Reblogged from nickholmes
Something Catchy.....
You'll find me in the fine print.
That moment when your typing an email out in a frenzied and ill advised emotion that could be anything from rage to swooning ridiculous love and you don’t intend to send this email yet you somehow accidentally hit the send button from your keyboard anyway. Your just left there staring at the screen with fingers in mid-stroke, mouth partially agape and no recollection of how that blight on your good name just managed to whisk itself across the internet without your explicit permission. Was it divine? Does God hate me that much or is He trying to help me? Or is it of a more sinister design and somewhere in the mythical realm of Hades, Satan is shitting himself with laughter?
It’s difficult to say. What’s even more difficult to say is to un-say what it is that I’ve said SO WELL in that damned email. An action or physical deed I could potentially undo with my words, being as I’m a bit crafty with them in that underhanded way. I can not, however, use words to undo words. Especially words that I put a great deal of thought into.
OH the humor. lol
LLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL
L-FUCKING-O-FUCKING-L
I thought it was supposed to be a fun game. But nobody likes getting beaten 16 to 4. I had to result to booty dancing just to bring a smile to my own ace and only scowls from my teams.
This could be a long season. Or a short one if I don’t have any fun and just quit. I’m not really playing to win but having fun is easier when its at least a little closer. Highlight of the night was when I let a ground ball roll straight between my legs and fell down laughing while the rest of my team shouted angrily at me.
Much like church itself, church softball leagues are not places where your supposed to have fun and enjoy the experience. I tried cheering for America, cheering for the Gippur, I tried conjuring angels from the sky to kiss my bat but it never worked and no seemed to enjoy my efforts.
I recognize that I may not be funny, but there should at least be enough lightheartedness to conjure up a yelled rebuttal or 2. The experience was a bout as stale as the mac and cheese I’ve still been eating in my fridge that I received a week and a half ago, (that is to say, quite stale.)
Here’s hoping for more joy, a closer score and bearable weather. (the humidity was beyond 100%)
——————-BEWARE, THIS PASSAGE ADDRESS VERY ADULT CONTENT————-POSSIBLY NOT SUITED TO WOMEN——-DEFINITELY NOT SUITED TO CHILDREN OR MOTHERS OR PRIESTS OR KITTENS———————-OR SANTA CLAUS——————-EASTER BUNNY IS PERMITTED AT HIS OWN PERIL————————THANK YOU
I am the many and the many more to come.
People never tell you what to expect life to be like as a 20 something year old male. However, there are long talks and comprehension tests and rigorous evaluations to determine your competence as a functioning teenager in this country. Then, suddenly, we crack 18 and it’s as though our physical development lurches to a halt and the only thing we have to decide is which style attache’ better suits our professional pedigree, ( London Lifestyles or Westminster Platinum series sir?)
Hollywood develops movies whose plot is dedicated to unmasking the frivolity and hedonism of life in college, each one lurching away from exploring the frustrations that comes with that particular way of living. The truth is that it’s incredibly difficult to be a 20 something. The reason nobody is merely defined by being 20, of course, is that we are all-unique and have our own set of ethics and standards to live by. Boys will boys in college when they’re drinking themselves within an inch of their life, nailing anything with eyelashes and experimenting with various forms of grasses and compounds with fire set at the end of -or underneath them.
However, none of my priorities line up with this particular worldview. The devotees of Super Ribbed Magnum condoms and the fanatics of shot gunning a colt 45. of Miller Lite do not share the same things as me. I don’t do any of these things because my set of ethics tells me that I shouldn’t. Where does that place me at the age of 23? What am I?
I’m an under-fucked, sexually frustrated, apprehensive shut-in who spends his time alone worrying about his future. I’m at the peak of my maturation period. This is the time in life where everything in my body becomes as good as it will ever get. That being said I spend a good deal of my day thinking. I’m a thinker. Not deep thoughts most days because at this point in my life half of the signals being sent to my brain are telling me to fuck something until a baby comes out of it.
Hardly the behavior of a refined and debonair young gentleman.
This is construed as normal behavior amongst most males my age. They go from girl to girl gratifying the synapses that fire wildly through their booze addled minds until suddenly they decide (subconsciously) stop or contract a venereal disease that puts them out of the game with a despairing drip or uncomfortable burn. I’m not here to say whether that’s wrong or not but merely to say that I choose not to do this.
The issue is in the resistance. These are hormonal pulses that my mind is interpreting; and resisting them is beginning to feel unhealthy. There are repercussions to resisting nature. It bleeds into other portions of your life, making you incredibly frustrated at every impedance and building up a bundle of nerves that wedges their way into your normal day and then releases themselves through anger at others and at yourself.
We have it hard, those of us who are on my side where the grass isn’t greener but just annoying and stupid and pointless with it’s ridiculous color and shape.
We recognize that we have to stop being boys and be men. We are supposed to step out and walk into life whistling a terrific tune as we swing our briefcase gaily at our side and wink a good morning at the postman as he smiles broadly back our way.
We want a house. We want a wife. We want a steady job. We want children. And none of us know how to get those things. It’s utterly petrifying.
We are the future and we are the unsure. We are the present and we are confused. We are set up for success and we are looking only for failure.
To be honest this is far worse than puberty. Those changes were by and large physiological and there was no need to resist them. Not to mention there was an appalling amount of revealing pamphlets on the matter. And when the going got tough I always knew I could count on an informative yet wildly inappropriate video at school to answer my questions. Even having “THE TALK” with my Dad, while incredibly awkward, was beneficial and felt proper in it’s own progressing right.
There’s no awkward video for me now. Instead of talking about pubic hair the pamphlets now tell me that I have a right to psychiatric help in the school’s psyche program. Yes, it’s a very complicated issue that we face and it’s not as simple as explaining what wet dreams are, but it’s all or nothing.
What am I supposed to tell a psychologist? I’m not mentally ill. I’m 23.
I’ll walk into the office of the University’s psyche program and be introduced to an attractive young student. She’ll ask me what she can help me with and I shall answer, “My mind is telling me that you and I should have great sex on this carpet and then afterwards, while I hold you, if you would be so kind as to tell me how to be happy in life.”
Where are the helpful movie quotes?
“Growing up is hard.”
What is that supposed to mean? “Rain is wet.” “Dogs can bark.”
I feel like I’m in a generation full of turkeys with their eyes elevated to the gathering clouds. We are a bewildered youth in a wordless age. We have so many emotions and so few remedies. Do we have a place? Is there somewhere that we can fit or squeeze in? It’s no wonder more people don’t pursue their dreams after college. It’s fucking terrifying!
This is a new age and more, now than ever before, it is incredibly difficult to launch from college into a professional life. A college degree is the new high school degree and a master’s degree will have you in debt well into your 40’s. We need to do something here before the queue of frustrated self-pleasuring youths backs up the system and we tailspin into another financial and social crisis. Men are no longer just Men. We’ve hit a second puberty.
College has done many things to me.
It’s difficult to say whether any of them have been positive or negative for I am still to close to events to gain perspective. One thing that it responsible for is now a source of frustration for me.
I don’t want to attempt anything, yet I want to accomplish everything.
Don’t construe that in a manner that makes it seem as though I am lazy. While I am, in fact, appallingly loathe to apply myself in certain areas I do posses the drive to do what I want to do, and even what needs to be done.
Those things, however, have been tainted and made sour for me by other people.
I should very much like to write a book. Yet I won’t do it because of the way I am afraid it will make me look. Like a pretentious, swaggering, douche bag.
(Oh what you think you have something to say that’s any different or any better than whats already been said? You fucking hipster. Quit dicking around with words and get a job that makes money so you can have a family some day.)
Everybody in film school “writes.” It’s all a great deal of garbage for the most part.
Unimaginative-Rehashed-Recycled-Revolting.
I don’t want to integrate myself into the same community that feels the need to push my views and unoriginal thoughts onto others in the form of more bad writing. Although I know that it is in my personality to do so, the evidence being here on this page and formerly on my Facebook page.
I would love to do more photography. Yet I don’t because so many people snap a photo, throw instagram on it and call themselves photographers that I don’t even want to have to go through the process of convincing others that I’ve actually taken the time to learn the technicalities of the craft. It’s this wanton, half-assed approach to these endeavors that I see most often. The cherry on top though is the self imbued title of “Artist” that they relegate upon themselves. It’s as though they’ve decided to emancipate themselves from the masses of weak and untalented simpletons in order to give their pursuits value.
I want nothing to do with these people. People who are in school and have 2 student films under their belt who call themselves artists. It gives me a sick feeling in my stomach about what I do. I hesitate to even call myself creative and when I do it feels like a filthy adjective for being an entitled, arrogant sycophant.
That’s why my entire college career has been spent learning the technical side of things. I can clean lenses, build cameras and assemble lighting setups.
I don’t want to be an artist. I just want to do the things that make me happy and I find it abhorrently unfortunate that those things fall within the realm of the “Artists.”
————-HARD TRUTH SECTION———-THIS SHIT IS ABOUT TO GET REAL————
Maybe I feel this way because doing these things used to make me feel unique in a community bereft of people interested in any of these past times. Maybe I hate these people because some of them are more talented than I am and I don’t get the attention and recognition that I wish I had.
Maybe I don’t attempt these projects because I know that they will be lost in the intersection of zipping ideas and pursuits. How then can I be praised if everyone else is doing what I’m doing?
Why can’t I do something unique? The fear of doing what I love is that it makes me just another person trying to be artist and become unique when I know that I’m not. Despite whatever talent and skill I have, and whether it’s more or less than another person there will always be an ocean of people trying to do exactly what I am doing.
I don’t like that.
Maybe I’m just frustrated because I got used to being a big fish in a small pond and now I’m just a fish in a regular pond. When I leave it won’t be better.
I’m not sure which it is. It may be a combination of the two. Regardless I should probably still do what I enjoy.
I don’t know.
Tonight is the first softball practice of the season and I’m am way more excited than I have any right to be. The last time I played an organized sport in a season was in like, 9th grade. Sports can be foolish but I see a lot of opportunity in a recreational church softball league to have fun.
I may have a follow up post afterwards. We shall see.
O my gawd im sooooo xcited 2 get out side n play!!!!!!!
The hard truth is that half the time I wish ill of others in my own field. I don’t want them to have success. I don’t want them to have talent.
I recognize that this is wrong. But recognition is not the solvent to break down my envy.
