Shrugs

Today was a pretty odd day. I don't want to write, but I feel as though I should.

I saw a homeless man a few days ago while crossing the bridge on Cherry here in town. He was walking down the train tracks that go through Massillon, carrying a large plastic garbage bag and a big wooden plank. I can only imagine he used the plank for sleeping, eating, and maybe other things that require a generally flat and level surface. I locked eyes with him for a second as he walked down the train tracks, me in my polo shirt and my head phones on playing what I imagine is generally snobby music.

In that moment, I felt connected to the man with no home. I understand I'm not homeless but the fact that we both saw each other, if only for a moment, seemed surreal to me. Massillon isn't especially known for its homeless population, though it is there if you know where to look. I'm not really sure what brought us together for that short lapse of time, but it made me feel like a bad guy.

I was also driving home this evening after having a night of fun with my improv troupe. We went out for italian food in Wadsworth and went back to Kevin and Mandy's apartment when we were done. We had a few drinks and played some games, had a generally pleasant time.

While driving home, in a partial stupor due to the alcohol I drank, I noticed I was the only person on all of highway 21 except for one car about a mile ahead of me. I drove slow deliberately to see if the would pull away as I wanted to be alone on my drive home.

Once they left my sight though I felt guilty, just as I had when I saw the homeless man. I'm not sure why, but I felt like I should speed up till I could see them again. Once I did see them though, I was to late. They had turned off of the highway onto one of northeast Ohio's many backroads.

I felt like this may all be some sort of bizarre symbolism that would be appropriate material for a blog. Perhaps along the lines of my fear of being alone or forcing people I love away.

I dunno.

Chocolate Wall

I feel pretty shitty right now, like I came down with a disease that just makes someone feel like a total douche. It isn't quite depression, depression is a psychological condition. I suppose whatever is afflicting me is partially psychological, I would be able to feel much were it not.

Basically the plans to move to Chicago, not happening. Nikki had been speaking with a lady 'in the industry' over in the windy city and she only heard bad new. Her cousin hooked her up with this chick as far as a break down of what to expect upon moving, and she was basically told you'd be better off if you didn't move.

I know I didn't really play a hand in the ultimate defeat of Chicago, but I feel like I did. I wanted to wait a bit longer than jumping the next bus in November. I had basically forced my way onto the trip so because, and I've come to terms with this, I was desperate at the time.

Nikki is a fine piece of action, there is no denying that, but I feel much more for her than the anatomical pleasure. Her and I connect in a way I don't with most other people. She is one of the few unfortunate souls who have the pleasure of hearing my distastes because I am so comfortable with them. Plus, she doesn't seem to mind, so I think we have a pretty good thing going.

But as she got off the phone with this long winded woman ( whom she spoke to for over two hours ), I felt like I had plunged a dagger into her chest. She sobbed and poured her heart out to me, decrying her dreams as useless and her overall unfair treatment as ongoing. I coddled her and whispered to her. I devised a new plan for her, for us.

She eventually calmed down and agreed with me. Agreed that we would move in together and live around here for another year. We would get an apartment together to get her out of her parents' house and we would make new plans during the course of that year, find a new Mecca and plan our pilgrimage at the end of our stay wherever we found vacancy.

She agreed to it. She agreed to leave her dream behind for me and make a new dream starting here. She agreed to it, so why do I feel so low? Why do I feel like I was the lady on the other end of the phone telling her that her dreams were unreachable? What reason do I have to feel like a douche?

I hope this suspected douchery is just that. I hope I have no other reason to feel bad than sympathy pain. I hope I don't come to find that I'm just as big a jerk as you all think I am.

Wrapped Up in Juice

I am a human being who just imbibed a certain amount of alcohol that makes me a Super Smash Bros Brawl warrior. That may or may not be important, but I find it to be an important discovery. It seems that as the amount of fermented yeast in my system increases, so to does my hand eye coordination. Unfortunately, it also increases my general stupidity as well as ability to vomit.

Suppose, however, I was able to find the golden ratio of alcohol to stupidity that would revert my to animal-like qualities. I could become an unstoppable force of physical determination and judgment. Others would not be able to best me in feats of dexterity or physical manipulation. They would, very easily best me in terms of memory and intelligence, however. So, would I be able to realize what terms my challenges were to come to if made?

I suppose finding the golden ratio solves this problem, but I can't necessarily know that being at the proper ratio means that I'll be able to understand much and what few I would comprehend would most probably not be very well understood.

But the fact that I'm able to know enough about my current state makes me wonder that if being "inhibited" is really all as inhibited as it is cracked up to be. That is, after drinking as much as I have, which really isn't a lot, should I really be able to sit down and break my physiological being into the parts I am?

I'm not a wonder of insight right now, as should be shown by the general misappropriation of words and sentences in this diatribe of my current state, but the simple truth of my typing it should prove something about my cognitive abilities. I'm no slouch, though I do have a general slumping.

Luckily I am getting a massage tomorrow. A free massage. My slumping should be adjusted into a mild lumbar disruption, which can be cured with peppermint tea and intercourse.

My god I love peppermint tea.

I found the text size button!

I drove to Pat Catan's this morning and bought some art supplies. It may prove a wasted effort, but I always find that driving somewhere far away and purchasing something acts as a bit of a driving force for me. Kind of like me saying to myself "Hey fucktard, I didn't just go out and buy this shit to sit it in my room and leave it to rot! You better use it or your ass is getting thrown into the street!" I'm a total dick to myself, shit.

So I bought some cold press board, at Bili Kribbs' suggestion. ( The possesive form of Kribbs' is fun to try and figure out how to say, just so you know. ) I also got a thick brush and a pallette. Brick-a-brack that artists usually have. I'm living the dream! I also got two things for me though: a twenty-four count box of crayons and some cheap note cards. So cheap, mind you, that they're not even card stock. They're rectangular slips of paper. I drew monsters on them all day at work with my crayons. It was fun, so I think I may post them to accompany this here blog. Maybe boost my readership from me to someone else.

Work was work otherwise. Work. work. work...

I came home and Fathead suggested we go see Pineapple Express. It was good, I enjoyed the humor and the very honest portrayal of pot smoking. It is the kind of movie that would have made me feel something if I hadn't been ill prepared. Beyond that, Fathead and I were frightened by the rain as we left the theater, which proved hilarious. We were not the cool kids at the theater tonight. More like two goofy guys who hang out now and then. That's honest, I think so anyway.

That's all life should be. Drawing in crayon and laughing at each other when trying to be serious.

Moderate Psychadelia

I need to totally write some words down...

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll do this.

Call of the Bored

So I'm just out of it entirely right now. Gonna type some words before going to bed to ready myself for partying tomorrow.

I hope I get to drink some liquors tomorrow, as I haven't drank liquors in quite some time. I suppose I do not need alcohol to have fun, but it certainly helps. It makes me relaxed and ultimately jolly in that my body stores fat much more easily if I'm filled with yeast excrement. ( I feel smart now. ) I like that my body retains weight much more easily when I'm drinking as I'm not especially hungry while drinking. However, when I'm high it seems that food becomes such a pleasant diversion. Smoking and salty snacks can only go hand in hand, as otherwise I'm to self conscious to sully my lips with such garbage.

I'm am a bit of as health nut, but you'd never know it. I work out in the morning, then proceed to watch television till I go to bed. I try to eat healthy, then eat out at burger joints and drink beer. Not to long ago I even hurt my back whilst lifting my twenty pound weight. I suppose having hurt it the day before while doing jumping jacks, it probably wasn't the best idea. But me, I need to work out, need to feel like I'm not wasting what little life remains in my body.

Sure, I'm in my twenties. But that is at least a quarter of my life. Okay, I guess you don't really start living till your twenties, what with college and love and all that. I still have a need to feel like I'm going to be something big. I'm going to make something of this weaselly spindly self of mine. I'm going to turn shit into gold, spin twine into silk, boil water into wine.

I need a prodding though. I need some sort of jolt to get me going. Working out is more like the ticking of a clock, an occurrence that happens in sort of rhythm that only serves to drive me mad. I'm slowly unwinding, ticking down the seconds till either a cog pops out of place or my alarm goes off. I'm hoping it is the latter bit of symbolism.

"I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out
in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom
of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time." -Jack London

I would compare myself to Call of the Wild now, but the fact I can attribute that to the author of the above quote seems good enough for me. For now.

G'night.

Hey!

I've taken up walking to work, as opposed to driving. would bike to work, but I've been lazy recently, what with the muscle I pulled in my back. Walking has its benefits though, as I get to enjoy the otherwise blurred surroundings of my meager Massillonian life.

The bridge on Cherry, for being a large and rather charmless construction, proffers an image of the river I had never really taken in. Every morning, I feel like jumping into the water below, but realize that I may end up smelling of a few unfortunate things if I do. That and the total depth of the river may only be a few feet, so the safety of my body would be better withheld on the bridge. Nevertheless the view is breathtaking, as I've found myself breathless looking over it a few times this week. No, its not the Amazon of Nile, but the small river whose name is unknown to me twists lazily through the small hills outside of the Massillon city limits. It seems as the the lackadaisical stance on life most Massillonians have is also shared with the nature surrounding the city.

On the way home, shortly after taking in the view of the river, I had crossed a small intersection with a rather awkward light fixture. The light really does not serve much of a purpose but to slow down any and all drivers. After crossing this light, a group of girls stuck a the light began yelling at me. Seemingly, they were just trying to annoy me, as I was on the phone with a friend discussing the arrangements to get tuxes fitted for his upcoming wedding. I turned and acknowledged the girls with a small thumbs up, to which they giggled. They did not stop yelling though, as I made my turn towards home.

It seemed rather surreal. My girlfriend told me they were hitting on me, but I really just think they were bored. I do suppose that they both go hand in hand, as the best sex is usually had when all parties involved begin spontaneously from whence was nothing. The game they were playing may have been just a teenager's way of passing the time through the doldrums of middle America, showing that fun was alive and kicking in grass roots country.

Or maybe they were just twats.

Whatever way you spin it, Massillon has some hidden beauty, which I'm slowly uncovering and documenting. Hopefully I'll have a few pictures of my discoveries in the coming days.