Back from the Dead, Perhaps?

I haven't updated this thing in five months. I've always been making little excuses. The list, lately:

1) I'm in a weird relationship that occasionally messes with my head, and I have a habit of only running off at the mouth (or keyboard) when I'm mad at things, and fixing to say stuff I don't mean.

2) I'm in a weird relationship that occasionally makes me gush uncontrollably, and I know how annoying it is to read fluffy blog posts.

3) A lot of times, I've got work-related stuff running through my head, and there are myriad reasons why I shouldn't (read: seriously can't) talk about it.

4) When I'm honest with myself on paper, so to speak, it becomes harder to hide from my problems / failures.

5) Sometimes I get lazy, discouraged, bitter, tired, or all sorts of nasty things that I don't like constantly giving voice to.

That's why I haven't updated in a while. So, I'll summarize the time that's passed, for the few people who may still subscribe to this. Yes, I'm in a relationship, that happened entirely by accident, which is why it's weird. I've turned 21. I've burned out on school yet again, and I'm (of course) completely uncertain where my life's going.

I'm also reconnecting with my adolescent fascination with Linkin Park.

I'm becoming increasingly antisocial as I get older, it seems. When I unfortunately destroyed my cell phone in a cup of water, I had to re-enter all my numbers as my replacement phone can't sync with my computer. I think I had over a hundred in the old one, and I only bothered entering 40 in the replacement. Accounting for multiple numbers, family members, and people I'd want Caller ID to tell me about before I answered, that leaves about ten people I actively talk to.

Time was, friends would call me all the time, I'd talk, I'd go out for the sake of going out, I'd do whatever. Now, I barely talk to anyone, and more often than not, I stay at home when I'm not working, or on weekends. I don't feel like driving everyone everywhere, I don't feel like spending money on amusements, I don't feel like I need to have people around that I can't trust 100%, like I would with my select few "best" friends. I don't know if I've grown out of something, or if I need to grow out of something.

I need to go to bed.

(DB) out.

A Message on Messages

Despite this pseudo-winter brought about by global warming, I feel like this page is a fresh, virginal snowfall. I need to make footprints.

Aside from the standard fare (IMs, Facebook comments, and half-assed finals), I haven't written in a long time. The passing of the holidays has left me with a number of creative outlets, renewed interest in those outlets, and absolutely no ability to just pick one and go with it for a while. And it's not like I haven't got anything to say, either.

I should probably address something for the sake of continuity: as of the last post, Nameless Boy had popped back up. He's since popped right back down again. Yes, he got another song and a half this time, but no poetry. The good part is, fiction or not, I've had the chance to see him for what he was, unencumbered by blinding desire or overwhelming need. My estimations of him (the pessimistic ones, anyway) were largely right on the money. This however does not mean he's an inhuman monster bent on destroying my well-being. I let him be that a year ago. I didn't let him this time.

I'm sure he'll pop up again sometime, and I'm sure it'll be really inconvenient, life-wise.

One of my least-favorite parts of the holiday season is the flurry of text messages I receive on Christmas. This year, I had a couple from my best friends, a couple from some not-so-best-friends, and a couple from guys with whom I've had... dalliances(?)* over the year. I knew the best friends meant well. I knew the dalliance guys used whatever mass-text option their phones allowed them, and that their messages were harmless. The not-so-best friend texts were the ones that made me beachball in my head for a few minutes.

Does one reply? Does one ignore such messages? As I saw it, a reply risked opening up communication channels that had, for whatever reason, been closed in the recent past. I then thought to myself, "...but, even if there's bad blood, or stagnant friendships, these are holiday messages that I was enough of an insensitive douchebag to ignore." I thought again. If there's bad blood or a stagnant friendship, that's a transparent shot across the bow to remind me of it.

A lot of messages went unanswered this year.

Which brings me to the subject of electronic social warfare. Mind you, not the same kind that happened earlier this year with a certain sea cow. I mean the passive aggressive kind. Seemingly innocuous text messages. Facebook notes that don't name names but leak subtext from every half-baked euphemism. Blogged ruminations on the life and times of people who feel like they've got some explaining to do.

Let me submit, possibly as an aside, that the evil MySpace (and, though I could go on about why it's not as evil, Facebook) is proof that not even a hundred million monkeys with typewriters could produce the works of Shakespeare.

My peers' New Years blog posts are usually my favorite. These are the ones that contain reflections on their major life events, celebrations of new romance (or, hell, celebrations of ended romance), realization of future ambitions, or anything that seemed like it'd be worth mentioning. Of course, this being the holiday season I finally figured out the sport that is competitive gift-giving, I completely and totally regard these posts as a proclamation of "Look at me, everyone!" I think it's quite funny.

One sentence, however, can be found in every single one I've seen so far. It goes along the lines of, "In 2006, I learned alot [sic] about my real friends and who they are." Granted, these sermons are entirely run-of-the-mill at any time of the year on any digital soapbox one can think of. New Years, however, brings them all out to play.

A note on digital soapboxes: The internet is public. What's more, social networking sites are designed so that users are easily (if not automatically) informed of when other users change their status, talk to someone, or go to the damn bathroom. Users know this, and take advantage of it. When someone issues a note saying, "well, I guess I know who my real friends are," they're really saying "you've pissed me off, you son of a bitch, and you know who you are, too," and they know that everyone will instantly know it's been said.

It all comes down to this, a call to writers, bloggers, and typewriter-equipped monkeys everywhere: Don't use automatic, passive methods to draw attention to yourself. Don't write the same, phony self-affirmations over and over again in an attempt to convince others that you've got yourself sorted. Don't resort to indirectness just because you want to say something unpleasant without sounding like a person who says unpleasant things on the internet. And please, please drop the internet shorthand. It's so 1998.

Write if you have something to say. Say it directly, and say it well.

I'm going to make serious efforts to enjoy this year.

(DB) out.

*I might be pushing the edge of literal meaning with this word. Go ahead. Call me filthy names.

Living Fiction

Ladies and gentlemen, it's been too long. All my readers know what's been up lately, so I won't bother trying to catch up on the past three months unless it, you know, becomes relevant or something.

I'm choosing to focus on the last three days, in terms of how they turned the entirety of the past year inside out.

My entire outlook on romance over the past year is based on a fabrication.

Not necessarily a lie. A lie implies untruth. It's fiction: it could be true, but it is largely my own construction. Let's start with the basics.

Nameless Boy hurt me. A good bit. From some of my non-blog writing, most of which hasn't seen the light of day outside of a few choice folks, I've come to realize that I was so hurt not because of anything he said or did, but because I didn't really get any good closure out of it. Our final conversation last winter was bitter, it was unpleasant, it was chock full of nasty emotions, and me finally coming out with my (if not a little crazy) feelings and writing him off.

Here's how it was: I liked him, a lot. He was fabulous. He was dark, mysterious, inviting only to the curious type, intelligent, the list of adjectives goes on and on. (Cocky, too, as he'd made up quite the list for himself on his MySpace.) I fell for him, pretty hard, pretty easy. And he freaked out because 1) he'd been hurt, and 2) I was coming on a little strong. I can't apologize for my actions at this point, nor can I apologize for his: I was blinded by emotions, and so was he, just a different set of emotions from mine.

In the way of romance, I'm used to getting whoever I want, which sounds terrible. Also, that doesn't necessarily mean much, because I have a habit of only allowing myself to want people I know I can have. Nameless Boy was the exception. I felt like there was no way he'd ever really go for me, and I didn't give a damn, I wanted him anyway. I wanted to feel like ultimately, I deserved someone who was everything I was looking for. And I wanted that so much, and didn't hide it very much, and ended up losing out.

Not to say that it's entirely my fault: he certainly did me wrong when he neglected to call me, or when he would tell me how much he liked me but tell me how much he didn't think a relationship was a good idea. He sent so many mixed messages. There were moments where I finally felt like, "yes, I do deserve to have what I want, and now I have it," only to be followed by moments where I wondered if I was just talking to myself when he was around.

So yes, I did write him off. But even after a couple months, the catharsis never came. I was never satisfied with any of his explanations for why he acted the way he did. To me, whatever he said was only the tip of the iceberg, and I wasn't content to take any of it at face value.

Through the lens of my need-driven infatuation, I viewed him as a monster, someone who cut me to pieces with no shame, no regrets, no desire to even understand the consequences. I hated him, because I needed to fill that void the opposite emotion leaves when left unrequited.

I felt like I couldn't hate something just out of not understanding it. So I filled in whatever blanks I needed to. If he confessed to doing something bad once, he became a serial offender. If he was willing to push me away when I knew for a fact he cared about me, then he was obviously insane. If he hurt me, one person out of six-plus billion, then he didn't deserve the air he breathed.

I spent the past year deciding that I was tired of bullshit, tired of playing games with people, and ultimately certain that if someone wasn't good for me, I wasn't sticking around to find out how long I could handle it. I wanted to avoid the fictional supervillain I'd created, and all others who might do similar things to me.

Of the three significant ex's I had, the mean time I spent with each was a month. And it all never worked out for perfectly legitimate reason: one wasn't mature enough, one was way too involved with his (our) friends and scene, and the last one wasn't compatible enough with my scene. I break hearts for a living, and always under the rationale that I'd rather be lonely and self-assured than with someone who wasn't perfect. My writing began to reflect that, and I was totally okay with that. Emotional independence can be a beautiful feeling. Moreover, it's easily maintained when the walls of ice I build around myself are big enough to resist melting for just any little flame. It might be cold in here, but at least it's safe.

Until almost a year after his departure, that Nameless Boy shows back up and owns up to everything he did and didn't do. Tells me how much he cares for me, how much he regrets what happened and wants a chance to get things right. Walls of ice, meet the Sun.

Now, he takes every chance he can get to reinforce that he's sorry, and then remind me that he, too, never stopped caring. Uses words like "admire" and "wish" and "amazing." Even sounded apprehensive after I mentioned my outlook on romance, wondering if I'd stay icy and reserved and leave at the first chance to be rid of him. When he laughs, he actually sounds like he's letting go and really laughing. At this point, I'm wondering when I'm going to wake up from this, because it seems too good to be true: the object of my desires reappears out of the past and tells me that he really did care, still does, and wants to do things right?

Part of me wants to doubt this. And a good number of my friends want to doubt this, too, because while I eventually started owning up to my own neurotic fiction, I'm not sure too many of them know the whole story. The other part of me, though, says I shouldn't doubt this. I have no reason to. After a year of dreaming up reasons to hate him, I'd be the first person able to smell a rat and detect an ulterior motive. But I've smelled none.

2006 saw me train myself to actually enjoy not needing someone. And the moment that thought makes its way into words, the person responsible for it all comes back. And of course, I don't need him. By all rights, he should be the last person I'd need. But since I saw him in 2005, he was the only person I truly wanted, and despite history, that never changed one single, tiny bit.

an attempt at consistency

So, my grandma, last time I checked, is recovering nicely from the heart surgery. Now, since a hip-breaking fall was what landed her in the hospital in the first place, she just needs to have that taken care of before anything can officially be declared alright again.

In other news, school started this week. Pleasantly, it turns out my friend Mandi (who I haven't really seen for a year, but ran into at work a couple weeks ago) is in my first two classes. My third class is taught by the psych professor I had over the summer, and since I loved her, I was elated to find that out. Finally, my last class is automatically better than the previous time I tried to take it, because there is finally efficient air conditioning in the weight room. Now all I have to do is kick my nasty macaroni and cheese addiction and I might actually get something accomplished.

I felt like I should write something to consume the time this podcast is taking to download- a coworker recommended a Dutch podcast that has an hour-long crazy techno session every week. Marco's musical tastes haven't led me astray before, so I had to check it out. Now, if only these files didn't feel like they were several hundred megs apiece... real estate is quite limited on my little albino PowerBook.

Okay, only about 70MB apiece. Not too bad.

I feel like I should have more intelligent things to contribute, considering how eventful these past few weeks have been. However, I'm consumed with three thoughts: 1) Jason would really, really get off on this techno stuff, 2) I need to watch Logo more, because mm, those mens is delicious, and 3) it's great to be back at school. Not like I really left for all that long, but it feels good to be back, and it feels good to see a huge number of my friends there. I think this was the first time that I didn't feel alone (and secretly jealous) on the first day back to school. This is the first year that everyone in my local social sphere has been here at the same time, and the first time back after successfully finishing a semester.

My brain's being consumed by techno. I have to stop writing now.

(DB) out.

an explanation for the last three weeks

The past couple of weeks have been super turbulent, and a huge mess. A brief summary, with key points bolded for easy reference:

Finals Week this time was for some reason much more pressing than the last. I ended up having to take a week off work to finish three papers and two powerpoint presentations, do two take-home finals, and study for the two in-class finals. My hard work paid off and I finished my two classes with an A and a B, respectively.

I was supposed to go on vacation immediately after my last night of class, but some unfortunate circumstances arose with Jinah's family, with whom we were going. So we ended up leaving on Sunday rather than Friday morning. I was disappointed, but I did end up getting to go to the drive-in with a bunch of friends on Friday night, which proved an enjoyable and inexpensive way to while away an evening. That alone made the delay worth it. Saturday, I did some housework I'd put off for ages, and then guiltily went off and spent $100 (!) at Walmart on a new outfit, a substantial amount of much-needed toiletries (vacation or not), and equipment / soaps / sprays to clean off my dirty car. Even if I planned to park it once I got there, I wasn't about to roll down Coastal Highway covered in pollen and bird shit. After washing the car, Jinah and I finished packing, picked up Adam, and were all ready to get going..

When all of a sudden, my car begins to issue puffs of smoke out of the hood. Turns out the power steering fluid was leaking everywhere, causing the car to stink, and of course, explaining some of the subtle steering problems I've noticed of late. So, less than nine hours before we were scheduled to leave, my car is unable to make the trip. Fortunately, my parents decided to take me, Jinah, and Adam down, because there was no way everyone, everyone's luggage, and a dog was going to fit in a single Ford Taurus.

Once we arrived, though, the trip turned out amazing. It was very relaxing, and unlike the last time I went (senior week) I actually made it to the beach daily, between morning trips and evening walks. My money managed to last me throughout the trip, we didn't tire out our patience for each other, and I finally finished reading this book I've ignored for the past year, save for bookshelf relocations. My head cleared, I reaffirmed my confidence in feelings I've had for my friend Mike (not Stuart, for those of you who might have thought so), though uncertainty caused me to shy away from previous attempts to act on them. I managed to turn a shade darker without getting a sunburn, and I managed to accomplish everything I wanted to.

My favorite realization came when I spent an hour in the library, on my computer and on the phone, trying to sort out my classes for the fall. Regardless of where I was, I still had my computer and reasonably accessible WiFi. I still had my phone, so I exchanged texts and calls with people at home fairly often. Even without WiFi, I can get to my work-related emails from my phone anyhow. So, despite romantic notions of going on vacation to escape from one's daily life, I was as connected in Ocean City as I ever am in Baltimore. I wasn't enjoying myself because I was away, I was enjoying myself because I was at the beach. That simple thought process amplified how wonderful everything already was. When it came time to return home, I felt refreshed, relaxed, and ready to start back up with life again; it was a very liberating feeling. My car had been repaired in my absence, my ailing dog hadn't died while I was away, and I'd finally hammered out a schedule for the fall. I felt as though Life had given me an hour-long massage, topped off with a pat on the back.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, it turned out that I would very much need it.

On Monday, I drove to work and discovered that my car had taken to overheating again, and I had no money to buy any more coolant. When I arrived at work, I came to find that I was scheduled for the next six days in a row. Not like I've got anything else to do this week, and I did tell them to schedule me for anything when I got back, but it's still a bit of a jerk back to reality. I dealt with it.

Monday night, when I got home from work, I found that my dog (Prince) was bleeding profusely from one of the tumors on his stomach. Now, he was loaded up with cancer, arthritis, and was blind and deaf. We knew his days were numbered, but when that point came, we knew it was time to have him put down. So, we cried a lot, called the emergency vet clinic, and took him over. They made us sit around for 45 minutes with Prince shivering on a cold metal exam table before they actually came to euthanize him.

They tranquilized him, and his eyes finally closed and he fell asleep. Then, they injected the lethal drugs, and neglected to mention that when they took effect, certain reflexes would be activated. So here we are, my dad, my brother, and myself, all crying as they stick the needle into the IV, and listening to his breathing slow down. Suddenly, his eyes fly back open and he starts gasping, his face contorts and his body convulses. His eyes are crossed and stuck open. By this point we'd all ran out of the room, sobbing. I'm fairly sure that image will never ever leave my memory.

I'm only hoping they were telling the truth, that Prince was really dead when that happened, and not jolted back to consciousness in those final moments to find his heart stopped and his lungs no longer working. I feel like it's what we had to do, and that it was better than waiting for him to be consumed by cancer, or waiting for him to fall down a flight of stairs because he couldn't see and could barely walk. But it's taking a much longer time to reconcile that because from the horrible things I saw, nothing looked peaceful and dignified about the way he died. Since nobody I know has ever been euthanized and lived to tell the tale, I'll never know if he felt any of it or not.

We got home at 11:30, and I had to be at work at 9am, to teach a one-on-one class. I was in no condition to go to bed though, and went out for a ride with Mike to get some fresh air and clear my head. My puppy was still gone, and I was running on no sleep, but the class turned out well, and work went well otherwise. I still didn't feel right, though.

Adam and Jinah met up with me after work to treat me to sushi, in hopes of cheering me up. It largely worked. Until I got a call from my dad, stating that my grandmother was in intensive care, because she'd apparently suffered at least two heart attacks and either not known about them or not told anybody about them, and they'd caught up with her. Given that I was at dinner and she wasn't taking visitors, there was nothing that I could really do, except try not to let it get me down. Jinah and Adam told me they'd buy me some coolant, too.

So we get to Walmart (a-fucking-gain) and buy some coolant, throw it in to the engine, and drive back to my house. The car overheats. At this point, I'm inside, sitting on the couch, trying not to think, "well, my dog's dead, my grandmother's dying, and my car's dying too." That thought didn't subside, though, as evidenced by last night's away message.

This morning, my car didn't overheat, and later in the day, I got news that my grandmother was stabilized, at least for now, even though things are looking quite dire for her at the moment. After work, Jinah, Adam, and Mike treated me to the $3 movies to see Clerks 2, and here I am, typing this.

These past two (now three, whatever) days could very easily depress the hell out of anyone. I feel like I'm keeping myself fairly well-grounded considering the small amount of time that's passed. The thing that disturbs me the most is this pattern I seem to fall into every year or so. I'm positioned to succeed academically, but then something bad happens involving someone close to me, I get stressed out, stop caring, and give up.

It happened two years ago the first time I went to college, involving a whopping fight with my parents. A year ago, it happened when Brad and I broke up, which I would qualify as a more stressful ordeal than the previous year's fight. This year, my dog dies (I'll very seriously consider strangling you if you think that's not a big deal), and I might lose my grandma. And my car, $1700 after its first repair, still may be on the verge of falling apart.

I feel like it progressively gets worse and worse. But, I have to put any feelings of grief or dread on the back burner, and focus on one thing alone: avoiding self-pity at all costs. In a nutshell, shit happens. And while I'd like to feel like I'm the victim of some cosmic conspiracy, and it'd damn sure be easy to think that right now, I won't. None of this is anybody's fault, and while I'd so desperately like to blame someone, I can't. I can't blame any person, I can't blame God, and I can't blame myself. If I start to do any of those things, I'll be setting myself up for the same trains of thought that have consistently set me on a course towards apathy and failure in the past.

As much as all of this blows, I'm lucky enough to be the one doing all the mourning, rather than being the mourned. Yes, I'm in pain, but I'm alive, and that in and of itself is a mandate to keep it together, and maintain as much momentum as I can. Unlike the loved ones I've lost and may be losing, I have a long future ahead of me. And if I let myself slip on account of all this, I'd be doing them a great disservice: I love(d) them, they love(d) me, and the last thing any of us would want would be pain overtaking me, facilitating yet another crash-and-burn.

I don't know which of the stages of grief I would assign to any of my reactions, but I like to think that I'm keeping my head on straight about all this. If any of you readers have any reactions, thoughts, suggestions, or anything, please, don't hesitate to let me know.

(DB) out.

Being Fashionable

(Avid readers, I promise a real post about my real life is coming soon.)

Apparently, blog-hating is in vogue.

After a long and uncomfortable calme d'inquietude (archaic French, don't bother looking it up, try to infer) with a certain former friend of mine, it's come to my attention that she's been talking about me by name in her MySpace blog. For easy reference, the "gay pothead" she's referring to isn't me. Of those two things, I am only one, and I think the conclusion's fairly easy to draw.

But, aside from a few glaring capitalization and grammatical errors, she's got some of the facts a little off. Not that's she's wrong: all of those things are true, or at the very least, could be. What disturbs me is the horrible number of omissions she's made.

So, in the interest of furthering the fine art of blog-hating, my little dugong (here, in case anyone needs to look that up), here are some pointers.

Firstly: I do admire your adherence to the truth in the first few bits of your assault on me: I do know everything. And I damn well certainly think I do, as well. But honey, you couldn't be further from the truth when you say it doesn't matter what you say to me. It definitely does matter: without you, I wouldn't have anything to serve as the subject of minimal contemplation and more substantial amounts of chuckling before I go to bed some nights. So the assertion that what you say doesn't matter is completely unfounded. The same joys you provide me are the same joys you provide to many others.

Secondly: Here's where we start to run into some problems. Where you say that people talking crap about me always come and tell me. Yes, by my own admission, that happens most of the time. But if it doesn't, I have a lovely surprise for you: I don't care. I invite you to scroll down a bit and read the rest of this blog, here, and try to wrap your sirenian brain (see wikipedia link above) around the endless piss and vinegar I self-deprecatingly spew out about myself on a daily basis. Though your tone lends a bit of sarcasm to the sentence in question, your diatribe largely ignores the fact that there are few, if any, things that anyone could say about me that are worse than the things I say about myself.

To go off on those, for a minute: You totally forgot to mention that I only have a sense of direction when I don't have any other viable life choices left. And, come on? The fact that I tend to trust everything and everyone except my own emotions, often to my detriment? I totally left that one open for you and you missed it. Let's not forget the past run-ins I've had with alcohol and substance abuse, the heartbreaks I've caused and suffered, and how the guilt I associate with them is often deeply rooted in a sense of personal inadequacy. Throughout the course of our friendship, I gave you gold. I feel just in demanding a little courtesy on your part- please use my contributions to the best of your ability.

Lastly, I wholeheartedly embrace your suggestion to believe what I want! Seriously, that's wonderful. I like being encouraged to pursue my own thoughts and ideas. Comments like that help me reaffirm my faith in my own belief system. Sometimes, it's just the little things in life that make the biggest differences. Just like Twinkies, yeah?

My final problem, though, leaps into the spotlight when you tell me to get real. You seem to have misapplied the best of the resources available to you; including but not limited to years' worth of memories, intimate conversations, and a crippled-yet-still-extant ability to self-actualize and see traces of that in others. To break it down:

I am neurotic. I am insecure. I have low-self esteem. I am the king of Too Much Information. I think I know it all, and when I say I do, I mean it. I am stubborn. I make mistakes, and stick by them until the very last possible minute. I have been known to say nasty things about people, and I take responsibility for those things. I have faith, (occasionally too much, as evidenced by the travails of attempting to reason with you), that those with whom I surround myself do the same.

Like before, your attempts to hurt my feelings or make me doubt my friends (and myself) have failed. I hope, in the future, you can take some of the pointers here and write something truly incisive, something that does draw as much blood as I think you were hoping for.

I am grossly offended, though, by the suggestion that I am not, in fact, real. Though I doubt my own existence from time to time, there is nothing fictitious about how I am in touch with my own feelings, how I ultimately respect the people I care about, or how I live my life. One's internal view of all those things is all that really matters in life, aside from looking outside of oneself to find new ways to learn and love. As such, your suggestion to get real is one of the flimsiest things you've ever said to me- I'm as real as they get. I hope that one day, discounting an untimely encounter between your back and a speedboat, you will eventually be able to say the same about yourself.

(DB) out.

Author's note: No dugongs, or surprisingly enough, bottles of wine, were harmed in the writing of this entry.

i'm an IM away from quoting sarah mclachlan in my title

Today was hot.

I worked, I napped, I went to school. That was about it.

Right now I'm sitting on the porch, of course, not really doing anything. I'm deciding when this moth / june beetle is eventually going to end up in my hair.

Oop, there it goes. Granted, five minutes passed between me typing the previous sentence and typing this one, but yeah. It was only a matter of time.

DC Boy is already screwing with my head without knowing he's doing it. When we talk online, and we're not talking about something he brought up, he feels every bit of those 47 miles away.

Attractive, emotionally distant, but able to captivate my curiosity enough to keep me guessing? Sound familiar, anyone?

I want to cancel the date, just so I can disappoint him before he gets the chance to do it to me. That's not what good people do, but if that what it takes to protect myself, then that's what I'll have to do.

I want to shove a coat hanger up my noise, and pull out the part of my brain responsible for processing emotions. Then, I'd be a real man.

(DB) out.