Tonight, for some reason, The Beatles' "Help!" popped into my head. So I pulled up iTunes, and, as luck would have it, for some reason I thought to grab a bunch o' Beatles stuff at random back when I had terabytes of random MP3s.
It was a really unscientific grab, so I'm actually mildly surprised. All I know is I have way too much country in the damn collection. And Back Street Boys. Why on earth did I grab back street boys? I must've been looking at a directory and not gotten past 'C' or something. So I have Brooks, Garth, Back Street, and Beatles, The. Sigh. Oh well, at least I got Blink. My Coldplay is a little whack, though. I only have Rush of Blood to The Head, which I had on my damn iPod already anyway.
But whatever. No use crying over milk spilt almost 3 years ago. Oh wait, that's pretty much all I do in this blog, isn't it?
So anyway, I was looking for "Help!" today. And of course, I go to google first, which didn't give me any Beatles love until like link 23. And it wasn't even lyrics, it was some blog about nothing interesting whatsoever that just so happened to mention the song.
Crazy blog fuckers jamming their shit up everyone's nose and then doing SEO and external linking to Result-Page stuff. Damn it.
Oh, wait. I do that. Longer sigh.
So I think, hey, wait, I have a shitload of music I never listen to, and after typing in "help" into my "all music" list, I get:
Help! by The Beatles
With a Little Help from My Friends, Fab Four again
Heaven Help by Lenny Kravitz
Help Me, Mary by Liz Phair
Help Me Fall by Mark Wills (wtf? I don't even know who that is!)
Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones x3
Yeah, x3. It's on 3 different Stones compilations. Three version of Mother's Little Helper and not a Spidey soundtrack to be found. Only the first Matchbox 20 CD. And no Dave Matthews to speak of. And like TWO of the 47 U2 albums. Prince, Michael Jackson, Sugar Hill Gang? Nay, a tiny sample, and who the fuck is that.
Bleah! Where's my stinkin' iPod?
Argh, dammit. It has the same friggin' problem. Organized by a friggin' idiot with too many choices. Oh well. At least I got a bunch of Tupac.
And, as I've talked about (or should have, by now) in that other blog, choice immobilizes. Oh, heck. Guess I'll have to write that now. Next week. Or something.
--
I didn't go out tonight. Yes, it's happening. I did go to the gym. I did play some mostly-weak ball for a couple of hours. I miss Scotty and 24. Damn it.
So, yeah, it's happening.
I changed my zip code, my mailing address, and quit my job. Er... got myself fired. Details.
I moved to another state. I enrolled in classes that were supposed to be enriching and interesting. I've been to probably 30 parties and taken out 15 chicks. I've had several naked in my bed, in fact.
I've consumed more cheap beer than... well more than I ever have. In my whole friggin' life. There's a reason yuppies swear off macrobrews, boys and girls, and it's name is beer pong.
I've worked my ass off to engage, and opportunities abound. I can crack the code and hooking up with all the 19 year olds I want, of that I'm sure (it's actually been harder than I thought... damn virgins. My hit ratio has been like 40% so far! Fuck!). I can work out whatever it is I need to do to get good grades in the two classes I haven't dropped yet. I can somehow juggle all the other shit I have in the air.
And I can be the "token old guy" for awhile.
I don't know if it's helping though.
A friend of mine said recently something like "maybe you have to give up the things you cling to in order to get to where you want to be". And, in its own way, moving and changing my life is part of that. I'm forcing some sort of change, right?
But into what?
One thing that's always been true about me is that I've imagined the scenario I want before I achieve it. At 15 it was waiting tables and living on my own. At 18 it was being in charge of something. At 21 it was real estate, stock options, and working with really smart people.
At 25 it was finally hooking up with someone who wasn't a girlfriend.
Then, somewhere between "I'm gonna marry Becky, Alfie" and Slutbag telling me she loved me, it was a picket fence, a retriever, and furniture. No, not nice furniture. Having it at all. You're reading this... you know me, right? Heh.
I don't think I ever cared where. I just wanted the Kinkade-esque version of the American Dream.
I think I might be an idiot. I think the appeal of youth and college and... all of this... might have just been about the girl. That girl. The random one who doesn't remember my middle name who's older sister is not going to marry my friend, who is not going to look me up when she is in Cali next, and who I should probably delete from my facebook and myspace accounts. The one from that random state I'll probably visit again at some point to see my aunt/mother figure and my friend Joe.
When she falls ill or he gets married. Neither of which will happen this year, but both of which will probably happen to them before it does me. In either event.
And I'll call, but her number will be disconnected by then, and she'll be graduated, and have moved to... Cali, probably. As luck would have it.
Sigh. Not that any of it is important. It's just where most people with an IQ more than... well, me, apparently, end up moving. One of the damn coasts. And she's got family out west, so why the fuck not?
But this is all tangential. I'm doing what I always do... babble on about some shit that really isn't all that important so that I can avoid actually thinking about that damn question that seems to rule my existence.
Why the fuck am I here?
In whatever context... typing at 4 in the morning when I should be passed out drunk with some dumb chick snoring next to me, here in the desert, which is absolutely gorgeous weather all of the time, but is singularly about underage drinking and not at all about the things I think about every day, like work, and tenants, and life, and what the fuck I'm doing here. Oh wait, I was on a tirade. Damn it, I ruined my series of rants-in-a-single-sentence routine.
It was good for me, to get out of town, to get out of Castro Valley, to get away from normalcy and the day job and the girls I could call if I really wanted to screw, and the fall back of old friends when I was really down, and that terrible little basement apartment I lived in for a year.
It has been nice to live with roommates again, especially those that have their whole lives ahead of them, for whom "going home" includes parents and dining room tables and private space that reminds them of being in high school, of their first kiss, of their first fight with mom, of that terrible english teacher they had in middle school. It has been nice to wake up at any time in the morning and go outside to bright-ass sunshine, because, yes, it's the fucking desert, and we don't get fucking fog here.
Unless it rains. In which case we get fog for about 20 minutes. It's more of "muggy" feeling, though, not really fog. Not cold, not water vapor, just... not sunny. And humid. And dark. Right. But it goes away. Monsoons last a whole friggin' hour. Weird, I know.
So, right, why am I here. The cosmic question. The procreation question. The purpose question. The happiness question. The fucking kill-me-now question.
And I look through all of these majors... all of these subjects. I want to learn a little more about religion because... so that I can argue with and alienate the friends I have less a little more? Ho-hum.
I want to study business so I can be frustrated by the mundaneness of it all? So that I can argue with the teacher and tell him he's wrong? And then work my ass off to prove it for a B+ because he can't flunk me, even though he wants to, so he gives me an almost-good-enough grade.
I want to study women's studies so I can land in a class that's 90% chicks? eh. Whateverrrrr.
And then there's history, and econ, and film, and art history, and philosophy... all things I'm vaguely interested in, but which won't answer the question.
And the more I articulate, the sadder I feel. Isn't this shit supposed to be cathartic? Aren't I supposed to come to some sort of conclusion, isn't this supposed to help me organize my thoughts, compartmentalize my feelings, understand myself and the world better?
But all it does is serve to remind how lost I am. How lost I feel. And how sad that makes me.
Harumph. "Daughters" by John Mayer just rotated in on my iTunes. There's a line in the song about how basically you can abuse the boys and they'll figure it out, but the daughters will grow up and ruin their relationships.
Well, I'm getting a little old for my quarter-life crisis, John. And you get to bang Jessica Simpson, so shut the fuck up.
Eh. It's a pretty enough song. Reminds me of Crazy Lauren, actually.
--
How about a statement that says how psycho I really am. I miss that chick sometimes. I mean, yes, even while I was in the middle of it, I knew I couldn't engage, because it would be crazy and codependent, but she was ironically really good to me.
The flip side of showing up at my house and keying the ex-GF's car, of socking me in the face when staring me in the eye as I crushed her devotion for the 27th time... the flip side is that she totally understood me. She was a freak, but she was my freak.
Anything I revealed to her didn't make her feel sorry for me. It didn't make her think I was crazy. It didn't turn her off or turn her on.
It just was. Because she had drama too. And she just understood.
There it is.
Epiphany time.
So I go through life, and I fake it, right? I fake interest in stupid girls, I fake a college degree to fuckers who think it matters, I fake being 23 to these undergrads all around me, I fake a healthy childhood to people who get close enough to touch, and I fake being over it for those close enough touch and care.
My life is one big facade, and despite not living in fear -- I really don't give a fuck, because I'm independent now and you can take your job/judgment/pussy/friendship and piss the fuck off -- it still is really draining to act all the time.
I like basketball for that reason. Because out there, I can just be me. If I want to cuss, I do it. If I want to get angry, I do. If I want to give it my all or be lazy, if I want to show off for some girl I don't even know, if I want to shut some guy down just because he's black, or thinks he's good, or used to play in the NFL, or because his girlfriend is watching, I do it.
The mask comes off. And I'm still cool for the most part, but it's ok because they all take it off too. You're just some fucker in gym shorts now. I don't care about anything except what you do with the ball. And neither do you. For those couple of hours, we're really equal, we're really the same, we're really not afraid.
For just a little while, it doesn't matter what I make, or that my parents never loved me, or that I hate you because you have parents and family. It doesn't matter that my childhood ended somewhere around 8 or that I was once so poor that I biked two miles to the next fucking train station so I could save 30 cents. It doesn't matter that my behavior basically says that I don't want to be loved.
And, most of all, it doesn't matter that my iTunes has something that sound pretty goddamn "bow chicka bow wow" sounding music bumpin' right now. (switches windows)
Whew. That's better. I was starting to look around for some big titted chick with a pussy the size of a grapefruit. Which is slightly hot in a really dirty sorta way.
I think.
So I was going to epiphanize (ooh, I like that new word), right? Well, if my life is one big audition, if I'm constantly faking it, but yet it's tearing me up, then what am I so afraid of?
What will I lose if I stop faking it?
I remember, once, when I wore "being real" like a badge of honor. I didn't want to be fake about anything. All natural food, I was also really anal. And I wasn't very much fun.
And then came the fake hair, the nice clothes, the schmoozing, the wit-development, the posturing, the prestige of titles, the BMW, and all of the things that came with it... including the princess (Amanda had one of those princess license plates).
I guess I am afraid. Not of what some schmuck says -- although that "token old guy" comment the other day is still bothering me, even if it wasn't meant to be negative and it's true -- but because I don't like that guy I used to be. He was a dick.
But that's the problem, isn't it. I don't like me very much at all. And achievement is no longer a fill-in. It's a distraction at best, now.
And the fact that I know that makes me not care. About... much of anything.
It's a weird... what's the term Faustian bargain mean? Something about a deal with the devil, right? (googling) OK, that doesn't fit. Never mind.
I was going to ponder goals. They're great for now... they fill in the blanks, because it's easy to work backwards from a goal and come up with a plan, an action, even a way of life.
But -- and here's why it's kinda sorta not really a deal with the devil -- it's just temporary. A go-between starting from something you're lacking and ending with not filling the void you were hoping to.
Nothing can replace, or atone for, the trauma I've endured. Nothing can give me back my childhood... not even trying to fake being 23. And so goals, at this point, are just passing the time. Achievement is not enough and never will be. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I save or how many awards I earn. Heck, I could be the anti-Hitler of the 21st century, and all I'll do is mutter something about letting history decide how to paint my person. But it's not because I don't, or wouldn't, enjoy it. Every single word of praise would be appreciated by the emotional black hole buried somewhere not all that deep inside.
I'd just still be hiding.
The problem is that I don't know how to fill it. Lauren wanted that contract. She promised to love me enough. I just knew I couldn't love her enough... and when it wasn't, I knew that she'd take it away. And oh how that would've hurt. I'd have missed everything about her, from her smell to her sense of humor. As it is, I just miss not having to hide. And vanilla lattes in the morning after hot shower sex. But I could've lived without that. That was just a nice perk. :-)
So there it is. How do I fill it? How do I fill that void that was made when I wasn't protected at 2? Or hit at 13? Or left out to die at 14? Or just plain hated by the very guy that was supposed to be my guardian and protector?
How do I take that away?
Sigh.
I feel a need to tell you you're full of shit now.
(1) Therapy. Yeah. Tried. Did. Seemed to work. Or not. I suppose I could go back and blow $120 a week for the next, oh, forever. And that would make me feel slightly better. Because someone appreciates my fucking checkbook.
Uh huh. Sure. Go ahead and recommend it. I did it for two years. I could do it for two more. And... it might even make me not type so much. But if the problem is actually solvable, why do I need some idiot to just sit there and not tell me what to do?
(2) Drugs. Um. Personally, I don't see this huge difference between cocaine and prozac. I mean, sure, we could go into the biological differences, which would actually be pretty interesting, but they're both mind altering drugs. One just has a regulated dosage and drug content per unit metric.
They both have side effects. They both fuck up your head so you can't think straight. And, frankly, if I thought drugs would solve my problems, I'd already be a fucking alcoholic. For real.
(3) Finding that special someone. I think that no woman could ever fill that void forever. If she's out there, great. But like I love to say, you tell me where the fucking book club where the attractive, intelligent, 20-something, emotionally available gym bunnies hang out, and I'll show up with 60 roses.
In other words, fuck off. If you're recommending this, you probably have someone and didn't work for it, which means you're basically a trust fund baby telling me to get a fucking job, even though I'm black, my dad beat me, I got busted for a felony 'cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I was twelve, and can barely read because public schools suck ass.
If I sound a little bitter, well, yeah. If you think I'm "missing the point", blow me.
(4) Self analysis. Finding myself. Meditation.
My other blog has had shit like this in it since '03. I've been writing this shit down on paper since fucking '93. It helps. I'm already doing it.
Suggesting it doesn't exactly help anything.
(5) Losing the chip on my shoulder.
Ok. That's like telling a blind man what the color red looks like. Care to elaborate on how?
(6) Going back to school, changing venue, moving, or otherwise shocking the system with some big physical change.
Ahem. You haven't been reading very long, have you?
(7) Fuck all and kill yourself.
Crossed my mind a couple of times. Next?
(8) Go have a chat with your dad. I'm sure he loves you on some level.
You know, I have friends from my adult life who have said the very same thing. Then they met the guy.
Hitler really was a better man. At least he rationalized his evil. If you started with the basic flawed set of rules, everything else fit.
My dad is a sociopath. The clinical definition. Go wikipedia it.
And yes, I'm sure he does. Hitler loved the Jews, too. Ethnic cleansing is an act of love, goddamn it. Any problems with your moral reckoning on that statement?
(9) You know, a lot of people have it worse...
Yeah. I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Been over that already. Or haven't you read through my archives?
So how do I take this achievement, this talent, this luck, this blessing, and actually make something out of it?
How do I keep from always being this way?
How can I be happy? It's kinduv a prerequisite before I can "realize my full potential". Whatever that means.
Then again, maybe I was the best man I was ever destined to become years ago. And all of this is just hot air outlining the fall from the great man I could've been if only I'd stepped into the wind on some road long since forgotten.
Or not.
(10) Dude. This is life. This is the way it is. You have what you have, you are what you are. Stop dwelling on it. Have some sex, learn some shit, help some old ladies across the street, and just hop from one fun experience to the next. Everybody gets depressed when they sit at home and blog for two hours straight.
You're probably right.
But that's not enough for me. I want more. And, btw, the "trust fund" clause from item #3 applies, too. How about you go have a chat with your dad about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to take your call and won't call you or your mom a mother-fucker/cunt, not even once.
Next?
(11) Your need to find Jesus.
See "trust fund" clause above.
I realized something about Christians the other day while reading one of my books on Islamic thought. It was describing ancient Mesopotamian religions and comparing them to ancient Egypt.
Christianity is the ultimate mind fuck because it serves both human needs. For the assholes that get shit on, it has Original Sin. You get shit on because you deserve it, bitch. Just be glad I'm, even holding out the option of heaven to your sinful ass, you piece of shit.
For the elitist imperialistic suburban soccer playing, gold swinging fucks, you have Grace. Well, you're inherently evil -- you know this because you happen to know your wife blew your priest back in the day -- but the Grace of god means you now deserve the butt warmers in the H2 that runs on the blood of dead Iraqi children. You deserve all of the "blessings" that have been handed to you on silver platters most of your life. Because you worked for this and that, yes, and because Jesus saved you. God is just like you in look, spirit, and culture, you elitist fuck.
So, if you're in the former group, go back to the barrio and keep selling your food at the farmers market. I really like your tomatoes. And yes, you should send little Pablo to community college so he can learn a trade. His tithe will be bigger, damn it.
If you're in the latter, you've never really considered god, because you've never had any hardship. And no, your wife blowing your priest doesn't count. I'm talking about how the fuck am I going to eat, I have no one to call on the planet, nor even a quarter to make the fucking call if I did kinda hardship. You better believe that fucker ain't gonna carry you. Life is not Footsteps. And you don't deserve that H2, bitch. Go trade it in for something that didn't cost 18 square miles of rain forest. Take your butt warmer money and send it Bono so he can feed Africans, you imperialist bastard.
If Jesus were so great, I wouldn't be whining about drama that started in the womb. He'd have carried me then, too. Free will? Blow me. We have a judicial system and we're fucking humans. We stop people from doing bad things through deterrence and direct intervention. So why can't god do that?
Because he doesn't exist, that's why. Or He's just a pussy. Either way, next.
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