Indeed! This party DOES suck!

Every time I observe someone slightly younger than me who has all the talent I lack, it's like the pain of flossing for the first time in a month. The ache comes in waves, starting and stopping with a tempo that makes it impossible to concentrate on anything. Gore Vidal said, "Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." It would reveal me as petty to agree wholeheartedly, but I think it's a bit late for that.

I'm gonna go ride my bike in commemoration of Halloween. Today's the 31st, so all of the good pre-moving junk is going to be out in the alleys. And, uh, even though I'd rather not admit it, I look forward to potential random encounters in the midnight hour. Not sloppy hookups behind an abandoned elementary school with sirs or madams dressed as Sexy Radiology Technicians (although I wouldn't be mad at that) - but the inexplicable stew that boils out of the pot when a city of costumed fools are let loose, sanctioned by the closest thing American culture has to Carnival. God help me, I'm itching to punch somebody.

The Promise of Roycemore

I think I have a fever.


Literature is beautiful to me because it exposes all of the paths that you could have taken but didn't, all of the people that you never had a chance to be. Or maybe that's pornography, I'm really not sure.

...

See, when your brain begins to overheat, you feel like it's making all of these brilliant new connections when, really, it's just flailing at buttons, trying to get anything to make sense.

Wall Ring

I'm writing a paper right now, or at least I should be. It's going poorly. The last few months have seen my life accumulate more responsibilities, and my ass is dragging from the weight. Every time I attempt to complain about my workload, I feel like such a shithead, probably because I am such a shithead. Nine credit hours at community college, around thirty hours a week at my fecal retail job, then another seven or eight at my martial arts class and working out. This is not a lot! And many other people have to endure much more than I do for the bare minimum of survival. I worry every day that I simply lack whatever hardiness is necessary to survive in the wild, and the constant hand-wringing is itself a kind of confirmation. Still, I can't admonish away my discomfort.

The one delight really getting me through right now is my body. After eight months of weightlifting and stretching and punching, I've finally started to become a little bit fearsome. I'm still fat, and I've only lost about ten to twenty pounds, but what lies beneath is as if hewed from stone. Probably the actual product doesn't stand up to the praise I give it, but it's my achievement. I enjoy using my new form, seeing the little ways strength and coordination ease my way through the world. Then there's the vindictive joy of slowly edging onto the cusp of conventional attractiveness. Despite the pain and inconvenience, I delight in the act of lifting the weight. It's such a private thing for me; until last month, I hadn't exercised my routine around anyone else in years. There are moments created when I lift of such austere, perfect, monastic solitude.

I read an essay by Henry Rollins where he kept lovingly referring to weights as "the Iron." He sounded like a serial killer. So I don't want to go too far out on that ledge, lest I fall into a musclebound disdain for all of the puny Micronians. But I guess I kind of understand why he gets downright religious about the topic. Unlike gender or religion or class, strength hasn't served to make me identify with others who share its marks. There's no knowing glance with the brick shithouse on the train. (Honestly, I'm always sizing them up, wondering if I could take them.) It's a private thing, a closed circuit communion with the self. Contextualize it however you want, because it's only your own experience that matters.