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So this is my first entry here on 100 words. Heard about this website through the podcast
Stuff to Blow Your Mind
. Figured I'd give it a try. I think I'm going to try and use this as a journal type thing. Let's begin. I work for a department store as a store detective. I stop shop lifters, at least I try to. Today some asshole stole some CDs. The associate who was in the area, saw the guy and even thought he was acting suspiciously, but never said anything. I'm pissed at myself, the thief, and him.
Second entry, full disclosure, I actually started joined this site on the eighth of April. So, for a bit at least, when I say
I mean the eighth. For me the eighth is today. So there's this girl at work who has a crush on me. It's awkward. I don't have a crush on her, she's bad at hiding it. I try to be professional, I don't like bringing my personal life to my job. There
a girl at work that I do have a huge crush on, but she's married and recently pregnant. Damn it.
My boss is leaving for another position in the company. I'm happy for him, but I'm sad because he's been such a good boss to me. I haven't had a whole lot of great bosses in my life, so it's pretty great that I've been fortunate in this way. Still going to miss him though. I'm pretty sick of my job. I'm tired of having my performance as an employee be judged in reaction to the lowest common thief and scam artist. I think I hate them. I work forty hours to make a living and they just steal. Bullshit.
So I'm trying out new things, trying to grow and develop as a person. I'm almost 30 and that kind of scares the shit out of me. It seems trite, but I don't feel like I should be turning 30, I don't feel that old. I don't feel like the person I was when I was 25 though either. I don't know, strange when you think about it. I just feel like me, most of the time anyway. My Dad died when I was 23. I think I was born then. Nothing feels real before that moment. Very strange indeed.
I did my taxes for the first time by myself this year. I have to say I am pretty stoked about that. That's a ritual now, a passage into adulthood. Some experience it earlier and some later. I was in the later category. I read Joseph Campbell off and on and he talks about the coming of age rituals. We don't have those anymore, at least not in the way that we used to. There are some though that still exist as a way to measure your coming of age and your entrance in to the tribe. More coming soon.
So to continue what I wrote about last time. Just off the top of my head. These are some rites of passage that I could think of: First kiss, losing your virginity, getting your driver's license, first time getting drunk, filing your taxes, first paycheck, owning your own car, first concert, first trip of significant distance without your parents, getting your own place, buying dinner for your parents with your own money. That's all I got so far. I only wrote down things that I personally have experienced, so this list is by no means complete, rather it is ongoing.
So this is my second to last entry on the eighth of April, even though now it is the ninth of April, but I haven't gone to bed yet so it doesn't count. I have to say this whole idea of writing everyday or keeping a journal never really appealed to me. It wasn't until I moved into my own place and all of my closest friends were spread to the four corners of the country that I began to appreciate being able to talk out ideas and thoughts. Even if it I'm just getting it out of my head.
Since I'm currently single, online dating be damned, I don't usually have anyone to talk to whenever I get home at night. My best friends all have wives or significant others and any chance of communication is fraught with scheduling conflicts and abbreviated phone calls, inconsistent texting, and the like. I've actually been meaning to start a journal for a while now, but video games are hard to compete against. I like this format though, the entries aren't so long that you don't want to do it. I've already banged out eight of them in less than thirty short minutes.
So I've started something that I never thought I would do again. I've started playing guitar again. I tried before, but it wasn't as easy as I wanted it to be so I just gave up. When my girlfriend and I broke up, I used it as the perfect excuse to never play again. I let it sit and collect dust in my room like an abandoned monument to my failure. Oh well. Now I'm playing again, just a litter bit but it's a start. Tomorrow I think I'm going to try and write some fiction here. Worth a shot.
Walking through the field of bleeding men, his mind ached for them. More boys than men, they didn't deserve this. They would follow him through hell and back and all he brought them was pain and misery. He couldn't have asked for more loyalty than that shown to him by these men. He could hear the enemy over the next ridge, hear their battle cries and the clang of their weapons. His men were going to die, every last one of them. He would die too once the enemy reached them, but before they died they would fight once again.
So my attempt at fiction yesterday wasn't that great. It probably didn't help that I didn't have a clear idea of what I wanted to write about or where the story was going. Oh well. I've read some on this site that are great. Wonderful vignettes that become serialized day by day. I've always written a lot of nonfiction. Essays and reports, that kind of thing. I'm pretty good when it comes to that, but I'm in awe of people who can write fiction well. It's a completely different way to write. I'll try the fiction thing again, probably, eventually.
I'm probably not the first person to realize this, but isn't it tragically ironic that one of John Denver's biggest hits was
Leaving on a Jet Plane
and then he died in a plane crash? Like I said, this is not an original thought I think. Also some of the song lyrics are freaky when you know what happened to him, like:
I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again; Kiss me and cry for me; I'm already so lonesome I could die
. For some reason the cry for me part just gets to me.
So I spaced and forgot to write yesterday, today is the 14th. Work kicked my ass, I was so tired I could barely focus on driving. I still managed to do some sit-ups and pack a bit for my impending move. Why do old cardboard boxes smell so damn weird? If they smelled like old books there'd be no problem, but they don't. They smell like forgotten lives and hollow dreams...whatever that means, I just liked the way it sounded. Anyway, I have a lot of books that I have to put in boxes and then remove later.
You can learn a lot about people when you see them in a stressful situation. Some people totally surprise you, they step right up and roll with it. Others step up, falter a bit, but in the end get it done. Others freeze or lie to get out of being held responsible at all. Some have to preserve their image of being fearless by never being exposed to fear at all. Avoiding all stressful or terrifying situations, lest their facade cracks and they do something decidedly uncool. Most people respect those that can fuck up and own up to it.
I spent most of today packing. I find it so strange how often I've had to do this. I pack everything I own into borrowed cardboard, drive them across town, and unpack them all. I'm excited about my new place, but I am not thrilled about the prospect of moving all of my shit. On the other hand, moving is a great excuse to really suss out what's important and what's not in your life. If I own something that I haven't used since I moved in to my current place, then it's not getting moved to the new one.
I like to think that there is a world beneath this one, or beside, either way. A world of magic and hideous truths. A place where the darkness is alive with mystery and forgotten knowledge. Only certain people can see this world. Children have an easier time, their minds are more open than ours. This explains the boogeyman and other terrors. People who are intimately familiar with death can glimpse this world as well. Those whom have had a brush with death, their own or witnessing someone die, have a much better understanding of how thin the veil really is.
Your best chance of seeing the veil, or at least to press against it and feel the edges of this thing we call reality, is when you are very tired. Awoken too soon or awake too long, it doesn't matter. When we are exceptionally tired our brains have a harder time keeping the walls of normality erect. If you're lucky, you can feel the veil. It feels like moving through aether. An ethereal cloud passing through you. You can usually only feel it for a second or two before you realize what's happening and your mind raises the blinders again.
I am writing my 100 words on my iPhone, which is new for me. Today is the first day at my new apartment. I think I like it, I'll know more after I tonight. The first night at a new place is always interesting. Every noise is extra creepy because it's new. Light may shine in through the window in a weird way or the neighbors might be extra noisy. That's the fun part I suppose. I've spent many a first night in a bunch of different places. Some have been good nights, others...not so much. We will see.
My two complaints so far about my new place are thus: a noisy refrigerator and a loud barking dog. My refrigerator is loud, like really freaking loud. Louder. Than. Hell. Well, not that loud, but whenever it cranks up to make ice it's almost as loud as my computer. My computer is pretty damn loud. The other complaint is with my neighbor's dog across the hall. He's a big dog, watchdog type dog. And he barks at the slightest noise. It's good for safety I suppose, bad for concentration. To be fair my door seems to block most of it.
Watching Mythbusters and drinking beer, does life get any better? It probably does, but right now it's pretty great. I wish I had internet though. Damn comcast. I find it interesting just how much we depend on other people in our daily lives. The barista who serves your coffee, the cashier at Target, the comcast installer and many, many more. We value our independence and individuality, but we depend on others far more than we acknowledge. Electricity, internet, running water would not be possible without the work of others, and without those things modern life grinds to a halt. Crazy.
Slightly drunk, just slightly, I wouldn't want to drive though. That warm, dizzy feeling and pleasant tiredness envelopes me like a shroud. My head is getting lighter and my limbs are getting sluggish. My attention span is shorter, shorter than usual anyway. I find it harder to keep writing. I'm getting distracted and I forget what I was thinking or writing. Yep it just happened again. God these walls are very white. White walls, white paint, white counters, white tabletops, beige carpet, very bland. I'm going to dress the walls with all sorts of nifty things, posters and record albums.
Hello World. On a cold and lonesome evening, on a train out of nowhere. I met up with the gambler and asked him how he felt. He said he never knew there were oh so many stars, or that the earth was spinning oh so fast. He never knew how dark the night could be, or how bright the day. He never wanted to forget again, so he wrote it all down and put it in a song. Even after that long and lonesome night, I can still hear the gambler's song floating through the sleeping trees. Can you hear?
So I'm all moved out of my old apartment. I can't tell you how happy I am that I'm done with all of that. I don't think I've worked that hard for that long in...well, probably ever. I had so much to do, packing, taking stuff to the Good Will, loading up the truck, unloading, unpacking. I loaded up my car one night, drove 30 minutes to my new place, unloaded the car, and drove back to the old apartment to load up more shit, all after 9 PM. I had to go back to work just to relax.
"Broke into the old apartment, this is where we used to live. Broken glass, broke and hungry, broken hearts and broken bones. This is where we used to live. Why did you paint the walls? Why did clean the floor? Why did you plaster over the hole I punched the door? This where we used to live. Why did you keep the mousetrap? Why did you keep the dish rack? These things used to be mine, I guess they still are, I want them back. Broke into the old apartment, forty-two steps from the street. Crooked landing, crooked landlord."
Sitting in my new apartment, watching Mythbusters, listening to the frogs outside my window. I have to register for a 5K this coming Saturday. It will be my first. I've been running fairly regularly for over eight weeks. I think I'm ready, although I feel like I got my ass handed to me during my run today. So, we'll see how I do. I'm excited though, it will be the culmination of my training, a tangible challenge to test my preparations. I know I can go three miles, I just don't know if I'll be able to run that long.
I hate money worries. That's the worst. When you're looking at a stack of unpaid bills and a bank balance that is in no way comparable. You might be able to pay all of your bills, but Heaven help you if you feel like eating this week. Paying all of the associated costs with moving into my new apartment has totally drained my gold reserves. At least I get paid this week. I hate money. I really do. Oh well, I've got a roof over my head, some coffee in the cupboard, and cereal. I think I'll be just fine.
Why do you think zombies have become such a huge cultural influence? Zombie movies have been around since the 60s, but it wasn't until the last 10 years that the hordes of the undead started showing up everywhere. Why thank you for asking, my preferred method of zombie eradication would either be a good sturdy crowbar or a fire ax. Both of these tools have other functions beside zombie deletion, they can be used for their intended purposes. I think therein lies the fun of zombies. The preparation, the puzzle solving of what to do if faced with the undead.
So I'm trying to learn "And it Stoned Me" by Van Morrison on my guitar. The chords are simple, I haven't figured the strumming pattern out yet. I can probably find someone playing it on youtube. I ran my first 5K this past Saturday. It was pretty cool. There were 1500 runners who signed up for it. All the proceeds went to support breast cancer patients and research. I was just happy that I stuck to my running program and that I successfully ran it. I ran the whole thing and I didn't die. I am so proud of myself.
Why is it that when you sit down to write sometimes it takes no time at all and sometimes it takes hours. I know that it's probably writer's block. Sometimes the words just flow out of my brain and down my fingers and onto the screen like a deluge. Sometimes it's more like mud, well mud mixed with frozen molasses. Like now, apparently, yep definitely seems to be the case. I also tend to write in a stream-of-conscious style, but then I start to analyze my words before I write them and then I dam up the river.
Went for a two mile run today. It was nice, even though I run next to a four lane rode, the sidewalk is nice and woodsy. There's a sewage treatment plant along one of the side streets and when the wind shifts you get a nice heady mix of poo water. It's a nice run though. My old place had a nice trail, this one is better lit though, lot of streetlights. It was weird, I ran two miles and when I was done I didn't feel like I had done anything. I guess that means I'm getting better, maybe?
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