Archive for the ‘Epiphanies and such.’ Category

…And I’m going to burn it the fuck down, and build myself a castle reinforced with certainty.

I’ve recently gotten away from this blog being a political rant. And while I, and hopefully you, miss the spewing of political belligerence, there are things far more important to share with each of you still reading. A government can only secure so much, whereas you yourself are the pillars holding that structure up. Therefore, you, each individual, are invaluable to that structure. We must start there.

These thoughts were inspired by a song from one of my favorite bands, A Day To Remember. The song’s called “This is the House That Doubt Built.” It’s audio brilliance coupled with inspiring lyrics; I listen to it every morning on my drive to work, and anytime I feel like I’m lacking positivity in whatever I’m about to conquer. And there’s where my motivation stemmed from: one of the lyrics state:

Let’s believe that if we all stand together
We’re a force that can shake the whole world

That may seem like a simple set of lyrics, but they’re far more than that. That’s huge. Everyone doubts themselves at some point, or often, but if you wholeheartedly trust those surrounding you, and rely on them with an undoubting (just made that word up, sue me)faith, you, together, can conquer the world. This is not to say that doubt is unnatural, because it isn’t. It’s natural. But so is creepy, curly hair, and we as humans have mastered ways to straighten out that problem, right? So what makes this any different? You trust that when you buy products to straighten out your hair, they’ll work. Similarly, trust that when there’s a doubt in any area of your life, there have been those who have had that same exact doubt, and have conquered it. Having faith in those around you is tenfold more powerful than a belief that you by yourself can conquer the world.

I work at a company that I am absolutely in love with. I took the job as a means to help me get through school, and eventually to and through law school. But it has become something exponentially more important than just that. It has become an inspiration and motivator to be better than whatever I had previously thought was the best. It feeds my drive, it ignites my passion, and it provides a faith in those around me that I’ve never had before. Another line from the song, “This is the House That Doubt Built,” states:

In the end it’s not about what you have
In the end it’s all about where you wanna go
And the roads you take to help you get there

I am certain that this company trumps whatever I have or have had, and is the path I’ll follow to get where I want to go. That certainty stems from trusting and believing in those I work with and learn from every day. I’m motivated more every day to work hard for them, and they do the same, and I trust and believe that. Together, we’re a force that can shake the whole world. Thanks, ADTR, your song has become an unofficial company theme song.


It’s late. I’m tired. I’m irritated. I’m dirty. I stink. And for the first time in a long time, I’m writing this completely sober. At this point I haven’t titled this post because I’m not sure where it’s headed. I feel like the words will come from within and inspire textual greatness through my fingertips, at which point the title will make itself apparent.

A very wise soul once told me that your life journey will lead you exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it isn’t what you expected or wanted from the start. I’m not referring to fate or destiny…I’m not even sure what I’d call it. But I believe everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s made apparent why something has happened at that exact moment, and sometimes you don’t realize the who, what, when, where or why until years and years later, if at all. There is a rhyme and reason to everything, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. Even when your vision’s as blurred with bullshit as is humanly possible, there is still a clearing at the end. I’m not sure if I’ve reached that clarity yet, but recently I feel like I’m being guided toward a direction that might lead to it.

For the past 7 years or so I had absolutely no doubt that my place in life was to become the world’s greatest defense attorney. I can’t tell you why, but I’ve always known that it was my ‘calling’ or whateverthefuck you want to call it. I’d refer to it as my Personal Legend. Fast forward to today, I’m at the point of studying for and taking the LSAT to begin my journey chasing Johnny Cochran’s achieved career as a my hero, and possibly the most renowned defense attorney today. But recently, for the first time since I thought I found my place in life, I’ve started questioning whether or not it’s really what I’m supposed to do. It isn’t a matter of what I want, because I most definitely still want to be a defense attorney, but my Personal Legend might be something even greater. I’m not one to use signs to guide me, my map is a far more advanced GPS system energized and controlled by a burning inner passion that is stronger and more true than any omen or sign can account for. It is more perfectly calculated than any technology available today. And it’s got more drive than any motivational speaker or self-help book can muster up. It’s free. It’s always dead-on. And it comes from a place within that cannot be seen, mapped, analyzed or explained through the most developed diction. It is the center point from which the most unchained anger arises from, and is the emotional drive that allows sympathy, compassion and sadness to put others as priority over yourself. If you’ve ever heard a child abuse or rape story, you have an understanding to some extent. If you’ve ever witnessed someone give their life for another, you have an understanding to some extent. This is the guide I follow. Not a higher being or book, not a religion or cult, not a speaker who ‘knows better than I do,’ or a philosophy from some person who lived hundreds of years ago in a lifetime exponentially different than the one I live today. Passion. I follow passion. Whether it makes me look like a vagina of a man, or an extreme asshole, I’ll take either as I’m allowing my passion to shape me, and vice versa. I’ve posted about passion before but in a different context. This passion I’m referring to is what’s inspired me to sit here and spew my inner drive through my fingertips.

Over the past month, my life’s been turned upside down. And I don’t mean that in some sort of a ‘boohoohoo my life sucks’ kind of way. I mean that my normalcy and routine have changed entirely, and it has thrown me of. I’m accustomed to taking the shit life throws at me and turning it around into a positive. In fact, I thrive on it. When something’s off it becomes a challenge to fix, and I get off on challenges. If life were easy and without challenge, I’d be a boring motherfucker. So would you. The past month has been a different sort of challenge, though. I’ve found this inner passion that burns so much more deep than anything else I’ve ever felt before. I don’t know when it started or why, I just know that it’s made me more vocal (if you can believe that. I’m an obnoxious loudmouth as it were), more angry, more sad, more inspired, more sympathetic and more passionate than I’ve ever been. I can’t take little situations and handle them as I normally would. I’m tenfold more impacted by every little thing that happens, for better or worse. For example, I hate one of my bosses. He’s the epitome of worthless. The dude’s overweight, miserable as fuck, and thinks his money buys him a way out of having to be a decent human being. Imagine the most worthless person you can. Now multiply that times 5,000. That’s my boss. Anyway, there was an issue with making up time off, and I didn’t feel it was valid. Normally, I’d just take it like a bitch and make up hours. But this time was different. I snapped. I told them what I thought, and I didn’t do it pleasantly or in a pleasant tone at all. At first I was nervous, since they could have fired me and I’d have no way to pay for the life I’ve created for myself. But after I voiced my thoughts, my passion took over and I couldn’t control it or keep it in. So again, I snapped. And it felt fucking fantastic. I still have my job. I think that was about the time I realized that my this overwhelming passion wasn’t such a bad thing. It was my way to validate feeling…anything, something, everything. Before, I’ve hidden away those feelings for a multitude of reasons. But today, if I feel it, you’re going to know it.

I’m not entirely sure where I was going with that. Dammit. I grabbed a drink halfway through this, so I’m no longer writing this sober. Okay, passion. Passion. Last week I posted about K. I thought I was done with her. I’m not. And I don’t know why. She’s still just as frustrating if not more so. I pretty much fucking hate her. But one thing I’ve learned about my journey toward my Personal Legend is that, again, everything happens for a reason. I didn’t try to figure out why I had met her or what part in my life she’d play. But recently it’s become apparent that I’ve gained a lot more from her than just a pretty face to stare at when I’m with her. I’m all about aesthetics, and I have a staring problem. But what I’ve gained is a new understanding of where my journey’s taking me. I may or may not still end up going to law school. Had I not planned on it in the first place, I wouldn’t be here, with this new found realization that might change my life path entirely. Meeting K was another of life’s deflections. I was on my path and focused…and she fucked that up. I was angry at first, but I’ve got a new understanding that allows for more clarity. She inspires me to be…me. She’s impossible to get through to. And no matter how open I am or how much of me I put into her, I get nothing back. Normally this would make me fucking irate. And it did. Until I realized that when I’m with her I’m basically venting my soul and its makings. I’m talking to something that says little back with little or no reaction. Ultimately, she’s become a muse. A very frustrating, impossible muse. But one that allows me to voice whatever’s burning inside me. Instead of deciding to close myself off as I normally would after opening myself up and having it rejected, it’s made me see me for me. I understand that sounds lame as shit, but there’s no other way to put it. I’m me, and that’s never going to change. Not for anyone or anything. And I love that. If I hadn’t met her, I would probably still be focused on law school. As it sits now, that’s up in the air. And all I really want to do is write.

I’ve always liked writing. No, no. I’ve always loved it. Words turn me on, mentally and sexually. Okay, maybe not sexually. Jk, they do. In all seriousness, I am absolutely intrigued and infatuated by a mess of letters transformed into a beautiful collaboration of thoughts. Language and articulation are more sexy to me than a 5’8″ blonde with long legs and a defined structure and face. I love them. …Words, and the blonde. All distraction aside, I have to write. I don’t just want to, I HAVE to. Just writing that right now gave me a hardon and a headache at the same time. Pretty sure the headache is from the 239,627,634,679,023,449 things in my head that need to be sprawled onto paper. Even if I’m not a celebrity or anyone particularly important. I’m not a public figure. I don’t have a bunch of tragic stories that I need to share. I’m not a rape victim or the product of a dysfunctional family. I lead a pretty normal life. But what’s in my head is anything but normal, and it needs a release. Writing is that release. Even if it doesn’t help or inspire a single person, it’s what I’m here to do. I know this, because the aforementioned passion that burns in the very depths of my soul moves me to do so. It isn’t just an inspiration or motivator, it’s a movement that is constantly in action. It’s time to stop neglecting it and let it be free.

A Discourse With My Soul.

What do you do when you come to a realization that makes you question your current path? You lay out the basics – how you got there, why you’re there, and where you’re going. After you establish what ISN’T working with that equation, you reassess and reestablish forward movement in the right direction. You get to journey through this process with me.

We’ll start our journey about 3 and a half years ago, right after I had moved from Washington to Arizona. I was still sheltered, naive, and a virgin to life and most of its lusts. That changed quickly. The ex, who I’ve previously referred to as Satan, and I had broken up. I didn’t know anyone here, and had no idea what I was going to do. So I did what any early twenty-something single male would do in a city full of attractive, slutty females – I banged every last one I could. I thought about detailing my sexcapades in a separate post, but there has honestly been too many with too few recollections of names, places, etc. So I’ll keep this basic. I met the first one at a grocery store. She was older and had sexy green piercing eyes that stared straight through the zipper on my jeans, and into my sexually vulnerable needs. Three months in Arizona and I thought I had moved to Heaven at that point. This was only the beginning. Shortly after Grocery Store Chick, there was The Professor. She was taller than I normally like, but had legs that I literally drooled over (I fell asleep in class one day, woke up to a drool spot and her standing over me. All I saw was legs). She was a recent divorcee, and had a body like a 25 year old aerobics instructor. Oh man. I have to stop there, I’m already losing focus. Next, there was a bevy of younger, slutty chicks, mostly from ASU as they’re all like that. I’ve met chicks at gas stations, grocery stores, Home Goods, as I’ve posted about previously. I’ve banged chicks I work/worked with. Chicks from classes I’mnot even enrolled in. I’ve met chicks through this very blog, in fact. In 3 and a half years, I’ve almost lost count. I was sucked into whoredom and loved every last dirty second of it. And until very recently, this dirty whoredom was my lifestyle of choice and I saw nothing wrong with it. I haven’t really dated anyone since Satan, who we’ll now refer to as S. That’s a lot of time to be single, and Arizona is definitely the place to enjoy it. But I was younger then, and I’m old as fuck now. Females still fall into my lap, and I hate to sound cocky or conceited, but it is the reality of it. It makes it tough to end this lifestyle, but it’s that time. The epiphany.

I recently met this chick, who I’ll refer to as K. I was immediately intrigued for a number of reasons, but mainly because of a sexy wittiness that was like a vacuum for my eyes and manparts. Wit turns me on like nothing else. And aside from being witty, she was super tiny, quirky, and looked like she could be a Suicide Girl or God’s Girl, for those of you know what either are. GOD, distracted again. Go Google both. Anyway, I was attracted. We hung out a few times and talked a lot more than I normally talk to females I’m interested in. Talking is usually secondary to action, just saying. In K’s defense, there is more to this than I’ll divulge, but the more we talked the more attracted to her I was. This was abnormal for me, it’s usually opposite this to the extreme. More talking = less attraction. Not the case with her. Since I’m a drunk and tell everyone exactly how and why I feel what I feel, I spilled my guts to her, like a dipshit. Awesome, Ross. Idiot. It didn’t end like I thought it would. I had to put in effort, and talk about feelings, and all of it was denied. I was denied! Instead, all she wanted to do was talk about sex. Not have sex, just talk about it. She even said on more than one occasion that she was slutty. I thought this was sarcasm. Apparently not. And for the first time ever, I was turned off by this. I know, weird, since it’s kind of my thing. But I was turned off, thrown off, and not getting off. It was somewhere around this time when I realized, I had turned into a vagina and wasn’t just trying to bang her. I told K I hated her sarcastically, but I think it might have been more serious than I thought. Not just because nothing was coming from my weirdo crush on her, but because she was willing to be slutty in her own way and on her own time with other dudes, but not me. I couldn’t break the easiest (!) surface she had, and it frustrated me. She was willing to give away herself and her self-worth, and that made me hate her. In my head, she was too good to be that person. And then I realized, I was also that person.

After putting all of the aforementioned together, the obvious reason for being thrown off is because I’m no longer wanting to travel the path of sluttiness. No matter how fun it has been. And since that is the problem, per my assessment, I will subtract that part of the equation and replace it with…well, I’m not sure yet. But it isn’t whoredom. I’m over it. And disease free through the entire period, no pregnancy scares, and no crazy chicks still following/stalking me. I’ve been blessed. But it’s time to move on. And in this moving on I’ve also realized that I still compare females to S. Subconsciously. Apparently she wasn’t as bad as I thought at the time. She was loyal, the complete opposite of slutty, and breaking through barriers didn’t seem like some sort of impossible challenge, it seemed like a ‘getting to know you’ process. It wasn’t this way with K. It was just impossible. Point being, my run of whoredom was stemmed from S, and ends with S.

Whoredom, it’s been fun. You’ve treated me well. You’ve never left me hanging. You’ve kept me company. A LOT of company. You’ve made me smile, kept me in shape and given me plenty of workouts, and made me aware of a life that I absolutely do not want to be a part of. At least, not anymore. I’m going back to my old fashioned roots. That’s who I really am. A small town kid who is crazy in love with his grandparents and family, and has a few close friends who enjoy a weekend of fishing just as much as a night in Tempe banging slutty females. I’ll trade a hug from my grandma over 75 sex adventures any day. No idea how I interjected thoughts about my grandma into a blog about whoredom. Weird.

Whoredom, I bid you adieu.

Hi, kids. It’s been a long time since my last post. I feel like I should follow that up with something to the effect of, “it’s been 2 months, 4 days and 17 hours since my last drink…”

All alcoholism aside, I’ve been busy being a grown up, and stuff. And I don’t like it. When I was a littleR kid, I used to envy Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. I wanted to stay young forever as my childhood was amazing – I loved every second of it. I was spoiled with toys, fun and exciting parents who always had time to play, family dogs, all the play space in the world, a goofy sister who looked and acted like my twin, and a backyard full of crab apples to bat with a plastic woofle bat. That wasn’t the entirety of my childhood, but that sums up a lot of it. Point is, I loved being a kid. I loved going to school and getting to participate, rather than having to. I loved that my toughest decision, at any point, was which cowboy boots to wear to school, and which cereal to eat on Saturday mornings in front of which cartoons. Life was rough. And I loved it.

Fast forward seventy-three years.
…Because I’m that old.

I just bought my first house. MY first house! It’s mine, entirely. I get to walk around in my chonies and itch and scratch whatever, wherever, without people giving me weirds looks. I get to eat and drink what I want, when I want, out of whatever dishes I want. It’s all my perogative. I am, for the first time in my life, THE man in charge. And as a control freak, this is a huge turn on for me, sexually. Jk, not sexually, but I really do love it. I love the freedom, and the control, and the sense of accomplishment that comes with it. I love checking MY mail, in MY mailbox, and finding MY bills. Wait, scratch the bills part. And while we’re at it, let’s scratch the sense of accomplishment part. Why, you ask?

As exciting as buying my first house is, it comes with a lot of downsides that I hadn’t previously considered. I don’t care about the bills part, I’m entirely okay with paying for everything I employ, and I can afford to. But what I don’t like, is the sense of complacency that has come with the house. Before actually moving in, I didn’t think it was possible to buy a house in the first place. But as I’ve learned over the years, if I want something, I’m going to make it happen. And I did. And it happened a lot quicker than I was ready for. I had all of these huge plans to remodel and update and garden and so on – all of the things I’ve never been able to do while renting or living under someone else’s roof. And two weeks removed, I now find myself unexcited about the upgrading and remodelling ideas I was so previously ecstatic about. What the shit. It’s not supposed to work that way, right?

I’m already looking WAY ahead at buying a bigger and newer house, with a bigger garage, and nicer car inside of it. I’ve realized that there is no in-between. I’m either extremely complacent, or over-the-top ambitious. Where do I find a middle ground? Do I even want a middle ground?

The answer is no. No, scratch that. The answer is, ‘fuck no.’ I’ll tell you why. If I let my dreams and aspirations go, I’ll always be complacent. Fuck complacency. It isn’t for me. I’ve said it before and I’ll continue saying it until I’m 136…because I’ll live that long. Complacency isn’t for me. This isn’t complacency, though. For the first time, I’m something more than content. And apparently this is what it feels like to be content, and happy, and accomplished. I suppose I should allow myself to enjoy it and take life a little more slowly, as it comes. I’m not good at that at all – I’m usually forcing life, pushing, hurrying, coercing. This is my opportunity to stray from normalcy and comfort, and let myself enjoy the fruits of my labor…though I hate that term, just sounds ridiculous to me. But you get the point.

So officially, this is me celebrating, maybe just to myself, about buying my first. My own. MY house.

…I just gave myself an air-five, and it was way more awesome than you pictured.

With all of the recent immigration issues such as SB1070 and the possibility of Jus soli being negated and the 14th Amendment altered, I feel that there are things being overlooked, from both sides of the debates. For the remainder of this blog entry, forget whateverthefuck is going on politically.

Forget Arizona’s attempt to correct what the federal government and President Obama would not. Forget that BP has scurried away from taking responsibility for the oil leak in the Gulf. Forget that Russell Pearce and Lindsey Graham, amongst others, are trying to alter the 14th Amendment and take away Jus soli for babies born to illegal immigrants. Forget that you have a myriad of credit card debt that is killing you financially. Forget that cities and states are cutting education funds to go toward less necessary shit. Forget that your banks just took billions and billions of dollars while hiking UP your interest rates afterward. Forget that your block has more than 5 foreclosures on it. Forget that Tiger Woods is a whore. Forget about whatever other sex scandal is flourishing in the news today. Forget that jobs in your area are scarce and that you cannot find one. Forget about whatever new diet ‘fad’ you’re trying to get into. Forget that your husband or spouse is cheating on you. Forget that life isn’t fair. Fuck all of the aforementioned, and let’s revisit the basics. Or, in this case, THE basic, singular.

You are an American. What does that mean to you? What is that supposed to mean to you? What does it mean to other people? What do other people want it to mean? Again, fuck all of that, because I’m going to tell you what it means to be an American, in the most grammatically incorrect run-on form of all time:

I’m an American- with my faults, with my glories, with my remembrances of war stories my grandpa or great grandpa told me, with my pictures from the “olden days,” with my multicultural background, with my bilingual speaking tongue, with my appreciation for cultures and foods other than my own, with my pride, with my excessive ego, with my hard earned U.S dollar bill, with my education that is far superior to any other nation’s, with my personal taste in music, with my personal sexual preference, with my own thoughts, with my own mind, with my own decisions, with my own children, with my own stories, with my freedom, with my liberty, with my freedom to choose what religion my family and I will be, with my freedom to birth as many children as I want, with my freedom to give up or abort my children, with my pursuit of happiness, with my pursuit of liberty in whatever form I may find appealing, with my right to bear arms…openly, with my right to a fair trial, with my right to enlist in the United States military, with my right to eat what I please, when I please, where I please, and with whom I please; with my own style of dress, with my tramp stamp tattoo, with my ridiculous tribal tattoo, with my vernacular and diction, with my collection of fine arts, with my collection of band tees, with my collection of beer bottles, with my collection of records, with my collection of baseball cards I’ve accumulated since I was a child, with my ability to enjoy a hotdog at a baseball game…for $12, with the freedom to drive whatever car I can afford, with my freedom to pursue financial freedom, with my dog named Jack, with my out of control stress level, with my out of control quirkiness, with my out of control hair, with my out of control smoking habit, with my out of control family-in-law, with my out of control political views which I have the freedom to broadcast, with my cowboy hat and country music, with my fishing pole and tackle box, with my space on a quiet river in Montana, with my naked pictures on the internet you weren’t supposed to see, with my overbearing family, with my overbearing husband, with my overbearing wife, with my obnoxious kids, with my amazing kids, with my stand up comedy, with my beat up jeans, with my Ford cars, with my New York City visits, with my Hawaii vacations, with my 4am hockey practices in -10 degree weather, with my snowboard, with my skateboard, with my tv and all the inane daytime drama I could ever imagine, with my social security monies, with my unemployment monies, with my shitty salary, with my six-figure salary, with my Chinese food, with my Taco Bell Mexican food, with my WalMart, with my Declaration of Independence, with my Constitution and its Amendments, with MY Bill of Rights, with my judicial system, with my justice system, with the lacking justice system, with my right to dissent or disagree with whatever and whomever i may choose, with my passion, with my drive, with my burning sensation inside telling me to BE and DO rather than watch, with my freedom of speech, with my right to work, with my right to earn a living, with my right to choose my spouse…for better or worse, with my right to get rid of that spouse…who ended up for the worst, with my WWII memories, with my triumph over the British, French, Vietnamese, Russian, German, Japanese and soon to be Mexican…fuck all of you. With my right to visit Pearl Harbor, with my right to appreciate fallen soldiers, with my right to cry for those who have allowed me to be what I am today, with my right to fight for the AMERICAN freedom for others, with my right to fight for my family, with my right to fight for my country, with my right to accept my American government with its faults and horrible policy I may not always agree with, with my right to high five a congressperson on a job well done when earned, with my right to become and remain an American citizen, with my right to carry and honor my American flag with me always, with my right to cry during the singing of the National Anthem or America the Beautiful without being mocked by others, with my right to shiver at the sight of fireworks on the 4th of July, with my right to be. Me. An American citizen.

Whether you are for SB1070 or not, whether you are in agreement with Russell Pearce and Lindsay graham or not, one thing is certain- every last fucking one of the items listed above is worth fighting for, and earning. Tell me I’m wrong and I will verbally, physically and mentally punch you in the fucking mouth. To keep access to all of the aforementioned, I will fight in my country’s honor in whatever way it deems necessary. I’m not a soldier. I’m not in the military. But I’m a fucking American and these are the freedoms and rights I live for every single day. If someone told me I was going to have to fight a tough and lengthy battle to gain access to all of these things, I would do whatever it took without thinking twice. Why is it not the same for the rest of you? And if it is, high five. I applaud you.

For those of you who believe these things should be given to you simply because you’ve asked for them or because you are a human being…fuck yourself, and get the fuck out of my country.

This month marks the 3 year mark for my residence in Arizona. In July of 2007 I packed up a shitty little Toyota Corolla, which got something close to 168,343 miles per gallon, and left Spokane, WA with my girlfriend at the time, Satan, and $400 to my name. I had so few belongings that I couldn’t even halfway fill the Corolla. Sad, I know. Now, I move and it takes 2 twenty-six foot Uhaul trucks to hold all of my stuff (I’m a pack-rat and it’s my mother’s fault). Anyway, off we went. I figured it’d be more fun to drive and see a part of the country I had never seen. I apparently suck at figuring. I got sick on the way down, and the drive itself was miserable as Satan was more worried about the timing than the enjoyment of the road trip to Arizona. We passed by a lot of neat places, but didn’t stop at a single one. Awesome.

The farther south we got, the less green things became. I was used to Washington’s greenery, which is a dark and healthy green, everywhere. Not so much the case for Utah and Arizona. Still, devoid of greenery, both southern Utah and Northern Arizona had a lot of amazing scenery to enjoy. The whole drive down, all 239,723 hours, it seemed, I noted places that I wanted to go back to since they weren’t far from the Phoenix area. Three years later, I still haven’t made it to very many of those places. Actually, I haven’t made it to a single one. Being a grown up is a tough job, apparently. It takes responsibility and leaves me short on time to have fun. Peter Pan?

This past Saturday, a friend and I drove up to Willow Springs lake and Bear Canyon Lake to do some fishing. He’s from Washington as well, and can appreciate the need for time spent in the outdoors, away from obnoxious people who consume the greater Phoenix valley. We left at about 4am and made it there in about two and a half hours. It didn’t seem that long, and the cloudy sunrise was still pretty serene. Just a bit past Payson and right before Willow Springs, there was fog…actual fog! I hadn’t seen fog in who knows how long as it’s never cold or humid enough in the valley. It was oddly comforting to see. Willow Springs Lake itself was beautiful and surprisingly full for 6:30 in the morning. It was chilly, sunny, and extremely peaceful. I loved it.

After a few beers, a nap, and a few hours of watching one obnoxious dude catch a bunch of tiny fish while everyone else was 0-for, we decided to explore the rest of the area and headed toward Bear Canyon Lake. The only way to get there is a long and shitty dirt road, which was muddy due to the rain. Hello, Washington. The smell of rain and forrest was more than refreshing. I forgot how much I used to enjoy that smell. Actually, I forgot what it smelled like all together. It also made me realize that though Washington itself sucks balls overall, it is amazing as far as its outdoor activities and availabilities go. I missed it. Maybe only for a few hours. But I missed it all the same.

So thank you, Arizona, for bringing me back to Washington. That sentence made sense, shut up.