Love. It's a topic I only vaguely allude to here. Basically because it's probably one of the most personal subjects there is. But tonight (it's still night for me), spurred by a friend's "issues", as we'll put them, I've decided to breach the sacred bastion and step onto these hollowed grounds. Love is probably the best and worst thing there is. When it's shared, it's probably the highest level of emotion and happiness a human can achieve. Nothing else should matter. Nothing else really can. All your troubles seem smaller, all your pains less hurtful, all your moments alone not so lonely. There's only that one person who truly loves you and makes your entire existence euphoria. At least, that's what I, as a self-repressing romantic, interpret it as.
However, I've yet to experience the above. And, in ugly, disgusting reality, I don't know how true the above ideal is. I could hope that I'll achieve it. But I'm a realist, if not a pessimist. I think reality will get in the way. Tearing, gnawing, thrashing into my blessed illusion, leaving a mutated dwarf of that relic Nirvana. I fell in love. With a girl. And I despise it. I try fighting it, constantly seeking remedies for my madness, my inherent human gift and curse. And I fail. But this is far from over. I'll not be celestial entertainment. No, all I must do is remain aware. On guard. Tis a duel with Fate. And I duel with drumsticks. Drumsticks of a different drummer.
(SEE! SEE what you people get when I stay up late, have too much stress, homework, and too little time? I do stupid things like this! THIS!!! No, I'm not crazy. I'm completely in control. I'd just like you to remember the speaker in a poem is not the author. And although it sure seems like it often is, don't make that oh so fatal mistake. I'm done, I've got to sleep. But by golly, I had better win this thing. And I intend to. Until I go down the hill. But that's a future poem, and future story for next time...)
Sunday, April 25
Saturday, April 24
A Night in 4 Acts.
Yesterday was probably the "craziest" I've ever gone. So many variables, so many switches of mood, all leading into an absolutely rotten mindset. I'd say one of the biggest contributors was the changing situation and variables. It's amazing how actually doing something different for different amounts of time can completely change your mood, your feelings, and your sense of time perception. Sitting at the computer for ten hours straight, and believe me I've gone longer, is quite a different experience from going from location to location, different group of people to different group of people, different subjects and different activities. It's almost common sense, but for some reason my experiences in such a setting last night seemed to make 6 hours seem so incredibly long, the beginning seemed so distant it was hard to remember. I suppose it's not really 4 acts per se, just my changing mental state, because otherwise I would make this nice and humorous. At least crazy. But what I felt in the last waning hours of last night is completely devoid of humor or any remants of joy.
I won't go into details because they're not all that interesting (Details of the exact circumstances; the warping and twisting will be covered a bit). But by the end it really reminded me of Catch-22. Not in a bizarre, off-beat manner like the first part, but as the book goes on and characters start dieing, it goes from irreverent to increasingly grim and depressing. It all culminates in "The Eternal City", which I still think is the best capture of despair, hopelessness, and futility in a harsh, cold world that I've read. Anyway, that's what last night was rather like. It started out fun and irreverent, me with slight blood loss and increasing delirium from a combination of mental and emotional stress, lack of sleep, lack of food, and just plain not caring about trying to be reserved (believe it or not, I am occasionally). I even made a double entendre, which I normally don't do and probably wouldn't do if I wasn't slowly descending into mania.
The next act was a tad more stressful. Two lines of thought going along and intertwining, one fun and positive, the other depressing and tormenting. My delirium increased and where I previously was slightly contained, I began to go all out. I have fits of "violence" to get rid of it all so I don't do things like, oh, I dunno, tear people who insist on touching me in HALF, but more on that later. Anyway, these violent fits are a tad excessive, but I don't really care. There are times to be restrained and times to not, and I wasn't really hurting anyone, so what the heck?
The next act I calmed down a bit. But the fun, entertaining side somewhat dwindled, the tormenting stream kept flowing, and now a third line of thought enters of repulsion and disgust. That's me being touched again. Nothing wrong with that and minor to anyone else, but when certain person does it especially for slightly extended periods of time, it begins to sap whatever reserves I have. Most of you just don't understand my mentality in terms of physical contact, and I can understand. But it's when you persist that I get angry. Whether or not it's harmful or you understand it, that doesn't mean you have the right to decide what's good for me or not. You go to Prom and I tell you what I think of it. But I don't try to stop you and persist in downing it. I try to let you know how it can be detrimental, but ultimately if it makes you happy, I let it be. However, you don't understand how contact infuriates me. It's like you're invading my personal space and involving me in something I don't want to be involved in. And I can do nothing to stop it. I don't like physical contact because it involves me in things I don't want to be involved in. I can remain distant emotionally and literally which is how I'd like it to be. It's easier. But when you make that direct contact it's like a connection I don't want or need. Too many more variables are added in to an already confusing and painful mess. I don't want any more of either. It drains me. I can tolerate accidents and brief contact. For instance, Lee occasionally hugs me but lets go very soon so it's just amusing to her. But extended contact just makes me wither.
Anyway, so this happens and I'm drained. And then the final act, the tragedy. I watched the movie "Four Rooms" which was a terrible movie. Not necessarily in terms of cinematic merit, but from what it portrayed and the message it sent. If you haven't seen it, it basically consists of the story of a bellhop on New Years who goes into four different rooms and has all sorts of demented adventures. The format was a nice idea, each room had a different writer and director, and it was meant to be a comedy, but instead it was just terrible. It brought on that feeling from "The Eternal City" of immense spiritual, moral, and ethical depravity. No character in the entire thing was likeable. It was just sin, squalor, and corruption throughout. I suppose that was the point, but by the time Quentin Tarantino came on and just started a long line of F-bombs, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the K-town hood were all pretty much destroyed. The display of just plain corruption really had an effect on my mental state. It left me angry and disgusted. This, combined with all the other variables previously mentioned, sapped practically every last remnant of compassion and love from me and left me a bitter, cold, agitated, irate shell.
Perhaps I could have gotten myself out of it, the emotion that is, but I wanted to learn more. It was almost nice and beautiful in a raw, corrupted way just because it was so powerful. Like sadness is so incredibly painful but beautiful in a way depression isn't, this corruption, this incredible sense of despisement, loss, and spiritual, moral, and emotional rot was so strong and raw it couldn't help but be somewhat magnificient. It was terrible, no doubt, but it was...something. To be so devoid of care and love, just hate and anger. My heart was not broken, it was incinerated, disentegrated, and just plain disappeared. Sort of like when I decide I want nothing to do with love because it's too painful, something has to replace it and there Hate is like a sly, devilish imp ready to make the switch without consciously alerting me. You want something so bad, it happens, but to an extent that is simply abysmal.
So I finally came home in that mood and would have written then, but my sister was using the computer. And she was listening to Disney music. Very loudly. So when she came to latch onto me in that quasi-loving but really sadistic way of hers, I just hurled her away. I'm not usually that violent, but the anger I had gave me a surprising strength so I could just fling her away. I did apologize, even though I'm sure she didn't deserve it, and I managed to contain my anger to the point so I wouldn't stab her in bed or break the dog's neck. Mind you, the two thoughts occurred to me in the sort of way it would occur to a madman who really could not care about the repurcussions, so crazed was I. If I had weaker morals, I would have. I might have dropped the f-bomb myself last night, I'd heard it so much from Tarantino. It's a terrible word, after so many times, but when used with the right emotion (the actual connotations of the word completely disregarded) it really captures depravity and anger like no other word can. But my morals, those blessed bastions of confused Puritanism, stood in the way. I always knew they were good for something...
So I just thought I should tell you what raw emotions can do, although I'd say you probably already know. It wasn't really that dramatic, but it was just different. Such is Modern Art I suppose. It's terrible. But soon, oh so sweetly soon, this sort of thing will fade into distant memory and never plague me again. I'll be that much closer to peace. All things in moderation.
To think, I achieved all this doing hardly anything at all. I'm like my own microcosm! I don't need drugs or alcohol to go crazy, just lack of sleep, lack of food, and modern art. Wrastlin's tonight, who knows what wonders that will bring out. But you won't know until next time...
I won't go into details because they're not all that interesting (Details of the exact circumstances; the warping and twisting will be covered a bit). But by the end it really reminded me of Catch-22. Not in a bizarre, off-beat manner like the first part, but as the book goes on and characters start dieing, it goes from irreverent to increasingly grim and depressing. It all culminates in "The Eternal City", which I still think is the best capture of despair, hopelessness, and futility in a harsh, cold world that I've read. Anyway, that's what last night was rather like. It started out fun and irreverent, me with slight blood loss and increasing delirium from a combination of mental and emotional stress, lack of sleep, lack of food, and just plain not caring about trying to be reserved (believe it or not, I am occasionally). I even made a double entendre, which I normally don't do and probably wouldn't do if I wasn't slowly descending into mania.
The next act was a tad more stressful. Two lines of thought going along and intertwining, one fun and positive, the other depressing and tormenting. My delirium increased and where I previously was slightly contained, I began to go all out. I have fits of "violence" to get rid of it all so I don't do things like, oh, I dunno, tear people who insist on touching me in HALF, but more on that later. Anyway, these violent fits are a tad excessive, but I don't really care. There are times to be restrained and times to not, and I wasn't really hurting anyone, so what the heck?
The next act I calmed down a bit. But the fun, entertaining side somewhat dwindled, the tormenting stream kept flowing, and now a third line of thought enters of repulsion and disgust. That's me being touched again. Nothing wrong with that and minor to anyone else, but when certain person does it especially for slightly extended periods of time, it begins to sap whatever reserves I have. Most of you just don't understand my mentality in terms of physical contact, and I can understand. But it's when you persist that I get angry. Whether or not it's harmful or you understand it, that doesn't mean you have the right to decide what's good for me or not. You go to Prom and I tell you what I think of it. But I don't try to stop you and persist in downing it. I try to let you know how it can be detrimental, but ultimately if it makes you happy, I let it be. However, you don't understand how contact infuriates me. It's like you're invading my personal space and involving me in something I don't want to be involved in. And I can do nothing to stop it. I don't like physical contact because it involves me in things I don't want to be involved in. I can remain distant emotionally and literally which is how I'd like it to be. It's easier. But when you make that direct contact it's like a connection I don't want or need. Too many more variables are added in to an already confusing and painful mess. I don't want any more of either. It drains me. I can tolerate accidents and brief contact. For instance, Lee occasionally hugs me but lets go very soon so it's just amusing to her. But extended contact just makes me wither.
Anyway, so this happens and I'm drained. And then the final act, the tragedy. I watched the movie "Four Rooms" which was a terrible movie. Not necessarily in terms of cinematic merit, but from what it portrayed and the message it sent. If you haven't seen it, it basically consists of the story of a bellhop on New Years who goes into four different rooms and has all sorts of demented adventures. The format was a nice idea, each room had a different writer and director, and it was meant to be a comedy, but instead it was just terrible. It brought on that feeling from "The Eternal City" of immense spiritual, moral, and ethical depravity. No character in the entire thing was likeable. It was just sin, squalor, and corruption throughout. I suppose that was the point, but by the time Quentin Tarantino came on and just started a long line of F-bombs, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the K-town hood were all pretty much destroyed. The display of just plain corruption really had an effect on my mental state. It left me angry and disgusted. This, combined with all the other variables previously mentioned, sapped practically every last remnant of compassion and love from me and left me a bitter, cold, agitated, irate shell.
Perhaps I could have gotten myself out of it, the emotion that is, but I wanted to learn more. It was almost nice and beautiful in a raw, corrupted way just because it was so powerful. Like sadness is so incredibly painful but beautiful in a way depression isn't, this corruption, this incredible sense of despisement, loss, and spiritual, moral, and emotional rot was so strong and raw it couldn't help but be somewhat magnificient. It was terrible, no doubt, but it was...something. To be so devoid of care and love, just hate and anger. My heart was not broken, it was incinerated, disentegrated, and just plain disappeared. Sort of like when I decide I want nothing to do with love because it's too painful, something has to replace it and there Hate is like a sly, devilish imp ready to make the switch without consciously alerting me. You want something so bad, it happens, but to an extent that is simply abysmal.
So I finally came home in that mood and would have written then, but my sister was using the computer. And she was listening to Disney music. Very loudly. So when she came to latch onto me in that quasi-loving but really sadistic way of hers, I just hurled her away. I'm not usually that violent, but the anger I had gave me a surprising strength so I could just fling her away. I did apologize, even though I'm sure she didn't deserve it, and I managed to contain my anger to the point so I wouldn't stab her in bed or break the dog's neck. Mind you, the two thoughts occurred to me in the sort of way it would occur to a madman who really could not care about the repurcussions, so crazed was I. If I had weaker morals, I would have. I might have dropped the f-bomb myself last night, I'd heard it so much from Tarantino. It's a terrible word, after so many times, but when used with the right emotion (the actual connotations of the word completely disregarded) it really captures depravity and anger like no other word can. But my morals, those blessed bastions of confused Puritanism, stood in the way. I always knew they were good for something...
So I just thought I should tell you what raw emotions can do, although I'd say you probably already know. It wasn't really that dramatic, but it was just different. Such is Modern Art I suppose. It's terrible. But soon, oh so sweetly soon, this sort of thing will fade into distant memory and never plague me again. I'll be that much closer to peace. All things in moderation.
To think, I achieved all this doing hardly anything at all. I'm like my own microcosm! I don't need drugs or alcohol to go crazy, just lack of sleep, lack of food, and modern art. Wrastlin's tonight, who knows what wonders that will bring out. But you won't know until next time...
Friday, April 23
Blame it on the Butterfly.
Well, a bit of an explanation of the poem (In other words, SPOILERS STOP READING!!!). It alludes to what's known as "Chaos Theory" which a theory that states if a butterfly flaps it's wings in Japan, two weeks later there will be a hurricane in Argentina, or something to that effect. Thus, the effects of a butterfly can, theoretically, drastically alter all our lives. In one sense I believe in it, according to the effects of a changed variable. But being a determinist, the butterfly has about as much choice as anyone else.
I don't really mind. David brought up an interesting point though. I almost wrote it as a quasi-satire, and it is depending on what mood I'm in. I mean, you're blaming your problems on a tiny little bug. It's a bug! It has no control over things, only you do! On the other hand, it has all the control in the world. Just a tiny switch in a variable and all of a sudden, everything's different. It's absolutely mindboggling to consider the sheer number of infinite possibilities. So many worse, so many better. If only...
I sometimes picture these different realities, as I'm sure you do. If I was smarter, faster, better, more talented. Loved. Loving. You know the drill. The funny thing is, though, that David's partially right. If you want something enough, act on it. But my sedentariness is for a reason. If I really wanted something, I'd go after it. But I don't because I've decided it's not worth the risk. All of this is about analyzing risk and reward. But it's the sort of thing you can't treat with logic and I do. So I have to accept the unfortunate side of the whole debacle. But it's better than some alternatives.
The best way I've heard of relationships is from Woody Allen in some movie. He told this "joke" about a guy who goes to a psychiatrist. And the guy says "I'm not really that crazy, but my brother is. He thinks he's a chicken." The psychiatrist says, "Well why don't you bring your brother in?" And the guy says, "Because we need the eggs." Woody goes on to say how that's how relationships are. Irrational, completely nonsensical. But we need the eggs. Well, I'm trying to do without any fictional eggs. My soul has to starve and salivate a little, but I don't have to deal with as much nonsense. It's counterintuitive in an entirely intuitive way. Fun stuff.
So I've got a nice future planned. It seems peaceful enough. Not exactly entertaining and lovely, but peaceful and enough to make me content. But I think about what would have happened if that butterfly had flapped once more. So many things could be different. I could be happy. Or I could be sad. I'm neither. Go figure.
By the way, "Blame it on the Butterfly" would be an awesome T-shirt. It's catchy, has a great message, and everything. Somebody get on to producing that. I'll go think of more until next time...
I don't really mind. David brought up an interesting point though. I almost wrote it as a quasi-satire, and it is depending on what mood I'm in. I mean, you're blaming your problems on a tiny little bug. It's a bug! It has no control over things, only you do! On the other hand, it has all the control in the world. Just a tiny switch in a variable and all of a sudden, everything's different. It's absolutely mindboggling to consider the sheer number of infinite possibilities. So many worse, so many better. If only...
I sometimes picture these different realities, as I'm sure you do. If I was smarter, faster, better, more talented. Loved. Loving. You know the drill. The funny thing is, though, that David's partially right. If you want something enough, act on it. But my sedentariness is for a reason. If I really wanted something, I'd go after it. But I don't because I've decided it's not worth the risk. All of this is about analyzing risk and reward. But it's the sort of thing you can't treat with logic and I do. So I have to accept the unfortunate side of the whole debacle. But it's better than some alternatives.
The best way I've heard of relationships is from Woody Allen in some movie. He told this "joke" about a guy who goes to a psychiatrist. And the guy says "I'm not really that crazy, but my brother is. He thinks he's a chicken." The psychiatrist says, "Well why don't you bring your brother in?" And the guy says, "Because we need the eggs." Woody goes on to say how that's how relationships are. Irrational, completely nonsensical. But we need the eggs. Well, I'm trying to do without any fictional eggs. My soul has to starve and salivate a little, but I don't have to deal with as much nonsense. It's counterintuitive in an entirely intuitive way. Fun stuff.
So I've got a nice future planned. It seems peaceful enough. Not exactly entertaining and lovely, but peaceful and enough to make me content. But I think about what would have happened if that butterfly had flapped once more. So many things could be different. I could be happy. Or I could be sad. I'm neither. Go figure.
By the way, "Blame it on the Butterfly" would be an awesome T-shirt. It's catchy, has a great message, and everything. Somebody get on to producing that. I'll go think of more until next time...
Thursday, April 22
The Butterfly
If he had flapped but just once more
How would that have changed the lore?
Would I be yours or you be mine?
Would you have at last seen the sign?
Why did he not, why choose so wrong?
Why make me mourn for oh so long?
Perfection rests upon that wing;
Just a flap could change the thing.
But his wing he did not flap
Thus tis I who take the rap.
His choice I now do so deplore;
If only he had flapped once more…
How would that have changed the lore?
Would I be yours or you be mine?
Would you have at last seen the sign?
Why did he not, why choose so wrong?
Why make me mourn for oh so long?
Perfection rests upon that wing;
Just a flap could change the thing.
But his wing he did not flap
Thus tis I who take the rap.
His choice I now do so deplore;
If only he had flapped once more…
Sunday, April 18
Wrastlin for the Unwrastled
To anyone who doesn't know (and I can't imagine who you are) wrastlin's this Saturday at 8PM at the armory. Not the Amory, the armory. It's like an Amory except it doesn't have as much meth. Some, sure, but not enough. Anywho, that's about it for this lil note. I'm becoming cranky and sleep deprived, so until Saturday don't feel too bad if I get ornery and start player-hatin'. Unless you're Easterly. Then it's reciprocity.
The Eternal Gauntlet
Of course, once again another Sunday rolls around. Each weekend I seem to waste so much time and then I finally start getting to work on my homework. It seems I only focus under stress, and there's certainly a lot of that. But this method doesn't leave me any time to study for 4ap tests. I haven't reviewed for a single one! Whatever shall I do... I know, waste time and cram, cram, cram the night before! It's possible...right?
Well, that's enough procrastinating. Time to get to work! Until next time...
Well, that's enough procrastinating. Time to get to work! Until next time...
Saturday, April 17
And then I says to the Kaiser, I says...
"YOU THINK YOU'RE THE MAN?! YOU ARE A WORM! A PIECE OF LINT! A SMALL, INSIGNIFICANT FLEA COMPARED TO ME!!!" shouted a rather irate 1-eyed Edward. He held Kaiser Bubba in a triple-loop one handed belly hold that looked about as painful as stuffing your hand in a colony of drunken WASPs and asking if Jesus was black and gay. The Kaiser had had the gall to challenge ole 1-eye to a championship match of epic proportions, meaning that the pyrite-plated belt was up for grabs, along with the tacos and the spare change held by the promoter. And boy was it on!
The Kaiser started out with a punch right to 1-eyed's substantial gut. However, he got stuck. So 1-eyed Edward let out a belch so foul, I thought I had found a dead skunk and stuck it up my nose. The Kaiser reeled straight out of the ring and onto a table. Well, once the Furniture started to be broken, it really started to be broken. The Kaiser grabbed a nearby sofa and hurled it 1-eyed, who barely dodged. Edward retaliated with a barrage of fold up chairs, one of which grazed the Kaiser's cheek. Then the name calling started with the audience. Cries like you wouldn't believe! As children read this, I won't repeat the obscenities mentioned, but they made even the wrestlers blush. Needless to say, the FCC rushed in and violently censored the offenders.
The wrastlers charged each other once they regained their composures in the ring. Their tightly glad spandex a tad too revealing, Kaiser pinned 1-eyed Edward to the floor. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4... Oh! He tapped out! Now 1-eyed Edward has the upper hand. Back and forth, back and forth the two obese giants flailed. And then, God came down from the Heavens on high and proclaimed that all present had witnessed the Second Coming and were now admitted to an eternity of happiness, peace, and joy.
At least, that's what I assume it would have been like had it actually happened in the first place. In reality, I had started in high hopes. I was going to wrastlin' instead of Prom. The parity was brilliant. I popped some Willie Nelson in my cd-player and sped to the armory. But, what's this? A man, handing out papers! The parking lot's closed... And then, all my dreams come crashing down. I flag down Cory and we relate the bad news. No wrastlin' tonight. It'll only make it that much sweeter next week! (Which we're certainly going to try to go to.) Cory, of course, had no other ideas and headed home. I got enough courage up to go see what the problem was. I was handed a paper that said "CANCELLED DUE TO FAMILY ILLNESS." At this time, Morgan pulled up and found out the glum news too. We were quite distraught. But Morgan and I wanted to at least do something to spite all the Prom goers. So the next idea that came to mind was a German movie that might be showing at Downton West. Why not? A German film is still quite a different experience for me. So I switched the Willie Nelson with some Mendleson and headed down there. But at 8:15, all the movies had just started 20minutes ago and wouldn't be ready for another round for at least an hour or two. (Meanwhile, some kid I recognize vaguely from school (Joey, I think) asked us to make a wish on his stuffed, talking animal. I wished to be struck down, right then and there, by lightning. Didn't happen). So we were at impasse. Our efforts fruitless, we parted ways, our once well planned night and efforts all in vain.
Thus, the following poem on disappointment. I'm used to it by now, after it's slowly worn away my self-esteem and confidence to a canyon of immense proportions. But when it brings other hopeful people down with it, me feeling responsible since it was my idea, that's when it gets me even lower. If I had done something else, gone some where, seen some thing, done some stuff it might not have been so bad. But the chain of disappointment continues. I'm not one for conversation or sociality. I can't think of any thing to do or place to go. Other than home. I'd even invite other people here. But for what? It's a small, cramped, filthly place. I don't mind it all that much, but I'd hate to subject others to it. And even then, there's nothing to do.
So I write. And chat to Sara, who is also alone tonight. The first an escape and method of venting, the latter one more place to lament the need for escaping and yet another place to vent. The world is not a bad place. There's so many things to do, so many places to go, so many people to do them with. When others make mistakes, I'm generally quite forgiving. Yet I'm devoid of ideas. A blank. A failure. Joy of joys. Ironically, Prom would have made all this worse. It's a place with people and things to do. And yet, it answers nothing. All that's left is a constant yearning for something not known and not attainable. Only angst.
Hopefully you all had a good time at Prom. I may disagree with it, but obviously my alternatives aren't obtaining the desired end product, happiness. If you can eek some joy and fulfillment from it, who am I to judge? I suppose I'll go and escape into sleep now. Until next time...
The Kaiser started out with a punch right to 1-eyed's substantial gut. However, he got stuck. So 1-eyed Edward let out a belch so foul, I thought I had found a dead skunk and stuck it up my nose. The Kaiser reeled straight out of the ring and onto a table. Well, once the Furniture started to be broken, it really started to be broken. The Kaiser grabbed a nearby sofa and hurled it 1-eyed, who barely dodged. Edward retaliated with a barrage of fold up chairs, one of which grazed the Kaiser's cheek. Then the name calling started with the audience. Cries like you wouldn't believe! As children read this, I won't repeat the obscenities mentioned, but they made even the wrestlers blush. Needless to say, the FCC rushed in and violently censored the offenders.
The wrastlers charged each other once they regained their composures in the ring. Their tightly glad spandex a tad too revealing, Kaiser pinned 1-eyed Edward to the floor. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4... Oh! He tapped out! Now 1-eyed Edward has the upper hand. Back and forth, back and forth the two obese giants flailed. And then, God came down from the Heavens on high and proclaimed that all present had witnessed the Second Coming and were now admitted to an eternity of happiness, peace, and joy.
At least, that's what I assume it would have been like had it actually happened in the first place. In reality, I had started in high hopes. I was going to wrastlin' instead of Prom. The parity was brilliant. I popped some Willie Nelson in my cd-player and sped to the armory. But, what's this? A man, handing out papers! The parking lot's closed... And then, all my dreams come crashing down. I flag down Cory and we relate the bad news. No wrastlin' tonight. It'll only make it that much sweeter next week! (Which we're certainly going to try to go to.) Cory, of course, had no other ideas and headed home. I got enough courage up to go see what the problem was. I was handed a paper that said "CANCELLED DUE TO FAMILY ILLNESS." At this time, Morgan pulled up and found out the glum news too. We were quite distraught. But Morgan and I wanted to at least do something to spite all the Prom goers. So the next idea that came to mind was a German movie that might be showing at Downton West. Why not? A German film is still quite a different experience for me. So I switched the Willie Nelson with some Mendleson and headed down there. But at 8:15, all the movies had just started 20minutes ago and wouldn't be ready for another round for at least an hour or two. (Meanwhile, some kid I recognize vaguely from school (Joey, I think) asked us to make a wish on his stuffed, talking animal. I wished to be struck down, right then and there, by lightning. Didn't happen). So we were at impasse. Our efforts fruitless, we parted ways, our once well planned night and efforts all in vain.
Thus, the following poem on disappointment. I'm used to it by now, after it's slowly worn away my self-esteem and confidence to a canyon of immense proportions. But when it brings other hopeful people down with it, me feeling responsible since it was my idea, that's when it gets me even lower. If I had done something else, gone some where, seen some thing, done some stuff it might not have been so bad. But the chain of disappointment continues. I'm not one for conversation or sociality. I can't think of any thing to do or place to go. Other than home. I'd even invite other people here. But for what? It's a small, cramped, filthly place. I don't mind it all that much, but I'd hate to subject others to it. And even then, there's nothing to do.
So I write. And chat to Sara, who is also alone tonight. The first an escape and method of venting, the latter one more place to lament the need for escaping and yet another place to vent. The world is not a bad place. There's so many things to do, so many places to go, so many people to do them with. When others make mistakes, I'm generally quite forgiving. Yet I'm devoid of ideas. A blank. A failure. Joy of joys. Ironically, Prom would have made all this worse. It's a place with people and things to do. And yet, it answers nothing. All that's left is a constant yearning for something not known and not attainable. Only angst.
Hopefully you all had a good time at Prom. I may disagree with it, but obviously my alternatives aren't obtaining the desired end product, happiness. If you can eek some joy and fulfillment from it, who am I to judge? I suppose I'll go and escape into sleep now. Until next time...