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Blogs, 2004-2006(ish) |
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I first started a blog in 2004 when I discovered Myspace, and wrote religiously. For the past three years, I've written about my strange and disturbing life, and the thoughts and reflections that have shaped it. Some background info that might help you in reading this... I went to college at Washington State University, and started blogging on Myspace there when Myspace was still new and unique; many of my blogs are Myspace centered, or college centered. In May 2005, I moved back home to Olympia, and ended up spending the past two years working for Jack in the Box. I was idealistic and dedicated at first (youthful naivete?) but after a year of it I became bitter and burned out. So many of my blogs focus around JIB that it rather sickens me... WDC doesn't have a backdating feature, so I dated these and plugged them into default order. |
| Febuary 12, 2007 Everyone tells me I should write a book. Worried about raising funds for college, I'm considering it. Every year I make an attempt in the spring at exploring my potential as a writer. Then a new video game grabs my attention, or I end up working myself to death at my shitty job, and all my resolve and energy wanes and disappears. Alcohol doesn't help either :D Over the past five years I've made two serious attempts at writing a book. One was about twenty pages long, and while it was a bit corny showed definite promise. The other was only ten or so, and demonstrated a greater depth and complexity but would have still needed another year of revising before I'd ever submit it to a publisher. Ergo, I still think my writing sucks and sometimes reading it hurts my eyes--no matter how much my friends rave over it. However, my idea for a book has become quite focused; what I want to write is something along the lines of a biography, but I've decided that it would be best to write it as a work of fiction. I feel that too many readers might think that my strange and incredible life is just not believeable, and writing it as fiction would probably make it easier to believe. God, do I ever love irony. Also, considering how many crimes and awful things I've done in my life (often eagerly and without regret), it might be best to be able to hide behind a claim of fiction. Plus, if I felt like embellishing some parts (as Lemony Snicket would write, this is a word that here means 'to make shit up'), well it's fiction anyway right? :D Besides, I love lying so well that folks can't tell the difference. I used to say that I could never die until I wrote this book. Seemed to me that I had a compelling obligation to write down the things I've seen and tell the story of those I've loved; it has often felt like it was more an obligation to the people I've met to tell the story of their miserable lives in an empathetic and loving way, so that through literature they might have the understanding that they've never had in life. And so, every year, I write. And that's what is on my mind these days. Besides, I also try to write about experiences from my childhood that might explain to my friends why I'm so strange. I owe it to them. :D |
| January 11, 2007 My life is unbelieveably hectic right now. I find it hard to find time for myself, let alone others. In case you hadn't heard, I'm moving out of my apartment. I won't say where I'm moving because, well frankly, I'm one of those who prefer anonymity and privacy; I'm perfectly happy to be ignored. However, moving creates its own special problems; I have about two weeks to move everything out of my apartment, and finding spare time to do so is an exercise in futility. Furthermore, I have to pay another full month's rent (a full paycheck) on the 31st; the new apartment manager is a bitch, and she's been remarkably hostile towards me. She's been making excuses to avoid meeting me to discuss leaving, so I just filled out the forms while she screamed from the office that "This is a bad day for me to see him!" (even though she kept making the appointments). Ah well, fuck her, cuz I'm leaving and all the assistant managers are sad to see me go. So anyway, I have to make time in those rare moments between sleeping, waking, and work to move furniture and treasured belongings. Speaking of which, work is...temporary. Really, that's the best word I have to describe it. I put in my two weeks' notice two weeks ago after a fit of exhasperation brought on by spending Christmas working graveyard. The boss talked me out of it, for now; he's incredibly stretched since the assistant manager got exiled out of the area, and he gave me a wonderful speech about how he wishes he was 25 and still young enough to quit, but he needs to pay the mortgage and needs me to keep his own job for another four weeks, until the new ass manager is hired. My feelings about work are a bit ambivelent; while I like the pay and need the money for bills, I'm just SICK of this job and I want to try something new; the feeling of being needed is just not comfort enough for me to put up with both my crew and my customers. I'll leave within the next three months, but it'll depend on my finances and how badly my boss begs. School has started again. I didn't realize that it started last week, since I was working my ass off while sick (a rarity in and of itself) and didn't have time to check the school calendar until thursday. I found that I was dropped from my scheduled class because I hadn't paid my tuition yet, and after much griping negotiation with the boss, I found a class at the right time and just two days a week, and registered for that one on Friday so that it wouldn't matter that I'd already missed two days :D But my class isn't my primary school concern. Right now, I'm in a tight spot; I've sworn to myself that I'll be back at college in August, but I'm in a difficult position as far as my degree is concerned. I've decided, after browsing the Teen section of Barnes & Noble that I really do want to be a teacher (or at least it's the best option for slacking off that I can find). However, I'm one American Literature class (and the spanish year I'm currently taking) short of a degree in English w/o Teaching Certification Option at WSU. I want desperately to go to UW because I'm horrified at the thought of returning to the armpit of Washington (Pullman/WSU), but UW doesn't offer teacher certification at the bachelor's level: I'd have to go to grad school and get my Masters In Teaching to get my certs there. Plus, I'd have to complete another 90 quarter credits (2 years) to graduate from UW because that's how many credits I have to complete at UW to graduate from there...granted, I could use a minor and a few math/science endorsements for a teaching degree, but then I'd still have to do my master's. Of course, I'm currently (though inactive) a student at WSU, and I'm sure I could get my teacher's certs within 18 months of August; but that would mean returning to WSU, and that's my option of last resort. Finally, on top of all this, I have to beg FAFSA for a grant, otherwise it's student loans--and my mother screaming at me every week about how I'm going to pay for college, not to take a student loan, and that I've already failed her by fucking around so long. I was going to go to UW tomorrow (today?) to get some advice, but with the snowy roads and Tacoma almost completely shut down right now, it'll probably have to wait a week. No prob, cuz I still have school, homework, and moving to do tomorrow. Oh yeah, and I'll probably have to find time to hang out with friends. Finally, I'm on the patch. After a week of this crap, I've finally moved from cigarettes to cigars (one a day), and soon it'll be the second patch and nothing. Meanwhile, I'm drinking every night and reading Harry Potter; and growing FAT day by day...in a month or so I'll go on a huge diet/exercise binge that'll last a year, and get back to a healthy weight, but meanwhile I'm too busy to care how I look. So understand why I'm not hanging out much or trying to keep up with folks. If you call me, I'll find time, but otherwise I won't go out of my way to find even more responsibility. |
| December 30, 2006 Tried to quit my job the other night. Then the boss talked me out of it, and offered me reduced hours and my choice of days off. Works out all right for me, since I still need the moneys. I don't care if the job sucks, it keeps my wallet full. I'm moving out in a month. Sadly, I'll be heading back to my parent's place until August when I go back to college; but this means I won't be paying rent/water/electric, so I'll be saving a shitload and spending the rest. I haven't been able to have a spendthrift lifestyle in years...and I intend to enjoy myself. I'm thinking about going to a rave again...granted, the whole rave scene is rather pathetic (I've always thought so), but for some reason it reflected the best time of my life, and the only time I've ever felt real magic in my life. So it's a very good possibility that I'll jump back into that lifestyle. I feel as if I'm about to regress into the boy I was six years ago...I pretty much feel like giving up all responsibility and returning to my former hedonistic lifestyle; I mean, at least being a permanent adolescent kept me somewhat happy. How fun am I now? I realize that this means becoming much more of an alcoholic, sexaholic, and/or drug addict than I've been for many years, but I had so much more fun back then, and I feel that in growing up I lost my spirit...and I'm determined to recapture it. Portland, Seattle, or Pullman...soon I'll be leaving Olympia for a few years, and jumping back into reality. |
| November 21, 2006 I was all set to write a blog wondering why I verbally abuse and embarrass my friends, and then the answer suddenly occurred to me. It's embarrassing enough that I'm not going to mention it here...if ever. It's certainly awful enough to make me cut down on the amount of verbal abuse I give my friends and acquaintences. Meanwhile, I was wondering today what I would tell a therapist about why I was there if I ever went to one. Now, I seek an answer, and life provides one for me--as of five minutes ago, I have a good one. I'm gonna go have a drink with my friend...hmm, now there's another thing to talk about... |
| November 18, 2006 Last night at the bar I met a great guy named David who, I think, was just not all there--maybe it was alcohol, but then again his pupils were dilated. Of course, he goes to Evergreen. As we were smoking outside, he introduced me to his friend Catherine, and told her my name was Tom. There's an irony in this because that's my father's name. Anyway, I turned and told him that my name wasn't Tom, and that I hadn't told him what my name was. He made another guess, and I said, "Nope. Just like Rumplestiltskin, I guarantee you'll never actually guess what my name is." He replied, "I didn't know that was part of the fable, but okay." and started talking to his friend again. So I spent about five minutes rehashing the fable of Rumplestiltskin in my head, and it went like this: Princess is locked in a room and told to spin straw into gold (for whatever reason). She cries because she can't, and blames men for having unrealistic expectations for women. Short funny man who looks like Ryan pops up and tells her he'll do it for her if she promises him her firstborn son. Single and thinking she's not the kind of girl to ever get married, and anyway she can always lie and say she didn't promise him anything later, she agrees. By the morning, the short funny man has kept his promise and filled the room with spools of gold thread, and therefore saves her butt because she thought she would be killed when she didn't. Of course, a nice prince marries her, because women with money are sexy, and they fuck like rabbits because a woman who makes funny deals with short devilish men will do anything in the bedroom. Nine months later, she has a beautiful baby boy and POP! comes the funny little nice guy who saved her butt, made her rich, and consequently got her that cute prince and the high life; all he wants is what she promised him, her firstborn son. Typical, she swears to her Prince that she's never met him, never made that promise, it didn't mean anything to her, and his is bigger anyway, and the poor funny little man leaves, feeling betrayed--with her new baby. The princess wails and cries for days, and eventually the little man returns and tells her he feels bad about the whole thing, and he'll return her kid on the condition that she is able to answer one question: "What's my name, bitch?! I bet you don't even remember!" When she's obviously stumped, she starts guessing names; the little man gets furious again, and gives her three days to remember the name of the guy who saved her life, gave her gold, and a night of passionate sex. After two days of being stumped, she sneaks off into the countryside and eventually finds his house, and listens at the window; she finds out that he and his gay life-partner adore the child, and had turned to kidnapping only because gays weren't allowed to adopt in that kingdom, and they both had great careers and didn't want to move. Later, when they'd gone to bed, she got to hear the name she'd forgotten long ago being yelled from the bedroom, and returned home triumphant. When the little man returned later that night to ask her the same question again, she told him, "RUMPLESTILTSKIN!" Rumplestiltskin then got so angry that he stomped a hole in the floor and fell into the fires of hell. I can't remember if she got the kid back. The point of it though was that, although I clearly get some details wrong in the fable, it certainly centered around her never being able to guess his name. So I tell the nice boy that it WAS the whole point of the fable, and after explaining it out to him, he agrees. Then he asks me how old I think his friend is, and I said 24. He gets very shocked, does the whole OMG thing, and says, "NO! She's only 20." Then she gets defensive, asks how I could possibly think she's that old (ha ha), and absolutely asserts that she's 20. May I remind you we were in a bar? I think I was right, and she was lying. I got up and left, went dancing for a bit, and when I was ready for the last drink of the evening, I ran into him at the bar again and he was real sweet and bought my drink. So I'm in an awkward mood (generosity always throws me off guard; I'm wondering what they want from me), and decide to treat him to another cigarette and five minutes of conversation to thank him for the drink. The subject turns to women, and I made the declaration that I think all women are crazy. Certifiable, in fact. He got defensive, and asked how I could think something like that (give him a break, he's young and possibly gay and/or inexperienced with women). I ran through a couple of Ana and Ava stories, which I think more than justified my position, and then a few others about normal women. He disagreed though, and his argument was based on the fact that he was a New Englander, and over there he says people don't stereotype and generalize other people (thpppp! Bullshit!) and are generally interested in meeting people different from themselves (see above remark). The odd thing is that I've heard this argument about New England before, about a month ago, from another New Englander; I think I'm getting tired of these uppity fucking East Coast Greeners, because I keep running into this argument from them. So when I feel like making a point to someone, I use the old shrink's trick and turn it around on them; in this case, I asked him about the girl he was there with, who wasn't with him. He made up a long bit about how he liked her and didn't want to blow it with her, and how she was acting kinda odd but she was an okay person even though she wasn't hanging out with him much and yada yada yada. Now, any man hearing another man making this speech is thinking the obvious, and normally all it takes is for the guy making the speech to hear himself say it out loud to figure it out for himself. But poor David was not that clever, so I had to explain it to him--"She's not with you, she's not interested in you, but you do have a car to take her to the bar and some money to buy the first round of drinks before she finds someone she likes." Well, that settled it, and he had a look on his face that said "I'm not saying out loud that you're right." I went home after that, shaking my head at the world. Btw, y'know what my favorite little fact about women is? Every woman, no matter who she is, knows at least one guy with a truck--just in case she wants to move. I stopped helping roommates move in when I figured that one out. Let her "friend" carry the shit up the stairs. |
| November 15, 2006 I got caught in an existential and philosophical dilemma last night. It's not something that always happens by accident, I think. Usually it takes one quite a number of drinks to face something of that order; I'd had one by the time I started to think it out and so I don't credit the alcohol for it. The problem, as I saw it, was that my life and even my everyday experience is so often surreal, so often filled with the unexpected and the improbable, that I think I've become accustomed to it. See, most people can go through their day without anything terribly unexpected occurring, and when it does occur it's written off as a surprise. They can go to a bar or a restaurant, stay an hour or two, and leave without anything dodgy happening to them. I, on the other hand, can't go through a day without three odd things happening to me, and I've grown quite used to it. My day-to-day livelihood runs on a combination of chaos theory management and Murphy's Law: if you accept that anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and that the chaos that seems to define my life makes anything possible, then you have to be pretty paranoid when you're driving, going out, or making plans for your life because odds are that shit's gonna happen to fuck it all up. I.E., what you don't expect when making a left hand turn on a deserted street at midnight is a bicyclist riding towards you in the wrong lane, almost right at the intersection. Somehow, I just don't think anyone would see that coming, but it came as no surprise to me, and I was able to bean him in the face with my lit cigarette butt as I drove past him--something I bet came as a surprise to him :D I'm always watching every detail of everything that goes on around me because I'm expecting the unexpected, and I usually see it before anyone else does. It's like I'm a weird magnet, and anyone who knows me would agree that the strangest shit just happens to me. So, my dilemma is this: how can a rational mind, faced with this problem, make sense of the ordinary or the normal? Why does an uneventful day leave me filled with nervous doubt and unease, when I'm happily in my element when everything is falling to pieces? And do I come off as paranoid just because I'm always watching for the next surprise? If I can't deal with normal life because I don't see any evidence that I could have one, am I certifiably insane??? |
| October 31, 2006 I'm spending weeks now updating the ID3 tags on about 40 gigs of mp3s. This means using iTunes to ferret out the album name and year for some nine hundred singles--then I get to start on about three hundred albums. Of course, iTunes makes it infinitely more frustrating because every time I try to find the original album, iTunes takes me straight to the fucking "Greatest Hits" album. This is an unpleasant reminder for me that most of my favorite bands are now releasing "Greatest Hits" albums, and therefore their time is over. Smashing Pumpkins, The Cranberries, and MxPx had a good run, and well the time that I listened to Celine Dion, Savage Garden, and Natalie Merchant is well over; but goddammit! Rancid, Bad Religion, and Green Day are still fresh. Even fucking Weird Al is still kicking, and he started out in the 80's! Is ten years all a band ever gets? I mean, it's sad when bands like Kiss and the Stones are still touring the indian casino circuit, and god knows The Misfits touring with the two remaining Ramones is pitiful, but goddammit I want time to stop, and the best way to delude myself of that is for my favorite bands to keep making new music. I'm certainly too old for this fucking emo crap, and neo-punks are starting to frighten me (rather than just annoy me). I think bands should be banned from releasing "Greatest Hits" albums. |
| November 4, 2006 I had a perfect night. I woke up this afternoon to a call from work. They were worried because I wasn't my customary hour early. It would have been sad, except I'd had a very good night last night and it was worth finding out that I was going to be fifteen or so minutes late to work. Got to work without a shower or a shave, and despite the rough start I had a wonderful day. No crew folks pissed me off, I didn't get in a single argument, and I was able to let a couple minors run the floor so that I didn't have to "motivate" anyone. Mozzerella sticks came in yesterday, so I let the crew make some to celebrate a great shift. After a quick shower at home, I went down to the bar to dance and had one of those perfect nights. When I'd bought my third drink, I ran into my friend Stephanie and she started to dance with me because I was alone. Right away she managed to spill my drink all over her back and her friend's coat; now, the irony is that my first drink got a little spilled on my way out for a cigarette, and I'd already thought up a line if a girl spilled my drink all over herself--"At least you didn't spill it on me!" I told her. Like a true friend, she danced with me afterwards anyway, and I thought it was one of the nicest things a girl has ever done for me. Besides, I flatter myself that I was able to dance with the hottest girl on the floor :D She promptly spilled another friend's drink two minutes later, shattering the shot glass on the floor and ending what could have been a fantastic time together. Ah well. I spent the next two hours in a blur of dancing. Tara told me last night that I dance badly as a straight man, but not bad as a gay man, so I decided to dance well; my ass did shaketh across the dance floor, and damned if I did not dance well. It's future fodder for therapy that alcohol gives me confidence, swagger, and smooth style on the dance floor. My one regret for the evening is that I didn't get to talk to a nice older latino lady I saw on the floor. No, not because I was drunk and had no standards; she looked very familiar, and after a half hour of dancing near her I realized that she had to be my 10th grade computer class teacher. Yes, this is where I become a bad person. Anyway, I wanted to talk to her and confirm this, and well, I can't say naughty thoughts didn't cross my mind about her...I have such fond memories of her calling me "love" and "my love". Granted, she called all the students this, but well that's part of the fantasy. Sadly, I never stayed long enough to pry her away from the twenty-something she was dancing with to hit it off with her. I drove home in the sweetest light drizzle with my window open as I smoked a cigarette, listened to music from 1997, and considered that a life spent in Olympia is not such a bad thing. |
| October 19, 2006 Haven't I mentioned by now that I have an excess of both kinds of luck? So tonight I went and hung out with Andrea & friends at Jake's around nine o clock, and lemme tell ya, the karaoke was TERRIBLE. I had a visibly pained look on my face for most of the evening, except when this gorgeous lesbian was doing WONDERFUL singing Natalie Merchant and The Cranberries--my god, her range! I had three drinks, but saved the rest of my money for later. I left Jake's to go play shuffleboard with Tara at The Brotherhood, but Andrea made me promise to come back to at least say goodbye. Tara and I played shuffleboard until like 11:30, and yeah I had another double, but shuffleboard is one of those games you play better when you're drunk. Seriously, it's the ultimate drinking game, I love it! When we left, I had to walk back to Jake's to say goodbye to Andrea, but when I got there she'd already left, so I said fuckit and got in my car. I thought I'd head over to JIB for a burger before heading home to bed (I've been up since 6am and I didn't get more than 5 hours of sleep last night), and I decided to shortcut past Safeway over to Legion so that I could just pull into the parking lot. As I was making my left turn on Legion & Plum though, I saw blue lights all over behind me and I quickly pulled into the parking lot. The lady cop was really nice about asking me why she pulled me over, and when I told her I didn't have a clue, she told me that I'd failed to signal on 4th and whatever when I cut past Safeway. Then after grabbing my licence & registration (somehow, I couldn't find my proof of insurance) she asked me how much I'd had to drink and what I'd been doing, and I told her I'd had one drink over at the brotherhood while playing shuffleboard (okay, I lied about how much I drank, but I was trying to talk out of it and anyway everyone does that). When she asked me to step out of the car, she asked me if I had any weapons ON me; I told her I had a boxcutter in my pocket, but that was it. Then came the sobriety test. First, I had to do the follow the pen w/ my eyes thingy, and then do the tightrope walky test on a painted white line for a parking spot. I failed three times to wait until she told me to go (I'm bad with directions, honestly!), but I thought I did it well when I finally did it. Then I had to recite my abc's to N, and I accidentally went to O. Then I had to stand on one foot, keeping my other foot six inches above the ground straight in front of me, parallel with the ground, and count out loud to thirty. Then she made me stick out my tongue and say "aaaaaaahhhh", and then I had to tilt my head back and count to thirty in my head, and let her know when thirty seconds passed. Finally came the big 'ol breathalyzer. Meanwhile, all my coworkers from the store are smoking cigarettes and laughing at me. Thanks guys. Then she asked me if I'd smoked any pot that evening. This took me by surprise, because I don't smoke pot--I drink. So I told her no, but she kept pestering me about it, asking if I thought I might have inhaled it secondhand at the Brotherhood or something, but I kept insisting that there wasn't any there, that I haven't smoked pot since I was 21 (okay, 23, but don't tell her that!--certainly not since I got my job at JIB!), and I couldn't figure out why she was pressing the issue. Politely of course. Then she told me that even though Mr. Breathalyzer told her that my BA was only 0.048, I'd completely and miserably failed the sobriety test, and so that's why she thought I was high on pot. Now, before I finish the story, I will offer you this challenge: if you can stand out in the pouring rain and freezing cold, shivering, with all your former employees smoking and laughing at you, and pass that sobriety test, I will give you $10. $20 if you've had anything to drink at all. Write me, and we'll make arrangements, weather permitting. Finally, she just told me she didn't want me driving, and I told her I'd call my roommate and have her and her boyfriend pick me and my car up. This seemed to satisfy her on the not-arresting-me thing, and she told me she didn't want to go through all that just to test me for marijuana, and so she *kindly* wrote me a ticket for failing to signal and not having proof of insurance. My coworkers laughed at me while I waited for my roommate, and by 6am everyone in the store will know about it. Now, remember what I said about having an excess of luck? Where is my proof of insurance, anyway? Well, the last time I got a ticket was--ha ha--for the same fucking thing, last June. I got pulled over for speeding 10 mph over the limit (I forgot to turn to go to Denny's, and wasn't watching my speed while kicking myself for missing the turn), and my proof of insurance had just expired and renewed that weekend and the new card hadn't arrived in the mail yet; of course, when the automatic renewal payment went through the week before, it had overdrawn my account because the insurance company messed up and forgot my request to drop the automatic payments a month before--so it was paid, but it completely ruined my week for me. So imagine how pissed I was that even though it just renewed, and I do have insurance, I didn't have a new insurance card when I got pulled over. Of course it arrived in the mail the next day. Finally, in August I had to go in to contest the no-insurance, and after showing the judge my new insurance card, I went out to my car, stuck it in my visor with my registration, and forgot about it. So literally, the last time I've seen that damn card was the last time I had to deal with a bullshit no-insurance ticket. Picture the irony and my surprise that, once again, I have to go through the same bullshit all over again. Coincidentally, I've been pulled over for DUI once before, back in 2003. I'd had a fifth of Bacardi 151, but only because Sita had found her dad's breathalyzer and I wanted to see how high I could get that little fucker--I made it to 0.23 before I quit drinking. I was proud of myself. But, like a good driver, I sat there for three or four hours watching movies, waiting for it to drop below 0.07 before I drove home. On the way home, I got stopped because my headlight was out (it had gone out at around 9pm, ON THE WAY HOME), and it was the same fucking song and dance on the white line. The sheriff deputy told me I'd passed the breathalyzer at 0.049, but failed the sobriety test miserably. Apparently, _I_ (like any normal fucking person under the best of conditions) just can't figure out how to stand on one foot with the other one lifted six inches above the ground, and hold it steady and count for thirty seconds while I sing the national anthem in my head. Of course, he let me go simply because he didn't want to go through all that work of arresting me--my god, the cops are fucking lazy in this town! So imagine how overwhelmed by irony I feel that, again this time I passed the breathalyzer (with the exact same breathalyzer score!) but failed the sobriety test, and ended up getting fucked over. Also, I actually decided a couple weeks ago to quit drinking, but only drank tonight because I hadn't had money to do it for my birthday last Sunday, and I wanted to get it over with so I could say I had fun for my birthday. Still don't feel like drinking, and it has nothing to do with what happened tonight. God is mocking me. |
| October 11, 2006 nem·e·sis: a righteous infliction of divine justice, manifested by an appropriate agent; i.e., the Greek goddess of the same name, or the Hebrew god's angel of death. I've spent the last week getting back at people who've pissed me off at one time or another. Amazingly, I consider my track record for vengeance to be exceedingly in my favor, and even odder because most of my opportunities arise from situations that are so incredibly coincidental as to arouse my suspicion that these opportunities are not coincidence. Like how about kicking my old roommate Sita out for smoking meth in my apartment, and then a month later I get reassigned to her store--as her boss? Weird coincidence, I know. Even better, I got to ride her ass for being a shitty worker so much that she ended up quitting the only job she's ever been able to keep, and setting her on a downward spiral into drug (re-)addiction. Or the fact that Joanna, the roommate who broke her friendship with me for reasons that continue to elude me and skipped out on the lease and rent for April, got fired from her store--and I just got transferred there to REPLACE her! Granted, this one's kinda fake, since I didn't actually play any part in it, but is still ironic enough that I thought it merited mention. Then last Saturday I got back at my idiot drive-thru guy, who has made much of my summer a living hell by just being...well...a complete fucking idiot. He was promoted to replace me on graveyard, and this was especially critical now that I've been sent to fix another store, but then Saturday morning he had to come stumbling in to work drunk at 9am (one hour late); this probably wouldn't have posed a problem, since the morning manager was busy doing paperwork in the office for two hours, but I decided to give her a heads up as I punched out for my second half--now a better man would have probably put him somewhere where he wouldn't be noticed or affect anyone, but I saw an opportunity to get him fired and took it. The timing of all of this, that on this particular day I only happened to still be working because someone called in sick and yet he still chose that particular day to do this makes me question coincidence. And gloat a lot around work, and generally jump for joy that I got him just before I left the store. How ironic it is then that the same night that he was getting drunk before coming in to work, I also managed to get a customer who's been pissing me off for months? The man is an old homeless pervert who stalks the minor girls on the day shifts, and I've kicked him out repeatedly (with much satisfaction). How fortuitous for me then, that he would choose the last weekend I worked at that store to park his van in the parking lot all night long, giving me the opportunity to tow his van? The justice of this is not only that I've now robbed him of his home (where the hell is he going to get the money to pay for the tow?), but that unbeknownst to all, he was dead asleep in the back of the van when I towed it--the tow driver called to let me know (just for laughs), because the old creep came spilling out of it inside the tow yard. Again, how far am I to trust coincidence? I was about to just write this all off, thinking I should just hang the sense of it all and move on with my life, when today I decided to drop by the Westside store for a bite of breakfast--this is suspect in itself, because I despise the morning crew there, and this one total fucking bitch (Terry) especially. But for some reason, I followed this impulse. As I was eating my meal, an old friend of mine, John, just happened to walk through the door facing the drive-thru (not what you'd call the main door), sat down, and told me the girl on the drive-thru had just been such a total bitch to him that he and his friends were going to just drive off (again, coincidental that he would just feel the need to come in and tell me for some reason). I'd already noticed that Terry was on headset, and I couldn't stop laughing. I pointed her out to him, and explained that, yes, she is a total bitch. Then I pointed out Nick, the store manager, standing right behind her, and told him he ought to talk to Nick about it. Now what are the fucking odds that, in the middle of the morning I would pick that particular moment to eat breakfast (a meal I normally skip) at a store I rarely eat at (because I hate the breakfast crew), and that someone who knew me would choose that particular ten-minute window to go through the drive-thru, see me inside, and come in? The whole incident smacks of plot like a good novel. Like when you read in a book that two characters meet coincidentally and strike up a dialogue, but really the author penned the entire coincidence to further the interest of the story or move the plot along. So who's holding the pen to my life? These look like just random coincidences--luck (of one kind or another)--but these things happen to me every fucking day. I have so many extraordinary coincidences and lucky incidents in my life that they are perhaps the only thing that reinforce my belief in God, simply because I see little evidence of free will and whenever something extraordinary happens, I always seem to be at the center of it. So, over the years, I've slowly begun to think of myself as a nemesis; somehow, I'm always provided the opportunity to revenge myself upon those who piss me off. |
| June 29, 2006 My favorite finger got fucked up at work. I was polishing a stainless steel fridge and I ripped a big hole in the top of the finger between my fingernail and the knuckle. The fucker was deep and bleeding like hell, and it took me ten minutes to bandage it up so that it wouldn't bleed all over. Wasn't the best bandage job, but it allowed me to go back to work with my left hand for another three hours. Yes, I was losing blood into a bandage for three hours, but that didn't stop me from working as long as the bandage held (I just couldn't make any food). After another two hours of ER bullshit, I finally got in to see the snob of a doctor, who first gave me a tetanus shot (damnit!), then decided that there was no way to stitch the wound; so he decided to poke it with swabs (pain!), then chemically cauderize it with silver nitrate--basically dabbing the hole in my finger with acid. I was really getting loud at this point, so he then decided to give me a local; now, I still had burning acid in my finger, but he was also jamming a gigantic needle in there too--in about ten different spots, including through my fingernail two times. Thankfully, I couldn't feel anything after this as he continued to cauderize the wound. I didn't even get a lollipop. :( But I did get Vicodin! So I'll be out of it for a while. |
| September 29, 2006 I've come to the conclusion that there's something seriously wrong with the world. Either that or I'm going insane. My dreams lately have been particularly dark. Almost every night I'm dreaming of violence. First I dreamed that I was holed up in a coffee shop, defending myself against a gang--I killed a few of them before I woke up. Then the next night I dreamed I was a vampire--and rather enjoyed killing. Then the next night I dreamed that I was walking a foggy street, when some punk stole a skateboard from me and kiped the lit cigarette out of my mouth; I pulled a gun on him for a $10 skateboard, and even took back the damn cigarette; then someone else started shooting, and I remember running. I'm having dreams like these every night, and I'm starting to have trouble dealing with reality. I kinda wander the streets, not really knowing where I'm going or what I'm doing. I slink through the corners in the bars, and the other night in the Reef I swore I was invisible because the waitress never greeted or served me, after I waited 15 minutes...I walked out and it was like she never saw me. I'm even letting my hair do whatever it wants; I don't really groom or wash it anymore, and it goes all floogal-dee-floo because I toss and turn when I'm asleep; I think I figure I fit in with all the emo kids better with a neglected, greasy, squirrely mop of hair on my head--or maybe I'm going to be one of those crazy schizos who don't realize how frightening they look. I'm definitely looking for a new job. I'm putting in applications wherever I can. We just got a big raise, but even for $10 an hour, I don't want my job. I've waited and waited to be put on dinner shift, but Teresa apparently wants to keep me on graveyard even though I can't stand it. Plus that fuckup Robert got promoted to shift leader, and she still can't give me dinner--the way things are running when I'm not on graveyard (days off, etc.), well basically makes it so that I have to make up for a week's worth of everyone else slacking off, and I'm not doing everything myself anymore. But the most aggrevating thing of all is that I'm tired of never having a break--that's right, graveyard doesn't get any breaks whatsoever, you just work for 8 hours straight and if you can finish a cigarette without a fucking car interrupting you, congratufuckinglations it'll be the only time in the entire week. Maybe if we had just one break each night where we didn't have to worry about getting interrupted, just thirty minutes of freedom, we'd feel better about our shift. But I say fuckit--I'm putting in applications, and looking into filing a complaint with L&I about the no-break situation; it's got to be violating the law, and L&I HAS to be able to make life hell for my boss. And to think, if she'd just put me on dinner or at least TRIED to reassure me that I'd be there soon, I wouldn't be on the warpath; but nope, now I'm done even if she pays me $20 an hour. Suck it, Jack! Continuing on, I think I'm going to turn myself into an emo kid. Why not? I'm a sociopath, I can pose as anyone I want because I don't really belong to any society. Might be nice to be fashionable nowadays, and girls love the emo boys for some reason. If nothing else, it should be great fucking entertainment. Oh, and I decided I've done way too much drinking lately, so I'm off the booze and back on cigarettes--when I quit smoking a month ago, I think I just traded one money-sucking compulsion for another. Hopefully if I get out of this job and see daylight, I might start connecting with reality. |
| October 15, 2006 I got socks! Yay! Then the waitress at Red Lobster brought me ice cream with a candle on it. Only she couldn't light it herself, so I had to grab my lighter and light it for her. Of course, I don't like ice cream but I had to eat it anyway so that she wouldn't feel disappointed. My eight year old nephew, Bryant, asked my mother if I was married or single, and then I heard her tell him quietly "He's not married; he has to get his life together first." Of course, I had to ask him at that moment if he had a friend he wanted to introduce to me, but then observed that the age difference would be insurmountable. So ladies, apparently I can't date or marry until I 'get my life together'. Sorry, I know that's going to break a lot of hearts. Got hungry around 6, went to JIB for a jumbo cheese and Erica gave me a hug. That made my day. I went out with Andrea tonight, but...well, oh boy, she's drama and a half; I'll leave it at that. Of course, she kicked me in the shins and thighs like 8 times because I blocked her first kick--apparently, she only does that with her really GOOD friends, so I probably shouldn't worry. My radio was playing birthday songs all day, and having "birthday chatter", so I got to be constantly reminded of it. Nevermind that I have had no energy whatsoever today--I spent most of it wandering aimlessly between bed, computer, and watching Aeon Flux (animated) on the couch. So for a day I almost spent doing nothing, it was pretty eventful. Of course, for my sixth year birthday boo-hoo anniversary, I dreamed about Wendy last night. I guess some birthdays I'll never get over, but I've got to admit that in the past six years, this is the best birthday I've had. Sad, isn't it? Oh, and half an hour ago I found out Weird Al has a new album out. That alone makes this birthday the best in six years--Ima go buy it tomorrow. |
| June 26, 2006 I don't know about you, but I'm getting pretty sick of all this Juggalo bullshit. It's a fucking cult, and I've had to watch people running around wearing fucking clown makeup on concert nights for on about eight or nine years now, and it's fucking stupid. Mixing Goth and Hip-Hop is, and always will be, a fucking bad idea--it's like taking the painted-face goth kid from high school and giving him a rapper's tough-guy male-posturing egomaniacal gangster complex. And really, if you listen to the language these people use--Juggalo, Dark Carnival, Ninja, Juggaho, etc.--you almost have to wonder at the amount of fantasy they filter the world through. Anyway, I'm tired of it all. And I wish it would all just go away. |
| June 26, 2006 I watch Harry Potter and I read Anne Rice. Before that I watched Aeon Flux and read Frank Herbert. I dive passionately into the two great academic obsessions of my life, movies and books. I only do this when I'm deep in despair; when I cling to the only threads of life and emotion I have ever really known. Oh, I could just go to raves and do drugs--that would revive the old feelings of joy and happiness, strength and passion, but I remember from experience that when the drugs faded the despair deepened. I follow annual patterns of depression; in the winter, I'm depressed; in the spring, I'm depressed; in the summer, I'm deeply depressed, and in the fall, well, I'm depressed. I fear that I'm disconnected from whatever it is that makes most people feel normal, that makes them feel like conforming in some way--not necessarily in the teen/scenester dress-alike/talk-alike/think-alike sort of conformity, but whatever it is that makes people act differently than how they truly feel in order to be accepted, if only by the smallest portion of their peers. I am the definition of "gauche". I lack social grace and tact. I lack those talents in that I refuse to ever exercise them, however well I understand them. I refuse to tell people their poetry is inspirational and genius. I refuse to tell people that they are beautiful and mature. I refuse to give in to requests, pleas, favors, or mercies that other people ask of me, though I often offer these same things to most people when not asked. I refuse to listen to "popular" music, at least until it is no longer the big fad. I refuse to dress according to any specific fashion, nor to impress anyone--in fact, I prefer any style of dress that makes me more or less anonymous. I prefer to fade from public view; I walk the alleyways rather than the streets; I go out at night, rather than day; I haunt the graveyard restaurants; I am the midnight wanderer, stuttering and stumbling over words I know I have command over, perpetually afraid of and in awe of nearly every stranger I meet. I would rather be insignificant and unknown in public. I am and always have been an observer. Not unattached, no, but an observer; I view everything with significance, though not necessarily great import. I see significance in the way a stranger walks down the street, not realizing or caring that I watch. I find it interesting that I can follow someone hroughout the evening, without themselves realizing that I am watching them out of fascination. I am no longer surprised, however my ego is enlarged, by the fact that I can "ninja" up on people; I can walk unnoticed, I can follow even my closest friends without their noticing, and I can step without sound, in tune with people's awareness (or unawareness?) as if I had no physical presence. Of course all this frightens me; it makes me feel as if I do not really exist, not until someone notices me, or worse that I am my own universe until someone reminds me that I am in theirs too. I am incredibly alone. Though I yearn for companionship, I dare not seek it; I have rarely found in anyone someone able to tolerate me, let alone understand me, and when I do meet those rare gems of souls, I become incredibly attached to them, though they inevitably sour of me. I feel mortal pain that those I love most dearly inevitably leave me. Though while I once felt deep betrayal and a thirst for revenge, years ago, I feel now only sadness; for you see, while I once had deep respect for beliefs such as honor and justice, I now believe in neither; and every defection only leaves me longing for their presence again, often feeling as if I would pay any price of humility just to have them in my life again. These regrets slowly eat at me as I lay in bed at night. My dreams? I have always dreamt in nightmares; it is always rare that I have a pleasant dream, a dream where I am happy. Usually I am haunted by ghosts from my past, by people trying to kill me, by disapproval from those I love; it is only the dreams, like to one of my most recent ones, that I feel forgiveness from those who are lost to me. Honestly, the happiest of my dreams are when I dream of a brown eyed beauty, with long flowing brown hair, a small waist, full breasts and hips; I dream of a woman of as much modesty and timidity as I myself secretly possess, as much passion as I feel within myself whenever I let myself feel any at all. I do not have these happy dreams often, at least while I sleep. And somehow, I don't think I'll ever be truly happy settling for anything less than her. DAMN YOU! I work, and I let all my anger and passion go into my work. I drink, and therefore allow myself to feel something, anything but anger. I sleep, and I dream of Hell. And in between, I daydream of writing down every single thing I have ever observed of any significance, of putting to pen every life I've seen succeed or (as Olympia more often allows) fails. Most of all, I feel as if I will never be able to leave my lonely, desperate life until I have finished all this work; that I am bound to a miserable immortality, until I have no more words to write, no more stories to tell, no more lives to put to pen, and nothing to bring me passion anymore. |
| June 19, 2006 have a rapacious memory. I reach and grasp for every experience I've ever lived. I hold tightly to every real thing that's ever happened to me. I hold on to every word, every thought, every event as if desperate to know something absolutely. Memory is my truth. I remember names, dates, people, places, lives, events, words, phrases, quotes, numbers, fights, arguments, philosophy...my mind is cluttered by connections, episodes, and isolated events that have no relevent meaning. I drive people crazy by remembering things; things they've said that I throw back at them, things I've done for them which they've obviously forgotten; sins they've committed they think I've forgiven. And I have a fantastic memory for people who owe me money, and exactly how much they owe me. I remember other things I can't explain. I remember things that demand to be remembered, despite my best efforts to repress them. I remember things I can't remember having experienced. And I remember some places as being powerfully significant when I can't remember anything significant about them. I like some places simply because I have powerful warm memories of that area, although I can't remember when I ever lived at or cared for them. Memory is a demanding force in my life. I remember people and their lives as only a small town rat can. I can remember people as children, teenagers, and see them now as adults. I've watched as people I knew, admired, and loved fell into drugs. I've watched people I thought were good go bad, and I'm always surprised to find people I thought bad and see the good they were or became. I live for experiences. Every smell, every breath, every sight, every thought is something I hold on to as if it could give life meaning. I find significance in watching the streets everyday; I remember things like an old woman wandering through the park or a teenager sitting on the sidewalk. I have adventures, yes. I seem determined to get myself into every fucked up situation that I can. I make new memories for their own sake. Annoyingly, I hear the same thing from too many hedonistic women--"Omg, I live to meet new friends and make new memories, blah blah blah". But I'm different; they have lives and drama, things to distract them from remembering--Sita and her shallow friends are the most prominent example I've seen of this in life--but unlike them, I have nothing. I live in memory; memory is all I have in place of a life, and it's memory that walks beside me when I pace the streets and chain smoke. It's a kind of double-vision; when I see anything, I also see it through the lens of memory. I think writing is for me an attempt to capture my memories, and give them some permanence. I fear death desperately; oh, when I'm walking the streets I don't fear death or harm, but I think every day You could die today. I fear death because I fear the end of my memories. I fear the loss of everything I've learned, of all that I've seen, that someone somewhere won't be able to see my perspective and learn from it. I want my life to have some meaning. And yet I think that death, true death, will be when I have put every memory on parchment (so to speak). Then I really will be ready to die, and I don't know what I'll do then. |
| June 8, 2006 One of my friends wrote something about helping friends back home with their problems. This pissed me off because if it's anything I've learned, it's to stay the fuck out of other people's lives. This was my reaction: I've been the rescuer far too much in this town. I've done the whole looking out for my friends thing. I've been the one to pick them up when they're down. I've been the one to have to fix their problems. And my experiences last year--supporting a 25yo teenager who still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up, siding with my friend and new mother over a child paternity/support battle (and all the social fighting that goes with it), and trying to protect my friends from BAD relationships, alcoholics, psychopaths, and sexual predators, and help others through BAD breakups--all of them have only taught me: No one will listen to your advice; they're only looking for validation, not criticism. No one really matures in a day, a week, a year, or sometimes even a decade--despite all your influence--if they ever mature at all. No one will gain the courage to change their life from you; if they don't have it, they never will. People who are in bad relationships or date the "wrong type" will repeat this pattern for the rest of their life. If you try to help someone, you'll only get yourself involved in their drama, and you'll make enemies. Eventually, or quickly, those you're trying to help will grow angry with you, resent you, or even hate you for your interference--usually because they resent your judgement and your criticism of their choices. Worse, some of them will still become hopelessly dependent on you--financially, emotionally, physically, or just intellectually (endlessly begging you for advice and support, unable to make a decision by themselves). In the end, you will never break the patterns in someone's life. Only they can do that, and you're not likely to be so much as an influence. Trying to help, fix, interfere in, or just plain be a good person to another in need is nothing but a formula for disaster--especially if your interference is unsolicited. Just let people fuck up their lives on their own, and try not to let yourself get involved. It never ends well. |
| June 18, 2006 For the next month. I am and will be working 7 days a week, 60 hours a week, for the next three weeks or more. So if you're trying to reach me, good luck. I had a really good blog a week back, but myspace ate it and I haven't had much time to write it. When I'm not working or sleeping, or eating dinner at the Reef everyday, I'm working on my new website. I figure I have too much talent as a writer to waste it, and I want to have my own website to publish all my writing (blogs, short stories, the few poems I've felt like writing--I hate poetry--and my episodic autobiography). That and drinking sometimes; I drink to write, and I drink because I write. A famous author, and sometime collegue of L. Ron Hubbard, once wrote "Happy people are all happy in the same way. Unhappy people are all unhappy in their own way." I think that explains why people think I and my writing are interesting. P.S. I originally wrote "I and my writing is interesting"; first I realized that it was grammatically incorrect, but thought that no one would notice or care. Then I sat there and stared at it for a minute, and it worked itself into my brain. Finally I fixed it because I wouldn't be able to fall asleep if I didn't. It would eat away at me, "plural/singular subject/verb disagreement" nagging at my half conscious thoughts until I would only drink more to drown out the sound of my own inner dialogue. Most people have have an inner monologue; it's the voice inside our head when we are thinking in what could be voiced as speech. Unfortunately, I'm always arguing with myself so it becomes its own dialogue. Then the echoes of people I've known voice their judgements upon me, and it becomes quite noisy, what with all the conversation and argument. Then I shout "EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP!", and my neighbor knocks on my door to see if I'm alright. This is what I have to cope with. |
| May 29, 2006 They're still posting that advertisement about warping Bush & Kerry's faces; right now it's sitting above the very blog window I'm writing this in--two years after the election! Yes, there's something strange about our society. But aside from that... Oh, did I have fun tonight. I went down to the reef to have coffee and read, and ran into Ryan. We sat there bullshitting about old times for a good hour, then we decided to go barhopping. I'd say I decided, since I always voiced the thought, but it was almost as if we reached the same conclusion simultaneously the entire evening when we decided to leave a place. Went to the Brotherhood, and it sucked. It was filled with Greener hippies and a frighteningly Ana-like girl with red hair and dreadlock extensions. It was fun to watch her though, cuz she was wearing one of those Hot Topic belts with all the 2" rings hanging from it, and when she walked her ass bounced and jingled the rings. It was always fun to watch her walk :D Anyway, we ditched out of there after only a few minutes because they kept playing college rock on the stereos, and who can stand the "maudlin tones of the college rock station"? And "What is it about college boys and crybaby music anyway?" --Both quotes from Clueless We went to McCoys, but it sucked there too. Nothing but old drunks rambling in a schizoid manner outside, and inside the girl that held most of our attention was so weird that we couldn't decide whether she was cute or horrible; she had short black curly hair (reminiscent of math nerds) and a round face, very skinny, and blue jeans with a Hot Topic belt (very subtle), a greenish overshirt that seemed awkwardly hiked up and a white undershirt that reminded me of both skin and cloth sterility; it was almost as if her green shirt was riding up above her hips and the white shirt was her underwear peeking out. Very strange, very weird, and very questionably cute--if she'd had a better face and hair she probably would have been hot in that very nerdy way. I actually wondered for a while if she was a weird looking boy. Stopped off at Le Voyeur because it was the least frightening of the bars we'd been to so far. There was a punk rock band in the back playing for free, so we listened for a little while and watched emo kids dance. The sound was reminiscent of London 1981, but these emo kids seemed to think it was My Chemical Romance or something. I pointed this out to Ryan, saying "You can tell when emo kids dance because they're too good to actually dance, and would rather stand in the audience nodding their heads and tapping their feet as if they're too cool to actually dance." Then a few of them actually started dancing, and this was fucking hilarious. I grabbed my cameraphone and started recording--that's how bad it was. Maybe there were just a few bad dancers at the show. Or maybe they were just kids and didn't know any better. Or maybe this is how emo kids really dance, and it's just really fucking sad. We left when the band stopped playing. Or actually, I'd like to say that, but I'm skipping the best part. We hung out in the bar for a while, talking and laughing at emo kids (great fun!), and when we got up to leave I grabbed my coat and well...somehow my inner coat pocket, which I have not touched in 3 years, opened and about 20 condoms came spilling out. In the middle of a crowded bar filled with emo kids. Nevermind the reason that I was carrying around about 20 condoms with me--they've been in that pocket almost since I got the coat, and it was a revenge fuck. So that was fun; at least I could laugh at myself while I was picking them all up while one of the girls I'd been oggling all evening was laughing hysterically (intentional choice of words). We were gonna go grab a bite to eat but we went by Jake's on the way, and we decided to pop in there and have a looksie. Oddly enough, it had a few people in there, and even stranger, they weren't ugly! Or, well, most of them...or most of the girls at least...at least not the fat ones...well, that's how it goes at Jake's. The greatest fun one can have at a bar is drinking and watching people dance...poorly. Even worse when you're at a gay bar, because even the straight guys dance like fags, and the alcohol only makes it seem ten times funnier. Oddly enough, the girls know how to dance. Go figure, maybe it's because they're aware of how they're dancing, or maybe they're not that drunk and still have the confidence to dance without drinking. Or maybe girls actually learned how to dance while growing up, and boys never did. The cute boys know how to dance though, so I'd suspect it's just something that has to do with socializing during the formative years of childhood and the teen ages. (Needless to say, I only have the confidence to dance when I'm drunk or high, and I either dance very well or VERY poorly). So we laughed riotously at guys who didn't know how to dance. Guys that danced like they were hot shit. Guys that danced like they were gay, swinging their asses all over the place. Guys that rolled their shirts up in a knot at their sternum and danced bare-stomached. Guys that danced like gangsters, and didn't know whether to keep the house up, bring the house down, or keep it where it is. Guys that danced like psychotic tweekers, spreading their arms and legs all over the place and bouncing around like jack-in-the-boxes on pogo sticks--without actually "pogo-ing", which might have slightly improved their efforts. We named them after their shirts--Red Shirt, White Shirt, and Jesus-Sweater (because the guy wore a gray sweater and looked like a Nordic Jesus). After an hour of this, we went outside to smoke, still laughing about it, and when I was laughing about Red Shirt's antics I heard a guy yelling at me behind me and guess who it was. Whoops. He stared and just went "What?!" a couple of times, I stared back, then turned back to the conversation a little more sober and cognizant than before. So the moment fucking took me, even outside, right? :D Anyway, he was dumb enough to look at me as if he wanted to fight, but after five heartbeats he still hadn't done anything but stared; so he wasn't going to do anything. Besides, I've yet to see the day that I get my ass kicked by a fag, and I could easily have taken him. But still, I don't like to insult people unintentionally, so I feel a little bad about it. It was pretty rude of me, I know. But he still danced pretty fucking badly, and I'm chuckling about it even now. I'll probably make this a weekly thing, going out to dance clubs to laugh at poor dancers. Then, of all things, White-Shirt came outside and started talking to me because I had a mohawk. Damn, why does this thing always get me attention from the WRONG people?! Boring, unnerving, but I was polite, watching Red-Shirt out of the corner of my eye and feeling guilty that I was being so polite to someone I'd only made fun of fifteen minutes before. It was a relief when he left. The rest of the night was relatively uneventful after we left Jake's in infamy. I doubt I should delve into the deeper Olympian secrets we talked about after that. Not here anyways, but it'll all come out in a book or a website someday. I'll just say that I think Olympia is like an Anne Rice novel...it seems attractive at first, but the true horror of this place slowly unfolds like the long, slow night of eternity. |
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