Crossing the Abyss

It was cold and I didn't feel like going into my apartment yet. I sat in my car with the Australian Cattle Dog named Peppy, hoping maybe something would happen--something would fall from the sky and crack open on my windshield and there would be a bright and mystical light inside and I could bathe in it and swallow it and become it. I would not ever need to go into my apartment again. The problems of this life would concern me no longer. I would be dynamic and changing, but without judgement or ego and I would own no opinions nor would the opinions of others be known to me.

But instead my ex walked by.

And after she had passed, hopefully without noticing me, I began to cry into my hands, alone in the dark gravel lot, a cold, fall night, brown, trident-shaped leaves pittering onto my minivan's hood. My words came soon after, each one escaping my mouth with warm, visible breath: "My life is so pathetic. I love a person who will never ever love me again. I don't know what I am even doing here. I have nothing keeping me."

I imagined posting something that read like those private, spoken words as a facebook status, as someone who has integrated their social media accounts so thoroughly (invasively) into their lived life is wont to do from time to time. I thought about what a brutally honest facebook character would say or think over the internet. Something like, omg nick stop overdoing this whole whiny my life sucks routine. And I thought about how they had a point and I wondered why I wasn't changing my life.

I wondered why I view unrequited love as a pathetic thing instead of a beautiful thing. Why I am not picking up and leaving. Why I am not quitting yet another job in which I am taken advantage of and underpaid. Why I am not closer to my family. Why I am not somewhere where Peppy can run around in a backyard. Why I am forcing myself to endure another long, harsh winter without a tribe of people whom I can call my own.

You know those phases that kids go through where they ask, "Why?" incessantly? They ask why in response to every single thing. Get dressed. Why? Because it's cold and we have to go outside. Why? Because you have to wait for the bus to get to school. Why? Because you need to be educated. Why? So you can be respected and succeed in this world. Why?

Eventually the parents stop answering, and say, "I don't know, Nicholas, because I said so!"

And even at that young age, the child picks up that the parent doesn't know the answer to all of these questions. Somewhere along the way, the child's parents stopped asking why. They learn that it is not easy to ask why. They learn that the bright and mystical things around them have become dull and unexceptional. The things they do are done because they have been doing them long enough that they have become routine. It is comfortable to keep thinking in the same way and not ask why. It makes sure that there is no thought that might criticize their life choices or upset the status quo.

But.

What happens when I ask why?

I feel abandoned.

Why?

I am alone.

Why?

I don't know.

Ask yourself. Why?

I messed up. I loved someone more than I loved myself.

Why?

She made me feel valuable.

Why?

I guess because she thought I was.

Why?

I did things for her. 

Why?

Because she was special to me.

Why? 

She was sweet and tender and liked and disliked a lot of things that I liked and disliked. We thought alike. And I liked that. She was a lot of the things that I liked about myself and that I wanted to be, and few of the things that I disliked about myself.

Why did you end things?

Because we needed to grow. Both of us. We loved each other. We enjoyed our time together, but we had come to a fork in the road and realized we had to take different exits to get to where we wanted to go.

And I don't need to make a road trip with someone all of the time. Sometimes, I can enjoy being alone in the world, with the sky being big and watchful, the wind being talkative and affectionate.

Why?

I am my own private world. If I don't have myself, this conversation is not possible, no dialogue, no interaction is possible. I am a bright and mystical light that I don't fully understand yet. And I want to enjoy and be mesmerized by that.

Even in looking for a partner or friends, I find that the people that I love are sometimes reflections of my ideal self. I find I am attracted to people who are motivated, sweet, caring, accepting, open-minded, kind, funny because those are the things I want to be--those are the things I consider to be my defining qualities when I am at my best.  The hope that I can find someone who actually is my ideal self is doomed to fail unless I am looking within.

As priest and spiritualist Thomas Merton puts it, "What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves? This is the most important of all voyages of discovery, and without it, all the rest are not only useless but disastrous."

I am certain that the best thing that I could have had is that option of waiting and wallowing in my car, crying into my hands, and asking myself why. I thought those days spent absorbed in my own thought and crippling self-pity might never end, but now that they have, I can see they were not as unbearable as I made them seem. It was necessary. It was a privilege. In loss, we gain. We learn that importance is relative.

I am leaving Poughkeepsie. I have quit my job. I am picking up and leaving. None of that is me. I have been here for six years, but I have always known this was just a pit stop. I am going to be closer to family in the hope that I can know myself intimately and better understand the world around me through that intimacy, instead of focusing on work, making money, going to clubs, waiting for my ex to come back, or whatever other misguided advice I have been given in the past three months.

It is amazing how difficult leaving seemed it would be only a few short weeks ago when I first started writing this post. Now, it's the obvious choice.

Thank you to the 845 for helping to mold me.

Here's to me and mine and to you and yours. Here's to crossing the abyss.

Superpowers

There is a 12-year-old girl that I got to know over the summer who often asks me, "How are you, Nick? Are you enjoying life?"

She asks with a suspicion that I am indeed not enjoying life. I say yes in a pitch that is too high. She asks me repeatedly because she does not believe that answer. She wants me to be honest and she keeps giving me the chances to do so.

She asks, "Nick, if you could describe your life with one adjective, what adjective would you use? You can't use 'ineffable'--that's my word--it means too great to be described by words."

I never know what to say. Am I enjoying life? Probably not nearly as much as I should be. An adjective? Um, jeez. I am not sure.

Since I never have an answer, she asks another tennis instructor what he thinks my adjective is. He is a big Long Island man, Italian, mostly bald but with facial hair that refuses to be inhibited. He looks at me for a second and thinks.
"I would say subdued," he says gently.

Well then. I would not have guessed that.

An old friend called me the other day and at the end of the short conversation said, "Nick, you're going to be okay. Try to be happier," unprompted.
I had not hinted that I was upset or mentioned anything that might lead him to believe that I was upset. I asked him if he thought that I was a sad person.
"Yeah, I think you are."

That threw me off because I always thought of myself as a happy person. If you were to ask my family members, I'm the biggest goofball any of them know. In college, the opportunity to start anew paired with the correct doses of alcohol made sure I was a party-goer, the life of the party, never afraid to have fun.

I have battled with depression on occasion, probably as early as middle school.
Sometimes it's bad.
But it was never anything I talked to my family about. I never considered that I might be depressed. I thought depression meant you had to be lying on the floor, basically unable to care for yourself in any capacity, you were so miserable and sad.

And that is just the thing. I do not consider myself sad. I am happy.

I am just trapped in a pit that is only just above my head. The walls are angled outward and I can climb up the incline, often pulling my torso out, but there's this sludge lining the walls that sends me slowly sliding back down each time I do. I love to smile. I love to joke and hang out and make new friends.

It makes me sad and angry that I am in this pit. It makes me sad and angry that this state-of-mind influences relationships that I care about. I want to be better. I want to be myself--the self with which I identify. I know that funny, laughing, trusting identity better than the "sad" and "subdued" one. Others apparently know the latter. I wish others knew the former the way I do.

Around the time my depression started, I had already been deeply immersed in the world of comic books for years. I was a superhero purist. I did not understand why other genres of comic book existed (I feel differently about this now, and love graphic novels as a storytelling medium).

Since a tyke, I would daydream about the day I would gain my own special superpowers and become a vigilante capable of saving the world. What an occupation that would be. I knew in the back of my mind that it would never happen--that I would never levitate about the town, lift trucks, and make bullets melt in the air, but I still hoped for the fateful gift to be bestowed upon me.

And this fantasy went on until I was maybe 14 (old!). I would emerge, reborn, the perfect creature I was capable of being, sculpted of marble, and fighting for the good of others. My alter ego would be better than Nicholas Jay. It would be formless, nameless, capable of anything, perfect.

Quite an expectation from a boy who would sweat or cry if he ever felt pressured to form words with his mouth in a public place. The comparison of reality made me feel pathetic.

I remember reading a book called Winning State: Tennis. One of the cornerstone phrases of the book was "Dream Big-- It's your Power!"

Even entering college, I remember, I wanted to be incredible. I dreamed of perfecting my body and mind. I wanted to reach the limit of human potential. I would go to early morning workouts and try and do thorough readings of all of my assignments and, quite frankly, I failed miserably. I would fall asleep in the middle of the day, in class and sometimes in the middle of my room, on the carpet instead of my bed. I did not speak in class. I did not get good grades. I gained twenty pounds, largely of muscle, but was still weak by most standards.

Idolatry.

Throughout life, I have often put on a mask in an attempt to keep others from knowing Nicholas Jay. I wanted to be the perfect caped crusader that it was impossible to be without the assistance of a non-existent radioactive arachnid or some higher power. I wanted to be something really special, something to write home about. I wanted to be something I wasn't.

And today, in a train of thought worth celebrating, I'm realizing that maybe I am wasting the laughter Nicholas Jay wants to share with this world. All for a shallow desire to be special that is rooted in a self-conscious, self-doubting insecurity. Reality will always look meek when you have no faith in your own identity. Reality will always feel like a sludge-ridden pit when you are not a superhero. I am not saying depression is completely within my control, but by god, I am going to stop feeding it with my delusions.

Maybe it's time for me to stop dreaming and figure out how to really enjoy this life.  Maybe it's time to find my adjective. Maybe I should share the secret identity that I have been keeping from those around me.

Maybe sometimes it's okay to let dreams die.

Hope Feeds the Ghost

Have I finally found the one?

I am not asking the question you think: Is this the person I love so truly that I will spend the remainder of my days with them, so perfectly compatible that I will never yearn for another human being's touch?

No. Cynics, rejoice. I am asking if this is the failed relationship that will end my desire to enter an emotional, spiritual, sexual bond again. I am asking if this is the failed relationship that will keep me guarded from falling again. I used to think that that was one of my most beautiful qualities--my ability to open up and fall in love again even after being hurt as a result of previous openings and fallings. I still think it is a beautiful quality. But I do not think it is one that I want anymore.

C was the best person in my life but she is essentially a ghost now. I am stuck alone with it. It haunts me but no one else can see it. They see a mess all about me and they are sorry. They carry on. I cannot see much of a point, but I try to carry on also, always something of a follower.

I have lost faith in other people. I have lost faith in myself as I grow to be more and more like them. I do not want to enter any new relationship, thinking this is enjoyable, this is possibly the person who will care for and appreciate me like I think I deserve. There is this underlying hope  in those thoughts that seems to be continually unmet. It is a hope that keeps you running in circles in your own haunted house.

This past relationship was my best. You could not always see it through the emotional instability of my depression, the stresses of my work and financial struggles, but I was the happiest I had been since I was a small child. There was not a romantic relationship I felt more sure about in my life. I did not once regret that this might be the last person to whom I had a serious attraction or for whom I had strong, romantic feelings.

I have dreams about her. I cannot even escape my thoughts of her in sleep. I want to scream at these specters to go away until my lungs collapse from the repeated effort. I want to hate her and get on with my life. But I cannot forget her tenderness when the rest of the world felt so hard and unrelenting. I cannot forget how her laugh made the tips of my toes and fingers sing with joy in a tiny, silent chorus. How her eyes made my anger and worries melt out of my pores and my days. I cannot thank her enough for all that she gave me. And yet all I can think about is myself and how much I wish this worked.

I am so angry at her for how easy this seems to be for her. But I do not know how easy it is for her. I am only projecting. But nonetheless, I feel like it should have been harder, and I am angry. Maybe not at her. But at myself, there is no doubt. I want to spit on my face and call myself a coward in the coldest hiss I can muster. I am so mad at myself for letting the insecurities that developed during a previous relationship affect this one. I am so mad at myself for not listening when she tried to talk, when I could not look past my fear of the relationship ending to see the problems that would end it. I am so mad at C for not trying harder to tell me. I am so mad at her for not giving me time to fix what I could. I am so mad at her for giving me up. I am so mad that the time I had to spend with my best friend and confidant, my lover and supporter, who both complemented and supplemented me, is over. I am so mad that my hope still lives on. Maybe you can make this work still, Nick. Maybe you were right. Maybe she loves you still and will want to be with you if you just bring it up one more time, Nick. Maybe the dreams will stop and you can hold her again. Maybe you can reaffirm that belief you have been taught throughout life--the one that there is someone out there for everyone. I know you want to stop believing that, but isn't she the best thing that's happened to you? Are you just going to give her up? Don't you love her?

And as my fingers slip and I let her go, I realize that I really do love her. And there is nothing wrong with that. That does not haunt me. I am sure I will love her for the rest of my life.

What haunts me is the hope I still hold for us. I always thought our love for each other was strong. I do not want to be wrong or else I have been lying to myself for a while now. I don't think I am wrong about that. But hope has served as nothing but a painful reminder of my loss. As Mad Max says in Fury Road, "Hope is a mistake you know. If you can't fix what's broken, you will go insane."

I hope she stays as she is--truly thoughtful and giving. The only broken things I can work on are the things I messed up on in the relationship. I will work on those. The insecurity, the jealousy, the dependence--those are the things I want to fix. Otherwise, I really will keep running in circles, going insane in this scary place.

How to Let Go of the Dreams You Did Not Even Know You Had?

I would like to go to sleep. But my mind reels and it churns, it dreams and it ponders, a lost poodle, eating a bug, hoping to provide an acceptable answer to its grumbling stomach.

She had just gotten back from a weekend trip in Vermont. I missed her terribly. She missed me too.

We had spoken before about her discovering she had a newfound attraction to women. We stayed together because she wanted to be with me despite that. Summer passed and we were apart, and I hoped that her feeling would remain the same--she would want to stay with me and her desire to act upon her recently-discovered sexuality would subside.

I went with her and her family on a nice vacation. 5 days. Then we drove up to New York together. She stayed with me at my apartment while she moved in and got her room ready. Then Vermont.

Now this.

I called my mother. I called my sister. I called my brother.

All missed calls.

I posted on a facebook group. Several responses telling me to message them. I don't even know any of them.

Spoke to an acquaintance about it because that's all I really have anymore. I had a best friend in her. Everyone else (aside from Peppy) kind of drops miles below her.

My sister calls me back. We both cry together. She tells me that I am an "amazing man," that she is "so proud" to call me her brother, and that she is glad that I could be the person who was there when C needed to discover her sexuality.

I am glad too. But a part of me is so selfish. I will never be able to forgive myself for saying, "Go home; we're breaking up." I hope C never forgets. I want her to find all that she is looking for, but god knows that I want her.

I hope C walks in the door as I finish typing this sentence...
maybe...
no.

I love her still. She loves me still (I wonder if she will still love me as long as I still love her). We did not want this. But I think we needed it.

I am so glad that I could be the person to help her along. I am. But it also feels like death. How to let go of the dreams you did not even know you had? The dreams had by your partner, the dreams talked about only in your deepest doldrums of slumber, the dreams you were about to have tonight, the dreams you shared and wish you could have back just for yourself, the ones with the beautiful green grass in front of a house under a glass sky where you could live until you died.

I will be right here, residing in that fading dream, for as long as it stays. I will wait right here, where it is oh-so-nice. Please, join me if you find that works for you. This dream is not the same without you.

Facebook Feuding: Same-Sex Marriage in the Wake of the Charleston Shooting

Finally, some good news in America! Same-sex marriage is legal across the States! This is an incredible milestone and June 26th will forever mark a beautiful step toward putting the ideal of Equality into practice.

But, unfortunately, not all of the "Nation's Homophobic Bigots Pack It In," as The Onion jokes.



This status is a reminder of that:

"Hey the supreme court did something else stupid in support of the immoral. What else is new?"

I do not know about you, but that was pretty different from what I was thinking. You could say it was as far opposite of what I was thinking as possible.

It is no surprise that this poster uses the Bible as the standard for their own personal moral code--they make that very apparent. Of course, their ultimate defense of this moral code is the Bible. Why defend the Bible's moral code with anything but the Bible's moral code? Flawless plan!

There are a ton of comments and replies on this thread, most of them the original poster talking about how "frustrating" the whole ordeal is, disagreeing with anything that might consider progress or a transition from the Old Testament.

I hate Facebook feuds. I tend to stay away from them. I have much time to think about what I want to say, which is great (despite the profuse sweat I usually work up in that time period), but then when it's posted, it is under your opponent's evil microscope, being probed for weakness. But how could I possibly let this slide?

I responded with this (writing this off of memory, but I think it is verbatim):

"Hi Henry. I am curious if you consider homosexuality to be a choice (because in actuality, it is a personality trait). I read that you are concerned for gay couples' children. I happen to know several people about my age who were raised by gay parents and they are beautiful, kind, brilliant and functional, sociable human beings. I wouldn't worry about them. Also, if you are using the Bible to create an environment of exclusion, fear, and judgment instead of Love and Acceptance, the religion's best lessons/qualities, then you are using it for the worst of reasons. What you have said is extremely hurtful to some people, that they are immoral for accepting and embracing their own sexual orientation. I hope that, though the Bible is in print, you can change your mind someday soon."

I decided that that was tactful and could create further discussion. I was genuinely interested in what response he would cook up for me, as disgusting as it could potentially be.

Enter.

End of Facebook friendship.

Bye, Henry! I am sorry that you decided to remove me from your friend list instead of responding, but I understand that frustration does not necessarily facilitate conversational or reasoning skills. Best of luck to you as you attempt to navigate through the rest of your life in a dynamic and ever-changing 21st century. I do not expect that it will be very easy for you.

By the way, my comment took place at about 8AM, so I highly doubt he was in some sort of drunken facebook-deletion rage. But, oh well, what can you do?

The same thing happened when I confronted people posting the Dylan Roof, Lee Boyd Malvo memes in response to the Dylan Roof, Eric Garner memes. I have one screenshot that I will post below. The other post was removed after I commented! And I didn't get a screenshot! Woe is me!

But he argued that the race of the person being arrested doesn't matter, as long as they do not resist, they will be treated well.  I argued that Black people have an overwhelming statistical likelihood to be subjected to police violence, I listed some stats (26% of all police killings were of Black people last year which is double their 13% representation in the US populous) and I posted this video to show how many altercations begin for no reason other than that the subject of harassment is Black:
Video Captures EXACTLY How Cops Treat Black People

No response, meme deleted.

Here is the other conversation (in which I had a tag team partner):

No response. Meme deleted.

I have since seen several posts by both of the original posters of the meme that seem to be continuations of our conversations though, as if to say, "Ha! I was right!" (in addition to a plethora of other terribly insensitive things that seem to come so naturally to them at their entitled vantage points, cliffs shared with the eagles, so far above). I did not comment on them mostly because it was tiresome and there are too many people like that on my newsfeed.

What bothers me is, though they deleted their posts (or me), I feel like I acted as a vaccine that made them stronger, with my single strand of common sense, which they are now immune to, having seen it and been given ample time to recover from it in their virtual solace. Did I make my opposing viewholder stronger by not arguing more diligently? Maybe I spread my focus too wide. Maybe I need to pick one person and just counter every thoughtless thing they might say. Then maybe I can get them to understand my thoughts. To succumb to my "virus" if you want to keep the analogy going (eek, maybe drop the analogy).

Let us conduct a social experiment! I would encourage each of you to latch on to your closest conservative facebook friend and counter everything they say, and if each of us does so, who knows, maybe Bernie Sanders will be elected as our next President. At the very least, you might get a few dumb posts redacted.

Being and Letting

A tornado warning--the best sound the radio offered all day (honorable mention to "Trap Queen" though).

I didn't even know tornadoes could form in New York. Driving through a wooded area between Poughkeepsie and Rhinebeck, I wondered about the damage it might cause to the natural habitat-- to the deer, ground hogs, foxes, squirrels. Did they know what to do? I didn't. I was from hurricane country. Yet, come to think of it, I didn't know how to increase my chances of surviving hurricanes either. My only knowledge of what to do in case of a tornado came from Wizard of Oz and Twister. Which, if you are not familiar with the films, meant my options were either lie down on a bed in my room and ride the wave or chase the damn thing.

I imagined pulling a U-turn in front of a newborn tornado. It screamed with the terror of a  confused and pained infant and so did I. It was a narrow road, so I had to really swing it. I booked it in the other direction, I couldn't imagine there would be much more to it than that. I would just outrace the tornado's tempestuous influence with my action-movie-hero grit. Simple.

My more rational self became audible.
Nick, you would probably run the car into oncoming traffic as soon as you saw the tornado--you probably wouldn't even see it with all of these trees around.
Hm. True.

That word. "True." It bothers me. I have a loose relationship with it, like a chronically dislocating shoulder, tendons forever weakened.

"True" is the uncertainty I feel in this life. I do not know anything about where I am going. I feel like I am losing touch with friends I held dear, with those in my geographic vicinity, and ultimately with myself. I would say I do not know myself, but I think I do. It's only that sometimes when attempting to express what I feel to be my essence, I fail ever so slightly so that my true self is altered in order to fit what I have just expressed. In this way, I change myself, I lose a part of me and I gain something else.

Worse than "true" is the "right" and "wrong" discourse. It is a conjecture not only that something is true, but also that it is the only truth. There is something about the object or action in question that makes it superior (not even-- superior suggests opinion, whereas "right" is assumed to be a non-debatable attachment that makes all else incorrect) to all other objects or actions.  How could something ever be right? There are only things that are beneficial and detrimental to the individual and even that is a grayscale and fluctuates from person to thing to place to person to corporation to plants to person.

I think something that would be beneficial to me is understanding that I am not quite as important or large as I think I am  not even remotely close to as important or large as I think I am. I have not been able to accept that, try as I might. Too much pride or ego or something that keeps me feeling like I am relevant beyond those who interact with me or explicitly care about me. I guess pride came about as an evolutionary trait that helps us survive. If we did not have pride, we probably would lose our young since we would not really see them as special, probably not fight for food since that would be hard and someone else needs that food just as much as we do, probably just give up sooner in general. Pride is important in that sense, but when I am soul-searching, it is a hindrance. All I can think about is occupation, what would pay well, what would society value, what would make a noticeable difference? That is not even soul-searching. It has nothing to do with me. It is about finding something that would make an out-of-touch boy feel proud and in-touch again, even if not with himself.

Why I am soul-searching in the first place? Can I stop looking for a grand purpose and just do the things I enjoy and live a life that I find worth living? I want to yell and laugh and break rules and be present, but all I can do is think of the consequences and the embarrassment and all of the reasons why I cannot do those things. Yes, money makes life easier, no doubt, but do I really have to waste my time cutting my hair every two weeks so that I can pretend to be professional or with menial tasks such as changing the periods to hyphens in the office's phone directory? Is that something that is going to matter when you or I is dead (or even tomorrow)? God, I hope not.  I want to be the goofy, happy-go-lucky, compassionate, sensitive person that my subconscious mind tries to let me be.

And this does not really matter in the long run (either), but I, as I know "I" to be, would want to be ended by a tornado--a beautiful epic destructive force that has been unchanged by the concrete and skyscrapers, unchanged by the opinions and the voices on the radio, unchanged by a description of itself. I do not want to die beneath a knife in an OR; too much antiseptic, too many scientific words. I just want to be, like a natural phenomenon, what I am.

Jurassic World: Why Bother? A Rant Review

Jurassic World in 3-freaking-D. That was the proposition I was faced with last week.

There was so much hype. How could I possibly turn down an offer like that? I could not. I am a fan of Chris Pratt (I watch a lot of Parks and Recreation) and I loved Jurassic Park when I was tot. Without much ado, I withdrew 10% of my account funds so that I could pay my friend back for the ticket.

We got there a few minutes early and the theater was surprisingly vacant. There were people there--it just was not jam-packed the way you would expect a blockbuster to be.  By the time the previews started, a huge crowd of young twenty-somethings came in with flat-rimmed hats, tight jeans, fashionable watches and straightened hair. Luckily for us, they only decided to sit right in front of us. You know the type. Drop-dead hilarious quips to nearly every line that elicits even the slightest internal reaction for you. Or talking about that sick party last night where so-and-so was so funny, he was so wasted, shit, man.

I couldn't wait to accompany them to the parking lot after the feature so that I could sneak a glimpse at their 2001 Mitsubishi Eclipses and marvel at the blue headlights and the maddeningly loud rumbles coming from their exhaust pipes.

I really liked them.

Anyway, from this point on, there may be some minor spoiler alerts, I guess. I say that with some detachment because, come on, do you really think anything unexpected is going to happen in this movie?

If you have seen Jurassic Park, you basically already know what happens. Kids go to the park. Dinosaur escapes. Kids run. Adults save kids, but a lot of adults also die. Raptors and T-Rexes make appearances throughout because it would disappoint those flat-rimmed kids A LOT if they did not. Frankly, I would also be a little disappointed. But would that not be fresh?

No, silly me. You know what is fresh? Here, go ahead and guess. What do you think could possibly be more exciting than just a plain Jane Velociraptor and a been-there-done-that Tyrannosaurus Rex? 

Thinking?

Got it yet?

If you answered, 

A GIGANTIC AMALGAM DINOSAUR THAT COMBINES BOTH THE T-REX AND THE RAPTOR, PLUS SOME DNA FROM CREATURES THAT WOULD MAKE IT LIKE A SUPER-POWERED VILLAINOUS DINOSAUR,
then you are correct!

AMAZING.

They call it Indominus Rex.

Again, amazing.

What else could make it exciting? Oh, I know--involve the military. Who does not love a dirty, scandalous ex-soldier who wants to use the dinosaurs for his own insidious interests? It really throws me for a loop, it is so darn original. Plus it allows for the itty bitty soldiers to fire their itty bitty guns at the GIGANTIC AMALGAM DINOSAUR.

I hate it.

Let us not forget about the love interest. Claire Dearing plays an overstretched park manager who has lost touch with what makes the park "great" (sigh). She is cold to Chris Pratt, and they banter and bicker upon first sight in the movie (mostly Chris, he is actually a huge asshole). The rest of the movie is Wooing Time for Chris Pratt, as the damsel in distress could use some saving in her high heels, designer outfit and slick hairdo. It is only a matter of time before she herself becomes a(n extremely sexualized) badass in heels and realizes that Chris is the one for her because every woman who probably just lost their job and all future employment opportunities only wants a hunky (/douchey) man, right?

Onto another plot point. The raptors can be trained. Chris Pratt is their alpha, as can be gathered from the trailers. The soldier guy wants them to be used for war. To Chris Pratt, and any viewer who has been watching any of the movie at all, that desire is far from fathomable. It is cringe-worthy that so much time is spent building up this plot point (essentially the entire movie) because you already know that it will not work out. It's like listening to a 2-hour joke when you already know the punchline. 

To segway, I just want to say, I love dogs. AMERICA loves dogs. We love predators (thus Jurassic's success). We are fascinated by violence. Which is why we like the dinosaurs that can kill. And what better than senseless killing machines like Indominus Rex? The dinosaurs we are familiar with--raptors! And to ensure we cannot dislike them, the moviemakers made them just like our favorite living animal. Raptors in this movie are just wild dogs. They react like dogs, they are trained like dogs, they turn their heads in a cute little way at Chris Pratt and have this unbelievable sense of loyalty comparable to their mammalian counterparts. But I just want to say, how cheap. Buy my love with some unique storytelling instead of imprinting our favorite animal onto our favorite dinosaur.

Essentially, Jurassic World is the equivalent of Indominus Rex. It is a sorry, sensationalized combination of things, much like something that has been done before, created solely to sell tickets. Right to its very end, Jurassic World is just asking, how can we make this movie as loud and flashy as your Mitsubishi Eclipse? It is certainly as dated, as hard as it pushes for a semblance of newness. Raptor and T-Rex team up to defeat the Indominus Rex at the end (with the help of mosasaur..?) and the way I see it, yeah, the classic dinosaurs (and story, of course) of Jurassic Park are significantly more adequate, novel and entertaining than the childish, quasi-imaginative "concepts" of Jurassic World.

All in all, I have to say I was very disappointed. If you decide to go watch it, that's fair, obviously. You should decide for yourself if it is any good. Just do not forget your flat-brimmed hat at home lest you feel left out.

My Dog Hates Skateboards, and He Is the Best

I have been taking care of my dog, Peppy, for about 10.5 months now. He is an intelligent, expressive and vibrant young Australian Cattle Dog that I adopted from an SPCA shelter nearby.

Peppy hogging the sheets in our apartment.

I live in an apartment with no closed backyard, so I walk him several times a day. On these walks, Peppy encounters things that are of great interest to him. His primary interest is other dogs. But certainly it does not end there! Oh, no.

He is also interested in squirrels, birds, large, loud men, children, high-pitched voices, bees, long-haired, bearded people, dropped food, groundhogs, fire hydrants, tall grass, deer, falling leaves and also shadows.

He does not like all of his interests, strangely enough. Usually when you think of interests, you think of things you like. Not Peppy. He often takes greatest interest in things he does not like. Too often.

The most prominent of his disliked interests are loud, rolling things. Semi-trucks. Buses. Tractors. If they are within his field of vision or audition, he immediately turns to where they are and either tries to chase them or digs his feet into the ground, starts shaking and breathing loudly and waits for them to get closer so he can viciously bark at them and successfully scare everyone sharing the sidewalk with him.

It's a progression. He is alerted. Then he gets excited. Then tense.

And then fucking livid (!!!) that such a creation is even on the face of the planet and convinced it should by all means be exterminated and he is just the dog for the job.

It's usually only a few seconds before the storm (truck) passes. Then he returns to normal, but walks with some more pep in his step.

The rough times are when we are walking on the sidewalk and he spots a skateboarder. Especially if we have not gone to the dog park that day, gods help us. When Peppy has not gone to the park, he acts as hyped up as a human who has just consumed four times their bodyweight in a viscous liquid mixture of coffee, cocaine and adrenaline. The difference is the person would die-- their heart would likely explode. Peppy drinks adrenacoffecaine for breakfast.

When a skateboarder careens-- or worse, lethargically drifts-- by, I am almost always certain that the morning headline will read, "Vicious dog breaks leash; skateboarding punk sees end of days", or something to that effect. The shocked look on the boarder's face: Oh my god, is that dog coming after ME? What the hell did I do?? OH GOD, WHAT DO I DO, SHOULD I STOP, OH GOD, OH GOD, JESUS, HELP, HELP MEEEE, GOD.
Then they're on their way.

Most times, I do not even see the skateboarder until Peppy is already freaking out.

I have grown to associate skateboarder with angry dog. This too, has been a progression.

Peppy hate skateboarder. Skateboarder give anger to Peppy. Me hate Peppy anger. Me hate skateboarder.

So when I walk by myself and I see a skateboarder, I think to myself, "That person is rude and uncaring and I don't know what business they have riding a skateboard when they could use literally any other mode of transportation if they wanted to, but they don't because they're selfish and I hate them!"

I mean, I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Comment if you agree! If you disagree, kindly remove yourself from the premises.

Workout Tips #1

I have gotten several fan letters requesting that I post workout tips. For all of you workout plebes, here you go--I hope you enjoy! Trade secrets!

The focus of this particular "Workout Tips" post will be home workouts.

PREPARATION
1. Make sure you have all of your workout equipment (e.g. pull-up bar, dumbbells, chairs, towel, water bottle).
2. Get yourself mentally prepared for the grueling workout ahead.
3. If you do not live alone, lock yourself in a secluded space so that no one can see you working out. You would not be doing a home workout if you felt comfortable with others watching you. And I mean, anyway, it is kind of embarrassing when you're grunting, all of your blood turning your head purple as you try to do one more push up and meanwhile your mom is trying to watch Pitch Perfect a few feet to your right. Other people just cannot seem to understand you. It is what makes you special, unique. It is a blessing and a curse.

WORKOUT
1. Place a mirror in your line of sight so you have something to look at in between exercises.
2. Turn off the fans and take your shirt off to produce a beautiful, glistening sweat for your viewing pleasure.
3. Be deathly silent, so as not to alert anyone that you are working out in the bathroom or your sibling's walk-in closet.

COOLDOWN
1. Skip the stretches and stare at yourself in the mirror.
2. Continue doing that.
3. Quietly pack up all of your equipment and wipe yourself down so no one suspects a thing.

RECOVERY
1. Make a smoothie with some organic bananas and junk, claiming you saw it on the Food Network.
2. Watch some Parks & Rec with some Ben & Jerry's because you can do whatever the hell you damn well want. But not because you just secretly worked out. By the way, if it seems like it is a lot of work to hide that you just worked out, it is because it is, but imagine how embarrassing it would be to reveal that you did work out but have been going through great lengths to hide it until now.
Just. Stick with. The plan.
3. If anyone asks where you have been, just say, "What," and make no eye contact.


There you go! Let me know how it goes, and as always, happy healthy living!

A Man of Many Goals

I planned on posting in this blog daily.

Today is the first day after the creation of the blog and I am STRUGGLING to get something posted.

It is not my vision to make this blog one that is narcissistic and self-indulgent. So hopefully most of my posts will not be like this one. But Kurt Vonnegut, in his short essay "How to Write with Style," recommends that writers find a subject they care about. Well, I care about me (sometimes).

When I am caring for myself, now being one of those times, you can be sure to find that I assemble hordes of lists, lists that ultimately consume me from the inside out, top to bottom. You could say I obsess over making lists. It is organizational, it allows me to imagine an ideal world/self, and while I am making a list, I do not actually have to do anything!

Some of these lists include:
daily to-do lists (do the dishes that you didn't do yesterday/because you haven't done dishes in like two weeks);
lists that tell me the things that I want to get for my family members for their special days;
lists of things I need to invest in (e.g. an oil change);
lists of bills that I have to pay;
lists of movies I want to watch/books I want to read;
lists of daily affirmations that I will repeat to myself 10 times each morning until I believe them (actually someone else made one of these for me and I use that one);
and last but definitely not least, a list of goals that I have set for myself to accomplish.

These are usually an eclectic group of goals, but they are all similar in that they require my most disciplined and devoted frame of mind to complete. If I am to accomplish all of them, I certainly must sleep less than I do now.

I'll tell you what my goals are now. They hang in my bathroom, above the toilet, post-its stuck onto a neon pink posterboard.

GOAL #1: P90X
-Everyday
-Best Shape of your life!
Notes: Wow. What? Hard.

GOAL #2: READ
-2.5 books this summer
Notes: Okay, that's manageable, right? 2.5 books. That's not very much. Then consider that I began reading Stephen King's Dark Tower series in the 7th grade and did not finish it before graduating high school. In fact, still have not finished it. And I probably never will.

GOAL #3: JUST WRITE MORE!
-Take 30 min a day
Notes: This is where Sick of Not Caring comes in. But I'm not sure that 30 minutes a day is enough time devoted to this. For me, everything is such a process that by the time 30 minutes is up, I have only just taken out my pen and finished clipping my toenails.

GOAL #4: SAVE MONEY FOR FINANCIAL INVESTMENTS
-Look at list on phone
-Get as many hours at work as possible
Notes: I'm starting to realize that I cannot get the infinite hours at work I imagined. This equals no big bucks, which equals no sports cars.
Kidding. It equals still struggling to pay bills.

GOAL #5: PLAY A BUNCH OF TENNIS
Notes: I want to win this tennis tournament in July because if I do I get a bonus at my teaching pro position. Plus, I'm kind of competitive.

There are more, but I think I'll spare you.

Each one of these goals has an interesting obstacle. Most notably is time. I spend a large slice of my day just thinking and daydreaming. I spend another large slice taking care of my dog. Then a third and fourth slice on sleeping. I have 4 slices left, but, by then, I am not very hungry to accomplish anything. I would rather play arcade games and drink soda. But this very desire is why goals are important to me.

They give me a direction. I often daydream and think about purpose in life (nope, have not found it yet--but droning in front of video games does not make me feel good about myself), and these lists and goals help me do things instead of shriveling into a little ball in my bed and ignoring the world until my landlord is forced to evict me because I have not gone into work or paid rent.

After making the goals, I put them on my Google calendar. That syncs to my phone and reminds me that I have things to do. That's helpful for when I get too involved in a game of Candy Crush. A notification pops up and I think, "Oh, shit. It's time to work out my legs and back with Tony Horton. I don't want to do that. But I know I need to in order to get into the 'Best Shape of my life!', so I guess I will. Ugh." But then I do it.

When I'm struggling to get things done (as I am with this blog post), goal-setting and then assigning the activity that will help me reach that goal to a specific block of time really helps me through. It also helps when I feel like I have lost my individuality. Sometimes, I find that I am devoting all of my free energy and thought to my girlfriend, family and dog and I forget to do things for myself. Goal-setting has been my answer for finding my bearings. My only worry is that I am spreading myself too thin sometimes. But I am giving this all a fair shot this summer. And I will keep you posted.





Are there things you do when you're losing touch with yourself, your motivation or individuality..? If comfortable, share in the comments!

The Sick of Not Caring Blog Purpose

I am a college graduate who wants to be a writer. I know that in order to be a writer, one must write, just as a teacher must teach a bartender must tend bar. How the hell can you be an ______er without _____ing? The answer is you cannot be an ______er without ______ing.

I have, instead of pursuing writing, devoted most of my time to coaching tennis, taking care of my dog, seeing my girlfriend, working out and the like. But I don't regret any of that! Quite the contrary, I love those things and most days, they will be the inspiration and basis of my writing.

The purpose of this blog is to get me to write. There is a Mitch Hedberg joke that goes, "I bought a seven-dollar pen because I always lose pens and I got sick of not caring."

This blog will be my seven-dollar pen. Though I paid no money for it, I will promote it, thus holding myself accountable for posting in it regularly, if not daily. I am sick of tossing my writing to the wayside and not caring.

I want to invest in this. I hope you become invested too, dear reader!