Grasping for a Metaphor (As Usual)

So I tripped and fell on my face. A mouth full of concrete and everything. I don't remember why I was in such a hurry. Sometimes I just run home from places, so I can get home faster. Either way, I was running, and I ate shit. My iPod clattered to the ground with the pronounced skid of scratched metal. My backpack threw itself off my shoulder in desperate hopes of avoiding impact. And everything tumbled to the ground right in front of these two girls, who of course asked me if I was okay. Embarrassed and unwilling to show any vulnerability or pain, I quickly scrounged up everything I had dropped. I gave the girls a nod of, "Yes, I'm fine, I'm alive and breathing so please stop looking at me with that horrifically pitiful look and just pretend that this singular encounter never happened," and ran all the way home. Brushing the dirty and leaves from my chest, laughing at myself, ignoring the dull moan of pain from my wrists, arms, knees.

The incident was a lot of things to me. It wasn't a surprise, that's for sure. I've always been too clumsy and gangly to control all of my absurdly long extremities. It was a little embarrassing. But luckily, I'll never have to face those girls again. And even if I do, I take comfort in the distortional quality of the darkness. We probably wouldn't even recognize each other. It was painful, but what's life without a few scrapes and bruises anyway?

Most of all though, it was damn exhilarating. And, to me, it was a moment that reaffirmed a lot in my life. It made me remember how hard everything worth fighting for is. And how much strength I possessed, with which I could fight in the first place. And what was WG to me anyway? Literally speaking, it was two horrible years of bitterness and anger. But in the grand scheme of things, it might as well have just been a trip and a fall (a bad fall maybe), on my way home. And no matter how banged up or bruised I was as a result, look at how quickly I could pull myself up and dust off the incident.

I wasn't strong, but now I am. You can throw what you want at me. You can push me down and spit on me. You can say mean words, or throw punches, or try to tear down my resolve. But I'll always get back up and dust myself off. I'll always keep fighting and running and pushing.

I used to be weak and vulnerable. I used to lack hope and resolve. But look at me now. Now, I feel impenetrable.

Tigerheat Regulars

The funny thing about the anything involving gay culture is that it grows very redundant, very fast. And so do the people. I feel like every time I go to Tigerheat or another club in a specific area, the same people are always there. Sure, there are people who come and go. Newcomers are always filtering in, and sometimes (not always), the older members phase out. But the gay communities everywhere are always so concentrated, so small. Everyone you meet is somehow connected to everyone else. It's inescapable. It's like a bitchy suburban community of soccer moms that drink too much coffee and talk too much shit about each other.

Anyway, I went to Tigerheat again quite recently, it it was only then that I realized just how recurring all the characters around me truly are. For me, some of them are a really specific person, but others just refer to a type of person I happen to see there almost every time I go. Before we get started though, I want to familiarize you with a few terms:

Group Savior: A member from the original group of friends in attendance for the night. The Group Savior can be more than one person, but the role is the same: to separate the victim (usually from the savior's core group) and the attacker (usually someone creepy or not very attractive), usually through the execution of a smooth dance move.

Bruno: A safe word my friends and I have adapted to signal when interaction is not desired. The term originated from a quite assertive gentleman who got a little handsy with an individual in our group. As soon as things get this out of hand, mouthing the word "Bruno" is immediate grounds for separation via Group Savior.

So let's get started.

You know those people who just can't take a hint? Like, for some reason, they have this overwhelming amount of confidence, and it's hard to tell where it all comes from. This duo is toxically confident. They're not particularly unfortunate looking or anything, but their actions slowly degrade their looks anyway. Earlier this Summer, my cousin Cory was victim to the Gum Twirling Twins. They move swiftly and efficiently. Their moment between absence and presence is so small that they seem to materialize out of nowhere. And so, they appeared. They surrounded Cory, slithering and slinking around his body with attempted sex appeal. Gnashing their gum like a native New York mother on a mission. It doesn't usually take long before the victim pulls away in flustered dismay. At this moment, the twins stand their ground. They slink back on to their supporting hip, hook their scrawny fingers into their mouthes, and twirl their gum with pungent attitude. It's only a matter of seconds before they try again, and it takes either repeated rejection of a Group Savior to shake them off permanently. And by permanently, I mean that they might leave for a half hour before trying again.

A Close Proximity Stalker is a person who really wants to dance with you, but either lacks the confidence or motivation to do so. You can sense these guys very easily, and once you notice them, they're hard to ignore. There are two subspecies of C.P.S.: the creepy guy, who likes to stare at you and graze against your skin regardless of how awkward it is for you or your group, or the shy boy, who thinks you're incredibly beautiful and can't help but be frozen by his own attraction to you. And sometimes it's hard to tell them apart. You have to be careful with these guys. It's hard not to look for them to make sure they're gone, but make eye contact too many times, and you'll send the wrong message. Beware, though. Close Proximity Stalkers are not afraid to grab your ass when you're not looking.

Although Tigerheat is principally a gay club, heterosexuals sometimes tread the story for one reason or another. Sometimes straight men are really open-minded about their gay friends. They'll go with the gays and the girls to dance and have fun. Sometimes straight men are dragged in by their girlfriends. But the most dangerous straight man of all is the straight man who attends primarily to find the straight girls that come with their gays. The defining factor of the Aggressive Creeper is the forceful dancing and aggressive touching. I swear they must come in packs, because there are so many of them. And they are usually gross. These men are often in their mid to late thirties. They wear baggy jeans, white crew necks, and open button-up short sleeve shirts, most likely from Pacific Sunwear. They wear sunglasses inside. Oakley Sunglasses. More often than not, they have a ponytail that runs down most of the length of their back. This is a standard creeper, who unleashes himself on the innocent straight girls who just want to dance and have fun. They usually reach straight for the legs or hips, violating their victim as fast as possible. It only takes a frenzied look or an outstretched hand to signal the desire to be saved.

Aggressive Creepers come in other forms too. Really young straight guys who don't know better and are extremely horny, and even gay guys too. Gay guys are the worst. They usually shove their tongue down your throat, and their hand down your pants. In fact, that's where the term "Bruno" came from. Guess what he did.

There's a group of really pretty boys at Tigerheat. They're there every time I go. Judging everyone from the confines of their tight knit, beautiful group. I like to call them the Tigerheat Plastics. They don't really do much. They don't even sweat through their beautiful hair. I had the unfortunate experience of trying to dance with one once. Before I labeled his group the plastics, or even realized he was part of them. I tried to spark his interest with fun dance moves and smiles. He just stood there, texting. Come to think of it, I don't really know why the Tigerheat Plastics bother going to Tigerheat at all. I don't think I've seen them have fun once.

I've only seen one Middle Aged Man Just Looking to Have Fun. That being said, I see this guy a lot. He seems like a lost soul, mostly because I know there must be other places he can go to have fun without feeling embarrassed. But then again, maybe he doesn't feel embarrassed at all. I always see him wearing those very light shaded 80s jeans, with a white sweater on. His white hair is pushed back off his face, and he wanders through the crowd aimlessly. When he stops to dance, he usually raises his arms over his head, and swings them back and forth repeatedly. Sometimes there's some hip action, too. I always see him dancing on his own, and never with a friend. It makes me wonder if he ever finds what he's looking for.

So, not everyone's beautiful at Tigerheat. It's a pretty obvious statement, just because everyone wants to dance and have fun, and the Avalon doesn't refuse creepers as long as they pay their share. The thing I've noticed about less fortunate gay men, however, and that they're always the Gratuitously Shirtless Ones. These men must be self conscious about their looks. As soon as they start dancing, they take off their shirt and tuck it into the ass of their pants, usually revealing absurdly thin or muscular bodies. Lots of people are gratuitously shirtless too, and I've found it's usually to distract from something else. Buff older men want us to see their muscles and tan skin instead of their age. Small twinky boy want us to worship their slim and toneless bodies instead of their faces. And you know, I don't mind dancing with guys I'm not attracted to, as long as they have their shirts on. They're still fun and happy. But those poor men with their shirts tucked into their sweaty asses. They're usually slippery.

And don't even get me started on those GoGo Boys.

Three Years and Going Strong

It was the summer before my junior year of high school, and it finally felt like everything was falling into place. I turned sixteen, and I was practically an adult. I was growing taller, thinner, and more attractive. I thought my hair was perfect. I was finally moving past all the petty drama with my group of friends. And I met a boy, and it just felt like the whole world was on my side. Don't you know that feeling? Where you feel like everyone's rooting for you? Even the people you don't know? I was going to be an upperclassman, and no one could stop me.

And it's funny too. I swear to fucking god this happened. One day, I was feeling this way, and I stopped to think: Wow. I'm so lucky. I don't even know how I got this lucky. I'm healthy, pretty good-looking, I have parents who love me, and a roof over my head. I have friends and people I can trust and rely on. I wasn't really born with any disadvantage. I'm so happy too. I'm so happy nothing bad happened to me. And I took a moment to say thank you. And I don't really know what prompted it. It might have been something really stupid. But it still happened.

You know what though? I wasn't that great of a person. I was quick to hate and slow to forgive. And I was spoiled. I think I was. Sometimes I could be sweet, but I think deep down, all I wanted was to be popular. I didn't act out too much, or do anything outlandish, but I didn't truly appreciate life. I really don't think I did. I'm a believer in the idea that you can't really appreciate something unless you've experienced the exact opposite first. And that's exactly what happened.

Five years ago, I got sick. My kidneys shut down. People told me I was the bravest person they knew. I always thought, what other choice is there? I can give up, or I can keep trying.

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with an illness called Wegener's Granulomatosis.

And three years ago, my brother stepped forward. And my life was saved.

Everything got started at 8:00 AM. I don't think I have ever slept so terribly in my life. It was like trying to sleep on Christmas Eve, except one thousand times more intense. Finally, it all started happening. And they wheeled me downstairs, and they prepped me for surgery.

"Alright, careful," the nurse eyed me with a smile, "This is going to feel like you drank a whole six pack all at once." I laughed.

"I think I can handle it. Bring it on." They gave me the injection, and it all hit me like a sack of really comfortable pillows. I laid back, and my head fell heavy on the bed. They wheeled me into the operating room. I don't remember anything else.

And then, it was like no time passed. Not even a split second. But in that lapse of a moment. In that span of no time whatsoever, everything happened. My entire life was given back to me, more or less. It was going to be a long road to recovery, but everything started that day. My brother was the catalyst for the moment that everything started to go right.

It's kind of surreal to think about the operation itself. I just have trouble imagining that I was open on the operating table. Of course I have the scar, and I see the evidence. But it's too weird to imagine myself exposed on the table. To have doctor's sterile hand digging inside me. To have live tissue implanted into my system. It's hard to believe it happened.

And all of that happened in less time than it takes to blink, from my experience. It's funny though, the farther away in time you get from something, the more like an eye blink it seems like anyway.

And from there, it only got better. It was a hard recovery, but I pushed through it. It was like the end of the most exhausting and difficult race ever conceived, and I knew it wasn't the time to give up. And I pushed. Hard. And I learned so much about myself, even after the transplant. And I made it. I finally got back to where I was when I was sixteen, but I grew exponentially more on the inside. And I could feel it. I didn't need to be popular anymore. I needed to take good care of myself and feel good.

And now, here I am. I can't believe it's been three years already. It feels like no time has passed. Not even a split second. All I know now, is that I value everything so much more. I'm just thankful to feel normal. Shitty days happen, but you can go to sleep and wash them off in the morning. When you feel like shit, there's no escape. You want to wish it's a dream every single day. But it never is. Shitty things can happen all the time, but it's not an excuse to stop feeling great. And why focus on what's wrong when you can focus on what's right? Something may go bad, but it can go so much worse.

I learned that I'm a strong person, but I'll always need the love, the help, the support of my family and friends. You're not going to go anywhere unless you have people to carry you when you get tired. I honestly don't think I could be happier right now. I feel so surrounded by positivity and joy, from the people I know and love the best. I feel the sunshine. I'm taking the best care of my body, and my body is taking care of me back.

Right now? Everything is love. Every moment is love. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Communication (Or Lack Thereof)

I saw "He's Just Not That Into You" with my crazy boyfriend on Valentine's Day, 2009. No, he's not my boyfriend anymore. Yes, he's like, actually crazy. I'll tell you later. Anyway, the preview always showcased this one quote said by renowned actress Drew Barrymore. Despite its context, I always thought it was a pretty good quote, and effective in its simplicity.

So I logged on to IMDb to find the quote, and kind of discuss its greater relevance to my life and everyone else's. I entered "He's Just Not-" into the search bar, and much to my dismay, the movie was already in my search history. Anyway, I found the quote:

"I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies."

I heard that for the first time and I thought, Damn. That's a pretty spot on commentary about our generation. Okay, wait, another quick side note: Where's the dividing line for our generation anyway? I mean obviously, family generations are very easy to define, but what about social generations? Apparently, I'm a member of generation Y. I guess it's pretty easy to see the generational differences between say, you and your grandma. But like, what about someone who's 30? Are they in our generation or the older one? I find it hard to believe that you can say babies born in the 80s are members of Generation Y and babies born in the 90s are members of Generation Z. Think about it. It's not like a baby born on December 31st, 1989 is going to have a propensity toward political neutrality, off the shoulder sweaters, passive voice, game shows and leg warmers, and a baby born on January 1st, 1990 is going to prefer extreme liberalism, laziness, reality television and 3-dimensional and digitally animated movies.

And yes, I know there are exceptions, and yes, I know it doesn't really work like that, but still. It just goes back to our compulsive need to label everything without it serving much of a purpose. But I guess that's another rant for another time? Oh, and also, decades are funny to me too. It's not like on January 1st, 1990, everyone stopped teasing their side ponytails and wearing neon, and opted instead for offensive prints, mom jeans, sneakers, and crop tops.

Also, at what age do we "define" our generations anyway? Teenaged years? I mean we grow out of that stuff, right? Our generation will always change how we do things. And if we're always changing, I guess it's just funny that we need to categorize generations in the first place.

Alright, where was I? Oh right, Drew Barrymore. I heard that quote, and a lot of thoughts clicked into my head right away. I guess what made me think about this quote again in the first place, was the way I was talking to my cousin Cory the other day. I don't remember exactly how it started, but I think he texted me, and I decided to respond to him on Facebook Chat. I mused, "I wonder how many different ways we can contact each other electronically." And so he sent me an instant message on iChat, and I called him on Skype. He replied to me via Twitter, and I sent him a response from my Livejournal inbox. And then he emailed me from his school email account, and then I posted a comment on his profile on another networking site, and he left a comment on my profile picture on Facebook again. And it was just too fun to me! We went through a myriad of different technology, an electronic roll call of every possible internet medium, and managed to complete a conversation without sticking with one or hearing each other's voices. Or seeing each other's faces.

And no wonder our generation is full of so many shut ins, and loners, awkward people who don't know how to socialize, and some other generalizations that aren't really founded on anything! We're so obsessed with conversing with each other through these networking sites and social crutches, that we forget life exists. We forget how fulfilling it is to see someone's face and hear them laugh. So many things get lost in textual translation. Why are we so afraid of real interaction?

…And yes, I’m aware of the hilarious irony of me whining about this on a blog. Online. If you can’t beat them join them. Or something.

And it’s especially relevant in the gay world. Allow me to draw you in again. As I may have slightly alluded to in my entry about Tigerheat, meeting a gay man who’s attractive, smart, and into you, is exceedingly difficult. And you can’t just walk up to a cute guy in a coffee shop and assume he’s gay and drop your number. First of all, if he’s not gay, he’ll probably get offended, and you’ll also reaffirm the stereotype that every gay man hits on every straight man. And you’ll look creepy. And if by some slim chance he happens to be gay, you’ll be lucky, but he’ll also probably think you’re not hot enough for him or something stupid like that. And yeah, we have “gaydar,” but in my experience, I don’t have the best gaydar. I mean, I can pick out the two extremes, like the homophobic football player who’s overcompensating for a small penis and trying his damndest to impress his father, and the exceedingly flamboyant glitter queen who has an affinity towards bleached hair, spray tan, make up, and throwing up his lunch in the toilet. But that’s only going to get me so far, because almost every gay man falls somewhere in between. Not to mention all the hipsters and indie kids nowadays that trick drooling gay men into falling in love with them.

Because it’s so hard to just assume someone’s gay, homosexuals rely heavily on the internet for a lot of their matchmaking. There are so many sites and so many levels of degradation. There are sites which serious gay men actually use to pursue a boyfriend. These sites sort of function as a gay Myspace or Facebook. You make a profile, and email and comment on and instant message, and if you dig what they dig, you set up a meeting at a local café. The next level down, there are trashy hook-up sites (and even iPhone applications). And these are exactly what the name infers. Sites where gay men go to… relieve themselves. They have places for very personal sexual information, and let’s just say, the more trashy the website, the more shameless the users are.

And it’s so hard to meet men in real life, unless you’re at a gay club or party. And those environments aren’t usually places to get to know someone. So it’s hard to get along without using the internet. God, what would we do without it? And of course, I use these sites too, how can I not? It’s sad, too, being a hopeless romantic on an electronic, gay, social networking, website. I’ve honestly never had a one night stand. I try to find a real connection with someone. Because it’s so hard to do that in person. And I do all these things that I complain about because I don’t want to do them. I continue to use them though, clinging desperately to the hope that somewhere out there, there’s a guy who is perfect for me, and who is using that site too.

It makes me wonder. Would Prince Charming even sign on to those sites in the first place? Is it a lost cause? To be a romantic fish swimming in an epic ocean of horny fish?

So here I am, endlessly in search of that person, that perfect fit. In a world of people who rely on Facebook, Skype, iChat, Twitter, Tumblr, texting, missed connections of Craigslist, what if my Prince just gets lost in the electronic whirlwind? What if we’ve already talked, and somehow those perfect components that pair us together better than anyone else were lost in translation?

The best I can do is keep swimming, and hope I find him.

The Language of Music

John Morris Going has inspired me to write an entry about the magic and the language of Music. John seems to only be slightly conversational (if that) in the language of Music, so I thought I'd give a shot at expressing what music means to me. And, as you have seen from the previously posted song related entries, I love me some music, and I read into songs more than I read into what people think about me.

...Anyway. I really think there's something completely special about music. The origin of music is in millions of different cultures, countries, languages, instruments, states of mind, feelings intuitions ideas modesmoodswordsthoughts... they all mash together into this world of expression and profundity, and in the end it all translates to the same beautiful language. Instead of using a tone of voice to express an emotion, it's built into the song itself.

Music is something beyond what we can hold in our hand. And yes, music is inherently intangible, since it never takes a physical form (except in music videos that attempt to translate songs into visual forms of understanding, but even those are just pixels moving on a T.V. / iPod/ Laptop screen. There's still a barrier between the song and real life). The strangest part for me is the prolific effect music has on my life without ever truly being there. It effects my moods, amplifies my emotions. My state in life directly affects the music I listen to. And it's a reflexive process too; new music I encounter translates into new found perspectives on things. The insight that others invest in their music becomes an insight in my own experience. What else can do that?

And there are breeds of music. I've found solace in a specific pocket of music I really enjoy, and I call it sunshine music (no correlation to my blog's title). It's that music that fills you up. It's happy and alive. Ukuleles, acoustic guitars, or just computers, anything really; synthesized happiness. It's that kind of music that I love to blast on a gorgeous and sunny day with my windows down. The music that puts the hop in your step. The music that appreciates life as much as you do. And then there are the dark and twisty pop songs. Heavy on bass and drum machines, with auto-tuned vocals and electric heartbeats. These songs energize me, they fuel my nights; these songs give the dark, sweaty, neon clubs a deadly pulse. Sad songs go well with rainy days. When I'm depressed or feeling down, or when the grey sky stretches farther than my imagination, sad ballads in a minor key fit perfectly. And sometimes comfort rises out of that beautifully miserable sound. And only music has this quality. We can't really assign moods to language or clothes or movies or books. I guess we can, in some sense. But these things don't modify or mold to our lives as perfectly. To me, these things aren't quite as alive.

It's funny how music is such an important component in movies, too. The images themselves cannot accurately portray real life situations. But the addition of music somehow allows the movie to breathe. Only when we hear a musical score can we feel a movie. And when we're not seeing the movie, just listening to the soundtrack, we can still feel those moments, without the images in front of our eyes. And have you ever seen a scene in a movie that lacks music? All the time. It's a notable decision, because a scene without music in a movie full of scenes with music marks a devastating moment. And an audience member can feel that void, whether or not they're conscious of it.

Music adds meaning to life. When life and music overlap, something inexplicable happens. A few weeks ago, I was listening to my iPod while I was walking to class. At that moment, the enveloping bells of the Campanile pierced through my music bubble and into my chest. And the moment was perfect. The bells, the song, and my feet all shared a moment of synchronization. And it may have lasted only thirty seconds, but while all of these separate components became simultaneous, I felt like I was more than just existing. I felt greater mechanisms at play in my life, and it felt strong, symbolic, transcendent. Of course, the moment passed and I went to class, but there was still the lingering of something special. It happens to me in the car too. When I'm playing a song and the people I pass seem to be marching to the beat of my car's music. It just feels like something coordinates that connection. And I happen to catch a glimpse of it.

Eject, Wipe, Play, Rewind

I'm sitting on my bed, and he's on a chair in front of me. It's hard to believe it's all happening, and it all feels normal. Except for this one second. Now that I stop to think about how normal it feels, it almost freaks me out a little. Sometimes you spend so much time wanting something that you don't even know how to act when you get it. The first instinct is to pinch yourself.

I'm probably staring too much. Then again, it's not my fault his eyes intoxicate me. Maybe he doesn't notice. We've been keeping a pretty healthy conversation. And almost as if he heard me think it, those chocolate brown eyeballs shift my way and weaken my knees. There's a pause. Not an awkward one, though. Just a passing moment of body language. Body conversation. Body talk. I've also been smiling like a huge dork for the past 30 seconds. I'm pretty sure. But when that smile creeps across his velvet lips, it makes sense. His eyes light up, his teeth grin, and I'm way too invested already. I've fallen on my face, and there's not a good chance of recovering.

He reaches his golden sculpted arm out and puts his hand on my leg. "Let's play hide and seek." His smile widens, his chocolate eyeballs shimmer. I can't even focus on anything. I manage to somehow fire a a few stray neurons, and my head bobs dreamily up and down. I'll count first.

And then it all happens at once, except it feels like it never happens at all. Like I only imagined it. I close my eyes and start counting:

One. I hear him stand up from his spot on the chair, but I don't hear the usual frantic footsteps that accompany a hider as he hurriedly conceals himself.

Two. And then I feel it. I can feel him close to me. Breathing with me. I feel the occupied space seeping into my skin.

Three. He runs his finger along my jaw brushing up my numbing cheek. His cologne seduces my heightened senses. I'm frozen. I don't dare open my eyes.

Four. His fingers brush through my hair. My breath is deepening, my heart is floundering, palpitating, perspiring in my chest. All of the air between us vaporizes.

Five. And then I feel those velvet lips on mine. The lightest, most delicate grazing, followed by more and more pressure. My shaky fingers clutch the comforter and I melt into the kiss. He puts his other hand on my thigh again, but I'm too dizzy to notice. All I want is for this kiss to last forever, but it's over before I even finish wishing. I still can't open my eyes. I have to let the moment linger. It can't be over yet. I hear him smile under his breath, and laugh at his own boldness. I'm trying to find the words, grasping for anything to say. For anything. I laugh a little and smile under my breath too. The connection lingers so heavily in the air, that it's hard to speak into.

The only way the moment could have been broken was by the loud buzzing of his cellphone. We lock eyes one more time, and he reaches into his pocket for his phone, but freezes before he can get it out. And the buzzing continues. Growing louder, angrier, more incessant. The buzzing is so potent I can smell it.

It was only then that I finally woke up, and actually opened my eyes. My phone alarm was buzzing on the shelf by my bed. My feet hung off the end of the bed. My left arm was still fast asleep. I groggily lurched for my phone with another arm, straining my eyes through my blurry vision. I sat up, turned off my alarm, and flopped back into bed looking at the ceiling. I swear to God I could still feel that kiss on my lips. As I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, I found myself wanting the same thing I had always wanted.

Fuck. I should have pinched myself.

Wait...

Is there like a Pause button or some cliché device for stopping time around here somewhere? Because I swear to God, Time really greased itself up with some butter. And everyone knows attempting to apprehend an escapee drenched in butter is like, the hardest thing on Earth to do.

Okay, you know when you're watching a movie, and your friend says something to you? You have like a 30 second conversation, and then suddenly you've missed like, HALF the plot. Or you know when you're reading a book and you let your mind wander for a couple seconds? You find yourself lost in the middle of a page on which nothing looks familiar. You just almost glazed your way through a full chapter. You know what I'm talking about, right? That's the feeling I feel right now. I'm less than an hour from my twenty-first birthday, and I feel like I missed some major plot-points. Or maybe I zoned out and glazed over for a few chapters without realizing it. Either way, regardless of the fact that I can't keep my metaphors straight, regardless of the fact that you might not even know what I'm talking about, regardless of the fact that I turn twenty-one in fifty-three minutes, I feel like I missed something.

Like a father who's in the shower when his son takes those first few precious steps, I missed out. When I turned sixteen, I thought, "Look at that. I'm just a hop, a skip, and a jump away from being seventeen. And right after seventeen comes eighteen. Nineteen and twenty will blend together into nothing, and before I know it, I'll be twenty-one." Who was I kidding? I had 5 whole years before I could walk into a bar and drink myself into a coma.

The funniest part is, I was right. My juvenile naïvety turn out to be some sort of redundant, archaic wisdom. Somehow, I let my mind wander, and I glazed over five years. And so much happened in those five years! Everything happened. Everything that shaped the Ryan Roschke today happened between then and now. So why do I feel like I only turned sixteen yesterday? Why do I feel like I'll just turn thirty next week?

I'm sorry I'm being vague and not really elaborating on anything. It just feels like too much to type into one little white electronic space on website with hundreds of thousands of other little white electronic spaces on a laptop in my room. I guess what hit me is this: I spent so much time looking forward to my twenty-first birthday, and now it's finally here. And what now? Big deal. Should I find something else to look forward to? The thing is, we spend so much time looking forward that we miss everything that happens. We spend so much time looking forward that a 30 second conversation results in missing half of what's going on. And when we stop running out of things to look forward to, all that we have left to look forward to is death. And at that point, we've missed the point of living.

But how can I even begin to train myself not to look forward? Focus. Presence. Even then it's still too hard. In the words of my mama, it's always just about living one day at a time. Today this is happening. And what else matters? I guess we look forward because we are often disappointed by today. If you can't live in your own now, you have to look forward to a better future. At my worst point, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to feel better. How badly I wanted to be anywhere else but in the now. In the end, my mama always told me to live one day at a time. That's all you need to do. And eventually, baby steps lead up to an entire journey. It was only in my last few moments before I fell asleep that she'd say, "Tomorrow will be a better day." And I found that tomorrow when I got my transplant.

So here I am. Twenty-one years old. Two decades and some change. And what else matters?

Six Month Check-Up

So, we're about halfway through 2010, and I think it's been a fantastic year overall. I mean, there's been heartbreak and sadness, but laughter and smiles, and overall it just balances out and it adds up to life.

So much has happened already this year.

I experienced genuine happiness and love with another person. John taught me so much about myself and who I want to become. I learned how to be with someone else, and how to put that person before me, when it came down to it. I learned that I can commit if I want to, I just have to find to perfect person to commit with. I learned how to be more patient, but I also learned how far my anger can push things. I also learned that I have a lot more to learn. Maybe John wasn't the love of my life, but he made me realize so many things. And now that he's here, I hope he never goes away.

I grew closer to home friends too, this year. My friendship with Cory feels like it's stronger than ever. It's funny, I used to think you can't be best friends with someone in your family. You see them enough anyway. You're obligated to be with them. They don't need to be your best friend because they'll be with you, whether you like it or not. But the more I live, the more clear it seems that Cory and I are best friends. We have so much in common, and we get how the other feels sometimes. We have these 20 years of baggage together, and it helps us understand each other better than anyone else (we have the same brain, I promise). But also, we're close enough friends now that he can call me out on bullshit (gently), and we help each other grow in the process.

I've also learned so much more about Ariel Price this year. I've seen sides of her I never would have imagined existed, and I can sense that I've only chipped away at the top few layers. I can feel more that has yet to come, and it makes me happy. We're still basically new friends (in comparison to my friendships with, say, Cory and Michelle), and we're building this organic trust that just sort of happens. I really love it. We have this sort of silent acknowledgement that there's a no bullshit rule in our friendship, I think. We don't lie or cheapen our thoughts, we just let loose. I can't tell you how many conversations we've had that begin with, "Okay, so, this conversation doesn't leave the car," and then we just go. It's beautiful. And yet, I know there's things she still has yet to tell me. I guess it's all about finding the right moment.

And then there's Michelle. Michelle and I have had the weirdest, most troublesome relationship, and I feel like it's riddled with the most ridiculous traces of baggage. We just have such a complex history, it's almost too hard to believe, and too fucked up not to laugh at. Michelle is one of the few people who makes me hesitant, worried, and vulnerable. And I don't think it's a bad thing. It's just something I have to learn to get over. I'm always paranoid about texting or calling her or making plans. Sometimes I psych myself out, and I let my imagination get the best of me. But, in the end, I have to remind myself that we're old enough to communicate if something's really long. It's a hard thing to learn, and it requires a good deal of repetition. But I'm getting there. All I know is I could never bear to lose what I have with her. Michelle makes me laugh harder than any person in the world. How many times has she left me breathless, gasping to turn oxygen into laughter, my sides hurting, my smile hurting? Too many to count. We're both ridiculous together, and we know it. And we love it.

I finally got a wake up call to change my body. At the beginning of the year, I was unhappy with my body. I ate everything. I had two of each meal, so much McDonalds, copious amounts of In-N-Out, and every french fry I touched was unceremoniously dipped into ranch dressing and shoved down my hungry (or sometimes not even hungry) throat. I tried to lift weights every once in a while. I tried to run here and there. But in the end, I still felt gross, unhealthy, and uncomfortable with my body. And now, I'm an organic vegan. I do yoga or some form of exercise daily, and I cook for myself. Every day, I feel more and more comfortable in my scarred traumatized skin. What the fuck, guys?

I went through so many stages of growing up without even knowing it. And yet, I know I'm still not fully mature. Isn't that weird though? How it takes a mature person to acknowledge their immaturity? It's just about being aware of the relative balance, too. You can't just go around saying you're mature. You'll look like a fool. Maybe no one ever really finishes maturing. And that's what we have to tell ourselves. There's always room to grow.

I guess you might be wondering what prompted this entry. Well, I found my New Years Resolutions today. And I thought maybe I'd stop, take stock, and see what's up. Here's the list I wrote on January 1st (2nd?), on the way to Hawaii (and some change):

10 New Years Resolutions for 2010:

1. Write something once a week (Getting there)

2. Keep a sketch diary (Maybe my drawing class will kick my ass into shape?)

3. Try one new recipe a week (Or at least every two weeks [What a cop out, right? But hey, I've been doing pretty well at this one.])

4. Workout four times every week.

5. Don't text and drive (Drive better).

6. Get a 4.0 at Berkeley (I was so close this semester!).

7. Listen to others. Listen to yourself.

8. Work hard for the body you love. And then love it.

9. Learn how to be wrong (I'm really trying on this one. It's so hard though).

10. Be grateful! Breathe! You're alive.

And then there's an attempted drawing of Lady GaGa. Perfect. You know, I'm taking inventory of this list right now, and it's pretty strange how well it relates to growing up in general. Like I was saying, you can't ever really say you're mature. And will I ever really say I've accomplished these? I mean some things are finite. Like, I'll be able to say I got a 4.0 at Berkeley if I do, indeed, get one. But even after that, it's not an excuse to stop trying. I'm still going to have to try just as hard the next semester.

We get a chance once a year to revamp this list, to make new New Years Resolutions. But do they ever really change? Sure, we might rephrase them, or focus on a different resolution each year, but it doesn't mean it's not there anymore. I'll always want to cook new things once a week. It seems to me that this is just a reminder to work and love the results. We can make New Years Resolutions, but they'll always just be Life Resolutions to me. Some of them are silly, but some of them aren't. And no matter what, I don't think you can ever really check something off the list. You just acknowledge it and keep doing what your doing. There's always room to improve, right?

I'm pretty happy with the direction I've been going in this year. My Life Resolutions are coming along quite nicely. How's your list coming along?

... And, on that incredibly cheesy rhetorical question where I break the forth wall and address the reader in a kind of stupid but hopefully sort of effective way, I should go have some fun. And, you know, enjoy life or some shit.

But really though. Be grateful. Breathe. You are alive. And that's something.

Life Lessons From Regina Spektor

Sometimes I listen to songs forever without actually hearing them. And it's not like I'm only vaguely familiar. It's not like I can only hum the tune. Sometimes I mark songs as favorites. I know all the words, I rack up a high play count on iTunes, I sing it in my head for days, etc. And yet, I never really hear the song until one day when it just seeps in and resonates from a cranial epicenter of understanding. Suddenly, the lyrics click and my awareness shifts, and the whole song really sinks in.

This bizarre phenomena happened again to me today. I was driving my dad home from lunch, he was passed out in the passenger's seat. I was coasting up the main road home, the windows were down, the wind brushing through my hair, the sun lathering my skin. I had put my "Sunshine Mix" in the CD player. I value Sunshine music a lot. It's the music you can feel the warmth coursing through. The beat is happy, the tempo is all smiles, and you are physically obligated to sing along; it's an impulse that's impossible to control. With Sunshine music, the windows always have to be rolled down.

So, I was driving in the car, and "On the Radio" came on. "On the Radio" is secretly one of my favorite Regina Spektor songs, and I feel like it's severely underrated. The lyrics are great, the beat is potent, and the orchestration is pretty flawless. I added the song to countless playlists and CDs, racked up 42 plays on my iTunes, and even gave it an astounding 5-star rating. And yet, I somehow managed to avoid connecting to the song until this afternoon. Then, very suddenly, I felt the shift. The song started speaking to me, just like "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)," and I heard the lyrics.

"This is how it works: you're young until you're not, you love until you don't, you try until you can't, you laugh until you cry, you cry until you laugh, and everyone must breathe until their dying breath."

It's going to sound stupid making cliché statements about the lines that smacked me in the face, but come on. Regina just fires off these amazing truths, these common sense-isms that most of us subconsciously know. And yet we're completely oblivious to them. We ties ourselves up in these superfluous complications in our lives, and we forget the most simplistic things. We forget to just live. Life becomes cluttered with education, car payments, vanity, fashion, broken relationships, everything. And, in the end, all that should really matter is that we're alive.

...Shouldn't it?

"No, this is how it works: you peer inside yourself. You take the things you like, then try to love the things you took. And then you take that love you made and stick it into some, someone else's heart pumpin' someone else's blood. And walkin' arm and arm, you hope it don't get harmed. But even it does, you just do it all again."

I don't even know how to articulate how I feel about these lyrics. I think Regina just knew it though. I don't know where she pulls these lyrics from, but they're completely brilliant to me. Who knew there was a step-by-step guide to loving yourself? Who knew there was a step-by-step guide to loving someone else? I don't know... Maybe I'm reading too much into these lyrics. Maybe I'm kind of crazy and they're not that great, but damnit! It just makes sense to me. We get so worried about everything that's happened and should happen, and we forget what's happening.

But the most important things are all there. We are young until we're not. We must all love fiercely until we stop, and be honest when we do. And we can never stop trying. Life should be full of laughter. Hysterical laughter that brings tears. And when it hurts and life sucks, the best thing to do is to laugh anyway.

In order to love someone else, we have to love ourselves first. We have to find that love within, because it's only after we've found internal love that we can express it to someone else. Maybe that's how to truly know what it is to fall in love. Once we feel our own love, we can feel the love for someone else. We can give them the self acceptance, the joy, the compassion. The tighter we embrace ourselves, the wider our arms open for someone else. And that person has to embrace themselves to embrace you too. Maybe love doesn't work until we reach that perfect symmetry. Without the symmetry, we get harmed. And then we try again.

What else matters? I just want to try my hardest to get to that point. Because in the end, the only thing I care about is that I'm breathing still. As long as I'm breathing, I can live, love, cry, laugh, cry some more, try my best, and love intensely. And I will keep fighting and breathing, until my dying breath.

But until then, it's all or nothing.

Post Script: I apologize for the crippling amount of cliché epiphanies in this entry. Sometimes cliché is the only way to go, I guess.

Classic Example #2

This past Saturday did NOT go according to plan. My entire morning was another hilarious example of a moment (or series of moments) where everything collapsed inward at a alarming (and hilarious) rate.

About a week ago, Hilary Rodham Clinton (my black 2006 Scion tC) reached 50,999 miles, signifying to her faithful driver (myself) that it was time for a tune-up. My mother doesn't believe in courtesy shuttles, meaning standard maintenance is always an ordeal involving more than one car and more than one trip. My mother is also a fan of making everything into exercise, so she concocted a brilliant plan: we would walk from the car place back home! And, since the appointment was at 9:00 am, I thought it'd be great to get a walk in with Mama (and my Aunt Edie) and also fit in my practice.

Well, I woke up a little late. Actually, correction: I set my alarm for 9:35, when I should have set it for like, 9:20. In any event, I was late. I didn't think it'd take too long to get ready, and I went to bed late, so I wanted to get every minute of sleep I could. I threw my things together, grabbed a quick breakfast, and met my mother and my aunt at their dead mother's house. Then, we rushed over to the yoga studio, dropped off my mom's car, and then headed to the Toyota Maintenance Center. Boom. Huge line. Which was odd, because this Toyota has never had a line. Ever. Well, at this rate I was never going to make it to yoga.

"Well, if you start walking now, you might make it," said my mom. "We'll wait here and turn your car in." Ugh. The only reason I agreed to walk in the first place was to spend some time with her! If I left now, I might not make it, AND I'd have to walk alone. I took a moment to consider. But I had already done so much preparation for yoga (including chugging 2 bottles of water for hydration)! And my mom's car was there! This was the only time I could go.

So, I walked by myself. Great, I thought. I have to rush to yoga and hope I can make it. Oh well, I still have like, 40 minutes. Let's see what time it is...

Fuck.

My cell phone was in my yoga bag. In my mom's trunk. I'd have to rush to the studio blindly and just hope I'd paced myself well enough. Well, fuck. How did people ever survive without their little digital clocks on their cell phones?

Onward I trudged. I whizzed along the sidewalk, determined, sporting my best soccer-mom power-walk. Already the day was off to a great start. Walking alone from Toyota to a Yoga Studio. Sweating a bunch just before I literally sweat a full gallon. And I didn't have a phone to guarantee the latter. As I crossed the street, and the man in the car I was passing had his window open. Well, maybe I can check my progress.

"Do you have the time?"

He shook his head and held up his bare wrist. "No, sorry." Asshole. It's not like your fucking BMW was built without a clock in it somewhere. Unless that's a chic, expensive feature of sports cars. When you have a BMW, you're too rich to care what time it is. Whatever. I kept marching.

At somewhere around the halfway point, my large intestine decided it was time to take a huge shit. HUGE. So there I was, trudging from Toyota to Bikram Yoga, alone, trying to stop myself from shitting. Somehow, by some stroke of magic, I made it to the studio five minutes before the class started. I was having frantic spasms, and quickly threw myself into the bathroom. I emerged, frazzled, and flopped myself into the hot yoga room just in time to start. Just in time to start SUFFERING.

It was the worst class in a long time. Probably because of a few things: my lack of sleep, my grumpiness, my lack of focus, the discombobulation that resulted from my near jog, and the fact that I had just taken a near jog. The point is, I spent a lot of the time on the floor, nearly in the fetal position, nearly crying. When the class finally ended, I basically crawled home, crawled up the stairs, and crawled into the bathroom for a shower. I turned on the shower, took a quick pee, and then stupidly flushed the toilet. The water immediately turned unbearably hot (unbeknownst to me), and then I proceeded to climb in, still half dead from yoga. I cringed and pressed myself against the glass shower door. Of course, I thought. Anything else?

Naturally, my sometimes fussy toilet took this moment to run forever. Sometimes this happens. Something happens wrong, and the toilet fills to a certain point, and continues to fill the toilet as the surplus water drains back out. Without any action, it would run forever. I groaned, slammed open the shower door, and jiggled the handle. It's the only thing that can really be done. Once you jiggle the handle, it takes a good two minutes for the toilet to finally stop. I crouched on the floor of the bathroom as the excruciatingly hot water heated the entire room to a gross humidity. Perfect. Bikram Yoga Part Two. Mere moments before my unfortunate death, the toilet finally stopped running, the shower water finally cooled off, and I finally rinsed off my misery. I turned the water colder and colder, trying to drown myself in subzero bliss. Then, I laughed and shook my head at my ridiculous day.

Hey, at least it made a good story right? So much misfortune. It was hilarious. I got out of the shower, dried off, and finally proceeded to put on my underwear, ready to turn my day around. Oh, and then my foot got caught, I lost my balance, and I fell backwards into the bathroom door.

This is why I love my life.

Why I Do Hot Yoga

"Sometimes you can even have flashbacks," she says. The class is almost over at this point. We're all on the ground, heaving; regurgitating our hot, sweaty breath, perpetuating the heat in the hot sweaty room. It's actually the work of our lungs that makes the room a giant convection oven, not the central heating. We're all on the floor on our soaked beach towels, trying to slow our heart rates. I've already leaked out of every single pore in my body. Nothing remains dry.

"This is a very intense yoga practice, and a lot of emotions get pushed to the surface as a result. Sometimes you might cry, or get extremely angry. Sometimes you can awaken old injuries from a long time ago, or discover new ones that you've always had but were never aware of. Sometimes you can even have flashbacks."

Mahnaz is the owner of the Bikram Yoga Studio in Westlake Village. She is a tiny woman, just over five feet, and she is made from rock. Every single part of her body is completely lean muscle. Mahnaz is a fantastic woman. She looks like she's in her late thirties, but talks as though she's in her seventies. She talks as though she's has already felt the world. She's kind of magic, in a way. I never really see her sweat all that much. Her hair falls perfectly straight over her olive shoulders. One time I saw her drinking a smoothie from Jamba Juice. It was the only time that I've witnessed her doing something normal.

Mahnaz likes to talk a lot during yoga, especially during the second half of class. I think it's because we're all burning out, and she's trying to take our mind off the suffering. Even though lately it doesn't even feel like I'm suffering that much anymore. Mahnaz is also the only teacher who walks us through our final relaxation. I guess it's the only way she can guarantee that we're all letting our bodies recharge a little.

As soon as Mahnaz said the word, "flashback," it vaporized and condensed right into my skin. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Bikram Yoga is a painstaking experience. Every day, I try to prove to myself that I am strong. The practice is incredibly draining. Painful. Exhausting. Depleting. When I practice Bikram Yoga, I have these flashbacks. Suddenly, I'm sick again. I'm weak and bloated and miserable. In the class, I feel dizzy, I lose my sense of self, and I feel like collapsing into the floor. When I was sick, I couldn't walk more than fifty feet without having to sit down. Something would happen inside me. To call it weakness is to inaccurately describe it. I would become overwhelmed by the weight of my body. Suddenly, I couldn't support my own weight. My spine was cumbersome. My paper bones could barely support my lead skin. I had no choice but to submit and crumble to the ground, ashamed of my own illness.

Something similar happens in yoga. I know there's a strength inside me, but I occasionally become overwhelmed by the task at hand. The pose becomes too much, my body shakes, and I have no choice but to recoil and collapse into myself. My body is panting. It's not only my breath that I can't catch. I can't catch my organs, I can't find my muscles, I lose my strength. I have to internalize myself and find it again. I have to push through and continue the practice. Whenever I feel so overwhelmed, I see it as an opportunity to face my demons. I witness my own insecurities, I see my shortcomings, the previous failures of my body. And I have to conquer them. I have to stand up, brush myself off, and push harder than before.

Every yoga class, I face the End Stage Renal Failure. Every yoga class, I do everything in my power to conquer it. And every class, I feel my body get a little bit stronger.

Some days, I collapse halfway through and can't pull myself out of the overload. Some days, I never falter once. I've learned that my body will never be perfect. I must be patient with it, and push it hard, but let it grow by itself.

"Sometimes you can even have flashbacks," Mahnaz said.

For the rest of the yoga class, I shattered Wegener's Granulomatosis into a million pieces. It's days like this that make me feel like I can conquer anything. First my Bikram Yoga class, then the world.

Tigerheat Etiquette

Dance clubs are one of the most complicated and dramatic subsections of gay culture. There is a secret language that's spoken on the dance floor. It's a special dialect, a derivative of body language that's more complex and harder to understand. As gay men, we've made the dance floor a world of politics for the vain. If you don't know the language, you have to pick it up fast, or you'll learn things the hard way. This is my experience on the floors of Tigerheat, a gay club in West Hollywood.

The first step to any interaction with another guy on the dance floor is eye contact. On more than one instance. Anyone can look at you once. But when you've locked eyes a second time, it's a sign that both parties were interested enough for another look. You cannot dance with a guy until you make eye contact. Well, you can. But unless you're an absurdly attractive model, you won't get anywhere most of the time. Eye contact is usually accompanied by a smile. I'm shy though, so I usually look away nervously at the first sings of a smile. But the continued eye contact still serves as a pretty successful "come hither" device.

Things can diverge down several different paths at this point.

If both individuals are really confident in themselves and not shy, they usually make a beeline for each other and then make out instantaneously for about three hours.

If one is confident, but the other is not, the confident party will usually make gestures to lure the shy one over. Pretty unsuccessful. It usually results in the confident party retrieving the shy party himself and making the moves he needs to make to keep things going smoothly.

If neither one is that confident, the two individuals share a moment of mamihlapinatapai ( my new word of the week, which Im not actually going to define or elaborate on), and move on.

Of course, there are millions of tiny variations and levels of confidence, which usually play out in more interesting scenarios. One of the most common is the Girlfriend Wingman. This situation involves a third party; a girlfriend from either male's group that serves as a middle man. Said female dances with the male from the outside party, eventually incorporates dancing from her own homosexual, and then ejects herself from the situation, leaving the two original parties.

Then there's the Back to Back Dance Engagement. This is the one I'm most used to. Once both groups are right next to each other, the two gentlemen involved somehow end up back to back. The more they press into each other, the more interested they must be. Eventually one or both persons turn around to initiate the dancing.

Once the dancing begins, the process becomes a tango (for lack of a better word) of where the night will go. Usually the individuals involved switch off moving things a step forward. If one person does all the moving, there's a risk of overloading the other, and, in turn, causing a loss of interest.

I wish I could continue, but I feel like I'm getting boring and difficult to understand. There are so many things to consider though. When is the right time to ask for a number? Is it worth it?
What is this person looking for? All of that plays into every moment of interacting with someone on the dance floor. And frankly, it's exhausting. Everything has become such an ordeal.

It's hard to put such a succinct microcosm into words.

Classic Example #1

Alright, so I guess you must be pretty doubtful about my unfortunate encounters with Chance. Allow me to assure you, though, that Chance has a personal vendetta against me. Let's rewind about two weeks, the day I drove home from school.

I couldn't have been more excited to go home for summer. By some miracle, my manager gave me six weeks off, which meant six weeks with no obligation to anything. I rocked my finals, pushed through my final shifts at work, and it was finally time to head home.

I had reasons to be home. My father was recovering from brain surgery, my grandma was in the hospital, and it was rainy and cold in Berkeley. All I wanted was to be home in the sunshine, surrounded by love.

Monday, May 17th, 2010: Hannah Rae Wirsta's 8th Birthday

After spending the night in Santa Cruz, I woke up eagerly to a cloudy, gloomy day. After a cup of coffee and goo conversation with an old friend, it was time to depart. I didn't mind the clouds. I knew that in no time, the clouds would be clear, the sun would be strong, and summer would finally be here, in full force.

I called my mom to give her a quick update, and she let me know I'd be going to Hannah's birthday dinner as soon as I got home. She said, "Let's hope Nana holds out one more day. I'd hate to have her die on Hannah's birthday. She can hold out until midnight, right?" Red flag. Right there.

My drive home had very little traffic, and was very steady, much like the constant bank of clouds that seemed to follow me. As soon as I got to Santa Barbara, it started raining. What. And the rain only got heavier and heavier right there. It's moments like this where I can't help but think that life is a book, and God is an author; this is dark symbolism, dramatic and stormy foreshadowing of new plot points that would surface shortly. And oh, did they surface.

I finally got off the freeway to get home, and the rain was in full force. I called my cousin Cory to tell him I was dropping off my stuff, and then I'd head straight over for Hannah's birthday. "Okay, take your time. Did you hear Nana died?"

Pause.

"...No I didn't."

"Yeah, it just happened about an hour ago."

"Well..." Cory and I had been joking for the better part of a month about our Nana's death. Things with Joy Lees were... complicated, to say the least. She had lost her husband sometime in the late 70s, and raised six children on her own. The Joy Lees I met was bitter, angry, jaded. And for that reason, we shared a troubled misunderstanding that never quite mended itself. It's sad to have a grandmother you don't love, but there was nothing to do to change how I felt about her. I was angry for how she treated my own mother. I thought she was selfish. Cory and I had spent the past few weeks joking about an inevitability that had finally happened. There was nothing really to be said, no jokes to be made. "Well, okay then."

I hung up the phone. Great, I thought. Leave it to Nana to ruin my first day home. And Hannah's birthday. There was nothing else I could do except go home, change, and be with my family. I pulled into the driveway, stepped out into the rain, and grabbed my five or six bags of luggage. I managed to get them all and drag them to the front door in one trip. I put the bags down to unlock the door. The dead bolt slipped out of its socket, but the door was still locked. Fuck.

The thing about or front door is that the bottom lock is broken. It doesn't open from the outside with a key anymore. So normally, we just use the deadbolt as the lock. It's safe enough. It is Oak Park after all. I should have known. If the door was unlocked, it would have made my day the slightest bit convenient. I climbed the gate, scrambled unto the roof of the garage, and slipped into the second story window. My brother and I always kept the window in our bathroom unlocked. It made it easy to sneak out.

I finally made it to Hannah's birthday part for some pizza, and then went to Cedars Sinai Medical Center to see my parents. There was nothing worse than seeing my crestfallen mother and disabled father on this night. My father had already digressed to the point of a little brother a long time ago because of his tumor; this, however, was much worse. He couldn't even get a word out, and my mother was unraveling at the seams. I drove home alone, solemnly in the rain, back to our empty house, and went to sleep.

Like I said, most people chalk this up to a bad day. But how did this all happen? What are the chances of rain in Southern California in the middle of May? The chances of getting locked out of my house? The chances of losing a Nana? The chances of seeing a mother cry? These occurrences alone aren't enough to be comically unfortunate, but as a collective, it's just too much at once to be true. Things like this are normal to me, though. They're part of my life. And when Coincidence gives you a swift kick in the balls, sometimes you just have to laugh. Even if it hurts like fucking hell.

Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)

Do you ever feel like a song speaks to your soul? I totally had a moment like that the other day. I guess I've been thinking a lot about what I've gone through lately. I was driving along, listening to Florence + the Machine, and suddenly these lyrics started piercing my brain:

"Here I am, a rabbit-hearted girl,

Frozen in headlights,

It seems I've made the final sacrifice.

...

This is a gift, it comes at a price,

Who is the lamb, and who is the knife?

Midas is king and he holds me so tight

And turns me to gold in the sunlight.

...

I must become a lion-hearted girl,

Ready for a fight,

Before I've made the final sacrifice."

Isn't that bizarre? It just seemed so relevant, at that moment. It seemed like the song and I were having a dialogue. And the song knew me. I was rabbit-hearted, and I did have to make sacrifices. I had to find that lion heart, and I had to clutch it hard and keep going. I wasn't a strong person.

I had to find my strength.

And when I did, when I pushed through to the end, my brother gave me the ultimate gift. And it came at a price. What did I sacrifice compared to him? Was I his knife? Or was I already the lamb? I know, though, I was ready for a fight. And I'm ready to fight again. And every time I feel the sun, I feel the gold shimmering inside.

Prologue

Everyone has that moment in a terrible day where they relinquish any hope of revival and yield to its gruesome events. The day becomes an unfortunate manifestation of Murphy’s Law, and you just chalk it up to bad luck and move on. You go to sleep, and you hope your day won’t be as horrifying tomorrow. Everyone has those days. Everyone gets raped by coincidence at some point or another. Including me. I’m a special case though. I’m a victim of misfortune’s fancy. I’m a target for that sort of thing. I’m a misfortune magnet.

I’ve coined a new term for myself. I call myself a cynical optimist. It might be an oxymoron, but it’s definitely not impossible. I see the potential for a day to shine. I have fantasies about executing perfect days; the kind where there’s a happy upbeat song, the sun is shining, and everyone on the street joins you in a joyful, well choreographed dance number. But I’ve felt the realness of life. I’ve felt the cold, damp, wet blanket that flops on the world sometimes. And because I’ve felt that, I prepare for the worst. But the thing it, it doesn’t stop me from hoping that everything will turn out okay. It doesn’t stop me from smiling and embodying the sunshine, and infecting as many other people with happiness as I can.

This is a blog about my life, my story. My life has been a ridiculous collision of so much disaster, but somehow I’ve managed to crawl from the wreckage and stand tall. I’m one of those people that tends to be the butt of life’s jokes. And in the end, I just had to learn to laugh at myself with everyone else. Even when I’m the punch line. This isn’t going to be a blog about how much I hate my miserable life, it’s going to be a amusing, optimistic, outlook on the suckery of life. This isn’t just a blog. This is research. This is an experiment. Am I a victim of the most perfectly timed bad luck? Maybe it’s all coincidence. Either way, get ready.