Chronic Bad Luck

My life is like that weird part of YouTube that people always seem to get dragged towards. One minute you’re watching a dog biting water and toddlers replacing the “d” in “duck” with an “f”, the next you’re looking through the long list of cyst-popping videos on the right sleeve of your recommendations.
It happens, and although we don’t usually share these discoveries with other people, there’s no denying it when you go to show someone a video and “weird looking poop” appears in your history.
This is my life in a nut shell. No matter what I start out doing, it always ends miles away from the target. Sometimes for the better, but usually not.  I pretend that I’m not entertained by my bad luck, but truth be told, it’s become a part of who I am in ways I never would’ve imagined.
It took a while to reach the other side of it, but once I did, I found that laughing at my utterly shitty luck is a lot more fun than the outcome turning out in my favor. Not to say that I don’t want better luck, I welcome it with open arms, but I’m more amazed by the things that could possibly go wrong (and usually do) than I am at anything that could ever turn out right; it makes life a lot less boring.
Overall, I guess I’m saying I’ve learned the hard way to make the best of it because it’s not going away any time soon, and yesterday was proof of that. No need to explain, I’m just saying, embrace it fellow sufferers of misfortune, embrace it all.

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What is so great about Vine?

I need someone to explain to me what is so fascinating about Vine.  There are a few videos I’ve seen where the looping makes the video funnier than it would be under normal circumstances and the stop-motion videos are cool but the fact that they’re on Vine affects it in no way whatsoever.   I’m just not grasping everyone’s fascination with the app.

Something Strange Happened Last Night

My mind is a fold of pink and white right now; each overlapping the other in sincere negligence of my real feelings and thoughts.  I had a really strange experience last night and I’m not sure how I feel about or if I even want to feel anything about it.  I was lying down, trying to fight of my thoughts so I could get some sleep when I suddenly remembered a childhood neighbor that invited me over to spend the night at her house one night.
Typical yeah? No, not really.  Her father was a minister and her family was the perfect, wholesome tribute to American life in the 1950’s.  Not that this was a bad thing, they were incredibly polite and friendly and not even in a sense that it derived from their religion, but that they were inherently good people.
Anyway, I spent the night and we had as much fun as 5th grade girls who don’t have a whole lot in common could have, and that was it.  It didn’t occur to me until nearly 17 years later, lying awake in bed, thinking about what the hell I’m doing with my life, that her parents had probably asked her to invite me over to spend the night because I was an overweight, unattractive 5th grader and they probably felt very sorry for me.
I can’t describe how it makes me feel.  It’s a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment and a hint of everything I’ve never felt about how some Christians can be truly humble people and not just because they feel morally obligated to acting out on their beliefs.
I guess what I’m really getting at is that it shook my ideas of not really being affected by religion one way or the other and made me wonder if I might have missed out on something.

Question for Readers

mynbeSo I’ve been procrastinating converting my old TV set in to something but I’m finally going to begin disassembling it this weekend.
I’m still unsure what I want to do with it; right now it’s between a bookshelf and a fish tank, both have their perks and both would be loved, but I’m having trouble deciding which I would love more.  I know that in comparison, the bookshelf is a billion times easier to maintain because I’d have to clean a fish tank, but I still feel it’d be worth it.
A TV converted in to a bookshelf would be good reminder to me to pry myself from Netflix when I need to shut the world out but the fish tank.. I mean, come on…
So what do you guys think?   Feel free to suggest anything in the comments.

Coffee and Boogers

This morning, as I ordered my coffee, the nice boy behind the counter that has memorized my drink, had a booger on his face.  Of course, like 97% of Americans, I talked to him and pretended nothing was out of the ordinary… even though it was staring me right in the face.  The task of not looking at a booger on someone’s face is up there with kicking a heroin habit.
This had me considering why it’s so awkward and why it feels like a bad display of manners to save someone some face and tell them what’s on their face.
Maybe it’s the same principle that we all have a general knowledge of physics that we’re not really aware of.  For example, the force you use to toss something to some as opposed to throwing something at them – things of that nature.  Perhaps we all have a sense of compassion we’re unaware of?  Yeah right!
Despite my constant parade of cynicism, I secretly believe people are inherently good but I think I’ll trump this up with the inability to feel socially awkward.
Anyhow, this shed light on a new goal for me.  I want to be brave enough to tell someone they have a booger on their face.
I feel like doing so, without feeling uncomfortable, is a sort of useful accomplishment in life.

Fat Kid Story #1

the worstI talk a lot about growing up as the fat kid.  I’m sure some people misinterpret it as being insecure, but I actually enjoy telling about all of the embarrassing tidbits of my childhood.  I know I was made fun of, but there are very few instances where I recall people doing so to my face.  

Like the time in the 5th grade when Cayla asked me what size my Jncos were and I said “I don’t know, my mom buys my clothes”.  Which I’m sure opened the door to other criticisms that I never heard.

Every best friend I had up until Sophomore year in High School just stopped being my friend with no explanation; I assure you that I am not exaggerating, ALL of them. Much later in life, I figured age, puberty and popularity into the equation of me being unattractive and fat and I found the value of x.
I’ve absolved myself from any real fault regarding these lost friendships, but as much as I’d really like to say that these people did no long-term damage, the psychological damage has, unfortunately, played a major role in a long list of failed relationships and insecurity in nearly every one of my friendships.  

Of course, I’ve gained much more from the entire experience than was actually taken from me and if I had the chance to change it all, I can honestly say that I really wouldn’t want to.
I mean, just look at that picture.  How many kids can say that have truly embarrassing photographs?  That is a picture from my 7th grade dance (my grandparent’s house still looks exactly the same too) that my mother included in my birthday card this year.  I asked my her why she let me go to the dance dressed like that, in silk… and her inner 5th-grade-fat-kid she said my father dressed me.
 
The best part of my childhood is that my mom let me be myself in every way and let me dress how I wanted as long as she was allowed to take pictures, that was her only request.  So, somewhere in her house is a box of all of those horrible memories that have become everything embedded in my sarcastic, self-deprecating, easy-going, independent, free-thinking personality.  Everything I love about myself is a direct result of everything I hated about my childhood.  

Well beyond 200 words here, I should tie this up and say that I do have a point: embrace it, all of it. 

Boy’s Life (10 out of 10)

bl_20_pbNote: This is a longer post than I’d like for it to be, but as long as it took to find the right words, I wanted to edit nothing out.

I had to sleep on my thoughts after closing this book for the last time and I am still coming up speechless. Funny how you can read nearly 600 pages of words and still find yourself unable to produce a suitable vocabulary to explain how you feel about those pages. The cheesy excerpts from praising reviews splattered on the front and back covers do zero justice to what’s contained inside.

When I come to the final pages of a book, I usually find myself reading at much faster pace, just dying to see that final sentence that ties everything together. With Boy’s Life, however, I read as slowly as I could trying to avoid the inevitable last page. I was not ready to bid farewell to a single character in this book.
McCammon’s characters have the same quality of quirk and magic that Dickens’ characters have. They are all so wonderfully developed and real that you can’t believe they are a figment of someone’s imagination.

I think what’s most astounding is that the story is simple and easy to read and follow, and yet, the depth of it is ineffable.
I’m a pretty easy target when it comes to crying at movies and books, but this book produced feelings of joy, hope and sadness from a place that only family and memories are allowed to enter. I cannot describe these feelings any better than I could describe the color green to a blind person.

Like music stretches far beyond the boundaries of gender, culture and lifestyle, this book reaches far beyond the content of one’s library. Coming-of-age, fantasy, mystery, murder, storytelling, the list is endless and they intertwine so perfectly and elegantly that the book would feel naked if any particular element were missing.
This book is like listening to Beethoven only it’s a symphony of genres and words composed to perfection.

Boy’s Life is truly something you have to experience in order to understand and I can see from reading so many of the other reviews that these feelings were not mine alone. Trust the good reviews and read this book.

Final Thought:

*** Semi-spoiler – no specific details ***

The older I get and further I get from my childhood, the more I long for everything that made it great and the people that made it memorable who have, sadly, passed now.
The epilogue/part 5 of this book threw that space of time right in my face and kicked me in the stomach and as I sat teary-eyed and frog-throated on my bed painfully turning the last pages, I realized how much more wonderful and magical it made the rest of the story because it truly made each emotion real and genuine and personal for the reader and how often can you REALLY say that about a book?