiting, pretending to be praying.
Waiting.
My attitude must not be right.
Did I say something wrong?
I’m trying to do the right thing.
Let us simplify
I hear the words
They tell me to exalt Him, to lift Him up
I remember You

They told me I was a fool for wanting You to make me happy
They said I was lazy
They mocked me
But You, You inspired me.
You pulled me.
You persuaded me.
You wooed me.
You proved your ownership with Almighty pleasure.
You put Glory in front of my eyes and said,
“See Me.”
You spoke to me calmly.
You changed me.
You made me taste. You made me drink.
You made me, the sworn enemy of Your methods, love You.
Amazing
I love You.
I love exactly how I feel right now.
I can sit, sing, read, sleep, or dance.
You have demonstrated power over me
I do not complain

We are introduced again
I know who I am
from experiencing You
Experience, trumping all skeptics
I smile, chuckle, laugh and cry
I know what I should be doing
Should? Who would use such a word for worship?
I am loved, I am broken, I am compelled
I am happy
I exalt You, I lift You up
without lifting anything
I know exactly where I belong
Here, right here, in my space
In my room, in Your house
Singing, thinking, praying, reading You
I exalt You
I am so small and perfect in this place
I exalt You, the repetition so soothing
I praise You, an extremist converted
I lift You up

Second Choice

My informal introduction to dating took place in the fourth grade with Tamara Doster. She was hot, athletic, and had one of those sweet yet rough whispery type voices. I flirted my best and caught her attention, but only for a second. I soon learned that she was more interested in Josh, and she trying to pull the same move on him. I was looking at her, she was looking at him, and so if she was looking at him, she wasn’t looking at me. Of course, Josh was interested in someone too, just not Tamara. My situation improved when he asked another girl out and Tamara was left to no one except me to play with at recess.

And thus began my dating life as the Second Choice, a leftover, a hand-me-down, a work of art on the wall. Some guys sometimes call this “sloppy seconds,” because one is basically feeding off of the crumbs of what someone else had. It has become a ridiculous pattern in my dating life. I’m looking at her, she’s looking at him, he starts looking at another, and then she sees me. This is a predictable pattern, like the stages of grief or small talk conversations. I am Plan B, the backup, the reservists, the “if no one else will love me, I’ll be with him” guy. At best, I am a passive opportunist. At worst, a man-whore.

I have learned to live with the subtle regret that accompanies a relationship wherein I was not the first choice at the time. In past relationships, I dated incredibly nice girls who tried to make me feel like the first choice, until the real first choice showed up again. It was a nice, but completely false, gesture. In order to facilitate the survival of my self-esteem, I have developed a tolerance for being easily passed over at first glance. “Yeah, you’re great, but I really like him. Bye.” “No problem, I completely understand.” She leaves and talks with him, he leaves her, and maybe she comes back. I wonder if my career as a wallflower at high school dances contributed to this lifestyle.

But I am tired. I am tired of “loving on” those who use my sincere affection for filler. They treat me as if I am offering them a break from typical guys, but without acknowledging my specific affection for them. This pattern, this inherent flaw, this cruel trick game honestly hurts and I am usually left trying to recover my sense of direction and value. I am a passionate person, with earnest poetry and inside jokes and silly adventures waiting for someone, anyone, who will see me as a First Choice. I do not love lightly or selfishly. But with so many hearts already filled with Xs, nice guy friends, and “like a brother” relationships, I wonder if I will ever connect with someone who isn’t already fascinated by someone else first.

I’ll be honest. I have this guilty pleasure, this lonely late night movie, this carton of chocolate ice cream that leaves you worse off than when you started. It is the dark shadow that falls over the divine desire to love someone. Sometimes I get so sick of bottling up romance and affection that I cannot help but let it out. In my moments of desperation, I “love on” someone who doesn’t even need it or deserve it, stranger or not. I know I’ll be getting nothing back except a smile and a wave goodbye, but it doesn’t matter.

After all of the dreaming, writing, thinking, praying, and crying, there is still passion yet to be released into action. I feel compelled to compliment a beautiful girl. I listen with absolute empathy to the stories of good intentions met with broken hearts. They laugh, I laugh; they cry, I cry. I am real with them. My sincerity can be gauged by the degree to which I hold out my simple heart and purposeful remarks in vulnerability. If the girl is wise, I ask for her advice on something, anything, which lets her know it. I plot out my compliments, gifts, and affections as though they were top secret missions to infiltrate enemy territory. I steal smiles, pickpocket “thank you”s, and boost confidence without blowing my cover. I let them know my day, my week, or my month has been improved by them, and it is absolutely sincerely true.

I freely admit I have maintained my Second Choice status because I indulge myself in this delight. I have taken what was once meant to be given to one worthy enough to sit on top of my highest pedestal and given it to a perfect stranger. But I cannot help it. The anxiety of loneliness is compounded by the impulses one feels from love unspent. And before I go mad or insane or become overwhelmingly depressed, I release these urges in steady routine, like the geyser of Old Faithful.

For those who say I should save it for someone special, I bring up my original point. I am routinely the Second Choice, the substitute, the second string, the spare. Should I offer all of my affection to one who will receive it one second and give it to someone else the next? Or should I offer tiny pieces of the affection to those whose need is great enough to appreciate it? I would gladly lighten the faces of a hundred people than make one potential lover glow. I am not happy with Second Choice, I am miserable. I care too much to be treated so carelessly.

Feeling Used

I am angry. I am so fucking furious I could bite this cigarette in half. I hate feeling used, unimportant, tossed aside. I did nothing to warrant this besides ignoring all of the completely fucking obvious warning signs. At first I thought I was just being polite, then extra polite, then tolerant, inconvenienced, and finally just self-sacrificing. Luckily, staring at my neighbor’s hummingbird feeder apparently awakens my sense of self-worth. How the hell did I ever get into this situation?

It starts with wanting something you’re not allowed to have, like respect without honor, faith without risk, success without failures, an apple without sin. I want this and I don’t want to pay for it. See, I only want this, just this, nothing else. All of the structure and responsibility around it, I don’t really care to see again. It’s actually easy to get: just ask, ignore, or be funny. Small amounts of “just this” and “only that” grow into larger amounts of “needing this” or “really liking that.” But sometimes, usually after the pleasure or security or silver-lined clouds break for a time, you realize how fucked up it all is. This arrangement, this social contract, this exchange, this relationship, is a slavery. And just then, just immediately for a split second, you can feel a slight coldness in your chest, like an ice cube, sinking down into your heart toward your spine. Grief. Good fucking grief.

I don’t mind being used for things like favors, one-sided conversations, or human ladders. I just want to know I’m being used when I am. If I am being used, I want to know that my personal value as a human is only based on my performance in one specific function. I’m okay with that, when I know it, but I prefer the choice. If you only want one small part of me, do not lead me to trust you with more than that. My life does not grow back.

It’s fucking absurd how disappointed I become when I am used by people who consistently just use people. It’s their M.O., but I still sign up. Fucking Satan. That’s his best talent. I am so much more of an ass than Adam. If I was in that garden, the first tree I visited would’ve been that “bad” one. And if a snake came up to me and promised me knowledge of good and evil from just one bite, I’d say “That’s awesome, I’ll take two apples, I have a girl to impress.” There is no better salesman for my slavery than an empty stomach.

Inevitably, the thing you set out to use ends up using you. Like unwrapping the biggest present at Christmas to find an empty box. I feel cheated, but I cheated first. It is not unfair that my cookie-filled fist is stuck in the jar. Just when you think that doing the right thing makes no practical sense, it ends up being the most practical thing you can do. On the morning after, when I need to prop up or cover or lean my head on something in order to think, I feel hope deferred. In the morning of mourning, when your foolish choices make your brain’s check engine light blink, time stops like looking in a mirror.

I am fucking angry. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. The second came when I ignored the first. A third there will not be. That is some life poetry.

My Parents' House

I've just spent the past two days at my parents' house, formerly known as the confines of my adolescent youth. It is so relaxing here I wonder why I ever left. The daytime here is absolutely calm and docile. The nighttime is even better. Today I actually had to remind myself to walk slower, talk about less important topics, and focus on the taste of food.

In fact, I just spent the past hour sitting outside on the front porch looking out at my old stomping grounds. After the many months and years I've spent on that porch, I could probably draw the landscape from memory. I remember the shape and color of trees despite the changing seasons. Even at night, every porch light and star is familiar to me in both color and brightness. Sometimes places are so familiar that they are like friendly ghosts one can sit with and visit. And honestly, while I was lying down in the driveway staring up at the stars, I actually did talk to them. I don't really know why.

I know this place so well. I know the sound and texture of every door and lock in this house. Thanks to my high school adventures, I know how navigate every obstacle between the front door and my room without making a sound. I can even do it in the dark, seriously. I know the angle at which the screen door squeaks, the creakiest portions of the wood floor, and the amount of twist to apply to the door knob without hearing it open. I've never felt so comfortable in bare feet.

I can actually retrace my life according to what I see here. The one stop light in town used to be just a stop sign when I first arrived here at four years old. The dirt lot on the corner was paved for a supermarket when I was six. Our house was built when I was nine. I helped my dad put in our sprinkler system at ten. A faulty rope swing and I broke a branch off of the nearby oak tree when I was eleven. The 30 foot cottonwood tree in our backyard fell victim to my lawnmowing skills when it was only one foot high. I chopped it down to grass level again about two months later. My dad was pissed, but I now brag about how it is the tallest tree in our yard.

I put those rocks there, that tree there, and painted this side of the house. I know where every sprinkler pipe is laid out under the lawn, and I can still see the burnt holes in the wood siding that suffered the stare of my magnifying glass. Sometimes I feel like this place knows me better than I know myself. I guess the same can be said about my parents, but I hate saying that. I feel comfortable around the things I know so well. I guess they know me too, but they never make any demands of me despite that advantage. I love that, and I guess I love this place because of it.

If I Ran Heaven

If I ran heaven, there would be a special area reserved for angels to sit and listen to people. The Holy Spirit Himself would give in-flight tours of creation, describing the design and function of every living thing with far more detail than the Discovery channel.

If I ran heaven, outside the front gate would be a garden filled with second chances. Everybody would be able to go there, even if it was hard to see some people who could never enter the gate. There would a special detachment of angels to help the Saved deal with the loss of the Unsaved.

If I ran heaven, all questions would be able to be answered, even if they were bad or irrational. With this in place I could discover the location of every pair of my socks, every unsolved mystery, and all of my x-girlfriends' thoughts. There would be an apology wall, where every bad memory could be written and received in public vulnerability. There would be a swimming pool that washed away every broken heart and bad childhood memory.

If I ran heaven, there would be a heavenly Olympics, where participants could race mythical characters such as The Flash, box with Superman, and if they're lucky, wrestle Jesus. And even though we wouldn't have bodies to maintain, there would still be a gym.

If I ran heaven, there would be a school for everything taught by the Lord Himself. We could sit and listen to lectures on His design of nature, language, culture, and chocolate. There would be a comedy show with video presentations on the silliness of humans that far surpasses America's Funniest Home Videos. The Lord Himself would reminisce about His best moments watching the proud and professional suffering hiccups, yawning, goosebumps, and being ticklish.

If I ran heaven, sleep would be an unnecessary, yet popular pastime. I could curl up with most fuzzy and dangerous of animals. All of my past pets would be there, of course, and I could listen to them reminisce about the times we had together. I could meet every animal I hunted and we could fondly recall their last moment on earth together. Somehow I believe early American Indian tribes would help me here.

If I ran heaven, there would a room larger than the earth itself filled with music from every culture on earth. Tribes from every continent would be able to speak their language, cook their food, and host their most honored ceremonies. Parties would be held every day and night in each section, and politics would be banned everywhere. I could spend at least a hundred lifetimes in this room alone.

If I ran heaven, tattoos would be the norm. Dances would be taught on golden floors. Crowns would be given as birthday gifts. And Stella Artois would be on tap.

And finally, if I ran heaven, everything would be so lovely that one would always want to worship. Guys could look at girls and think “Praise God! That is the hottest, most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” And girls could look at guys and think... whatever it is they think about guys. We could sit in front of the Lord's throne and feel every emotion at once. We could look at Him and not be able to blink. We could hug Him and never let go. We could sing in perfect harmony together. We could talk late at night under the stars. We could eat next to Him at every meal. We could smile at Him and He would smile back. We could sneeze and He would say... whatever it is He says when we sneeze.