Bull-Fighting

" 'Nobody ever lives all their life all the way up except for bull-fighters.' " --Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

It's been a pretty uneventful break so far.

I've barely left my room.

But I have to keep trying to do something so I don't stop and get all angsty and broody.

It's like there's a cloud over my head or something.

I can't imagine why, except for maybe my girlfriend living with her angry, Ohioan ex-boyfriend in O-fucking-hio for an entire fucking week.

But I'm just being a stupid, moody teenager.

Aside from the occasional jump into the shoes of Jake Barnes I haven't done anything.

Nothing.

Can you guys tell I like Hemingway?

This is only the third Hemingway reference in ten posts.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Boxing Gloves

Being the kind of kid who's been described as "a seven-foot tall, albino Bob Marley" by his friends and relatives, I've never really had any sort of desire to fight, or tackle, or body-slam, or full-nelson, or half-nelson, or arm bar, or punch, or kick...


Well, there's a lot of things.


And maybe that sounds a little girly, and I'm sure that if Hemingway was still around he'd punch me in the gut and call me a sissy, but it's just something that I've never really liked doing, though, at times, I do agree that some people do need to be kicked in the face. Hard.


So, when my friends got out the boxing gloves on Friday night, naturally, I wanted in, and I got punched in the chest so hard I felt it for a whole day.


I'm still sore two days later.


But it was fun to get the shit kicked out of me, even though I was getting the shit kicked out of me.


Does that make sense?


And I'd really like to do it again some time.


Maybe next time I'll actually hit someone.

Post Blog:

 

604,800 seconds

Today's my week-iversary.




















Fuck off.

Nag Champa

Burning incense has become sort of a rite in my room.


Every Sunday.


A funeral party for the week, I guess.


And I try to unwind, and usually it works to some extent. Plus, I usually play In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and scream along to all of the words.


I usually lie down on the carpet I vacuumed earlier in the day.


By the last song I'm usually screaming as loud as I can.


I really wish this week was over.


I want to feel my throat rip and ache and cough out all the smoke.


I want to sit up high in my branches.


And relax.

Exasperation

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That was me banging on my keyboard.


Want to see it again?


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"A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

Looking back at the blog and other stuff I've written, it all seems the same.

So I guess I'm in a rut.

Shit.

At least it's a comfortable place to be, as long as you don't think too hard about it. It's the kind of comfort in knowing that you've done it all before and, at least for a while, will continue to, but nothing really new and interesting ever comes out of a rut, so I guess I  should try to climb out.

So I can finally write something useful.

So I can feel better about everything, and finally get a good look around.

So I can stop looking at my feet when I walk.

So that I can take people seriously when they compliment me, and not worry when I hear laughing.

And maybe stop feeling so stressed.

Or self-concious.

Or embarrassed about things I said years ago.

But maybe it's not like that.

Maybe getting away from the routine means just that, and nothing else.

And it is warm down here.

And safe.

And comfortable.

And I should really get to work on some of the stuff down here.

I was thinking about bringing in a futon so I could have a couch and a bed.

Plus I have all this homework to do.

I think I'll just stay here for a while.

It's a pretty nice place.

"Tongue-Tied and Dizzy"

Well what if I...

Well maybe if I said...

Or...

Um...

I don't really know what to say today. I'm busy with something and I can't really think of anything else, except for maybe how I'm supposed to be a good friend and hang out with people when they ask you to, especially if you're dating that person. And how I can't go to the movies with my other friends because they live far away, and how that's a bummer.

I really can't keep my thoughts straight.

Is this getting a little overdone?

Well, shit.

What else can I talk about?

Um...

Here's a good song.

I used it for the title.

Pierre Lallement Invented the Bicycle in Nancy, France

It's weird how southern California decided it should be rainy the first week of spring.

I wonder if this is some kind of omen.

Anyway, I'm supposed to go on a bike ride with my friends in about an hour, and I wanted to get this out of the way because I have no idea when I'm coming home tonight.

I think it'd be a nice day for a bike ride. You know?

So I can get all soaking wet and cuss like a fucking sailor at my friends for it.

So I can go up in the mountains behind our house and look down at the town.

I love this kind of weather.

That's actually one of the reasons I want to move away, good ol' So-Cal is too goddam sunny.

Too goddam sunny.

That's not to say I want it to rain all the time. Wet jeans suck. But still.

So, in between bundling, blogging, and listening to Radiohead, I wish you all a happy rainy-day.

Oh, and a happy Saturday, too.

There's only so many left.

Berkeley

So, yesterday was Berkeley day, and the streets ran red with the blood and tears of high-school seniors, soon to be college freshmen.

But,  and here's the best part, somehow I slipped into the "approved" camp.

I'm going to Berkeley, baby.

Just going to check that one more time. Okay. I was nervous for a second.

Wait a second, Berkeley's really far away, isn't it?

Like really, really far away from my home village in southern California.

I can't say I wasn't expecting to move out, but it's still this big scary blob hovering over my head, and I can't help but think about how homesick I'm going to be in northern California, because, let's face it, California's pretty much two separate states. 

And I keep thinking about those calls my friends and family are going to get.

You guys might want to buy those extra cell-phone minutes after all.

Even though I might have a rough time adjusting, I think this'll work out.

I love San Francisco, and Berkeley's pretty damn close to there, and the whole vibe seems pretty happenin'.

Plus, we have great friends up there already, Yvonne and Lewis.

So I think I'll be okay.

But, Los Angeles, I'll always be yours.

Post-Blog: Woah, two Decemberists songs in a row.

Flourescent Lights

So, here I am, in the computer room of the A-Building at 2:30 in the afternoon wondering if the custodian will tell the folks at the office that Blogger somehow slipped through the internet blocker.

I won't tell if you don't, man.

Sitting at an empty school when you'd usually be napping in the front seat of Dad's car while he listens to the indie XM station is probably the most boring thing ever. Plus there's the buzz coming from these lightbulbs, and all I can think about is that Kids Next Door episode where Numbuh One says something about that buzz being the sound of your brain being blended.

I think I'll put this up tonight after I finish selling the future-frosted unfrosted cupcakes for a bake sale at tonight's Open House festivities. You know, community service and all. But it's going to be really, really late at night for someone who wakes up really, really early, so we'll see. I still have to slap together some drawings and all.

But it isn't all bad, I guess. I have all this time to do some stuff, and I can listen to my music to at least try to pretend I'm somewhere else.

Okay, so it is pretty much all bad, but I'm here now, and I'm going to sell some cupcakes, goddamit.

Cause that's community service, right?

2:39.

Fuck.

Another two and a half hours to go.

The other thing that has been rolling around in my head (can cupcakes roll?) is the weird taxi driver Dad and I passed on the way to school today.

He was on the side of the road in front of a blind turn, pulled over, and flagging people down.

What was he doing?

I spent the rest of the car ride thinking about it (except the bit where I laughed at a real-estate sign that advertised a realtor who chose to go by "Dippy").

Was someone hurt?

Were they a family member of the taxi driver?

Did his battery die?

Admittedly, things got a little weird when I started wondering if he was an alien trying to pick up some test subjects.

2:45

Man, time flies when you're listening to The Decemberists and thinking about aliens and cupcakes.


Post- Blog: This was written yesterday on the back of a stained napkin.


Can't be sure but I remember listening to this:

 

Day One

Oh Shit.

How am I supposed to do this?

Maybe pick a better font.

Much better.


Times all the way.


Eh, whatever.


I don't think I ever really figured out how to write a blog. I think I had one, once, in the sixth or seventh grade, but I didn't really know what a blog was, so it was pretty much the worst thing ever.


I guess I still don't really know.


Oh well.


So I guess that, if I were to christen this blog appropriately on it's maiden voyage into the cold seas of "the internet," I'd call it something like "A Place to Talk About Stuff," but that seems a little too informal. I spent over an hour today searching for a quote from Catcher in the Rye to use, and I actually almost did use this one: 


"I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.  It's awful.  If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera.  It's terrible."


 I was thinking "The Most Terrific Liar," but I can't really lie to anyone, so I ruled it out as a bit of a misnomer. I guess I'll stick with the title my gal said I should use. I like it. It sounds...appropriate.


I feel like this post is a little short, so I'm going to put up a drawing.


Here's one I drew after listening to a little too much Radiohead.

I think its a little creepy.