Fame

If anyone is interested in reading a newspaper article about geocaching, in which Carrie and I are featured prominently, he/she may do so by clicking here.

Day of Birth

What better way to spend a twenty-sixth birthday? Driving randomly on New York State Route 26, looking for a sign that is accessible enough to allow me to get a semi-decent photo. Set the timer on the digital camera, risk life and limb on the side of the highway, and snap the stupid photo. Then, drive twenty-five miles back home. That's pretty much how I roll, folks. That's pretty much how I roll.

Adventures in Motorcar Piloting

This is the end of an era: I can no longer claim that I've never hit a bicyclist with my car.

I had to run up to campus this morning to turn in a couple of papers. I wasn't in a particular hurry or anything, so I don't really know why I wasn't looking straight ahead. As I was rolling out of my driveway, I looked up the street and down the street to make sure I wasn't going to pull out into traffic. It was just as I was crossing the sidewalk that I heard the *thump*.

I snapped my neck to look out the windshield and, to my horror, I was greeted with the sight of a bicycle crashing to the ground and a man rolling into the street in apparent pain. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god was the only thought that went through my mind. Wait, wait, let me add onto that: Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I'm too pretty to go to jail.

Throwing open my door, I jumped out of the car and shouted "Are you OK?!" The relatively young man, probably in late-twenties, forced himself to his feet, brushed himself off, and replied "Yeah, are you OK?" Are you serious, dude? I just attempted-vehicular-manslaughtered you, and you're asking me if I'm OK? If I were this guy, I'd be complaining "My neck hurts; I can't feel my legs; let me see your insurance information; my bike is busted; et cetera, et cetera."

No, actually, I probably would have wussed out and been the "I'm OK" guy, too. But I like to think I'd try to make a lawsuit out of it. Easy money is easy money.

I shook the man's hand, apologized profusely, and we went our separate ways. I suppose I really should be more careful. But if I weren't a complete idiot, bumbling through life, nearly killing people, what would I have to blog about?

Smelling Like I'm Worth Exploring

For those of you (all of you) who haven't been following the NHL playoffs, allow me to give you a little update: I still haven't shaven, and I'm still wearing the same t-shirt. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the Buffalo Sabres are still rolling strong. They finished off the New York Rangers yesterday afternoon and have advanced to the Eastern Conference Finals, where they will square off with the hated Ottawa Senators. How hated? Well, just let me remind you of this:



The super-bestest part of the video comes with about 2:30 left, when the Sabres' resident goon, Andrew Peters, just starts beating the living bejesus out of the Senators' goaltender, Ray Emery. Oh, and (of course) there's the part with about 1:45 left where the Sabres' coach, Lindy Ruff, jumps the bench and starts assailing the Senators' coach with f-bombs. Now that's classic, people.

Anyway, I'm not making this post as an excuse to post that video (although that was a happy side-effect). I'm making this post to tell you about my shirt.

This trusty t-shirt has now draped my upper torso for an epic twenty-seven days. Lots of great things have happened in those twenty-seven days, and I'm attributing them all the to the t-shirt:

1) The Sabres have advanced through the first two rounds of the playoffs...

Umm... oh, right:

2) I haven't thrown up on myself again...

And, uhh... yeah, OK. So maybe only two great things have happened in the almost-four weeks I have been wearing this shirt nonstop. But, hey, that's two more great things than normally happen to me in a month!

Also, on a major plus, the shirt does not stink. Not even a little bit. As I've said more than once during this marathon, it would appear I emit a natural scent that is quite pleasant. My pheromones freaking rock. It's truly a wonder that I have not had to forcibly avoid sexual intercourse on a daily basis.

Maybe that will be an issue by this time next month, when the Sabres are in the midst of the Cup Finals, and I'll be pushing sixty days of shirted bliss.

Hoop Dreams

I need to give a big shout-out to Ray (and, vicariously, to my boy Eddie) for inviting Andy and I out to shoot hoops for several hours last night. Wow, three links in one sentence. Why even have a blogroll anymore? I'll just mention everyone I know in each paragraph. Joe didn't come because he had class, Megan wasn't invited because she's a girl, and Steve... uhh... Steve's too old to keep up with us youngsters. There, blogroll necessity extinguished.

Anyway, where was I? I think I was talking about how much I suck at basketball. Oh, right, that's definitely what it was. I suck at basketball. If the goal of the competition entailed highest numbers of airballs, bad passes, and misunderstandings of the rules, I'd be in the Street Hoops Hall of Fame. Eventually, the games we played last night simply became competitions of one-on-two, with me standing back away from the action screaming "kick it out!" and "pass, pass, pass!" to whomever my unfortunate teammate was at the time. Wisely, these requests to send the ball my way were most often ignored.

We must have played at least seven or eight games of "two"-on-two, with my team losing every single time. It was really pathetic. And, yet, despite how pathetic I was, no one made fun of me. I was encouraged, tutored, and mentored by these three fine gentlemen.

Hmm... now that I think about it... I was never made fun of to my face. *sigh*

Anyway, three hours of basketball last night have reduced my calves to jelly. Walking up and down stairs today has been a nightmare. I honestly don't know if I'll ever play again. And I really should have spent those three hours last night working on whittling down the mountain of end-of-the-semester assignments I have before me.

My hoop dreams have been rekindled, though. Back in my middle- and high-school days, I used to think I had a pretty killer shot. I remember one time in like 9th grade when the whole gym class was a game in which everyone had to make a layup, a free throw, and then shoot three-pointers until he missed. I won the contest, beating the entire class, by hitting like six or seven three-pointers in a row. No lie. I thought I was pretty hot stuff.

Carrie also claims that once, while I was the Fredonia State Blue Devil, she saw me hit a half-court shot during halftime of a game while I was wearing full mascot regalia. I don't remember that, though, and you'd think I'd remember that. She swears it really happened, though. That must have been an awesome sight for the lucky folks who were in attendance that night, if it truly occurred.

So I haven't always sucked at basketball, at least not at shooting. And by the end of the night last night, when we were just shooting playing a game called "Knockout," I was starting to hit a pretty nice stroke from fifteen feet or so. Maybe, if I practiced some more, I could firmly establish a decent shot again. And then I could start working on understanding how to actually play.

Then again, my calves hurt like mofos. Would I really want to continue putting myself through this? Sitting and doing nothing is much, much easier and less painful. Yeah, I'll stick with that.

How Going to Class Early Can Affect the Health of Your Butt

Andy and I had some time to kill before class yesterday. Like, a lot of time. Like, close to an hour. Somehow, randomly, we found ourselves just sitting outside the Dowd building discussing things like freestyle walking. Anyway, long story short, we discovered that, for some unknown reason, the Dowd building's facade is complete with bricks which are not flush with the wall, allowing one to potentially scale the side of the building, should he possess the desire or stupidity to attempt it.

I have one or the other. Probably the latter.

No, no... definitely the latter.

Anyway, I tackled the wall head-on and went up. It wasn't easy--the wall obviously is not meant to be climbed--but I managed to get a little ways off the ground. Below me, I heard Andy requesting my assistance. He was trying to recreate a chalk outline on the wall with his body. I was needed to judge, so I let my feet off, did a free-hang for a few seconds, and then let go.

I thought I was only a couple feet off the ground, so I was surprised to not feel my feet simply hitting the ground almost immediately. It was like that sensation you get when you're going down the stairs at night and you think you're at the last one, but (much to your surprise) your foot does not touch the floor. And then you stumble forward awkwardly, right? Imagine that, except you're probably six-to-eight feet off the ground, you're facing a brick wall, and there is concrete below you.

My feet struck the ground flat and my knees buckled. Out of control, I fell backward clumsily and my left buttock collided unceremoniously with the cement. Pens and pencils tumbled out of my shirt pocket, making me feel like even more of a nerd. I laughed (it was all I could do to save a slight bit of face, were anyone watching) and sprung back to my feet quickly. Pain coursed through my ass.

Sidenote: I'd rather not ever write, speak, or think that sentence again.

I gave up on my Human Fly act, and we went to class. Throughout the exam I was taking, I felt the pain everytime I shifted in my seat. The last thing I wanted to do at that point was sit still for two hours taking a grammar exam. At the one-hour mark, I got up and went to the bathroom, more to attempt to "walk it off" than to expel urine. I suffered through it, though, and aced that f'ing exam. No doubt about it. I'm a real trooper.

Anyway, when I got home I went into the bathroom and examined myself in my full-length mirror. Again, another sentence that should not be written, spoken, or thought of again. In any case, I discovered I had incurred purpleness on my behind. Purpleness! Today, the purpleness has subsided, but it's still sore.

My stupidity about wanting to climb the wall, though, has turned into desire. Or maybe it's just a greater degree of stupidity. Whatever it is, I know that I want to scale the side of that building before I graduate. Anyone have a safety net?

Playoff Machination Advice Necessitated

The Sabres have quickly disposed of the New York Islanders and advanced to round two of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Awesome. However, they did not play overly well in knocking off the Islanders. Sure, they won four games out of five, but they didn't completely hammer New York like they should have. Oh well, the second round is on the horizon anyway, whether the Islanders got trashed or not.

Anyway, I need some input on my personal role in the playoff journey. The playoff beard is filling out nicely, but it also looks kind of stupid and is very itchy. I have thought about shaving it, or at least trimming it substantially, multiple times over the past ten days. But I'm worried that I would be defeating the purpose of the playoff beard were I to do so.

The Sabres' second-round series won't begin until at least next Friday. Would I be doing the franchise a major disservice if I were to trim between now and then, and then allow unmitigated growth once again during the next series? Would that be a lame-o's way out?

Let me know, kids. Buffalo's Stanley Cup hopes may depend on it.

15 More Wins to the Cup

The Buffalo Sabres opened their NHL playoff run last night with a decisive 4-1 win over the New York Islanders. The game wasn't even that close. It should have been 6- or 7-1. The Sabres just looked that freaking good. This is the year, baby. This is finally the year.

Two things you should know about my role in their potential championship journey: 1) I am not shaving for the duration of the playoffs, and 2) I am wearing my Sabres t-shirt non-stop (except for showering, of course) until it's all over. Just FYI.

And if they don't win it all this year, I will kill myself. Again, FYI.

And Now for Something Completely Disgusting

Here's a fun story that just screams "blog me!"

I was at Megan's for a good portion of yesterday. And by a good portion of I mean all of. If there's one thing that happens while I'm over there for an extended period of time, it's that I eat. I eat a lot. She cooks meals. She makes sandwiches. She gives me ice cream. Yesterday, we even baked brownies. That was a new one. But anyway, long story short, we eat a lot of food. We also gossip and watch TV. And paint each other's toenails. Maybe not that last one. At least not yet.

Anyway, I had a little bit of a headache early yesterday afternoon, but I didn't think too much of it. I've had a little bit of a headache every day for the past five days or so. No biggie. I get a lot of headaches. Usually they go away after I take a couple aspirin, or get some food in my stomach, or take a little nap. I took a couple of Advil when we got back from grocery shopping yesterday afternoon, and I felt a little bit better. That didn't last too long, though, so I took a nap on the couch. I woke up in time for dinner, and I felt a little bit better again, so I ate a good healthy portion of chicken, broccoli, and potatoes. Then it was back to the couch for some more TV, but the headache came back. With a vengeance. And this time nausea came with it.

I mentioned that I ate chicken, broccoli, and potatoes for dinner. I didn't mention that, over the rest of the day at her place, I ate the following: an egg salad sandwich, some Doritos, a couple brownies, and a bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream. There are probably even other things I am forgetting. Tack on a can of Diet Pepsi, a couple of juice boxes, and a cup of tea, and I was one full little boy.

The little headache had turned into a full-blown migraine by about 8:00 PM, and resting was not doing me much good. I realized I should probably go home and be miserable there by myself, instead of continuing to lay on the couch and be a bad houseguest, but I wasn't looking forward to the getting up and driving home part. So I laid on the couch until almost 9:00, when I finally conceded and decided to hit the road.

Now, here comes the good part.

I got into the car and started driving home. It is not a long drive from Meg's apartment to mine: three minutes, tops. I was only to the end of her street, though, when I realized I was going to puke. I was going to puke a lot. Now, I've puked a lot in my life. Probably more than all of you combined. The physical act of puking doesn't even bother me any more. Puke itself is gross, yes, but as long as it is in the toilet bowl or on the side of the road or something, I don't care about it. Since I've puked so much in my life, I've developed a pretty good sense of how long I have before I can't hold it in anymore. Normally, if I'm in the car and I have to puke, I'll pull over and just let fly in a ditch or something. I was in the middle of the city of Cortland, though, and I didn't think that would be appropriate. I decided that I could handle it until I got home like two minutes later.

No such luck.

Coming down Court Street, I gagged and some vomit escaped my esophagus into my mouth. I put my hand over my mouth, choked the puke back, and hoped that was the end of it. Was I ever wrong. Two seconds later, that little bit of puke made a comeback and brought a ton of its friends with it. BLAHHHH!!! Thankfully, I had kept my hand over my mouth and that blocked a lot of the grossness from getting too far. A lot did escape, though, all down the front of my jacket, inside my jacket and down my sweatshirt, and all over my pants. The steering wheel gleamed in the streetlights, vomit streams running down it. I looked over to the console and saw that some had deflected over there, infilitrating the shifter and the cupholders.

I kept my hand over the mouth for the remainder of the trip home and imagined the horror on the face of the driver next to me at the stoplight, if he had happened to look over and catch a glimpse of my vomit-soaked face and body. When I got home a couple minutes later, I immediately stripped my coat off and threw it on the ground outside my house. I ran inside, puked out anything that might have been remaining inside me, washed my hands and my face, and called Megan. I needed someone to come clean out my car. I obviously was in no condition.

She refused. Puke, apparently, is not her "thing." Thanks.

So it was up to me. I stripped out of my puke-covered clothing and took a quick shower. Needless to say, it was much needed. Putting on clean, vomit-free clothing, I searched in vain for appropriate cleaning supplies. At Carrie's suggestion, I used glass cleaner. I sprayed the steering wheel, the console, and the seat. Yes, much to my chagrin, I discovered a couple puddles of puke on the driver's seat. Spray spray spray, wipe wipe wipe, and the puke was gone.

I went out to the car this morning to get some books. The scent of vomit is faint, but it definitely is there. The windows are cracked open today, and hopefully the crisp April air will remove the odor. What an ordeal.

This is possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. And this from the guy who once got trampled by a bull. But that's another story for another day.

*exasperated sigh*

Do some people just have no regard for the people around them? Let's compare me to this girl who is sitting at the other end of my row in the computer lab, shall we?

Me: I received a phone call earlier in the day. There were not a lot of people in the computer lab at the time, but I still think it is very rude to carry on a telephone conversation while people around me are trying to work. I'll even take this to "while people are around me at all"--if I'm visiting someone and my phone rings, I will take it into another room to answer, if I even deem it is necessary to answer at all. It's just common courtesy, right?

So I took my phone outside and stood out on the sidewalk for the duration of my approximately six-minute conversation. I then came back in, sat back at my computer again, and continued my work. No one even had to know I was on the phone.

Girl over there -->: For the past twenty minutes, I've had to listen to this girl, at full volume, call various body-piercing shops in an attempt to set up an appointment to get her belly button pierced. Are you serious? Do I really need to hear about this? Is this any of my business, let alone any of the business of the other half-dozen people in the lab? Come on, please. Honestly. Take it outside. Or do it when you're at home. Or, even better, don't get your stupid belly button pierced, you stupid!

OK, I feel a little bit better now. Thanks, blog. You're a good pal.

A Couple Days in the Life

At a lack of anything to rant about from the past week or so, believe it or not, I'll just talk about some interesting things which have occurred to me within the last couple days. I will relate them in chronological order, not necessarily in order of interest.

1.) I went on a little trip with Megan on Thursday. As part of the adventure, we went to PetSmart and a puppy licked my face. I don't know what you think about this, but that's about the most disgusting thing possible. To quote Brian from Family Guy, dogs use their tongues as toilet paper. This little Scottish Terrier had probably taken a crap and "wiped" within the last half hour or something, and now it was rubbing that dirty tongue all over my nose and mouth. That is just gross, people. Gross. Pets are disgusting, and I don't understand why anyone would want one. Not only are they filthy creatures, but they are an unnecessary nuisance in the home. I'm sorry, but I have a hard enough time feeding and taking care of myself. Why would I want an annoying little animal running around, needing me to wait on it hand and foot? No thanks, lower forms of life. Find some other sucker.

2.) After we came home, I had to run up to campus and take care of a couple things. One of my pressing issues was a parking ticket which I had received the day before. I have been parking in the faculty/staff lot outside Old Main a lot this semester and had not received a ticket. But I got cocky on Wednesday and left my car parked there for like five hours. Bad idea. Anyway, I had to go down to UPD in Van Housen to pay the ticket--or so I thought. I pulled into a parking spot near the entrance and ran in to make the payment. At the parking department, though, I discovered a sign informing me I have to go to the Miller Building to pay parking tickets. Crummy. So I left again. I ran into Ray and offered to give him a ride up the hill so he wouldn't have to walk. I'm a nice guy. As we were going up the hill, though, I noticed a little piece of paper under my windshield wiper. I had another ticket! Five minutes (at most), and I'd received another ticket! Enraged, I stormed into Miller and demanded rectification.

The friendly woman at Miller told me she couldn't do anything about it, but she suggested I go down to UPD again and plead my case. Off I went. On the way back down there, though, I happened to see some douche police officer citing someone else for a parking violation. This must have been the same guy who gave me mine, so I stopped my car and rolled down the window. The very awkward conversation went a little something like this.

Me: "Hey! (holding out ticket) Are you the guy who just gave me this?"
Mr. Policeman: "Umm... yes."
Me: "Yeah, here's the deal. I had only parked there just now to pay this ticket (holding out other, legitimate ticket), because I haven't had a ticket in several years, and that's where you used to have to go to pay tickets..."
Mr. Policeman: "No, you're always had to go to Miller."
Me: "Really? Well, in any event, I was only parked for like five minutes as I ran into pay the ticket."
Mr. Policeman: "You were parked down there? (pointing toward UPD) But Miller is way up there. (pointing back toward Miller)"
Me: "Yes, yes, I know... maybe I'm not explaining myself well. Anyway, I really don't feel like I should have gotten this ticket."
Mr. Policeman: "Give it to me, I'll take care of it."
Me: "Thank you very much. (handing him the ticket) You know I wouldn't complain unless I felt, like, you know... (rolling up window, driving away)"

Awkward conversation, and I didn't know how to end it, but I saved twenty bucks. Sweet.

3.) I went out Thursday night with Ray and had a lot to drink. Like, a lot a lot. The highlight of the evening, though, came when we went down to Mobil ExpressMart to get some single drinks early in the night. Ray bought two "40's" of something called "Old English." I was not interested. Instead, I stuck with what I know: I purchased a nice, crisp, refreshing 24oz bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

Clerk: "Would you like a bag for this, or are you just going to put it in your purse?"

I'm not going to lie; that was a wicked burn. Well played, Mr. ExpressMart Clerk. Well played.

4.) 7:00 Friday morning came way too early, considering I had gotten mad drunk and didn't go to bed until 3:00. I really didn't want to go to classroom observation, but given that there are only four weeks left to get hours and I still need 25, I can't skip too many days. I was miserable; I wished I were dead. I threw up between periods, and again in the parking lot before I left to come home. I'm such a lightweght; it's very sad. I went to bed when I came home and slept until about 3:00 in the afternoon. That was nice.

So, in a nutshell, those were my past two days. Don't you wish you had my life? I guess I'm going to go take a shower and see what adventures I can have today. Probably none. We'll see.

Cheap, Cheap, Cheap

Here's another fun fact about me: I am possibly the cheapest person you will ever meet.

-I would rather not eat than go to the store to get food. When I *do* go to the store, I always buy the cheapest brand possible and eat it, regardless of how it tastes.
-I hate Christmas and birthdays. I have no desire to buy anything for anyone, and I hate when people buy things for me, because: 1) that makes me feel obligated to buy something for him/her next time, and 2) I also feel like other people should be cheap, and any money you've spent buying things for me would have been much better spent buying something for yourself. This is also referred to as "selfishness."
-I continue to work four hours a month at the gas station, which I hate, because it earns me 10% off gas at any Kwikfill station. I almost had to cause a scene at Kwikfill in Groton one day last week, because I had no proof of Kwikfill employment on me and the cashier was hesitant to give me my discount. I wanted that $3.50 off, and I wasn't about to leave until I got it! I got it.

There are more examples of my frugality, I'm sure, but these are the main ones in my head right now. And now I've made my first post in a week--good for me.

Posterized

I spent a large majority of last week working on an epic post. It's saved in a draft. Long story short, it's the story of what happened to me last fall, how it resulted in my having to move out of my apartment, and what I learned from the debacle. But I couldn't come to a conclusion on it, so the post remains unfinished. I was typing and typing and typing, but my heart wasn't in it. It was pointless. I just don't care any more. I'm so over it. w00t.

So anyway, moving on. Here's a random post.

I was at a Denny's in Hamburg, NY, last Saturday night (now there's an exotic Spring Break destination!) when I overheard this interaction between a customer and the waitress:

Customer: "Me and her are gonna split the Mexican Slam."
Waitress: "That's her and I, sweetie."

Nice try, stupid waitress, but you're wrong, too. It's SHE AND I! I nearly choked on my rage. Before that causes you to lose all faith in the grammaticality of America, though, consider what I heard on my way out of the Sabres' game at HSBC Arena earlier that same night:

Random drunk guy, yelling: "Hey! Where's the bars?!?"
Random douchebag, yelling: "You mean where are the bars!"

L-O-freaking-L. It almost made up for sitting through the Sabres losing yet another game. Almost.

Sleep: Why I Love It

OK, time for the riveting Part Two of my two-part series on sleep. Last night I let you in on why I hate sleep. But, eventually, sleep must come. And with it comes one of the greatest wonders of the human mind: dreams.

Dreams are amazing. I love dreams. I don't really know how they work (it's probably not a movie theatre inside your head, like in Osmosis Jones), but I am very thankful they exist. They give me an escape from my real life for a few hours a night. They give me a place where I can explore the things that course through my mind daily, not only consciously, but subconsciously. They give me insight into my inner workings. I love waking up in the morning after I've had a particularly vivid dream and spending a few minutes trying to figure out what it meant. Sometimes, they lead me closer to answers I'm dying to find: what makes me tick? From where do my problems stem? How can I fix them? Dreams, the windows into the subconscious, can aid with that.

These peeks into the subconscious are all well and good, but do you know what I'm really fascinated by? Lucid dreams. If you're unfamiliar with the term, a lucid dream is a dream in which you are fully aware that you are sleeping, and therefore you can consciously act out whatever you want to do. These things are so cool. It's like, at a certain point in the dream, your brain kicks in and says "yeah, this isn't real. Go wild!" It's like a second life, an alternate universe, and you just stumble into it.

Unfortunately, I can't recall ever actually experiencing an actual fully lucid dream. They sell books on how to meditate yourself before going to sleep in order to enduce lucidity in dreams, and I'm sure there are plenty of how-tos about it on the internet. As awesome as I think lucid dreams would be, though, I don't know if I'd want to know how to do it. I'm afraid I would get so wrapped up in my virtual-reality pseudo-life that I would no longer have any desire to face my actual-reality life-life. I mean, why would I want to continue my day-to-day trudgery/misery when I know that, if I just dope myself up and sleep all day, I could remain in my fantasy world where I go anywhere I want, possess anything I want, party all the time, watch the Sabres win the Stanley Cup and the Browns win the Super Bowl, and (as if I even have to mention the obvious) have all the sex I want with whomever I want? Talk about dangerous, and you know I'd love every second of it.

So anyway, thanks for reading this two-part blog post concerning my issues with the act of sleep. Keep checking in, because you never know the next fascinating topic that's going to spring from these fingers, through this keyboard, onto this blog.

Sleep: Why I Hate It

At risk of running out of all my good material within the first week of starting this blog, let me tell you why I hate to go to sleep. This will be the first of a two-part series, because there also is a particular reason why I love to go to sleep. But since I must hate sleep first before I can succumb to it and, eventually, enjoy it, allow me to start with that stance.

Most nights, I attempt to stay awake for as long as I possibly can. This usually is done by sitting in front of the TV or the computer, by talking on the phone to Carrie or with my friend in Hawaii, or by reading a book. I just stay awake until my eyelids can't take it any more. Normally, I do this regardless of how early I have to wake in the morning. I just don't want to go to sleep.

In addition to staying up as late as possible, I set my cell-phone alarm to go off at random times during the night/early morning. A normal grouping of alarms might be 3:30 AM, 5:00 AM, 6:00 AM, and 7:00 AM. Something like that.

Why would I put myself through this? I mean, on a normal day, I try to drag myself out of bed by 9:00 at the latest. So why wouldn't I try to go to bed at a reasonable hour, get a solid night's sleep, and be refreshed come 8:00 or 8:30?

It's because, my friends, I fear the future.

That's right; I just said I fear the future. Hear me out here. When you're awake, no matter what time it is, you're in the present. Everything is stable. The past is the past, and the future is still off on the horizon. But as soon as you go to sleep, as soon as you drop out of full consciousness and hit semiconsciousness, the next thing that happens to you is the future. You're going to wake up the next morning and it's going to be a whole new day, and you'd better be ready to face it.

I'm not ready to face it. I never want to face it. A new day brings new responsibilities, brings you closer to your deadlines, brings you more unexpected twists and turns. The new day brings uncertainty. Who wants uncertainty? I want to know that I've completed the day, I didn't die, and, at least for the moment, everything in my life is in order. Who knows if it's still going to be in order tomorrow? I don't want to be in tomorrow; I want to stay in today for as long as possible.

Getting up at random intervals during the night helps that. If I just go to sleep at, say, 1:00 AM and sleep straight through until 9:00, that's eight hours of my life gone. I had no control over it. It's just gone, and studdenly the new day is here. Bam. If I get up every couple hours or every ninety minutes, though, the night is extended. "Oh, it's OK, it's only 3:15... I don't have to face the day for another five hours or so." I can handle that. Keep postponing it, even if I'm only tricking myself into thinking I'm postponing it. That's clever, folks, and it's a ritual I've employed for quite some time now. Tomorrow is always going to come--the least I can do is make myself think it's taking its sweet time.

If that sounds messed up to you, well, you must not have figured out yet that I'm a pretty messed-up guy. Stay tuned for part two of this post, likely tomorrow: Sleep: Why I Love It. Can't wait to contradict myself!

I Don't Like Spiders and Snakes

This is the spider I killed in my apartment last night. It is freaking huge. Gargantuan. Mammoth. And here's the deal: I hate, hate, spiders.

I also hate snakes, slugs, reptiles, amphibians, big yucky bugs, and most other creatures which are disliked by prissy women and little girls. That's right; I'm a little girl.

It's not just that I don't like spiders. I'm am, literally, a little girl about them. Last night when I saw this spider, I yelped. I grabbed my slipper and hit it, enough to kill it but not enough to leave spider residue on the sole (because that's gross too). Then I grabbed a bookmark and attempted to ever-so-gently scoop the carcass off the rug, because I didn't want to touch it. The scoop technique was not working because of the texture of the rug. On the phone with my girlfriend, she suggested I use a Kleenex to lift the spider up. I wanted nothing to do with that, because I knew I'd be able to feel the spider through the Kleenex and that would gross me out.

Eventually, using the bookmark to push the spider to the wood floor, I was then able to scoop it up and deposit it in the trash. But I wasn't ready to deposit it in the trash. Why? Because I needed to justify the girliness of my fear of seeing it and of touching it. So I placed it on a white background (a paper towel), and took a photo using a dime for scale. I e-mailed it to Carrie to show her that my response was valid.

So what we have here in this little story is an amalgamation of my poor qualities: 1) unsubstantiated fear (honestly, it's just a spider, right?), 2) immaturity (acting like a little girl), 3) helplessness (I had to ask for advice about what to do with it), 4) need for validation (taking the photo for evidence). There's probably more to this whole episode than just that, but I'll leave the rest of the symbolism up to you.

I hope you enjoyed this fresh little anecdote, this deviation from the path this blog has taken thus far. I'll try to keep the pity-wallows to a minimum from here on out, for everyone's sake.

A New Approach

OK, now that I've given the theoretical background for why I'm so miserable (thanks for reading), I'll go into some more specific things about my metacognition that bring me down. Here goes.

I'm not smart.

There. I said it. I'm not smart. I'm so sick of people commenting on how I'm so smart, coming to me with questions because they think I'm smart, and trying to boost my self-esteem by reminding me how smart I am. I'm downright not smart. Being smart implies an ability to formulate new and exciting ideas, assimilate the thoughts of others into coherent revolutionary thoughts, come up with ideas no one else would ever come up with, etc., etc. I cannot do any of these things. I might have a lot of knowledge, but I am far from smart.

Recent comments about how smart I am have stemmed from my ability to solve multiple crossword puzzles in mere minutes, properly pronounce/define words, correct the grammar of others, spot misspellings in the newspaper, and other trivial matters such as that. That's not intelligence. Those attributes come from a vast storage of useless facts, an attention to detail, and a knowledge of when one should utilize the word whom in lieu of the word who. Nothing groundbreaking there. Just frivality.

I was at my classroom observation yesterday morning when I noticed this phrase tacked to the wall above the chalkboard: "Education means developing the mind, not stuffing the memory." You see? I could never come up with a phrase like that to so adequately describe that my mental capacity is not a result of level of education (intelligence), but rather a biproduct of jamming my brain full of useless facts (knowledge).

So, often, when people tell me "you're so smart," I chafe and respond with a "shut up" or "whatever." This results in people telling me that I can't take a compliment, and probably in people refusing to make compliments to me about other things--some of which I might actually deserve. But I'm not upset about the fact I'm being complimented. I'm upset about the fact that the complimenter is not using proper terminology. I'm not at all smart. If I were smart, I could read this stupid book about Shakespeare's Roman plays for my class tonight and be able to give a lucid presentation about how the author feels about Shakespeare as a whole, and whether or not I agree or disagree with her based on my own readings of the plays. Instead, I find myself going through it, a page at a time, not grasping most of it, taking notes on the few things I find which do seem interesting, and preparing to read through my notes, one at a time, in class and call that a presentation. That's not intelligence at all; that's a rehashing of facts. That's where I excel.

The next time I say or write or do something which makes you think "wow, he's smart," take a moment and think about it before you make that comment. Am I really smart? Or is it all just a facade? Define the word intelligence. Does the thing I said/wrote/did actually fit under that definition? The answer, most likely, is "no." Don't let me fool you anymore.

Teen Angst, a Decade Too Late?

Two posts right in a row--I'm really full of it today. I wonder if maybe I'm experiencing teen angst in my mid-twenties. Is that even possible? I mean, honestly: I'm going to be 26 in a few months. Am I seriously supposed to be feeling like a depressed teenager every day, worried about what people think about me and why people don't talk to me and how I could possibly even go on living this way? Is that normal? Am I not supposed to grow out of that when I'm, like, 16?

Thinking back, my teenage years weren't that bad. I mean, they weren't great by any definition of word, but I had a lot of friends, my parents loved me, I did well in school (for the most part), and I took part in a lot of fun afterschool activities. I may have been mopey from time-to-time back then, but, in hindsight, I had it pretty sweet. That feeling extended into community college, and for my first stint here. I mean, I never had very many friends here, but I was a fringe-member of a pretty tight-knit bunch here for my first three semesters and I did a lot of fun things and I wasn't all worried that they thought I was weird or awkward or creepy or anything like that.

Then I went home, took a little break from school, for two years. And, you know what? I wasn't miserable then, either. I hung out with my girlfriend most every day, I had a 9-to-5-five-day-a-week job that kept me busy and (somewhat) decently paid, and I didn't have too much to worry about because I was living with my parents. Life was simple, and simple was good.

Since I've been here again, though, man, it's just a mess. First off, my lack of friends this time around is startling. Again, I don't mean to imply that people don't like me--I have plenty of acquaintances through classes with whom I get along very well. But good friends, real friends, are very few and very far between; and I wish they weren't. I get so lonely sometimes, and I feel like I drive those few friends I do have away with neediness and, therefore, patheticness. The social aspect of my life is, to say the least, not impressive.

Second, I find myself arguing with my girlfriend on the phone quite often. She's stressed out because I'm not around, and that leads to her expecting me to call her and talk to her every spare moment I get, and some days I just don't feel like it. I don't do anything interesting; I hate talking about most of the things I do; and I don't really care to bore her with what I do have to talk about. So we fight because "I don't care about her" and "I don't miss her", and I balk at those statements, and the fight escalates, and it's one more stress I don't need in my life two, three, four nights a week. Romantically, things are often not on the up-and-up.

Third, I just plain have a lot of crap to do. Five graduate courses, three jobs (although I did finally stop working that weekend overnight shift at the gas station, thank God), not to mention all this self-pity in which I partake. All those things take up a ton of time. Juggling all those balls without dropping any of them is a horrible burden on my shoulders, and there are many days (today included, obviously) when I'd just rather lay in bed all day, stare at the ceiling, and drown myself in my thoughts. Not pleasant. Workload-wise, things are slipping out of my fingers and spiraling out of control.

So with all these factors converging simultaneously, you might be able to see why I feel the way I feel as much as I do. But is it teen woe-is-me angst? Or is it just an inability to suck it up, grab life by the horns, and ride it for all that it's worth: good and bad? I'm still working that one out, but, either way, I need to turn things around.

Dog's Eye View

"Everything Falls Apart" by Dog's Eye View is one of my favourite songs of all-time. It isn't really a great song by any stretch of the imagination, but it has two sets of lyrics which I have always loved, for different reasons. The first is the devil's not in the details/no, the devil is in my pants. I don't really have much to say about that line except that it is awesome, it always makes me laugh, and I try to quote it whenever possible. How could I not? The other, though, is much deeper and causes me to reflect.

I met God this afternoon, riding on an uptown train/I said, "don't you have better things to do?"/He said, "if I do my job, what would you complain about?/so I let it go to Hell, now I'll have something to do"/He said, "I'll let it go to Hell, does that sound familiar to you?"

Yes, God, that does sound familiar to me. Thank you for so succinctly spelling out why I let my life go to Hell on a pretty-much-daily basis. I'm a natural-born complainer. If I weren't complaining, I'd have nothing to do. And in order to have something to do, I take an active role in turning my life into a steaming pile of crap.

"Now, Dave," you might say. "Stop being so dramatic. It's not that bad."

Isn't it, though? Well, maybe it isn't. But you're not inside my head. You don't know how badly I beat myself up over every stupid little mistake I make, every unwelcome thought I have, and every reminder of wasted potential that passes before my eyes. This is why I complain, my friends: inner torment. I spend a lot of time hating myself. And I don't mean to imply that I think I'm worthless and that no one loves me. In fact, just the opposite. I think that I am a pretty awesome guy, and that a lot of people like me for different reasons. What torments me, then, is the hierarchy of thoughts and of priorities by which I craft my day-to-day routine, and because of which I spend hours on end berating myself and reminding myself that I'm a complete and utter failure at all aspects of life.

This applies to all types of ventures and across the broad spectrum of cognition. Intellectually, emotionally, ethically, motivationally, and any other -ally you can imagine: I despise myself for the way I have developed myself in every manner of personal worth there is. Crawl inside my head for a day; I dare you. If you aren't clawing your own eyes out within an hour and wondering how anyone can face the day with so much self-loathing, you're quite likely inhuman. It's almost nauseating.

I even hate myself for writing this post right now. These are the thoughts in my head at this very moment: 1) you have work you need to be doing, so stop wasting time doing this, 2) you are pathetic for posting this publically; what are you just begging for sympathy?, 3) when you make this post, people are going to think you're just begging for sympathy, 4) no one takes you seriously and no one is going to read this anyway, so why are you so worried about it?, 5) why exactly do you worry/care so much about what people are going to think about you?, etc., etc., etc.

Dave's head, top floor: nonstop self-doubt, -degradation, -consciousness, and -hatred. Enjoy your visit, and get out while you can.

Writing: It Gets the Rage Out

Recently, the linguistics professor with whom I work four nights a week asked me if I write every day. She knows I graduated from Cortland with a professional writing degree, so I suppose she just assumed that I write constantly to keep my creative juices flowing. I could have lied and told her I do, and then made something up about the kinds of things I write. I mean, that's how I made it through classes like Intro to Fiction and Creative Writing: telling the professors I was keeping up in my journals, and then filling them in feverishly the weekends before they were due. But I didn't; I told her I haven't written anything substantial (outside of essays for classes) in many months. In fact, I haven't focused heartily on creative writing, for any purpose other than to not fail out of college, in many, many years.

I used to enjoy writing very much. I mean, I wouldn't have come to this crappy college in this crappy city to get a crappy degree in writing unless I really enjoyed it, would I have? But it wasn't long into my time in the professional writing program that I realized I wasn't cut out for it. I'm not all poetic. I don't really care about creating symbolism or crafting multiple layers of meaning. When I write, I want to do one of two things, and usually both: 1) talk about myself, and 2) rant about everything that moves, and many things that don't.

So when this lady encouraged me to start writing again, I got to thinking. Yeah, maybe I wouldn't be such an angry guy, filled with such horrible (and often unfounded) animosity for the people around me. I mean, maybe I could even psychoanalyze myself and figure out exactly where all this utter abhorrence stems from, allowing me to do something about it and be a better person. I try to recall the days when I used to blog in this manner constantly, at least once a day, and I envision myself as being a happier guy back then. People would comment to my blog, giving me advice toward fixing my problems and/or telling me to stop being such a pouty baby and grow up. That contact with (and intervention from) other people, wow... it can actually be a good thing sometimes.

But you know what? If I'm going to keep this blog, it won't be long until I stop using it as a place to fully formulate my thoughts/feelings/problems/quirks in an attempt to do something about them. It won't be long until, instead, I'm just coming here to whine and complain, in two-sentence posts, about stupid little things that bear no consequence on my life as a whole, and eventually I'll stop even doing that. Then this blog will just join the numerous other blogs I've started, gotten tired with, and abandoned.

That said... keep reading! I'm gonna need your support to keep me back from the ledge!