Friday, November 6, 2009

Best Luck of My Life

Jenny and I played poker tonight.

I had the best luck I've ever had in my life.

I never win poker.  I always get crap cards.

But tonight?  Tonight alone I got a straight five separate times.

...

Too bad we were playing for pasta, burned out fuses, and granola bars.

(EDIT: And not a single schlichengrüber!)

Thursday, November 5, 2009

What Time Is It?

Thanks to Sweden, I can't tell time anymore.

No, seriously.

In so many different ways.

Let's start with daylight savings.  Or lack thereof.  We set the clocks back earlier than the US, which means winter hours started even sooner here.  Now that the clocks have set back, the sun officially sets before 4 pm these days.

3:56 pm today, to be precise.

In one month, it will be setting at 3 pm.  And it won't rise again until almost 9 am.

Right now, it gets pitch black by 4:30.  It's lunchtime here and I only have a few hours of sunlight left in the day.

My body clock refuses to catch up.  I can't tell what time of day it is anymore.  I look around in the dark, swear it must be almost midnight, and look at a clock only to discover it's dinnertime.

And the dates?  Just one more thing...

I grew up with the American system, which - no surprise - is different than how everyone else in the world does it.  Today is November 5, 2009 or 11/05/09.  But not here.  It's 5 November 2009.  Or 05/11/09.  Or maybe 09/11/05.  If you ask someone to write the month and day, you get day and month.  But when they ask for your birth date on a form, you write year then month then day.  I start getting lost in it all.  Every time I see a number, I first see it with 27 years of American eyes, then try to correct it for the new system... usually incorrectly.

I can't tell whether our milk expires next week or already did sometime in last year.

I can't wait for October 10 of next year, when I can once again be guaranteed that I won't screw up writing the date.

And then there's actually asking or telling the time, which I try to avoid like the plague.  I have successfully avoided learning this so far when studying Swedish with Jenny.  It seems silly to me, so my brain tries to shut it out.  But now we're studying it in Swedish class.  So I have to.

Ask me what time it is when I'm in the US and you get a nice, simple, straightforward and efficient answer.

12:35.  Twelve thirty-five.  Three words.  Two numbers.  Easy.

Here?  No such luck.

Fem över halv ett.

Translation: Five past half of one.

Eh?

Everything else is quarter past or five til or ten of...

And this doesn't even begin to address my brain's half-second that it needs every time it sees military time because everything here is on the 24-hour clock.

And there's still my constant thinking in terms of time zones whether I am thinking of Illinois, where my family and most friends are (7 hours behind), or San Francisco, where other friends are (9 hours behind), or New York and the east coast (6 hours behind) or Denver, where my brother lives (8 hours behind).

Of course, until the clocks rolled back in the US last weekend, there were a few weeks where I had to retrain myself to think of things in terms of 6, 8, 5, and 7 hours behind, respectfully.

Oh, and let's not forget the times of the day as well.

If it is 7 am, officially morgon or "morning," I would say godmorgon or "good morning."  So, then i morgon, which literally means "in the morning", must mean "in the morning", right?

Wrong.

It means "tomorrow."

And then there's middag, commonly known as "noon" in the US.  That word has two meanings as well.  It's also a meal.

Oh, so it must mean "lunch", right?

No, silly.  It means "dinner".  Lunch means "lunch".

Which is pronounced "loonch".  Or loon/sj/, which is a sound I can't properly type out on this American keyboard and also can't properly make with these American lips.  It's kind of like the noise you would make if you were blowing out a candle while also throwing in a quiet "H" and "W".

So, just to clarify, you eat lunch at middag which is followed by the time known as eftermiddag which is immediately followed by eating middag.

My brain hurts.

I'm gonna take a nap.

Wake me up...

...

...whenever.

V

I watched the series premiere of "V" last night, hoping for some flashbacks of watching it as a child when the original TV series aired.

Instead, I got what seemed to me (keep in mind, I am hopelessly paranoid) to be clumsy digs at the Obama administration.

Whether thinly veiled (a skeptical priest commenting that it is just to convenient for some "savior" showing up just when people need hope the most) to the outright blatant ("You mean universal healthcare?" the TV news personality to the Visitors saying they want to provide care for the world's sick)... well... it was all rather silly.

I'm not one to usually get upset about criticism of the government.  I think it is a great and essential part of the system necessary to keep as much of a balance as possible.  But, really?  Make the issues of Hope and Universal Healthcare the most suspicious deeds perpetrated by evil alien invaders intent on exterminating the human race?  Is that the best that can be done?

Pick something else... anything...  I mean, as truly exhilarating as it is to have a television show where one of the most dramatic lines involves the use of the term "universal healthcare", let's not forget that there is plenty of good - albeit, certainly less dramatic - fodder out there.

For example, the current anti-counterfeit treaty being drawn up by the administration, which is really more of a copyright treaty, the ramifications of which could be ridiculously far-reaching and damaging to the issue of free speech on the internet.  Or any other of a dozen other issues we could choose to focus on pressuring the administration and Congress to do better with other than the evil Bringing Far Too Much Hope To The People and (cue dramatic music) Ensuring Quality Healthcare For Those Unable To Afford The Current Options.

And you, TV?  Yeah, you.  I know you suck for the most part and offer mostly mindless drivel designed purely for the sale of advertising space and I should always strive to keep my expectations painfully low.  But please... get your shit together.

Of course, I suppose I'll be the one eating crow when Obama pulls off his mask and ends up being a Socialist Reptilian Space Invader from Beyond.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Friday, October 16, 2009

Seriously?

Billy Mays recently died and the official investigation concluded that his death was a direct result of cocaine abuse.  Billy Mays' widow hired an independent medical examiner to investigate her late husband's death.  The medical examiner has just announced that cocaine use "did not contribute" to his death. 

Seriously?

The man was 50 years old and died of heart failure.  At the time of his death, there was cocaine in his system, which lasts around 3 days or so (well, there was cocaine... and Vicodin... and oxycodone... and tramadol... and Xanax... and Valium...).

And he also talked like this... all the time:


Never underestimate the power of denial

I guess I just always assumed he was doing coke.

But then I remembered that lots of healthy individuals with systems full of various pharmaceuticals and illicit substances fall over and die of "natural causes" at age fifty all the time.

My bad.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

You Know What Bugs Me?

Me. 

Particularly when I spend so long writing something off and on that I miss editing something correctly and end up with ridiculous mistakes posted on the Interweb for everyone to see. 

Then, of course, I go back to correct it.  But I know that no one is going to see it all fixed.  No.  They will always see it as the tragic mistake that I let happen. 

Sometimes I can be such a moorn. 

... 

Crap!

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Science is Awesome and Makes Me Smile

What follows is a news story so awesomely awesome that it gives me a nervous giggle from the sheer awesomeness of it all.

Ahem...

The New York Times just published an essay, The Collider, the Particle, and a Theory About Fate, discussing the theoretical possibility that The Future itself is sabotaging the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.

Here's how it breaks down:

Two (previously) well-regarded physicists, Holger Bech Nielsen of the Niels Bohr Institute in Copenhagen and Masao Ninomiya of the Yukawa Institute for Theoretical Physics in Kyoto, began posting papers with titles such as "Test of Effect From Future in Large Hadron Collider: a Proposal” and “Search for Future Influence From LHC” on a physics website postulating the idea that The Future would keep science from detecting the presence of the Higgs boson.

What?

The Standard Model of particle physics, the generally accepted model of How It All Works (by generally accepted, I mean that it is likely not accepted by Young Earthers, birthers, or this guy (although, to be fair, plenty of people have donned tin foil hats and are perfectly sane)), describes the essential particles that make up our universe such as photons, gluons, and fermions* like quarks and leptons.  Every piece of the Standard Model has been observed and supported by years of scientific study... except the Higgs boson.  It is the last piece of the puzzle and continues to elude scientists.

The Higgs boson** would help explain the origin of mass in the universe and would basically explain the fine details of how electromagnetism and weak nuclear force really work.  It has been called the "God Particle" in popular culture.  Nielsen has even suggested that if there is a God, He hates Higgs bosons and tries to avoid them.

So, yeah, it's kind of a big deal.


The Higgs boson would also probably wear this shirt 
out to bars on the weekend and put on way too much cologne.

And, apparently, the Higgs boson might just be aware of its status.

Nielsen and Ninomiya predict that the Higgs boson could be such a big deal that merely bringing one into existence might have disastrous results.  Maybe even worse than crossing streams...




So, Nielsen and Ninomiya theorize that somehow the universe, through some sort of unknown fail-safe mechanism, is reaching back in time from The Future to halt experiments and prevent Total Protonic Reversal.  They started writing about this back in 2007, citing examples of failed projects and experiments like the United States Superconducting Supercollider, which were designed to find the Higgs boson.

They were openly mocked for this theory.

Then, last September, the Large Hadron Collider was turned on and began to experiment (finding the Higgs boson was its first goal) but was quickly came to a screeching halt just over a week later due to a malfunction which caused massive amounts of damage.  They planned to bring it back online within two months but problem after problem have kept that from happening.

Of course, Nielsen and Ninomiya are still openly mocked.  Probably having something to do with the fact that they have proposed, as an experiment to see if The Future is attempting to keep the Higgs boson from being discovered, that CERN create a giant deck of cards (as in number of cards... not gimmicky, over-sized, magic trick props) with a tiny fraction of the cards marked as "Abandon the LHC Higgs boson experiments"... or something similar.  They say if The Future is trying to prevent us from crossing streams, we will keep drawing the "Abandon the experiments cards".

And that is why science is awesome.

Because, as far out there as this theory is, I still find it absolutely fascinating and exciting.  Some scientists risking their careers to talk about some batshit crazy scenario which doesn't seem to have any chance to ever be proven correct.

And that's why it is so much fun.  Because we live in a world full of reckless individuals, spouting all kinds of batshit crazy theories which are based on hatred and agendas.


"Finally, a man who says what people who aren't thinking are thinking."

I look around on a daily basis and find myself in a world where people say ignorant, inflammatory, and downright dumbshit things.

Thankfully, there are some people around to help counteract it all... people who help me get my giggle on almost as much as the story I was originally writing about.

See, because in the end, believing that The Future coming to our present to keep us from destroying ourselves is more than just a side story in an amazing Pynchon novel.  It's also fun-filled theory about possibilities that, while potentially batshit crazy, are ultimately harmless.  And exciting to read about.  And utterly devoid of hate.

Besides, as we all know:

There is a theory that states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something more bizarre and inexplicable.

There is another which states that this has already happened.

*Fermions respect the Pauli Exclusion Principle - yet another piece of science created by Wolfgang Pauli.

**Seriously, if you have any problem with information pulled from Wikipedia, why the hell are you reading a blog entry by me, of all people, about the latest crazy idea in physics?  Hell, if I don't have enough information for one of these, I just make stuff up and I don't even give credit to people when I use their pictures.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Catching the Red Eye

I'm going to choose to use illness as my excuse for not really writing the past few weeks, immediately following my declaration to myself that I was going to start writing more often.

It started with Jenny getting a sore throat.  Which got worse.  And worse.

I told her to go to a doctor.

She refused.

Then she got an eye infection.  Which got worse.  And worse.

I told her to go to the doctor.

She refused.

Throughout this all, I quietly gave my immune system a pat on the back.  Despite the fact that a certain family member insists that I am constantly sick, in actuality, I rarely get sick.  It tends to be once a year.  And that already happened to me during Roskilde in Denmark this summer (which was awful, by the way - not the festival, just being sick while camping in a tent in the middle of thousands of drunk foreigners while having no running water or kleenex).

So, believing myself to have an immune system made of steel, I threw caution to the wind, took care of Jenny, and didn't give it another thought.

And it worked.

For two weeks.

Then, one night, I woke up around 3am to find that my eyes wouldn't open.

Damn!

Pink Eye!

Well, it has taken a while, but is finally gone.

It was all worth it because it produced this:

Jenny's eyes became really light-sensitive and she spent most days in a dark bedroom, listening to audiobooks.  When she did venture out, she took to donning her eyeglasses, topped by sunglasses, topped by scarf.



She's a ninja, mother-

End of message.

Little Heart-Shaped Notes

Ahem...

Time for an update, I suppose.  Time to let Ninja be free.

So, I'll do him a favor and anger the poo right outta him.

It all began with my birthday.

I awoke to pink heart-shaped Post-Its on the pillow next to me providing instructions.  What followed was a fun birthday morning involving comic books, pizza cake, treasure maps, and fishing for presents.

My girlfriend is awesome.

Anyway, I received small presents throughout the day, expecting each one to be the last.

But I received one final treasure map, which eventually led me to the oven.  Packed inside was a black package.

What was it?

Only the most badass cardigan ever.


The eyepatch and hook were part of the theme birthday.  
Greasy, unwashed, birthday morning hair was optional.


Pirates win!

Eat it, Ninja.

Now go poo.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Ninja Poo.

Whoops.

So, it's been three days since Ninja Mike told me he wasn't going to poo until I posted a new blog entry (and that he had just eaten Fiesta Ranchero).

My sincerest apologies to Ninja... and his fiancee.

However, I just don't have it in me today... Too much overwhelmingness.  Particularly with Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize outta nowhere and now suddenly having the right wing and the rest of the world jump all over his ass about it.

Ridiculous.

So, I'm gonna watch a movie now, think about what I wanna write, and ask everyone to keep Ninja Mike's sphincter in their thoughts and prayers.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Where to Begin...

So, it has been a long week or so here.

Between the Pirate Cardigan, Ninja Spyglasses, Eyepatches, Little Dizzle, Beating Spotify, Mint Fig, Slow Lorises (Lorii?), Drywater Fishing, Fingerpainting, Computer Crashing, and Hula Disco - well, I hardly know where to begin.

Unfortunately, it's late and my eyes are still healing, so the update will just have to wait another day.

See you all soon.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Technical Difficulties

So...

My computer seems to be slowly falling apart on me, some sort of long-planned self-destruction.  It freezes, it lags, it stops video, it won't recognize my iPod, it crashes, it disconnects randomly (and frequently) from the internet...

I suppose it has been a long time coming.

Either way, I have a lot to write about but may be needing a full wipe and reinstall.

More to come as things develop.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Adventures in Hairstyling - Part Two

He was wearing a Puma t-shirt, black with white letters, tucked into his stonewashed jeans. The stubble along his temples gave away his sculpted hairline, revealing that his natural born one didn't seem to meet his criteria for what Beautiful Hair should look like.

And then, of course, there was the gold chain. *

Around his wrist.

Really, in hindsight, I should have just run.

Just let Jenny finish me off with the toenail scissors. **

But, by this point, I was already in the chair - long before I realized what was happening.

See, they were offering cheap haircuts. And me? Well, my financial resources haven't been increasing lately so much as rapidly evaporating. So - cheap haircut it was.

Back to me. Sitting. Terrified.

My appointment had been scheduled the day before and I was already having reservations about the plan then. I had waited a few days after my Toenail Scissor Trimming and things seemed to be just fine. But, I was looking for jobs and desperately in need of some of the mop being cut off.

We walked in the day before and asked for an appointment. The middle-aged, olive-skinned woman with the bad dye job said there wasn't time then but I could schedule an appointment for the next morning at 10. I then went about psyching myself up for what I was sure would be an awful haircut at the hands of this woman.

But, no. Not her. No. Instead, it was him. Something else entirely.

In my defense, I didn't actually know what was happening until it was too late. We arrived on time for the appointment and took a seat. The woman with the bad dye job was cutting an older woman's hair. There was a younger girl there too, who looked like she was probably the woman's daughter, getting another seat ready. I breathed a sigh of relief, figuring she would be the one to cut my hair.

I barely registered the guy, now standing by the counter, fixing the credit card printer and taking off his black leather jacket.

They told me to take a seat. While sitting there, I watched the girl take another customer to her seat and start working on her hair. I was a bit confused.

Then he walked up.

We quickly discovered that he was the only hairdresser in all of Sweden who did not speak English (well, there's Sven, but he's 87 and only does "High and Tight" do's for the elderly gents of Gullspång). Jenny started translating what I wanted while the cold sweats were setting in.

I already have a hard enough time explaining what I want to a native English-speaking hairdresser (just ask Meighan). I am incredibly vague, horribly picky, and never use anything as a reference. But now I was communicating what I wanted in English (using words Jenny openly admits she doesn't entirely understand what they mean - like "shaggy") to an English-as-a-second-language speaker who was now translating that, in as close a way as possible, into Swedish for a I-really-hope-Swedish-is-your-second-language speaker. My head was starting to spin while I tackled the math involved in figuring out how many times the instructions were being Xeroxed - copy of a copy of a copy. The end of the line in this bad game of telephone was the guy with the gold bracelet and sharp pointy things pointed at my head.

My knees shook a little.

While the instructions were being passed along, I had a bit too much time to look around. Apparently Barber Cleanliness Standards in Sweden aren't quite what they are in America. I soon found myself counting the number of different hair colors and types I could see caught in the scissors and comb and electric razor. Never have I missed the sight of giant jars of bright blue Barbicide so much.

Jenny stopped talking and he seemed satisfied with the directions provided while I considered taking the opportunity to politely run for the exit.

Run with dignity, if you will.

But I didn't.

And he cut. And cut. And cut.

Very quickly.

Just grabbing fingerfuls of hair.

And cutting.

At first, Jenny watched from the sidelines. I could see her out of the corner of my eyes. I looked at her. Pleaded for her to do something to make this all better.

After a little while, I noticed she had buried her face behind a magazine. It seemed she could bear it no more.

He finished the cutting quite quickly. Then reached for the thinning shears. And cut more. Quickly. And quite deep this time.

In the end, when compared with other haircuts I have been unhappy with, this one does not rank nearly as bad as many others. However...

That still doesn't mean I don't feel ridiculous.

I went home after paying my 99 krowns (by far the cheapest haircut I will find here) and immediately showered to try and wash away the bits of hair from a dozen other people that I could feel in my hair.

The next day, I was running my hand through my hair and felt a strange bristle.

"No..." I thought.

So I checked some more.

Oh yes.

All throughout my hair, it felt like I had a buzz cut. Hairs a single centimeter long in straight rows. From where he used the thinning shears so deep and low. So, spread out over my head are hairs, randomly, anywhere between 1/2 to 4 inches long.

I should have stopped at the gold chain.
__________________________________

* I would like to sincerely apologize to anyone who wears Puma shirts (tucked in), stonewashed jeans, gold chains, and sculpted hairlines. But, c'mon, seriously?

** Regarding the many complaints I received about not posting a picture of The Toenail Scissor Haircut (and now The Gold Chain 'Do), it was only because I failed to take a picture of either. I hope you know I try my very hardest to destroy whatever remains of my dignity in each and every one of these entries. I really do.

To help make amends, I am posting a picture of myself from earlier today, upon waking up from a nap - which was immediately preceded by a shower.




You're welcome.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Adventures in Hairstyling - Part One

It started, like most misadventures from my past, with a simple sentence -

"How hard can it be?"

Now, I was used to hearing this sentence come out of Natius' mouth. And the sentence often dealt with some sort of car repair or Fat Jeff Challenge.

I was unaccustomed to hearing it from Jenny.

I looked at her as steadily as I could, keeping calm, as the lessons I had learned regarding bear attacks flashed through my mind. But it was too late. She smelled the fear.

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

I tried to relate my position on the matter. Not that she wasn't already aware.

I am obsessed with my hair. Not in the sit-in-front-of-the-mirror-with-a-blowdryer-and-gobs-of-gel kind of way but more in the way that I think I look ridiculous and avoid haircuts at all costs.

I suppose it relates a lot to the way I'm a perfectionist. Not the "good" kind - the kind of person that just has to do something perfect and keeps trying until that is achieved. No... I'm the kind of person that feels like it has to be done perfectly and if I don't think that can be accomplished, I just don't bother with it.

Yeah, like that.

So, I put off haircuts as long as I can most times, readily accepting the fact that with each passing month I look more and more ridiculous. It also gets worse as my hair mysteriously becomes more and more curly/wavy with each passing year.

Computer estimated appearance of me at age 60.


The end result of all this is that I end up with what appears to be a giant wig on my head after a couple months. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I still resist getting a haircut.

So, there we are, sitting in the living room. Jenny daring me to let her have a go at the mop residing on top of my head.

For some reason, as a way of entertaining the thought, I asked her what she was planning to cut my hair with should I decide to give in to her demands. She disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and then emerged, wielding a giant hairbrush and a tiny pair of toenail scissors.

I coughed and choked out a response about how she had to be kidding. She shook her head solemnly and again insisted that she was up to the task. I pointed out that she didn't even have a comb and she disappeared for another moment, popping back into view and telling me she now had a comb.

It wasn't a comb.

It was just a smaller brush.

The "tools"

Needless to say, I wasn't too keen on the idea.

She continued to push, insisting I could trust her. She chose to start arguing logic (or a close relative of logic), pointing out that I was planning to get my hair cut anyway and it was quite long so I could always get it fixed the next morning if necessary.

I started out strong and resistant but gradually weakened.

Next thing I knew, I was outside on our balcony, towel wrapped around my neck, and water being brushed into my hair.

Snip. Snip.

It began.

I wanted to cry.

But I am strong.

"Are you grumpy?"

I shook my head no, trying to conceal how upset I was about getting tricked into the chair. How did I let this happen to me? Why am I convinced to do stupid things so easily?

I loudly pointed out that the hair falling into my lap was much longer than the one centimeter we had agreed upon. Looking at me calmly as one would a four-year-old, she asked if I wanted her to just stop. I quietly shook my head and let her continue.

My main concern was that I was going to be angry. See, I had planned on being angry anyway... after I went to a barbershop. But now she was cutting my hair. Sure, I was planning to go to a barber the next day. But now I was afraid I wouldn't be mad at the barber. No, I was feeling pretty sure I would still be mad at her after the barber. Because now it would be her fault I had to go to the barber to get a bad haircut.

Really, it's all because I'm crazy.

But that doesn't change anything.

So, I sat. And moped. And pouted. And waited for it to be awful.

And in the end...

It wasn't bad.

Of course, I was still going to get a regular haircut.

But that's another story altogether...

I Made It!

Well... almost.

Tomorrow marks my official survival of The 27 Club.

Of course, it certainly helped by not being a musician.

And by avoiding the whole "being famous" thing.

But, nonetheless, a victory in my eyes.

Twenty-seven is a pretty great number. It's a perfect cube of the most perfect number, 3x3x3 (just ask Tesla). It's the first appearance of Batman. It's the whole nine yards...

It has also been a big year.

I remember a conversation with a coworker at Trader Joe's not long after turning twenty-six. She told me that twenty-seven was an important number and that a lot of things in my life would change while approaching it and especially during that special year. I didn't think much of it at the moment, having grown, at that particular time, somewhat numb to the kind of wisdom San Franciscans tended to share. But, as I look back, I realize it was very true.

I would say that the time since that conversation in the break room of SF's finest grocery store (almost two years!) was especially life changing, the end result of which is being here, in Sweden. Perhaps I always expected to have done more by this time. Made some important contribution to the world. A book, a work of art, scientific advancement... something. You know, somehow fulfilling one of my many delusions of grandeur while at the same time managing to continue nurturing a crippling sense of self-doubt.

But I realize I have done a lot. And I'm happy. And that feels great. And it's time to work towards not being so unrealistic and selfish and ridiculous.

Time to grow up, I suppose. I'm starting to get old. I'm plummeting towards thirty.

(Apologies to all those out there who have already reached and surpassed that wonderful age - but I hope you will understand, having been in my position in the past, and will accept my lack of acceptance regarding what I am currently viewing as a chrono-handicap. For all those who did not struggle with this - kudos, congratulations, and applause for handling the act of aging in a mature and dignified manner. I am but a child mentally and still laugh at poop jokes.)

So, I am ready to begin a new year. With new accomplishments.

Namely, contributing more to this blog. Just to be writing again.

Besides, third time's a charm.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Never My Strong Suit

Yeah, it's cliche.

Yeah, it's tired out.

Yeah, everyone says it.

But I've never been good at saying goodbyes.

The problem is that my longtime obsession with film has left me with a permanent disability, one in which I have a tendency to picture things in my head with a movie-like quality to them. Things get dramatic and epic and completely unrealistic.

Therein lies my problem with goodbyes.

I imagine them way beforehand coming off perfectly.

I say all the right things, they say all the right things, and the laws of physics are defied with each party riding off into the sunset separately.

Only it never happens that way.

Instead, my knack for awkwardness comes out in force and I usually find myself lucky to just walk away without tripping over my feet.

So, I found myself really dreading the goodbyes before leaving.

And I did not plan for it very well.

In addition to all the goodbye-ing to do during that last week, I basically left everything else too. All my packing, all my last minute purchases, all my banking, all the boxing and sorting of remaining things to be saved or sold.

That is, to say, it was Very Typical Me.

I find I work best under pressure. Or so I will continue to tell myself up until the day I die (which will probably also be stressful because I will have left so many things to do then as well...)

So, in the last week, on top of all the other tasks, I had to say goodbye to dozens of co-workers, friends, and family.

Maybe that's the best way for me to make sure to say goodbyes. Load up on all other responsibilities. Leave myself with so little time that I can't possibly dramatize it. Postpone it all until the last possible second, leaving myself no other out. No more excuses. I can't delay a goodbye by choosing to pack. And I can't put off packing so I can say goodbye. Just turn the whole damn thing into a 24-Hour, Last Minute, Bust-Your-Ass-To-Get-It-All-In Free For All.

That being said, it worked pretty well this time.

...

You ever have one of those moments where you step back to really look at yourself and think, "Man, I really have matured..."?

...

Me neither.

282 Days

It has been 282 days since I last wrote anything on here.

Does that make the blog dead?

I don't know.

I hope not.

I've been wanting to write on here but nothing has come for a long time. It was a long nine months while home in America. I worked a lot and stressed a lot and didn't do a lot of anything else.

Now I'm trying to get back in the habit of having some time to do things I want. It's a bit of a stranger to me. I am well aware that more practice would make this all come easier. But I seem to struggle to find anything good to say.

The past nine months left me a bit braindead. I'm not quite sure what happened, but at some point over the winter, some connectors that joined my brain with my fingers and tongue seemed to have been a bit corrupted. I had trouble finding things to say to family and friends and had nothing to write. Even now, I feel thoughts there in the background, but they are hazy at times.

Hmm... This all sounds very dramatic. It's just frustrating, that's all.

I need to write more. That's all there is to it. More writing will free things up, shake my brain loose.

All I know is this...

I worked hard. I'm here. I'm happy.

More to come later.
 
web usage statistics