We all tread the same ground, the same paths. Slight variations exist in some. Others, wild, off-putting, or out of left field.

Music treads these same grounds. Artists re-use the same song titles, album titles, in some cases the same lines without knowing. Some cover the same damn song with no variation - an annoyance of mine.

In this case the song title is the same. I've spent enough time here on the island, listening to "In Rainbows," to know that "All I Need" is definitely a favorite song of mine, my favorite on the album right now. A tip of the hat to Ringer for his love of "Reckoner."

Every once in a while we get lucky, we get blessed with such great music. It is truly rare to find a band that does it as consistently as Radiohead. I can remember each time I was moved by their music, not only by the sounds, but where I was in my life in that time, and what was going on. For "The Bends," it was a birthday. I hadn't known that they had a new album out, but it was a gift from a progressive cousin of mine.  

"OK Computer" was about to be released, I saw the stars it got in Rolling Stone, and bought it. I told everyone I knew about it. It was THE album for me my senior year.

"Kid A" came out. I bought it that day, at Media Play. I took my three foot bong over to Timmy's place and we smoked in the Galaxie with Lauren and listened to the album. That was one of the best moments of my life, parked on the side of the old house, bass rumbling through the seats...

"Amnesiac" was on its' way. I was working at Hot Topic. I was SO excited. I'd downloaded a bunch of the new stuff off Napster and was constantly listening to "Pyramid Song" and "Alligators In New York Sewers" (aka "Fog - New York Version"). Once again I got it the day it came out, and it became my #1 album.

"Hail To The Thief" was coming out, and I was in love. Earlier in the week, I'd heard that there had been an online leak of the album. My friend Jeff and I were hanging out, writing and re-writing songs, and I asked him if he'd heard anything about it. Ten minutes later we had the album in hand. I copied it for her and we each had it, we shared it like a joint on Christmas morning.

Now, the new album's out and I've listened to it ten times now, at least. Each listen reminds me of my work and my problems and my place and my time here in Hawaii. It's the night before the wedding and I'm cutting little hearts out of blue paper and helping with what I can and swilling beer and coffee and I nearly fell to my death today but here I am with you, Radiohead.

And my favorite song on the new album is "All I Need," and one of my other favorite songs is "All I Need" by Air. Give it a listen.

It's pretty goddamn mellow.

Anything but retired, I lay on the small foam mattress on the floor. "Just like home," I thought.

It was a lie, though. Outside lay the Pacific Ocean, bright blue death and so much beauty.

Hawai'i, the island, is an active volcano. Where I was located was literally on the side of it. We had made our way down to the beach that morning, a place called Queen Bath. Man-eating Tiger and Great White varieties of shark that roamed the waters surrounding the islands. This particular island was a haven for Tiger sharks.

The thing about Queen Bath is, when the lava came down the mountain that last time, it made this protected little cove. The Queen of Hawai'i would visit it and and bathe in the waters, and not have to worry about the sharks. It was a holy place, once. Now big businesses were openly buying the land and destroying it, building Wal-Marts and Starbucks and the like. The Hawaiians couldn't do a damn thing but watch, and got no money from the raping of their land. Poor Hawaiians were everywhere. Parking to go on our short walk to the beach, a family of five stood beside their vehicle, tailgate open to the air. It was set up as a sleeping area. I heard, I saw the anger they possessed. 

But, oh, what a tan.

I stared at the bottle. The fan was on in the bathroom. That was the way I liked it. Nobody could hear me in there. Nobody could hear me outside.

It was a plain bottle. I'd seen a million like it before. The darkish orange/brown color. I'd taken a million pills. Drank a million spoonfuls of prescription medication.

Once we sat in a dark basement, behind a japanese blind. We hid to make sure his mother didn't see. There was some potent marijuana in a bag on the table. We broke it up, packed it into a water pipe. I had him pull out the shot glasses and poured us out one shot each. Liquid Vicodin. Well over one pint was left. The night hadn't even begun.

Back in the bathroom, I looked at the bottle. I looked at the off-yellow tile. The bathroom floor had me wondering. Hadn't I promised myself? Speed never did much for me. I already thought at what I believed was a high rate. The shit made me nuts. It also made the next day rather boring and painful. I'd shit my brains out for hours and sweat, sweat, sweat as my mind raced. And waste away the sunlight.

I looked at my hands in the light of the bare bulb. Maybe it wasn't written in the stars that I should go on living. Maybe I should eat some of the pills. Just one? What if I did? Maybe my night would go better...

He was dead, according to the paper. He sat in a dingy bar. I was serving the drinks. It had been a slow day. Perhaps he was the third customer of the day. In those times, only one day of the week would net me any real money. I dealt with it. I worked the bad days, waiting for the good.

It was a twisted path he lead. One of dark alleys and destruction. Cocaine'd and cross-eye'd. He was dealer, he was a user. But he changed his life. He became a chef. He was proud of himself, he was proud of his new family, of his new life. We relished the facts together.

We'd never been great friends. Acquaintances at best. But that day changed everything. Friendship can be bred in a matter of seconds. In our case it was born in a hour and a half, a few beers bought, at least one on the house.

I walked out of the bathroom and made my way into the kitchen. I opened the fridge door and took out my brandy and my mixer. The mixer itself was speed. America, the world was hooked on speed. I was drinking another form of it.

The pills weren't gonna help. I knew there were problems. Maybe my heart would give out as I slept.

I mixed myself another alcohol-speed concoction, took my drink to the couch. The cushions were soft, seemed moist against my skin. I sipped at the drink. I considered my own mortality.

I got up and turned the light off in the bathroom. I left the bottle of pills alone. I went back to the kitchen, took a pull from the bottle of brandy. More of the hard road was ahead. I was just beginning to ride it, and only my courage could keep me from dying on it.

I could feel the fluttering in my chest as I walked around campus. Too much beer last night? Maybe, maybe. What was too much? Anything that interfered with my current drug schedule. Ha. I met up with my teacher. We talked about writing, about independent studies, about the women around campus. I was very happy to be back on campus. The girls, the women were everywhere, each time you looked up, each time you blinked. He agreed with me on some points.

"The way you're talking, you're going to get me fired," he said, only mildly joking. I hadn't been feeling this good in a long time. The women around campus definitely made my spirits rise, along with other, things. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to fuck each one of them, make them mine, and forget their names in a single sentence. The good-looking ones, of course.

A fat woman, a big woman can have a pretty face. And that's okay with me. Once, I used to rally my own feelings up against such nonsense. "A fat woman with a pretty face is like God laughing at you," I'd say to friends. Now things were different - I didn't care. My boss' daughter was a large woman - just like him - but had a pretty face, the kind you couldn't argue with. Good Christ she was huge. Maybe God was laughing at me, somewhere...

My teacher friend took off to meet up with his family, another family meal, another family outing. I couldn't get it. Now, at least. Before, a long term relationship, plans for a wedding, for children, for a so-called future. I loved that girl. I'd still think about her every day, a corrosive clockwork to the beating of my heart. But now...I wouldn't trade my life back for that. There were too many smiling faces I wanted to kiss, there were too many pussies I wanted to explore.

My married friends were beginning to pile up into the dozens. I wondered about them but not as much as you might think. I knew what was happening, what was going to happen: I would be left with a few of them as friends and the rest as acquaintances (if I was lucky). The ones I was going to stop being friends with at some point were the ones who were trying to force me to date their friends. This never ended well. They all wanted he same thing: a commitment I was unwilling to give, and somebody to have a child with. "I don't want kids...not now, not ever," I'd tell them, and for the most part , they'd let me be. I didn't even know if it were true. But the girls my age were all looking for the same, the be-all, end-all relationship, the person to have and to hold, and all I wanted was a blowjob and a healthy nights' rest.

The sun was out and I started making my way across campus again, and it was an off day. Not too many girls but enough for me to pay attention, enough for me to stop and look. I never bothered to whistle. That always seemed like the cheap refuge of the young, or, those who were unable to engage in meaningful conversation. I could talk to anybody about anything. I could make anybody laugh. I was a talented orator.

I was also ten years older than most of them, or close to it, a former drug dealer, abuser of drugs and women and trust and life. I was looking at school like a second chance for me and my dick. with my dick first in line.

The library usually held some kind of excitement. I sat at one of the terminals and let time pass, listened to the girls across from me talk. "Look at the picture - I used to date this guy. Do you think he's ugly?" The girl who was talking looked cute but under the pancake makeup and hair there was some kind of ugliness. I decided I'd look at her tits if I got the chance at a later juncture. Her friend was ugly and I could've care less.

My stomach started bothering me again. Loud, loud noises. "Too much beer," it told me. An appointment in the afternoon for a new job and my stomach was not going to calm down. I needed to shit. Beer shits in school. I signed off the computer and started walking around.

The lower level of the school has multiple bathrooms, but certain ones attract human shit in their overpriced designer clothing on a higher level. You can always tell when they've been there: they use they stalls and piss all over the floor, the seat, behind the seat. It's like walking into a truck stop, a busy rest area that hasn't been cleaned in days. There's no real division between men except in bathroom etiquette. Either you aim correctly or clean up after yourself, or you don't give a shit about anybody else and let it fly. I've been in enough bars and rest stops to know there's no true difference between the bathrooms, minus that at the stops not everybody is drunk.

I searched for the mythic clean bathroom and it took walking up the stairs and then down, and on my third try I found the one. The rumbling in my stomach was audible. I knew relief was on its' way. I picked out the cleanest of the clean stalls (Ten in all! Glory!) and sat myself down. I was ready for the storm. There was nobody else in the bathroom. It was mine.
I held my book and slowly read as I shat out the previous nights' adventures, sweat forming on my forehead and beginning to drip. I couldn't smell it - thank God, somebody - at least there was that. And, an empty bathroom. I could stay
in there all day if I wanted to.

Now and then I would hear the door open, listen to the footfalls of somebody walking to the other side, listen to them urinate, maybe hum to themselves. One guy came in and pissed and I could hear him singing a Gregory Isaacs song as he washed his hands. Apparently he was in love with his cock. Not a bad thing to be.

He left and I had five minutes to myself. Automated bathroom flushers suck because you have to get up to make them work, so I'd wipe my ass between shits, hold off the best I could, rise and wait for the flush, sit back down and continue. A minor annoyance. My book was good, some nameless writer recommended by a friend. I sat and shat and read.

The door opened, two guys this time. They talked about what I don't know I couldn't understand them where I was. One of them went to wash his hands, said goodbye to the other and left; the other guy, from the sound of it, was still pissing. I admired him in that moment: to have a such a giant bladder.

I heard the toilet flush and he walked over to my side. I paused my reading and wondered if he was looking at my stall, if he knew he wasn't alone. I listened. Heard his fly unzip.

He was beating off. Looking at the mirror, I'd guess. "Yeah, YEAH!" He screamed. I wondered if he knew I was there. He just kept moaning and tugging at his dick and I just waited, waited to hear what happened, if he was going to wait outside of the stall for me to exit. He moaned more, louder, louder again and it was over. I heard the fly zip and the water turn on, a minute later he was out the door. I went back to my book.

Ten minutes later I gave my ass a thorough wiping, got up and covered my half-naked self with my pants again. I grabbed my book and stuck it in my armpit, got some soap and washed my hands, dried them on my shirt. Instinctively my eyes went to the floor.

And there it was, sloppy white, a spray of cum on the floor. I looked at it for a second and walked out the door.

As if there was ever any question.

Everybody's living their own lives these days. I don't see the people I really care about anymore, friends don't call, end up hating me on personal reflection. Meanwhile, I write and live my life in my own haphazard way. And because of this, some of these fucks are going to hate me even more. It's your time, buddy. Waste it away.

My life takes these little turns now and then, from happy to shit in about .025 seconds. I've been riding this particular life-wave for some many fucking years that I've been looking for an end. And now I've got it. What about it? What can I say?

Thank you, Uncle Sam!

That's right, I've gone and joined the Marines! I truly think I've made the right choice for myself at this juncture of my life. In December I'll be leaving for Camp Lejeune, and

Okay, I'm fucking with you. Uncle Sam has helped me though. He's paying for my ancient ass to go back to school full-time, and it looks like I'll have enough left over to buy some righteous new supplies for my classes - i.e. a new digital video camera. Yay!

It's been a while since I've been outright happy about anything. I'm going to school full-time, and that should be scary. But I'm in control of some factors now, being my mind and my right hand. I touch myself alot.

So I'm going to be taking Intro to Cultural Anthropology. I needed a science class and it sounded nice. Sort of rolls of the tongue.

I've designed an English class for myself where I basically do what I normally do (as in, write all the time) and get credit for it. I also have to read the books I want to read, write an analytical paper or two along with some long-form stories, and just do the work I love. This is going to be the best 3 credit hours ever.

A particular Mr. Salerno seems to believe in my abilities as a video/film artist so I'm branching out and making my first long film, taking an Independent Study class with him. Ideally, the filming would be done by October the 11th because the next day I'm off to Hawaii. Of course, I'm just being overly positive. But hey, that's a change!

Man, I wrote this song last week with a couple friends of mine, called Zing Zing. Nothing to do with pandas. I felt so good about it, I feel so good about it. The guy and gal I wrote it with are in Jersey right now as she is auditioning for American Idol, but when they get back, we'll be making more music. It makes me so glad to be playing and writing again.

Back to school...let's see. I'm back in another (woo!) Creative Writing class too. That's four classes. I sent out an email today to Linda Burk, to get into her Spanish I class. I really really hope she lets me in. I've got some prior know-how in speaking espanol and I think with the right training I'll be speaking it again. Also, my buddy John is Puerto Rican. He'll help me with it.

So let's make a list of what I've accomplished in two weeks.

1. Wrote a great new song.
2. Got full financial aid.
3. Signed up for 4, maybe 5 classes.
4. Made my own curriculum for Independent Studies Creative Writing and Filmmaking.

When I was kid I saw all these great artists around me. Painters, writers, filmmakers, musicians. I was always surrounded by art. And now that I'm a man, now that I feel like I'm my own man, I look at myself, and I'm one of them, and that makes me proud to be me. Fuck every office in America.

I'm old man river and I'm living and I feel fucking great. But that's because I'm the greatest.

And so are you.

Fuck you , James Bond.

A Monday, a fine Monday, overcast, clammy. I feel like my armpits are going to stay glued together forever.

I worked at a wedding this weekend. My friend's mom married her longtime boyfriend in an outdoor service. It was on Saturday, it was very hot, it was on a 30 acre farm, it was gorgeous. I basically did nothing. Hardly anybody wanted a complicated drink.

I rolled that over in my head as I sat here this morning. I've bartended a few places, but for the most part, nobody wants a complicated drink. It's always two or three components. The truly complicated ones are reserved for kids and/or fads. The complication can lie either in number of ingredients, or time to make the drink. Case in point: The Mojito. Everybody wants a fucking Mojito these days, with multiple ad campaigns creating public interest. A bitch to make. Muddle twelve mint leaves. Juice half of a lime. Add Rum. Add soda. Don't forget the ice, don't forget the straw.

How about a couple years back? Think hard now, as you may have annihilated some of the brain cells required to recall this. I can remember everybody drinking Long Island Ice Teas. Whenever we went out, it was beer, and as they came to be called, L.I.T.s. That's 1/2 oz. of Gin, Tequila, Rum, Vodka, and Triple Sec, fill the glass with sour mix, and give it a spritz of Coke for color. Yum! They actually take less time to make than you'd think. Still, that's quite a few ingredients, and the main bitch is that you're using five different bottles (along with the soda gun). There's actually a Long Island Ice Tea mix that's out now, the liquor pre-mixed in one bottle, ready to go. Possibly the laziest thing I've seen in bartending...

So this weekend I'm working and the most complicated thing I make is a Rumpleminze shot. Straight up Rumpely-Dumpely, chilled with ice. It was tough because there was no strainer, so I had to be careful not to dump ice into the glasses. Aside from that I made more Vodka Collins than should be legal and opened a lot of beer bottles. I pocketed some money and had a great time, tied one on with my friends' Uncle and camped out the rest of the night with my friends, in an adjacent field.

But let's get back to these drinks. For the most part, nobody wants a complicated drink. They want Captain & Coke, Stoli & Soda, Jack & Water (Which I personally loathe). I think this choice has a lot to do with life. People, all people like things straightforward, no hidden intracacies . Every once in a while, we'll get a bit lax, try something new and see what happens. Maybe we tell other people about it, our friends, an acquaintance at the job. They try it out. Eventually, interest fades and we move on something else. Perhaps next time it will be a Tic -Tac. Or some kind of Bomb (Jager, Car, etc.). Perhaps some fruit-infused schtick, the likes of which seem to be taking off these days. In the end, we're still going to want that Captain & Coke. Perhaps, as we sip on that drink, sitting with our friends at the bar, we'll wonder what fuck came up with mixing muddled mint and lime juice in the first place, and chuckle to ourselves.

Girls, girls, girls.

I sit around some nights at my bar and wonder at it all, all the girls all over this weird planet. There's so many of them. What's a young lad like myself to do?

Every week it's the same story. Girls, drunk or not, at the bar. Talking to me, attempting to get my attention, win my favor, or, as I sometimes expect, make me puke.

I leave the bar and the sober ones and the drunk ones and the drugged-up ones, all do the same thing. Perhaps it is my utter indifference that they are attracted to.

For a while I was in a relationship. A long one. Breaking up, getting back together. Some of you readers may know of this.

And now, it's been long enough for me to start seeing other people, hang out with other girls, you know the drill. For me, it's a five day a week program.

They all want the same thing. Relationship. Commitment.

I'd say I feel bad if I had any emotion left. But for the most part, I could care less.

I'm not going to put forth the effort. Maybe somebody really special will come my way. Who knows? But as I see and hang out with more girls day to day I realize, "Man, lots of them are fucked up." And you know, ME TOO.

I'm just not willing to get into something with some girl (or woman, if you prefer) if they have any issues. I mean, ANY. "You don't like my brand of dishsoap? GOODBYE!"

Truth is, I have enough going on as it is. Aside from my weekly regimen of hanging out with the opposite sex, I'm writing and working on my new film and as I mentioned earlier, living in Manchester, Connecticut. This is more of a problem than I am letting on.

The reason it is a problem is 5 minutes up the street is my ex-girlfriend's home. Since moving here I have seen her a few times - enough to make me nearly batty. I don't want anything with her...do I? What's going on in my head? Fuck!

The girls I meet now, oh god, three-quarters of them...fuck nearly all I can read like an open book. One girl I had been seeing, I knew something was up and it came to me one day when she was walking into her bedroom. Popping pills. No mention of that before, but there I am in my skivvies and there she is popping away. ADIOS!

As I mentioned earlier, I have enough of my own problems, bullshit going on. This doesn't only relate to talent ('Cause I've got that. Yeeeah...), but that last relationship jaded me, and it's going to take work on my end to break that. Work, and time.

Man one of my greatest friends set me up with this girl and she is so fine. I mean, she's level-headed, has a good job, has tattoos (and I like those!). She also digs good music. HUGE plus.

BUT, everytime I see her she starts talking about relationships. And she's rad, you know, she's so damn cool. And I'm lonely.

But I'm not that lonely yet.

It's a fact, I use Myspace more than I do this site. There are reasons for that these days as opposed to those past.

I'm back working as a bartender and couldn't be happier. Besides the obvious positives of having a job like this - free booze comes to mind - I am scheduling shows there and so far have given two weekend slots to friends of mine. I'll come back to this.

I work and wonder, why didn't I keep doing this? I hate working, don't censor myself and if bartending isn't the best job for a person like me than I don't know what is. I work three nights a week, 6-8 hours, make way more than I could at a "normal" job, and go home happy. It's not like I'm putting myself out - I have to vacuum at the end of the night and wipe down the bar, but that's the only thing that could even fall under the moniker "work." I can't remember another job where I had such little responsibility, and came out on top. Oh, oh yeah...The Halloween Scene...those were some CRAZY times - just ask Ellis.

I've been updating my bar's Myspace page, which was buried under gimmicky crap, working on it, you could say. That's fairly easy work. That's why I spend time on there, not a big deal. I also write letters every day, to local folks and to my buddy Riaan, who is in Iraq. He's a Marine in the middle of the shit. That's all I can say about it without divulging information that could get one of us in trouble.

I now have enough time to write. I can do it all day. ALL DAY. I bought myself a new journal and am currently filling in 3-5 pages at a time. Combined with the letters I write, my current output is 10-13 pages/day. This is after I get up at 11AM. I sit around in my underwear and type, move to my journal, play some music, video games, talk to my female friends, hang out with them. *Sigh*

I'm going to have to continue this later. I just got a call. I've got to go to the studio. NOW.

AND NOW, CONTINUATION...

As Brian mentioned in his comments to my previous half a blog I am working my ass off in his film class. I did run into a snag this past week with my final edit - having to re-edit at the last possible minute - but because of his giving nature I was able to trudge out in the rain and get the required media to complete my project. Thanks Brian. My work is not for naught!

Also, my short film is going to be made in class. This is huge for me. I'm ready, I've been ready since before class started, and have been writing the story and updating the script on a weekly basis. ZOMBIE MOVIE! RAAAAARGH!

Yesterday was my father's birthday so I had dinner with him, my mother and my cousin Alijah. I spend a good amount of my weekly time taking care of Alijah, hanging out with him. I am the male figure in his life. I reflect upon this at times and know I am not the best person for the job. I have a dirty mouth (which I attempt to curb), and a general dislike of most humans. These are the negatives. There are positives: I keep the both of us busy going to restaurants, visiting friends, playing video games. Video games are a good thing for a growing boy. Especially Super Mario Bros. 3, which he played for the first time this past week. He's not good at it, at all...I used to be that way though. I started playing that game at the same age he is now. 10!

I've also been using comics to get him to read more, and learn more words. He's read a few of the ones that I have but I gave him the "Marvels" graphic novel by Alex Ross and Kurt Busiek yesterday. I think this will open his mind in a new fashion and I can't wait to gauge his reaction to the wiritng and the artwork - the book is completely painted.

Who would have thought I would be a father figure? He calls me his cousin and I am glad to be that. I know the score, however, and once he gets older I'm sure he will too. He's a good kid. I just wish his father was around in a capacity to be a bigger part of his life. I think it makes him feel like the man doesn't care. I agree with that view, though for him it is unhealthy. If I lived 45 minutes away from my son nothing would keep me away from him.

Another thing I have been working on is the press kit for my friends' Hip-Hop group, Anonymous Assholes (AA). This isn't meant to be a gimmicky name, I feel it's use will draw people to the group. They have been together for 3 yeas running, are underground, have a good sized group of fans. I like to assist these guys. They are my friends and have been for years. I loan them records from my vast (if I do say so myself) collection for samples. If you go to my myspace page (www.myspace.com/thisisdestruction), they're my first friend in my Top 8. Check them out.

Another thing I am doing is promoting shows and this ties back into the bartending. March 31st we are hosting the only true underground hip-hop show this side of the river. If all goes well this will be a constant Saturday night gig, for any and all comers deemed worthy...I.E. nobody who raps about having money, guns and drugs. This is real life people. Not a commercial.

Everybody benefits from this, the scene, the performers, my bar, me. I'm proud to say I set it up. If you are in the area on March 31st, come down to 645 Sullivan Ave in South Windsor and pack the bar. It's going to be a huge show, and if the weather permits, we will open the patio and have the fire pit going.

I'm moving in with my friend this weekend, in Manchester. I'm taking over his finished basement which will not only give me a bevy of space but also a place where I can be left to my own devices. With my 18 hour a week job, this is going to be quite healthy for me. I envision long days of words and of course, the occasional bottle of red.

Although I was sick yesterday, I wrote a new story and read part of my favorite book, Ernest Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms." I believe if you look at what I am doing with my life, you will see things have changed. I am exactly where I want to be, doing what I've wanted to do for years. This is my year. This is my life.

In a change of pace, I am Number One. I won first place in the annual writing competion at MCC. I didn't think I was going to win it. I was pretty nervous, sitting right in front, listening to other writer's material be read. Nerve-wracking. 5 other awards were handed out before the short story catergory. I was convinvced I wouldn't win and did my best to choke back the feeling that I would as the presenter read excerpts from the runner-ups story, then second place's, then mine. It sounded so good coming from a woman's lips.

My folks came for the reading/award, my friend Nora, and my close college buddies. There were also some great writers in attendance that were hearing what I wrote for the first time, who thought it was great, and of course that meant the world to me.  

Afterwards, I perused the art show with Nora and my friends Steve and Sierra, then Nora went home and we met up with more friends, had a few drinks, and watched The Shining.

All in all, a productive evening. 

Today is the day I get this award for writing. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's a plaque or a piece of paper. The ceremony's a few hours off. I received an email reminding me of the event yesterday, along with a disclaimer of sorts saying that parts of my story are going to be read to the audience. FUCK that's weird. I'm having butterflies in my stomach wondering if it's me that has to do the reading. God I hope not. But if I have to I'll make sure it's a part that will make the crowd squirm in their seats.

Part of me, the gloat, the born black sheep, wants the big award...if their is such a thing. I was told that their are runner-up positions and the like. I'd love to win this one, if not for the ego boost, just to say, "Hey look what I did. I didn't even try for this shit. Imagine what I can do if I put my mind to it."

Time to step off that pedestal of dreams, though. Can't get ahead of myself.

In the real world, where dreams are just another joke, I'm looking for a mindless job that doesn't pay bad...waiting for financial aid confirmation...thinking about Hawaii and Maryland and all my friends getting married and having kids. I don't know if I'm cut out for that version of life.

At Thanksgiving, my very married sister and my cousin's fiance took the time to ask those questions..."When are you going to get married?"..."When are you going to have kids?"..."Are you seeing anybody?" Blahblahblah. I go to dinner with my mother and/or father once a week, and this week was no different. As I sat at the table with my mother and cousin, and my cousin's son, I of course couldn't eat without the familiar battery of questions. "Who are you seeing?"..."How's work?"..."Why do you talk like that?"..."Why can't you be more like..."... "When are you going to grow up?" I reflect on these uncomfortable moments and realize if this growing up to them, I don't want it.

I'm going to keep living this life on my own terms, and if that's too much for you, well...you're not me, are you? Maybe I've gotten too heavy with it, with it all...but the people who tell me to change and how to live are the same folks miserably working in a cubicle day in and day out, trying to reach some monetary or possession-based goal. It's a beautiful day outside. Point made.