At Bay

The yard stank of mud.  Of dried blood.  A hint of fear.  A soft, permeating rain fell steadily, soaking through canvas and flannel, turning the ground into a squelching morass that sucked at the sportsman's boots.  The butt of his whip clattered against the bars and links of the ramshackle pens that lined one side of the perimeter fence, agitating the dogs even more.  One mutt threw itself at the bars, roaring it's complaint, nearly at a height with the hunter, who shouted back and cracked the dog on the nose with the whip handle.  It retreated, but continued to bark, jaws slavering with frustration.

All along the wall, the dogs were baying in near frenzy.  Lips were pulled back, spittle flew.  Here and there, eyes rolled and blood was spattered about the cages as certain bitches and hounds began throwing themselves at the less-than-sturdy doors of their pens.

These are not like that mangy mutt your grandma keeps around that doesn't like men.  They are not like the rottweiler owned by that one family you know in the Bronx.  These are not coonhounds or foxhounds or bloodhounds or wolfhounds.  These are not poodles or ridgebacks or shepards or mastiffs.  The beasts in the pens along the perimeter wall in the mud of the rain-soaked yard are just dogs.  Bred for generations with only a few characteristics in mind: aggression; determination; hardiness; violence.

The dogs could smell the fear.  Through the rain, through the haze of blood and meat and chase that filled their simple dog minds.  It was right there.  Front-and-goddamned-center in the yard, unsheltered from the rain and the barking and the murderous eyes.  Taunting the beasts.  Filling their nostrils with visions of the hunt to come.

Tiny, vulnerable, and utterly terrified, the fox huddled in the center of its little wire box.

Be Like the Water

I have a list of two topics, the likelihood of which i will talk to you about them is directly proportional to how well i know you, multiplied by how likely i am to ever see you again.

Or something like that.

You see, i really don't like discussing religion or politics with people. It's not that i don't have anything to say on the subjects, either, (although i am far from passionate about them) it's just that i have found that such conversations are very rarely worthwhile, for various reasons of varying importance. Here are a couple of them:

In general, people don't know how to have a civil exchange of ideas without becoming offended. Whether this is due to the inherent personal nature of the topics, the relatively thin skin of modern arguers, or the average lack of formal rhetorical training, i have no idea, but the fact remains that when you start giving reasons for why you don't believe that which your buddy does, they often take it personally. This is unfortunate and i am often just as guilty as anyone else, but i don't let it linger; people have different opinions and if i know the person cares about me, i'm not gonna think less of them for having a *gasp* different view. It makes sense, when you think about it.

The second - and in my mind, far more influential - reason is called the Illusion of Asymmetric Insight. Put simply, everyone (EVERYONE) believes that they are smarter and more insightful than their opposition. See what that means, though? It means that everyone (EVERYONE) is also wrong.

Even you.

Evolution vs. Creationism. Liberals vs. Conservatives. Keynes vs. Hayek. I really don't care, it's all the same when it comes down to it: you think you're well-informed and supremely logical in your opinion and think your opposition is a naive simpleton. Both sides are equally close-minded and arrogant in their beliefs.

It's not really anyone's fault, though; it's human nature. We're social creatures and it is beneficial to the continued existence of the group to ostracize and vilify members of any group we see as outsiders. (those familiar with the concept of the Monkey Sphere should already recognize this phenomenon) This incredibly powerful instinct is currently at odds with the popular opinion that all of humanity should just drop their disagreements and hug it out. We all want to get along and believe that everybody's equal and beautiful and all that, but it goes against a fundamental engine of self-preservation.

Religion and politics are volatile, but they're not empirical facts. No one is ever going to be able to prove that one view point is more valid than another. Hell, even the things we do consider empirical facts get turned on their heads sometimes. That's just the nature of this thing called Life.

So until the next big headline comes out, let's all just follow Wheaton's Law, huh?

Timpanimation

A good scout notices everything. A great one also notices the absences, but even a novice would have quickly realized that a forest at night should never, ever be silent. The steady decrease in the chirrups, buzzes, rustles, and croaks took up a lot of the scout's attention and was part of the reason why the simultaneous rise of the staccato beat was nigh-imperceptible. For a while, the sound didn't register as a physical noise, but a mere unease on the edge of his perception. It tickled his thoughts, put such a subtle pall over them that it was unrecognizable until it was too late. He was within earshot of a hand drum, he froze.

The pace was measured, determined, powerful. The tempo seemed to change at random. It was unsettling. It was disorienting. It was distracting, and that angered the scout. A watcher could not lose focus, a hunter could not narrow his view, failure was death. His self-rebuke was harsh and swift when he realized that he had passed the first check point and there had been no sign of a man at his post.

He continued on, the tattoo coming from almost directly in front of him, the unnatural silence of the forest dwellers slowing his otherwise-sure footing. The first body did not surprise him, gaping slit under his jaw indicating an ignorance of the propinquity of his assassin. The second did not either, although he logged away the fact that the fallen had been slain with his own sword. The third and fourth were entangled, the former's teeth sunk firmly into the neck of the latter, whose knife was in the former's gut. The damage to the surrounding brush was extensive. The struggle must have been immense and silent to have not alerted the far perimeter guards. The drum echoed on, louder and louder, encroaching on his mind, impeding his ability to recall the names of the deceased.

Face pock-marked with shaving scars, a fiancee back home, swallowed his food half-chewed. What did we call him?

The first umbras on the trees told the scout the exact position of the main camp, the very edge of the firelight just before him. The bodies were thicker off to his left a ways, the pattern of their falls telling a tale of panicked, frightful exodus, dragged down or shot down as they fled. The growing light revealed carnage in equal measure, the increased clarity tormenting the scout with ever grislier tableaux of mauled comrades.

Edges and fringes twitched, shadows danced across the corpses, branches seemed to reach for him as the trees thinned out in proximity to the clearing. Occasionally, much of the light would be eclipsed, a lone figure interposing itself between the scout and the fire. It moved around the fire, it's undulations indistinguishable from the shadows caused by the flames themselves, its form at times nebulous for the haze and the noise and the light and the dark and the drums, oh, the drums!

The figure struck at the drum slung from its neck. The beat was inside the scout's head, his mind forced think in step with the spasmodic rhythm. Feathers and bones swished and clacked. The body of the dancer seemed to have as little structure as the roll of his vile instrument. His feet were those of a drunkard, his footing somehow remaining sure as his dance took him over dozens of corpses and corpse parts. Paint and blood dripped in parallel lines and complex designs. Were they moving? His eyes were white and spittle occasionally flew from the corners of the drummer's slack and sparsely-toothed maw.

His feelings were muddled and soporific when the first hand grasped his leg and began tugging him down toward the writhing, clutching jaws of his former friends.

Tragedy + Time = Comedy

I've been walking this earth for a quarter of a century now and i'm always happy to pass the year feeling that i've learned how to walk it a little better than the previous year. In particular, i am always trying to find new ways to increase my average level of day-to-day happiness. Depression is something i've touched on a few times in this 'blog and is, i'm sure you've all gathered, a subject near and dear to me. Defense mechanisms, life hacking, non-invasive neuro-reprogramming, lifestyle changes, psychopharmacology; there are hundreds of ways to improve one's quality of life and all of them are intriguing on some level, academically and/or personally, practically.

A few years back i was in a relationship that had taken a very hard turn, stress-wise. The demands on my energies and attentions were so strong that their grasping, needy claws began to have an opposite effect: instead of ensuring my devotion to their resolution, all they succeeded in doing was pulling away my ability to care. The constant high-pressure situation completely numbed me to all but the most severe "emergencies." I distinctly remember sitting on my front porch with my good buddy Matt and saying, "i'm sorry, but nothing's a crisis."

Over the next few years, i have stood by this assertion, turning it into a bit of a personal mantra. Whenever something negative occurs, unless it is a life-threatening event that actually requires fast decision-making, i simply do not categorize the occurrence as a crisis. At worst, it is an unfortunate obstacle or change that will be looked back upon with relief that the situation eventually resolved. The only difference between a God-awful scene you find yourself in and a funny story is time. Stand back, take a deep breath, and figure out the best way to get yourself and your loved ones out the other side. Let Time do his thing.

Assess the situation, analyze it to determine the most beneficial course of action, act. This little subroutine occurs probably thousands of times a day without you realizing it, often completely subconsciously. I simply and humbly suggest that during periods of emotional or psychological distress, that you might find it useful to realize that you're doing it and do it to the best of your abilities then let Time do the rest.

That's How We Did It in the Navy

Today is an age of vague gender roles and a very high value placed on equality. This post, however, is a dedication to a certain aspect of manliness from an almost-forgotten age.

Over ten years ago, a neighbor across the street passed away. His name was Tom and he was a great guy. He was handy, loving, a great father. He provided for his family and shoveled the sidewalk for his elderly next-door neighbor ever winter. Everyone who knew him loved and respected who he was and what he stood for.

When Tom's cancer had finally put him on his death bed, his family all gathered around to say goodbye. His daughters and faithful wife kept vigil for hours as he laboriously clung to the last vestiges of life. Finally, a nurse pulled the wife aside and gave her an observation: the nurse had seen such situations before and predicted that Tom would not give up while those he had devoted his life to being strong for remained in the room. Surprised and at a loss for what else to do, Sharon shepherded her children from the room and they collected themselves in the waiting area. A few minutes later, the nurse brought them the news of Tom's peaceful passing.

This was a man who firmly believed that it was his duty to protect and provide for his blood. To his last breath, he needed to be strong for them, even during the one time when he couldn't be.

The second story happened just last weekend. The the father-in-law of a lifelong family friend finally, too, succumbed to his cancer. The doctors recognized that John's time was very near and, again, his wife and daughters all came to bid the man farewell. Words were said, tears shed, and the daughters went home to get some rest. No sooner had they left than John stopped breathing. His heart, however, continued to beat. The nurse quickly grabbed his wife and told her to call her daughters and bring them back.

John's heart continued to beat until the second and last daughter walked in the door, then stopped.

On the opposite side of the coin from Tom's strength, John needed to have his family near him. He hung on beyond all reason and strength for purposes that cannot be fathomed, but hang on he did until the very last person he loved beyond all measure was safely by his side.

My last story is the closest to home. It's about my grandpa.

A long, long time ago - i think i was about eight or ten - my grandfather was up visiting from Florida. Keep in mind, that at that point, i could probably count the number of times i had seen the man on one hand. I knew some stories and how much my mother loved and respected him, - he essentially raised her and her sister by himself, his bipolar wife not being of a particularly nurturing nature - but really had no concept of him as anything more than "Grandpa". I remember lying on the floor in the living room, just hanging out with the rest of my family. For some reason, i decided to put my feet up on this old desk we have - maybe i started kicking it, i don't recall the details. Grandpa yelled at me.

I never forgave him. In that formative stage, i was incensed that anyone other than my parents could DARE chastise me in such a bald and public fashion. The shame and embarrassment stuck with me and i found out after his death that he had, in fact, noticed the schism it caused in our relationship, although i was always very polite and kind to him.

Fast forward to March of 2004. Parkinson's had slowly eaten away at his faculties and the doctors predicted that there wasn't much time left. My mom flew down to Florida to spend a couple weeks there and eventually sent for the rest of the family to come down to say goodbye. My brother went first, solo. My dad and i flew down shortly after my mom and brother returned. We only stayed the one night because i had a competition that i had to leave for the following day.

I remember the warmth of the room, the (at the time) peculiarly comfortable nature of his palliative room. My father had his moment alone with his father-in-law and then it was my turn. My dad left and it was just me and my grandfather's slack-jawed stare, only the sounds of ventilators and pulse monitors to keep me company. I took his hand and told him about everything i knew about him, of my mother's love and how she had tried to raise us the way he raised her. Drool began to drip from his chin and i wiped it away as i finally apologized for the grudge that i held for so long and for no good reason. I remember his eyes glistening with tears and how i told myself that it was my imagination, that the nurses had told me that he probably couldn't hear anything we were saying.

My mom had the presence of mind to wait until i got home to tell me that my grandfather had died the night we had seen him, not more than a few hours after i had said my last goodbye.

Doug was a navy man, a good man, and a great father. He had lived a long, happy life and was ready to die. Nevertheless, he would not give up until all loose ends had been neatly tied up.

One day, if i ever have a family of my own, i'll count myself lucky if i can leave behind half the legacy of these men.

/salute.

On Warcraft, pt. II

The fall of 2007 found me moving in with one of my best friends from high school, Matt Grajcar, and some of the guys he'd been living with for their last few years at RIT. I had been out of school for the two years prior due to my at-the-time girlfriend's parents forbidding me to go to the same school that she attended. Having done nothing but sling coffee for over a year, i felt like i needed a change of scenery, so up my stuff got packed, out to my job got transferred, and away i went.

Amidst these new surroundings and rowdy new roommates, i did leave behind another of my best friends from high school, Nate, who was basically the only friend i had had for that preceding year. And so, in an effort to keep up with him while away, he convinced me to start playing World of Warcraft and join the guild he had found, the Hammer of Go'el.

I should point out - with apologies to the girl in question - that Warcraft also fulfilled another need in my life at that point. You see, dear reader, i had been dating a girl at the time who, in her immaturity of that age, wanted me to spend all waking, non-working hours on the computer, talking to her. Myself, also immature and trying desperately to make the long distance relationship work, usually agreed. This unfortunate interaction ensured that i was spending more hours a day on the computer than i really care to reveal, and i desperately needed something to DO while "talking" to my girlfriend. Enter, Warcraft.

Now, in this reflective state in which i find myself, it would be appropriate to comment, for a moment, on the game play that Warcraft demonstrated - some could argue "pioneered" - but such musings are not for me and mine. For me, the important part of my time in WoW is almost entirely the Hammer.

I particularly remember one terrible time in Shattrath, the major city of that expansion, during prime time hours. My computer - which i had built myself with some help from various friends - was currently ROCKING out on half a gig of RAM, which up until that point, hadn't been more of a problem than my considerable patience could handle. But that night... that night it took me over an hour to get from one end of Shatt to the other. I was trying to hold a conversation in Guild chat, sending messages as if by carrier pigeon, the rest of the Guild carrying on in between my sporadic missives. Finally relating the reason behind my perforated existence in Azeroth, one of the officers - whom i only knew as Tuula, the female troll hunter - offered to send me some spare RAM he had lying around.

For free.

I tried to pay him, i did, but he refused. Maybe a week later, a manila envelope arrived in the mail for me containing two gigs of ram and a short, hand-written note signed, "Tuula and Sylvaina". I could barely believe the freely bestowed generosity and trust, but that was the norm in the Hammer of Go'el: genuine, human attention and good-will. It was there, piloting my undead warlock avatar across the non-existent hell-scape of Hellfire Peninsula, that i bumped into a community that i never knew existed and - even more inexplicably - in which i was welcomed with open arms.

The following summer, Nate and i did something that leaves the average person rather disconcerted: we made the journey into Massachusetts to attend the Guild's annual barbecue at our Guildmaster's house. There, we put faces on people's voices and characters. Elves, orcs, trolls, zombies, and cows all suddenly became real people with real names and real jobs and real lives. I met Todd and Ethan and Duane and Jenn and Joe and so many others that it was honestly a little overwhelming, but i guess that's why our Guildmaster makes sure that there's alcohol at these things.

Today, the Massachusetts branch of the Hammer are some of my best friends. I have more shared history with them than i do most coworkers. With them, i've crafted legendary sets magical robes (which took me weeks and a fairly epic string of quests), invaded fortresses of demon princes, fought for control over important resources and staging grounds, led the first wave of a continent-wide incursion into enemy territory, trained a team of highly organized and efficient assassins, and eventually toppled the terrible Lich King - the same Arthas Menethil from Warcraft 3.

I see the Mass. folks once a month now as we embark on a new set of adventures in the tabletop realm of Dungeons and Dragons. Together, we represented the Hammer at PAX East '11. Joe and i recently romped our way through Portal 2 and have plans to record some future gaming sessions for the entertainment of the Internets at Large.

I left Warcraft earlier this year not for any social reasons, but because of a terrible plague that sometimes effects regular MMO players. Currently unnamed, this affliction makes a change in the gamer's conception of the value of game time. Before infection, a player may feel that any time spent enjoying a game is inherently worthwhile. After a certain period of festering, however, it becomes difficult to justify playing any game EXCEPT the MMO because we are faced with a terrible choice: spend X time working on the next goal in the MMO, which yields permanent - albeit intangible - rewards, or fritter away the same time in a different game with nothing to show for it afterward. This scourge, combined with the very real argument that i'd already accomplished everything there was to accomplish in the game, led to my eventual decision to cut the cord and ditch WoW.

Yes, it would be difficult for me to argue against the idea that i had "wasted" a great many hours playing a video game, but it would be impossible for me to assert that i left the game having gained nothing. I gained friends, insight, a community, new skills, and, while it is definitely a story for another post, a new lease on life and will to keep living. WoW, and the people i played it with, got me through a very difficult time in my life and i have nothing but gratitude for my time spent in Azeroth.

On Warcraft, pt. I

I don't remember exactly when or how it entered our lives, but a certain computer game popped up on my family's computer some time when i was nine. I know its appearance was due to my brother, but the circumstances beyond that have evaporated with the mists of time. A quick Wikipedia search tells me that it must have been either late 1994 or early '95. It was called Warcraft: Orcs & Humans and it required a whopping 4 MB of RAM.

My first introduction into Real Time Strategy games, Warcraft was actually the second RTS game ever released for home computers, the first being Dune II. Interestingly enough, Blizzard pumped out their debut RTS game as fast as they could simply to take advantage of the warm reception that Dune II had garnished, hoping to take advantage of a perceived void in the market. Because of this rush, the saga of orcs vs. humans began with little script to speak of, their bloody conflict existing as a vehicle for the game more than anything else. My brother and i didn't care, of course, reveling - as any Tolkien geek would - in the gory spectacle of orcish combat.

My first experience with Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness was at a friend's house. All i remember from that tiny campaign was the excitement over the new, shiny graphics; the faster pace; the driving, awesome music. Then a small mob of enormous, fat, naked men with two heads waddled into my village and punched the entire settlement into the dirt. Surprisingly enough, this traumatic first experience did not deter me at all and i whiled away many hours with WCII, deepening my love for all things orc. I vividly recall the first time i met Zul'jin and badass teal scarf. Truth be told, i can trace back my love for scarves and unsymmetrical ear piercings to this troll axe-thrower.

While Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos probably didn't get as much play time from me as Starcraft did, i definitely owe it more. Warcraft added a slew of additional features in its third incarnation, including a third playable race, heroes and 3D graphics. More importantly for me, however, was the incredibly dynamic storytelling made through the vehicle of in-game cut scenes. The characters came alive, then, and i found myself truly sympathizing with Thrall, Cairne, Jaina, and the rest of the characters i would come to see so much of in the coming years. It was halfway through the Undead campaign that i first saw the fall of Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, the soon-to-be Dark Lady who would steal my WoW-heart.

At this point, i'd be in Azeroth for the better part of a decade. I was intimately familiar with orcish culture and magicks, the role of gnomes in human society, and the fear of an undead scourge. My formative gaming years had been heavily marinated in war paint, battle cries, honor contests, glorious deaths.

To me, orcs will always be hulking and green-skinned.

The Burn Phase, or, Things I've Learned as a Geek, Part 2

In any game involving conflict, the player is given an array of options of varying potency and efficiency. This is done to add dynamics to the game, lest it end up as simplistic as tic-tac-toe. In combat-based games, these options are usually limited by certain conditions or qualities in order to balance the system. If one were allowed to use your most powerful tactic whenever one pleased, the game would quickly become one-dimensional and boring.

In World of Warcraft (for example), each character class is given certain powerful abilities which can only be used every so often. These abilities are categorically referred to as "cooldowns" due to the fact that after each use, the ability has to "cool down" before being used again. This core mechanic to the game means that, at any specified point, the combat potency of an individual or group can increase drastically for a short period of time, followed by a equally balanced cool down.

I have learned something about myself in my observations of how i use cooldowns. If the cooldown was short - say, two minutes or less - i would usually have no trouble using it as it was available since i knew that it would most likely be available again when i needed it next. If the cooldown was long, however, - which is anywhere from five minutes to thirty - i found myself stingily hoarding the ability, terrified to use it for fear that it wouldn't be available to me when i truly needed it.

I almost never use any ability with a cooldown of five minutes or more. My fear of misusing my most powerful abilities prevents me from utilizing them at all.

In my life, i know there are many instances of the same fearful behavior. For example, i'd much rather do nothing than fail spectacularly. I'd rather say nothing than cause pain. I'd rather bide my time in hopeful observation than risk getting hurt again and losing what little i had.

Such behavior is based off of a fallacy; it gains you nothing to wait for the perfect moment and so lose any advantage you might have had. Now, i am by no means saying to cast strategy and logical thinking to the wind and act recklessly. I firmly believe that a clear head and a comprehensive array of data is key to discovering the most advantageous move in almost all scenarios. Sometimes, though, fortune truly does favor the bold. Use the advantage when you have it or risk losing it completely.

Sometimes, you should just go all in.

Country Wife

[...]On the third day after his return, the Godking gave audience to his rescuers. The young man was still gaunt and had a brittle, sensitive air about him, the horrors he had witnessed still plainly evident through his new clothes and freshly bathed skin. The Godking's seconddaughter stood just a pace behind and to one side of the young man, looking little better. Neither had spoken much over the in between days, forcing little smiles at the servants who insisted on thanking them personally or offering them sons or daughters in marriage. This attention had quickly waned, fortunately for the two youths, and they were allowed to recover mostly in seclusion until this morning, when a page had summoned them here, into the Godking's presence.

A delicate string of saliva slowly oozed out the corner of the old king's broken mouth as he gently coughed. The page boy quickly dabbed it away with a kerchief. Taking a deep, rattly breath, the Godking opened his rheumy eyes leaned forward, resting a gnarled arm against an equally bony knee.

"Boy, the maidens are already singing songs about you," he wheezed. "Never have i ever seen such bravery. Foolishness, my knights would have called it, but thanks to you, my kingdom is once again safe. In thanks, i now grant you a boon: your reward is limited only by your imagination, up to the hand of my firstdaughter in marriage."

The throne room went quite still at this announcement. The courtiers where aghast. It was well known that the dowry of the firstdaughter was the entire kingdom. Several of the wealthier nobles had been angling for years to be in this boy's very position. This farm boy's position.

Throughout the pronouncement, the youth met the Godking's gaze confidently. Now he closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath - which only shook the tiniest bit - and released it. His thoughts gathered, he opened his eyes and spoke in a clear, steady voice:

"King, i want you to know that what your seconddaughter and i did, we did not out of a sense of duty, or nationality to your great empire. We did not do it for fame and we certainly did not do it for any reward. We put our lives in harm's way because it was what was required of us. It was right. Therefore, i humbly relinquish any right to your boon and ask for nothing."

A lady in the gallery fainted.

The king blinked for several long heartbeats before beginning to violently rock back and forth. On the fourth attempt, the terrified page finally understood and helped the Godking to his feet. The old man began to rage, shaking his fist at the youth, foam spraying from his bared teeth.

"Don't be daft, you foolish boy! I offer you land the vastness of which you could not experience even if you devoted the rest of your life to travelling it. I offer you so much gold that you could not count it all before you perished. The hand of my beautiful firstdaughter is your's for the taking and you spit upon her?"

The young man did not respond as the king tired himself out and was helped back into his throne by the page. When the old man had finished coughing and sputtering into the page's proffered kerchief, the youth spoke again, and again his voice was clear and strong

"Sire, i do not wish you to think i spurn your generosity, for i do request something. My lord, i come to you now as a suitor and ask for your seconddaughter's hand in marriage."

Wispy sound of conversation began to drift down from the galleries as the king stared at the lad before him.

"My dear boy, you're not thinking clearly. My seconddaughter has no worth to you; you gain nothing by marrying her and you well know this. Now speak: tell me whatever your heart desires and that shall be the value of your reward."

The young man glanced beside him at the girl by his side, reached out his hand and took her's.

"I want whatever she's worth."

The Red Queen

I am often jealous of those writers i follow on the internets whose products are, day after day, clever and hysterical. They are the sitcom writers of my generation and i often envision their lives as idyllic versions of my own, filled with quiet, sunlit mornings and very few worldly cares. Oh! how i yearn to be one of their kind, recognized and admitted into their most awesome of circles.

To that end, i'm going to be funny today.

My grandmother is bipolar. My earliest memories of the woman involve sad stories my mother used to tell me about the after-grade-school snacks of cookies and creme de menthe her mom used to prepare for her, just so she wouldn't have to drink alone. My own experiences have a much rosier shade and involve mostly images and feelings of adventure: being shown gramma's collection of cane swords; admiring her many knick-knacks from around the globe; looking askance at my brother and cousins as she leaps from a doorway to bar our path, brandishing an antique threshing flail.

I particularly remember my first experience with what my mother described as one of my gramma's "manic phases." We were vacationing down in North Carolina (where my grandmother lived for many years), visiting my aunt and cousins, and gramma offered to take the four of us cousins out to a local flea market. For reasons i no longer remember - perhaps a debilitating case of the sniffles - i opted out of going on this adventure. To this day, i regret my decision, for my brother and cousins came back with all manners of treasures! I distinctly remember a neon orange shag throw rug, a couple of turkish fezes, and the looks of exasperation on the faces of my aunt and mother which i would only understand years later.

Gramma lives up in New Jersey now, within driving distance of my house. It was decided that my aunt had had to deal with enough of her shenanigans and - now that gramma was retiring to an assisted-living sort of facility - that it was now my mother's turn to deal with her. This new proximity has allowed me to witness all sorts of new sides of the woman that i'd only previously heard of second hand.

The Thanksgiving of 2008 saw my aunt and cousins up north and my ol' G-Ma solidly in the middle of a manic phase. It was that particular year when my mother took it upon herself to educate my cousins and i about what to expect from an almost-80-year-old woman in full-blown bipolar mania. She gave Paul and i actual photocopied textbook pages with lists of symptoms. I had long known about the inhuman levels of energy, the disjointed thoughts, the feelings of euphoria, but it was that year that i learned about the hallucinations, the delusions, and the "hypersexuality."

Think about that last bit for a second.

About mid-way through that week, i woke up in the middle of the night and ventured downstairs for a drink. Being a boxer-sleeper, the first thing i noticed upon reaching the half-way point in my stealthy descent of the stairs was the frigid temperature of the first floor. A careful look around the corner set the scene quite effectively. The hall was empty, the hall bathroom door open with both light and fan on, the living room dark and empty, the front door open with only the glass screen door keeping out the cold and the smoke from my grandmother's Misty cigarettes. I could see her silhouette out on the porch, so i swept as quickly and quietly as i could down the hall and into the kitchen where i found the source of the cold air: the wide open back door. I shut the door, grabbed my drink and retreated as fast as i could to the warmth and privacy of my room.

The next morning, i mentioned the occurrence to my mother. Apparently when she got up in the morning, she found the kitchen in a similar state to the one i described above. When she asked my grandmother about it, the old lady informed my mother that PSE&G had gotten in touch with her last night to inform her about a potentially hazardous gas leak. Checking the phone, my mother very delicately asked her how the gas company had talked to my gramma, since there were no records of any calls going through last night, either incoming or outgoing.

"There's more than one way of getting in touch with people," my grandmother replied sagaciously and with a sly wink.

The Interminable Skittering of Anthropomorphized Words

I am quickly approaching what feels like a critical mass of nuggets and ideas. They rattle about in my skull to the point of being distracting, what with their collisions and then endless human interest pieces about the loving families of the concepts lost in the great catastrophe of the right prefrontal cortex.

Bitches.

While a cornucopia of potential projects seems like a fantastic thing in theory, my particular creative bent tends to end just there: at the idea stage. I have half-theories and choruses, novel conflicts and juxtapositions, species and tonalities all logged away in my head without any framing in which to put them.

You know how annoying it is when you have the chorus of a song stuck in your head, but you can't remember the rest of the song? It's worse when you wrote the blinking chorus.

Some of my frustration comes from my - for lack of a more accurate term - Renaissance tendencies; that is to say, my interest - and perhaps competence - in many fields without ever achieving expertise in any of them. So while my idea for a sky-born fish monster is nifty and i'd love to show it to other people, my drawing skills limit my ability to effectively portray the concept.

I have entire casts of characters with no plot for them to be a part of; beautiful, poignant scenes which cannot benefit from the scope of context; clever turns of phrase, naked of verse.

Still, they are mine. These little acts of creation, this instances of pristine beauty, give me focus and energy. Just as lethargy and apathy are sure signs of my depression, creativity is a signal to myself of a Good Place. The weather is turning colder and as it does, my thoughts stir, awakening to the world around me and its myriad inspirations.

Customs and Practices of a Man Called Murph

I find myself frequently blaming a man long dead for the seemingly-chaotic happenstance which plagues, oh, pretty much everybody. I refer, of course, to one Edward Murphy.

For posterity, here is the list of "laws" from which i exhume my nuggets of nonchalance (photo-jacked from a poster in the men's room of Zoe's Double Hex Cafe, Manchester, VT):

No good deed goes unpunished.

Leak-proof seals - will.

Self-starters - will not.

Interchangeable parts - won't.

There is always one more bug.

Nature is a mother.

Don't mess with Mrs. Murphy.

50% of everything is crap.

If you're feeling good, don't worry, you'll get over it.

All warranties expire upon payment of invoice.

Where you stand on an issue depends on where you sit.

Never eat prunes when you are famished.

Friends come and go, but enemies accumulate.

If you try to please everybody, nobody will like it.

A short cut is the longest distance between two points.

Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

You will always find something in the last place you look.

The chance of a piece of bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.

No matter how long or hard you shop for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.

No one's life, liberty, or property are safe while the legislature is in session.

The other line always moves faster.

In order to get a loan, you must first prove you don't need it.

Anything you try to fix will take longer and cost more than you thought.

If you fool around with a thing for very long, you will screw it up.

A $300.00 picture tube will protect a $0.10 fuse by blowing first.

If it jams - force it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway.

Any tool dropped while repairing a car will roll underneath to the exact center.

The repairman will never have seen a model quite like your's before.

When a broken appliance is demonstrated for the repairman, it will work perfectly.

A pipe gives a wise man time to think and a fool something to stick in his mouth.

Everybody believes in something - I believe I'll have another drink.

Build a system that even a fool can use and only a fool will use it.

Everyone has a scheme to get rich quick that will not work.

In every hierarchy, each individual rises to his own level of incompetence and then remains there.

You will remember that you forgot to take out the trash when the garbage truck is two doors away.

The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet.

There's never time to do it right, but there's always time to do it over.

When in doubt, mumble, when in trouble, delegate.

Anything good in life is either illegal, immoral, or fattening.

It is morally wrong to allow suckers to keep their money.

A bird in hand is safer than one overhead.

Murphy's Golden Rule: whoever has the gold makes the rules.

Everything east of the San Andreas fault will eventually plunge into the Atlantic Ocean.

Nature always sides with the hidden flaw.

The light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an oncoming train.

Celibacy is not hereditary.

Never sleep with anyone crazier than yourself.

Beauty is only skin deep, ugly goes to the bone.

To know yourself is the ultimate form of aggression (Freudian Psychology).

Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.

A Smith & Wesson beats four aces.

If everything seems to be going wrong, you obviously don't know what the hell is going on.

If more than one person is responsible for a miscalculation, no one will be at fault.

In case of doubt, make it sound convincing.

Never argue with a fool, people might not know the difference.

Hope for the Hopeless/The Kindness of Strangers

I love PostSecret. For those who aren't familiar, this dude, Frank Warren began in 2004 what he calls a "community art project" which displays the secrets of others. Every Sunday, Frank puts up 20 postcards that were sent to him anonymously, each of which reveals a deep-dark secret from its sender. Some are depressing, some are inspiration, some are funny. Just in the past four years he has received over 300,000 cards.

I first heard about the project not to long after it went live, sometime in my freshman year of college. Over the years, it has provided innumerable instances of true humanity into the landscape of my experience. It has helped me form my Everyone Is Crap theory. It has helped me love people for who they are.

For Frank, he has used his stumbled-upon fame to support The National Hopeline Network and 1.800.SUICIDE. He has created an anonymous, mostly online community of acceptance, honesty, forgiveness, love.

Today, i stumbled upon the postcard above. It yanked at my heart, as i know the pains and struggles of that level of depression. I know, for that person, even send that card must have been amazingly cathartic. I hope it helps him. If not, there's always this:

The Please Don't Jump facebook group is now 26,000 members. It was started the day the secret went upand was over 20k in less than 24 hours. Covering the wall of the group's page are exhortations from randoms strangers saying "come live here. We want you." This sort of support is inspiring, but in the sort of social media sitethat has a Group supporting a pickle who's sole purpose was to have more members than the Nickleback-supporting group. That group had 1.5 million members, apparently.

The Together For Life! facebook group is taking a FAR more active approach to this kid. An anonymous member of the PS community wrote in saying:

"On Sunday the 13th at noon I plan on printing up all the caring comments from facebook, taking them to the Golden Gate Bridge and taping them up all along the walkway."

Lindsey Salazar saw the comment and started an event to garner some further support. So far, 107 people have said they're going to show up and show this random individual how much they love him or her - even though none of them have ever met the anonymous sender.

Hopefully, this story will have an ending we can see. Hopefully, it'll be a happy one. I know that PostSecret has had a huge impact in the short time its been around, but this would be a big win for the kind of awareness that Frank - and everyone who follows PS.com - is hoping to see.

EDIT: Sorry for broken links. Now i can't even find the groups anymore, blarg.

Orly?

I've recently been thinking on a post i wanted to write about the nature of the experience that is a musical concert. Instead, today's post is going to comment more upon the nature of Art as a whole. You see, Twitter brought to my attention Roger Ebert's recent article delineating why video games are not, and can never be, Art. As a rabid geek, self-described gamer, artist, writer, this assertion rankled with me. The riling nature of his opinions are all the more exacerbated by the fact that, as near as i can tell, Mr. Ebert has played few - if any - video games.

This nest-rattling claim was first made way back in 2005 and has been brought up every now and again ever since, responded to by such names as Tycho & Gabe, Kellee Santiago, my fellow writers at Cracked.com, and many others. The debate has only recently come to my attention, although i've held the Gamer's position for many years now, not even considering the opinions of the general masses, let alone considering them for any length of time.

Many good points are made on both sides. Ebert's big talking point - and the one i have the most difficulty refuting - is that the very interactive nature of a game is in conflict with what his conception of what a piece of art is. This view, i must believe, is generally shared with the non-gaming public; Art is viewed, appreciated, experienced, but not "played". The gamers' usual rebuttal begins with Ebert's admission that he's never seen a video game worth playing. Some simply leave it at that, since it proves his stance, however well thought out, comes from a place of complete ignorance regarding the medium. Many, however, go further into the fray, formulating complex arguments with all the rich design that one would see in the programming of one of their exemplary games. And that is why this fight will never end.

Eventually, all the arguments come down to trying to define what Art is in such a way that their view point falls within its parameters and the other side's doesn't. Obviously, any rhetorical conflict is doomed to idiocy when the parties involved cannot agree upon the definitions which make up the very foundation of any point they might try to make. It seemed Ebert tried to clarify this at least once, in 2007, when he admitted that what he should have said is that, "games could not be high art, as i understand it", but since has become so mired in his single-minded position that the thesis of his most recent article is simply "Video Games Can Never Be Art". This claim is the last nail in the coffin Gamer Good Will.

Let's go a couple steps back and look at why i consider video games to qualify as Art. First off, let me say that i do not believe all games to be Art, just as i don't think all music or movies are Art. Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is a paramount of modern rock and roll and rewards careful and repeated listens, but i'd get pretty stabby if someone tried to tell me that the new Hannah Montana album is Art. Gus Van Sant's "Elephant", yes. Keenan Wayans' "Scary Movie 2", no. I think its safe to say that all examples do not have to qualify in order to claim that the medium can be considered Art. With that supposition in mind, i formulated my own definition of Art, then talked to my brother (of Good Night, States fame) for his thoughts. His thoughts are thus:

Art is that which is crafted using physical means in an attempt to comment on something metaphysical. Personally, while this definition is rather weighty, i think that very factor is important. Good art should strike you in a way which you cannot precisely define. This point is complimentary to my original thought, namely, that art is anything which is both aesthetically pleasing AND evokes an emotional or visceral response in the perceiver. I'm sure there are as many different views on the concept as there are possible readers of these words.

After our conversation, i found myself unable to reconcile a specific aspect of Steve's definition with my own thoughts. The problem is that my definition leaves out the idea of intentionality. Both my brother and Mr. Ebert agree that Art is created by an artist. This is important.

Very few (if any) games are designed to be works of Art. Hell, not many movies these days are, either, but this does not mean that they are not beautiful.

This is the delineation which i believe is causing such a schism. We, the video game-playing generation, have spent decades sharing a metaphysical experience in the interactive, narrative, sometimes-competitive landscape of a plethora of games, video or otherwise. Be it the sweeping story arc of a beloved Dungeon Master or that one cut scene in Final Fantasy Whatever, we have all be touched by a game we have played in a way that just slightly defies explanation. We have found beauty, and it has changed us.

What makes us such a unified front is that these experiences, while often occurring in the stereotypically dank, isolated caverns of our mother's basement, has been shared by millions of gamers. This effect has cleaved us together, mind and soul, with a bond much akin to that shared by the audience of a momentous event, or the brothers-in-arms of a conflict. We all watched Aeris die. We all dread Water Temples. We all know that the cake is a lie. We all recognize the Konami Code. These experiences make up the shared history of Gamers in a way that is no less meaningful than any other demographic-defining denominator.

And this, dear reader, is why we, the gaming community, are so pissed at Roger Ebert. I think Cracked.com writer Robert Brockway put it very well in the closing paragraph of his defense:

"But why even bother with all of this? Ebert himself wonders: 'Why are gamers so intensely concerned, anyway, that games be defined as art? Bobby Fischer, Michael Jordan and Dick Butkus never said they thought their games were an art form….Why aren’t gamers content to play their games and simply enjoy themselves?' And he’s already answered his own question: 'do we as their consumers become more or less complex, thoughtful, insightful, witty, empathetic, intelligent, philosophical (and so on) by experiencing them?' Anybody who’s ever felt even an inkling of something like that from a game is going to be understandably 'concerned' when you insist that they’re lying."

The aging critic is just lucky he doesn't drop any purples, or there'd be a queue to take a crack at him.

In Memorium

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A Photocopy of a Photocopy of a Photocopy... of a Love Letter

I sleep poorly.

Those who spend a fair amount of time in my life know that my sleep issues have been pervasive since i was in high school. No matter how tired i am sitting up, doing things, as soon as the lights go out and my head hits the pillow, i am suddenly wide awake. This state will persist for anywhere from 45 minutes to several hours. Because of this, i often find myself staying awake at night until i just can't keep my eyes open any more, trying desperately to spend the least amount of time staring at the ceiling as possible. After such a night, i sleep in, pushing back my daily allotment of waking hours, causing me to fall asleep even later than the night before. Its a vicious cycle which i've been trying to break by various means for as long as i care to remember.

A big part of this issue is i care far too much for Today Me to be able to reliably set up a good sleeping schedule. I sometimes succeed in going to bed at the same time, getting up at the same time, for a week or so, but then something shiny will tempt me into staying up late, i'll sleep in, kablooey.

My mother is reading a novel by Chuck Hogan called Devils in Exile, and she recently read my an excerpt from it. I will do my best here to paraphrase the concepts that were related to me:

Most people are like me, staying up too late to satisfy the desires of Today Me, not particularly caring about the consequences for Tomorrow Me. Unfortunately, Tomorrow Me all too soon becomes Today Me again, cursing out Yesterday Me for making such poor choices.

What i need to start doing is thinking of the best interests of Tomorrow Me. Like i so often put other people's interests ahead of my own, i need to start doing for myself. The really interesting part of this whole idea is that i should be doing just that for the exact same reason i do it for other people.

If you spend your days looking out for Tomorrow You, you will quickly find yourself growing to love Yesterday You. Yesterday You is a good bean. He eats well, letting you feel good today. He goes to sleep on time, allowing you to wake up refreshed today. He got all the boring stuff done, giving you time to do some fun stuff today.

You help other people because you love, respect, accept, and appreciate them. Shouldn't you do all that and more for yourself?

Gretz' Hierarchy of Outcasts

I am part of a certain demographic which doesn't exist outside of the etherwebs. In perfect illustration of this, if you have no idea what the "etherwebs" are, you're not part of this demographic.

I am a geek (duh). I spend a fair amount of time fraternizing with real-live-actual-no-they-don't-live-in-Canada-like-that-one-kid's-girlfriend people solely through the medium of the internet. In doing so, i have my ear to the ground on a lot of trends, fads, colloquialisms, styles, interests, dislikes, etc that ONLY EXIST online. As such, this sphere of knowledge both separates me from the masses and cleaves me irrevocably to a community that the aforementioned masses probably have no idea exists.

This is what qualifies me as a member of what i like to call "the fringe". I admit, its a term that makes more sense in the high school society in which i coined it, but i like it, so it stays. This post will now attempt to categorize them.

1. The NERD
The nerd is possibly more common than one might think, easily masquerading as a normal person throughout their day-to-day lives. Nerds are recognized for their love of a particular field or interest that generally is not found very interesting by the world at large. Whether its math, linguistics, entomology, or what have you, the nerd's passion lies outside what you or i may think of as interesting. Nerds are the scientists of the outcasts; they love to learn, love to study, simply for the sake of the scholastic thrill. This differentiates them from the other outcasts in that they visit the spheres that make up their passion, but try not to live there. Nerds can sometimes become so engrossed in whatever it is that they love that they may forget about such social conventions as Style and Hygiene, but its rare. Nerds tend to be too smart for that.

2. The GEEK
I am a geek. Geeks are a little more easily recognized than nerds, and are becoming more and more prevalent every day. This is simply because the field or interest that geeks are passionate about are generally more accepted - or at least more common - than the nerds'. "Computer Geek" is so common a term at this point that it is almost universally recognized. And this is the important point that sets the geek apart from the rest:

There's a million different kinds of geeks.

"Wait!" i can hear you saying, "if there're so many different kinds, what is their common denominator? What makes a geek a geek?" Ok, maybe you aren't saying that, but i'm writing this, so deal. The key factor in a geek is that, while a nerd studies their sphere of interest, visits it to learn more about its intricacies, a geek lives there. The difference is a subtle one, i admit, but important. Geeks usually like to be called nerds (although they might be anyway; you can be both).

The hallmark of a geek vs. a nerd is that geeks tend to be much more socially advanced than nerds. There's a reason the term "geek chic" exists (besides the rhyme). Unfortunately, this leads to a lot more closet geeks than i would like, but it also lets them be accepted members of society, so i gotta let it slide.

3. The DORK
Nobody likes dorks. Not even the nerds or the geeks. The shortcoming of the dork is that, while they may share an interest with a nerd or a geek, they become so absorbed in it that they forsake all else for its sake. They are the ones who gladly sacrifice human interaction for computer. They are the ones who are so engrossed in their trading card collection that they forget to shower. They are what geeks and nerds become when they slide too far away from the anchoring hold of Friends and Family. Also, they're known to bite.

CONCLUSION
Nerds are usually very smart, but can be kind of airheady. They love their chosen interest to the point where they can sometimes let minor things slide. This interest is usually very particular and not often very popular.
Geeks are also often smart, but generally more gregarious. They love their interest, but then, so do a lot of other people. This larger community of like-minded people promotes healthy social skills, sometimes to the point of developing the now almost-common Cool Geek.
No one likes dorks. Sorry, dorks. Go take a shower and call up that friend you yelled at for messing up their klingon conjugations. Come back to the Light Side.

Or Is It Too Late?

As i fearfully approach the age that puts me closer to 30 than to 20, i find i am increasingly aware of just how little my current life resembles what i had hoped it would. Add to this the fact that i now know almost as little about what i want to be when i grow up as when that question was first posed to me and it leaves a horrible, smirking demon-monkey clinging to my back, picking nits of Hope and Positive Feelings out of my hair.

"Self, what the hell were you expecting?" i sometimes ask myself. When i was in high school, if i had tried to imagine what my life would look like right now, i probably would have said that i'd hope to be living on my own, working in some field in psychology or at least in school for it, engaged or married, content. Currently, i am none of those things, and at this point, don't even know what i want to be doing When I Grow Up.

Do i want to write? (yes). Do i want to act? Do i want to design, counsel, program? Then, after picking one (or two), i have to decide on the particulars inherent to each profession. You can't just go to a company and say, "i want to program for you". You have to have a specific area picked out and then you have to go to some kind of school to get a piece of paper that says you know how to do it. Then, maybe the company will decide to hire you. And only after a few years of working in that chosen field will you realize whether or not you want to be doing that in the first place.

Hoo boy. That amount of time just sounds to me like a lot of dollar signs i don't have. Unfortunately for me, i only spent two years in school, dropping out for reasons i won't get into here. I saved myself the misfortune of going into debt for a major it turned out i didn't care much for, but here i am, two years later, with no degree. This severely limits my job opportunities, and so, my ability to spend money to figure out what i want to be doing.

Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Outliers details three specific factors in jobs that people describe as "satisfying." These are Autonomy, Complexity, and Connection between effort & reward. These are the things i want in a vocation. Any less, and i am sure i will eventually go mad.

My question is, will i be sane by the time i attain this mythical job?

Ain't Nothin' Wrong

Let's talk about movies for a second, and in a broader sense, art in general.

I have noticed just over the past few months that we, the modern day movie-goer, have become incredibly jaded and cynical. This thought originally occurred to me when i was telling my brother and father what i thought about Shutter Island, which i saw last night (however, due to its recent debut, i'll use a different movie for my examples so as to avoid any unintentional spoilers). During the conversation, i couldn't help but admit that, while a fantastically well made and well acted film, the story was rather unoriginal.

I really liked Shutter Island. Now let's talk about Avatar.

Avatar is Pocahontas in space. I'll be the first to describe it that way and i stick by that succinct and catchy soundbite. The basic story elements are profoundly simple and have been used in a myriad of other movies to greater or lesser effect. Go google the term "Noble Savage" and you'll find more reading material than you'd ever want to actually sit down and peruse in your life time. Yes, there were a few tweaks to make it an edgy sci-fi action film, but let's face it: Avatar is about humanity finding the primal beauty of the life of the noble savage.

Oh no! The story is unoriginal! How could James Cameron ever subject us to such drivel!? Boo hoo, cynic. In the words of King F**king Solomon, "there is nothing new under the sun". If you look deep enough and far enough back, a vast majority of current storytelling is just a retelling of something older than your grandpappy's grandpappy. Especially if you're watching anything that has the word "Epic" on the cover.

Why on earth, then, would this lessen our enjoyment of a good piece of Hollywood storytelling? Was there anything WRONG with Avatar? Apart from a few kitschy plot devices, the entire film was glorious in scope and its ability to evoke an emotional response. Did "Pocahontas" do that for ya? Than congratulations to James Cameron. He's a better storyteller than Disney. And that's really what it comes down to, folks. Think of someone you know who just tells a really good story. Have you ever been involved in one of their stories and insisted that they tell it just because they do a better job?

Story-telling is a tradition older than history and used to be incredibly important. In fact, before the invention of the written word, it WAS the only means civilizations had of preserving their history. Today, it is not a necessary position anymore, but has instead transcended into various mediums of art: books, movies, comics, songs. Don't get so caught up in the lyrics that you can't appreciate the melody.

The Reason

I am made up of equal parts Hopeless Romantic and Misanthropic Cynic. This causes me to often wonder on the nature of love and why it sucks so hard. I feel like the dyslexic agnostic insomniac who stays up all night wondering if there's a dog.

See, here's the problem i see with modern dating: romance is easy. Well, for me at least. Part of this is due to my inherent compassion and empathy and partly from my mother's rigorous training in consideration and listening skills. Women maybe illogically co mplex, but they generally have the decency to be consistently so. Tasteful displays of affection, little gifts, true emotive declarations; no girl doesn't like this stuff.

In high school, i was in a select Men's Ensemble. We would put on several concerts a year, participate in a couple different competitions, and generally spend a couple hours a week being really geeky. For fun, we once transposed and taught ourselves a moderately sappy love song to sing as a surprise for our friends and family at one of the year-end concerts. At the time, i was falling head over heels for a certain girl.

When the time for my part came, the rest of the guys softened to a background and i belted out the following lines:

"I don't care what consequence it brings

I have been a fool for lesser things

I want you so bad, I think you ought to know that

I intend to hold you for the longest time"

To this day, i have never sung anything more genuinely than those lines (although i admit, such a perfect opportunity rarely comes up). In true, corny romanticism, i didn't care about anyone else in the room; i sung only for her.

Such displays are beautiful, grandiose, and make great stories, but they mean approximately diddly-squat when it comes to maintaining a functional and healthy relationship.

My longest-lasting relationship spanned two and a half years. It took me exactly that long to realize that it wasn't going to work. The romance had died, and what was left were two people who thought they understood each other, trying desperately to hold onto a love for a person who no longer existed.

The butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling is delightful, but it never lasts. Disney movies are, sad to say, not real life. Years later, the grind of daily life and endless repetitions of once meaningful words render romance dead for all but a few sacred days of the year. It is the rest of the days that make up the actual relationship and it is the hours of those days that become Sisyphean in scope.

I believe in love. But i must acknowledge the horrible facts of life that so often make love seem like its not even worth the bother. I have determined, then, that the problem my Hopelessly Misanthropic personality has been forcing me to try to solve is a mystery, rather than a puzzle. You see, dear reader, all it takes to solve a puzzle is to find one piece to complete the picture. A mystery, on the other hand, requires a perfect understanding of all the factors, the influences, the intricacies, AND the missing pieces.

I hope to figure it all out before i die. Or get married. My wife deserves it.