It's tough being...

9:53 p.m.: I have been awake since eight o'clock yesterday morning. As a recent college graduate I find myself in a spinning world of sorts. Left in an economy run by the next "biggest loser" (and I don't mean of any weight) I have no career, money, food, or means to change it. When I am not pounding magic into the ground of Anaheim I am usually found here, living in my parents house on the brink of insanity attempting to find that direction we were pushed out of college's safe-house and in to.

I realized how depressing it was when I could not fall asleep for a 5 a.m wake up.

My small excuse for living quarters is a scene directly out of the hoarding closet of Sherlock Holmes. Clothes, clean and dirty, are placed in their respective places among a chest and some closet space. I have books on three masses of shelving that I wouldn't even dare to count, most of them open to recent readings. Others sit on lay away if I need a good pick-me-up. Those books I usually keep close to the whiskey.

I have become obsessed with the coming of Fall. I blame this obsession on the boredom and depravity of action my life has collected. It also takes my mind off of the constant strain of attempting to organize my thoughts into enough plotted paragraphs that any half-wit, tan model would even be interested in reading. Now that I mention that, better shoot for at least sorority girls, their vocabulary and ability to retain information stands a tidge higher.

Anyway, between thinking about fall fashion and dreading my awaited work day I missed sleep all together. Instead I found myself slapped together at 5:15 with a scruffed side braid and a wrinkled uniform as I tried to make sense of the bagel and tofu-cream coming together to form breakfast.

My job comes hard enough when I am well rested and fed, let alone sleep deprived, bitter and in no mood to answer room 5423's complaint of there not being scented soap to freshen up with.

So I sat, in my brown cubicle waiting for the glamorous to awaken and cause my blackberry to scream with their inept demands and idiotic questioning. My coworkers, as usual, filled the room with their oddities and gossip, things I stopped attempting to befriend months ago. I sat there for nine hours journaling the random babble throughout my day in hopes of one day turning it all into a comedy the rest of the world can laugh with me at.

Until that day it is but me alone to suffer.

How is it people find fame? they are born with it, get naked for it, sell themselves for it, and on that rare occasion are discovered for it. Well since I have some form of intellect and dignity in the world I shall wait for the latter of the four.

For now I shall read a book, maybe watch a show and contemplate life as I most always do until I fall asleep and escape for a time being.

It'snow 10:18 p.m.

Pour myself a drink.


Lay my head in a book.


And think.

Rejecting Propriety

I had this imagination as a kid. Actually, many would say I still have it today, but a lot has changed in my elusive phenomena since the blissful days of youth. My imagination has become overrun with thoughts, no not thoughts, worries. I once to let my mind take me where it lead, never questioning or doubting anything I wrote or spoke. But as money became the parliament of my existence; bills, loans, even gas prices made work the main attraction of my spinning creative world. I pushed aside the stories and opinions that made my passions fun, I stopped writing.

About a month ago, a friend of mine made time out of his equally work-driven life to share a cup of coffee and toss around musings. As we conversed, the conversation itself began to spark a light in my self that had been dormant for so long. I realized as I indulged in my opinions and stories, that I felt no stress and for once contentment. He scolded me for neglecting my blog, for working too much, and for not being my smart-ass self. As simple and irrelevant as that sounds, the truth is my bitter work life had snuffed me out. I stopped being a smart, creative, ass; showing the harsh reality and mishaps of life to the faces of whomever I met.

I haven't felt like my light and adventurous self in months. As I approach a year of not doing anything for myself I am ashamed at where I have let my creativity go to; school/my work and the abuse it sucked from me. Battling with the future, I refuse to do it anymore. I am not going to live or write for the corporate scum of our country. Little by little I will fill the pages of that Fleetwood Mac covered journal he gave me, and I will dissect every charachter and plot line that has been racing in my head for years.

stop worrying where to start, whom will care, will I fail or will I ever get everything settled into the perfect paragraph? who would read my stories? why do I even try? I'll never be as great as the literary heroes, what story to tell first?

Just begin.

AA: Albatross' Antics

I have a problem with anger.

I tend to observe the world around me and quickly become unamused with their pitiful antics and dramatic trifles. I developed this problem at a young age and have carried it like a disease for years. I don't think my close relationship with the sarcastic life lessons of Samuel Clemens aids either.

Opening scene, my first grade class, consisting of a small collection of fairy tail and Dr. Seuss books on a red shelf in the corner and roughly fifteen snot-nosed, raggedy children on stools with crayons. We were about to take a test on biology and some of the children misrepresented an albatross during class time. I being the little wealth of knowledge I had taught myself to become, was quick to offer my help and quickly give my friends the answer before the teacher, Ms. Agulair a lovely stout lady who always smelt of cinnamon with loose dark curls, called upon them. Instead of listening to me, a child obsessed with discovery channel and books who wanted to help my friends, I lost my lunch group and had to sit alone for the remainder of the year, reading books and talking to myself.

It seemed this moment would forever curse me. I never was able to stop learning and had a bad habit of thrusting in pockets of educated conversation in to deliberations among friends. I do admit, there are times when I come off as a 'smart-ass' to people who don't want to take the time to know me. Crash the gavel down and judge me, I'm human.

But was that really all that bad?

Apparently so.

For this lack of sympathy for the individuals of this world who choose to neglect their conscious mind/right thought and instead take up the passions of ridicule and infliction of pain upon others, has made me, for lack of a better phrase, over the bull-shit.

You may wonder how I got through dredging years of school? so do I.

However, I do have, in a way, learned to cope with this fault of mine. I work daily on trying diminish it with pleasant thoughts and CNN, but when it seems to be all but gone, it flares back up on me like a case of herpes.

So here I sit, with my angerpes and a voice that sounds faintly of yoda telling me to not go to the dark side.

May I ask why is it the dark side is so good? It is much easier to hate and cut people down with my light saber of words then search my feelings and repair the galaxy with the force of compliments and understanding.

The dark side: hate+frustration= bigger base and cooler weapons.

How will I ever defeat it?

There is no local Mount Doom where I can dump this ring of an error into and simply be; a free little person who gallivants among rolling hills smoking pipe weed and eating delicious meats.

Another thing I hate, meat.

Hate.

I've tossed the thought of moving to a distant land, maybe a change of scenery would do me good. But, I have done this all before and wind up back in the sand pit I started in. Of course there is the possibility it would look as if I was running from something. I don't run, and I am not wrong. There goes that option for now.

Back to reality.

The color black, although slimming, is not one of my favorite colors so therefore there is no way I could really be part of the dark side. I like to make a statement with clothing and frankly, Sidious would have no apprentice with coral TOMS and flowered shorts serving him.

It looks like I'll have to suck air and deal with the ignorant fools of the world.

Write a book.

Become famous.

Poof.

There it is, a solution.

On to the issue of organizing characters and a plot line.

Becoming famous; staying average.

The world is a stage.

How many times have we heard that and just allowed it to pass by? Just another repeated saying, added to the countless familiar lines that collect like dust in our cerebral cortex. But, has any one actually sat down to think about that phrase?

It is a cold and wet Wednesday evening in Covina California. I sit in a wobbly wooden chair across from my brother, who is buried in an engineering manual, in an over cramped Starbucks. Nestled next to the pick up window at the bar, constant yelling and conversation has about given me a migraine. Not to mention, I just had the absolute "privilege" of applying for jobs online; my attempt at getting ahead of the college graduate game. My wallet is near empty, the bills relentlessly continue to poor into my life, my return to work status hangs in limbo and schoolwork exceeds the hours available in the day. Sounds about right for senior year.

Now, if I was famous this all would be just part of some social comedy I am portraying a character in. If only that were true.

I'd say, for the average human being, my life is pretty UN-average. My family ceases to surprise me with their antics and harsh relation to psychotic television series. Compared to most, I would say everyday relates back to some movie or show I have seen, but it is reality. Reality that I endure everyday and am not being paid for. It is as if "please vent to me" is illuminated on my forehead and because of this "gift" many strangers incorporate my opinion into their 'oh so special' lives. These and many more pride reverting incidents happen to me regularly, those who know my life can account for this. If the world is a stage and I am an actor within it where is my glory?

Now, I have considered blogging about my encounters, going to casting calls or contacting some form of media for screen writing opportunities. But if I am having a hard time getting media to get back to me for a job, I don't think a new t.v. show in which I am the star would be accepted too easily.

Therefore hello world, I am playing in your net of uncertainty and constant hilarity. I accept your adventures whether joyous or painstaking; let the games begin.

I put on one of my various roles and walk out the door of "opportunity."

The things I accomplish in Starbucks.

Muling over Secrets

It is quiet for now. The classes upstairs have not yet been dismissed from their morning lectures and early arrived athletes scurry in for a quick meal before the rush.

The mediocre cup of coffee tastes burnt with neglect. There is no warmth from the condensed and formed paper that can take the chill out of this room. Perhaps it is the four set of doors in the small space, opening and closing every five minutes that makes her shiver. But, deeper she fears it is more than a wind chill.

She sits alone.

Images of tiny feet flash through her mind. Clenching her stomach, unsettling nerves bring back the nauseous feelings. He would not understand if he knew the pain. Brushing it aside and blaming it on stress and over thinking the final year of college.

Someone yells.

A stampede of footsteps echo throughout the cramped cafe. Her mind struggles, jumping from loud, overbearing conversations centered around nonsense, and the small worry eating away at her soul.

Why is it the older some people get, the more they resort to immaturity and dramatic affairs of youth?

Deep breathes, don't stop.

A psychology book to ease away from the focused thought of "her problem." But, what if? Would he leave her without even looking back? Then again, secrets always saved the relationships of her past.

But to lie?

The clinic should be open this afternoon. A crashing tray of eggs snaps her back. He'll never have to know. "I am the only one who can take care of me," she whispers. Throwing the book and other belongings into her bag she rushes to class.

The cafe is teaming with hungry college students. The door fly's open and she is gone.

reversing time

The walkway was long and overgrown with the ferns and new sprouts of the past summer. Chestnuts were starting to pop up on the cluster of trees by the broken fence which divides the corn field from papas yard. Papa would give us 10 cents a nut if we could pick them up, in the end he always paid more than he should. I can remember the smell of burning wood in the evening as my father disposed of the recent trimmings from the oaks. The sky would fade from its vibrant day blue into hues of purple and gold. An autumn wind blew a slight chill through the air as I walked up the steep steps of the backdoor, and rushing into the kitchen, felt my skin prickle with the combination of night air and heat from the oven. The smells were always enticing; of pies, polish dishes, and anything nana could get her hands onto. And there she was, stirring the potatoes as they boiled for supper, gliding between the oven and table where she whistled and prepared the evenings meal. The house always smelt faintly of pie, I never could put my finger on it. Everyone would always cheerfully congregate around the table to tell stories and feast, there never seemed to be a care in the world.

What happened in the elven years between blissfulness and chaotic depression? How did the world start to feel as if were slipping through clenched fists and the social norm became the depravity of existence? Independence replaced imagination and life began to attack an unarmed child who lacked the basic training of worldly politics. To once again run without worrying if it is the right way, or care not of the thoughts and feelings of others. That would be life. Instead, it feels as if each day takes a bit of the child who once ruled the kingdom of my mind and replaces it with a bitter king, too old and tired to rekindle the past. Breathing without feeling like an anvil is on my chest. The adventurer in me wants to say the answer is just around the bend, to hold it out for a few more moments and there, the promise land will be nestled in the future.

Just around the bend. To be young again. To close my eyes and just be.

I was walking back from the meadow at the bottom of the grassy lane. Back to the pink and white house on township line. Leaves in my hair and a slingshot in hand. It is about supper time. I open the back door and I'm home.

Settling in the dark

It was a long and drawn out day at work. When I arrived home it was bustling with my loud family and their usual antics. My youngest brother was getting ready for his afternoon run, stretching by the living room couch. Dad was listening to some motivational speaker, one of about three dozen that he rotates through, on his ancient laptop in the kitchen. My mother and other brother sat on the couches in the family room. They were watching the Laker game in spite while arguing and yelling randomly at the figures on the enlarged screen. I proceeded to walk upstairs and watch something on t.v. that didn't involve any yelling or confrontation. I had been surrounded by such an environment for a nine hour shift this morning and would rather not take the beating of harsh voices at the moment. Being worn and just about ready to fall over from the demanding spring semester of school and work, my emotions lay spread thin. I had just returned from counseling an old friend, a thing I should retract from my services, but nonetheless, I see a need and attempt to meet. My whole week actually had been sprinkled with the aiding of certain, let's call them needy for lack of a better word, friends. No, needy sounds like I dislike them, I love them, just not their lack to rationally think through their problems before throwing them up on the first available ear that will listen. Usually, that's me. And I digress. But this blog isn't about my emotional and tormented friend. It is about a moment I came to many hours later. In my room I sat, regurgitating the information processed for today, and my interwoven mind began to bring up the moments throughout the week, the past, the pushed away and hidden past. The kind one tries to dispose of deep within the cerebral but for some reason, can never fully get rid of. One of my favorite artists came on my ihome, the song was one I had heard countless times, a favorite actually. But, a line in it began to make me think. "And here i rest where disappointment and regret collide....Lying awake at night." My mind began to spin around this phrase, the words disappointment and regret standing out like bright lights on a darkened highway. I began to realize that it was I who sat, in the night, allowing these thoughts to keep my mind from moving on in the 24-hours of the day. I was so focused on the present issues in my family, my friends, and even my own life, I wasn't enjoying anything to the fullest anymore. It is like my brain is a running machine without an off switch, nothing to just stop the wheels from creating product of thought and reasoning. It keeps me in a state of unease more than I'd like to admit. But, how can I stop allowing the lives of others to influence my own? Trust me, this isn't the first time the light bulb has been turned on. Do you sacrifice a part of yourself to aid another? Or do you be selfish and remain a vessel which only sifts through the practices, frustrations, and intelligence of your own? I will probably never stop helping people. Only time will tell if this gift of aid will ruin my happy ending as I attempt to construct anothers.