Hasty cancer acquisitions

I would have to say that smoking while riding a motorcycle definitely shows a supreme dedication to lung cancer. I mean so far as I know, every work place is pretty much required to provide smoke breaks for those who find themselves bound under the noxious yoke of nicotine. So either this guy is so addicted that even amidst his 10 minute drive home, he can't be without his nicotine stick, or he is just really really intent upon acquiring cancer in the hastiest manner possible.

Cut me, love me

Does this look like a boy whose face you'd like to punch? If not, you are probably a 13 year old girl.
I hate Rocket Summer. Quite possible one of the worst bands ever to plague the ears of man, not to mention find a little success. Like, the most whiny, awful power-pop you can imagine. Give it a listen if you don't believe me.

Anyways, I was at a friends and some cougs were hanging out in the basement with one of her other roommates. So we went down stairs. It was previously made known to Connie that one of them had recently attended the Rocket Summer concert. So whilst shoving gummy bears down our gullets in the kitchen, Connie asks one of the cougs how Rocket Summer was.

So he gets this real serious look on his face and says, "Oh. It was the most emotional concert I have ever been to. He just connected with the crown. It was amazing."

I looked at Colin. Colin looked at Connie. Connie looked at me and Colin. I looked at Connie, and Colin looking at Connie. Connie looked at me looking at Colin. I didn't even know what to say, so I said "Huh." And gingerly waited for him to walk out of sight. Because it was the most ridiculous/funny thing I have ever heard. Because Rocket Summer makes me want to cut out my ear drums and drop kick them into a giant garbage disposal full of boiling acidic fire. Because I can just imagine this guy, and 400 13 year old girls with bandaids all over their arms, tears streaming down their faces as they "emotionally connected" with this guy.

I sort of wanted to vomit in my pants and hysterically laugh at the same time. How does this guy take himself seriously?

Hasty dunkings

My younger brother is a missionary in the Philippines. I was reading his email today and I had a thought occur to me that I had never really previously considered. He mentioned something about a baptism having to be delayed for a week. Reading that sort of caused me to reminisce about baptizing people. Which then lead to the thought, "I can't believe how quickly missionaries baptize people." I mean when one is a missionary, meeting someone, blazing through 6 lessons, inviting them to read, pray, and then checking up on it, and then baptizing them as quickly as possible (ideally 2 weeks) seemed like the most normal and logical thing in the world. It now sort of seems like the craziest thing in the world. I mean, we would literally invite people at the end of the second lesson to get baptized. A rather life altering thing. At least it should be. But how could it be? I mean, I just have to wonder if the missionaries prepared people a little better before giving them a hasty baptism, how many more people would stay active, rather than dwindle away in inactivity?

While flying home, I remember wondering how many of the people I dunked had actually remained active. I visited several areas, and it seemed like roughly 50%. I would bet the farm that it is now somewhere less than 25%. Becoming a member of the church is such a big change for most people, and the requirements can be seemingly astronomical. I suppose however, when people truly believe they have found the truth they would be anxious to "start the path." However, I do recall when interviewing people for baptism, on about half the occasions having to remind people that they had a testimony of the truth. Some missionaries seriously didn't prepare people at all. They would get to the interview having scarcely prayed, at which point I would have to help them realize that they had received an answer that the Book of Mormon was true, and of the veracity of the gospel.

I guess when one is no longer a missionary, one realizes how crazy missionaries actually are. Missionaries don't have a normal perspective. They cannot fathom why every single member of the church isn't working their hardest and devoting their every spare moment to building the kingdom. Then one comes home and realizes that one's expectations of people over the past 2 years were often a bit over the top. That maybe they were a little crazy when they told people they were going to be condemned. One also comes to realize that, just because one is not a Mormon, doesn't automatically mean that they are wallowing around in a mire of unhappiness. So to all you Mormons who think otherwise--non Mormons can be happy too. In fact, just as happy as you (we) are. I remember looking people in the eye and telling them that it was impossible for them to be completely happy if they rejected the truth we were sharing. I believe that there is a uniqueness to the happiness that a strong member of the LDS faith may have, a specific certainty and comfort in the belief that one is following absolutely correct doctrines. However, Mormons do not have a monopoly on happiness. I believe that a if a person is living a good life, and is doing what they feel is good, righteous, and correct that such a person will be happy, regardless as to what faith they pertain.

Perhaps my heart has simply grown a bit hard. I freaking love smart water.

Growing pains

I have pretty crazy dreams. Last night I dreamt that I was on a huge boat on Utah lake. Like, a boat the size of a large freighter or something. Suddenly, we heard these 4 really loud booms outside. So we all went running out on deck, and saw all manner of crazy military-esque aircraft flying around the lake and the valley. There were tons of huge buildings in the valley that obviously don't exist. At first, it appeared that they were doing some sort of air show. But then there was a huge missile heading straight for us, which subsequently exploded into the mountain behind. As soon as it hit, I remember it being loud enough that I went completely deaf, and was thrown to the deck. At which point I realized that America/Utah valley was under attack.

I knew that I was dead. I knew that the explosion was going to kill me. All I could think about in that moment, besides the feeling of overwhelming fear, was that I didn't want to die, that I wasn't ready. It was such an odd feeling, one which took me quite a few moments to shake upon awakening.

I really don't want to die. I don't even want to grow old. I was thinking today about the new mattress that I bough/love with all of my heart. As I was tearing it out of the wrapping a few days back, I discovered that since I did not purchase the full set (box springs,) my warranty was void. Which pist me off. I am going to talk to them about that. But that is beside the point. As I was thinking about the absurdity of a 15 year warranty, I realized that if I were still sleeping upon this mattress in 15 years, I would be a sorry human being indeed. At which point, I did the math and realized that I would be 41 in 15 years. If I am still using a mattress when I am 41 that I bought when I was 26...just murder me in my sleep. Painlessly, preferably.

Upon doing that math, I sort of freaked out a bit, realizing that 41 was only 15 years away. I don't ever want to be 41. I don't ever want to start to grow old. But the truth is, this life is just flashing by, faster and faster. Every single year passes by, almost as though it were a dream. I think of things that occurred a year ago, and it seems like mere months. I ponder on occurrences of 2 years past, and I can't believe they weren't last year. Where is my life running off to?

I don't want to die in an explosion on Utah lake, my body ground into the frothy waters, dragged to the depths (my dream Utah lake had depth, even if the real one doesn't) by the charred and shattered husk of a ship.

I don't wanna grow up.

I wouldn't like me if i met me

For the most part, I would rather get kicked in the groin repeatedly than attend a house party. Not because I hate people, or even houses. It is because of the crippling anxiety from which I suffer during any such event. Turns out, I am a rather socially retarded person. If I met me at any sort of social gathering, I probably wouldn't like me. I become a dull, boring person who struggles unbelievably to hold any sort of a worthwhile conversation with another human being. The only time this isn't true, is when the people I know outnumber the people I don't. In that case, I can generally be myself, and I think I am likable enough.

I think I might suffer from undiagnosed anxiety. Whenever I am with friends, and lots of strangers start to show up, I immediately suffer from a social stroke. I can't be witty, nor think of anything to interject that would add to a conversation or be worthwhile. I always feel awkward, and frustrated. I see everyone else going around socializing and meeting new people, which I am incapable of doing. And there I sit, loathing myself for being unable to talk to girls. For being single, and surrounded by attractive females that, even if I dared talk to them, it would be a waste of time because of the whole not being a normal person thing. I think one of the things I most look forward to about marriage is never feeling that female related social anxiety again. Never again feeling worthless because I am unable to interest a girl with my buried wit.

I'm not a boring person dammit.

Freaking pestilence

My heart has been broken for the umpteenth time this summer. As stated in my other blog, I just returned from the Uintas. Having passed through Kamas, I made a tragic and horrifying discovery as I entered the National forest. Well, not a discovery. But it was news to me. Apparently there is an epidemic infestation of the Mountain Pine Beetle, which I shall simply forthwith refer to as the "bastards," in the Uintas. These wretched spawn of Satan are destroying the forest. It is shocking. I was just there last year, and everything was fine. This year, however, probably 1 in 4 trees is already dead. And there is really nothing that can be done about it, when it reaches that level. Essentially, the Uintas, one of the most beautiful forests on the planet earth, shall be blighted to an ugly ruin, damaged for decades.

I don't understand why God created these wretched beetles. They seem to serve no purpose. They destroy and completely alter entire ecosystems. The blight the land, destroying it for years and years. I can understand preditory creatures. Even parasitic creatures. But a bug that is capable of destroying hundreds of thousands of acres of land within a few short years...? I don't understand the purpose of such a creation. Or of letting said creation just run rampant. Not that I am questioning the wisdom of God or whatever, I just don't get it. I mean, I understand He can only meddle so much in human affairs, but this is his planet. I mean, it isn't a human created pestilence. It isn't as though he would be stepping in to fix something that humans ruined through carelessness and greed. This is nature attacking nature, in a seemingly wanton manner. I guess all I am saying is, were I the God of a planet, I would strike those beetles down to a cruel and merciless hell. A hell where when they bore into trees, it turns out that they are only boring into themselves, in some incomprehensible manner. It wouldn't have to make sense. Since I was God, after all.

As I drove, hiked, and biked all around it nearly brought me to tears, seeing all of those trees brown, lifeless. I couldn't help but think that that place wouldn't be beautiful again till I was probably like...50. By the time I have children (haaa hahahahaaa...ahem) the trees will all be dead, with nothing but scrawny new ones in their place. And who knows the ecological impacts and other wildlife changes that will have occurred. Seriously heart breaking.

Damn you Mountain Pine Beetle!

Guilty pleasures

So I spent $80 and bought the Skull Candy TI's with the fuzzy ear phones, and I pretty much love them. They don't do an incredible job blocking out back ground noise, but they sound hella good. And the fuzzyness is so comfortable. And hot. As in sexy.

So maybe I am going to reveal a rather nerdy bombshell about my life. I am embarrassed to admit this, but I have always had a rather soft spot in my heart for the science fiction/fantasy genre of literature. What I refer to as a soft spot was probably more accurately described as an obsession in high school, which has now just dwindled to the aforementioned soft spot. In high school I was all about the Elves, Dwarfs, Orcs, what have you. Wizards, magic, and murderous adventure were my literary passions. However, as I have grown older my tastes have matured. Probably due to a rather rational fear of mockery. I mean, who wants to be seen reading a fantasy book? The worst thing about them, is if you are reading one, any person can just grab it, read any given line in the book out of context, and make you feel like the biggest nerd on planet loser. "Once you summoned the 9 Rods of Dominion. Now look at you! A pitiful wretch!" Such books are rife with mock worthy material.

In my defense, I have not started a single new fantasy series since I was in high school. There was however, one series that I began when I was about 14, which continues to still be written, and therefore I still read.

My guilty pleasure.

Robert Jordan, if you must know. I started reading the Wheel of Time series as I said, at about 14. When I began then, there were about 7 or 8 of them out. It has now been 12 years, and there are 11 total.

The end has not yet come.

There is however, one small hang up; the author just effing died last fall. Half way through the last book. Seriously. 11 and 1/2 bloody books, and he goes and kicks the bucket. I remember fearing this possible occurrence all throughout the 11 years I read them. I kept thinking, "This prick better not die, or my life will have been lived in vain. I shall never know the end to the life and adventures of Rand al'Thor."

Luckily for me and a few million other people, he left extensive notes before he died of a freaking RARE blood disease. Someone is going to finish it.

One time, while a missionary, Robert Jordan saved my sanity. I was in an area with the guy I was training. We had been together 4 and 1/2 months, which was a complete anomaly. This never happened. I had never been with someone for longer than 6 weeks, and this was fast approaching 6 months. When one is with someone constantly for 24 hours a day, for months and months, conversational topics get stretched pretty thin. And for those of you who may be unfamiliar with Mormon missions, you REALLY ARE TOGETHER. The only time you aren't physically with that person is during showers and pooping.

So, we began to become a little nuts. We started talking in all scriptural tones, always saying things like, "Thus saith Elder Fish," or "And so it behooveth me to..." and so on. We also started to make up crazy doctrinal theories. Just when we were about to sink into mental oblivion, I thought of one thing we hadn't explored; the fantastic world of Robert Jordan. So, over the ensuing weeks, I (having read all the books twice) related to him the entire Wheel of Time narrative, as best as I could remember. Oh the nerdery! The joy! The intrigue! Most importantly, we didn't kill each other, and we didn't completely loose our minds.

So, there you have it. Fish's dirty, embarrassing little secret. I bring this up, because the last book is due to come out in 2009, and therefore I have embarked upon the rather daunting task of rereading all 11, 600-1000 page books.

Someday they will make the movies, and then I won't have to be a closet Robert Jordan reader any longer. Tolkien's fans were liberated from shame. Can I not hope for the same?

Not such a great place to be

I currently feel buried under an avalanche of inadequacy, self doubt, and worries. I feel like there are 2 giant, dark hands compressing my chest from either side. I know what I want to do, but I suddenly feel so shaken in that desire. Because of a simple conversation, I am rife with a sense of hopelessness, that my hopes and dreams are so much more difficult to obtain that what I had previously suspected. My bubble has been slightly burst, and my confidence shattered. Nevertheless, I can't give up on what I want. A reevaluation is in order. I just feel so terribly alone right now. Terrified that I'll never be who I really want to be. Stricken with fear that I'll never be able to meet out my full potential, that perhaps my potential really isn't what I had previously supposed.

I'm in a dark hole.

Mannerific scents

Sometimes I am astonished at how quickly a man's room can take on a distinct, pungent smell. I mean, I am a rather clean person. I wash my sheets, I keep my clothing clean, I bathe frequently. I don't allow garbage and rotting refuse to build up in my room.

The other day, I closed my window (after all the water blew in a soaked my bed.) I left for a few hours. Upon returning, my room had that distinct "man smell." I don't understand how this happened. I wasn't even in the room, therefore the smell couldn't have emanated from my body. I had virtually no dirty clothing in the room. My sheets and blanket have been recently washed. The only thing I can fathom, is that perhaps the smell is seeping out of the mattresses. Or perhaps the carpet. There must be a rather stellar collection of man essence built up on this house owned mattress and carpet that have probably never been cleaned since conception.

I'm a little pist about it, as it makes me feel like a gross person. Which I am not. Really. Not even a little gross.

Brilliant shit

I have decided that I have a love/hate relationship with IKEA. I think they have some super rad furniture. Cool designs, and I love the relative affordability. I don't appreciate however, the rather sloppy nature of many of their items. I found this shelf that was reduced from $89 to $40. It is definitely worth 40, but not so much 89. Anyways, as I was putting it together, I found that nothing fit perfectly. Which pist me off. Because on things like that I'm a bit OCD. I want them to fit perfectly. But they don't. Dammit.

I found however, that after I had completely finished putting it together, I just didn't care about the minute imperfections because the shelf just looked so damn cool.

So I guess that's what IKEA does--creates shit that looks cool so you forget it's shit.

Brilliant.

Secret grime

Sometimes my fingernails get grimy, and I can't even surmise how it occurs. I don't do anything that would be considered dirty. I have only started noticing this phenomenon over the last few weeks. I can't figure it out, as it has never seemed to happen before. I think it all started when I went to NYC. No matter how hard I tried to avoid touching ANYTHING, I still accrued all manner of gray, clay-like grime under my fingernails. I sort of felt like that was a bit metaphorical to New York; no matter how much you try to stay clean and not touch anything, you are still secretly affected by the grime. There is no real escape.

Somehow, this grime has followed me here, and is now covertly affecting my life. Or perhaps not so covertly.

Ant floodings

I have noticed that our shower curtain doesn't even almost adequately keep the water from pooling on the bathroom floor, thus imparting wet socks to any being foolish enough to walk in there without paying proper attention. Mostly, I think it is the fault of the moderately retarded 5 out of the 6 guys living here (myself included) that can't seem to figure out how to properly place said curtain in a manner that would hedge the water in. Although perhaps I might be able to blame it upon the new people, as this was never a problem before they moved in. Perhaps I had a small stroke of which I was not aware, and I have lost some mental capacity? That would explain many of the things occurring in my life of late. One thing is for sure; I am not even mad about all of the ants who end up as casualties of our daily inundations.

Yesterday, while in the shower apparently sloughing water all over the floor, there was a massive rainstorm. Like, an intense 10 minute one. As one particular bolt of lightning illuminated the disgusting, rotting, hand-cut square of shower curtain which shields the female tenants from having to gaze at our crotches from across the way, I wondered if a lightning bolt striking the house while in the midst of a shower would be the death of me. I know that in a real person house, this wouldn't be a concern. However, in a house built by the pioneers, I am not so certain that I would not end up with a lightning bold bursting out of some random point in my body. Probably the lower end, as it would have entered my skull through the shower head.

As I returned to my room, I was pleased to find that apparently a great deal of wind had accompanied said storm, and blew a fair amount of rain through my window, soaking rather thoroughly the top half of my bed. Also my phone. Luckily, the blackberry seems to be a resilient little beast, and somehow braved the soaking without any damage. I think.

So much has been occurring in the shower lately.

Efficacy...most of the time

I find that I often have the desire to write every single day, some days multiple times. Not everything I desire to write about would be important or of interest to most people. I also do not desire to inundate my main blog with a whole lot that nobody would care about. I find it a bit frustrating when I go to one of the few blogs that I read, and encounter a whole slew of new posts. I never read them all, usually only the latest. I guess I'm a jerk like that. So I think I'll probably do all of my writing here, and then anything of worth will probably end up on my main blog.

One thing that has been on my mind of late concerns my faith and the atonement. One of my dearest friends didn't serve a mission. This, in Provo, often earns him disparaging looks from many a local acolyte, certain that not serving a mission automatically means that one is a spiritual sub-human.

On a semi-related tangent, I can't say how many times I have been with him when meeting new Provo co-eds and one of the first things asked/assumed was, "Where did you serve your mission?" Such a foolish thing to say. It is a recipe for discomfort and for causing someone to have to possibly give an explanation about something that really isn't one's business. He, of course, after having toiled through a few years of being a twenty-something non-RM-mutant, was pretty good at turning a potentially awkward situation into basically nothing. He would generally provide some ridiculous answer that left the poor females severely confused. I guess what I am saying here, is it is foolish to assume that every twenty-something man in the valley served a mission. Instead of asking, "Where," why not rather ask "If?" Girls, you accomplish the same goal, it is merely a more PC way to go about it.

On a similar note, I also grow highly annoyed during priesthood when whomever is teaching the lesson or commenting makes broad sweeping statements such as, "Well, we all realized when we served our missions..." or, "When you were a missionary, you learned..." Such comments completely alienate those who happened to not serve a mission. Having had some fairly close friends in that situation, I am a bit sensitive to the lack of empathy that using those broad statements shows.

Anyways, back to where I was previously headed. Within the last few years, the church has "raised the bar," concerning who will be allowed to serve missions. I can understand this at a fundamental and base level--they are trying to weed out all of the morons who go, but really didn't want to and thus are a hinderence to those who truly want to be there. Also, the church is seeking to "up the worthiness," as it were, of those who are going to serve. The church is seeking cleaner, more prepared vessels to do the Lord's work. That, I can understand. What I don't understand, however, are the slew of people that this new system ultimately leaves out. Part of raising the bar means excluding young men (and women) from serving if they have committed certain sins in their past. This, to me, seems to be an utter paradox. It seems to say that the atonement doesn't have the efficacy to heal certain wounds, and sufficiently cleanse certain sins.

This friend of mine is probably one of the most solid, righteous church members that I know. Yet, in his past he went through a rather long period of innactivity and commited some fairly grevious sins. However, he repented, returned to full activity, reieved the priesthood and temple endowments, yet 2 different bishops refused to allow him to serve a mission. Nobody would have been a better missionary than this guy. He loves the church, loves the gosple, and has an amazing spirit about him. Nevertheless, apparently the church does not see him fit, nor the atonement sufficiently cleansing to send him into the mission field. Absolutely absurd.

There is another guy in my current ward. He has talked of nothing the last month, except for his desire and excitement about receiving a mission call. He is a little late going out, already 20. Recently I overheard him talking to someone, and telling them about how he isn't allowed to serve, due to some gnarly things in his past. For goodness sakes, if a person is repentent and has a burning desire, why would they not let him go? It just makes no sense to me. One of the best missionaries that I knew in the field was a guy who went out when he was 22. He had done some pretty terrible things in his past, repented, and was serving as one of the strongest, most spiritual missionaries that I ever knew. How many guys like that are falling through the cracks, or being tossed to the wayside? Were not Saul and Alma the younger 2 of the greatest missionaries who ever lived, despite being rehabilitated murderers of souls?

I would sure love some insight into this.