October 26, 2006

Life is an indeterminable amount of routines, routines that manifest themselves in both the conscious and the subconscious. Routines we shrug off, routines we couldn't miss if we tried.

A large amount of our social behavior, for example is based in routine. We talk to many people the same way each time, we have our own accepted practices with others and our own in-jokes.

The daily grind is a terrifying thought to many, and if you really think about it, it'll fuck you up. The sheer prospect of a monotonous, meaningless life is a bit unnerving to most. Just think -

You're born.

You live at home.

You go to school. For more than a decade.

You get a job.

You work for most of your life.

You DIE.

If you're lucky, there are spouse(s) and kid(s) somewhere in there.

Schedule, of course, is a comforting thought to many. Familiarity does not, in fact, breed contempt. Or at least not always. Familiarity provides a warm safe haven, it exists without risk or fear. This is why we're afraid of the unexpected. I'll admit to having my own, rather bizarre rituals, which I indulge in as often as I can. They're the only solace I can take in the concept of repetitiveness.

The important thing to remember about life, though, is that the vast majority of interesting, exploring, fantastic things we do are outside of our daily schedule. They are unexpected, spontaneous, and incredibly liberating. Live life for the time that's yours, not the time the world taxes. Your life exists in vacations, in relations, in the warm months of summer, in long weekends and short breaks. Live for the extraordinary. Live for the unexpected.

"We need to talk," I say. "We need to talk, but you're not going to like what I have to say."

That is never a good way to begin a conversation. It brings a certain sense of doom and foreboding. Something is wrong, it says, and not knowing what will drive you crazy. If it were up to me, the conversation would never take place at all. You would continue happily on in your existence and your belief that everything is as it should be, and I would go... away. I don't want to care, I'm tired of caring. But something inside me shouts, and I have to pay it heed. And so I set things in motion. The ball is rolling, and the truth will come out, whether I want it to or not. Ominous foreshadowing, that was my insurance. My proof against weak justifications and weaker resolve.

Tomorrow is an end. Simultaneously, it is a beginning. A beginning of what, I am not certain, and in the uncertainty lies fear. What will tomorrow bring? At very least I see discomfort for one, probably both of us. Averted eyes and uncomfortable silences, not quite sure what lines come next in the script. I have written and stricken and rewritten them so many times, these lines, this script, playing it out in my mind, and I still haven't found one course that seems more likely than the rest. I really have no idea what you will say, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me because I see an end to our friendship, to everything we have built, with nothing to fill the void, and I am alone.

And yet. To live is to risk, and the path without this risk is much darker than with it. I cannot go on hiding and pretending. Subconciously I have decided that in order to carry on as your friend, I must become your enemy. There is no logic in this decision, I did not choose it willingly, but there it is. If I cannot stand and face my doubt, if I cannot risk what we have to save it, then I will most certainly lose it. To call you my friend means the world to me, and if the only way I can save that is by coming clean of what is destroying it, then come clean I must. Come clean I will.

Remember that when I look you in the eyes tomorrow and bare my soul. Remember it and judge me not too harshly. I would not ask more.

When I came back from lunch, there was a black monolith in the dead centre of the office lobby. Seven feet tall, four wide, two deep.

I touched it, of course.

I gained the knowledge that it was, in fact, a filing cabinet.

The other day whilst at the supermarket I noticed the young guy serving at the checkout had tattooed, on his left forearm, 'Love is pain'. Which is, y'know, a bit bleak. And in quite ornate lettering too.

I don't know much about tattoos, and couldn't tell if it was temporary or permanent. Imagine if it's permanent though - it's a bit... hasty, isn't it? I wonder if he had just had his heart broken. Still, if it's permanent... what if he changes his mind one day?

I suppose he could add "less" on the end, so that it says "Love is painless". Although that's not really true is it. And I don't think there was any more room on his forearm - he'd have to run on to the wrist, and maybe the palm.

Yeah, he could have the "less" tattooed on, or rather in, his palm! So people would go - turning their heads sideways to read - "...Love.. is.. pain....that's a bit bleak isn't i--" and he'd open up his fist to show his palm and they'd be like, "...pain...LESS! Ohhh. Hrmm. Yeah. Although that's not really true is it..."

OR: he could just insert an 'l' in the middle of 'pain', so it reads "Love is plain". It'd be hard to squeeze in the 'l', it probably wouldn't look very neat, but I think it could be done. And then in the palm: "SNAZZY". If he has a big enough hand he could add one or more exclamation marks, to emphasise the point.

Or, he could put one of these ^ between "Love is" and "pain". And above it, put in smaller lettering, "worth the". Which would be a nice message. Although it would probably look a bit silly.

OR: he could cover up the word "pain" with, I don't know, a large bandage or sweatband or something. And then tattoo a full stop after "Love is". Then it would be seemingly deep and profound, and ultimately meaningless. Just like love.

Just kidding.

Actually no, he doesn't need to put the full stop in at all!

"Love... is... whaat? why is that covered up?!"

"I can't tell you."

"Aw come on man, tell me! Love is.. what??"

and with a suitably enigmatic expression on his face he would say,

"...You'll have to find out for yourself."

That would work, I think.

This, barring any deletion of my rare non-day-log entries will entitle me to level 2 on E2 and I'll thus be able to vote on other things I read here. What's the occasion? Well, I could talk about the new house I'm in, or the $500 check I'll be getting from Wizards of the Coast for the 1k Dreamblade tournament I won, but the fact is I've been in this house a few days, and I won the money a couple weeks ago.

The reality is that I'm a little cold, and I don't have some little one player game I want to play, and there doesn't seem to be anyone around to talk to. Those are the things that usually take up my time.

I was just thinking about the last new person I showed E2 to. She complained it was a very slow site. Money money. It's a shame that even if it doesn't exactly make the world go 'round, it does do a lot. I wonder if credit card swipers will be standard on computers some day. It's funny to think of sites charging less than a penny for something too. Although I guess you could just multiply the service up until you reached a penny. Like if they wanted to charge you one hundredth of a penny for a minute on a website they could just wait until you spent 100 minutes there. Perhaps what I meant was obvious, but I feel more like quantity than quality in my writing right now.

It was out of bordem, simply put, that I checked E2 this morning. I soon realized I wanted to look up Dreamblade. The wikipedia has probably surpassed E2 in terms of usefulness, but I've never been entertained by anything I read there, really. Reminds me of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy vs the Pan-Galactic Encyclopedia.

I feel almost obligated to try to entertain myself. Not now, so much as in the future. When I look back in October of 2006 am I going to be amused?

Maybe I should talk about tasting your own come. I really do think that sex gets an undeserved bad rap. It's been a while since I played the "what if game", as my fine married friend coined it last night, he says his wife is fond of playing. It had started when I asked a different friend of mine a couple days ago if he would taste his own come if it meant 100 blowjobs. After clarifying that it wasn't like 100 blowjobs from some crack whore (just in general, from average women) he said he would. Then I pointed out that I had tasted my own come, and I'm sure I've had 100 more blowjobs than him.

It was just nice to take the "what if game" and put it in the context of reality. I've always enjoyed dealing with women who were disgusted by the idea of a man tasting his own come, and then to describe a context where it becomes rude NOT to (you come in a woman's mouth and she wants to kiss you). Now my other friend who turned down the 100 blowjobs claims that it is not at all rude to refuse kissing until the girl has at least had a glass of water, when you wouldn't expect them to kiss you you after you went down on them. Which to me just begs the question why are we so disgusted with our own bodily fuilds, but the fluids of the opposite sex are just fine...

Perhaps I am really the unreasonable one, for wanting things to be logical all the time. Or perhaps there are even flaws in my own logic. As long as I make you think, I'm happy.

And now it's time to vote...