A Week In Study, Also, Interpersonal Relationships

The week was good. Thursday I went out with Dana, and we've spoken since then once or twice. Oddly, after I got back from dinner on Thursday, I fell asleep - at 7:30 p.m. Didn't wake up until the next morning. I don't quite understand that, since I hadn't been lacking sleep, but oh well. I've had worse happen to me than losing an evening to sleep.

Friday was entertaining. We went out for Mike's birthday party. We went to a restaurant called Rolls and Bowls, a sushi and such place. I tried cucumber for the first time, and by God it tastes like nothing at all. I could eat a barrel of these things. Though I am slightly bitter that when they say "steamed shrimp" for one of the ingredients, they mean "we throw on two shrimp." Two. I'm hungrier than that.

Then we went to see Kung Fu Panda, which I hadn't seen before, and which is surprisingly good. It messes around with a lot of the established kung-fu movie tropes, and has a good story. Even if I can follow the narrative arc easily of "beginning, establishing characters, ascending action, preview of villainy, fun times as the story unfolds, villain attacks, low point as characters are demoralized, upswing, final battle," that's not necessarily a bad thing, since most movies are like that. I really enjoyed it. Even if Matt did deliberately laugh during inappropriate times, because he's a misanthrope like that.

Then pool. Not much to say here, I lost. Kevin managed not to finish by sinking his own ball this time, like he did against Mike and me earlier in the week. I...honestly don't remember who won. Doesn't really matter, we played like fifteen games.

Saturday, I went with Rachel and some of her friends to Lake Wauburg, to which I have never been. I got there first and explored, finding a 55-foot-tall rock wall that I had originally planned to climb, but quailed and left. Not entirely my fault, though, as none of the girls wanted to climb it either except Rachel, and she demurred on account of nobody else was going to and there was a big line.

So we went to the other side of the lake and borrowed some kayaks. I've never kayaked before, but it was surprisingly easy. I managed not to roll the boat and drown myself, which is a plus. I went swimming, met a bunch of girls in the water, suffered once again from the Paradox of the Glasses-Wearer, made a new friend named Julie.

When I got home, nobody had moved in the time I was gone. I played a bit of WoW, then went downstairs and watched Die Hard with everyone. This was the result of an argument between me and the others over which was the rotten Die Hard movie, #2 or #3. I maintained #3 sucked, they maintained #2 sucked. I suggested we compromise and watch #1. We agreed. It was as good as it ever was.

I was dismayed to hear that at the end of the movie, everyone was packing it in. In summary, my friends, after a long and hard day of sitting around the house, punctuated by a grueling expedition to Publix to buy some food, decided to call it a night at ten o'clock p.m. on a Saturday. This...annoyed me. So I went out and visited Henry, then eventually resigned myself to the fact that nothing was going to happen and returned home. But I tried, dammit, I tried.

But whatever. On Sunday, I started the new D&D campaign with Chuck DMing and Steven, Matt, and Victoria with me. It's this weird variant called "gestalt" where we all play two character classes at once, very overpowered, but interesting. It allows for a changeable style of gameplay.

At the end of the session, we heard that Megacomics, the local comics/games/Magic card shop, was closing its doors for the very last time that day, so we all piled into Chuck's car and took advantage of the "Everything is 50% or 75% off" sale. Though there is a silver lining - the shop may soon open up again under a new owner.

But interacting with the others this week has taught me a valuable lesson about two people I regularly interact with, those being Mike and Victoria.

They...don't like me. This is the only conclusion I can draw. Despite apparently being my friends and hanging out where I hang out, they seem to take every opportunity to call me out, to put me down, to just generally crap in my casserole. I have a couple of theories as to why this is true.

On Mike's part, he and I have very similar personalities, except for a few key differences. Both of us act in a way that annoys the other, insofar as we both think we're right about everything and are similarly loath to admit we're wrong. Whenever a clash of facts occurs, one or the other of us races to the Internet to prove the point, with the person proved wrong dismissing the argument or just giving the point up, claiming that he is no longer interested. Both of us do this. I am realizing the futility of the whole thing.

As for me relating to him, I see a lot in him that was once in me...and a lot about him that I still have within me, and I don't like it. I see a lot in him that is also in myself, and it makes me angry, like I'm looking at a backsliding version of myself. Bluntly, there's a lot in him I see in myself that I no longer want to. So I guess I sort of resent him. Not the fairest thing in the world, but there we are.

Victoria? Ex-girlfriend, plus she's a little bit psycho. Her admission. So no real surprises there.

My new plan is this: I'll simply limit my contact with these two to the absolute bare minimum that is required for things like getting work done around the house, interacting with each other in a group context, all that sort of thing. Talking to them when unnecessary doesn't really do me or anyone else any good - people tell me that it annoys them when Mike and I snipe at each other, and I can't imagine my squabbles with Victoria endear me any more to the people around me, so I say, fuck it and good riddance.

Some might wonder how I'll avoid contact with a person who lives with me. To those people, I refer them to my fourth roommate, Anne-Flore, who hardly says a word to Mike or Zack, despite living with them. They just have nothing to do with her, and she with them. I can pull that off if she can.

I know he'll read this. Mike. Victoria will either read it on her own or be referred to it by Mike. I don't really care. Them knowing about this change will only make it easier, unless either of them makes the perplexing move of deliberately confronting me about my isolationism at every opportunity. Unless they actually derive some sick pleasure from cutting me down (which I don't really think they do, I'm just a convenient target when I'm around), I can't see this happening. So them knowing won't alter the plan at all.

This really came to a head a few days ago, when I decided I would put two columns on a bit of paper I carry in my pocket, one each for Mike and Victoria, and every time one of them said something hurtful, rude, hostile, or just generally mean-spirited to me without provocation (obviously, we go back and forth a lot, exchanging volleys of barbs, I mean the instances wherein I would merely walk into the room or say something like "What's this music you're listening to?" and get blasted for it), I would put a little tick mark underneath the column appropriate. After only two days, I was...distressed, let's say, at the rate at which the little tick marks accumulated. Seeing concrete evidence like that was really what convinced me to make this change.

Michelle said he and the others are holding me back, and cautioned me about spending time around Victoria. Chuck and Henry both identify Mike as "the ultimate cock-block," both of them using those exact words without knowing the other did so, and both have told me I'm a fool for maintaining ties with Victoria after our history. I listen very closely to what these people tell me about my life, since a lot of the time they're right. (Michelle is my sister and knows more about interpersonal relationships than anyone else I know, I've listened closely to Henry since his advice changed my life, and Chuck is generally knowledgeable, despite kind of being a jackass a lot of the time.)

So whatever. Hello and farewell, say I, I know a lotta people and two less ain't gonna kill me. Especially two less people who take every opportunity to belittle me. And while some contact is inevitable, I'll just swallow their words and not respond unless absolutely necessary to the plot.

k. That's a plan. Now to see if I can follow through with it.

The Law of Narrative Causality

I am indomitable. No setback can stop me, I can only be slightly delayed on my path to glory.

Mere hours after Cristina called me with her fateful news, I headed over to the Society of Professional Journalists (SPJ) meeting, only to discover when I got to the building that I didn't know where the hell the room was where the meeting was in. It was a very convoluted building, for someone who's never really been in it before.

While loping around the stairs with the vain hope of finding a clue, I encountered a girl who asked me where "Room E221" was. Of course, that was the same room I was looking for, so we set off in search together. As we looked, we introduced ourselves. Her name was - is - Dana, and she's a third-year journalism student, same as me.

When we finally found the room where the meeting was being held, we deposited our application forms and I gave them my $10 local fee for joining. (This in addition to the $36 national fee. This had better be worth it.) I heard Dana rummaging around behind me, to which I paid little attention. (Do you normally pay attention to what random people around you do?)

"Oh no...I don't have the money," she said.

And just like that, I could see the Law's manifestation.

A moment to explain, to those I have not already spoken to on this subject. I believe in a concept I call the Law of Narrative Causality, which goes as follows:

"Things happen, generally, because it would be funny, dramatic, or otherwise interesting for them to happen."

I don't know about other people, but this seems to apply fairly steadily to my life. To those wondering about all the boring times I've had and wondering why nothing interesting happened to me, it's because nothing happened to me. What did happen was usually pretty interesting, though.

It's sort of a Truman Show system, except it isn't one guy in a dome controlling everything, but some undefined force or concept. We're all autonomous characters, but events that aren't under our control happen for a reason - because it would make a good story. This story isn't to anyone's benefit, like some cosmic Audience, but rather simply because a story can exist in and of itself as a pure art form and contributions to it are only natural.

Do I really believe this is true? Maybe. I don't know. What I do believe, firmly, is that there are a lot of things that I don't understand, and this is the best explanation I can come up with to a lot of the stuff that happens to me. As I've advanced as a writer, I find myself able to pluck plot elements out of my life, like deus ex machinas (example, Victor appearing to me randomly and giving me a great story idea when I had none for my Reporting class), themes, plot twists, reveals, etc.

It probably isn't much of a logical leap to imagine God as the cosmic Author, but I can't see God endorsing a lot of the stuff that's happened to me, so that's that theory scrapped.

Anyway. After but a moment's hesitation, I pulled out a $20. "I'll cover you," I said smoothly. "You can pay me back later." As can probably be realized, this has two benefits to it:

1. I'm doing her a favor - it endears her towards me, and it shows that I'm a trusting person for being willing to lend her $10.
2. It virtually guarantees that she and I will meet again, and it's a convenient pretext for a date. If she stiffs me on the $10, well, I wouldn't want to be friends with her anyway.

It worked. She was all smiles through the meeting, and I got her phone number at the end as I walked her to her car. We have a lunch date set for Thursday.

As previously referenced, I am a dynamo. Mere hours after I had my hopes crushed, I rose again to the occasion. And I never would have had the courage or conviction to do so without Henry's philosophy galvanizing me into retooling my life. I may never be able to thank him enough.

Short version: Lost a girl, got a girl, fuck yeah.

Of Course

Cristina just called me to inform me that she's getting together with her ex-boyfriend.

...Sigh.

What Else Is Going On

So this weekend didn't quite go the way I wanted it to. For one thing, I never made it to the nightclub like I wanted to go to. One by one, my friends all came up with some reason for not going. "I don't have money." "I just don't want to, man. What'll we do?" What'll we do, they ask. There are only three things to do at a nightclub, and those would be 1. drink 2. mingle 3. dance. Lacking the first, we could try going out and being social with those outside our peer group for once, but I guess not. I didn't think it would be the most fun thing ever, but it would be different, and that's really what I'm looking for. Something different.

Instead, we played Fury of Dracula, which is different for them but the same for me. I was Dracula. I would have won easily (they thought I was in Italy, when I was in fact freebooting around in Spain) if I hadn't made an error and been forced to reveal my location and lose health points, which ended up costing me the game. No matter. It was still interesting.

Meh. I just wanted to do something different. Which I did end up doing Sunday morning, actually, when I made crepes for my parents and sister and grandparents. I felt like a short-order cook. About every forty-five seconds, I would finish a crepe, and as soon as it was done, someone would snatch it up. And everyone wanted theirs differently.

"Burn mine a little bit."
"Make mine thicker than usual."
"Don't cook it too much on that side."

It was all I could do to eke out a few for myself. It's my cooking, I wanted a few, which I got. It was then that I discovered that putting honey in them rocks, as does powdered sugar, as does melting a few slices of cheese into one (though I suspect that would have gone rather better if I had made "dinner" crepes as opposed to "dessert" crepes). So that was entertaining, and new, I've never really cooked breakfast/lunch for a bunch of people before. Not the biggest and most world-shattering experience, mind, but anything new. I feel I'm grasping at straws, yet, it doesn't seem to matter.

I'm wearing my hat now. Even to class. My black fedora, which I keep at home and keep forgetting to bring back. I wore it on the bus ride back, and have now decided that it's my lucky hat. Exactly why this is I will enumerate shortly.

I've actually become rather decent at pool, because of all the times I go to the Union and play pool with any combination of Mike, Zack, Kevin, Steven, Chris, Rachel, and John. Maybe someone else I'm forgetting...no, I think that's it. My new pool catchphrase, whenever I sink a shot that's even mildly difficult, is "Yes! I'm a genius!" Which I'm actually getting to say every so often, as I'm learning how to sink shots.

My sister did not yet have her baby. It's at full health, though, in fact healthier than a normal baby at this point. We feared her drug use that ravaged her body would have caused some mental or physical defect; to all scans, the baby is perfectly healthy. We feared that her methadone use (legal) would cause the baby to go into withdrawal; bizarrely, there is absolutely no methadone in the baby's bloodstream. Somehow. We feared her smoking would stunt the baby's birth weight, the baby weighs over eight pounds.

I am continually baffled by this turn of events. My sister believes that this is God's reward for her giving up heroin and various other sinful habits, that He is protecting her unborn child. I don't know about that, but as I am wont to say, I believe that there are a lot of things that I don't understand. For now, I'm just thankful that the sins of the mother have not been visited upon the child.

I may have to go down again next weekend when the baby is finally born, but honestly I'm going to ask my sister if I can come down a few weeks from now. I can't afford to come down weekend after weekend, it's taxing on my limited funds, and frankly newborn babies are...I don't want to say ugly, because obviously they're amazing and beautiful miracles of nature (that's my story and I'm stickin' to it), but they're a bit undeveloped. All I would really be able to do would be to ooh and aah, I wouldn't trust myself holding a near-newborn. Plus, I got plans this weekend, and while I can abandon them if my sister desires me to be around, I would prefer not to.

I'm not doing very well, physically, at the moment. For one thing, I'm on two hours of sleep, on account of I stayed up way late last night as a result of not managing to read my book (which I had to write a paper on last night) or study my notes for today's test on the way home on the bus, so I had to stay up way too late. So late, it was, in fact, early. Energy drinks helped. Are helping.

Plus, I may have a cold. More on this in a bit.

The reason I didn't get a chance to read my book or study on the way home was because I spent the entire trip talking to a very friendly girl named Cristina, whom I sat next to. I slept the initial period, but after we stopped for dinner, the entire rest of the trip, three hours plus, was spent in conversation with her.

She's a senior, majoring in economics (she started in pharmacy but hated the science courses), is slightly uncertain of her future, but is doing well in her classes. She likes to talk, but she also likes to listen. More specifically, she likes to listen to me talk, though I know enough now to constantly guard my rambling against subjects that I know a person doesn't care about, like in-depth discussions of video games or comic books or all that sort of thing. And yes, before you ask, I know the difference between someone actually paying attention and being interested and someone with the glazed-eyes look of "Dear God, why won't he shut the hell up?" I occasionally inspire the latter, but this was all about the former.

I told her about my new philosophy of life, to find new and interesting things to do. She expressed a similar interest to become "less boring." I told her I was starting to work out. She mentioned she was thinking of getting into that as well, so I invited her to come running with me, which she said she would like. (I'm going to hire a personal trainer, not exactly something on which I can bring along someone who doesn't have my specific goals, but I want to train my body to be something other than the inathletic lump of gristle that it is.)

She said she had a cold, and hoped I wouldn't get it. I mentioned how I get colds and literally don't even notice, on account of I constantly sneeze and blow my nose due to allergies, and a slight increase is nothing to write home about, so it wasn't a big issue.

My hat was never directly mentioned, but I get the feeling that it was well-received. I like this hat. I'm going to wear it often from now on. Just this morning, it kept a light morning drizzle from getting my glasses wet, which I always hate when that happens.

We arrived, I helped her carry a big box to her car, she gave me a ride home. We arrived at my place, still talking. I asked for her phone number, which she gave me. I leaned over and we kissed. I expressed my thanks for the ride, and wished her a good evening. She smiled and wished me the same. I leaned over and we kissed again. Then some more. I apologized mildly for not being very good at it, to which she giggled and said it was okay. I realized that we both had things to do that evening (she needed to study as well), so I bid her good evening again and went to gather my things. I even tipped my hat. I like this hat.

When I got home, I was confronted by Mike, who berated me for leaving dirty dishes in my room and leaving dishes in the sink, which he informed me I had to do. Normally, I would have been irate, for I hadn't even had an opportunity to put down my bags, but I was in such a good mood that I cheerfully accepted. I put down my bags and Mike followed me downstairs and talked to me while I worked my way through the huge pile of dishes. It took me about an hour fifteen to do them all. Normally I would have been upset at all the work, but all I could feel at the end was a sense of accomplishment for having finished all the work. Then I went for a walk.

I called Henry and spoke to him of the evening's events. He told me that he too had lots of studying to do, and expressed what I thought was an irritatingly large amount of surprise that I had managed to attract a girl when he was still without female attention. We promised to speak more about it in the morning. Being as he was more or less the inspiration of my personality shift, which is what caused me to gain enough confidence and fire to speak to random people (girls, specifically, he helped me learn how to speak to women, as I have previously noted), I figured I'd give him a status report, which he seems to be okay with. I picked up some energy drinks, came back, studied a lot, read the book, wrote the paper, went to sleep.

Woke up two hours later. Went to class. (I'm in class now, actually, but this is a nonsense lecture class that I really don't have to pay that much active attention to. I'm taking notes, trust me. This class is easy.) And yet, though my hands are shaking due to all the coffee I drank this morning, I'm feeling better than I have in a long time. Sure, I may have a cold now, but I'll just pop Sudafed and feel fine. I read somewhere once that positive emotion resulting from interaction with the opposite sex can boost one's immune system temporarily, allowing one to shrug off minor infections like colds (let's just say that if Cristina in fact had a cold, so do I), but even if not, that's all right.

I'm feeling pretty good, now. Better than I have in a while. We're scheduled to meet again on Wednesday for lunch, but I'll see if we can't meet today instead. I want to see her again. I can only hope she feels likewise.

Yeah.

More on Life

Did you know? Once the red light to cross 13th Street turns green, I always make it exactly nine steps along the crosswalk before it starts blinking red again. Unless, of course, I'm behind someone, or get a late start. But if I'm unimpeded, it's always precisely nine steps.

I've been backsliding recently. I haven't gone running in a few days. I spent hours yesterday doing nothing but staring into the computer. Huh. Had trouble finding other things to do. What's there to do on a Sunday when a lotta your friends are out of town, and the rest are studying for various things? Sure, I could have done something constructive, but I haven't been exactly in a constructive mood for the last few days. I've been flickering randomly between rampant fervor and an unaccountable haze that prevents me from doing anything much.

Valiant attempts have been made, however. On Saturday, I annoyed both my roommates until they both finally got off their computers and accompanied me outside, to get some lunch and play pool at the Reitz Union. After that, I called one of my friends to give Henry (and myself and my roommate) a ride to Publix, seeing as he needed to buy antibiotics for his terrible throat virus. We got to the pharmacy literally minutes before the gate came down and it closed, and I'm not entirely sure if it would have been open on Sundays. Even if it was, it'd have been darn inconvenient. So, lucky us.

...This should probably come later, but who is Schroedinger? I mean, not the classical Schroedinger, the one who commented. I'm a bit puzzled as to this person's identity. I mean, I know this much about the person:

1. I see him/her on Wednesdays. This probably narrows it down to someone I see on Game Night, as I don't have any other Wednesday-specific events. But this doesn't narrow it down at all, seeing as about thirty people go there.
2. It's someone who knows me well enough to know that I have a blog, and where to find it. Again, normally this would narrow it down more, but a few of my Gainesville friends know about the blog, and any one of them could have told anyone else in the group.
3. It's someone who cares enough about me that they would give a tinker's damn if my personality changed significantly. Here, I am absolutely at a loss. Barring a few people who have already denied being this commenter, I can't really think of anyone at Game Night who I would put above the level of "friend," and only six or seven above "acquaintance I see once a week." Generally, I'd think a person would have to be slightly more familiar than this to worry about me drastically changing the way I act. (Besides, I was under the opinion that a lot of people found my exuberance and frivolousness slightly irritating.)

So I'm completely lost. If'n you want to reveal yourself, mystery commenter, good on yer. If not...I wish you would, this is seriously starting to pick at my brain.

But as to addressing his/her comments, don't fear of any terrible change in the way I act. I'm not going to throw my computer out the window, burn my Magic cards, and forswear all involvement in the silly nerdly activities I regularly partake in. I just plan to change the way I look at life, and reduce greatly my reliance on said activities for being the only things I do.

More to the point, I can't imagine that this change could be taken as anything but good. I plan to do more exciting things and be more social. ...Oh no. Let's hit the general alarm. I plan to *gasp* go out and talk to people more often. This is not a change to be wary about, sir/madam. I'm not going to abandon my old friends, I'm just going to go out and make a lotta more new ones.

And as for generally being happy, I can't really deny that, but I would submit to your attention the sharp distinction between being "happy" and being "content." I am almost always content. But truly happy? Not so often. True happiness is not easy to attain, it's true, but it's much more difficult to do so when I'm more or less lobotomizing myself for hours every day by giving up the greater part of my personality, expenditures, and mental processes in favor of blandly browsing the Internet. Seeking adventure is a better bet than waiting for adventure to come to me.

On that note, when I come home next Friday night, I'm not going to sit around and play video games Friday night. I'm gathering all my 18+ friends to me, and we're gonna go out and go downtown, and go to a nightclub. Not because nightclubs have anything especially fun or amazing about them (some may, I don't really know), but because it's different, it's weird (for us), and we haven't done it before.

There's a card in Magic called Sensation Gorger. It's a goblin. Gameplay-wise, it triggers the whole "discard your hand and draw a bunch of cards" mechanic that red is all about in the game. Being as a player's hand can be thought to represent their current state of mind, this can be seen as abandoning all current plans to hurry up and try a new plan. Its flavor text is simply "More, more, more!"

I don't gorge myself on sensations, of course. Not to the degree of goblins, who are known to wound themselves near-fatally to experience a new and interesting kind of pain. But the concept of abandoning (or lessening) my previous locked-in thought processes and trying something new and different is an appealing one to me, at the moment.

Huh. Yesterday, besides just spending a lot of time on the computer, I went and played pool. I originally went to practice by myself, but I called some friends who came and showed up. I made an impossible bank + trick ricochet shot, which was dimissed by the others by being just luck-based. (It was. But shut up.) Steven, however, topped everything everyone did when he hit a ball with such force that it:

- Smacked into the bank and flew into the air
- Bounced off another ball
- And still rolled into the pocket.

Even though it was one of Kevin's balls that just got sunk (we were playing Cut-throat), he felt the need to applaud that shot. So did I. It was really something to see.

And...that's the point, isn't it? I may not have done much yesterday, but I at least have that memory to distinguish that day above the others in my mind. If I had spent all day indoors, I wouldn't have any specific memories to treasure, or anything at all to write about. This is one of the reasons I stopped updating my blog previously, because nothing friggin' happened to me. I did the same thing all day - go to class, study, play on the computer, go to bed really late. I didn't go out except for Wednesdays or the rare event when I met someone on campus, which didn't happen often since I was always racing back home to play on the computer.

But now...now, I may be backsliding and only making small successes and struggling against my entire entrenched mind-set, maybe futilely, I don't know...but I'm trying. I'm trying, I'm changing some, I'm making successes, small though they are, and I'm having interesting experiences that I can then turn around and write down.

My last few blog posts in the spring, I had to squeeze my brain to think of something even remotely writable. Now that I'm doing things...things are happening. The distinction is simple, but it might be more important than anything else I've ever done.

Life

Did you know that the echidna is one of only two types of egg-laying mammals (known as monotremes) in the entire world? The other is the duck-billed platypus, well-known for its oddities. The echidna is a burrowing animal with quills like a porcupine. Between its nocturnal nature and its digging habits, it is rarely spotted in the wild.

(who am I?)

I've reinvented myself. I haven't done this since the seventh grade, and even then that was a spark compared to the blaze I feel now. I feel different. I feel alive. I haven't felt this way in...ever.

I'm using the computer much less. I'm spending much less time on the Internet. I'm using this time in other ways. Talking to people. Going out. Spending time on campus. Signing up for clubs (maybe). Being social. Learning new things. (who am I?) Being outgoing, and not spending my life sitting in front of a glowing screen.

I'll still use the computer, still play video games, still do all the nerdly things I've always done. But less. Much less. I want to make them part of my life, as opposed to...my life. They were my life. I would literally spend an entire day not leaving my building, barely leaving my room. Never again. Never again. Unless I'm sick or something. Never again by choice.

(who...)

I had a talk with my friend Henry one week ago today. Just about one week ago by time, because I met him at 1:00 a.m. and it's 3:30 a.m. now. No...six days ago, it was a Saturday night. This is a Friday night. (...am I?)

He told me about his philosophy of life. He seeks what he calls "firework moments," moments of intense emotion that flood his whole system with adrenaline, moments (hours, days, weeks) that make him truly feel glad to be alive. Up, down, emotional turmoil, going both ways, he wants them both. He wants everything. He wants to feel alive.

He met a girl. Fell in love with her instantly. Began a whirlwind romance. Dated her for...I don't know how long, a month, maybe two. Had a lot of fun. A lot of sex. Started to have problems. She had personal issues. Their style couldn't last forever. They drifted apart. Henry brooded, and sunk back down. He felt as down as he had felt up. He showed me what he had written on the subject. Called her his drug. (who am I?)

And yet even down, he was doing better than me. I dismissed that claim. Said that high emotions, peaks and valleys, weren't all that. Started to cite times in my life when I had similarly peaked and valleyed. (Valleyed? Whatever.) Thought. Realized...I had none. I've drifted through life. I've never blazed. I've lived life as though a slow-burning fuse, maybe with a few sparks, nothing dangerous, nothing exciting, nothing dramatic, nothing that other people didn't bring to me.

Oh, I've had fun. Lots of fun. I've traveled the world. Had friends. Did things. Met people. Went out. Went to theme parks and been on roller coasters and seen exotic sights. I've had lots of fun. I can't deny it. Lots and lots and lots of fun. I'll never deny that.

But what could I have done? What could I have been doing? (who am I?) What opportunities did I miss because I was staring into billions of pixels instead of a real human face?

I joke now that I realized the problem, when it hit me. I realized that all the time I spent playing World of WarCraft, I could have been out having sex with girls. I say this, people laugh, I laugh with them. It's not true. I was an awkward nerd then, I'm an awkward nerd now. Am I? I was. But I could have been dealing with real people instead of virtual avatars. Instead of dwarf warriors and undead priests. Instead of a billion faceless faces, instead of a billion billion people I'll never know exist but for a few lines of text.

(who am I?)

I've been more active. I've sworn to work my body. Been running. I've been able to consistently make it two and a half miles without stopping. My whole body feels like it's on fire. My lungs are heavy. My legs are aching. My torso is cramping. Sweat is pouring down my brow. Stinging my eyes. I wipe it away with one hand. Wipe it on my shirt. It doesn't matter. The shirt's already dripping with sweat. I see the path ahead. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. It's all I can do. My breathing is heavy. My mouth is dry. I swallow. Choke for air. Have to keep my breathing off the rhythm of my footsteps. If I sync them up, I get a wicked cramp in my side. Gotta focus on breaking the rhythm. It's not easy, all those years I spent in marching band, learning to focus my whole body to the rhythm. It's not easy breaking old habits.

I've never, not even once, failed to finish a run I started. I've never fallen halfway and had to walk instead of running. I'm very proud of that. What else can I be proud of? What do I do? I'm very proud of myself. No matter the pain, I keep going. Pain is just weakness leaving the body.

When I see the end, I'm twenty, thirty yards away, I break into a sprint. As much of a sprint as I am capable of. My footfalls land like thunderclaps. My heart is in my throat. Choking me. My breath rushes around it. In and out, in and out. I breathe every time my foot hits the ground. I don't care anymore. Not going to cramp up in the last five seconds. I see my goal. I see my goal. I touch the door. I rebound away and begin walking. Panting. Gasping. Choking. Spitting off to one side, behind a tree so people don't see. Waving to people that walk past. Strike up a conversation with a few girls standing nearby. I'm at the entrance to the gym, that's my endpoint. I can only say one or two words at a time before I have to breathe in. They look at me a little strange, who is this guy, why is he talking to us, (who am I?) who is he? But it becomes clear I'm just trying to be friendly. Smiles break out. We talk. I slowly regain my breath. I go inside to get a drink, I bid them a good evening. They smile and wave as I leave. I feel like I've accomplished something.

I feel alive. My body is burning. I feel alive. I feel like I'm living. I gulp the lukewarm water out of the fountain. Switch to the next fountain. Ah, ice-cold. I gulp water until my throat freezes and my stomach lurches. I wander away. Into the bathroom. I needed to pee for the last half a mile. I relieve myself. Is it relief I feel? What is this new feeling?

My Reporting teacher tells us that nobody likes to write, they just like to have written. He speaks of news writing. Recreational writing, he implies, is its own devil. Writing, he says, is a grueling, difficult process. He likens it to running. Nobody likes to run, he says. Running is hard. Running is painful. But the feeling of I have run, the feeling of exhiliration, that's why people do it, he says. It's like writing. I have to agree. Writing this, I'm feeling better already.

I went to the gym. There are twice-a-week sessions, Group Fitness for Males sessions, that promise Extreme Abs and Core. I need ab work. I don't have any definition on my stomach. Hopefully, the running will reduce the fat. But I need muscle. I was taunted by one of my friends whom I invited to the session, he sneered at the idea of a group fitness for males session, called it "gay." Turns out it's just open to males, not exclusively males. It's me, two other guys, and fifty girls. I talk to one of them. She gives me helpful advice. I set up my mat next to hers, and we talk until it begins.

Holy shit. This is hard work. Exercise. Crunches. Weird things I've never done before. Bicycle kicks. Just holding a certain pose, we're told, is exercise in and of itself. I hold it. I struggle and strain. Some of them, I fall behind. I don't do as well. They give us, maybe, five seconds between workouts. Sometimes we get no break, just crunches for a few seconds while we set up for the next. If anyone had ever told me that doing basic crunches could be considered restful, I would have called them insane. But they're a reprieve, from the other stuff.

Holding a pose. I'm in pain. Lots of pain. My arm hurts, I'm holding myself up. My side hurts, I'm flexing it taut. I see another girl behind me. I meet her eyes. She smiles briefly. I cannot smile, my teeth are bared. I nod quickly. The music is playing in the background. It's "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven, a weird fast version I've never heard. Probably just for exercising. We're working to the beat. To keep my mind from the pain, I mouth the words to the song. I know it by heart. I love that song.

The twenty minutes are over. It's an hour or two of workouts packed into twenty excruciating minutes. I stagger around, return my mat, return my big red exercise ball. Thank the girl who spoke to me. Express my desire to see her again next week. She expresses the same. Express my awe at the difficulty of the class to the instructor. She frowns slightly. I assure her I'll be back. I want to excel, I say. I want to do as well as I possibly can. The frown dissolves. She smiles. She's glad to hear it.

I go home. I take a shower. I dress up and go downstairs. Anne-Flore, my French foreign exchange roommate, is throwing a party for all her friends in the apartment block. There are twenty or so people here. She's made quiches, five or six of them. Another friend of hers has made banana bread. There's a bowl of chips. Some bottles of wine. The French have a very relaxed attitude about wine. Anne's 24, anyway. Almost all of her friends are overage. The few that aren't aren't drinking. I think. (who am I?)

I converse. I socialize. I meet new people, tell stories, get some laughs. My roommates aren't there. Anne is disappointed, she says she invited them, she doesn't know why they're not here, she wonders why they don't socialize. I call them. One's playing Dungeons & Dragons, and claims he was never told. Maybe not. He hardly ever emerges from his room. Maybe Anne missed him. The other one is hanging posters. I don't know for what. Some organization that I'm not even sure he's a part of, he's doing it with Victoria. All these people are attractive. Men, women, everyone. I'm not attracted to the men, but I can see how attractive they are. I can measure beauty, male or female. One guy walks in with a couple of blonde goddesses flanking him. He looks like he's stepped out of the pages of GQ. He has the perfect hair, the perfect skin, a chiseled jaw that looks like it was carved from marble. How am I supposed to compete with such a man? He's very nice. We are introduced. His name is Michael. He's a very nice person.

Around midnight, we decide that we want to go swimming. We go swimming. There's a pool at the center of our apartment complex. I run, once again, into the Paradox of the Glasses-Wearer. Whenever girls run around in tiny swimsuits, and a man with glasses wishes to join them, it's because they're going swimming, or something. You can't go swimming with glasses on. If I want to join the girls in the water, I have to remove my glasses. Seven or eight girls in bikinis with varying degrees of coverage, and I can't see a blasted blasted thing. I see blobs.

We play water volleyball. Girls vs. guys, originally. Someone who was using the pool before took a rope and tied two water noodles, big foam noodles, across two deck chairs, made a makeshift net. Stretched it across the pool. Someone produces a ball. We hit it back and forth. I keep missing because I can't see.

One guy, a Finnish guy, is in a big floating raft. He effortlessly knocks the ball away. He is chastised by the girls for cheating by being in a big floating raft. I declare that I am claiming the raft in the name of the great United States of America. I wrestle him off the raft and lay my body on it. I too am chastised, but not much because I still can't see enough to hit the ball. Eventually, someone dumps me out of it as well.

Tonight, I went to a bar. 1982. It's the weirdest bar I've ever seen. Four TVs behind the bar, but instead of television channels, they're tuned to video game systems. Bubble Bobble, Donkey Kong Country, Rampage, Sonic 3. The controllers are under the bar. I watch people play. I went to the bar because a musical group called Wait Wait is playing. I ran into a couple of them while they were chalking an ad for their group on the ground outside Weimer Hall. One of them recognizes me. Said we had a class together last semester. I don't recognize him, but I play along. He exhorts me to come. Says his band is very good. I ask what they play. He says that if science-fiction had theme music, his band would be it. That's good enough for me. I accept.

I ask people to come with me. Everyone has an excuse. A lot of my friends are going to a role-playing game session put on by another friend. Some people are going to Tallahassee. Henry wants to come, but has had a sore throat all day. He looked into his throat with a bike light and a mirror. It was a horrible color. He called me and asked where the hospital was. I thought maybe he should call 911. He said that the infirmary was closed for the weekend, and he wanted antibiotics. Thinks it's strep throat. I ask if he's all right. He says he's fine, he just wants to get this cleared up. Says he'll take a few days to (who am I?) rest, maybe the weekend. I wish him good health. Ask him to call me back when something happens. He hasn't yet. I'll call him tomorrow. Later today, technically.

A few other musicians come on the stage. A girl who sits alone and reads guitar music and lyrics from sheet music as she plays. Her voice cracks as it hits high notes. She's still pretty good. I applaud along with the others. I see a cute girl standing next to me. Think of how to initiate conversation. I forget how I did it. Probably a comment about the bar. There's another TV, not behind the bar, with Mario Kart 64 hooked up to it. When I arrived, I saw people playing, and asked to play when they were done. A guy named Chris offered to play against me. He beat me three times in a row. I don't mind. I hadn't played the 64 version in years. He knew exactly what he was doing.

A guy arrives. Stands next to the girl, between me and her. I worry. Is this her boyfriend? The way they interact could mean anything. He doesn't hold her hand. Doesn't put his arm over her shoulders or around her waist. They don't kiss. It could mean anything. We, the three of us, have some small talk. His name is Matthew. Her name is Casey. With a C. I guess that it was a K, I am informed that I guessed wrong. I apologize. She laughs and says it doesn't matter. I tell them that I'm bad with names, but I'll try my very best to remember. She informs me that she'll ask me her name in a couple of hours, to make sure I remember. I commit it to memory, both of them, hers and his. I visualize it in my head. Her name carved out of massive letters of stone. Her name traced in the air before me. Her name, shining bright, spelled out in the stars. Visualization helps. I do not forget. The whole evening, I remember her name, I remember his name.

He's next on stage. She goes to the bathroom. I am about to ask him if the two of them are going out, but he leaves to get his guitar ready. He goes up on stage. Brings another girl with him. They sing a few duets. Casey is watching with rapt attention. This could be bad, I think. This could mean the two of them are an item. I work it into small talk. Ask her between songs. Are you going out with him? I ask. No, no, she says. They're just friends. (who am I?) I breathe a silent sigh of relief. Talk with her some more. When I first started talking to her, she mentioned that she used to be very good at Sonic the Hedgehog. I am suitably impressed. Not many girls played old-school games like that. She's a sophomore. Majoring in speech therapy, I believe, communications disorders. I mention that I'm in another form of communication, in journalism. She nods approvingly. We talk. I offer to buy her something, she questions what I could buy her that's non-alcoholic. I have no answer. She goes and gets a cup of water from a big cooler on the side of the room.

I have realized a fundamental flaw I have in dealing with women. Previously, I paid too much attention. I listened too raptly, complimented too freely. Emoted too much. Showed too much interest. I was like an eager puppy, hanging on their words. It's no wonder. I showed desperation. Or over-eagerness. Either way. I realize that even though that's normally how I act, that's no way to act. I have to ratchet it down. Keep it cool. Henry told me that I would have to seem slightly disinterested, or else I would seem disingenuous. I keep a calm demeanor. A level voice. A level expression. It seems to have worked. I got her phone number. She expressed a desire to meet. Not exactly. I asked her if we could meet up sometime. Told her I would like that. She said that that could be arranged.

The band I've been waiting for comes on. Their first two songs are great. They're rockin'. Their next few songs fail to captivate me. They play on. I think they're good, but not great. They played their best stuff first. Should have saved a silver bullet for the end. They had two encores. Not particularly amazed by either one. The last one is okay. Better than the others have been. (who am I?) I get Casey's phone number. Go down the street. Walk home. Talk to some people. See my first bearded elderly man sleeping in a doorway. Never seen that before. Tonight is full of firsts. Never been to a bar and watched local musicians play. Tonight is full of firsts.

I had a semi-girlfriend. I almost never talk about her. I don't think anyone in Gainesville knew she ever existed. Maybe to Victoria. This was before Victoria. Maybe my parents will remember. They read this blog, after all. I'll ask them if they remember.

I used to volunteer at the hospital. Pediatrics. I encountered a girl named Summer. Summer Thomas, I believe. She had intestinal troubles. Had to have surgery. I enjoyed her company. I did rounds, I came back to see her. We talked for a while. I left for the day. I came back. She was still there. We kept talking. We got to know each other. I kissed her on the cheek. The cheek? The cheek, yes. We became good friends. Kissing? Friends. Was it?

One particular day, I lay in bed next to her and watched a movie. The Lion King 1 1/2. I didn't think it was going to be at all good. It was surprisingly good. I lay in bed next to her. I was maybe fourteen. She was my age. We lay in bed, her under the covers, me above them, and watched the movie. After it was over, I kissed her on the lips. Did I? Was it during? It may have been. The lips? Yes. We did that a few times. I told her that I liked her. Liked. Liked. I did like her. Maybe I was fifteen? I don't remember the timeline. She was my age. We lay in bed together and watched the movie. After it was over, I left.

It was the happiest I've ever been in my entire life.

Writing that sentence hit me like a blow. I paused for several seconds, I panted for breath. Was it true? Yes. I think I loved her. I may have done. She left eventually. Gave me her phone number. I kept forgetting to call. Some months later, she came back. Had changed by then. Was more distant than before. She didn't want to be kissed. We had drifted. I was all right. No, I was upset. I became all right. I had moved on.

The Japanese have a term for the subject. Mono no aware. It means, roughly, the beauty of transient things. I had not heretofore appreciated this beauty. I told Henry, that night, that I didn't see the point in short, furious relationships, because then they were over and you felt terrible. He said that was part of it. Every up comes with a down. Extreme emotion. That's what he said. Extremes. Fireworks. Fireworks. It sizzles, it sparks, it throws off colored lights, what a bang, what a flash! Boom! Pow! Takes three fingers off at the knuckle if you're not careful! But what a show! What a show! And it's over. (who am I?) It's over, but the memory of its beauty remains. Its transient beauty.

He said that I needed to meet a girl, fall madly in love with her, be in a tumultuous relationship with her for maybe three or four weeks, do a lot together, have a lot of sex, break up, and brood about it for a month. He said it was what I needed, to shake me up. I agree with him. Not for the depression, not for the elation, but for the power. The majesty. The...those are the wrong words. For the fury. The fire. The heat. The passion. Even cold embers still hold within them the memory of flame. Even gray ash still flickers in the mind with last night's blaze.

Fire represents passion. No wonder. It's a furious thing. It consumes and consumes, it's hot, it can create cooked food or destroy entire cities. It eats fuel. It burns out. It's a hell of a show.

I may have loved Summer. Maybe. I don't think I loved Victoria. Not ever really loved. I fell in love with an idea. With what she could have been, what I thought she should have been. I fell in love with the idea of falling in love. I fell in love because it seemed like the right time to do so. These words aren't easy to write. But they demand to be written. I'm sorry this is so long. I've had words buzzing around in my head for some time. I'm not done yet. I still have a couple of things left to say.

We dated for two and a half years. Did we? Did we really? We saw each other on and off, once every couple weeks. We talked on the telephone most of the time. I dated a phone. I dated a phone, and every so often managed to meet a person. I was in love with love. I was in love with an idea. Our differences were too great. I told myself how lucky I was to have her while we fought every day. I told myself that she was the best thing that ever happened to me while the sight of her on the caller ID of my cell phone filled me with strange apprehension. What was she mad at me about now? I wondered. What was today's problem? Did I do it? Did she imagine it? Was there a difference? (who am I?)

She told me going in that she was crazy. Her words. You should know what to expect, she said. Maybe I shouldn't be writing this for all the world to see. I don't care. I don't care. Just writing it down isn't enough. The words have been flowing nonstop. I've been writing for an hour, and I've stopped exactly twice. Once when I told you before, and once just now. Never more than a few seconds. My fingers are hurting from the constant typing. Pain is weakness leaving the body.

She said we'd have problems. We did. I said we'd work through them. We didn't. I was in love with a concept. When we finally moved near each other last fall, it did not go well. We couldn't stand each other, most of the time. It dragged on. I was in love with having a relationship. It finally crumbled to pieces. Ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. Faded away, not burned out. We cried a bit. I cried a bit. We went out to dinner that night. Promised to still be friends. Spent the next six months constantly sniping at each other. This semester, she promises things will be different. So far, mostly, they have. I hope they do. I could use another friend. I could use the perspective. I could use the ability to know things that hanging around another person that knows me intimately (knows who I am? how can she, even I don't know that) gives me.

I wore my jeans tonight. They have a button fly. It's a little tricky to get used to. I only own the one pair of jeans. I don't like the way denim feels on my skin. I don't like the tiny pockets. I wore my American Eagle collared shirt. I bought it to go with the jeans. It seems to have worked. Casey gave me her number. When I asked, she laughed a little, and told me. Was it laughing at me? Was it laughing from nerves? Did she just think of something funny? I don't know. She seemed to like me. I'm accentuating the positive. I'm going to go with the best interpretation. I'm going to assume that it was nerves at being asked her number by a guy she clearly had a thing for. It usually works out for me, assuming the best-case scenario. When it doesn't, I don't like to dwell on that. I hope it works out.

...Who am I?

A man is defined by the things that he does, not the person that he is. What do I do? Am I a writer? I hardly write these days. I have writer's block. I wrote a couple of sample pieces for the local newspaper, which weren't accepted. I write for class, which gets me the grades I need. Am I a writer? Not unless I write. I'm writing now. I guess I'm a writer.

What do I do? I sit around and play on the computer. No! I get out, I go out, I do social things, I socialize with people, I talk and try new experiences. Maybe I'll go to New York this semester. Anne said she might be able to make it. I hope she can. She's good company. What do I do? What do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

I feel at war with myself. A million fragments of myself all warring for the coveted title of personality. Who will win? What do I want to do? (who am I?) What do I want to become? How can I make myself become that which I am not? I guess I'll have to try. What do I want to do?

I want to help. (I want to hurt.) I want to aid. (I want to destroy.) I want to create. (I want to smash.) I want to heal. (I want to harm.)

I want to give life. (I want to kill.) I want to succeed. (I want to fail.) I want to soar. (I want to sink.) I want to enjoy. (I want to curse.)

I want to hope. (I want to despair.)

I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.) I want to live. (I want to die.)

I want to live. (I want to di-)

I want to live. (I want to d...)

I want to live. (I...)

I want to live. (...)

I want to live. (...)

I want to live. (...I want to...)

I want to live. (I want to di-no, dammit! I want to live!)

I want to live. (I want to live)

I want to live.

I want to live.

Not just to survive. Not just to drift through life on a mean, with no highs or lows. Not just to drift along, flatlining at life. I want to have fun, have highs, have lows, be driven to the greatest ecstasy and the darkest sorrow, not just float along on a haze of contentment caused by the Internet.

I want to live...

God help me...

I want to live.

I want to (who am I?) live.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I want to live.