On This Day Of End Of Days

I wrote this essay/rant a year and a half ago, and it seems strangely relevant on this day of end of days.
If The World Ends Tomorrow: My Thoughts & Concerns

My Heart Hurts

My heart hurts.

This is not poetic.

As much as I'd love for that to be the entire post, I suppose I should explain. Recently, as in the last few days, I've felt like my heart beat is a liiiiiiittle too prominent, and that's not a metaphor even a tiny bit. It's like a bizarre dull ache on the left side of my chest, and, since I eat and drink whatever the hell I want, while also being a wildly engaging on-and-off hypochondriac, this is cause for alarm.

BUT WHAT IF MY HEART GREW A FEW SIZES AROUND CHRISTMAS LIKE THE GRINCH? SAYS EVERY PERSON WHO ISN'T A DOCTOR.

I don't know, but here's a question: HOW DID THE GRINCH NOT DIE FROM AN ENLARGED HEART CONDITION? DID YOU SEE HOW FAST THAT THING GREW? IT WAS LIKE A CHRISTMAS TUMOR!

Anyway, I spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to google this literal heart ache without getting recommendations of eating ice cream and "dating other boys because the right one's out still there." You know what I learned instead of what could be responsible for this pain? Every single person on Yahoo! Answers is a goddamn idiot, and I'm a goddamn idiot for even checking Yahoo! Answers.

Also, because I ended up in heartache forums, I can tell you that way too many boys and girls on the internet answer their own relationship questions. "We've been talking and laughing and having a great time but then he/she said he/she just wanted to be friends and then I thought we went on a date and I went in for the kiss but they said no and I wonder, what does it all mean? So I broke into their house and read all of their emails and WHO THE FUCK IS ASHLEY/KEVIN? Does he/she like me or not?"

WHO CARES IF THIS BOY OR GIRL HAS A CRUSH ON YOU. THERE ARE MORE SERIOUS THINGS IN LIFE, LIKE ACTUAL, LITERAL HEARTACHE. UGH. THIS HEART IS BEATING OUT OF MY CHEST LIKE I'M GODDAMN E.T.

I wish I was either not a hypochondriac or a more severe one, so it would either mean no stress at all or the craziest week ever. However, I'm somewhere in between, not enough to have my doctor on speed dial but enough to where a doctor has definitely greeted me with, "Didn't I just see you?"

Furthermore, that's just when I feel something is intense enough to call a doctor. Consider the time I legitimately thought my tongue wouldn't properly fit in my mouth for a week, and maybe your sympathy for me has drastically lessened.

Well, I finally called the doctor, and I have an appointment tomorrow. Who wants to put money on one of these medical responses?

• "It turns out you're just insane." (diagnosed with disgust)
• "It turns out you're starving...for attention." (with jokey pause)
• "Diabetes." (said with Wilford Brimley impression)
• "YOU JUST DON'T WORK OUT ANYMORE, YOU IDIOT, AND YOU JUST KEEP DOING WHATEVER THE HELL YOU FEEL LIKE BECAUSE YOU DON'T BELIEVE IN LONG-TERM CONSEQUENCES." (most likely answer)

Wish me luck / great knowing you all!

Suburban Home

Suburban Home
by jake kilroy.

First off, I got rid of the first several hundred words of this essay because it made too much sense. Let's be clear about that. It was straight up Raiders Of The Lost Ark shit. This....well, this is more like the ending to The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull.

Secondly, this all started because I learned of a very radical marriage falling apart last night with some all-time suburban fear circumstances, and, honestly, it rattled me. Or maybe it didn't rattle me. It just bummed me out in a real wicked way.

Naturally, this essay was to cover:

• How epic love is and can be.
• How easy it is to be a good spouse.
• How difficult it is to be a great one.
• How simultaneously problematic and promising suburban life can be.
• How sweet Point Break is.

I don't know how I was going to work that last one in, but I thought it was definitely worth mentioning.

Anyway, I put the serious and thoughtful considerations of love and suburban life somewhere else. From here on out, it's pretty much nonsense.

I've been an advocate of great love my whole life. I blame my parents' happy marriage and being raised on old films. Somewhere in my own personal history, I found love to be grand in some goofy, startling mash-up of teenage girl belief and lazy stoner satisfaction. Even as a man in his late twenties, with a penchant for whiskey and swear words, I find myself thrilled about the existence of love (for anyone), just as long as it's not "love" as this smoldering patriotic bumper sticker gimmick. When I say love, I don't mean celebrating a five-year anniversary at the Olive Garden and quietly discussing the breadsticks (which I think we can all agree have severely decreased in quality over the years, by the way, but I guess that's another story). What I'm referring to is the love that means going to concerts together, seeing the world together, and conquering madness together. I'm talking about the love from Still Life With Woodpecker, the love that wrote letters during the war, the love that brought about Helen of Troy as a tyrant of the heart.

Yes, give me the love that made my friend take a bus across Costa Rica to see a girl, the love that sent F. Scott into the heart attack, the love that continually stops the world from stabbing itself to death.

Ok, I admit, that last one was a bit much.

Still, love is extraordinary.

But it's also the most fucked up bastardizing craziest most mutilating horrifying thing on the planet.

Except for E.T.

If that motherfucker comes to my planet again, I'm going to throw him off a cliff, and I'm almost certain nobody would be able to talk me out of it.

Also, it's pretty lazy that his name was E.T. I mean, hell, even the alien from Alien got the nickname "Xenomorph."

Despite my faith in love (as well as an appreciation for people just being generally decent to each other in some Sandlot-like innocent capacity), it hasn't made for a history of flawless interaction with women on my end. No, by several accounts, I've pulled some of the most bogus shit with chicks. As a young man set on destroying the world, I once lied about a funeral to get off the phone with a girl. I've got a dirty laundry list of times I've been a less-than-stellar dude, but I've learned from my mistakes, coming to the great realizations that, hey, talking things out is way cooler than fighting or fleeing, and, hey, being patient, understanding, encouraging and generally at ease makes things way better for everyone. I've evolved in my twenties, or at least I like to think so. 

These days, I'd say, it's supremely easy to be a good significant other or spouse, but it's difficult to be a great one.

To be a good spouse, to me, includes listening, talking, cleaning, laughing, and being faithful. To be a great spouse, to me, means flowers on random days and foot massages on random nights. Nobody's perfect, but it's pretty gumshoe to be a decent person in the very least.

That's part of the evolution, right? Isn't admitting the problem the first step to recovery?

There are minute things I can attribute to maturity. Going from a closet of hoodies to a closet of blazers and nice jackets. Moving from stress to optimism. Learning, hey, I guess it's not that hard to just do awesome things for a significant other because they're the best thing out there in a landscape that might just look like a Salvador Dali nightmare.

A person has to try their hardest to not take good things for granted.

From there, the Candyland road of commitment after the Apples to Apples game of "Hey, what the hell are we, and why won't you meet my friends?" ultimately, or supposedly, leads to marriage. Or at least that's what Bridget Jones was trying to tell everyone. I don't quite remember. I recall the diary and the accent, but, beyond that, I'm pretty sure it was just Hugh Grant and Colin Firth in a charming competition with cheeky smiles and saucy head rolls.

Were they in a scene together in Love, Actually?

They weren't, right?

Nevermind.

The point is, when you settle into suburbia, you better be ready for it. You better be ready for a life without being fawned over at the clubs or, as my dad calls them, the discotheques. You better be ready for family dinners and movie nights. You better be ready for responsibilities. You better be ready for sack lunches without being hungover. You better be ready for dedication and loyalty. You better be goddamn sure about your decisions, because, I agree, it's a long fucking life for someone whose heart isn't it. I mean, come on, didn't anyone read Revolutionary Road or The Corrections? It's a botched lifestyle from the get-go if you're not looking forward to board games and hand-me-downs.

But.

BUT.

If you're ready for the suburban life, is there really anything better? It's like winning day after day if you're down for it. Guess what? I fucking love board games and hand-me-downs. Oh, go to bed night after night with someone who tolerates my love for Fleetwood Mac's classic "Gypsy?" Score. Build tree houses in the backyard with trap doors? Score. Take up hobbies such as chess and yoga? Score. Shop at Bed, Bath and Beyond all the time? Are you kidding me? Major score.

And why would I give up my current hobbies? Why would I marry someone who doesn't support me writing in my free time or maybe making music when I can? I expect my wife to have dope hobbies. What, I'm supposed to love someone whose only hobby is seeing me? That's straight serial killer status.

No, I want my wife to have a whole goddamn smorgasbord of hobbies. It could be pottery and photography. It could be writing and music too. It could be gardening and rock climbing. It could be running a small business out of the home. I don't care, just as long as she has hobbies. Hell, if she wants to hunt for anthropological finds somewhere in the Gobi Desert in her free time, good for her. I'll just make the kids the same shitty sandwich for eight months. No. Big. Deal.

I mean, I know me. In fact, I'm willing to wager that I know me better than anyone. Sometimes, I just want to eat mac 'n cheese and watch My Boys. But, sometimes, I'll want to surprise the hell out of my wife with a fancy dinner somewhere wild, like on top of a helicopter. Maybe I'll tell her to meet me at this restaurant, but it's not a restaurant. It's just some space I've rented out with one table and a live band that only plays Brazilian jazz. Can you imagine? I wouldn't have to come home before midnight for, like, a year. What's up, doing drugs all the time and my wife being cool with it?

I'm just saying, love is rad and suburbia can be rad. I honestly have no idea how I'll do as a husband or a father. And maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just buy a big city loft and date models forever. Who knows?

Actually, how bad would that even be? It'd just be romantic getaways and hot-ass hook-ups.

Ok, I'm realizing that I'm, for the most part, just comparing Nicolas Cage's two different lives in The Family Man. I imagine the real problem here is sustainability. You probably need someone to love you when you're old and delirious, and, trust me, when my mind goes, I'm letting it fly. I'm going to be wilder and crazier than you've ever seen me. I'm going to embrace it. I'm going to get weird.

But where will the hot skanks be then? See, this is why rich dudes need an escape plan, because they always end up in mental wards.

Let's say I give up this current life of carelessness and recklessness (and don't end up outrageously wealthy and addicted to coke/skanks). Let's say I manage to settle down and become a husband and a father when I'm ready, and not somehow tricked into marriage by black magic or into fatherhood by bad decisions. I'll be stoked. In fact, I'll be really stoked. I watch my dad move through his life at home with excitement and glee. He loves being a husband and a father. He can't get enough of it. Sometimes, during dinner, he randomly says, "It's great to have all the young people here." Then he looks at us three doofuses and smiles, and then he smiles at my mom. If I told him he could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of his days barbecuing, writing poetry and just being a husband and father, my dad would lose his fucking mind. He'd throw a party that would make Gatsby look like some dork trying to impress the high school cheerleader.

Which is kind of what that whole book was a metaphor for.

Right?

Anyway! Even the idea of wearing my old college sweater and cleaning out the garage sounds pretty cool. I just hope I have a son who's not a piece of shit, because it would really make things go a lot faster if he wasn't some goth asshole who thinks refusing heavy lifting is some sort of act of rebellion. Listen, you idiot, stop talking about Bauhaus like I've never heard of them. Your mother and I went to school with goth kids, so you're not doing anything new. Like I said, you're being an asshole.

That's what I'll tell him.

But then he'll tell me I don't understand him. And then I'll have to do my absolute hardest not to tell him he sucks. Ugh. I just want my kids to grow up to be "strong, healthy, confident adults," which is exactly what my father has said to the three of us our entire lives. That's all he wanted from us. He just wanted us to have the strength to endure, to stay mentally, emotionally and physically healthy enough to grasp happiness, and be confident enough to inspire others to do the same. He didn't even tell me to stay away from creative writing because I would die of starvation, which I thought was just swell of him. Or I don't know. Some days, when I can't afford to buy a sandwich at Which Wich, I wonder why my parents didn't tell me to go to law school like I mentioned off-hand one night five years ago.

I suppose it's reassuring to have parents that haven't let the fire go out. They love the hell out of life and each other. They appreciate the little things and get thrilled about the big things. They savor Christmas shopping as much as they hold onto fancy recipes they've read about in Bon Appetit. On my parents' 25th Anniversary, I asked my dad what the secret was to a happy marriage. He answered, "Communication." When I asked him again on his 30th Anniversary, he answered, "A sense of humor."

Communication and a sense of humor aren't everything, but they're the most important things, at least for my parents. It takes a billion more little pieces to assemble a good life, like hard work, dedication, patience and love for that special person as well as life as a whole collective festival that celebrates all your favorite stuff. My parents have that. My dad still makes jokes, and my mom still laughs at them. They're extraordinary people with extraordinary love, and, after learning about that crumbling marriage last night, I was so thankful that I grew up in a household that toasted the very thought of "love" - loving your significant other, loving your family, loving your friends, loving food, loving drink, loving parties, loving travel, loving art, loving books, loving movies, loving laughter, loving hope, loving pride, loving what the world has to offer in its brilliant spinning nature.

I mean...right?

RIGHT?

Ok, fuck this. I'm making mac 'n cheese and watching My Boys. I don't give a shit what my future wife thinks. Love! Ain't it grand?

Fuck You, John Mayer

All I know is that John Mayer has a song on his new album called "Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey," which just happens to be the name of a poem I posted on MySpace in 2008. You son of a bitch, John Mayer. You handsome, STD-riddled son of a bitch. Breaking every unstable girl's heart in Hollywood wasn't enough? You had to go ahead and steal my poem title? You dick. You unbelievable dick. And to think Brad cried at your concert. Whatever. Brad thinks you're a dick now too, by the way, you mouthy, cocky dick.

Fucking...first I called the music of The Bloodlit Stars "hip pop rocktronica" in 2004, and then, like three years later, Beck went ahead and called his new album's genre "hip hoptronica." Oh, was that your idea of a joke, you folk-jivin' whackadoodle? Am I the only person who sees right through the worst Hansen brother?

Oh, and then I thought it'd be cool to get down with Natalie Portman, and what does that melodramatic hipster gypsy asshole Devandra Banhart do? He fuckin' dates her! The guy looks like he's eternally tripping balls at Coachella and he got to get weird with Lady Black Swan. Fucking...ridiculous.

I tell ya, goddamn musicians are stealing all of my good ideas.

On Birthdays, Aging, Life & Happiness: Some Thoughts & Musings

"We're getting old. We know who they are now." - Shane, a coworker reflecting on celebrity deaths

"My biggest fear is that we'll just stop being rad all the time." - Jeff, considering the future of us as adults

"We're getting to that age where threesomes are more weird than cool." - James, explaining how he gauges aging

I observed these three quotes this week, and they made me consider aging. And I suppose my birthday did too. I turned 27 today, and I find that birthdays make me all...reflectiony.

This happens every year, just as I think it should. Birthdays, to me, are a time where you evaluate how things are going. Sure, people do this on New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day, but birthdays are this weird day where you're praised for not dying or killing yourself (Hey, you still exist! Woo!), so it's a pretty generous day.

I mean, at its core, birthdays are a day when everyone takes time to acknowledge that they really like having you around. Just as Valentine's Day is for showing your love, birthdays are for showing your appreciation and, well, all the other good vibe emotions too. You didn't do anything special to warrant all the good attention. You just lived your life according to you and everyone thinks you're doing a swell, bang-up job.

So, I try to take this day and do a life evaluation of sorts, just because who knows when I'll be subtly and indirectly told that I'm doing a swell, bang-up job?

And what's my verdict?

I'm happy.

I'm wildly fucking happy.

And it's been a long time since I wasn't.

Sure, there's always more you can ask for (more riches, more babes, more sweater vests, a solid gold jacuzzi, etc), but I'm extraordinarily happy. In the last year, I moved into a wonderful house with wonderful people and scored somewhat of a dream job (also with wonderful people).

And, in the last year, I finished writing, editing and rewriting my 600-page novel, wrote a kids book and am currently 90% done with a feature-length screenplay. I continued writing poems and started sending them out again. I also submitted an essay/poetry/story/rant collection to about 75 literary agents. I went to Mexico, Big Sur and Joshua Tree a few times. I also saw the magnificent giant that is New York City for the first time and had one of the greatest experiences of my life off the Oregon Coast at some seaside mansion.

What I'm saying is, hey, I'm doing alright.

And I feel like this every year.

Since summer of 2009, I feel as though I've really got a solid grasp on adult happiness. So, naturally, this whole long whatever to come below will be self-indulgent and better suited for a diary. I mean, how much do I really have to muse on if I know I'm happy? Well, it's my birthday and I'm gonna muse some shit anyway. I can tell you now that it's going to be partial-educated-thoughtful-man and semi-dopey-gleeful-idiot.

I know how I sound. I once told a friend, "I sound like a cross between a grad student and Fry from Futurama." I know I don't blend it all that well sometimes. Catch me during the day and I could act like this is my first time ever trying to handle anything, but find me at night and I'd like to discuss the merits of humanity. I run a strange course.

The point is to be self-aware. A few things I do that are weird:

• I'm touchy-feely. Literally, not emotionally. I touch people's shoulders and faces as part of jokes, and that's a pretty serious invasion of space. And I do it to both dudes and dudettes. I go for a lot of high-fives, hugs and back rubs. I didn't use to do this. I swear I haven't always been this creepy. I honestly think it started happening after Bret explained that touch was one of the five love languages. It's not even mine. Words is my love language. But I started doing it for whatever reason and haven't stopped. 
• I tell the same stories over and over. It was a lot easier to be track of things when I was younger. I had experienced less. But now I just ramble. It's like a disease. But, then again, being a writer has a few qualities of disease.

You need to know yourself and what you want from the world. For me, it was seeing it. Hell, you need to know where you've been. By this age, I figure I should've completed ten good, radical, life-changing, life-affirming trips.

10 Good Trips I've Taken:

1. Europe, 2003
2. Australia, 2005
3. Arizona, 2005
4. Northern California, 2005
5. Tennessee, 2006
6. Boston, 2007
7. Europe/Africa, 2008
8. Canada, 2008
9. Oregon Coast, 2011
10. New York City, 2011

And you need to be able to name an incredible moment from each of those trips:

1. I was 18 years old, just starting out for the world, and I watched the sun set over Paris while on a boat ride down the Seine River, and, suddenly, the city of lights came to life. Also, my hand was up a girl's shirt moments before, if I recall correctly. But I watched the whole city glow in an instant, and it was the evening of summer solstice, so we all knew we had a long night of music ahead.
2. After wanting to visit Sydney my whole life, my grandmother and I took in an opera at the Sydney Opera House, drank red wine and listened to the city cheer for nothing in particular. We took the long way home and the skyline was apparent from every angle. You could hear ships in the harbor and the laughter of drunkards. We were dressed up and the city overwhelmed me. It was so very much more than I had hoped for, and I hoped for a whole goddamn lot.
3. Rex and I got to Arizona sometime around midnight and was handed two beers from the two women we were crashing with, and then we went swimming. It was the middle of June, it was hot as hell, and then the great sky cracked and poured. We swam around in the pouring rain with lightning and thunder rolling the world above us while we drank. The four of us stayed up until we simply couldn't stay awake any longer.
4. Maybe the most I've ever reflected on myself, I spent two weeks with my family camping throughout Northern California. I don't know what the hell was happening then, but I thought I was seeing visions into the future and coming to terms with mortality. I remember Mendocino looking like a place I had in my dreams and I started trying to write my first novel. I was 20, and I had never felt so much like I was in some lucid dream. In particular, I remember playing a card game in a tent with my family one night. It was the only night I've ever seen my dad drunk. He had too much red wine to drink and I saw him as a friend of sorts instead of a father figure. We laughed for hours playing card games while the frogs croaked in the river behind us.
5. After leaving Bonaroo early to take our adventure on the road, Grant and I barreled through Kentucky and Illinois sometime around 2 a.m. It was nothing but high trees on both sides and the sky was awash with stars. Due to some idiotic notion on my part, we headed onto another highway, very much out of our way in search of the fabled Eddysville. But what we found was a creepy church, a rainstorm and the empty plains bathed in harrowing moonlight where the town was supposed to be. Naturally, we got the fuck out of Dodge as quick as our rented car could take us. It was the most spooked I'd ever been.
6. In what could easily be considered one of the the wildest 24 hours I've ever had, Ryan and I took a bus from the big city of Boston to the small town of Northampton. We were couch-surfing, so we stayed with a girl we hadn't met. The town was tiny and surrounded by deep woods and rivers. The girls all attended a barbecue without us and, for some reason, the girl was kind enough to just let us stay at her house unattended. We got drunk on her balcony, met the neighbor girl, went to the local Feist show and then ended up at a bar called World War II, where we proceeded to successfully pose as wayward weirdos born and raised in Boston, making friends with everyone in the bar. The story gets crazier from there, but not so much on my end. I was recently in love, so I went to sleep. But I lost Ryan to the night and a girl with a backpack. Ryan ended up sleeping on the balcony after getting lost in the woods looking for an abandoned asylum with a girl. We got on the bus and both started cackling.
7. After months apart with my girlfriend at the time studying in Spain, my friends all chipped in some hundreds of dollars and sent me to Europe. I was beat down from the flight over, but she gave me a tour of Madrid around midnight. And everything seemed so old and dazzling. I had missed her and it was hard to grasp just what was happening. We walked for hours. The lights were beautiful, the cobblestones glowed in lamplight and it was a glorious spring. It was one of the best walks of my life.
8. After stumbling out of a bar beneath our hostel, Ryan, Jeff, Chase, myself and the locals all caught up with each other. Drunk as hell on the streets of Vancouver after a few hours of slamming pints into each other, I decided we needed to move on. I had a lady back home, but I wanted to see what kind of wingman magic I could unravel. So, I started introducing myself to everyone, chatting up ladies and finding their interests, so I could bring them to my jolly friends. Once we were settled up, I rounded a dozen or so people and lead a growing army of drinkers. As we marched up the street, I talked up more people and had them join. We all ended up in a bar with a live ska band. We drank, danced and laughed until we ended up on the other side of town.
9. I was on drugs and there was dancy indie pop music. It may have been the greatest night of my life. There were glowing plastic necklaces and bracelets on everyone. About a dozen of us, all people I adore, were staying at a seaside mansion. At some point, we danced around the kitchen island in a line screaming a Beatles song. Everyone was stoked on everything. There was food everywhere. I smoked enough cigarettes to last me a season. We stayed up until 4 or 5 a.m. And, all the while, we left the windows open so we could hear the ocean softly crash into the earth.
10. I've wanted to see New York City my whole life, but, for whatever reason, I put it off. Maybe I was afraid how to feel once I did see it. Then James and I decided to go for it. I remember smoking a cigarette on the fire escape of Kristin's apartment. James was showering, I think, and Kristin was getting us our bedding for the living room. But I sat there and listened to the sounds of the city and thought, yep, this is what I was hoping for, big buildings with insomniacs that want to swallow as much culture as they can under a heavy moon.

But, when you're not traveling, be sure of things that can and will make you happy.

Random things I know are true about what I like:

• Favorite Song: "Tenderly" by Chet Baker
• Favorite Live Show: Against Me! at Chain Reaction, 2004
• Favorite Restaurant Meals: White Pizza at Cassano's, Fake Cashew Chicken at Wheel of Life, Crispy Rolls at Loving Hut
• Favorite Homecooked Meals: croque mousier, rolled pizza, taco salad 
• Best Thing I've Ever Watched: Baseball by Ken Burns

Thinking about any of those things legitimately brings a smile to my face. There are people, places, music,  movies, meals and whatever that I know for sure will make me happy, which I suppose isn't that difficult. I'm a happy dude, and I have been for years. But I cite my summer in Seattle three years ago as a real turning point because who/how I was in May wasn't who I was in August. And it was surely for the best.

Before I moved to Seattle, I was living in what felt like the ashy cinders of an era. My house was growing stale, my relationship was growing stale, my career was growing stale. I was unemployed, about to move back in with my parents and in the process of breaking up. I was also in terrible fucking shape. I was just eating Del Taco, candy and vermicelli bowls. I wasn't doing a goddamn thing to better myself, and it was pretty obvious. I had a gut, a beard and a sense of oblivion.

Thumbs up, me.

So, in Seattle, I reclaimed some weird second youth and spent the most enchanting summer since I was 15 done up as a 24-year-old in desperate need of a life makeover. I had nothing to do and nowhere to be for months. And neither did Chris, though he was establishing a life there and trying to find work. During the day, we'd go swimming or wandering around our new city. At night, we'd either go to a party or stay in to work on our screenplay, drunk on bloody marys and red wine.

I lost the beard, the gut and the terrible habits. I came home more about salads, sandwiches and a healthier outlook. In Seattle, I was removed from all that was familiar to me for the summer. And it wasn't even a whole summer. It was just less than two months of serious reinvention and one I haven't gone back on. I was a spiteful mess before Seattle, and, since then, I've been kind of the same shrugging stoked dude for the most part.

Naturally, I've had some eras throughout the/my ages:

• 1-3: Nonsensical Idiot
• 4-13: Spastic Jokester
• 14-17: Teenage Romantic
• 18-21: Social Philosopher
• 22-24: Reckless Cavalier
• 25-Present: Happy-Go-Lucky Dude

In my years, I haven't had many long-lasting moments of "ah, drag." I don't know what the hell it was, but, again, I went through some weird period of ferocious carelessness and overcompensating self-loathing in my early twenties. It was pretty stupid. No, actually, it was really stupid. I had moments of being irrational, bitter, condescending and spiteful. And, for whatever insane reason, I took pride in it. Maybe I thought it meant I had an edge? I don't know. I just think that, for two years, I acted like I wasn't getting enough sleep. And it may not have seemed that extreme to others, because I was still pretty stoked about everything, but I honestly look back at those years and just think, hey, what the fuck was that all about? And it wasn't about anything. It really wasn't. That's why it's so stupid. But, again, I was still pretty gosh darn excited about life. I just maybe wasn't the best participant all the time.

However, I consider junior high to be my actual low point, as I assume it to be the same for half of the American population. That was a semi-miserable two years of wondering if the world would chew me up or have the decency to just swallow me whole. But it was a tremendously exciting and fun time too. I wasn't really bullied. I was teased every once in a while by the shithead skater kids whose parents didn't love them. I know this because I went to elementary school with a few of them and their parents only loved cigarettes and television. Their teasing was so minimal, but, at that age, everyone has something to prove and you're unsure in your own skin.

Still, junior high held some radically great memories. I use the phrase "low point" very, very loosely, I suppose. I've been exceptionally blessed in my life, and this lucky realization came to me during an eighth grade slump. Something happened and I was in trouble with my parents. I think it was for grades, but I was probably already anxious because of some frantic crush or sexual feeling I couldn't explain.

Anyway, my father, rather tensely, told me that I was grounded and couldn't go out and have fun for a month.

In my barely-teenage lunacy, I scoffed and replied, "Yeah, if I haven't killed myself by then."

My father wisely took no sympathy upon me. He was pissed. He gritted his teeth and told me that what I said was appalling and shouldn't be tossed around so lightly, that it showed no respect to all that I had and to those who really did have something to be sad about. Then, still through gritted teeth, told me, "You don't get to use the computer."

To which, with tears forming (I was an emotional teenager, alright?), I complained about the unfairness of such a punishment and how he should be concerned about me and my problems. But, going to bed that evening (early, of course), I realized, "Wait a minute. I was ready to end my life, but not give up computer privileges? What the hell is that bullshit?" I later thanked my father. He had called my bluff. Anger is not always the proper way to react to your child's talk of suicide. However, my father could read me well, and he knew I was being melodramatic. It's a tough, tough call, I imagine. But it was one that my father made well.

And, I swear, since that day in eighth grade, I've tried to appreciate life and recognize the wonderful as wonderful and the terrible as passing. It's a goofy moment to deem a real turning point in one's life, but that's the last time I ever recall really feeling like life was dragging its bones. It was the first time I realized that I honestly had no desire to leave life until I was forced to, whether by bear, shark or poisoning.

So, to recap, I realized that life was worth living at 13, but it wasn't until I was 24 that I figured out how easy it is to find comfortable long-lasting happiness. I was happy as hell in my late-teens and early twenties, but there were sharp moments of angst in those too. Everything was a lot more confusing then. I was happy, but baffled, I guess.

But, again, I feel I must stress how particularly lucky I've been in my existence. I mean, I've been spectacularly, incredibly, amazingly lucky and blessed in almost every realm of life.

My parents have supported everything I've ever done (from turning our house into a restaurant in first grade to getting a print journalism degree in an era when everyone decided that newspapers should be used as kindling). My sister and brother are two of my best friends (and, yes, that cliche made my stomach turn too). I've had friend after friend blow me away by their intelligence, creativity, humor and excitement for adventure. And I've had woman after woman tolerate my slapstick way of loving and flat-out floor me with their ability to appreciate, give, surprise and explore.

As I write this, I realize how disgustingly happy I've been almost my whole life. At some point, all of my family, friends and ladyfolk have realized that I'm not just making small talk when I say, "Holy shit, what a beautiful day," or go on and on about how much I'm enjoying just sitting around a backyard drinking. Life as a middle-class American is fucking rad, especially if you consider the only other option, that tremendous black hole known as death.

My mother lost her brother when he was in his thirties. She had just turned forty. My uncle was a family man and an entrepreneur. He died of a heart attack in his sleep. My mom and her siblings were and are close. But, still, she once told me (after a tiff with a sibling), "You never want to go to bed angry with your family. They might not be there tomorrow."

I knew what she was saying, even as a dopey, spastic sixth grader who couldn't stop talking. It became a whisper in my heart that I always try to live by, though I haven't always done so. I've lucked out so far. Nobody I've been pissed at has died on me yet. Sometimes, people piss me off. But I think about what my mother says every time I get upset and I usually apologize or see that the situation settles (as, I'll be honest, I don't always feel it necessary to apologize). There were three straight years of my sister and I getting into  intense arguments over board games on Christmas Day. It was always my father, my brother and her versus my mother and me, and, apparently, we don't take charades lightly.

But I always made sure we made up by December 26th.

And, to be fair, it usually wasn't me being the hero. By the end of Christmas Day, when neither of us had changed out of our pajamas, with nacho cheese and sour candy sugar dotting our robes, we'd both kind of nod or shrug or blink or wince, and somehow that meant that we were done with our bullshit.

My sister, my brother and I were both raised my parents that advocated joy and tolerance. In fact, my father's famous quote was that, one day, the three of us would be "strong, healthy, confident adults." He said those four words in that order all the time. I guess that's what I've always been shooting for, even as a kid.

I think the first time I caught myself rolling my head in the quiet moments of adult life was when I was 17. I finally had a license, so the world was now available to me. And I decide to spend a summer afternoon at the Orange Circle, eating Felix's rice and beans while drinking a hot chocolate. I was smoking a cigarette and doing a crossword puzzle. I had nothing on the agenda and no interest in doing anything else. The world came to me and unfolded itself.

What was the big secret?

Just do what makes you happy.

Now, that's an overreaching simplification of what it means to be happy. You need to make a living and go to events you don't want to. Do what makes you happy, but acknowledge that it won't be all the time.

But people don't know what to do with their free time, and they don't seem to appreciate it for what it is. They appreciate it for what it isn't.

"It's my day off, so the big plus is that I don't have to work," they may think.

No.

It should be, "It's my day off, so the big plus is that I get to go buy used books and go swimming."

I had a long talk with Jason and Grant the other night. We discussed the act of creating and how much we value it, only to be baffled by those who don't. Some people just want to go home from a mediocre job and watch television. They have no interest in writing, painting or jamming.

At any age, even without creation hobbies, I feel like a person should have at least one activity that they can depend on for themselves. It shouldn't include anyone. For me, it's writing. But, take that way, I could still come up with things I like doing and bring about an absurd amount of happiness. When I was 17, it was smoking a cigarette and doing a crossword puzzle. When I was 20, it was going on a bike ride. Now, it's reading a book on my back porch. Sometimes, it's enough to just eat crispy rolls in bed with the window open.

It really doesn't take much to make me happy these days. I'm usually in a pretty good mood. And, if I'm not, just a song can turn me around for the better. Its not an act either. Even by myself, I remain generally stoked. Though my mother would ask it as, "So that stokes you?"

But, despite my jolly nature, I've notice a gargantuan shift in how deep my happiness goes. When I was, say, 20, all it took was a bike ride to put me at maximum happiness. But, back then, my scale was only 1-10. My scale now is 1-100. It's harder to reach the maximum happiness, but I can honestly say that the happiness runs deeper. Maybe a bike ride only puts me at a 70 now. Well, it's not the highest possible, but it's certainly a lot more than 10. When I'm happy now, I feel it in my bones. When I was 20, happiness was only skin-deep.

My happiness in the future is up for grabs, and I couldn't even begin to guess what it is. However, I will say that this past year was the first time that I could actually see myself married with kids in the near future. Also, when I say "near future," I just mean that I don't think I have to go through some insane transformation anymore. When I consider marriage and kids now, I no longer think, "Holy fuck, I need to get my shit together before that ever happens." I think I could make a good husband and father as this dude I am now.

I understand adulthood now. I get it. I value saving money and feel accomplished paying bills. It legitimately excites me to have good credit. I understand the difference between Del Taco and Mr. Stox, just as I understand why sometimes blue jeans aren't appropriate attire. I know what shitty beer and good beer both are, and I know when to drink them. You don't have to stop eating fast food, wearing blue jeans and drinking cheap beer. I just think you should know the difference.

And, no, adulthood is not a defeat. I don't know who's filling my friends' heads with bullshit, but a family doesn't kill the big stuff. Yes, over the years, we can most likely expect to stop falling asleep drunk in the same room together. Yes, at some point, we won't find much interest in sleeping past ten a.m. Yes, we'll have more obligations and obstacles. But that doesn't mean weekend getaways and afternoon barbecues have to stop forever. Don't we all want our kids to be raised together? Don't we all want our spouses to be friends with each other? Don't we all plan on having the coolest social network back-to-school night's ever seen?

Everything will get more difficult soon, but everything will also get much more rewarding. We'll start serving real purpose. Granted, I say this as someone who's not in a serious committed relationship and admit that the second word of the phrase "pregnancy scare" strikes up more feelings in me than the first. But family life seems good: Sunday brunches, school projects, dinner parties, etc. It all seems warm and enchanting.

However, I'm also the same guy who puked on his bedroom floor this year and has wandered his house naked in a drunken stupor on two occasions in the last six months. Yes, that's right: this year and two occasions.

I'd say that's about it. Life is good, and it isn't always that way. Right now, it is though. I have no big fears for the future and no huge regrets of the past. I like where I've been, I like where I am and I like where I'm going. And, as a middle class American suburban white twenty-something writer, I really couldn't ask for much more than that.

Here's five things I've learned and kept as a way of living:

• Remember that nothing is eternal.
• If it's good, you better appreciate the hell out of it before it's gone.
• If it's bad, don't worry, seeing as how it'll all be over soon.
• Make time for what keeps you sane.
• The fall semester of my last year in college, I was working 60 hours a week, going to school full-time and doing my uninformed best at keeping a long-distance relationship together. For three months, I really only saw Rex and it was because he was willing to play basketball with me at midnight in a park with the lights off.
• These days, I make sure to spend at least one afternoon or even writing. It's not much, but, holy shit, it keeps me sane.
• Stay in reasonable shape.
• You have to take care of yourself. It's unfair for women to demand their men look like Ryan Reynolds if they don't look like Mila Kunis, just as its unfair for men to demand their women look like Olivia Wilde if they don't look like Justin Timberlake. Just because you're in a relationship doesn't mean you get to grow fat with a beard. Trust me, I've been there. It was unfair to everyone involved.
• A lack of exercise will doom your brain tremendously. Stay physically fit, and you'll be more mentally and emotionally fit, suggesting that you'll ultimately be nicer to people, which brings me to my next point.
• Just be nice to people.
• Two religious women were making the rounds one afternoon, and I answered the door with Jason. They asked if I was interested in hearing about the word of God. I answer, "I'm going to respectfully pass, but I wish you two the best of luck today." The next day, Jason told me that he had never thought of answering religious people that way. It always felt like they were invading his space. I told him, "I figure they have the best intentions. I mean, they're spending their afternoon trying to keep me and my neighbors from the depths of Hell. The least I could do is be nice to them."
• I was hanging out with Chase once. We were either in a car or at a restaurant. A homeless man asked for some money to help his family. Without thinking, Chase gave the guy a few bucks. I thoughtlessly made a joke along the lines of, "And off he goes to procure some booze." Chase smiled and said to me, "Who knows? I mean, what the hell was I going to do with that money? Just buy cigarettes or booze myself anyway. That guy's going to help his family or buy some booze. Either way, he's begging for it, which means he probably needs it more than I do." Since that day, I always try give at least something if I have it on me.
• People working retail and other customer-engaging jobs have it hard. Why? Because they interact with everyday people and their everyday problems. Ask them how they're doing and be friendly. They won't always be nice back, but, hey, you tried. Also, hey, people working retail and other customer-engaging jobs, be nice to your customers. They're just everyday people with everyday problems. I was a waiter for five years. I know it's not that hard to be nice to your customers, even when you're busy and they aren't wildly friendly. Just be nice.
• Make life cinematic.
• Cool big gestures and thoughtful little presents aren't just for movies and television shows. People can do these things. This isn't even, like, hey, go base-jumping or start bar fights. I just mean that there are chances for you, your family and your friends to do really magnificent things for each other. I'm not going to go into detail about my life's cinematic moments, but I can recall them, from building a full restaurant in my backyard with friends as a college student in love to crashing a wedding in Mexico. There are just chances for you to think of life as a movie and really not settle for this lesser bullshit.
• One of my favorite television cute moments was my last birthday when my mom asked what I wanted. I told her I always wanted a dragon, but I'd settle for books and clothes. True to my mom's eternal thoughtful form, I unwrapped a present to find, low and behold, a stuffed dragon.

In every era of my life, I've thought, I wish this could last. I don't know why the coming years would be any different. Sure, I'll always want to revisit the days of my garage, Shirley's house, Julia's house, Wall's house, the Mira Mesa House, The Madison, Entrepreneur Magazine, The Daily Titan, WebVisible, Seattle and so on, but where would be the happiness? What good is the joke if you've already heard the punchline? Change isn't bad. I haven't hit a birthday where I've been disappointed in myself, my family, my friends and where we are as a collective. I like aging. I like the change of scenery. I like new opportunities to be happy. I like watching people close to me grow and develop. I like that people are getting married and having kids now, just as I liked those same people getting drunk and passing out face-down in the floor. People in my life have always been gracious, generous and goofy. As Batman would say, PEOPLE ARE GOOD. And how hard is it to be happy in a part of the world where a milkshake and and a beach is within bike-riding distance?

Sometimes, bro, life is so rad, man.

5 Crisises I Can Help You With

I'm a pretty nice guy. It may not always seem like that because I'm disguised like a son of a bitch. That was an old-timey phrase. I'm not actually a son of a bitch. Want me to prove it? Here, I took five complaints of the modern world as if they were submitted to me and answered them for you. What a nice guy, right? Right. I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch. You better listen to me, baby. That was a line from my favorite Misfits song for those of you who didn't know. Anyway, enjoy.

"Every time I wash my car, it rains."

Holy shit. You're clearly some sort of supernatural being here in our pathetic and dismal dimension. Sorry we didn't make cupcakes for your arrival. Please wait for your well-deserved hand jobs from the concubines of yore. We here on Earth aren't used to beings from another realm. How are you controlling the weather? Every time you wash you car, you say? Fascinating. When I think it's going to rain, I usually read a few reports by men and women who studied it like an actual science until they tell me that it's not an actual science when they get it wrong, which, I have to say, is quite often. Some of us here, you know, the mere mortals, just look at the sky and say, "Oh, looks like it's going to rain." We say this shit to everybody. We don't care who's even standing near us. I'd say it a strange bum-hag, just as I'd say it to my grandfather, just as I'd say it to Dallas Raines, just as I'd say it to Olivia Wilde. Well, no, I guess I'd say more to Miss Wilde. I might ask to touch her face. I don't know. I haven't really thought it through yet. But she's seen rain. I've seen rain. Apparently, Dallas Raines hasn't seen rain because he always tells me to wear a jacket on days that I end up having to explain to everyone at work why I'm wearing a jacket. But then everyone else shows me their jacket and it turns out that we've all been swindled by that goddamn con artist, Dallas Raines. But back to what you said about it raining after every time you wash your car. NO, IT FUCKING DOESN'T.

"I farted in class."

Stand up, immediately tell your fellow students that it was someone else and then run away forever. Don't even bother going home. Everyone is dead to you for the time being. Change your name. If a woman, try out "Starla B. Koosakoff. If a man, start your new life as "Chuck E. Chuckerton." Let them call you "Chunkers" for short. The nickname for your fake name will really throw people from your old life off your trail. Maybe open up a candy shop and be friends with all the local kids. Make them love you. Now, start committing gruesome murders. Wait for a copycat to take over. Come back to your old life as whoever you once were and start things off with, "Nevermind where I've been! How about those murders a few counties over? Pretty gruesome, if you ask me. A candy shop owner no less! Just grotesque." FARTING CRISIS AVERTED.

"The barber gave me a bad haircut."

Wear a fucking beanie. JESUS.

"Ryan Gosling won't bang me."

I hear this one all the time. Who do you think are? Listen up, every lady in America, that dude only has so much time in his day. And guess what? I've heard interviews with him. Dude never starts sentences off with "hey girl." It's usually all about him. Sure, you've seen pictures of him saying, "hey girl, I really like your backstage" or "hey girl, that's some nice falafel you made, my dirty Persian princess," but, to be honest, it'd probably be more like, "Hey girl, how the fuck did you get in here? I'm calling security." Also, let's be honest, if you were that adored by women universally, there is no way that normal sex would satisfy. Just as a default, you would have to start getting weird. You would just be too powerful. Do you think Zeus was thrilled with missionary? Do you think Ra was all about beds? No. Gods want things like "backdoor brimstone" and "leather mania window throws." Oh, I'm sorry, did you think that Ryan Gosling planned to spend his time on Earth taking a bath with you in rose petals and telling you how good of a restaurant manager you are and how he felt sorry for all the side work you had to do? No, of course not, because he is here to ravage. Consider yourselves lucky, ladies, that he's with Eva Mendes. Because guys want her like a gorgeously sloppy and heated New Year's Eve kiss too. She grows more and more powerful with every passing semi-nude scene she does on film. You're straight up lucky she's with him. Let's look at this scientifically. Ryan Gosling is like the black smoke from Lost and Eva Mendes is like that forcefield that nobody understood. If Ryan Gosling was single, and every girl had her way, then every girl with a Facebook would be pregnant by his seed, overpopulation would become an imminent threat to the world and all that we all hold dear would ultimately be destroyed within a generation. Oh, and this was all because you wanted him to say, "hey girl, you don't need a calculator to do those quarterly reports, because you can push my buttons?" STOP THINKING OF YOURSELF FOR ONCE.

"One of my car speakers blew out, so now I can only hear music on one side."

You're in luck. I went through that once for a few years. It turns out all those times I thought, you know, Los Lobos should really put in a guitar solo here, well, they actually did put a guitar solo there. But, alas, I couldn't hear it through the important speaker. And they threw in some bongo drums too! Los Lobos knows what they're doing. Let's just agree on that right now and move on. Do you have tape? If you have tape, you might be lucky enough to tape the cassette eject button down so that, due to faulty wiring, the music comes out the busted side here and there. Maybe use some chewing gum. But don't drop the foil wrapper into the lighter socket, if your vehicle is an older model, as this will of course, due to faulty wiring, fry your dashboard. Don't worry. This will actually impress several chicks when you have to Fonzie the dashboard with a rap of your fist, but don't make a joke about that, as girls who are that easily impressed typically didn't grow up watching Happy Days. No, they were too busy smoking cigarettes and sneaking out at night. That's all well and good at a certain age, but sixth grade isn't the recommended time for your parents to start questioning your morals. Wait until your mom cries at back to school night and accusing you of being a pothead instead. You really have to choose those special moments with your parents. Pretty soon, those moments will be gone and all you'll be left with is your parents telling you to not get (somebody) knocked up until one day they just start demanding that you get (somebody) knocked up. The world's a funny place. HEY, FIX YOUR FUCKING SPEAKERS ALREADY.

You're welcome, America.

The Game-Winning Double: A Story/Rant

The Game-Winning Double

A Story/Rant About Childhood

by Jake Kilroy

Last night, I made a game-winning three pointer in a close game of basketball and I was pretty proud of it. That never happens. I'm terrible at three pointers. Everyone else makes game-winning three pointers and I've also played basketball almost every Wednesday night for two years now, so, let's be honest here, it's really not a big deal at all.

But it's a good segue.

So it got me thinking about my greatest moment in basketball, and, seriously, the biggest deal I can remember was straight up tackling a dude on Villa Park's team my sophomore year when he was going for what he thought would be a very easy fast break layup. I fouled the shit out of him. And then Villa Park's crowd booed the shit out of me. Orange's crowd, however, cheered like lunatics. They thought it was goddamn hilarious. We were down by, like, 20 points and I decided on a whim to do the most flagrant foul imaginable. It would've been less of a scene if I had just straight up pushed him.

Anyway, that lead me to thinking about my greatest moment in all of organized sports. So here now is the story/rant about...

The Game-Winning Double

In North Sunrise Little League, there was a fence that divided the younger kids' fields from the older kids' fields. It was T-Ball, T-Ball II and AA fields on one side, and Minors and Majors on the other. In fourth grade, I played in the Minors, which, I agree, sounds ridiculous. I was the spazzy kid who played right field that year. It was pretty obvious to the coach that I didn't give a shit if we won or loss. I just liked playing baseball. I liked running around. I liked being on a team with uniforms and sunflower seeds. I liked that some mom would give me fruit snacks for no reason. I liked being cheered on by my family. I liked thinking it was more than it was, you know, being on the Blue Jays in the Minors. But nobody thought it was more than it was than...everyone else on the team. They wanted to win and they would stress about it. And, in fourth grade, nothing should stress you out. All you're doing is watching morning cartoons and learning about the rainforest at school. Your biggest fear at that age is if the girl that you just hit in the face with a dirt clod noticed you or not. It took me years to realize of fucking course she did. It's a goddamn dirt clod. Who doesn't notice a dirt clod hitting you in the face when all you're trying to do is play hopscotch? Jesus, kids are stupid. Anyway, it was towards the end of the season and I was having less fun with each passing week. Every kid thought he was a coach, which, at that age, is irresponsible of parents to let their kids be that arrogant. If you're just as stupid as I am, you shouldn't be allowed to tell me how to do things. Hell, man, if I own more Bugle Boy shirts than you, I should be telling you how to do things. Now, I should point out that these kids wanted to win and they were just intense about sports. Whatever. They weren't like some of the kids on my first AA team. Those kids were assholes. Some fuckin' kid with a dopey-ass sorta-mullet gave me shit for a whole practice because I was wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle socks and not baseball socks. In my whole life, I swear, that moment haunts me. It's up there in the top ten. I was so bummed on that kid and I didn't even say anything about how poor he was. Man, if I had a time machine...anyway, I went home and almost fucking burned those socks like some lucid sacrifice to the gods of hip. "Please, fair gods, please let that plumber's kid think I'm cool so he'll leave me alone," I probably begged. But guess what? That kid was going to grow up to be his dad. And I saw his dad. In fact, that fuckin' guy was a dick too! And he was the assistant coach! All he did was smoke cigarettes, drink Diet Coke and tell me to be more like his incest mardi gras of a son. Dude's probably dead now and I shouldn't say shit about him. But back to his kid. What an asshole, right? I mean, shit, man, I just wanted to play baseball. Who was he trying to impress? The fucking duck on his shirt that said, "I'm The Boss?" Ugh. I'm not saying I hope he has lung cancer now, but...so, anyway, back to my time on the Blue Jays in the Minors. It's bottom of the ninth, a dude's on base and we just need one run to win. I step up to the plate. Did I understand the pressure? No. Like I said, I was an idiot and losing interest in baseball. Plus, what, I wanted to do everything I could to make these straight-faced yokels even more stoked on winning? Well, maybe part of me did. Part of me wanted to impress the hell out of them. But not because I wanted to hang out with them all the time. Well, ok, maybe some part of me really did want them to invite me over to play Mortal Kombat, since my mom wouldn't allow it in the house. But there was also a good portion of me, standing there at the plate, that just wanted to say, "Look, you can care about other things! Have you even seen It's A Wonderful Life? You need to prioritize what you want from life!" For me, it was my family being proud of me and candy. That's all I really wanted. Shit, at that time, X-Men and going to school were pretty high on that list too. But all I had to do at the end of this game was give it my best and my family would be proud of me. And then I'd go to school the next day. And then I'd get candy for doing well in school. And then I'd watch X-Men on Saturday. I didn't need a day planner back then, because every day was fucking awesome. A day planner would've just been a book of exclamation marks and smiley faces. If I was more of a sticker guy, I would've used stickers, but I'm not, so I didn't. Anyway, instead of just shrugging off the moment, I looked at my teammates and, if I recall correctly, which it's very likely that I'm not...my teammates believed in me. They didn't look at me up to bat and think, "Oh great, the kid who invented mitt-face out in right field, lord of the grass piles, is up to bat and we're going to lose because this chump bitch is going to see a butterfly." No, they actually looked like they were thinking, "Do it. Hit a home run and win the game." Well, I hit the ball, but it wasn't a home run. It was a double and it was just enough to get the runner home to win the game. My teammates lost their shit. They were out of their minds. If I had seen a butterfly in that moment, holy hell, that would've been something. They probably would've let me chase it until the field lights turned off. But they encircled me and rubbed my head and cheered. They had never been prouder of me than that moment, which makes sense, since I probably didn't do anything else that was impressive the whole season. They didn't even laugh at mitt-face. What the hell did they know? But, honestly, that's my greatest moment in playing sports. It was like out of a movie for me. Bottom of the ninth and the kid who literally danced in the batter's box won the game. Well, I learned my lesson right then and there: baseball is boring. Even at this incredible high point, I thought, this is it? This is baseball? This isn't enough for me. I quit after that season and focused on basketball. And that's why I never made it to the Majors. Also, if I could be honest here, I kind of do wish that one kid has lung cancer now, because fuck him.

Ah, baseball...

The Value Of Valentine's Day

The Value Of Valentine's Day

by Jake Kilroy

I understand why people hate Valentine's Day. I get it. It's an entire holiday devoted to love that's hyped up by the media, promoted on social media sites and talked about non-stop by friends and family.

But that's why I love it.

I love the shit out of Valentine's Day.

I've had every variation of the holiday:

• One year, my girlfriend and I rented a room at a fancy hotel and ate white pizza and chocolate. I made three gifts that year: a short film, a song and a poetry book.
• One year, after breaking things off with a girl, I spent the night out in Joshua Tree with two dude friends and a random couple we met at the next campsite.
• One year, with my girlfriend out of town, I saw a rom-com in theaters with friends.
• One year, I watched Sleepless In Seattle with my brother.
• One year, a lady friend and I got drunk on good wine and watched Casablanca.
• One year, I ate dinner with my family and played a board game.
• One year, I went to Island's for burgers and fries with local single friends.
• One year, a lady friend and I drank wine in a jacuzzi before I made her what could be considered the greatest grilled cheese sandwich ever made.
• One year, I watched Down With Love by myself after picking up Chinese take-out and an entire chocolate silk pie.

And I've been stoked every time.

Love isn't for the faint of heart. Neither is the absence of it. Love, the terrifyingly perfect sensation of finding that somebody is...remarkable. It's fucking flooring actually. But you don't/can't have that every year. That's greedy in the very least and quite possibly insane at most. If you're expecting to be cherished every year, since the age you first understood that the whole "love" thing existed, you've probably been let down.

Now, I'm not at all saying you can't find a long-lasting love that will cherish the hell out of you for the rest of your life. That fucking exists, people. But, come on, you've been emotionally and sexually invested/interested in men, women and the go-betweens since, what, you were barely breaking out the gate of teenagedom? It's maybe the rarest thing on this planet to have someone special every single year on February 14th since you were 15 or whatever.

That leaves a few/lot of Valentine's Days made up of single nights in, group nights out, hook-ups, one-night stands and that weird gray area that has no name when you get hammered on some gin in a cabinet you didn't know you had early on in the evening and call that flirty friend you find attractive for fun but aren't even sure how to define or categorize the whole ordeal that follows.

But it's a whole day celebrating love, and that's fucking rad. I watch my parents every year, I watch my friends every year, I watch the world every year. And guess what? People in love are incredible to behold. Who gives a shit if you feel you have to do something special? Hallmark's greeting card machines didn't invent this holiday. People did. And all of this arguing that it's only here so chocolate and candy companies could make money? Who gives a flying fuck about that? So what? So you're going to protest a day of love by not celebrating love? What kind of goddamn nonsense is that, if you actually have someone?

"Well, why not treat every day like Valentine's Day?" some ask.

"Because you'd go fucking broke, stupid," I say.

Listen, you don't have the time, money or energy to treat every day like it's a gigantic celebration of love. If you're not bringing home chocolates and cooking fancy dinners every single night, then, no, asshole, you most definitely are not celebrating every day like it's Valentine's Day. Oh, did you mean that you're good to be around most of the time? Cool. That's not the same thing. Can you randomly surprise your significant other with radical gifts and kick-ass love? Absolutely, and that's awesome. But to turn it down on the one day everybody's doing it is so lame. That doesn't make you special. Treating Valentine's Day like Valentine's Day as well as other random days throughout the year as Valentine's Day is the way to do it. And that's if you're in a strong, committed relationship.

If you're in some weird are-we-or-aren't-we dance of romance, as in some Sam and Diane bullshit, then, hey, there's someone halfway in your life! I've been there. Are you spending your lunch break pacing the parking lot deciding if you should invite them over? Yeah, I bet. But I have no idea if you should. They call that shit a gray area because it's the shot in the dark of all shots in the dark. You could invite them over and you two could fall asleep next to the fire, naked and laughing. But, then again, you could invite them over and find out that their significant other is going to smash in all the windows of your car. Who knows? The world's a mysterious place.

And you single folk...well, you're obviously the hardest sell on a holiday of love. Lord Tennyson*, once tanked on very cheap rum found in his backseat after an evening of sitting outside his ex's house, said, "It is better to have love and lost than to have ever loved at all." And then somebody put that shit all over Twitter and now everybody says that line to cheer up that one sad friend that can't stop listening to fuckin' Joy Division's short-ass discography or Morrissey's greatest hits of having a hard-on for loneliness. It's insane, but it's true. I don't care what anybody says. You get hurt less without love, but you get less without it too. Things would be a lot different if the poet had mumbled, "It's better to have lusted and left than to have never lusted at all." Everyone would be buying condoms without the flowers and we'd all be orgying it up until we were kicked out of the mansion spreads for getting "too intimate." These are trying times!

But why the fuck would you want to sit around and feel sorry for yourself? Because your friends are happy and you're not? Come on, there's no way you're going to spend your collective single days like this. What happens tomorrow? What happens the next day? What happens when you get invited to weddings? Are you going to be that person who drinks all of the sangria and then pulls me aside to tell me about some person I've never met and how they burned you so many years ago? Give me a goddamn break. I want none of this shit today. It's about love. It's about celebrating love and how awesome it is. You're telling me you want a world without Valentine's Day? It's the middle of February, it's cold out and your best bet against it is to abolish the one day that genuinely and secularly throws up a festival of humanity's warmth? No way! This day is about celebrating people being decent to other people. If you're single, celebrate how much you love yourself! I'm talking fat fucking chocolate baskets and dank take-out from that place where you know the menu better than that new cook who keeps looking at you all crooked. Do it the fuck up, ladies and gents. You're awesome. What you do is awesome. How you exist is awesome. You live in America, so there's about fifty choices of what you can do tonight to really fill your brain with excitement. Sit in a jacuzzi with other single friends while eating crispy rolls and drinking whiskey! Watch your favorite movie by yourself while downing a whole bucket of licorice! Buy a bunch of books and shop for shoes! Get drunk and call that one person who thinks you might be the unstoppable force in this goofy world of charades and parades! Who knows? Who cares? Why not? It's not the end of the world! It's fucking Valentine's Day! Woo!

Author's Note: If you have a depressed single friend that needs cheering up, yes, you have my absolute permission to share this rant with him/her.

I Gave Myself A Haircut

I cut my own hair last night, which I believe is often a sign of mental instability. If it had turned out poorly, I would've blamed curiosity. My grandma would've somehow blamed Obama.

I haven't been to a barber for years. I have my own system now: when I start twirling my long hair like I'm some gum-popping skank trying to sleep with the local high school football team, I take a buzzer to my head in every direction that week.

This week, my hair was just starting to get to twirling length and, instead of risking the affectionate here-and-there family nickname of "Patches," I decided to challenge myself. I was going to do overtime for my job, but I was burned out on work and my wrist hurt. So, amped up on gettin' something done, I asked myself, "Could I cut my hair with scissors and not look like an escaped patient and/or hipster douchebag?"

The answer is apparently, "Hell yes."

Cutting your hair is easy as a guy who ultimately doesn't care about his hair. It's like one playful mess up there. Consider the act to be the safest form of self-mutilation. All I did was run my hands flatly through my hair and cut whatever was above my fingers. And I had a great time. I may never even do the buzzer again. Next time, I'll probably try something wild. Who knows? Andy Warhol had stupid haircuts all the time. Worse case scenario, I'm like Andy Warhol.

Just by saying that, I instantly became my favorite barber.

In fact, nobody whose cut my hair professionally has ever been what I wanted, and I've had all sorts of people. I've had the Rosie Perez lady tell me about her shitty ex-boyfriend, I've had the older Chinese woman ask me questions I didn't understand, I've had the white hot-shit sorority girl tell me about her whole stupid career as a stylist and comment on my apathy. I've even had the guy from Up buzz the side of my head and then ask, "Hey, wait, so what'd you say you wanted? Just a trim?" FUCK YOU, SPENCER TRACY. I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE AND YOU TOTALLY SCREWED ME.

As a kid, my dad would cut my hair in the kitchen, like we were raised in the goddamn Dust Bowl. I liked it though. It was my first understanding of saving money. Did you know that a standard haircut at Supercuts is, like, thirteen bucks? I did what they did last night on a whim and a beer. Suck it, tentacles of this never-ending awful economy! Also, there's a lot of cool magazines in my bathroom. Do you really need five different magazines in the waiting area with Jennifer Aniston on the cover without owning up to a single issue of National Geographic? Jesus, Supercuts, people who like the rainforest and lion cubs need haircuts too.

This all works for me because I've never done anything especially edgy with my hair. I've just had different lengths. Once, I had a mohawk. Another time, I did spray-on dye for Halloween. Other than that, it's been natural brown and styles that have ranged from "spiked punk" to "Russian assassin." So, for me, cutting your hair is easy. If it goes terrible, all you have to do is wear nice clothes for a while and nobody will even notice your botched lobotomy.

If The World Ends Tomorrow...

"If The World Ends Tomorrow..."
a apocalyptic rant by jake kilroy.

I've been wrong about a lot of things in life. Like...A LOT of things.

But I've never ever been wrong about a rapture. Mostly because I've never predicted one. And I've never supported one. The only rapture I kind of like is the band and even they sort of get on my nerves.

So, it's made the news that, according to Harold Camping, president of the Family Radio Christian Network, and his followers, the world is supposed to end tomorrow (around 6 p.m., from what I understand). For all I know, it will. How the shit would I know? Everybody's making assumptions here. My guess is that it won't, but don't quote me on it, because I want to keep my record on not being wrong about raptures spotless. I just feel bad for those who give a specific day about the end of the world. They don't seem to get the enormity of what they're claiming.

Because how pissed are people going to be on Sunday morning?

I'll tell you: REALLY pissed.

If the world's truly ending tomorrow, tonight should be goddamn lunacy. Over the years, I've only really gone to church for weddings, funerals and the occasional mixer, so I'm almost certain I'm not allowed on the glowing escalator and, if that's the case, I may be prepared for dealing in the gnar and gettin' hectic on the world. If I was convinced these were my last days, I'd go for broke in every sense of the word (spending all my money and breaking things). Then Sunday comes and I apparently don't have to cross a lake of lava to get to my car? How mad would I be now that it turns out I still have my whole life ahead of me in the suburbs, except now with a body full of heavy drugs and STDs? Look, I don't know how buckwild everybody's gonna get in their last days. This is all just speculation.

Of course, this is all if I took Harold Camping's word about the rapture, which I don't, since I guess he blew it pretty bad in September and October 1994 (he had a set date as well as a back-up date). Also, I don't trust anybody with an active verb for a last name.

On Sunday morning, what if people walk up the guys with the apocalypse signs and say, "Hey. So...what the hell, man? What do I do now? You told me that yesterday was the day. I did a lot of terrible things last night. Look at all this blood on my clothes. How am I going to explain this to my wife who went to a freaky sex party last night? You screwed me, bro."

The rapture is not a picnic. I know enough about the Bible to at least be aware of that. It's not some, "oh hey, if you're not doing anything Saturday, we should bike ride to the beach and eat on the pier." NO. The rapture is the end-all. The month before the rapture (that I would hypothetically believe in), I would probably free-for-all everything that usually has consequences. I'd take up heroin and prostitutes, for sure. Why wouldn't I? I mean, that's not my usual prerogative, just so we're clear. Not even close. I'm usually about basketball and vermicelli bowls. Stuff like that. You know, books and beer. Those sorts of things. But, really, if it's my last month on the Earth I know, appreciate and take care of here and there, I'm going out with a bang. Literally. I will probably procure a firearm of some sort. Why? Hey, here's a better question: why not? It's the freakin' rapture, man.

So, no, the rapture is not a picnic. It's a life-changing event. Yeah, my wedding day will probably be important. So will the birth of my first born. But the rapture? That's, like, crazy huge. That's not something you go at willy-nilly. And if you're wandering around the city with signs, just to grab some attention from the patrons of Starbucks, there reworking the first scene of a script they probably won't finish, then, come on, man, you need a new hobby. In fact, you should be the one writing a movie! You obviously have a cooler imagination than everybody else!

Raptures aren't for yokels, and claiming it is even wilder. This shit's serious. You're telling everyone that everything they know will end. EVERYTHING. All the celebrities you love, all the politicians that decide things, all of your stupid tasks like getting gas and buying groceries, every book and movie that exists, airplanes, trains, ships, oceans, mountains, cities, towns, rockets, fucking...EVERYTHING will no longer be. And if you believe that, if you honestly believe that's going down tomorrow, WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUTSIDE OF MALLS TELLING PEOPLE THIS? YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME WITH YOUR LOVED ONES MAKING FAJITAS AND PLAYING BOARD GAMES. OR YOU SHOULD BE PICKING UP FOOD FROM YOUR FAVORITE RESTAURANTS BEFORE CALLING EVERY PERSON YOU'VE EVER WRONGED AND TELLING THEM THAT YOU'RE SORRY. MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE IN YOUR LIVING ROOM, LOOKING THROUGH EVERY PHOTOGRAPH YOU HAVE AND CRYING UNTIL YOUR EYES SOUND LIKE A GAS LEAK. IT SHOULD BE FUCKING TEAR GAS COMING OUT OF YOUR FACE. YOU SHOULD BE OUT OF TEARS.

TEAR SUPPLY: FUCKING DEPLETED.

And, shit, if you really believe the world ends tomorrow, how are you taking it so well? Because you'll be lifted? Dude, not everyone you know is going to Heaven. Some of your buddies at the bowling alley, some of your ex-girlfriends that you stayed on good terms with, even some of your relatives with their condescending tones that you still kind of like seeing at sporadic holidays (though you never send them a birthday card), they're all doomed and not coming with you. You will miss them. You will miss them tremendously. You should be calling them. You should be giving them some goddamn tips about how to walk the new world of fire that they're left with while you drink white wine in a toga for eternity! People left on Earth are so screwed, man! While you're at your afterlife dinner party, filled with finger foods and pale confetti, chatting up Mark Twain and beating the shit out of Abraham Lincoln at foozball with Jimmy Stewart on your team, your heathen friends are going to be walking a planet that will mostly look like the Australian outback in a century after the Ozone layer has caught fire and exploded (I don't understand global warming, so, to me, that scenario is just as likely as the rapture happening on Saturday...yes, I ignore religion AND science).

The point is, if you really, honestly, truly believe the world is ending tomorrow, why are you wearing such dumb shirts and not a tuxedo? Go out in style, guy. I guess they don't have tye-dye in Heaven (as I assume it's mostly white and ivory mixes), so, if that's your reason, go for it, I suppose. Get out your last hoorah of clothing with colors. But you shouldn't be out here telling me and everybody else to repent. You've already got your one-way ticket. You don't need to do any more saving. You should be at home watching a marathon of Disney cartoons and eating a dozen plates of nachos with people you can't get enough of. Don't waste your time on everyone else! This is a time to relax!

Also, how are you able to relax right now? Don't you have a crazy amount of anxiety? I couldn't deal with that kind of pressure. You're about to go on an eternal trip, man! You should probably have some knots in your stomach to unwrap! What should you bring? Should you even bring anything? Will they provide shoes at the gates or should you bring a nicer pair? Should you buy new shoes? If so, tennis shoes or dress shoes? Can you be overdressed for the afterlife? Could you be underdressed? These are major concerns you should be having, since your decision affects you for, oh, I don't know, for-fucking-ever.

Why are you not at least stocking up on clean underwear? Macy's should be out of underwear right now. Vons should be out of toothpaste. CVS should be sold out of motion sickness pills. These are things that everyone person planning to leave Earth tomorrow should have an eternal supply of. Sure, it's probably a safe assumption that Heaven will provide all of your toiletries, but even the nicest hotels don't always leave mints on your pillow. It's a risky move. At least bring a backpack, for Christ's sake! I mean...Christ will probably want a snack or something. And then you have to figure out what He would want! Corn Nuts seem like a solid choice, but which flavor? Is chile picante too spicy? Is original too boring? Ugh. Everyone planning to abandon this planet tomorrow should be experiencing multiple aneurysms, just trying to figure their shit out.

All I'm saying is be prepared and spend your closing hours with people you love. This isn't a time to tell some lost soul on his way to Panda Express that he should be at home getting ready for the rapture. THAT'S WHAT YOU SHOULD BE DOING. GET THE FUCK HOME AND BE READY FOR THE END OF THE WORLD, DUDE.

And, if the rapture doesn't come tomorrow, then I'd just stay home on Sunday, man. If there's one day to stay home from church, it's the day after the rapture didn't come when you promised it would and you looked like an asshole. Get your shit together. Literally. You're leaving soon.

Ah well.

Good luck out there, everybody!

I'm A Genius (Sometimes)

I rarely think of myself as a genius. And, when I do, it's not because of I wrote or said anything profound. At best, my writing is motivated by impressing strange chicks I meet in stranger bars and my talking is used as a severe distraction from whatever I am currently wearing.

I've come to realize that the only time I award myself the obnoxious title of "genius" is when I make complex meals without recipes (which is often achieved by randomly combining ingredients I find around the kitchen in a hopeful attempt to not starve or leave the house) or by turning one meal into many. That's about it. I really only declare myself a genius when I have a mouth full of food.

"Kilroy, you magnificent bastard genius," I recently announced to myself, hardly understandable with my face being crammed with rice noodles and soy chicken. I happened to be watching yet another episode of Cheers (the entire series is on Netflix's instant streaming, people) and I had heroically saved the broth of the Loving Hut's royal noodle soup and turned it into a fourth meal by coolly adding a few ingredients all radically and what have you.

So next time you think, "That Jake is no genius," just wait until I turn some leftover burrito into a taco salad three days later and your brain explodes from sensual joy. YOU JUST WAIT, AMERICA. I'M ALWAYS COOKING UP SOMETHING.

My Face Is Literally Falling Apart

A piece of my tooth randomly fell out of my mouth the other night. This was obviously distressing news. As I chewed my gum and suddenly felt something come unstuck, I thought that I had heroically outed some stale piece of popcorn or porcelain. But no! It was a part of my mouth.

What keeps playing in my head is that scene from It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia where Charlie keeps pulling teeth out of his mouth. And, let me tell you something, that guy most certainly does not have his shit together.

If part of your mouth is actually falling off your face, then that's probably a solid argument against having your shit together. When something like that happens, you'd think I had spent a month eating sour patch kids in a bowl of Pepsi like it were cereal for every meal and just abandoned brushing my teeth altogether. But that's not the case! I brush my teeth two or three times a day! And, sure, I haven't had a stunning diet recently, but I was regularly eating all kinds of fruits and vegetables the first three months of this year.

Damn, maybe it was Anything Goes April, which turned into May I Have Everything May. I don't know. I'm not a scientist. If I were, I'd cure all teeth problems forever. And everyone would throw me a parade where all we served were things that destroy your gums but now don't.

"Yes, I'll have that jellybean sandwich! In fact, make that two!" all the kids would say.

The only trouble they'd be in is when they have to go to the face doctor for smiling too much. And they wouldn't even be bummed.

"So..." the doctor would start.

"Fucking worth it," the magnificent kids would tell him, cutting him off.

"Jake Kilroy the scientist is the greatest person to ever live for any reason in any country on any planet," the youngest, most adorable youngster would announce adorably.

But, no, I'm not a scientist and instead of being praised in the history books as "the man who solved everything," I have to go down in the diary I don't really have as "one big decaying mess." Maybe if I'm nice, I'll list myself "peaked," so that peers assume that I was once a man with full teeth.

I drank cold water two nights ago and nearly threw the cup across the room. That's how bad it stings. Now my goddamn nerves are exposed. People will see my feelings. You know what that means? I have to eat my feelings. All billion of them. That's right! I have a billion feelings. Happy? No! That's not even one of my billion feelings right now! Right now, I feel "unpruniaxed," which you didn't even know was possible until now! Why can't I go down in history as "the awesome hero would had a billion feelings?" Nope. Instead, I have to go to sleep knowing I'm "the guy who whose bones collapsed on him in a spectacular disappointment."

You know what? I was too good to myself this last month. That's what happened. Everything I wanted, I gave myself. I was having cheesecake for breakfast and beer for lunch. Dinner? Who gives a shit about dinner when all you've had to eat that afternoon is a few Pez candies and a couple swigs of bourbon?

Fuck this.

Oh, and last night, while at Taco Bell, I pulled up to the window and the guy said, "Yeah, I remember this order. You're the only one who orders rice instead of meat."

I nod and mumble something that sounds vaguely like a reply. When he comes back with my food, he adds, "After you left last night, I tried it with rice and it was pretty good."

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT. I WENT TO TACO BELL TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Same fucking Taco Bell, same fucking guy giving me Taco Bell. But have I learned my lesson? Hell no! I might get Taco Bell tonight! I might eat that shit in my sleep! I might dream about Taco Bell!

All I have to do is make sure I chew all that Taco Bell with the right side of my face, so that those nacho chips I've ordered on this lifelong binge of destroying my body don't stab the goddamn exposed nerves in my mouth.

Ugh. I'm so hungry.

A Panic Attack (In A Lower Key)

"A Panic Attack (In A Lower Key)"
for somebody else by jake kilroy.

You find yourself in the middle of a story that you didn't write, throwing up over nothing. You find yourself cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom, cleaning your room and finding nothing new or interesting. You're aware of everything that belongs to you. And then, pretty soon, you're going to happy hours and dinner parties before you realize it's December. Shit, it's Christmas, you think. I have to care about something, but you don't. You don't even try. You barely managed the thought. Instead, you briefly lapsed into one night of gin and cookies before calling both quits in your new year's resolutions that you wrote down on a whim. And you didn't even type them up either. You just wrote them on the back of your car payment envelope. You send it out anyway. You'll remember them. And who cares if your dealership and insurance company sees what you want to change about yourself? They're probably not any better off. Soon, it's another year and you haven't changed. Change is all that brings doom. So you stay the same. You hold onto nothing and you believe in nothing. You aren't even atheist. Your god is a shrug. Your meals are whatever you have in the fridge. Your drives are exactly as they were the day before. You hum bullshit to yourself on every walk you take, but you never actually sit down to write songs. It's too much work. Soon, you're talking about writing music. That's what has made you, talking about doing something. You're drifting in the weirdest way, you think. You don't mind meeting co-workers for drinks, as long as it ends there. You don't mind going on dates, as long as they end there. You don't mind seeing your family, as long as the conversations stop at what happened in the last whatever-time-you-spent apart. You read, but you take in zero information. You watch movies, but all it inspires you to do is watch more movies. You realize all of this and break your new year's resolution and start getting really drunk. You're making phone calls to people that don't remember you when they answer the phone with the word 'hello' as a question. You're not a period. You're barely a comma. You're a run-on sentence that nobody wants to speak. You're barely a paragraph and everything is a fucking paragraph when you think about it. Start shopping more and buying things to make up your life. Start considering philosophy as moral groundings. Start quoting others so you can say something. Jesus, just say anything, you tell yourself. And most of what you say isn't to you or anybody. It's just to talk. It's so your mouth won't freeze in the great winter of your existence. Buy more coats so you look like you go places. Buy more kitchen utensils so it looks like you entertain. Shit, just kick holes in your wall, so it looks like something happened at some place. You start coming up with favorite sites, to look like you have an online presence. You start deciding favorite restaurants so you can rate them on sites you only visit when you accidentally click on online advertisements. You don't even eat there. You mostly eat at home, and, even then, it's the same thing night after night. You go through phases. They're not even trends. You're just a dart board of choices, but you hate sports. You don't understand them and you wish you did, but you don't. So you think maybe if you start exercising, it'll all just come to you, but it won't. You go on walks by yourself, but it's to places you need to go. You're taking walks to the supermarket to buy toothpaste and deodorant, just to be an acceptable person to be around. You start wishing for a nervous breakdown on the way home, just so you can feel something. You just want something big to happen, so you can react. Maybe if your house was on fire, you could at least feel the warmth of your neighbors. You just want to say 'oh no,' for two fucking seconds. You want to have something to lose. You want something to gain again. You want to repeat, just so you can call something a routine, because you don't see anything you do as routine. You see it as a sprawling landscape of nothing. Where do you build your life in the barren scope of you? How do you go about constructing anything? What is there to have? Get real, man, and get real quick. That's all you've got. You just got one big long fucking epic promise to yourself that means you're going to finally do something and get it together. And, until then, all you've got is this. And this sucks, guy.