I'm Back Home, I want to go

A friend told me to write about being back home after my first year away at college. I am not entirely sure if he was aware of the amount of time I have thought about this exact thing. Nor do I suspect, that he has any idea what my thoughts and feelings may be.



Before I shift into the darkness I will dwell on the light. I love my family, my brother, my mother, my father. I enjoy spending time with them, getting to listen about their days. I love talking with my grandmother and making her laugh; listening to her talk adoringly of her cat, and crying the next moment for whatever reason. I have the patience to listen to her repeat herself again, and again. And for the time being she still remembers our names, but that time is short.

The disease is taking her quickly, and I watch my mom struggle with it. I watch her stress and worry, and internalize her fear that Alzheimer's will eventually take her mind as well. I embrace her and let her know that it will not happen (for it very likely won't) her mind is sharp and her memory is close to flawless. She is frightened regardless of my observations, so I try to change the subject and make her laugh.

I'm good at that you know, I produce a sarcastic remark and mention some news I had not shared, then turn it toward something she cares about. I get her talking about school, and teaching, and Spanish. I focus her on her passion and she forget--if only for a moment.

The problem is, I never forget these things. While my memory has always been terrible, I have never had trouble recollecting the bad. The terrible and awful things that have happened; to myself, and to the rest of the world. I want to be apathetic to it all and walk away, but I cannot. I am tired, I am exhausted, of everything and everyone--myself included, sometimes myself the most. It is not a hatred or loathing that I have, as some of my friends and family claim that I possess. No, I don't hate anything really, do things disgust me? Do I find a great deal of things pathetic and stupid? Yes, god yes. I think human beings are broken, broken beyond repair. With everyday I become more and more aware of how broken each person is. How pathetically, and childishly fucked up they are. How the most insignificant and silly things can put someone in a foul mood. Everyone is guilty of it, myself included no matter how arrogant I appear in writing this.

Human beings are so scared of everything. I suppose that is something I hate, the amount of irrational fear people possess. The fact that I lack the capacity to walk up to a girl I don't know and have a conversation with her in an attempt to get her number. Or that so many girls and guys are so afraid of relationships that they will do anything to sabotage a potential one. I don't want to play this game anymore, I want to have fun, I want be there for the people that mean something to me, but more than anything I want to not be needed. I want to slip away in the night and never come back. I want all bonds of love and friendship to be severed without pain, without memory, so that I may go in peace. I will never be happy, I can only have fun, and push these terrible thoughts to the back of my mind.

I'll be hangin'

from a rope.

Summer Time, and the Livin's askingmetogettwojobs

Aaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnd that's the Dad I want to be. Night folks.

From the Mind of a Boy: An Update (more of a revamp)

Buried Treasure

            Dark, thick blades of grass tumbled and bent in torrents of waves along the hills. Shades of green, yellow and brown laced and intertwined as the wind swept through the plains. The flowing hills stretched as far as the eye could see. While a few scattered oak trees littered the view. The sun perched directly overhead while thick tufts of clouds loftily paraded across the skyline, dipping the world in and out of the shadows. The chestnut oaks hoisted themselves towards the light; their long crenate edges gulping down the fresh spring air. Each stood as a lone tower amongst the bending hills.

            Upon the tallest hill stood the shortest, oak its trunk thick and harrowed with age. Long, rough, protruding brown scales formed the bark. The cracks between each one served as a massive highway for whatever insects chose to travel to such exotic heights. Yet the view was not the same. White linens decked the inner layers of branches, and tattered strips could be seen poking out from the edge of the leaves. And at the ridge of the trunk where each branch separated, stood a boy.

            The boy cast his eyes along the horizon, watching the hills melt into roaring waves. The wind whisked across the deck, drawing up roiling waves lathered in browned sea foam that cascaded against the hull. The wind was gusty and headed in the wrong direction; the boy knew it would be a long journey. He crouched and began uncurling a roll of parchment, tracing his finger along the dotted line until it reached the large black X. His finger paused there and began tapping it repeatedly; his mind drifting off to the splendor buried beneath the earth.

            The wind roared as it attempted to tear the map from his grasp, but the boy clutched it firmly, creasing thick jagged folds along the parchment. The sound of the crackling paper made him shudder and smile. He rolled up the map and tucked it safely into his coat. A noise drew his attention; it was the flapping of sails. He scrambled up the mast to reattach the loosened topsail; once it was secure he glanced down to the helm of the ship expecting to see his first mate. A glancing blow struck him as the memory of their last voyage came to mind: He had been abandoned by his first mate; all for the sake of some rumored treasure. Well there would be no sharing of this bounty, were he to return.

            The boy gripped the wheel, steering his way against the wind, and through the waves it brought with it. They were waves as large as hills, and even those were crested with smaller waves, that ran along them in rippling currents. But the wheel was held true upon its course, his hands steady against the force the sea was unleashing upon him. He synched the wheel with rope, and clambered up into the crow’s nest. Through the thicket of green, and across the billowing sea he saw the island; it was close, very close. He slid down the mast to the helm of the ship. He yelled for the crew to drop anchor, and began to gather supplies for his journey to the island. Shovel, check, map, check, it was all there. The rowboat had already been lowered, so he jumped down and began to paddle towards the island.

            A shovel was a poor excuse for a paddle, he thought as he ran up to the island. He stopped at the beach to pull out the map and catch his breath. There was a pattern to the rocks here, at least from what he could discern. The boy knew the rock he was looking for would have the same mark that was displayed upon the map. This island was covered in rocks of all different sizes and colors; the one he was looking for would be small and black. As he moved about the island he noticed there wasn’t a person in sight, this was good; that would mean there would be less of a chance that he would have to fight off other pirates for the treasure.

            The rocks began to blur together, his eyes only searching for the symbol displayed on the map. After what felt like an hour of searching, he finally stood before it. The boy grinned, the fools had not even bothered to disguise the hiding place; it was evident that the earth had been dug up recently. The shovel sunk into the earth with ease, and he wrenched it from the ground overflowing with the soil that separated him from his infinite wealth.

            The process took hours; the sun was no longer overhead, it waned down casting long heavy shadows upon everything it touched. While he sat regaining his breath, he clutched at his throat, sore from thirst. It did not matter, the treasure was his priority. Now on his feet and the shovel back in his hands he dug deeper, his vigor renewed. Sweat was pouring down his body, and several flies buzzed about pestering his neck and face. Again, he dug his spade into the ground, but this time he was met with the hollow crack of wood. The treasure at last; he would become rich, and with his wealth, happiness. He dug around the edges completely unearthing the chest so he could take a look within.

            He ran his fingers around the sides of the chest; no lock or latch. He sat for a moment puzzled and began dusting off the top. Nails, they had secured their treasure by the use of nails. Laughter filled the hole, as he scoffed at these pathetic pirates. With ease he drove the edge of his spade between the lid and the chest, and began prying them apart. His heart ran wildly as he eagerly loosened each nail from the chest.

            One nail popped out, then another, and another. The pace of his breath now matched his heart, and that was all he could hear. The buzz of flies withered into a deadening silence, and his deafness to the outside world took him into the depths and sounds of his body. And then, the last nail was free, and the hammering of his heart continued, but his breathing did not.

            The boy knelt, his fingers curling under the lid of the chest, relishing the smooth touch of unblemished wood. After a moment of hesitation he drew back the lid, and every sound came back. The wind was whipping above, and the flies no longer buzzed along his face, but dove into the stench that rose from the chest. And in the shadows of the hole, the memories flooded back. The bed and the cold metal railings, the tears, and the awful people dressed in white. He remembered the adults that did nothing—the adults that stood there, as he did, and watched. The tears came back with the memories. Pouring, tearing, and drowning him with what had happened. He knew now what the symbols of the stone now read:

Here Lies “First mate”

Loving brother, and son.

Loved and missed.

The boy remembers now; the sea took him, the sea did, that must be how.

I would like

To say that I have been busy, and that is what has been keeping me from posting, but truth be told I am not. I am lazy (oh so very lazy). I have half a dozen writing projects I am currently working on and none of them are finished or close to finished. Some of them are due very shortly too; unfortunately the ones I want to work on are ones I have started writing for my own pleasure and have nothing to do with any of my classes--though it is quite likely I could use them in future assignments.

So, umm this--I imagine--is where I say that I will be posting soon; that I will be back up on top of my game and keeping things updated. Truth be told--I fucking doubt it. (A curse word in my writing, I am not entirely sure why) it does appear to emphasize the doubt though.

 Merp Derp. Blerp. alrighty. later kiddos.

More of an Update

One of my favorite bands and one of my favorite pump me up songs

So, quite a few things have been going on. Leaving me rather unable to update or write new material (it has a lot to do with my laziness than anything else). In good news, my brother has been accepted to Sonoma and will be attending here in the Fall (this is by far the highlight of my year, even if it is only 29 days into the year).

Second on the list would be the fact that I am now partaking in two creative writing classes; I had hoped that this would cause my blog to explode with posts, but I have yet to begin any serious writing for the classes. I am stuck trying to establish rewrites and edits of old things I have from the past. I want to completely rework and rewrite From the Mind of a Boy: Part 1 and expand it into about ten pages. The trouble with that is, I only have one paragraph rewritten. My mind has not been hopping into the mode of writing that I want. (which means I am not truly a good or legitimate writer if you need inspiration) at least there is some quote like that. So, I suppose I just need to start writing because I do have an outline of what I would like the piece to do and what changes are to be made.

Well, that is what happens to be consuming my time, well that and an excessive amount of video games, but fear not, I shall return. Also I do not plan to proofread or check over any spelling or grammatical errors in this post because I do not give a poop. I need to begin working on more important writing. Which will begin
Right
about....
....
Now.

Guardian

This is Guardian. Surprisingly enough I have never posted about him before. As many people refer to him: Nathaniel's creepy bear rug. I must assert that he is so much more than just a rug, in fact he is no rug at all. Guardian is the last memento from my Grandpa Doug a year or so before he died, but he stayed stuffed up in my closet for several years before I realized this was the last token I had from my Grandpa since he had passed.

As is my nature, I have created a child like fantasy behind Guardian and his existence. I was 18 I guess, and I had just put him down on my carpet in my room. I had a friend in my room, I think it was a girl, and she saw him and was immediately given the creeps--which seems to be a trend--from this bear rug. I insisted that it was fine, "He's cool, I promise." Before I could react she asked me what his name was, and at the time I had not given him one. That would not stop me, I had to name him like he was an old time friend, a cherished part of my past and childhood. "His name? His name is Guardian."
"What kind of a name is Guardian for a bear rug?" Which obviously meant that his name needed to have purpose, and it did. From the moment I named him I instantly knew what he was. "Guardian is a perfectly good name for him, that's what he is. Guardian."
"What do you mean? He's a bear rug."
"Well you see that's the thing, he's not a bear rug. There is a very old spirit lying within the fur and skin of this bear. Every night when I go to sleep he awakens. He comes alive and guards my body and mind while I sleep. He nestles up at the foot of my bed and protects me from any threats that may come to me."
As I made up this story, I believed every word. Guardian did all of these things, he brought back moments of shared wisdom from my Grandpa, and lecturing, and scolding, and life lessons that have stuck with me to this very day.

I have no problem diving into my imagination and believing in silly fantasies such as this. I knew Toy Story was not real, but that still didn't keep me from talking to my toys, and hoping that there was some truth to it all. I have never stopped playing and pretending as the little boy in the backyard wielding a wooden stick that turned into a blazing sword of light; the boy that could fight off an entire army by himself, and sometimes with his little brother at his side. I see things that everyone else cannot see. There is a dangerous and beautiful world of beasts, bad guys, buildings and dark forests, and for the most part I have faced them all. This world is my safe haven; I am not scared of them, I am not scared of the dark. I am scared of reality, I am scared by the smile of a pretty girl, and getting caught staring at her. I am scared of hurting my friends; I am scared of failing them. I am scared I have led them to believe too many negative things, about myself and the world. I am scared everyone has forgotten who I am; I am scared they have never known. I am just a boy, a boy who despite all his trying, cares for everyone in his life; a boy that wants to make them laugh, smile and enjoy every moment they are alive. I am just a 21 year old boy, daydreaming, imagining, fighting and still crushing on a multitude of girls. The next time you see me, ask me what I see, maybe, just maybe, if you open your eyes you can see this world too, and all the beauty and wonders it has to offer.

Why another Jack post? Or even another song post? Because Jack Johnson is one of the few and largest inspirations in my life.

A Wiffle Ball Bat

I am posting this again due to request, and I can post it now that it is no longer being considered for the Elise Weisel Prize in Ethics Essay competition.

A Wiffle Ball Bat

Tap, tap, tap, tap. I stood patiently waiting for someone to come to the door, I could hear voices in the background, and then I heard feet approach on the tiled floor of the entry way. The neighbors’ door creaked over the crooked threshold of the frame and the hinges made their familiar squeak. “Hi, Isaac, how are you?” I looked up at Zach’s mom and smiled, “Hi, Cheryl, can Zach come out and play?” It was the summer break between elementary and junior high, and my next door neighbor was the only friend close enough to play with outside, without having to phone in advance. Little did I know we had arrived at the age where saying, “Can so and so come out and play” is liable to get you teased. The proper way to make a request now would be to say, “Hi, Cheryl, can Zach hang out?”

            Cheryl ushered me into the house, “Of course. He’s in his room with a couple of friends.” I could guess who they were. It was the usual group he hung out with; Zach was the popular kid in elementary school. In fact, he was the leader of the group that ruled the playground, and I did what I could to be a part of that group. I was the skinny kid, always picked last for football or basketball at recess, but for some reason they let me hang around. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that I lived right next door—and during the summer he didn’t really have a choice.

            I entered Zach’s small room to the sound of video games and the smell of kids who had been out skateboarding not long before. Damien sat in the corner observing while Zach, Randy and Chris were leaning forward, fixated on the small television screen. I moved into the room and found a standing position so I could watch the game. It was two versus one and Zach was by himself, winning no doubt. He always did; that was the general understanding and rule of my childhood. No matter what, Zach was always going to win; he was the best at everything we did. He was tall, strong, quick, and smart, he knew what to do before anyone had the chance to react. That was likely what made him the leader, he wasn’t humble about being the best, but he also didn’t brag about it. He just enjoyed winning. That was part of his allure, the reason everyone wanted to be by his side. Good things came to you if you were friends with Zach; I was just glad I was able to hang out with the popular guys at all.

            The round of video games ended, and the guys figured it was time to head back into the side yard where we were forming our miniature skate park. I was lucky, though: at this sport the only one better than me was Zach. I could do almost as many tricks as he could; whereas all the other boys were much further behind. Damien usually just hung out on his BMX bike riding around in circles as we tried different tricks and practiced using the rail we had. The problem was, when you only have a handful of tricks, you can only repeat them so many times before you grow bored with skating for the day. Not to mention that your ankles and shins get tired of the constant bruises, and before long you have to call it quits.

            This was the only time in the group where I actually felt I fit in—but truth be told I still didn’t. All of these boys were a year older than me, but we were all in the same grade at school. This was a large part of why I had to struggle so much to fit in. Randy never took well to being less than best or second best, seeing as how he was the main contender for Zach athletically, and Chris, well he just went along with whoever was going to be the bruiser so he wouldn’t be picked on. Randy was no natural at skateboarding, and Zach and I had a couple months worth of experience more than Randy to boot. This definitely caused some harbored resentment when the kid picked last for basketball could skate better than him. Now Chris was about as big as Randy, and even though he wasn’t athletic, for some reason he fit in. Damien rode around making fun of everyone who didn’t land their tricks, but one thing I always noticed was that he never made any jabs at Zach.

 Eventually we all got frustrated and it was time for another break. The timing was perfect. My little brother shouted my name over the fence telling me dinner was ready and that I needed to head home. I said goodbye to them and let them know I would come back after I ate. With skateboard in hand, I ran through the gate towards my house. My family always had dinner together in the dining room, so I sat down and began to eat, but the only thing I could think about was going next door. I finished my dinner as fast as I could and asked to be excused. Once I got permission and cleared my plate and glass I ran out the door, grabbing my skateboard on the way.

            There was so much noise coming from the side yard that I could tell they were still back there, so instead of knocking on the front door I just went through the gate. They were sitting around and talking; I was a little upset to find that Cheryl had bought them a pizza and I hadn’t been offered to stay. It was obvious from the empty box on the ground next to the basketball hoop. It was minor things like that which indicated I was never going to fit in, no matter how much I wanted to.  Exhausted from the day, I sat on my skateboard as they worked on more tricks. I wanted to be there to spend time with them. I sat with my back leaning against the shed and I surveyed the yard. Zach had just gotten some new furniture in his room because he was going into middle school and his parents figured he no longer needed to have a little boy’s room. An Ikea had opened up near our home not long ago and the remnants of his furniture boxes were scattered in the side yard. You could see the foam like paper that covered the pieces of wood as well as the white plastic string that often tied the pieces together in the boxes so they didn’t shift around. The cardboard boxes were neatly stacked along the fence, but his old furniture had been added to the skate park. His old night stand propped up a piece of plywood that we used as a ramp—a ramp that we never jumped off. In fact, most of the things we had back there were probably not very safe. Especially since none of us wore helmets—helmets just weren’t cool. We couldn’t afford to not look cool, and I couldn’t afford to wear my helmet and not fit in.

            Before I knew it the sky was growing dark; it had to be seven or so, the street light was on and its rusty tinted orange glare was becoming noticeable on the cement. The number of people skating had tapered off, so it was the four of us watching Zach amaze us with his skill. I was always in awe of him; I liked to think of him as my rival, when in reality he was far above me in any physical activity. During the summer when he could only hang out with me we would always play basketball or video games. I always would try as hard as I could, and in certain games I could hold my ground, but in the end it all came down to that one rule. Zach always wins. He never cheated either; he was so good he never had to cheat.

            This is the part of the story where things get foggy. I know what happened; I just am not able to recollect who did what specifically. Zach got tired of skating and we all took a break. When we were about to finish for the night and head out to the front yard, someone stopped and had a great idea. I don’t remember why it happened, but part of me believes that it was premeditated while I was at dinner with my family. One of them told me to stand by the basketball pole that was cemented in the ground. I had my suspicion at first but they were able to convince me—after all I had to fit in. I walked over to the pole and turned out, looking at the court, confused.

 I looked at them and said, “What?” Before I knew what to do, one of them was behind me with the plastic string and began wrapping it around me. One of the boys held me in place and two others begin passing the string around the pole and myself. My first instinct was to get away, to struggle, to fight, and so I did. I tried to kick and move my arms—the problem was, they got my arms first. This string was terrible, it hurt so badly on the skin, every movement I made burned and tore my skin. And with that pain, the fear in me grew even more. I was yelling and tears had swollen my eyes. I didn’t understand why this was happening to me, but I never thought to ask them why. I could not figure out what I had done to deserve this, and I doubt they knew themselves; they were just doing it.

My incessant need to be part of their group had been stripped away. They had alienated me and this was the beginning of my persecution, a persecution I felt was entirely unmerited. As the boy who was constantly bullied, I had seen my fair share of cruel acts from other kids, but I never could figure out why. They tease, taunt, and torment the outcasts, like animals picking off the weak or wounded. I never thought I was weak. I could keep up with them at most things; I could stand my ground to fight. Only this time, I could do nothing. I could only hope that my friends would come to their senses and this silly prank would be over.

After a couple minutes, they had me tied so I could barely move at all. At first one of them had to stay behind me and keep the string pulled tight, but eventually they figured out how to tie it down so it would stay. And there I was stiff as a board, tied and stuck to the basketball pole with five boys who I’d thought were my friends, staring at me. I guess then they realized the fun couldn’t end there, they had to do something more. So they got out the wiffle ball bat. Not the normal long skinny yellow one, but the big barreled orange hollow one. It always made a wonderfully loud boom like the blast of a cannon every time the ball struck the bat, sending the ball halfway down the court with an easy swing. It was hollow and soft, and to be honest it didn’t really hurt. The only pain I felt were the burns from the string securing me. What really hurt the most was the fact that they took turns. They passed the bat off to one another, taking swings at me; I don’t remember if they were laughing or enjoying it; I don’t remember if they were angry with me; I don’t remember what their reactions were at all. I just remember that when it was Chris’s turn, he was the first to strike a blow to my head.

 This was the point where it was all lost; he hit me straight in the face which caused my head to slam back into the pole. So now the bat had caused pain, and now the tears in my eyes did not matter. I was angry, I was very angry. I yelled and screamed and cursed at them as much as I could. I had given up on silently struggling from my bonds; I wanted to lash out; I wanted to hurt them back. I don’t remember how much longer it lasted or if it even lasted at all after that. I was so angry it did not matter, but eventually they stopped and they went out into the front yard. The problem was they left me; I stood there tied up against the basketball pole as it grew dark. Again I began to cry and I struggled with the string trying to get loose. After awhile I was able to get an arm free and blood was dripping all down my wrist, and I could hear them talking out on the front driveway, yet they didn’t come for me; nobody came for me. It felt like I was back there alone for hours in the dark. After several minutes of painful struggle I gave up, and I slouched as much as the bonds would let me, and I just sat—or rather hung there. I hung there and stared into the darkness listening and feeling my heartbeats and the throbbing of the cuts and burns on my skin that cascaded down my arms and legs. I could feel the string dig deeper into the cuts slicing its way across my flesh. I had thought they were my friends, I had thought I was a part of the group, that I was accepted. Fitting in was all I had cared about, instead I was tied to a pole, alone and in the dark. I just stared and sat and cried until one of them came back.

Chris opened the gate and stood in the side yard light with a look of sorrow etched in his face, but I did not care. I wanted out, I wanted to be let go. I was nothing more than a tormented and caged animal. He came up to me and began helping me untie my bonds. At first he did so in silence, and then I heard the words “Don’t be such a baby,” and the calm was gone, I was mad again and as soon as I was free, I headed straight for that big brilliant orange bat. Now it was my turn, now I had the opportunity to get back. It was time to make them understand. Chris started yelling as soon as I came towards him. I hit him a couple of times as hard as I could in violent rage before the others joined us. As soon as they started yelling at me, I turned towards them and began to attack. They did not gang up on me and take the bat away; they cowered and took the blows. They began yelling at me and calling me names. Then I came to realize, that even though I was just trying to get even, I still ended up being the villain. They all looked at me as though I was the person in the wrong. They all considered me the freak; I was the one who had stepped out of line, I was the one who needed to calm down. I looked at their faces and I could see disgust and fear, and so what did I do? I ran, I ran as fast as I could with the bat in my hand to my house. I ran up the driveway and into the darkness of the garage. I stopped in the darkness and threw the bat down and then collapsed. I fell into myself and cried in a ball, I cried and cried in the darkness until I grew cold. Nobody looked for me, and nobody apologized to anyone, that day happened and was then forgotten. None of us ever mentioned it again.

Sing along and dance in your chair. I did. Jack is the best.

This here is a Whoopee Cushion: It was given to me by my uncle right before he took me back to the airport in Burbank. Once I got home, I broke it out to show my family right at the end of dinner, the night before I went back to Sonoma. While technically those kind of jokes are not dinner table appropriate, everyone went into little-kid-giggle-mode when I inflated it as large as it could go (notice the massive size of this thing) and proceeded to sit down on it. My dad was grinning and giggling like a little boy which I have not seen him do in some time, and I think at one point I got my mom to snort--which is quite the feat. My brother jumped up and immediately wanted a fair go. We took turns trying it at different air capacities, and the next step of course was to use it in prank situations, so then the couch cushion test began. As I moved into the family room everyone followed; my mom, my dad, and my brother right beside me the entire time. It was fun to see my parents giggling and even roaring with laughter after the whoopee cushion produced an unusually amusing sound. I was enjoying their laughter and their faces more than anything else. I realized that I don't do that sort of thing for my family nearly enough as I would like. I used to be that son, that brother, that friend, that grandson. I would make them laugh and smile and enjoy the time we spent together. So it has been over the last few weeks that I have decided to make a couple New Years resolutions. It's not too late is it? Nah.

1) I have decided not to take things seriously. I am going carefree (this of course does not apply when a friend needs me to listen to or give advice and what not)
2) Put a smile on my face and try to make people laugh, I don't really care about what strangers think of me. I want my friends to laugh and be happy
3) I want to be less selfish. I want to go back to what I had been doing of looking out for everyone else.
4) I want to stop using I all the time, it's selfish
5) Make a new friend, meet a pretty girl, give zero fucks, but stick to your morals
6) Try new things, be nice to complete strangers, but not overly so.
7) Still remain dry, sarcastic and punny as fuck.
8) Listen, and observe do all judging in your head, and keep it to yourself. (basically learn to censor)
9) If a person needs to be called out, don't be a pussy, call them out. (that includes yourself) (notice how #4 is already being followed)

Nine resolutions seems like plenty. Of course almost all of them are linked and technically there are several more that would be connected to this, but you get the picture--and if you didn't get the picture, it's a giant whoopee cushion.

One last lovely Jack Johnson song to listen to before you end this amazing and magical moment here with me, reading my blog. all three of you.

I am Without Title, Cheers

I just recently downloaded Spotify, so now I can listen to an entire album from an artist and see if I really want to support them and buy their work. While "Ho Hey" has been all over every radio in every place everywhere, this is one that I really enjoy.
I love music so much; if I could keep background music throughout my entire life, I probably would. I listen to it that much. My iPod will likely give up and die to overuse before anything else. I could add up all the time that it has been on and all the plays it has gone through and it probably has more than a year of play, and that's just this iPod. I had two others before this one. Music is the key to my soul--assuming I still have one. ;)  <-- the smile is to indicate that I was not serious I do in fact realize I have a soul. I am attempting to be moderately humorous and sarcastic. Though I was so tediously lectured by Alex that I am in no way funny and I am awkward and terrible at presenting jokes. I may be, but laugh for me on this one, or chuckle, or smile, or roll your eyes. I like eye rolling, that totally counts in my book. rantrantrant. I used to do this long ridiculousness more often, it just seems to have fallen off. I need to put on one of my smiles and do it more.

 Cheers (as the awesome British guy said to me for holding the door open at the Getty Center)