Theory of Life

It should be so simple, shouldn’t it?

A Theory of Life, and all that comes with it,

The ups and downs that all creatures, great and small,

Dull and wise, pass through on their way to Glory or Demise.

It’s just a blip in the grand scheme, a flash of the beacon,

Leading ever onward, unattainable but somehow within reach.

And I do reach…I stretch my entire being.

At times.

Because we were made for perfection, right?

Carved in the image of the Unimaginable, the Unattainable.

So my heart screams to be unflawed when being unflawed is expected,

And I sink in…waist, chest, neck…and I scream.

How can a drowning man save anyone?

How can he be the steady surface on which his loved ones can walk,

When he can’t walk himself?

I can hardly move. But I stretch.

And sometimes, yes sometimes, a hand pulls, and I inhale the breath of eternity,

And exhale the need for perfection.

And my heart explodes, open and unguarded.

I don’t need to save anyone, that’s already been accomplished,

It was finished; on a hill on a tree.

But why doesn’t it feel finished? The potential, the driving force pushing to exceed expectations.

To keep climbing and failing, while this Theory of Life presses onward,

What’s the delay? When will it truly be finished?

My tattered heart mortars the stones, quickly now, quickly now,

Before another feeling escapes and goes unnoticed,

Unheard below the noise of other’s feelings that go,

Unnoticed, unheard.

The walls make a hole to weep in the wake,

Of Dashboard Confessional and The Perks of Being a Wallflower,

And a list of painful events that are constantly expected to be repeated.

And then the wall’s repaired and everything’s kosher.

Everything is fine…except my ankles are below the waters.

And so the Theory of Life goes,

Drown, stretch, inhale, exhale, mortar, weep, plug, repeat.

When will it really be finished?

The answer’s in there somewhere. Probably between exhale and mortar,

But I can’t seem to drop the trowel.

Impatient for the fulfillment of a promise made eons ago,

That will make that last inhale eternal.

To Those Who Need To Hear It

The bitter path stretching before you is broken.
You stumble, unable to see beyond the next step, while rain falls on the road you've already walked.
Yet the view through the storm is so clear, so much easier to look back upon.
And what you see brings despair; the mistakes, the failures, the sins you've committed glare back, accusing and calling for attention, and you lose hope in the face of those transgressions.

Yet again, you are a ship at sea; the black tides ebb and flow, rage and shift beneath you.
You take the wheel and the waves confuse the course, losing you in the swirl.
But you are not the navigator.
Stop trying to steer.
Release the wheel and face the horizon.
It's there before you, a narrow shaft of light piercing the fog; a still, small voice whispering through the crashing torrent.
It beckons the winds be silent; it commands the seas to calm.
It says, Come, child, trust me.

You finally hear, but you cannot fathom a hand willing and able to pull you from the pit.
And you say you can't; not after everything you've done.
You look back at the demons and dancers wearing your sins as ornaments while they parade them before you, agreeing with you.
The tears fill your eyes and they pour down your cheeks, etching white lines down your dirty face.
You fall to your knees, your head in your hands, your tears puddling around you, threatening to drown you.
You cry out into the void, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry.

And that small voice says, I know.
A hand touches your shoulder, and when you peer up through your watering eyes, it opens and pleads for you to take hold.
But again you say you can't, and again He says, I know.

Whether by habit or guilt or shame or rote, you look behind once more, and what you see brings a greater rush of tears than ever before.
For the mistakes and the sins and the demons and the dancers have been washed away by a shedding of blood from a perfect lamb.

The hand gently lifts your chin, and you gaze into the eyes of a king who has knelt beside you, come down to where you are.
You try to speak, try to say you can't.
But He moves his finger to your trembling lips, and says,  

I have always been.
I will always be.
I Am now.

I can.
 

Love, As Seen Through the Eyes of an Idiot

I met a girl when I was five years old. I can still remember locking stares with her as our Sunday School teacher introduced me to the rest of the kids. I can still remember how my heart melted when she didn't look away. How the nervousness I felt, being the new kid at church, seemed to fade into nothing as I lost all sense of myself in those bright green eyes.

Somehow, at five years old, I knew that this girl was the one for me. I had no concept of marriage...no understanding of love...in fact, I don't think I truly grasped either until very recently. But that didn't stop me from getting one of her friends to ask her to be my girlfriend. I recall my victorious fist pump very clearly at the news that she had said yes.

And then we switched churches, and I didn't see her anymore. So imagine my excitement when she came walking up the parking lot one Sunday; the butterflies going crazy in my belly when she said hi to me for the first time in who knew how long. Those big beautiful eyes saying so much more.

Somehow, at such a young age, I knew she was my other half. Even so, I spent quite a bit of time denying it. Dating and then breaking up. Seeing other girls. Watching her date other guys. Looking for something else that never had the slightest ability to replace what I had when we were together.

I've always considered myself to be fairly intelligent. But with her, my mind turned to complete mush. You know that children's book, Goodnight, Moon? You know, Goodnight, old woman whispering, Hush. Goodnight, bowl full of mush. Well the contents of that bowl shared a remarkable resemblance with my brain.

December 13, 2013 marked our ten-year anniversary. And it has been quite a journey...to say the least. I have made awful mistakes. A LOT of awful mistakes. But in retrospect, I think they were really all the same mistake...repeated over and over again.

That mistake is this: I grew to think that love was about me instead of it being about her.

Remember that boy I mentioned earlier? The one that got weak in the knees when the little girl with the bright eyes paid attention to him? He may not have been able to explain what he was experiencing, but he knew what love was. He knew that his whole world revolved around that little girl. When they weren't together, he was thinking about her. About what he could do for her when he saw her again. About what he could do to make her smile. To see those gorgeous eyes light up.

Somehow, I lost that along the way. Love became about expectations. Conditions. Feelings. It became about me being happy...usually at her expense. How is it that a five-year-old could understand this while a so-called adult could be utterly clueless? I'm really not sure.

I do know what I've learned, though. I've learned what the apostle Paul meant when he wrote in Ephesians 5:25-27, "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or blemish, but holy and blameless."

Christ gave up everything for the church. That's LOVE. It isn't a feeling that comes and goes. Love is action. Christ didn't say he would die for us, but only if we love him in return and do this, this, this, and this... No, he died for us. Period.

Action. Love is action. And true love requires no response. No expectations. No conditions. It does not hinge on the other person accepting that love. IT JUST IS.

This is what I understand: I do not have the ability to love unconditionally. But I can try. I'm not capable of being a perfect husband. But through Christ, I can be a good one. I can't promise to never be selfish. But I can make it the exception rather than the rule.

I can forgive with open arms because Christ sets that example every time I fall away and come crawling back. I can be humble and ask for forgiveness. I can wipe clean the record of wrongs. I can choose to see my wife the way God sees her. Without stain or blemish, but holy and blameless.

It took me ten years of marriage to understand these things. But once I did, it was like a set of blinders being taken off of a retarded horse. I feel like that five-year-old boy again. And nothing in this world can stop me from doing my best to make those unbelievable green eyes light up every day for the rest of my life.

I Got It At Ross

My birthday was last month, and in accordance with birthday tradition, I received a reasonable amount of gifts. Unfortunately, two of those gifts were articles of clothing that did not fit. So I acquired the receipt for said ill-fitting gifts and journeyed to the place of purchase in order to exchange/return them.

The place of purchase happened to be Ross.

Well, they didn't have my size. As usual. So I waited patiently in line with the expectation that I would return the clothes and use the money I receive to find the articles of clothing at another store.

What follows is a detail of my interaction with the customer service lady (CSL), and subsequently, her store manager (SM):

Me: I'd like to return these. They don't fit.
CSL: Do you have a receipt?
Me: Yep. Here you go.
CSL: I can't find this on the receipt.
Me: (leaning over the counter and pointing) It's right there.
CSL: Oh, okay.

After several minutes...

CSL: Would you like store credit or would you like it to be put back on the card?
Me: I'd like cash, please.
CSL: It was purchased with a credit card, so store policy will only allow me to put a refund back on the card it was purchased with or issue store credit.
Me: I have the items I need to return and I have a receipt. The clothes were a gift for my birthday, so putting it back on the card would essentially be the same as me not receiving a birthday present. I don't want store credit because you don't have my size in the items I am returning. I'd like cash back, please.
CSL: It's not store policy to give cash back for purchases made with a credit card. We could put it on the card and then you can have the person who purchased it give you cash?
Really?
Me: I'd like to speak to a manager.

Meanwhile a line has formed in the exchanges/returns aisle. After another several minutes, the store manager arrives.

SM: It's not store policy to give cash back for purchases made with a credit card. We could put it on the card and then you can have the person who purchased it give you cash?
Again. Really?
Me: No I think I prefer cash.
SM: The computer system isn't set up to refund cash for purchases made with a credit card. (she proceeds to turn her computer screen toward me so that I can see the only options are "store credit" and "refund to card")
Me: I'm sorry but I'm not really interested in how your computer system is set up. I still want cash.
SM: (Sighs loudly) Let me call my district manager to see what he says.

She disappears to the back of the store. The line begins moving again as I step aside and allow the customer service lady to take other customers. Several more minutes pass, and then the store manager returns.

SM: My district manager said I could make an exception this one time as long as you accept our store policy in the future.
Me: Thanks, but I do not accept your store policy now, nor will I in the future.
SM: (Rolls her eyes) Just so you know we are making a one-time exception.
Me: Will you be making that exception using the same computer that you personally claimed could not handle that type of transaction?
SM: (Remains awkwardly silent as she processes the CASH refund on the very computer that was incapable of processing a CASH transaction mere minutes before) Here's your refund, sir. Have a nice day.
Me: Can I have all ones please?
SM: (Sighs loudly and trades the larger bills for Ones) Is there anything else?
Me: No thank you. Have a good one.

Then I used my newly acquired cash money to make it rain all over the counter and the store manager.

Okay, I made that last part up. But the moral of the story is this: Store policy is Bull$#!7.

Answers to Questions That Shouldn't Have Been Asked

I woke up late this morning. Most likely due to the chirping cricket alarm tone I have my phone set to. I distinctly remember the sound being incorporated into my dream. Needless to say, the rest of the morning was a mad scramble to get three kids and myself fed, dressed, and out the door.

After dropping my youngest off at daycare, I shuttled the other two to their elementary school, where I was required to sign them in and furnish them with tardy slips to be presented to their teachers in order for my children to gain entry to their classrooms.

While filling out their tardy slips, I noticed an area marked Reason next to the Time Checked In/Out box. So I think to myself, Why are they asking me this question? Surely, the school doesn't feel it is any of their business why I am checking my kids in at 8:30 instead of dropping them off at 8:00.

Right?

So, to recap:

QUESTION #1:
Reason for checking child in late?

ANSWER GIVEN: 
Late. That's all, just Late.

ANSWERS I CONSIDERED GIVING:
1. None of your *insert expletive* business. 
2. Their ritual morning beatings took longer than usual.
3. I wanted an excuse to see the school secretary again.
4. Fiery car crash.
5. Riley had explosive diarrhea this morning, the smell of which caused Declan to vomit all over the bathroom floor when he went in to brush his teeth, which in turn caused me to vomit uncontrollably while cleaning it up, all while Reagan (who does not attend this school) laughed and threw shoes at me.

Well, this got me thinking about other irrelevant questions I've been asked.

I take my children for their school physicals, and every time the doctor asks the same question.

QUESTION #2:
How many hours of TV does your child watch a day?

ANSWER GIVEN:
As much as I allow them to.

ANSWERS I WOULD LOVE TO GIVE:
1. None of your *insert expletive* business.
2. As many as it takes to keep them occupied while I get some actual work done around the house.
3. They only watch TV until they pass out.

Here's another one doctors love to ask without fail.

QUESTION #3:
Do you smoke?

ANSWER SOMETIMES GIVEN:
Why, do you think that's what caused the fascia tinnitus I incurred while running three miles yesterday?

ANSWER USUALLY GIVEN:
Yes. Is that bad?

Have you ever been pulled over at night (and this only happens at night in my experience) by a balding cop with a ridiculous mustache that appears to drink way too much of his homemade beer? The initial inquiry is always the same.

QUESTION #4:
Where you headed?

ANSWER GIVEN...Every single time, whether or not it's true:
Home

ANSWERS I WANT TO GIVE BUT WOULD DEFINITELY PAY FOR:
1. Your mom's.
2. I'm taking the AK47's I just purchased back to my warehouse to get them prepared for mass distribution.
3. To heaven eventually. Do you know Jesus?
4. 7-11 to get Combos. The pizza flavored ones. I love Combos when I smoke weed.
5. I've been asking myself that same question ever since I escaped from jail.

Just remember to pick your battles carefully...even if you really, really, REALLY want to tell that power-tripping cop you're on your way to visit his mother.

The Spirit Is Strong With This One

The Spirit of God is powerful. But those of us who subscribe to a belief in the God of the Bible already knew that, didn't we?

Paul writes in Romans 8:11...

"And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of his Spirit who lives in you."

I find this passage to be simply amazing. What can we not accomplish if such strength--powerful enough to bring the dead to life--dwells within us?

The answer, of course, is nothing.

The problem, unfortunately, is that I forget it more often than I remember.

Recently I was in a pretty bad place. I felt alone, unneeded, unwanted, unimportant...just overall unhappy. I spent a few days...maybe even a few weeks...wallowing in it. Drinking far more beer and smoking far more cigarettes than usual. The majority of my close friends had moved away over the years, and I felt like I had no one to talk to. As I sat on my front porch one night, well past one in the morning, gulping down the last of the beer I had bought that night, coughing from the accumulation of poison in my lungs, I realized two things.

I think the thoughts occurred simultaneously, though I'm not sure its even possible to think two things at the exact same time. But that's what it felt like, and we are talking about the Spirit of God here, so I choose to believe anything is possible.

The two thoughts were:

1. I haven't spoken to God in a very long time.
2. I wish I could talk to...for anonymity's sake, let's just call him Dick...right now.

Let's get something straight. I speak to God on a regular basis. I pray throughout the day, I pray before meals, before bed, etc... What I realized, though, is that I never really talk to God. I ask Him for things, I thank Him for things, but I never actually have a deep conversation with Him. So in the middle of a drunken stupor, I decided to give that a try.

I talked about Dick. I talked about how I missed him, and how I wished I could talk to him. I talked about what was going on in my life. How I felt, how I was handling how I felt, how I felt about how I was handling how I felt.

And then I passed out in bed.

I woke up, took the kids to school, went to work. And something amazing...something powerful happened. During my first cigarette break of the morning, Dick called. Out of the blue. Not only did he call, though, the first words out of his mouth were, "For some reason, I just felt like I needed to call you."

I understand that this may not seem very amazing to some. But it was earth-shaking for me. After pouring my heart out to God the night before, I knew at that moment, as I stood in the segregated smoking area, that He had heard me. And He cared about me. And that my friend cared about me. And I felt His Spirit move within me.

That was a couple months ago. It seems I had forgotten everything. Until a conversation with my wife reminded me.

She said that sometimes, she just needed time to herself. Time away from everyone and everything. For some reason, although I have always known that about her, I never fully grasped the life-and-death importance of it. I don't know what she does in her quiet periods, or what she prays about, or if she prays about anything. But I now know how essential they are. 

Because the Spirit moves in the silence. He awakens my soul when I'm quiet. When I speak without making a sound, He listens. And when I close my eyes and humble myself before Him, He fills me with strength. The same strength that raised Christ from the dead.

If its been a while since you've felt the presence of God within you, I urge you to spend more time alone with Him. If you've never accepted that the God of the Universe could desire an intimate relationship with you, I urge you to reconsider.

Because if He can speak to me...if He can love me...if He can change my life, my attitude...if He can forgive my failures, and stitch together my wounds...if He can extinguish my anger, and still my bursting heart...and if He can make me new, time and time and time again... 

If He can do all these things for a wretched creature that has nothing to offer but a pair of bent knees, bloody hands, and a bowed head...then He can do it for anyone.

From Father to Son

As a boy, my father spent a lot of time introducing me to the things that brought him joy. He insured that I had seen every Monty Python and Mel Brooks movie ever made. Genesis or Journey filled the air nearly every time we got in the car. He painstakingly tried to pass on his love for baseball...which I quit playing, much to his chagrin, after he pegged me with the ball an uncountable number of times. He was a horrible pitcher.

My dad taught me some valuable life lessons...all of which I have tried to apply to my own life...many of which I have failed at miserably.


"Learn to discern"
"Fear nobody, but respect everybody"
"If mama's not happy, nobody's happy"

Just to name a few.

So I spent some time thinking about the things I want to pass on to my own son. Here's what I've come up with so far:

1. Don't linger on the things you can't control...it will only suck the joy out of you. You can only control yourself, and you should always do so in a manner that does not embarrass me or your mother.
2. The greatest superhero ever created, or ever will be created, is Batman. Anyone that tells you differently is not only wrong, they're stupid.
3. I advise you to treat all girls/women respectfully, but ignore them as much as possible. This will, for some reason, make them more attracted to you. The longer you can act uninterested in a girl you are actually interested in, the better your chances of her liking you. And you should never be afraid to knock a girl down a notch or two. Don't be mean, just make fun of them about little things that won't overly offend them. This will make it seem like you don't see them as perfect--that you haven't placed them on a pedestal--and as a result, they will try harder to win your approval.
4. Lesson #3 does not apply to your wife. Once you have won that one special woman over, you need to treat her like she is the queen of your world. Never stop being romantic. Never stop telling her how beautiful she is. Your sex life depends upon it, but it shouldn't be the reason you do it. She can tell the difference between things you do out of love and things you do for sex.
5. It is okay to envision the girls you like wearing Princess Leia's slave outfit. But don't think about it too much. It will only frustrate you.
6. Don't take the people you care about for granted.
7. Things you say in anger can be forgiven much easier than they can be forgotten.
8. Don't air your dirty laundry on social networks.
9. Until you are married, your mother and sisters are the two most valuable females in your life. And when it comes to your sisters, I expect you to be right next to me if and when one of their boyfriends needs to be taught some lessons of their own.
10. Find something that you love to do and make it yours. Own it. If you can make a living doing it, that's great. But if you can't, you still need a hobby.
11. Video games, comic books, and Legos are just as fun as an adult as they are as a child.
12. Fighting strangers is frowned upon in this day and age. So I strongly suggest fighting your friends.
13. Think for yourself! Your friends are probably idiots. Cliffs do exist, and lemmings tend to fall off of them.
14. You don't have ADD. You don't need medication. You are a boy. Do what boys do, and don't apologize for it. If you get suspended for pretending your pencil is a gun, I'll be right there next to you, defending you in every way I can.
15. Don't start smoking. One day, you will, without a doubt, want to quit. And you will struggle with it your entire life.
16. It takes a lot of effort to find a style of Levi's that fits you perfectly. When you find them, remember the number.
17. Life is not fair. Disappointment is inevitable. Whining will get you nowhere. Get over it and move on.
18. The only true contentment you will find in your life is through Jesus Christ. People will fail you. Things will fade away. Only Christ's love endures.

5 Things That Are Getting To Me Lately

If you know me at all, you'd be acutely aware that not only do a lot of things bother me, but I also tend to be quite verbal in my dissatisfaction with them.

Here are five things that have had my temperature rising and my mouth running lately:

1. Stores that offer deep discounts on their wares, such as Kohl's. Hey, 70% off! Awesome! Oh, wait...they marked the prices up 80% higher than they should have been in the first place, and then put them on sale for 70% off...opposite of awesome. I was in a hat store in St. Augustine last weekend and they had a hat I liked for $30. I didn't buy it, but in the next hat shop (there are three hat shops right next door to each other) I found the same hat for $35. But it was labeled SALE - $5 OFF. Pretty sure they think we're stupid...probably for good reason.

2. Stores that ask you for your phone number/zip code at checkout. Um...how does this have anything to do with the eight 2x4's I'm trying to purchase? It doesn't...unless you happen to do a little research and find that they can merge your phone number/zip code with your credit card number to find out your address and then procede to send you mounds of junk mail. But that's not even the real problem. Let's say a hacker decides he wants that information, too. Then let's say you didn't want to be rude by refusing to give your personal information to the seventeen-year-old punk behind the register. Well now the hacker not only has your credit card number, he also knows your phone number and where you live...information that will go great with your stolen identity.

3. Facebook/Instagram memes that begin with "Niggas be like..." or "Bitches be like..." or "White people be like..." or whatever other stereotypical description for a group of human beings they're talking about. I'm just sick of ghetto language. It's not "White people be like..." It's "White people ARE like..." At this point, I don't even care about the racial slurs and derogatory connotations. Just speak proper frickin' English, and stop celebrating the fact that you sound like an idiot.

4. Since we're talking about Facebook...I loath posts that say something to the effect of, "Name a fish that doesn't contain the letter 'A' in its name. Bet you can't ;)" Well I can name about a hundred. And so can anyone else with half a brain. If your sole purpose in life is to see how many comments you can get on a post, I feel sorry for you. And that little winky face at the end makes me want to punch you in the throat.

5. Candy Crush. I hate that @&%*ing game! Because I am addicted to it. This stupid game brings more cuss words out of my mouth than old people driving in front of me. Yet I can't stop playing it. It's like that picture of Kramer. It's hideous, yet i can't look away. This game takes up way too much of my time. Yet. I. Can't. Stop. Playing. Candy. Crush!

To top it all off, the fact that these things get to me is really starting to get to me. Is there anything worse than being irked at being irked at something?

I say, "Yes, yes there is." It's your wife being irked that your irked at something.

A Song for the Weary

This life is a wind that sweeps us into the next. And I will ride this torrent with you.

Because the hearts of men are ships at sea. The calm brings fleeting comfort and peace, but it is through the storm that conviction is proven: to be tossed asunder by the wind; to be cast into the deep by the torrent; or to have the courage to stay the course.

For you I stay the course.

My arms will be open, my hands grasp for yours until time gives way to eternity. My love buckles not beneath the weight. For this love requires no reciprocation.

Until the wind blows no more, my heart remains steadfast. Until the earth turns to dust, your rock I will be.

And when that day comes, when our knees bend before the Most High, you will witness a love that has no equal.

But the love I give you in this life shall not pale in comparison.

The Monster at the End of This Blog

Whaaat did that say?!

In the title...up at the top...does that say there's a monster at the end of this blog?!

I'm scared of monsters. Especially the kind that pop up out of nowhere. Like at the end of a normally pleasant read. Such as this one.

SO DON"T READ ANY FURTHER!

I get up to use the bathroom at least once every night. You don't realize how many mirrors you have in your house until you try to avoid looking into one on the way to the toilet at two o'clock in the morning. I'm terrified of seeing something standing behind me. Or catching a quick glimpse of something sinister as it crosses the room. It's stupid, I know...if there was something in my room, I doubt it would wait until I woke up to take a piss before it ate my soul.

WHY ARE YOU STILL READING!! Didn't you hear there's a monster at the end of this blog?!

Sometimes my son comes into my room at night and just stands beside my bed. To make matters worse, he drapes his blanket over his head and wraps up in it. I wake up from the sense that someone is watching me, and there he is, just hovering there like a phantom, his face blacked out by shadow. I inevitably teach him a new cuss word each time I'm freaked-out into consciousness. Last night I said, "Son-of-a-shit-balls." No idea what that means. Once I cried, "Mother-ghost-hell" into the night, and my son actually giggled. He's standing there, covered in his blanket, looking like a tiny murderer, laughing at me.

You're still here? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Get out while you still can!

My dog growls at invisible things at night. I've crept around the house more than once with my pistol point cocked...ready to lay shots non-stop until I see that monkey ass drop. And let their homies know who done it. But I digress...and yes, that rap song, like many rap songs, does have racial slurs.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING! Don't click that link! It takes you to the end of the blog! And there's creepy, scary monsters at the end of the blog with great big nasty teeth!


To the End of the Blog



















































MONSTERS

This Has Nothing To Do With Skinny Jeans

Well, I have been smoke free (mostly) for the past four months, and I gotta say I feel great! No more coughing, especially when I laugh really hard. No more sinus infections, until last week when I inhaled a butt-load of dirt and dust while mowing my lawn.

And I can breath! I ran three miles the other day without getting winded. Previously, I was lucky to make it a mile and a half before hyperventilating. My neighbors used to find me passed out in their ditch. Usually, it was because I'd been running. I won't get into those other instances that running wasn't involved.

"How?" you ask, did I accomplish this incredible feat?

Assuming you're inquiring about the quitting and not the running or passing out, I could lie and say that my Green Lantern-like willpower pulled me through. But I won't. Although, I did quit cold turkey once, which was an amazing display of will. I've also quit using nicotine patches. A few times.

"A few times?" you say. How many times have I quit smoking? A LOT. I honestly can't remember how many times I have deprived myself of this disgusting, yet immensely satisfying habit. But I always fall back into it.

I feel you smokers out there nodding your heads. Word.

See, I come from a long line of quitters. And sometimes I like to quit the same thing over and over again just because I'm not doing anything else that needs quitting. And then I start again...somehow completely forgetting/dismissing the HELL I went through to rid the delicious nicotine from my system. So this time's going to be different...at least that's what I'm shooting for.

But that isn't the real point in the post. The real point revolves around the earlier question that I pretended you asked me: How?

The answer is drugs. I started taking drugs. Regularly. At least once, most of the time twice a day.

Its called Chantix. I've taken it before, and the stuff really does work. Granted, last time didn't stick, but I didn't take the complete course last time either.

Now, that being said, here's my issue with the whole Chantix thing. So many of my friends and family members are against smoking because it isn't good for you. And then the Christian ones claim its a sin because it desecrates your body which is supposed to be God's temple. I happen to agree with both.

Then I got to thinking. Sure, smoking ruins your lungs, clogs your arteries, gives you cancer, changes your voice, etc... All of which darkens your temple. But the same people that are against all of these things pat me on the back and congratulate me when they find out I'm taking Chantix.

Like Chantix isn't a drug.

Like Chantix miraculously makes you quit smoking without any negative consequences.

Let me tell you how Chantix has effected my temple:

1. Frequent mild to severe upset stomach
2. Frequent mild to severe dizzy spells
3. Frequent waking up at night
4. Frequent insane nightmares involving clowns, vampire bunnies, and that kid from Paranormal Activity.
5. Significantly diminished sex drive
6. Inability to feel happy or excited about things

Chantix actually blocks nicotine from reaching certain receptors in your brain. Those receptors would normally cause a chemical called dopamine to be released. Dopamine causes you to feel pleasure. So basically, by restricting dopamine release, Chantix causes you to get no pleasure from nicotine. However, it also dampens pleasure in other things--like sex, or even life in general.

Is it any wonder it's recommended that people diagnosed with depression not take this drug? Can you imagine a depressed person being cut off from what little pleasure they still may experience? Have you heard the stories of people using Chantix committing suicide?

So which is better? Smoking or Chantix? I haven't heard anyone tell me I'm ruining my temple as a result of using Chantix. Even though it completely alters how your brain functions, and decreases natural (some may even say God-breathed) sensations that human beings are supposed to feel...need to feel.

But don't you dare smoke! Its a sin!

After all that, I continue to take Chantix. It makes me miserable at times, but so does smoking. I go back and forth on whether or not to quit taking it. Long line of quitters and all.

I think my point here is this: Just because something is socially acceptable, it doesn't make it good. More often than not, I find myself standing on the side opposite society, believing in the things the masses are against, disagreeing with the things they are for.

And more and more, I find that I am okay with that.

Because 10,000,000 emo kids wearing skinny jeans CAN be wrong.

We Are Aware...Of Everything

I know it's been a while since my last post, but I've been busy moving and working and raising children. For some of you, my words are an integral part of your lives; as essential as the air you breathe; as necessary as the pickle that accompanies your deli sandwich. I want you to know that I am aware of this.

So to observe those that have spent the last three months yearning for another blog post from yours truly, and to recognize the fact that I am aware of that yearning, I hereby deem the month of April to be Awareness Month Awareness Month from now henceforth until the end of time. We will forevermore use the month of April to celebrate, commemorate, and acknowledge all the other months that we are bombarded with things to celebrate, commemorate, and acknowledge.

Let's start with April. Besides being Awareness Month Awareness Month, April is also Mathematics Awareness Month, where we acknowledge that math exists, and Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, where not only do we acknowledge the people that abuse children, but we also refrain from abusing our own children until May. Let us not forget it is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and Rape Prevention Month. These clearly go hand in hand. I heard recently that the most effective way to avoid being raped is to crap yourself. In April we are aware of Parkinson's Disease, Autism, Asperger's Syndrome, Diabetes, and recognize that some people have STD's, Developmental Disabilities, an Appreciation for Jazz, and my favorite, Drive While Distracted.

In May, we celebrate the heritages of South Asians (don't even think about North Asians in May), Haitians, Jews, and those from the Asian Pacific. Amongst other things, we celebrate bicycles, pets, and foster care; we are aware of ALS (only in the US, though; Canadians celebrate this in June), asthma, celiac disease, and neurofibromatosis.

June is for adopting cats, hip-hop and those of Caribbean descent. It is also LGBT Pride Month, where we celebrate and take pride in men that have sex with other men, women that have sex with other women, men and women that have sex with men and women, and men and women that identify themselves as women and men - I'm not sure who they have sex with though.

We eat tacos and hot dogs in July, and then dance it off.

August is kind of a downer. We give a special nod to people with amblyopia and cataracts, although they probably can't see it, and a pat on the back to those with spinal muscular atrophy and psoriasis. Also don't forget that there are millions of immunizations available, and you should get every single one of them. Enjoy August because you will likely have the flu in September.

In September, while suffering through whatever sickness you've come down with as a result of intentionally injecting yourselves with said sickness, we recognize National Preparedness Month. This is where FEMA encourages us to prepare ourselves for a catastrophic state of emergency because the government is incapable of responding to them. But I really don't feel we need to observe this every year. Every four years in November would be sufficient. Oh, and just about every Central American country celebrates their independence in September, which somehow lead to an influx of immigrants to the U.S. and the need to establish Hispanic Heritage Month.

October is a biggie. We feel sorry for battered women while simultaneously spending a lot of time talking about their breasts. We also strive to end bullying by making our sons whiny little girls, and we remember the struggles, strife, and civil rights violations that homosexual and transgender Americans have endured at the hands of whitey. Not to be outdone by the segregation, humiliation, beatings, and murders of blacks in the early- to mid-1900's, homosexuals have been called names...and...and have been called names...sometimes...by...mean people...

November is NaNoWriMo! The whole nation writes a novel! Right? I kind of just stare at the screen wondering why I thought anyone would waNT TO READ THIS CRAP! Then I rant and drink beer and yell at my kids and come back to what I was writing and think, hey, this isn't so bad, but then I sober up and read it again and wonder wHY I THOUGHT ANYONE WOULD WANT TO READ THIS CRAP! I love NaNoWriMo.

December is Political Correctness Awareness Month, when the retards in the media tell us what we are and aren't allowed to say, and I organize my annual Smear the Queer tournament. It's also Safe Toys and Gifts Awareness Month because every kid should wear a helmet inside while reading and doing puzzles.

January is Glaucoma Awareness Month, also known as "Smoke It If You Got It Month". We are made aware that there is poverty in America, while somewhere in the Middle East our charitable leaders are giving billions to countries that want to kill us. It's also Personal Self-Defense Awareness Month, unless you are at a school, university, courthouse, somewhere that serves alcohol, or serving in your neighborhood watch. Or really anywhere else the government decides they don't want you carrying the firearm you have every right to be carrying.

We all know what February is, and everything else falls to the wayside (though I still recommend you spay and neuter your animals). This is the time to celebrate our black brothers and sisters. They have endured more hardships than any other minority in our great nation, though only slightly more than the LGBT community. It's also Ethnic Equality Month, but who are we kidding. Everyone knows black guys make better athletes, and they are almost always showers, not growers.

And finally we get to March, and honestly, it's kind of a let down. I guess someone, somewhere gives a flying flip about celery, crafts, essential tremors (whatever those are), and peanuts. I do, however, enjoy frozen foods. I also think it's important to commemorate women's history, where we will inevitably hear about Hilary Clinton's achievements, all accomplished with absolutely zero help from her husband *Ahem*. The only thing that makes March bearable is the celebration of the Irish. I love Irish people. And I love drinking beers.

So I hope you'll all join me this year by taking part in Awareness Month Awareness Month. I see no reason why we can't celebrate, commemorate, contemplate, and commiserate any of the above each and every April. Just don't spend too much time pretending to be Irishmen with glaucoma.

I love you all, be excellent to each other, and all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

A Scientific Approach to Understanding Gender Differences

Problem: Communication between male and female counterparts appears strained and often times non-existent.

Hypothesis: Lack of communication is due to a difference in male and female thought processes.

Case Study: A random couple was given such-and-such-an-item as a Christmas gift. A picture of the item was presented in lieu of the actual item because it had yet to be ordered. About a week goes by and the husband asks his wife if such-and-such-an-item is being delivered to their house. She says, "Yes."

Two more weeks go by and the item has yet to arrive, so the husband inquires of his wife as to the item's whereabouts. She replies that she has not ordered it because she hadn't yet picked which style of such-and-such-an-item she wanted.

Results: The husband is at first confused. "You said it was on the way," he accuses his wife. "No, you asked if it was being delivered here, and I said it was," the wife says. "But it can't be delivered here unless you order it," the husband refutes. "You didn't ask if I ordered it," the wife says. And so on, until the man becomes angry and the woman begins to cry.

Analysis: The husband assumed that such-and-such-an-item had been ordered because if something is to be delivered somewhere, someone would have had to order it first. Not to mention the word "being", as in "is the item being delivered here", implies the present tense. The wife does not entertain such assumptions. She believes her answer implied that IF such-and-such-an-item were to be ordered, it would be delivered to the house. The fact that a picture of the item to be ordered was shown to the husband, along with the failure to mention the task of choosing the "style" of the item, has been utterly disregarded.

Conclusion One: Women are illogical. This may come as a shock to women, but that shouldn't be surprising. After all, crazy people don't think they're crazy. The ability to make a connection between two correlating subjects (e.g. order and delivery) is apparently not something that God endowed the female gender with.  So when asking a woman a question, a man may not assume anything. Regardless of how blatant or obvious an assumption may be to a man, it is very likely that the woman has not made, nor do they care to make, the same assumption. In addition, the woman does not need to be right in order to win an argument.

Conclusion Two: Men are assholes. This does not come as a shock to most women. Nor does this fact elude most men. This is why the man ends up apologizing to the woman after a fight. It's because he acted like a complete douche bag, even though he probably started off on the correct side of the issue. Furthermore, making the woman cry automatically disqualifies the man from any victory that may have been within his grasp.

Final Conclusion: The hypothesis seems correct. Lack of communication between male and female counterparts is indeed due to a difference in thought processes. It should also be noted that it is pointless for a man to enter into an argument with a woman who has the tendency to cry. Estrogen trumps testosterone every time...unless you're a wife-beater. And in that case, you'll likely end up in jail or missing a penis, so the woman still wins.

Life of Ryan

Ugh, 6:30 in the morning sucks, and doing it every day is worse. I literally roll off my bed onto my hands and knees and groan at the indecency of it all. I trudge to the bathroom, nearly tripping over my son who is passed out at the foot of the bed, and make it to the bathroom relatively unscathed. The shower heats up while I brush my teeth (I loathe brushing my teeth, but I know people appreciate it), then step into the spraying stench of well-water. I wash, I dry off, and quickly cover myself as my daughter traipses in to brush her teeth. Why she can't do this in her own bathroom is beyond me. And why she can't get it through her noggin that little girls aren't allowed to see their daddy naked is even more of a conundrum.

I comb Declan's hair, and then I brush my own. I figure more hair stays on the brush nowadays than remains on my head. I've made peace with it, though I'm not quite ready to buzz it. I'll leave it to my wife to tell me when I should make that leap.

My closet contains about twenty shirts, three of which I like, and two pairs of pants. It doesn't really matter which ones I grab because they all match. I only wear blue, grey, and black. I do, however, spend a second to decide on which belt and shoes to wear. Brown or black. Brown doesn't go with black, so if I'm wearing black I don't choose brown. Hey, that's a pretty good tongue twister...I bet Riley will like it.

I see my wife for 2.5 seconds while pouring coffee into my gigantic travel mug. Then I'm out the door with two of the three kids. I backtrack ten minutes to take Riley to school then drop Declan off at Preschool, which is a relief to my ears and head since he has yacked the entire way about God knows what. He reminds me of my brother. I remember taking a hunting trip to NC a few years back. He rambled incessantly for the first few hours until I fell asleep. When I woke up again my brother was still talking and I'm pretty sure it was about the same thing he was talking about before I passed out.

If you ask Riley what I do at work, she'll say, "Typie, typie."  She's really not that far off, so I'll leave it at that. I also smoke a lot and check my email. Whadaya know, another agent rejecting my manuscript. Oh well, I have dozens more feelers out there, maybe the next one will be different.

My mom's at the house with the kids when I get home, and I attempt to spend some quality time with them while simultaneously throwing dinner together (the first thing Reagan says when I walk in the door is, "I eat now?"). Kristin works til 9:00, and I says to myself, "Self, you're not nearly as good at this as your wife is."

Both Riley and Declan are supposed to read a book before going to bed, which is nearly impossible with a two-year-old running around the house and a hyper dog yelping at her heels. Then they need a drink of water, then Reagan has to poop, then Riley can't find her beebee (blanket), then Declan is crying because he somehow bonked his head on the bed rail while he was alone in his room, and on and on for about half an hour.

Finally, I have a much needed cigarette. Tonight I have a beer or two or three as well, and play Call of Duty until my wife gets home. We have time to watch one TV show together before going to bed, too tired for sex mind you, and we prepare to do it all over again tomorrow.

Why do I tell you all this? If you notice, every paragraph includes my kids except the last one, and that's because they're supposed to be sleeping. My world revolves around them, and although I'm tired and frustrated more often than not, the fact remains that they are the reason I roll off the bed every morning. They're why I go to sleep exhausted every night. It's not always fun, but it is always necessary. It took me a little while to realize that. And after I did, even the hard stuff, the I-want-to-blow-my-brains-out-right-now stuff, became endurable.

The Snatcher

Hi All. It's been a while since my last post, but I hesitate to apologize because I do this in my free time, which is growing more and more infrequent. So...I'm sorry...and I'm not...and I've now gone cross-eyed.

In the spirit of not having much time to update my blog lately, I have decided to dedicate this post to my most recent published work, titled The Snatcher. I think it is rather excellent, but then again I'm pretty biased when it comes to how awesome my stuff is.

So without further ado, in conjunction with the most esteemed e-mag Microhorror.com, I present my very short story The Snatcher.

Click here to read it.

All Manner of Things

Last week, a warm and fuzzy little milestone was reached.  My blog exceeded 1,000 views --pauses for applause-- So in honor of myself and my awesome blog, I have decided not to post anything this week.

Except posting that I'm not posting is indeed posting.  And since I'm already logged on and everything I might as well make it worth the while.  Therefore, in celebration of this blog, the following nuggets of nonsense conform to neither rhyme nor reason and can only be described as all manners of things.

I believe the phrase is actually "all manner of things", but that name was already taken so I added the "s" to "manner".

If you are not aware that you should walk against the traffic and ride your bike with the traffic, you should not be walking or riding your bike anywhere.

Each day after I drop my daughter off at school, I drive away absolutely surprised that no one got run over and completely stunned at how stupid people are.

I'm pretty sure every character in The Walking Dead would have been zombies by late-Season 1.  You can only wear tank-tops, no gloves, no eye protection, and no masks for so long before all that zombie blood-splatter gets into your open wounds, eyes, nose, and mouth.  That being said, it's still the best show on TV.

Honey is the nectar of the gods, and mead is the best thing you can make honey into.

I sometimes wish my kids would disappear so that I can get some work done (play video games), but when they're gone I get really bored.

I will never understand how the outcome of a sporting event can actually affect someone's mood.

If you embrace personal freedom, but support significant government control over the economy, you are not a liberal.  You're extremely confused.

For some reason, I whistle Dixie at least three times a day.

If you can put on make-up, text, smoke, and sing, all while driving, then you will likely add "kill someone" to the list one day. 

When do you think incest became taboo?  How many people had to be alive on the earth before it was deemed inappropriate to marry your sister?  I imagine the first two people accused of incest were pretty confused, and the first people that accused someone of incest were the biggest hypocrites of all time.

It's not cheating until you're married.

I enjoy flicking my kids in the head.  It makes a satisfying hollow thump sound.

Do not be defined by your job, race, political status, or sexual orientation.  To do so makes you a slave to that attribute, and bondage is never easily broken.  Instead, be defined by your character, beliefs, and relationships.  These are the things that great people are remembered for.  Stand for what is right.  I'll do the same, and together we can weather all manner of things.

It's Good To Be The King

The subject of taxation came up at work the other day, and as usual, it got me all riled up.  Which isn't very hard to do.  If you know me, you know that I can get a bit excited about certain issues.  And this happens to be one of them.  This particular person actually thinks that he owns his home!  Imagine that...owning something you've paid for!  Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "So you paid your house off?"
Him: "Yep, I'm free and clear. I finally own it instead of the bank."
I chuckle.  "Really?  You own it now?"
Him: "Yeah, of course.  I don't have a mortgage anymore."
Me: "What about the taxes you still have to pay on it?"
He shrugs.  "What about them?  I still own the house."
Me: "I wonder who would own your house if you chose not to pay your property taxes."

His eyebrows rose at that.  Apparently, he hadn't thought of that before.  And I do realize I was being a downer by bringing this up to him after he was so excited about paying his house off.  But the issue of property taxes--and taxes in general--is a very hot topic right now.

In the middle ages, a king or lord would levy a property tax on the people they ruled over.  If you "owned" land, you paid a tax on it.  Well last I heard, we lived in a republic represented by the people.  We're not in a fiefdom here.  We don't pay tribute to a king.  So why are we subjected to such a feudal system of taxation?  I understand paying taxes on the things you purchase, houses and property included, but once you've paid something off you should own it.

Obviously, property taxes are used to fund certain public services such as schools, libraries, fire and public safety departments, and parks.  Some of these are are important, some are not (i.e. public libraries).  How many people actually go to the library anymore?  And for those of you that said, "I do!" how many of you have actually checked out a book instead of renting a movie or video game?  How about police departments?  I live in Palm Bay, FL, and it seems the only thing Palm Bay cops do is write tickets.  They sure as hell don't respond to emergency calls in a timely manner.  So basically tax payers in my city pay to be cited for traffic violations.  Not saying police aren't important, just saying they should remember who pays their salaries and quit being douche bags.

The reach of the government has become so long that people cannot even practice their profession without paying to do so.  My wife is a cosmetologist, and each year she is required to pay a license fee in order to legally practice a vocation she has already gone to school for.  Seriously?  Twenty years ago, anyone could be a barber.  Just open a shop and start cutting hair.  If you didn't like your haircut, you didn't go back to that barber.  Seems pretty reasonable to me.  This applies to all businesses and professions.  Why should you have to apply for an occupational license in order to open a business?  What business is it of the government?  Do you know how many small businesses close their doors for no other reason than they cannot deal with the hoops the government makes them jump through just to stay open?

So how do we pay for these services if we don't pay perpetual property taxes?  The answer is simple really: FAIR TAX.  A low to non-existent federal income tax coupled with a much higher sales tax.  Simplify the tax code, terminate the IRS, incentivize small business and investors.  The economy grows, so do tax revenues.  Cut spending on frivolous nonsense.  Keep what is needed, get rid of what isn't.  The city doesn't need another multi-million dollar park.  It doesn't need another street light in front of Calvary Chapel (especially when they have off-duty police directing traffic and making me late for service at the church I have to pass Calvary to get to).

There's an election coming up.  Vote accordingly!  We fought a revolution to get away from a tyrant king and his taxes.  And although it may be extremely good to be the king, the fact remains we don't have one.  No matter what our esteemed Commander and Chief thinks of himself.

The Sign Said Only Long-Haired Freaky People Allowed

I saw a picture the other day of a quaint little sign that said, "If only closed minds came with closed mouths".  I couldn't infer where the sign was located, but I imagined it was perched atop the service counter of some small business that sold cleverly offensive bumper stickers and homemade bongs, run by a rat-tailed hippie that still believes in sex without consequences.  I'm probably way off...my imagination tends to get away from me sometimes. 

But regardless of where the sign sat, I couldn't help but have a problem with what it means.  For a number of reasons.  The foremost being how absolutely hypocritical it is.  What is this really saying?  It's saying that if you have an opinion that I find "closed minded" then you should shut your mouth.  In other words, if you disagree with me, I don't want to hear it and I don't think anyone else should hear it either.  So who is closed-minded?  Maybe someone should make a sign saying, "If only closed minds didn't think of ridiculous things to put on signs." 

Furthermore, it serves to deepen one of the underlying problems in this country.  We can't have debates anymore without one side calling the other side names or being dismissed as closed-minded.  I recently had a conversation with a long-time friend about gay marriage.  It ended with me being de-friended on Facebook and I haven't heard from her since.  I'm sure she thought I was being "closed-minded" about the issue...but I'm not the one that got angry and cut off all forms of communication.  I guess some people can't be friends with someone they don't see eye-to-eye with.  I'm not one of those people.

Even the term "closed-minded" bothers me.  It's nonsensical if you really think about it.  How can someone even have a closed mind?  In order to have an opinion or conviction, you have to register at least a little bit of information about the subject.  You search for the truth, and once you believe you've found it, you defend it.  How is that "closed-minded"?

I submit to you that there are no closed minds.  There are only minds.  To each one is given, unique to any other, and you are expected to use it.  So the next time someone accuses you of having a closed mind, remind them how stupid they are.  Just kidding...sort of. 

Yo Gabba Crappa!

After seven years of sifting through the absolute garbage that is now available for my children to watch on television, I've come to the conclusion that they have seriously been given the short end of the stick.  Sure, technology has advanced, and DVR and Netflix makes it possible for them to watch whatever cartoons they want at virtually any time of day (provided my wife and I allow it, of course).  But while that can be convenient, I'm not sure it's better.  Especially considering I have grown to loathe nearly every show that's on right now.

When I was a kid, my brother and I had to wait until Saturday morning to watch our favorite shows.  Now, I'm only thirty years old, and I am well aware that some of you reading this had to walk three miles in the snow, up hill, both ways, just to get to someone's house that owned a TV, and then had to spend an hour adjusting the antenna in order to see enough of the black and white picture peek through the static to make it worth watching.  I understand this, but I really wish you'd quit making everything about yourselves.  I didn't have to do that, and I only got to watch He-Man on Saturday mornings, okay?  Those Saturday morning cartoon fests where my brother and I would curl up on the floor of the living room in our pajamas and argue over who's turn it was to pick what we watched was what made the weekends exciting.  We had to wait all week to see GI Joe kick the crap out of Cobra.  We had to survive five days of school before we got to see if the Decepticons would succeed in overcoming the Autobots.  But there's no waiting anymore.  No built up suspense.  Now my kids argue about which episode of what season of SpongeBob they want to watch.  And forget sitting through commercials.  Spoiled brats.

Furthermore, where I really think kids of today are missing out, is in the quality of programs.  Entertainment has been replaced with "learning" where little animal rescuers scream at my kids in Spanish and expect them to respond back in kind.  Seriously, Dora?  Boots is standing right next to you.  LOWER YOUR VOICE!  And my kids aren't answering your stupid questions so you can quit staring at us with that retarded look on your face.  If you don't know what a triangle is, you deserve to get your stuff stolen by Swiper. 

Every episode of GI Joe would give you a nice life lesson, but after the awesome battles were over.  He-Man would give you some great advice, but after he had knocked Skeletor out with his awesome sword.  Not anymore.  Now we have Max & Ruby, two bunny rabbits that apparently have no parents.  Ruby's always bossing Max around to the point where I want to strangle the rude, selfish little...Anyways, my kids don't watch that anymore.   

Then there's Yo Gabba Gabba!  I know a few parents that are more obsessed with this show than their kids.  And it is, for the most part, pretty creative.  Odd, but creative.  The only real problem I have with this show--besides the god-like, orange tights-wearing weirdo that hovers over everything--is their choice of guest stars.  For some reason, they think it's a good idea to introduce my two, four, and seven year old to people like Sarah Silverman and Jack Black.  My kids don't need to know who either of these people are, and honestly, I wish I didn't know who Sarah Silverman was (if you don't know who this is, watch the first five minutes of The Way of the Gun and it will give you an idea of why she has no business on a kid's show).  I like a lot of the stars and musical guests they have on the show, but whether or not I like them is irrelevant.  The issue is whether or not it is appropriate for them to be on a children's show.

That being said, there are some pretty good cartoons out there.  I enjoy Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Transformers Prime, The Green Lantern, and SpongeBob Squarepants.  Granted I'm a guy, so my preferences are a little skewed.  Now if only I can get my son to watch them with me instead of My Little Pony, but his older sister seems to be winning out in that arena so far.  Personally, I think Nickelodeon needs to make ten more shows about teenage rock stars.      

A Day Without Hyphens

Getting my butt out of bed early enough to exercise is a major task for me.  In fact, rising from bed a minute earlier than absolutely necessary is a strain on my conscience and overall values.  Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I found myself walking out the front door and heading for the newly constructed Florida Tech gym a whole two hours before my first class of the day.  I plugged the auxiliary cable into my mp3 player and spent the two-cigarette drive to school rocking out to My Hotel Year.  The usual spread of semi-attractive/unattractive girls and under-committed foreign dudes greeted me as I made my way to the treadmill.  But it wasn't until I had set my run cycle and stuffed in my ear buds that I realized something was off.

Machine after machine was abandoned, their recent occupants beginning to gather along the second story rail.  Then the runners to either side of me left their treadmills without bothering to turn them off.  They walked to the railing and the gathering crowd, and I followed their stares to the several TV screens that hovered in a long row over the room.  Every one of them was tuned to a different news station.  Every one of them showed the same image.

Smoke billowed from the North Tower.  Reporters stated that a plane had crashed, a small twin-engine that soon turned out to be a commercial aircraft.  They were confused, the people they interviewed were confused, the people around me were confused.  I was confused.  I remember standing under the TV's alongside everyone else without a clue as to how I'd gotten there. 

The cameras zoomed to the tower as the reporters speculated on what had happened, and they interviewed more New Yorkers on the street.  I watched one woman as she gave her account of what had happened, and then in mid-sentence, her eyes grew wide and she said another one hit.  The cameras panned over and down as the fireball took out the middle of the South Tower.

When those around me began to gasp, I realized I had been holding my breath.  A girl standing beside me that I'd never met before grabbed my hand and began to cry.  We stood there together for a long time. 

I don't remember leaving, but I do remember getting in my truck and crying.  I cried all the way home, in total silence, still confused, not yet angry.  In retrospect, I'm not sure there was much anger on that day.  Anger came after, when we had someone to be angry at.  For most of us, on that day, when the towers fell, there was only the person standing next to you.  It didn't matter who they were or where they were from.  There were no hyphens on that day.  No African-Americans, no Hispanic-Americans, no Asian-Americans, no German-Italian-English-Irish-Jewish-Americans.  There were only Americans.  Americans looking to others for comfort, for help.  And Americans giving comfort and aid to those that needed it.  On that day we were a nation unified.  We were neighbors to complete strangers.

Every year on this day I remember that girl that took my hand.  I can't remember what she looked like, I don't know her name, I never even spoke to her, but I remember needing her touch as much as she needed mine.  I remember the fallen that needed saving and the heroes that gave their lives to save them. 

I look back on September 11, 2001, and I remember how much I love my country.