25 Random Facts About Me
Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
1. I know every song in the movie Grease by heart.
2. When I was young, I spent most of my money collecting Garfield books and read them constantly. I believe this explains much of my personality.
3. Four days ago I was walking lost in the middle of the desert at midnight with three bottles of beer (yet sober), a bottle opener, a dead GPS, and no idea where I was or where I was going. True story.
4. When it comes to cleaning dishes, I would rather throw all of them away and buy new ones.
5. I entirely loathe running.
6. I purposefully make my room a manageable mess (like a nest) so that few people besides me can be completely comfortable in it. I love my room.
7. On occasion I go to strip clubs, order coffee, and visit with the patrons and strippers. No tips, no dances, nothing sexual. The conversation and company is completely chill and fulfilling. Most people I have told this fact to seem find it offensive, naïve, and desperate behavior. I wish they would come with me just once.
8. My first and only experience with illegal drugs was with a homeless guy. I bought him dinner, so he gave me a joint. We smoked it in front of the hold-in-the-wall Mexican place after finishing our meal. Good times.
9. This is my favorite number.
10. Crockpots are perfect companions for poorly graduated employable bachelors. I have two.
11. My “list” for what I'm looking for in a woman differs greatly between theory and practice.
12. I play guitar, and can play for hours at a time, but I do not know any songs by heart.
13. I'm typing this list on a 46” Sony HDTV that I hooked up my homemade computer to.
14. When I was about 4 years old, I imagined myself as strong as Superman, picked up our family TV and fell over backwards, breaking my collar bone.
15. Yes, I have an eHarmony profile.
16. I think tetherball should be an Olympic sport.
17. At various points in my life I have been “diagnosed” with a social anxiety disorder, depression, PTSD, and I'm currently take medication for all of the above. Most shrinks say I open myself up too fast by talking about personal details with large expectations of trust and end up.... Oh. Drat.
18. Semicolons are punctuational hermaphrodites that have no place or purpose in the English language. And yes, I vote Republican.
19. Sometimes I listen to house/techno when I read.
20. I have only one ultimate goal in life: Be Happy. I am absolutely sincere and seriously silly in pursuing it at all times.
21. I'm pretty sure that I scare/intimidate most people, and I am dangerous I guess, but I'm more good than I am bad.
22. I usually only eat once a day.
23. I once attempted a backflip on a snowboard and ended up knocking myself out cold. I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up laying there, I felt ridiculously manly and I laughed. It hurt though.
24. Sometimes I have a hard time finishing things, following through/up, commitment, etc.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Dear Journal
As selfish as it may be, bear with me as I tell you a little bit about myself. I fear that I have become an alcoholic and a rather brutal viking philosopher. I am drinking my 5th rum and coke as I write, but I barely feel a thing. Apparently, the events I experienced in war have proven more potent than I originally prepared for. Actually, I believe I could never have prepared myself for them. Nevertheless, I am constantly dedicating myself, with great effort, to live in the present. The memories I have collected (that damnable combination of chemicals, compounds, and grey cell matter) are each and of themselves the worst nightmares I have ever had actually happen. I wake up to them and attempt to fall asleep with them every day. Yeah, it basically sucks. War, apparently, is the smartest of onions. Each day and week, event and tragedy, connected through a series of sights, sounds, smells, and reflections of the continuously deep. Dumber men than I, whom I wish at this point that I was more like, have much less problems than I do. The experiences of war are not for those caught up in critical self-reflection. I am depressed, seeking help, but functional.
Yesterday I returned from a trip to Las Vegas. Upon the crest of intoxication, which I rode rather successfully for a few hours, I met many intriguing people. Apparently, I have a knack for bring out the worst in people, especially while intoxicated. I met a prostitute at the bar while ordering drinks, who groped me while suggesting me take a shot with her (which, of course, I should buy). I met a lover, a bright woman, who fell in love with a football player on scholarship, who then dropped out of college, and married after nine years on the chase. I met a beautiful journalist, who recently graduated college looking for a good break, to whom I spilled more secrets than I should have given my security clearance. I met a make-up artist, who was sitting alone in the smoking section disgusted with the Las Vegas scene, and who was willing to share in the disgust with myself. I met (or rather, who literally ran into me on the steps) an overly intoxicated girl two weeks out of a six year relationship, accompanied by two valiant girlfriends, whom I guided to taxi to the best of my drunken ability. I was awarded with a kiss. To sober up, I went to a nearby cafe, when I was approached by a brother and sister in town for a stylists' convention. The brother was a homosexual, who originally approached me with hopes, tagging along his sister. The sister was far less caked-out than her brother and interested me far more. After an hour of conversation, the sister opened up to me enough to let me know that her brother had attempted suicide two weeks prior. The fresh scars on his wrists, cut vertically instead of horizontally, gave his desperate need for attention away far prior to her telling me this. She came to meet his aid in Las Vegas, and admitted to me that she was merely prolonging the inevitable. She came to tearing up quickly, and I was left to merely hugging her and kissing her on the cheek as she told me the full story. To sum it up, a shitty childhood met with a suicide of loved ones.
Over the course of six hours I met and learned these people. It was an amazing night. However, I am thoroughly ashamed of it. I feel guilty every time I am drunk, even though it was (since I forgot to bring my medication and was going through withdrawals) the only way I am aware of to keep myself sane while around my family. I hope I never and always have the same such nights in my future. Thanks for listening Abby.
With no and many regrets,
Benjamin
Yesterday I returned from a trip to Las Vegas. Upon the crest of intoxication, which I rode rather successfully for a few hours, I met many intriguing people. Apparently, I have a knack for bring out the worst in people, especially while intoxicated. I met a prostitute at the bar while ordering drinks, who groped me while suggesting me take a shot with her (which, of course, I should buy). I met a lover, a bright woman, who fell in love with a football player on scholarship, who then dropped out of college, and married after nine years on the chase. I met a beautiful journalist, who recently graduated college looking for a good break, to whom I spilled more secrets than I should have given my security clearance. I met a make-up artist, who was sitting alone in the smoking section disgusted with the Las Vegas scene, and who was willing to share in the disgust with myself. I met (or rather, who literally ran into me on the steps) an overly intoxicated girl two weeks out of a six year relationship, accompanied by two valiant girlfriends, whom I guided to taxi to the best of my drunken ability. I was awarded with a kiss. To sober up, I went to a nearby cafe, when I was approached by a brother and sister in town for a stylists' convention. The brother was a homosexual, who originally approached me with hopes, tagging along his sister. The sister was far less caked-out than her brother and interested me far more. After an hour of conversation, the sister opened up to me enough to let me know that her brother had attempted suicide two weeks prior. The fresh scars on his wrists, cut vertically instead of horizontally, gave his desperate need for attention away far prior to her telling me this. She came to meet his aid in Las Vegas, and admitted to me that she was merely prolonging the inevitable. She came to tearing up quickly, and I was left to merely hugging her and kissing her on the cheek as she told me the full story. To sum it up, a shitty childhood met with a suicide of loved ones.
Over the course of six hours I met and learned these people. It was an amazing night. However, I am thoroughly ashamed of it. I feel guilty every time I am drunk, even though it was (since I forgot to bring my medication and was going through withdrawals) the only way I am aware of to keep myself sane while around my family. I hope I never and always have the same such nights in my future. Thanks for listening Abby.
With no and many regrets,
Benjamin
Friday, January 16, 2009
To Be Loved
To be alone in this world is the most horrifying and terrible of circumstances. But to be loved, by merely just one, is the most valuable and beautiful thing in all the world.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Something I Wrote While Deployed
The Lost City of Hope
There lives amongst us a vast population separate but identical in flesh. They walk under clothing, uniforms, and cover, circulating air through their hollow form. They are filled with intangibles, intentions, perceptions, judgments, and rabid emotions. Like ghosts, their transparency is apparent, yet our senses respond to their matter. They look like us, like they are indeed people, with all of our unique qualities. We expect them as themselves, without even realizing that hope, without even defining it a hope of ours. They appear that much alike us.
This city is a nightmare not unlike the horror films of Resident Evil, 28 Days, or any of the other countless zombie flicks that turn the seemingly human into a creature of raw fleshly instinct. Yet, even worse, there is no flicker in their eyes, no distorted faces, no long fangs or dragging limbs of indication. A guise of the regular, the normal, the average, the drastically ordinary middle covers them from insight and discernment. They wear professional attire, uniforms, jeans and t-shirts, shorts and sandals, boots and camouflage.
And here I am. Lost in this city. I have been here all year, lost and losing my way. The ancient stars are different here, as unrecognizable as the traitors and impostors that I am sworn by an unbreakable oath to support. It is my mission here, to support them, to assist in their success. And, as I think about it now, the ultimate success and rise to power of this population of hollow humans is more frightening to me than the true terror of Hell itself. Empty souls, constantly feeding themselves without ever satisfying that which drives them to consume each other. I never knew such a transformational evil existed in those who were once children, walk with two legs, use thumbs, grow hair on their heads and wear sunglasses. My conscience is in a traumatized shock. Stared and stunned, flashing strange galaxies. I am hurt, but feel no pain; I am sad, but feel only indifference; I know who I am, but I cannot discern the individuals around me. A thunderstorm or the sun itself could hover closely above my bare head and I still would not be in want.
Like Hollywood zombies, I wonder if this population has been consumed by an alien infection. Perhaps it starts at the heart, eating away all compassion and empathy. It might disturb the nervous system, leaving its host to shake uncontrollably with adrenaline rushed rage. And at the worst stage, could the infection explain the disappearance of the host's bones? Everyone I see infected is left without a backbone, pacified into an almost jellied electric form, reacting like a limp joint to the slightest red rubber triangle bumps and breezes of conflict.
The metaphorical population I have described is the literal group of 45 U.S. Army soldiers I am a part of. I am deployed here with them, and have been since January. I cannot literally describe these people. They rarely appear to be people still, but mainly live as barely animals. Inanimate objects give me a better vocabulary to describe them. A door that only slams closed, never open. A mirror that criticizes every person it reflects (his motto is proudly preached by him as “Perception is reality.”). A legal pad and buddy fountain pen cynically recording their perception of broken laws, even violations of gravity. A badge representing authority disregarding the authority of badges. A 'New King James' Bible hosting the stripping competitions of red party cups. Dumbbells following their reflections in gym mirrors like cats on laser pointers. Communism spreading democracy by strictly enforcing communism. Humans dressed as soldiers, assuming their identity, acting the part, childishly and furiously denying their alter-egos, punishing each other for lacking in heroism.
I am scared I have become one of them. I am afraid I did not adapt to the best of my ability. There is no telling what has happened to me while I was and while I remain here. I wait to come home, to rediscover my old surroundings, arriving at the reunion of my civilian relatives, and looking in the mirror for the first time in months. I hope the mirror lies to me. I cannot wait to shed this uniform.
There lives amongst us a vast population separate but identical in flesh. They walk under clothing, uniforms, and cover, circulating air through their hollow form. They are filled with intangibles, intentions, perceptions, judgments, and rabid emotions. Like ghosts, their transparency is apparent, yet our senses respond to their matter. They look like us, like they are indeed people, with all of our unique qualities. We expect them as themselves, without even realizing that hope, without even defining it a hope of ours. They appear that much alike us.
This city is a nightmare not unlike the horror films of Resident Evil, 28 Days, or any of the other countless zombie flicks that turn the seemingly human into a creature of raw fleshly instinct. Yet, even worse, there is no flicker in their eyes, no distorted faces, no long fangs or dragging limbs of indication. A guise of the regular, the normal, the average, the drastically ordinary middle covers them from insight and discernment. They wear professional attire, uniforms, jeans and t-shirts, shorts and sandals, boots and camouflage.
And here I am. Lost in this city. I have been here all year, lost and losing my way. The ancient stars are different here, as unrecognizable as the traitors and impostors that I am sworn by an unbreakable oath to support. It is my mission here, to support them, to assist in their success. And, as I think about it now, the ultimate success and rise to power of this population of hollow humans is more frightening to me than the true terror of Hell itself. Empty souls, constantly feeding themselves without ever satisfying that which drives them to consume each other. I never knew such a transformational evil existed in those who were once children, walk with two legs, use thumbs, grow hair on their heads and wear sunglasses. My conscience is in a traumatized shock. Stared and stunned, flashing strange galaxies. I am hurt, but feel no pain; I am sad, but feel only indifference; I know who I am, but I cannot discern the individuals around me. A thunderstorm or the sun itself could hover closely above my bare head and I still would not be in want.
Like Hollywood zombies, I wonder if this population has been consumed by an alien infection. Perhaps it starts at the heart, eating away all compassion and empathy. It might disturb the nervous system, leaving its host to shake uncontrollably with adrenaline rushed rage. And at the worst stage, could the infection explain the disappearance of the host's bones? Everyone I see infected is left without a backbone, pacified into an almost jellied electric form, reacting like a limp joint to the slightest red rubber triangle bumps and breezes of conflict.
The metaphorical population I have described is the literal group of 45 U.S. Army soldiers I am a part of. I am deployed here with them, and have been since January. I cannot literally describe these people. They rarely appear to be people still, but mainly live as barely animals. Inanimate objects give me a better vocabulary to describe them. A door that only slams closed, never open. A mirror that criticizes every person it reflects (his motto is proudly preached by him as “Perception is reality.”). A legal pad and buddy fountain pen cynically recording their perception of broken laws, even violations of gravity. A badge representing authority disregarding the authority of badges. A 'New King James' Bible hosting the stripping competitions of red party cups. Dumbbells following their reflections in gym mirrors like cats on laser pointers. Communism spreading democracy by strictly enforcing communism. Humans dressed as soldiers, assuming their identity, acting the part, childishly and furiously denying their alter-egos, punishing each other for lacking in heroism.
I am scared I have become one of them. I am afraid I did not adapt to the best of my ability. There is no telling what has happened to me while I was and while I remain here. I wait to come home, to rediscover my old surroundings, arriving at the reunion of my civilian relatives, and looking in the mirror for the first time in months. I hope the mirror lies to me. I cannot wait to shed this uniform.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)