If you were a child in the mid 80s to mid 90s you probably played with or are familiar with Lincoln Logs and/or Leggos. As a kid in the 80s these toys were the building blocks to my life, paronomasia intended. Vocabulary THAT, diction. I used to sculpt all sorts of crazy tall buildings, spaceships and communities of full-on toy awesomeness. Looking back, as I’m old as fuck now, Lincoln Logs were a sort of limited fun as you could only build house-like things as the ‘log’ pieces were made in only a handful of sizes. Leggos allowed for more creativity as there are endlessly shaped pieces, sizes and colors. Inevitably found in both sets of toys were pieces that just wouldn’t fit, whether because the wood was defectively carved, or the Leggo piece didn’t fit with whatever it was I was trying to create. Turns out I was learning life lessons via toys at the early age of 7. Every piece does not always fit.

I remember one time my dad and I decided to use every Lincoln Log piece to build the largest, tallest and most awesome log castle every built in the history of mankind. We used the larger pieces to build the base of the wood castle and added on piece by piece to build upward. Obviously my G.I. Joes and dinosaurs would need a tall ceiling to fit them all in to keep safe from monsters, duh. We continued to build upward until we reached near the end with the tallest Lincoln Log castle I’d ever seen right before my eyes. The roof was constructed of yellow and green flat pieces, and of course being the architectural geniuses that we were we built the roof at an angled pitch. The roof was almost finished! But, so were the pieces…we were missing a few which made for a giant hole in the giant castle. It looked awkward and unprotected. Off to the side we had tossed a few pieces…some of the logs were broken, a few of them were chipped and wouldn’t mesh with the other logs. And a couple roof pieces were deformed, discolored or oblong. After what seemed like MINUTES of collaborating, dad and I finally decided we’d leave out the defective pieces entirely and construct the rest of the roof with pieces of cardboard. We had created the most perfect, makeshift Lincoln Log castle of all time, ever. And we did it by leaving out the useless pieces that would have otherwise ruined our project.

I was 7. This toy-adaptation meant nothing to me at the time, outside of the awe I was in after building the monstrosity. But, what I’ve realized recently is that all of the pieces do not always fit. Sometimes some are close to fitting but just need a few adjustments made. Some you can use for projects later on down the road. Some can be used as scrap pieces. And some are just never going to be useful to whatever projects you dream up. And that’s entirely okay.

Life is a giant, endless project and you are its architect. The universe has afforded you the parts and pieces and the directions are up to you to write. Or not. You can follow other’s direction, you can make up your own, or you can wing it and make-do with what you’ve got. Whether you use every single piece presented to you or throw out some hindering parts here and there, it’s still your life and you’re still in charge of keeping the project moving forward…with the help of a few brilliant toy architects along the way, of course. Your mind is brilliant, let it be. Don’t hinder it. Most often, if something or someone’s in your way, you’ll already know and already be thinking about how to construct your castle without using it. There’s no such thing as obstruction. Adapt, reconfigure and carry on, little builders. Your masterpieces are in the making.



A lot of my recent posts have been absolutely dreadful, not just in a literary sense, but their entertainment value as well. They’ve been angry gibberish composed of nothing but misery, frustration and pessimism. I’m done with that for awhile. Here’s why – I hit some level of rock-bottom recently and have been slowly fingernailing (it’s a real word) myself up my self-built walls of garbage. That little bit of positivity it took to do so has paid off, at least currently. The funny thing about hitting rock bottom is that it isn’t fucking funny at all, in any way, shape or form, assholes. It’s the anti-funny. That’s what’s funny about it. But, when you’re there, you gain a different perspective, one that only has two directions – fall further and indefinitely, or, climb the fuck back up toward positivity. I did. And throwing out just a little bit of said positivity out into the Universe has landed me a bone, a metaphorical ‘it’s-going-to-be-fine-you-miserable-idiot’.

If there’s any credit to be given to myself it’s that my passion outweighs every last thing collaborating me. Turns out I’m more passion about life than I thought. Even when I’m genuinely miserable, I still love my life and the little that I have. I started to appreciate that a little more recently because, well, I didn’t really have much else to do. Just throwing out that positivity to the Universe has made a world of difference, ironically. I landed a new job that will save all of my financial issues. I’ve become a lot more content with being content, rather than reaching toward goals that aren’t realistic. I’ve also recently met people that have given my darkness a forever lit candle. Also, that’s the lamest line I’ve ever typed in my life. Ever. Don’t judge me. But seriously, met a lot of good people recently. One in particular has made me realize that life really isn’t as bad as I sometimes allow myself to think it is. Or, maybe this person just makes the shitty times worth trudging through with said person’s company along the way. I don’t know. What I do know, is that I’m happy. And even if this person is a temporary placement sent to me by some higher power or the Universe itself, it’s been reiterated, as it has time and time again, that everything happens for a reason. Maybe this person was supposed to meet me at this point in my life, the lowest I’ve ever been, simply to give me a reason to pick myself the fuck back up and kick life in the fucking teeth. And I have. And I will. Regardless what happens with this person, I’ve regained energy and a commitment to myself to STAY FUCKING HAPPY.

Don’t confuse yourselves, though. In no way am I saying that this person is my savior and I’m picking myself back up from depression because of said person. That, in and of itself, would make me weak and would negate everything I’ve just typed. I’m simply saying that 1) this person is fucking amazing, and 2) I wholeheartedly believe that this person and I were meant to meet exactly at this point in my life for a specific reason. And I’ll tell you, Universe, I’m thankful and will not let a good opportunity go to waste.

Foreward, backward.

Posted: September 13, 2013 in Insight


Recently I’ve been looking back on a lot of decisions I’ve made that have lead me to my current state; whilst revisiting said decisions I came across the above linked post. It was written at an entirely different time in my life when I still had some sort of drive, some sort of fire that motivated me to be passionate, to hone passion. I’ve lost that. I’m not sure how or when or where or why. What I do know is that I want it back. I need it back.

I won’t make this a long post. This post isn’t for you. It isn’t for leisure. It isn’t for motivation. It isn’t for entertainment. It isn’t for reminiscing. It’s simply a reminder to myself that at one point not long ago, I lived passion. I miss it. And I don’t care what it takes to get it back, I will. Life’s thrown me a lot of bones lately and rather than bitching and moaning about why I’m not filled with passionate positivity as I once was, I’m simply going to thank the universe for opportunity and hone the fuck out of it. It starts here: appreciation for what I do have, rather than what I do not.

I bid you all adieu, as I’m going to go appreciate my mess of a life that should never be mistaken as anything less than a continuous gift.

Guilt? No, Thanks.

Posted: August 21, 2013 in Rants
Tags: , ,

Fuck guilt. After my post yesterday I received a lot of attention that wasn’t intentionally elicited. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. People care. Here’s the thing, though, and this is almost entirely an internally caused issue: I feel guilty. I felt guilty the second I woke up this morning and right now as I type out this babble.

Last night as I opened doors to dark rooms that are generally intended to stay shut, I was drunk. Drank through the entire post. Drank a couple hours beforehand. And drank for another couple hours afterward. I’m a lightweight and it was the first time drinking in quite some time. Needless to say I was fucked up and though I’m honest in general, alcohol coerces a little more out of me. I’m not saying that I regret what I typed because I was drunk and incoherent. I’m saying that drunk or not I needed to get that shit out, not just for me but for other people to read as well. It’s OK to be fucked up. It’s OK to have problems. It’s OK not to know how to handle them. And it’s OK to depose those problems openly. It’s not for everyone but it helps me. And it helped last night.

Based on responses I received I know that there are people close to me who view me differently, or, worse, will never view me as anything again as they’ve decided to use posts like last night’s as validation for staying clear of me. Good riddance. And for those of you who are unsure how to handle me or think you should tread with caution because I’m unstable, I’m not, and you need not. Not anymore so than before, anyway. I’ve been the same internally miserable person for the better part of thirty years, and no matter what I’ve done to try to change it or how happy I’ve made myself seem, it doesn’t change. It hasn’t yet. I don’t know what to tell you. BUT, here’s something…if you’re reading this trying to figure out how to help as opposed to just simply trying to help, maybe our relationship isn’t what you thought to begin with. If I had people I thought I could depend on or get help from, I’d be doing that, not typing out my mess of a life to WordPress. I don’t mean this to be a passive aggressive way to exclaim my frustration with you, but the reality is that there are so few people I CAN count on that this post speaks to a far greater majority. I believe in accountability, too. That said, I could be reaching out asking for help, and I don’t and that’s on me. Maybe I don’t have the energy to. Maybe I don’t know how to. Maybe I don’t want to because I don’t think anyone gives enough of a shit to help to begin with. Or, maybe I’m just embarrassed.

Regarding all of the above, previous post included, I do not feel guilty. And I won’t. Guilt would push me over the fucking edge.

Can you guess how my day was?! Fuck you.

To say that my life has been a bi-polar roller coaster on unstable tracks would be a severe understatement. This makes me no different than any of you. Everyone’s life has its ups and downs, generally more ups than downs. I’m not here to give my sob story or to attract pity or attention, rather, to detail every awesomely miserable occurrence that has happened and will continue to happen sporadically for the rest of my life. I’m not a doctor or psychologist or even so much as someone well informed on life’s lessons – I’m here to trudge through the shit with you. I’m angry. I’m stressed. I’m miserable. I’m depressed. And I’ve even contemplated suicide. I’m there now, in fact. I’m not a ‘cry-for-help’ kind of person, so keep in mind that every bit of this insight will be typed with a cringe and blushed cheeks throughout. Speaking to in-person crowds nets a fraction of the multitude online mediums such as this reach. Also, I can hide behind my words until I’m comfortable enough detailing my fuck ups to the point of making a daily video log rather than this blog. The point is, I’m not only here with you, but someone whose aesthetic appearance would connote one whose life is “together.” Shit happens to everyone – good looking, wealthy, charismatic, whatever – we’re all at the mercy of the human condition. I’m simply a regular dude going through the same life struggles each of you are, and I’m going to get through every last bit of it with you, for you, because of you.

I moved to Arizona 6 years ago almost to the date – August 8th. I said almost, nit picky fucks. When I made the move, it was to be with my then girlfriend, Satan, and to better myself by going to Arizona State University and eventually law school. Also, the town I grew up in had no opportunities for me and the ones I did have I had either fucked up or capitalized on. For a thousand different reasons, it was time for me to move on from Washington. So I did. The girl and I had been together for quite some time, though we had never lived together. We were perfect then. We got along beautifully, never fought, had just the right amount of interests to get along and still grow with each other. Fuck that noise. It took 2 months of living together to tear that house of cards down. So here I was, a new state, nowhere to go and I knew no one. I decided I’d stay. I couldn’t go back home with my tail between my legs, broadcasting that I had failed miserably. So I made a life for myself here. At the time and ever since, I tell people that the reason for the move was school and the girl. And it was, to some degree. The main reason, though, was because as an idiot teenager/young twenty-something I earned a criminal background for myself. Awesome, Ross! Fucking idiot. Being a felon at the age of twenty meant a lot of things were going to change – mainly, my demographic. I’ll fill you in on those specifics at a later date.

Common lie #1: I didn’t move to Arizona just for the girlfriend and school. I moved to Arizona to escape my criminal background and start fresh.

So here I am. A felon, in a new state, with no girlfriend, no friends, no money, and no hope. I wanted to crawl in a hold and die, but I persevered. I owe that in its entirety to my sister who was my rod and staff at the time. And still is. Why is this important to you or this blog, you ask? First, don’t ask questions yet, asshole. Second, it’s important because life itself is already tough, add a criminal background to that shit and see how easy it is to find a place to live, to get a job, to get people to trust you. I might not go through the same exact struggles each of you go through, but given mine, I can relate. That, is my point.

The journey onward. Fragment. Bite me. After the ex and I broke up I had nowhere to go, so I decided that Craigslist would be my best bet for finding something cheap, quickly. Sure enough, I found a room for rent for piddly in a house with a pool and 3 other roommates. Awesome, I thought! New friends potentially! I moved in 2 days later and immediately made friends with the dude in the room next to me. He was a quiet guy but I could tell he was unhappy in general. I know this because he said so, often. I’m a regular detective. Tommy Nine used to talk to me constantly about his ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, along with the myriad of other reasons why he was miserable. He opened up to me a lot, actually, telling me about seeing a shrink to help his depression, taking numerous pills to try to feel some semblance of stability. I came home from work one day to Tom crying, so I cracked open a beer and he and I sat outside talking about why he had bought a gun. He told me he bought it just to feel like there was a way out, but that he’d never actually use it. I told him I’d hang on to it if that were true, so he’d still know it was there, but of course never be able to get his hands on it. He refused. Long, sad story short – I came home from work about a week later to the house smelling like hot garbage. We live in Arizona and it was summer, mind you, so the hot garbage smell was common, especially in a house full of single bachelors. I paid no mind to it, walked to my room and started packing as I was headed to the airport to fly back to Washington for a weekend visit. As I continued packing I realized that the smell was far more toxic toward my room and was getting worse. I called the other roommates and asked if they’d noticed the smell, none of them had. You know how you’re busy doing something and suddenly something just hits you and everything makes complete sense? That happened. At that moment I realized that there was a package outside Tom’s door that I had set out there 2 days prior. This meant he hadn’t left his room in 2 days. I knew what had happened, and my heart sank to depths it has never returned from. After building up the courage I opened the door to see Tom on his bed, his head a mess, and blood splattered all over his wall and a shotgun in his arm resting next to him looking guilt-free and accomplished. Unless you’ve seen something similar you will never understand that feeling. I’m not even going to try to describe it. I felt responsible. I felt angry. I felt sad. I bawled like a little girl for him, not for myself. After hours and hours of replaying the past few weeks over and over in my head I had another epiphany – one that I wish I hadn’t. A couple days prior to finding him in his room, I was in the shower getting ready for work and I heard a loud bang; it sounded like someone threw a bowling ball against the wall. I paid no attention to it then, but days later realized that I heard the actual shot. I’ve never told a single person this. You, readers, are the very first and I’ll tell you, I thought it’d be a lot more liberating. It isn’t. At all.

Common lie #2: I heard the shot.

After ten minutes of reading you now know more about me than most people I’ve known for years. I’m going to continue tomorrow, hopefully on a lighter note, but I’m basically just winging it so who knows. I’ll leave you with this, though: grasp onto anyfuckingthing that makes you feel sane. I don’t care what or whom it is. Grab it. Hold it. Squeeze the fuck out of it. Suffocate it like it’s your lifeblood. For me, music and writing are these safety nets. Do whatever you have to. Clearly I understand that life is a difficult journey, but I’m telling you now and I’ll tell you years from now – it gets better. Slowly but surely. And after it gets better it gets worse. It’s a back and forth cycle that will make you feel crazy but stick with me. Mainly because I need you, but also because you’re still reading this for a reason. Read more tomorrow. I’ll be here. And the day after.

Ignore the shitty quality. Pay attention to the song.

For Naught.

Posted: April 17, 2013 in Rants
Tags: ,

I came to my blog with the sole intent to write out something angry and obscene. To say I had a shitfucker of a day would be a massive understatement. Amidst my car trying to fall apart, expensively, a myriad of ungrateful and difficult clients, a job I fucking loathe, a phone book full of sexcapade memoirs but no solace, and a small circle of friends occupied with their own shit and nowhere to be found, ever, I found myself home, alone, drunk and fucking mad. This is pretty commonplace lately. In fact, I don’t really know much else outside said parameters.

I spend my day exhausting every bit of strength and compassion I have to help others. I work tenfold harder than everyone around me. I sleep less. I concentrate more. I engage passionately. I push. I fight. I struggle. I bicker. I rebuttal. I overcome. I fail. I lapse. And relapse. I scream. I cry. I bottle. I vent. I hide. I lie. I run. I face. And I do it all over, every single fucking day. Sounds pretty miserable, right? For the most part it is. But tonight, while I sit at my desk trying to come up with some witty and upbeat spin on my depressing day, I looked up from my screen to see a bright-eyed, oblivious, puppyface waiting for me to pay attention. An hour and a half ago I told him to “go get it! Go find it!” Reagan knows this is code for “there’s a treat hidden somewhere close!” Today, there wasn’t. I just wanted to be alone with my words. My dog, unaffected by my brushoff, had other plans in mind.

At this very second he’s still poking his nose into every corner of my room trying to find a treat. He knows I haven’t left. He knows I didn’t come in here with a treat. He knows he hasn’t smelled a treat. Yet, he still searches. Is he stupid? Naive? Confined to his dog brain capacity? Maybe all of the above. I’d like to believe, however, that it’s some degree of fortitude I lack. Every day I’m forced with a task or series of tasks that I think are greater than me. Most often, they win. Had I the same oblivious fortitude my dog possesses, I might succeed, or at least have the potential to, rather than writing off any possible success. The dude has no defeat. If it takes him all fucking night he’s going to find that treat.

I’m not sure where my treat is, or who hid it, or why the fuck they’d hide it where I wouldn’t find it. But, I will never stop searching. Ever.


Saturday, 1:27am.

Posted: November 25, 2012 in Insight
Tags: , ,

After staring at this impatient screen and slapping hundreds of keys for the past two hours, this barren eraser of a line is what I’ve got to show for it. Fuck my life. Fuck my Saturday night. Fuck yours, too. IF you’re awake and reading this you’re sure to find a reason to forfeit your evening and cuddle your pillow like it’s your life’s solace.

The past few months have given me enough hardship to write a lifetime’s worth of material, yet I’ve written nothing. Why? My laptop’s keyboard haunts my anxiety like a first-time blind date. I approach it optimistic and open-minded with a child’s naive excitement. But, when my time here has expired I leave empty, unamused, uninspired and exhausted – throwing my dignity to an ex’s memory. Better times were had. Greater ideas were cultivated. All I want to do is text someone with an endless amount of shit to talk about the waste of a night. I’ll spare you all the dread of an aging bachelor’s memoir in progress.

Substance. The word is hardly a noteworthy wing-man to the garbage that dilutes the bane of our existence to an even lesser point. For me, though, it’s Atlantis. It’s my Ark of the Covenant. My white unicorn. I search. I yearn. I dedicate. I exhaust. I fold. I regain my wits. I search, endlessly.


Let me tell you where I think substance is NOT found – substance is not found in the expectations of others. It isn’t found in the unfortunate plight of those less hopeful or less ambitious. It isn’t found by curbing your individuality. It isn’t found by trading your niche for popularity. It isn’t found in the depths of past minds trapped in commercialization of brilliance. It isn’t found in a lot of places that I’m too lazy to type out. You get the point. I don’t know where substance is found in endless amounts. If I did, this post wouldn’t exist. This blog wouldn’t exist. My thoughts wouldn’t exist, they wouldn’t need to. I’d let my well of substance do my thinking for me. Hello, slippery slope.

If you’re waiting for a brilliant ending, stop. There isn’t one. That, kids, is my point – substance has to be found in small doses, otherwise you become the disease that eats it away, creative bit by creative bit. Genius and humility are the necessary ingredients, but finding the perfect mix will be found on a case-by-case basis. It just happens to be that most of you fuck it up. I do. I add a bit of pomp and bitterness and stir it with aggression and impatience. My life is the mess that it creates. The amount of meaningful substance in my life is at a minimal amount, at best. And that is why I’m sitting in front of my laptop’s inviting glow on a Saturday night at 1:27am.

I’m not generally a sappy guy, though I love the fuck out of chick flicks. I’m not generally one to open my heart and let the world in, unprotected, though it’s what I’m the most careless with. I’m not one to tell others how to live, though I will voice my opinion loudly, often, and convincingly. I am generally none of these things. That said, I will probably not live by the following words, nor will I force them upon deaf ears or impervious hearts. I won’t rant and rave about how it should be or could be. I also won’t overlook any of the following as it is a road map for extreme ups and downs, with a level of depth and fulfillment I’ve not yet reached. At the end of this blog and at the end of the day, they’re just a collaboration of words. You decide what to do with them.

It is said that, far too often, “love” is used with an emptiness and meaningless that deteriorates its essence. It should only be used when absolutely certain of its breadth. Falling in love should be a once-in-a-lifetime feeling and you will know, with absolute certainty, that it is right and true. It’s been said that there is only one true love for each of us.
I say, fuck that.
I say, those words are vomited from the mouths of the soulless and blind – they are spoken with a lacking vindication of a past lover who left them for someone better, or worse; no matter, either way.
What matters, is that those words are themselves meaningless, false, and uncertain.

I say, love as many things as you possibly fucking can.
I mean, everything.
Love them often and with an uncertain certainty.
Or a certain uncertainty.
Love them wholly and unconditionally.
Love their error and flaws.
Love their beauty and awes.
Love everything you fucking see – animate, inanimate, the empirical and non-empirical.
Tangibility is worthless to the dynamic of love.
Love partially, fully, haphazardly and completely.
Love like it’s synonymous with breathing.
Love ugly trees like you love puppy breath.
Love interesting ugly people like you love aesthetically pleasing and boring people.
Love monsters and ghosts.
Love video games at 4am.
Love the smell of rain on pine trees in the fall.
Love chameleon’s creepy multi-directional eyeballs.
Love Fran Drescher’s voice because it’s unique.
Love Carrot Top, no matter how fucking ugly he is.
Love like music is the only form of communication.
Love comedians who aren’t funny.
Love fifteen minute lines at Starbucks at 7am.
Love religions that are nonsensical.
Love house arrest.
Love obnoxious bugs like they’re each one of your favorite songs.
Love sunrises and sunsets as you will never see one exactly the same, at that exact same time.
Love onions like those tears are for life’s lost and life’s birthed.
Love Ronald Reagan because he was the greatest president ever, and because I do.
Love people who talk to themselves as you pass. Their stories are probably more interesting than any other you’ll hear throughout your day.
Love walking.
Love rain clouds that look like angry dinosaurs.
Love the fact that there are 984,432,356,774,109,762,239,074,245,974,453,223,349,952,119,904 things in your state alone, to love.
Love obnoxious neighbors who ask obnoxious favors at inopportune times.
Love unwaveringly.
Love unabashedly.
Love without wit.
Love without instinct.
Love blindly with your 20/20 hindsight covered up.
Love knowing you’ll regret it.
Love without regret.
Love like you fucking mean it.
Love like you FUCKING mean it.
Love like you have absolutely no idea how to.
Love like you have no idea what it means to love.
Love with the mindset of a 5 year old.
Love your in-laws.
Love with your passion integrated.
Congregate love.
Love every last fucking thing you come across and look stupid doing it.
Love awkwardly.
Love with a calculation that equates to your heart being smashed inside out.
Love the idea of government rather than hating the reality of it.
Love like you have no obligations, to anyone, ever again.
Love like money does not exist.
Love like eyesight has never existed.
Love like you don’t understand any other feeling.
Love like you don’t know how to do anything else.
Love like you’ll never get the opportunity to again.
Love like no one else knows what or whom you love, or why or when or how.
Love like you’re the only human being in the universe.

All of this sounds cliche and sappy and redundant. Fuck you. It isn’t. I’ve spent the better part of 29 years sheltering myself from love as I thought it would leave me vulnerable and open to hurt. And it’s true, it does, and did. So what. So fucking what? I want that now. All of it. The pain, the let down, the struggle, and the ability to love every last fucking thing I come in contact with, unabashedly and worry free. I ventured to a city I knew I’d like and fell 10 steps further…I fell in love with it. I once bought a car I thought I might not be able to afford. I fell in love with it. I once bought a dog so it could be my protector, my guard dog. I fell in love with him. I once moved away from my family and everything I had grown up with. I fell in love with all of them a little bit more. I once had sex with a girl I hadn’t known for more than a night. I fell in love with her. And I meant it. I once fished a lake that ate up yards and yards of fishing line and countless lures. I fell in love with it. I once fought a kid while playing hockey because he ‘looked at me wrong.’ I loved him after I punched his face in. I once got beat up by someone two feet shorter than me. I loved him afterward. I once crashed while riding a bike – my first bike – my knees skinned, my optimism curbed. I later fell in love with that bike. I once voted for a governor that shat on my liberties, over and over again. I loved that governor, even afterward. I once jumped off a bridge and into the lake 50 feet below, just for the thrill. I loved that jump, after I pissed myself. I once found out Santa wasn’t real. I still love Santa, to this day. A hundred different times, I gave my heart to a girl who in return, threw it back at me, bruised and broken. I loved every single one of them.

I love the sound of the keys being slapped on my laptop. I love that technology allows me to spew my words from my fingertips. I love that I don’t have to be ashamed about a single word written. I love that I love each and every last fucking one of you. I love everything. I love, often.

I’ve found deep disinterest amongst the farthest reaches of normalcy,
time and time again.
Disinterest bequeathed to me disdain.
To seek an aberrant path:
I am obligated to toe the boundaries of edginess with slippery shoes.
I will not concede to social acceptance
as social acceptance would shun my ambiguous normalcy anyway.
I will argue commonality until I can no longer decipher commonality.

My zen has no standard.
No label.
No grouping.
No clique.
No definition.

To hone indifference is to hone unfamiliar excitement.
The ordinary will be defied.
My labyrinth of atypical direction is not a labyrinth at all,
Rather, a map to my hone personal freedoms. Plural.
Unconventional will not exist without the conventional.
Abnormality and peculiarity are the fabrics I will weave with.
Deviation from your path will be my path,
not a recognized deviation at all.
My aberrance from normalcy will constitute a unique me.
A better me.
A rounded me.
A progressing me.
An experienced me.
An odd and awkward me.
My lack of, is me.
Oddity’s periphery will become a spec in my rear view mirror.

All of this is long overdue. And since it’s long overdue, you’re going to get a whole bunch of shit thrown at you all at once. You can handle it, I’m sure. You’re grown ups, right?

Let’s talk about being a grown up. Not grown up in the it’s-time-to-stop-playing-video-games-and-eating-ice cream-for-dinner kind of way. Rather, in the grow-the-fuck-up-and-take-accountability kind of way. For most, the latter is intrinsic. You don’t have to talk yourself into taking responsibility for yourself and what you say and do and think. For others, it’s a misnomer of detrimental proportions. As you read this, I’m sure you can think of a few people that are the epitome of said misnomer. They’re the people who, no matter what the scenario, immediately direct fault to anyone and everything but themselves. I’m going to tell you in advance that I’m a hypocrite and guilty of most of what I’m about to piss on. BUT, that won’t stop me from doing it anyway, because I still lack responsibility. I haven’t mastered The Grown Up Game.

Trayvon Martin. Just typing that name makes my blood boil. Though the mess of media over Trayvon has died down somewhat, I haven’t chimed in with my two cents. So here it is: If I read or hear one more fucking thing about the Trayvon Martin murder being a racial issue, I’m going to punch a baby kitten square in the eyeball. Whether or not Zimmerman killed Martin out of some weirdo racial prejudice is not my concern. My concern, grown ups, is the massive projection of racial prejudice America has been consumed with since – hook, line, sinker. Y’all swallowed that pill whole and in a hurry. Why? Why does it have to be a racial issue? Why is the murder of a black kid immediately projected as a racially motivated murder? Pretty sure Zimmerman is Hispanic-American, no? Why is no one turning it the other way around, assuming Hispanic-Americans are terrible people because they’re all murderers? Oh, because it was only one instance that happened to get media priority and Al Sharpton all over it? This is simple logic, fucking twits – if one is true, the other must be, too. If Zimmerman murdered Trayvon Martin out of hatred for black people, it’s also true that Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin because all Hispanic-Americans are racial murderers. Do you see the disconnect? Where does responsibility fit into this fucked up equation, you ask? The very beginning. That’s where it fits. Because fucking Al Sharpton says it was a racially motivated murder does not, in fact, make it a racially motivated murder. If Al Sharpton had said Zimmerman was attacked by Trayvon Martin and defended himself to the letter of the law, would the mass following be the same? No. Responsibility. Your responsibility as a grown up, as a human being with a working brain, is to decide shit for yourself, not because someone else says it’s true. How many of the idiots demanding Zimmerman’s head did that? Maybe a few. But the majority sure as shit did not. Lacking responsibility. Get off the fucking bandwagons and think for yourselves.

Trayvon Martin is old new. Let’s discuss upcoming news. How about the 2012 elections? Politics will not change much in a given lifetime. The right will piss on the left, and the left will piss on the right. And the middle becomes the red-headed stepchild who no one pays enough attention to. There will be bickering, arguing, low blows, empty promises and brilliant speeches. The same will follow in November. Here’s where responsibility comes into play – you. You don’t get to sit on your couch and bitch and moan about everyone and everything until YOU yourself have, intelligently decided what you think and given it a validation. You don’t get to vote for one side or the other because your friend is doing so, or because CNN or Fox had a more riveting dissertation of a candidate or incumbent. None of that means shit. If you want your decisions regurgitated from someone else’s mouth the Obama campaign is happy to take you in. This isn’t just a rant about Obama and the left, though. This applies to you, too, right wingers and independents. If I ask you why you’re voting for a given candidate, you better have a good goddamn reason with validation. And if not, that’s fine. That simply means YOU DON’T GET TO FUCKING VOTE. At that point, you’re not helping anything, you’re hurting the system, your family, your country, and yourself. If you were betting on the NCAA Final Four, would you throw $1,000,000 on a team that a random stranger said might win? Fuck no you wouldn’t. Why are politics any different? They aren’t.

I’m over excuses. Everyone’s got an opinion and an excuse, but never an answer to themselves. The Trayvon Martin murder is just one example of that. There are thousands more that I don’t have time to bitch about…Mainly because I’m too busy pointing my finger at myself, trying to figure out what I think and why, for myself. For self-betterment. For a lack of an excuse for an excuse. Save the fucking excuses. Subscribe to The Grown Up Game. Take responsibility. Take accountability. Or shut the fuck up.