I don't think I'm addicted to adrafinil yet. Note the key word in that statement, "yet." I probably have a caffeine addiction, so why not adrafinil? C.E. probably put it best when he said "[K.T.], I'm concerned about your use of stimulants." But, really, who is to say what is too much? So I have a few Cokes in a day and pop one, maybe two adrafinil. I can stop any time I want, I just don't want to. Wow, I can't even tell if I was kidding.
***
For various reasons, today was an extraordinarily bad day at work. That plus some stuff that happened over the past couple of weeks has me on edge.
I can't be absolutely sure that the person isn't reading this, but I'm relatively sure that, on the off chance they were, they wouldn't get that it was them, so we'll keep this entirely anonymous. What does this mean? If you're sitting at a table for 20 minutes and can't spot the sap, you are the sap. What? No, I don't know what it means.
This person has a tendency to contact me only when s/he needs a sympathetic ear. As I think about it, that's they way it's been for a few years now. I find it hard to strike a balance between telling him/her to go f*ck themselves and actually try to help them, in that I try to help.
It is so much fun when you have friends like that. S/he isn't the only one, so I'm especially lucky. All the patience that the Almighty blessed me with (what? K.T. is patient? bullsh*t.) gets burned up by these people. Sometimes, when it gets down to people that actually do matter, all I want to do is yell at them, make them proxies for those other people.
It makes me sick to think of how they're using me, and it makes me sick to think of how I let them. And, really, that's the key if you want something from me: just ask. Because somewhere within me, I am so god damned afraid of being alone, that I will do whatever it takes in an attempt to please people, even if it means making myself miserable. Especially if it means making myself miserable.
Because, as f*cked up as it is, I sort of look forward to interacting with them. It shows that they haven't forgotten me. Yeah. It's great, especially for this person, because I boil down to a disposable person. Use me, discard me, when you need me a few months later, use me again. I'm a sap.
And I keep telling myself every few months, "Self, this is now the time to cut all the people that are just using you out of your life." Can't do it, too afraid of that, of walling myself away a little more from the world. This is also partly why I'm loathe to meet people. I can't take too many more of those people in my life.
Why do I have to be the one to put forth all the effort, when they're getting all the benefit? F*ck that, and f*ck you for making me sad, even when you're not around. Is it too much to ask for those people to stop trying to find me, to go bother other people? And still I try, on the off chance I might need help someday. And if I ever went to those people, "Sorry, K.T., kind of busy." Why am I such a pushover?
Is this how people become jaded and disenchanted? Good thing this all kicked in over the past couple of weeks, whilst I was most vulnerable. Oh, wait.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Place Holder
I've been tasked to create a write-up for one of my fantasy football leagues on a weekly basis. On the night that I write that up, I'm just going to throw down some filler for Writ.
You know those people that feel that writing is a mystical experience, that you have to be blessed to do it, that it's something that only certain people can do? Bullshit. It's all practice and hard work, and above all, perseverance. All the skill in the world won't do you a damned bit of good if you don't apply it. Put your fingers to the keyboard, or the pen to the paper, and bang it out.
You know those people that feel that writing is a mystical experience, that you have to be blessed to do it, that it's something that only certain people can do? Bullshit. It's all practice and hard work, and above all, perseverance. All the skill in the world won't do you a damned bit of good if you don't apply it. Put your fingers to the keyboard, or the pen to the paper, and bang it out.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Renaissance, Man, part 2
Hot as all hell.
A.W., at the urging of M.C., buys a drinking/blowing horn. It's cow, as I recall. Holds roughly two, two and a half pints of beer. The curvature matches his body perfectly.
The proprietor of the horn store mocks a man for carrying a plastic cup, for if he should fall, he would crush his cup. Clearly, he must pay a king's bounty for a drinking horn.
There are so many people inappropriately dressed.
A man dressed as a dark elf, with white-powdered hair, black face paint, and way too much leather.
A woman in a metal bikini top, like hammered plate metal. However, she carried a few extra pounds, and they brought some friends.
An extraordinarily skinny man in an open robe with a nipple piercing.
A gigormous man wearing a clever shirt that said something akin to "Stop making your boobs look at my eyes." Classy.
Another large man wearing a shirt that said something like "Maybe the clever statement on this shirt will make me popular."
Perhaps on the right people... well, no. There's not much place for either.
D.C. saw some gypsies with tramp stamps.
M.C. saw a mother with pink hair.
I saw far too many women wearing bustiers that elevated their chests to top shelf in a gravity-damning manner (think 50s bullet bras).
Far too many people in tight leather that exposed fat waddles and dimples.
A man wearing a signed Michael Jordan jersey. Why are you going to wear a signed jersey?
Nothing wrong with the people that dress for the period, but mayhaps the tight clothing should be under the gymnasts' purview.
A.W., at the urging of M.C., buys a drinking/blowing horn. It's cow, as I recall. Holds roughly two, two and a half pints of beer. The curvature matches his body perfectly.
The proprietor of the horn store mocks a man for carrying a plastic cup, for if he should fall, he would crush his cup. Clearly, he must pay a king's bounty for a drinking horn.
There are so many people inappropriately dressed.
A man dressed as a dark elf, with white-powdered hair, black face paint, and way too much leather.
A woman in a metal bikini top, like hammered plate metal. However, she carried a few extra pounds, and they brought some friends.
An extraordinarily skinny man in an open robe with a nipple piercing.
A gigormous man wearing a clever shirt that said something akin to "Stop making your boobs look at my eyes." Classy.
Another large man wearing a shirt that said something like "Maybe the clever statement on this shirt will make me popular."
Perhaps on the right people... well, no. There's not much place for either.
D.C. saw some gypsies with tramp stamps.
M.C. saw a mother with pink hair.
I saw far too many women wearing bustiers that elevated their chests to top shelf in a gravity-damning manner (think 50s bullet bras).
Far too many people in tight leather that exposed fat waddles and dimples.
A man wearing a signed Michael Jordan jersey. Why are you going to wear a signed jersey?
Nothing wrong with the people that dress for the period, but mayhaps the tight clothing should be under the gymnasts' purview.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Renaissance, Man, part 1
Thoughts week, because it was a busy weekend.
Smoked turkey leg. Even now, I'm still salivating at the thought of it. So damnably delicious.
I'd been thinking of the smoked turkey ever since M.C. mentioned the renaissance festival. Had D.C., M.C. and A.W. not already been waiting at the front gate, the plan was to gun straight for the turkey leg stand.
Saw some women on stilts. "That's how I like my women: tall and without feet." They were leading kids around on ribbon leashes, but the kids had dyed white hair. Who led whom?
Once I got the turkey leg, speech became extraneous, and grease was everywhere. All focus was on the the leg. I want to smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving. It was sooooo good.
We watched Johnny Fox, the sword swallower. Had I not been obsessed with the turkey, I'd have noticed the first half of the act. As it was in my hand, I couldn't really clap, though his swallowing was quite... pornographic?
In the port-a-potty, at a relatively early time in the day, someone had someone left their mark on the toilet seat itself. Number two. How?
Smoked turkey leg. Even now, I'm still salivating at the thought of it. So damnably delicious.
I'd been thinking of the smoked turkey ever since M.C. mentioned the renaissance festival. Had D.C., M.C. and A.W. not already been waiting at the front gate, the plan was to gun straight for the turkey leg stand.
Saw some women on stilts. "That's how I like my women: tall and without feet." They were leading kids around on ribbon leashes, but the kids had dyed white hair. Who led whom?
Once I got the turkey leg, speech became extraneous, and grease was everywhere. All focus was on the the leg. I want to smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving. It was sooooo good.
We watched Johnny Fox, the sword swallower. Had I not been obsessed with the turkey, I'd have noticed the first half of the act. As it was in my hand, I couldn't really clap, though his swallowing was quite... pornographic?
In the port-a-potty, at a relatively early time in the day, someone had someone left their mark on the toilet seat itself. Number two. How?
Friday, September 07, 2007
Interesting Times
Off the top of my head, these were the major points of the past year: I found a job captioning television programs in Virginia. I shifted my living schedule to an evening shift. I was admitted to the Maryland Bar Association. I developed a crush on someone. I managed to run three miles in twenty-four minutes. I quit the job captioning television programs. I found another job technical writing in Virginia. I shifted back to a day schedule in a weekend. I moved down to Virginia after a ridiculous seven hours of commuting in two days thanks to snow. I found out my crush was not reciprocated, and took that really poorly. I vowed to write fifty thousand words in a month, and produced about thirty thousand. I started bar hopping to meet women, only to discover that even though they wanted to talk to me, I was too shy to talk to them. I quit the technical writing position. I found another job as a business analyst. I started taking adrafinil, though not to the point of addiction yet. I continued working on the novel in spurts.
The minor recurrent points: I lied to everyone I met about my educational background. I ran. I listened to people when they asked me "if I had a second." I played video games. I drank water. I ranted and raved about the most inconsequential things. I danced when people were watching. I danced when no one was watching. I sang at the top of my lungs, serenading a choir of angels. I made goofy faces at babies, strangers and friends. I surfed the internet. I typed up blog entries. I drove for the hell of it. I ate 7-11 hot dogs, because I have mental problems. I accused myself of having mental problems. I played football. I dreamt about playing football. I read. I spoke in halting tones. I spoke in bombastic tones. I went for entire conversations without speaking, relying on hand gestures, nods, and clever eye waggles. I smiled at friend and enemy, stranger and familiar. I cried. I laughed.
That was my twenty-sixth year on this earth. One of so few, and as I sit here right now, it feels like I didn't do that much. Then I read all that, and I think about all that I did, and realize that, yes, it was a crapload. Maybe this past year wasn't a wasted year. I was born around 12:30 A.M. on Sunday, September 7, 1980. I'm now twenty-seven years of age. I'm still angry about life, and frightened of my future. I'm still hopeful about what might come, and compassionate towards others. I'm unsure as to what this year will bring, but should be so lucky if it is half as interesting as the past year. Let us never forget the curse, "May you live in interesting times."
The minor recurrent points: I lied to everyone I met about my educational background. I ran. I listened to people when they asked me "if I had a second." I played video games. I drank water. I ranted and raved about the most inconsequential things. I danced when people were watching. I danced when no one was watching. I sang at the top of my lungs, serenading a choir of angels. I made goofy faces at babies, strangers and friends. I surfed the internet. I typed up blog entries. I drove for the hell of it. I ate 7-11 hot dogs, because I have mental problems. I accused myself of having mental problems. I played football. I dreamt about playing football. I read. I spoke in halting tones. I spoke in bombastic tones. I went for entire conversations without speaking, relying on hand gestures, nods, and clever eye waggles. I smiled at friend and enemy, stranger and familiar. I cried. I laughed.
That was my twenty-sixth year on this earth. One of so few, and as I sit here right now, it feels like I didn't do that much. Then I read all that, and I think about all that I did, and realize that, yes, it was a crapload. Maybe this past year wasn't a wasted year. I was born around 12:30 A.M. on Sunday, September 7, 1980. I'm now twenty-seven years of age. I'm still angry about life, and frightened of my future. I'm still hopeful about what might come, and compassionate towards others. I'm unsure as to what this year will bring, but should be so lucky if it is half as interesting as the past year. Let us never forget the curse, "May you live in interesting times."
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Heartless Wonderment
I love this article for two reasons.
One, it causes us to question our humanity, and with the greater intersection between technology and medicine, forces us to consider whether or not we are actually improving life by extending life. Many are the times I dreamt of shedding all emotion, but at what cost would I really do it?
Two, the quote from Tupac Amaru Shakur. "Everybody's at war with different things. . . . I'm at war with my own heart sometimes." I know I have absolutely nothing in common with Tupac, aside from too much anger. Still, perhaps precisely because of that anger, this statement resonates inside my own heart. Despite my hate for the world around me, I'll want nothing more than to integrate with it, become part of it. There are times I am utterly frustrated by people, yet want to hold them close and tell them that everything will be OK. Some days, I will love myself more than life, and in the same breath, hate myself more than life.
One, it causes us to question our humanity, and with the greater intersection between technology and medicine, forces us to consider whether or not we are actually improving life by extending life. Many are the times I dreamt of shedding all emotion, but at what cost would I really do it?
Two, the quote from Tupac Amaru Shakur. "Everybody's at war with different things. . . . I'm at war with my own heart sometimes." I know I have absolutely nothing in common with Tupac, aside from too much anger. Still, perhaps precisely because of that anger, this statement resonates inside my own heart. Despite my hate for the world around me, I'll want nothing more than to integrate with it, become part of it. There are times I am utterly frustrated by people, yet want to hold them close and tell them that everything will be OK. Some days, I will love myself more than life, and in the same breath, hate myself more than life.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Load Bearing
My standard kit/loadout whenever I leave the apartment:
Armor: Undershirt, underwear, overshirt, pants, socks, shoes. Type of overshirt, pants and shoes will depend on mission.
Visual Augmentation: glasses or contacts, dependent on mission.
Equipment: Wallet with money, various identification information, credit cards; cell phone; carabiner with house keys, car keys, office keys, thumb drive.
I've carried the same carabiner for the past 4 years now, a red jobby with "University of Maryland School of Law" etched onto it. It also warns me it is not for climbing use. It has served me well, and serves to remind me of my past. So, I went and bought a new one, which carries the warning "Not Load Bearing." This is perfect, as I, too, am also not load-bearing. I crack under pressure.
Armor: Undershirt, underwear, overshirt, pants, socks, shoes. Type of overshirt, pants and shoes will depend on mission.
Visual Augmentation: glasses or contacts, dependent on mission.
Equipment: Wallet with money, various identification information, credit cards; cell phone; carabiner with house keys, car keys, office keys, thumb drive.
I've carried the same carabiner for the past 4 years now, a red jobby with "University of Maryland School of Law" etched onto it. It also warns me it is not for climbing use. It has served me well, and serves to remind me of my past. So, I went and bought a new one, which carries the warning "Not Load Bearing." This is perfect, as I, too, am also not load-bearing. I crack under pressure.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Poor Taste
I have poor taste when it comes to matching colors. My parents have excellent eyes for colors. Yet another thing I did not inherit from them. I always used to dress like a color-blind person, until I learned the key to dressing myself. I think it may have been cribbed from Jurassic Park, or an issue of GQ.
All my shirts are white, grey, or black, with a couple of green, blue and red shirts for color. All my pants are white, black or blue. My shoes are all black, tennis and dress. Socks are white and black. As a result, it doesn't take that much to dress. For the most part, everything matches by default. Unless I'm trying to make a statement, I just avoid the same color top and bottom. Simple.
All my shirts are white, grey, or black, with a couple of green, blue and red shirts for color. All my pants are white, black or blue. My shoes are all black, tennis and dress. Socks are white and black. As a result, it doesn't take that much to dress. For the most part, everything matches by default. Unless I'm trying to make a statement, I just avoid the same color top and bottom. Simple.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Labored Day
On Friday, as I was ready to leave for a nice weekend, D.R. wished me a good holiday. I stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. We had a holiday? Yep. Turned out that we got Monday off, due to Labor Day. Incredible bonus. Now, as I type this on Sunday night, I realize that it's essentially Saturday night, and I have one extra day to ... screw around. Still, it's more time off to take care of stuff. Plus, maybe I can get some new glasses, assuming some of the glasses stores are open.
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