My Online Journal

Hobby's Habit

2012-01-15T05:28:00.000-08:00

It's 5:00am, almost. Let's see how long it takes me to write this post about yesterday. I spent the day mostly cooking. Started a batch of chicken thighs in the crockpot by 10:00am complete with chopped onions, garlic, tomatoes, black beans, pinto beans, Miller Lite, and Pinot Grigio. Looked up entertaining internet stories/pictures while watching the cancelled detective TV show Terriers until 2:00pm. Chicken was done by then so I shredded it (fucking hot) and put it back in the crockpot with some hot sauce of my own making. I can't remember what nor how much of what I put into it, but by 5:00pm that shit was delicious.

After dinner/lunch/breakfast I had a cigarette for dessert, my first of the day. Fucking stars man. Decided to watch Celebrity Rehab with Dr Drew so I could relate to people. Two episodes later I decided to watch porn and masturbate, then got into bed to continue watching the series. By 9:30pm it was clear that I wasn't going to sleep without chemical reflection. Got up, poured myself a rum and coke, watched some philosophical gaming lectures, and began to think.

At 11:00pm I was sufficiently warmed up to play some strategy games. Two drinks down I fired up StarCraft 2 and began to play. It's now 5:14am. I lost one game. Six hours. I'm not tired. I'm hyped, mentally. I don't know how I end up accomplishing so much by practicing so many dysfunctions.

Just thought I'd let you know.

The Story of PBoD

2011-10-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

The following is a background to how I got my gamer tag/name: Pink Bunny Of Death, or PBoD for short. It was first published in part during my junior year of high school, when I was a part of Yearbook class. It occurred as a "fake advertisement" story in the ads section in order to entice readers to look at the ads. Since then (1997), I've used the Pink Bunny Of Death as my username for everything from Counter-Strike to Halo to StarCraft 2. This is how it all started:

A fluffy bunny flopped his ears and ate. Nothing paid him mind as he frolicked amongst innocence and flowers. The darkness of the dirt didn't bother to contrast with the whiteness of his fur, because he was just so freaking cute. When your tail hole is a sumptuously swaying cottonball, you've got the whole world wrapped around it.

Amongst the fluffy floppy frolicking of joy and peace came a bloody serpent. No really, the snake was bloody. I don't know why. The little bounds of rabbit feet came plummeting down accidentally, luckily escorting part of the snake's body to Shangri La and the other half to Elysium, instantly. The bunny's wet nose snuggled against the bloody snake as best he could to seek signs of life. He nudged, he poked, he thumped the Earth down one hop at a time; but it appeared to be of no use.

Suddenly without warning, a split tongue slashed its way toward our bleached puddle-jumper. The snake coiled and sprung out chasing the swaying cottonball. With his furry innocence now pricked by the taint of pink, he bounded to help from a nearby giant hoe. The hoe swung down violently against the food below, fueled by the male vengeance of a domestic dispute regarding toilet seats. The bunny cried out with all the voice of his ears and feet, which unfortunately, was understood as a "WWWCCHHHAAAAAAIIIIII!!!!" by the would-be rescuer.

The next blow by the hoe was of a different sort, involving teeth and a blade of death aimed at his vital organs. Fearing for the innocence of his swaying cottonball, our hero leapt into action to defend himself. An unfortunate birth defect had replaced the once-white bunny's herbivoric two front teeth with those of a canine vampire, which resulted in severe persecution during his Junior Hop years. The misfortune continued as the man mistook the fluffy pink vampire bunny's fleeing hop toward his face as a reason to die. The man's long shadow shrunk to none near instantly, before the bunny even landed to twitch his whiskers on the ground beside him.

The two lay still. The bunny, wondering what the violent sex act just happened. The man, dead, with the toilet seat status and the hoe no longer an issue. But wait! The hook, I mean, the hoe! Well the hoe fell on the snake and the snake died.

This is the end and beginning tale of the terrible, veracious, monstrous, hideous, ultimately inconceivable Pink Bunny Of Death.

No, my Yearbook wouldn't print cuss words. Yes, this is the original, circa 1997.
Hope you enjoyed it.

It's One of Those Times

2011-10-08T01:16:00.000-07:00

1:13 AM, Saturday, October 8th 2011. I'm awake. In fact, I'm still awake. A nap came earlier, but that information is meant to distract you from why I'm awake. I just dropped out of school, threatened myself with moving back to my hometown with my parents, and generally initiated my demotion from adult to teenager. Perhaps I'll get a job delivering pizza again, who knows.

The truth is that I planned on not getting any sleep tonight, just so I could write and smoke under the stars and enjoy the quietness of nobody and nothing. Long story short, I was pretty much forced to quit school because I missed my 3 out of 4 midterms due to Army shit, none of my professors allowed me to make them up (even though they knew ahead of time that I'd be on active duty during the midterms), and I cannot even hope to pass those 3 classes with an "F" on the midterm. So I don't have anything to do tomorrow, why not stay up all fucking night?!!

And drink. And play online video games against Koreans who have nothing better to do (yes, I've actually been doing this for the past 4 hours or so). And scare skunks in my backyard by flicking cigarettes at them. And microwave popcorn. And listen to classical music. And obnoxiously serenade my neighbors with my guitar/singing American Idol audition on my back porch. And pop bubble wrap. And vacuum. And throw glass bottles down my back alley. And take out my gun to shoot at that offensive police helicopter noise.... nah, that's not a good idea. I'm still in control, just going a bit crazy.

Sociologists call this a "paradigm shift." Psychologists call this "self-talk." Christians call this "prayer." Teachers call this an "ah ha!" moment. Buddhists call this "meditation." Scientists call this a "discovery." Mathematicians call this a "proof." Philosophers call this "thinking." I'm the first and the last of that list, a thinking paradigm shift of a philosociopherologist or something. I'm 30 years old, unemployed (kinda), and I'm moving back in with my parents. Without adding details, that's a drastically fucked up change.

So cheers to you all present; my wall thermostat, my bookshelf full of books, my refrigerator, my cardboard box of whatever or empty, my Wii remote, my broken/dismantled old hard drive, my venetian blinds... I'll be awake for as long as you all so long as I can enjoy your inanimate peace.

Let's just stay awake to space.

2011-10-07T17:14:00.000-07:00

Immediate Thought I tell myself:
"I'm not doing good enough."

Underlying Principle:
I am not good enough. I don't deserve approval, appreciation, or affection. I deserve only judgment, criticism, and resentment. I can logically and wholeheartedly reject all positive feedback of my good character, worth, performance, behavior, feelings, thoughts, and life goals/accomplishments. Nothing good comes of me.

Truth:
I am doing good enough for everyone, including my parents who never thought I could be a good person. Now my parents love me. No one else cares if I'm good enough because no one pays that much attention to me. No one knows enough about me to judge, criticize, or resent me. I remain hidden so I can do only good to others.

Applicable Thoughts:
If I focus on only my internal thoughts/feedback of my actions, then I am a fucking saint sent from the highest level of heaven. I'm doing my best, which is more than good enough.

Truthful Mistakes of Thought

2011-10-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

Immediate Thought I tell myself:
"Every mistake I make is a failure."

Underlying Principle:
I am a failure because I make mistakes. I can only feel good about my mistakes if I make none. I am either perfect or I'm a failure.

Truth:
I'll never not mistakes. Mistakes are temporary but fixing them is permanent. Failure is always a lie of permanence. No one is ever a failure, including you. No one is ever perfect, including you. Failure is not a consequence of mistakes.

Applicable Thoughts:
When I make mistakes I can fix them without ever being a failure. I can accept mistakes. I don't need to fix all of my past mistakes because no one is perfect. I don't need to worry about future failures due to lack of preparation ("current" mistakes) because they haven't happened yet and I can still do something, even if that something isn't a complete success.

You see that shit? I make my own therapy. Over the past 10 months I've withdrawn myself from 6 of my 8 prescription medications, without ever seeing a doctor about it. Why didn't I see or talk to a doctor while I stopped taking these medications? Because not only wouldn't they allow me to do so, they actually tried to lock me up in a psych ward/"recovery program" for telling them to fuck off. Ever been forced to rapidly flee your doctor's office as they were calling the police because you weren't taking their medication? That was 10 months ago you arrogant dumbass smart people; yes I'm still alive, yes I still drink alcohol, yes I still smoke, no I don't exercise... and by the way I haven't felt this good in a long long time.

Fuck psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, social workers, doctors, and all of you assholes that think you know the mental aspects of a brain. Isn't it ironic and hypocritical for any person with a brain to claim to be an authority on thought because they think they know the mental aspects of a brain? Go fuck yourselves.*

*Consult your physician's physician before reading the above information. Possible side effects might include: lack of pursuit of mental health care, disregard for professionals, loatheful hatred of prescription medication, apathy toward advice from people who think they know more about you than you, wanton belief in the legalization of all mind-altering substances, cease payment for health insurance, and other known and unknown allergies. If you experience any of these symptoms, call 911 immediately because you didn't go to medical school so you suck at your own health. You'll never be happy without a doctor's approval.

Let's Reverse Gender Roles for a bit

2011-09-28T16:44:00.001-07:00

Now, as you probably well know, I'm not the most social adapt person in the world. Yes, that's a misnomer, because I'm really just socially fucking retarded. I randomly get the urge to punch people in the face in public places, I've thrown wedding guests over my shoulder when they tapped it to say hello, and I slur and stutter my words/thoughts with expressively specific hand gestures while talking on the phone. Those faults being known to you dear readers, let's try to complete a typical male routine involving a request to accompany a girl to food.

First, realize how much preparation it takes to ask a girl, whether they be a platonic friend or a romantic date interest, to food. You need to start by setting aside some time. After work, before you crawl into PJs, some day you need to prepare as the day you're going to ask the girl out for food on a day you're prepared to sacrifice all of your wants/needs. Prepare the preparation. You'll need to remember two things during this time: money and every little thing she might want before/during/after food.

Once you get those two things settled you'll need to call your work and arrange time off. Saving a few hundred dollars for asking a girl out to food is pretty fucking difficult, but trust me, you need to have saved money and time in case she actually says "yes" to your social invitation. Call your friends and tell them you're "busy" with the hope of a positive response from the girl you're asking out. Make reservations at the restaurant in accordance with what you imagine will be a positive social environment for eating food. Be sure the restaurant local is in coordination with the social plans she wants. Make plans for after dinner that are entertaining, social, engaging, adventurous in accordance with attire, and hilariously fun. Don't forget to do laundry and plan your excellent sense of fashion/hygiene ahead of time. Remember to prepare your manners and politeness.

Keep in mind you haven't even asked the girl out yet, but LOL it's no big deal, right????

Since the logistics are now ready, let's prepare your mental/emotional state. I know you've done a lot already; saving hundreds of dollars, cleaning your car/house, clearing your schedule of work/friends, but you've really only just begun. You've already invested so much into making sure she'll have no problems accepting your invitation that you'll probably just now realize she might just say "No thank you" and be done with you. What do you do when you're rejected? What happens to those emotions and investments you made in preparation for her wishes?

If you're a guy reading this you know exactly what happens next, because you have gone through this. If you're a girl reading this, you need to read the title again and figure out exactly how much you need to start going through in order to socialize with guys who don't just want to get their dick wet, because I guarantee no girl has ever gone through the above, especially that last paragraph. Nice guys finish last, ladies, because you won't.

Pretend Playing

2011-09-14T19:17:00.000-07:00

"I haven't played with G.I. Joes since I was 8." Those were the words I told to my mother when she asked me why I hadn't played with my latest 13th birthday present. After all, I was now a teenager. One of maturity. An age of landmark and growth growing. The time to pretend, to imagine myself living with abandon through my little toy army men, was long past with my childhood. I was no longer a child so why should anyone expect me to act like one?

Let me tell you about your life, or at least one day of it. When the day comes when you find yourself not play-pretending to be someone else, look around and notice how meaningful and seriously monochromatic everything has become. How long has it been since you were a princess or warrior? The latest movie perhaps? When was the last time you played as a rescuer or someone to be rescued? How many toys meant for pure fiction do you own?

"Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless! What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again, there is nothing new under the sun." -King Solomon, 300BC. Supposedly the wisest man who ever lived would describe your search for a life of meaning as fucking retarded. Dolphins play with ships hundreds of times their size. Monkeys play tag. Kittens play hunting. Dogs chase balls. Puppies pounce on each other. Mice run in wheels. And you're too busy/old/mature/responsible to play pretend?

If you pretended to someone else for a day, whoever you wanted to be, no one would blame you. I certainly wouldn't. I pretend to be someone else as much as possible, which isn't nearly often or often enough.

I pretend to be Raiden from Mortal Kombat (yes, the video game) because I would like to be made of lightning. I pretend to be Batman, inventing new tools for my toolbelt by imagining ways to climb telephone poles. I pretend to be a rockstar master guitarist with a husky throbbing voice that enthralls women. I pretend to be an unbeatable hand-to-hand combat personthing. I am a starfighter, Red Five standing by, stay on target! I am a artist of charcoal and clay, so I can sculpt your face from mud and paint it with bits of plants and pedals. I am a rich inventor kidnapped by hostile terrorists, so I invent an iron suit powered by a nuclear reactor that allows me to fly.

I've forgotten what I was supposed to be taking seriously, how about you?

Electricity - A First-world Problem

2011-09-10T16:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the electricity in San Diego (and all of Southern California) unexpectedly shutoff for about 8 hours. One of my politically-liberal friends on Facebook complained about how they had to preemptively cancel their college class because of "concern for the health of the students." I wrote this is multiple replies:

The GOP policy of "deregulation" and greedy rich white men are responsible for this. or Bush.

I was unfairly forced to read a book for 6 whole hours yesterday while the power was out. My right to online education was denied, even though I paid for it. My right to air conditioning was revoked while the Patriot Act was in effect. I was dehydrated without access to health care. I tried to protest in accordance with my 1st amendment rights, but my college refused to print my signs. Police with guns and tasers stared at me and forced me to light candles and wave lighters to promote peace, justice and prosperity.

My right to study Maslow's hierarchy of needs was denied by corporate interests. Courts have already ruled that I cannot sue SDG&E for violating my personal comfort, causing distress, and forcing a fatal shutdown of thousands of dollars worth of computer equipment. The leftover pizza in my refrigerator spoiled, and I couldn't order replacement pizza online. I'm starving and thirsty. My workout video cut out unexpectedly and I injured myself mid-yoga, but again I cannot sue corporate-ruled-media-energy companies for my life threatening injuries. I fell asleep while reading books causing me to wake up late for important stuff. My vacuum exhaled all of the dust it had picked up today, causing me to breathe toxic fumes.

I was forced to pray to a god I don't believe in because I was so desperately uncomfortable yesterday during the state-run energy blackout, which is a violation of the separation between church and state. I played "Chutes and Ladders" to try to control the panic, but because I fell off a ladder in 3rd grade, I now have PTSD. Again, the government won't pay for my health care, even though they caused my health, without care. I tried to build a fire to produce light in my house and succeeded, but I inhaled too much smoke and the fire department didn't respond because I'm a liberal Democrat. I had to put out the fire on my own, even after I was too warm. My internet shut off without warning, even though the FCC forbids this by law.

My trash wasn't picked up by people I don't know yesterday. Obama was on vacation while the power was out but I'm still unemployed, my washing machine doesn't work, and my cell phone is uncharged. Why doesn't the government care about my job, online education, sanitary clothing conditions, and freedom of speech? Yesterday I could barely drink enough clean water in plastic cups to replace the sweat I used taking a nap on my couch! I'm even in the military damnit! My bong wouldn't light without vodka for fuel/filtration, so the corporation SDG&E prevented by my treatment for the PTSD that they caused. My rechargeable batteries went dead. My microwave popcorn ran out. My frozen vegetables thawed. DID NO ONE SEE THIS COMING? WHY ARE THERE NO LAWS TO PREVENT THIS FROM HAPPENING?

No reply has yet been given. I don't expect one, except maybe an unfriending.

2011-09-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

I solemnly swear to you two too tube
That I'm completely full of shit, except for grammar
That I'm not to be taken seriously, with exception
That I hear voices and see things that don't exist, without reference

I avant-garde my way between sleeps and hunger
My conscience is my biggest fault
My conscience is my greatest failure
My conscience is my least admirable attribute
My conscience will outlive me

The stretchable limits between swears and conscience is clean

When you start to teach your parents

2011-06-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

By the time you reached teenage puberty, you started to realize you were changing as a person. In your early teens, you realized that you were attracted to certain types of people. By your mid-teens, you were learning about two options: college or career. Oh, by the way, you were in love, remember? You didn't know anything about "love" but you knew that THAT boy/girl was extremely fucking amazing and you wanted them to want you. So, by your late teens you were trying to to secure a life-long relationship. During that time you worked harder than you ever have in your life, both physically and emotionally. You were trying to pursue an education, a career, a life-long relationship, and a religion/philosophy.

When you got to your early 20s, you started to realize that you were stuck with a choice you didn't know you already made. You chose a path that wouldn't work for you in the long run and you began to dramatically change your personality as your idealism fit. You stuck with your responsibilities and obligations as best you could, but nothing could prepare you for how insane life became during your mid-20s. You waffled between sheer joy, depression, pain, fun, fear, adventure, safety, moving in with your parents, loving all you could, boundaries in all you couldn't, and finally settling in where you were. It took many years. You think this matters. You think this is somehow important to your life experience, as if that was a part of your self-esteem. You might even put it on your resume. By your late 20s, you think your life is nothing more than the culmination of your experience. It's been a dramatic experience. It's been a harsh experience. It's been a joyful and saddening experience. It's an experiential experience. It's your life.

In your early 30s, you realize how selfishly fucking retarded you were in your "youth", as if "youth" was somehow a disjointed part of your distant past and not you. You begin to realize how human everyone is, like you. It's almost as if everyone on the planet was somehow related to you. Somehow everyone has faults. Everyone has a sense of humor. Everyone has a reason for doubt and reason for lying. Everyone has a reason for faith and a reason for honesty. In your early 30s, you realized that your mom and dad were not just people with faults and virtues, but they were actually the only two people who would ever want you until the day they died.

Your mom and dad gave birth to you when they were in their late teens/early 20s. Your dad started working quite a bit before then (early/mid teens). They raised you with the expectations of their youth, passed down from their parents. They know absolutely nothing about touchscreen cellphones, hybrid car engines, or HD television UNLESS you (or someone younger than you) teaches them. They don't know that baby diapers are flushable, cars are a bad investment, and toilets don't flush with 2 gallons of water. They didn't grow up with any of this. You're going to start teaching them about the world around them. Teach them about your responsibilities, about your life, about your difficulties and joys and excitements and relationships and everything. Your parents become your children.

By your 30s, you'll realize that your parents will never change. Not ever, until the day they die. Your great-grandparents (if you're lucky) will just now die, your grandparents will start to die, and your parents will become extremely old. You know what's coming. You'll start to become desperate and glean from them every possible piece of advice and hope and wisdom. In that time, you'll teach them more about you than they've ever known, even though they've wiped your self-shitting ass and allowed you to vomit on their shoulder. You will tell them about all. You will ask about all. You will confess. You will comfort. You will try all. You will risk everything. You will want nothing more than for your parents to be happy.

You will teach your parents more in those last years than they ever knew, and not just because their world has drastically changed. You'll tell them everything you've learned, everything you know, everything they mean to you, even if they don't listen. You'll make their life as easy as possible, as happy as possible, as beloved as possible.

You will become your parents' teacher, caretaker, and parent.

Pros and Cons of talking about addiction

2011-06-19T16:59:00.000-07:00

Con:
If I admitted or talked about my addictions, then...

Everyone would assume I am "an addict" without question or doubt, including all conclusions and consequences thereof.
Everyone would assume I am incapable of intelligent thought outside of my addiction.
Everyone would assume I am incapable of good behavior outside of my addiction.
Everyone would assume any intelligent thoughts or good behaviors were a rare exception to my life, outside of my addiction.
Everyone would assume my life should revolve around treating my addiction.
Everyone would assume that my admission of addiction means I am asking for their help/advice/sympathy/empathy.
Everyone would assume that I am depressed and/or failing at my life because I am an addict.
If I told a doctor that I'm an addict, then I would be immediately committed to a psych ward or treatment facility.
If I told a doctor that I'm an addict, then all of my current medications/treatment would cease.
If I told a doctor that I'm an addict, then they wouldn't look into anything else in my life besides addiction.
If I told a doctor that I'm an addict, then they would be primary concerned with protecting their malpractice lawsuit ass when prescribing medication/treatment.
If I told a doctor that I'm an addict, I would get their boss's bureaucratic "recommended" treatment rather than actual help.
If I told my friends or family that I'm an addict, they wouldn't know what to say or do.
If I told my friends or family that I'm an addict, they would recommend that I go to a doctor for treatment.

Pro:
If I hid or denied my addictions, then...

Everyone would assume I am not "an addict" without question or doubt, including all conclusions and consequences thereof.
Everyone would assume I am capable of intelligent thought.
Everyone would assume I am capable of good behavior.
Everyone would assume my intelligent thoughts and good behavior were normal.
Everyone would assume my life revolves around me.
Everyone would assume I'm fine without their help, and in fact, they could come to me for help.
Everyone would assume I'm happy and successful.
If I didn't tell doctors, then I could continue living in my own house, with my own food, be able to travel, and sleep until noon.
If I didn't tell doctors, then I could renew medications and avoid "talk therapy" advice without any trouble.
If I didn't tell doctors, then I wouldn't have to deal with red tape, paperwork, forms, "approving authority" stamps, signatures, and other masturbations of public employees.
If I didn't tell friends and family, then they wouldn't find themselves too ignorant to help "an addict."
If I didn't tell friends and family, then we could all communicate and relate as people.

....hmmmm... yeah, fuck everything about "admitting I'm an addict". Addicts are lepers. I'm not a leper.

The First Step is the Most Difficult Step

2011-06-09T21:16:00.000-07:00

If I told you every reason why you should be performing push-ups instead of reading this, would you start doing push-ups right now?
If I took the time to explain how drinking any caffeinated beverage will cause you to die before your parents/children/husband/wife/dog/cat, would you stop drinking caffeine forever?
If a doctor told you that driving in a car would cause your heart to fail, would you stop immediately?
If a dentist told you that only a $15,000 toothbrush would prevent your teeth from falling out, would you buy it and brush daily?
If a psychiatrist said you need to take 4 medications 3x per day to prevent yourself from killing everyone you love, would you take them as instructed?
If I reasonably explained in every way possible that the only thing you can do to go to heaven is stick out your tongue right now, would you do it?
Would you take the first step?
Would you refuse what I explained you need?
Would you require what I explained you don't?
Would you question what I already answered?
Would you doubt what you've already experienced through others?
Doubt their experience? Doubt your thoughts? Doubt your perception?
Because it tells you to do something. Fucking it.
To take the first step. To do push-ups, right now. To brush your teeth, now. To stop drinking "unhealthy" things, forever. To go to heaven, eventually. To not doubt, not explain, not question. Just it. The immediate and eternal reason for the first step. It.

(I hate everything I just wrote, that whole train of thought. It's fucking disgusting. This truly is my online journal.)

Back Alley Musings - St Helen

2011-06-07T22:29:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago an elderly woman asked me for a cigarette. She was hunched-over, frowningly out of air, and clearly struggling for the courage to place the request. Perhaps I was too intimidating while smoking on my backyard porch, perching in reflective fascination with "color" and "thought", but she asked me anyway and I gave her a smoke. We talked then, quite briefly as one should allow, about names, places, things, weather observations, and general awkward stupidity of herp derp narf crap. Her name was Helen and she had just moved into a garage-studio apartment in my San Diego alley from Pittsburgh.
Tonight she asked me for another cigarette, but the conversation lasted four hours. I can honestly say I have never met a more fascinating, compassionate, experienced, happy, or wise person in my entire life. I mean no disrespect towards anyone, not even my parents, but fuckall if a conversation with Helen didn't make me appreciate being a person smaller than the stars during daylight.

So... Helen: At the age of 18, Helen left home to join a convent and became a nun. She was celibate, single, and devoted to Catholicism for the next 15 years. At the age of 33, she left the convent and enrolled in graduate courses. She earned her Bachelors, Masters, and Ph.D in Religious Studies by her 37th birthday (that's 4 years later, folks). After she completed her doctorate, she served under a Catholic bishop ("who was constantly drunk at mass and horny for boys") to further her experience. At 40 she wrote a letter to the Vatican requesting a dismissal from her vows. After a lengthy appeal process, she finally received a "retirement" of her vows. For the next 32 years, Helen was a professor and chair of Religious Studies at USD (University of San Diego), a private prestigious university that costs well over $30,000 in tuition per year to attend. Two years ago, Helen sold her two houses and moved into my alley, at the ripe retirement age of 74. So, to recap, Helen asked me for a second cigarette tonight and we talked.

After 30 minutes of venting my overly-personal current list of depressionist reflection of the usual life of me, I, thinking, we, self, stress, blah blah bullshit of crap if in an else otherwise while negotiable what the fuck are you reading? Helen didn't even blink. Ever realize that you've just over-exposed yourself to someone? That things, the conversation you've just been monologuing, have gone way too far beyond personal? I interrupted myself and asked Helen to tell me her story. The next three hours could be summed up as follows:

Me: "But Helen, were you happy?"
Helen: "Ohh.. YES!!! Absolutely."

You've lived for 74 years, never married, no kids, never had sex, but you're okay with that?
I'm thrilled, never been better.
But when you left the convent, you must've had some life-changing rebellion of faith/identity?
Yeah, that's why I went to school.
Do you still believe in God?
Yes, absolutely.
Why?
Because everyone either needs or wants a reason to exist.
Why didn't you ever get married?
I didn't find the right person.
Are you SURE that you've been happy?
Yes, Ben, I'm sure.

...I could fill in the details, but there's really no point unless I publish a book of the conversation. The bottom line is... you should start smoking so awesome old people will ask you for cigarettes, or something. Helen was convinced that I was lying when I told her what I've done since I was 18. Education, Africa, church intern, Asia, military, teacher... she really thought I was a liar. I'm proud of the doubt I created in an ex-nun.

Meh, I'll probably forget this entire conversation soon, like tomorrow or the day after.

Whatever random that look this like those in who what where?

2011-06-01T01:02:00.000-07:00

I hate the past because of the harbors it holds. I think alcoholics are fucked defined, treatment is their cage and faith is their crime. I think drug addicts are free, treatment is their shame and doctors are their dealers. I think medical professionals determine the fucked from the free, but never tell a soul about their power. I think people generally obey those they believe are superior to themselves.

I think fat people need to move, not move as in "exercise", but move as in "relocate to another society." Any tribe in the Brazil rainforests will do, as will nearly any African subculture. Most of the billions of people in the world believe that fat is healthy. Muscle-toned people don't get chased by lions or sharks because even dumbfucktarded animals know those people have an incurable disease. You don't know this, because you are still listening to those who live with electric dishwashers, HEPA filters, and memberships to places called "gyms" with lifty things that are heavy.

I think everyone is quite normal. But anyone who thinks everyone should be equal is insane. The only way everyone can be equal is if all of us get completely fucked up by taking EQUAL amounts of shrooms, meth, alcohol, and heroin while we dance to the same historically classical music. If we're all fucked up, then no one has any reason to complain about anything. Not doctors. Not lawyers. Not religious moralists. Not siblings. Not graders, teachers, or any other authority. In fact, we might all have a lot of fun. Anyone who wouldn't have fun in that situation is, in my opinion, severe insane.

The Pot

2011-05-11T12:54:00.000-07:00

If you don't want to read the whole thing, the punchline of this post is that my mom would routinely throw pots and pans at my dad.

Last week I decided to short-circuit a parental visit to my home in San Diego by randomly driving four hours to my parents' house in Tehachapi. It was my dad's birthday, but more importantly, it was mother's day. When I spoke to my dad on the phone before my visit, he said they were coming to visit me because "it isn't good for you to isolate yourself from your mom" and "your mom really needs to see you." This is the nature of my parents' relationship with each other and my dad with me. Men serve, women demand. I decided, packed, and started driving at 8:00am on Thursday, with four packs of cigarettes and a plastic red cup full of rum-coke in the cup holder of my car. Sue me. I drove with an open container, and no, I wasn't drunk. I arrived 1/6th of a day later with 1/2 an empty cup.

One of the keynote events of my childhood occurred when I was 12 years old. I had just arrived home from soccer practice after school when my mom burst through the door and announced that she was leaving. She packed a suitcase, grabbed my sister (who she instructed to also pack a suitcase), and left as quickly as she appeared. I didn't know what had happened. The last I saw of my mom and my sister was at the door when my dad walked in with obviously bowed grief. As my mom and sister were at the door walking out, my dad was summarily slapped in the face by my 13 year old sister with the explanation: "How could you!!!!!" And suddenly, without a word otherwise, the door slammed shut.

My mom and sister were gone for two days, staying in a vacation hotel. Throughout their leave, my dad was on the phone constantly, taking days off of work, buying things, not speaking to me, grieving. Just prior to their return, my dad called my school to say I was sick. He instructed me to the clean the entire house, paying special attention to my sister's room and my parents' bedroom. I was thrilled to get out of school, so I cleaned vigorously as instructed. When my dad came home from work, he had purchased two dozen roses for my mom and a bouquet of flowers for my sister. We set them up at strategic locations and my mom and sister arrived home shortly thereafter. Two weeks later, my mom was happy to tell me what happened that day to force her to leave. To this day, my dad hasn't spoken of it and I haven't asked.

According to my mom, here's what happened: My parents had driven to the grocery store to buy food for dinner. During that time, my mom had told my dad of the money she had spent shopping for new outfits, furniture, decorations, etc. My dad became upset because the balance in the checking account was now a negative, and they couldn't buy groceries without bouncing a check. They parked in the grocery store parking lot and continued to argue about money. At some point, my mom had enough and told my dad to "screw off" whilst leaving the car to go buy groceries. It was at this point that my dad grabbed my mom's wrist and said, "No, Karen, we need to talk about this more." In response, my mom said "Marty, let go of me," took the car keys and drove home. My dad walked. I saw the rest. Again, this is her side of the story.

Domestic violence is a prevalent talking-point amongst my youthful college student peers, political leaders, and feminists. It's particularly a feminist protest-worthy problem, which is completely fucking funny to me. Did you know that " Domestic Violence Awareness Month" is a female-only event in October according to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV)? The October picture of abuse according to the NCADV is of a woman bowing her head in hurt shame. That is a tax-dollar government website. My dad grabbed my mom's wrist, let go at her request, and as a result she took her daughter to a hotel for two days. He should've been jailed, fired (since he was law-enforcement), and forcibly removed from our house.

When I arrived at my parents' house last week, I noticed a few pots and pans sitting scattered in the garage. It gave me the idea to cook dinner before they came home from work. I went to the grocery, bought a few whole chickens, potatoes, lemons, spices, veggies, etc., and set them on so my parents would arrive home with a cooked dinner and me. They arrived in perfect timing two hours after I started cooking, and we ate in festive surprise at our stories and changes over the past few months. They were thrilled.

Now, if you don't know my childhood history of being raised like Mogali amongst women, then you won't get how completely shocked my mother was at my cooking that day. My mother fought nearly every day of her "stay-at-home-mom" time with both me and my dad. She daily found it atrociously absurd that she had to make us (my sister and I) shop for groceries, clean the house, and cook dinner while my dad was at work. It was painful and abusive for her, a violence perpetrated by my dad. I remember this line being yelled repeatedly at my dad during my childhood: "You know, raising two kids and three home-cooked meals a day for [# of married years at the time] gets a little old." I remember this line first being spoken when I was 8 years old, just after I had made scrambled eggs and bacon for my family for breakfast. I didn't understand it, since I had just made breakfast without my mom's help. My sister and I never had lunch or "lunch money" during school days. My dad worked weekends and holidays, and he never packed a lunch. My mom almost never cooked. If I add the times my sister and I made meals "with" my mom, then I think my mom only cooked during holidays and extended family gatherings.

While my parents were eating the dinner I cooked them last week, I received some great feedback. My dad exclaimed, "This is the best, most moist chicken I have ever had in my life." My mom questioned, "Ben, where did you learn how to cook?!" I thanked them for their compliments, said I was glad they were enjoying it, and told them the recipe and technique. My mom told me about the old pots and pans she put in the garage since buying an entirely new set of kitchenware. She said I could have some of them if I wanted, but most were reserved for my cousin Tracy (female type), and others needed to be saved for "sentimental value." When I asked why she wanted to save some, she told me that she wanted to save the pots and pans that she had thrown at my dad's head throughout the years, which had bent and warped upon impact. It was one of those sigh-laugh-"ah marriage!"-laugh-sigh moments of comment.

Did you now that women are more likely than men to stalk, attack and psychologically abuse their partners? Did you know that the majority of all domestic violence cases involving physical harm and assault are initiated by women? Did you know that Harvard Med School found 70% of domestic violence is committed by women against men? Do you know that abuse against men is commonly accepted by the legal professions and even celebrated by women in society? Do you remember when I told you that my dad should've been jailed, fired, and removed from our house for grabbing my mom's wrist? If that should've happened to my dad, what should've happened to my mom?

"Oh yeah!"-sigh-laugh-hamarriageha-laugh-sigh, "I remember when you hit dad in the head with a frying pan! You kept the pan?!?" I said with a humored poker face. "Yes! I love it!" My dad was stone silent, eating his vegetables. Nothing happened. I didn't know what to say, so I quickly switched looking between my parents' faces and humorously scanning the room. Suddenly, out of nowhere, nothing continued to happen. Then I remembered why.

I think my dad dipped his heart into a boiling vat of acid and lye when he was 18 years old, the year he went to prom with my mom. He's been numb to all emotional and physical pain, including pots/pans to the head, ever since. He killed all emotional contact with humanity after my mom told him she was just using him so she would have a prom date and broke up with him shortly thereafter. To this day, my mom still tells the story of how "abusive" and "violent" he reacted after she told him how she just used him for a prom date. He showed up to her door and said "I never want to speak to you again", then walked away. According to my mom, she "saved the relationship" by apologizing to him and throwing herself at him as a provider, resulting in a marriage two years later and my sister two years after that. At 22, my dad began working 60 hours a week for the next 34 years. He avoided most everything else, including pots and pans.

Remember when my mom came home and escaped her wrist-grabbing husband, saving her only daughter in the process? What would a 12 year old boy learn by watching his mom rescue his sister and completely ignore him alone with an "abusive" dad? What would a boy learn from watching his 13 year old sister hit his dad in the face, and then watch dad buying her a bouquet of flowers in response? What should a pre-teen boy learn about manhood from watching his dad dodge and get hit in the head with (potentially lethal) steel pots and pans from his mother? What should I have said, now that I'm 30 years old, about my mom nearly leaving with my sister over a wrist-grab and leaving me behind, while she laughs about bending steel with a force she meant for my dad's head? Fucking nothing, suddenly absolutely nothing.

Keep those pots, mom, and go ahead and give them to extended female family and your non-sons.
I learned how to cook during my childhood, even though somehow you cooked three meals per day for my dad. I love you and I'll always cook for you, anytime you wish.

Doc, Let Me Be Blunt

2011-03-10T16:29:00.000-08:00

Every time I walk into the VA for a psychiatry appointment I have to fill out a depression/anxiety survey. Before I was called into my last appointment in February, I didn't fill out the stupid fucking form. I wasn't in the mood, neither for the survey nor for any other bullshit conversation. So, my psychiatrist was "troubled" by my behavior and asked me to fill out the form so he could gauge my depression/anxiety levels on some mathematical psycho-formula scale. I leapt out on a no-bullshit-leftover rant.

Doc, I'm not going to fill out your stupid fucking form because the only reason I am here is so you can type into your computer and eventually the VA will mail me some medication. That's it, that's the only reason I'm here and that's the only reason you're here too. You read the fucking form, ask me some scripted follow-up questions that a PhD from Harvard wrote, feign some empathy to pave the way for some more fucking stupid scripted questions from another PhD who's never been to war or in the military, then you type on your computer and click some boxes and I leave. I say "Thanks", you say "You're welcome", and I'll get medication in the mail for the next three months. So don't pretend like I'm violating some mysterious rule of the VA production process. You get a paycheck, I get medication. That's it. So click and stamp your fucking form and I'll be on my way.
....
No, Doc, I haven't given you a filled-out form since 2009. This is normal, it's even normal that you don't remember. Yes, Doc, I know that I can "talk to somebody" by following the brochure instructions and simply calling 1-800-PLEASE-HOLD. You've given me this same brochure every three months for the past two years. Do you really want me to feign ignorance again like I always do? "Oh, wow, I didn't know these 'talk therapy' programs existed! Free of charge! Wow!!!" Stamp that damn form, click on your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
You're right, Doc, in fact I don't think you or anyone in this office gives a shit about me. Do I give a shit about you? Are we friends? Would you know my name if you saw me on the street? Fuck no, no you wouldn't. Yet, you want me to fill out your stupid fucking form. You don't know me, you'll never know me, just as I don't know you and I'll never know you. How many hours of solid REM sleep did you get last night? (Here's a brochure) Have you smoked anything, including a cigarette, in the past 12 months? (Here's a pamphlet) Have you drank alcohol in the past 12 months? Have you drank more than three drinks in 24 hours? (Here's an addiction center you can check into, for free!!!) In the past 12 months, has anyone told you they're concerned about you? (Brochure for social support) Do you think someone loves you? (Pamphlet of local charities) Doc?... Are you there...? We're having a safe, intimate, trusted conversation here, right? Just tell me what type of food you eat every day. How many conversations do have per day? Doc? Stamp your fucking form, click your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
Yes, Doc, I understand you have a medical professional responsibility in prescribing these medications. I further understand that you have no clue whether or not I swallow them or burn them alive on my BBQ as a party to some sociopathic fetish for torturing chemicals. Your responsibility ends when you stamp the fucking form and click that goddamn computer. Do I have a responsibility to monitor your aspirin intake? No, I don't, you know why? Because we're not friends. We're not intimate persons. We're not even honest strangers. You don't tell me shit about your life, especially regarding your social skills and vitamin supplements, so this is nothing new. It hasn't been new for two years. You still don't know my first name after two years, and to be honest, I don't know yours either. So stamp the fucking form, click your computer and I'll be on my way.
...
"Thanks, Doc."
"You're welcome."

Guns: The Retardation of Californians

2011-02-11T16:15:00.000-08:00

If I wanted to persuade you to agree with me concerning gun control, I would attempt to do so with threaded parallels of gun control to Hitler and Nazi Germany (thanks for the tip, James!!!!). For example, I would tell you that one of the first laws the Nazi party passed in early-1900s Germany was forbidding and controlling the ownership of all handguns/rifles by any German prior to their other invasive population control policies (concentration camps, anyone?). But I don't care about persuading you, nor do I care to incite emotion by tempestuously referring to events that happened in Europe over 100 years ago. I want to tell you a very, very stupid and personal story.

A gun is a mechanical device, much like a pen and paper. It is stupid, as is this. I learned this very early on in my youth. When I was 12 years old my dad and my grandfather bought me a spring-loaded Red Ryder BB-gun and told me the following: "What you do with this cannot be erased. Once you pull the trigger, you're going to live with the consequences of everything that happens after that." This was a warning, but more importantly, it was a truthful story. I have lived with the consequences of each and every single trigger pull since that moment. One of my proudest moments was tracking two moving pigs I shot off the cuff at >275 yards, using my pocket knife to skin and gut them, then cooking the fresh bacon and pork sausage as a meal for the next two weeks. It was the feast of a harvest.

It took me just a few years to learn that what my father and grandfather were trying to teach me was not a warning, was not a promise, was not fear; they taught me, right then and there, that I was living a life of choice, choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of my life choices, and that loop was permanent. They stood by me after giving me the BB-gun by immediately taking me to a remote section of Utah during winter for a two-week tented hunting trip. Their targets were deer and elk. My targets were soda cans, chucker birds, and gray tree squirrels. Whether or not we killed our targets was a moot point. Our goal was a direct interaction with the natural world, of choice and responsibility and consequence for life. I starved and froze my ass off for two-weeks, despite two layers of thermal underwear, many thick coats and gloves, a constant spring of soup and crackers, a space blanket, a toilet seat built from a used walker, and dirt and leaves that I buried myself in as a daily ritual for warmth. Today, as I am writing this on February 21 2011, I would give anything, anything at all, any part of my life experience since or any vital organ of my body now, to relive those two weeks all over again.

So I have an advantage over most people in that my first experience with a gun was not one of fear, but of permission. "You CAN do this, but do you WANT to do this?" It was a choice of mechanical utility, of command decision. You decide and you act and the thing responds. The modern theory that your "pseudo-choice" resulted in "pseudo-consequences," was for me a given undeniable and literal fact. If you triggered a cause, then you did its effects, no excuses for not seeing this fact before and after. A gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Let me give you an example.

The most shockingly shameful moment of my life occurred when I was 15 years old. I made a choice, by myself responsible, and the consequences were dire ("IS THAT REASONING EVEN POSSIBLE?!" - Simon Says, PhD., Humanitarian College Professor). Yes, a gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Deja vu? No, you just re-read what I learned, that a choice can result in good and evil action. Literal, real, full, and fuck you undeniable. A gun did this to me. At 15 years old I nearly shot a bullet into the head of another man, and while on the same trip, I received a shot that left me partially deaf in my right ear.

At this point I believe it is necessary to alleviate your worries as the reader because responsibility necessitates the existence of danger. No offense, but it's incredibly likely that you've been brainwashed into fearing guns as weapons of violence, not mechanics of choice. You're probably either afraid of guns and/or you think guns are primarily used for an ugly sort of anger, vengeance, or upset; you might even think war is the result of a social version of these terms. Unfortunately for ignorance and congressmen, this is fucking bullshit. I know this, and I know where you're coming from, but stay with me, I was 15 years old. My dad thought it best to have me hunt squirrels with him and other hunters who were responsible to eliminate the rabies/rot carried by squirrels onto the various cattle ranches near our home. In my 18+ years of hunting experience since, this is ridiculously rare. No hunter kills an animal just to kill it. The only exception is when there is a threat of overpopulation and/or disease to the natural habitat of the wildlife. In this case, the threat was to cows and horses by a disease which was passed on via the fur of squirrels, but to which squirrels themselves were immune. This trip was an important step for me, since I had never before killed an animal without harvesting it for edible food. I had never before killed an animal for the sake of other animals, nor even for killing to limit disease, and especially not for "sport".

So me, my dad, my uncle Rod, and his friend (let's call him "Jack") were out shooting squirrels for this exact reason. Due to my 15 years of age, I carried a .22 rifle and scope, while everyone else carried much larger rifles with high-powered scopes. We had found a great spot on a cattle ranch, a rock outcropping on the edge of a ravine that looked out across an opposing hillside. The hillside range was perfect, anywhere between 100 and 400 yards, and it was crawling with scores of rabies-infested squirrels that had dug so many holes that the land looked like a broken-down golf range. You find amazingly peaceful beauty in this spot, such natural beauty and colors you cannot describe except with silence. We were having a blast, challenging each other to distance shots, giving verbal awards for "Best stick explosion" and "Most elusive dirt mounds". While we were all lined up sitting side-by-side, I made a fatal error. While tracking a running squirrel as a moving target from right to left through my scope, I had unknowingly swung my rifle barrel directly behind Jack's head. A rifle scope is mounted roughly two inches above the barrel, so despite the fact that my barrel was pointed directly at the base of Jack's skull, I couldn't see him through my scope focused on a target 200 yards away. I saw crosshairs and a running target, that is, until my rifle was ripped up from my hands, my head was bashed into a rock, and I pulled the trigger as though nothing and everything had happened at once.

My dad had no pity for tackling me unconscious. Instead I awoke with my narrowed eyes squinting at the temper of a man who was treating me as if I were an attempted assassin. If you're experience with guns, then I don't need to tell you how completely fucked up my muzzle awareness was that day, nor do I need to tell how right my dad was to knock me out at that precise moment. In you're not experience with guns (a.k.a. you gun-retarded Californian), then just know that if my 15 year old finger had pulled a further 1/8th of an inch on the trigger, a man with a wife and two children would be dead today. Gun use is choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of life choices. A gun is a mechanical device, obeying with full reverence the commands of its operator. Your fingers do this. Your mouth does this. Your car does this. A pen and paper does this. You cannot take it back.

For the rest of the day, per my dad's instruction, I was allowed to shoot only if I was "in front" (greater than 90 degree angle) past any other shooter. I was front-most, foremost, and had an additional responsibility of avoiding being shot by trusting in the awareness of those behind me and my ability to communicate with others mid-fun. Once we moved to a new location, Jack was behind me and shot at a squirrel with the end of his .300 Win. Mag. barrel right next to my ear. The concussion rapidly brushed the side of my face, nearly knocked me over, and left me dazed and confused for a good 30 seconds of my first experience of drunkenness at 15. After I rediscovered my legs, I calmly signaled to those shooters behind me of my intent to move. I picked up my rifle and walked behind the group, stumbling like a dog on rollerskates. The beginning scene in Saving Private Ryan is quite appropriate here. My ears were ringing like numbed screaming birds in chorus, as if I were wearing noise-canceling headphones at a organ orchestra. (On side note, this experience prepared me directly for combat conditions as an Army soldier).

If you've made it this far, and read all above micro-stories and notes, then you deserve to recognize and realize this fact: When I was 15 years old I learned, without even realizing it, that I was capable of shooting the President of the United States in the head from a minimal distance of 500 yards under extreme battlefield conditions. I shot a 2" by 6" target (a squirrel) at 350yds with a low-powered rifle and scope. That was me 16 years ago. Currently, using my California-purchased-legal hunting rifle, I can kill the President or any person at well over 800 yards distance. Most ignorant fucks, upon "discovering" this stupid fact of mechanical utility, respond in avocation of more gun control opinions, but I do not. I bought my rifle legally, bought my scope legally, reloaded my own ammunition legally, and made legal customizations to it merely for my own comfort. I only use this weapon to legally hunt game in California. But, surprisingly to gun-retarded Californians, I could make the President's head explode with this weapon from more than twice the Secret Service's standard cordon. Remember that ballistic glass present at President Obama's inauguration? Yup, my bullets would've penetrated those and killed him where he stood, even if I would've shot beyond the length of the pool. To be honest, I've never either thought of this fact, or even using this fact to promote awareness of guns, to anyone. Why would I? Don't people know that guns kill people from a distance? But, in order to educate you gun retarded Californians of ballistics' ethics, I guess you need to know the simple science behind mechanics.

Despite being law-enforcement personnel, both my dad and I are legally prevented from buying any weapon that is sub-par to the .308 I already own that can take off the President's head. You fucking fucktarded Californians listened to politicians that said "assault weapons" should be illegal. S, you gave money to mainstream-media so you could listen to more anti-gun rhetoric, and you now receive countless statistics and polls on "gun violence" in society. Congrats. You agreed that Columbine kids were" gun victims", so you passed laws that forbade adults from teaching their children with guns. Congrats. You gave over your rights to the state of California to own any gun you purchase by requiring registration of your name, address, phone number, social security number, psychological exam, mental and medical history, gun bolt/slide/grip serial number, and a personality test of 30 multiple-choice questions. Congrats. You told the government that you don't want anyone to ever have the freedom to buy a gun in California, without waiting for 10 days after they've paid a multi-thousand dollar bill and passed the above registration requirements. Congrats. Furthermore, you fucking fucktarded Californian ignorant asshole gun-fearing tits, any rifle that is totally "black" in color is illegal, any gun that shoots more than 8 rounds before a reload is illegal, any rifle that has a manual magazine release is illegal, any gun carried in any car is illegal, any gun manufacturer that does not go through a rigorous California government gun approval testing and procedure is banned from selling guns in California. Guess what manufacturer of guns is carried by over 90% of law-enforcement agencies in California? Answer: Glock. Guess what manufacturer is no longer allow to sell new guns in California? Answer: Glock. Why, why, why? You, you fucking fucktarded Californian, made it illegal for them to do so.

I can kill you at over 800 yards, anywhere day or night, in an instant death without you ever realizing what hit you. You'll never even hear the shot before your head explodes. I can do the same to any congresswoman, President, furniture mover, or father. This can be done by any gun owner. I'll never do this, but I am capable, because a gun is capable. A shot by gun is a life choice, a choice of consequence, consequence of responsibility, responsibility of life choice.

Who will be in charge if the Second Amendment is revoked or Martial Law is declared by your elected leaders? Me. Me, motherfuckers, me and my .308 at 800 yards. The Army, of which I am a part, in California. Cherish your guns fuckers, because the only reason your government hasn't forced upon you what they consider "in your best interest" is due to the fact that you might shoot them with your gun in revolt. I know this, because this is the only threat I would oppose if you try to do this, you fucking fucktarded Californian.

It took me this long to realize this... ???

2011-01-16T13:15:00.000-08:00

Revelation: My ex-fiance's mother signed up for a "suicide hotline" over five years ago so that she could subvert and derail our engagement. I learned of this seemingly insignificant fact of her volunteering for a suicide hotline through my fiance. I didn't think it was significant at the time, even though my fiance's mother specifically requested my fiance to be her "debrief support channel" after the calls during midnight hours. I honestly didn't care, didn't think it was significant, didn't even respond when my fiance told me about it other than "Oh, that sounds awesome. Very cool of your mother to volunteer". But, holy shit, how stupid do I feel after five years of reflection? Consider these facts:

-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to ever get married.
-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to ever get married due to the fact that she was afraid my fiance might actually form a family of her own with another and neglect the enabling responsibilities her mother required for codependency.
-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to specifically marry me due to the fact I was planning on starting my own family with her.
-My fiance's mother broke into my fiance's email account to read our correspondence while I was away in India. After reading a particularly troubling email containing some of my thoughts about her and her family, my fiance's mother immediately brought it up to her husband and left it up to him to confront my fiance about what he/she "randomly stumbled upon while using the computer" (fiance's mother's words, exactly) in terms of how troubling it was to their family.
-My fiance's mother confronted my fiance EVERY SINGLE DAY with reminders of why she should never leave her family to start another while I was away in India,.

Considering that context, and the fact that I wanted as much to be a part of fiance's family as she wanted of our new family, the simple subversive actions of her mother completely alluded me. How could I be so blind? How could I miss this simple fact for the past five years? I don't know.

Five years ago my fiance's mother called a "suicide hotline". She said she wanted to volunteer as a suicide hotline operator, at least, that's what my fiance told me she said. This occurred while I was in India and my fiance was living with her mother. Furthermore, my fiance's mother specifically requested the midnight-4am shift for the hotline, and asked my fiance to be her "debrief support" after every phone call during this time. It just so happens that this was the only time frame that I was able to contact my fiance during her available hours in the local time zone (since I was calling from India). Fuck me, I cannot believe I didn't realize this until now.

Since my fiance was a codependent object of her mother's emotional needs, EVERY SINGLE CALL her mother took necessitated the use of my fiance's debriefing skills. Every day, at midnight, 2am, 1:30am, 3:30am, 2:15am, etc. my fiance was woken up from sleep by her mother to debrief her on the latest suicide call. As such, when I called faithfully at 8:00am local time every day (like I promised I would), my fiance was either asleep, too tired to answer the phone, or delirious from lack of sleep. Guess who answered the phone at her house every day at 8:00am? You got it, my fiance's mother, informing me of my fiance's inability to talk on the phone.

Despite the context, I did not realize until this very day (January 16, 2011), that my fiance's mother put herself and my fiance further into a codependent relationship to prevent our relationship from ever continuing via this act. I thought volunteering for a suicide hotline operator, especially for the midnight-4am shift, was awesomely sacrificial. I didn't even suspect an anterior motive. I didn't see what she was trying, and succeeding, to do. The effect of her actions were that I could never talk to my fiance during convenient times for her while I was overseas in India calling from a telephone booth two miles walk from my residence. Good fucking Lord, I'm still figuring this shit out.

To sum up: Even five to seven years after a marriage fails, you still do not know the whole truth behind the people who made it fail. Not your fault, people are just that subversive and complicated.

How...How is it

2011-01-12T17:53:00.000-08:00

How is it that I can accomplish SO MUCH GOOD while drunk/drinking/under the influence of alcohol, and yet, FEEL SO GUILTY for doing it because of HOW I did it? My God, I did so much good today. I repaired my car, fixed the problems of two of my soldiers by chewing out my superiors for their mistakes, resolved deeply seeded family problems that my sister had with me, exercised, went for a walk, play some games, wrote a philosophical paper on education (that a department director approved) for submission to the SD City College Dean...

I did wondrous things today, but I'm under a cloud. How fucking retarded.

Let's Just Turn This Shit Right Around

2011-01-10T12:43:00.000-08:00

Problems with your relationship? Life getting overwhelming? Moments of trouble for you....ladies? Girls, ladies, women, do you believe in feminism? Or in equality between sexes? Want to be grown-up women? Then I'll treat you like one:

I'm not a doctor, but I'm prescribing you 500ml of cowgirl the fuck up. Awwwww... how cute, it's Pity Me Elmo in its natural habitat. You, the natural evolution of women who have killed large animals with crude spears out of their bare hands and built nations with families of offspring are afraid to approach some random sausage-swinger because a guy from the time when mobile phones were used to call people rejected you?

Boo bloody hoo. You won't get anywhere feeling sorry for your teenage self, and if you keep this shit up you'll be back in ten years saying you're a 38 year old girl who has never been in a successful relationship because once upon a time when computers weren't sentient she was told "no" by a guy who was lost in World War 4.

Tonight you're going to put on a shirt that doesn't say "twenty-three year old virgin", you're going to look up one interesting thing on Wikipedia, and then you're going to tell that interesting thing to no less than three men. Doesn't even fucking matter if you want to shag them or not, you're going to tell them that interesting thing and then you're going to see how long you can hold a conversation with them.

If you're rejected, you look that sausage-swinger dead in the eye and you say "my ancestors ate mutton with their fists", then you walk away and try it on a new one. Don't sulk away, that's expected. That's probably typical of you. You're going to sway away like this happy son of a bitch and you're going to do it with a womanly cocktail in your hand. Ooze estrogen on the ground and proudly declare yourself a sexy bitch, because if you fuck this up then I'm going to half-assedly follow you around from shop to shop yelling a crude "Pussy Bitch" in front of you whilst showing a sign of you in a fugly position having your little hairy legs broken by a monster made of vaginas.

I'll even make this easy on you so you don't boohoo any more than you already are. Erathosthenes, this ancient Greek god who was far better at being a woman than you are, drew the first accurate map of a rounded Earth and knew that we revolved around the sun. Fucking Greeks, they invented democracy when the rest of us were wallowing in our own filth.

Now it's time the boohoo caboose is derailed by Maoist rebels and a whole slew of Indians die. Anything anyone says that doesn't make you angry isn't advice you should bother with. It's going to push you further and further into the delusion that you're anything other than a little black lamb that only gets calls when the handsome lambs need help with codependent care or personal grooming advice.

You're probably highly disinteresting, like so godawfully boring that you tell your finest moment to a guy and he instantly loses any shred of respect he may have had for you. Middle-class white suburbanite who did well in high school but never really fit in with any of the cliques and who was always friends with a guy she longed for but never made any sort of advance so he never really knew you existed? Maybe traveled to Europe or Cancun once after high school and learned so many valuable things about life before returning to hopeful self-reflection and masturbating to previous boyfriends? You meet new people, have one conversation that lasts ten minutes, and then they kind of stop responding to you and you have to fight the urge to ask them if they're still at the keyboard, and when you finally do facebook says "xx is no longer online"?

Your ego is in shreds because you confuse confidence with smuttiness and have to actually justify your looks as "not hideously ugly" on a text-based website where nobody can see you. You shy away from prolonged eye contact and freeze up when making small talk with the till clerk at Subway. Your proudest social moment probably evolves alcohol, bad music, and a few friends who either don't talk with you anymore or who only talk when you initiate the conversation and then only stick to "HAHA I LIKE THE WEATHER. IT IS SUN." because they don't like you enough to learn your opinions on whatever it is you think you're passionate about.

Here's your advice, and I don't expect you'll follow it but maybe if I say "do it." you will because you're incapable of standing up for yourself.

Tomorrow you're going to call one of six guys, any of those in your phone contacts, whichever one you like the most. You're not going to sound angry, nor are you going to sound dejected. You're just going to sound like Audrey fucking Heburn because she's a better woman than you. Here's what you're going to say:

"Heeeyyyy, Audrey Heburn to cute guy. Cute guy, come in. Tonight we're doing dinner and I'll pick you up at eight. Ms Heburn, over."

Why are you going to phrase it like a super model diva voice transmission? Because it's better than "so umm... hi would yOu l..wold, HAHA WOLD I MEANT WOULD, like t-t-to go to dinner please? no? okay...", and of course that's your go-to because you've tried six different times to form a relationship and ended up as a footstool in all of them.

Now you're going to think about one thing you really like. Does he like it as well? If not, think of another thing. Don't you dare think about HAHAUNIVERSITYISFUN^{_^} or any uninteresting quip about the weather or your humanity major. Brush up on this thing, make it sound interesting in a mirror, and then read up on Audrey Heburn so you know just who you're supposed to be tonight.

That's right. You're going to dinner as Audrey Heburn. Why? Because I told you to. Do it. Wear a nice dress, take a long shower, wear flip-flops unless you're one of the few chicks who only looks good in high-heels that make your legs look longer (which you probably aren't, ms. "not hideously ugly"). Clean your house , your car, and brush your teeth twice (once in the morning and once at 19:30) followed by a proper rinse.

Take him to a restaurant that features a cuisine that isn't hollywood romantic or typically American. No chain restaurants- I swear to god I will hunt you down with a sniper rifle if you take a date to TGI Fridays just to put you out of your misery. Maybe go to a local Russian place or a nice Korean barbecue- anything that sets you apart from other girls. Hell, Ethiopian is fucking delicious and nobody even knows that Ethiopians have food.

Make eye contact, smile slyly, chew with your mouth closed, and mind your legs so you don't bump the table with them. If you're going the "proper" route, do it like it's nothing. Make jokes that you find funny, keep a good conversation pace, and say something interesting about the restaurant's cuisine. Think of yourself as Audrey Heburn, and immediately go back to that persona if you slip up and find yourself in a bout of awkward silence.

After that, take him for an adventure walk in a park if it's warm out or ask him to come watch a movie at your place if it's not. Simple, cheap, and a chance to get closer to him. From there, pace any physical contact well. No "oh hi he looked at me BEND OVER AND FACE DOVER". Be assertive but not overbearing.

If you don't get at least a kiss and an offer of "I'll treat next time" by the end of this date, go through the rest of the guys until you do. If none of them work out, you're doing something wrong and should write off men until you're as interesting as Audrey Heburn.

I just spent ten minutes writing this out. If you puss out like ALL OF THE OTHER GUYS/GIRLS IN YOUR SHOES and stay a bitch, I'm not even going to follow you around half-assedly and remind you to be a woman because quite frankly you're just not worth the effort. Houston to Audrey Heburn, godspeed. Over and out.

How's that for equality? Try that chick.

Five Years Ago

2010-12-15T12:47:00.000-08:00

Five years ago, I was the shit. I was a man, not that I'm not now, but I was a man with fucking established determination and vision. I was a full-time student at UCSD, finishing a Bachelor's in Philosophy and Sociology. I was a full-time intern at New Hope Church in San Diego. I was taking three seminary courses per semester, as well as creating, inventing, and working at an Inner-City Community Center at least 20 hours per week that focused on education for children and adults. I lead worship, gave sermons, taught music/guitar, for the Junior High and High School programs as a part of my internship. I was reading three books a week, prayed daily, worshiped daily, and met with a mentor 2x per week on my own. And finally, I was engaged to be married.

Five years ago my future-wife left me for our college pastor. I was on a mission trip, living in India for three months as a part of my internship. The weekend I came back my fiancee and I had a conversation, in which she could not say whether or not she wanted us to be together, just that she "loved me". Ever perform an open-heart surgery and dissection on yourself? Over three hours I cut open my own heart, using her hands and words, dissected every investment she made into it, removed every tumor of falsehood and "I love you, but..." and returned them to her, then placed what was left of my heart back into my chest and closed it up. So finally, I verbally forced her into an anti-people-pleasing and pacifying corner, wherein she stated "I don't know if I want to marry you." This took hours for me to get her to say, and as abusive as I may sound, she would never express this on her own even though she had already been on multiple dates with our college pastor while I was gone.

What is this I don't even fuck I don't understand if why this... I asked for my ring back and I left her home (after just getting back in the country hours earlier). She called me one hour later, stating "I know I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I'm sorry." Keep in mind, I didn't know anything about her and the pastor, but nevertheless I told her that she made her decision to be undecided and that wasn't good enough for us to be married. I kept driving home, to my parents' house, and there I stayed for two years.

During that two years, I enrolled full time to get a teaching credential in Social Science. My father's mother, my grandma had been diagnosed with two different forms of cancer, and she had moved into my parent's house at the same time. So, my normal daily routine was to take care of her while I wasn't at school, whilst still maintaining a healthy lifestyle. My fiancee visited, mostly because I was hesitant to visit her parents' house where she lived, on rare occasion but with frequent emotionally-passive protest. She would drive up, calling me while on the road (two hour drive) completely stressed and in need of promises for attention and spoiling when she got here. I still wanted her, so I did everything to make her experiences around me pleasant and relaxing. We did this for a year.

Oh, by the way, one year prior I was fully intending to marry this girl, so upon my return from India I had already arranged a job at the USC police department (where my fiancee was intent on attending for grad school) so that she could get 50% off tuition and I could pay for her education. That, of course, fell through, took many called-in favors from my former employers to arrange, but fell through with the "I don't know, but I can't say" marriage commitment. As such, I rearranged my entire life in one full weekend. The works.

After a full year of her saying "I want to marry you, but..." I decided (funny word here, as I felt I had no other choice except to kill myself due to pain) to end it. I told her over the phone on one of our many long phone conversations. She was so upset, crying, blubbering, speechless but asking why, asking if I loved her still, etc. I was empty but felt relieved, if not a bit guilty too. I was relieved because I knew I would no longer be strung along, but felt guilty because if this girl actually loved me but didn't know how to be with me....?

Thankfully, that only lasted two weeks. You see, I called my fiancee to ask her to please remove her number from my cell phone plan, as I was paying for both of our cell phones. She sounded quite happy to do so, which surprised me. What shouldn't have surprised me was her response to my next question: So, how are you doing? "Good, I'm dating someone. Do you remember Jeremy [our college pastor]?" This was a facetious question. Of course I knew Jeremy, we hung out together on multiple occasions, as well as in a group setting with my fiancee. I squeaked out a "yes" before my heart sunk and my lower face started to go fuck itself. After she finally agreed to get off of my cell phone plan, I hung up.

Damnit if I didn't do everything right. Respectful, loving, virgin for my entire life and through two years of dating, praying, working more than full-time for a better future not just for me but for my future family, going to counseling for personality tests/profiles of compatibility prior to the engagement, continuing to go to therapy on my own to prepare for marriage... There was nothing I didn't do. No suggestion was too small, no obstacle to big for this. I did it all.

And what was the result? My fiancee's mother being a two-faced bitch and my fiancee dating our FUCKING COLLEGE PASTOR FOR A FULL YEAR that was more acceptable to her mother without telling me a god-damned thing about it. What I thought were the problems, what EVERYONE told me MIGHT be problems, I addressed with full commitment. And yet, NOT ONE PERSON imagined or advised me on what was actually the key problem: my fiancee wanted to marry someone else.

I haven't stepped back into a church since. Been to a few Sunday services, but stayed outside, so I could just socialize and connect with friends. The few times I walked through the doors, I also walked through the bullshit character of everyone I saw: my pastor who was "struggling" (FUCKING FUNNY WORD!!) with affair(s), my female friends who were engaged to other men actually telling me that they thought they would cheat on their husbands with me (FFUUU!!!), my college friends who got married early in college getting divorced and fighting against each other using "Christian" guidelines for divorce (e.g. "He was smoking pot. His body is supposed to be a temple." "She's so obsessed with her career, it's like she doesn't care about me anymore." etc). It was like my entire core belief system was resulting in people I loved becoming insane, narcissistic, vigilantes.

I left. Five years ago I cut out my own heart without anesthesia and returned it sans falsehood. I was left with a new perspective. Five years ago I was the shit. I could've gone to any country in the world amongst any people eating any food or not doing anything or not and been successful. But, I loved and lost.

All of that is to say, none of that matters now. Five years later, not one of those people or experiences is significant enough to inform my present life. Nothing I did, built, accomplished, sacrificed or love-lost is significant. Why? I am. I remain not as the sum of my past but as the sum of my present, with character and wisdom tempered by the trust of life experience. The specifics of them don't matter, I'm the product. I can still go anywhere in the world to do anything with anyone eating whatever, but I can do so today with tempered character to love that which can be and hate that which deserves it. I fucking love this shit.

The Most Difficult Thing Ever

2010-11-07T12:13:00.001-08:00

Reject, disregard, and dismiss as nothing those opinions or peoples that make you feel guilty or ashamed. The most difficult mental and emotional task I have ever attempted to is reject and dismiss the approval and disapproval of others. In fact, I don't think I can even accomplish it using only my mental and emotional facilities. I have to bring in the physical. Either by severe pain or severe pleasure, I need to train myself not to regard the opinions of other people.

At first, this seemed counter-productive, almost counter-intuitive. After all, are we not, as individuals, meant to be a part of others, as part of a larger group of individuals in community? One can reject and dismiss the needs from and obligations to a community only so much. But what of the need for intimacy and fulfillment, specifically the inherent desire of all people to "help" or "benefit" or "love" others? This is not a heroic desire, despite what popular culture sources exemplify, but an innate one. How do we determine the differential between investing ourselves in others and allowing others an investment in ourselves?

We only allow them so much. We are a privately traded stock, non-negotiable and not available on any social or public trading market in the world. Neither Microsoft nor Google nor China nor the entire U.S. federal reserve could make an offer to invest in our personal success. So it should come as no surprise that a solitary doctor's or family member's or friend's opinion cannot afford an investment in our self-directed path toward happiness. They have no say, nor do they (or would they) risk anything on it.

As such, my personal influence of self-worth and moral-compassing needs to be drastically reduced, nearly cut-off from others. I'm talking reducing the size from a chicken wire fence to cheese cloth. The fuck offs, fuck yous, and fuckthatshits need to grow like weeds. The truth only needs to be the size of a mustard seed, fuck all else.

The State

2010-11-04T13:17:00.000-07:00

Three cups of coffee with sugar and creamer, followed by two cocktails or beers all within one hour.

That is the formula of drugs/narcotics I need to be at my absolute very best every day. If I follow this formula, I am 100% stress free, happy, motivated, and productive for at least 3-5 hours. This, despite mid-night nightmare awakenings of me killing others or myself. It doesn't matter. I've adjusted and am free and clear of last night's activities.

This is normal. This is what I need to be normal. And yet, this is impossible. My doctor not only gives me direct orders to not drink coffee/caffeine or alcohol, but says I need to stop what I'm doing in order to talk to a psychologist in order to do something. Even further, he prescribed me Valium against my wishes (that I'll throw away as soon as I get them) in order to substitute this formula from my routine.

Well, fuck you. I'm happy, functional, growing, and consistent on my own. Fuck your drugs. Fuck your recommendations. Fuck your therapy and "treatment". Fuck stopping my own growth while I pursue your prescribed growth.

My only problem right now: I feel guilty for using this tried and true method of happiness, fulfillment of potential, and growth. Is there some morally correct way I'm supposed to be doing this? I don't know. But, nevertheless, EVERY FUCKING DOCTOR tells me I'm doing it wrong. I feel guilty.

Yet, here I stand, I cannot do otherwise. I'm going to school, even in-class courses, going over to friends' houses for social events, earning good grades, etc. BULLFUCKINGSHIT IF THIS WAS POSSIBLE UNDER DOCTORS' ORDERS. I'm happy and I will defend it to the death. Fuck Valium. Fuck therapy. I'm doing everything I need to, through apathy despite all else.

Fed Follow-up and Reply

2010-09-23T19:16:00.000-07:00

Here is the response I received to my last email (see previous post) from my professor. I have also included my reply. Honestly, the bitch is lucky I don't post her email, physical address, social security number, and cell phone number throughout /b/ (nerds, you know what I mean):

From: XXXXXXXXDennis
To: benjaminsmyth@yahoo.com
Sent: Wed, September 22, 2010 1:06:23 PM
Subject: RE: Lost student in BUSI 140 - City College

Dear MR. Smyth, the class meets at the same time and place. Since your e-mail reveals you have experience with school Iam sure that if you attend and do all the work you should succeed. I will see you in school. SD

My reply, and yes, I did bold, underline, and italicize everything as written:

Professor Dennis,

I must apologize for my persistent ignorance during our communication. Again, I seem to have missed an obvious answer to a relatively simple question. My question was: "Where are the future lectures being held?" Somewhere in your reply ("the class meets at the same time and place") the answer was presumably present, but I seem to have missed it. I have read your last email over at least three times, but I have yet to find a location, or even a time for the next lecture. To what "same time and place" in your previous emails are you referring? When and where is the next lecture? What, exactly, is the problem with telling me where and when the next lecture is available?

The last time I was present at lecture (with other people) was on Friday, September 3, at 9:00am. At this lecture, I was not listed on your attendance sheet, and when I asked you why I was not, you told me I needed to leave to go to "the administration building" to receive an add code. I left immediately, asked strangers and found the admissions office to no avail, asked strangers and found the staff Business offices to no avail, then went to the SD City College Police Station and told them my predicament, wherein they suggested my problem might by solved on the second floor of the "T" building, which was relatively correct. I obtained an add code and (sparing you the above process of information) found a computer lab wherein I could add the course as you instructed. By the time I returned to room A-15, no one was present.

At the (I presume) next lecture on Friday, September 10, in room A-15, between 9-9:30am, no other person was present and the lights were off in the classroom. Why was this lecture room empty? Was it canceled? Was there a change? Did you leave early? Nevertheless, on Friday, September 17, I was not present at lecture for two reason: I did not know where and when the lecture was scheduled, and I was order by the U.S. Department of the Army to be qualifying with M9 and M4 weapons elsewhere in the state of California. Did you receive my official U.S. Department of the Army orders (in pdf format) that I sent you three emails ago? Was it even necessary to send them, or was my attendance to an empty lecture room correct?

Let's simplify. In addition to the above listed questions, here are additionally required questions I need answered in order to continue to be a part of this course:

1. Where is the lecture currently being held? (Exact building and room number)
2. When is the lecture currently being held? (Exact time)
3. What happened to the lecture I attended on Sept 3, 2010 at 9-9:30am? Wrong room or wrong time or canceled?
4. What exact chapters should students have read in the textbook up to this point?
5. What assignments should students have completed up to this point?
6. What are the exact (format, length, wording) specifications you have given for the assignments up to this point?
7. What quizzes have been given up to this point?
8. What tests have been given up to this point?
9. What reading should students have completed up to this point?
10. In general, what should your students have done up to this point?
11. Why have I not been provided with a syllabus?
12. Why have I not received a syllabus after four weeks into the course?
13. What is the problem with attaching your syllabus to your reply to this email?
10. Where can I obtain a syllabus?
11. Why have I not received a course schedule after four weeks into the course?
12. What is the problem with attaching a course schedule to this email?
13. Where can I obtain a course schedule?
14. When can I obtain a course schedule?
15. Why have I not received a description of assignments due after four weeks into the course?
16. What is the problem with attaching a description of assignments to this email?
17. Where can I obtain a description of assignments?
18. When can I obtain a description of assignments?

I cannot make this more simple, nor less complicated. I need basic information that I've already paid for. I am sure your syllabus would answer most of my questions, but after five emails, no relevant information has been provided. Finally, do you mind, if these questions are not answered, I forward this email to the Dean of Business and the Dean of San Diego City College? If you are unwilling (out of sheer laziness to read and write) to answer these simple questions in my attempts to complete a course I have paid for, I will have to use other resources to resolve the problem. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.

Thank you for your time,
-Benjamin

Fed the Fuck Up

2010-09-21T22:46:00.000-07:00

The following is an email conversation that took place between me and my Professor of Business "Law and the Legal Environment." I attended the course, but was inexplicably dropped from the attendance sheet on my second day of lecture. After failing to receive a response from the professor for instruction, I called the Dean's office for her contact information.

Date: Tue, 14 Sep 2010 13:37:42 -0700
From: Benjamin
Subject: Lost student in BUSI 140 - City College
To: XXXXXXXXXXXdennis1@hotmail.com

Professor Dennis,

I am currently enrolled in your Business 140 course on Fridays 9:00-12:10pm at SD City College. I apologize for contacting you at your personal email address (had to call the Dean's office to get it), but I am in desperate need of any information regarding this course. It has been over three weeks since this course started and I have no information regarding required reading assignments, in-class assignments, homework, quizzes, tests, research papers, etc. If it's possible can you reply to this email and attach any material (at the very least, a syllabus and/or current assignments) so that I can catch up?

Background: I attended your course two weeks ago (if you remember, I was in blue jeans and a blue t-shirt) wherein you informed me I needed to go to administration to receive an add code prior to attending lecture. I went to administration, waited for and received an add code, found a computer lab, added the course, and returned to the lecture room (A-15) only to find that class had ended. Last week, I went to the same room (A-15) only to find that the room was empty with the lights off and no class members were there.

What reading should I have already completed? What assignments should I do? Are there any tests/quizzes/papers I need to prepare for? Has there been a room change (not A-15) that I need to know about?

I do not wish to be behind in this course.

Thank you for your time and consideration,
Benjamin Smith

From: XXXXXXXDennis
To: Benjamin
Sent: Sun, September 19, 2010 11:07:26 AM
Subject: RE: Lost student in BUSI 140 - City College

Were you in class on Friday the 17th? Please attend so I can help you.

Date: Tue, 21 Sep 2010 10:55:21 -0700
From: Benjamin
Subject: Re: Lost student in BUSI 140 - City College
To: XXXXXXXXdennis1@hotmail.com

Professor Dennis,

I was not in class on Friday the 17th due to mandatory active duty training for the Army. I have attached a copy of my orders to this email as proof. I am not skipping class.
I still need to know everything I asked in the original email, but now I'm four weeks behind instead of three.

Thanks ahead of time,
Benjamin

From: XXXXXXXDennis
To: Benjamin
Sent: Tue, September 21, 2010 4:58:23 PM
Subject: RE: Lost student in BUSI 140 - City College

You need to attend class especially when it meets only once per week. Make sure you outline each chapter and I believe we are up to fiftteen. See syllabus. Also, I reccomend to all of my students to obtain students phone numbers etc. I cannot be held to keep you informed, in college this is generally your responsibility. Will you be attending this week? See you soon. Professor Dennis

So, finally... I just sent the following:

Professor Dennis,

Clearly, I have failed you as a student. This is my final attempt to obtain any information, either administrative or content-based, concerning your course. As of today, September 21st, 2010, I am utterly ignorant as to how I can access any information regarding what, when, where, or how your expertise in Business Law is available. I surrender to my stupidity and request your gracious leave.

However, I would be remiss if I did not point out the multiple messages I sent to you via the San Diego City College "Schedule of Classes" professor contact information. I do not mean to insult you, but you are not actually listed on either the Staff, Administrator, Professor, or Employee directories (both telephone and email). I now understand that you are an Associate Professor, but apparently, who cares? I had to contact the San Diego City College Dean's Office just to obtain an email address for you. I do not think they meant to offend you, but perhaps they intended to protect your perishable contribution to the student population at their college.

Speaking of which, I appreciate you reminding me that I "need to attend class especially when it meets only once per week," as I was completely unaware of this silly requirement. It was surprisingly necessary to tell me this in response to my providing orders from the United States Department of the Army for me to be elsewhere on the day of your lecture. I was remiss in regarding the authority of the President of the United States as superior to your own (possible coursework?) requirements. Rest assured, I will attend all of your future lectures despite the literal punishment of death for desertion during a time of war. I am now prepared to learn everything I can about the "Law and the Legal Environment."

Speaking again to my obvious stupidity, where are the future lectures being held? Clearly, despite asking for such information multiple times, I have missed the answer. I sat (in a quite lonely and, I daresay, sad state) in the dark and deserted lecture room of A-15 on September 10, 2010 between 9:00am and 9:30am. Neither you nor any other person was present. Again, thank you for requesting me in your second email to "please attend so I can help you," as I was unaware that your intentions were so freely available. Without such advice, I believe I would've considered a lecture in a dark and empty room as a complete waste of time.

Additionally, your succinct sentence instruction to "See syllabus." was incredibly insightful in response to my request to "please reply to this email and attach any material (at the very least, a syllabus...)," as this is exactly what I was missing. Again, I must beg pardon for my idiocy. I have obviously missed an obvious point. I'm relieved to hear that you "believe we are up to fiftteen" chapters in the book, since I know that such faith works in mysterious ways. Am I correct in assuming that "fiftteen" outlines have been turned in by all other students during the past three weeks in your course? The other students, none of whom I've met at lecture, must be some of the smartest smart people ever to explain to themselves what, when, where, and how you want these "outlines" written.

But you, even to me, further explained that you "cannot be held to keep [me] informed" of course information, which pretty much goes without saying. Faithfully enough, you "reccomend [sic] to all of my students to obtain students phone numbers," which would nigh be impossible if I hadn't attended an empty lecture room, a lecture when you told me to leave to find "the administration building", and a U.S. Army training drill. I will no doubt soon learn that "in college this is generally your responsibility" when it comes to obtaining the phone numbers of other college students. I imagine this is part of learning about the "Law and the Legal Environment."

As a point of said fact, you were correct in your blunt implication that I have never attended college, nor am I aware of my responsibilities in college, when you stated "in college this is generally your responsibility." Granted, I have never introduced myself to a single student in your course during my dark and lonely college attendance days, but I regress. I have only earned a Bachelor's degree from the "University" of California, San Diego and a professional clear teaching credential from California State "University" of Bakersfield. Great of you to remind me of my freshman collegiate responsibilities. The difference between my previous education experience and your "cannot be held to keep you informed" policy towards students is mind-boggling.

I am still enrolled in and looking for any information regarding your course. I'm paid in full, money-wise.

-Benjamin

Five Full Seconds

2010-09-16T12:18:00.000-07:00

Earthquake. My bed is shaking, I'm shaking, and the window's blinds are sitting perfectly still. Hm. What's going on here? I hear thumping, a pulse perfectly synced to the quick techno beat at a local rave. Must be party music? If it is, must be a one man band. My pulse. That's my heart! Bed, chest, head, eyes blur to the rapid tump tump tump tump tump tump of blood expanding my skin. I'm laying perfectly still, despite my eyelids. What happened? I listen, hear nothing. What brought me back to reality? Some danger close?

Nothing. There is nothing there. Are you sure? Wait. Yes. Just me. And I'm breathing, fast and hard. My sense kicks in and I see - through color-washed and watery-eyed sight - the edge of my pillow, my mattress, my desk. My bed is still shaking. Someone thumps my spine with a rubber triangle, electric shock seizes me (my brain sends my entire body a panicked signal to move because it thinks I'm dying, thanks Wikipedia). Lasts 0.1 seconds. The...th... what the... fuck? I am ready to kill. I just did, I think. But I'm hurt, badly. I can feel blood on me, erm... wait. (My memory has a one second half-life) Sweat. Sweat? Sweat.

Uuuugggggghhhhrollmyeyeshhh Goddamnit... I'm sweating like a whore in church. Check the temperature, it's fine. I'm covered with only a sheet. Still nothing here. Something happened. I don't know what. Probably a dream, PTSD, stressed about something, etc. Oh well. This is why I don't like to be around people. Back to bed. I haven't moved.

Just A Reminder

2010-09-14T17:12:00.000-07:00

This is a letter for me tomorrow. Yesterday you drank a beverage containing some form of alcohol and/or high caffeine (coffee or tea). You do not feel nearly as good as you did yesterday. Your energy is low and you feel exhausted. You have a headache and did not sleep well last night. You are telling yourself you're a piece of shit and forming explanations as causes for low self-worth. Let me remind you of why you did what you did yesterday while knowing what would happen to you today:

Yesterday, while you were consuming whatever type of beverage CONFLICTS WITH YOUR MEDICATION, you were creative. You were on point, on target, focused, calm, non-delusional, assertive with respect, productive, secure, and quite happy. The reason you drank/ate said "chemical contradictions" is so you would feel that way, and at least, get something done. In other words, you did what you could to make yourself do what you wanted to do. No person, no human, ever, in the history of existence, or commas, has ever, done anything, different. People do whatever fulfills their deepest satisfaction for happiness. This was your purpose and your goal, and you succeeded.

In case you're doubting that, let's recap yesterday's events starting AFTER you had finished your first TWO cups of coffee. You had a stable conversation with your landlord about renewing your lease and correcting some of the landscaping deficiencies around your house. Through BOTH email and telephone conversations with multiple people, you arranged packing and plans for this weekend's Army drill. Again, through BOTH email and telephone conversations with multiple people, you arranged for contact with one of your "lost" professors and spoke intelligently with the OFFICE OF THE DEAN OF COMPUTER SCIENCE at your college. You completed two homework assignments for one of your courses. You worked on a final project for another. You called and left a voicemail message with a friend. You texted another. You posted and commented on other posts on Facebook. You downloaded a few movies and T.V. shows, incorporating them into your database for easy viewing. I could go on, but there is no point.

You still feel like crap. The science behind this is simple, even if the explanation is not. The science says that any decrease or increase of blood pressure, motor functions, anything that effects mental reasoning, or diet will fuck you up. Your negative mood, attitude, feelings, or thoughts are the result of conflicting chemical reactions. You knew what you were doing yesterday. You knew it would work, both then and now. You knew it would affect you here and now and until the reaction ceases to exist.

This is not a moral wrong. This is not harmful to you. This is a neutral cause and effect. You are not an alcoholic, a drug addict, nor an addict to anything at all. Remember, remember that your DOCTORS WANT YOU TO BE ADDICTED TO VALIUM OR VICODIN OR CLONOPIN. You refused, and continue to do so. Vodka, beer, and rum are nothing compared to that. Coffee, soda, or straight sugar are nothing compared to that. Fuck them, you knew and know yourself best.

I know you've stopped reading. I know you've stopped listening. I know you don't want to hear it. But, just in case you're here, just in case you care, just remember that you don't care. Apathy is your cure. Indifference is your motto and motivation. Whatever results from those says nothing good or bad about you, but is exactly what you expected. You know this shit! You are who you planned to be, good or bad, who cares? Indifference Benjamin, Indifference. Beyond that, the motivation, action, and vision will come. Fuck good, fuck bad, fuck them, you've got this shit. You really do. Because today, in this moment of chemical contradiction, you were honest. Yourself.

Meritocracy

2010-09-06T18:06:00.000-07:00

I have just now learned that I live in an actual, real life, sociological theory called a meritocracy. A meritocracy is a society structured according to "merit", or in a practical sense, according to tangible ability. Basically, run personal responsibility through a societal blender and you'll get social self-worth. You do good? You're good. You do bad? You're bad. Such is the nature of this culture's profession. And, like all cultures, it's relatively relativity bullshit.

I don't know why it has taken me this long to realize this, nor do I understand why it is at all relevant, but at least I know now.

Socratic Shit

2010-08-07T20:10:00.000-07:00

Is it really that complicated? No, no, it's just not as simple as I want it to be. Addressing the events of life as they come down the conveyor belt, rubber stamping them into the log, categorizing, sorting, prioritizing, explaining their worth in units of emotion, thought, effort, time, stress... like a factory. A function that I learned to perform and call "living". Actually, not quite. The true method by which we are supposed to expel our puppet strings is to critically reflect and examine that whole process, then improve it. So quoth Socrates, "The unexamined life is not worth living." Dig deep, taste the marrow of life and be... something, er, somebody, er, better.

Just one problem in this seemingly efficient ordering of compounding chaos, something which I affectionately like to refer to as "people". People just fuck shit up. Myself included. Or take Socrates, the quotethable thee art thou to thine own self SUICIDE. Probably the dumbest smart person to exist in his time. Self-taught unemployed military genius scientist, raised up Plato (who in turn raised up Aristotle) and supporter of Spartans (circa "THIS IS SPARTA!!!" B.C.), who was accused of corrupting the minds of youth. Rather than say something cool at trial, he asked instead to be paid and sentenced to death, despite a successful jailbreak by Plato and co (so says Plato). Since the justices wouldn't allow a death sentence sans trial, Socrates took it upon himself to pour his own poison and cheers to his wife and three sons with a straight-no-chaser gulp. And yes, we quote him and all of his followers to this day as a model of intelligence, logic, and above all, good sense.

I used to care. Really, I used to love logic, self-critical examination, reason above all... derp derp derp. The factory floor was a beautiful symmetry of black and white functioning at maximum capacity while studying every gray area that dusted up until it picked a side. I used to be smart, too. That's what smart is like. Really busy factories. I was learned, studied, educated; which is really just another way of saying I paid people to read to me and ask me questions (a modern method invented by, you guessed it, Socrates). Now, I'm not that smart. In fact, I'm the dumbest smart person I know. Maybe the dumbest dumb person I know, too. I shit the bed in "living" years ago and I still haven't cleaned it up, nor do I care to, nor probably will I. Why? One word: comfort.

Example: I recently couch-binged a movie called "Nanny McPhee Returns" in which I saw an interesting exchange about cow shit. (No, my time isn't that valuable, nor busy). An elderly lady is about to sit in the middle of a field to have a picnic when a gentleman takes her by the arm to stop her...

Woman: "I think I'll sit right here on this cushion..."
Man: "Whoa ma'am, that's not a cushion, it's a cow patty"
Woman: "Oooh..." [looking at it more closely] "...well, can't I sit on it anyway? It looks so comfortable."
Man: "Uhh..." "Um..."
Woman: "Well... help me down."
Man: "Err..."
[Wet squishy sound]
Woman: "Ahhh... " [giggling] "...there we are, much more comfortable."

The point is this: If you one day find that you shit the bed of factory "living", it's really not that bad an idea to sit in it. After all, it's your shit. Socrates couldn't even admit that it was his, much less just leave it lay. He had to off himself over it. This is the bad kind of silly. Socrates did nothing wrong, which he thought he knew, but decided to off himself anyway to make a point to the very people who put him in a bad position. People. People screwed Socrates and so Socrates decided to screw his own person. Monkey meet wrench.

Last point: if Socrates had decided to simply sit in his own shit, the people would've left him alone. And on that day, not one single fuck would've been given. If you've ever had something break down in life, or just had a broken life, I guarantee you a person caused it. Problem meet solution. You could've just sat down in the shit, taken out your sandwich and had a picnic. Nobody would've given you any more crap (even you would shut up eventually), and as I've found, it's much more comfortable.

Meaningless Reflection

2010-05-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever drank alcoholic beverages in the evening while alone? Under such circumstances, have you ever called, IMed, or texted someone from your past (former ex, friend, roommate, etc) while doing so?

Yeah, thought so, we've all been there. I have.

May 9, 2010

2010-05-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I fell asleep around 1:30 am. I took my pills and went to bed at 10:30pm the previous day. (When you have no sleeping schedule whatsoever, time is a mere semantic issue) I watched TV shows and movies that I downloaded on my computer until my eyes watered and hurt enough to fall asleep. 1:30am to 7:00am, I slept. 5.5 hrs. That is an awesome amount of unconsciousness for me. No small feat. The six medications I took at 10:30pm made this possible, no doubt in my mind, and I am grateful. I did not, however, sleep well. I experienced everything in my sleep. Three of the six medications I take are meant to prevent me from having/remembering any dreams at all. The other three medications are meant to knock me out. Obviously, they don't completely work. They never have.

Last night I was shot, stabbed, robbed, beaten, raped, blown-up, killed, murdered in my sleep, tortured, and committed suicide. At any moment during my sleep I had three separate and distinct "layers" of dreams/time-lines progressing. I could jump from torture to rape, fights to murder, verbal confrontations to robbing without any hesitation. Any detail from any layer could jump from dream to time-line to dream and form anew. I have learned that my sleeping mind can, at least, hold the full sensory detail of three different lives living simultaneously and "jump" or combine any details of each into another story. Upon my waking, only a few hours after I fall asleep (I've never slept past 3 hrs since '08), I am confronted with the sweat, overwhelming memory, and exhaustion of my sleep.

I have been terrified of falling asleep since November of 2008, when I returned from Afghanistan. I don't know why. Nothing I experienced over there in any way resembles my nightly thoughts or the contents thereof. I honestly do not know where these thoughts are coming from. But, nevertheless, they happen. Every night, every sleep, without fail, guaranteed, they happen. "Over-night delivery: Reality not included."

I awake each and every morning exhausted and sore. I wake up to bruises and scratches on my arms, face, neck, stomach, and legs. I look in the mirror and ask how. I have seen mysterious nightly injuries in the mirror since '08. I haven't looked at myself in a mirror since '09. Ah fuck it, honestly, right now, I am quite minimizing what actually happens. I am too ashamed to admit what I do and what I believe from my dreams. I have gone for days (yes, ACTUALLY FULL PLURAL DAYS) believing I had committed, been committed, or been a victim of these events. Murder, rape, suicide, etc (any and all, victim or perpetrator). I have gone for days believing these things happened. And yes, I have the scars and cuts and scrapes to prove it.

I live in my own house, under my own providership, in one of the most affluent cities in the United States.

Do you honestly believe that you're more insane or abnormal than I?

Kings and Queens

2010-05-04T22:07:00.000-07:00

Alexandre Dumas quoted Napoleon in The Count of Monte Cristo as saying, "In life, we are kings or pawns." I see the common sense in this; that is, in life, we are either a master or a slave. For those of you who don't know, Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo is my favorite story of all time (including the book and the movies). I do not hesitate to agree with Dumas in his portrayal of Napoleon's personality/beliefs. Napoleon was a dictator, a military one at that, so it makes sense. In fact, if I could sum up my personal military experience thus far, I would say that "in military life, you are a king or a pawn."

However, (OH the inevitable word in all of my writing) I believe there is a far more accurate summary in such few words for Americans. If Dumas were to write this same story in America today, or even if Napoleon lived in American society today, I'm pretty sure Napoleon's words would be changed to "In life, we are either kings or queens." I am probably projecting. No, I am definitely projecting. In fact, let's just cut to the chase and I'll shorten this ramble slightly from the many essays I've wrote.

If I was forced to stereotype all Americans into two categories, then I would describe them as believing "In life, we are either kings or queens." Pride. Crowns. Self-entitlement higher than a stack of Bibles to Pluto. Perceived inherent rights. Rule. Enforced justice. Forced equality. Dictators believing they're entitled to dictate to all and all who should record such dictation on legal documents presentable to all dictators. If I were forced, a "Kings and Queens" description of all Americans would fit. In fact, it's pretty accurate now.

Think about it. How often have you seen Americans fighting as King vs King (male vs male), King vs Queen (male vs female), Queen vs Queen (female vs female), and Queen vs King (female vs male)? Americans have grown up into and assumed so much freedom and so many rights that most literally believe themselves to be royalty. Entitled. Deserving of "human rights" (which DO NOT EVEN EXIST!!!). Freedom to say anything they wish (including calling anyone anywhere a Nazi, nigger, spick, haji, racist, sexist, charlie, cracker, white trash, fag, dike, bitch, asshole, etc. My God, if God does exist and there is a Heaven afterlife, how fucked will most Americans be when they get there? What if the litmus test for Heaven was simply to say "I am nothing and everyone else is too. I am dirt and so is everyone else. Everything I've done, thought, felt, accomplished, believed, and wanted was all complete bullshit. Fuck everyone and everything, including myself." How many Americans could say that authentically?

Let's face the facts, American Sheeple. You have no rights, at all, ever, period. You did nothing to join this world. You did not earn life. You are not entitled to life. You have no right to life. You can be killed by anyone (including God), anywhere, at any time, without cause. You have no right to happiness. You have no right to pursue happiness. You are not entitled to anything you presently enjoy. You have no right to freedom. You are not free, and you never will be. You cannot say, do, think, or feel anything without direct and severe consequence. You cannot be anything you want to be. You are not a King or a Queen. You are you, just blood and bone, nothing more. Period.

All of the rights that most Americans vehemently believe they're entitled to (that means you!) were "given" to them 200 years ago by a small group of men who wrote up a single page letter addressed to the King of England. Do you honestly think that they intended you in this letter? What the fuck has driven you to such madness that you honestly believe you have inherent rights? What makes you think, besides the fact that you grew up in America, that you deserve such a life of entitlement? No human, anywhere at any time, has any rights whatsoever. As an American, the only possible way you could've inherited it is on the backs and blood of military men. (Yes, and I'm looking at you here American women, I said "men") Violence. Death. Destruction. Unadulterated anti-pacifism. But, even then, no one, not even the few men who wrote out your rights to begin with nor the men who died to fight for them, not even the God of any religion on earth, gives you ANY rights whatsoever. Honestly, if you think a government has the power to give you self-worth by assigning you rights, then you're batshit insane.

And yet, here are the Americans, acting like the Kings or Queens of their domain. High and mighty. Humble and compassionate rulers. Peaceful and loving authorities. Complaining about their lack of satisfaction as ruler of others' and their life, demanding equality and justice for other Kings and Queens, invoking fictional self-proclaimed rights for themselves and others, demanding the respect they think they and others deserve, etc. WTF? You don't even have a right to live, and yet you're demanding to rule?

Sigh. I'm too pissed off to write more. I've been in too many arguments with Americans, Christians, Liberals, American-Christian-Liberals, to explain this shit to them and cut short their self-entitled pride. I didn't even get into the Christian authority side of this shit yet. Oh well. I need a cigarette. I need a drink. I want the last two legal drugs in America.

Girls' Appreciation Night

2010-04-26T19:04:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to get something off of my chest. This post is dedicated to the women of Intervarsity Christian Fellowship at UCSD during 1998-2003.

Once upon a time, in 2001 to be exact, Behlo and I had an idea. We wanted to throw a party for the women in Intervarsity at UCSD. We were motivated to do so because the women in Intervarsity had voiced complaints of their oppression as women for the past 3 years and we wanted to simply alleviate their pain. So, we planned, we brainstormed, we sought advice, we pursued our goal of making women feel simply appreciated.

The idea took off. The more we sought guidance, the more men started to join our cause. We raised enough funds to reserve a venue at UCSD. We had more ideas flowing in than we could possibly accommodate. With the eventually male committee that formed, we decided a live band was needed, no matter what else we did. More men joined in the cause. We introduced musicians to each other and they began to practice in the garage at our house. The committee decided we needed to schedule the event during the evening, which meant we needed to provide dinner. We recruited more men, raised more funds, and secured a caterer to feed 100+ women for the event.

We were eventually forced to organize the "Girs' Appreciation Night" committee into 3 tiers: Tier 1 included all coordinators of each branch of operations (President, VP, Secretary, Treasurer, Representatives), Tier 2 included all heads of departments for evening events (MC, dinner host, decorations supervisor, sound tech), Tier 3 included all leaders in charge of 5-6 men required to provide any service to the women during the event (waiters, security, restroom guards [males banned from male restrooms], transportation providers).

We had more men than we knew what do to with. I had no idea so many men were willing to simply serve and appreciate all women. But we had so many good ideas that we begged our male volunteers for funds to fulfill our goals. Our final plan came to a consensus two months prior to execution: We would design and personally deliver formal invitations to attend a dinner to all women associated with Intervarsity. Every woman who has met, visited, sign up for, or contacted anyone we knew would be on the guest list and receive a formal invitation. The invitation would be white with silver embossed lettering. We asked them to arrive at 4:00pm, in formal attire, with a casual change of clothes.

Once we had our plans finalized, everything began to fall apart and come together at once. Our venue canceled. We booked another. Band members quit. We recruited others. Our caterer tried to reschedule. We changed our menu. In fact, in order to coordinate better services, we recruited female advisers and followed their advice during our Tier 1 meetings to better serve our attendees.

Finally, the day of the event came. All men were required to wear a dress shirt and tie, no exceptions. We had 40+ tables of women to serve. Each table had 3 men assigned to it (one waiter, one host, and one cleaner). It was a very formal event. There were no menus for dinner. Each waiter knew the dishes by heart. We served them anything and everything they wanted. In fact, I personally left the party to buy groceries for specific vegetarian requests (which we neglected to consider). No male was allowed to eat. Everything was donated.

During the dinner, the band (first of two that had practiced) played live music. Things were going well. I was wearing a suit with a napkin wrapped over my right arm, watching all of the women enjoying the fruit of our labor. I smiled, very satisfied. The first band continued through playing their set far beyond the time we estimated for the women to finish their dinner and dessert. Behlo asked the second band to start their set early. The live dancing music commenced, and all hell broke loose.

If you would've looked at me during the first song of the second band's set, you would've seen my right eye twitch in convulsion, my lips go flat with straight small whiteness, and my head tilt as if I were a dog listening to baby talk. The first song of the second band was "Brown Eyed Girl", which was re-orchestrated by our musical male geniuses, who decided to substitue "brown" during the chorus to "blue", "green", and "hazel" in order to accommodate all of the eye color we could. In fact, every song in the set was re-written covers with a dancing beat [listen to "Brown Eyed Girl" by Smash Mouth for comparison]. I have never heard so many women "bbbbooooooo" so loudly in my life as during this first song. We planned this lyrical change, in the committee. I didn't understand. We all wanted them to be appreciated. Before they could recover, the all-male band stopped playing, completely humiliated, and started playing the next song in their set. Our drummer was awesome. The women started dancing again.

During this time, the men cleared the tables. We cleaned the dishes. We returned the utensils, napkins, tablecloths, center pieces, rose pedals, mints, chairs, folding tables, leftovers, and "lost and found" items to their places. Single, college-aged women were outrageously dancing in formal attire in front of us, but we were entirely focused on merely appreciating them. Giving them, without cause or strings, simple affection, fondness, admiration. We had given hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars for this night. We simply wanted these women to know they were loved for who they were.

The night moved fast. The second band's set was over just before we finished cleaning everything out of the venue. We gathered the women inside. According to table numbers, we assigned women into teams of 4-6. Every team had a male driver. Every team also had a male photographer, equipped with a video camera that us men begged for, borrowed, bought, and stole from relatives. The women were going on an all-expense paid scavenger hunt throughout San Diego county.

We gave them a map, with cryptic clues. The locations were spread throughout San Diego county. Each location had a different task to complete. Every location gave a gift to each member of each team. A florist we hired to stay open late and give a rose to every woman who showed up. A Coldstone ice cream shop who gave free cones to all women who loudly sung their jingle in their shop. A homeless man who gave out gift-certificates to women who performed a Chinese Fire Drill at their corner. Every stop was a gift. Over a dozen stops. All of it was on video.

The highlight of my college career was on this night. The final task of the scavenger hunt (and the reason for the spare change of clothes) was driving to Scripps beach. The scavenger hunt required all members of each team to fully submerse themselves in the ocean while dressed in their formal attire. I have never laughed so hard in my life. Imagine six formally dressed women in their best dress, heals, makeup, and hair running in full sprint across the beach into the open ocean water at night. They screamed in terrified fun, they tumbled laughing, they squealed in hesitance and were dragged in. It was awesome.

After they completed the scavenger hunt locations/tasks, they had to drive to our house. The first prize team recieved $100 gift cards each. The second place received $50 gift cards. The third was $25. The fourth $10. The fifth $5. However, every girl who completed the night received a gift bag filled with bath products, shower gels, lotions, various perfumes, gift cards, and flowers. All funds were donated by men. I personally gave $400.

The events of the entire night were funded by hundreds of men and thousands of dollars donated. We put every penny and every second to use. At the end of the night, I remember watching the girls watch their videos of the scavenger hunt at our house, and... well, have you ever been absolutely awestruck by something in the presence of someone else? We, Behlo and I, shared that look. Satisfaction. A few nods. A slight smile, but an absolute joy.

Aaahhhh, God!!!! This memory is so bitter sweet for me. The night ended. And, this sucks, but it was never heard of again. None of the men who participated and donated ever received a "thank you" (at least not to my knowledge). The cries of oppression from women continued without even a hiccup for the next three years. The only responses to our "Girls' Appreciation Night" were complaints. The music was bad. The scavenger hunt was too difficult. The food was bad. The service was stupid and ridiculous. The slideshow of women was not inclusive enough. The video was poorly recorded.

Throughout my entire college career of '98-'03, no activity for men was organized. There was no "Guys' Appreciation Night". There wasn't even a thank you. I am absolutely proud of what I did. I now know what wedding coordinators do. :) But I think about this event sometimes. I wonder what it means. I don't know, I guess I just needed to tell the story.

Humility

2010-02-16T18:05:00.000-08:00

Humility is a dish best served cold. It comes without regard to any pain you feel, any morals you subscribe to, any addictions you wish to withdraw from. Humility is pain. It pursues any thought you have, any feeling you experience, any action you undertake. Humility is the most abhorrent enemy of pride.

To understand humility, we must address pride, because humility pursues pride at every turn. Pride permeates everything you experience in life. Pride is everywhere in your thoughts, it spreads throughout your feelings, it invades every action you undertake. Pride surrounds you at every footstep. It is no joke because it is a fiercesome enemy. It causes you to make irrational decisions; to choose what is ultimately devastating over what is beneficial. Pride will cause you to lie because you think it is for your best. Pride will cause you to become a slave to that which should be your slave. Pride is ultimately your master, unless you master it and everything it commands.

Humility demands a mastery of self while pride demands a slavery of self to everything. This is the battle which I now see myself in. I feel myself helpless; merely observing everything I can take place. The most vicious of attacks remains this: that I remain hopeless. Pride launches this attack on humility, which humility partially succumbs to. The lie of pride tries to hide the fact that humility does not fully submit to hopelessness. Rather, humility requires partial hopelessness in order to come face to face of what is better.

If it helps, picture this: I am lying still at the bottom of a bottle looking up. I see above me what appears to be stars and time passing. When I look to my left, I see my past through the glass that provides me with an image of failure and guilt. When I look to my right, I see through the glass my future as a one looking through a peephole from the outside, magnifying every failure and guilt from the past and present as a future abomination to remain in my life. To what do we owe this distorted view of past, present, and future? No less than pride. And what will cure it? No less than the sheer abhorrent pain of humility.

A Guide For The Professional Depressionist

2009-08-24T00:47:00.000-07:00

I have been a depressed for many years and, though I have had many relapses, I feel that my experience has given me enough insight on how to be a professional depressionist. What is a depressionist, you ask? A depressionist is a person who knows that the purpose for which they live is to be entirely and tirelessly depressed. In fact, for this entire year I have been unfailingly committed to depression. As such, I am writing this guide for anyone who wishes to live out depression with commitment.

First, avoid sunlight. The sun is a bright, warm object that typically shows up in most parts of the world every day. It is a scientific fact that people who live in milder climates are typically less depressed. A good depressionist must avoid this. In fact, it is best to avoid the sky altogether, since even the moon and the stars at night may cause a shift in self-perspective which takes away from the many causes of depression (we'll get to how you can embrace those later).

In general, we must avoid all things that cause a complete change in any sensory experience. That is to say, no sense of ours must be overwhelmed or shocked by anything. Neither sight, sound, smell, taste, or touch should be affected in any dramatic sense. We must learn to live in a simply gray world, a world of distant unidentifiable noises, a world of slightly dirty air, a world where we only eat lukewarm water and a world where nothing is soft, hard, itchy, hot, cold, or comfortable. No orgasms, either. The best way to accomplish this is through a mindset of all thoughts leading to a state of aloneness resulting in a lifestyle that is filled with isolation and avoidance. Anything that interferes with such an experience is to be considered a sin if we are to become professional depressionists.

On the subject of sinning, we must mind ourselves to have the best of perspective judgments and the worst of history of wrongs. This is a difficult balance to accomplish since it is all one-sided. One good tip is to continually tell yourself that your memory is damn near perfect, well-rounded, and fair to all parties involved in it. In this way, you can both believe that you are intelligently judging yourself and constantly reminding yourself of all of your past failures. Another way to accomplish this is to simply believe that you embrace all forms honesty, especially with yourself. Hence, the best you can do is to remember all of those things that have turned you into the completely fucked up human being you are. Both of these tips will lead you directly into the seemingly bottomless abyss known to all professional depressionists as home.

Now, here are six practical skills you must learn to do every day to depressionize yourself. An easy acronym is to remember these by is B-L-A-H-H-H.

B – Blame Yourself
L – Loneliness
A – Avoidance
H – Hopelessness
H – Helplessness
H – Homely

In order now, we'll start with B, which stands for Blame Yourself. You must strive every day to be good, bad, great, stupid, etc. and for every day that you are not, you must blame yourself. For example, try to feel or act a certain way all day, like happiness or sadness or accomplishment, and when you cannot, Blame Yourself for all of it. Remember, you have the best of judgments and the worst of failures. Your perfectly recorded track record of everything in life speaks for itself. It's just that easy.

Next on the list is Loneliness, which is an emotion, and one that we must accomplish feeling whether there are people around or not. The key to controlling the Loneliness emotion is to pay close attention to your negative thoughts about yourself, others, and the world at all times. For example, if you are hurt or if someone is angry with you, then you probably deserve it. If you want to talk or be yourself with someone else, remember that no one you know can be completely trustworthy or loving. Besides, you don't really deserve such a person in your life anyway. In fact, no one in the world can be completely relied upon for anything. A simple fact to remember is that everyone is flawed (especially you) and as such, you shouldn't really be interacting with anybody. Loneliness has no one to affect or be affected by.

Avoidance is unavoidable on the road to depressional abyss. We've already talked about avoiding changes to your senses, but we can generalize this to avoiding everything in the world that is real. I recommend starting this practice by continually lying, exaggerating, being two-faced, fake, or just being an undiscoverable mystery. Children shouldn't talk to strangers and, since everyone pretty much is a stranger in one aspect or another, we should continue to practice that general rule as adults. A quick and short way to practice Avoidance is to become addicted to something that negatively alters either your mindset or activities. Become an alcoholic. Look up depressing websites. Look at or listen to things that remind you of painful memories. Whenever you start to barely feel discomfort, let it become instinctual for you to choose flight over fight, and keep running deeper into it.

Hopelessness can be a tricky thing, so I need to be quite clear here. In order to become truly hopeless, one must pay far more attention to the largest of hopes rather than the smallest. What are some of most heartfelt hopes you've had in the past that have never been fulfilled? Realize this absolute fact: hope is just a plan for future failure. Give it up like you did with drawing, painting, musicianship, or practice when you were young. For example, instead of hoping for a specifically small success today, hope that your entire day goes exactly as you want it to. Dream Big!!! You're virtually guaranteed some disappointment, which when dwelt upon dutifully, leads to those grand dark shadows below.

Helplessness is similar to Loneliness but with a slight twist. Despite all of the negative thoughts we maintain with regards to ourselves, others, and the world, sometimes we might be offered an opportunity for help with coming out of depression. In these times we must specify our negative thoughts towards the help we are being offered. For example, if we have an opportunity to pursue professional therapy, we must remember than every professional therapy must undergo psychotherapy themselves in order to practice therapy. So, if we're going to see a “professional” who lacks adequate experience in depression themselves, how can they possibly help? They cannot. Likewise, you are a very special and unique person, how can anyone possibly hope to understand you, much less help you? Specific negative thoughts about help are the butter to our burnt toast. It won't really help.

Acting Homely every day is probably the simplest and easiest task we can accomplish every single day. Picture an ugly, mutated duck and simply act like it. Shower? No. Brush your teeth? No need. Clean clothes? Fuck no. You're butt fuck ugly and nothing is going to change that. Constantly change your sleeping pattern so that you end up not even being able to pass a sobriety test. Homely is disgusting to all, and that's where the heart is.

Let's review: Avoid the sky and your senses. Believe yourself a master of memory and judgment. Have faith in negative thoughts about yourself, others, and the world. And finally, practice BLAHHH every day.

Happy Depressing,
The Professional

Fuck the World

2009-08-04T15:49:00.001-07:00

That's right, fuck it. Fuck the World. Fuck the clicks. Fuck the society. Fuck the institutions. Fuck the culture. Fuck the lies. Fuck the religion. Fuck the rules, the norms, the mental illness, the foolishness, and the evil.

Yes, this is anger. Congrats, you're brilliant. Fuck you too. Fuck the psychology that recycles patients by brainwashing their perspective and releasing them back to an unfamiliar reality. Fuck you military tough fucks, you're more fucked up than any government, cult, or society that has ever existed anywhere. Fuck the asshole males, too fucked up to help themselves and throttling the nearest woman to fill their gravitational need of pheromones. Fuck the women that try to be saviors, especially, fuck them. Fuck their stupidity and their friendship that lasts only as far as the next guy or the previous. Fuck the saviors in general. There is no saving, no rescuing, no heroes in this world. You people need to get the shit kicked out of you just to realize how strong you are without this bullshit. Fuck you fuckers. You fuckers fuck up the fucked even more by fucking with them. Fuck the givers. “Givers”? Jesus Fucking Christ. Takers. Takers! You fucking take from everyone with your “help.” Shut the fuck up.

Fuck the friendships. Fuck the words. Fuck the actions. Fuck the daddy issues. Fuck the mommy issues. Fuck the issues in general. Fuck the whole fucking childhood. Fuck the past, the present, and the future. Fuck time. Fuck the questions. Fuck whether or not our souls live with us until we turn back into dirt or whether they leave us to go to another dimension altogether. Fuck the answers too. Go fuck yourselves.

Fuck the pain. Fuck the melancholy dust that settles on everyone's life each second they don't live up to expectations. Fuck the suffering. Fuck finishing this fucked up post.

Hopeless, Helpless, and Alone

2009-08-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

For the past three days I have been wearing headphones. They are big muffs, very soundproof. I've been staring at a black rectangle, with a few smoke breaks, one meal, and some drinks of water in between. I have shut the world out of me, just as it has just me out. I have been squinting and squeezing my eyes so hard at times, but I still haven't been able to shed just one tear. I sit in my room with a box fan cooling me off while I sweat out the heat. When I go to bed, I point the breeze in my direction, so when I wake up from nightmares covered in sweat, I feel more sad than frightened.

On the black rectangle I watch things, things that keep my mind and senses out of my environment. Scary things, fighting things, mysterious things, alien things, unreal things. I switch between them pretty rapidly. My face feels like stone, sore for keeping the same position for so many days. My neglected facial hair, feet, armpits, clothes, ears, they itch. I feel as though I am going blind, both to color and the existence of all things. My mind feels dead and my body is functioning without any purpose, every day, all of the time. I have become disgusting, whether or not I was disgusted with myself before, I am now. Formerly, I was accused of many doing many bad things, including having mental problems. Some were true, but most were not. Some bad things they never knew of. My therapist once told me that I am now becoming and doing the very things they accused me of.

Speaking of, my former therapists described my current lifestyle as “avoidance” and “isolation.” These, they said, were symptoms of depression and anxiety. I am no longer allowed to see these therapists because they expelled me from their program. They said my smoke, coffee, and bathroom breaks were “avoidance” and “isolation.” These, they said, were symptoms of depression and anxiety I was apparently not supposed to have. Wait, just there, I just felt something. Anger. I guess that's good, right?

Now, I fear that it would cause me more trouble, and thus more pain, if I called for help. If I turned myself in to the proper authorities, what would they do? They would drug me, perhaps tie me up, sedate me. Once that happened, my recovery would take longer and it would be that much harder. Emergency service do me no good. Oh, how I wish I had a family I could talk to!!!!!! I wish I had people to empathize with me. To seek me out amongst the pain and torture devices that hold me, trap me, and keep me in solitude. I am locked in solitude, stuck, and without relief, or even hope of relief, from any direction, not even above. I am thrown myself off of the throne of grace, whether there was one to exist or not. I am angry that I have not been spared this ludicrous suffering. Damn them who could've spared me, and then damn myself, for I have no where else to go.

Ego Trip

2009-06-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

I am a force to be reckoned. Everyone who meets me for the first time seems to know this immediately. I am both a lover and a fighter. Look at my history, my full resume of actions, and you will see this clearly. I have battled both the internal and the external. In college, I fought my philosophy professors who challenged the establishment of religion or theology in the modern world. At the same time, even just hours later, I would attend Bible study and challenge the notions of faith without knowledge, experience without insight, interpretation without perspective. I have few loyalties.

I can hurt people. I am dangerous, and make no mistake of understanding this, safety from me is never guaranteed. I was genetically hardwired as outrageously passionate, strong willed, and mindful. Give me a scholar, a scientist, or a theologian to fight and I will learn their weaknesses and expose them frankly. Hand me a machine, puzzle, or any tangle of knots that I have never before seen and I will see them through. Offer me one to love and I will pour onto them more affection than any poet with song or Buddhist with delightful appreciation. Offer me one to hate and I will go straight to the heart, the self-worth, and the futility of their life. I love a challenge. I would face any Goliath.

My attitude is unrealistic. I have lost more battles than I have won. I have scars, both internal and external. I fought a trained Rottweiler in 5th grade, leaving my arm and back permanently scarred. I have fought deep depression and hopelessness, leaving stretch marks of starvation and gluttony on my back, stomach, and legs. I have fought the bottle, emptying it into myself and flinging it into the street to hear it shatter. I have fought the pills, under blankets and in front of white coats. I have sent myself into more challenges than I can possibly survive, and yet, here I am.

I have stared into the abyss and the abyss has stared into me. I have spent days in absolute solitude with the question of why my life is worth living. Just opening my eyes and sensing the world around me, I have no doubt that I was made for it. Made, made in this exact way, for it. Even with personality altering drugs, hypnotherapy, professionals of identity that put me under a microscope and surgery, I am like I was made to be.

Radical Acceptance

2009-06-14T20:40:00.000-07:00

This will be my most deliberate post. I will carefully consider each word, each phrase, each tone, each thought and emotion. This is a radical acceptance of my reality. It is a reality far from my approval, but that's what makes the acceptance so radical. This post might seem like I'm talking to myself, which I partially am, and which the reader might find partially boring. However, at very least it will be honest. This post will take some time. I might need to step away, to relax, to smoke, or to just breath. But I know I can do this. I have been writing my entire life. I have expressed my deepest pains, composed pages of complex philosophy, and even doodled a time when I had no words to describe it. I know I can do this.

I am in pain. I am in pain, but I'm learning not to suffer. I have been in pain before and the suffering came as a result of nonacceptance or judgment of it in my mind. Suffering, the conflict and obsession over the pain, prolongs itself. I learned this dysfunction early in my life, and I lived through it, just as I do so now. My parents, my family, my childhood, was an environment in which I was treated without respect, without understanding, and without support. I was the only boy. I was the adventurous one, the trouble-maker, the risk taker, the rebellious one, the inappropriate one, and the one who did not belong. I have so many memories of events reinforcing these hurts that I have blocked them from my memory, with the only way to retrieve them being a partial hypnosis therapy. I was surrounded by a family of girls and was trained to be emotionally sensitive and vulnerable. The transaction between my family's invalidation and my emotional vulnerability made for a disastrous self-esteem. It left scars. It left me hungering for validation, attention, respect, and love.

Some people would not have reacted this way. Most people would probably have reacted differently. But they are not me. I reacted this way, and in this way I grew up. I grew up with strong passions, emotionally adventurous and vulnerable, looking for love. I grew up strong willed, forcing myself to live up to the highest standards, looking for validation. I grew up smart, thinking, reading, writing, listening, and talking my way towards respect. I grew up with silliness and humor, blissful in attention. I grew up with scars. These scars made me who I was, my baseline personality. At times, they are both my strengths and weaknesses.

The circumstances I faced going to war played heavily on both my strengths and weaknesses. Unfortunately, most of my experiences hit me hardest where I was most vulnerable. Treated without respect, without understanding, and without support. For this I felt ashamed, a flawed and failed soldier, and one who did not belong, like I was taught to feel. It left scars. I have many memories of events reinforcing these hurts that I have blocked from my memory, only coming to me in flashbacks and nightmares. Because of this, and like before, I need help. I need the help I learned to pursue through friends when family could not provide it. I need the help I secretly pursued on my own through professional therapy, because I was ashamed. I need the help of an emotionally challenging adventure and success. For this, to grow up once again, I need both my strengths and weaknesses.

It has been six months since my return from war and I have made little progress save for the past month or so. Group therapy, four different therapists, three days in a psych ward, and hours of my own research. Two medications to help me sleep, one to disarm my nightmares, one to partially sedate me during the day, and another to alter my depressed mood. After going through more types of medication than I can remember, I have somewhat settled on the right combo. After experimenting with various types of therapy and therapists, I have somewhat settled on what works for me. With a cocktail of powerful medication and a therapy mix of dialectic philosophy and Buddhist meditation, I am coming to rediscovering my baseline. I learned my unique strengths from my unique weaknesses. Some people would not have reacted this way. Most people probably would have reacted differently. But they are not me.

Face The Reality

2009-05-26T22:45:00.001-07:00

I don't know if I'll ever get back to the way I was, and the truth of that fact is more than I can bare. I can barely remember it now. I think Hell is a place where one day delivers enough pain to make you feel like you've been there for eternity and lost yourself. So traumatic that nothing else matters, nothing else can be remembered, and nothing else can be felt.

The doctors: the psychiatrists, psychologists, even the orthopedic specialists, all of them, tell me that I will probably never be the same. Not that same is what I want, just that I expected to grow in a positive way, rather than become partially insane. My personality is undergoing a complete transformation into God knows what. I am afraid of myself. To say that I don't know myself would be an almost sadistic comment. I have no idea who I even was, who I am, or who I will be. I am scared of all of the answers to those questions. I simply do not want to be me.

I am stuck in the Grand Canyon rut of personal identity. What I feel and what I think battle each other like they're in the most righteously desperate of wars over the truth of me. The feeling side is winning by a dramatic margin. I fear that I have lost everything that I was, everything that I am, and everything that I will be. I used to be so many things, so many things that so many people thought were good, and each of them I now mourn as if my soul has given up all attachments and I am now left with this pathetic shell of a person.

I have run out of tears many times this week over marathon hours of shedding them. My eyes are sore, left with the salty crystals, blurry vision, and rashes from rubbing away my times of reflection. I have forgotten how to smile, swallow, and sometimes breath. I am beset with the effects of fucking up my life for no good reason. It grieves me so deeply. So deep, that I feel it without even thinking. So deep, that I could reflect on it all day and never feel it fully.

This faceless depression seems to be of a different strain that I am used to dealing with. It is confusing and painful in way that pain is not usually felt; not with a clarity of mind, but a clouding of all senses. Any pleasure I feel tends to rot so quickly that I barely remember experiencing it. And I know it is this breed of depression that makes me cast a dark perspective shadow, and that I have no control over it, but I wish I could just face it. I wish I could just face the reality of my life.

No Thanks, I'd Rather Hide

2009-05-10T10:51:00.001-07:00

Under a blanket, under a tree
Under a rock beside a stream
Under a bed, with a skirt
Under the neck of my t-shirt

In a cave, with a narrow mouth
Under the sand with a straw sticking out
In a bottle, with a cork
Covered in straw with a pitchfork

Behind a computer, behind a desk
Under the desk beneath the foot rest
Wrapped in toilet paper, in the shower
Playing video games past the hour

In the coffee pot, with dark roasted blend
Somehow between the paper and the pen
Between two cups, stacked in each other
Under the feathered ass of a finch's mother

In a shell, in a shelter
In an asylum with white-washed helpers
Under a log, in a fire
Warm and cozy in the highest spire

No thanks, I'd rather hide
Than get up and go outside

Hold On, Just Hold On

2009-05-06T17:58:00.000-07:00

These were my last therapists words to me just before I left her office. I'm beginning to think that therapists are not as much like doctors as I originally thought. I do not mean to insult the profession, but there is much that many therapists do not understand. Like lovers. Unlike listeners. In fact, I have had more therapists than I've had lovers and less listeners than I've had therapists.

The story for me now is that I'm holding on. Holding on and reaching out. I've begun to dabble again into spiritual experiences, which in the past, have provided much healing and peace for me. I'm currently reading two books: one on prayer and the other on listening. I just now realized there has been a hole in my approach to prayer even more so than there has been in my past listening skills.

Here is how I reasoned it: Prayer to God often comes in the form of somewhat grocery lists of needs and desires. After all, God is there to help us, no? On the other hand, listening comes in the form of selflessly minding the other's thoughts and feelings to the point that one forgets their own and focuses on the speaker. Now, given that God (or whatever you call him or her) is the foundation for truth, and that he or she also has a will for us in the form of love, why is there so little listening in prayer?

I know it sounds weird. I mean, what do you tell a person who says God speaks to them? Do you ask them the secret of their drug cocktail? I would certainly feel that way. That is to say, I would feel that way if I were completely sane and had all of my shit together. Egos spike quite higher when they are stepping on others. But I don't, and I'm not, so on we go.

What would happen if we took time to get comfy and pray. Who in their right mind says prayer has to be some sort of ritualistic recital? Get comfy, quite down, and listen to God. If he is who he claims to be, then he will speak to you. If he is not, or simply doesn't give a shit, then you'll hear nothing. And it is here that I need to make a distinction. A simple one, between, let's say, eastern and western religious philosophies.

What I propose in the above paragraph can only be done with a Judeo-Christian approach. Most eastern religions require the emptying of one's self in prayer, detachment from all things, and a sort of raising up or branching out of the mind to relate. In the western Judeo-Christian approach, prayer requires the filling up of one's self with God, a deep dependence on him, and a sort of selfish focus wherein God reaches out and in to you. Not exactly Sunday school stuff, but I thought I'd make the distinction.

So, given a God who is truth, who loves us, and wants to help us, I neglect to see why listening to God in prayer could be considered as absurd as I once thought it was. Imagine actively listening to the Truth. Empathizing with an almighty heart that loves you. Reflecting those emotions as though they were a person speaking to you and you were giving them their full attention, complete with reflecting facial expressions, tones of voice, ears filled with their intention.

I know I am reaching here. Reaching out, holding on, just holding on. But I might, just might, actually believe this.

Reckless Endangerment

2009-04-15T16:09:00.000-07:00

I think my death will be rather violent. Call it morbid curiosity or just wishful thinking. I do not want to arrive safely at my end. Whether it come while I'm in a bed or in some foreign country, I'm not expected a peaceful transition to wherever or whatever comes.

My body will probably be covered in scars and tattoos from life. I'll probably be screaming, either something like "Yee-haa!" or "Oh, shit!" Not all of my senses will be working correctly since most will have been overused and maltreated during the course of my life. My hands and feet will be callused more than most fire walkers and construction workers. My skin should have parts where hair no longer grows as it used to. I'd better arrive at this finish line with more than one broken bone and torn muscle. I hope I can eat damn near anything. My ears should have at least 50% less capability than when I was born, while my eyes should have at least 50% more. I hope I will have some permanently dislocated knuckles from good fights and tweaked ankles or knees from good hikes. All in all, I want to be damn near broken.

Let's see. I want to have loved and lost, loved and won, and sometimes barely loved at all. I want to have deep laugh lines, tear trails, some frowned-out areas, and experience scars. I want to have felt every emotion, deep and broad, for a long period of time. My heart should be just about worn out by the time I reach my end. Perhaps that's how I will die, who knows? When I start laughing my last, crying my last, or making any inadvertent noise whatsoever, it might just give out. My heart will have been torn and rejoined, stepped on and puffed up, gloomy and glimmering. It will have beaten more and faster than any athlete, slower and more purposeful than any monk. I want my heart to ache, yet be soft and easily humored, just like I want my eyes.

I could probably edit this and add more (and I still might), but there it is so far. I want to be utter worn out when I die, ending as helpless but more helpful than I began it.

ABC Worksheet - Homework #2

2009-04-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

This is going to be ironic. You'll see. My last therapy session I was given an "ABC Worksheet" to fill out every day. Under the "A" section for "Activating Event" I am supposed to write about something that happens, under the "B" section for "Beliefs" I am supposed to write about what I tell myself about the event, and under the "C" section for "Consequences" I am supposed to write about how I feel.

Two things you should know. First, I take two milligrams of Klonopin per day. I am also on Paxil, which as you will note, gives you cravings for alcohol. Second, I am not supposed to drink alcohol, both due to the drugs and the moral impression I give my "support system" about my recovery. So, let's begin with the worksheet for today.

Currently, I've had two Captain and Cokes on ice and feeling pretty damn good about myself. Not really, that's a lie, I feel terribly guilty because I am drinking.

Section A - Activating Event: I am drinking and want to drink more.

Section B - Beliefs: I am an alcoholic. I am an unlikeable loser and failing recovery. I should be stronger (I am a soldier after all), but I am quite pathetic as both a civilian and a soldier.

Section C - Consequences: I feel guilty and ashamed. I feel used. I feel out of control of myself and deserving of disregard and disrespect.

See the irony yet? I have a problem with drinking and wanting to drink so I'm drinking and writing about wanting to drink. On a piece of paper. On a blog. Is this really treatment??? Seems silly. But we're not done.

At the bottom of the ABC Worksheet are two questions. The first is this: "Are my thoughts in 'B' realistic?" Now, how do I really answer this? I'm on drugs that give me cravings for alcohol, yet I shouldn't drink, and so I feel guilty about it. I'm on drugs that give me these cravings, bad ones. So, I think I should honestly answer "Yes, I am a medicated, functional alcoholic." Now, who exactly and "realistically" likes functional alcoholics? Who thinks they are making progress in recovery? For whatever root reason, alcoholics drink to cover it up or coop with it, as do I. Now, who ever felt that alcoholics were decent citizens? Not me, I pity them. Like I do myself, I guess. Or perhaps I'm being too polar with the issue. Whatever. I need a refill, straight up this time, before I get to the next question.

Ok. How can I avoid thinking section "B" in the future?

....

I don't know.
I just talked to both my sister and my mother about this question. Both of whom agree that I do not know how to be loved. They're concerned and want to help me, but I just don't know how to accept their help. Great. I guess I'll just wait for the therapist to tell me.

Body Over Mood

2009-03-23T18:14:00.001-07:00

I have come to believe in a sort of philosophy that I hate. But whether I like it or not, the effects that certain causes have on my life do so with a sincere indifference to my personal tastes. And for the record, no, I don't like it. I hate it. I hate believing that pushing myself to go through something will make me feel better. This is not a convenient belief. I also hate it because it requires will power, something I very much enjoy jettisoning at nearly every opportunity. Regardless of whether this is true or not, the directly caused effects that my body has on my mind and my feelings exists with sincere regret on my part. My feelings will never change toward this belief, much like my feeling will not change towards pain. It hurts, I hate it. So that's that.

Nevertheless, it is true. My body affects my mind and mood. (I'm sure there exists a scientific explanation for this, but I don't really care for science much). Lately, I have been rather indifferent or depressed. So, I started making some changes. First, I put a big fan in my room and run it on high every night. Every time I get into bed it is breezy and cold, forcing me to use more blankets and wrap them more tightly. I hate the cold, but enjoy the blankets, so I'm happier. I also bought a shit load of scented candles, more than one of which can be found flickering every day somewhere in my room. I hate lighting them, but lavender and camomile are great scents for stress. The damn things burn out too soon, but walking into my room immediately relaxes me.

Even more recently I have found myself going to extremes with this. I bought Fish Oil pills. Apparently, 2000mg of Omega-3 is rumored to help moods. Fish Oil, okay, whatever. During the afternoons I go jump into the rather frigid and unoccupied community pool. The cold water starts my indifferent heart beating like shock paddles. I'll get out, lay out in the sun until I'm relatively dry, then jump in again. Shock therapy, I guess.

Just before writing this, I threw about 30 vitamin E “liquid gels” into a hot bath, along with some camomile tea bags, and just for the hell of it, a little aloe. And now look at me, whereas before the bath I sat down to write and only got as far as “shock therapy,” I'm now typing away. Weird. I drink both hot tea and iced lemonade at the same time. I listen to music I am not in the mood to listen to and end up singing to my computer equalizer. I'm currently drinking an Airborne ice water even though I'm not sick, it just has vitamins.

I find myself thinking “what senses have I not yet challenged?” and end up with some new, weird, juxtaposed event. How can I screw with my body more? I'm not trying to be a masochist, but I might be trying to be something similar. I will always hate knowing that such trivial things can affect me so strongly. But for now, these behaviors are beating the crap out of my indifference and depression. Without directly trying to relax, I am. That bugs me, but it works. So, I'm going to go brush my teeth with teeth-whittening bubble gum.

PTSD Therapy Homework Assignment #1

2009-03-19T14:51:00.001-07:00

The prompt:

Think of your most traumatic event during your deployment. Write about how this event how changed you. Write about how your values, morals, thoughts, feelings, and behaviors have changed due to this incident. What are you like now as opposed to back then. Write it by hand, don't type it.

The response (yeah, I typed it):

To sum up: I don't really care anymore. I used to believe that mostly good things happened to good people and mostly bad things happened to bad people. Now, I know it doesn't really matter whether you are good or bad, you're still going to get fucked somewhere along the line. Nice guys finish last. I now firmly believe that there are absolutely evil people in world who cannot and will change, people that deserve to die today, if not sooner. I now know that everybody tells lies, not just white lies, but major lies. I believe that most women are naive and get ahead in the workforce by flirting or more direct sexual means. I believe that most men are conniving and assholish by nature, which are somehow considered desirable traits in both their business and personal lives. I believe that most people live in ignorance and prefer it that way such that their lives will only be challenged by the most minimal of circumstances.

At present, I feel like I am missing out on so much in life. I used to find great peace and satisfaction with one or two questions in my head and a few hours of freedom. I used to ask the question “why” and be able to answer it. “Why” is now my poison and I hate the word, as I hate the world, all Montagues. Kill one why and immediately another twenty take it place. I do not know why I do what I do, feel how I feel, think what I think. My lifestyle is both chaotic and boring, yet simple and confusing.

As for behavior, haha. I don't care whether my behavior is appropriate for friends, family, culture, country, social situation, job, future, sleep, diet, self-control, personal growth, or really anything of moral value. Fuck it all, so says my mind. Yet, and this really sucks, my heart doesn't follow. I feel guilty for doing so many “wrong” or unproductive things. It's stupid and confusing, a “why” question, and I therefore avoid the issue altogether. Cognitive dissidence aside, I really don't care anymore.

I punish myself now as much as they punished me during deployment. As a civilian, and even when it is entirely unnecessary, I break every rule the Army has. I am both proud and loathing of the uniform I wore. Before, I was just proud, and I followed most every rule thinking that following said rules would be a benefit to all. I thought I was going to be part of a team, but I ended up being called and charged as a traitor to the United States of America. I am convinced that the reason for this is simply the behavior of evil people in the Army. And, again, I believe evil people should die today, if not sooner. My enemies were supposed to be my teammates, but ended up betraying me.

This Is How I Love, in a raw 15 minutes

2009-02-19T00:56:00.000-08:00

Perhaps we sow the pains of love deep into our hearts at the beginning so that when the harvest comes, we can be confident in what we knew all along: that it was not meant to be. Even though it has been years past my last leaping off the love cliff, it is still a mystery to me how I became so hurt. The truth is that I am not like most people. I do not love like most men. I do not share their indifference toward the objects of their affection, as those they could be tossed away after just a few weeks of sadness. No, I am not like most men. The truth is that I do not sow the pains of love in my heart at first. I am never confident and I am always reckless.

When I jump, I do so from the highest point, the point at which I am the most fearful. And when I fall, I do not do so gracefully or carefully, like neither swan nor parachute in tow. Where most would scream, and where they probably should, I enjoy the view. I take deep breaths of fast moving air that would choke most men, maybe even some women too. I hear my own pulse as though I had stuck fingers in my ears, and listen for their pulse to come into beat with my own. As the line reads, “So close that your hand, on my chest, is my hand.” And so it goes. Falling in full force, in all the depth and breadth of my soul, into what most would realize was an abyss.

And no matter what may seem an obstacle, a sharp edge of conflict, a blunt blow from feigned naivety, a magnetic charge of codependency and attention seeking, I see as growth, life budding, when it is actually rotting. Where most would bail, and where they probably should, I take a few drinks, numb the natural nerves of injury, of pain, and clumsily bounce along.

Let's be clear here: I am not a principled man. I do nothing to fulfill a belief in “true” love, in chivalry, in honorable choice, in genuine selflessness. So, at the end, even as it was at the beginning, I am reckless and fearful. Another author once wrote, “No one ever told me grief felt so like fear.” The paralyzing grief at the bottom, just as the paralyzing fear at the top, stuck on the edge of something deathly beautiful, is why and how and from where I love. No, and cheerfully I say this, I am not like most men.

And I guess all of this is just to explain why I will never be in another relationship. I am not like most men: I am far more passionate. And passion, my friends, is not a friendly thing. Give my passion its head and it will ravage a life like a starving beast. It is not careful, it is reckless, nor confident, but terrified, and never, ever, in my heart will a woman find safety, nor will I.

Facebook Thingy I Thought To Post Here

2009-01-30T21:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Dear Journal

2009-01-20T01:25:00.000-08:00

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

To Be Loved

2009-01-16T17:08:00.001-08:00

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.

Something I Wrote While Deployed

2009-01-07T23:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Lost

2008-11-28T03:11:00.000-08:00

So, it's 3:00 am, 3 hours after Thanksgiving. I said the initial hellos, gave the greeting handshakes, 2-3 pat masculine hugs, faux cheek kisses, then tipped the glass and whispered the self-encouraging “here we go.” And so I went. Some cleaning, cooking, terrible football, good beer, dressing up, sitting down, uncorking and thanksgiving later, here I sit pregnant with turkey. I wasn't drunk, but I might as well have been, because everything tonight and the past few days has been surreal. I don't know how to describe it. Like a visit to the zoo? Snorkeling in a glass-bottom boat? Virtual reality in black and white 3-D? A late night pop-up picture book? I feel like walking up to somebody and asking, “Hi, my name is Benjamin, do you know a place where I fit in?”

Ever go to those places where you're living life on the balcony rather than on stage? When there, or here as it were, I mostly think back to my past: the mango juice in Ethiopia, the tea and curry in India, the carne asada backyard BBQ in Mexico, the crawdad buffet in Missouri, etc. No, I'm not hungry. None of the above were about the food. No dressing up or down was involved. It seems like I should be at these places, but I know that if I were there, I would feel the same way. Out of place. Not at home. Traveling. Transient. Passing through, if not around. I don't know what has happened to me. Did I climb a beanstalk somewhere? Who kicked me out of the plane over this place? It is so weird to feel as an alien in your hometown. Even without knowing my place, I feel so incredibly that this is not it. Perhaps I should just keep my bags packed.

And yes, I'm slightly terrified. Even more so because of the relative truth I recognize at this moment: I don't know who I am. Scary how my environment can make or break that for me. Most everywhere I go I surmise that if these people are my mirrors, then I'm in some sort of Fun House at a county fair. You'd think I would realize by now that it doesn't really matter whether I am the polka dot or the stripe, it just is. So I'm not really learning as much as realizing the vast amount of crap I have to learn and be if I am to belong at all. Sort of a 'pick your adventure' type thing. I'm still a kid, like most adults. I need some help, like a hint guide or a GPS Magic 8-Ball. Actually, I need a lot more than that. A lot more. I need someone or something to fill this void between me and everything else.

I need someone to ask me “What happened?” Just crack the flood gates a bit. Ask me a question. Approach me, offering nothing but me and my story. Hand me an empty spoon, glass, or bowl; give me an opportunity. A moment to tell all, as far as all can go in a conversation, and let it spill out wherever in may into the flooded low lands of mercy. I sit silently hoping for permission, an invitation or request, into the realm of listening that I long to be a citizen of. I am here anxiously awaiting a voice of open ears and eyes; drunk or sober, sane or fucked up, classy or bootstrapped. They don't even have to remember our conversation.

I do not know how long I can contain it. I do know who I can trust with it. I try, as always prior, to the trusting. Though I am left with few choices, I prefer it that way. So many have dropped and let shatter much of what I cherish, a tragedy we all share. I have learned that when standing at the door of potential invitation. I feel like a door-to-door salesman. Pathetic, but with a significant product. Pathetic, crying for attention, especially so much selfless attention, but just as real as old. Alienated in a 'I am me but this is not me' sort of way.

Then again, this reminds me of so much. Being out of the country for a year, readjustment, also known as just adjustment, has to occur. After a long trip, coming home is always the hardest part of leaving it.

Ten Minute Poetry?

2008-09-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to sit outside
Gonna let the sweat dry
From the inside without
Wrap to unfold to laid out
A hold, a control of me
Just to be

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to cry
Sit down in the shower
Let my eyes die
Taste my salted wet
Smell the ocean set
Upon steam off my broken heart

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to breathe in deep
Let my mind sleep
Through the errant flow
A concentrated blow
Let it glint my soul
And take me all down

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to sit outside
Look up in the sky
Stare at bugs in the light
Feel small in the night
Zoom in at the stars
And see the flames of space

For a few broken minutes
I'll feel the earth turn
To learn its trembles
Like they were my own
In sync with all I need
Balance and symphonies
Of silent time

For a few broken minutes
No one but me to need
Life without hope
A chance for pause
Stopping the cause
Broken space and time
To sit and unwind

Therapy Notes

2008-09-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

The budget came close to $3,000.00 in therapy bills. So, I thought I would post my raw self-actualization notes taken on loaned paper from my final session. If not for you to read, then they're for me to remember.

DOUGLAS L. ZABRISKIE, LMFT
Licensed Marriage Family Therapist, MFT 28192

Cognitive Behavioral

Project into the future and becoming afraid

come back to "NOW"

Catastrophize - asking "What if?" (see above)
Practice meditation, prayer, breathing

Deal with practical present issues
Becoming okay with uncomfortable feeling

Insecurities - non-real

Practice relaxing

Feel anxious - attach to cause

start to panic

Practice saying "I have an uncomfortable sensation in my body, but there is no need to tense up or panic."
Tolerate bad feelings

do something with energy

Little boy feelings

don't expect so much from yourself

give yourself a break FREQUENTLY

go to safe place

bunker, fire pillar

have your inner adult take over with "Dad talk"

Give yourself positive affirmations

Remind self of character, accomplishments, etc.

Remind self of security

"I'm attractive to women"

Practice "I want to be..." instead of "I don't want to be..."

I'm lovable
Important part of friends/family
I am lovable even if I'm insecure

Biggest Lie ------> Negative - If I get your complete energy and attention, I'll be okay

Laugh. How much attention do I really need?

Keep evaluating trust

Best Response ---> I'm significant and I belong

Let go of emotional control

will kill relationships
Start slow, but with honesty

less emotional intimacy
lower expectations

don't let initial attraction rule you

Trust unfolds, you don't need to create it

Relationships

Blame others or self

Back off, time, think about what's really bothering you

Awareness practice

safety experiments - trust tests

Do they accept me?

start with little things

Counteract punishment effect

tendency to not trust women

suspicion, paranoia of cheating

healthy intimacy boundaries

laugh at ridiculous fears/feelings

jettison the issue FREQUENTLY

Don't ask why or what if

you'll get stuck
why doesn't matter, how you react to situation does

Recognize betrayal fantasies

realize present truth (laugh, see above)

Recognize and practice disengagement from being approved, adored, or understood

in conversation - angry, upset - recognize
people often misunderstand, not fully accept

What is my perceived need?

they don't have to understand

Reprogram negative beliefs about women

tolerate discomfort - no deeper cause or meaning

not mom, sister, cousins, etc.

many women are trustworthy

Storytelling

2008-02-18T07:49:00.000-08:00

Our story begins just like any other story. Our story begins today, the day all stories are created, when the history of our thoughts are loosely reconstructed into a chronological development that climaxes into our great experience. And we, the collective consisting of the reader and myself, all partake in its development. I write the information vaguely connected to actual experience, and the reader reads skimmingly across the vast plains of such information in search of, well, a good story. Since I know this, I try to incorporate many treasure tales into the lines of text that can be discovered by the reader, thus proving his worth as a reader and mine as a writer. All of this is merely to explain how it is “our” story and not just a made up fiction, which is it, but who cares.

Hence, no story is ever told again. Each time it is reconstructed with a secret encoder (the storyteller) and a unique decoder (the listener or reader, well, at least the reader, since most listeners become their own storytellers and audience after a short time). Which brings me to my first point: there are few audiences for storytellers in the world of voice. The best stories are spoken in places one can read a book, ponder some silent thought, or anywhere else with a pint and friends. Few listen. Few understand. Few acknowledge their understanding by saying something other than “I understand.” Unless following an order, nobody should ever say “I understand” to any speaker. “I understand” should be a demonstration of understanding, not a statement of it. Only the speaker can declare if the listener understands. For example, the listener can simply repeat back to the speaker what they have heard. Is this not the easiest demonstration of understanding? If someone is explaining some problem they are having to me and follow their explanation with the question “Do you understand?” I simply repeat back to them their explanation of their problem. “I'm upset because you suggested I was an idiot, understand?” “So, you're upset that I suggested you were an idiot?” “Yes.” And then they continue. Once I am declared as understanding, the speaker feels automatically able to continue their story because the value of the story has been reflected by the listener.

It is amazing how unimportant people feel if they are not listened to appropriately. Just like learning a new language, a new speaker must be learned, decoded, placed in context, and received with translated acknowledgment. There is little difference between a listener who only acknowledges understanding by their declaration of it and a foreigner who receives instructions with a silent smile and a nod. I cannot recall the amount of times I have spoken to individuals who couldn't even realize the language I was speaking, much less the words, and far less the meaning. How did we become so self-absorbed that we have run out of stories to tell about each other? When did we stop learning to communicate to other humans? Perhaps school has taught us a standard of communication that must be adopted in order to be useful. Perhaps some people who went to school are just jackasses. Perhaps jackasses need a lesson.

What if we shocked the world by displacing everyone into another culture? How would you act if you didn't recognize a face, a landmark, an article of clothing, or even a syllable? At what point does the level of desperation to connect with other humans break the self-absorbed jackasses in all of us? Must we reach to the degree of shell-shocked displacement to disrupt our aging self-reflection and reproductive autobiographies?

So try, just try, to tell a story about someone else. Tell one you've heard. Tell one you've heard told. Tell a story you heard was told to a guy who once listened to a comedian talk about an email forward he received from a friend about a group of people in another country learning the tales of a remote culture. It's entertaining, fun, easy to listen to, and best of all, it's not just about you. Who knows, if you're not talking about yourself, people might find you easier to listen to.

My Safest Place

2007-11-04T19:04:00.000-08:00

My safest place is my own creation. It is a mental retreat, a cognitive reality, where I can exist without trouble. It is immune from every attack; spiritual, emotional, or physical. Within such walls, I am loved, appreciated, respected, significant, and I belong. I am worthy of the highest affection. I am a child, but I am also a god.

My safest place is a bunker deep in the middle of the largest, hottest desert. It is huge, but barely visible as it sits level with the surrounding sands. Yes, it is air-conditioned, but my favorite features are on the outside. It is no mere ivory tower; it is a fortress created for my ego to rest.

Surrounding the bunker are my boundaries maintained by an unseen force with an ultimate desire to love and value me. At least 200 yards out swirls a wall of sand circling with hurricane force winds. This wall serves as a warning to all who pass that they must be nice to me. In fact, the wall will only harm you if part of you harbors any ill-will towards me. If you are seeking me out so that I can fulfill some need of yours, it will not let you pass, whether I want it to or not. If you are not coming their for me, me when I am at the most selfish, then you are not welcome.

Within the wall of sand is a large pillar of fire. The fire is my favorite feature due to the fact that is the most threatening and the most protective. It is a purifying fire. I mean no harm to anyone, but this will harm you dearly if you choose to approach it with any other motive besides love for me. If you want me, it will burn you. If you merely like me, it will burn you again. If you are willing to criticize me, it might even kill you. In fact, if you merely came to be silent and listen to me it will still burn you, because every person knows that listening involves much more than being silent. If you came to relate your life story to mine, you will not make it past the first step. Even if, unbeknownst to you, that you will lie, emotionally manipulate, argue, or fight for any of your own control or rights in the bunker, you will be reject here first. The fire is a brilliant ego check on all who enter. None can fool it. You are either their for me, in my world, or you will be harshly rejected.

Lining the inside of the pillar of fire is a soft pillow of clouds. Thicker than a snow storm of dandelion pedals, it quiets every noise for me and comfortably dims the heat and light. And within that comfort, lies my bunker.

It is a magical place, filled with objects and space and time that arranges itself according to my wishes. I can do no wrong within it. I cannot hurt a soul, nor can they hurt me. No angry words are spoken there. There is no drama, no gossip, no liars, no manipulators, no challenges. Here I am valued, protect by the forces outside me. Here I am loved, comforted by my surroundings and the environment created for me. Here I am respected, without argument or conflicting personalities. Here I am appreciated, where my creations hang on the walls, sit on the floor, as beautiful and perfect as they are in my mind. Here I can exhale, close my eyes, rest and relax with selfish freedom. Here I am safe.

A Rant About Marriage

2007-10-31T21:04:00.000-07:00

Since when did marriage become the jaded reason for every married persons' existence? At what point did marriage excuse people from dealing with their own individual problems? Did the vows, kids, careers, or money change the definition of responsibility? Since when did the practice of using the words 'I love you' to cover up unloving actions become so popular? At what point did the fact that people change become incompatible with marriage vows? Or monogamy? Or spirituality?

Many married people I know are going through issues. No problem, right? We all go through issues. But here is my personal issue: no married person I know thinks an unmarried person can understand or provide insight into their 'marriage' problems. Sorry, but I take that personally. At what point did a marriage cease to be a intimate relationship? I've had my fair share of such relationships, making ridiculous and reprehensible mistakes in each one, such that I learned more about myself and relationships through each one. Just because I did not make any vows, nor did I live with my x-girlfriends, does not make my opinion shallow.

Are you actually suggesting that I cannot see when you're being selfish? Or that your wife is just an egotistical bitch who cares more about her career and self-image than you? Or that your self-worth is wrapped up in him? Do you not see for yourself that he has let you down and that's okay? Do you know what you were expecting from marriage? I've heard that expectations are premeditated regrets, so do you think that's true? I've been in codependent relationships, so can I not recognize codependency? I've been controlled and controlling, so can I not advise on self-control and boundaries?

Let's make one more thing perfectly clear: there is no such thing as a Christian marriage. Marriage is not God-ordained, it is a social institution. It is an agreement between two individuals that actually requires both parties to live out their lives together. A Christian marriage is an invention by the Christian church that requires people to live out their lives and their marriage according to Christian principles. In other words, a donut with frosting is still a donut.

Believe it or not, there really isn't anything spiritual about marriage. Otherwise, every atheist on the planet wouldn't be able to get or stay married. Since when did we over-spiritualize and over-romanticize marriage to be somehow 'above' a personal and practical social relationship? There are forty year old married couples that still fight! Fighting is a part of marriage. Conflict, change, bills, and doing the fucking dishes are a part of marriage. What is so spiritual or romantic about that?

So then, why do we look for spiritual or romantic solutions to marital problems? God is not putting you through trials right now, you're being insecure that your wife isn't interested in you anymore, and you're probably right. God has nothing to do with it. Your three month long engagement and five year marriage did not turn out to be 'what was meant to be'. So no, you're not leaving the One person you were meant to be with. You cannot fix your marriage just because you're supposed to stay married. Very simply, it might have started with a simple mistake that has grown to have enormous personal consequences. Believe me, you're not an abnormality here. I'm single, I know.

Can we please start to be more practical and less romantic/spiritual about marriage? It is quite necessary to do so. Generally, a visit to your local secular therapist will do more for you and your marriage than a Christian counselor or pastor. I would like to see marital problems be worked out in healthy ways such as learning communication, tolerance, personal growth, and even divorce rather than cheating, lying that violates trust, having open marriages, manipulation, and ugly battles for control.

Desiring Truth and Goodness Beyond Doctrine

2007-10-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

The following quote is from C.S. Lewis' fictional book The Last Battle. Aslan, the lion, represents God in the book. While Tash (along with others) represents Satan or the Evil One. Emeth, a leopard and follower of Tash, suddenly finds himself in an open field:

"So I went over much grass and many flowers and among all kinds of wholesome and delectable trees till lo! in a narrow place between two rocks there came to meet me a great Lion. The speed of him was like the ostrich, and his size was an elephant's; his hair was like pure gold and the brightness of his eyes like gold that is liquid in the furnace. He was more terrible than the Flaming Mountain of Lagour, and in beauty he surpassed all that is in the world even as the rose in bloom surpasses the dust of the desert. Then I fell at his feet and thought, Surely this is the hour of death, for the Lion (who is worthy of all honour) will know that I have served Tash all my days and not him. Nevertheless, it is better to see the Lion and die than to be Tisroc of the world and live and not to have seen him. But the Glorious One bent down his golden head and touched my forehead with his tongue and said, Son, thou art welcome. But I said, Alas, Lord, I am no son of thine but the servant of Tash. He answered, Child, all the service thou hast done to Tash, I account as service done to me. Then by reasons of my great desire for wisdom and understanding, I overcame my fear and questioned the Glorious One and said, Lord, is it then true, as the Ape said, that thou and Tash are one? The Lion growled so that the earth shook (but his wrath was not against me) and said, It is false. Not because he and I are one, but because we are opposites, I take to me the services which thou hast done to him. For I and he are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him. Therefore if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath's sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted. Dost thou understand, Child? I said, Lord, thou knowest how much I understand. But I said also (for the truth constrained me), Yet I have been seeking Tash all my days. Beloved, said the Glorious One, unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek.

"Then he breathed upon me and took away the trembling from my limbs and caused me to stand upon my feet. And after that, he said not much, but that we should meet again, and I must go further up and further in. Then he turned him about in a storm and flurry of gold and was gone suddenly."

I really admire Emeth in this book. I've been thinking about his situation recently. Emeth served a false god. Aslan does not reject him, but accepts his service to Tash as if it was his own. There is a portion of humanity that is often forsaken by Christianity (and other religions as well), that is, the willingness to seek truth and goodness present in all people. No man would willingly trade the knowledge of something true for something that is false. Likewise, no man would willingly, with full conscious knowledge, do something evil for its own sake. Every man can commit to pursuing these things while at the same time belonging to any religion, church, culture, ethnicity, race, country, or people group.

If their commitment to such righteous goals is true, that is, willed by all of themselves, then I know of no other more valuable or noble act, either internal or external, that could be done. I do not believe God would disavow such commitment and service. How could he? Did he not create such a creature who could desire truth and goodness with all of themselves? How then, throughout his life and even at the end, would such desires be tossed aside because of his limited knowledge of all things? What else can we do but strongly desire the knowledge of truth and that which is good, and to be willing to commit to such things? Such is an inherent capability in all of humanity that cannot be ignored, but must be acknowledged and rewarded, even if it is does done with a limited knowledge of Good and Evil. We are limited creatures, whose capability to do good is so great, that such a commitment to do good and seek truth in all of ourselves is to be admired, even by God.

Given the shaft

2007-09-29T19:15:00.000-07:00

Yes, I was dumped. Yes, it really fucking hurts. No, I don't regret it. Relationships can be silly and serious things. This is the more serious side, where one looks at the sum of everything and decides whether the risk was worth it or not.

The last fight we had, the one in which she broke up with me, she was more honest with me than ever before. The truth was never more clear to me, I don't really know why. The bottom line came to this: she did not want to be in a relationship with me because of some things I had felt/said and was continuing to say. In part, I was relieved. I knew she had a problem with things I had felt and said, but never had it been so clearly dealt with before. Finally, I heard in literal terms why she had such a problem with me. There were no grey areas, no conditionals, no flip-flops. The truth was out and I understood. And, as much as it pains me to say it, I enjoyed hearing it, even if it was difficult to do so. I consider what happened between us as a good relationship, even the hardest parts.

I hate speaking of these events in past tense. There were many good times. I really like that girl and I really care about her. How is she doing? Can it really be over? The air feels so thick. The end of a relationship is so much like the death of something. It feels so permanent, so lonely. C.S. Lewis spoke too soon when he said that grief felt so much like fear. I have felt fear, both deep and broad, and this is nothing like it. I am quite familiar with insecurity or anxiousness concerning some potential danger. Grief is nothing like a "flight or fight" response. There is nothing to fight, and nowhere to run.

In a sense, it is a relief for me. There is nothing to fight, and nowhere to run. My broken heart can travel with me, sit with me, read with me, or play with me. I can schedule my meetings with it, like on my bed at night or with my guitar in the afternoon. At other times, I can ignore it. Actually, being in a state of grief feels quite comfortable. Hopefully I will not get too comfortable. But I find myself not wanting to feel any other way except sad.

Toward the end of our last conversation, she knew I didn't agree that we should be broken up. She wanted to know why I disagreed. I could hardly say. What do you tell someone who has expressed such a strong dislike of your behavior and feelings? I could only really tell her that I understood why she no longer wanted a relationship, and I simply repeated back to her what she told me about it, hardly any of which I believed to be true about myself. I felt like I was lying. It is difficult to tell someone they are wrong about you when they feel so strongly about how your actions affected them, especially in a relationship. Past hurts always take priority over present knowledge. And the only good thing I could manage to do was to understand and empathize.

But then again, I want to be understood also. I don't want to be controlling, feared, or fought with. I don't want to be with someone whom I continuously hurt without knowing it. If I'm being a jerk, then I'm wrong. But if I'm talking about feeling insecure or anxious, I just want to be listened to. I enjoy people who listen to me with validation. I don't want to be changed or others to change for me. I want to be treated as acceptable, just as I am, as I want to treat others. But this is difficult to negotiate in relationships. There is a fine line between telling someone the truth of how you feel in the context of each other and starting a fight with accusations and criticism. We just couldn't manage to communicate well.

Anyway, I was happy before her. This simple grief feels honest and clean, wholesome even, a slow return to a more familiar life. Time to give the rejected ego a rest, to let things take their natural course. I always enjoyed the "otherness" between us, now I will just learn to appreciate it further. The risk was worth it for all of the good times and the bad, even this.

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick." Whoever wrote that, was brilliant.

This, my friends, is a panic attack

2007-08-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

I can barely live in my own skin
My muscles underneath quiver with fear
Potential pending doom grows without restraint in my head
But I cannot find the dangers
They are myths I believe
They are myths I created
But I feel that they are true
Consequences to things yet unoccurred
A tragic story of life events yet unlived

Tense thoughts lock my back and shoulders in a prison of panic
My hands tremble with fear
My breathing quickens, and I feel like I'm going crazy
My body is prepared for a war with my mind
I debate myself over self-worth, value, and lovability

They say I'm too hard on myself
That I'm good for people, funny, and lovable
But what if they knew me better?
If they saw me now, shaking in the fear of nothing?
I talk to them and they ask me what happened,
What happened? They say,
And I just want to cry, I don't know
Nothing, everything, just happened.
I feel stuck under a black umbrella of my own thoughts
With sunglasses so dark they can block out the sun
I cry out of sadness, a deep grief for my life
I'm sorry I have hurt, been immature, and used you all
Be merciful and lock me up so I cannot hurt another
And so I do not hurt myself

I need deep truths
God, give me something I can grip firmly
Hold on to for dear life, dear trust, dear intimacy, love
Would you like my vocal chords so I can actually hear you?
I can give you my anxious skin so you can touch me, give me a hug perhaps?
A set of clothes that I can touch?

I feel ill, sick with sticky worries
And I am tired, giving too much credence to my mistakes
I have invited fear and hurt into my home
And it has stayed, now unwelcomed, but burrowed into me
I have tried to smoke it out with cigarettes
Drown it in alcohol
Loosen its grip with sex, careless decisions, and positive self-help books
I feel too much
I need deep truths, deep magical thoughts
Grounded in a constant source of comfort
But I feel so much

Loving Another

2007-08-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

"Love ceases to be a demon only when it ceases to be a god." - M. Denis de Rougemont

I wholeheartedly agree with the maxim that "it is not good for a man to be alone." We are, as people, meant to fulfill each other's inherent needs for companionship. The denial of this fact, like the manufacturing of illusionary feelings that we are "blessed" or "gifted" with being single or celibate, also denies the need we have to find someone to love. Frankly, the denial of this need makes us unstable and insecure. As Carl Jung said, "what you resist persists." As such, we should first simply acknowledge our need of this love in our lives.

No doubt most people believe truly corrupted love is sex without love or commitment. This makes perfect sense, but it must also be said that truly romantic love is not present in such activity. True love dominates sexual desire, refining and reorganizing our thoughts and behavior. By itself, sex desires something. If sex persists without love, then we tend to fall in love with the "loving", not the person herself, based on what we get out of it. Love, on the other hand, desires the object of love, the beloved herself, someone in particular.

Love makes a man not just want any woman, but one particular woman. Furthermore, he does not want the pleasure he gets from her, but her in authentic form. This is not a calculated decision, or a product of will power, it is a simple pre-occupation with her that develops. He did not choose her, nor did she him, based on comparing other women to her. In fact, his needs here are entirely a distraction from appreciating her as admirable in herself. Very simply, he is quite intoxicated by her, without giving any regard to his pain or pleasure. She is undeniably separate from him, like the beauty present in a colorful sunset, but he cannot (and would not dare) take it with him.

It is so important to keep the separateness or otherness of those loving relationships at the forefront of our minds. Because if we were to allow our pre-occupation with the beloved to take control, it would soon become an obsession, and then a burden for the lover and the beloved. In fact, I have found that such a process ends up with the worst sort of selfish behavior, where I would not care about the beloved at all, except that she were to make me feel complete and met my needs for intimacy. Such a thought turns her from what was once specifically beautiful and valuable into even less than a woman. She would become any woman, nothing special, and there to make me feel better. Granted, it is wonderful that she can do things that mean much to me, but we must resist loving those things more than her herself. We must maintain gratefulness rather than expectations.

That, in fact, is how I want to be loved and not loved as well. I want to be loved as a special, unique, and independently wealthy poor man who is, in and of himself, full of worth and potential. I want to be loved truly, as I myself am, with appreciation for what I do and freedom to grow up from my mistakes. But specifically, I want to be loved as another, from only one other, who is incredibly grateful for me.

Seriously Silly Daydreams

2007-08-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that history's most ruthless tyrants were those individuals whose professional egoism did not allow themselves to be laughed at. One cannot laugh about all of the circumstances in life or characteristics of self, but certainly there are a few that are quite entertaining. In fact, my most humorous characteristics are those that would otherwise appear as the most serious flaws.

For example, I have developed the habit of associating a self-centered daydream with ever song I listen to. The daydreams typically involve myself as the center of attention and a selected audience. For John Mayer's “Your Body is a Wonderland,” I am singing said song in a small club to an audience of fond friends and one particularly impressed, attractive woman. For ACDC's “You shook me all night long,” I am singing said song at a karaoke night at the local bar. Of course, David Crowder's “Obsession” I sing in front of church at a special worship night. For the Last of the Mohican's Soundtrack (track two in particular) I am part of a special operations unit in the Army defending the homes of some friends from brutal ninja-like terrorists.

Through these and other childish imaginations I have fought a starship in an X-wing, beat an Ethiopian in a cross-country race, outdanced the best breaker on “So You Think You Can Dance,” tackled LaDamian Tomlinson for a prize-winning rookie opportunity, used The Force to make my friends fly, shot a bee off a deer's butt at 1,000 yards with my own rifle, kicked the crap out of some high school bullies as Raiden from Mortal Kombat, took friends on a joy ride in an F-22 Raptor, etc. This list truly never ends because it is always being created. I can be a hero, a saint, a lover, a wise man, a legend, or even a superhero. Truly, if I were to take this too seriously, my egoism could make even Hitler blush. There is only a slight seriousness in that I am able to see the weaknesses in my own self-worth through my dreams. I can look at these dreams and know my insecurities without even thinking hard. But even these cannot be taken too seriously. One does not see a child being condemned by their parents for a having dreams of what they will be when they grow up. And, in fact, I am still growing up.

My most frequent dreams are those involving the women I have loved, or perhaps, wanted love from. Again, a serious flaw if one were to pay too much attention to the negative effects. But the innocence in which I dream about them must be understood in no more serious terms than that of a romantic and oversensitive language of thought. To those romantic interests, at the extreme, I have been a provider, protector, and cherisher of them. I have flown across the world to wish them a happy birthday, given them expensive gifts grown from the intimacy of inside jokes, sang them songs I have written about them while kissing them, worked 60 hours a week in a cubicle just so they could have the car they wanted, been a good father, made them laugh harder than they did while being tickled as a child, played and prayed with them, etc. These are my fondest dreams because they create in me such a blissful feeling of relief.

However, a serious character flaw is represented by these daydreams such that it indicates a desire for a woman, any woman, to make me feel complete. Such is not a desirable quality for any man in a relationship, because the woman would know that she was completely unnecessary, and that any woman would do for him. How would you feel if your partner wanted someone to love and be loved by, but not you specifically? In contrast, how would you feel if they wanted you specifically, with all of themselves, and without any regard to another? To sum up, at the worst, my daydreams are indicative of my desire to simply be accepted and loved for who I am. Surely, this cannot be all that wrong; perhaps foolish, but not evil. It is a delicate balance of egoism and silly daydreams growing up into self-controlled passion. I must not give it its head, but I must also maintain its innocence with a sense of humor. Anyway, I'm working on it.

Performance and Opinion

2007-07-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

There are two things I have been caring about far too much in life: my performance and others' opinions of me. The latter only really comes along during relationships, but the former is almost always present.

I am slowly discovering that life really is like Calvinball. It is a game, our game, where we make up the rules and the only goal is a relationship with God. The standards by which we live can first be established by our parents, teachers, pastors, etc. But, as adults, we must form our own standards by which to live up to. We establish the par, the grading system, the GPA. It is our decision, our responsibility, and our freedom. This is my life, so I make the rules.

But first we must realize that the standards by which we were taught to live up to are not exactly in our best interest. My skills and talents, as well as my weaknesses and character flaws, are uniquely my own and cannot perfectly conform to any moral system in existence. Because my relationship with God is unique, and my purpose for living is only my own, I must establish my standards and expectations of myself based on this relationship and purpose.

For example, Christianity has taught me that, in order to have a good relationship with God, one must always believe in Him and never sin. Sure, we all know that we doubt and are sinful, but it is still wrong to be that way. Well, that's bullshit. When will we begin to believe that "all things work together for the good of those who love God"? All, fucking, ALL things. That includes sin, no? C.S. Lewis said that "the good man is sorry for the sins which have increased his need. He is not entirely sorry for the fresh need they have produced." I am not redefining sin as not really sin, I am simply putting it in the context of a relationship with God. To trust that God grace is sufficient for me is to tell me that I can do no wrong in His sight. I'm quite sure this will upset the moral elite, the high tower church attenders, but what good would I be if I could not live my own life as I see fit?

Here is my purpose in life, a simple explanation of why I choose to live: I live to enjoy a relationship with God and be happy. I am not here to be a good person. I am not here to make everyone feel safe and secure. I am not here to conform to others' opinions of me, even those opinions formed in my most intimate relationships. Knowing the purpose for which you live allows you firmly develop the rules by which you live. Once these rules, your rules, are in place you can begin to let go of those standards by which others have held you to for so long. You are free to discover your own weakness, the definition of which changes according to the purpose of the life you are pursuing.

If my purpose in getting something to eat is to merely satisfy hunger, I should expect to eat anything that would fill my stomach. But if my purpose in getting something to eat is to be filled with something delicious and somewhat healthy, I should not eat just anything. Neither of these purposes in getting something to eat is objectively wrong or immoral, but they both result is very different standards and rules by which one allows themselves to eat. In both cases, one must decide their purpose before attempting to fulfill that purpose by creating their own standards.

Likewise, one must be realistic about their own abilities in order to create personal morals for themselves. We must be aware of our weaknesses and strengths, and learn to emphasize our strengths to succeed in meeting the standards we set for ourselves. We cannot always be working on our weaknesses and attempting to improve on ourselves without using our strengths to get us through.

A Few Verses By Which I Cling

2007-07-25T21:00:00.000-07:00

Romans 8:31-39
31What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? 32 He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? 33Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. 34 Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised— who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. 35Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?
37No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, 39nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:28
28And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Psalm 139:1-18
1O LORD, you have searched me and known me!
2You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
3You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4Even before a word is on my tongue,
behold, O LORD, you know it altogether.
5You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
6Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high; I cannot attain it.
7Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
8If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
9If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
11If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,"
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.
13For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
14I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
15My frame was not hidden from you,when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16Your eyes saw my unformed substance;in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.
17How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18If I would count them, they are more than the sand.
I awake, and I am still with you.

Isaiah 54:10
"For the mountains may depart
and the hills be removed,
but my steadfast love shall not depart from you,
and my covenant of peace shall not be removed,"
says the LORD, who has compassion on you.

Psalm 32:10
Many are the sorrows of the wicked,
but steadfast love surrounds the one who trusts in the LORD.

Exodus 15:26
...for I, the LORD, am your healer.

Fear and Self-Loathing in San Diego

2007-07-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

While fighting for the Army, I have been trained to face almost any type of enemy. For the most part, I have learned how to adapt and overcome their defenses. I have also learned how to defend myself from their attacks. Thanks to this training, I really have very few fears about going to war soon. I have little fear of any enemy, except one.

In the Lord of the Rings video game there is a dark magic spell you can use called "Whip of the Master." The effect of the spell is that your own character speeds up and strengthens their attacks. I cannot think of a better description of how I have been living recently. I have pushed myself far too hard and I have become overwhelmed with insecurity. I am more afraid of my own insecurities and character faults than any external enemy. I am more afraid of going to war than I am of being in a relationship that exposes me for who I am. At times, I would rather face a man who has full intention of killing me in hatred rather than dealing with my own criticism of myself. How do you fight such an enemy? What do you do with your own cruel criticism? You can't kill or stop self.

Thanks either to my parents, prior bad relationships, or other hurtful experiences, I do not know how to simply "be okay" with my own insecurities and flaws. Despite the fact that I know there is no such thing as a perfect person, I hold those expectations of myself naturally. I am constantly breaking my own rules and reacting to that with extreme criticism. I am my own worst enemy.

I know that everyone feels this way at times. But I am more the sort of person who becomes overwhelmed by it all. My standards for myself are far too high. The difference between who I am and who I expect myself to be has grown to an unacceptable distance. Hence, I have become overwhelmed with anxiety. Even now, as I write this, I am kicking myself for being this way. It is extremely difficult for me right now to just cut myself some slack, take a break and still be acceptable.

This question was posed to me today: If your son had no confidence in himself, or was feeling very insecure and unlovable, what would you tell him? I think I have my answer: I would tell him I loved him. I would tell him that he was loved, and that it would always be so, because he is my son. He has intrinsic value. He is accomplished, not because of his accomplishments, but because he lives and breathes and eats and sleeps as himself. I am proud when he does well, because I know he is not hurting himself, but I am just as proud when he is simply himself. He is uniquely him. I would tell him he does not need another, any other, to make him feel like a desirable and successful person, not even me. He would have my confidence and my trust, even if he doesn't have his own. I would use all of the faculties of my mind, I would shamelessly try to convince him and persuade him that he is "the beloved." I would want to fight his shame in full force. I would reason with him about his confidence and help him understand that, without comparison to anyone else, he is incredibly important on his own power. I would tell him to openly accept his faults as uniquely his with an attitude of full, unconditional compassion. I would warn him not to expect something from someone else that he cannot do for himself, because I know he can. In short, I would want to break through his doubt and skepticism about himself with my love and respect for him.

See, I could tell him all this, but I can barely imagine someone saying that to me. My parents never told me that, no one has. It is something others have learned in childhood that I must learn as an adult. I must learn how to accept love, accept myself, and have it be just that simple. I am the one whose standards I must live up to. I intend on lowering those immensely so I can lower my anxiety and raise my confidence. I guess I just want to balance my expectations to the point where I can say, "what I did was what I could do," and have that be okay.

The journey of self-discovery is laced with danger. At every new discovery, every new tendency, every simple mistake in behavior or fault of character, there is the temptation to take such knowledge and condemn ourselves with it. I was never taught how to fight that because my parents were ill-equipped to do so themselves. I know because I spoke with them about it. They passed it on to me and I have continued with it. I am now trying to end it. It is a slow, painful, anxiety-laced journey to accept and love myself.

It is funny how everything I do in life becomes a step to a closer relationship to God. Right now, I want to know God's thoughts about me. He is the source of confidence in myself. He is the source of my acceptance, of grace, of healing, of identity. He is my source of peace while I live. I need to know Him, trust Him, believe Him, and experience His love not just for me, but of me. He is my only confidant, my only consistent lover, because He sees my true value. I believe it is the highest of virtues to trust that God loves us, because frankly, it is our most fundamental need.

A Child's Single-Mindedness

2007-07-16T08:47:00.000-07:00

It is moments like these that I have to laugh at myself. I do not laugh because I am not conducting serious business or because I am telling a joke. I laugh because I am somewhat like a child trying to do things that only adults are able to do. It is funny, much as is seeing a child trying on their parents' clothes, trying to eat much too large bites of food, or simply walking in shorter steps trying to keep up. I am growing up in a clumsy sort of way.

Perhaps the most serious of all struggles is the contest of being double-minded. When we are unsettled, undetermined, or even vacillating between two thoughts and different times, we become unstable, unfaithful, and untrue to ourselves. It is clear to me, and quite tragic also, that even the most intelligent among us, with their ability to logically hold many perspectives of the world, cannot attain wisdom because of their double-mindedness. The smartest man is not necessarily the wisest man. They broadly reach out ways in which to understand and live when they really should be reaching deep.

Truly, one of the wisest things ever said was that "everything under the sun is meaningless." The elimination of perspectives and beliefs not yet grounded in experience unites the heart. We cannot find comfort in the truth unless we have rejected mere beliefs. A dually-convinced mind is no mind at all. It is useless, like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces. Shallow, clever, or somewhat peer-pressured perspectives of things that do not resonate with my heart are like poison to me. I am not saying it is inherently bad to understand various arguments and opinions of the world, just as I would not say bleach or sulfuric acid is bad in and of themselves. Indeed, they are quite useful. But if I were to swallow bleach or sulfuric acid, to open my mouth and ingest them as a part of me, I would die from their effects. In the same way, I choose to understand but not believe, to listen but not agree, to want but not need those guesses about life that do not resonate with my heart as if they were solid gold truth.

In this way, I am more like a child than in any other situation. I reach my limits with patience in watching my parents and I want to try on my own. It is more beneficial to me to believe wholeheartedly and unmistakably in one thing than to believe shallowly and cleverly convince myself of some goodness in all things. I prefer to desire the desirable, this is why I am a Christian.

The idea that humanity is a playground (or battleground) for love to be given, received, shared, and that Love Himself exists is irresistible to me. Yes, I confess, I believe because I want to. I am a Christian, not because the sum of the facts about the world and history, but because I am drawn to it. I am pulled in, compelled by the deepest hope that gives me undeniable faith. I need to believe. My greatest needs introduced to the greatest Source creates the perfect magnetism. The message of God's love for me commits me to seeing it through, as if by my efforts I could will it to be. It is a sacred romance, an enchantment with truth. The gospel of redemption penetrates my heart so effortlessly one would think that I have never read any book on religion, philosophy, or enlightenment. Skepticism, double-mindedness, and the debates are left by the wayside as I celebrate the discovery of simply desiring Love, Goodness, and Truth.

I do not know by what means anyone else believes in God, Christianity, or whatever. But for me, I am quite like a child growing up in a world much too large for him, trying to pursue the most desirable thing. I am at my best when I enjoy the enjoyable, love the lovable, and play. It is all really quite silly, something I imagine more intelligent people than myself would call childish, ignorant, or foolish. I admit that I know very little, but at least I know one thing.

"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." -The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis

Neediness

2007-07-11T22:39:00.000-07:00

Something happened to me on Sunday. I woke up with a desire for intimacy with God that was overwhelming to me. I felt my need for Him weighing down on me with paralyzing force. At first, I panicked. "Fight or flight" instinct kicked in and the anxiety pushed me to rush to church 30 minutes before the first service even started. My heart was breaking, or I was realizing it was broke, as if from the rejection of a fond lover, and I wanted to beg for mercy. "Take me back. Please do not make me feel this way." My need for God, for security, identity and intimacy was laid out in raw form. I could not ignore it.

The sovereignty of God is never more apparent to me as in these moments. It is clear to me: I have a God and He dominates me. I laugh at the absurdity of "free will" in such moments, as if to say, "Choice? What choice? I was overwhelmed." My heart just broke and I was left instantly intoxicated by my need for all things Godly.

I cannot think of anything else but to see Him, hug Him, laugh and cry with Him, eat with Him. I want to blur the border in the "otherness" of matter and exist with Him in time and space. I want Him to exist in me, deep inside me, as me, and I in Him. I want Him so close that my hand on His shoulder is His hand on mine. If the reader isn't too offended, or too Freudian, I would say that my desire for closeness with Him surpassed even the sexual magnetism between lovers. I wanted Him in me, and I in Him, as far as intimacy would allow. Unity, oneness, whatever you want to call it, called to me.

But I did not have it, I simply became aware of my need for it. The desperation of my awareness grew exponentially on Sunday morning and in no time at all it had crushed my heart and left me, teary eyed and sniffling, barely able to lift my head, empty and broken, in the back row of worship at church. I felt like a limp noodle, like a mannequin made of cheap, thin glass.

I stayed for both services solely due to the fact that I knew the pastor would offer prayer services to those who needed it at the end of each. "Hi, my name is Benjamin. I really need God. Can you pray for me?" or something along those lines, was requested of one. I talked with those especially safe friends, who do not offer estranged compassion, advice, or similar stories. Those friends, whose thoughtful smiles and wise eyes melt away the fear of being misunderstood, listened to me for an hour after the last service ended. Right after Independence Day, I learned (felt? experienced? swallowed?) how dependent I was.

That evening I stopped panicking. I was still heart-broken, but I could finally relax. There is a special sort of peace that develops when you are grieving. It is a hard-fought, courageously reasoned, and open perspective of the way things are and the way you wish them to be which calms your nerves and gives you patience. True patience is learned by created comfort, via reasoning, in the midst of adversity.

There is no real end to this story. I still feel the urge to clutch my chest, bend over slightly, and groan. My heart feels like it gained ten dark pounds. I cannot swallow correctly. But at least now I can show a genuinely patient smile. I really need Him for everything. It is a painfully obvious, and painfully not so obvious, truth.

I Do Not Belong Here

2007-07-02T14:53:00.000-07:00

I have a sense of estrangement to this world. I feel as though I am a traveler from a far distant land that has come to grow up and live where I am. In fact, I do not even claim dual citizenship, this is simply not my home. I have had to learn the language, cultures, customs, and even how to cook and eat the food. But I do not find my identity in these things. They are the mediums by which I live my life, but they do not define me. In fact, I am sometimes slightly annoyed with the fact that I am required to eat and sleep. I am meant for something more.

I feel slightly guilty when I say this because I know how dear my friends are to me and I to them. I further acknowledge that some of them feel the same way I do, maybe even came from the same place, and perhaps that is why we are friends. I cannot explain this much because it is actually quite hard to describe, but I feel like I was placed here, that I originated elsewhere and I was put here for a purpose, but for what I do not know.

Frankly, especially during the hard times in life, I do not care about the purpose. I simply question my obedience to certain dogmas, like when stopped at a red light with no other cars on the road. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? It's just a stupid red light. Blue lights don't do this to me, so why is red so important? It's a red octagon-shaped shard of metal created in some factory that is obligating me to be where I do not want to be for no good reason. Why do I listen to it? I am tired of conforming to the system.

It's not just the socially symbolic things like traffic signs, police, and money that leave me feeling alien. I resent having to eat in order to not be hungry, having to sleep in order to not be tired, having to monitor stress, physical activity, tan lines, and back hair. As Steven Tyler of Aerosmith expressed in a moment of immortal genius, "We are spiritual beings trapped in physical bodies." I hate doing these things out of necessity. I mean, what is the point of fingernails, honestly? Why do I sweat and stink in the heat? Why do my teeth feel like chalk after I sleep? Why can't my clumsy ass just dance like I can imagine? Why does my tongue st-st-st-st-stutter in front of an audience? Why can't I sing how I feel? Did I mention back hair yet? I guess they are part of the purpose for my being here, but I still resent the obligation, the dependence on physical matter. I do not resent responsibility, I would just rather be responsible for something else, like a garden.

Despite the fact that this is a temporary intuition, it occurs quite often. I find myself desiring more, even more than I have ever seen. Even after discovering the most mind-blowing thing in nature, or falling in love, or having the epiphany of a lifetime, I am left slightly dissatisfied. It is like tasting spaghetti, but not my mother's spaghetti; or hugging a stranger instead of a friend; like touching a baby's skin with latex gloves on, I feel that I am not getting the real experience. I know what this is meant to be, but it appears to me as an imitation, an artificial sweetener.

The longer I live my life the more I realize that nothing here will ever meet my need on this level. I am not at home, not even in my greatest triumphs, loveliest relationships, or standing in the face of the most amazing scenery. Sometimes they merely resemble shadows.

Another Lewis quote:
“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

Hebrews 11:13-14:
"All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them."

Résumé Writing

2007-06-28T12:36:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-06-26T12:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-25T11:31:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-20T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-18T10:34:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-18T10:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-12T13:58:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-08T00:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-07T23:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Slightly Overwhelmed

2007-05-30T23:25:00.000-07:00

At present, I am overwhelmed. But I am easily overwhelmed, so this is no more surprising than a sunrise. However, unlike the mechanics of our galaxy, my road to overload is not perfectly predictable. Everything seems to hit at once. Like a prism focusing many colored rays of light, the facets of my life unexpectedly arrive together and blind my once alert senses. In short, when it rains, it pours.

Work, business, and money all seem to tighten the same muscles in my back. I am stressed and easily made tense by them. Since high school, I have maintained the responsible practice of planning my career at least five year in advance. I knew where I would be in five years. Unfortunately, I have revised those plans every five years since then. The finish line keeps moving. So, I have given up on predicting my future place in the world. Instead, I just scratch what needs itching and massage those back muscles in steady rhythm. Like the Irish, it seems I will put up with something being wrong for the rest of my life. It all seems difficult, so does it really matter what’s next?

I used to have a girlfriend to massage these muscles for me, until I realized how much she caused those muscles to tense up in the first place. Since my last serious relationship ended, I have only dated sporadically. The bottom line is this: I want a good girlfriend, but I cannot provide for one. I cannot maintain another spiritual life besides my own. Perhaps I am not ready, but I like to think that I just haven’t found the right person yet. Still, the need for companionship remains. And on those lonely nights when no one is around to talk to, I feel myself wanting to listen and connect with another, just one other. It is a sad support to live without.

Lastly, I have been caught up in the discouraging trends in my church. Christian culture has taken such a bad turn. We have far too many demands of each other and far too many rules to live by. There are many mercies that Christians understand to be rights, and as such, they cry out in injustice and outrage when their comfort is violated. The pressure of a call to holiness combined with the intensity of personal emotions (or “passions” as we call them) makes for an outrageous religious cocktail. So, everyone is gullible to guilt. We are overly-sensitive to shame, and that is shameful. The pulpit is open to the squeakiest wheel and the highest emotional bidder. We are drunk and inept because we have swallowed the pain of these vocal individuals and shat out rules for their safety. We have become a community of God’s children who act like children, and that is neither safe nor Biblical. We are love without power, words without meaning, and friends without benefits. We can neither give nor receive well, not even compliments.

So, at present, the things I usually rely upon for great security are all showing me their back side. I know God has control over my work, business and money, but must this be accompanied by so many crushed opportunities and hopes? After so many slammed doors, one begins to think that when “God opens a window instead” it was meant for me to jump out. And at what point did my family of Christian brothers and sisters become one of children looking to each other for parenting? We are the God-given owners of our own choices, feelings, actions, etc. Nobody is responsible for you anymore, especially not me, and not now.

There comes a point when one must say, “I don’t need this,” and simply walk away for a time. I need to recharge and just take care of myself. It is too late to play guitar or call a friend. The bouncer at my local pub has not seen my face tonight, nor is it likely that he will. So, I am forced to just write, and I guess, just write it off.

Dating in the Late 20s

2007-05-22T00:31:00.001-07:00

Nothing inspires celibacy like the current trends in single Christian female circles. It seems like every single Christian girl is simply a good girl waiting for the right good boy to come along and pursue them. They wait and quote scripture to back up their claims that they should be waiting because good boys are supposed to be the Christ-like leaders and take initiative.

Two things:

The fact is, when you find a good boy, he won't seem nearly as attractive as a confident jackass. And even if you do find him, chances are he won't pursue you in the same way the jackass would. There will be no flattering comments about your looks or personality that make you swoon because the good boy is not interested in getting some tail that night. In fact, being a good boy, he probably lacks the assertiveness it takes to hit on you in the first place because his passive “let's all get along” approach has been the chief cause of his popular, good boy status. A good boy who is popular amongst his peers is probably less assertive than a smooth rock. Seriously ladies, show me a good Christian boy and I'll show you a completely spineless wimp. He is probably liked by everybody, loved by some, but only knows about intimacy with pets rather than girls.

I have nothing against good boys except this: they make the rest of us look bad. How am I supposed to compete (yes, competition) against good boys in Christian circles when my virginity is far gone, my church volunteering is minimal, and my church attendance is dependent on the type of coffee and donuts present? I do not part my hair, run an activist club, or meet with the pastor on a regular basis. I guess this somehow makes my faith somewhat questionable. Appearances, as we know, are fully accurate.

Perhaps I am just sick of dating “Suzie Q” Christian girls who expect me to be the good little boy they've always wanted to raise and follow. I am tired of my faith and character being questioned because I do not improve upon the spiritual habits of the girls I date. My last relationship ended because I download illegal music and unethically bought tickets to a movie. Seriously. I have had enough of the “Hello Kitty” type DTR sessions that reiterate how important it is to have Christ as the center of our relationship. Yes, I have read and learned from Dr. James Dobson, Joshua Harris, Dr. Henry Townsend and C.S. Lewis, so what? At what point did you expect me to not have my own faults that you would have to confront? Did you not expect a person on the other end of this relationship? The ideas you received from Sunday school, relationship books, and jealously observing those “I wish I had that” type of relationships simply do not apply to real men.

And while we're at it, let's talk about observing those “I wish I had that” relationships. I cannot comprehend how some Christian girls actually believe some relationships are perfect. It seems like some girls just see a happy couple at church and think “their life is so much better because they have a good guy like that.” Honestly, I do not know what they think. But this would explain why most of the girls I have dated were looking for the ideal relationship rather than experiencing the uncertainty and frequent instability of becoming emotionally intimate with a real boy. That's right, I've got no strings to make me perfectly safe! God made me a real boy years ago. Freak.

Are we not past this immaturity yet? I swear I'm only going dating women who are at least 30 years old. Perhaps I should even start dating divorced women because they might have learned what it's like to introduce a good boy into leadership as a real man. Like me, they've been to the circus and seen the puppet show, so there's no curiosity about sex, living together, praying together, and all of the problems that rise in between. They realize that, unlike what we learned in relationship books, people change for each other in relationships. We adapt. We overcome. We accept and reject faults as best we can. We look past what we cannot control or change, and focus on what we can do and say.

Good little boys shouldn't be what you're looking for. Ideal relationships do not exist. Pure safety and stability is a myth. Let's all grow up like Pinocchio and start to use our own principles to stand on. Get to know people before you judge their character. Judge people by the way they live their lives, not by their passion for following rules and praying before meals. It’s okay to like someone because they are simply attractive. Girls, you have permission to be wise and raw, so take advantage of it. Stop falling for the good boys whom you end up resenting because they weren’t as good as they first appeared. Look for the guys who know themselves, who can present themselves without spin, and who you can trust to be exactly what they tell you.

Reactions and Human Nature

2007-05-21T23:54:00.001-07:00

Human nature is reactionary. When we feel pain, we express it. When we are sad, we cry. When we are happy or ticklish, we laugh. When we are sad, we cry. In many ways, this is a good thing. Reactions remind us that we have an animalistic nature and restores roots to our identity. Pain reminds us, as it should, that we are not well. It would be unhealthy for a person to feel pain and not know that they are injured. Pleasure gives us the security of relaxation and enjoyment. This system gives the depressed a reason to hope for recovery and the overly-comfortable a reality check on life. We can use this system to remind us that we are, indeed, human.

However, the real danger of our reactive nature is revealed in social situations. When we are hurt, we automatically lash out at the cause of our pain. When we are offended, we instinctively respond. Like pinball machines without bumpers or controls, our words end up bouncing off of each others’ sensibilities with growing acceleration. Each retort can escalate our emotions and the severity of our thoughtless words.

Reactions in social situations are often referred to as drama. MTV’s “The Real World” is a prime example of the reactionary nature of humanity at work. Drama does not exist without the reactionary nature of people. We build up our offenses like they are a litany of broken sacred traditions. As if Holy Ground itself was trampled upon, we defend our egos and ethics with thoughtless outrage. We justify our responses with pop-culture ideals and rules that our parents taught us earlier in life. It is an attempt to regain control over the source of our pain via exaggerated persuasion or even brute force.

The reactionary nature of human needs self-control in order to function correctly. People need to question whether their sensibilities are worth being offended. Too often people bury their feelings for the sake of appearing polite, but end up feeling insulted or taken advantage of for the sake of another. We are ignorant of our own reactions because we are too focused on appearing to be nice, good people. Instead, we should be sincerely questioning our own standards through the eyes of another person. We must learn that nice behavior does not equal a nice person. A truly healthy person questions their sensibilities when crossed by another, but does not bury their emotions when doing so.

In other words, we need to learn to adapt, much like a child learn to adapt when he touches a hot stove for the first time. If someone is consistently hurtful to us, we should avoid that person with full honesty about why we are doing so. If someone is helpful, we should compliment them because of the pleasure they bring to us. Our reactive nature can be good when it is controlled by an honest and mature adult. We can learn to differentiate between those issues that are worth a reaction and those that are not. In this way, we can avoid the escalation of drama and the type of fights that have forgotten their source.

Teaching to Change the World

2007-05-17T14:06:00.000-07:00

According to the State of California, I am a “highly qualified” secondary school teacher with a Professional Clear Teaching Credential. In order to attain this title, I had to complete a credentialing program at a university and pass a state-certified exam in my subject area. My first quarter in the credentialing program included a required course entitled “Introduction to Teaching and Education.” So, sit back and enjoy a truly outrageous story about becoming a teacher.

The “Introduction to Teaching and Education” was a required course was taught by the Director of the Education Department at my university. The Director and Professor was a very vocal African-American female with a rather nifty Boston/Jamaican mixed accent. She had attitude and spunk. The subject-matter of the course was centralized around a book by Jeanne Oakes and Martin Lipton entitled “Teaching to Change the World.” The central premise of this book is that teaching inherently imposes a life-changing education on students. The challenge presented by the authors was this: “How will you change the world through your teaching?” Of course, the authors provided suggestions: Will you relieve systematic oppression of minorities? Will you provide a system of equal education for all? Will you pursue the values of democracy by providing opportunity for every student to receive an education? Will you provide an alternative to inequality in your classroom?

Honestly, I couldn’t relate to this book at all. Do they really think the only reason to be a teacher is to change the world? Was this supposed to be motivating? What about the freakin’ students? But I digress; I read the book from cover to cover. My midterm exam was worth 30% of my grade and was supposed to be a personal summary/response to this book, as well as a personal reflection on the purpose of teaching.

Allow me to summarize the book as I did in my midterm paper. The authors of the book argued against standardized textbooks and tests because they present “set bodies of knowledge” rather than create an atmosphere where knowledge could be “constructed.” As they said, “[National textbooks] helped unify social, moral, political, and educational values, just as their authors had very pointedly intended.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 112) Do you sense the critical tone in “very pointedly intended?” They argue that “Intelligence has become a substitute for less acceptable indicators of merit…the technicalities of testing makes it easier to confer benefits on people who are members of traditionally powerful and favored groups.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 56) They further argue that texts should not have central social, moral, political, or educational values because such views would be biased: “Today’s reformers maintain, therefore, that the hallmarks of the modern curriculum—absolute certainties and universal truths as mined from the depths of white, Western culture—are weak and limiting guidelines for deciding what and how students will learn in the twenty-first century.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 120) I found it ironic that I was learning to teach U.S. History and the Constitution of the United States as “weak and limiting guidelines” “mined from the depths of white, Western culture.”

The authors presented an alternative solution to passing on these white, Western cultural values: “By employing reforms typically called a ‘multicultural curriculum,’ teachers acknowledge many cultures, help the less powerful acquire the cultural tools of the dominant Anglo-American culture, and create a democratic forum for exploring conflict and oppression.” (Oakes and Lipton, 1999, p. 129) A forum of exploring conflict and oppression was the solution to our current system of “set bodies of knowledge” as created by “white, Western culture.” To them, this was “democratic.” The authors suggested that multicultural curriculum would support an even greater goal in education: relieving systematic oppression, eliminating the socially elite, and creating a more “equal” and “democratic” world.

In my paper, I summarized the conflict between the conservative (set bodies of knowledge) and progressive (constructing knowledge) views of education. I used the above quotations and many others to describe the authors’ position. I even presented their evidence, as they described it “socially scientific data,” as rather convincing. I devoted more than half of my paper to the summary, attempting to prove that I knew the material.

Then, of course, I argued. I presented an opinion. I “constructed knowledge.” I shamelessly borrowed arguments from C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters, where Screwtape presented Hell with a method of infecting education with the “democratic” values of devaluing human potential to the least common denominator.

I stated that my purpose for becoming a teacher was not to change the world, but to change each student. I suggested that “while it is accurate that social inequalities and instability exists in American society, it is not a practical goal of a state-employed educator to correct these problems as they see fit.” We were teaching at schools, not preaching at political rallies. Parents trusted us to educate their children. “Schools are not meant to make socially insecure students (or parents or educators) feel better by helping them confront less challenging materials, classrooms, societies, or worlds.” Teachers needed to challenge students with critical thinking, knowledge, and curriculum even if (or especially if) it was constructed from “absolute certainties and universal truths as mined from the depths of white, Western culture.” Such certainties and truths cannot be so easily discarded.

I presented the view that “progressive educators would seek to change the teaching job to include those of a nurse, psychologist, and social worker in order to promote their views of equality and social stability.” Our service to American families should not change due to modern socio-political pressure. I suggested the consequences of this action were outrageous, as presented by C.S. Lewis: “Education should not be taught such that a student who is able to handle advanced mathematics or Aristotle will have to sit and listen to a student struggling to read Dr. Seuss’ ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Should both of these students receive the same level of education because of special social interests such as promoting views of ‘democracy’ and ‘equality’?”

I argued that the world’s most tyrannical leaders became that way by making people believe their full potential was found in the lowest common denominator. In communism, Marxism, and even socialism, everyone has their place in society that is never above average. To present “social equality” as “true democracy” was absurd. I present my personal reflection, opinion, and purpose for teaching in the last three pages of my eight page paper.

I received my paper back with no corrective markings on it, save one: the letter “F” on the back page. No one else in my class received a grade lower than a “C,” and even that paper had feedback. I approached the professor after the course to talk about my grade. We agreed to meet in her office later in the week.

I met with my professor in her office marked as “Dean of Education.” She initiated the conversation with shock and outrage at my paper, because I had always been a productive student in class discussions and attendance. I summarized my paper and conflicting views with the course text. Her response was priceless.

She said, “As the Director of the Education Department, I need to ask you some questions.” She continued, “How do you feel about me as a professor?” I didn’t quite understand what she meant by the question, so I simply told her I enjoyed her lectures and discussions because they always provoked critical thinking. She responded, “It seems to me that you have a problem with supporting equality in a diverse society. Do you have any problems being taught by me, a black female?” I responded with a simple, “No.” She continued, “How do you feel about minorities? Do you think you’ll be able to effectively teach people such as blacks and Hispanics?” I said, “Yes.” She responded, “Honestly, based on this paper, I do not believe you. You are going to have a very hard time being an effective teacher. I am concerned about you being in this program. I am concern about you earning a credential from this institution. Please understand, this is not personal, but it is my job to make sure people who graduate from here are not racially or ethnically prejudice.”

I was absolutely speechless. I didn’t know what to say. She brought out my application and personal statement, which included my personal background. She asked me more personal questions about my childhood, how I grew up, and if I had any bad experiences with non-whites and females. I answered hesitantly because I did not want her feedback. I told her I did not understand how these questions related to my paper. So, after a small discussion about my life history, the conversation changed again back to the subject of my paper.

At the beginning of the course, my professor announced that, if student disagreed with their grade, they could resubmit it for re-grading. She informed me that this would not be necessary because my grade on the paper would not change. She explained that my views of the text were purposefully inaccurate and misleading, which were the basis for my grade. I explained that there were no inaccuracies in my references or the context in which they were quoted. She replied by saying that my quotes were chosen to purposefully misrepresent the text based on my analysis that followed. She suggested that in order to pass the course and continue in the credentialing program, I would need to have perfect attendance, receive perfect marks on my homework, and receive an “A-“ or better on my final exam. The only other option was to appeal to the Dean of the university by way of a review board.

In closing, she told me that she was still very concerned about me being in the program. She doubted my success in teaching, and suggested that, if my views on diversity in education did not change, she hoped I would not continue the credentialing program. I told her I would continue to do my best, consider an appeal to the Dean, and left her office.

I finished the course with grade of “C.” I had perfect attendance, perfect homework, and received an “A” on the final exam that was an in-class essay written about our personal methods of teaching based on what we saw were the goals of education. Apparently, she saw no reason to criticize my methods of teaching, even if my motives to do so were “racially or ethnically prejudice.”

Throughout the remainder of my credentialing program, I never received a final grade in a course lower than an “A.” My transcript starts out with “A, A, C, A, A, A…” etc. I passed the state-certified subject exam in Social Science and became certified. Due to my coursework, I received a Professional Clear Credential rather than just a Preliminary Credential. I would’ve graduated with high honors if I hadn’t received a “C” my first quarter, but I didn’t even attend the graduation ceremony anyway. If I would’ve attended, I would’ve loved to have shaken the hand of the Dean of Education as I walked across the stage. I’m sure she would’ve enjoyed seeing me too.

Gun Control

2007-05-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

Like most teenage boys of my generation, I have fond memories of playing Duck Hunt on my Nintendo and shooting BB guns at GI Joe men. But, unlike most of the guys I am around today, these activities were just a teaser for what I would do every hunting season when my Dad and I drove out to the mountains with loaded rifles.

My earliest outdoor training started like every one should: gun control. For me, “gun control” meant learning how to control my gun, rather the today's political message of learning how to not have a gun. My father taught me gun control by simply describing to me the mechanism and operation of my BB gun. As a hunter's safety instructor, he used the same analogy every time: “On a pencil, there is an end you can write with and an end you can erase with. But, do you see an eraser on this weapon? What you do with this machine cannot be undone. Once that bullet leaves the end of your barrel, whatever you're pointing it towards will be dead. Do not point the barrel at anything you are not willing to shoot.” As a result, I learned to be terrified of every weapon I touched, no matter how small.

These fears remain even today. My roommate recently bought an airsoft gun, which shoots a small plastic BB by way of a spring. However, when he jokingly fired a shot at me in my backyard, I made it very clear that if he so much as points that weapon in my direction again, one of us will end up very hurt. I even blink when a squirt gun is pointed at me. Even though the weapon is just a machine, I respect the machinery of that weapon to work when called upon, even if it is accidental. Unlike people, weapons rarely malfunction.

I remember walking down a beach with some Christian friends on a Catalina Island retreat when one female described how disgusted she was with some published pictures depicting young teenagers holding scoped rifles while dressed in camouflage. She fantasized about how much better the world would be without guns and the wars they cause. Like every good mother, she was worried about what might happen to those she loved. My mother did the same. Every time my dad and I left to go challenge the local coyote population to a duel, my mother would warn us, “If both of you don't come home together, then don't bother coming home.”

We chuckled at my mother's worries, but not because it was unfounded. We laughed because it was the equivalent of telling a skydiver to put on his parachute before he jumped out of the plane. When a weapon is the hand of either me or my father, a special part of our brain is reserved for the status and direction of that weapon. A constant internal dialog is always taking place: “Are there rounds in the magazine?” “Is there a round in the chamber?” “Is the safety engaged?” “Is there a secondary safety engaged?” “If I pulled the trigger right now, what would happen?” “Where is my hand in relation to the trigger?” “Is anything near the trigger?” “Where is the barrel pointed?” “If a bullet leaves the chamber, will it ricochet off what it hits?” “Where are the people I am with?”

I learned this internal dialog when my father asked me these questions at random while I was hunting. He would tell me to freeze at random times and ask me what would happen if my weapon went off at that point. I quickly developed the habit that unless I was sighted in and ready to fire, the safety on my weapon was engaged.

One of my most embarrassing moments during hunting was caused by this habit. My Dad and I had called in three coyotes from nearly a mile away. It took them a good hour to work up the courage to approach the sound of our fake dying rabbit. Once they decided to come in, they came in at a full sprint towards our camouflaged bodies looking for said rabbit. I lined up on the front runner, and watched him through my scope as he came. When he was at 100 yards I thought about shooting, but he was still running, so I waited. While I waited, he kept running towards us at full speed. Finally, he appeared barely 20 yards in front of me and stopped at a dead halt staring directly at me. He must've caught my scent and was trying to identify it, which gave me just enough time. My crosshairs divided the small white spot on his chest into four perfect sections. Aim small, miss small. So, I squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. Squeezed again. Nothing. Shit. I mentally reflected without moving or even adjusting my breathing. Did I pull the trigger far enough? Yes. Did I load a round into the chamber? Yes. Did I disengage the safety? Fuck. No. I slid my thumb quickly and quietly to the safety latch and slowly slid it forward. The coyote just stared at me. Finally, it clicked. My relief was undermined when the nearby coyote heard the same metallic click and bolted away at the unnatural sound. It sprinted away faster than it came and I heard my Dad let out a huff and a slight chuckle. “Forget something?” he said. “Yup,” I said. “Safety?” he laughed. “Yup.”

Fortunately for me, coyotes have this bad habit of being curious about what they are running away from. When they feel they are at a safe distance, they almost always stop to look at it a second time. Unfortunately for this coyote, 300 yards was not enough of a safe distance. I would've much rather taken a 20 yard shot than a 300 yard shot, but I'm not complaining now. My Dad and I still laugh about that time I forgot to disengage my safety and scared off a coyote, but I always remind him that I still got it in the end. I was 14 years old at the time.

Thanks to my teenage education in gun control, I learned concentration, responsibility, and self-control. These are necessary lessons for all youth, and firearms are the medium my parents used to teach me. All youth hunters must go through a hunter's safety course to be legally able to hunt. Hunting alone teaches more self-control and responsibility than driver's training, even though I could do more damage with a car than a gun. As we know, one does not learn responsibility by stripping themselves of it. One does not learn self-control by avoiding dangerous decisions. Weapons, even dangerous ones, will teach a person more about themselves than anything else in life.

So, my friend's comment to me on Catalina island about the irresponsibility of society to put weapons in the hands of adolescent hunters struck me as quite absurd. My response was less than tactful, as I described why every teenager should grow up learning to hunt and use firearms. There is no medium that teaches character better than firearms. Parents who cannot handle the high responsibility of a gun will not be able to pass that level of maturity off to their children. Thanks to my parents allowing me to handle a gun, I learned how to manage important, even dangerous, situations since I was 12 years old. I couldn't have asked for anything more and I'm relieved they didn't dare offer me anything less.

The Midwest

2007-04-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

Today I visited Pocahontas, currently located in Arkansas. Didn't you know? Pocahontas is a town of 1,248 people. It says so on the small green sign standing proudly beside the only paved road in town. I drove into town in my rental car, rolling my eyes and sighing about what a ridiculous culture I would soon be dealing with. I often make fun of the Midwest because it is so easy to do so, but honestly, it is even easier to be jealous of it.

Being an avid “find the best deal online first” consumer, I was discouraged to drive past the only hotels in town, which were still advertising color T.V. and HBO. I considered that this probably wasn't a feature I was going to find under the “accommodations” section of Hotels.com. They probably don't pricematch, either. I imagine that the term “mom and pop” shop has never been used here because, well, what else is there? Oh yeah, Wal-mart, but only in the big city.

Shortly thereafter I started to drive through the neighborhoods. Naturally, I fake wondering about their property prices, while smiling coolly about the fact that I could probably afford any mortgage in town. Heck, I could probably afford two, especially if the houses are like those. It was just then that both sides of the road cleared out into soft cut grass and caught my attention. And then I saw it. A house. No, a mansion. Or, maybe even an estate! No, MY house, and an instant daydream. I can see it all now, Mr. Toad. I pull up to the four white pillars in whatever motorcar I drive. I invite my friends over to go fishing on my boat around my lake surrounded by my land behind my stainless steel brick barbecue. I write books to make extra cash, but I mostly live off of my earlier investments, whatever those may be, but I'm sure they're not important. You know, I really wouldn't mind living here. The red brick buildings surrounded by naturally healthy green trees reminded me of those more traditional and well-earned Christmases. I guess some quirks are really quite perks.

But there are some more serious quirks too. Every town I passed through on the way to Pocahontas (including Bald Knob, Newport, and Alicia with a population of 145 posted) had no shortage of churches. Small steeples, square buildings, and simple landscapes featuring Christian quotes on billboards seem to grow better in this climate than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, so do cemeteries. In every town I went through, right next to the main (or only) road in town, one could see the town cemetery. But these cemeteries were noticeably different from ones I normally see because each headstone seemed to have a twin right next to it. In other words, rarely did I see a headstone by itself. Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, kin and kin, cuddled and cozy. Pretty cute, pretty cute.

It is also clear to me that the Southern Baptists have clearly won the “We Have The Most Money” award. The cute Methodist one-story, the Pentecostal former dentists' office, and the non-denominational single-family home can all fit easily under the noon-time shadow of the local Southern Baptist church. Of course, the buildings also serve as the church campus, college, community center, and anything else beginning with the letter “C,” but we know what they really mean. Our congregation tithes, your doesn't, we've won. I kid, I kid.

So, while I don't understand how the roots of this culture could develop a Clinton, I wouldn't mind witnessing the goings-on here firsthand. I'd love to find a hot Midwestern wife, even if she had to be Southern Baptist. And despite my subtle appreciation of the styrofoam-packed poultry at Costco, I would absolutely love to know a local butcher.

My Room

2007-04-11T23:12:00.001-07:00

Let me tell you a little bit about my room. My room is not a place anyone wants to show to guests who visit the house. My laundry basket was overrun a long time ago. There are at least six loads of laundry pouring out of my closet door by now. There is a trail of cleared carpeting leading from my door to my desk chair to my bed. Without this trail one would have good reason to doubt that the room has any carpeting at all. Behind the laundry sits two dusty guitars that still get played, just not polished. I do not wish to know what horticulture experiment is growing between the many sets of socks, jeans, t-shirts, and the carpet below. The closet door remains jammed open due to this mountain of decomposing cotton and polyester. That one corner of the room alone could probably make the most experienced maid blush and faint.

On my bed are two blankets which, as far as I can remember, have never covered all four corners of the bed at the same time. They lay loose next to two pillows with unmatched pillow cases. The sheets get washed about once every other month because, like some children, I enjoy that “broken in” smell over the fresh “ocean breeze” scent of laundry detergent. I prefer settling into my slightly unkempt sheets at the end of my day like I would a beer over wine.

Books are littered around my room like confetti after a wedding. Yesterday I found a book between my mattress and the box spring, though I never meant to hide it. Journals that I have kept since 1992 make up one-quarter of the remaining books on the shelf above my desk. I have a cook book sitting on top of my last oil change receipt next to the speaker for my computer that hasn’t been moved since I set it there last year. Coke cans, coffee cups, and plastic spoons lay two feet away from the inside of my trash can. And, as unlikely as it sounds, my trash can is filled with nothing but a trash bag.

Sometimes I feel like a rat living in a hole with bottle caps and old food lying around, but this is a rare feeling. I am rarely ashamed of my room because, believe it or not, this is my sanctuary. The light blue ceiling that I painted with my own two hands reminds me of a clear upper sky. The walls etched with white faux splatter on a blue-grey surface give me the impression that I am high and safe. On the walls hang gifts of artwork received from friends in remote countries, knives brought back from the highest mountain range in India, and a grey sweater signed by every student I taught in my first classroom.

Even though my mother would be terribly disgusted, as would any potential girlfriend, I get a strange sense of relief that my room is repulsive to others. Without me saying a word, it lets people know that they’re not welcome unless they receive a special invitation. I can retreat to my room on any day, at any time, under any circumstance and trust that I will be unbothered.

The exposed trail of carpet snaking along the floor is my trail. I have traveled it many times. It is the easiest path for me to walk and the most difficult for others. Surrounded by empty gum wrappers and a web of wires tickling my feet I have remembered by best moments in life. And, I am recalling one of them to you right now on this dusty, worn keyboard.

So, if I happen to meet a special girl one day who actually sees my room from the hallway and predicts a future with a messy houseguest, she may be right. But until she sees the room from the inside, walks my trail, pushes the shoes out of the way and closes the door, she won’t have a clue about me. It is not clean, but it is safe. Everything is provided, just not on shelves or in drawers. This mess is my nest. I have no problem cleaning my room, but I do not wish to substitute a clean room for a home. I do not refuse to please someone by cleaning it, just not everyone. My room is a testimony of my sincerity. And I hope the few who know me can gauge my character by my personal lifestyle, not by my personal hygiene.

The Importance of Listening

2007-02-26T00:30:00.000-08:00

I read a book a few years ago that changed my perspective on every relationship and friendship I’ve ever had and will ever have. The book is called The Lost Art of Listening. It’s a deadly accurate and well-written instruction on how to listen. I never thought listening was important enough to write a book about. I was wrong, dead wrong. I’ll summarize what I can:

In common practice, listening is usually the time spent during a conversation when we either reflect on our own part of a story, start constructing a reply, or prepare some insight for advice. We listen so that we can respond, because we believe we are expected to. If someone calls us for help, we listen so that we might figure out how to can help. If someone speaks in anger or frustration, we listen defensively or we withdraw. In other words, we react when we listen. We do not know how to listen objectively. We listen with reactionary and lazy minds. We do not empathize. In short, we do not realize the importance of simply and actively listening to each other.

Ironically, I wasn’t inspired to read this book until I realized I get really annoyed when people are not listening to me. I thought, “Hey, maybe this will teach me how to get people to understand me.” People can always tell when you’re not listening: shifty eyes, easily distracted, interruptions, spacing out, call waiting, etc. I know you can relate to this. Ever talk to a loved one about some difficulty you were having? Have they ever responded with, “I don’t know what to tell you,” “Try harder,” or “I can’t really relate?” I don’t know of anyone who talks about their difficulties solely so they can get advice, be told to work harder, or wanted someone to tell their own story. In fact, this response only leads the speaker to feel isolated, neglected, or even abandoned at times. Is it any wonder why one of the leading complaints in relationships is that one partner feels the other is not listening to them or their needs?

What do you need to start listening effectively? There are really only two goals: the first is to attain knowledge from the speaker, and the second is to be completely available to the speaker. When attaining knowledge, it is important to understand the difference between what is being said and what is meant.

For example, if someone is speaking in frustration or anger, does that mean they are angry with you? A good question to ask yourself in this situation is this: do they want to vent or do they want advice? Listen to their intent so that you’ll know how to listen to what is being said. “Dang, I was driving to work, I was in a hurry, and THREE DIFFERENT CARS cut me off!” Put yourself in their shoes. Do they want advice? Probably not, the situation is over. Do they want to vent? Yeah, probably. So now, you can begin to empathize by exploring their perspective.

Observe their body language when speaking, tone, emphasis on emotions or events, repetition. Then, keep the conversation going by encouraging them to talk about those things. “You sound understandably upset, did you get to work late?” “How did you react to them?” “Was everything going okay before they cut you off?” “How did the rest of the day go for you?” Put yourself in their situation. Find out how deep their thoughts/feelings go. Don’t be surprised if they move to a different topic or event. Be available enough for them to fill your head with their perspective. Follow them in their feelings/thoughts/stories, let them guide you into each one. Emotional topics are hard to effectively listen to, because you need to transcend into their world and the suspension of your needs is complete. But, in order to listen effectively, you must be completely available to the speaker. You are theirs. Once they stop or pause in conversation, simply encourage them to give you more knowledge about their feelings/thoughts by asking insightful knowledge-seeking questions or simply saying, “Tell me more.” Do not turn the conversation to yourself. Good listening really does take more effort than it does to speak.

In contrast, how does it feel when you are truly listened to? Important. Cared about. Understood. How would you feel if someone effectively listened to you talk about whatever you wanted? What if, after you went off for a while, they said, “I enjoyed listening to you, but keep going! I want to hear more!” Loved. “What is your opinion about…?” “I’d like to hear your thoughts on….” Respected. When you truly listen to people, you treat them like a blessing, not a burden. It is clear when someone is and is not listening to you. It is unbelievably important.

Christianese

2007-02-15T23:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve been having a problem talking with some of my Christian friends lately. For the first time in my life, I’ve been away from the Christian community for quite a few months and I’ve had a problem returning to it. Part of the problem is that I no longer completely understand Christianese. I don’t quite understand how Christianese ever started, but I regret that it did, and that’s not really the point anyway. I think very few Christians understand how difficult it is to bond with someone spiritually who uses this language. I want to explain what I mean by that.

Try to have a conversation with someone who speaks Christianese and you’ll usually hear the following phrases: “I have a passion for…” “I am blessed because…” “I have a heart for…” “I feel led to…” “I feel like God desires…” “My vision for…” “As Christians, I think we should…” “I have a lot of compassion for…” “What would Jesus do?” “I’ve prayed about it and…” “We should really seek God’s passion/vision for…”

In the examples above, the most common words used are passion, vision, desire, seek, feel, led, blessed, and heart. Rarely do those words occur in the English language in normal, every day life. In normal conversation, people who hear these words are not only forced to pause so that they can remember their meaning, but they also must understand the symbolism in context. For example, if I said “I have a heart for the poor,” native Christianese speakers would understand that I want to help the homeless. But our culture does not commonly use “have a heart” as a substitute for “want.” I understand that there is a deeper meaning in the term “have a heart,” but our common language is not without its deep meanings either. What if I said, “I have a heart for paying taxes,” “I have a heart to eat healthy,” or “I have a heart for not cussing?” Are these not still duties we can do as Christians? It would not only sound strange to say these things, but it would also put us at an unnecessary distance from our listeners.

This distance not only occurs between Christian and non, but also between Christians themselves. If you notice, the use of Christianese is considerably decreased between close friends and private conversations. It is possible that this is due to the dropping of social facades or fears, which might also be the reason Christianese is used in the first place. Honestly, I do not know. However, I can imagine myself speaking in vague, interpretive Christianese to get myself out of a conflict. “It’s not that I disagree with what you’re saying, it’s just that I feel like God desires me to have a passion for seeking his vision and purpose rather than doing what you say.” I know this works because I have used it many times before to avoid conflict.

An unintended, or sometimes intended, result of speaking Christianese is to avoid speaking frankly or honestly. It’s pretty lame, actually. If there were a Miss Christian America pageant, I could imagine the winner saying something like, “I have always desired to seek God’s face and pray for Him to change my heart so that I can be used to pursue His vision for the world.” In other words, “World peace.”

Anyway, I am trying to change my language such that every Christianese word that I use can be easily translated. I use the words “want,” “like,” “enjoy,” “love,” “hope,” and “happy” as much as possible now. To quote C.S. Lewis, “Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and of infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still don't know where else I could have found one.” Perhaps we should not be inventing meanings for obscure words, but we should be using common, secular, and comprehensible language to describe our most intimate relationship. At the very least, I could start to understand my friends again, and they could begin to understand me. God knows I have a heart for it.

Judgmentals vs. Bad Christians

2006-10-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

I talked with a friend today who spoke honestly and made perfectly good sense, though I disagreed with him. He told me that he is a Christian but does not often make that fact known to people because he is such a bad Christian. He said he doesn't want to be a bad witness. He thought the Bible backed him up on this, I didn't really know either way, but nevertheless I thought his efforts were good intentioned.

What could drive a person to deny their Christianity? My first guess would have to be the amount of pressure and judgment that comes from Christian communities to conform to Christian values and behaviors. I do not mean to generalize all Christian communities. However, I do know from experience that there are those few Judgmentals who conceal themselves within such communities only to drive people away at times when they are most vulnerable.

I am not innocent of being judgmental either. There are many stages of my life when I have been full of arrogance and pride such that practically nothing could escape my critique. So, I sympathize with the Judges. However, when I am on the receiving end of their narrow-minded “observations,” I get severely hurt by them. There is no love in judgment, no matter how nicely someone words it. And no matter how Biblical the critique, when the speaker does not listen and understand to whom he is speaking, then his truthful words turn to mere insults of character.

I wonder if this is why my friend has chosen to not bring shame on Christianity by denying his part in it. Perhaps he has had the “truth” spoken to him too many times, rather than others listening to the truth about him. As such, it makes perfectly good sense that a good person would deny their Christian faith to save the face of those who so strongly protect it. In reality, I fear that my friend is only protecting the pride of those Judgmentals who drove him away (“spoke the truth”) in the first place.

In either case, I think my friend points out a helpful flaw in Christian culture. We need to accept those who are less than perfect as though they are in fact perfect. We should not fake or conceal their imperfection either. Rather, we should embrace the person, as though they were family and had nothing to prove by their behavior or values. We should be freeing each other by listening rather than speaking and believing in each other rather than allowing the Judgmentals to win.

I would feel much better about being a Christian if this were true of my community.

My Ideal Community

2006-10-05T00:13:00.000-07:00

I want to describe my ideal community. It is pretty much entirely imaginary, so bear with me if you can. I hope it doesn't sound too childish.

My ideal community is full of people who are risky. They are not careless or reckless, but they can throw caution to the wind if they so desire. If somone in the community is down, sick or lonely or otherwise hurting, they are sincerely responsive. No one is really alone unless they want to be, so no one every feels lonely. People takes risks for each other. They act out in service, as though they are taking care of one of their own family. For example, friends could call each other in the middle of the night and, despite having a wife or work tomorrow, they would come over and be company. In fact, some people even look forward to getting such calls.

Pity is not shown, but tenderness is, so there is no disrespect or condescention. The skill of listening is one of the highest personal achievements. People in this community know how important it is to be listened to and understood, so they put effort into making sure they listen to each other. No shallow "I'm sorry to hear that" phrases or other insincere remarks. Yup, they actually care, and they show it.

I imagine this would be a small community. As in most small towns, everyone knows each other. But in this community it is different. Everyone actually knows each other, because they've taken the time to listen and understand each other. The weaknesses and strengths of the community are clear because of how freely communication flows. I told you they were risky. :)

For some reason I can't explain, because this is my imagination, I think this community deals with a lot of danger. There is always some outside threat to the community. This makes for a strong sense of loyalty with each other. It is important that they are in such a perilous situation. Without the danger, the communication and loyalty would be much less important and probably wouldn't even be there at all.

Hm, doesn't sound like America does it? Well, maybe after 9/11. But, it doesn't sound like any "civilized" places that I know of. When I reflect on this imagination, I wonder if I'm not supposed to live in a harsher environment than San Diego, California. I think the people that have the potential to be in this community exist here, but I don't think the actual community does. There are some good people here, but there aren't too many good communities. At least, I haven't found them yet. I hope I find a community like this. I'm sure it will be different than I imagine it, but I hope I keep my imagination vague enough for the details to fit in.

Cheers,
Benjamin

A Conservative Rant

2006-09-20T23:01:00.000-07:00

I am a gun-totting lifetime NRA member. I am a single white male. I am a Christian. I am your stereotypical right-wing conservative. I am actually quite shy and quiet. But, I listen to Rush Limbaugh and read Ann Coulter articles. I smoke cigars and get an unusual sense of relief watching Fox News. I have never smoked pot. I am pro-life and I will never vote for a candidate who isn't. I love and strongly believe in America, traditional values, the Constitution, and the Founding Fathers; and I consider that love to be reasonable, not blind or narrow-minded.

I am disgusted with Hollywood for their political influence, and I loathe those in my 20-something generation that have bought into the liberal bias of university professors and the media. I love the military, not just because they're doing what they think is right, but because they are Americans fighting in a long historic battle to maintain American freedom.

I think every U.S. citizen should own a gun and know how to use it. Every child should learn to work with their hands and learn what humans are capable of. I believe every parent should teach their child how to use a weapon when needed, how to stay married, how to stick up for what's right, and how to apologize and take responsibility.

I think the movements against "intolerance" and "hate" are the bullshit leftovers of hippie propaganda. I think we need a little more intolerance and a lot more hate, and we need a hell of a lot more common sense than both of those combined. I think the confederate flag still deserves honor and respect because it stood for more than just slavery. I think a country ruled by its citizens should have nuclear weapons, while dictatorships should not.

I think those who want to protect "Mother Nature" will have a hard time defending it from people like me and from human influence, change, and evolution. I shoot deer and donate more money to animal and habitat protection agencies than every liberal I know. I trust corporate America more than PETA, the NAACP, and the ACLU combined.

I believe in gender roles: men are supposed to do certain tasks, women are supposed to do others. I think men are oppressed in this country. I think feminism started because women have a harder time acting as counterparts than men do. I believe women have a harder time submitting to men than men have in submitting to women. Feminists not only ignore this fact, they snub at it so as to ignore further maturity and responsibility as respectable female citizens.
I hope I frustrate every loud-mouthed liberal. I will probably never be seen on television. Never be seen in a picket-line. Never teach on a college campus. I'll probably never even convert a liberal. Nobody will probably ever think exactly like I do.

But, come November 2008, I WILL VOTE. And if I have it my way, Iraq will be the next Germany, the Middle East the next Europe, and we'll be competing with both with our Alaskan oil.

The time for honoring yourself will soon be at an end

2006-09-19T23:14:00.000-07:00

It's nearing midnight, but I can't sleep. So, I thought I'd blog about something I was reminded of at church this past Sunday.

This deep thought came during worship, which seems to be the way these thoughts come to me. Most worship songs have something in them about "exalting" God or lifting Him up or something to that effect. Well, whenever I've been away for a long time, I get reminded of why "exalting" is so important. There's something about exalting or honoring or glorifying God that just strikes deep with who I am. Do you ever get that too?

I think that when I'm away for a while I start to just naturally honor or "glorify" myself. Usually it starts with just a self-esteem or loneliness thing, but it ends up being something I'm really wanting for myself. I really can daydream with the best of 'em. I always wanted to be some kind of hero/savior/idol of someone or something. In at least half of the movies I watch I imagine myself in one of the better roles. I even imagine my friends or the people I know seeing me doing some absolutely brilliant thing and be utterly shocked that I could do such a thing.

That's how I am when I'm not worshipping. But when I'm worshipping, or even at least around worship, I get the most distinct impression that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. It's like I'm exactly where I am needed and where I belong, like I SHOULDN'T be doing anything more. It feels so damn good. I don't feel the pressure of needing to be better or earn my praise or wanting to belong.

What's even more weird, and in the more intense times, is when I get the impression that God is thoroughly pleased with me when I'm there. It's like I'm doing EVERYTHING right. It's ridiculously comforting, much more than I can say in words. I really wish I could feel that way all the time, but like I said, I just tend to try to honor myself when I'm not around true worship.

So, throughout the week I'll continue to daydream, watch movies, listen to music and hope that one day I'll be the world's best guitar playing singing comedian who knows jujitsu and can decipher the world's most complex problems. But, maybe next Sunday I'll get more relief from that crap.

Being Single

2006-09-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

Let me first say that being single is a blessing from God and can be much worse that we make it. And secondly, being single is one of the hardest challenges anyone can face. I’ve come to realize that there are many others in my boat, erhm… we’re in our own boats, but at least we’re floating adrift on the same ocean. And in spite of hearing about how many nice fish there are in the sea, we can’t help but feel lonely.

So, without going into too much depressing detail, here’s three rather unhealthy single thoughts I’ve had in the past few weeks:

“What the hell is wrong with me?” – The ol’ insecurity loophole. Relationship challenged? Issues? Hair? Car? :) Often disguised as genuine reflection, this statement comes in various perspectives and flavors, all sticky with self-pity. The only thing missing is the feeling of being loved by another, but when no one is there, we try to solve the problem ourselves by asking ourselves this question. Shrinks call this “bargaining.” When the cause of the pain is still up for debate, we don’t have to feel it quite as much.

“Why did I break up with my last girlfriend?” – Sure, now you ask. You didn’t count on this, didja? Once I had someone who made me feel better, but now that she’s gone, I don’t feel as good anymore. For some reason, my memory gets very clouded when this thought comes. On two occasions I’ve gone back to the old girlfriend, which instantly cured the memory problem of why we were no longer together. Either that, or she was with someone else. In either case, escaping this trap requires performing one of the most difficult virtues: remembering the truth.

“How do I get the type of wife my friends have?” It sounds bad, I know. I’m not scoping out my friends’ wives. I’m jealous of the relationship they have. Notice, I went right to “wife” not “girlfriend.” Because, ah ha!, I want the life partner, not a hopeful. I’ve already thought about the type of girl I want to end up with, all I need to do is find her. And despite everyone telling me it’s “God timing,” (funny how the people who say that are MARRIED), I can’t help but feel somewhat neglected. And that’s really all it is. There really isn’t anything to figure out. No magical method. No need for extra charm or sweet smelly stuff. Sort of like looking for a treasure without a map, you should probably keep looking for the treasure rather than start looking for the map.

The hardest thing about being single for me is being around Marrieds. Don’t misunderstand, I love my friends. But Marrieds, especially new Marrieds, are ridiculous to talk to about being single. My favorite bit of advice from a Married is this: “You need to be content with singleness before you enter into marriage.” Bullshit. If this is true, why did you get married? Apparently they weren’t content with being single, either.

Anyway, that's my rant. Most times I enjoy myself as a bachelor. There's so much freedom! It's just that, occasionally, there's too much freedom.

I'm back

2006-09-13T18:48:00.000-07:00

Hello internet, I'm back!
For those who don't know, I was in Army training for the past five months. There is very little to say about it now, except that I'm glad it's over. I came away with a few awards and many proud moments. And I'm glad it's over.

Since being back, it seems I have a lot of time on my hands. So, between job searching and playing xbox, I'll see if I can post something profound. I am truly happy to be back.

When self-control doesn't apply to feelings

2006-03-15T21:11:00.000-08:00

Ever notice that when you are overwhelmed with problems in life, everyone else's problems seem trite? I dealt with this feeling all day today. As Christians, it's far too easy to chalk this up to unselfishness and dismiss our displeasure as pride. We tell ourselves we're being selfish, and chastise ourselves for it. But this doesn't really resolve anything, at least for me it didn't. And, more importantly, this isn't entirely true.

There are some things in life that are far more troubling to us, and they should be. Depression is far more serious than someone's acne. Not having the money to buy food is more troubling than a messy room. Joining the Army is a bigger issue than workplace stress. Attention is not always given to the appropriate need. Sometimes, very simply, the squeaky wheel gets the oil, not the one breaking down.

Perhaps, in childhood, all of us were spoiled and now that we're adults we starve for attention. Perhaps, because of the fall of mankind, we are all inherently sinfully self-centered. Perhaps, because of society, we feel oppressed and desire the right to express ourselves. Whatever the argument against the feeling of not getting what we deserve, there are some situations when no argument is good enough.

The fact is that sometimes we do not get the attention our needs deserve. Sometimes we suffer when we should not. Sometimes we're lonely simply because others have let us down. Sometimes our feelings are valid.

Too often as Christians we do our best to disregard and devalue our feelings in difficult situations. Most of the time, we disregard them for the sake of others, not that they ever asked us to, but because we're "nice people." I, for one, am tired of that. It is an exhausting task because it does not help our problems. Nor does it help theirs, because while they're telling us about their troubles, we're busy being troubled by ours. We can only devalue and disregard our own thoughts and feelings to a certain point. At some point we will be tired enough to ask, "When will the trials I've overcome in life earn me the respect I want?"

Recovering from a broken engagement? Battling severe depression/anxiety? Going to India alone for missions? Standing up for the Gospel in the face of social justice? All of these add up over time, and I guess I'm just tired. I hope they don't sound trite.