Bright

So I was walking down College Avenue in College Place and the sun was shining brightly, so my eyes were the narrowest squint.

I looked to my right as I passed the student missions office and noticed a number of students, some that I knew, pointing out the sun, and facing it, with their eyes completely closed, walking backwards down the middle of the street. They didn't see me. I kept walking.

Then I woke up.

Can't... Get... Up...

So I was in college. It was Wednesday of my first week. My first class of the day was English.

I was sitting in the middle of that cramped classroom doing whatever writing exercise the teacher tried to get us to do, and I was finding it difficult.

Eventually I got up and went to the washroom. As I walked in I noticed that someone else from the class was walking in a pair towards that same washroom, and I hoped he wouldn't come in because there was no partition between the only two urinals and they were rather close together. This meant that obviously, he came in and instead of waiting patiently just used it. I angled my body so he wouldn't see anything and waited for him to leave before I went to the sink to wash up.

By the time I got back to the classroom it as 10:25 and English class had been done for 25 minutes. It sure didn't feel that long. The teacher had opened my binder to my class schedule to see what was going on, and noticed that I had a free period at ten. I was relieved, because I was unaware of this.

So I went back to my dorm room and tried to fall asleep for a half hour. When time came to get to my 11am math class, I found my left leg was asleep and wouldn't move. I tried everything to get it to move and nothing. I even jokingly cast dispel on my leg, hoping that maybe borrowing from a video game would work, but it didn't work either.

I started cursing and saying "wake up! wake up! wake up!" And my body replied "but Adam, it's early on a Sunday morning!" And then I said "wait what?"

And then I woke up.

The Gardener

I was sitting at home. It was dark. There had been reports of a mysterious serial killer in my area, so all my doors and windows were locked. He had killed a number of people already, yet he had left no evidence.

Soon I noticed a man running through my backyard chased by a figure whom I could not make out. He was caught and the mysterious figure sliced open a major blood vessel in his lower right leg. The mysterious figure then retreated into the shadows to watch his impending death from a distance.

Eventually the wounded man made it to my door and asked for help. Two of my friends who were there drove the man to a clinic while I looked for the mysterious figure. I used my presence to create a diversion, preventing the mysterious figure from pursuing the car. After I felt they were safe I went to the clinic myself.

As I arrived they were coming back out--the wounded man's injuries were too great and he needed to be taken to the hospital. I looked out the rear window to see if the mysterious man was there, when I was surprised by a yell by the driver--"I've been poisoned!" His hands had become swollen and it was difficult to steer. His breathing became quick. My other friend took over before she too came down with the same symptoms.

Then I took over, but as I was leaning over from the back seat I too got the swollen hands. Then we noticed a pair of gardening gloves in the middle console, lightly dusted with powder--that was the source of the poison! And in the rear view mirror we saw him, suddenly: the gardener.

We rushed to the hospital. We sped past some cops who pursued us, but we didn't stop. They chased us all the way to the emergency entrance of the general hospital. My friends rushed him inside, while I threw the gloves at the cops screaming warnings about poison and about the gardener who was probably invading our respective homes trying to erase all evidence for his existence, including our lives. By merely telling the officer about him her life was now in danger!

Then I woke up.

Beautiful

I saw an old friend today.

She looked like she had been through a natural disaster. Her hair was dishevelled, and a bit damp. Her clothes looked like she was desperately trying anything to stay warm, regardless of what those clothes happened to look like. Her face looked exhausted. She looked like a mess and not very attractive.

Later, I google searched for hot women in dresses on the internet. After a few minutes, I quit, because they didn't look all that hot. I mean, yes, they looked "hot," if "hot" had a specific definition and could be factory-produced. Makeup here, here, and here; this colour with this colour; this certain expression. They just weren't... attractive.

I just kept comparing the models to my friend and the models just couldn't compare, even though she was not at her best. Why was that?

I thought about it some more. The models looked shallow, fake, unreal. Maybe her colours clashed, but she was less than a foot away from me. Her curves were real; her complexion was real; she was three-dimensional, living, breathing, right there.

So there you have it. People are real. Pictures aren't. Real is beautiful. Fake is not. Alive looks dynamic. Inanimate looks... dead.

P.S. And if you're reading this, dear friend, you're supposed to take this as a silent compliment.

America is not a Christian nation

America claims to be a Christian country, but she isn't. She's an ancient Hebrew country, one who supports "eye for an eye" and the killing of "pagans" and "idol worshippers" for no other reason than "God said so." A justice system that teaches you to take pleasure at the suffering of the one who caused you pain. Not even modern Jews believe in that anymore.

Christ said "turn the other cheek." Christ allowed himself to receive capital punishment for a crime he didn't commit. When the rulers came to stone a woman caught in adultery in accordance to their law, Christ stopped them and said "let he who is without sin cast the first stone." He was the only sinless man there that day; and he said "neither do I condemn you--go, and sin no more." He taught us that the only way to heal, the only way to peace, is to forgive.

Now if America wants to be an ancient Jewish nation, that's perfectly okay with me. People have the freedom to be whatever they want to be. Just stop tarnishing the name of Jesus by claiming to be a Christian nation.

Love, actually

When do you decide that your heart has had enough? When do you stop trying?

Is their something about letting your heart get broken by yet another woman that makes you stronger? Wiser? A better person?

Or is the act of being willing itself salvation? Is giving up the death blow?

I suppose it's a metaphor for life itself. Life absolutely sucks. Every day you go to work, come home exhausted, and fill your leisure hours with something designed to take your mind off of life because it sucks so much. You spend life escaping from life. But the moment you give up on all of that, you die. This sucky life is all we have, so we persevere.

So it is with love. Falling in love sucks. It sucks because it's always unrequited. (If not immediately, then eventually.) You close your eyes and dream, escape from reality, and there fall in love with the girl of your dreams, because in real life she doesn't love you back. But the moment you give up on love, your heart dies, and you become a cold, miserable creature. This sucky love is all we have, so we persevere, and try to fall in love again.

It's pointless in the sense that we never achieve our goal; but it's the most important part of life in the sense that it is what keeps us alive.

If there were no God...

If there were no God...

If there were no heaven... no hell below us... and no religion too...

Would you act any differently?

Would you be a different person?

For me, I think that would be a yes. What would be different about me?

Well, since I'd have no reason to save myself for marriage I'd probably have slept with someone by now. (On the other hand, since I'm a skinny nerd, and since I've never had a girlfriend, perhaps not.)

I'd probably go into crime. I mean, given that everyone has insurance these days I can just waltz into any store, take what I want, and leave; and the poor store owner won't be any less wealthy because of it. The insurance people, maybe, but does anyone here actually think insurance people aren't criminal with the rates they charge? Someone I know was once charged $6,000 a year in car insurance for a car that was worth $4,000. I have no pity for insurance brokers.

I suppose there'd be the risk of getting caught and spending some time in prison, and the rest of your life with a criminal record. Was reading the story of some poor bloke who was charged with possession of marijuana 35 years ago, received a pardon 25 years ago, and now is flagged whenever he tries to enter the US, arrested, and swiftly deported.

But police don't have the resources to protect everything. A cautious criminal should be able to get away with a lot. I'd probably need martial arts training and a steady supply of rubber gloves, but it's doable. Isn't stealing things so much more profitable than earning them yourself?

Maybe if someone made me angry I could go kill them. There'd be the threat of turning them into a martyr, which would be very bad. But if you pick your spots and are careful you probably won't get caught.

See, without a God, there's no reason to be moral. You have to be moral to the people more powerful than you, yes, or else you risk getting taken out yourself. But to people weaker than you? People who have no ability to exact revenge? Absolutely no reason, if you're quiet about it and it doesn't affect your reputation. Am I wrong here?

So if the only reason I am moral is because there's a God, and there's a heaven awaiting those who make good decisions in life, doesn't that make me selfish? Aren't I just doing good just to get into heaven?

And if you're a good person out of selfishness, are you really a good person? If you're doing good just for a reward, are you really a good person?

But no, I say, I'm not doing good just to get into heaven. I'm doing good because we're in a war, and I'm just backing the winning side. Isn't that just a desire to be right? That same way people don't back down from arguments because they want to be right? Is that really any better?

It's easy to love people close to you. It isn't that hard to love people you know. But a complete stranger? An empty organizational entity? It's easy to cheat something when it doesn't affect you.

Can anyone, truly, love? Can anyone be good for good reasons? Would a world without religion truly be at peace?

Life Repeats Itself

Somewhere in college I heard a description of the generations of the American Dream.

Generation 1: The Immigrants. Through hard work they ensure that their children receive the best possible education.
Generation 2: The Educated. This generation reaps the benefits of the sacrifices their parents made and roll in the dough.
Generation 3: The Coddled. This generation uses the wealth of their parents on whatever it is they please. Often choose careers that have little to do with wealth.

It's a wonderful theory. It might have found its application in the real world somewhere. But it doesn't apply to my family.

My great-grandfather, I recently learned, had a dream: to go to California. He never made it. He got stopped in Windsor, worked in a car plant for a few months, was laid off, and spent the rest of his life struggling to get a job.

My grandfather was unable to get an education due to some of his father's decisions. He spent the rest of his life working hard so that his children would not face the same fate. When he was laid off he would find work, anywhere. And he struggled through life's toils.

My father completed high school, unlike his ancestors. After getting a good factory job, he decided he needed to see the world, so he enlisted in the navy. Sometime later he got into a terrible car accident that severely curtailed his work options in the future. He has so far spent the remainder of his life chasing whatever work he could find. He struggled mightily through life's toils, often working 80 hours a week, hoping that, unlike his father and grandfather before him, his children would make it.

I got a college education. Well, part of one--after changing my program three years in, I ran out of money. I owe $85,000 in tuition debt. Without a degree, I was also without certification and without the ability to get a job in my field. I have been unemployed nine months.

There's a few ways you could take this. First off, everyone struggles. Perhaps to different degrees, or in different areas, but everyone struggles. Life is a struggle, and everyone has their own unique challenges to face.

Second, is the American Dream real? Perhaps that answer is yes to the 0.1% who win at life. For the rest of us, isn't it that same slog our parents and grandparents went through? You never do end up paying off your debts.

Of course, if life challenges everyone, then we can all be judged fairly, so there is that to consider.

But back to the point: life repeats itself. Knowing this, how does one respond? Find a way to break the circle? Or enjoy the ride?

Life Repeats Itself

As I sit here refreshing my email inbox (yes, I know, if an email actually came, I wouldn't need to refresh the browser to see it--I guess I'm just obsessive-compulsive like that*), it occurs to me how unexpected this was but a couple of months ago.

Every time I get over someone I think I'll never fall for someone again. In some cases, I promise myself I won't let myself fall for someone again. And every single time it happens again and it isn't until months after that I wonder how did I get here.

It would be easy to repeat the arguments. After all, they're usually the same. "You don't know her very well." Which is true, but does it seem to make a difference? "You're not right for her." Am I right for anyone? "If she knew all the horrible things you've done she'd never love you." Quite possibly true, but don't I have to take that chance?

And so I find myself once again hopelessly wishing for someone. Will it go the same as the last twenty times? Quite possibly. Am I tricking myself into loving her because I finally found someone who likes to spend time with me? It wouldn't be the first time.

So in the event you are reading this (and I'm pretty sure "you" know who you are), and you're not interested in me that way, you can probably talk me into just being friends. The timing can be at your discretion. You wouldn't be the first to have this conversation with me--most of my best friends are people I had a crush on at one point or other. I would understand.

But if you are interested, we need to hang out sometime. I am keeping my eyes open looking for something that would fit the bill, but if you find something first don't hold back. Oh, and send that email--I miss you. And I'm still hitting that refresh button.



*Oh my goodness, I just read the wikipedia article, it describes me so well :-O I didn't know I was OCD! (Involuntary shiver. Okay, now repeat that a few more times. Oh wait, now my back itches. Don't scratch it don't scratch it scratch scratch scratch)

Do Something

I have spent the past eight months wasting away my life doing absolutely nothing.

Obviously I don't mean I've sat in a chair facing a wall for eight months. Because even then you could say, technically speaking, I have been doing something, I've been staring at a wall.

No, you understand that to mean I've been doing nothing worth noting, nothing of value, nothing important.

Which is good, because that's the way I understand that.

My baby Priest hit level 72 today. I've spent about four weeks on that Priest. I suppose asking yourself such questions as "when are you ever going to do anything?" are natural after such events.

Asking yourself the question is one thing, but answering it is quite another.

The last couple of days I spent an hour trying to play some Debussy piece, Garden in the Rain or something like that. That came about because I was tired of playing my old standard, the Sarabande from Pour le Piano, which was the last piece my piano teacher taught me that I was really good at playing. He taught me that piece about five years ago now. Playing the piece doesn't make me any better at it, I just play it because I can.

I started playing that piece because I was tired of practicing the Chopin Piano Sonata I had thrown 20 hours at and still could barely do anything. I mean I got the first page down, but just when it started to get hard at the bottom of the page is where it would all fall apart and I'd have to slow it way down and practicing it slow for a few hours wouldn't do anything.

All of which comes to the point, would practicing the piano be considered "doing something?" When you come right down to it I could probably practice that song for 100 hours and still not have it down due to lack of natural ability. And then even if I got it down, what's the point? I wouldn't be able to play it in church, and it's not like I get any other opportunities to perform anywhere. And even if I did play it for church, what would be the reason for playing such a challenging piece in church? So people could point and ooh and aah over my skills? (Wait, am I supposed to use the term MAD SKILLZ here?)

Is it just a performance? A hollow, empty performance on a stage? Would that be accomplish anything more than sitting at home playing computer games?

Of course, you could get that same feeling anywhere. Back when I used to work in Traffic Studies, I distinctly remember the feeling that I was just sitting there trading my time for money. I was giving away pieces of my life I could never get back just so I could afford to do something with the pieces I had left. (All of which made me resolve to be very careful with that money. For example: is that fancy new mouse worth five hours of vacuuming floors? You know what, I think I can make do with what I have.)

I even got that feeling in college sometimes. Great, guys, so I can tell you the defendants in a major court case from 32 years ago. And the reason I spent an hour learning about this is... what, exactly? Is this valuable information?

So, as I get back to thinking about my completely useless computer game, that feeling still persists--I need to start doing something with my life. But what out there would define something?

There was something, once, that left me feeling fulfilled every time I went. It was going to the soup kitchen to feed the homeless people. Gave me energy that would last the rest of the month, until the next time I went back.

But community service, unfortunately, isn't something you can just pick up and do, like you would a computer game. Plus, people want background checks now and volunteer registration. Surely there's something of value you can just pick up and do, no?

Perhaps something to do with people? Oh, but I barely know anyone around here. And I'm too shy to go ask those few people if they want to do anything. And I'd be afraid of telling them about how lonely I am and how I just want to be around someone all the time who understands me--or at least someone who would listen--and they'd end up feeling like I was following them around like a leech. I mean many people are lonely--perhaps I could say most people are lonely--but that doesn't make it any easier to walk up to someone and say "hey, I'm lonely, you're lonely, let's hang out." "Well, wait, what would we do?" "Ha, that's a funny question, I just wrote an entire post about that."

The Things We Hide

People have a fascination with the unknown. That should be relatively obvious to anyone who is alive, but in case it isn't I could bring up such evidence as the fanciful stories written in the 16th century about far away lands.

To get to the actual point of this post, what a culture hides from its people is inevitably what that people become fascinated with. One could easily point out how countries that banned religion upon opening up experienced massive religious revivals that slowly died out a few years later as religion became something permissible.

What do North Americans hide? We censor sex and violence from our young people. Is it any wonder then how sex-crazed this society is? Is it any wonder how popular violent video games are? Death is something we hide in a corner, that same corner we hide our dying old people in. Is it any wonder then how much music focuses on the subject?

Which brings us to the question, is censorship the right approach? If you're trying to raise a good, Christian kid, is hiding sex and violence going to work?

The body of evidence would suggest no. But what then do you do? Surely deliberately exposing them to sex and violence isn't the right approach?

Well, I can't speak to the latter, because my parents didn't raise me that way. You could take the train of thought that no person has a sense of the true value of innocence and the cross until they've sinned, so you might as well go all in. But on the other hand people speak about the memory of that home they remember, and wanting to get back to that, and they wouldn't have that if home was where they met the world.

There's also the problem that when a society makes something hard to get, people have a hard time telling if something is real or fake. Note how when I described a sex-crazed and violent crazed society, you didn't understand me as saying there are prostitutes on every street corner and street gangs having shootouts in the street every night (though both of those things are probably true in places).

No, you understood "sex-crazed" to refer to all the sex in movies, all the internet porn, and heck, even all the advertising. And video games aren't anything like real violence--there's no trauma involved, and the gore magically cleans itself up.

So to sum up the questions. Does a society become fascinated with/defined by what it tries to hide? Does censorship have an effect opposite to what is intended, or is it better than the alternative? And by making something hard to get do you make it easier for people to fall for fakes?

Deja Vu

It's funny how I can come back on here and read posts from a few months ago and go "Wow, that's exactly how I'm feeling right now! Wait a moment, that means no progress was made."

I suppose it's not completely the same--I'm still on a quest for meaning, but now the focus is on me and whatever it is that's wrong with me, if there's something wrong with me.

I can rattle off my accomplishments with ease. Reading at the age of two. Gifted program. Perfect paper on the Gauss Grade 8 Math Contest. High School Valedictorian. All of which implies that I'm an intelligent young man.

But recent events have shaken that belief in myself. Am I smart? Or was I just overachieving? It's a pretty relevant question when you consider you just spent the last eight months sitting at home doing absolutely nothing.

Oh I'm completely serious. I accomplished absolutely nothing. Well, okay, I levelled my Druid from 80 to 85. Pulled that off less than two days after release.

Managed a significant degradation of my musical skills via not practicing at all this year. Heck, I was practicing the piano earlier today when I noticed just how little control I have over my fingertips. And then it struck me--I'm a horribly uncoordinated person. My level of control starts dropping at about the wrist until I reach the base of the fingers, when control is near zero and I'm just flailing away, or it feels like I'm wearing mittens. Perhaps that's why I'm constantly punching things accidentally.

And despite this, I chose a path as a career musician. I'm such a silly person.

The questions are endless. Is a balanced humanistic education a horrible idea, where you focus on your weaknesses, become solid in everything, but sacrifice being really good at one thing and pay the price later when job hunting?

Have I been lied to all my life? All the teachers and parents and friends who said I was really smart when I was just acting really smart and making a bunch of educated guesses, or perhaps they were just trying to be nice or encouraging like they're supposed to be.

Or perhaps I truly did have the potential to be everything that people believed I could be when I graduated from high school, and my decisions in college destroyed all of that.

Potential is such a weight. It feels like you're carrying the weight of the world's hopes on your shoulders and any one misstep means we don't cure cancer, or something else just as important and weighty.

I don't even know what I'm talking about or why I'm writing this post. It's all just a big sort of cloud that I don't really understand and don't have the energy to sort, just like all the emails in my inbox.

I didn't used to be like that. Used to be super organized. All day I organized stuff in my head. I kept an agenda. Knew exactly what and when everything was going on. Life was simple and easily understood.

What happened? Is the key to understanding the fog studying the fog itself, or studying the clarity before the fog? Problem with studying the fog is that you are studying fog, which is by definition fairly indeterminate. Problem with the clarity before the fog is that it did not know what fog was, and even if you could get back to that mindset the idea of fog would infect your brain until it was all over and you couldn't get it out.

I'm just rambling, aren't I? Am I even saying anything?

Heck, maybe this is like a sermon. You know, how you listen for a few moments then you drudge off to sleep, wake up briefly and catch a few more details, daydream some more, start singing songs in your head, and really only catch a few fragments of what the preacher is actually saying.

Why am I writing this? Do I even believe any of this?

It's so easy to mock myself. Does failing condemn everything associated with that failure? I mean, obviously it shouldn't, but the question isn't whether it shouldn't, but whether it does.

I wonder if this all goes back to God. Life was so incredibly clear to me the day I got baptized, a month after grad. All of the things the Bible said were obviously true, all of the systems of the church obviously correct. Then I met this thing called doubt.

Doubt and faith are opposites. I'm sure they have other opposites, and I'm sure some academic (re: professional doubter) will find some way to reconcile the two as being either necessary for each other, not actually opposites, on the same side, insert random good thing.

Anyways. They're opposites. It would have been easier if it was absolutely true there was no God, because atheism has this nice beautiful construct it hangs life on to put your mind at ease. But that can never happen because I've seen too much. I know that there is truth in the church.

I just haven't figured out which parts are true and which parts are wishful thinking.

And that's where doubt is so evil. Having so little that you know is absolutely true, having only one church that doesn't dismiss that little you know as absoultely false, and wondering whether your doubts of the parts you aren't sure of mean there's something wrong with you or there's something wrong with the church.

It always has to end at God, doesn't it?

Shut up, brain.

All you ever do is define the question. Do you ever make a serious attempt to answer it?

Answer the question? That seems like such a silly notion.

Faith: knowing absolutely nothing and believing anyways.

So back to the original point. Ought I have faith in myself?

I mean, there's been very little evidence to suggest that I should. Sitting at home, pretty much lost all hope. Just existing, watching the days go by, try to find something to entertain myself with so the time passes--wait, no, that isn't it, try to find something to entertain myself because it is impossible for me to do nothing. And yet in doing a whole bunch of things to distract myself I am really, in essence, doing nothing, I'm just doing a whole lot of somethings to make my brain tired so I don't have to worry about thinking about how I'm really doing nothing.

Was the wonder child the same person I am now? No, it was a different time, a different person. Yes, it is the same person. Was I really a wonder child at all? If it was, can it come back?

Quit asking questions! Is this a person someone ought to have faith in? Am I supposed to have faith in myself at all? Why am I still rambling? Why the heck would anyone read this? It's not art, its just a person typing whatever is the first thing that comes to their mind, over and over. I guess that could be art. Should I even publish this post?

Well I'm out of things to talk about. Too tired to think. Don't want to bother making the effort to find something out of that soup fog. I'm getting lazy. You were always lazy. Didn't stop you before. Shut up brain.

The Canadian Election

And the lesson we can learn from the Canadian election is that if you lie, repeat the lie a little louder (x10), suspend parliament merely to hold on to power (twice), lie to Parliament, secretly alter signed documents, grossly misrepresent where money is being spent (x2), funnel millions to your friends, throw people out of your campaign stops for merely visiting the campaign stops of other leaders (x3), limit the ability of reporters to ask you questions, run a campaign solely based on character assassination...

You get to win more seats and a majority government.

Meaning

When I'm not trying to shove life's trials out of my head and make myself a small little area where I can have peace (something I do most of the time), I'm forced to confront the issue that this year has been pretty tough.

Moving back in with my parents has been a challenge. They still act like I'm a child and that I don't know how to think for myself yet, and so they're constantly telling me what they think I should do, and by "telling" they mean "do it or else." It was definitely grating at first, but later we both learned just how far we can go before the other will get angry.

I don't think I can write at length about everything that's happened so I'll just summarize it here in sentence fragments. Parents going senile. Dad being almost completely deaf. Me being away from many people that I love. Me missing them. My complete inability to land a job of any sort. Wondering when I'll ever get back to school to finish. Watching opportunities slip through your fingers because of random happenstance. Watching other (less monetarily profitable) opportunities come through likewise random happenstance. Deep soul searching. Trying to write and having the notes fail to come out. Rediscovering God through teaching my young students about Him. Being hesitant to step out in faith. Deflecting questions about my financial situation. Writing letters asking for a deferment on my student loans. My worrying mother.

I think I try to find meaning in it all so I can say this whole year was not a waste. I try to find meaning in everything. It helps me understand why trials happen.

Like here, let me try. This year I needed to get reacquainted with my family, because in the end, they're the only family I've got. Or, this year I needed to be there for my brother because our sister left for college and he would have been home with the parents alone and he couldn't have handled that. Or, this year was God's wake up call to me because I had been slowly drifting away from Him. Or, this year I learned what would happen if I didn't take my classes seriously so that when I go back to college I won't skip classes any more.

But sometimes trying to find a meaning feels like slapping a band-aid on a cut--a shallow summary solution that feels cheap.

Sometimes it's just tiring to try and I just want to rest and not have to worry about why things are happening to me. Maybe that's what happens when you get old--you're too tired to fight the fight anymore and just want to lie down and wait for it all to go away. I wonder how many people are too tired to wonder.

Everything is going to be okay. I just have to keep telling myself that.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Dental Hygiene Student

My Mom wanted to save money on my dental care, so she sent me to the community college to be cared for by a student. Six hours.

I didn't notice anything at first. But eventually I noticed there was a weight on my chest--her forearm was pressed down on it, presumably for balance. Is this normal? So I started to pay more attention to what she was doing.

Her hands were in my mouth. Well, that was obvious. But she had fingers on my lips keeping them open. It was like getting a mouth massage. And her thigh was pressed against my arm. As she leaned over me to get to her dental tools, which were located on the opposite side of me, I could feel her body heat.

She changed positions to be behind my head. Now her breasts were pressed against my head. And if it weren't for me asking to raise the headrest earlier (the same headrest that had been taped down to prevent raising) my head would have been in her lap (which it almost was, earlier).

She held my head tenderly and while asking to move it she moved it, in order to get a better view. She got up to write in her report and as she was bent over, and I noticed her pants were not all the way up.

What do you do?

1) Drown out the sensuality by yelling "Purity! Purity! Purity!" in your head over and over again until you can't feel her. Turn to Page 132.

2) She's obviously hitting on you, and even if she isn't, you don't care, because she's a pretty girl. Start flirting with her and see if she's free for lunch. Turn to Page 72.

3) Get up, accuse her of sexual assault, then run away and file a police report. Turn to page 45.

4) Admit it, it's been a while since you've been touched by a woman, and it will probably be quite a while from now when it next happens. The room is cold and she's keeping you warm. Enjoy the next few moments as best as you can, and use them to keep you going through the tough times in life. But don't contact her, at all, because it's probably unintentional. (Do attempt to look her up on the internet though, and see if she's good dating materiel.) Turn to Page 132.

I almost ran someone over today

I was trying to make a right turn on a red, and following typical Canadian custom, I barely stopped for the red light. After the car passed (which was the only reason I stopped) I began the turn when my mother yelled and I saw a young mother pushing a stroller with two very small children beside her. I slammed on the brakes and stopped inches from the nearest child.

The mother was pissed. Perhaps that should've been obvious, but her degree of anger was surprising to me. I rolled down the window and yelled two apologies. She yelled something about a crosswalk and about being sorrier if I'd hit her kids.

After she passed--she didn't seem too comfortable staying in front of my car--I sat there unmoving until five seconds after the light turned green. The car behind me didn't honk any horns, to their credit. I was a little shell-shocked.

What if I'd hit her and killed them all? What's the prison term for vehicular manslaughter? Would that apply in this case? I'd probably plead due to guilt regardless. I mean, it was my fault! I wasn't looking.

My name might end up in the local paper a year from now, the time the trial is held. Maybe it would happen faster than a year. A handful of people might both know me and read the local paper. They would be disappointed. Perhaps they'd stick up for me since it was a crime of accident, not intent. I don't know if I'd like that--no, rather, I'd prefer to bear my shame unnoticed. I don't want to be the guy who had potential and threw it away. Wait, aren't I already that guy?

I'd have to report having a criminal record anywhere I'd try to apply for a job. If I tried to apply for a student visa too. Perhaps this is what they mean when they ask for applicants to explain their criminal record. It was an accident, that's completely understandable, right?

Maybe I'd hang myself in my cell and then people would ask questions like how did this happen. Maybe if a reporter was overzealous they'd pick my case to make a statement on, one of those pieces that help a reporter's career.

The judge might notice me making absolutely no attempt to defend myself in court and sentence me to psychological treatment on top of a prison sentence. I wonder if I'd be harsher on myself than the judge. Would I lose my driver's license for the remainder of my life? Cycling is so much better than driving anyways--I can't kill anyone on a bike.

Ha, there's irony. I used to be the kid that would repeatedly get hit by vehicles making turns that failed to look both ways, and now I'm the driver who hits pedestrians because I didn't look both ways. How did that happen? It was only ten years ago, not even.

My mother tells me "at least you didn't hit them." Shouldn't I be paying attention to my driving? I start speeding out of anger. I could blame my mother for making me pick her up after work, but that would be dumb. There's no one to blame but me. She asks me to slow down. I don't feel like slowing down.

The radio is blaring loudly. They're saying something. I understand it now, but I won't remember any of it an hour from now. Something about stocks falling. I guess I did remember it. An appropriate thought would be that it will help drown out the voices in my head. But no, it's just another voice for the cacophony. Such a perfect word, that--cacophony.

What did your driving teacher teach you? Left mirror, front, right mirror, front, rear view mirror, front. Check the blind spot before making a turn. Pedestrians could pop up behind cars at any time. Wait, no, that one was my Dad.

You're hurting yourself as if you actually hit the kids. Is this not deserved? I wonder what the mother is thinking. Did this near accident turn her republican? Is she going to be racist against Asians for the rest of her life? Why do I look so Asian when I'm only half Asian?

Is she going to hunt me down and put a bullet in my head? A sniper rifle didn't look her style. A pistol. Definitely a pistol. I should get a haircut. Maybe shave my moustache. Hang low for a while. Did she follow me home? Get my license plate?

Maybe the guy behind me got my license plate. I wonder if he knows I didn't hit her.

Focus on the driving! You could hit someone at any time! Why am I driving so technically? Lots of room between the car in front. Watch for pedestrians. Driving too fast, can't process it all, slow down. I wonder if anyone behind me is mad at me for driving too slow. Just keep to the speed limit. There we go, you got it.

The horror is lifting! How dare I breathe easily so soon after almost meeting my destiny? You almost killed a mother and her three children! I need to let this sink in. Let the tears come. Focus, focus. It's your fault. How could I become so complacent so soon after? If I forget I'll just run someone over tomorrow, then all of this will happen for real.

It's your fault! It's your fault! Let it stain your soul! You were a split second from being a murderer. Life is on edge.

A Beautiful Mind

"I can't help but think that I am a terrible person," Robert started.
"Why ever would you think that?" Rose replied.
"I have such terrible thoughts."
"Don't we all sometimes?"
"No, no, you don't understand. I imagine myself as a serial killer killing hundreds of people from a submarine using a sniper rifle. I imagine myself as a terrorist visiting justice on the rich countries of the world, blowing up landmarks and burning down Walmarts. I imagine myself as a rapist, kidnapping young women and raping them repeatedly over months or years, psychologically breaking them down before slowly torturing them to death, cutting off fingers and limbs for curiosity's sake, melting their bodies and burying the residue 20 feet under in some national park."
While slightly creeped out, Rose was undeterred. "Everyone gets tempted, Rob."
"No, no, that isn't the problem. It's that I... I enjoy these thoughts."
Rose pondered in silence.
"I dwell on these things by choice! I can totally see myself being so curious about death and suffering that I kill people just to study how people die. I've always said my curiosity would be the death of me. And how different would that make me from the worst Nazi war criminals like that death doctor in the concentration camp?"
"I don't believe you could be a murderer."
"And why not? Have you never seen me angry?"
"I know your heart. And I know that your heart is a heart of love. You could never do those things."
This time Robert met her with silence.
"You don't believe me, do you? ...very well, I'll prove it. Do you have any exactoknives?"
"One, yes. It's a little dirty though."
Rose took the knife to the washroom, where she thoroughly cleaned it and disinfected it. She grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the way out.
"What are you doing?"
Rose rolled up her sleeve and began cleaning her forearm with alcohol. When she was ready, she began. "Robert, I want you to cut me from here to here," Rose explained, while marking off a length about two inches long, carefully selecting a location that was unlikely to produce any serious injury. "About a quarter of an inch deep should be enough to do the job."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm totally serious."
"I'm not doing that."
"Yes you are."
"No I'm not."
"DO IT OR I'LL DO IT MYSELF!!!" Rose screamed.
Robert, fearful that a Rose that was out of control* (Rose, of course, was in complete control, but she had no intention of letting Robert know that) would hit something serious grabbed the knife, and while holding her down pressed the knife into her skin. Rose quivered in pain but held her tongue. Then Robert began methodically dragging the knife down the path Rose had marked out--or at least, methodically only in the sense that by wrapping himself in the technical details of the cut, he wouldn't have to think about what he was doing to his dear Rose. By the time he got halfway down Rose's shaking had turned violent and she could no longer supress a long, bloodcurdling scream. Robert attempted to block his senses as best as he could and completed the task. As he removed the knife dark blood was already rushing to the surface at the top of the cut.
Now it was Robert's turn to start shaking. After pausing to stare at the blood rushing out of the wound for a few seconds, he came to and immediately looked for some way to dress it. He brought wet paper towels to clean off the blood, then applied dry ones to soak up as much blood as he could. After a few minutes the blood was still flowing as much as before, so he used band-aids to stitch together the cut as best as he could to prevent scarring, then wrapped up Rose's arm tightly with bandages.
"Look at you, Robert. You could barely do this. There's no way you could ever kill a person. Don't you see? You could never be all those awful things you imagined. They're just temptations. They're no more a part of you than the neighbour's dog."
Robert's shaking started to grow more and more violent. Rose began to hear him mumble something she could barely make out not because of volume but because of clarity. It sounded like "no, no, no." Then suddenly Robert shrieked "GET OUT OF ME!!!" and after his own series of bloodcurdling screams began to attempt to pull out his own hair.
Rose was stunned. "What are you doing?!?!"
By now tears were streaming down his face. Robert attempted to headbutt the wall of his house a few times, but failed miserably in the attempt. Then he grabbed the most solid looking textbook off of his shelf and starting beating himself in the head with it.
Rose wrestled the book out of his hands and threw him to the ground. "What are you doing?!?!"
By now Robert could barely speak. "I... did... that... to you... this... is what... I deserve."
Rose sighed. "I asked you to do this."
"You only asked because I was screwed up in the head. This happened because I'm messed up in the head. And you're starting to catch it from me--GET AWAY! Get away!" Robert weakly attempted to find something to hit his head on, and found the corner of the bookshelf, and ended up knocking a one shelf full of books over, but they mostly missed him.
"Robert..." Rose heaved another sigh. "I love you, Robert. I don't hold anything against you." And as Robert was undeterred, Rose added "I forgive you," not believing for a moment that he was in need of her forgiveness.
Robert gave no indication that he heard her, as he was talking to no one in particular in a low voice, perhaps reminiscent of a Gollum from another world, but then perhaps that wouldn't be the most fair comparison. "Forgive... forgive... no, no, can't forgive... too terrible... can't think about--AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!" Robert screamed so suddenly Rose jumped two feet off the floor. He began clutching at his own forehead, muttering "pain, pain" and violently ripping his hands away from time to time, apparently whenever the memories coalesced. It was as if the pain of the cut had been seared into his own soul.
Rose slumped weakly to the ground. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Jeopardy

I was moving a new shelf I had purchased into my room, having just finished constructing it in the living room. My brother was in my room, on the bottom bunk, lying sick in bed, with Mom tending to him. They were watching Jeopardy.

Being a little tired from all that work, I took a break to watch the show, now that the shelf was correctly placed in the room. There were two men with about $10,000 each, and one gay man on the right who had nothing except the dress he was wearing.

As I watched, the gay man correctly answered "What are the Himalayas" in response to "This mountain range is located just north of Eastern India," and so received $300 to put himself on the board. At this point, I noticed Alex Trebek was wearing a long blue wig and was also dressed in drag as a show of solidarity to the gay man.

Final Jeopardy started soon after. The final question was a fairly difficult question--only one of the $10,000 men was able to get it right--the guy who was in second, who was located in the middle, and thus getting it right won him the game.

The guy on the left who had lost then jumped up onto the middle guy's table, but only so that he could shake hands with the gay man without making contact with the new winner. He deliberately avoided shaking hands with the winner. At this point, a hockey fight broke out between the two $10,000 men.

At this point I wanted to check to see if anyone else was seeing this. As I was looking around I noticed that my Dad had begun putting his books on my shelf. He had already taken up two shelves and was presumably trying to steal more of my shelf space. MY shelf space. I asked my mother to yell at Dad for me and make him vacate my shelves.

Then I woke up. And I was stunned to discover that all of the above was a dream and therefore not real. It seemed so real...

The Realistic Version of the Previous Post

(Might help if you read the previous post first.)

My cell phone rang. It was her.
"Adam, can I come over? I can't study here, the dorm is too loud."
"Um... I was just going out. Sorry."
I leave my house to study in the library, merely so that I can say I wasn't lying.

* * * * * * *

"You've been staring at that page for an hour."
"I'm sorry, I'm just distracted."
"Do you need anything?"
"I'll get through it."
We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, then go back to studying.

* * * * * * *

After walking in silence for ten minutes, I broke the ice.
"How was your day?"
"It was fine."
"Anything interesting happen to you?"
"Nothi--oh wait, one of my third graders threw up in class today."
"Oh that sounds exciting."
"Well she came up to me and said she felt really sick, so I told her to imagine a giant balloon filled with air--imagine she was holding it in her mouth. I don't know why I said that now that I think about it, but she puffed her cheeks out and walked around with chin stuck out for about 10 seconds before throwing up all over me. It was impressive, you should've seen it."
"I... um... ew. That sounds gross," I reply, while clearly thinking about something else.
She laughed.
By now completely distracted, I trip on my own feet and grab at anything to prevent a fall. I end up grabbing her back and throwing her to the ground, saving myself.
"I'm so sorry! Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm--"
After looking at the back of her head I noticed blood starting to trickle down. I briefly consider helping her, then realize that might be violating her bubble.
"Oh, wait, here, let me--"
I offer her some tissue and help her find the wound by giving verbal directions.
"We should get back so you can get cleaned up."
Relieved at the excuse to break the tension, we walk back.
"And once again, I am so sorry."
"Don't worry about it."

* * * * * * *

"Adam, what are you doing sleeping on the couch! If you're tired just go to bed. And did you send that letter to OSAP yet? Why is your dinner still on the table? You haven't eaten yet? It's getting cold!"
"Wha... oh... ... ...yes, Mom."
*sigh*

Oh, I see this part remains unchanged. Great.

When Life Isn't Interesting

My cell phone rang. It was her.
"Adam, can I come over? I can't study here, the dorm is too loud."
"Sure, come on over."

* * * * * * *

"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she replied, in a voice that made clear that she wasn't fine.
"Well you've been staring at that page for an hour."
"I have? Um..."
"Are you sure everything is alright?"
She remained silent.
"Would you like to go for a walk?"
"Sure," she relented.

* * * * * * *

After walking in silence for ten minutes, I broke the ice.
"How was your day?"
"It was fine."
"Anything interesting happen to you?"
"Nothi--oh wait, one of my third graders threw up in class today."
"Oh that sounds exciting."
"Well she came up to me and said she felt really sick, so I told her to imagine a giant balloon filled with air--imagine she was holding it in her mouth. I don't know why I said that now that I think about it, but she puffed her cheeks out and walked around with chin stuck out for about 10 seconds before throwing up all over me. It was impressive, you should've seen it."
"I love you."
Before I could move she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on the lips. Five whole seconds. Then she slowly released me.
"I wasn't planning on doing that so soon."
I grabbed her back and lowered her down and gave her a long passionate kiss back. Or at least, that's what I tried to do. A few seconds later I lost my balance and was about to fall on top of her on the gravel shoulder, so I quickly spun around, throwing her on top of me, and took the brunt of the fall.
"I might need some practice at that."
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm--"
I reached back and felt blood trickling down from a gash on the back of my head.
"Oh, wait, here, let me--"
After combing through my thick hair she eventually found the gash. I pulled out some tissues from my pocket and she used them to put pressure on the wound.
"We should get back and get you cleaned up."
"Wait! I'm not going anywhere until I'm finished here. This is probably a little late, but, would you be my girlfriend?"
She smiled, and gave me a quick kiss.
"Yes."
We walked back to my place in each others' arms...

* * * * * * *

"Adam, what are you doing sleeping on the couch! If you're tired just go to bed. And did you send that letter to OSAP yet? Why is your dinner still on the table? You haven't eaten yet? It's getting cold!"
"Wha... oh... ... ...yes, Mom."
*sigh*

"Aflockalypse"

The recent animal death stories have turned many minds to God. As one commenter put it, "I can't help but think about the 0.0001% chance that maybe the Christians are right." Is this the end?

The google maps listing of all the animal death stories from the last month is certainly impressive, but a little deceptive. Looking a little deeper into the story of all the crab deaths in England you find a local saying that similar crab deaths happened two and five years ago.

And so the panic is off. It's all natural. Jesus isn't coming yet. You can relax now.

The cycle continues.

It happened at 9/11. It happened at Katrina. Natural or unnatural catastrophies bring people back to church. After a few days for some, a few months for others, the panic subsides as they realize that Jesus' coming is not imminent, and they return to their old ways.

But the real question for me is, why was my initial reaction to the thought Jesus was returning fear?

I'm not ready yet. I'm selfish. I don't know how to teach others about God. I haven't fallen in love yet. I can't even begin to do any of this right now because I need a job and some money. I need more time, God!

I used to dream of myself as an academy teacher, in my forties, as the time of trouble began. I tried to help them get over the fact Jesus was coming, and how so many of them would never experience having their driver's license, getting married, having sex, raising children. I told them none of those things was really amazing, that a relationship with God was the best of all, and that it wasn't necessary to experience any of that before going to heaven.

Yet when the tables turn and I'm staring at that possibility myself I don't buy a single argument. What if that sermon is for me? What if I am that generation?

Of course at the age of 26 there's nothing stopping me from doing all of that tomorrow, except for my failure of a love life, so I'm clearly not that generation. But what a hypocrite I would be for preaching that sermon someday 20 years from now. How is that generation going to give it all up for God?

How do you bring a person to God? How do I bring me to God? How do I snap out of my general malaise?

I don't want to fear anymore. I want to love people. I want to show people God through love. I want to redefine missions as loving people and showing people that by loving other people they can be free. And yet, despite everything, I can't let go.

Maybe the next few months will be an education is how to teach people to let go and give it all to God, by learning it for myself. Or maybe it's already too late.

Maybe there is nothing to learn at all. Maybe it's a divine mystery.

Why Write?

It occurred to me as I submitted my lastest masterpiece to one of the internet forums I follow that I am not a very good writer. Or at least, it did after my post got eight replies, four of which were me bumping it back onto the first page, and one person who said "this was obviously written by a girl." Followed by me spending the next two hours asking myself "do I really write like a girl?" What was the most important feedback however is that few found it funny--which, being a comedy sketch, is death.

All of which leads to the question, if I'm a terrible writer, why do I write? Why do I maintain a blog that some months doesn't even get a post? I mean, no one even reads any of this.

Maybe I could marry a writer and dump off all my dumb novel ideas on her, and maybe she can take the best ones and do something with them or maybe ignore them altogether. Either way it would free up a lot of my middle age years.

But if I were to stop writing, would there be any negative impact on me?

I have in the past used writing to help me work out ideas in my head that I might never have solved otherwise. I still do, though lately it's been easy just to let it drop and forget about it. I'm also sure there are some quotes, which fail me, suggest writing invigorates your mind or something in that vein.

Perhaps I should stop writing for other people and just write for me. Or do I need to believe that I can write for other people for my own self-esteem? I can't help but think that I can still kick a good satire out if I'm inspired.

Is that what this is all about? Self-esteem? I ask that as I look over thousands of words of blog posts and forum replies or even those dumb facebook games.

Whatever the reason, here comes another year of blog posts. Even if no one reads them. I just have to keep believing in that maybe. The day you stop believing in maybe is the day your soul dies.