a toast for the assholes

Father never taught me that the world is cynical. This blog was previously titled "escaping cynicism" where I then received criticism from others remarking it's not an appropriate blog title.

I wish I hadn't changed.

Let's be real; every person on this planet is motivated by self-interest in some way, shape, or form. There's no escaping it. It's a harsh fucking reality that everyone should be taught by their parents growing up, and in order to take a piece of the pie, you'll need to exhibit some form of cynicism as well. Maybe more than others.

There are few people that will show any form of compassion towards others during their display of cynicism. If you ever find a person that does show compassion or empathy during their quest of self-interest, hold onto them and don't let go. Well, let go if you're becoming a bit too weird and needy, but try your best not to lose that person. Through my constantly evolving repertoire of friends, I've dropped each one that exhibited the former quality. Only did I realize when it was too late.

This isn't a blogpost to whine, bitch, or complain. No. I'll apologize in advance if it reads that way, as that is not what I intend on writing. I write this post to remind myself that I need to be more cynical myself in order to be happier. Time and time again I find myself putting others needs, wants, and happiness before my own. When people can leave you behind and not second-guess their decision is when you know you're being walked on.

Each time a computer breaks or something remotely close to being electronical in nature needs assistance, I'm the person they call. I'm the person they expect to fix it, for free. Little do people know that everything has a price. My price: respect. It's always a dine-and-dash scenario. Reap the meal and skip the payment.

I'm an asshole for skipping a funeral for a person I have never met in my life, nor did I even know about. I'm an asshole for getting angry when people leave me behind after saying I'll be a few minutes late, but asking them to wait up for me. Frustration.

When I try to put myself before others, I'm an asshole. If I put others before myself, I get trampled on and I'm unhappy. It's a fine line that I've grown exhausted treading.

No more am I going to bend over backwards when people ask me to do something for them. If it even slightly conflicts with one of my interests, plans, or goals, I automatically throw it out. I don't like the thought of doing it? Too bad, find someone else. I want to go somewhere at a certain time? I leave, regardless if others are ready or not.

I'd rather be an asshole and happy than an unhappy doormat.

Too often if someone is asked to do something they don't fancy doing, they bend over and cave solely to please the other person. Their own goals and interests are put in the back seat, giving first class priority to the acquaintance.

Oh, and when someone says they're going to do something and don't follow through. First time, it's okay. Second time, I'm apprehensive. Third time, you're out. It's a game of baseball and you're at bat. I'm lobbing slow underhanded throws waiting for you to knock them out of the park, and you're letting them pass by. Three strikes and you're out. There's a batting line-up and you're not next.

I drink too much. I eat too much. I spend too much money on others. I care about others too much. I hurt myself too much.

This world is a fickle bitch and my ass grows tired from sitting on this rollercoaster of a ride.

Here's a toast for myself.

the sun always shines behind rain clouds

Struggle is a word common in the personal vocabulary of billions. Without regard to those that were fed with a silver spoon and gifted lifes pleasures on a gold-plated platter, everyone experiences the word "struggle" at one point in their life. More often than not, it's a word that is encountered on many fronts.

Within the 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 4.1 seconds that occupy each day on Earth, I have a few struggles of my own. As one may guess, these are not great struggles by any means. Food is on my plate, muscles attached to my bones, and a beating heart within my chest. The basic necessities to live and even play are at my fingertips. My struggles are subjective.

But they're struggles, none the less.

I don't struggle to wake up, or to wash myself. Struggle is nowhere to be seen during the process of boiling water for my morning thermos of coffee. Struggle begins to peak over the horizon as the students flow into the schoolyard. Thirteen small portions of angst stream into my fourth grade classroom like tetris pieces cascading down upon each other; some fitting perfectly where they should fit, but most doing as they please while I try to organize amidst the chaos.

It's not that I don't like them. I care for most of my fourth graders far beyond any expectations I had coming into this position. When they are together and as the hours pass, it's an growing hurricane. If you're not familiar in regards to hurricane formation, let me help. Small pockets of storms that bubble up over warm ocean waters. These small thunderstorms start rotating around a centerpoint of low pressure, and as they grow, more and more thunderstorms form. A short while later, you've got a hurricane.

A rotating superstorm of chaos and destruction. These small thunderstorms on their own can be guided and educated. They can be controlled and even at times exhibit respectful and admirable qualities. However when they gather around each other, a superstorm forms. I have a three-class period every day from 10:00am until Noon, where I try to guide and instruct a classroom of restless fourth graders. It just takes a thrown pencil or foot skirmish under a desk to form that centerpoint of low pressure: the one that the thunderstorms gather around. The point of chaos.

My fingertips do not exhibit the endurance to describe life after the 12:30pm lunch period. All that's left is a trail of devastation and despair. I just want to go home.

But my struggle does not stop there.

Body dysmorphia; a mental disease that has plagued me for years, but one I cannot seem to overcome. While adventuring in Honduras, my weight has admittedly increased over the previous few months. I participated in the sport of Wrestling for nearly ten years, where I was never the strongest, best, or most athletic. Day in and day out, I was subjected to drastic weight-cutting measures, but I was always left with a lackluster body.

My stomach and sides stick out a bit. My chest could be called "flabby". I never had an athletic physique during my athletic years, and it still avoids me to this day. I want better. I refrain from eating until three or four o'clock in the afternoon, where I begin my daily caloric intake of between 1,500 and 1,700 calories. Given my active position as a teacher and my nearly 15,000 steps per day, I figure this should be enough to keep me on my track to a healthy-looking beach body.

But the track is nowhere to be seen. The numbers on the scale are stagnant. The fat remains. The body dysmorphia gets worse, and I've tried everything to help me get over my unhealthy image. Perhaps it's just not meant to be, but I'll keep on trying as I've entered myself into a twelve-week health competition.

Then comes age, and what I'm still missing in life. Dawning on me only a few days prior, I realize my 25th birthday is in 11 days.

Twenty five years old.

I'm getting older. Much like a game of Super Mario Bros, a checkpoint is something you can fall back on if you run into trouble. You've still got your belongings, your loved ones, your accomplishments. Fall off or hit a wrong button again, and you're back at the checkpoint without having to start a new game. But I look at where I am: a guy on his own. No one to share memories with. No one to grow close to. My "checkpoint" is thin.

I try to reach out and talk with as many people as I can, and try to show that I want to be your friend. I read a quote the other day, but forget who it's from. Maybe someone that's reading this can help me out, but it went something along the lines of "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet". Even though, for the people I already do know, there are many I'd like to grow closer to.

Yet the occasional text goes unresponded to. A phone call to hang out results in me hanging out with a voicemail recording. A Facebook message asking how they're doing goes is seen.

Part of me is ready to go home to a steady job. Part of me is ready to go back to school. Part of me is ready to stumble upon that special someone. Part of me is ready to go back to life the way it was. Part of me is ready to check off this chapter of life as "complete".

Just some things I was thinking about on a long road trip home from Belize.

Maybe time will tell. Maybe I'm just being a naive child.

frustrations in the classroom

I write this post at the source of the constant headaches: the classroom. Day in and day out, the frustrations continue to amount and new surprises are always uncovered. Then again, I don't comprehend why I'm still surprised that my students continue to find ways to frustrate me.

Previously touching on this subject, I want to elaborate more on my frustrations. My memories of a child in the United States educational system, particularly the Minneapolis Public Schools system, I was an obedient child. Our classrooms consisted of between 18 and 20 kids (roughly, it's been over 12 years) and the students were well-behaved. You sat in your chair at your desk, legs under the desk, pencil and notebook out. Your mouth was closed, your voice turned off, and you were listening to the teacher. Only when the teacher granted permission to speak is when you dared to open your mouth.

Classrooms back then had maybe one or two students that were out of control. You know who they were... they were notorious for causing a disruption and speaking out of turn.

The classroom was structured. As a student, my desk was mine. The contents inside the desk drawer were organized, not a hint of chaos to be found. Ask me to locate my english notebook and I'd have it out in seconds. Ask that of any student for the most part and they'll whip it out in a few moments.

Food was nowhere to be seen in the classroom. You didn't even think about bringing food in, as to save yourself from the wrath of the teacher. It was a scary sight you didn't dare risk experiencing. Your water bottle was close by, if you chose, but no sugary drinks or food in sight.

These practices are absent in Honduras.

It's a daily battle in the classroom. Students here simply don't give a shit. If you are trying to speak to the classroom, they carry on their individual conversations. When your voice grows loud, theirs grow louder. There is no sense of respect from the students towards the teacher, even if you discipline them and take away privileges. There is no sense of responsibility to take notes, to write down problems, or to do them correctly.

Desks are a melting pot of chaos, disarray, and unrest. Papers, trash, books, and pencils scattered about. The hourly complaint from a student not having a pencil or pen. Four books on top of the desk with the appropriate book for that class nowhere to be found.

Students waltz into the classroom with food like it's a cafeteria. No, this is how we get ants and flies. This is how the floor gets dirty. I don't give a damn if you won't spill it, this is my classroom. I have a strict rule against food. If I see it, you throw it in the trash, finished or not. But the food is persistent.

I'm not sure if it's a generation difference, or a cultural one. One of two things will have to happen: tears will be shed under the firm rule hammer of Mr. Ian, with discipline being handed out left and right, or I will have to give up out of frustration and go home. I guess time will tell.

unattainable dreams

Everyone has dreams of what they'd like to be when they grow old. A firefighter, a movie star, or a garbage man. If you say you didn't have any dreams or aspirations as a child while growing up, you are lying to yourself. Even if it was a flash-in-the-pan dream, you still had one.

My dream as a young child in Kindergarten was to be a garbage man. I have absolutely no idea why the sight of them coming down our street once a week to pick up our trash fascinated me, but it did. I was young, my mind immature. They had a weekly responsibility, and without them, trash would accumulate. Shit would hit the fan in a literal sense. No longer do I have that aspiration, as it died out around age 8 after realizing they get paid a meager wage to make ends meet.

I do still have one aspiration and dream that unfortunately I'll never be able to obtain. Sure, this may be a partial confession, but I'd always love to be in a band. Regardless how painful to the ear the band may be, I'd still love to be part of a music group. To play in a garage, or to rock out in front of tens of thousands in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and Nurburg, Germany. Music for people to nod their heads to, raise their hands, or start a mosh pit. Sure, many people think they sound great when they sing, but once it's played back reality gives them a hard slap to the face and they're put in check. Letting my fingers run along the frets of the guitar, some of the tones are pleasing to the ear. Sounds and chord combinations I haven't heard before, but seem to work well in harmony.

Even if it were to make one album with other musicians and to play one show in front of one or ten thousand people, that would fulfill my dream. Alas, it won't happen. I sit in my shared living room in Honduras with my guitar plugged into my laptop, Garage Band running with specific amplifier settings, headphones plugged in, the world deaf from my music.

Perhaps it's fate. Perhaps it's not meant to be.

I've started to settle into a morning routine that seems to be working. My alarm wakes me at 5:35 in the morning, and I slap my hand on my phone in desperate hope to press the snooze icon. Usually it works, and my slumber continues until 5:45 in the morning. I then wake, grab my $3 blue-and-white sandals and my towel, attempting to make my way to the shower. After spending 4 minutes washing myself and an additional 11 sitting under the stream of hot water pouring atop my head, I dry off, dress, and proceed to the kitchen.

Coffee. Hot, delicious coffee. I grab my coffee "cone" to put my ground beans into, and start boiling a pot of water. After the water is boiling, it's poured into the cone, allowing the hot water to pull flavors from the beans themselves into a measuring cup. Once I hit about two cups of brewed coffee, I pour it into my thermos "Hydro Flask" (thank you for this Christmas gift... you know who you are. It's amazing) with an ice cube so the coffee isn't too hot for school. I then get my laptop, put it into my bag, attach my watch to my wrist, proceeding to the doorway of the house.

No, I don't eat breakfast. In fact, I don't usually eat any meals until I get home from school around 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon. This lifestyle helps me avoid indulging and overeating.

On a side note, when people say "time heals all", they speak the truth. Time does heal all.

~

everything happens for a reason

Months have passed since I've posted another blog entry. I've separated myself from typing my thoughts on a keyboard, but that has allowed my mind to mature and to settle in.

A long while ago I posted a blog entry regarding my hatred for Facebook. I revoke some of my hatred as of recent. Last night amongst friends I was able to reflect on my recent past, with the assistance of Facebook; scanning through my pictures, watching myself grow. In addition to the dose of melatonin I had taken, a dose of reality set in as well. I had a hard time believing I was here. Of all places, Honduras.

Some things didn't work out as planned. Relationships, friendships, and passions all have one thing in common: they come and go. I'm not upset though, as I'm a firm believer in fate. Everything happens for a reason, whether it's good or bad. That's fine though, as the book of life is being constantly written as each second passes. It's a beautiful book.

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a new friend about the ups and downs of Honduras. While it's not a paradise, the things I left behind in the United States were worth it. The new friends that I've made during my stay in Honduras triumphs over the trophs of this experience. We share laughs, stories, sorrow, and memories. I've never actually had a true roommate, as my only previous roommate up-and-left overnight and left me with a 2 bedroom apartment to myself, rent included. Now I'm living with five other roommates, and it's been a blast so far. Animosity is nowhere to be seen, and we seem to jive quite well.

About those trophs... I'm not going to lie. Honduras has its problems. The country is filthy, littered with trash everywhere you look. If a local doesn't know, they won't say "I don't know", rather, they'll lie. Living at a higher elevation near the Santa Barbara mountain, our days can change in an instant. At one moment, the weather will be hot and sunny. A few moments later, torrential rain and a chilly breeze. Healthy food is expensive, and can be hard to locate at times.

And the students.

They're a different generation. A different culture. As a grade school student in the United States, I sat in my seat, and outside of the occasional chat with a neighboring friend, would keep my mouth shut. The students here aren't the same. It's David versus Goliath when trying to keep the kids in their seats, let alone quiet. The respect the students have towards teachers is little, if at all. At the end of each day I feel defeated, wondering if I was able to make an impact on any of my students. Appreciation can be found in my 10th grade chemistry class, thankfully.

Last Friday, two of my chemistry students found me sitting next to the large tree in the commons area of the school, and sat next to me. One of them received a new MP3 player over the holidays, and was curious if I could share some of my music with her. I obliged, and transferred an arrangement of songs to it; some rock, some hip-hop, some instrumental, some jazz. While the music was transferring I was able to have a nice conversation about chemistry with them, apologizing how much of the content involves note-taking and studying. Our resources are extremely limited, so I'm not able to motivate them with interesting chemistry experiments. Anyways, I digress. She said there was no need to apologize as she was "learning a lot and is starting to find chemistry very interesting", in her words.

It's been three months, and I wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. Okay, maybe a trip to Norway or something, but the experience has been rewarding. Five more to go. Some would call this the home stretch, but it's a long one. There's still a few things to check off on my list, including more travel around the country (namely La Ceiba, Roatan, Copan, etc). Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula are alright, but they're not more than an average city, sans the crime. I've been finding incredible joy taking time to prepare meals and improve my cooking skill. Even cooking for others is joyful, as you get to see them react to the meal, good or bad.

Anyways, I should write more. Jot down my thoughts and experiences on a keyboard. It's relaxing, and I'm guessing it's also healthy for the mind.

~

life changes

Who'd have thought? My last blog post was over two weeks ago. At the time, I had no idea that two weeks later, my bags would be packed up, then unpacked after a short plane trip in Honduras.

I post now from my twin-size bed in the city of Pena Blanca, Cortes, Honduras. Over 2100 miles away from home. Salsa music streaming in from neighboring houses and businesses. The air humid like south Florida. I live here now... this is home. WiFi is slow. Cellphone service is non-existent. Food, while tasty, is limited in variety. My life as I know it has completely changed in the past two weeks.

Toilet paper cannot be flushed, instead thrown in the trash bin. Food goes bad within days, as opposed to a week or two. The roads like the surface of Mars; rocky, bumpy, and no signs of order. Native Hondurans simply live life differently than back home in the United States. Shops close down at five o'clock. The sun rises around six in the morning, while still setting around six in the evening like at home. Cleanliness has gone way with the wind, as hands simply aren't clean anymore. Feet dirty from the sandals you wore walking down the dirt roads. The opportunity to take a shower presents itself every day or two, instead of as a daily ritual.

I hear raindrops pelting the steel roof of my house. It sounds like a monsoon, when in all reality it's likely a light sprinkle. But it rains often. Courtney said that it hadn't rained for a week, but this is the second evening in a row that it has rained. Last night presented itself with a torrential downpour for hours. Her and I ventured to the local pizzeria to grab some food, and walked through the roads, which now flowed like raging rivers. I appreciate the waterproof sandals I purchased. Being that I appreciate the rain, it's good to see and hear. Rain cleans the dirt off my sandals, cleans the roads, and cleans the houses. It's natures way of scrubbing down the local areas.

Today we went fishing on Lake Yojoa. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. Mountains surrounding the lake's perimeter, clouds covered their peaks in attempt to keep their true height a mystery. The water clear enough to see below ten to fifteen feet in depth. To fish, the guide presented us with pill bottles and fishing line that wrapped around them. Those were our reels. No rods, no live bait. Just a lure, line, and a pill bottle.

Needless to say, not a single fish was caught.

I attribute that to the time of day, which was 12 o'clock noon. Fish simply aren't hungry at this time, and the warm sun drives them away from shallow depths.

On Monday, I will be known as Mr. Ian. A fourth grade teacher at Lake Yojoa Bilingual School. I think of it time and time again. The name is a nice change of pace from Agent Gacek.

a gift

Today, an idea struck. I wanted to make someone smile. I wanted to make someone's day a bit brighter.

I've only heard stories of this happening to others before... they approach the counter at their nearest coffee shop and the person in front of them purchases their coffee. I've never seen this happen in person; to myself or others. Only stories. A gift certificate lay in my wallet, tucked between credit cards. Sure, I could be selfish and redeem it for four more coffees, but why? Money comes and goes, and being able to make a stranger smile is worth much more than money.

As I walked up the stairs from my local Snap Fitness to the Spyhouse Coffee shop that resided above, I grew excited. Walking in, the excited quickly faded as I noticed the line was empty. "Oh well, another day" I thought to myself. Alas, I spotted two elderly women walking towards the front door. Scooting in front of them in line in the knick of time, I placed my order. A Guatemalan coffee with hints of chocolate, toffee, and Grand Marnier. Turning towards my right, I asked one of the women what they would like to order, as I would buy their coffee. Then, the second.

They smiled and thanked me, saying they would cover the barista's tip. I'm happy, they're happy.

Most men and women my age are fresh out of college with thousands in debt. Every grain and morsel of ground-up coffee represented as money they sip away. Sure, I have my debts and payments as well, but money comes and goes. I would much rather brighten a strangers day than to save two or four dollars.

Slowly as I grow older, I am starting to realize the important of happiness in life. Money doesn't equal happiness. It does allow happiness to become easier to obtain, but it doesn't make happiness appear. I can sit on my bank account and watch the numbers increase, but where's the fun in that? Something in a savings account is always beneficial, and smart, but sitting on money whilst refraining from life experiences is toxic.

That's why I am starting to travel. That's why I have no troubles spending hundreds on a plane ticket. New experiences. New people. New smiles.

New life.

fulfillment

There's something my mind frequently dreads the days that I'm scheduled to work. "How long will it take for someone to demean my character today?" I ask myself. To the average person, technical support is something you don't want to go through. Much like calling an ambulance for medical help. Nobody wants to do it, but sometimes you have to.

You can save a life in multiple ways, whether it's through medicine and medical services or saving their entire business through software repair. I may not have a doctorate in medicine, but I do try to save lives, or livelihoods for that matter, every day I work. I'm not a miracle-worker, nor a magician, though the qualities I do exhibit have been through years of studying, breaking-and-fixing, and learning from my mistakes. And yet, some people simply don't give a shit. I can work for seven, eight or more hours, skipping meals and staring at a screen trying to save a persons entire business, but at times cannot prevail.

In their eyes, it's my fault. It's my fault they didn't have a backup of their data. It's my fault they don't have a second computer in case the first one outright breaks. It's my fault it took their nine-year-old computer 20 minutes to turn on. It's my fault they deleted their address book without checking to see if they had a backup. It's my fault their printer has physically broken. It's my fault they waited until April 14th to file taxes, but their tax software isn't working. It's my fault I am trying my absolute best to find a solution, but sometimes can't.

The average customer doesn't process that there's another person typing from the other side. Another human being, with emotions, people they care about, and personal lives they have to live. Me. Time and time again I am verbally abused because they feel that the person on the other side of the pixels on their screen is emotionally dead; a robot. Someone in India paid minimum wage to provide technical support.

Disposable.

The rare times I can't fix your issue, I'm called a piece of shit and useless.

Those words don't disappear. Clicking the "Clock Out" button doesn't make the hurt disappear. I don't step away from my computer at the end of my work shift to drive home, pick up food from the grocery store, and sit down with my family, erasing the verbal abuse I received earlier. I step away from my computer, walk to my bathroom and splash warm water on my face. I then sit down and talk with loved ones and friends over Skype, masking the words that were typed to me earlier. But the words still stick. I will remember those words tomorrow. I will remember them the day after. They will eventually fade, only to be rekindled by verbal abuse another day.

But I still smile. Mostly genuine, sometimes not. There's much in life to smile about.

Perhaps the eight years I've worked in technical support have me tired. I yearn for something else. The fulfillment I received from fixing things in years past is dead. One computer fixed, another problem on my table. One in, one out. It's a numbers game now. The thought has been dwelling on my mind for some time now. A new challenge; a change of pace.

I want to travel. I want to see new places, see new people, and teach new things. The world is so big with so many places to go and so many people to see. I grow tired of sitting behind a screen, only to help ungrateful customers. I seek fulfillment on another level.

But what?

puncture

Three years ago, my car died at an intersection during a heavy snowstorm. Mere blocks from my house, I grew frustrated that I wasn't able to make it home, and the car remained stranded in the middle of an intersection as it snowed heavily. Bested by a corroded grounding cable inside the engine compartment, my car refusing to start again. I called my father for assistance and he arrived within fifteen minutes, but with the snow piling up, my car was unable to move. A stranger approached my vehicle from behind and asked if I needed a hand.

The only method of assistance I could think of would be for him to use his car to push mine out of the intersection. An idea struck, and I wanted to put my spare tire between my rear bumper and his front bumper so he could use his car to push mine out of the intersection; the spare acting as damage control so neither cars would be damaged. Our efforts were futile and my car refused to budge under the stubbornness of the fallen snow. After growing tired, we gave up and thanked the stranger for his kindness and effort. I walked home as the snow fell and called a tow truck to move my car.

Except I forgot the spare tire at the scene.

I never found that spare tire again. I've gone three years without an incident that required use of the spare tire. Every three to four weeks, I make it part of my routine to check the tire pressure on all my tires. The front tires were a bit low at 28psi. While filling the front left tire, I checked the pressure of the rear left tire. Out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer. A screw, contrasting with the dark rubber of the tire and wheel well. Unfortunately, it wasn't lying on the pavement or in my hands, rather puncturing my tire as if it were making a statement. Thankfully the tire maintained its pressure.

Another close call; another day without the need for a spare.

I sit at Discount Tire in Bloomington, an hour and a half remaining until the puncture is repaired. It's bright red chairs all-too familiar to me. My package from Target was retrieved from its holding cell at the local post office, which always seems understaffed. A line nine people deep was serviced by one United States Postal Service employee, who was preoccupied by a woman attempting to ship seven packages to Mexico.

My to-do list is quite populated today. Visiting Best Buy is next, as I need to retrieve an order I made online on Sunday. After, a visit to the gym is in order, followed by Target (again) for odds and ends. Then, if I'm not stuck in traffic for hours, a brisk jog around Lake Calhoun.

The scale I used to weigh myself has sat idle for over a week. Deciding to step on it today, the display revealed a body weight of 141 pounds. Many weigh themselves every morning or once a week. I used to belong to the former, weighing myself every morning and scrutinizing every ounce of weight I would gain or lose. Food was a science, calculating every calorie or gram I would ingest. Since the State Fair in late August, I've found myself using the scale every two to three weeks instead, and have found myself to be in a much healthier mental state. No longer is food weighed meticulously, and the emotional harm I cause myself by scrutinizing my weight every morning is a thing of the past. In fact, I've lost weight while eating a more relaxed diet. The only reasoning I can find is that, by weighing myself every morning I could justify binging that day if weight was low. It was a rollercoaster; down one day, then up the next. The scale started as my friend and quickly became my enemy.

The weather is partly cloudy with a warm breeze from the west. Winter has grazed Minnesota with its presence over the past weekend, providing us with a taste of its harsh reality. Winter is coming.

coming to a close

Every month has a beginning and an end. Refusing to separate itself from the pack, September is no different.

It came and went. Today is September 30th, the final day of the month. Like signs along the road, I barely caught a glimpse of the month before it was too late. All I can do is reflect. It was a rough start with emotional turbulence and uncertainty, and it finishes the same.

In one month from now, I will be waking up under sheets in Pena Blanca, Honduras. Excitement and anticipation continues to course through me, as I will be seeing someone I cherish, and will also be taking a much-needed vacation. A seven day adventure, with five full days to go exploring, meet new people, and undertake new adventures. Part of me worries that I will not want to leave. Courtney has asked me to bring a few belongings for her, which I am slowly starting to accumulate.

 

Excuse my language, but I fucking hate Facebook. Why do I continue to use it? A significant majority of the content is recycled content from past years, or high school acquaintances

attempting to boast their social status, seeking validation from others. The only reason I can find to continue visiting is if close friends (around three or four of them) post pictures or important updates about their lives. Each time I click the Facebook tile on my homepage, a small inkling of my sanity evaporates. I feel disappointed in myself.

 

What can I do to make the next 4 weeks pass by quickly? I seek ideas.

 

A wasp struggles against the pane of glass in front of me. I feel as if I can relate. It wants to get outside, yet it can't have what it wants. It can see it, it yearns for it, and it's ever-so close. I can see what I want, but I can't have it.

Yet.

milestone

Three years ago, I started a journey. A journey that I wasn't particularly fond of starting, but it was one that needed to be set in motion. Plump, thick, morbidly obese. I was a 240 pound 5 feet 8 inches. Over the course of a year, I lost upwards of 80 pounds, then another 20 in the following year. Fairly stationary over the past year floating between 138 and 145 pounds, I was on a plateau. A plateau lacking motivation to break due to contempt.

I fondly remember of the Summers in High School with Khalid. We made a promise that each of us would have defined abs at the end of the summer. The Summer break between my Junior and Senior years was a letdown. I didn't achieve that goal, and it eats away at me to this day.

A new motivation struck in the past handful of weeks. With only thirty eight days until I visit Honduras, I cracked down. Ice cream as a delicacy of the past, and a fairly structured diet. Today for the first time since my one-hundred pound weight loss, a new milestone has been reached.

Definition. Seven years later.

They say that you can only be happy in a relationship if you were happy with yourself before committing to a relationship. You can't let someone else make you happy and "complete" you. While I agree with this, the way Courtney says that I give her motivation through my work ethic and drive simply completes me more. My ice cream sundae is delicious. Vanilla and chocolate fudge with whipped cream. She is the cherry on top. She just makes it that much better.

Six months ago, I was cited at work for poor performance. This week, I am leading the entire team by a large margin. A drive to succeed in hopes for time off during the holidays in late December to visit Honduras again, although for a longer duration. Two weeks I hope. Asking for two weeks off during the holidays is a near-impossible feat, yet I hope that my efforts at work to exceed expectations by a large margin will swoon management into rewarding me with the time off.

A vacation that I've earned.

Life is just getting started, and I'm loving every second of it.

distance

I didn't sleep a single second the night separating Monday and Tuesday. I was too excited. Two months until I visit became two weeks. Flipping through airfare search engines like a kid going through his Toys-R-Us catalog around the holidays, I scoured to find the best flight option. October 2nd was the date a plane would be taking me to Honduras. Too excited, blankets were wrapped around me in attempt to sleep, but all my mind was focused on was my mental checklist of things that needed to be done.

Perhaps the lack of sleep wasn't healthy. With not a minute of sleep under my belt, I went to the gym for a quick workout Tuesday morning, then headed home to get ready for a three hour drive. It was a bad decision, as I often found myself slipping between reality and dream-state, but caught myself and turned the volume knob on the radio one step louder. My voice hoarse from my embarrassingly bad vocal covers.

The next twenty hours would be spent at the Cabin. My father didn't arrive until around 3 o'clock, which was about two hours after I arrived. Most of the day was spent on the dock reading a book, ordering an item from Amazon, and again planning my trip. The next morning, I purchased a day's length fishing license, and set out to fish by myself while my dad slept soundly in the cabin. I've never beat him to the lake. Fog being moved above the water by the waking winds of the earth, the boat came upon two loons that didn't flinch. My eyes met theirs at a close distance, yet neither of us minded, and kept on our way. I caught the largest Bass fish in my lifetime, and found it oddly peaceful to be out on the water at such an early time even though it's been four years since my last fishing endeavor.

Is this what it feels like to get old? I don't mind it.

My trip in two weeks came to a crashing halt. A birdie hinted that it may be too early to visit. Part of me agrees, but another part misses her dearly. If not October, I would likely need to wait until late December if my manager allows me the time off. That's another three months away.

I've never done this. I never envisioned myself in a long distance relationship, and here we are. I am oddly at peace with it, but a part of me yearns to try and close the gap between us. I want to see her soon, but grow scared that the now-longer than anticipated time apart will work against us. Maybe it won't though. I was thinking of having a serious discussion with her to see about setting a firm date to visit, then allow me to work and get the time off. Once tickets are bought and time off is granted from work, I'd like to think that it would act as incentive to just try that much harder if things go sour to keep them together, knowing that we will see each other and if the flame dims, it will rekindle once we hold each other again. However, without that certainty of seeing each other, I fear that someone will let the flame dim without any hope. A reasonable fear, right?

I'm still all in. I'm going to give it my absolute best, not an ounce less. If I do give less, she deserves more. But I will give it my all.

Music: Lemon Jelly - Come

helping you maintain

Coffee. The time is 7:18pm.

Wait, what? I don't ever recall drinking coffee at a coffee shop this late in the evening before. Contrary to my usual routine, I am not at a coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis, instead, a Dunn Bros near my apartment. I decided to walk somewhere today, as the only walking to be had so far was from the apartment to the car, and from the car to the store.

Thinking. Much of that has been had today. I follow the same routine day in and day out, since I work evenings. Wake up, drive to 945 Broadway Avenue, and grab a coffee. Sit, try and make friends with strangers, and get my daily activities out of the way: read the news, maintain my finances, gather energy, and attempts at social interaction. However, I'm usually the only one sitting by him or herself. All my other friends work during the day. My girlfriend is much closer to the equator.

After the coffee, I go to the gym. Today, I went hard. More weight than previous weeks with higher intensity. It was a good workout, and I felt my first "pump", where muscles feel engorged with blood since they've been worked so hard. I felt attractive. First time in a very, very long time.

Following the workout, I go home, and relax for a half hour to an hour. Then, work.

The same routine day in and day out. Is this adulthood? I don't like this cycle. Courtney and I were talking about the dislike in regards to punching a time-clock and/or working a desk job. Unsatisfactory, leaving the thirst for more in life. I yearn for more, not wanting to do this the rest of my life. Life isn't meant to be working for a company that doesn't give two shits about who you are as a person, as long as you're producing results. I envy her. Making a difference in other peoples lives, the people I help forget about me within the next 24 hours, even though they are now able to cherish the memories and pictures of loved ones during the holidays that I saved. Their business records and finances are now accessible, and they don't have to file bankruptcy. I'm the one that saves the American Dream, but much like a dream, is forgotten the next day. The thirst for more in life.

I did take time to learn Spanish through Duolingo today. It was exciting. I enjoy learning. Perhaps I'll have to put this Spanish to use come later this fall, as I do intend on traveling to Central America. That would shake up the normal routine.

I'm starting to dislike that word. Routine. Normality. Regimen.

Courtney and I talked about her trip to the coffee shop today. She bought two children some food for under $2. Yet here I sit, a $2.75 coffee in hand. She was able to help children live another day, whereas I am helping myself maintain sanity for a higher price. Sure, I could donate to a program, but what percentage of that $2.75 would end up in the hands of hungry children? I could buy them a cheeseburger and French fries, but that would set an unhealthy example. At times like this, I wish I could be a bigger influence in the world. Given a choice between helping two children stave off hunger another day, or grabbing a coffee, I wouldn't think twice about picking the former. Yet, I can't. It either ends up in the pockets of "charities" that only reinvest ~10% of the earnings towards the needy, or panhandlers on the exit ramps of freeways that drive away in Lexus sedans.

Given my thirty minute break and the time it takes to walk back to my apartment, my break has come to a close. Another four and a half hours until I'm done with work. I was able to escape for twenty minutes.

Back to the routine.

Music: Com Truise - Colorvision

uneasy

The time is 11:59pm. Another tick of the clock and the second weekend of September has come and gone.

Much to my surprise, it looks like someone may be reading this. I haven't been here at all this weekend, but I opened up my blog to see 27 views yesterday. Hello to you, mystery reader. Or a Google bot scanning my pages to add entries to its' search results.

Likely the latter.

This weekend was an interesting one, to say the least. It's a test on my relationship. Bobby and I had a wonderful time Friday evening. Many-a drinks were had. Being that I received a bonus on my paycheck, I had to stop the bartender from walking away in attempt to change my choice of "Rum and diet, please" to a "you know . . . let's make it a Captain and diet." Classy. We had one of the best conversations I've had in months. Intellectual, deep, and well-balanced.

My refrigerator six feet away making sounds not unlike a young calf yearning for its mother.

I was invited to attend Oktoberfest in Stillwater, Minnesota with some close friends. Arriving at Jake's apartment only to swiftly be on our way, I was the chauffeur. Steve forgot to take funds out of the ATM so we took a short detour to the nearest Super America on our trip to Stillwater. Asking if anyone wanted something, I chimed in with my request for M&Ms. Ten minutes later, my care-package arrived. They were stale, much like chocolate that has been sitting out for many months. Steve checked the "best by" date, to be welcomed with the current month and year: September 2014. I could not finish them.

We arrived to Stillwater at approximately 3:36pm to be greeted by Paul and his father. I haven't see Paul in quite a while, and we seem to connect well. I missed him. Over a large lager and breaded chicken breast, we shared stories of our recent lives. Changes, promotions, gloom, relationships, and the like. After I finished my meal but before our bill came, I noticed a notification on my phone from Courtney. Rushing out to my car to get away from the clamor, we enjoyed a 20 minute video chat. I miss her.

The tent was opening and many patrons were arriving. Beer, food, and laughs to be had all around. A chill was lingering as we were no longer affected by the urban heat island. As the sun set, the chill set in. It wasn't long before I couldn't feel my fingers. After our fair share of kettle-corn, cinnamon-roasted almonds, and beer it was time to head home. Not to worry, I had three beers in the span of seven hours, along with more kettle-corn than any normal man should be able to consume without seeking medical attention.

We went our separate ways for the next few hours. I didn't hear back from Courtney, against her saying her and Sam would talk to me later that evening in order to exploit my drunken stupor and pry information out of me. Perhaps that was a win for my dignity, but I feel situations like those bring out the fun in people.

Reconvening at Steve and Angie's apartment two hours later after an intense gym session, we walked to Uptown. A trek, at that. It was a twenty minute walk, maybe thirty. Cold. We shared more stories over "Russian-style" fries and more drinks. Russian roulette with a cap-gun and a shot was purchased by me. Eight rounds, 1 shot. Surely the first person wouldn't get shot right away, right? We spun the cap-gun on the table, only for it to land on me. I put the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger with force. Bang.

I took the shot.

Today was nothing of splendor. I woke up sore, wishing someone was next to me to ease my aching muscles and head. Work followed from two o'clock until ten o'clock. I was able to hear from Courtney again, only to be met with a boundaries discussion. I didn't enjoy it, but it was one that had to be debated. We worked as a team, voicing our opinions and feelings, and we came to a middle-ground, albeit perhaps a bit rough. I'd like to work this out with her again in the near future.

To my reader, if you're out there: I am not good at this. I don't know how to be a boyfriend, but I am trying my best. There isn't a manual or specially-tailored users guide to this endeavor. I ask myself how much influence should I have over someone I care about, if they're thousands of miles away? Surely they need affection, but I can only provide that through pixels and bits.

I am, and will always, try my best.

The time is now 12:19am. The weekend is gone. Worry sets in over this week, but I'm not sure why. This is a long post, perhaps because it was a long yet short weekend. Long, as in, many events and things to do. Short, as in, I can't believe it's already Monday.

One day closer to seeing her.

sound sleep

I had a hard time falling asleep yesterday. It took effort. My mind, racing, was unable to slow down. I was excited, and I wanted to tell the world. Actually, the world already knew.

The day started quite uneventful. Wake up, work out, work. A cycle without end in the near future. I'm oddly at peace with it though for now. Courtney and I had another Skype video call yesterday which lasted damn near all afternoon, but I'm not complaining. Joyful minutes passed. Her friend force-fed us the question "If you were at a bar and someone asked if you had a boyfriend, would you say yes or no?". Hesitation followed. We hadn't had that talk yet. Well, we have, but didn't come to any conclusions.

So we decided we should have the talk, and actually reach the finish line this time.

And now we come to the reason I was having troubles falling asleep. We made it quite clear that we wanted to take this to the next level, despite land and sea for miles separating us for the time being.

Everything feels right.

The cherry on top was forgetting that paychecks were sent out this week. I logged in to see how much I got shafted by taxes, only to see a fairly large number under the column "quarterly bonus". Whoa.

Not a single problem with the day. I rocked out at work and was able to resolve 14 separate sessions, or computers, taking me above the expectations. I started a new chapter in life with someone important. I received a large quarterly bonus. I played video games with friends.

I slept soundly once I was able to fall asleep, though. It was a good sleep, waking up with a giant smile on my face. Two days off in a row. No responsibilities, no appointments, no schedule. The only worry is that she will travel safely to her vacation destination this weekend, and have a great time. But that's all I can do; worry.

A text message was sent to Bobby, checking in to see if he wanted to reconnect over a beer this evening. To my surprise he said yes, so that's on the agenda today. Maybe I was lying; I do have a relaxed schedule for these next two days. However I do plan on visiting with my bundle of love Bowie at my parents house. Teach my father how to use Google Wallet so we can forgo writing checks for the cellphone bill payment.

Touching on the subject I forgot about a few days ago, I'd like to take some time and talk about pixels. They're all that separate us in the world today. Sorry, I'm guilty though. I play video games with friends, but that doesn't involve sitting next to each other with controllers in hand. Instead, it involves communicating over Skype, with the only interaction being vocal, and representing each other through pixels. Want to communicate with a friend? Text message in the form of pixels and bits of data. Hang out with someone? No, just "like" their status on Facebook. Hell, even my job involves absolutely no form of in-person social interaction, instead, we communicate through chat. Pixels.

Is this how life is supposed to be? Has human nature rapidly evolved from in-person social interaction to pixels? Courtney and I were talking yesterday about how technology is inevitable. But it makes me wonder if it's for better or worse.

Tonight, in-person social interaction. I'm going against the norm.

Music: David Bowie - The Stars Are Out Tonight

telegraph ave

I sit on my couch, rum and cola in hand.

Bacardi and Pepsi Max, to be exact. Something I'm not particularly proud of, but I'm saving my money for other endeavors.

I awoke this morning in a panic thinking I worked at noon, only to look at my phone and see that I was actually scheduled at four o'clock. Bliss.

Sleeping in. Something I haven't done in a while. It ate away like acid on skin. I enjoyed most of it, but my day was gone. I slept until noon. Video games ensued, then an attempt to the gym. I gathered my belongings and set on the road. Traffic. At the 35th Street intersection, I saw heavy traffic on Interstate 35, which turned my mind the other way. Turning the wheel home, I decided the gym wasn't on today's schedule. The time was three o'clock and I was hungry. Burger King on Nicollet Avenue called my name.

Mistakes.

I ordered a bacon cheeseburger and a medium french fry. The old Ian would go all-out: Double cheeseburger, large french fry, and maybe a second sandwich. I've changed. Food isn't a pleasure anymore, it's a necessity. I eat to live, not live to eat. The french fries tasted like chemicals. I ate half out of hunger. The burger, mediocre at best, was forced down.

Long for the days of childhood, I reminisced on when I'd order a "King-sized french fry" to enjoy the potato-ey goodness. I fucking loved those french fries. I remember the days of wrestling when, after I weighed in for the State Championship tournament in Rochester, MN, I'd ask my mother to drive us to Burger King to order french fries. Innocence.

Work came and went.

I'm disappointed I didn't go to the gym today.

Courtney left her Skype logged in on her phone. An enthusiastic message was sent, just to be received by an empty phone. She responded after a few hours, which absolutely made my evening. The highlight of my day is speaking to her. Pixels separate us, yet pixels keep us together. I've never felt this strong about someone before.

We conversed quite a bit. Sam and I had some good talk, as well. She hinted at I coming down there to visit quite strongly. The ticket has been sitting on my desk since May. Back in May, we didn't talk much. Previous blog entries may have hinted at this, though. I didn't believe we'd grow this close, and that I'd use the money on technology. Wrong. By ticket, I mean money. It's sitting there, accruing nothing by dust. Money is no qualm. I just need to know when the time is right. I want to visit, and I will. Money comes and goes. Feelings and...

I can't say it yet. The time isn't right. I haven't said it to her, but I will.

The ice has melted in my Rum and Cola. On reddit, someone was struggling with a break-up. I let them know that it does get better. Four years ago, I thought I found "the one". I was horribly mistaken. I went through the following months thinking I'd never find someone better. Thinking that I was trash, and a terrible person. Four years later, my thoughts have changed.

Four years later, I've found someone special. Met through pixels, and that's how we live now. I think this is the start of something special.

I hope it is.

Music: Childish Gambino - telegraph ave ("Oakland" by Lloyd)

six, not seven

I was asked the question: "What'd you do today?".

I had to think for a moment. The time was 9pm on Monday, September 8th. To a point, I didn't think the day actually existed. Work kept me until 1 in the morning, and sleep wasn't possible until around 3:30, when my body decided to call it quits. When I awoke around 10:30 in the morning, a mere 7 hours later work was next on my schedule, starting in only an hour and a half. I went for a jog around Lake Calhoun - a tough one at that. My body wasn't ready for exercise. In what only seemed like moments, work came and went like summer break in eighth grade - with haste.

My mind didn't fully comprehend that it was actually Monday. Not to sound repetitive, but it didn't actually feel like a full day. I slept in as late as possible, then woke up for work, exercised, conversed with someone, then went to bed. Exhaustion prevailed over my willingness to stay up late.

Sleep.

Or lack thereof. I have been tossing and turning every night in recent memory. Something doesn't feel right.

With work not arriving until 6 this evening, the day looks to be productive. A short trip to IKEA, where I was able to purchase some odds and ends for my kitchen. I installed a rack to hang my stirring spoons, spatulas, can opener, and other accessories from. It looks nice, adding character to an otherwise barren and ugly wall.

Target, deciding to assault my wallet once again, provided me with shelf liner. Eight dollars and forty-nine cents. However, I am extremely happy with the results. Storing kitchen utensils and china will no longer make excessive noise, and it makes the entire setup much more welcoming. Odd, I know.

Workers came to resurface parts of my ceiling, and like last time, left an absolute mess. Adhesive and caulk splattered through my bedroom and bathroom akin to a murder scene. Frustrated, I decided to do a half-cleaning of my entire apartment. All surfaces, rugs, carpets, and furniture cleaned.

Productivity.

I now sit at the same coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis. I should open a credit card with this coffee shop to reap rewards or something, but I don't believe they offer one. They have a hard enough time keeping small bills in the register for change. My coffee is themed after the country El Salvador with hints of honey, rum, and something else. I forget. The caffeine hasn't taken effect yet.

Much has been accomplished already, and I would still like to get a good exercise session in, and hopefully a long bicycle ride if the skies don't break into rain. I am not hopeful. Gloom looks to take place for the next few days. A chill, with the possibility of frost on Saturday.

Winter is Coming. Or so the saying goes. I'll be stuck working inside my apartment, windows frosted, heat rising from the radiator, alone. Ones and zeroes. Bits of data are the sole form of communication between important people and myself.

Though, it makes me think. Is this how it should be?

I try to tell myself that everything happens for a reason, but I often ask myself if these things were supposed to happen in the first place.

blue and gold

Blue skies, gold rays. Pristine. It would be hard pressed to eclipse today's weather. A light breeze with few worries in the air.

Last night was an interesting one, to say the least. It began by meeting at Steve's apartment, and then nabbing a ride to Brit's Pub in downtown Minneapolis. After arriving, I observed their menu that stated they had sugar-free Redbull. Delighted, I ordered a vodka redbull. A mistake for my checking account.

$11.50.

We moved on to Barrio; a tequila bar with a welcoming atmosphere, yet still exhibiting class. A dark ambience lit by candles at each table. A sophisticated assortment of tequilas lining the bar, lit by a white light, almost as if they were holy. I ordered chips and salsa ahead of our tequila sampling; Steve a shredded beef taco. His never came. My chips were on the house.

Our tequila had hints of spice and chile pepper. A pineapple finish. Sweet, without the need for a chaser slice of orange. The waiter provided us with additional orange slices, dusted with cinnamon. They were reminiscent of apple pie filling, oddly enough.

One thing led to another and we ended up at Club Jager in the North Loop. I bought the round of drinks for all, and we had a fairly good time. Inside, I was battling emotions of nostalgia, as the last time I visited, someone important to me accompanied my side. Dancing wasn't the same.

The Minnesota Vikings started their regular season today and won in a dominating fashion. It makes the weeks pass by faster. That's all I have to say about that, really.

I'm going to keep this post short. Nobody really reads it anyways, but I guess it's a nice place for me to release my mind onto a visual medium. I'll wrap it up by saying I had an amazing conversation with an amazing person today.

~

melancholy waves

Drowsy. The only word to describe how I felt this morning when I woke. Much to my surprise, I awoke around 11am and mustered 8 hours of sleep. Perhaps it was the knock-off Nyquil I took last night. It may have been the guitar music I was jamming around 3am as well. My brain trying to stay as far away from the self-created music as possible.

I don't blame it.

Last night, original plans consisted of hitting the gym (again), but was then presented the opportunity to meet with friends, both new and old. Much to my surprise, someone I know through another group of friends was there last night as well. Chris was surprised to hear the name "Ian" before he saw it was actually me, and came to the conclusion that I'm the only "Ian" in Minneapolis. Apparently, when someone hears my name, it's me. Not Ian Jones. Ian Hunter. Ian Smith. I am the Ian in Minneapolis. Funny.

"$2 mystery bottles" were the theme of the night at Liquor Lyles. Ryan's persistent efforts to corral blonde women to our booth proved fruitless at times, but drew good chuckles from the table. My hands often met my face, in attempt to convey the message of "it wasn't me, it was him. I'm just here for the beers." Which I was.

I only had two beers. Earlier in the evening I had a glass of Balvenie "Doublewood" 12 year single malt scotch. Tasty. Sweet, smooth, and savory. Fondue au Fromage de Chevre was shared amongst my table guests. Delicious. A subtle evening, but one I enjoyed as deep conversations were had; laughs as well.

Apparently, playing guitar sounds much better after a beer or two. Around 2:30am I placed headphones around my head, turned on my amplifier, and pressed play on my phone. In only a few moments, I felt like the music I was playing sounded good. I was able to close my eyes and play along with the song without missing a note. Euphoric. I suspect I play with less fault because I'm more relaxed and less worried about missing a note.

Progress.

I now sit writing this at a coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis. I'm sitting at a rather large table meant for 6 people. Five, including myself, currently occupy it. There's room for one more next to me. I grow used to the chair next to me being empty. I often wonder if someone will come fill the chair next to me, or choose to sit next to someone else instead. If the latter, I am always curious as to why they chose to sit next to someone else instead of me.

Was it the way I dressed? I'm wearing white shorts with a purple and grey striped t-shirt. Hideous wouldn't be an accurate description. Some effort was put into my outfit. Did I smell? Do I have "resting bitch face syndrome"?

Perhaps it was just a random choice. Usually is.

A couple with a small child sits at the table across from me. Apple Macbooks everywhere. Oddly enough, most patrons here seem to be productive: iMovie projects, photo editing, or writing. It's Saturday. The "work week" has leaked onto and stained the weekend.

My coffee turns lukewarm, only halfway finished. An "El Salvador" coffee; honey, graham, and hints of rum, I think. I should wrap this up and continue with my day. Cold coffee, unless iced, is no bueno. Soon I'll be on my way below the coffee shop to get in my daily workout. I've already bicycled 12 miles around the lakes near my apartment this morning, but that's not enough. Luckily, I was able to nab a bench at Lake Calhoun to rest. My "Game of Thrones" book was in the backpack I brought along, so I was able to sit in the sun and read a few chapters on the lakeshore for an hour or so. Quite relaxing.

I look forward to the evening.

Music: Gorillaz - On Melancholy Hill

reflections from choppy water

"That's an interesting assortment of items, today" he said.

The cashier at Target. An aging man with grey hair, receding from his forehead as if it was trying to find safety. Scared. However, his face gentle, kind, and welcoming. I chuckled and agreed, noting that I only buy items as I need them instead of stocking my shelves in preparation for the void of activities planned.

Only buying the items I need. Chips. I ate half the bag today. The Rockstar drink remains chilled in my refrigerator. The picture frames remain empty.

I was hesitant to buy the frames. They are for two pictures, but I question why I was hesitant. Was the $1.99 frame out of my budget? No. Am I scared to provide a permanent home for something that always holds the possibility of being temporary? Do I adorn the casualness of moving the photographs freely? There has to be a reason I was so hesitant to purchase silly picture frames, but I'm not sure why.

Last night was terrible. I tossed and turned, having nightmares throughout the evening. Waking up in a sweat. Heartbreak. Horror. I saw loved ones, new and old, vanishing before me. The dream is a bit obscure now as I write this hours later, but it was still an unpleasant one. I woke up at 6am, unable to fall back asleep. The day has dragged on.

During work, I decided to occupy myself with a hobby and attempted to play a new song on my guitar. "I won't see you tonight, Part 1". I've got most of it down, but the more I try to perfect it, the more I realize my time is wasted towards being something I can't. I won't be well-versed with a guitar. I can't. My hands are small. At best, I'll be able to play some power chords and settle with that. Sometimes I question why I try.

I wanted to spent another $2 for a cup of Honduran or El Salvadorian coffee at the coffee shop, but I was pressed for time. A mediocre workout took place below the coffee shop instead, and I spent 10 minutes at home to help with the garage sale. I didn't have time to reflect on the choppy waters; perhaps tomorrow.

The night grows on. Work is done, my phone and any forms of social outreach lay quiet throughout the day. I may explore a bar with my cousin to talk about things; life, love, liberty, leisure.

No home runs, no strikeouts. A measly base hit. Perhaps I'll try to steal second, and make up for lost ground.

Music: Dream Koala - We Can't Be Friends