The Way I Am

I've realized on a number of separate occasions recently that I've become one of those people I hated, the ones so happy and drunk with love and life that it's all they think about and all they want to talk about and you just want to take all that saccharine sop and shove it down their throats until they choke.I'm not talking about it blah blah blah twenty-four-seven. I'm writing this, sure, but this is precisely what I started blogging for. At the least I know I should be more tolerant of those people, now that I know what it is - I realized it when I was talking to Bobby today, when it came out by accident - it's happiness. He said, yeah, you're one of those happy people. I'm happy. I'm so happy.

But look, I have this thing that someone special taught to me a long, long time ago. I say what I'm feeling, I say it with absolute earnest, and the person that I love will somehow know it every day, but I don't say the same thing every day. Those are special words that have to be used with utmost care so they won't lose their value. They have to be protected. And so, in order to protect them, I show how I feel. I do. And the ones I love the most at the ones that do back. A photograph. A keepsake. A trip to your favorite cafe in the city. I'd do anything for you. So tonight instead of words, I'm sharing a little of myself with you. And for the sake of the sanity of all the people who haven't yet come to my same realizations, I'll stop just there for now, and now for something completely different. 

Jude said I should do a little experiment while I blog tonight, to start smoking in the beginning and just see what turns out. I see it a social experiment to determine definitively whether or not people under the influence create more beautiful art, or at least as beautiful as it is to them. Jude said once that they don't, but for my part, I'm willing to wager it depends on the person. Because the mind wants to create. It just needs a push. And so I wanted to see the progression of sober to high on paper in the morning.

First things first is the revelation that food is better when you cook it, followed by a consideration of the absurdity of wanting to write about food. I'm watching a movie called Adam, about a man with Asperger's, and truth and lies and love. It's touching, but the soundtrack is patchy, and you know how I feel about soundtracks and mixtapes. When I gave Jude a mixtape, he told me I should do soundtracks for indie movies, and I said something dumb like I have to save the world, and he lamented for Zach Braff. I do suspect he was being nice. He's always being nice. He's the nicest boy I've ever met. See, here I go again, the happy is coming through, unannounced. I understand, lovers of the world! The movie ended, it was supposed to be happy I think, but it was awful sad, because Adam's only character development was therapeutic process for his disease, not emotional. He'll never find what the girl could have gave him. Stupid writers and producers. That's not a happy ending. I only had five matches, so I've hit a wall now where I can't light this anymore, so this post will start going downhill, flicker or die ...


In conclusion, Jude is right, or I just don't have a beautiful enough mind.