Four More Years! Four More Years!

Yeah, like Hell.

Our search for a home on hold, Delanie and I seem to have loosely agreed on staying here indefinitely. I am at once excited and dubious. It is good to be settled together in any manner, and I am often proud of Massachusetts, but I am not for one moment looking forward to another strangling Winter.

It can be beautiful, romantic, and inspiring, but the toll on food coupled with the ridiculously irrelevant employment opportunities is simply not worth the climatic variety or the pride of living in the most liberal state.

The company in Carlsbad which I flew to Las Vegas in 2005 for an interview with, and which I have been so persistently seeking employment at, has recently cut most of their number, letting them go with a basic 'You're all fired,' in a parking lot, leaving only dozens out of hundreds.

I suppose that I can now thank the immensely late taxi service -- which caused me to miss the interview -- for allowing me to avoid such a crushing blow.

Nonetheless, I still have to make it to Minnesota as promised to Erick, or back to California as sworn to myself. Yet the present consists of a stifling state of affairs. Being the only two non-smoking, non-drinking, well-nourished, healthy humans in a county of shambling, overweight, zombified, straw-haired, fish-eyed alcoholics and heroin addicts is taxing on a couple's sense of external comaraderie, I think.

The condominium unit in Westfield sold for $140,000. With my share, I have, thus far, bought seaweed. It beats living on royalties from 2002-2004. I would like an arrangement like that again, but the industry seems to have gone bonkers (obviously, because it's not doing what I want).

In any case, we are planning a camping excursion to the nearby Prospect Mountain for the week surrounding my birthday. Delanie means to enjoy rummaging through the mining scraps for shiny booty, while I mean to enjoy being at least eighty feet away from ridiculous people at any given time, and together we mean to enjoy the latter with duality.

I have only ever camped in months of Spring and Autumn, never in the heat August. I look forward to it.

It Tickles Me, Too

Candace says (10:56 PM):
Hey, I found that GetOffMySpace post about you. Very interesting read.
Kyle says (10:56 PM):
I imagine.
Candace says (10:56 PM):
I admit I chuckled.
Kyle says (10:56 PM):
I didn't even bother trying to get into the community.
Candace says (10:57 PM):
Half of the comments were about how angry they were that you are apparently,
um... well-endowed.
Candace says (10:58 PM):
One comment even said that it was the biggest one they've seen.
Candace says (10:58 PM):
Which is... interesting?
Candace says (10:58 PM):
But anyway, that pissed them off.
Kyle says (10:58 PM):
Odd. I know that I am above the 'statistical' average, but that is not saying much.
The supposed average is pretty unbelievably small. I doubt the statistics. Then
again, I suppose I am of the standard male mentality that the size of the penis is
not sufficient until his partner is killed by it.
Candace says (10:58 PM):
Hahaha.
Kyle says (10:59 PM):
But yes, that is funny, and I thank you for sharing. It made my id's night.
Candace says (10:59 PM):
But I laughed, since a lot of them were so enraged.
Kyle says (11:00 PM):
Stop that. I almost want to intentionally submit something intentionally enraging.
Candace says (11:01 PM):
I'm an enabler, haha.
Candace says (11:01 PM):
I do love when little groups like this get, for lack of better terms, butt-hurt like this.
Candace says (11:02 PM):
It tickles me.

Witnessing Human Death

Plenty of family members have died in the past, but always have I been far from the event. Never with them. Let alone living in their home.

The third of my four grandparents died at 9:17;PM, twelve months after having been diagnosed with cancer. I lived here in his home for the last month. Being a journal, I should be able to describe everything I witnessed here, but I can't seem to. I will simply say that I found it grotesque.

My unusual (in this family) views on human life and death made my reaction different from that of the others. While they watched him and cried, I watched them and wondered. While they felt slighted and saddened, I felt angry that it was all shrouded and diluted in superstition.

My father saw it, but I doubt anyone else would even know how to recognize it.

Occupation: Freelance Volunteer Lecturer

I like dark places, so I will not say that I have been in a dark place, recently, but I have been in a deadly place. I cannot spend another year like this, spitting in my own face, whoring myself to my horrors and struggling to remember my dreams.

Every dawn, as fatigue sets in, my eyes follow the woodgrain of my desk, the pixels on the display, and the twilight through the windows conceding to sunrise. This morning, my breathing catches the scent of a peach stone I discarded hours ago. The peach had been the size of a golf ball, dry, and underripe, with the consistency of something unconcerned with the consistency of peaches. My fifteen-year-old sister coughs with pneumonia somewhere on the floor below. Somehow, it is all not quite real anymore. Was it ever? I think this question as if it is a new thought. I tend to forget when I last asked myself. Was it last week?

The train passes. I envision myself writing something on the empty walls with blood. I wonder how well it would stain.

Ventrilo beeps. Erick has gone to sleep for the day.

I wish that food was as plentiful and affordable as technology.

Heh.

It is not that we have no money, but I have no money, and I refuse to be a parasite more than absolutely necessary to remain alive and sane. Even then, acquaintances will note, I tend to minimalise.

I accept gifts. With each dollar, I despise my situation more, but what can I do? I spend it on food. 5'7", 110 lbs. 100 lbs. 97 lbs. 93 lbs. 110 again. I try to savour the gift as much as the kindness of its giving. I am not taking this for granted. I know what I am doing. No one else seems to, but that does not matter, either, because knowing what I am doing only leads to more Catch-22s, more ironically dark humour.

This, and I still feel wasteful. Self-sabotaging. Philosophically raped. Psychologically solicitous. Academia's Whore, he called me....

A bird looks in from its perch on the window. I watch. It vanishes as a car pulls into the lot. I note that my vision is foggy. A part of my consciousness reminds me that it has been for months. I do my best to discard the thought.

I know everything that I need to do. Yet the trunk of that tree is to get out of here.

And I can't.