Tag Archives: introspect

Why You Are Better Than Me

The author weaves a story with voices, both in out of the characters awareness. The narrator may bring much to the table, lest the characters exclusively take his role.

Even so, the character’s mind brings more to the scene than we might in our own. Are we the characters in our story? The heroes and champions of our novel like non-fiction? Or are we the writer, putting much of our heart into what happens, subtly manipulating events in hopes to achieve a goal. Do we reach that goal? Or perhaps our audience misunderstands and under-appreciates our efforts, instead casting their own ideas, blanketing all that we prepared. Or. Perhaps we ARE the audience, interacting with this entertaining display to reach our pleasures. Or, perhaps we feel the narrator is more in keeping with who we are someone else dictating our thoughts and impulses, feelings and motivations.

Maybe we like move around. I think people are fluid like that. But even so, when we change from author to audience, how much really changes? Don’t we have something characteristically “us”? Don’t we bring our own inescapable perceptions with us no matter the role?

I’m…. inadequate. I have an inferiority complex. I need to show others why I am smart, and then act humbled when I am complimented on my efforts, ideas, and results. I need that constant validation to remind me that I am who I want to be. I don’t look down on others, most of the time I truly feel that they are worth more than me. When I dissent with people, I am frustrated, but often relent, both because that feels the right thing to do and because they may have more value in this world than I.

An example: We have a very strong-willed and agitated neighbor. She has a couple of children, one of which is autistic. I don’t rightfully know the age of these children, but the autistic one seems to probably be around 3 years old. We ran into a huge confrontation with our neighbor, our yard was continuously being flooded. This was because the water would run in their yard directly from the faucet for hours at a time on occasion. It did not appear our neighbor was consistently watching her kids, seeming to rely on the older child to keep the younger one safe.

During our first confrontation with our neighbor, we did not know the child was autistic though we had suspicions he might have some sort of special needs because of the sounds he made while playing. Finally when we were enduring the immense flooding (our entire yard and spilled across to the opposite side into our driveway, hard to really explain, but it was an extreme amount, not just along the fence we shared) for the fifth time I think I politely asked whoever was out there to keep the water in their pool because our yard was being flooded. My glasses were off because I had just finished setting up a bed frame and was under it, I could not see who was out there clearly but I got a nod and thanked them. When I first started requesting the water be turned off, I had not reached the fence either and was instead assuming an adult was out there watching the child (at the time I also did not know there was another child). So I go inside and say to my fiance I am not sure if that was an adult or an older child, but the water was turned off and I felt relieved that a solution seemed to have been reached.

A few minutes later our neighbor, the adult one, walks up to the fence we share and starts shouting at us, and yes we are inside at this point. She yells about how dare we talk to her kids that way and how they can run water all the way to Japan if they would so like. My fiance went to confront her after enduring a few minutes of verbal abuse and the situation didn’t really improve. I freaked out because I felt like I did something wrong. “How dare I talk to her children. She’s right, I didn’t even CHECK for an adult first. Shit, I messed up.” My brain is stuttering trying to right itself, reminding me that I was extremely polite. “But I really messed up, fuck.” “No, children are just easily intimidated, I you remember being a child right?”

All this time of this panicking and mixed dialogue, my fiance is engaging this wrath. I finally realize that I need to go address and say something, anything. I can’t leave her out there. That’s also messed up. I go out and the first thing I say is an apology that falls apart because I start tensing up again. I try to explain I didn’t know an adult was out there. The situation de-escalates a smidge and we go inside finally. Following day, my lovely fiance delivers cookies and little plush cows, “mini moos”, from chick-fil-a. They seem to be accepted and so we feel our olive branch mended the situation.

Fast forward a couple weeks, the yard is flooded again. HUGE confrontation. Way worse than last time. At this point we are informed by the woman that her child is autistic and this is the only way he really seems to have fun. Although that information is disseminated quite violently and with a great deal of vulgarity. I somehow remained calm, I don’t know how, God gave me some sort of stillness in the moment. Our neighbor seemed to punctuate her insults and exclamations by pounding her hand on the brick wall. She insisted she was pregnant or she would be “beating the shit” out of my fiance. Also if my fiance’s man (that’s me) weren’t here, same thing. I keep trying to return to the issue of compromise. We don’t want to take her son’s playing in the water away, but she will interpret this conversation as nothing else. Amidst her rantings and screaming about how my fiance should be “fucked up the ass with no Vaseline” she laments that she doesn’t have the money to regularly take her kids to the pool.

Rationally I feel that was a deflection, because that water bill can’t be less than trips to the pool. My fiance storms off while I try to calm our neighbor down. But afterwards I felt like I still owed my neighbor something. Rationally I knew this not to be true. Anyway, to shorten the story, I bought summer passes to the city’s pools. $100 out of my pocket to give to this lady who may not even use them. But it brought me peace of mind. I felt I went out of my way to right a wrong, which didn’t even exist. We truly did no wrong. But also, it felt like I was called to do that, as Christian/good person sort of thing.

But in the end, I remind myself, she’s just a person, like me. I laugh about how my neighbor is crazy. And then internally chastise myself for saying (and thinking) that. We are all the same I force the idea on myself, sometimes more easily than others. We are all the same, except that I am a little less.

I am the author, not the hero, I have an active role in the story, but I have no glory. I merely aim to keep the character’s stories alive. I don’t like sad stories, but things often turn to sorrow. It’s the little details that I cherish and make it worth it, the ones that other characters don’t observe or understand. The intent behind the writing, the motivations, not the actions. I aim to fill my heart with goodness and love, and spread that to others. I find myself relying on the author more and more. It’s okay that the characters are better than me, I enjoy this part of life more often than not.


They Scratch.

The thoughts. Aching to break loose, manifest and be digested. They itch. I should let them out. But every time I set about to do so, they fail me. Like people that were interested in your birthday when that really popular kid was going, but then they realized it was just a ruse. (I didn’t know until my birthday that James wasn’t coming, thanks mom for lying).

No. Seriously though. I need to let loose some of this energy. Whatever the reason. I just about ran out of meds and had canceled the last doctor’s appointment the way it conflicted with my schedule for my new job, which is great by the way. But now I go in Friday to touch base and get a new prescription, life is good.

More than that, I realize how quickly my girlfriend has become an inseparable part of me and my day. I look forward to those brief disgustingly cute exchanges we have before we both settle into the thought that we are glad we found each other. Things moved fast, in lots of ways. But, I can’t say it would have done it any differently, and I think that’s a beautiful thing.

I had a minor depressive episode lately. In it, I took up a random rhetorical analysis and disagreement online. One of the ways my depressive episodes manifest is obsession, and I was obsessed with the idea, I was going to prove somebody wrong. I dropped it. Because I’m better than that. My morals somehow triumphed, and I just walked away. Only after spending almost 2 hours to write 2600 words of why I was correct and they were wrong. Breaking apart their own words and providing an analysis of my own. I just never used it, deleted the words and mostly put it out of mind.

That’s good. That’s progress, haha, no matter how small. I’m a good person. I am. I’m tired of being so terribly humble and convincing myself that anyone would do these things or offer these things, when the fact is, I am in a minority. Everyone likes to believe they are a good person. But so few are.

I used to be Catholic. Now? Not so much. I still go to church. A Christian church, but not a Catholic one. Mass so inconsistently connected with me. Even though in high school, going to a Catholic school afforded me opportunities to go into church often and pray, sometimes by myself. But now I’m closer to God. And it’s none of my business what anyone else believes in terms of being spiritual. I do not care except for the fact that some people can be brought to a better place with that in their life, no matter the focus. I do think that’s ok. I don’t push my views on anyone, I don’t judge for anyone not believing in mine. I do get frustrated when on a surface level I think about the various arguments in policies. As a country we will always be divisive, that’s part of how a democracy operates. It needs to shift back and forth to maintain some level of balance before it inevitably crumbles from some other type of strain.

But for now. I just need to be a good person. I don’t need to incite my fellow man. I don’t need to tell everyone or even think when some people are wrong. For the most part, I can’t change that. Those people won’t change the way they think, and to be honest, if it isn’t hurting somebody, should I really care?

There’s this odd amorphous shift in the way I start viewing things. I still wince when people say something about kids need to toughen up because bullying was worse in their day. I think it’s mighty shitty of adults to straight up put blame on the victimized children. To compare themselves is inconceivable to me. Now, I do agree that if kids that are being bullied, were better equipped to deal with it, it could go better. That could mean martial arts, it could mean confidence, a lot of things. So in some ways I see the hypersensitivity, but adults simply saying bullying is part of life and that kids should just get used to it is a frustrating mentality. So there are a few things that set still set me off. I was bullied. A ton. It sucked. No one stood up for me. Eventually I stood up for myself.

There’s a lot more to that story. I wanted to kill my bullies. Literally. Firearms and the whole shebang. Not every kid can be backed into a corner and come out ok, and I think adults shouldn’t be so asinine. Now I forgot what I was originally going to talk about. It was gonna be about my shift in philosophy in an individual level. But I hit one of my triggers I guess haha.

Using that word, “trigger”, another one comes to mind. And suddenly this entire post starts devolving around me. Let’s try to bring it back.

I work in a call center now. I don’t mind dealing with people on the phone. I thought it would stress the bejeezus out of me, but it doesn’t. Funny thing happens when you empathize, truly empathize. You can understand the person on the other end. They may be weird as Hell, or have a problem, you never could, but that’s their role to call you they feel, and it is your role to assist. I don’t get the people I see as I walk around who make violent pantomimes or flip the birds to the phone after a call concludes.

No one is being hurt. And if you can empathize, the job isn’t hard. I still get angry. I still have a cauldron full of social issues that boil over, but even in the people I can’t disagree more with, I cannot harbor an anger. Again, the caveat, that their actions or opinions are not hurting anyone. I am finding the ability to love people no matter what. As I find the inclination¬†to love a woman more than I would have thought possible with the way things have been. And as I find the strength to love myself.

I deserve to be here. I deserve to be more. I owe it to myself. But what is more? That’s my call. Right now. That’s a wonderful boyfriend. A patient son. A damn good charitable soul and someone who can turn a call around. It doesn’t need a lot of money for me to be more. It doesn’t need a fancy paper telling me I’m qualified. My success is my happiness. And I’ll be damned, but I’m bloody happy.

Anytime I write that. You can’t begin to imagine how wonderful it is to stare at those words knowing the truth in them. Or maybe you can. Maybe that’s something you know all too well. Or believe that you could never know for any reason. I’d be right there with you half a year ago. Wondering when I could just let it all go. No life is worth losing. As someone who has been all sorts of dark places in their own mind, I consider it a statistical anomaly that the only real problem I seem to have is random binges of porn. I should be a drug addict. I should be an alcoholic. I shouldn’t be alive. I shouldn’t be happy. But, just listen to me. I am.

Now, I know I don’t carry the weight in my words I would like. And I know there are so few who will actually read this. But I’m a good person, and I love people. No matter how weird. So, if you ever need an objective opinion, a person to talk to, somebody to console you. I’m here. Don’t hesitate. I don’t expect anyone to ever take me up on this offer, but it is sincere, I won’t material needs, but I will do what I can to help. Consider that my gift to anyone who needs it. I was crazy once. Still am by some standards. But, doesn’t mean I can’t be stable, doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. I would love to help someone achieve that, so I’m here.

That may have taken an odd turn I guess. I should write more. To try to support people who might read this but not have that bit of courage to say something. Maybe I will. I certainly want to. The dark times have passed, and even should they return, I shall not fear any longer.

The Odd One In

I feel that’s as apt a description as they come. I’m the odd guy. The nay-sayer of social networking and paradigms. The guy who goes against the grain, not because “he can”, but, because his values somehow formed that way. I don’t believe chivalry is dead as I have noted more than a handful of times. I don’t believe there is a mainstream capacity of society that really enriches and embraces who I am. I don’t believe kindness should go viral and I think we all owe it to each other to be empathetic in times of need.

It’s some odd development that leads me to understand, I’m the weird one, in the kind of way that almost everybody loves. I can fit in. Yet, I don’t want to. Maybe, it’s this anti-culture movement that allows for me to sway from one side to the other, not caring, nor missing a beat if I should declare myself eligible.

I feel more independent and freed than ever. I feel like I can take on the world. Usually I feel like this is my mania setting in, and then paranoia creeps up and slaps me back down to the trough. But, this is sustained. I can feel it, I know it. In a world where nothing was ever absolute to me, I see what I’ve never seen in me before, and I love it. I feel reborn, renewed to fight the day with unending strength.

And when I waiver, I don’t fall, I’ve come to reinforce it. There’s been a few people in my life that got me here. One particular lady, that for reasons I can’t fully explain or comprehend has served as a most wondrous catalyst. It feels unfair to call her a friend. Even best friend does not do her justice. But, I know now my time is not to be spent on that matter or any tangential one.

My time is to be spent on me. Molding and creating myself anew. I can be what I have needed me to be. I don’t need others, but can embrace them. I’m wonderful. I am wonderful.

I am wonderful.

I feel ready. To take on the world. To not let up. I’ve been weak. I’ve been full of excuses, rationalizations, taking comfort in other’s pity. No, not any longer. I’m me. Even when I was weak, I was full of the things I admired. I have made mistakes, but I have learned from them. I carry that with me, and mold myself to something new, better. Not for anyone else.

When this started, I wanted to be better for her. Then I wanted to be better for someone like her when the chance came along. Now, I will be better, but, not for anyone other than myself. And when, not if, my future lady enters, I will be full of all the confidence, and romance, and care and love that one body can muster. I feel it intuitively. I know it within. And that’s something to be happy about.

Going Home

I can’t keep dealing with what’s going on here. Or won’t. Or couldn’t. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to. Or that there will be times ahead just as tough and I don’t want to end up in a smoking pile of wreckage.

Whatever it needs to be phrased as, I am going back home.

I’m going back home to get help. For my head, for my heart, my future, and anything that could ever possibly matter. I want no part of this world any longer. If I could plead for anything it would be the absence of my existence. Not death, I have grown attached to what small beauty I still find here. But the state of it, the state of me? I simply do not care for.

I complain about all the hatred people have, I’m no different from them though. I’d love to set me apart from them.

We’re all people, mustn’t forget. We don’t need to be set apart, just united, as much as I don’t believe that will ever happen. It doesn’t mean I should accept it I guess…

I suddenly don’t feel like iterating the folly of man right now. I’ve been sick lately. I just want rest. My damn brain won’t give it. My neighbors certainly won’t allow it. I feel that work demands I am there for my last week. I have a lot of shit to do before I move back home. I haven’t showered in 4 days now. Too exhausted after working and have plenty more where it comes from.

I’m full of grief. I’m full of anger. I’m full of hatred for myself. I’m full of anything that destroys my chance for happiness, and it seems I’ve recently discovered that I’m only “happy” in my efforts to make others happy.

In this regard it has been conveyed to me. “The world doesn’t deserve to have person like you Grant” or something of similar effect.

The world does deserve me. I’m no different. There should be a better or worse, there should just be people. ¬†The times are never prosperous and the issues always the same. We are no different now as a people than thousands of years ago.

Now, we just have technology that makes that easier to show. Maybe there is some prolonged issues since our life expectancy for the most part increases. But all the core issues remain the same. There is nothing that will change that I fear.

I say I don’t want to write and I begin to. I say I’m unhappy with myself and then write about the despair of man.

I no longer wish for this vessel of mine to carry forward. But I don’t feel it is my choice to act upon that wish. When I die, I hope someone gives a great eulogy. I think I’d be ok with my life if someone at least felt moved to provide a great eulogy. The one reason I want a living funeral.

I grow anxious and my thoughts, scattered. I abandon this journal for the night to steady myself for tomorrow.


This is an issue I feel I have a lot of the time and might be easier to write about.

Right now, as per usual, I should be laying here, eyes closed, listening to the serene hum of my mind putting itself at ease drifting towards rest. I’m not, needless to say. As for why, that very answer often eludes me.

Often, something perturbs me. In this instance, I have a vague grasp of it, much like one would try to cup water trickling from a faucet. It’s something loose and fluid, not too well shaped or with a clear purpose. Tonight, I want to question who I am.

Who am I?

Name is William Grant Murray, son of Neva and Hugh Murray. Probably an idiot child if it weren’t for my birthday postponing my education for nearly a full year. From my best recollection, my father sought mostly to provide a future for me while also making sure I spent enough time with him, by his side in whatever form to properly rear me as it were. My mom, a worrier since I can remember, was always strict and if I would misbehave would sit me at the table, scoot my chair in a bit too rough (it would briefly and slightly wind me) and tell me to wait there til my father got home.

At an early level in school it was indicated I was smart. Something my parents had done their best to cultivate, I remember clearly. But my mind would wonder. I don’t remember any of the assignments, I remember lots of boredom. Through the 3rd grade I often just drew cartoons on my homework. But, I still remained a consistent academic performer. I awaited the class day every week for gifted and talent in elementary, where real challenge and interest stood. I remember being fascinated with my classmates in there, they knew a lot of things that I didn’t, but everything they said, I did my absolute best to retain. I still have a good amount of it up in the old noggin. Maybe that’s why I’m “smart”.

Always, I stood in awe of these people, only characters to me, and never felt that I was on their level, much to everyone’s insistence that I was. In the 4th grade, my father had his accident. Opened a door to a many varied experience as well as one of stress, torment, confusion, and emotional abuse. I acted out. A lot. In class after spending nights crying I would just sleep. Mr. Folds (4th grade teacher) would send everyone to their bathroom break and leave me in the room after checking with me before hand. When everyone was gone, I would pull my head up and just stare at the things around the empty room. Even then, I can recall wondering about purpose and normality. How many of these kids would experience something painful soon? How many already had? Individuality meant we would all show it differently. Of course I had friends I liked to talk to more than the others. Those friends were typically in GT as well.

Still, I wasn’t on their level, now in fact I was measurably behind, grades slipping, a lack of concern for homework setting in. A mom not at home regularly for me to do reading assignments or much of anything. I spent a lot of time at the neighbors, I slept in a wicker chair or in the guest bedroom sometimes, but it was frequently hot and I didn’t like it in there because the acoustics when I would start crying. They were wonderful people though. I hope they’re doing ok now. I had other people step up to try to help in the academic department for completion of assignments. People from the church and things like that. One family had a daughter in high school preparing for college and she was always really nice to me, she would let me play her NES when I went over there if I finished and we had already eaten dinner.

But, even with all the assistance, there was a lot of time at the hospitals, then at the rehab/nursing home. Then no more rehab. It all went by so fast. I remember a lot of things, I don’t even recall the order they happened in. I remember my family coming down to be with us after the accident. I remember my cousins lined up in a sort of hospital lobby, waiting for news. I remember adoring Patrick, who was reading Lord of the Rings books. I remember on occasion being out there alone and pulling chairs together to swing between them to expel my cooped up energy. Until I slipped out from them once and slammed the back of my head into the floor. I remember the doctors took me into some sort of office to show me pictures of equipment and explain things to me to evaluate if I could see my father. I remember then being escorted to him. Not knowing or understanding what a coma was.

Seeing him lying there was a terrible feeling. It was both horrifying, him looking like he was dead, and relieving, knowing he wasn’t. I said hello to him. Heart rate shot up. My mom crying grabbed me and said how much dad loved me and that even his coma couldn’t stop that…

Maybe all these things I made up. I don’t even know anymore. My brain feels so gone at this point. And I just keep learning. I can’t talk about my dad right now, those memories are much more clear than I realized and also a lot more painful. He was a good man he was. That’s all I need to rely on for now.

Identity. Mine was lost when my childhood was stolen. When, as a kid, my dad was not taken from me, but put beneath me in terms of capability, in a way, I took care of him. I never saw myself as the smart kid until looking back on things. I began to see it in the year after my dad’s accident. I scored a perfect score on the state TAKS (or whatever it was then). Only two of us had done it. I still remember the other girl’s name too. I remember her pretty well in fact. I remember it being announced that two perfect scores happened
and our teacher wanted us to stand if we thought it was us. I didn’t stand. Not for a long while. She kept insisting that she didn’t see both of us standing. After most of the class was standing or had begun to sit down because it wasn’t them, I stood. “There they are!”

I remember the rush of pride and confidence I had. My face probably as red as a rose. I sat down after the round of applause for myself and Kayla. A couple friends patted me on the back. The rest of the year wasn’t so bad, I had a friend, Vincent, I started to be pretty good friends with.

That year 9/11 did happen. Of course at the beginning of the year. I remember that pretty clearly. Mostly confusion and concern with all of the adults. I slept in my mom’s bed twice shortly after, afraid for some reason that there would be further attacks and my dad wouldn’t be there to help protect me. I was smart, but numbers/math/logic was where I really could beat anyone I found out as we started to handle signed integer operations in the 5th grade. I was the only one catching on in GT, and every now and then, my GT teacher would just pull me out of class to work on an assignment with all of my attention, she’d offer a soda or something as a bribe, it usually worked. She talked to me about what was going on and things like that. Sort of a role model amongst teachers, she’s what I think teachers should strive to be. She knew the issue wasn’t in my abilities, but in my drive and emotions. If I had not been in GT, I would probably have had more issues.

Throughout growing up, I began to emulate certain things others did that I liked. Still do. Classic conditioning as it were. Just recently, I have picked up shouting in text with exclamation marks instead of using an abundance of capital letters. I do this so much that for a while I had to wonder, how much is my original thought, and what’s leftover copy from trying to emulate somebody?

I was almost always a nice kid. One kid, my childhood best friend was pretty mean to various kids. And I would often join him in his snide remarks, even though it kind of hurt to do so. After one cub scout camping trip to little rock, we got in a “moss fight” and he threw moss at someone who was intellectually deficient. Retarded. However you know it, just know them as people. And I made the mistake of joining him. Immediately, it felt wrong. He cried. I got angry at my friend, and told him to knock it off. He wouldn’t. He hit me, I hit him, we fought, kids fight. Kyle still cried. Someone was alerted nearby and we were ushered off to the showers.

My friend was stubborn, lying about what happened. I came clean right away and revealed everything. I felt so bad. I didn’t think I could ever be ok with myself again. Maybe that’s when I decided bullying was not cool, that very moment I was one and couldn’t stand to be. He wouldn’t shower off, he was scared someone would come in. I volunteered to watch out for him and be his “guard”. I had to help him get some shampoo, and talk to him to keep him ok. I used that time to apologize a couple times. I remember telling him I didn’t know why I did it. And he just kept saying it wasn’t very nice. Which, it really wasn’t.

I begun to harbor anger towards my other friend after that incident and within the year I stopped requesting to see him entirely.

I was just a kid, I know. But I let someone else’s decisions dictate my actions, even when I didn’t feel good about them. A lesson that’s impossible to forget. Maybe that’s why I help people now. I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.

At this point, identity is irrelevant, in a culture where individuality is praised over some things that are good in general, such as a solid baseline for material to be learned, your identity is just what you make it. Which, in its truest essence, is what it is. Should I be concerned that I laugh a certain way tailored after someone I admired? no. Should I be concerned that I picked up on a word someone said, and used it a lot because it sounded cool? No, not really. Or what about now? My recent example, is using an exclamation more often going to ruin or better my world? Nope. It doesn’t matter.

I didn’t always see myself as the smart kid. Now, maybe I am. Enough people believe in me, that it must be true to some extent. I have scores of evidence to show that. Maybe I’m still naive and ignorant of some things, but that’s not bad, so long as I am open to learning something every day.

My identity? In the end it’s what I want I guess. What I want is to be a guy solving problems for people. I want happiness and peace. Often even sacrificing my own. I have greed, lust, envy, or wrath on occasion, but those must be pushed aside for better avenues of exploration. I’m Grant, and I want you to know that I’m an alright guy, cause it’s high time I knew that.

Two weeks in…

It finally happened. It took two weeks before I shed a single tear this time. It took a while, but it happened. I wish I could say something inspirational. But I’m just angry. I’m just so angry.

It feels like writing about this defeats the idea of suffering in silence. But what can ya do? Ya know?

I try to write about what’s going on, my hands won’t allow it. Write about the state of the world, or something else that angers you.

Yeah, maybe.

Carpe Diem.

My first experience with that phrase was in 7th grade. We had an English teacher out in the portables, the buildings with horrible air conditioning that were separate from the main building for the middle school.

I daydreamed a lot back then. I didn’t care to learn most of the time, just wanted to be elsewhere. Still, I would do fantastic on tests, I’m sure it wasn’t hard to. But I skipped around in my mind when this was presented, I don’t remember the context of the lesson either. What I DO remember is our teacher then being diagnosed with Lupus and she indicated she would likely be out for the rest of the school year. It was only a couple weeks in. I was mostly confused, I remember trying to figure out what lupus was based on what I already knew, and the only thing that came to mind was Lupin Remus, of the Harry Potter series. That sure as hell wasn’t right.

On the day of this announcement we had a sort of crossword with some of the material we had been covering. Carpe Diem being one of the solutions. I got a 100 on the assignment, despite not deserving it. I had not provided “Carpe Diem” as a solution, instead I wrote in “Carp Decem” trying my best to recall phonetically what she had said days before. I remember when we were handed them back the following week, our substitute was already in place. After getting it back, I just KNEW it was wrong, I didn’t need any evidence, despite having the 100, I knew it was off. I asked the girl on my left (don’t remember her name) what answer she got for it, she got it wrong, she didn’t know and left it blank. She asked what I got.

“Carp Decem” I say.
“Oh, that sounds right! You got it wrong?” she replies.
“Well, no, I got a hundred” I let the words fall out as I retract sheepishly.

She just provided me with a really puzzled look after that. I asked another kid on my right what he got. I heard him mention a hundred during my conversation with Lefty.

“Carpe Diem” he says slyly.
“I was so close!” I say fully realizing that was the correct spelling and phrasing.
“Yeah” he says looking over my shoulder, “I can’t believe that I even remembered. I just wrote it down in my notes and it came to me.”

Needless to say, I took my issue up with the substitute, who informed me I was close enough and should not question my grade, and instead just accept it.

I was upset that I was provided with a grade I did not deserve.

I don’t know where I was going with this…

I think it was somewhere along the lines of and evolution of the thought on how we should approach each and every day. FYI, I don’t think it’s the traditional interpretation of the “carpe diem” concept.


I returned to this post because I have no one to talk to as it is 4 in the morning right now. I have to go to work in about 4 hours. Honestly, I don’t know why the fuck I feel the need to bother right now. At first it was to just have something to do that wasn’t to sit at home in misery. Now, the stress is adding up, I have constant tension headaches and pains, knots all over my body in my muscles, probably both from stress and inability to sleep well.

I need to find another outlet or some method of support, because I’m trying to get back into school and this fucking sucks.

Anyway… Carpe Diem. Seize the day right?

I feel that most people take that to mean seize the opportunities laid out in front of you. I ask people though what it would mean to them. Usually the phrase “no regrets” comes up a lot. I don’t like that thought. The fact that we are supposed to know what we will regret and not regret before hand and base judgments on that is terrible. What if an opportunity presents itself that we regret regardless? After all, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Another thing I hear is “to live each day as though it were your last”. I hate this too. If I approach each day as it was my last, I would not care for responsibilities or obligations. These things have long term benefits or consequences, and if I die today, I need not worry about them. Though, I understand the sentiment, if we did not know when our last day was, we should live carefully to be remembered fondly or something. Personally, it matters not to me. I mean, if I’m dead, I’m dead. What I did on the day I died seems hardly relevant. I can understand this from a “legacy” perspective. How you may want to be remembered, because that brings solace to you while you still live and breathe.

I myself? I like the thought of understanding and seizing opportunity. I don’t like people doing things for the sole purpose of doing them though. It’s a personal pet peeve of mine to hear people say they did something and I will ask why, only to hear “because I could”. Is that to imply that it would be impossible for you to not do that thing? Or that doing the thing is more valid than NOT doing the thing? I get what people are actually aiming to do. It has nothing to do with “because they could”, the main logic being “because they could also not”. It has to do with, they don’t know how to articulate their thoughts to explain their actions. Or at least it is not worth doing so. If it’s the latter, I feel there is no need to discuss the presentation of the actions anyway then. If it’s the former, why don’t we know how to express our very essence of being and understanding? Where is there a barrier in our language that prevents this?

I would surmise there isn’t. And as long as I’m surmising things, I’ll take a guess that people are less interested in being articulate, intelligent, expressive, thoughtful, and overall accountable for expressing a cause-effect relationship for anything that is not immediately clear to themselves.

I rant a lot. A LOT. Even if it isn’t on here. I’m always ranting. I have too many memories and too many opinions floating around to stay my lip as it were.

Anyway.. Seize the day. I think it is a wonderful idea when coupled with an overall focus for your life, whether that’s a long term focus or short term or anywhere in between, should be up to the person. I think it’s great to want to end domestic or child abuse, and a lot of opportunities that present themselves have no tangential relation to the matter. That being said, if your goal is to end abuse, whether it’s overall improvement of the community, nation or world, or just your own relationships, it should play a big role in your actions and the types of opportunities that do become available.

Me? I have no focus. I feel there are a few tragedies than any individual can encounter in life. Lack of purpose or focus, being one of them. I’ll find something, I have to remain convinced on that matter.

I’m not truly a smart person I feel. Reasonable and observant, perhaps, but maybe not as intelligent as one would perceive. I often do talk about things out of my depth, and make silly mistakes. Though, that being said, I do note any correction required to take to avoid the mistake as best as possible. Maybe that’s the only difference. My pride, while at times overwhelming, does not usually prevent me from backing down when there is evidence I am incorrect or misunderstood.

Anyway. I lost the thoughts I originally had, after getting upset a significant amount, it helps to rant a bit here and there.

For now, may the misfortunes continue. As I journey ever forward, looking back on the past 5-6 years in twisted misery, reflection, and admiration.

Intellect Introspect

I tried to sleep a bit ago, my mind abuzz with all the events of today, once more, she eludes me, that dream region. I wish to simply take haven in that ethereal realm where dreams are nothing more than reality. But, to what I owe displeasure for my lack of asylum?


Nothing particularly troublesome, truth be told, just some interesting ones I suppose. I worked an 8 hour shift today, afterwards on the drive home, I begin to ponder some weird questions in my mind regarding certain structures of number sequences. This is just a thing I do, I don’t really know why, it usually just leads nowhere. For about the last 4-5 minutes of the drive home, I became incredibly fixated on these ideas, and in fact upon getting in the door, I began to write 4 different series of numbers down trying to keep track of these ideas I had. I won’t actually get into the thoughts that were perpetuating this, they seem rather silly in hindsight, both the motivations and the implementation of it. Anyway, I spent about 45 minutes, just writing numbers and staring at them trying to find patterns and put a “method to the madness” as it were.


I spent 45 minutes writing numbers across several sheets of paper for no apparent reason, did not accomplish even my facade of a goal. I placed the pen down and stared over the papers while Jaslyn carried a light conversation with me after me having “shushed” her several times.

She leaves for some sort of event, I suddenly became overwhelmed with exhaustion, and giving in, I considered a nap, which about an hour later I succumbed to the thought of. But, prior to that, I wondered how my of intelligence is an illusion. How much do I poison my own thoughts in regards to my knowledge and abilities?

I will tell you, I feel I am of notable (notable is a good word for it) intelligence, but that I don’t hold my intellect in such high regards as others who know me do. I feel that this is in part due to me simply knowing something they do not. I do not hold their lack of knowledge (ignorance is such a negative word, despite it’s denotation not necessarily requiring that) as a reason for why I am more intelligent.

I simply know something. That’s it. It is no measure of intelligence, simply one of facts or knowledge. I feel competent and comfortable saying I am reasonably intelligent, because by my methods of assessment, in at least a relative stance, I do have the ability to learn and retain seemingly more easily than a host of other people. Even still, though my observations are only accurate in regards to the self contained system, that is to say myself. Others, the observations are possibly flawed for various reasons, whether it is assumptions or rigidly based on secondhand accounts, I have no way of truly “knowing” the value of these indications.

I can safely say that, people in all of my classes, throughout all of my academic endeavors, have considered me “smart”, or at least informed me of this. So, it seems exceedingly unlikely, that so many different people would possess the same thought, were it not at least true to some degree.

I try to objectively assess these things through the ages as I lay next to my fiance moments ago, before feeling the need to archive them.

Kindergarten: I was the first student in my school (at least I was informed of such) to be proposed and followed through for integration of the GT (gifted and talented) program at this stage. Because there is no kindergarten level of GT, it merely includes additional “classwork” that I must complete, while the other kids often play, I am writing or examining something for this “classwork”. It should also be noted, that anecdotes provide indications of these amidst other things, throughout my childhood. One such anecdote included how distraught I appeared to be after the first week of kindergarten, I came home and explained to my parents how I was upset that I was not taught how to read. At this point, my father had been teaching me for several months, and I was able to read simple things, and the “books” they had in the classroom proved no real challenge, I apparently expressed this to some degree.

First Grade: I began implementation with the GT program, I was in a multiclass program with another grade, second grade, outside of the GT program. I took an interest in learning cursive, though my first attempts, I did not actually grasp the concept. I tried to assist my peers in learning multiplication, my teacher awarded the student who completed their time tables accurately first with a prize. I usually won, on several occasions, the teacher indicated that she would also give second place a prize, due to my uncanny consistency. All in all, I don’t remember much about first grade, other than we got to play on Mac computers sometimes in GT, we learned to begin typing on computers as well, being taught about the “homerow keys”. I questioned the computer teacher why the keys were the layout that they were, she never gave me a real answer, I suppose that’s difficult to explain to a kid. None the less, I caught on fast and became a fast typist in the classroom, leading me to complete my assignments quickly, and freeing me up to play games.

Second Grade: I was supposed to remain in the multiclass/grade setup, but a teacher moved away and most of the kids were relocated. I was with a teacher I remember upset me towards the end of the previous schoolyear, I admittedly don’t remember the details, but I threw a fit before getting to see the principle. She spoke with such kindness and comfort. She called my mother, my mom’s voice was really nice to hear then, I don’t remember much of what she said. Afterwards, the principle asked me if I wanted to go back to the same classroom, but that one of the teachers would be gone now. I thought that sounded nice, so I agreed. They took care of it well enough I suppose. In the new classroom I still was trying to muster the effort to successfully stifle the remnants of sniffling I had from the fit before hand. I still remember two of the kids names, who were just the perfect idea of innocence looking back on it. Charles and Stephanie. Stephanie asked me why I was upset. I just continued to try to regain my composure. Charles says he is upset because he wanted to stay at home and play games today. Stephanie, seeming rather perceptive, says something to Charles about that’s not what I’m upset about probably. She turns and asks if I’m ok. I nod a yes. “Hi, I’m Stephanie, we were just about to color this picture, want to help?” Such an odd memory. Those two were my closest friends in that grade, I remember that. She was always so concerned and perceptive for a second grader, Charles just more or less was a class clown (like most second grade boys).

I wish I would continue detailing all this stuff on here, but I really ought to put a strong effort into at least finishing up this post, as well as not making it drone on for an eternity. But I have a lot of these memories, just perfectly clear. Some of them, for various reasons, I am able to confirm to an extent, after having wondered if I falsified memories, given the detail. I know I also have memories from before I turned three, not knowing my exact age, but I have several of them. I only know I was not yet three, because we still lived in an upstairs apartment, we moved across town into a duplex, a couple weeks before I turned 3 and lived there for over 10 years. I don’t have many memories from the apartment, mostly just jumbles and parts. I remember some dreams I had when we lived there too though.

I remember my dad always stocked frozen corn dogs in the fridge when we lived there, but after moving, we had a pantry and it was usually “dry” snacks that he munched on. I remember a lot of commotion about our cat killing a scorpion. I remember sitting in the backroom of a footaction, where my dad was manager, while he worked, and he would check on me often, sometimes on break, he would take me to the arcade that was a few stores away, after all he worked in the mall. I remember a particular fit I threw about forgetting to brush my teeth, it woke my dad up, and he just brushed his with me, telling me it would be alright. I remember talking to “imaginary friends” and having arguments with them, to the extent that my mom would come in and ask who I was talking to. I remember jumping on my parents bed, when they clearly told me not to, but my mom was being less attentive, packing for a trip, and my dad always the lax one, only spoke and made no physical effort to stop me, until I plummeted down and smacked the top of my head on the headboard of the bed, knocking it lose and sending me into a fit of pain and tears. We had to visit the emergency room, I got stitches.

I remember a lot of stuff, stuff that people, ones with degrees I might add, tell me I shouldn’t. They have the paper, not I, so I try to trust in their judgment, but I know those are memories. I remember our apartment, I ask my mom about some of the more notable memories, and she confirms them. I remember weird little details and stuff. I hear that’s some sort of indication of intelligence, so again, maybe I just am a little bit “smarter”, I dunno.

Anyway, if I get back to it, I will definitely some tomorrow, this was actually a really great way to analyze and think about some things, that I don’t usually provide attention to.

Hope this isn’t as boring to read as I feel like it is. I at least enjoyed writing it, and remembering some of those things. Nostalgia can be weird sometimes, at least when looking back to times as a kid.