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.