Profile of an Extraordinary Nobody

My name is Gino. My folks named me Eugene, after the Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner, American playwright Eugene O’neill. But my name is Gino. Even though I have been alive for more than twenty-three years, I must say that life did not truly start for me until about a year ago.

I had just finished a hitch in the Marine Corps, and I was anxious to tackle Life once more. Four years in the military, comprised mostly of “hurry up and wait,” allowed me to devise plenty of ingenious plans for my life. I had already known that I did not want to be in the usual rat race everybody else seemed to be in: graduate high school, go to college, get a “good” job, then work for someone else for the rest of my life paying off credit card bills for things I don’t need in my life. I wanted something different. I wanted passion and that ever-so-elusive sense of accomplishment. The materialistic, modern lifestyle of the typical consumers (by which we are upstanding citizens if we would only throw our hard earned money back into the whirlpool of economy) never did interest me.

It was during this period of soul searching that I discovered within myself certain panache, a flair for words, which previously went unnoticed. It did not come to me as too big a shock; I had always been a devourer of literature. Fiction, mystery, science fiction, classics, self-help, philosophy; anything I can get my hands on I would feverishly read and attempt to assimilate into my being the ideas contained within. So it was with great joy that I decided to be a writer (amongst other things of course, as Lazarus Long said:
“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”) Time Enough For Love ~Robert A. Heinlein~

Now that I had set a somewhat hazy goal, I felt pretty satisfied with myself, smug even. But no destination on a map is worth a damn if the starting point is unknown. This meant I had to take a look at myself: a good, hard, and honest evaluation of who I am. The sight was not pretty. In fact, it was a downright painful, and at times seemingly futile, exercise. I took stock of my personality, characteristics, temperament, and talents. I reflected upon my strengths, and more importantly, my weaknesses. The picture of my Self soon became clear, warts and all.

I then started visualizing the man I wished, nay! yearned to become. I imagined the type of physique I would possess, the style of clothes I’d wear, how I would move, talk, and walk. I saw my hairstyle, friends and social life, the kind of laugh, the type of woman that would intrigue me, etc… I made it so real and tangible, down to the minutest of details, that I could open my eyes and see “him” next to me. What steps would I have to take, came the inner question, for me to go from “here” to “there” automatically? Thus I started out, with a single step, on my ten thousand mile journey.

The plan was not perfect; I failed everyday. The journey was even farther from perfection, more like riddled with potholes and littered with abandoned trenches. I still fail on a daily basis, but someone once told me, “Perfect is boring.” That became somewhat of a mantra to counter my perfectionism. Things will never be perfect and the stars will never be aligned just so. I realized that I would just have to suck it up and embark on my imperfect journey with an imperfect plan. Get the ball rolling and refine as you go along, otherwise we’d never get off our collective asses.

Now my days consist of: waking up, scratching my buttocks for three minutes, doing whatever housework that needs to be done (to “get the ball rolling” and build tiny bits of sense of accomplishment and motivation,) perform my daily practice (I start with joint lubrication exercises, then proceed to a mix of kettlebells, clubbells, and bodyweight exercises. Whatever tickles my fancy at that particular moment,) check my e-mails, then ideally write or study (still working on being consistent) until I leave for school at 3 o’clock. During the weekends I work part-time at Whole Foods (even after I win a Pulitzer and appear on Oprah, I would still work part-time there; I just plain enjoy it, and twenty percent discounts on groceries really add up.)

Someone told me that by paying attention to other people’s Life Models (ie: life is like a roller coaster, box of chocolate, carousel ride, etc. ad nauseum…) one can gleam significant insights into what makes that particular person tick. Some people feel that life is a trap, others think it’s a endless game, still others surmise that it’s just one big joke that God is playing on us mortals, but I prefer to live as if Life is a grand adventure. Here is my Life Model:
I am driving down my Life Path, a dusty road remniscient of the way to Vegas. Once in a while I spy a fellow traveler on the side of the road. If they are going the same direction as me, they are welcome to hitch a ride, if not there’s no harm done. Now the traveler and I can laugh, joke, tell stories and have a grand old time, they may even suggest some detours to check out the sight. But at no point are they allowed to grab the wheel, because this is my Life, my journey, my Path. The moment our directions divulge, I shall thank them for their company and cherish forever the memories we’ve shared. I will remember the things I learned from my fellow travelers. But what I will not do is sacrifice my Path to go on theirs, for the sake of remaining together, nor force them on mine. Ultimately, this is my own Path to walk, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I look forward to being fourty years-old. I look forward to being fifty, sixty, and so on. I look forward to finding out if there is anything after Death. But not yet.

“To die would be an awfully big adventure.” ~Peter Pan~

Ego VS Self

This is a conversation I had between my Ego (the more cynical and negative one) and my Self (the calmer, wiser, and more rational of the two.) I'm sure you've all had these moment before. This took place early evening of September 3rd, 2006. I was a little hesitant about posting this, as it is very personal and contains insecurities that I still deal with (I think everyone still struggles with acceptance and love as well) but I think it may help someone to see that we're all the same. We're all beautifully imperfect. =) Enjoy.

Ego: This sucks

Self : What sucks?

Ego: Everything

Self : Sounds like you’re a bit depress?

Ego: Ya

Self : What are you depressed about?

Ego: Everything. My plans aren’t going as planned. Not how I wanted it to go anyways, not as fast. I’m not making enough progress. I feel like I’m trapped.

Self : Why do you feel trapped?

Ego: I dunno, I just do

Self : What do you feel is trapping you then?

Ego: I dunno. My job, I guess for one. But I like my job. I guess it’s just the routines. They get boring

Self : And is that bad, routines?

Ego: I think routines can be good, I know what to expect from day to day, but I feel like there’s no excitement or adventure.

Self : Is adventure important to you?

Ego: Of course, that’s what life is all about!

Self : What do you think an adventure would be?

Ego: I don’t know, I’m so tired.

Self : You know, depression’s a choice.

Ego: Yeah I know.

Self : Okay then.

(A little bit later…)

Self : I sense that you’re hesitant to write all this down.

Ego: I guess, I’m gonna post it on my blog if I do write it.

Self : Okay one more time, why are you depressed?

Ego: I guess I feel like no one loves me

Self : Who should love you?

Ego: I dunno, but ahhh… never mind. That’s immature. I should love myself, and that should suffice.

Self : Should it?

Ego: I think so, that’s how I choose to live my life anyway.

Self : So it’s about you right? You need to do your work

Ego: Yes…

Uno mas...

This is a short story that I wanted to get published, but ended up totally forgetting about. (It has italics in it to indicate the "other" voice, but Blogspot doesn't show it, so you'll have to use your head to figure out which voice is which. Kinda like real life!)
May 24th, 2006


It’s been three days since I slept. Three long, god-forsaken days. Or is it four? I don’t know. I can’t remember, a perk enjoyed by the sleep deprived. The voices are ceaseless, they won’t stop no matter what. It started about a week ago. I was driving back from the bookstore, it’s where I go to relax and check out new releases of Spiderman comic books. I grew up on Spiderman, and I don’t care what anyone says about Wolverine or Batman, good ol’ Spidey’s the coolest cat around. Spiderman’s a coward and a nerd. That’s how it started, something as trivial as that, pretty silly right? How can I think Spiderman as anything less than the greatest superhero ever? But that incessant voice keeps popping back in for seconds, then thirds, until I started questioning myself.
It didn’t stop at Spiderman, no siree. Today the voice, or voices, it’s hard to keep track now, suggested that my relationship with my girlfriend left more to be desired. She’s cheating on you, you know? How can you not see that? It’s plain as day. No, shut up. It’s not true. Oh isn’t it? Well, how do you know? Did you smell her new perfume? She doesn’t have a new perfume! Ya, but she could have. And if she did, who she wearing it for? Makes ya think, don’t it? Fuck. Naw, I’m just being paranoid here. Or are ya? Or maybe we’re the instinct, the hunch, the gut feeling that you’ve been ignoring lately, cuz you’re too much of a coward to face up to reality. I gotta hand it to them, they knew which buttons to press.
My father had called me a coward when I was in the eighth grade. Well, not exactly in those words, but I knew what he meant. I was going through my rebellious stage, hanging out with the bad boys, trying to be “gangsta.” Felt like the big man on the block, till a bigger man came and slapped me around like a bitch. Then I’d go take it out on some poor kid. Big fish eats small fish; bigger fish eats big fish. Way of the world, I figured at the time. Way of the world.
Ya right, you can rationalize all you want, but we all know the real reasons you did what you did. My friend Richie got in a fight one day. Walked away with a black eye and some minor bruises. I brought him home to patch him up. My pops came back early and caught a glimpse of Richie. We told him he fell down the stairs, how original, right? My father was no fool; he’d been in scraps when “he was just a young buck himself.” Or so he claims.
Later that night, he said to me “Those weren’t no falling wounds. Richie’s got himself in a fight, didn’t he?” Naw, pops, I told ya, he slipped on wet floor and fell.
“I ain’t stupid son, so don’t treat me like I’m stupid.” Well, you ain’t gotta worry pops, we’ll be just fine.
“Of course, I’m gonna worry, I’m your father. I know you’re going through your rebel bullshit phase. Of course I worry. But I ain’t too worried about ya, cuz you’re gonna outgrow this “gangsta” phase. You got a good heart son, you haven’t got the stones for that kinda life. Gangster.” He snorts a little.
Bam. There it was, the one statement my father made that would direct the course of my life for a long time. You haven’t got the stones for it. Thinking back, that’s probably why I joined the Marines. That’s probably why I volunteered for infantry, the most dangerous jobs during wartime, and my reckless behaviors in firefights. My buddies in my platoon were scared for me, said it was like “you didn’t care if you died.”
Yes, that’s it.
I spent years, without even realizing it, proving to my father and myself that I wasn’t a coward. For a boy aspiring to grow into a man, was there any fate worse or more degrading than being called a coward?
So are you? Are you a coward? Did you finally prove to yourself that you’ve got the stones? Well, I’m alive aren’t I? I’m a combat veteran aren’t I?
Ya, but what does that really mean? You coulda done the real stuff. Special Forces, SEALs, Delta. Didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to get all the way, Jackie boy? Marines are elite already, I’m honored to have served in the Corps.
Quit fooling yourself, man, didn’t you wanna go Recon? Force Recon? Instead you settled for straight leg infantry. You coulda done so much more. It’s no use thinking about these things now. I’m alive and well, that’s what matters. No use crying over spilt milk.
Ya, that’s it, keep rationalizing Jackie boy, that’s what you do best. Bump into some problems and ya run away. Isn’t that kinda ‘cowardly?’ Fuck.
I’m in stop and go traffic now. Rush hour. Hundreds of cars around me on the freeway with their horns honking here and there. All these city noises and I can’t tune out a stupid inner voice.
As long as you don’t listen to us, you’ll never escape us. Look at ya. What are ya doing with your life? Can’t hold down a job, not doing so hot at school either, your girlfriend cheating on ya. What do you have to live for? Fuck.
Ya need to do something big, man. Go out with a bang. What are you talking about? Oh great, now I’m actually conversing with the voices in my head. If that’s not a sign for therapy, I dunno what is.
Sure, Jackie boy, just write us off as symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Listen to all them other people, saying you can talk about it if you need to. Like they know what it was like. Please. You’ve got nobody, Jackie. Nobody. It’s time you faced up to that.
That’s not true, I’ve always got my family. They love me, no doubt about it. Of course they do, but do they understand you? When they look at ya, what do they see? Heh heh, what kind of person do you think you are in their eyes, Jackie boy? They understand that I’ve been having some trouble, we all have our troubles.
Troubles, right, you’re troubled alright. You’re talking to yourself in middle of rush hour traffic, debating whether or not there’s a point in living any longer. Whoa, this conversation just took a turn for the serious. Who’s talking about suicide here?
We didn’t mention suicide, funny how you jumped to that conclusion. Is there something you’d like to get off your chest? Fuck.
I called my buddy Jared. He’s the smart guy, wise, philosophical. If anyone knows what to do, it’s Jared.
“Ya?” He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Jared, it’s me.”
“Hey, Jackie! Ya cute fuck, haven’t talked to ya in months. How the hell are ya?”
“I’m okay, man,” I replied.
Oh really? Then why are you calling him?
“Really? You sound different. You sure you’re cool, bro?”
“Well, shit, no. I’m not okay man. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, ya know? About things, about things we’ve done, things I’m doing right now. Just things, ya know?”
“No, I don’t know man. You’re not exactly being clear here. What do you mean?”
Go ahead, Jackie, tell him. Tell him you’ve watched Fight Club for the twentieth time this month and just wanna ‘destroy something beautiful.’ Tell him you miss the rush of feeling alive when you’re so close to death. Tell him you think Karyn is messing around on ya, and you’re almost relieved because her snoring is getting on your nerves and you’d use any excuse to end things with her before ya break her neck. Go ahead, tell him that. Tell him you want to kill. He’ll understand.
“I dunno man, things have just been weird,” I mumbled.
Pussy.
“Ya, man. I hear ya. I miss the guys. I miss the platoon.”
“Do you think we might have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Everywhere I go, it’s like the first thing people think of when they find out that I was in the war, is like “oh, are you okay? Do you have PTSD? Do you have nightmares about it?” All that “poor baby, boo hoo” crap.”
“Well, do ya?”
“Do I what?”
You know what.
“Do you think you have it?”
“Do I think I have what?”
“PTSD, ya dumb fuck. What the hell do you think I’m talking about? You’re the one that brought it up.” Jared was getting impatient. As good at giving advices as he was, he wasn’t very patient. I have a short tolerance for long stories, he once declared.
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“What do ya mean maybe? Okay, let’s start over. Do you have nightmares?”
Some, just the standard, nothing like the movies, where I wake up in the middle of the night screaming in cold sweat.
“Haha, ya, me neither. Fucking Hollywood. Okay, anxiety attacks?”
“I thought you said that was bullshit, Jared.”
“It is, I’m just checking.”
I chuckled, that Jared.
“Okay, you’ve been having problems, uh, in the bedroom?”
“What? What the fuck that gotta do with anything?”
“Hey, I’m just asking here. Ya never know, ya know? So, do ya?”
“Naw, man, all the plumbing’s fine.”
“Well, what the hell is wrong then? Let’s do that, it’d be faster.”
Tell him. Teeeeell him…
“Um… voices?” Shit, is he gonna laugh at me?
“Voices” Jared echoed.
“Ya, voices.”
“Well, if that’s true, and I ain’t no doctor Jackie, but ya, I’d say you’re crazy.”
“Thanks man, thanks a ton. I’m glad I called you for support.”
“Just telling it like I see it man. What kinda voices you talking about? Like a God-booming ‘Let my people go’ voice or what?”
“No, man. More like that little voice inside of you. Conscience, ya know, like it whispers to you. Take that and put it on steroids. I can’t get it to shut up, and it ain’t telling me pleasant thoughts. No warm fuzzies or puppy dogs,” I explained to him.
“Uh… does it tell you to do things? Like, hurt people?”
“Dude, this isn’t funny.”
“Hey, I’m being serious, man. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Well, sometimes. It’s not like a clear voice telling me to hurt anyone, more like just a flash of thought that passes through my head, then it’s gone, and I’m left feeling like shit because how can I think about hurting this person? Like I’m scum for even thinking it, ya know?”
“It’s just thoughts, Jack.”
“Ya, but thoughts lead to action.”
“You gotta just tune it out, man. Just chill, ya know?”
“If I could do that, I wouldn’t be calling ya, Jared.” He’s not much help is he? Or maybe he just doesn’t wanna help.
“Okay, fine. I remember something a friend said to me once, about the voices in our heads. Radio noise, white noise, whatever. Just gotta tune it out. He said to me ‘Jared, the secret to success in life is the ability to take action despite the white noises in your head.’ The Chinese called it ‘The Drunken Monkey’ cuz it doesn’t know what it’s talking about, cuz it’s drunk, ya see?”
“Okay, I see what you’re getting at, but then what?”
“Hold on man, I’m not done. Don’t interrupt me again, I don’t wanna lose my train of thought.”
“Fine, shoot.”
“Okay, so we’ve all got this Drunken Monkey in the back of our heads right? You can call it the negativity, bad energy, insecurity, whatever. Just realize that everyone has it okay?
“Go on.”
“So everyone has a Drunk Monkey, whispering things to discourage us, shouting sometimes if it has to. Steven Pressfield, remember the guy who wrote ‘Gates of Fire?’ Well, he called it Resistance in this other books he wrote.”
“Ya, I remember, great book.”
“What? ‘Gates of Fire’ or the other one?”
“ ‘Gates of Fire,’ what’s the title of the other one?”
“It’s the “War of Art.” I’ll write it down for ya later. I must have bought like twelve copies and just given them out to people. It’s no shit, the best book I’ve ever read.”
“Wow, that’s a lot, coming from you.”
“No kidding. Anyways, we got sidetracked again, what was I talking about?”
“Resistance,” I reminded him.
“Oh ya, so these voice, these Resistance, they’ll do anything to keep you from doing your work. By work I mean, well, actually Steven Pressfield means any kinda activity or things that makes us better than we are right now. That’s the basics of it. So the more Resistance we feel, that more sure we can be that that’s what we gotta do. And Resistance comes in many different forms: fear, procrastination, self-rationalization, and addiction to sex, drugs, alcohol, and nicotine. You name it, man, and Resistance will use it.”
“Okay, but that still don’t help me. I need to know what to do.”
“It’s not that simple, man. You said it before, action comes after thought. So it’s not just a simple matter of telling you what to do. We gotta recalibrate your thinking, your values and priorities. We gotta change your fundamental beliefs.”
“Right, okay. That reminds me of something; ‘Insanity is doing the same thing while expecting different results.’ Who said that?”
“Haha, that was Albert Einstein. Didn’t I tell you that one?”
“Ya, I think you did,” I grinned sheepishly to no one in particular.
“Okay, so remember this: You are not your problems, you are the space in which your problems take place. When you’re in a forest, you can’t see the forest by looking that the trees. The trees are not the forest. The forest is the space between the trees. Music is the pause between the notes, and how hard you play it, and everything else, ya tracking me? You are not the voices in your head. You are the one listening to the voices!”
“Holy shit…” I was dumbfounded.
“Ya, man, that blew my mind the first time I realized that too. People over identify with things. We think we’re our cloths, our jobs, our cars, the voices in our head. If we have a nasty thought, we kick ourselves in the ass for thinking that, cuz we think it’s actually us. So we feel guilty about having the bad thoughts, then that guilt creates stress in our body, which then we feel shame for having stress for having bad thoughts. And so on so forth. It’s a cycle, man.”
“So how do I break this cycle, Jared?”
Ya can’t. We’ll always be with ya.
Funny how I haven’t heard them for a while, now they suddenly pop back up again. Feeling threatened?
“You break the cycle by focusing on the Now. Focusing on your breathing. Breathe in your belly, let it be full, then let it out. Just think about your breathing and nothing else. It’ll be hard at first, you’ll hear the chatters, but it’ll fade with time. Just keep breathing, brother. Just breathe, and let the thoughts and emotions wash over you. It’s like a tide, go under and let it pass without getting swept up. Don’t let the waves of emotion and thoughts control what you do. It’s not you that’s thinking those thoughts; you’re the one listening to the Drunken Monkey. Just remember that.”
“I knew you were good for something, Jared.”
“Haha, just glad to help man.”
“I’m glad to have you as a friend.”
“Stop it, I’m getting misty. You gonna be in town anytime soon?”
“I dunno, maybe around spring break. Why don’t you ride your bike up here when you get a chance? I’ll buy you a pint of Guiness.”
“My man, you know just what to say. I’ll call you about it later.”
“Alright man, thanks again. And Jared?”
“Ya, ya, ya, I love you too man.”
I chuckle. That Jared.

Some old writings, here for your enjoyment!

Keep in mind that this was from a while back, and I've grown considerably and my view may not be quite the same.
From Feb. 10th, 2006:

We have no rights as human being. It is contrary to popular beliefs, and definitely with what we are comfortable with. Regardless, it is true. What right does a man, drowning in the Pacific Ocean, have to live? What right does one have, after being beaten so severely in the mouth and unable to speak, to speak freely? “Rights” and “Freedom” are inventions of society. Same with the concept that we may “deserve” something. We only deserve what we can get. If I want something, I do not “deserve” it until I do something to get it. The entitlement to something is wholly a fabrication. There is no should/should not. There is only what happens. Actions in and of itself carries not value or meanings, they are merely actions. When we say killing is bad, it does not mean the act of taking a life is bad. It is the intent behind the action that defines it. Intent is just as, if not more, important than the action itself. We would view a man very different if he killed to protect his family versus if he killed hostages during a bank heist. Some actions are more likely to have an “okay” range of intent. Others have significantly smaller “okay” intent. Child molestation, I cannot find an “okay range,” but that does not mean there is none. We may simply have not come across a situation that warrants it yet. I believe it is very important to keep that in mind. So if every rule has an exception, if we can never be 100% sure, does that mean we throw out the current way of handling problems? No! Let’s say we were trying to find the ultimate metal to make swords. Let’s call that ultimate metal “adamantium.” Does that mean until we have it, we should stop supplying our warriors with steel swords? Obviously not. We keep pounding out steel weapons, being careful not to settle for it, being complacent. But we keep on with our adamantium research. This applies to the justice system as well. The system is not perfect, most people realize that. But until we come up with a better way, we must keep using it. It is important that we don’t settle for it however.

Valentines Feb. 14th, 2006

Valentine’s Day. Is there any one holiday that is more bullshit? I mean, if one wishes to be romantic, then why not live everyday as such? Many are the casualties that fall to this commercialized celebration. My good friend Deb and I were originally supposed to not celebrate this day together. Some how she ended up picking up her ex-girlfriend and subsequently in said individual’s bed. Another casualty at the intersection of neediness and fear. But mayhap this day is not all bad. Is it possible that I am bitter merely because of the fact that I remain single? Am I like the career women who buy cats for company? Nay, I say. My single-ness is a result of choice, not due to a lack of options. I chose to live life by design as opposed to default. My list of qualifications limits eligible women severely, as I expected it would. So that is the price I pay when I decide on quality over quantity. Why do I feel lonely then? I suppose, even as I am just a man, I still feel the yearning for companionship. It is only human, but I refuse to wallow and brood. I shall put forth my energy into writing tonight and improving my life. Thus spoke Gino…

Feb. 15th, 2006

Phobos: the Latin word for fear. We all feel it. As long as warm blood courses through my veins, I cannot escape it. How we each deal with it however, is what separates the excellent from the mediocre. Alas, the masses largely fall prey to The Fear. It has been called many names throughout history. Some refer to it as Resistance. Others call it the Little Death. Whatever you choose to call it, you must not hate it, for Fear can guide, just as Pain may teach. Fear can save your life if you learn to recognize warranted Fear from undue Fear.

Feb. 17th, 2006

Well, my roommates are off to San Diego. I’m here at home alone, bored. Oh well. Talked to Scarleth today, such a sweet girl. She’s dating a 28-year-old man. From the sounds of it, the guy has been real sheltered his whole life. Gee, I can’t wait to hear how that turns out (enter sarcasm here.) The dishwasher’s broken, leaking suds all over the floor. I had an idea in the shower. A wanderer, travels all around the states and offers choices. He’s sort of like a djinn, able to make things happen, but without all the mysticism. So he meets these people who’ve never had chances to choose their life, or just never bothered. An example would be a very sheltered Christian man, probably only been with a couple of women in his life, couldn’t get a date with the really hot girls he secretly lusts for. He thinks he’s honorable and pious, but if he’s never had the opportunity to choose the darker things of life, then is he truly good? So the role of the wanderer/stranger is to give the people a choice. He realizes that most people would pick the easy paths and never be fulfilled, but he’s searching for the diamond in the rough. Why? I don’t know yet, but I feel this can be a promising premise for a book. A collection of stories involving the stranger and the people he gives choices to.

May 5th, 2006
A Breakfast Story

She taps the pancake with the pad of her fingers, feeling for something out of the realm of my understanding.
“Yep, it’s done!”
I sigh; the aroma of banana and batter fills the kitchen. My tummy growls. I haven’t eaten much this morning and the prospect of her pancakes fill me with giddy anticipation.
“Dude, I make the most kick-ass pancakes, you don’t even know,” she said.
I replied, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Oh really?” A laugh.
I like her laugh. It’s a good laugh; open, full, rich in sound, and free. Someone once told me, “Jack, you can tell a lot about a person by their laugh.” It’s ironic that the one who told me this hardly ever cracked a smile.
“Here,” she fumbles with a stick of butter while trying to get the pancakes unto the plate, “cut the butter, will ya?”
I alleviate her of the butter, leaving her to keep cranking out pancakes. The butter is from a local farm; the name smudged on the wax paper. I snake my way through what little room we have in the kitchen, and grab the small glass plate in the top cabinet. I ask if this is real butter, or that margarine crap.
“Nah, it’s butter.”
Okay.
I take off a corner of the butter with my knife and spread it liberally on the banana pancake. Mmmm… this concoction promises to whet my insatiable appetite. “This smells wonderful.”
“Ya, it’s the Kera special, hiii-ya!” She does a high kick, almost knocking over the skillet.
“Whoa now, careful there ‘Bwuce Wee.’ I’d rather not eat my pancake off the tiles.”
“Man, I got mad skillz alright. You don’t even know!”
“Whatever, can I just get my pancakes already?” My stomach was getting tighter by the minute. I’m sure the lining in there was fully digested by now.
“Hold your horses, boy. It’s coming,” the left side of her lips turned up ever so slightly, sending miniscule tremors throughout my body. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath.
“Ya, well, hurry up will ya? I’m hungry.” Smooth, dork, real smooth.
She ignores my last comment and goes back to work. Kera carries herself with a nonchalant, devil-may-care demeanor. I’ll bet she’s passionate in bed, I thought. Fuck, stop it. I thought you’re supposed to try and treat women as just people now, instead of sleeping with them all. A tiger can change its stripes, so shape up!
“Hey, you okay?”
I must have spaced out for a sec. “Uh, ya, yes, I’m fine.”
She gave me a look, “you better not be having funny thoughts in there.”
“Ha, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured her.
“Oh, right.” I can almost swear that I see just the barest of disappointments in her face.
“Let’s just eat our pancakes, shall we?”
I responded, “Mighty fine idea.”

Two-Faced?

A lot of people nowadays are doing cosmetic surgeries, namely face-lifts. It's a trend that I see more and more with each passing year. A Hollywood star does her nose, another does her chin, while another get a tummy tuck still, all in a futile attempt of holding on to their ever fading youth. Society has us, especially women, believing that in order to be beautiful we must possess the bosoms of Lara Croft, lips of Angelina Jolie, abdominals of Brad Pitt, and the ass of a twelve year old. This is not only unattainable to the general population, which may perhaps explain the perpetual lure to achieve it, but it is ridiculous as well. We ought not, as both individuals and as a society, seek to validate our sense of identity and self worth based solely on our transient external body.
When I first started writing this, I had a hard time deciding on one field of cosmetic surgery to talk about. They were all so interesting. I finally settled on face-lift because I realized how much a face can mean. If the eyes are the windows to our souls, then the face must be the storybook of our lives. Every wrinkle, every line, is a testament to some part of our life. Every scar represents old wounds we overcame with courage and grit. To permanently alter our face is to distort our identity and to live in denial of who we really are. Marilyn Monroe, the woman widely regarded by many, even today, to be the most beautiful woman of the twentieth century, once said: “I want to grow old without face-lifts. They take the life out of a face, the character. I want to have the courage to be loyal to the face I’ve made.” Perhaps there is more to beauty than we think.
In our society, we associate youthfulness with beauty. That is not wrong; youth does have its appeal. The problem appears when we become narrow sighted and start placing a premium on looking young at the expense of other things. Our smooth skin fades and wrinkles take its place. Crows feet form around the eyes if we smiled a lot. Lines upon our foreheads accumulate if we are prone to frowning. Our eyes can stay bright, burning as if afire, if we had not relinquished our passion for life. Or it can be dimmed and glazed over if we allow ourselves to become bored and staled. Kindness may shine through our face, like my grandfather, he was the gentlest soul I knew, or it can be wrapped in bitterness and pain.
We make choices every day, every second of our life. The body remembers. It stores fear and trauma. It also remembers smiles and laughs. The face is no exception.
Someone once told me that it takes more facial muscles to frown than to smile. Maybe that is a sign of how we ought to live our lives? Some people may claim that they wish to change their external body to match their insides. To them I say this: after this operation, what is next? Breast enlargement? Tummy tuck? Butt implants? Or god forbid, penile enlargement? Forget all of the political-correctness for a second. Will this really, truly make you a happy person? For good? Or will you still be unsatisfied and want more? If you cannot accept yourself, how can you expect others to really accept you?

Explain Love to an Alien...

This was a quick assignment from my English Writing class. The following are the instructions and my explantion.

An Alien from a distant galaxy has just arrived on Earth and listened
to your love song. The Alien asks you, "What is this thing called
'love' that I have just heard about in this song?" The Alien's
species seems to be quite different than our species. All you know for
sure is:
a. there is no such thing as gender for them
b. they reproduce asexually (in asexual reproduction, only one parent
is needed)
c. they communicate with each other telepathically
d. they do not pair-bond (their family and social structure is
communal)

Explain what "love" means (as it is used in your song) such that
the Alien will be able to gain a full understanding of the song.



Hail, Oh-Great-Omnipotent-Alien-Presence. So I hear you've been askin' 'bout love, ya? Well, you just get right to the heart of things don't ya? This thing we humans call "love," well heck, it's a mystery to us as well. We just can't seem to decide on a universal definition of it. It can great and it can be horrible. It can make you wanna jump and shout but may also lead to you slitting your wrists in its name (a rather popular, if not fashionable, way of getting attention for us humans.) I don't know if I can actually put into words what love is, but here goes: love is caring about something or someone. It is having a stake in the well being and outcome of the thing or person.
Now, I realize that we can care about a lot of thing, but I'm talking about caring in a magnitude that's disproportionally greater than the other mundane cares. In the song "It's Not You It's Me" by The Little Willies that you just heard, I wanna call your attention not to the actual word "love," but to the overall theme of the song. Rather than staying in a relationship where they do not care for each other any longer, Miss Norah Jones opted to love herself and get out. That is a form of love.
For us humans, we are not as connected as your species. There are people who believe that human beings, as a species, are inherently connected to each other in a special way. That may be horse-fodder or not, but one thing remains clear, we are not capable of communicating to one another in your species' fashion yet. Therefore we must rely on verbal communication, that is, relaying messages to one another by the use of sounds, or sonic vibration. Obviously we do not have the time to travel the earth and verbally communicate with every member of our species, so you can see how it came to be that we surround ourselves with what we call a "society" or "community." It may be helpful to think of it as a "sub-species."
Within the communities, there are concentric circles of "sub-communities" such as: nation, state, city, neighborhood, friends, family, lover etc... The order of these "sub-communities" are different of everyone, based on their chosen priority. In the eastern region of our earth, it may not be unusual to find most humans prioritizing family as the highest, followed by friends and lovers. In my land, the United States of America, it may be more common to see lovers, or what we've deemed the great kind of lover, the "soul mate," as the ultimate community or relationship, while friends and family follow. In short, my friend, human life is all about relationships.
This concept of relationship may be foreign to you, as you communicate telepathically and instantanously, as well as coming from a communist, oops I mean communal society. But seeing how in our human life span we have limited time and ability to make connections with others of our species, life naturally becomes as matter of connections and relationships with one another.
"Love" is an ideal that we use to describe the highest or innermost concentric circle of connection. Great arts, literatures, and deeds have been done in the name of Love. So have terrible atrocities. It is a double edged sword, my friend. You may ask, why have we not done away with such a volatile and unstable thing? Simple. Because Love is us. Love is human... But being an alien, I wouldn't expect you to grok it. Now get off my planet.

Learning

I behaved immaturely this evening. Math class was kicking my ass; I didn’t understand any of the new material we were covering. And so I reacted with anger, with fear. I bitched about how I will never use any of this crap in life. Why did I have to learn this? I did not understand it, so I persuaded myself that I didn’t want to learn this in the first place. That was a mistake.
Most of the time I do what I want, other times I do what I need to. The latter part irked me. Why do I need to do anything?! It’s preposterous! But then I thought, I do not actually need to do anything. I do not need to pay my taxes. I do not need to go to work. I do not need to learn this material. I don’t need to do anything that I don’t want to. I only need to do anything insofar as to accomplish what I want. If I want to make money, I need to work in some way. If I want to have a healthy body, I need to exercise and eat right. Some times the need is the surface stuff, things we may be distasteful and not want to do, but underneath that are the things we want to accomplish that can only to done through the needs.
I thought to myself:
You’re going to school not to get a degree but to learn right? So what the fuck you complaining about? You’re gonna throw a fit because for once you don’t instantly get the material? Learning isn’t going over things you already know, but thing you don’t know. It’s gonna be hard. It’s gonna be tough. With enough stick-to-it-ness you will comprehend it. So what’s it gonna be? Is this the extent of your desire to learn? Is this the extent of your endurance and resolve?
No.