Alone

She woke up alone for the first time. She rolled over. And then over again. She shouldn't have been able to do that. She took a deep breath. He still seemed to be there. Had she not rolled into the indentation so foreign, yet familiar, she might have convinced herself that he was more than a memory.

She wept in the predawn light. Slow, rolling sobs, like lazy swells in a deep sea. Her thoughts floundered in that sea, unable to take hold of anything substantial, sinking ever deeper into despair.

Women in her family live forever. The men fade out, while the women paint vibrant pictures on an endless canvas. Although hundreds of seasons had come and gone, she knew she had much to paint. But her inspiration was gone. She felt as though all the colors had faded away along with him. She would never paint in color again.

She woke up for the second time, completely alone. She woke up afraid. The room had never been so quiet. There was no deep, steady breath to melt away her fear. She couldn't imagine being able to hear his heartbeat, beating in time to her own. There was no heart beat, save her own.

She was afraid to clean the house. Terrified to sweep the last vestiges of him off the floor. Of wiping his last fingerprints from the bathroom mirror. Of scouring the impression of his lips from the cups. Of throwing away the last jar that he opened with his hands.

She was afraid to walk out the door. The fear of never returning home to him again held her fast. If she never left, she would never have to come home to an empty house. She would never have to go out alone. She would never have to shop for 1. She would never have to face the world with nobody to protect her.

She woke up alone for the third time. Anger filled her heart as the early morning sun stole its way into her room, splaying shadows on the wall. She watched the shadows slowly sink into oblivion, along with her fear and sorrow. The matching heart beat was still absent, but everything was illuminated.

Damn him for fading away so soon. His promises were rendered lies through his passing. His heart was gone. He promised it would always beat for her. His eyes were forever closed. He promised they would always look out for her. His lips were forever silenced. He promised they would always speak the truth to her. He was forever gone. He promised he would never leave.

She scrubbed the floor with wild abandon, her angry tears washing away the last remnants of a man gone. She made great streaks across the bathroom mirror, damp rag clutched in her hand, as though clinging to the last dregs of her sanity. She scrubbed every dish in the house, as though contaminated by some foreign, nefarious pathogen. She washed every stitch of clothing, and emptied every garbage can. She scoured his essence from her life.

She woke up for the fourth time, more alone than ever before. Again, she watched the shadows on the wall. As they made their slow journey downward, she felt herself descend into numbness. She remembered a time when everything was vibrant. She remembered watching the shadows until he awoke. He was her reason to get up.

She could see him sitting in the chair. From there, each day, he said the words that made every day beautiful. He said what only she had ever heard him say, what he had promised to say to no other. She could hear the words, as though a whisper from unseen lips.

She stood in a home that she owned, with no debt. He had looked out for her, even with closed eyes. Although silenced, she could still hear his voice throughout every room in the house. Although physically gone, every article in the home was a memory, was him. Her heart beat in time with his until he passed. She had but to listen to her own heart to hear his. Just as it had always been.

She woke up for the fifth time alone, but content with her memories.

Convictions

Tonight I had an interesting conversation about the Mormon church with a couple of guys who were visiting Utah on business. They were not Mormons. They were asking me a bunch of questions about serving missions, about whether or not young Men ever fooled around with girls, and whether or not they would get kicked out of the church for it. They were rather shocked that we believed in a prophet, and asked if I could actually become the prophet. "I suppose I could." Some interesting questions, ones which I really had never been previously asked.

It has been about a year and a half since I discussed the church with a non-member. It actually felt really good. It sort of reminded me, as I was sharing some things with them, that I really do know it is true. Sometimes that knowledge, faith, and conviction sort of wiggles its way to the back of my conscious. I guess discussing gospel topics with other Mormons becomes redundant at times, and makes it easy to attenuate one's convictions.

I have convictions; it was good to feel that.

Wanting the impossible

Why do I always want precisely what I can not have?

I want a Mac book. I can't afford a Mac book.

I want a degree that is useful. I shall have no such thing.

I want to go to Portland next week. I have to settle instead for San Francisco.

I want eyes that don't suck, that aren't so blurry. I have a degenerative eye disorder, thus they grow exponentially worse, year after year.

I want to be a better person. I can't seem to make that happen.

I want to feel driven, to have a purpose. I can't seem to find one.

I want to exercise and feel good again. I am to afraid of starting and not being able to run even a mile.

I want a girl. I can't have her.

She is taken.

And so it goes.

The mormon fruit of hefner's loins

So turns out Hugh Hefner's grand daughter is a babe, and a Mormon. I served a table of 3 females on Saturday night. It was one's birthday. Upon asking who was paying for whom, one of the girls volunteered to pay for the birthday girl. The birthday girl then said, "Well she can afford it. She is Hugh Hefner's granddaughter.

Hugh Hefner's supposed granddaughter then got rather embarrassed, which lead me to believe that it was true. I had soooooo many questions I wanted to ask her. Mostly I just asked, "Well how is that?" To which she replied, "Kind of weird. I mean, it's a little awkward when grandpa is a total perv." I asked her if Hugh had ever asked her to pose, to which she replied in the negative. So I guess Hefner was able to hold on to a tiny shred of dignity in my eyes.

I asked her if she was a Mormon, to which she replied in the affirmative. I was unclear as to whether or not the rest of her immediate family was LDS, or just inactive.

Anyway, I guess all I am saying here, is I was thrilled to serve a Rigatoni Martino and a glass of water to the granddaughter of one of the filthiest men on planet earth. And she was sooo cute. But one can not simply ask a girl for her number, right after finding out she is Hugh Hefner's granddaughter.

Dammit.

Grow up already

I just decided today that I am really looking forward to having at least one class next semester. I am sick of feeling insanely lazy during the day. Well, on days in which I do not work, I am fairly productive. I usually find things to do. However some days when I am working a night shift, at 3, 4, or 5, I feel like it isn't really worth getting out to do anything before then, and thus I end up reading all day or something. Which I suppose is infinitely better than just watching TV or something, but I still feel somewhat lazy.

I think once school is here and at least 3 days a week I have to be somewhere before noon, I will become a more productive person. Or at least wear the guise of a more productive person.

I really want to start exercising. But I also dread doing so, because I haven't for such a long time. I mean, exercised regularly. Which means starting up again will be hell. But I can tell I am getting chubbier than I have been in a few years, and I don't like it, not one bit. I guess the occasional dance party hasn't been enough to keep up in shape.

I guess the scary thing about finishing up next semester is I have to then figure out exactly what I am going to do. You know, start seeking a job. Or something. I can't just be one of those people who graduates and works at a restaurant for a few more years after said graduation. I'm freaking 26. I have to do something with my life. And I'm really scared because, beyond having a desire to write, I have no clue what more to do, and nothing really interests me in the grown up big boy career field.

Decisions, decisions.

Exitos

I made 210 dollars in 2 days, and only said the F word once. I call that a success.

girlfriends

I guess there will really only be one good girlfriend throughout the duration of a man's life; and that would be whomever he marries. All the rest will merely cause heartache in one form of another.

And that wholeheartedly applies to his friends' girlfriends. Because once your best friends find girlfriends, suddenly you only see them once a month. And sometimes even during that once a month, that wretched girlfriend shows up, and then you really might as well not be there.

Being surrounded by friends who are in love is the pits. A big shitty, self loathing pit(s.) Sometimes it makes you wonder why everyone around you is dropping like flies, and you are still buzzing about. Wtf does that statement even mean, dropping like flies? I feel like, in the English language, we don't know the meaning of half of the things that we say. I mean we can understand them contextually, but not literally. I have no idea what the hell 'dropping like flies' really means, or from where the saying was derived.

I feel rather obnoxious not posting on here for almost 3 weeks and when I finally do, it is absurdly emo. Sorry. I have been doing a lot of other writing.

I'm just tired of best friends' girlfriends stealing my best friends. That's all.

Please bless that i won't get kidnapped by aliens

I was reading this post on Angie's blog a few minutes ago, concerning her many ridiculous habits, rituals, and quirks revolving around her irrational fears. I think that I, for the most part have gotten over the vast majority of my child hood fears. Well, except for bugs of course. But for goodness sakes, those are tangible, real, creepy-crawling-buzzing-biting-stingingly real. Her fears made me laugh, due to the fact that I had many similar fears while growing up. And also a plethora of distinct, though probably similarly irrational ones.

Of course the movie It totally ruined my life from the age of 9 until at least 17. When I first saw it, I had intense nightmares for at least 3 months. I had to make sure that I went to bed and was asleep before my parents were asleep, or terror would overtake me. That however, wasn't even my worst fear.

Effing aliens.

When I was young, I saw some supposedly true story about alien abductions and impregnations which utterly scared the hell out of me. I was absolutely terrified of getting kidnapped, and then probed. I would lay in bed each night, going through this absurd ritual in my head. I would tell myself, "Okay. There are 7 continents in the world. If the aliens choose my continent, then they have a bunch of countries to choose from. If they happen to choose the USA, they have 50 states. If they happen to choose Utah, there are like 29 counties. If they choose mine, there are a whole bunch of cities. If they happen to choose Orem (eventually Nephi ((even more pathetic, as I was at least 14 once living there)) then there are 10's of 1000's of families to choose from (((quite a bit fewer in Nephi, which made things a bit more scary.))) If the effing aliens so happen to choose my family, there are 6 people to choose from. Soooooooo, the odds aren't really that likely that I will get abducted." Every damn night, I went through this ritual. Followed by, "Dear heavenly father, thanks for this day...Please bless that I won't get kidnapped or murdered, or kidnapped by aliens tonight." Seriously.

Kidnapping was another one of my great fears. Whenever I had to walk anywhere alone at night, I was always constantly terrified. When walking across the cul-de-sac at night from Grey's house, I would sprint the whole way, imagining the villains in the bushes were thinking, "Damn! We must have spooked him!" I would dash like the wind, because I knew they were right on my tail.

So the saddest part of all, was when I was 17. I remember one night saying my evening prayers and saying, "And please bless that I wont get kidnapped or murdered, or kidnapped my aliens." And I recall pausing, and thinking "Wtf did I just say right then? Did I, a 17 year old man, really just pray not to get kidnapped or murdered, or abducted by aliens?" And it's funny, because even now, almost 10 years later I still find myself almost slipping that in. It still pops into my mind whilst praying.

Now, my imagination really only gets really out of control when I am camping alone. That is still scary as hell. And aliens. Give me a break. I will punch any alien in its bulbous head, and cave in his skinny little chest with a well placed drop kick. Unless of course they have lasers. Seriously, who can even stand up against a laser?

The metal pit

I'm pretty astounded by the death metal occurring right this moment next door. I mean, apparently during the last 4 days or so, a band has formed. And by band I mean a drum set and a guitar. Playing awful, awful metal. Rather than annoying, it is actually quite entertaining. Because I get to sit here, in the comfort of my bed in a house well on its way to freezing, and attempt to puzzle out how on earth a person could think that creating the musical atrocities to which I'm being subjected would ever be enjoyed by another human being. So really I appreciate it.

I suppose the metal is preparing me mentally for the adventure upon which I shall shortly embark this evening; throwing burning shit down a hole. So metal.

So there exists this seemingly bottomless pit out near Eureka. Which I suppose, is somewhat metaphorical to Eureka itself; a horrible, bottomless pit of a place to live. And creepy. A very creepy town. Sort of a ghost town that still has people living in it. Which is a complete oxymoron, I know.

Anyhow, this pit is covered by a huge grate. In the middle, there is about a 2X2 ft opening, through which the burning objects are dropped. And then they fall into the belly of eternity, exploding and bouncing off the walls, flaming until they disappear into the abyss. Pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

If ever I murder a human, that is definitely where I shall dispose of the body. There have got to be bodies down there. Nobody would ever find them. Because it's a bottomless pit. Doi.

Consequences of trespassing

So the other day I was in my kitchen preparing a hearty hummus and cheese sandwich. Being relatively poor, I have found myself eating a great deal of hummus sandwiches, made from the free bag o' buns with which my dear friend Connie provides me on a weekly basis from J-Dogs.

Whilst creating said sandwich, I see this guy ride his bike into my back yard. Now, the parking lot behind my house and our back yard are obviously our property. Meaning, there is no way to confuse it as any sort of public venue. Everything is fenced off. This would be akin to riding your bike into some random person's back yard in some random residential neighborhood.

So he pedals to the back by our shed, and starts looking around. I thought, "Hmm. Wtf." First, he looked behind the shed. Then, he walked over to one of our trees that is growing next to the fence, sort of tried to hide his bike, and then locked it to the fence. Then he just strolled out of our back yard like he owned the place.

Now, I am pretty sure he was doing nothing malicious. Obviously. However, it bothered me that he would just cruise into our back yard uninvited, and lock his bike there. Am I unreasonable for thinking that is strange? I thought about going out there and leaving a sign taped to his bike, offering him airless tires if he ever did it again.

But then I remembered that he rode through 10 feet of puncture weeds and stickers to park his bike where he did, and that those had certainly already accomplished the task.

Scraping

I find myself in a uniquely shitty position. Well, unique thus far to my life; not so unique to a lot of Americans. This position to which I refer, is that of being uninsured, and just financially scraping by and wondering for how much longer I can make ends meet.

I guess my situation is a bit different than that of many impoverished Americans. I don't have kids to worry about, and I could probably find another job. The problem is I don't know if I'll be able to find something that I don't hate. Because I actually somewhat enjoy serving. I enjoy the job itself, and the people with whom I work. Not so much the pittance tips, or the demanding, awful people I sometimes have to serve. But overall, I like it. And I like the relative schedule flexibility that comes along with it. I guess I haven't had a 9-5 job in so long, the thought of one is absolutely dreadful.

But this just isn't working out.

I hate to leave Carrabbas after all of the time I have put into it, but I don't know what else to do. Unless things miraculously pick up in the next couple of weeks, I'm going to have to abandon ship. I think the restaurant business is going to take a rather hefty hit, even more so that it has been over the last year. When money is tight, eating out is one of the first things people quit doing.

I'm so confused about what to do with my life currently.

I don't know what I want to be anymore.

I know what I love to do, but I don't know how I could possibly make any money doing it.

Writing is like acting. Ridiculous, and impractical.

I believe my magazine partner had a reality check, and consequentially a rather devastating mental crash. He lost all faith that we can make this happen financially.

I can't do it without him. Thus, I can't do it.

In summation, I don't know what to do with my life anymore.

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.