The last few days have felt surprising good. My friend Brandon feels it too. Usually, we come home and I say, “How was work?”
He says, “Shitty. How was yours?”
I say, “Shitty.”
“Sweet.”
Then I smoke cigarettes and we watch Arrested Development for the rest of the night and try to forget about life.
Brandon says “I’m pretty sure my girlfriend is cheating on me, except I don’t have a girlfriend. With how good I feel that is.”
That’s how good we feel. Like our girlfriends are cheating on us. Like our bank accounts are being robbed right now and we have no idea. Like our lives are about to be snatched from us. Tomorrow. Tonight even. Like a murderer is about to break into our house and assault us both. There is no way we can feel this good. This secure. This confident about life. It is just not possible. It is infeasible. Unbelievable. Ridiculousness in all its forms. Because usually we feel like killing ourselves. And now we don’t. And we are not quite sure what to do with it. This happiness. We are sure that tomorrow we will wake up and it will be gone. That we will be depressed. Miserable again.
But for now. We are enjoying this. Savoring it. Rolling it around in our mouths like lollipops. Sucking out every last drop. Filling our mouths with what normal people feel everyday. In our heads it is summer and we are on the beach and the breeze is on our faces. We are far, far away from the cold, drizzle, misery of Portland in the winter. We are superheroes. We are legends. We are invincible. We are not sure what to do with ourselves. We feel motivated, inspired, energetic, lively, all the things we used to envy of others. We are unstoppable. Surely no one can stop us. Brandon decides to do some dishes. He actually feels like doing dishes! I decide to write. We cannot waste this inspiration. I am going to write the next Great American Novel. Right now, in the next three hours. That’s how good we feel, and that’s also how quick this could be taken from us. We could conquer the world with this amount of feeling. We could start with Canada. Then move into Greenland and across the Atlantic, taking Iceland and then onto Great Britain. After we take Europe, we divide into two forces, I take mine south to Africa, and Brandon takes his over into Eastern Europe and then to Russia and eventually we will meet in Asia.
I wonder if this is how normal people feel, without medication. I wonder if they always feel this positive, this optimistic about life. If so then I am jealous, very jealous. I could kill with jealousy. You at least. And then some others. For the first time in three months Brandon and I are excited to live. Who knows what has caused this or how long it will last. We are doing our best not to think about it. We could jinx it. We are savoring it, living it. For some reason forgetful of all the things that used to drive us mad, that used to plague our thoughts and fill our heads with grey, give us boils and send tiny yellow frogs jumping around in our living room. We are sucking it in deep, like marijuana and letting it transform our thoughts. We are being. That’s all we are doing. Being. We are fucking being. And it is good.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Saturday, September 13, 2008
My Humble Abode
Recently I have moved from my cousin’s house in NE Portland to live with some guys I met downtown near the PSU campus. It’s nice to be a little more central to things, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I didn’t like riding three miles uphill at one o’ clock in the morning arriving at my cousins place sweatier than a fat guy doing jumping jacks in a sauna, I just don’t have that kind of stamina now that I’m pushing 21 years old and have to beat the whole next level on World of Warcraft before I go to sleep. The guys I live with go by the names Luke and Brandon. These are their Christian names but in the Native American tongue they are called Treefro and Flying Squirrel, don’t ask me why. They both got tattoos recently and that’s when I knew they were legit. I can’t live with un-legit people. I was un-legit once. Now I’m legit. I’m too legit. Too legit to quit. We built another level to their bunk bed so now all three of us live in a three level bunk bed which creaks like an old tree that is about to collapse during a hurricane. The space is a little tight for my taste but they make up for it by giving me foot rubs and rubbing lotion on my body( I have a serious dry skin condition okay!) In the next room there lives a guy named Brian who I don’t see much because he has a girlfriend and he is so whipped it is ridiculous. He can suck on a poopy flavored Popsicle for all I care. He is not really that whipped, I just have to berate him for said relationship because I am secretly jealous and overcompensating for my lack of such a relationship. He is actually a really cool guy and if I was a girl would seriously think about dating him should he ever become single again.
There are always people at our house, which is cool but also tiring. It is a very diverse crowd. L.A. is a homeless Vietnam vet who sleeps on our back porch at night. George is a guy we met form Bulgaria who has hence decided to sleep at our house every night and eat our food but hasn’t really bothered asking permission. Luke and I talked to him once about it but I don’t think he got our American lingo and deep down I feel bad for him because when I think of Bulgaria I think of depressing Russian novels and somehow think that if we do not let George stay with us he will be forced to eat cut-up dog pudding, even though he lives in the U.S. now and has a nicer bike than me. Charles is the next character who comes over and he is possibly the most interesting person I’ve met. He lives at the sketchy motel down the street and gets un-employment checks from the government which he spends on pot, oysters and steak. He told us once that he takes five baths a night while watching made for T.V. movies. He also told us that he saw a dinosaur called a tyranosauraus-raptosaurus and that the government hides oysters in the pillars that support freeways to keep us from learning the truth about our toigel muscle. Sometimes he is on drugs.
There is usually never a dull night and so far I am having more fun than doing mushrooms and riding the teacups at Six flags.
There are always people at our house, which is cool but also tiring. It is a very diverse crowd. L.A. is a homeless Vietnam vet who sleeps on our back porch at night. George is a guy we met form Bulgaria who has hence decided to sleep at our house every night and eat our food but hasn’t really bothered asking permission. Luke and I talked to him once about it but I don’t think he got our American lingo and deep down I feel bad for him because when I think of Bulgaria I think of depressing Russian novels and somehow think that if we do not let George stay with us he will be forced to eat cut-up dog pudding, even though he lives in the U.S. now and has a nicer bike than me. Charles is the next character who comes over and he is possibly the most interesting person I’ve met. He lives at the sketchy motel down the street and gets un-employment checks from the government which he spends on pot, oysters and steak. He told us once that he takes five baths a night while watching made for T.V. movies. He also told us that he saw a dinosaur called a tyranosauraus-raptosaurus and that the government hides oysters in the pillars that support freeways to keep us from learning the truth about our toigel muscle. Sometimes he is on drugs.
There is usually never a dull night and so far I am having more fun than doing mushrooms and riding the teacups at Six flags.
Hardcore is to Christianity What Yelling is to Angry People
I remember what it was like to hear, for the first time, the song Jesus Freak by DC talk. My spine tingled and writhed with adrenaline as I felt my senses being awoken by the sound of rock. I grew up in a moderately conservative Christian background that still subscribed to the definition of rock music as “of the devil” and thought that Marilyn Manson actually was the devil or at least one of his top demon henchman. So when I first learned that I could listen to rock music such as DC talk or Switchfoot and still be a Christian, I was stoked to say the least. From DC Talk my musical pallet morphed from P.O.D. to Project 86 and then to bands such as Demon Hunter, Norma Jean, and Haste the Day, whom I still listen to today. Throughout my fascination with hardcore music I began to notice a disturbing trend. This trend was beautiful at first but, like meat that is left in dumpsters, a sour began to arise. The first thing I noticed was that a) hardcore music was, without exception, the only form of music that Christians were actually good at making, which was the beautiful thing, and b) most young Christian teen men my age were crazy about it, which is the disturbing thing. It is disturbing, more perplexing actually, that good little Christian boys would develop such a taste for such outlandish thrashing. I started wondering one day what the reason for this was. Not that listening to hardcore music is any way bad or wrong, but I began to wonder if there was some aspect of life that Christianity missed giving people like me and hence caused us teenagers to go slightly crazy with aggression and rage. Perhaps it was our way of venting, rather than going out and drinking. Perhaps it was the alternative to being rebels who smoked weed and kicked little kids on swings. Whatever it was, thousands of Christian teenagers everywhere started listening to hardcore, two stepping in mosh pits and picking up loose change. So could it be that somewhere along the line the message of Jesus became safe and that the only alternative to doing “worldly, rebellious” things was listening to hardcore? It was especially appealing to kids like me who really wanted to do the right thing and follow Jesus, but who grew up in churches where it was just so dang boring. It was our form of rebellion which is fine, but, I feel like we might have missed something. That perhaps one day the gospel of radical revolution was transformed to a life of Little House on the Prairie. The sad thing about it is that a lot of Christian men and women see little else in Christianity that is real, exciting and raw. Hardcore is to Christianity what yelling is to angry people. It is a vent, and also a lens through which we see that something in Christianity might be just a tiny bit off. I love listening to hardcore music but, to be cliché for a moment, is that really as “hardcore” as we Christians get? What about following the simple, but dangerous and revolution-esque teachings of Jesus? I am eagerly awaiting a future(and not just for the hover boards and flying cars) where followers of Jesus are known for their “hardcoreness” and “non-conformist” type behavior, not only as a genre, but as lifestyle of revolutionary type love.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Fickle
Every so often there comes a time in one’s life when one realizes, fears, more like it, that one might be completely alone. Sometimes just for the night, the weekend, or perhaps, for life. This can happen for a variety of reasons but more often than not, there is a very simple cause that sets in motion such an averse and disastrous consequence to both your self-esteem and your personal happiness as a human being. Usually it is just as simple as the fact that on a particular night everyone else in the world seems to have plans except for you. I feel like this happens to me often. I realize that this might happen on a particular night because everyone is either a) out of town, or b) has plans or is invited to something you are not/ cannot attend for whatever reason. At a time like this my mind begins to get particularly fluttery and a bat is set loose in my head to wreak havoc by pooping all over the inside of my head as if it were a cave. I begin to freak out because I realize that I could very possibly be a loser and that all my friends were really just my friends out of pity and then I think that no one has ever really wanted to hang out with me, save for my little brother who idolizes me for the simple reason that I am his older brother. Then I think about how I have never really been loved in my life, which by the way is a complete lie, and then I think about how no one gets me and I am the oddball, the loner, the weird guy, who will most likely move to Wyoming to live in a teepee and smoke peyote. None of these thoughts are remotely true but they feel true at the time and that’s the problem with feelings is that they are never rational or scientific and they are very unrealistic but because you feel it, it effects your whole being.
This morning I woke up with that idea firm in my head. Everyone I knew had plans for the weekend or was out of town and I was sure that I was going to be left alone. I was sure that it was going to be a bad day. Depressing, yes, and not a good way to start the day but I figured the sooner I accepted this fact the sooner I would have some morbid satisfaction in it. Yesterday was not a good day. I had an off day at work and it was one of those days where I was sure everything was going to fall apart. It was a day of existential crisis as I went through the day knowing that life was meaningless and cruel and certain I would be wandering sad streets of isolation and desolation for the rest of my days. I went to sleep listening to sad music and raking up as much self pity as I could muster. I knew for sure that no one ever really loved me that I would end up alone with nothing to fill my heart with. I knew that I was never going to “make it” or have what they call a “relationship” and was certainly not going to have it “together.”I had no idea what career path to take or even what my purpose was in this life. I could not muster up any hope at all that life would work out and that I would be fine. I knew that my world was going to slowly crumble around me until I was nothing but a crumb from a once delicious and tasty Peanut Butter cookie. My roommates were out of town for the weekend and I knew that there was no one else I could hang out with.
I planned on going to work, not enjoying it and the spending the rest of the afternoon/evening reading and writing at the Ace hotel while drinking Vanilla Smirnoff vodka from the bottle someone gave us in our fridge. I contemplated whether or not to take the vodka with me and mix it in with my coffee, allowing for the possibility of me to pass out on the second floor of the Ace hotel, or, wait until I got home to start drinking and then pass out to a funny movie in hopes that I would forget how much of a loser I am, drinking by myself with no one to hang out with. I was certain that the day was going to be a disaster. At work I formed a list of all the sad music to buy for the evening to keep me in a constant state of tragedy. I thought about a band I saw last weekend called Bon Iver and how the lead singer/front man wrote the album by taking his heartbroken self to a remote cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. I thought about how I wanted to got to a remote cabin and spend a year in isolation.
Without really thinking about it I was planning how to spend my day of tragedy and self pity by doing all that I could to saturate myself with the feelings of loneliness I knew for certain would haunt me the rest of my relatively short, but nonetheless presently long and hard existence. I knew for sure that it was going to be a bad, lonely weekend. Rather that fighting this idea I figured I would embrace it. But luckily, yet also ironically saddening, this did not happen. It was a relatively good day.
Work was fine. I had quite a few people to hang out with and I think thing with the particular girl I’m interested din may not be completely lost after all. At the end of the day I could honestly say that it was good. I did not wind up getting drunk by myself and embracing loneliness. I ended up having a good night and that feeling of hope I was sure had fled slowly returned.It makes me wonder because some days I have no idea how to process life. Some days are good and some days are bad and it seems that I have absolutely no control over it. Yesterday I was ready to take my own life and today I’m thinking that life is actually a very beautiful and rare thing that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It reminds me once again of how fickle and human I am. I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I was a constant beam of light like the North Star, never moving and always glowing. But some days I have absolutely no self esteem and no confidence or hope in life or humanity at all, and some days I feel confident and alert ready to inject myself at whatever life throws at me.
Some days I have hope that it will all work out and other days I am certain that I will end up alone and become one of those old bitter men with a cane that little kids are scared of. Yesterday I was not vibing life at all and right now I am honestly pretty stoked on it. I have no idea how to process life. I wish that I could file it all away and organize it so that my head would make sense and the bat that is constantly beating and flying around up there would die. But I don’t think I will ever be able to file life away in a nice little boxes and filing cabinets. My files will be all over the place because life is messy and I think you can categorize and label very few parts of it. I guess I am okay with this, it is freeing in a sense. To no longer spend my days trying to make sense of everything and reduce everything to a math equation. It is a freeing thing to rejoice in the complexity and mystery of life, of love, of God. It can be very frustrating otherwise.
This morning I woke up with that idea firm in my head. Everyone I knew had plans for the weekend or was out of town and I was sure that I was going to be left alone. I was sure that it was going to be a bad day. Depressing, yes, and not a good way to start the day but I figured the sooner I accepted this fact the sooner I would have some morbid satisfaction in it. Yesterday was not a good day. I had an off day at work and it was one of those days where I was sure everything was going to fall apart. It was a day of existential crisis as I went through the day knowing that life was meaningless and cruel and certain I would be wandering sad streets of isolation and desolation for the rest of my days. I went to sleep listening to sad music and raking up as much self pity as I could muster. I knew for sure that no one ever really loved me that I would end up alone with nothing to fill my heart with. I knew that I was never going to “make it” or have what they call a “relationship” and was certainly not going to have it “together.”I had no idea what career path to take or even what my purpose was in this life. I could not muster up any hope at all that life would work out and that I would be fine. I knew that my world was going to slowly crumble around me until I was nothing but a crumb from a once delicious and tasty Peanut Butter cookie. My roommates were out of town for the weekend and I knew that there was no one else I could hang out with.
I planned on going to work, not enjoying it and the spending the rest of the afternoon/evening reading and writing at the Ace hotel while drinking Vanilla Smirnoff vodka from the bottle someone gave us in our fridge. I contemplated whether or not to take the vodka with me and mix it in with my coffee, allowing for the possibility of me to pass out on the second floor of the Ace hotel, or, wait until I got home to start drinking and then pass out to a funny movie in hopes that I would forget how much of a loser I am, drinking by myself with no one to hang out with. I was certain that the day was going to be a disaster. At work I formed a list of all the sad music to buy for the evening to keep me in a constant state of tragedy. I thought about a band I saw last weekend called Bon Iver and how the lead singer/front man wrote the album by taking his heartbroken self to a remote cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. I thought about how I wanted to got to a remote cabin and spend a year in isolation.
Without really thinking about it I was planning how to spend my day of tragedy and self pity by doing all that I could to saturate myself with the feelings of loneliness I knew for certain would haunt me the rest of my relatively short, but nonetheless presently long and hard existence. I knew for sure that it was going to be a bad, lonely weekend. Rather that fighting this idea I figured I would embrace it. But luckily, yet also ironically saddening, this did not happen. It was a relatively good day.
Work was fine. I had quite a few people to hang out with and I think thing with the particular girl I’m interested din may not be completely lost after all. At the end of the day I could honestly say that it was good. I did not wind up getting drunk by myself and embracing loneliness. I ended up having a good night and that feeling of hope I was sure had fled slowly returned.It makes me wonder because some days I have no idea how to process life. Some days are good and some days are bad and it seems that I have absolutely no control over it. Yesterday I was ready to take my own life and today I’m thinking that life is actually a very beautiful and rare thing that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It reminds me once again of how fickle and human I am. I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I was a constant beam of light like the North Star, never moving and always glowing. But some days I have absolutely no self esteem and no confidence or hope in life or humanity at all, and some days I feel confident and alert ready to inject myself at whatever life throws at me.
Some days I have hope that it will all work out and other days I am certain that I will end up alone and become one of those old bitter men with a cane that little kids are scared of. Yesterday I was not vibing life at all and right now I am honestly pretty stoked on it. I have no idea how to process life. I wish that I could file it all away and organize it so that my head would make sense and the bat that is constantly beating and flying around up there would die. But I don’t think I will ever be able to file life away in a nice little boxes and filing cabinets. My files will be all over the place because life is messy and I think you can categorize and label very few parts of it. I guess I am okay with this, it is freeing in a sense. To no longer spend my days trying to make sense of everything and reduce everything to a math equation. It is a freeing thing to rejoice in the complexity and mystery of life, of love, of God. It can be very frustrating otherwise.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Protest! Protest!
Yesterday I went to my first protest. It was not necessarily called a protest. I think it was supposed to be referred to as a "celebration" or a demonstration. It was a labor day march for the civil rights of illegal immigrants living in the U.S. Apparently many Mexicans are neither allowed to work nor leave and they cannot provide for their families. Immigration has falsely arrested thousands and split families apart. The march was put on by a bunch of Evangelical Christians to show that they stood in support and solidarity with the migrant workers. Unfortunately many Christians do a bad job of making outsiders feel welcome. The church is often slow to move on social justice issues like this and do a bad job standing up for the oppressed and the marginal, ironically those whom Jesus helped the most.
I rode my bike to 3rd and Madison in front of City Hall. No one was there. I have never been to a protest before and so i just assumed that if you go to the general direction of where the protest is supposed to be you will hear loud bullhorns and see an ocean of signs. But there was no one around. I wandered around for a few minutes before i saw a guy with a guitar and a girl with a drum unloading stuff from the back of the van. The girl had a hippie skirt and the guy had a beard so i figured these people might be able to help me.
I walked over to them and introduced myself rather awkwardly. By introduce myself i mean that i stood there until they noticed me and introduced themselves to me. It turns out they were the people i was looking for except for one thing: there was only about four of them. They assured me more were coming and while i believed them i also had a small panic attack because i realized that i would not be marching in a mass of people obscured, inconspicuously hidden by dozens of picket signs and tye dye shirts.
Slowly about ten more people trickled in. During this time i wrote words with sidewalk chalk. I wrote things such as "Love your neighbor" and "God is Love." Other people wrote bible verses about hospitality and others drew facts about immigration and U.S. policy. After enough people arrived a guy by the name of Brandon said a few opening words about how the Latino families are our brothers and sisters and how we have a chance to help the least of these. He said a prayer and then we began to march. Two people carried a banner of a lamb holding a flag with a cross on it in its mouth. Im pretty sure it is the same design from that book "Jesus for President." I had just read that book so i was stoked on that. The rest of us held signs and wound our way through downtown Portland until we reached the immigration office or "Ice" as it is known. I already knew from an name like "ice" that this place must be cold hearted. I bet they abuse their pets and make their children clean the toilet with toothbrushes just because. They probably also hate things involving the words "party," "ice cream," and "fun." They probably hate Snickers bars.
When we got to the Ice office we set up a prayer vigil and read some bible verses and sang some songs. A lady from the news filmed us and she was shocked to hear that us "evangelicals" cared about these people.
The whole time i was doing this i was trying to figure out whether or not i really believed in the cause or just wanted to go to a protest so i would be trendy and cool and progressive. I also thought about how it would make a good story to tell to girls. "What are you doing tonight?" they would ask. "Oh you know, nothing much. Just going to a protest."
Then they would tell me how passionate i am about my beliefs and how they would want to go out with someone like that.
I didnt really come to a conclusion about whether or not what i was doing was legit or not. I think it was. I mean i really do care about the poor and the marginalized. I really do believe in action over apathy and doing something to ignite.
So I guess it was a good experience. I believe that God was with us and that he heard us. I met some really cool people and i guess did my best to bring love and make the world a better place.
I rode my bike to 3rd and Madison in front of City Hall. No one was there. I have never been to a protest before and so i just assumed that if you go to the general direction of where the protest is supposed to be you will hear loud bullhorns and see an ocean of signs. But there was no one around. I wandered around for a few minutes before i saw a guy with a guitar and a girl with a drum unloading stuff from the back of the van. The girl had a hippie skirt and the guy had a beard so i figured these people might be able to help me.
I walked over to them and introduced myself rather awkwardly. By introduce myself i mean that i stood there until they noticed me and introduced themselves to me. It turns out they were the people i was looking for except for one thing: there was only about four of them. They assured me more were coming and while i believed them i also had a small panic attack because i realized that i would not be marching in a mass of people obscured, inconspicuously hidden by dozens of picket signs and tye dye shirts.
Slowly about ten more people trickled in. During this time i wrote words with sidewalk chalk. I wrote things such as "Love your neighbor" and "God is Love." Other people wrote bible verses about hospitality and others drew facts about immigration and U.S. policy. After enough people arrived a guy by the name of Brandon said a few opening words about how the Latino families are our brothers and sisters and how we have a chance to help the least of these. He said a prayer and then we began to march. Two people carried a banner of a lamb holding a flag with a cross on it in its mouth. Im pretty sure it is the same design from that book "Jesus for President." I had just read that book so i was stoked on that. The rest of us held signs and wound our way through downtown Portland until we reached the immigration office or "Ice" as it is known. I already knew from an name like "ice" that this place must be cold hearted. I bet they abuse their pets and make their children clean the toilet with toothbrushes just because. They probably also hate things involving the words "party," "ice cream," and "fun." They probably hate Snickers bars.
When we got to the Ice office we set up a prayer vigil and read some bible verses and sang some songs. A lady from the news filmed us and she was shocked to hear that us "evangelicals" cared about these people.
The whole time i was doing this i was trying to figure out whether or not i really believed in the cause or just wanted to go to a protest so i would be trendy and cool and progressive. I also thought about how it would make a good story to tell to girls. "What are you doing tonight?" they would ask. "Oh you know, nothing much. Just going to a protest."
Then they would tell me how passionate i am about my beliefs and how they would want to go out with someone like that.
I didnt really come to a conclusion about whether or not what i was doing was legit or not. I think it was. I mean i really do care about the poor and the marginalized. I really do believe in action over apathy and doing something to ignite.
So I guess it was a good experience. I believe that God was with us and that he heard us. I met some really cool people and i guess did my best to bring love and make the world a better place.
Monday, August 11, 2008
3:10 to Nowhere
The other night I was watching the movie 3:10 to Yuma. This movie is not the most amazing movie ever made but it’s good. I realized though when I was watching it why I like it so much. The movie follows Christian Bale (a poor rancher) escorting Russell Crowe (infamous outlaw) to the town of Contention where he will be put on the train to prison. In the meantime Crowe’s gang is chasing after them with the lust of blood in their mouths. At the end of the movie all of the other escorts, Marshalls, lawmen, Pinkerton’s, the whole posse, deserts Crowe because to protect him is worth more than they are willing to give up. Bale is the only one left and the only reason he was guarding him in the first place was money. Crowe offers him five times the amount he was going to get paid if he will just walk away. Bale refuses and I couldn’t really understand why until I realized that to him making sure this infamous outlaw gets on the train to Yuma is the only real thing of substance this rancher has ever done. He is poor, his sons have no respect for him and though he was in the army he was discharged because someone shot him in the foot.
This moment is the only one the rancher has ever had. He has never done anything of bravery, of notice and he needs to fight for something. He tells his son that if he dies to tell the world that he put Ben Wade on the 3:10 to Yuma. This is his claim to fame, not that he even wants to be famous, he just needs to accomplish something, be worth something, know that he mattered in the role of history. And this is the reason I like this movie. Because I am Christian Bale. I have no great battle to fight, no great outlaw to guard. I have no ranch to protect, no stagecoach to rob. And I want to.
I want to blow shit up, and get into gunfights on an old western dusty street. I want to be a Scottish warrior running down the fields of Sterling to face my enemy. I want to be a pirate and search for buried treasure on a tropical island in the Caribbean. It’s not the violence that is the point, its something more, what I’m not sure. But, I will do none of this. What battles are there to fight today? To make the most money? Conquer the most women? Become the most intellectual? Convert the most souls? Become the best Christian, be the biggest kingdom builder? Start the most churches, heal the most people? Drive the fanciest car, be the best in my company? To get the highest degree?
All of these battles sound really lame. They do not sound exciting. The word career especially sounds very unexciting. I guess now we fight for more crap to buy, and more certificates to hang on walls. I wish I had something to fight for, some battle to enlist in, some metaphorical beasts head to cut off.
This moment is the only one the rancher has ever had. He has never done anything of bravery, of notice and he needs to fight for something. He tells his son that if he dies to tell the world that he put Ben Wade on the 3:10 to Yuma. This is his claim to fame, not that he even wants to be famous, he just needs to accomplish something, be worth something, know that he mattered in the role of history. And this is the reason I like this movie. Because I am Christian Bale. I have no great battle to fight, no great outlaw to guard. I have no ranch to protect, no stagecoach to rob. And I want to.
I want to blow shit up, and get into gunfights on an old western dusty street. I want to be a Scottish warrior running down the fields of Sterling to face my enemy. I want to be a pirate and search for buried treasure on a tropical island in the Caribbean. It’s not the violence that is the point, its something more, what I’m not sure. But, I will do none of this. What battles are there to fight today? To make the most money? Conquer the most women? Become the most intellectual? Convert the most souls? Become the best Christian, be the biggest kingdom builder? Start the most churches, heal the most people? Drive the fanciest car, be the best in my company? To get the highest degree?
All of these battles sound really lame. They do not sound exciting. The word career especially sounds very unexciting. I guess now we fight for more crap to buy, and more certificates to hang on walls. I wish I had something to fight for, some battle to enlist in, some metaphorical beasts head to cut off.
How I Love When People Judge me Based on my Age
WARNING: The following is a couple paragraphs of me venting. Sometimes I write to vent and what comes out is not very nice. That being said, there is lots of cussing in the following blog so don't read it if you don't want to. I wasn't even going to post it but I decided to for some reason. Just know that I am not always this angry and in general, love life alot. I wrote this when I moved to Portland and got tired of everyone I knew being 21 and me not, and feeling judged by 3/4 of the peopel I talked to when I told them I was only 20. All of my good friends here don't care, but there was just one day in particular when I got asked this question like 40 times and felt like a five year old and in response I wrote the following.
If there is one thing that I just love it is when people turn to me in mid conversation, usually after they ask me my age, and say “Your only 20!” Yeah, I am only 20. Only 20. As if I am less of a human being because of my age. It brings me such a satisfaction to know that people automatically judge me by my age. Only 20 because I can’t even get into a bar or buy a drink. It is such a compliment to have your ranking and respect washed down the drain like dirty fucking dishwasher. I just love judging. I love it. It brings me so much satisfaction to hear someone else pretend to know my maturity and/or character. They say only 20 but what they are really saying is I thought you were so much better than that. You think this would be a compliment. That I am mature for my age, its better than being asked “How old are you?” with regards to an immature action you just did. It is especially awesome when talking to girls. I love talking to girls and then having them say to me “Oh, your only 20.” So sad. I thought I could be interested in you, but, your only 20 so I guess not. What would I do with him if I couldn’t go to the bars or to the clubs? Go to Dairy Queen and McDonalds? Perhaps if you were older I could have some respect for you but your barely older than a shit faced, pimple covered teenager. Oh man, I just love it, love it. When people judge, when people decide that my worth is age based. Could anything get better? I think not. It puts a smile on my face every time. I just can’t keep smiling as person after person, girl after girl, repeats the same comment. Only 20. And I stand there and take it up the ass like a little prison bitch. “Yes, I say I am only 20.”
“Oh, that’s cool” they all reply. “I thought you were so much older.”
“No,” I say. “Contrary to what you may think I am not as cool or respectable as the “older” men. In fact you should probably spit on me or buy me a fucking lollipop because I can barely tie my own damn shoes. Could you help me ride my bike without training wheels? I just learned and it is very scary. Could you please feel bad and treat me differently now that you know my age? I wouldn’t want you to think that I am someone worth knowing. I am only 20.”
If I’m lucky I’ll have two or three of these conversations in a day. Each time my self-esteem dramatically improving as I get more and more secure with my age and who I am as a human being. It’s so great to know that people treat you as an equal human regardless of your race, gender or age. If for some reason my self-esteem is hovering below average I purposefully bring up my age so that my esteem will go up to +3,234,098. If my self-esteem is hovering around normal I like to go hang out with people who treat me as an equal and don’t judge me based on my age. I like to hang out with these truly caring, indifferent people who could care less about my age. They don’t care if I can’t go to the bars with them or if I am “datable.” They just look beneath all superficiality. These people drive me insane. They make me depressed and boil with rage. Why can’t they treat me like shit like everyone else? Don’t they know that I am less worth knowing? Don’t they know that I am less of a human being because of it?
“Only 20?” Fuck you. I don’t mind though, I wouldn’t really want to hang out with someone who asks me this question with disgust anyways. So fuck you because I am proud of my life and the things that I have done. Proud of myself and the loner I’ve become. So watch me win the gold fuckin medal while you put on aging cream. I’m proud of my life and the things that I have done. I’m proud of who I’ve become. So fuck you if your so insecure that you can’t deal with someone else’s’ age. Fuck you if your friends have to be 21 so they can go to the bar with you. Fuck you if you can only hang out with “people worthy of respect.” Shut up if my confidence and character at a young age makes you insecure about yours. Fuck you if you do not want to date someone younger than you. Fuck you if you want to parade them around the bars and have them buy you drinks, fuck you if you refuse to hang out with someone because they are “young.” Fuck you if you can only hangout with people your age and have no time for someone who is less of a person. Fuck you if you think that judging me by my age is going to make you feel better about your pathetic little existence.
“Oh, I keep forgetting how young you are.”
“Hey were going to the bar, you wanna come? Oh wait I forgot, your only 20.”
“Hey I’m going to the after party with a friend, you can’t come though, because you are young. Its too bad, I would probably date you otherwise, but you are not worth my time.”
“Only 20.” Fuck You.
If there is one thing that I just love it is when people turn to me in mid conversation, usually after they ask me my age, and say “Your only 20!” Yeah, I am only 20. Only 20. As if I am less of a human being because of my age. It brings me such a satisfaction to know that people automatically judge me by my age. Only 20 because I can’t even get into a bar or buy a drink. It is such a compliment to have your ranking and respect washed down the drain like dirty fucking dishwasher. I just love judging. I love it. It brings me so much satisfaction to hear someone else pretend to know my maturity and/or character. They say only 20 but what they are really saying is I thought you were so much better than that. You think this would be a compliment. That I am mature for my age, its better than being asked “How old are you?” with regards to an immature action you just did. It is especially awesome when talking to girls. I love talking to girls and then having them say to me “Oh, your only 20.” So sad. I thought I could be interested in you, but, your only 20 so I guess not. What would I do with him if I couldn’t go to the bars or to the clubs? Go to Dairy Queen and McDonalds? Perhaps if you were older I could have some respect for you but your barely older than a shit faced, pimple covered teenager. Oh man, I just love it, love it. When people judge, when people decide that my worth is age based. Could anything get better? I think not. It puts a smile on my face every time. I just can’t keep smiling as person after person, girl after girl, repeats the same comment. Only 20. And I stand there and take it up the ass like a little prison bitch. “Yes, I say I am only 20.”
“Oh, that’s cool” they all reply. “I thought you were so much older.”
“No,” I say. “Contrary to what you may think I am not as cool or respectable as the “older” men. In fact you should probably spit on me or buy me a fucking lollipop because I can barely tie my own damn shoes. Could you help me ride my bike without training wheels? I just learned and it is very scary. Could you please feel bad and treat me differently now that you know my age? I wouldn’t want you to think that I am someone worth knowing. I am only 20.”
If I’m lucky I’ll have two or three of these conversations in a day. Each time my self-esteem dramatically improving as I get more and more secure with my age and who I am as a human being. It’s so great to know that people treat you as an equal human regardless of your race, gender or age. If for some reason my self-esteem is hovering below average I purposefully bring up my age so that my esteem will go up to +3,234,098. If my self-esteem is hovering around normal I like to go hang out with people who treat me as an equal and don’t judge me based on my age. I like to hang out with these truly caring, indifferent people who could care less about my age. They don’t care if I can’t go to the bars with them or if I am “datable.” They just look beneath all superficiality. These people drive me insane. They make me depressed and boil with rage. Why can’t they treat me like shit like everyone else? Don’t they know that I am less worth knowing? Don’t they know that I am less of a human being because of it?
“Only 20?” Fuck you. I don’t mind though, I wouldn’t really want to hang out with someone who asks me this question with disgust anyways. So fuck you because I am proud of my life and the things that I have done. Proud of myself and the loner I’ve become. So watch me win the gold fuckin medal while you put on aging cream. I’m proud of my life and the things that I have done. I’m proud of who I’ve become. So fuck you if your so insecure that you can’t deal with someone else’s’ age. Fuck you if your friends have to be 21 so they can go to the bar with you. Fuck you if you can only hang out with “people worthy of respect.” Shut up if my confidence and character at a young age makes you insecure about yours. Fuck you if you do not want to date someone younger than you. Fuck you if you want to parade them around the bars and have them buy you drinks, fuck you if you refuse to hang out with someone because they are “young.” Fuck you if you can only hangout with people your age and have no time for someone who is less of a person. Fuck you if you think that judging me by my age is going to make you feel better about your pathetic little existence.
“Oh, I keep forgetting how young you are.”
“Hey were going to the bar, you wanna come? Oh wait I forgot, your only 20.”
“Hey I’m going to the after party with a friend, you can’t come though, because you are young. Its too bad, I would probably date you otherwise, but you are not worth my time.”
“Only 20.” Fuck You.
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