I want to fight someone today.


Because I can't fight the people I care about. I can't hurt someone I've called my best friend, as much as I may want to. I can't grab her by the collar and tell her to stop fucking up her life. I can't show her how angry she makes me and how much I hate her, because I love her and I need to be here for her or I will lose her forever. I can't tackle her father and start wailing on his face for being the drunken asshole he is. I can't stop her from taking that one Roxy because she "can't sleep." I can't pick her up, shake her around and yell, "WHY DO YOU THINK YOU CAN'T SLEEP?!" I can't do that because she is the product of her environment and until that changes she will never change. I can only stand here on the sidelines and watch her struggle.

Sometimes she accidentally says too much and spills her soul to me. Sometimes I can piece together enough mumbled half-sentences to catch a glimpse of what's going on in her head. Sometimes I don't like what I see, and it is frustrating.

Sometimes it makes me feel like fighting somebody.

Day 6886 | Day 6938 | Day 7040

Ok, so this is going to be one of those stories.

It starts out (as all these stories tend to) with a question: "Fuck man, what're we going to do for Halloween?" Though it seems simple, this is a deceptively important question on college campuses and the answer can determine the outcome of an entire semester. Halloween is the first real party of the year, straddling the summer and fall drinking seasons, and the single day of the year where women dress up like whores and men like barbarians without a trace of irony. Add to this the amount of self-control possessed by your average college student and you've got the potential for one hell of a night.

Which brings us back to "Fuck man, what're we going to do for Halloween?" The logical answer was irish car bombs. Yes indeed, that famous Belfast beer cocktail; one shot whiskey, one shot irish cream, and a bottle of Guinness. They start out rough as the whiskey kicks you in the teeth and then finish smooth with the cream and an aftertaste that varies from coffee to caramel to chocolate milk and everything else in between. And most importantly, they are damn good drinks.

So we worked our way rather quickly through our bottles of Jameson, Baileys, and Guinness. By group estimation (based more on the number of empties left over than actual memory) we each had four car bombs in about 45 minutes, give or take a quarter of an hour. For those of you keeping score at home, that amounts to about 10 'drinks'. This, in itself, was a very poor idea.

At this point one member of our little cadre suggested (in an Oirish accent of course) that we "go catch a spot o' tail at the frats." Coincidentally, this was also the point at which my better judgement kicked me in the shins and ran away belting show tunes from the 1940s. This was crucial to the night's events since, to put it lightly, Greek life and I don't get along while I'm sober. However, abandoned by my usual prejudices and reasoning, I found myself arriving at the fraternity of choice not 10 minutes later and was bustled past the strobe lights and 300 watt sub woofers which illuminated writhing teenagers and twenty-somethings in the style of Jerry Bruckheimer, up a flight of stairs and into the room of 'this-really-cool-guy-you'll-like-him'.

The room (like most of the rest of the fraternity) was trashed and had the stale smell of cigarettes, dirty clothing, Axe body spray, and marijuana. Homemade furniture made of plywood and two by fours was crammed into odd corners, splinters menacing the rapidly increasing number of people in the room. The room's occupant cleared a mixed pile of clothes, papers, and books off the 'futon' and handed me a beer from the fridge.

Now let's take a moment and pause for a bit of reflection. I am not the most socially capable person. In fact, when I meet you I will talk your ear off for fear of giving you the chance to speak and make fun of me. I now find myself in a fraternity on Halloween night with freely flowing alcohol and people with many fewer inhibitions to lose than myself. And I'm being handed a beer by the person whom my only girlfriend left me for.

I accepted the beer and sat down what I hope was smoothly as the alcohol of the previous hour began to take hold. To my right on the couch were two people, whom I'd never met before, making out with reckless abandon (I don't think they'd ever met either). To my left three guys were molesting each other's nipples between swigs of beer. And while I was sitting there I decided that, no, I'm not really much more tolerant of people when I'm drunk than when I'm sober after all. So without a word I deposited my empty beer can in the lap of Molester #1 and made my way out of the frathouse and back to my own room two blocks away.

This is how I found myself alone in my dorm room, kneeling in front of the toilet and vomiting what had been my only meal in 48 hours. I leaned over the toilet until all I could do was dry heave and weep silently, vomit and tears tasting bitter in more than the metaphorical sense. My legs were bent awkwardly underneath me and when I attempted to stand they buckled completely sending my arm plunging into the vomit-filled toilet. So I did what any reasonable drunk would do: crawled into the shower and turned on the water.

And I sat and let the water run, rinsing the half-digested chunks of chicken and macaroni and tears off my skin and clothes. I leaned against the wall and stared at the water shooting out of the shower head, shifting my head to perfectly recreate the shot from Psycho (you know, the part right before she gets murdered). And I sat.

I lost track of the time, it must have been over an hour. I was hypnotized by the motion of the bubbles racing each other down the drain in spirals and the mingling smells of puke and steam and soap. I sat and I thought about everything in the last year that I regretted, everyone I had met and everyone whom I had drifted away from, the things that I did wrong and the things I did right. I thought about my first relationship and the friends I'd known for more than half my life that I'd cast off. I thought about being the first male in my family too lazy to put in the work to become an Eagle Scout and about my crippling fear of social interaction. I thought about life and death and mere survival. And I had my moment of Nirvana.

Then I shut off the water and went on with my life.

October 16, 2009 was one of those days with an experience that if it doesn't kill you, it can fuck you up for a long time, or make you steel-strong...


But the skeletons and monsters have been outscored.

Today, a journey ended along with my afternoon nap. Half-awake from the 8 hour sleep, I begin a new chapter. The plot is still being written, the OST features special auditions of Massive attack, Yann Tiersen, amillionsons, and many others, as they are yet to be chosen.

I fell asleep thinking of you, my Bête Noire...I must have dreamt of you, even though I am not supposed to, it's pretty wrong, but who could have predicted this climax of events?

2 teens on a summer trip, evidently hating each other, never missing an instant to tease themselves. A spoiled, selfish, upper-east-sider, who thought he could have anything and that anyone could be owned.

A fairly naive little girl, with beliefs and ideals that reached far beyond mundane reality. With dreams and feelings which others only read books about...

With pretty many bugs & glitches made by carelessly giving her heart to beings not ready to take care of such a burden.

She showed him that not all people are the same,  he told her music stories, she wrote him long e-mails about what it means to be really alive, he sent her melodies containing too much magnitude for a soul-less urban zombie...

Before she'd realize, she found herself healed from the scars of past, ready for the fresh start she always wished...

Oh, but if only things were that simple...

If life's equations hadn't contained so many "x"-s and "y"-s, and Ego, and Vanity, then, maybe things were really possible.

But they're not.

Because now, I would so much want to call you and ask you ....Wait a sec, what should I ask you? What should I say if you were to question my reasons for calling? 

That I just wanted to call, to talk to you, 'cause I feel so me around you, I can laugh and say silly things which you find utterly amusing? That I find you weirdly intelligent and  see a different you, far from the picture painted by your friends? That I like to make fun of your attempts to bang all the  women in this town? That i think that, maybe, I could show you what you've been really missing?

If I'd phone what would I say?

That I've sort of missed our conversations about Nietzsche and argues about different stuff which crossed our tiny minds at the moment?


It is getting cold on the mountain. The windows are white every morning. When I wake up, I look at the window hoping for blue skies and sneeze on cue when my eyes see all white, so I complain to sleepy Emily who says that we live in heaven and her breath is so bad in the morning so I snuggle closer and enjoy her sleep hot body that can make even sinusitis ok and I play with her nipples to wake her more and nuzzle her neck until I sneeze again and have to complain and dart across the cold tile floor into the bathroom to hork and squeeze luke warm salt water into my head. It is getting cold but it is still just after October. Up where we are there is actual frost in February. The children will collect it and make tiny snowballs that melt before they can be thrown. On the mountain there is wheat that stands taller than a person and caterpillars that make cocoons from peeled bark and dangle from power lines on silk strings. If you are careful for snakes you can open bushes and find golden lady bugs and electric green beetles. My camera has captured so many swallow tailed butterflies that now I can take the time to just watch and enjoy the pulsing proboscis and the way the moths rub their wings back and forth to make a helmet that protects them from whatever would eat a moth but somehow can't penetrate a thin wing helmet. It is getting cold and there are days into days of rain which I must drive through early on my motorcycle. I arrive at work very wet and congested and smile to keep up appearances. Why complain about what everyone suffers through. It is getting cold but I am so happy these days. I hope it all lasts and lasts.

I don't know how much longer I can take this.  In "this," I exist in a perpetual cycle of nothingness; an omnipotent frustration causes me to gaze into the cold black night and plead for no tomorrow.  In the morning I flake smears of dried salt from my eyes, having adhered to my pillowcase.  I breathlessly curse the light draping over my white bedspread, imbuing a sense of clinical asepticism before muscle-memory leads me into the bathroom half-unconscious.

Western medicine provides no assistance for my condition.  I've literally become accustomed to a state of dormancy, swallowing inordinate amounts of rage and disgust and conceding I've no control over a destiny which I never fathomed to pursue.  I hold the key to my future, but exist in claustrophobic room where all doors are blocked by acerbic guards; meanwhile, once friendly and understanding faces have turned their backs in a state of incredulity.

My back is pushed so far against the veritable wall, I suffer bouts of literal (albeit physically crippling) compression sickness - akin to a jet fighter (sans thrill).  I hold myself steady against the cold slab of granite, submersing my face in ice-cold water, hoping to shock my conscience from my uncomfortably numb state.

Everyday is the same.  There is no questioning my genuine love for life, and I've been blessed with many gifts - though most have been systematically obscured and moulded-over by extrinsic events beyond my control and lifetime.  I am broke, broken, and tethered to this mortal coil; and I shudder to think my once indomitable heart has been shattered in pieces too innumerable to retrieve.  Nevertheless, the most difficult part is having no anchor.  My friends have all but written-me off; I just cannot live a liar's life - if nothing but for my own subjective, intolerable existence as a son of parents who traveled such path.

I need help for a problem that, for all intent and purposes, does not exist.  Henceforth, I shoulder the weight my father chose to avert; and in return he generously covers a portion of my meager rent.  My "truth" is contrary to what is ingrained in the entire planet's perception, and the one time I challenged that fact, I was arrested under a felonious warrant of "Involuntary Detainment." My parents had my ex-fiance (this fiasco proved too much for her; she soon left me after six years) submit a statement proclaiming I was a "danger to myself and others."  Two years later, I've not achieved the same degree of comfort as before two large undercover police officers broke into my home, quickly cuffing me as I tried to recover my bearings from a prematurely terminated nap.

And so I waste away, sapped of my resources and well-being.  It's hard to express the gravity of my situation, as it's undoubtedly unique and tragic.  But the last thing I desire is pity or indignation; my only dream is to feel love again... a shoulder to rest my weary head, an understanding ear to lend.  I am barred from doing what I love, bound tightly to my literal non-existence.  Yet I know things are coming to a head, and I don't suspect a gentle manifestation thereof.  A 28 year old can only take so much, especially after discovering his life has been the lie to end all lies.

There is no consolation but to end this with freedom... an escape. "By hook or by crook."


"Who are you, girl?  'Cuz I'm so bored with myself" 
Queens of the Stone Age - Regular John

The sky is so blue outside today, and in November, in Montana; no doubt I should be out climbing mountains.

I'm sure things are happening out there, important things, things that reflect the Zeitgeist and could make this daylog historically relevant, in theory, someday.

But I don't really care. My head is here, in Everything, with this, my first node: a self-referential, maybe even whiny daylog. I'm just asking for it, I know. I know all about how nobody cares it's your first node, and how it will get downvoted, and especially for being a daylog, and about noding, and myself, and whiny and self-conscious and I should quit while I'm ahead. And the point was, I won't quote Nike to you, but...

I'm abiding by the same Insane Troll Logic that compels folks to lose their virginity to someone they don't like. It's going to suck anyway, so why waste a good partner on it? Or a compelling nodeshell? And some of these people may never have decent sex because they think they're somehow learning heavily guarded unwritten sex rules, that by virtue of common gender are going to apply to the body they care about. I really hope the metaphoric parallels end before that happens to me.

But, dammit, I've done everything you're supposed to do before you start and it wasn't happenin'. It's taken me 1.7 years to write this and it sucks.

I hope now that I've done most of the things I really shouldn't, I can move on.

Let's boogey.

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