Surreptitious

I'm sure a lot of you have these moments, but I just have to talk about why I love them so much:

Imagine, you are in a meeting, a subway, church, or just someplace you have to sit and listen. You have to be patient and listen to one person. The speaker goes on and on, and you start to space out. You doodle if doodling is an option, you braid the frayed threads on your jeans cuff, or maybe you start to count how many times the speaker says the same word.

Then the speaker says something completely silly. Something people should laugh at. Something you want to laugh at immeadiately, but you hear no one laughing. Then you look around the room and catch the eye of someone else that wants to laugh. Someone mouths "what the fuck?" and you both start to giggle.

I love endearing moments like that. It's a simple little gesture that let you know you aren't the only one bored.

Ambit

As gross as I find 8th Avenue, I find myself walking up and down it quite often. Last Saturday, I made about 2 complete circuits between the Port Authority and the UCB theater. Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea are becoming my new college campus. The apartments are as big as dorm rooms. I have class. I have a job. I know where the cheap places to eat are. I try to get laid in the bars. It's almost a perfect substitute.

I'm not wild about the area. It's constantly dirty, no matter how much the 34th Street Alliance men in their green jumpsuits try to sweep. The gutters have pools of off-color liquid stewing near discolored refuse that you wouldn't pick up on a dare. Melting snow and rainfall knock dirt and debris off of the aged office buildings. Every block has a porn shop, bedazzled in neon flashes and misspelled signs. One shop has "condons", another sells "lubs" and a particularly racy one sells "S.M" porn. Scandalous.

The people are a special breed of disappointed. The faces are greasy and wrinkled, the voices are smoke-stained, and the health is fleeting. Young men walk down the streets with bats, and try to rough up shoe store emplyees. Family fights occur in the middle of the avenue and traffic rolls right past them. A man will scream on his cellphone about STD's as a man tries to sell you "NEWPORTS! FI' DOLLAHS!" I'm pretty sure those aren't Newports.

It's a weird sociological obstacle course for a floppy-haired white boy in his tattered barn coat.

The iPod helps.

Sycophant

I'm not a very good liar. I've tried, but it doesn't work.

I'm too afraid that people are going to find out that I'm bending the truth, and then I'll have to explain myself. Guilt sets it pretty quickly, and presents me from entertaining the thought of bearing false witness against my neighbor. Thanks, Catholicism.

So, in turn, I don't like liars in any form. Salesmen, players, con-men, and the illustrious Kevin Treudaeu. But then I also don't like people who fall for obvious scams. I can't expect people to always know what's happening to them, but a little education goes a long way.

Remember, knowing is half the battle.

Enjoin

I have interns at my job now. I'm in charge of people. That's pretty weird.

I never really thought I would be managing anyone. Every job I've had before offered no chance of upward momentum. Well, the grocery store did, but I hated it so much that I would rather drink bleach than be invested career-wise at County fucking Market.

Being the boss never really appealed to me, either. Most of the bosses I had were dicks. Absolute assholes. I didn't want people to hate me the way I hated these condescending, mean-spirited people that took too much pride in what they were doing. There's no way I ever wanted to be that kind of person.

In school, however, I took charge in group projects. By "took charge" I mean "did the all the difficult work". I was sure if I didn't do it, it would never get done. I knew it from experience. No one seemed to pay attention to due dates, especially in college.

And now I'm in New York and I have two people under my direction. I don't think they dislike me, though.

Hardscrabble

I used to never understand how people could let themselves get into so much debt that they need to call spending counselors and consolidate debts. It seems easy enough to not buy things you can't afford, or especially don't need. And now I'm here, and I can say that spending money makes you feel better about being broke.

That's hard sentence to logically think about, since there seems to be none in it. I'l try to explain what I mean.

Watching how you spend is a hard task. You are aware of your account balance at all times. The budget you set for yourself is automatically calculated on seeing any price on anything. Exhaustion sets in from setting limits and buying generic. Then something gives out. You stop caring for a night, you make a miscalculation, or you get a little extra money that you grossly underestimate. You go on a wild bender of spending. A "spree" if you will. You're not writing down debits, you aren't saving receipts, and you buy anything and anything you want. You stop thinking about all these mathematical accountancy chores you've had to do. it's spending with confidence. "I can afford it. I can afford it! I CAN AFFORD IT!".

Then you get your statements and you realize you can't. Then you spend the next few days eating mac and cheese in the dark.

Lapidary

One of the defining features of my new home in North Arlington is the necropolis across the street from my apartment. Holy Cross Cemetery is about the size of NArlington, and about as lively.

It's really weird to see forest filled with tombstones and populated with the occasional mausoleum. Nights, while looking out of the bus window, I keep expecting to see an occasional spirit or phantasm. I never do. Most people never see a ghost.

I would love to meet a ghost. The experience would probably just get freaked out and run away, but at least I would have an awesome story. Probably more awesome if I didn't run away.

I have this weird fascination with the paranormal. I don't believe in it, but I think it's a fun set of ideas to play with. I liken it to being fascinated with ancient mythologies or urban myths. We all agree it's false, but it is fun to pretend it is and let your imagination run wild. There's no way to predict the future with the stars, no one turns into a wolf-beast during full moons, and voodoo just plain doesn't work.

However I still hope there are ghosts. As much as I try to debunk whatever weird thing may happen to me, as much as I explain away every strange noise or sensation, I still want to be proved wrong someday. That would mean something is going on after we're gone.

Maybe it's better if nothing happened to us after we die. Then you have to think about how much you fucked up until the end of time.

Malodorous

I moved to Jersey to be safe.

Turns out the North Arlington police department busted a child molester and a theif that targets the elderly.

Good thing I'm in my 20's.

Hoi Polloi

I've got a brain for useless trivia. I absorb anything if it has to do with something I am interested in. I like to find out every single piece of information about what I like. I watch DVD special features and director's commentaries constantly. I read Wikipedia for fun. It's almost as if I need to fully immerse myself in my interests to fully appreciate them.

So, for my latest obsession, my improv classes, I've dived right in. I read Truth in Comedy immeadiately after buying it, cover to cover. I am always looking for more to read. Whenever there is a chance to practice, I take it. I am constantly going to shows at the UCB. Analyses of the performers strengths and weaknesses are all I think about on my way home. Then, I think, "If I work hard, I could be a part of this one day."

Now that I've started my class, I'm recognized by a few performers just from being around or having them as a coach. It's struck me that improvisers, from the constant listening training, remember nearly everything as well. Things they don't have to remember just get left in their brain.

Finally, this sponge quality my brain's been cursed with, my voracious curiousity, is finally useful for something. Oddly enough, it's not just for winning Trivial Pursuit.

Apogee

Every now and again, I think about moving back to Quincy. Not immeadiately, but later in life.

To steal an anology from my friend Luke, I want to end up back at The Shire. I'm certainly in my trek across Middle Earth. Always fighting ring wraiths, or giant spiders, or Balrogs.

Unlike my friends Sam and Frodo, I have not ultimate goal. I have no event that's going to make me say "That's it. I'm done. Time to go home." There is no ring to destroy, only lands to traverse and people to meet. That makes me an uncommon Hobbit. I guess I'm more like Bilbo.

The reason I think about living in my hometown is because I love the easy-going pace. I like the familiarity. I love the mix of aborial and urban. I love knowing where everything is. Everything I don't like about the big city.

Who knows what will happen, it's just something I've always been thinking about.

Turbid

This weekend has been the first time in a long while that I've got out to bars on a weekend. The last time I did, I'm pretty sure it was back home during Christmas. I realized now tha I love the bar scene in New York City a lot more than anywhere else. The cheif reason: The Smoking Ban.

I have a lot of friends who smoke, and it doesn't bother me at all if they do it around me or in my car. However, in a small crowded room with poor ventilation, the habit becomes more of an annoyance. At the end of the night you have to make sure you shower and spray your jacket with febreeze so you won't make your house smell bad for the rest of the week. And taking a shower drunk is a very dangerous activity.

The first few times I went out to bars and clubs here in the city, I didn't really notice the absence of the second-hand haze I'm used to seeing in Quincy. That's because the lights are always very dim in these clubs for some reason. The biggest buyer of candles outside the Catholic churches must be all these trendy bars. But, I digress...

After a few outings, I realize that my jacket smells clean, my sheets smell clean, and my laundry smells . . . well . . . not like smoke. It was nice, but I think I took it for granted. That was until I went home for Christmas. I went out with some old friends to a bar we've been to ever since most of us were of age. My eyes watered, my throat closed up, and I was having trouble concentrating. It was like some sort of gas grenade had gone off. I couldn't understand it. Is it at all possible that New York City's air was cleaner than this bar? New York has millions of smokers, thousands of cars, hundreds of busses, miles of subways, and a few factories and power plants. How can I live in that environment, but still get taken down by a moderately smoky pub in the midwest?

It's a great feeling to not have to worry about smoke when you are going out. I know the smokers are pretty pissed about it, but it is pretty gross. Come on. Your fingers turn yellow and your hair smells gross.

Sonorous

Of all the things to resent in the world, my alarm clock is the top of my shit list.

It's the sudden realization that I have to be clean, dressed, on a bus, at work on time.

Thankfully, it's been silent these past few days. I've earned myself a four-day weekend. It's only half-over but it's been marvelous. I've gotten to play silly make-em-up games, went on a pub crawl, and slept in for 2 days in a row for the first time in a month.

Getting time off is an incredible feeling. Anyone who reads this blog knows how much I value free time.

I'm sorry that this isn't a longer entry, but I have some SCTV Network 90 to watch.

Doyen

I've been getting really into my improv classes. I went to a practice session on Saturday, and had an incredible time. Gavin Speiller was our coach for the day, and he seemed to have a lot of fun. It was encouraging to have him point out what he loved about scenes and what to mind in the future.

It's starting to become my goal to get as involved as possible in the UCB Theater. I love performing and being able to make people laugh. I hope I can keep ahead of the game.

It's also nice to see that professionally funny people think I'm funny as well.

Impregnable

My hometown is getting slammed with snow. My college closed after being slammed with snow. Upstate New York is getting slammed with snow. North Arlington hasn't seen much of anything.

It's been a while since I've been in a huge snow storm, where things close down, doors are snowed shut, and you get to stay home.

I love it when it snows hard. It's nice and quiet. It can be like watching fish in an aquarium as long as you watching from inside where it's warm and safe. The way things look fresh as a new coat of white paint is applied to the world. Nobody's walked in it, nobody's plowed it away, there are no snowmen. It's some weird sort of feeling, like seeing what the world would be like if humans ceased to be.

The feeling doesn't last that long. The black ice forms on the sidewalk and curbs, pooling in the street. Mounds of plowed snow hang out for about 7 months. The snowmen slowly melt away, wearing contorted, tortured look that only melting snowmen can express.

I can't understand why it won't snow here of all placed. There was a blizzard for the past two years before I move. Now that I'm here, it's one of the warmest winters on record.

I wish I could have my one little day of being held captive by the weather.

Raffish

I really wish I could stop watching the news. It's like picking a scab or pushing on a sore tooth. It keeps hurting me and I forget about it. I space out while doing it. It's something harmful and ephemeral.

I think I reasched my point when Anna Nicole Smith died, and the cable news networks decided to kick her when she was as down as she could be. She was no saint, but none of us are. It's appalling how much disrespect was shown to her and her family on a 24 hour news cycle. They would compare her to Marilyn Monroe, only adding that she was far less famous and far more tragic. They had people who had met her professionally discuss how incoherent she was at one particular point or another. The point they made the most is that she never acheived the kind of fame she wanted. Take that, Anna Nicole Smith.

She was what she was. Who are these journalism school flunkies to make judgement calls? She lost her son the same day her daughter was born. And they now don't know who the father is. I really hope her daughter is with a sympathetic party who will love her and raise her in a good way, and not just keep her around for whatever money she may have coming to her.

I never expected this to happen. I figured it would be a blip in the entertainment radar when I heard she had died. I did not expect the media to take off the gloves and let her have it, like a bunch of gossiping 3rd grade girls. It was like watching a snake eat a mouse that was already dead.

Some may say she didn't deserve any respect for whatever uptight reason, but that's just throwing the first stone in a very large glass house. She committed no crime, unless some of you hipsters think "reality television" is a crime.

Beau ideal

Is there a right way to celebrate Valentine's Day?

I'm not sure there is, since we as American's have complicated love so much that we actually have relationship advice in the newspaper.

We mix-up signals, we misconstrue perception, we go to seminars to figure out how to attract our soulmates, we take tests on the internet to match us on 9 dimensions of compatiblity.

We're fucked up.

I only bring this up because I am watching Mythbusters with my visiting friend John. The only thing remotely resembling Valentine's day is the bowl of candy on the coffee table. Most people would begrudge this situation, but I really don't care. I love science-based reality programming.

I don't have much of a card budget either.

Slaver

I'm having trouble sleeping lately. I feel like I can't get enough done to fall asleep on time. Hell, it's even late right now as I type up this essay.

My bed for some reason isn't comfy on odd nights, or maybe I feel like I should start a new project. I feel like I don't do enough for myself.

The college life is what I miss. Being able to call your shots, and make-up work on your own schedule is incredibly convenient, but not a luxury one is afforded in business.

It's nights like this that make me wish I would have gone to grad school instead of trying to start my life early. I probably would have slept better on an old oversize twin in a dorm somewhere, knowing i could call a snow day of my own to relax and get back my energy.

Maybe it's because I didn't have a weekend. Or maybe I'm subconsciously aware of Valentine's Day. Or maybe I drink too much diet cola.

Maybe.

Vivify

I fear that I'm not that good of a writer to keep this project going.

I haven't studied writing that much, except for maybe that short stories class I took in college. Even then, I got an A only because I shot a short film for my final project.

I like reading a lot. I can see the way that author's paint their pictures and make their cases. It just doesn't translate to me being a good writer. I love playing Wolfenstein: Enemy Territory, but I'm pretty sure I'm a terrible shot with a Luger.

The only thing I can really bring to this project is my tenacity. My promise to write something every day and attempt to make it interesting is all I can give to you honestly, my dear reader. Maybe the constant thinking and typing will make me better at expressing myself.

As the saying goes, if you want to be a writer, write a 1000 pages. After that, you're a writer.

only 983 more definitions to go.

Satiety

Fancy restaurants make me feel uncomfortable.

I never know what to do, or how to act. There's a lot of ceremony involved that I'm not privy to, since I did not attend a boarding school at any point, nor did I ever take viola lessons. The whole thing reminds me of when I started going to Catholic mass and had no idea how to follow along to all the moves I needed to do.

There's so much money going into something as simple as dinner, it throws me out of my right mind. I don't know how you go about ordering courses. I'm even afraid to order a soda because I think that makes me look low-brow.

New York has an abundance of these fancy-dancery places. And all sorts of different cuisines. Afro-carribean, Tibetan, Japanese Fusion, Brazilian Steakhouses.

I just want a shitball burger most of the time.

Another thing I am not interested in when it comes to fine dining is being surrounded by pricks. Guys trying to impress their dates with stories about skiing in Switzerland or their critical analysis of an article they read in The Believer. And there's women talking about the fall collections at Dolce and Gabana or talking about homeopathic medications for their dogs. I'd much rather be in a bar and grill with friends of mine busting each others balls and getting to laugh loudly and enjoy our meal together.

I don't know why someone took the crappy parts of eating out and inflated them. No talking, little choice, and expensive prices.

I guess the architecture might be better than the "Mounted Garage Sale" motif found in most chain places, but the music sure sucks more.

Crux

If there is one thing I am suspicious of the most, it's handwritten letters.

E-mail has done away with the tradition of correspondence, and has made the simplest conversations easy to have with a person thousands of miles away. There's no real need for pen pals as long as they have AIM. Long distance calls are practically free from charges now, even on cell phones. You could just call them on Skype if you were really technologically inclined.

So, on the rare occasion that a letter arrives, it's usually a bill you can't pay with online checking, or a greeting card. When it's an actual letter, it's almost a drag. You have to read the other person's handwriting, and you haven't read anyone's handwriting since grade school, not even your own. And of course it's sloppy because the other person has been typing everything for nearly 10 years at the very least. There you are deciphering a letter from someone who is probably in your Blackberry address book. You almost want to call them and ask for a summary of what they wrote so you can get back to handwriting a check for that refrigerator invoice.

This also goes for the people who write letters on greeting cards. It almost looks like the act of a crazy person, trying to fill all the space possible with words.

What's the point? Just e-mail me. That's easier to not read.

Bucolic

The summer before I could drive, I spent a lot of weekends at the hunting camp my uncle owned.

The family was all pitching in to build a cabin and cultivating the acres surrounding. There were big feilds of corn, rolling hills of tress, and giant cliffs of clay. The kids would spend most of the time sitting on the treshold of a tall clay incline. Every so often we would roll down the soft, jagged hill to the bottom. It was like falling on rubber bricks; it hurt, but not that much. Nobody ever broke anything, but we did get some cuts and bruises.

Nights were spent out by the fire in front of the cabin trying to tell ghost stories or making jokes that only kids laugh at. The jokes where the punchline is basically a curse word. We would sleep in tents, or the RV, until the cabin was hospitable enough for our sleeping bags. One morning, I remember waking up, taking a deep breath through my nose, and feeling something vibrate. I did a farmer's blow and out flew a housefly. It buzzed around very perplexed.

The reason we were out there so much was because of my grandfather. He had bought the land before he died. In December of 1998, he died of pancreatic cancer. It was the first big death in my family that I was aware of. My Dad's father passed on when I was 2, and his mom 3 years before I was born.

The family really started to pitch in and come together after my grandpa's death. The cabin became everyone's project. Since I was still kind of young, I had no real use to the building process. I was still very close with my brothers and cousins at the time because of constantly staying over at grandma's after grandpa died. We were stuck together to support her.

I really wanted to grow up, and go to high school, and be cool. I wanted to stay indoors, away from the heat and bugs. Family is more important, even if it's as silly as falling down a rocky hill.

Pyrrhic victory

I think I work too hard.

There are days I really want to live a Bohemian lifestyle, doing whatever work comes my way, travelling from town to town, and calling a small comfortable house my home. I like luxuries too much, though. There's nothing like forgetting about the world around you and playing "Gangster Killing and Robbery" or "Zombie Mall" for the X-Box 360. Travelling is far better in a mid-size luxury sedan than through mass transit. Odd jobs and side projects are finished a lot faster with a tool set than with a broken Leatherman you stole from your work's Lost and Found.

So, I find myself in a regular job that has regular hours and regular pay and a regular desk with a regular set of co-workers who do everything by regulation.

It pays my electricity bills, and my internet bills, and my video game bills. I should be thankful I have a job at all. I should be. But like every other whiner in his or her 20's, I can't be satisfied until things are completely perfect for me. Besides, if I got everything for free, I couldn't truly appreciate what I have done. The fruits of my labor are enriching, like the new album by The Shins.

At the end of the day, I feel tired. I wake up tired. I yawn all day. Does my love of luxury come at a cost to my own personal well-being? Yeah, probably. Especially on drinking nights.

Maybe I should start taking some vitamins.

Idee fixe

Today on the bus, I sat next to an incredibly fat man. Like orca fat. I didn't want to, but i couldn't find another seat fast enough. I just stared at the empty half of a seat and realized I'd look like too much of an asshole if I went "No thanks, rather stand."

But that guy doesn't want me to sit next to him.

It was basically me squashed against a giant beanbag chair with arms. Constant, hot, uncomfortable pressure. The pretty much sums up the rest of my day. The only thing that kept my attention was my congested head. When you are sick you just want everything else to work smoothly. It's just insult to injury. "I'm sick and i can't get the printer to work! My life is a living nightmare!"

The only thing you are aware of is how miserable you are and how much you want to sleep. I guess this is why we have sick days at our jobs, but when you make that call, nobody seems to ever believe you.

I can't believe I'm not asleep by now. I just want to sleep until I'm well.

Genial

Since I am very old, I have my 5 year high school reunion coming up.

It doesn't seem like much has changed for my friends or I since leaving high school, other than going to college and getting jobs. Nobody's personality has changed that much. However, some people that I know have made the decision to get married in the years past.

People have made the decision in their early 20's to stay with their boyfriend or girlfriend FOR-EV-ER! I went to Catholic school, so there should be no divorce.

It might just be my warderlust, or just my weird aversion to people, but I cannot see getting married at my age. There's so much to go do in the world. A lot of it you should do on your own or with friends who can take care of themselves. It's way too much of a responsibility to be tied to one person for the rest of your life. There's already enough you have to care for when you start living away from your parents. Why make it more difficult?

I also have no real desire to take care of children at my age. Having a kid would be neat, but I don't really want to take care of another human being. Even though I think I would do a good job as a parent, I know I will screw my kid up somehow. That's just what happens. Kids end up as all of us neurotic, socially-affected adults who are still wondering what went wrong to make us feel bad every day.

But I guess, having someone with you, on your team versus the rest of the world, is a great feeling.

Missive

Dear Port Authority,

You are a very scary place. You are scarier than a haunted house because the creatures that live in you are real. I would rather you be filled with werewolves and Draculas than the desperate hobos and angry commuters. If you were to shoot a hobo in the heart with a silver bullet, the police will get all pissed.

No matter what time of the day it is, you are no fun to be in. Several hours a day, you are host to a yuppie stampede. Thousands of rat racers trying to get some minute piece of recognition in their crummy desk jobs. At night, people sleep next to your soda machines, having no place else to go in the world.

You should change your name to The Desperation Terminal.

Yours at rush hour,
Adam


Dear Americas Funniest Home Videos,

Can you make a whole show of people getting hit in the face with balls in a rapid-fire presentation? It would make me the happiest boy in the world.

Yours in Schadenfreude,
Adam


Dear Readers,

I realize you have a lot of time to devote to other things. There's a lot of porn you could be watching, not to mention the countless Middle-Eastern music videos on YouTube. I appreciate whatever time you spend reading about what I think. I promise not to fill up this blog with a bunch of surveys about my high school years or the results of my "Which character from Studio 60 are you?" quiz. I'll try and keep it worthwhile.

Blogfully yours,
Adam

Conspectus

I have been very lucky. My college of choice gave me a lot of opportunities to excel and prove myself. I have also been to build experience. I was also very prepared for the job market with a large portfolio and a very good resume. Finding a job was tough, but I got a position that's worked out for me.

Resumes are a very tricky beast. Experts write books and weekly articles about what you need to do to write the perfect resume and to make yourself appear as hireable as possible. I'm baffled by how much of this material is out there. It seems like a very common sense project.

However, some sort of roseate attitude goes into writing the synopsis of a person's work experience. They include any job they've had to show the employer "Hey, at least I've had a job." Working as a fry cook at 16 might not really seal the deal on that sales job.

I have seen other people in graphic design classes send out pencil drawings to employers as samples of their work. It certainly shows their mastery of the copy machine. I hope they include that in the skills list.

Speaking of the skills list. Either ignorance or desperation sets in to fill out that crucial bullet point. I've heard of people including "x-acto knife" proficiency on their skills set. i don't think I could make up anything better than that. I mean, I could say something like "very entertaining/skilled impersonator" but then you'd all know I am bullshitting you. I am not here to bullshit you.

Also, don't use Comic Sans font. Ever. Just don't ever use it. Delete it off of your computer.

There is so much money and time being poured into a one page document. Something that will ultimately be thrown away by the majority of people you send it to, like junk mail. Junk mail that holds a person's future in the balance. Like the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.

Speaking of which, cross your fingers for me. I need to be visited by the Prize Patrol this Super Bowl Sunday.

Bear down, Chicago Bears.

Roseate

I miss autumn in the Midwest.

Winter in New England is pretty harsh and bleary. The urban setting makes for giant wind tunnels that pick up garbage and debris to pelt you with. That wind-blown bag from American Beauty becomes a little more territorial, dive-bombing commuters and dumping reciepts on their heads. There's no trees. No windbreak. No seasonal gauge.

One of my favorite things to do is to go on road trips in Autumn. The weather is nice enough that all you need is a jacket. You don't need to blast the heat or the A/C. And the view is incredibly beautiful as your drive takes you to the open spaces and wooded by-ways of the flyover states. It's a wonderful exploratory time.

I love the way trees look in Autumn. It's more interesting than just thick green woods. The different species of tree make a lovely patchwork of new colors. Then you get to pass through miles and miles of it as you play your favorite Modest Mouse album. It reminds me of college, Halloween, and many good times I've had with some friends I am close to.

I was born to ramble...

Moribund

Windows Vista OS came out this past Tuesday. That means it's finally time to get rid of my old desktop jalopy.

My first personal computer was bought after a summer spent working overnight at the Quincy post office so I would have one for college. I loved my Dell. I would upgrade it's RAM and storage space. We killed thousands of Nazi's in hundreds of WWII shooter games. We stole lots music. We went to LAN parties together. We were the best of friends.

One winter break, I took my Dell home and it somehow died. The power buttons wouldn't work anymore. My dad bought a new case and motherboard to extend the life on my machine. It was a weird Frankenstein almagamation of Dell periphals and 3rd party product. We were still able to have the same fun as we used to.

In my last semester of college, my PC has started to give out. The blowers started to grind and whirr, wheezing for breath. Applications slowed down. Firefox would crash. The speakers pop and fade out. It was in it's PC winter years.

I moved away, and my PC came along. It sits on my desk, hacking and whirring every so often during the night. It's once comforting white noise giving away to the cranky sounds of a dying man. I have a laptop I use more often. I keep the PC turned off most days. He's earned the rest. His time has almost come.

I really wish it didn't have to be like this. I wish I could buy an electronic device and not have to think about how it will one day stop working. It will stop being useful. It will one day leave me. I wish whoever made these things would make them last forever. I wish it weren't like this. I wish I didn't have to say goodbye.

I can't afford to replace my PC.

Pellucid

One of the things I've learned about myself in the recent years is that I'm incredibly easy to read.

I thought I did a good job of keeping things to myself, but I guess I've become a radiating tower of brooding and discomfort whenever I have anything on my mind. Possibly because I've run my well of apathy dry. High school and college were never that stressful. I didn't have to study hard because I'm an information sponge. Working as a bagboy, a pool builder, and a postal clerk sucked, but after the day was over, things weren't so bad. I changed my clothes, got a soda, and went on a cruise in my wrecked up Chevy Corisca. If college got a little hectic, I would take a snow day (even in April).

Now, I'm constantly being checked on because of my dour expression and sullen mood.

Things are different now. I have to pay bills. I have to go to work every day no matter what. Boo-hoo. I'm a grown up.

I guess I've always been easy to read, but now it's a source of concern.