The Seven Deadly Sins

Between "The Drug of Choice," "The Enablers," and "The Relapse," clearly this project has got me thinking a lot about my addictions lately.

Fuck, that's an ugly word.  Addiction.  I don't even feel comfortable writing it down let alone considering I might have one.  Addiction is a word usually reserved for hard core drug users, people with emotional issues, people without teeth, but the more I look at all the people struggling to stay psychologically afloat around me, the more I feel like maybe everyone's an addict in one way or another.

Cuz I can't fucking get away from him in the media right now, let's start with Charlie Sheen.  His extensive drug habits have been public knowledge since the early 90s.  Relationships with porn stars, affiliations with madams, two marriages, two divorces, domestic violence, criminal mischief, court appearances and state rulings, overdoses and interventions, rehabs and estrangements, probations and prostitutes, all thoroughly documented to the page-turning delight of tabloids and reputable news outlets alike; a sad, misguided train wreck.  However, (and here's the part that nobody seems to care about) despite all his mess and all the colorful reasons to pass easy judgement on Charlie Sheen's extreme lifestyle, am I the only one who's noticed how it works for him?

Charlie Sheen is what I like to call a functioning addict (because you can't spell 'function' without f-u-n).  Is he addicted to cocaine and possibly several other highly illegal, highly hallucinogenic stimulants?  Sure.  In fact, he admits it willingly; but Charlie Sheen is also a man of his word.  He honors his contracts and time commitments, owns several homes and pays his taxes on time, gives generously to his ex-wives and is devoted to his children, shows up to work on time and never fails to deliver a good performance.  While I neither condemn nor approve of his lifestyle (as it's absolutely none of my goddamn business), it seems like Charlie Sheen is a happy, down-to-earth, up-standing citizen even if sometimes he has a hard time standing upright.  He ain't your grandma's role model, but I can think of a few sober public figures who are distinctly more deserving of our national condemnation.  And as far as Two and a Half Men goes, Sheen's character is written as an alcoholic, womanizing, wise-cracking bachelor with little to no respect for authority.  Isn't that why they hired him in the first place?

But enough about Charlie Sheen.

I don't know where the fine line is that divides recreation from self-destruction, but here's what I do know:

At the root of every deadly addiction is a deadly sin, and everybody has their favorite.  In AA it's gluttony, on Wall Street it's greed, in the Middle East it's wrath, and in New Jersey it's lust.  In the town where Charlie Sheen lives, it's either pride or envy depending on who gets the part.  Most of us (and I'm including myself in this) fall into the sin of sloth.  We play video games, watch a lot of TV, aimlessly peruse the internet for funny videos and entertaining blogs, and die very slow deaths until our lives finally pass us by.  We are the majority; we are the herd; we are both the drain on and the backbone of this beautiful, capitalist country of ours, the problem and solution for all our woes.  It's the lazy people who could do something about all the other sinners, if only we could motivate ourselves to care.  I'm taking a first step to overcome my apathy here as I'd rather not be fat, broke, unfulfilled, and living in my parent's basement for the rest of my life.

Procrastination is a resourceful beast and comes in many forms.  It does no good to break one bad habit if it's only going to be replaced with another.  Forswearing the pipe, the bottle, or the the boob tube isn't enough.  To kill the addiction, you gotta kill the sin, too.  The heavy monkey on my back that's been bothering me these last few weeks is no a monkey at all.  It's a sloth and it's fighting for it's slow, lazy life.

One day I'll stab, gut, stuff, and mount that little fucker.

Day 30.  TFR.  SYT.

The Poke-Relapse

No white noise, no background commentary, no amplified commercials filling the air, life without TV is quieter than I remembered.  The noise had had a physical presence before like a fog hanging low.  The air was thick, stuffy, and putridly congested as if someone had been lying sickly on the couch for ten years, never once bothering to bathe or at least crack a window; and all this time, the cure for the disease was literally at my fingertips, right in the remote control.  As the entertainment system powered down, the silence settled over me like a cool breeze as if both I and the house could finally breath.  Less static, easier thinking, the noisy tension flowed out of my skull into the quiet room like water through a semi-permeable membrane, vacuumed into the emptiness.  The stillness was refreshing and beautiful.  I realized that this is what serenity must feel like and it made me smile right down to the soul.

That lasted about, I dunno, five minutes?

For his ninth birthday my nephew, Cole, got a game as a gift.  It was a new version of an old favorite for his Nintendo DS, the one the only:

Pokémon.

He showed me his present, positively giddy to begin his quest, and asked, "Is this like the Pokémon you had when you were a kid?" Indeed, looking down at Cole's starry eyes and freckled nose, I saw a bit of my own childhood beaming at me through his gap-tooth smile.  When I was his age and all my friends were getting caught up in the Pokémon craze, I, too, asked my parents to buy me my own shiny, red Pokémon game.  I remember powering up my Gameboy and being greeted by Professor Oak where he told me, my very own Pokémon legend was about to unfold! A world of dreams and adventures with Pokémon awaits! Let's go!

And so I went, starting with Squirtle and powering through my early teen years absolutely Pokémon obsessed.  Long after my classmates had outgrown the trend, my addiction lingered.  By the time I hit middle school I'd gone into the Pokécloset, embarrassed to tell my anyone what I loved for fear of public ridicule and viscous pre-teen torment.  At fourteen, my ratio of thoughts thinking about this game compared to thoughts about living in the real world had reached critical mass and I was no longer functioning as a social being.  The time had come to quit so I cut the stuff cold turkey, packing up my Pokémon cards, cartridges, and daydreams before burying them deep in the back of the attic.  It's been almost a decade since I made that decision and I haven't looked back since.

That is, until today.

Sure, the Pokémon Red of yesteryear isn't as flashy as the "Ruby" and "Diamond" versions kids are playing nowadays, and my mono-chromatic Game Boy Color probably doesn't hold a candle to Cole's touch-screen Nintendo DS, but other than that (and a few new pocket monsters) not much in the world of Pokémon has changed over the last ten years.  Cole started asking me obscure questions like, "When does this guy evolve," "What level does that guy learn this move," and, "Which of my Pokémon would be best against that Pokémon?"  I answered questions about every thing from battle strategy to training tips and, frankly,  it's scary how much useless information I retained for the ten years.  I can't remember what the name of my best friend was from soccer camp (maybe Jacob? I think it started with a 'J') but I can tell you what level Pidgey evolves into Pidgeotto (18) and the best place to find some rare candies without an item finder (behind the house on the left in Cerulean City).

The second I started fielding inquiries and offering insights, Cole's face lit up like a Christmas tree.  Being surrounded by adults and an uninterested older brother, he was categorically ecstatic to find someone else in this house who spoke Pokémon fluently.  He took to following me around, sitting next to me on the couch, following me to my room, waiting outside the bathroom while I took a dump, and tagging along behind me on trips to the bank.  Eventually I took to the attic, dug out my old Gameboy, and we played side-by-side.  The bonding was really kind of awesome.

Unfortunately, by playing this game with my nephew, I'd snuck a peak into Pandora's Box and all my old troubles spilled out into the world.  I started ignoring the tasks I needed to accomplish that day and chose to simply not clean my room or edit my blog.  Today, I could have made a lot of progress on my day off from work but instead I skipped my workout for the first time in almost a month.  I kept promising myself Once I get this badge, or As soon as this guy gets to such-and-such a level, or It doesn't matter where I am, in 15 minutes I'm saving this fucking game and turning it off, but it never happened.

Cut to me at 4:00 AM with work only a few hours away and I haven't blinked all night let alone slept.  I finally passed out twenty minutes later and woke up this morning extremely disappointed in myself.

It was so familiar.  It was so fun.  It was a taste I hadn't tasted in ten years and God was it tasty.  This is why recovering alcoholics can't have even one drink without falling off the wagon.  We could choose to stop if only we could stop long enough to really think about it, but our vices make it so nice to not stop and not think about anything at all.   The shame was outweighed by the pleasure and so I binged.

And I just kicked TV.

This is dangerous and needs to stop while I still have the good sense.  Tomorrow I won't touch my Gameboy at all.  I should probably throw it out for safety, but that seems a bit drastic for childhood treasures.  Instead, I think I'll stow it away for a rainy day with no time commitments when I've already accomplished everything that needed to be done that week, and even then I might abstain in favor of something more productive.  This an indulgence that must be taken in extreme moderation.

Oh, and I'll be doing two work outs tomorrow to make up for lost time.  Penance for my sins.

Day 29.

TFR.  SYT.

The Enablers

Some childhoods are difficult; there's no getting around it.  Sometimes a parent, for one reason or another, just doesn't cut it and their children suffer for it.  The drunks, the narcissists, the losers, the abusers, they raise their children in their own image and, as those children grow into adult failures of their very own, the parent is often cited as the source of bad behavior.  Most will agree on this, parents and offspring alike, as it is widely believed that there is always a good explanation for the way things come to be.  However, this is only true for so long.

In every troubled life there comes a point where childhood ends.  We become independent of our mothers, free from our fathers, and the direction of our lives falls squarely into our own hands.  We have been raised, for better or for worse, and are now culpable for own own actions.  As the years go by, life learns us the things our parents left out, painfully picking and choosing the lessons we deem valuable enough to retain.  We grow, we grow up, and we become grown-ups.  This all happens so quickly that many people miss it entirely, but it always happens.  There comes a day when our lives no longer belong to our parents.

And so the blame shifts.

The very second we become aware of the difference between right and wrong, the act of partaking in either becomes a choice.  If we choose the later then we have willingly partook in crimes punishable by consequence.  If our life feels 'wrong' in any way, we made it feel that way.  We are adults.  We know better.  It's nobody's fault but ours.

My sister Mary's life has been her own for quite some time.  Conservatively speaking, it's been her own for at least twenty years now.  Where is Mary, you ask?  Mary doesn't know, but if she did she'd probably lie to spare her ego the shame.

Mary is living with her parents.  Mary is 41.  Mary is changing careers.  Mary is a waitress.  Mary cannot put a roof over her children's heads.  Yes, Mary doesn't have a pot to piss in, but Mary is drunk in the kitchen.  Her parents, her siblings, her three kids, we are all drowning with her while she blows money she doesn't have on booze and there's no excuse good enough, Mary, no excuse at all.

At 2:00 AM tonight when the bars closed, Mary DUI-ed home and stumbled through the house wreaking of her expensive smoking habit.  Right now she is drunkenly feeding her disobedient dog fistfuls of treats while talking to it about being disciplined and slobbing down a piece of cold pizza while talking to her fat ass about the same thing.  Mary's inebriated, intelligible, internal dialogue proves to me that she knows exactly how self-destruction works.  It's as willful and deliberate as a controlled demolition.

And I am helping her do it.

Her friends, her family, her parents, her siblings everyone who's ever picked up Mary's slack, we've all done our part to make her the steaming hot mess that she is.  We facilitated it; we enabled it; we nurtured her descent, straining beneath the weight of Mary's 'mistakes,' picking up the pieces while Mary gets smashed.  My sister may the bulldozer, but this family is the wrecking crew.

My poor parents are actually too good for people.  You might wonder, how can this be so?  How can someone be so good that they become "too" good? Isn't the point to be as good as is humanly possible?  In fact, no, that is not the point.

People who are "too good" don't turn their back on a child even as she spits in their face.  Too good people pick up serial killing hitch hikers because, "It's the Christian thing to do."  Too good people go bankrupt for donating to scam charities or get squashed like insects, dying with their arms outstretched, trying to catch a jumper falling from a twenty-story building.  If that's what it takes to be a "good" person "saving the day," then perhaps people are better off just being "okay" innocent observers.  I say let those suicidal assholes hit pavement.

It may sound callous, it may sound cruel, it may sound like I think family support is bad idea, but this is not the case.  The fact of the matter is, Mary has gotten so used to her familial safety net that she has come to rely on it, count on it, ask for it, require it, manipulate it, abuse it, and deny it was ever there.  Among all the wonderful things that she is in our affection (generous, talented, funny, smart, able, warm) she's also become a spoiled, ungrateful bitch.  By holding her up, we are actually holding her back; so again I say let her fall, let her fail, let her splatter all over the goddamn sidewalk and if she survives, maybe she will learn how to stand on her own.

My dad has just reached the sixty-year milestone in his life; his father came up short by two years.  My father doesn't have ten years to waste on my waste of a sister.  I think my parents deserve to live another hundred years, dying fat, happy, and retired on some Key West beach resort, but at this rate they too will come up short.  They'll die under the mountain of debt they accumulate as they try to save hopeless children from their own misery.


I hope to God this is Mary's last get-out-of-jail-free card.  If Mary can't support her children, then Cole, Miles, and Mary's other daughter, Kay, will always have a home in my parent's house.  This family does not throw children out on the street.  But Mary? The grace period of her childhood is long since expired.  It's time this family deflates her life raft in the hope that she'll finally learn how to swim.

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to ask my parents to set a hard deadline for kicking me out of their house.  I'm an adult, too, and shouldn't enable either.

Day 28 is heavy, sad, and sadly overdue.

TFR.  SYT.

The Idea of a Good Time

First night in a long time that'll be ending after midnight.  Drunk post to follow.

-----

It's 3 hours later.  I am sober.  There's no way that you are more disappointed about this than I am.

I haven't gone out in a while.  The drinking, the cover charges, the gas for the car ride in, the fare for the taxi ride home, basically I can't afford it (Unless, I'm okay with living at home with my parents through my thirties). However, Bianca is seeing a concert tonight directly across the street from my place of employment in celebration of her 23rd birthday and she would really appreciate it if I stopped by.  "You know, if you can!  If not, it's no big deal, I just thought it would be nice.  It's totally okay if you can't thought..."  (Bianca is what we call 'overly considerate.')

Both the concert venue and my restaurant are owned and staffed by the same people; I know both the bouncers and bartenders very well and my expenses at these functions are always minimal if they exist at all.  There was actually no excuse to forgo going out for my best friend's birthday so I was set on going.  In fact, I was actually a little excited about it.

The night's featured musical guest was one Marc Broussard from Carencro, Louisiana.  Apparently he's what you'd call a 'Bayou Soul artist,' whose music draws from just about every spiritual form of American music from gospel to rock 'n roll.  The girls at my work are nuts about this guy, but up until tonight I've never heard of him before.

Other than Broussard there was one guitarist with huge lips, one guy slappin' the base, one drummer makin' weird faces, and a hippie on the electric keyboard; just five regular-ass white guys busting out some of the funkiest, bluesiest, R&B-iest, Southern influenced, poppy, kick-ass, rocky explosions I've ever heard.  Broussard's voice was beautiful to the point where, if I were a blind man, I'd swear the bluesy, soulful tones were coming from a big black man wearing suspenders.  The entire band had the awesome brotherly vibe about them and they jammed like you didn't have to pay them for it, they'd do it for free and do it for love. The house was packed, people were swaying, Bianca was in her birthday glory, and I wished there was more room to dance.  I only caught the last hour or so, but had I been there drinking all night I'm sure I'd have sworn it was, "Yo, the best fuckin' concert ever, dude.  EVER.  So good, man.  So good."

And so the rest of the night left me a bit confused.

There I was, 11:30 on a Friday night, in a bar full of 20-somethings, post incredible concert, and no one was up for more drinks?  My friends from work had spent their brief concert time chugging vodka and were already too drunk to function, while Bianca and her family were bone sober and packing it in for an early night.  Somehow I had missed both band wagons and I got stuck stuck somewhere in between, getting absolutely zero love from the people that done brung me.  This must be how women feel with a premature ejaculator.  Just as we were getting to the good stuff everyone tensed up, blew their load, farted and fell asleep.  I gave myself a quick up and down with a puzzled look on my face, watched my night roll-over and turn it's back on me, and thought Excuse me? Um, party? Yeah, I'm happy for you, you know, getting your jollies off as quickly as you did (you know, good for you!), but, um... 

I felt confused.  I felt gypped.  I'd taken several parts friends, one part phenomenal show, and sprinkled in some good vibrations and ended up with jack shit.  That's an idiot proof formula; how the fuck did I screw it up?  The math didn't compute and to me the worst part was that I was alone in my dissatisfaction, and as years of partying have taught me, when you're the only person unhappy the end of a rocking night, it's your own fucking fault.

Clearly this called for some deductive reasoning.  What was it about going out at night with friends to a bar that left me so unsatisfied in an almost sexual way?  Hmm.

Why do people go to bars?  Is it to enjoy good drinks and the company of good friends?  No.  that's just a good cover.

In truth, friends are great and all, but bar-going is all about the strangers.  Low lighting + lowered inhibitions + low self-esteem = men buying shots, ladies showing boobies, pick-up lines, games, 'accidental bump-ins,' and one-night stands for long-lasting relationships; bars are about love.  If you really think about it, most romantic relationships are initiated in a bar or party-like setting, unless of course you're skipping the commute and going online (Today, over 1/3 of all marriages start online.  It's a fact.  Google it).  If you're one of those assholes who says their parents were "high school sweethearts," or "met in college" as if they were completely sober for their "love at first sight," your parents are the really fucking lame 2% of all couples.  In actuality, 1/3 of all oldest siblings are drunkenly conceived out of wedlock on frat party futons (And that too is a fact.  Probably).  Alcohol plays it's part in even in the most innocent romance be it a keg, cocktail, or glass of wine on a first date.  Courtship makes people nervous and nervous people drink to calm their nerves (Understandably so).  It's a hard thing to emotionally "put yourself out there" and a high BAC has been helping people find love since the invention of liquid courage.

But why did I feel so uncomfortable in this particular bar on this particular night?  Perhaps it's because for the first time in my life I went out to a bar completely unconcerned about getting laid, finding love, or even getting drunk.  I dressed nicely because I like to dress nicely; I looked good because I like to look good (Also, because this exercise is making me more attractive... That's just how it is).  There were no glances stolen across the bar, no lusting for a stranger's validation, no drinking to excess to help me deal with the fear of rejection.  Bar's are uncomfortable places to be; going home sober or alone, that doesn't necessarily mean something went wrong.

The concert was kick-ass and I made a friend happy.  Guess there's not much to complain about.

Day 27.

TFR.  SYT.

The Graceful Mother

There I was, sitting at the kitchen table chocolate milk in hand, struggling to find a suitable topic for yesterday's blog when something suddenly broke.  Chill out, this wasn't a figurative breaking like so many of my posts have been (a la "broken dreams," "broken habits," and the oh-so-sexy "broken preconceived notions"), this time something actually smashed and went to pieces.  Silence shattered by a bang bounced into a crash followed by the sound of sharp shards tinkling all over the countertop and tile floor.  A glass had slipped out of my mother's hand on the journey from dishwasher to cupboard.  She had no idea how it happened.

I realize a lot of people say this about their mothers, but my mother is the most strongest person I know.  Brooklyn born, 3rd of seven children and six daughters (my poor Uncle Paulie, the only boy in a sea of sisters), my Ma is 100% I-talian with a kick-ass red sauce recipe and the best lasagna in five states... no, fuck it, the world.  Growing up, if any of her kids acted fresh, we'd get our spankings from the wooden spoon of justice that eventually split down the middle right over my brother Patrick's ass.  With a good friend she can polish off a bottle of cabernet in twenty minutes, with her sisters she can cater a party of 300 without breaking a sweat, and all by herself nobody, nobody, nobody will ever top my mama's meatballs.

Like most Italian broads with a passion for food, family, and the fun that comes with them, my mother was born to be a mom.  For six kids and thirty-six years she cooked, she cleaned, she chased for fun, she chased for punishment, she kept my father's temper in check, she dragged her children by the ear out of the principle's office, she dragged her children by the ear into church, she put all six of her children through college, and she did it working forty to fifty-hour weeks, with a smile on her face and an unshakable sense of humor.  My mother deserves her own fucking holiday.

If only life were fair.

In place of medals and songs, my mom has has sore feet, crappy vision, and a neck pain that smarts like a sonofabitch.  She's got mountains of debt and her children's problems, parent-loans from college tuitions and utility bills that only go up.  She has a husband who's worried he'll be too old to enjoy retirement when/if it comes and three children who just moved back home because we're all having trouble finding our own two feet.  My mom is fifty-six years old and yet by some cruel twist of circumstance she's supporting a guinea pig, a cat, two dogs, three grand children, a 41-year old daughter who decided to change careers again, a 25-year old daughter who still works the same job she did in high school, and a 23-year old son who's writing this blog.  This kind of absolute bullshit would make most women sprout snake hair and spit fire, but not my mom.  She makes us all dinner every single night and never leaves the house without saying, "I love you."

I watch my honest, hard-working, loyal, patient, generous, selfless, devoted, loving parents struggling everyday and it kills me to know that I can't offer them relief right now.  Instead, I am part of their burden and the guilt makes it really difficult to speak sometimes.  Less than a year out of college and already I feel like the twenty-three year old, living-at-home, saving-money, planning-to-move-to-New-York-City-so-I-can-start-my-adult-life-and-chase-my-dreams drain on my poor mother.  This is one of those junctions in life where people looking ahead need to not forget where they come from.

My parents haven't turned their backs on me and they never will.  They put me on their shoulders even when they're on their knees and they help, and they help, and they help.  That's a lot to ask of somebody, even of family, but they never made me ask.  That's what parents do.

A glass fell tonight for no reason at all and shattered on the kitchen floor.  My mom didn't know what happened and I worry that this is a sign of the years finally catching up to her.  If this is her health slipping, if this is some precursor to a stroke or a heart attack or a fall, if my mom is losing her epic, timeless, superhuman strength that I have come to rely on then we don't have the luxury of time anymore.  Maybe it was nothing, but maybe not, and I need to get my shit together, and I need to pull my weight, and I need to start paying back the massive debt I owe my parents before it's too late.  And my sister's better get their goddamn acts together, too.

There's six kids in this family, and thought they'll never ask for it, a debt to your parents is a debt that must be paid.  If we can't collectively support them in timely manner so that they can enjoy their retirement, then we won't deserve their forgiveness.

And I'd certainly never forgive myself.

Day 26.  TFR.  SYT.

The Drug of Choice

What will it take to make me a go-getter, damn it?  I'm working out and writing daily, I have a job and plenty of free time, but yet I spent all of today watching TV and generally futsing around.  It's not even fun to be lazy anymore; it feels like decaying.

I like to think of TV as the trendiest hallucinogen on the market.  It can be used socially or privately, it sometimes makes me feel guilty but I do it anyway, it's degenerative to my health, and the second I tune in I tune out for hours at a time.  Often people who find their lives unsatisfying in one aspect or another use TV as a supplement, an escape, a way to fill the void.

Are you a middle child lost in the midst of a disappointing family? Growing Pains, Modern Family, Step by Step.  An invisible highschool student, confused and marginalized?  Dawnson's Creek, Gossip Girl, Glee.  Does your everyday work situation make you feel like you're utterly isolated, swimming in a sea of douchebags? Mary Tyler Moore, Grey's Anatomy, The Office.  For me, I have always longed to belong to a self-contained group of extremely close friends but have always been too socially awkward to pull it off.  Friends, Sex & the City, Will & Grace.  Even fucked up reality shows like The Real World and The Jersey Shore have their wholesome camaraderie appeal.  All shows about losers in all of their loserness, finding love, security and a good time in the comfort of each other.  All I've ever wanted, all I've never had, and so I pretend.

Not that television can't be constructive, mind you.  In fact, an episode of TV is kinda like a reinacted parable.
The gawky child without a mother finds herself in need of maternal support when her girl scout troupe calls for a mother/daughter day.  Her male guardians do the best they can to support her, but her lack of a matriarchal role model leaves her struggling.  In the end her big sister steps in and the gawky child finds solace in the loving support of family. Moral of the story: You may not have everything, but you have what you need.  (Shout out to my college professor, Martie Cook, who wrote that episode of Full House)
For some people, sitcoms and prime time dramas can be valuable teaching tools for life lessons; they need only watch a televised program, take mental notes, and apply what they've learned to their waking lives.

But not me.

I'm the other kind of TV fan who hooks the boob tube up to my veins, spreads out on the family sofa, and slips into a comatose trance for hours on end.  I don't think I want to know the exact percentage of my life spent dazed in front of the idiot box, but I'm sure it adds up to no less than years.  I am a junkie (admission is the first step on the road to recovery) addicted to living vicariously, my mind long gone while my body wastes away.  Make no mistake: TV can be as deadly as heroine; it's just a slower death, and we normally die from 'complications' as opposed to a direct OD.  TV Guide should come with a warning in big bold letters on the front page:

CAUTION: may replace reality.

I've tried to quit the stuff so many times, but the habit never breaks for long.  Sooner or later, usually when I sit down or stop moving, the cravings kick in from the back of my mind like, I wonder what's on right now.  Every time I walk into my living room I run the risk of picking up the remote and watching another hit.  I die there, right on the couch, a little more with every episode.  TV is actually killing me.

Writing this down makes me want to go find my real-life friends, people I can talk to who will actually converse in kind, people who will hug me back, and people who will make life as fun and interesting as the ones I see on TV.

I need to get out of the house more.  In fact, I need to get out every single day.  Time to take this project out of the basement and into the light (day, moon, lime or other).  I'm going to Bianca's now.

Day 25. TFR.  SYT.

The Muppet Happy Hour (on second thought)

I watched Glee today.  The last time I felt this embarrassedly ashamed for enjoying a TV program I was in high school, in the closet, and in my living room watching the tent scene from Brokeback Mountain with the volume down impossibly low and my father in the other room (I'm not saying Glee gave me a boner, but I felt as guilty as a priest on a playground for enjoying it).  I watched those teenagers spin, sing, drink, dance, make-out, and fall apart, loving and hating every minute of it at the same time.  It made memories of my own flash past; and as I pondered the hormones, the alcohol, and the drug experimentation that so intoxicated my teen years, retrospect took the term 'higher' education to a whole new level.

The years of adolescence (roughly age 12-21) were possibly the most miserable of my life.  The kids were cruel, the cliques were absolute and I, like most kids, was impossibly lost in the mess.  My teachers were assholes, my family was worse, I only had a few close friends, and even the most inconsequential social situation made me feel butt-ass naked.  At parties I would drift to the corners, force small talk, and drink 'til I knew no pain.  At no other point in my life have I ever been more lonely.

And I miss it.

The cloudy judgement, the benefit of the doubt, the naivety, rolling the dice with no idea how the game would play out (or even how to play the game, really) made me feel incredibly alive.  I detested all the confusion but at least uncertainty leaves room for hope.  Adolescence was exciting.  Adolescence was full of possibility.  Even if I wasn't sure who I was, I could be anything I wanted.  As sure I knew today was miserable, I was equally certain that it was temporary; the life I wanted was undoubtedly right up the road, just around the next bend.

A few wrong turns later, I don't have that same optimism anymore.  Hard knocks and heartaches have left me disillusioned; the wizening of years are raising concerns that maybe where I'm heading is not the place I dreamed but, instead, somewhere un-exciting, somewhere un-fun, somewhere more content but less happy, over the rainbow but completely black and white.  I'm genuinely terrified that I finally understand the road I'm on and as I understand it: this road leads nowhere.  Somewhere along the line I may have accidentally purchased a non-refundable, one-way ticket to burden, responsibility, and restraint and there's nothing I can do to stop it.  I don't want to grow up anymore.  I reject it.  I refuse.

I don't envy those Disney Channel stars like I did yesterday.  Those kids are gonna skip high school, forego college, and grow up so fast that they'll miss out on that awful, beautiful, painful, longing period of starry-eyed, once in a lifetime optimism.  It's all over for them; their lives will be boring and predictable.  Why do you think so many child stars fall into drug dependency and suicide?  These are people who reach their destination prematurely, have zero recollection of how they got there, and desperately, desperately, desperately want to find a way back.  They want a do-over.  Don't we all?

Kids are wanderers, adults are settlers, and we wonder why people pine for youth.  So, where do I go from here?  Grow up?  Revert?  Find myself?  Lose myself?  I want a life of fun, mystery and excitement that still has control, security and stability; is that being unrealistic?  I've met children with old souls and adults with youthful spirits but nobody who has it all and nobody who could give me an answer.  What I want is either complex simplicity or simplistic complexity, but I actually have no idea.  Do I want nothing or do I want it all, or are these the same thing?

I think I'm thinking in circles.  Perhaps we live in circles, too.

WTF Day 24.

TFR.  SYT.

The Muppet Happy Hour

Day 23.

Fuck Daniel Radcliff.  Fuck his scrawny, lilly white, I-landed-the-sweetest-gig-ever-when-I-was-eleven-and-now-I'm-set-for-life, pampered, pimply ass.  While we're at it, fuck Hermione and Ron, too.  Also, fuck Miley Cryus, Jaime-Lynn Spears, Taylor Swift, fuck the Jonas Brothers, Vanessa Hudgens, the cast of Glee, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK Justin Bieber and fuck his multi-million dollar fucking movie.  Their talent level is suspect yet they have more money than every member of my hard-working lower-middle class family combined.  I resent these children with every jealous fiber of my being for their delusional fans, their stupid haircuts, their "art," and the entire Disney Channel machine that created them.  Produced and promoted within an inch of their tweeny little lives, they lierally make me want to gag myself with a silver spoon.

I do not know these people at all and hate that I feel anything at all in regards to the lives of strangers.

It's envy really.  Just plain old, unattractive, unwarranted envy.  Somebody had to play Harry Potter; might as well be Radcliff.  Sure, I'd probably prefer if one of my favorite, childhood literary characters was protrayed by an actor who could convey more than anger, fear, and constipation, but I doubt even Haley Joel Osment could please everybody.  Maybe I just wish I was born that lucky, successful from the get-go, free from failure and financial worry.  But no, instead of ease I have toil and instead of instant gratification I have the satisfaction that comes with a soul-crushing daily grind.

There's something about really good art that requires a little bit of street cred.  Rappers with prison tattoos, painters with psychosis, country stars with lifelong memberships to AA, these are people who have lived.  They've struggled, failed, recovered, fought for every gig, scraped for every dollar, and ended up finding peace in the little things.  Bloody knuckles, sweaty fits of withdrawl, tearful heartbreaks that push us within an inch of our lives; these are the foundations of lessons worth talking about.  These are songs I will gratefully listen to.

Then I hear "Baby" from the Bieb-ster and vomit in my mouth a little.  There he is, singing about love because ten minutes ago he felt his lil' wee-wee move for the first time.  His music is a certified crock of shit and yet Bieber is somehow a 16-year old rockstar rolling in Canadian pride, American greenbacks, Latin American girls and opportunities all over North America.  Justin Bieber has overcome nothing, he hasn't had the time, leading too charmed a life to merit appreciation, and so his words mean nothing.  I don't wish harm on the kid or anything, but a nasty case of unsightly acne might be nice.  What kind of artist can be born without suffering?

The rest of us have the privilege/kick-in-the-balls of earning.  We get earn our awards and recognition, working two crappy jobs to be behind on the rent, scraping and fighting for our place in the world so that (even if we don't find it) we will at least have our pride.  If ever I amount to anything I'll stand on my soapbox and humbly declare, "And I did it without a fucking handout."

I defer my student loans because I can't afford to move out of my parent's house while Selena Gomez buys a new Mercedes.

Fist yourself, Bieber.

TFR. SYT.

The Mirror in the Meat

A short post at the tail end of a very productive day.
-----
Today, while pondering personal strengths and weaknesses, I took a mental survey of my complete anatomical physiology.  Ass to pecks, abs to elbows, I tried to consider all of my body parts fairly and objectively, leaving out as many personal insecurities as was humanly possible.  The idea was 'self-critique' not 'self-criticism,' function not fault, and after ten minutes or so I ended up with two easy columns.

In column A were my most admirable assets including my arms, chest, and back.  These are what I like to call the 'meathead makers' (i.e. The muscles given the most attention in most male workout as they are the reason the ladies buy tickets to any Guido, gym rat gun show).  Pretty much, men develop these areas for the sole purpose of attracting skanks on a beach (and, skanks, it usually works).  In high school I saw these body parts as the most delicious parts of my cow-ish self, prime rib, New York strip, filet mignon.  With such premium cuts of meat hanging around, why would anyone waste their time on ground beef?  I saw these muscles as the best way to look bigger faster and so I neglected the rest.

Cut to: column B, five years later.  Chicken legs and a spongey core struggling to support my oversized torso. ... So that's why my lower back hurts.

Now, remember when I said I tried to keep my insecurities out of this lil' self-conducted physical?  Well, I never said I succeeded.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, it's incredibly difficult to stand your ground whilst the ugliest parts of your anatomy stare you in the face, taunting you, jiggling from side to side.  I looked at my legs, my feeble, girlish (minus the hair) legs and thought to myself, No wonder I haven't gone anywhere worth mentioning.  Look at the toothpicks I'm walking on.

Of course this is a ridiculous idea; in fact, it's just plain incorrect.  People in wheelchairs, people who don't have legs at all, sometimes they go pretty far in life (though sometimes they just become dependents of the sate and get really sweet parking spots).  Nonetheless, I find it to be an incredibly appetizing notion.

Wouldn't it be nice if all you had to do to fuel your ambitions was strengthen the legs that carry you through them?  A bigger chest would mean a bigger heart, a well-built back would make you brave, stronger arms could help you hold onto to the things you love, and a solid core would keep you centered so that you'd always know who you are.  If building muscle meant building character, a six-pack would actually bring you happiness.

I don't know if health, fitness, and a strong body can help someone find peace, at least not on it's own.  Then again...

... It couldn't hurt.

Day 22.

TFR. SYT.

The Makings of Misery

If ever anyone should read this, I don't advise it be taken without scrutiny.  Everything I write is based solely on personal experience and, as such, is limited by its singular perspective.  My life may not complement anyone else's; my truths may be mine alone.  The best I can hope for is that any reader will recognize something familiar my life that possibly reflects their own.  I cannot stress enough the importance of critical thought.  In the end, the course of self discovery is a solitary journey and we ultimately find ourselves on our own.  Even our most perfect and absolute findings are perfectly, absolutely subject to change.  Though it's not a particularly comforting notion, I'm doing my best to make peace with it.  I'm not sure there's anything else I can do.

-----

Andrew is the angriest person I've ever met.  He's a tall, handsome, 100% Sicilian with the most stunning green eyes you'll ever see.  I met him earlier this year through my travels in Southern California, attracted instantly to his fire and intensity.  One might go so far as the say he was... hot.  In my experience of Italian men (which is extensive.  I'm 100% Neapolitan on my mother's side), their passionate natures tend to verge on the side of volcanic.  Utterly confident, undeniably sexy, heat boiling up from the earth like lava, they can create new ground, move mountains, and completely destroy anything in their path.  Put two of these men in a relationship together and they can make the burning of Pompei looks like a quiet candlelit dinner.

My romance with Andrew sparked and self-conbusted in no time at all.  We broke up and got back together three times within the span of three weeks, as melodramatic as we were short-lived.  Eventually we were forced to acknowledge that the intense physical attraction did not outweigh the jealousy, selfishness and bitter arguments, and so we pulled the plug.  I willfully admit my own part in this relationship's demise (after all, it takes two opposing forces to cause friction), but have I mentioned that Andrew is the angriest person I've ever met?

To be fair, given the stressful circumstances at the place and time where the course of my life intersected his, anyone in Andrew's situation might be just as ill-tempered.  A few years ago Andrew had everything he could want, a well-paying job, his own apartment, a car he loved, good friends, his health.  Then in an instant, with the blunt impact of an out-of-control UPS truck, Andrew found himself with no car, no job, and medical bills that far outweighed his lawsuit winnings.  He fell behind in the rent, lost the lease on his apartment, and was forced to move back to Missouri while he recuperated.  Broke, broken, and in desperate need of a helping hand, Andrew's "good friends" were finally tested and only a few proved themselves genuine.  On top of it all, through an act of negligent drunken depression, he contracted HIV six months later.  Not even his health would serve him now.

When I say Andrew is angry, I say it as objectively as I possibly can.  Frankly, I'd probably be angry, too.

I tried to weigh all of these things into consideration every time Andrew would follow me to work (I was a waiter at his favorite bar), or accuse me of infidelity (my overt friendliness has at times been mistaken for flirtation), or call me six times an hour, text me thirty times a day, constantly tell me what "my problem" was, or flat out call me trash.  Andrew had a right to be angry; the world was unkind to him.    He needed my understanding and so I understood.

Last night at 3:35 AM I received a text from Andrew saying simply, "FUCK YOU."  It is now four months passed our three-week relationship.  Enough is enough.

The world can be unfair, the world can be unkind, well boo hoo.  Move forward Andrew, make amends, change again, only this time do it for the better, blaming the world only makes you more miserable.  The happy learn to love in spite of the world's callousness and when fate tips out of their favor the happy do not fall to pieces.  Anger is a choice.  Misery is a choice.  Andrew is the angriest person I know, and it's his own fucking fault.  He could have chosen dignity, he could have chosen change, he could have chosen to smile and let the rain roll off his back but Andrew is choosing misery as we speak.

I choose to pity him for it.
-----

Day 21.  I refuse to let one bitter, world-hating ex ruin a perfectly good day.

TFR.  SYT.

-----
An Addendum:

Andrew contacted me earlier today with an apology.  He said he was having a hard time not having me around.  It was loneliness and a poor excuse, but we lash out at the ones we love.

The Thing I Have No Name For

Day 20.

There are two glasses on the kitchen counter.  One is full right to the brim with crystal clear poland spring water.  The other is full of air.  From a distance, the empty glass and the full glass look exactly the same.

I am full of emotions right now.  So full it hurts.  I feel so much that I can't discern one feeling from the next and sometimes they are so painful that my nerves shut down and I can't feel a thing.  I think my cup is about to overflow, but it feels so empty.

I wish I could see the difference.  The distance is excruciating.  Everyone feels so far away.  What is this thing that is stopping me from getting closer?

I'm so sad right now that I'm praying for tears like rain in a drought.  Crying eases sadness...  It makes fields fertile again.  But the tears just won't come.

Why won't they come?

TFR. SYT.

The Old College Try

Between the late night workouts and the double shifts (and the fact that it's been everyday for almost three weeks, meow) this writing business is getting harder to do in an efficient, high caliber manner.  These midnight deadlines make a two-paragraph blurb feel like a thirty-page thesis.   I'm skipping sleep to write them, typing away furiously, the more I write the less I say, composing without editing, publishing without proofreading, tearing out of the dorms in my pajamas, and barely making it to class on time to serve my professors a piping-hot plate of sob story.  My printer was broken, I ran out of ink, my computer crashed and I had to strart all over again at 10 PM last night, wah wah wah, I swear I'm a better student than this.  Meanwhile I look like hell and I'm handing in a product that would've been better if only I'd given myself more time to do it.  Why, oh, why do I always wait 'til the night before?

At least this time I have a decent excuse.  In this project, every night is the night before.  I thought the end of school meant the end of homework... I was so pumped about that...

Is it so bad to want to unwind like a red-blooded couch potato every now and then, watching some good old fashioned American TV while enjoying a finely crafted European beer?  Can't I just take this one night off and pick it all up again tomorrow?

No.

Give a boy and inch and he'll walk all over himself.

Here's the deal: I've been trying to write this post for just about two hours now and nothing really developed.  I've decided I'm okay with that.  I may not have accomplished I what set out to in the beginning but that doesn't mean I came up empty handed.  When faced with a particularly formidable obstacle, you can't always get through it in a day.  The important thing to do is to keep BANGING your head against that wall for a hours on end without any concern for public opinion or personal safety until you lose to much blood to stay conscious and finally knock yourself out.  Brains to bricks, baby.  That's how we learn.

The act of trying is satisfying in its own right.  At least people who give it a proper go get to keep their pride.  For me, I walk away from this post with a lesson in humility and maybe even a few ideas for tomorrow.  I have no doubt that I will sleep well tonight.

Day 19.  A very successful workout.  The blog? ... Couldda been worse.

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.

The Very First Thing To Do

It's a well known fact that exercise raises endorphins in your body.  Endorphins are chemicals that make you smile.  You know what else raises endorphins in your body?  Smiling.  These are the makings of the world's first and only self-sufficient energy system.

There's a scene in American Beauty where the protagonist, Lester Burnham, works out in his garage.  It's a beautiful day, in a beautiful country, in a beautiful world, in a stereotypical life that only weeks before had been absolutely miserable.  And yet, there in that garage, blasting music, smoking a joint, pushing through bench presses and smiling.  It's the briefest of images, barely a five second glimpse, but every time I watch this scene I think to myself, Fuck yeah, Mr. Burnham.  You've got it.  You've found what it's all about.

Let me begin by promising I am well aware that there are people whose daily decisions and circumstances are more difficult than I could ever possibly imagine.  I live a charmed life in comparison to a lot of the world and am entirely grateful for all of my blessings.  However, I feel fairly confident that life is exhausting in it's own unique way for each and every solitary person who is fortunate enough to breath (even I, a 23-year old who doesn't have to pay rent for the next few months).  Across the board, sleep-deprevation meets low blood sugar meets the interminable march of time and people (understandably) end up feeling so tired they can't fathom having the energy to smile.  Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, using cold hard reality as an excuse for misery only makes things exponentially worse.  It is also a cold hard reality that in times when we feel the most utterly exhausted, smiling is at its most important.

I won't dain to say the crime is laziness, but the ability to accept defeat is never productive and it's not a quality I particularly admire.  We get complacent, we get bitter, we fall into ruts that can go on for months, for years, forever; this is why they call sloth deadly.  Smiling becomes something we used to do when we were young and naive.  We say our bodies are too old now as if they're broken and a grin would require more than we have to spare.  It's easier to sink, it's easier to settle, it's easier to waste time and waste away in disappointment and regret, but this is living suicide.  It sucks, but it doesn't let you off the hook.

Smiling is really hard work.  It takes an incredible act of will power to force positivity when you're at your lowest.   The only up-side in situations like these is that the harder work, the more you'll have to smile about when the work is done.  It's a shitty 'up-side,' but soon enough you might even have some fun and it won't feel like work at all.

Day 18.  Feeling better every day.

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.

The Gravity of Gravity

For the majority of my life, Some would say my body type has been slight.  Other might say twinkadelic; girlish; small.  No matter what I did I could never seem to escape it.  Through practically my entire childhood and adolescence I've been a Slim Jim, Tiny Tim, Bubba Gump shrimp, a Leprechaun, Napoleon, hobbity midget wimp, small fry, make him cry, back seat of the car, lil' brother, call his mother, won't let me in the bar.  (Note: I'm rhyming like an Oompa Loompa.)

My God-given body type for a man of my height is what most doctors refer to as, "Well, aren't you adorable." I was too light for roller coasters, too weak for the shot put, too short for girls in heels, and always got extra lollipops at the bank.  Though I'm not complaining about that last one, I'm flat-out over it.

At the start of this project I was weighed 154.4 lbs, a poundage technically proportionate to my height but a proportion that technically deserves zero props.  I wanted my props.  I wanted my douchey, meathead swagger.  I wanted to lose my sad, pasty chicken legs and replace them with tree trunks worthy of my inner Guido.  ...Are you there, God?  It's me, NJ.

Ten pounds seemed reasonable.  Humble even.  I could probably manage two pounds a month for five months, and a lean 165 ought to suit my stature rather nicely.  Non-minimum, non-unrealistic, non-greedy; the perfect goal weight.  Today I stepped on that scale fully prepared for a reality check and, oh, I got a reality check.

After seventeen days diligent, disciplined protein shaking, carb loading, work-it-outing diet and exercise; two and a half weeks of emotional torment and online documentation; a veritable clusterfuck of man vs. sloth; I weighed in at... (drumroll please)

160.2 lbs.

Yup.  That's right.  Six.  Motherfucking.  Pounds.

At first I thought something had to be broken.  The scale.  My vision.  The space/time continuum.  I stepped off and tried again, but the second that digital number stopped doing that russian-roulette thing that only scales and guns to the temple can do... 160.2.  All bets were officially off.  Sweet balls, did I go to the moon!

...Though the moon's lower gravity would actually make me lighter...  I went to Neptune tonight...  Or possibly one of the other gas giants... Fuck off, it's an expression.

I immediately took my shirt off and bragged to every single person in the house.  Suddenly my long sought, never before glimpsed fantasy of a body type is a mere five pounds away and already I'm considering trading up.  My mind buzzed like a swarm of horny bees.  If two weeks could give me results like this, maybe I should shoot for 175?  Or maybe even 185.  I could be like a football player!  Well... I'd be the kicker, but still!

Call me easily pleased, but this is the first dream I've ever actually had come true (sadly, that weigh-in felt so much better than graduating college).  All my expectations are being fulfilled in a satisfying and immediate way (the way everyone likes their dreams).  I'm chock-full of instant gratification and someday soon I might get to be physically domineering toward normal-sized people.  Maybe I can even be a little bit intimidating.

...Nah.  After all my years of waifdom, I'll probably end up being a gentle giant.  All I'm thinking right now is, They'll never call me David Archuleta again.


I feel lighter for such a noticeably fatter dude.

Day 17.  Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.

The Valentine's Day Lush

I have become the designated fill-in employee at my restaurant.  Trained and available for every position, on-call to accommodate any and all staffing needs; today, on this crisp February evening, I was a host and I was dressed to impress.

Now, between moving-in back home, my philosophical fitness plan and all these blogging reflections to boot, my focus of late has been admittedly a little self-centric.  However, after five-hours of "Table for two? Table for two? Table for two?" as a party of one I found myself having some reservations of my own.  Work is over yet here I am, another year single, sitting on the couch I slept on last night, watching The Bachelor with my mother.

Why yes, mom, I think I will have that glass of wine.  No, no...  Leave the bottle.

Part of my job tonight was to make sure every woman received a rose with their table's check.  The idea was that this tiny floral token of appreciation would give our female guests a taste of chivalry while simultaneously helping their male counterparts bring on the romance.  It was a kitschy little gimmick on behalf of the management, but a nice gesture nonetheless, and for 99% of the patrons in this small conservative town these roses went off without a hitch.  Girls giggled, boys paid the bill and servers' tips went up exponentially.  There was one couple, however, that threw us a curveball.

Table 51, no reservation, both late 30s, early 40s.  He wore a leather jacket; his partner, a black sweater.  The main dining room was too frilly.  They wanted to be put in the bar so they could watch the game.  There they were, just two regular guys out to a casual candlelit dinner, celebrating their relationship on a Valentine night.

...So who gets the rose?

Their server wasn't sure and neither was our manager.  Some suggestions from the staff included: "What does a dude want with a flower," "Split it down the middle," and, "Go over and ask which one's the bottom" (That last one came from our manager who is, coincidentally, an open homosexual himself).  We ended up giving them both roses in the holiday spirit and they smiled upon receipt.  They were either totally unaware of the amusement taken at their expense or possibly they knew exactly what was being said behind their backs and smiled anyway.  I never did ask and I never will know, but I wish I did.

The unfortunate acceptability of it all hits hard.  Their date night was as normal to me as the idea of falling in love, but in the question of sex and sexuality it's sadly not that simple. I am a gay man.  There goes the band aid.  Was anybody on the fence about that?

This hasn't come up yet and I'm sorry for it.  Until now, I'd never seen it as relevant to the subject at hand and, frankly, I didn't want my writing to be judged based on my sexual preference.  Also, I've never really been "out" in the home town I'm blogging to you from and regrettably my instinct here is to sound a retreat back into the closet.  So here's the story:

I've known what I was since my first wet dream.  Eleven years old, it was a man, I woke up in a sticky sweat and something didn't compute.  I cried all night and spent the next three years trying to fix it.

By high school I knew what I was but an all-boys preparatory school was hardly an ideal environment to be what I was.  There was exactly one out kid in my entire school and he was tormented to the point where I actually couldn't look anymore.  I am not Chris Colfer, I am not Neil Patrick Harris, I am the coward who stayed in the closet until graduation.

I came out my freshmen year of college to everyone who was important to me and have been out ever since.  That is, my family knows and my closest friends know, but other than that I pride myself in my ability to "blend."  I don't wear tight jeans or make-up, I hate Glee and the phrase "lol," my wrists are firm, my voice is deep, my gait is wide and my interests are varied.  Whenever a girl has a crush on me or someone swears, "they had no idea!" I take it as the highest compliment.  I don't feel gay in the way most gays are regarded, which is to say I don't feel like less of a man for liking men.  However, in my experience as a gay man, once people know you're a gay it becomes decidedly more difficult to just be a guy.

Your friends stop wanting to be around you and your teammates feel uncomfortable getting undressed in front of you.  They think you want to fuck 'em.  They unintentionally un-include you from any conversations regarding sex or women because they think you'd have nothing to say.  You find yourself separated; you find yourself emasculated; and so you become "one of the girls."

At a fundamental level, "the closet" is a term about emotional maintenance.  When you find yourself in an unfriendly environment (like conservative middle America, an all-boys, Catholic high school or a homophobic restaurant) feeling sad, or angry, or attracted to the same sex, it becomes unsafe to express your emotions.  Any sign of difference is punishable by marginalization; and so we shove our feelings into the darkest corner of our minds, portraying the illusion of tidiness while holding back an avalanche of mess right behind the door.  We want to burst but instead we smile quietly.

I'm in the closet at work, I've been in the closet on this blog, both have been absolutely excruciating and I can't believe it took a lonely Valentine's Day to finally make it relevant.  Regardless, it's out there now; I'm out there now and you can do with it what you will.  I don't actually care as it doesn't matter in the long run.  I'll still be back tomorrow and I'll do the best I can.

I'm drunk.  Do you blame me?

Mondays have become shoulder/light chest day.  Tomorrow's Legs and Core.

Day 16.  Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.

The Ocarina of Time

I remember the exact moment I fell in love with fantasy.  I was in the fifth grade, probably ten-years old, and I came home from school one day to find my brother, Patrick, with two of his friends playing The Legend of Zelda on our Nintendo-64.  They'd just begun their quest and were freeing a talking tree from it's evil infestation.  I loved everything about it: the climbing up walls, the wooden shield, the killin' spiders, and that beautiful, inspired gameplay that put you just over Link's shoulder, right next to Navi the fairy.  One look and I knew... I was screwed.

Like a junkie's first hit on a crack pipe, that cherry-popping glimpse sparked a chemical chain-reaction in my brain so intense that it has yet to stop firing.  I found myself playing for six hours at a time, sometimes right through the night, scouring Jabu Jabu's fatty underside for gold skulltulas, winning my biddy Epona from Lon Lon Ranch.  In the morning, red-eyed and wasted, my body trudged to off to Meadowside Elementary while my mind lingered in Hyrule.

My daydreams were so much radder than the multiplication tables.  I'd go off on inside-my-head adventures all day everyday right from my Fisher Price desk.  I brought friends and family along in my imaginings, even though this makes me a giant loser and I'll never ever tell them about it.  My cousins had a pretty cool stretch of woods behind their house and we'd cut winding paths through the brush; three little boys in the Korkori forest, off to piss off the Deku Tree.

One time my daydreams bled into my regular dreams.  I remember being in my bed when something really fucking dark and miserable showed up.  I don't know what it was or what it looked like but I ran from it, jumping out an open window and landing in Hyrule Field.  This thing, whatever it was, chased me boogey-monster style for miles until I reached some cover in a hill of sparse trees.  They gradually grew thicker the deeper I went, everything getting slower and darker until I reached a clearing and finally stopped running.  Whatever was chasing me before had long since called it quits and I found myself marveling at the magical mist of The Lost Wood.  You know how in a dream you don't know it's a dream?  Well, that means I thought I was actually there in the place I'd been obsessing about for months.  I could've shit myself with happiness.

This dream went on for weeks, every evening picking up where it left off the morning before, allowing me to explore the woods a little more each night.  I remember searching for something though I don't know what and I always, always, always resisted the urge to wake up.  It's the only time I've ever experienced a dream like this, pausing one night and resuming the next.  Carl Jung would probably have something to say about all this 'monster' chasing into 'woods' for random 'searching' business, but Carl Jung can mind his own fucking business.  This is easily my favorite dream in all my years of dreaming and it has stuck with me ever since.

Zelda was but my first of many, many loves.  Over middle school, high school and college, I partook in a continuos stream torrid, passionate, completely inappropriate affairs with everyone from Batman to Captain Planet, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon to Dragon Ball Z, Final Fantasy VII to Final Fantasy X, searching the mailbox for my letter from Hogwarts, scouring the tall grass for Poke'mon.  I took the red pill in the Matrix, went through the wardrobe in Narnia, put it in greek mythology's back door, and very nearly got Shakespeare pregnant (Had a name picked out and everything; would've called her Midsummer).  Each new romance as liberating as the last and each so incredibly difficult to move past that I never actually did, choosing instead to keep them always in my heart.

The ones that hit hardest were always the comic book superheroes.  Marvel and DC have this way of taking everyday people and making them accessibly exceptional.  Teachers employing mind-control, teenagers becoming invisible, business men catching airplanes... literally.  Flames, fighting and flying aside, I couldn't help but identify with the amazing humdrum of it all.  Here are people dealing with jobs, school, difficult families, crappy relationships and emotions beyond their control.  All so human, all just like me, all completely ordinary in every way but one.

The more I look at it the more I realize the human being is an organism of incredible potential.  I watch athletes, ballerinas, singers, politicians, writers, performers, etc, all skillfully fulfilling their larger than life dreams.  They reach levels of excellence beyond compare and make impressions all over the world in ways that can only be described as superhuman.  This should make other big-dreamers wildly hopeful in that stupid, wide-eyed, delusional way usually reserved for children who think they can be the president of the United States and schizophrenics who think they already are.

I used to treat this project like a metamorphosis, but I have recently improved my regard.  From now on, I am no longer a person working out.  The idea of that bores me to no end.  Instead, I am an everyday, ordinary human being exercising an everyday, ordinary, totally kick-ass, superhuman control over his own life and body.  This project is magic.  This project is power.  This project is my X-men mutation and I...

I am a shape-shifter.

...That's so fucking sweet.

Day 15.  Oh shit! 1/10 of the way through!

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.

The Way We Do Things Here

It's 8:00 PM Saturday night.  Mary is at work, Cole and Miles are on a ski trip with their father and his new girlfriend, and my parents, married 36 years, skipped out the door two hours ago with a bottle of wine and a plate of chocolate covered strawberries, enjoying this fine Valentine weekend like a couple of red-cheeked newlyweds.  The house is empty and still.

Today marks two weeks into this project.  That's fourteen days of protein shakes, fifty-six tides of sweat pants, and a fortnight of online emotional dictation (in daylight, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee...).  If it's true that it takes the human body about thirty days to establish a habit, then by tomorrow's workout I'll have reached the halfway point.  Hopefully, the power of routine will ease the pressure of due-diligence, as the difficulty in establishing a new habit is that in the process you must first break the old ones.  To become an active go-getter, I must first stop being a lazy shit.

An experience from today to illustrate this point:

I've been in the food service industry since high school: serving, busing, hosting, food expediting, bar backing, bar tending, cocktailing and even managing.  Aside from actually preparing the food, I've occupied and excelled at just about every position a restaurant has to offer.  So, when when Gary the cater waiter decided to criticize how I stack my busing trays I instinctively shot up my eyebrows and looked down my nose.

Under Gary's school of thought, glasses on a busing tray should be given about an inch of wiggle room on all sides.  Gary believes that if glasses touch, they will knock each other over and, as such, should be kept at a safe distance.  In this way, should one glass fall on the journey from table to dishwasher, the other's would be left unharmed.  The notion that a falling glass might knock down other glasses like a tray full of loud, sharp, crashing dominoes was not something Gary cared to think about.

I feel Gary's tray-stacking philosophy may subliminally reflect the way he interacts with people.

The truth is, in tray-stacking (as in life) wiggle room lets things wobble and wobbling things tend to topple.  A la bundles of sticks, herds of herbivores, and the U.S. of fuckin' A., when things stand united they are much more difficult to knock down.  Unfortunately, Gary's belief system was also structured sans wiggle room.

Difference became disagreement, disagreement became dispute, dispute blew up into a full fledged scene.  It wasn't long before my seniority status, experience level and moral compass were all called into question.  After about twenty minutes of spitting and spatting, Gary's failing arguments (as shaky and as unstable as his tray) finally culminated with a resounding, "This is the way we do things here, man."  I couldn't help but be baffled.  There I was with facts and physics; logical evidence that proved Gary was practicing a poor habit and yet he refused to yield.  Gary got angry.  Gary got nasty.  Gary abandoned all professionalism, called me a 'bitch' and a 'bastard' within the span of a sentence and made things really awkward.  In five more minutes, I estimate Gary would've been ready to throw down.

I was confused.  I hadn't yelled.  I hadn't call anybody names.  Was Gary really taking dirty dishes this personally?  Did Gary come from a long line of tray carriers and dishwasher marriers whose proud traditions were being affronted by my new-fangled, 21st-century ideas?  Possible, but not probable, though the principle is likely the same.  This wasn't about trays; this was about much more than trays.  This was about pride and Gary was seething with it.

Gary has been busing trays a in his own particular way since as long a he can remember and his way has served him as faithfully as a 1950's, white-picket housewife (Gary had never once dropped a tray).  To even consider changing now would be like walking out on his sweet, docile, sexually-repressed marriage for that younger, free-spirited, scantily-clad divorcee who just moved in up the street.  It seems Gary is more loyal than that and I guess I respect him for it.

As Gary so stubbornly demonstrated, it sucks to admit when you're wrong.  It sucks even harder to admit that you've been wrong over and over again for an extended period of time, perfectly committed to something perfectly inferior.  There's some level of shame, disappointment, and regret that comes with change and, I suppose, this is why people are so averse to it.  As is the case with a misguided habit, it often seems better to suffer silently with the tried and true than dare to throw caution to the wind and brave the unknown.  Or maybe the human animal is just a jackass willing to stubbornly deny reason until disaster forces their hand.  Try as I might to illustrate a bold new way to stack his tray, Gary's gonna have to break a few glasses before he finds some wiggle room of his own.  In the meantime, nobody likes being told the ideas they subsist on are weak.

...Damn this house is quiet.

Day 14.  I feel good.

Thanks for reading.

See you tomorrow.

The Better and the Gooder

Tempers run in my family.  Since the dawning of our clan, tantrums have often reached historical proportions, spanning oceans, continents and generations, pissing off no one more than we piss off ourselves.  Throw enough of us together in the same room, add a few drinks, and my family gives the term 'nuclear family' a whole new definition.

My father fuse's is by far the shortest.  Leaving lights on, taking long showers, being indecisive in front of the refrigerator, my dad is as temperamental as a cigarette in a gasoline fight.  He's been this way for at least 40 years and these decades of pissy practice have left his face is a little redder, his eyes a little bulgier, and his voice at a constant volume of BOOMING.  Growing up as one of his six children, it was so easy to set my father off that we made a game of it to avoid the emotional trauma.  We'd invite people over, bait Pops into a touchy situation, whisper in our friend's ears, "Watch this," and proceeded to jump on the couch, leave a dirty dish in the sink, turn on too many lights, etc, and watch Old Faithful erupt right on cue.  This is a time honored tradition and still widely practiced today.

I'd like to make it very clear that I love my father.  He's a lobbyist now but was once a decorated legislator in the state house of representatives by the time he was thirty.  Given time, his talent and ambition could have very well propelled him to politics on a national level and possibly even beyond.  However, the paycheck of a public servant proves cruelly insufficient when you have six kids to feed and support through their own ambitions, so he chose stability and abandoned his unpredictable climb up the political ladder.  My father is an incredibly caring, moral, and generous man who has sacrificed no less than biggest dreams of his life all for the sake of his family.   Unfortunately, this does not excuse his temper.

While I've come to appreciate my father with age (though I still struggle daily), as an adolescent I no less than hated this man.  He was impatient, relentless, loud, hurtful, and stubborn.  In the most heated arguments, things easily got physical but we learned these limits very quickly.  Our personal relationship was so volatile (there's that word again) that I developed a habit of locking doors, yelling, and running away from home at least three times a week for 30-45 minutes or as long as it took for my mother to come to collect me (my poor mother, this usually happen right before dinner.  She'd slave over a hot stove for hours then, right before we eat, this crap happens).  All the while, in typical teenage style, I vowed to never turn out like explosive old pops, promising I'd grow up to be his antithesis.  for my kids I'd be the cool dad, the laid back dad, the unintrusive, understanding dad I never had.  Better was the word.  I'm gonna be better than him.

How naive I was.

It's cruel how emotions blind us from seeing ourselves.  As soon I was old enough to be upset by my father's temper, the very second I decided that I would be different, I STORMED OUT OF THE HOUSE IN A FLAMING RAGE.  Man, kids are stupid.  Did I not realize I was doing the exact thing I was in the process of vowing not to do?  Blame it on the narrow gaze of youth, but very often people fight so hard for patience and kindness that they become short-fused and harsh themselves.  It's said that parents bestow their worst qualities upon their children but the truth is children take them willingly.  We become the people who raised us for absolutely no other reason than that we don't want it to happen.

For those who missed it before the word again is better (as in, "I'm better than you") and I believe that this word is the root of the problem.  The word 'better' carries with it a broad connotation of superiority, i.e. to say Object A is 'better' than Object B is to declare that Object A kicks Object B's ass in any and all arenas.  Object A is stronger, faster, smarter, has prettier hair, has a perfect record and a bigger dick and is way more fun than Object B will ever fucking be.  To simply say 'better' is to simply say something unspecific.  This is a flaw in the English language I would now like to rectify.

When I was a tempestuous teen saying I wanted to be better than my father, what exactly did I mean?  Did I mean funnier?  Wittier?  More flexible?  Perhaps I wanted to get a higher GPA or go places he's never been.  Maybe I wanted to legally change my last name and then procreate more than he did, that'd make me better in some cultures.

To say that I wanted to be better than my father completely undervalued all the ways in which he was already great.  In all the ways he's smart and disciplined and loving beyond measure, I'd be lucky to be half the man my father is.  When applied to people, the word 'better' discounts the value of the whole and broadly disregards the rest (and often, the best).  If only there were a word better than 'better' that could let an upset teenager be upset while remembering the good stuff all at the same time.

Tempers run in my family, but my family is very good.  In all the ways I hope to learn from their mistakes and take conscious, diligent steps toward positive changes, I want to be gooder.  'Gooder' is a word that remembers the good stuff.  'Gooder' recognizes the room for improvement while still believing in those you love.  If only it were grammatically correct.

Great workout today.  Hit the lats, hit the shoulders, hit the bis and tris.  The boys and the dogs kept me company.  Happy lucky number 13.

Thanks for reading.

See you tomorrow.

The Worst Failure I Know

My sister, Mary, is an interesting character.  She is one of the most talented and indecisive people I've ever met, which means she's someone who can do anything but chooses not to.  In the span of 10 years she's been a single mother, a student, a wine distributor, a four star chef, a happy housewife, a PTA powerhouse, the co-founder to a four star restaurant, a waitress in that newly three star restaurant, a sommelier, an interior designer, a party planner, and a single mother all over again.  The Will & Grace character of Jack McFarland comes to mind as I watch her flit from vocation to vocation, and just like Jack in season six, she has found yet another passion... nursing.  How she got from food service and hospitality to the medical field is anybody's guess, but I'm sure Grey's Anatomy had something to do with it.  She succeeds at everything and so I am sure she will be a successful nurse... for as long as it sticks.  In the meantime, here we are, one 23, the other 41, and both of us back under our parent's roof feeling like failures.

I won't divulge the many heartaches of my sister's life out of respect and love for her and her children, but I will say that over the course of a life only about half what happens is ever in our control.  It's Newton's First Law of Motion: Every body remains in a state of rest or motion unless it is acted upon by and external, unbalanced force; or, no change of direction ever happens without cause.  Be it mistakes, opportunities, or (usually) the fallings in and out of love, whatever path we chose in life is beset with land mines.  One wrong step blows up in your face, and if you find yourself terribly maimed chances are you'll accidentally one-leg hop into another pitfall, and another, and another.  We get blown off the path.  Before you know it, you're 23 or 41, right back where you started, under your parent's roof feeling like a failure.

Failure.  Disappointment.  Regret.  Shame.  It's a steep spiral.  All the way down you wonder where it went wrong and who's to blame, generally annoyed by anything and everyone that may be holding you back.  Watching TV with Mary a couple of days ago, she turned to me at every joke (in what I found to be a particularly unfunny program) and declared, "Come on that's funny."  Even when I smiled, even when I laughed, Mary could not help herself from turning around and insisting on every, single jokes hilarity.  Come on that's funny, Come on that's funny, Come on that's funny.  45 minutes later, it was definitely not funny and I regrettably snapped.  I looked Mary right in her happy, unassuming eyes and snarled, "Mary!  I am not incapable of laughter nor am I incapable of deciding for myself which jokes I find funny.  Every time you say, 'Come on that's funny,' it ruins even the funniest moments and it makes me want to punch you in the face.  You're annoying the shit out of me!"

I felt satisfied.  I felt justified.  The outburst was concise, appropriate, and completely called for.  Then Mary surprised me.  She looked at me and said, "Everything annoys you, NJ.  You're so volatile."

Her statement was fair.  It knocked the breath from my chest.  It was just as accurate and justified as my own outburst, only even more concise and even more called for, cutting as deeply as only the most truthful insults can.  Mary is annoying, people have known that for years, but I am volatile and no one had ever told me.  Perhaps they were scared; I'm good at blame, boiling people down to their most hurtful qualities in the most well-reasoned ways.  I had been a volatile person for weeks, and possibly for my entire life, completely unbeknownst to me.

There were no apologies; there were, in fact, no more words at all for the rest of then night.  Mary and I simply watched TV in silence, contemplating our respective un-likabilities and after a few days of deep, deep, uncomfortable thinking, I cannot help but return to the feeling of failure.

The typical person reponds to failure in one of two ways.  Some choose to reject the responsibility entirely, careening to a fro, spewing blame and excuses on every plausible canvas.  Their shortcoming becomes the fault of others, or of circumstance, of rules, government or God.  The failure-action becomes the unavoidable hindrance and the failure-person becomes the victim, blazing past their mistake at a million miles an hour.  Nothing is learned and nobody grows.

Other people take failure in the other direction.  Instead of grazing over the problems like their predecessors, this other breed of people hug their failure like their fluffiest pillow on their loneliest night.  They cry into their failures, they sink into them, they find them comfortable and hold them like a lover.  They squeeze, spoon, and molest that pillow deep in the darkness until that failure becomes them.  These people love their failures so purely, they never get out of bed.

In terms of these two failures, Mary is the first, I am the second, and neither of us is right.   Here we are, both adults, both years of experience wiser, and both of us acting exactly as we did when we were children: stubborn, stupid and small.  We stepped on a few land-mines and let that be the death of us.  We never understood that to let the paths define your life instead of letting your life define the path is the only place anyone can really fail.  Thankfully we're not dead though, which means instead of over, our lives are somewhere in the middle.  If we choose it, the best is yet to come.

A failure is a challenge, to recognize it a blessing, and I will work really hard to be less volatile.  Today I tried to be compassionate, to laugh, to smile, and to forgive, especially with regards to myself.  I worked out with Bianca for an hour and a half and I'm blogging now feeling much better about it than I did about it yesterday.

Don't ever call yourself pathetic.  You're not.  I swear it.

It's day 12.

Thanks for reading.

See you tomorrow.

The Evil No Mere Mortal Can Resist

This is so dumb.  Blogging is pretty dull when you get right down to it, and if you're playing along, I really do apologize. I imagine reading this is like looking at the photographs from someone else's vacation, only they went somewhere really, really boring.  This is me, here's some more me, this is how I felt then, and this is how I feel now, here's learning stuff, here's me writing what I learned down, oh, and here's me on a horse!  Look how high I am on my high, high horse!  Somebody euthanize me.  Is there anything more self-indulgent than an exercise blog?  I'm laughing as I write this but I can't believe I contractually bound myself to this shit.  Voluntarily, no less.

OK, fuck it.  Let's go for it.  Let's be interactive.

Hey guys!  Guess what I did today that's about as newsworthy as a tweet?  Here's a hint: it's old but it never gets old, it's always a good idea at parties, and it happens when the midnight hour is close at hand...  Anyone?  Anyone?  OK, I'll tell you.  Today I did what every Michael Jackson fan does at some point in his or her love of sweet, sweet dance tunes.  For approximately two hours this morning in the middle of my living room wearing no socks and no shirt, I taught myself how to Thriller.

Why would anyone choose to memorize the choreography to this epic 1980's Halloween classic, you ask?  No, you don't ask because that requires absolutely no explanation.  Everyone who hasn't learned it themselves wishes they had and if you say you never had any interest at all, you're a terrible liar.  Thriller is the shit on every continent, in every language, in every context and occasion from now until the fiery, zombie-dancing apocalypse.  It's a given, people.  Get with the program.

Given the depressing pattern I'd been slipping into on a typical day of this project (wake up, eat, fart around, eat, wait until the last possible second before I finally list through my workout and trudge through this blog, shower, go to work, eat, come home, sleep), the change of pace was nothing short of rejuvenating.  When the long-and-short of your entire day's activities consist only of obligations and procrastination it's bound to make anyone a little emo.  The days I don't have work I just sit around all day knockin' ye ol' balls around while contemplating how little I actually do.  What should be a thirty minute workout takes two incredibly slow, lazy-ass hours.  It's freaking depressing.  Sure I finish what I need to get done, but bare minimum is the term, listing through my days in what feels like a living coma.

I've got nothing against relaxing, mind you, and for the most part a low-commitment reality kinda rules.  However, I may have actually relaxed myself into anxiety.  All I think about all day long is the things I want to do (but am yet to even try) and the things within myself I need to fix before I can do them (laziness being at the top of the list).  I focus on all the broken parts of my life until the good stuff breaks down too I end up (ah, that's where the term comes from) breaking down entirely into a wet, sobbing mess, or a giggle fit or--- DEAR GOD, I'M DOING IT AGAIN.  This last half a paragraph makes me wanna sterilize myself.  I'm pretty sure they make pharmaceutical happiness for this kind of crazy (if only I weren't raised to believe ADD + dyslexia + the occasional stroll down depression lane = "character building").

So hell yeah, today I switched it up a bit.  I woke up around 6:45, pounded a protein shake, hit up the weight room with Mary from 7-8:30ish, went back upstairs, drew the blinds, cleared the living room furniture off the dance floor and broke it down.  I watched Michael's thirteen-minute 1983 music video first, but also spent some time on crappy wedding versions, sacrilegious modified versions, and the version from 13 Going on 30 (I can't help but enjoy dimples-for-days Jenny Garner).  The best youtube tutorial I found is by some British chick named Zoe, should you feel the need.  It's broken down into three parts with the original choreo direct from the music video (none of that watered down bullshit), and everything sounds better in an accent (for real though; try reading this blog again with the accent of your choosing and watch how much more entertaining I get).

"Follow your bliss" is a good motto to live by.  Imma follow mine every morning til I can thriller in my sleep.  After that I'm gonna take "Beat it," "The Way You Make Me Feel," and "Smooth Criminal" all up and down the neighborhood.  This the kind of workout I can get excited for.

Don't worry, I'm not quitting 150 days.  This project will still occupy a hefty, daily chunk of my time, but I strongly dislike the idea of it becoming my entire life.  I think I'll be better off filling in my days with other enjoyable things as well; you know, the small stuff, the little triumphs, the pleasures that only take a minute but can make my entire day. What a novel idea.  I'm gonna be a zombie next Halloween.  A sexy zombie.

Day 11.

Thanks for reading.

See you tomorrow.

The Dog Whimpering at the Top of the Stairs

I woke up at 6:00 this morning feeling rested and determined.  I am yet to exercise.  Day ten feels exactly like day one.

It's not easy.  23-year old me remembers 18-year old me and how excited he was about his work out every single day.  I remember the addiction to it; how in the beginning it tasted like an ashtray but how eventually it seeped into my system and found myself slinking off into the cellar every 30 minutes for a fix.  God, do I wish pull-ups came with nicotine.

In between the repulsion and the cravings I remember some foggy time of discipline and maybe an act of will.  I'm not positive about those weeks, unfortunately.  I think AJ, in his infinite wisdom, may have made sure to ride me particularly hard during that period.  I'm sure he knew if I were allowed to dwell on how sour those days tasted they'd only have defeated me.

Either way, I truly detest the limited capabilities of my memory.  Had I been blogging back then I'd at least have some written account to refer to.  What I would give for some concrete evidence, something  to prove how it had all been done before (even more, how it had been done by me).  A record could definitely offer some valuable perspective.  Presently, all I have are theories that run in circles.   Was it the blind ambition of youth, that thirst for an unexplored frontier; the youthful ambition of vanity, wanting to see how beautiful I could make my body; or was it the vain ambition of the blind who simply wander without bearings, hoping they don't wind up exactly where they started, as if they could tell the difference.  It is a daily struggle to find enthusiasm.

Every time I look in the mirror my reflection half-smiles back at me, vastly disappointed with the place he's standing yet meekly hopeful this is the place he's supposed to be.  Hopefully this dissatisfaction is me learning some valuable lessons that will be necessary on the path toward future, unknowable joys.  However, to let that hope outweigh the disappointment takes a little more faith than I am comfortable with.

Isn't it supposed to get easier the longer you do something?  Didn't I hear that somewhere, once, a long, long time ago?  And more importantly, aren't we supposed to find happiness exactly where we are?  I repeat this mantra in my head over and over again I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful and I certainly am for some things.  A lot of people are far worse off than me.  I have a home, I have a family, I have a job.  I'm only 23 years old, for God's sake.  Aren't these the blessing some people starve for, pray for, kill and die for?  I'm an American, middle-class, loved, young, free, white male and I have the nerve to be unhappy.  I feel like such a spoiled brat.

The solution is shut up.  The solution is smile.  The solution is suck it up and stop with all the self-pitying.  It's not supposed to be easy.  Easy is a word for planning and retrospect and that's not where people exist.  Life is hard.  There's no other word for it.  Life is day after day of hard, hard work and it doesn't ever end.  It's like that Greek myth, Sisyphus, where the gods compel a king to push some boulder up a hill over and over again only to watch it roll back down for all eternity.  He's cursed, damned, doomed.  Game over, Sisyphus.  The only way he'll ever be happy is if he somehow finds a way to enjoy his tedium.  Ah, there's the rub.  The Happy Life: a series of petty, difficult, unglamorous tasks... and pleasure in the doing.

One of my dogs is scared to come down the basement stairs.  She's crying at the door right now, hoping someone will come and carry her down.  Sorry, babe.  That's not how stairs work.

Guess I'm gonna shut up and go to the weight room now.

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.