P.S.: I Hate You

1.) I feel like I’m going to have to start watching How I Met Your Mother because of everyone’s insistence on always saying “Legen…wait for it…dary!” You can tell how widespread this is, for example, by my knowledge of knowing what show that’s from. I’ve never seen it, not a single episode, and yet everyone’s constant overuse of it is so goddamn irritating that I think I have to watch it because none of you will shut your goddamn mouths about one simple stupid fucking quote. “Har har har, that guy said sumthin funny, I better repeat it nonstop for THE NEXT EIGHT YEARS.” This same rule can be applied to all you pieces of shit that say “Bazinga.” Bazinga? Fuck you, shut up, go back to your hole and keep watching your stupid show so I don’t have to deal with your unoriginal ugly ass.

2.) Sometimes I forget how much I like the R.E.M. song “Daysleeper” and then it comes on my shuffle and makes me happy.

3.) WordPress automatically shares my posts on my Facebook page. I don’t have a problem with this (if I did, I never would’ve gave it permission to do so), but I do sometimes wonder if there are people who read this without commenting. This thought is especially prevalent when it comes to people I may mention in passing and I silently wonder if they read it and understood I was talking about them, then chose to never mention it or say anything about it. This same train of thought often prevents me from saying what I really think, which is hilariously ironic since I initially started this thing as a free place to write down whatever I wanted without worrying about people judging me. Funny how that works. Speaking of which, I’m going to talk about you people immediately after this paragraph.

4.) Do you think it’s…morally reprehensible (for lack of a better term) to have feelings for more than one person at a time? I’ve had a pretty big crush on a few different people throughout the years and they often overlap, some of them even coming and going while one remains constant and unchanging. Also, the following sentence will apply to…probably at least two people reading this: Yes, this applies to you, deal with it.

5.) I wonder where my stuffed animals are, the ones I had as a kid.

Enough for now. More later, maybe.

Perseverance vs. Desperation

I originally thought up this post last night in regards to human relationships, specifically my own (obviously) and my often sad attempts at chasing after women that have no interest in me.  However, as I typed that title, a new subject burst into my mind.

I decided a few days ago to quit smoking when I ran out of cigarettes, so clearly every topic that comes to mind now reminds me of smoking. Since I had three packs on hand, it took a while to run out, but it finally happened this morning. So I went out for my morning cigarette, savored it, and threw it out. Never again, I told myself. No more smoking, no more buying cigarettes, nothing.

So that’s obviously where perseverance comes in. It’s a strange thing, not smoking anymore. It’s not even that I’m really going through withdrawal. I mean, of course I am, but I expected worse. Instead it’s a matter of…well, what am I supposed to do, then? I finished eating, and now I…don’t go smoke. I went for a walk to the store, and now…my hands are empty. I feel naked, in some strange way. The habit became so natural to me that it was a part of me, much like when I stopped wearing my rings and I couldn’t stop subconsciously rubbing my fingers for weeks afterward.

And then the desperation. Don’t get me wrong, I want one. I want ten. Badly. I’ve been forcing myself to do a combination of jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, squats, lunges, and static holds every time I really wanted to go outside, but now my body is incredibly sore and I can’t do more than about four sit-ups before my stomach dies. I want to just keep eating because if the end of a meal never comes, then I won’t want to smoke. Clearly not the best idea, so instead I went to the store and bought some spring mix, dressing, apples, bananas, and nuts with the intention of eating a bit healthier and not gorging myself on crap every day. Granted, I won’t be strictly eating just this kind of stuff now. I honestly don’t think I have the willpower to handle that much change all at once. Just a meal here and there, a bowl of ramen replaced with a salad – that should do me some good, I think.

I’ve been told the first three days are the most difficult. I wish I had looked at what time I had that last one today. It was probably between 11a-1p, so let’s say it was at noon. That puts me eight hours in, and I am a terribly unpleasant fellow right now.

The strange thing is, I have absolutely no desire to quit. I like it. It gives me breaks from anything ever. It is a permanent excuse for five minutes of alone time, which anyone that knows me knows I am in dire need of when in the company of others. Especially lately. My god, especially lately. But that’s a story for another day, if I feel like telling it.

Feel Free Not to Read This, I’m Just Whining

Do you think that there is only one person out there for everyone? You know, the one, the love of your life, the person you could never let go. Or do you think there are multiple ideal matches, with no single person ever being perfectly compatible with you?

I’m torn on the subject myself. I like to believe in “the one” but all evidence seems to point to the contrary. The idea of it just sounds so nice in my head. The perfect match, an undying mutual love that never fades. But that’s all bullshit. I can’t even confirm the existence of mutual love. It always seems lopsided, with one person having much stronger feelings than the other, an imbalance that weighs heavily on my shoulders.

I have felt this way in nearly all of my personal relationships, and I look back on all of them with regret. I always get attached unbelievably quickly and then get annoyed or upset when my feelings aren’t matched. In the event that the other person says they feel the same way, I find it impossible to believe them. I do not know why. Perhaps it is inconceivable to me that someone could have the same feelings as I do. Perhaps I deem myself unworthy and insignificant, telling myself that they can and will do better. That is a debilitating fear, constantly being under the impression that you are an inferior human being.

My previous girlfriend and I followed a similar route, though not identical. I was crazy about her from day one, and was shocked to learn of the reciprocation. Then we each moved to different cities and I rapidly felt like I was holding on to the past and strangling her future. The feelings waned as the weeks passed, and I grew more fearful than anything as time went on. It ended eventually, and despite it being my choice, it is yet another moment of regret, though I do still feel it was the right thing to do.

Looking back I can see how incredibly awful I was. She put vast amounts of work into the relationship and I did virtually nothing. If I had tried harder, been more vocal, maybe it wouldn’t have gone this way.

My point is, was she “the one”? Or one of the many possible outcomes? It gets confusing for me here because she is not the only woman I care about. In fact, there are several in my life that I can envision a future with, each of which I see a different outcome with.  One is a happy friendship that lasts forever, each of us comfortable with the way things are. Another is more of an undying, endlessly exciting adventure.

Like I said, I really like the idea of there being a perfect match. But I also hate it, because it brings with it the possibility of completely missing your shot at true happiness at any given moment, even if you don’t realize it. How do I know the girl that was my server the other night wasn’t the right one? Or the girl at the coffee shop? I suppose I’ll never know.

The other part of me wishes there was only one person. Then I could stop searching when I found that one and not waste any more time. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m sure I would’ve just screwed that up anyway.

Just a Day in the Life

As some of you surely know by now, I’m a frequent contributor to www.techcircuit.net (I’m even listed on the Staff page, woot woot).  I was just bored, considering it’s 6:30 and I have nothing else to do (and even if I had friends, they wouldn’t be awake right now anyway), so I started rereading some of my old articles.  Man…I’m kind of terrible at everything.

I know I was “hired” to write about literally whatever I wanted, thus explaining my overly-opinionated pieces there, but sometimes I kind of want to smack myself in the head and point out how bitchy I sound.  Seriously, there are numerous pieces I wrote in regards to games I quite like, and they all make it sound like I hate them.  Maybe I focus on the cons too much, or simply fail to mention the pros.  Probably says something about my state of mind.

Regardless, if you guys like sites like kotaku, you should probably go follow us or sign up for the newsletter or whatever.  I could always use a few more readers.

In other news…

Well, I have no other news.  This is literally all I do, all day, every day.  I should probably get back to working on that book at some point.


I don’t think I’ve spoken out loud in over 24 hours.  If I have, it was only to say hello to the dog or tell her how cute she is.  I even went to Walmart this afternoon, but I kept my headphones on the whole time since everyone there knows me and there’s no need for verbal communication.

How sad.

But I can’t complain too much.  This is the life I’d always envisioned for myself.  Sometimes I even actively seek it out.  Nobody to bother me, nothing weighing me down, freedom to do as I please.  There is, however, one huge thing that’s really holding me back: money.

I started working from home some time ago in the hopes that freelancing would keep me above water.  Sadly, that doesn’t seem to be the case.  I’ve made a few hundred bucks, sure, but I just don’t think it’s going to cut it in the long run.  I’m already late on my rent, so I have to do something about that.  I’ve drowned my pride in the river (note: there are no rivers here because I live in the middle of nowhere) and sent a few applications out today.  I guess my daydream is over and now I’ll have to actually talk to people again.  God help us all.  Let’s just hope I don’t get stuck working with a bunch of people that can’t speak English again.  They were nice and all, but not understanding the surrounding conversations might be worse than being dragged into them.  Maybe.  Jury’s still out on that one.

Weakness, Regret, Submission, Acceptance

I don’t mean to boast.

But I’m a fairly intelligent person.

I honestly hate saying that.  Even the thought of it makes me feel like I’m acting superior in some way.  And the way I talk when I’m writing frustrates me at times, because I get the feeling that I sound like I’m trying too hard to sound smart when it’s really just the way my thoughts present themselves.  I see this as a problem, particularly in the area of my social skills.

I was never terribly good with people.  They make me uncomfortable, as I do to them, I’m sure.  I’m awkward and quiet, and often find myself making references that I think are funny but nobody else understands, which in turn requires me to explain what I meant and makes me look like an egotistical douchebag.  I don’t like that.  I don’t like most of what I do in my daily life.

Take arguments, for instance.  Specifically, ones I’m not directly involved in.  I can see both sides clearly, learn about each viewpoint in mere minutes, and I can completely understand exactly why each person feels the way they do.  This in turn makes me reluctant to take a side, instead opting for some lame excuse along the lines of “well, I see where they’re coming from, too.”  It’s nothing short of a cop-out when I think about it.  This attitude is often met with hostility from the conflicting parties.  There is no middle ground.  There is no agreeable solution that is beneficial to both parties no matter what I say, think, or do.  There is only “I’m right, you’re wrong” and I always feel like the wrong one, no matter what.

It’s not my intention to avoid taking a stand.  I simply refuse to accept that my opinion is ever irrefutably right.  Instead, I choose to look at things from other people’s perspectives, and like I said, I’m very good at it, to the point where my concession is one of frustration and anger.  On the occasions I say “I get that, but this is what they’re saying and it kind of makes sense,” I am instantly cast in the role of the villain.

This sounds much more dramatic than it actually is.  I just have a lot on my mind.  It’s been a long time since I had…you know, I’m not even sure what I’m missing.  I just know I’m missing something.

As (I think) I’ve mentioned in previous posts, this sudden move to Georgia has been difficult at times.  I spent a little over 26 years in Pittsburgh and only made a handful of real friends; I can probably count them on one hand.  Now I’m starting all over again.  Which was the idea, granted.  I wanted a fresh start, something new, somewhere I hadn’t been before.  I stand by that decision, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have regrets.  I gave up everything I’d worked toward for over two decades just to go somewhere new.  It feels selfish.  And now I have a whopping two friends in a 700 mile radius.  Granted, they’re great people, but the life I’m living now is almost the exact opposite from back home.  Before I left, I was working 50-60 hours a week, if not more.  I went to the bar almost every night after work.  Not to get drunk, mind you, but just to relax and hang out with people I knew, maybe shoot some pool or play a game of darts.  Hell, I even played a game of Scrabble on the bar one day when someone got me the board game for my birthday.

But now I work from home.  I never leave, except to go to Walmart, which is only right across the street.  I have plenty of time for video games, which is something I enjoy immensely and hadn’t been able to do for a long time.  I have all the time I need to write, read, draw, or do whatever I want.  But I’m disinterested.  I miss going to the Pig with my friends and bullshitting with the bartenders and the owner.  I miss my mom’s dogs and superb home-cooked meals.  I miss going to Pirates games with my dad.  I miss having to walk down the street to my brother’s when I felt like shaving my head.  I miss hanging out with RJ and doing absolutely nothing, but still loving every second of it.  I miss Peaches, Steve, Caleb, all of them.

I do enjoy having my best friend around again, though.  And I like my overly large bedroom and fancy new furniture set.  I like having my own space in which I can do anything I feel like doing, any time I want to do it (though, to be honest, I’m far too paralyzed by fear when it comes to making any sound that I don’t even like standing up and making the floorboards creak).  Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I enjoy knowing that the freedom to do such things exists, even if I don’t embrace it.

It’s a shame, too.  In the last six months, I’ve met three people whose company I enjoyed, but I seem to be incapable of continuing any form of relationship with them.  It’s a shame, really.  I’m fairly certain they would be fine with me texting or inviting them out for a beer or whatever.  I don’t know why I can’t.  I just can’t.

I suppose I have to face the fact that I’m getting older.  There are no more parties and having friends over all the time.  We’re all adults now.  Growing up, moving on, supporting ourselves however we can.  It just feels like I’ve allowed myself to get left behind.  I’m a 26-year-old who feels like he’s 40 and never wanted to age a day past 22 (sometimes 15, depending what day you catch me on).

Oh well.

I Am A Crazy Person

I started writing this little….autobiography of sorts an hour or so ago.  I’m not sure why.  But it really got me looking back on my teenage years and I gotta say, I was out of my damn mind.  Comparing who I am now to who I was then is like night and day.

Well, maybe not night and day, but seriously.  I’m much more tolerable of…my own existence, I suppose would be the best way to say it.  I’ve learned to actually enjoy and appreciate things.  Not everything seems like the worst thing ever anymore.

…………one of my Spawn figures just fell over.  THE HELL WITH EVERYTHING.

Effects of Pointless Video Gaming

A lot of attention is paid to violent movies and video games when it comes to finding a scapegoat. I do not wholly approve of this, but at the same time I wonder if it’s a possibility. Not to say they’re truly responsible; after all, there is no single reason behind a vast majority of actions, but rather a large collective of past events, thoughts, and life choices fueling even the smallest decisions.

No, I am instead wondering if they can at least play a part in inducing desires for an impossible, unattainable future. I grew up playing these games and I’ve always wanted my own adventure. Who hasn’t? Establish yourself as a force to be reckoned with, condemn and single-handedly dismantle a corrupt, sinister villain’s evil scheme, save the princess. These are exciting fantasies which I have lived through vicariously hundreds of times, so much so that it makes the real world seem a little less…preferable, I suppose is the best word.

Granted, I don’t only play the fantasy stories. I’m also known to engage in the straightforward military shooters, blowing the heads off my enemies without a second thought as to who they were. Does that mean I’ve been desensitized? No, absolutely not. There’s an innate difference between seeing the red polygons splashing around my TV screen and witnessing an act of violence first-hand, one which I don’t think the human mind will ever fail to differentiate.

But at the same time, maybe it makes me less hesitant. Maybe, given the right circumstances, I would be a little quicker to pull the trigger.

This post really has no point. I’m not showing any sympathy for the despicable shooters we’ve seen over the years, nor am I advocating any of the media’s blame game that always follows. I’m just saying I want to save the princess, be the hero, and maybe wipe out an alien planet full of exploding creatures in the process.

Bullycide, Suicidal Reflections, and the Ever-Present Loneliness

I spent a vast majority of my day today reading about what is commonly referred to now as “bullycide,” or the act of a child taking his or her own life as a result of constant bullying and general torture. It is incredibly depressing, browsing through these stories, and it is also incredibly thought-provoking. Of course, in true self-absorbed fashion, this has made me reflect a bit on my own childhood.

I have stated in a previous post here that upon looking back I realized I had it easy. That comment, while true, is only applicable in comparison to those less fortunate (i.e., the people I’ve been reading about). I too had a difficult time in school, though not to such a degree as some of these poor souls. I was often picked on, referred to as an outcast or a freak, almost solely due to two things: first, that I dressed like an idiot and wore giant pants covered in chains and zippers (those pants were really comfortable though), and second because I actively choose not to meet new people. The first is rather self-explanatory. The second, I think, requires some elaboration.

To me, the average person is not worth knowing. People have a tendency to be untrustworthy, deceitful, and easily swayed by the masses, trends, and various environmental factors, the most dominant of which is peer pressure. I never conformed to most forms of peer pressure, but rather actively stood up against them. I became somewhat of a hero in high school, typically surrounded by many of the so-called “losers” as I went about my day. Why? Because I was big for my age and didn’t take any shit. I was in countless fights, often instigating them upon hearing of someone doing something to the unfortunately branded losers. This did not bother me in the slightest. The “losers” were always the kids I liked and had the most in common with, though I can’t be sure why. Maybe because we shared a sense of dread, fear, and rejection, and could find some semblance of security in each other’s company.

When it comes to the topic of bullycide (for the record, I think that’s a really stupid term), it upsets me greatly that more couldn’t be done for each of these victims. The deaths are all different, but still the same. Most are hangings or overdoses, but some still are children getting hit by a car in a desperate attempt to flee their bullies, or being forced into extremely dangerous situations against their will. I wish they could’ve been in school with me, or with someone like me. I can relate to these kids more than I care to admit, and I feel I would have been able to help them through the worst of it. Maybe.

Granted, that’s not to say I possess some extraordinary strength that they did not. No, I was incredibly fragile, and I still am quite sensitive to this day, despite how much I try to hide or deny it. My strength, my will to go on, was only solidified by my chosen set of friends. Out of the four thousand kids in my high school, I had maybe four friends. There were a lot of others I talked to, sure, but they were all simply acquaintances, those who seemed nice enough to say hi to me as we crossed paths but were far superior to me in every way, and thus would never actually want to hang out or be seen with me. I realize now that wasn’t true at all; I simply failed to make the effort to get to know them better. More than that, I failed to let them get to know me.

High school was very difficult, as I’m sure it was for most people. I often thought of suicide. An instant of regret, a flash of pain, and then eternal peace. I planned out scenario after scenario, devising ways to go through with it, scheming what the best way would be, thinking about the mess I would potentially leave behind and who would have to clean it up. It seemed a small price to pay. But soon I would reach the phase that always made me change my mind: the suicide note.

I opted to leave each person their own individual note, full of the things I’d never gotten the chance or the courage to say. One for my mother (who I’m sure is absolutely LOVING this entry – I promise I’m not suicidal, mom), expressing how much I appreciated her, despite how often we may argue about trivialities. One for my father, telling him how much I enjoyed spending time with him and how he motivated me to do whatever I wanted to do. One for my brother, wishing him the best and apologizing for leaving so abruptly. Strangely, the planning for the family notes came easily. It was full of things they already knew but I simply hadn’t spoken aloud. The friends, however, were a different story entirely.

The top two were always set in stone. One for Ian, who has been my best friend for 15 years now. I would try to rationalize and explain, make everything sound okay and hope that he would understand. It was a great fear of mine that he may call me a coward and hate me from that moment on. And the second for Alexis, my other best friend, with whom I spent nearly every waking moment when I wasn’t in school. I will not begin to explain what I wanted to say to her; that would take far too much time.

And that was my saving grace. I had so much to say and I would be depriving myself of any opportunity to say it. It seemed unfair that I should let these bullies take away my voice with their harsh words and actions. They were my feelings, and I have every right to express them. This is my life, and I have every right to live it, no matter what those bastards said or did to me.

I have many regrets, but choosing to live is not one of them. It upsets me to think where these kids would be today if they had just stayed alive and pushed forward. They would be just like me, because they were just like me. And I could have easily been just like them.

Hopefully society as a whole will learn from all the bullshit someday. Then we won’t have any more of these stories like Amanda Todd, Kristina Calco, Ryan Halligan, Phoebe Prince, or the hundreds of others.

I know this isn’t the most pressing matter in the world today, but it’s something we can fix, or at least try to. I know all too well what it’s like to crave acceptance and never get it; it is one of the worst feelings in the world. If we as human beings were less concerned with elevating ourselves and more respectful to those around us, this whole bullycide thing would vanish completely. But I’m surely asking for too much, aren’t I?

Writing Room

My perfect literary room. I’ve envisioned it a thousand times. There would be vaulted ceilings, impossibly high, made of a dark, smooth wood. Above the ceiling contains silver windows to allow the sun to stream in and illuminate my space. The walls would be covered in bookshelves, all filled with hundreds of volumes that I’ve either read or have every intention of reading. The floors are also hardwood, save for one area in the center of the room. There lies a rug, deep red with black fringes, the plush fabric always slightly warm to the touch. Atop the carpet rests a simple desk, though somewhat large. The desktop has enough space to comfortable house a computer, an array of pens, stacks of unmarked lined paper, and a quill pen standing at attention on the corner nearest the door.

Why a quill pen? I don’t know. I’ve used one before and they’re terribly inconvenient. But regardless, it is always in my writing room.