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| I feel like that member in your Oregon Trail party, the one that dies before you even leave the fort and singlehandedly murders your high score. You want to feel bad that they're dead, but mostly you're just pissed about your high score. That's how I feel about my upper respiratory system. I want to feel bad that it's dead, but I'm mostly just pissed about the unimportant things I will no longer be able to accomplish.
My roomates have it. Everyone at the gym has it. The rest of New England has it. Peace out, Oregon. It was fun before the Typhoid and the hunting accidents.
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| I saw it tonight, was deeply moved, and made a silent tally of the times I have cheered, encouraged, and huzzah-ed some unnecessary ill. Evil must be disposed of, and bitterly, for there is no stock character for whom there can be no regret. I too have toyed with human weakness because I was a little stronger, I have been reassured that I was just a little better.
The loss of life is tragic, like the loss of innocence and the loss of hope. They are all the same thing. The same bravado that lets you playfully butcher your unbearably sick enemies, the possessors of mutilated souls, will be the thing that makes you into them.
Revenge is a bitter pill, and we all know it, but can defense be attempted in the hopes that God recognizes regret as due penance? God scatters the nation that delights in war. Does he nod sadly in understanding for the woman or man beginning to grasp that living here is always an attempt to discern the lesser of two evils...while using broken instruments?
God have mercy on us, for we are the messy, foolish, bumbling hope of the preservation of integrity. And most of us speak nothing but English.
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| Today, for the fifth time in three years, I moved. For the fifth time in three years, my life is in a pile on the floor in a foreign place.
Tomorrow morning, I will get out of bed, brush my teeth, and try to figure out my existence. I promised myself that if I am responsible for eight straight hours, then I will shamelessly bum a pass to the ocean off x, who tells boring football stories but gets into state parks for free.
On the phone on the road today, I asked a friend to pause while I wrote down what she said on the back of the map in my lap.
"Just you wait. It's going to get so much better."
Just you wait...
Just you wait.
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| I know we don't always get along, but in my defense - it's because you're a huge jackass.
(Scrubs)
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| We get all woozy off our own glistening hope, and we tell each other from 1,000 miles away that maybe it isn't only our age-appropriate idealism, it's just us figuring out how to live our lives in a way that makes the ordinary beautiful. It's normal, but not so normal that it's meaningless, meaningless.
After all, God knows we're not rocking it out most of the time, that we're rocking it out surprisingly rarely, considering how much time was spent given us every opportunity and piece of ancillary equipment. I gush for awhile about keeping your head in the clouds, about realizing that it's more than what you can see, that you're only a little part. We ponder the meaning of being just one drop of blood in the great, dew-filled...
I get more excited and trip over several things. I land on my knees just inside the door. We laugh, and the two of us, and the all of us, and the rest of us, go back to making it through the next fifteen minutes, for we are one short poem on beauty, love, and foolishness.
"What [the reader] takes from it will be scaled entirely on his own depth or hollowness. There are...layers in this...a reader will find as many as he can and he won’t find more than he has in himself." - Steinbeck
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