Another Step

Sunday, February 23, 2003. 2:00 P.M. McKeldin Library, 3^rd floor. Cold, somewhat rainy.

Maybe I’ve mentioned this before, but they did a survey of athletes somewhere; a majority would have traded all but five years of their remaining life in exchange for being the best at what they did. Maybe that’s some sort of acid test to see if you really love what you’re doing, or at the very least, if you’re crazy enough to try to go somewhere with what you’re doing. I know I’d trade my whole life save one year in exchange for writing like some sort of literary god on earth. One year would probably be one book, but to write the greatest book ever, I’d make that trade.

Hell, right now I’m basically giving up on everything else to try and get this to work, so I better get something out of it. Realistically, this book won’t get published, but I am learning a lot about the whole process of writing a book that I can take with me. Someday, Somewhere, Somewhen, I will manage to get a book published, even if it kills me. Which, at the rate I am going, is the most likely scenario. Me or the book. Me or the book.

Ah yes, almost forgot about the debilitating stomach virus I contracted in Atlantic City or soon thereafter. The most notable moment was vomiting up breakfast nearly totally undigested while I was on the toilet. Shades of alcohol poisoning.

Close second place to that would be vomiting up water because I had taken Pepto Bismol, which coated my stomach, thus irritating everything. That was really quite frightening.

[Good and bad times. –K]

***

D.C. and M.C. asked me if I wanted to go to K.'s house for a cookout. Seeing as how he lives in Virginia, and I happen to be stuck in Virginia, this would work out well. Not a fan of driving all over the tri-state area what with gas prices rocketing through the stratosphere. Right before we go in, D.C. and M.C. draw a diagram of their new house. Both of their sinister drawings do a fairly good job of conveying what I would be ill-equipped to define (and since sinister in the original Latin derives from "left-handed," I am correct in more than one definition here).

Of course, keeping in line with my tendency to do stupid things, one of the first things I do is grab a Miller Lite. Thankfully, it tasted just like stale water. Plus, I'd had a lot of pickles earlier in the day, when I went to Jerry's to write, and sat there for a couple of hours just grabbing free pickles and snacking on them after I had lunch. Yes, I know my behavior is questionable, but really, I can either be pretentious in a coffee house, or pretentious in a restaurant. At least I get my money's worth with the free refills, damnit.

As a result, my memory is fuzzed out for the next few hours, but here is what I do remember. At some point, I ask M.C. if it would be in poor taste if I were to relieve myself in the woods. The answer is an unqualified yes. Then, several people point me in the direction of the bathroom indoors, and instruct me not to go on any of the mattresses. I find it, close the door, pull down my zipper, and untuck myself. Of course, being slightly intoxicated, I forget to lock the door. I hear some rattling, and quickly tuck myself back in. A woman comes in, takes a step back, gets very flustered, and apologizes both before and after she closes the door.

The worst part is when I finish my business, she's waiting in the kitchen. I go up to her to tell her the bathroom is free, but when she sees me walk towards her, her face screws up and she looks like she's about ready to cry. When I talk to her, she stares down and to my left/her right. I feel kind of bad, but there's really nothing I can do. Of course, if I were a right bastard and not so intoxicated, I'm sure I could have made a really horrible comment, or tried to get her to feel even guiltier. But I'm not a right bastard. Well, not then.

I think at this point, M.C. is forcing me to get up and out of my chair on a regular basis to go get food to line my stomach. I start whining like a little bitch and give her a dirty look for making me get up. M.C. adopts the Metatron/Voice of God tone and tells me not to sass her. I apologize and turn away as quickly as I can. Later, I also find out that I'm going to go gamble with D.C., M.C., A.W., and the entire rogues' gallery of T.S. in July. At least I've been given enough notice to start saving money to lose immediately.

At some point, J.L. [Damn, this is not the J.L. that lives in Virginia, though this one lived in Virginia in his childhood. From here on out, the law student/nascent lawyer J.L. I refer to as J.L.H., and the networking J.L. in Virginia I refer to as J.L.J. -K] gives me a call. I haven't talked to him since his semester started. He's in Washington, D.C. for the summertime, and our brief conversation leads me to believe that there's going to be a fair amount of drunken debauchery, my favorite kind of debauchery. It should make the summertime a little more engaging.

At some point, the issue of my torrid love affair with L.M. comes up. Wait, did I say "torrid love affair?" I meant "cold-hearted bitch-fest." M.C. raised the possibility of selling out to pay off the law school bills by becoming a (dun-dun-dun) lawyer, then bumming around the world, meeting people, drinking and partying. Damned if I didn't almost go drop everything, empty my savings, leave behind all my responsibilities, fake my own death, and do that. Not that I thought about the plan too hard, driving off a bridge would also require me to find a bum about my size and do bad things which I'm not really ready to do. Yet.

D.C., once again, lunges into his spiel about working at T.S. Really, I don't know why I've been so resistant to the idea of working there. At first, I think I didn't want to move to Virginia, but exigencies forced me into that, so that's no longer an issue. Then, there was always the issue of travel, which a job at T.S. would require, but there's really nothing tying me to Virginia. I don't know. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is always on my sleeve, so I'm always home? I'm never home? It's not so much where I am, so long as I'm OK? Who knows? And maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the fact that the job description doesn't quite match up with my current job responsibilities. Maybe I am a rock, and D.C. is the constant stream that has worn away at my (laughably infirm) resolve over the past couple of years.

When we leave K.'s place, I talk to him briefly. This helps if you imagine a man possessed by a male banshee on crack, recorded, then slowed down to 1/8 speed. His voice was that unnerving:

K.: Oh, yeah, your parents. "We have your balls, they are soft and squishy in our hands. You will not get them back until you are 39."
K.T.: If then. I might not get them back until they die.
K.: Yeah. I'm not serious, that's why I drink.

Funny, I'm serious, and that's why I drink.

After we roll, the talk continues, and it seems more and more alluring, like that woman in the corner of the bar after 3, 6, 17 beers. I'd sobered at this point, but the sober reality was hanging just behind me. Keep on languishing at L.M., or take yet another chance in life. And let's be honest, no one knows what will happen, and it really is just a job application, and it really is just a job. And I'm not that unhappy at L.M. And I love living in Virginia. And I don't miss my friends. And I lie a lot to get through the day.

I got home that night and sent my updated resume right on over to D.C. We'll keep you all posted with the hap(penstance)s.

***

The spacing problem is caused by me starting posts in a word document, then completing them in the posting window. I could remember to do everything in a word document and paste, but that reeks of effort, and I am lazy.

Past Imperfect

Wednesday, January 1, 2003. 31 Clinton Hill Court. Cold, very rainy. Dark.

First of the new year.

Right here, my New Year’s resolution is to finish a draft of my novel, NMWIT (no matter what it takes). I think I might be able to use that abbreviation somewhere? Nimwit?

Damned if I know how I’m going to pull it off, but I will find a way. Shouldn’t be that hard, per se, because I’m done roughly a third of it, right? Except, in it’s own taunting, I hate you way, it really is so damn hard, keeping everything straight, interesting, new, and what not.

[This was an untitled work about a man with multiple personality disorder attempting to start a community theater and keep his marriage from falling apart. I know where the hard drive that this is on is located, and have yet to go find it. -K]

***

I found my journal that I kept during law school, at least until roughly halfway through first semester of law school. The first entry is January 1, 2003, the January before I started law school. There are some sporadic entries until August/September, when I finally started law school. As near as I can tell, I stopped in late October, 2003, about the time when the work really started to crush me. I made one entry in late February, 2004.

Then, J.L. convinced me to start Writ in July of 2005. I converted to serial novel in January of 2006, only to drop it in April 2006, when finals were beginning. That summertime was spent studying for the bar exam, and eventually passing it, then going to work at N.C.I. I did pick it up around the time I was ready to leave N.C.I., and I guess my greatest regret of this journalizing/diarizing/bloggerizing is that I didn’t write more about my days at N.C.I. Ah well, some things are too precious to be shared, and even when I forget the specifics, I will still carry the love for the place.

For the next few weeks, I’m going to cut and paste some choice excerpts for each entry so you can see 1. what I was thinking back then, 2. how much I (have)n’t changed as a person, and 3. how far I have(n’t) come as a writer. It’s strange reading through this, because it wasn’t my life. I read the words, I know on some level that this was my life, but… it doesn’t seem like it really was. This is someone else’s life that I’m looking in on, a slightly horrified look frozen on my face.

***

Sunday, January 19, 2003. 8:36 P.M. 31 Clinton Hill Court. Cold, dark. Raiders v. Titans at halftime, 24-17 Raiders.

I’m afraid that I won’t do well on this novel. That is one of the two big sticky points (the other that I am not really sure about this middle part.). Maybe I’m spreading it too thin. Maybe I’m not spreading it thin enough (?). I’m sure if I ever re-read all of this, it’s going to seem very VERY disjointed, as if I were a druggie (which I’m not, but I could be if I tried hard).

Game’s back on. Maybe there’s a link between TV, evil TV, and me not wanting to write. TV is easy. Writing is not. Damnit. Plus, with 8+ months to go, I’m just being really really lazy. Should have set better deadline.

[I have always been lazy. –K]

Old Acquaintances

I’m hyper? Honestly, I did not realize this. Sitting here in my room, I’m not bouncing off the walls ready to blow something up, although I would not be averse to blowing something up right about now. For it is easier to destroy than create, and I am looking to get back to playing my life in easy mode. All-Madden difficulty is scary. Thinking back on the incidents in my life, I can see how it could be construed by outsiders that I am somewhat hyper. Still, I don’t entirely believe it.

On a grand Thursday, facing down the mighty all-day meeting, I drowned my guts with two cans of Coke, just to give me that little extra pick-me-up. At the same time, it din’t help. The system is starting to acclimate itself to caffeine, and I’m finding it more and more necessary to flood the system in even more of the good stuff. Well, there’s also the possibility of getting enough sleep, but the current plan does not allow for it (and what is that plan? If I haven’t told you, I’ll probably mention something at the end of the month, because I’m scared of it failing, or me failing, or both.).

When the meeting started, I went about ten minutes before starting to yawn. Granted, part of it may have been because I find the information dull as safety scissors. Looked off to the back of the conference room, and there sat the mighty carafe. It started to shimmer in the fluorescence, and I knew it was time to return home, falling back into the warm embrace of Lady Coffee.

I took a sip, and it was like upshifting to seventh gear. Though we were all just sitting there talking about… Heaven only knows, everything around me started zooming into the foreground, motion-blur starting to dance across everything. I was flying in my seat, scorching into a forgotten realm of tomorrow. Sounds fell far behind, as did the meeting participants.

Before I knew it, I’d downed four cups of the black slurry. At this point, I’d started to levitate above my seat. My fingers clattered across the keyboard with a fervor I’d not seen since the early days of learning how to type. I could actually identify everyone around me by their smell, if only I closed my eyes and breathed. The hazy fog that clenched my mind cleared away in the cleansing breeze. I was so close to Nirvana (oneness with the universe, not the famed grunge band of the nineties).

And then we recessed for lunch.

During the break, I knew that there was so much coffee in my system, it would probably be a good idea to balance it with a copious amount of fresh water. I glommed onto the water cooler and threw back six plastic cups’ worth of Deer Park.

Can’t you see where this is going? Don’t you know I love the scatological humor?

Around 1430, the twinge started. We only had a couple more topics, so I thought I could wait it out. Around 1445, not so much, but I didn’t want to leave. What I learned from way back when, the full feeling in your bladder will go away if you’re aroused. So, to take my mind off of things, I started daydreaming about Zhang Ziyi and Scarlett Johansson. And it worked, until I realized I was daydreaming about Zhang Ziyi and Scarlett Johansson in the middle of a (semi-) serious meeting. So I stopped, and soon enough, the bladder raged on. This on/off dreaming continued for an hour, and made a mess of my psyche for years to come.

When we came to the “Miscellaneous issues” part of the meeting, the table was opened up for questions, and W.J. had one. I actually rose out of my seat, my fists clenched in his direction, and cried out. “NO!” Everyone was kind of surprised. Not me. Keep in mind that W.J. always makes good points, and always requires 15 minutes to make his good points. Argh.

When he finished and I asked if there was anything else, you could not have stopped me as I ran down the hall in a stiff-legged motion, to keep my bladder from exploding all over the place. If you recall the scene in “Austin Powers,” where he comes out of the cryo-preservation and urinates for over a minute, I proved that day that it is not outside of the realm of possibility to do so, from 1532 to 1534.

Skin Peel

By far, the most amusing moment of my life (in my opinion) took about a month to set up, but the payoff/punchline was worth it. If only it hadn’t happened to me, I would have laughed my ass off.

About four weeks before I was set to go on a road trip to Europe, I went outside on a sunny day to read one of the Harry Potter books. It was such a nice day, I took a towel with me to lie outside and read. Wouldn’t you know it, after about fifteen minutes in the midmorning sun, I put the book down and fell asleep. For four hours. That was the first time I had ever sunburned. Normally, I just tan. I had never spent that much direct contact in the bright sun for four hours. My chest looked irradiated, red, raw. As a testament to my melanin stores, it actually faded back to normal after two days. I forgot all about it.

Flash forward to my trip to Europe. I was sleep-deprived the entire time (which in and of itself led to another series of great misadventures with A.C.). You think I don’t think and act coherently normally? I was a tour-de-force of mirth and confusion then, but mostly confusion. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Somewhere in France, in a hotel, I was taking a shower in a stand-up booth. I took my travel soap in, and noticed a pullchain with a red handle on the inside. There was a sign, in English, which warned me that pulling the chain was for emergencies only. Lord only knew what constituted an emergency. I turned on the water, and it rushed out. Felt pretty good, nice and warm against my tired skin. I remember the soap was a tiny bottle with amber soap, and I squeezed some out onto my left hand, lathered up, and started soaping my chest.

And then a sheet of skin just sloughed off my chest.

I looked down at the soap suds surrounding this giant white skin flap, hanging away from me, my hands slowly retreating from it. Holy shit, I thought to myself. I’ve gone and contracted an incurable disease. I don’t remember if I’d yet tasted Venetian canal water (because in Venice, I tasted the canal water. This was before A.C. told me that raw sewage drains into the canals), but I do remember thinking that there was something in the shower water that was killing me.

I turned around and stared at the pullchain. Incurable disease, this seems like a big emergency. Had my hand on the handle, cool and metal, ready to pull, when I stopped to think. For once in my life, I spared myself even more embarrassment by thinking. Now, what the hell could have caused my skin to spontaneously slough off? It didn’t hurt, it just came off. And then it hit me. The sunburn. I was just peeling.

Thereafter, I had the most fun I’ve ever had in a shower, peeling away giant hunks of skin from my chest, down to my belly, up to near my shoulders. And that’s the skin-ny on that story. (I apologize, but that pun had to be taken; what is done cannot be undone.)

[You know, I was sleeping face up without a shirt on. Thank goodness I had pants, though. I don't know why my face didn't peel. I must have fallen asleep with the book on my face? -K]

Tragedian

“Comedy is when you fall in a manhole and die. Tragedy is when I cut my finger.” –Mel Brooks

***

We all know how comedians occupy a cultural niche, but why don’t tragedians enjoy (suffer) similar acclaim? Yes, I know that they adopt titles different from “tragedian,” such as dramatist or ambulance chaser. Still, I’ve been contemplating a career change, and I think I might make a real cracking tragedian. The only issue is what type of tragedian I would become. Let’s contemplate the options.

Deadpan tragedian: Keeping a straight face while making tragic statements. I used to be great with keeping a straight face, and then I started buying into my own hype. Damnation. At the same time, I think I can return to the halcyon days of deadened facial nerves. Botox works wonders, as I understand it.

Pros: Following in the footsteps of Buster Keaton. Emotion is a failing I must shed.
Cons: Botox makes you look younger. Why would I want to look like an eight-year old?

Slapstick tragedian: Crazy violence plus tragedy. Scene: K.T. is walking down the street, and sees an open manhole cover. K.T. steps around it, and a tiny piano falls on his head. It so disoriented him that he takes three steps and falls down the manhole.

Pros: Amazing overlap with slapstick comedy.
Cons: The term “manhole” has an entirely new connotation these days.

Situation-tragedian (Sit-trag): Either writer or actor. Probably a lot of “very special episodes” with a comedy every once in a while to spare the characters from their constant sorry lives. For example, winning the lottery only to lose it all in an ill-advised plan to invest in a flying fish fishing farm, or getting addicted to snorting dirt.

Pros: Can mine my past for episode ideas. At least 4 seasons worth, maybe 5 depending on if it gets picked up after the 4^th season cliff-hanger involving the bomb, the faulty timer, and the broken nail clippers.
Cons: Margaret Cho single-handedly guaranteed no Asian-American will ever get time on a half-hour television show as anything other than a second banana.

Stand-up tragedian: We all laugh, we all cry. People pay to laugh, people should pay to cry (or laugh at someone else’s suffering). I guess, rather than jokes and quips, I trade sorrows and sadness? Would require a lot of work.

Pros: The act of tragedizing (trapeziusing?) before an audience is tragic in and of itself.
Cons: Getting hit with rotten tomatoes and heckled is also tragic, though not the right kind of tragedy I’m aiming for.

Improv tragedian: With suggestions from the audience, my troupe and I would craft random tragic scenarios. Game names would include: “World’s Saddest Professions,” “Funeral Dirge,” and “Prison Inmates.”

Pros: Could set up in cities without a strong humor-base, like Detroit or Green Bay.
Cons: In a way, all tragedy is improvised, so it sort of defeats the purpose.

It’s going to take some work. I’m going to go back to the lab and spill some more acid on my hands.

Flag Football

How appropriate that my 150th post was this one: http://writblog.blogspot.com/2007/05/highlow.html.

***

Generally, I can’t write about anything when I 1. drink alcohol, or 2. run like mad. Not enough blood in the brain to remember coherently what’s going on. However, we’ve started playing flag football after work at L.M., and there are some events that stand out.

W.J. decided to punt for us on the very first play of the game. Had the ball poised between his hands, dropped it, and punted it true. The arc curved across the sky, we ran down, and relieved … someone … of their flag. Meanwhile, W.J. stayed back on our side of the field. He’d injured his groin on the kick. The rest of the day saw him holding himself like a pervert, hobbling around the field like a man twice his age. The next day, during the dreaded all-day meeting, W.J. remained quite laconic, speaking only when spoken to, volunteering nothing. I think we got out a little early because he had nothing to say.

An errant punt rolled towards the volleyball fields. One of the volleyballers, a female, picked it up, apologized for the impending throw, then spiraled it 30 yards directly to one of our players. Prettiest throw we’d seen all day. Prettiest thrower we’d seen all day. Of course, my dumb ass was the first to speak up. “Can she be our new quarterback?”

R.B. decided to play, but had no clothing. Thus, he went shoeless and shirtless (and we gave him no service). Both E.B. and myself offered him a shirt to wear, but he turned down our offers, stating that he would be just fine. We were not. He sweated like a mint julep on a southern plantation in June. After a bit, the ball got so slippery, because he was catching the ball against his sweaty chest. Going in for the flag was also a dicey proposition, as the sweat dripped onto his flags.

E.B. (also known as “The Pain Train”) caught the ball on a kickoff return and steamed his way towards the end zone. None of us could stop him, as he had that perfect mix of speed and strength. Right before the end zone, with no one near him, he takes a giant leap into the air and soars into the end zone. Granted, he did need the style points to unlock the gamebreaker, but damn.

J.E. and T.B. had been trash talking each other all day. J.E. wanted to tackle T.B. T.B. weighs around three hundred and thirty pounds. J.E. weighs significantly less. On one short pass, T.B. caught the ball near the sideline and “dodged” two flag takers. J.E. was the last person, and attempted to tackle T.B. In response, T.B. raised his arm above his head and brought it down on J.E., smacking him down, and “rumbling, bumbling, stumbling” into the end zone. J.E. stayed down for a little while, clutching his chest and mewling.

Because I’m so arrogant and have such great self-esteem, I’d like to brag. W.J., post groin-strain, took up quarterback duties. He lofted a pass to T.B., which was about three feet out of his reach. I had broken away from my coverage, and happened to be just close enough to snatch the ball out of the air two feet from the ground, and sauntered into the end zone, while everyone just stood there confused.

And, of course, because it’s me, I’d like to bring myself back down to earth. I volunteered for quarterback for a couple of series. The first series, I ran the Mark Brunell 5 feet and shorter passes offense. We took about eight plays to get within five yards of the end zone, and T.S. stated “Wow, even you can complete this.” Loft into the end zone, intercepted and returned to midfield.

Nightmare Shnightmare

The recurrent nightmare of my life involved tests, much as my waking live constantly involves tests. From the period when I received my Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature to the time when I entered L-School, the nightmare came about once a week. I was in the middle of finals, had an upcoming final for a class I hadn’t studied for, hadn’t attended, didn’t even know I was enrolled in. This extended to every credit I had, thereby denying me my diploma, and keeping me in school for another semester. Usually, when I woke up, there would be a good minute and a half of freaking out, running through all the possibilities in my mind. Where would I go for help? What classes would I have to take again? Would I take the same classes again? How the hell would I explain to everyone I failed an entire semester? Then, slowly, ignorance would drain from my mind, replaced with a slightly sobering realization that the diploma remained rolled up in a cardboard container underneath my bed.

After my first semester in L-school, on to maybe nine months ago, the basic scenario was the same, except now it was L-school classes. Despite not caring as much, somehow the situation seemed much more dread. All the same feelings, but a lot more shame at having failed L-school courses. Maybe it was because at least ninety-five percent of our final grades, if not the entire final grade, was based on the final exam. It was like drinking an adrenalin milkshake, then chained to a narcoleptic dog. I didn’t know when it would wake up and I would freak out, I didn’t know when it would fall asleep and I could get some rest.

Somewhere along the line, those nightmares stopped. I can’t pinpoint an exact date, because I would still have other nightmares wake me up sweating and disoriented. Now that I think back, it has been so long since I last dreamt of the rigors of L-school. The stress tic still tugs at my left eye, and strangely, migrated from my right eye. As of late, the tic has started rolling downward to my left nostril (why the hell is my left nostril twitching? How the hell is my left nostril twitching? I’m sure it looks like I’m flaring my nostrils and incredibly pissed off at whatever new task L.M. throws at me.). It is no longer the tic borne of hatred and fear of l-school.

My unconscious is starting to let go, something my conscious still cannot. I don’t know what it is that has given it the capability to relax a little. Could it be the continual sabotage of my legal career rendering me all but unable to find a job as a solicitor? Could it be that I live in a state in which I cannot render legal advice? Could it be finally burned out and no longer antipathetic towards L-School in nature? Could it be that I’m expressing myself more than I used to, and so it has no need to torment my dreams? I don’t know. Wish I did. Then maybe I could consciously let go and move on.

Holy Mole-y

To stretch this week’s medical theme, a while back, I was staring at my forearm. I do this a lot because for no discernable reason, I’m starting to grow hair there. Based on some research (i.e. hitting wikipedia), body hair can start growing long after puberty concludes. I don’t understand it, and you can’t really see the hair from a distance, but I’m just going to go with it. What really caught my attention were the three random moles that had popped up in an isosceles triangle formation. Brownish, just a slight shade lighter than my eyes, and merely elevated above the rest of my skin, so that you could identify the wrinkle pattern even more easily.

As we all (should) know, moles that appear for no reason can be awful heralds, precursors to skin cancer. Melanoma. Say it out loud. Melanoma. It actually rolls right off the tongue. Say it with a sultry voice, and it sounds seductive, alluring, erotic. Learn what it is, and you’re no longer quite as excited. Keep in mind that breast cancer runs on my mom’s side of the family, and I always wonder if/when I’ll have my cancer experience. Yeah, it turns out men can develop breast cancer. There is nothing like your mother telling you that you should check for breast cancer (I’m a male), just in case. I don’t. Honestly, if I’m going to get breast cancer, that’s just embarrassing from a masculinity standpoint. I’d actually rather it spread to other parts of the body, then pretend that it originated elsewhere, rather than admit to myself I had breast cancer. And now I’ve pretty much guaranteed that I’ll find a lump one day near my nipple. Damn it.

When I saw these moles, I started to get a little freaked out. Aside from the shape they would make if I connected the so-called dots, they presented more worry than wonder to me. I wondered if they were just scabs from insect bites at night, and would sit there while no one saw me and attempt to scratch off the scabs. Running my fingernail back and forth over them, almost to the point of drawing blood, but they never bled. Then I’d rub them with my fingerpads, but to no avail. There was also cryogenic wart remover that they sell over the counter, but that seemed like overkill, and if truly cancer, would remove a symptom, but probably not the underlying cause. Hell, they might have been warts, and I’d just been fondling frogs in my sleep for no good reason. Sleepwalk out to the lake, roll around for a few hours, just to get toady.

About a week later, they disappeared overnight. I looked at them while nodding off, and when I woke up, gone. My precious little visitors, dissipated into the ether. Maybe I breathed them in, and maybe they’re still a part of me. Maybe just another reminder of how random my body is.

Thrill Pill

C.S. wants me to go with him to pharmacy school. It isn’t enough that he can append B.A., J.D. to his name. Now he wants Pharm.D. I suppose the goal is to see if it is possible to unbalance a piece of paper by creating a signature so long, the weight of the ink undoes the precious balance, and rips it apart. I have to say, I’m not completely averse to the idea of going back into the educational realm. However, this is not quite the Ph.D. field I had in mind. Yes, there will be a lot of rote memorization of contraindicated medicines and efficacy and side-effects. Yes, there will likely be many more papers involving the minutiae of pharmaceuticals. Yes, this is nothing like I had in mind when considering pursuing the Ph.D.

He does make some good arguments for going to Ph-school. Further education never hurt anyone (except for spending 10-20 in the School of Hard Knocks for murder-one). It would be a great way to meet emotionally vulnerable women (and emotionally vulnerable homosexual men, though I don’t swing that way). Pharmacists make an inordinate amount for what they do (although the consequences if you screw up are much greater than if you forget to file a motion to dismiss and have to go to trial). We could also reconstitute the good-old C.K. Power Hour and muddle our way through the winding path of medicines. Plus, free drugs!

Unfortunately, I have yet to find a sugar-momma, and so would have to fund my own education, on top of my prior education. This would be an additional six years of schooling, taking me to the (un)tender age of 33, assuming I started next year, and did it full time. And really, little imagination is required to be a pharmacist (unless you do it wrong, in which case there are a lot of people out there still constipated, but getting great nights of sleep). It would be an excuse to move back to Maryland, though I’d probably have to move to Baltimore. In the end, I don’t think I can pull this off. Sorry, C.S.

In contrast, A.A. has told me about the wonders of becoming a physician’s assistant (think medical paralegal with more competence). Just a two year master’s, which is entirely doable. Maybe a year to get up to speed with the science info. Fairly high salaries, and stupid-crazy (is there any other kind of crazy?) job growth. Again, not really something I’m dreaming of (adidaf – All Day I Dream About Football). However, this may be something to tell C.S. to try. If he guns it with the night classes and works during the day, I may be more willing to give it a go. Could always use yet another career change. I need like eight more before I die, according to the statistics.

***

M.C. expressed fear that I was selling out to make money because of all the crazy links. I'm not quite sure what that means (someone's paying me to put in sponsored links?), but rest assured, I would never put in ads or the like onto this blog. There just aren't enough of you readers to sustain any meaningful amount of cash flow. Z.M just expressed an unfocused confusion about those links. Fair enough, when something changes, and the familiar becomes un-, you are forced to ask questions. The big reason I've been putting those links in is because I have (dun-dun-dun!) writer's block, and I need something to take my mind off of it. The links won't be a permanent addition, just when I have the writer's block and can't figure out anything else to do. I've got something big in the works, and I'm actually quite afraid that I'll fail. Not just the normal, "Oh, I probably won't do well" when I know deep down I will. This is a heart-strangling, unspeakable "Oh, fuck me, this is really bad, what was I thinking" fear. Hence, me not saying anything about it on Writ. I'll mention it at a later date, or you can just e-mail me and ask me if I haven't already told you.

High/Low

I’m sorry to disappoint you guys. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m not sorry to disappoint you guys. If anything, I feel sorry that I felt that I was disappointing all of you, and I feel sorry that I felt I had to apologize for that disappointment that wasn’t. I should feel sorry that I was going to take some steps to make myself feel less sorry in general, but I am not sorry that I didn’t take those steps. Although, I am a little sorry that I have the means to take those steps, and may end up taking those steps, not because I am feeling sorry about life, but because I need the experience. But I am not sorry to have not disappointed you guys, and I think I am sorry for wording that wrong. If you remove the negatives, it comes out “But I am sorry to have disappointed you.” And I am sorry I screwed that up.

I recently procured a supply of acetaminophen, for pain killing. I did not come by this supply under the most legal of pretexts. Hell, you might even say that my actions were illicit. And I got it because I was undergoing what (to me) was a crushing despair, like the weight of the world were sitting on my lungs, and each breath was a struggle against a vacuum. And I just wanted to feel better.

Now, in my altered state, I wanted to make sure that whenever I took the acetaminophen, I got the maximum effect. This I calculated at four hours duration, a number arrived at by pointing and guessing. Since I generally sleep at ten at the latest, this meant that I would have to try to alleviate the pain around six. Due to events within my control, but beyond my planning, I was never in a position where I’d have four straight hours to relax, because I was taking care of business or writing or working or something. And each day passed, and I felt a little better, until we come to now. Am I fully recovered? No. Am I a lot better, and only slightly bitter? Sure.

Much of my life, I’ve debated whether I might benefit from the use of medication to make me feel “happy.” Most of the time, one of two things happen. The sadness passes for whatever reason, or I hold onto it to fuel my writing. I know people aren’t supposed to be happy all the time, because it then loses meaning. And really, this past week has taught me to appreciate the good times all the more, and (hopefully) will spur me to make some changes in my life. (And yes, I am afraid of asking people for help, and I don’t know why. Is it because I think I have to do it all on my own? Maybe. At any rate, I’m going to start asking for help more, but don’t be surprised if it’s not what you think. Or maybe it is, because I’m just that transparent, like an apparition.)

At the same time, I fear medication. I’ve read about how mood elevators curtail creative drive. I have to publish a novel before I die. There is no debate on that point. If K.T. fails on that, K.T.’s life is wasted. Plain and simple. I think that is the main thrust of my existence, and that is why I’m never as happy with my life as I could be. The choices that have scattered through my life do not directly contribute to me achieving that goal. Some even take away from it. L-school taught me how to become a much better technical writer, at the expense of my freestyling, pinwheeling, paren-studded (and really, I only go overboard on the parens while blogging, not when writing fiction. There are still asides, but not as free and wild as there are here.) scribblings. If I use unnatural methods to get happy, and find that it makes me less of a writer, I think I’d go a little nuts (moreso than now).

Now, I’ve already done a not so good thing, and I can go one of two directions from here. One part of me says stop and cut your losses. The other says you’ve already done one thing wrong in getting it, and you may as well just take the other step. Sadly, it may come down to, as always, if I can find four straight hours to appreciate it. And I don’t think I can. So, for all of you that were hoping to read the ramblings of an altered K.T., well, I’ll work on becoming a laudanum (opium dissolved in alcohol) addict. Laudanum puts you to sleep, so I can just quaff a draught before nighty-night. At least that will send me tripping into such crazy dreams, there will really be something to write about.

Pain Relief

I needed some acetaminophen, and Z.M. had a surplus. She offered me a part of her supply. I was hurting, so I asked if I could drop by her place to pick it up that night. She said that was fine, and I could also meet her friend, P.P.O. This intrigued me. Up until that point, in my head, P.P.O. was just a stripper mannequin dressed in a police officer's uniform, and deathly afraid of fire.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. And if not, you're going to get it.

Z.M. had first described P.P.O. rather generously as "Hot Cop." For those of you that have watched "Arrested Development," hopefully you'll recall G.O.B.'s stripper group, dubbed the "Hot Cops." Thus, I had no choice but to picture the man as Will Arnett, clad in a too-tight police uniform top, booty shorts, and the hat. Needless to say, I died a little inside. When Z.M. moved on to dubbing him P.P.O., I lost the connection. Thus, the default; whenever confronted with an enigma masquerading as a person, I have no choice but to imagine them as a faceless mannequin in my mind. Any additional details are gravy. As a side effect, since mannequins are wooden, everyone that is unknown to me fears firelight, in my mind. (It's a good policy really, reminds me not to start fires around strangers.)

That was pretty much all I had to work with. In contrast, P.P.O. had accessed my blog, and had seen the quirks that power K.T. Not that I fear exposing my foibles to strangers; I'd almost rather they know it up front so they know what to expect. Still, never before had I felt quite so disadvantaged when meeting a stranger, as he'd had a leg up.

Still, the call of acetaminophen cries true to my soul. So it was that I found my way to Z.M.'s apartment, and resisted the urge to poke her newly-crafted retinas (retinae?). We talked for a bit, then P.P.O. called to announce his arrival. Talked a little more, and in the back of my head, I was starting to feel that nervous twinge. What if he doesn't like me? (Again, these failings fuel me.)

Knocking at the door, deep and sustained, like repeated mortar firings. Z.M. opened the door, and P.P.O. walked in. Finally, a real person to put to the name. Fairly tall (unfairly to me, since I'm short), P.P.O . had on a Frank Castle/Punisher skull baseball cap, well curved brim, a tight black t-shirt, and khaki shorts. I cannot hate anyone that appreciates the Punisher. I shook his hand and mentioned he seemed much less wooden than I'd imagined. He cocked his head, and I explained the story. I of course did not explain the stripper part, because if I have learned anything, it is to not compare someone to a stripper on first meeting. Unless, of course, they are a stripper and have stuck your glasses between their gluteal muscles (and that is a story for another day). Oh, he nearly crushed my hand, not to be an ass like some people, but just because that was his default strength.

What got me was when P.P.O. said he'd expected someone bigger, like Hemingway or Frost. I'd been wondering, if you took my blog, could you reconstruct me? What would you create, and would it bear any resemblance to me? We have our first preliminary answer: no. Not that I mind people thinking me a more imposing person based on my writing; hell, I would invite the comparison in and give it a beer if comparisons were anthropomorphic and I had beers. Just seemed a little crazy is all.

We sat down, and there were about three seconds of awkwardness before Z.M. asked me about where to find parking in Baltimore to get to the National Aquarium. Yes, a reason to close my eyes and/or stare at my hands. (One of my main defense mechanisms when meeting new people is to constantly look away and flail my hands about like I just don't care, when in reality, I do care a lot.) I started drawing out invisible maps on her coffee table and cursing the UMD L-school building, as it is within walking distance of the harbor. Also tried to give suggestions for how to amuse a fourteen-month old, but I am not the best person to ask. I was the kid ripping tissues out of the box for hours on end.

From there, P.P.O. starts discussing his job and the associated accoutrements. That's right, guns. Aw, yeah. P.P.O. is fluent in the language of projectile weaponry, trading models and upkeep as I might trade bad jokes and stutters. I also find out that P.P.O. was a marine (of the Corps, not the Mammalia family). At this point, it's just like "Damn, you've done more in your past ten years than I will do period." Then, he hands me his (unclipped) sidearm. I'm surprised at the heft, even more so when he places the clip back in (and I do my damnedest to avoid the trigger, even though the safety is active). Then, perhaps the most impressive feat of legerdemain, P.P.O. breaks down the weapon in 4.2 seconds, faster than most NFL wideouts run the 40-yard dash. He places the pieces before me on the table, as if to ask if I have been deceived. And really, the only question is why the recoil spring resembles half the screws that now sustain my Ikea furniture.

Of course, no person-to-person interaction with me is complete without at least one embarrassing moment. For whatever reason, I'd showed my keyring and mentioned despite the wealth of metals, I'd consolidated the keys I'd carried with me on a regular basis. For example, didn't carry the handcuff key anymore. Z.M. and P.P.O. both perk up at this; four eyebrows rising in unison. I have to explain that it's not a fetish thing. P.P.O. just smiles and nods his head. "Riiiight." No, really, it's not. Not that I'm knocking fetishes, we all have our own. (And the problem is not that I am dirty. We all are. It is that I keep talking far longer than I should.)

P.P.O. remains unconvinced. He tells me I do not need to lie about my perverse pleasures. I reply that I have many fetishes, but not handcuffs. Such as cherry pie, for example. Then, I turn my head to the side and whisper "And handcuffs." At this point, Z.M. and P.P.O. are just sort of amused, sort of horrified. I have to qualify that when you're handcuffed, you get tired, and if a cherry pie is right next to your head, it keeps you satiated. Unless, of course, it's near your feet, because that causes a whole new set of problems in trying to flip the pie up to your mouth, and then sucking on your own toes, yet another fetish I do not want to get into. I even casually mention the scars I bear from the last time this happened. P.P.O. recoils and states he does not want to see them. Nor do I wish to volunteer to show them.

Sadly, by this point, it's 45 minutes past my normal bedtime. I take my leave of their company (unwillingly, L.M. continues to burden my life). Shake P.P.O.'s hand again, and it's like sticking my hand into a vice grip. Good lord, man, eat some more Fritos, watch some more TV.

Final first impression? Likes the Punisher, hearty laugh, didn't attempt to punt me through the nearest window. Fast shipping, A+++++, would meet again.

Snowfall in July

A.A.: As long as you're on the path that will eventually lead to not-depression, everything will be OK.
K.T.: *brief pause* You know what, A.A.? You're right. Fuck all the haters.
A.A.: *brief pause* K.T., no one's trying to fuck with you. Everyone's on your side. You're not even black.
K.T.: Yeah. Well, I just wanted to say 'fuck all the haters.'

And he was right. Everyone is on my side. I just have to remember that though the highs are never as high as they seem, neither are the lows as low as they seem. Getting back on track bit by bit.

***

Did you know May is National Poetry Month? I didn’t until a chance encounter with something I like to call the “Internet.” And here’s what I have to say about poetry: I don’t get it. At least, not in the way I get writing prose. Writing is my red-headed stepchild. I love it unconditionally, and it treats me like shit sometimes, and it treats me like a rose sometimes, and I am always there for it, or it’s always there for me. I can attempt to put into words what makes it special, but that ruins it.

Poetry is just the opposite. I’m not sure what constitutes a good poem, or a bad poem, and I have to resort to analysis to tell the difference. And whenever I have to rely on analytics as opposed to feeling it, you can tell there’s something lost, and my heart isn’t there. Not to say I can’t analyze prose, but I do it only after I understand that it’s something to be treasured. Poetry, wow. Utterly clueless.

My favorite poem of all time is “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas. And mostly, it’s not for the deeper implications of it, and for Thomas’ dying father, one of his last exhortations to hold on. It’s mostly because, to me, the lyrics “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light” tell me to not give up, to continue the fight. Nothing deep about it. Like I said, I have no clue.

And so, in honor of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem. (Oh, God. He’s gone there.) I might try it again before the month (or life) is up. You can see the basis of my poesy is to tell a story, much as the basis of my writing is to tell a story. My sense of rhyme and meter is not there, as I just throw it out there and hopefully it will stick. Still, still I try, and it is part of my (slow) evolution as a writer.

***

Snowfall in July

Wavy rivulets cascade down the windowpane.
He drags his finger across the streaky glass,
Rounded curves trailing off into a thin tail.
A loud, nasal sigh, and twinned circles bloom
Fogging his Sunday afternoon.
She coughs, marbles rattling in a tin can.
Mom, always Mom, but not the same Mom.
Mom used to pick him up under her arm
And run across the yard
And throw him in the backseat
And drive off to the park
And race him all the way to the swingset
And push him for hours every Sunday,
The last time it happened, the snow was so deep
He couldn’t fall over, wading through giant pillows,
Mom lifting him up to get him back upright.
Now, this Mom,
Wrapped in Mom’s favorite blanket,
The pale green with pink carnations,
That giant hole where her big toe pokes through.
She doesn’t have time for him.
She doesn’t have time for anyone.
She spits a black clot into another innocent tissue,
Dropping the fallen soldier beside her.
Crumpled tissue graveyard consecrating the couch.
He watches her arm dropping, slow, careful,
Yet careless as her hand lets go.
Wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
Too long, flopping over his hand, and damp-dark.
Looks back outside and watches the rain.
Sighs again, and wishes for snowfall in July.

Happy Trails

I found out A.N. was leaving L.M. from A.N. about two days before she was leaving. She walked into my office and talked to me and V.M.

A.N.: Do you guys want to come to my lunch on Friday? It's my last day.
K.T.: Sure. Wait, what? You're leaving?

I have to give A.N. credit. Dropping it on our heads out of the blue doesn't give us time to process it. It just happens, and we're too busy dealing with work and everything else to fully understand. Congratulated her on her new position, which comes with a substantial salarial increase. We talked about how much she would miss L.M. (she wouldn't), and then she waved her hand across my desk.

A.N.: Look at you, food everywhere. You eat all the time.
K.T.: Me? I've heard you eat all the time too.

I've not known A.N. long enough to get to know her in any real fashion. She mocks me for eating all the time (which I do at work. Sequential steps don't hold my interest well, and I need another stimulus to keep myself from dreaming.). She is all about the sharp tongue, but in a good-natured fashion.

I found out that she thinks I speak much too fast and use my hands too much while talking (which I do at work. The speaking, there are just too many thoughts rattling in my noggin, and I can't push them out fast enough. As for the hands, I think it's the teacher in me clawing desperately from within, seeking release. If I taught, one of my big things aside from psychotic in-class lapses would be flailing my hands to make a point).

There's not much to be sad about, because A.N. is moving up, moving on, moving. And this is the natural passage of life, to move. Standing still becomes tantamount to stagnation, lack of growth, absence of life. We must move in some way, whether it be physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. And we can't always take people with us. Hell, we're lucky if we find a way to keep the connections alive and open if we really move (not just across the county, but across larger divides, and damn it, I'm working on it.).

I'll never see A.N. again, and that's OK. There are so many people that have traipsed into my life, and traipsed out just as gracefully. Wading hip-deep in a pool, so many ripples crashing against your belly, and dissipating quickly. I would love to get to know them better, understand that I will never get that opportunity for most of them. We are legion, yet we are alone. Lives intersecting ever so brief, perhaps as little as a flash of light, then separating, moving on.

(Really, I had intended this as a lead-in to one of the funniest slapstick moments in my life in recent memory, but I've been thinking about the implications of switching jobs, both as they have affected me, and potentially as they may in the future.)

When we went to the lunch, I sat down next to C.C. I had my head turned to talk to Y.A. and J.F., when I heard a loud sneeze behind me, and suddenly felt a gooey spackle upon head, near where my neck hair meets my neck, right side. I turn to my right, and C.C. has a napkin to his nose. He sneezed so hard, and held the napkin just right, that he actually forced most of the force and goo behind him, into my head. On instinct, pure and primal, I reached back with my hand and felt warm goo.

K.T.: C.C., did you just sneeze on me?
C.C.: No, I sneezed into this napkin.
K.T.: Then why do I feel it on the back of my head?
C.C.: I really sneezed into the napkin.
K.T.: Somehow, it got onto my head.
C.C.: I guess I didn't hold the napkin right. I didn't mean to.

To be fair, he really did look like he had just sneezed into his napkin, and if he had sneezed on me, it would have coated me in a thin film of saliva and mucus. The rest of lunch had me shivering and reaching back with a napkin of my own, wiping away at C.C.'s gift.

Of course, later in the day, I went to the bathroom, and C.C. was using the "big boy" urinal. I had to resort to the "kids" urinal. (For those of you that have never been in a men's bathroom, one urinal is inevitably situated lower on the wall than all the others, so little kids can use it. This also has the added effect of creating more splashback. Occasionally, I do prefer the "kids" urinal when I want to feel eight feet tall.) He stands to my right. Staring straight forward, all I say is "Please don't sneeze on me here."

Brew Through

[In retrospect, I think this is one of my favorite random conversations with R.Y. ever. -K]

Crashing into sleep, my body was in the middle of complete shutdown, when I heard a rabid buzzing. The cell’s motor purring, shaking the table. I stumble out of futon and flip the phone open. It’s R.Y.

R.Y.: Hey, K.T.

K.T.: Hey, R.Y.

R.Y.: Did I wake you up? (Normal people don’t sleep at 2200. I have never been normal.)

K.T.: No, no, it’s fine. What’s up? (Yet another of the functional lies I tell to get through a day. If he’s calling me this “late,” then it’s going to be either very serious, or very inconsequential. I’m not willing to take that chance that it’s inconsequential.)

R.Y.: Oh, OK, I was worried that I was going to wake you up. (Fair enough, he knows that I sleep early.)

K.T.: No, it’s OK, I was taking care of stuff, what’s up? (Taking care of sleeping for the night.)

R.Y.: What does “brew” mean?

K.T.: “Brew”? (I thought I misunderstood him.)

R.Y.: Yeah, “brew.” Like, would you “brew” soups or stews?

K.T.: “Stew?” (I had been just tired enough to be half-dreaming, or believe myself to be half-dreaming.)

R.Y. Yeah, is it wrong to say you brew soup or stew? (Whenever R.Y. has a definitional question, he calls me up. It keeps me on my toes, much as random assaults on the person keep you alert. Damned if I ever get stuck on the spot with a word I don’t know, because then I’d need to hit the dictionary.com. Which R.Y. could easily have done. Actually, what a lot of people could have done over the years. I got lucky with my role as unofficial word guy, and now unofficial legal counsel. Then again, sending someone to Black’s Law Dictionary is kinda painful. Might as well just put them out of their misery.)

K.T.: Uh. Stew. No, I would brew a potion or a concoction, but I would not brew a soup or stew. It always struck me more as a scientific thing? (I would prove myself wrong over the next fifteen seconds.)

R.Y.: Oh, OK. Well, what about coffee or tea? (He’s feeling the boundaries, a smart thing to do when he references brewing in the future, or when he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by saying “Oh, I’m brewing some soup.” Makes it sound like he’s a witch, a witch! Burn him!)

K.T.: Yeah. You brew coffee, you, you brew tea. (I was thinking you steeple tea. Then I remembered you steep a tea bag in water. Then I remembered you can brew tea. Then I remembered I didn’t know what the hell was the point of all this.)

R.Y.: Well, what about beer? (What about beer?)

K.T.: Yeah, beer, brew.

R.Y.: Damn. Wow, I was wrong. (It came out more as a yell at this point.)

K.T.: Huh? What are you wrong about? (Calling me at ten, though really, it should be on me to stay up a little longer.)

R.Y.: I was talking with my cousin, and we were arguing about if you brew soups and stews. He said no, I said yes. (To be fair, I’m not entirely sure what the answer is, but my rationale was the following: )

K.T.: I always thought brewing was not so much with stewing. I don’t think that connotation works. (What a worthless statement. Really, the only reason why I don’t think you brew stew is because, like many other things in my life, it just didn’t sound right. That’s how I spell, that’s how I edit. I may not know the exact rule, but I’ve been reading and writing for so long, I just go with what feels right. There are errors, and a few things like whether you spell prize with a z or an s is correct, but for the most part, it serves me quite well.)

At this point, our conversation continued for a little longer, thankfully not about brews. I don’t remember what I said, but when we hung up, I pulled out a dry-erase marker and wrote “R.Y. – definition of brew” on the whiteboard, then went to sleep.

***

I visited N.C.I. yesterday, and talked to J.T., “fresh” off of her maternity leave. (Side note: Why do I know so many people with the first name letter “J”? J.B., J.C., J.F., J.L., J.L., J.R., J.R., J.T., J.T., J.Y., J.Y. Why is there so much initial overlap? Is this related to my naming all my computers names with the letter “J” until recently? Is “J” the reoccurring letter in my life?) J.T. said she thought she heard me, her polite way of implying I am loud and brash. Really, in my old stomping grounds, I am. I know I am no longer gainfully employed, but a part of me is still there.

J.T. confirmed what had been implied by the simple fact they had never deleted my main computer files. Any time I want a position in V.W., I’ve got it. In a way, I still live on. J.R. showed me that one of the files I’d created for work, she’d been given as a template for her own procedures. Notable for the fact that I was still in l-school mode, as the phrase “assumption of duties” cropped up several times.

I still think about it, and I don’t know if it’s just wistful longing for a simpler time. It might be that my time at N.C.I. has taken on a golden glow, and were I to actually make the step and immerse myself in it again, I’d hate it. I do know that I can’t afford it any more now than I could then, the main/only sticking point. If I could sustain myself with something on the side, I’d do it. The question is what.

The only viable option, the only viable option ever, is to write and get published. The problem is that it won’t generate enough money for years, maybe decades. Plus, I can do that now, so I might as well try not to starve as a tech. writer instead of a voice writer. But damn, even though I now knock on the door to my old office when I go in, it still feels like home. I come in to my L.M. office, and it’s just the desk where I keep my food and computers.

Soup Can

One hundred and fifty posts (but only 135 actually published, if you look at the post count), and it only took two years. I suppose there should be a better way to commemorate such a "momentous" occasion. Really, it's more or less a testament to my ability to not being able to hold my tongue. So, please read this post that I wrote roughly three weeks ago.

***

Sometimes I am too stupid to be depressed. [And sometimes I am too depressed to be stupid. -K] As of late, there have been a few instances where I did not realize how bad thing were in my life until someone spelled it out for me. And it wasn't an actively cruel act on their part, they were just putting in plain view what I should have already known. Most of these incidences involve post-work happy hour, a dangerous proposition. Is it my dream job to be a technical writer? Far from it. Is it closer to my dream job than attorney-at-law? Yeah.

Then there's all the other stuff. My apartment lies next to the laundry room. The laundry room sprung a leak, so my carpet got soaked with water. Not just any water, waste laundry water. By no means did the hallway smell like a port-a-potty, but neither did it smell of sweet fragrance. The Lady Surfer is also leaky, due to the "nor'easter" passing through as of late. She has begun to mildew, and will not smell any better until summertime, when I can leave the windows open and actually dry her out. Yay standing water. It's annoying, but the rental company is sending carpet cleaners, and I can always buy an air freshener for Lady Surfer.

Ever since moving down to Virginia, I've discovered that for half the year, I'll be self-medicating in order to get around the pollen. Yes, the plants are making love to my nose, and I am not reacting well to their hot and heavy loving. Yes, it makes things like being outside more of an adventure than I'd hoped for. Yes, sometimes the medicine isn't strong enough to withstand the pollen. I just keep on hacking away and snorting the Astelin.

A year ago, these bugs would have been enough to make me flip out. Hey, a year ago, I probably did flip out over much less. A few upcoming finals for classes that didn't really matter. It's not that I don't care. I am annoyed that the Lady Surfer's brakes are wonky, and she needs another checkup. I am annoyed that it smells fun-kay up in my crib. It's just not enough to bother me to the extent it would have.

This is the power of perspective. A year ago, my life was l-school. It consumed me whole like a non-sexual succubus. All I knew, all I had, was l-school. Thus, the tests were everything to my life, because if I failed, that was it for me. I was done. And I didn't even give a crap about l-school or becoming a lawyer. Imagine what the truly obsessive were, are, going through.

Now, my life is more, oh, so much more than just l-school. OK, that's a lie, there's really not that much more. Run when possible, write when possible, read, when possible, see friends when possible, work cause I like to eat. Sing when no one can hear me. Sing when everyone can hear me. Whistle because I can. Smile at the world, especially when no one is looking. I used to never smile, even when around people, even when I thought it was expected. And now, I can smile just for the hell of smiling.

The point is, compared to the rest of my life, these issues are so minor, they're hardly worth wasting the effort to worry about them. Take care of them, yes, but do not obsess. It has helped so much to stop painting my world in an abstract style (think Picasso), and to start rendering it in a heavily ironic, realistic style (think Warhol). Besides, I'd rather think of the world as a can of chicken noodle soup than a blocky naked woman going down the stairs. And if I didn't have a can opener, hey, that's what rocks are for.

Day to Day

Need filler. Rather than resort to obligatory post about needing filler and having nothing, I'll instead sketch out an average day, and insert my own commentary on my own actions.

All times are eastern standard, unless otherwise noted.

0200 - Wake up for the first time, only to fall promptly back asleep. I have no problem falling asleep. It's the staying there that gets me.

0430 - Wake up for the second time, stay in bed awake, eyes closed. Sometimes it's nice to remain in that indistinct half-awake world, lost in my slow, meandering thoughts. Yeah, it's sacrilegious to even be up this early, but if I have a little time to myself, and a lot of time to prepare for the work day, it goes much smoother than if I'm rushed.

0500 - Get out of bed. The bed here is still the futon. The actual bed is still in the box from Ikea, having only been procured a couple of days ago.

0505 - Morning bathroom regimen. Toilet, floss, brush teeth, mouthwash. If my glasses are in the bathroom, I put them on. Otherwise, I stumble around half-blind. Often, my glasses end up in the strangest places, though not in the freezer (yet).

0530 - Attempt to exercise. If it's really cold, or the allergy-induced asthma rises from within like the spirit of vengeance, then I stay inside and do push-ups and sit-ups. If I feel crazy, I go for a run in what is essentially the midnight hour. This requires an added level of caution, as I often cannot see the road, and cars cannot see me.

0600 - Breakfast. Honey Bunches of Oats, frozen berry mix (blue, rasp, and black), and soy milk. Every morning. I read in an issue of Wired magazine that, in terms of happiness, eating a wide variety of food is not as important as eating what you like over and over. The berries freeze my teeth when I crunch through them, but it helps put me at ease, and gives me another familiar sensation.

0615 - Shower. I'm naked.

0630 - Contacts and get dressed. Contacts are fun. I can't open my eyes wide enough some mornings to get the contacts in. They'll catch the edges of my eyelashes and get stuck against my eyeballs, and burn like caustic acid. Plus, I'm poking my eyes. As for getting dressed, black pants, button down shirt, black belt, black socks. Not that hard to match my shirts against the same color pants every day, so it really doesn't matter if I dress in the dark, which I do some mornings.

0700 - Drive to work. What I wouldn't pay for even a tape deck. I hate listening to talk radio in the morning. Just give me a song!

0730 - Commence working. As much as people mock me for getting in this early, and living an early bird schedule, there is something nice about getting into an empty office and getting work done without distractions.

1300 - Lunch. Long morning and late lunch means I don't have to spend that much time in the office after lunch, when I'm sleepy from eating, and having been awake since 0500.

1630 - Cease working and drive home. I put in my eight hours, and I get out. If there's an emergency, I'll stay longer. However, we were discussing an average day.

1700 - Dinner. Yeah, I eat dinner at five in the afternoon. I am an old, decrepit man. If I'm really tired, it's more cereal. If I'm not, it's brown rice plus whatever I cooked in bulk on Sunday.

1730 - Decompression. This usually involves writing in some fashion, but can also include a run, reading, or staring quietly at the wall and meditating on the nature of existence.

1800 - TCB. This is catch-all time. Internet/email, cleaning the apartment, running assorted errands, making an infrequent phone call. If I were to take up smoking crack cocaine, it would probably happen here.

2100 - Sleeping. Fairly self-explanatory.

Looking back at how I live an average day, it looks like my most vivid sensations, or at least the parts I'm most willing to recall, are the moments in the early morning before work, when the rest of the world is sleeping. Could it be that I really am an early bird?

It's 0800 on a Sunday morning, and I really wish someone else were awake so I could talk to someone. Well, I don't know if that's entirely true. Mostly, I just want to be heard. Damned if I'm going to wake any of you up just because I've been up for a couple of hours and barely slept. At least if I type this down and post it in between the hilarity, someone's going to read it at some point.

I try to see the humor in everything because oftentimes, it feels like there's no reason to laugh. I've got to manufacture a way to make the world sillier, less starkly hostile. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn't. Plus, if I don't laugh, I end up crying. Gone both ways, and laughing seems to work better.

This has been a weird year. Lot of laughing, some crying. Right now, I'm skidding into a trough. Soon enough, I'll be sledding right back out onto a peak. Right now, just shitty and confused. I know the world doesn't owe me a damned thing, but still I wonder, when will it be my time?

Maybe it'll feel better once i get an actual's night sleep, but right now, above anything else, I just want to feel like I have a voice, like I'm actually here, that someone can hear me. And I know I'm rambling and going in circles, but I just feel alone.

Nobody can be funny all the time. We'll try to bring it back to normal tomorrow.

High Five

I got four hours of sleep Saturday night because the internal chronometer does not know it is the weekend. The plan was to attempt to go back to sleep. In my haze, I cocooned myself in both of my blankets. Now, I don't sleep like normal people. If I start sweating, or get hot, I won't throw the blankets off. I'll just lie there in my unconsciousness, until I jolt awake, sweating and freaked out. This mini-night terror also cancels out the restorative effects of any sleep I may have gotten. After two bouts of this, I just had to wake up and do something, calm down, and try to go to sleep later.

Around 0850 EST, I got a phone call from my mom. "K.T., your half-sister K.V. and your niece K.E.V. are coming around 10:30 or 11:00. Come up and see them." This is the pattern of our relationship. I wasn't getting any more sleep.

Shower, shave, contacts, clothes, hop in the Lady Surfer, subject her to the stresses and struggle of driving up to Baltimore. To my surprise, I made it five minutes before them. (Side note: I'm not lying when I call myself an only child. My dad, L.T. [not either football player], has married twice. I'm the sole scion of the second union. The first produced K.V. (married) and M.T. (single). We didn't grow up together, so I'd only see them every once in a while. Apparently we saw each other much more when I was a baby/toddler, so there's enough recognition that they're family, but not enough that they're familiar.)

K.E.V. is still my niece, and she's still the cutest niece ever. It's strange, I remember holding her as a baby, so tiny, so floppy, so cute. Now, she's seven, tall for her age (I think I wasn't that tall until I was ten or eleven?), really into clothes and online pets. She's one-quarter Asian through my father/her mother, but you can't really tell. It just looks like a tan on her. Look close enough, and you can see some facial features from my father. Mostly in the cheeks; him, me, K.V., M.T., and K.E.V. all dimple when we smile.

Usually, she comes to visit "Chinese Grandpa" around Christmas time, but this time, they were passing through Maryland. So, of course, I scrapped my plans of sleep and errands to see her. I love playing with my niece, though mostly it just consists of me telling stupid jokes and acting like an idiot, while she laughs. Also, destroying toys while I look in horror and cry out "O, the humanity! O, the humanity!" The great thing about this is that she has no idea what it means, and neither do I, but it's still funny.

Now, my mom's plan was to take them out to lunch. Then, since she had to leave at 1:00, she was hoping that if they were still around, I could take them to do something. I would have suggested a nice, long nap to soothing lullabyes.

They come in, we say our hellos, and my mom asks "So, are you ready for lunch?" K.V. says "Oh, we have to be at the airport in twenty minutes, we just dropped by to say hello." I cock my head to the side, and mumble, "I drove up from Virginia for this?" M.T. turns to me and says "You live in Virginia?"

There was some sort of conversation at this juncture, but I mostly sat in the chair, nodding off. Every so often, I'd perk up, crack wise, and fall back asleep.

Twenty minutes passed by, and we all said our goodbyes. Hugs all around, except for me. Another way to show K.E.V. and me are related: when I was young, I hated hugging, period. Had to be prodded and forced. Then again, I also hated everyone. K.E.V. will hug everyone in the room except me. I'm not sure why, but she's shy around me when it comes to saying goodbye.

So we have a different goodbye ritual; it's starting to become our thing. She hugs "Chinese Grandpa." She hugs "Chinese Grandma." She stands in front of me and stares at my shoes. I hold out my hand and say "High five?" We slap hands as if we're still trying to figure out how to coordinate our moves (and one of us actually is). I'm not going to force it. I remember how awkward it was.

I was still tired and cranky (big change, right?), but I don't regret coming up on short notice to see K.E.V. I did make a point that, next time, everyone's driving down to Virginia on three hours' notice.

Speaking; Silence

I'm painfully shy, and inordinately curious. On the short term, bashfulness wins. Given enough time, inquisitiveness prevails. This is why people are usually left with a less-than-stellar impression upon first meeting. This is also why I have trouble with, well, people.

J.L. and I went to a pool bar, and when we got there, we were the only patrons inside. The waitress was just as confused as us. Soon after we arrived and got a table, a group of lime-green clad women sauntered in and started laughing like schoolgirls. Myself, J.L., and the waitress all exchanged one of those knowing looks.

Now, these women all wore the same lime green tops, lime green pants, tennis shoes, all quite unflattering and loose-fitting, but all uniform. Too ugly to be scrubs or kickball uniforms or halloween costumes. What the hell was their story?

J.L. and I had to know, but neither of us was willing to wade into the whole group and ask. He dared me, I dared him, we went back to him throttling me at billiards. Seriously, the only times I won was when he would scratch the eight ball. My best streak only came after five minutes of discussing Stephen Hawking's impending trip onto a zero-gravity flight. This means that my concentration is optimized when I think about physicists? What the hell?

After a couple of hours, I couldn't stand it. I waited until two of them split off from the main pack, then dropped my pool cue on the floor and surged. No doubt my forebears are proud of my initiative, and a little sad at everything else. Came up behind them and tapped the shorter one on the shoulder. "Excuse me, excuse me, could I ask you a question?"

The shorter, a cute brunette with lovely dark eyes, her head coming up about to my shoulderblade, caught my attention first. I looked down at her chest (to see the logo! to see the logo! I swear I'm not that dirty! Damn it, believe me! I just wanted information! Argh, I hate you all.), and the logo said "Orthodontics." Turned to the other, an older woman, grey streaks just starting to peek through her chestnut hair, a sweet smile, about my height. This would have been the perfect time to roll, but I was committed, and had to ask.

K.T.: I have to know, what, uh, what do you guys, you all, do? (Stammers alive! This is me talking to strangers! So awkward!)
Dark Eyes (D.E.): Oh, we work at a dental office. If you want some dental work, you should come in. (She smiled, and I had to turn towards Grey Streak or risk blushing.)
Grey Streak (G.S.): Yeah, why don't we take a look? (She rubbed my shoulder, then placed her hand quite gently on my right cheek.
K.T.: Heh. (I don't know if any of you ever did this, but when I was a little kid, whenever anyone said "Smile," I would pull my lips back in a rough grimace. That's what I did here, because I'm not too comfortable with strangers smiling and touching my cheek. Friends, feel free. Strangers, you better have more candy than G.S.)
D.E.: Wow, not bad. (The two of them actually seriously stared at my teeth for a good five seconds. Good for them, I was cornered in the middle of an open bar.)
G.S.: Yeah, that's pretty good. Well, if your friends need dental work, send them in. (By this point, G.S. had placed her thumb below my chin, and had half-progressed to a slow caress of my face.)
K.T.: Heh, thanks. (And then I backed up a few steps and walked away. Advantage: gazelles.)

I then went back to the pool table.

K.T.: Well, that was interesting.
J.L.: So, what do they do?
K.T.: I'm not telling you. You want to know, you go ask.

Told him in the end. It is not the destination, but the journey, that matters.

***

The last time I attempted to pass myself off as a mute was in high school. It lasted for all of two hours, and that was because the note pad was so small, and my handwriting so poor, no one could read what I was writing. I was essentially cut off from the world, not that I really cared. It was high school, and I was just killing time until I became a doctor, lawyer, or engineer.

Ten years have granted me neither wisdom nor discretion. I'm flirting with the idea of being a mute again, maybe for a week. The statistic states women use roughly 20,000 words in a day, men 7,000. If you remove my inner monologue from the count, there are days where I probably speak about 1,000 words. It wouldn't be that difficult, just really odd. Plus, I have a small whiteboard which would help with the tiny handwriting. The only question you may have is "Why?" The only question I have is "Why not?"

Dramatis Personae

The danger of creating any list such as the following is leaving off someone. Understand if I do so, it is not because I don't like you. Rather, it is because I am a horrible person undeserving of your friendship. With a little further ado, I'm going to more or less group by how I have come to associate these people in my mind, and there is no way one word can encompass even a part of all of you. Still, for now, it's what I've got.

Me
protagonist/antagonist - K.T.
alter ego - J.C.

Family
mom- B.T.
dad - L.T.
half-sister - K.V.
half-sister - M.T.
half-brother-in-law - N.V.
niece - K.E.V.
aunt - R.F.
other aunt - K.C.
cousin/brother - R.Y.

[E5] - D
Light D - C.E.
Teacher - J.E.
Nascent - X.E.
Heavy D - S.P.
Runner - V.P.

[E5] - O
Heavy O - D.C.
Sniper - M.C.
Capper - A.W.

[E5] - Pho
Reverend - A.A.
Revered - J.H.

AOI
DIE - G.B.
Pika! - C.T.
Vegas - E.B.
Siberian Husky - J.L.
Rouge - V.P.
Touchy - K.C.

UMD/Law
Germophobe - C.S.
Straight-shooter - A.L.
Femme - M.R.
Esquire - J.L.

ATR
Mustache - M.N.
Wigger - D.S.
Biter - K.R.

NCI
Boss - J.T.
H.R. - R.J.
Coffee - C.C.
Mad Scientist - M.A.
Mentor - D.G.
Day Shift - E.N.
Anti-me - A.M.
Smooth - I.A.
Traveler - Z.M.
Eclectic - M.B.
Go Ravens - A.W.
Laugh/Smile - J.R.
Almost-Boss - B.S.

LM
Boss - I.S.
Boss' Boss - M.M.
Boss' Boss' Boss - M.P.
Actual Boss - A.S.
Technical Boss - K.H.
Networked Boss - W.J.
Not Quite Boss - T.S.
Vegetarian - M.H.
ATHF - J.G.
Early - R.B.
"No one wants to fuck with me. I am the best. I am the champ. I am an olympic champion. I will fuck anyone." - R.B.
Placid - E.C.
Metal - J.F.
Flag Football - A.W.
Quiet - C.C.
Mock - A.N.
Chill - J.T.
Cool Uncle - C.M.
Knee - V.W.
New Guy - J.E.

*sigh*
Way back when - D.C.
Not thinking - S.C.
Not paying attention - A.C.
Should've said something - J.D.

*argh*
"You're not funny, K.T." - M.M.
"Do you know how that makes me feel?" -M.W.
Physicist - J.S.
"No, you're wrong." - V.M.

The [E5] groups will at least know of each other. Most of the groups may know one or two from the *sigh* or *argh* groups, but I doubt anyone knows them all, or the story behind them. No, I know this is not what D.C. wanted. He wanted a full list with full names and short biographies and connections to me. Even pictures, if I could swing it, and perhaps contact information to verify details. This is not my life as entertainment. Well, that's a lie. This is my life as entertainment, but I will not become a plaything, if that makes sense. You are not watching The Truman Show, damn it.

***

Got stopped by two members of the Church of Jesus Christ, Latter Day Saints, otherwise known as Mormons. Since I'd just finished running under the warm sun, and fairly dehydrated, I wasn't thinking. Introduced myself as James (not my real name). Decided that I'd sit and attempt to listen, even though all I could hear was my own heartbeat. Besides, they were in short sleeved dress shirts and ties on Earth Day. How can you not give them time?

The elder on the right (and they introduced themselves only by their last names) asked if I knew anything about their church. I said no. He said "Awesome." The first of many times he would say that. At one point, I deliberately said something negative (though I do not remember what it was I said), and he replied, "Awesome." The elder on the left was attempting to describe his holy scripture, and paused for fifteen seconds, as he kept trying to find the word. "What is it. I know it, it's a word, what is it. Well, it doesn't matter." If you can't think of a single word to describe your holy scripture, somehow I doubt you're going to sell me on polygamy.

People; Candy

Usually what I do is I'll write up a bunch of entries at once when I have a few hours to just sit and write, then post them once a day for the week. This is why you may sometimes read some stuff that happened a while back. This is also why if something comes up, I'm loathe to deviate from my schedule to write about it.

I went to grab dinner with D.C., M.C., and A.W. tonight. They all wanted a shout-out, and I will admit, I have been slacking on that end. (So, what's up? I will work on something a little more substantive than that, but it's late and I still got a lot to do.) D.C. wants a "cheat sheet" describing who exactly everyone is that I write about. This will never happen; just as I would like to preserve my own pseudo-anonymity, I would also like to preserve everyone else's pseudo-anonymity. It's more or less a group effort anyway, as you can trace people back through other people.

However, I understand it can be difficult to follow people as letters only, not even real names. At some point in the future, I will create a list of Dramatis Personae in the tragi-comedy of my life, grouped by how I met them. At least this will grant some clarity, though not enough to fully identify people. Still, when I say I also had lunch with G.B., K.C., and J.L. today (what's up?), you'll have a better idea as to whether or not you do, or should, know them. As usual, i reserve all right to renege on that, and I curse l-school for granting me the foresight to include that.

***

I've come to the conclusion that V.M., my office mate that I've spoken of in such glowing terms in the past, is actually just trying to create a friendship, and has been ever since I moved in. It's just that, for him, the only way to sustain a conversation is to turn it into an argument. I can't stand arguments, and so interpreted his overtures as aggressive. Now that I've taken pause and started nodding my head when he starts talking, and just responding with minimal grunts, I can see what he's trying to do.

Of all the people in my life, V.M. occupies the most time when you measure by proximity (within 10 feet). By that metric, he has become one of the most important people in my life. And though you can't see it, my lip just curled as I typed that. Seriously. I feel a little dirty. I do have a plan, however. As the N.C.I. voice writers know, I enjoy eating during a shift. V.M. appears to like candy, based on informal tests on my end. I plan on keeping several candy stashes about the office. Whenever he starts talking, we'll talk for a bit, then I'll go to one of the stashes and offer him a sweet. Caramels gum the mouth up the most, right?

Screwed Up

All right, so I'll just short (bus) post for the rest of the week.

***

My proudest handiwork moment came on Sunday when I was constructing some Ikea chairs. While attempting to screw together a seat and the supporting post, I lifted the post away from the seat, tearing the screws free from the wood (no pre-made holes). This left the seat with gaping holes wider than the screws, and I was stuck with having to super glue it together, or letting it stay connected via the other two screws, and hope no one lifted too hard on the seat.

Luckily, duct tape presented a third option. I layered several strips one atop the other, then placed that over both holes. Quick and easy substitute. The screws actually screwed through, and the adhesive may actually help keep the wood together. Of course, I could have just as easily duct taped the entire contraption, but at least my ghetto-fab solution looks semi-respectable.