Archive for the ‘My Thoughts For The Day’ Category
This will be my first Halloween without a pumpkin, a costume, or a plan. Well maybe the second. Or the third. Or the fourth. (Who keeps track of these things?!) I’m not very good at planning shit, so it’s one of those events that just kinda comes as it goes. A day on the calendar that adds enough excitement to make an October interesting, but at the same time, isn’t heavily missed when it’s over. Take Martin Luther King Day for a relevant example.
A. – I’m not in any form of school anymore, so three day weekends are an endangered species, seeing as I always end up working them anyways.
B. – I’m not black.
C. – I hate history.
I think I’ll just be the same thing as last year. Pretty sure I’ve been the ’same thing as last year’ 3 times now. (Mainly because I’m lazy and usually choose to sit on my creativity rather than embrace it. Which will eventually be the death of me.) Last year consisted of black fishnets, a pair of slutty stilettos, and a fancy little red bra with lace outlining the straps and back section. I was the naughty nurse!
I honestly love being the naughty nurse. The attention received when I stand 6’3 with not much more than a few pieces of lingerie on is so fucking energizing. Especially when my best friend (Megon Witter, you have been tagged!) is not much shorter than I am and we go paint the town red together. All the shifty eyes, the nervous weight distribution shifts, the free drinks in the process of being mixed, purchased, and consumed. It’s such a trip. I love the nightlife. I love it all.
I actually won the costume from an online sweepstakes via Torrid.com. Now, if you haven’t heard of these guys, they’re a clothing store (there’s one in Northtown Mall, I believe) who specialize in sexy lingerie, denim, accessories, blah blah blah. Catch: They specialize in all those things…for plus-size women. I wasn’t aware of this at the time, so you can imagine my surprise when I open my prize to find a 40DD bra and what looks like a little red hammock. Which, under more thorough examination, turns out to be a thong. A gigantic red thong. (When I put it on, it looks like I’ve broken my arm because it’s pristine size for a sling, no fucking joke. Haha!) The box also came with an assortment of other nurse related paraphenilia that were one-size-fits-all tho, so there were definitely enough goodies to work with to piece a costume together. With the purchase of a new bra and panties, of course. Check and check.
The only downfall to my get-up is how damn cold it gets on the night of the 31st. And the lack of clothing on my body drops my tolerance level of temperature (which never really consisted of much to begin with) to a borderline unbearable. Unless of course I’m liquored up. In which case it could dip below zero and you’d still find me with a smile on my face, despite the fact that I’m drunk, naked, and making snow angels in the neighbors’ yards. (“Merry Christmaaaaas!!!” As I recycle my empty Heineken bottle to form Frosty’s nose.)
I can’t even remember where we ended up last Halloween, honestly. Or for that matter, where we started. (Obviously I must have been minus a camera because I’m usually pretty good at documenting shit like that.) This year I wanna find a hoppin’ house party with good people, good music, and a fridge full of good beer. Simple as that. I was actually giving thought to walking up and down EWU or Gonzaga’s campuses. But that would almost be too easy. My handicap of not having a vehicle may come into play here, considering I work 7am Thursday morning, but then again I wouldn’t have to cross that bridge ’til I got to it. (Which would probably be puffy-eyed and dehydrated on a stranger’s couch, 1o minutes before my scheduled clock-in time.) There’s always alternative methods of transportation when you’re dedicated enough tho. STA (the city bus) is effective. As are legs. As are friends with cars; they are the best kind.
I even went shopping for candy this year. For the (non-existent) trick or treaters who trick or treat apartment complexes, of course! Yea okay, so I gave in to my vice and bought a ten dollar bag of Milky Ways and Snickers. For myself. (I was in need of some Halloween spirit. That’s the excuse I tell myself at least.) Which I later regretted and realized I didn’t need any of in the first place. Self-control doesn’t kick in for me until I’m like three chocolates from the bottom of the bag. On a 30-count bag. I know this. I’ve always known this. My sweettooth’s kicked my ass on multiple occasions, but I continue to allow it to. (This goes for alcohol as well. I can’t help but be concerned for my health after I take my lost shot four times.)
My worst transgression has got to be caramels. Actually, pretty much anything chewy. Milk Duds, Air Heads, Starbursts, Mamba, Hot Tamales, Cinnamon Bears, Bit-O-Honey, Big Hunk. The list goes on forever. I’ve resorted to single-serving sizes because there’s way too much guilt associated with these the next day. The next hour. Whatever. Haha.
Enough about Halloween, I’m stoked for tonight! October 25th, 2012 equals…Zella’s 21st birthday! I saw a wonderful cake idea on Tumblr a long time ago and it was the funniest shit ever. I bookmarked it because I had to do it. So I did.
I can’t cook or bake for shit, so I bought a basic white cake from Rosauers. An undecorated one. Well, I guess it had a frilly border and a little bit of added color on the corners, but that was fine. I did the writing first, in pink frosting it reads: “HAPPY 21ST BITCH!” Then I added the toilet, which is actually a funny story.
I must have went to 10+ thrift/secondhand stores, on numerous occasions mind you, in search of a damn toilet that would be somewhat size proportional to a Barbie doll. I was cool with an independent mission at first, this’ll be easy, Goodwill’s got shitloads of old Happy Meal toys and such, right? Fuck. I was up and down that aisle more times than the unsupervised five year olds who practically lived there. No luck! It got to the point where I was a few days away from my deadline so I would scout out the store associates for assistance. Do you know how awkward (hilarious really) it is to ask for help when the goal object of your search is a goddamn Barbie toilet?! Very fucking. Haha! But even then, I just could not find one!
The day before Zella’s big day, I visited Boo Radley’s and sure as shit, they have a ‘toilet shot glass’ sitting on the shelf. Boom! All I needed now was a Barbie, a ’2′, a ’1′, some candles, and a canister of colorful sprinkles, which were all conveniently checked off my list via the Dollar Tree on 29th Avenue. Woo hoo!
It actually turned out better than expected. Maybe it’s because I compare myself to the doll’s condition and get a good laugh, knowing damn well I was in a similar state on my 21st. (Props to Barbie for finding the toilet tho, I wasn’t quite that lucky. Haha!) Damn good times. A spectator for tonight’s little outing shouldn’t be too painful tho. Really, really, really looking forward to it actually.
Driving has always been a struggle for me. Not so much skill-wise, but more of a faulty equipment-wise battle. I love my car, don’t get me wrong. First car, convertible, decent gas mileage, 134,000 current miles, nice AUX radio for the Ipad. It’s just…broken. And I think it always will be. Anytime I get ahead of the game and manage to go without an inconvenience for a few months, something huge goes down to make up for it. It never fails.
For example, last year’s July was a motherfucking motherfucker. One day, I walk out of the apartment to find the contents of MY ENTIRE oil tank in a massive black puddle under my car. New oil sending unit – 100 bucks. Not even a week later, my power steering cuts out, my radiator fluid’s leaking, and my car overheats for no apparent reason. “I did nothing to deserve this! Why?!” (I ask myself this often, but always end up with mixed results. Karma’s a confusing bitch sometimes man.) Despite my frustration, I signed shit and got it fixed. A good grand, just POOF, out of my bank account.
I’ve had a lot of shit happen between now and then. I made a snazzy little list (below) covering just the key mechanical issues (there’s a bunch not there, believe me) I’ve had to get worked on since I bought my Lebaron back in August of 2010.
My most recent dilemma was Saturday evening on my way home from work. I’m climbing up High Drive and suddenly, I’m shaking. Like a violent side-to-side wobble, specifically on my front end. This scares the shit out of me so I immediately pull over to the curb.
I’ve felt this feeling before when my back brakes went out last winter and my driver’s rear tire came loose, rolling beside me as sparks were flying from the pavement/axle contact. Having one of your tires come off while driving is the scariest fucking thing ever. I shit you not. Anything remotely close to a weird sound now and I’m paranoid. Music knob goes counter-clockwise, every single dashboard icon is scanned for even a hint of light. This feeling sucks and will always be in the back of my mind without me being able to help it.
Anywho, back to Saturday, I get out of the car, nervous as fuck and do a walk around. Obviously, I don’t find anything. I really don’t know what I’m looking for in the first place to be honest. Haha. I get back in. Get back on the road. 10-20-30. More wobbles. I notice right around 35 is where the trigger point is, and anything under, I’m perfectly fine. WTF!!! At this point, I’m thinking, hey atleast we live a block down from Les Schwab. Which is of course where I’m headed. Which is of course closed on Saturdays after 5. (It was 5:11 pm when I pulled into their parking lot.) Fuck my life.
Long story short, I brought it in today (Sundays are closed as well, so I had to wait two looong days for a diagnosis) to a guy named Isiah. Nice dude! Totally thorough in explaining to me what he found in ‘non-mechanical’ terms because I am by far the most mechanically backward person you’ll meet. He told me my front brakes were almost metal to metal and that the driver’s side axle was leaking grease at a rapid rate and had been for quite some time. He also said I was close to rubbing the driver’s tire raw because of the lack of grease, which would have resulted in it coming loose. Flashbacks. Nasty, nasty flashbacks.
A paycheck later, my car is once again temporarily ‘fixed’. Fuck this shit tho, I absolutely hate sinking my money into something I know is a lost cause in the end. So therefore, I’m forcing myself to look for a new rig. Preferably one I’d make payments on. Off a lot. Which scares me because the whole idea of debt scares me. But it must be done. My advice to you; DO NOT RESPOND TO A CRAIGSLIST AD WITH PICTURES OF A RED 95′ CHRYSLER LEBARON. I’m saving you thousands of dollars, trust me.
MY RAP SHEET (STARTING WITH THE LATEST MESS)
6/25/2012 – $558.76 – Front Brakes (Rotors, Calipers, Disc Pads, Axle)
5/8/2012 – $47.10 – Oil Change
11/22/2011 – $24.62 – Oil Change
8/22/2011 – $265.01 – Cooling Fan Motor & Relay
7/11/2011 – $746.84 – Timing Belt, Water Pump, & Upper Radiator Hose
7/6/2011 – $236.84 – Power Steering Pressure & Switch
7/2/2011 – $100.75 – Oil Sending Unit
4/18/2011 – $31.29 – Oil Change
3/29/2011 – $260.60 – Snow Tires & Install
1/26/2011 – $54.57 – Oil Change & Flat Repair
1/6/2011 – $990.43 – Rear Brakes (Drums, Bearings, Rotors, Spindles, Hubs)
12/8/2010 – $135.87 – Driver’s Window Replacement
Total Expenses – $3,452.68
Good god, it’s almost been a year since I’ve put pen to paper. Too long. But I’m back!
I think I’m gonna be more of a blogger’s blogger now tho. My urge to write hasn’t been quite as strong as I’d like to have it. So to make up for it, there shall be more pictures, more videos, more pictures, more links, more of my incomplete thoughts and babblings. More variety. Share my world with the rest of the world. Maybe that urge will return if I sink more time into this blog. Which I’m planning to of course. Outlining to. (“Plans” should not be a word in the dictionary. They are outlines and that’s all they will ever be unless they’ve been completed, in which case they are now memories.)
Last night was a goooood motherfuckin’ night. Our Wednesday’s consist of one destination. A sushi restaurant in the heart of downtown Spokane called The Wave. They bring two or three DJ’s who call their parties T.A.S.T.Y., making themselves the only legit 18+ club. For one night a week…haha. It’s good for me tho because my three best friends are all underage. (And I can’t explain how frustrating it is to have them that way. “Let’s go get druuu- oh wait.” In good time tho. As seen below.)
I absolutely love going out. I do, I do, I do. With my girls, my guys, with anybody down for a good time really. It gives me such an awesome sense of appreciation for my life. Everything’s alive, everybody’s moving, the lights are crazy, the music is happy. Each night is so unique, too. You never get the same thing. And I think that’s why I love it as much as I do. I’m constantly looking for something new, something different, to stimulate that creative side of me. I’m always down for an alternate method of thinking, yu know? And when I find it, I can’t get enough of it.
Definitely a confident one. There’s nothing sexier than a person who refuses to give a fuck. Male, female, gay, straight, old, young. I don’t care what you are, it’s gotta be there. Anything you do in life, big or small, having belief in yerself makes other people believe in you. You could be completely wrong about something, but if you go strong with it, people follow.
This coincides with humor as well. I wanna be able to laugh at the mistakes I make. To not be embarrassed or judged by all the stupid shit I do. To just be real with it. Know that I fucked up now, but hey, I’ll get that shit next time fer sure.
Money and looks have never been that significant to me. I see them as more of an added bonus to the overall package. Something that should never be a deciding factor in the future of a relationship. Sure, having a six figure bank account makes life easy as fuck, but living check by check forces you to be that much stronger of a person.
A wonderful man named Mike. This man is my life. Hands down. I love him more than anyone or anything I’ve ever loved in the past. Saying I love you doesn’t even cover it. It’s amazing how simply being in his presence makes me feel so content and how comfortable I am with him. I didn’t even know it was possible for things to come so naturally and still be so awesome.
The reasons WHY I love him could honestly go on forever. He’s so easy to write about. I didn’t even need a rough draft for this question. And I’m the one always making rough drafts. Haha.
Hmm, let’s begin. Most of all, Mike reminds me of me. So much. In so many different ways, too. (Just to list a few…)
- His independent side
- The passion he has for photography (With me, it’s music.)
- The stuff he procrastinates on
- His reactions to certain things
- The way he gets after a few cups of his coffee. (Hammer’s French Roast, of course.)
- The love-hate relationship we share with the neighbor cat.
- His stubbornness
However, I believe the most prominent reason that makes me love him the way I do is the amount of youthful energy he holds. That spunk, that zing, that craaaazy side. That difference between “Let’s take the elevator” and “Fuck that, here’s some stairs.” I love that shit. That active part of him is so fucking gorgeous.
Funny thing is, none of this really does any justice to my feelings. I’m shit with trying to describe how I feel about Mike. He’s too good, too spontaneous, too…special. None of these words do anything to explain him beyond that pen to paper connection. I feel so much meaning behind the bond that we share. But I can’t describe it without sounding ridiculously cliche. Haha.
All I know is that I’m so happy to have him in my life. I really can’t imagine spending it with anyone else. I wouldn’t want to. I’m so lucky. And knowing he feels the same way makes everything that much better. I really do love Mike. In every sense of the word.
Almost missed the bus this morning. Drove the whole three blocks to the South Hill Park & Ride, got there, parked in the front row, and realized I was minus my Iphone. FAIL. Key player in these gas-is-three-fuckin’-fifty-a-gallon-so-let’s-hop-a-bus days. Sooo, I haul booty back to the apartment, grab the goods, and haul booty forward again. Luckily, I made it. But not without sprinting madly from the ass-end of the parking lot because apparently I was too slow for the front spot I had held less than two minutes ago.
Grrr. God, I hate doing that. I hate rushing my life. Waving my hands up in the air, stuff in both of ‘em, running abnormally because my damn sack pack distributes weight unevenly across my back. Knowing that every single person sitting on that bus is staring at the retard stumbling towards them. Haha! Okay, maybe that’s a bit drastic, but still, I’m a much bigger fan of taking my time as compared to rushing it. Obviously.
Last night, I hung out with one of my best friends growing up. Megon Witter. This girl is totally unique. Nothing you’d expect by simply looking at her. She’s one of those people born with a lisp. But instead of it being on her lips, it’s inside her head. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. Haha. Honestly tho. She doesn’t think about stuff the same as you or me. Like, the whole picture is there, but when you get down to the specifics, you gotta wonder what thought process led her to thinking what she just thought. It’s cool shit. Haha.
Anyways, it was fun. We didn’t really do much, just talked and caught up on shit. Which is awesome. I like the chill atmosphere that comes with that. No having to impress anybody, no having to defend yer opinions. Just straight…chillin’. Groovyness. Mmmhmm.
It’s hot. Even with the windows open, it’s gotta be 80 somethin’ degrees in here. Eleven o’clock at night and I’m lying in bed with my Gonzaga boxers and a gray sports bra. And I’m sweating. Not the oh-it’s-rather-warm-in-here-sweaty. More like droplets-of-bodily-fluids-are-forming-kiddie-pools-in-the-crack-of-my-ass-sweaty. It’s yucky. Sticky nights being one of the ugliers of summer livin’. I’m in desperate need of a fan at this point, but too lazy and hot to get up and go get one. I wish my little space heater was capable of spitting out warm air and cold. And included a mini-mister inside of it. So not only would I be cool, but also misty. And unsweaty. Thad be nice.
Sis and I went to the air show at Fairchild AFB today. Skyfest 2010. It was awesome. Always is. The Thunderbirds never fail to amaze me. Flying that close to each other’s planes in perfect formation more than a thousand feet up in the air is mind-blowing. (It was incredibly hot out on the tarmac though. I believe the high of the day was 95 degrees. I’m burnt all down my shoulders and across my forehead. Suppose I don’t really mind much, so long as I’m getting some kind of color besides white.) All the flyboys look so damn attractive in their uniforms. All tan and clean and tall and fit. And tan. I mean, to be wearing a faded green jumpsuit with one long zipper on the front of it, and still be able to pull off sexy? God bless the military.
I’m always shocked at how many fat people show up to things like Skyfest. I guess they’re everywhere, but public events make it painfully obvious as to how overweight America really is. Obesity is almost a disease. Everywhere you look, there’s pregnant men. I had to restrain myself from asking a younger dude who was inhaling the massive burger he’d just ordered if it was a boy or a girl. This guy was prolly just shy of 30 and at least 400 pounds. At least. He had this tight black wife beater on with a pair of even tighter jean shorts. Way too tight for a figure like his. Apparently, appearance didn’t seem like too high of a priority for him. That, along with health.
When yer that big, sympathy can only get you so far in my book. I may not know the reason behind yer present health condition or what type of diabetes you currently have or how stressful yer personal living is. But I sure as shit know that ordering the largest burger on the menu with the largest basket of fries and a 32 oz. Coke isn’t listed on the “Steps To A Better Life” checklist. Especially when that food is gone in under five minutes flat.
Seriously, have you ever watched a fat person eat? It’s like witnessing a lion having its first meal after three days of not having one. (Maybe lion is too flattering here. Boar, or maybe, walrus might be more in the ballpark.) Lift, bite, swallow, repeat. Chewing is overrated when hunger strikes this hard. It’s disgusting. And quite sad. And half the time, I don’t think they realize how poor they’re eating habits are. A Grand Slam here, pretzel at noon, two hot dogs for lunch, a couple leftover doughnuts from breakfast for dessert, buffet time an hour later, a bag of Doritos before bed. And so on and so forth. (That may be a bit of an exaggerated example, but it’s for the sake of making a point.) Eventually that shit’s gonna catch up. And when it does, it’s gonna be a lot harder to get off than it was to put on. And a lot less fun too.
Well, enough with the fat people topic. I am now officially a hostess for a fine dining restaurant at a casino/hotel. Masselow’s inside the Northern Quest Casino And Resort. I like it. It’s good. I’m considered an ‘ununiformed team member’, meaning I get to come to work in my own clothes with the only requirement being black shoes. Which is pretty sweet. The people I work with are awesome, along with all the happy customers that come in. On an average night (4pm-10), twenty to thirty people usually walk in. Include the reservations (if any), and yer up to thirty to forty. However, I’ve noticed we’re very inconsistent with this customer count number. Last Monday was miserable with a grand total of sixteen people, while Thursday was almost fifty plus without a single reservation.
I wish I got tipped though. Every other hostess in all eight restaurants of the casino has a dip in the tip pool. I’m not sure why Masselow’s doesn’t include themselves in this, but they don’t. It sucks because I know for a fact my servers are walkin’ out of there with 100+ bucks in their pocket. If not more. I haven’t figured out yet if making $8.89 without any extra incentive (besides the free meal) is worth sticking around for.
Boredom without the ability to sit down is what absolutely kills me. I’ll stand at my little podium for eight hours straight (minus a half hour lunch break) and by the time I get done, my heels are almost unbearable to walk on. It sucks. I even bought some of those gel sole thingys, the nice ones too, the Dr. Scholl’s kind. (My feet still bug me, but it does help considerably.) Usually I’ll doodle or read or surrender to newspaper sudoku. That shit’s addicting and does a damn good job of making the time go by fast. Plus, it keeps my mind off my feet.
I think the worst part of my job, worse than the boredom, worse than the sore feet, worse than not getting tipped, is the amount of ass I hafta kiss. All the big wigs come in with all their big wig buddies and look at me like I’m retarded when I put their napkins on their laps. It’s part of my job; it’s what I’m required to do. Usually the guys will do it themselves. And sometimes they don’t.
I had a businessman the other morning; all dressed up in a nice pinstriped suit and polished shoes. He pulled out his chair and set his napkin down before I had a chance to do either. “Yer doin’ my job for me, I like it!” I said this is in the friendliest way possible. I really did. He shifts his weight to the side and gives me a pity laugh before rudely saying “I wouldn’t want YER job.” It made me smile as I walked back up to the podium. Because I’m thinkin’ to myself in all honesty….likewise buddy, likewise.
I hate these days where I wanna write so bad, but have no idea what I should write about. I’ll bounce possible topics around inside my head trying to at least get a genre going. Maybe I’ll go funny this time, maybe serious. Perhaps fiction, perhaps non. Happy? Sad? Both? But nothing seems to satisfy. Or if it does, it makes no sense once it gets to the paper.
It’s like my brain is a giant microwave with a faulty door. And there’s this fresh bag of yummy popcorn inside of it. Of course, in order to achieve that ‘yummy’ factor, my popcorn can only be left in the microwave a certain number of minutes. But sometimes the door gets jammed and rescue is impossible. So my popcorn burns and blackens and eventually has to be thrown away. And all I can do is watch.
I suppose I’ll just write about what’s on my mind today. (Take a journalistic route this morning instead of my regular creative one.) It’s Saturday. I’m currently sitting on a bench outside the plaza waiting for the Cheney bus. Zone 9. The sun’s actually out, which makes me happy. The past couple of days have been pretty ugly weather-wise and it’s nice to be in the 60′s for a change. Haha, I just said ‘pretty ugly’ and you didn’t even notice.
People watching is always incredibly entertaining to me when at the plaza. Although I’m leaning more towards people staring at this point. There’s always this group of socially awkward individuals who sit together on the green benches in front of the City Perk. (The City Perk is the little coffee shop inside the plaza.) I honestly think they consider this their hang-out spot. I never see any of ‘em catch a bus and as the day progresses, their group seems to expand by like twenty people every hour. By the time the sun goes down, clusters of retards are swarming the place. It’s a freak fest and apparently everyone in Spokane County is invited. Haha. Shit, if we’re this bad, I can only imagine what the bigger cities entail. Seattle, Los Angeles, Chicago? Yikes.
The City Perk has these awesome drinks I tried for the first time about a month ago. They’re called Red Bull sodas. Everything about them is delicious. Red Bull+your choice of Italian soda flavoring+whip cream+some sort of sweetening cream. It’s so simple, yet so full of awesomeness. Plus, it’s only $3.25 for a 32 oz.
Went to my best friend, Bree’s, graduation last night at EWU. Cheney High School – Class Of 2010. Wasn’t as bad as I thought it was gonna be. Usually I hate going to events where everybody and their mom knows who I am. It always leads to questions having to do with my future and that’s never good cuz not even I know the answers to those questions. You in college? Why not? Are you gonna be? When? Ugh.
Yes, at some point in my life I am going to enroll in school. May not be this fall, or the next one, or the one after that, but mark my words, it will happen. The only thing stopping me at this point is the money. I guess I wanna be able to pay for my tuition up front without having to take out a loan or rely on grants and scholarship money. If I had a million bucks, I’d register for classes within the hour. But I don’t, so I’m not. Haha.
So…I definitely love my job. In all aspects, too. The people who come in, the servers I serve with, the cooks I serve for, the manager, the money, the busy days/the slow, the young crew/the younger. Just the whole atmosphere at Hogan’s is fucking awesome. (Pardon me for the French, but it’s needed here.)
Hogan’s Hamburgers on the South Hill. On 29th. Yup, yup. That’s where I work. Weekday nights and weekend mornings. When you go in there look for me and find me and tell me you came in because you read this post right here. T’would make my day. OFFICIALLY, make my day. I’ll personally get you a free milkshake. On me.
People don’t care if yer an artist. They don’t care if you create things. They don’t care if you appreciate the simple things in life. They just wanna know what restaurants you eat at, what kind of car you drive, who yer married to, and so on and so forth. Status symbols as meaning, pop culture as religion. That’s why payphones rarely exist anymore. Even homeless people have cell phones. Crackheads have diamond watches. I mean, what’s the point in thinking life is a competition of worthless accumulation? You could die in yer sleep and it’s just more junk left behind for others to fight over.
The major reason we, as a country, fight against things that don’t exist, is because we’re a nation of people who BELIEVE in things that don’t exist. We need meaning behind everything; we need to understand what cannot be understood. Same reason there are more liquor stores than churches. Same reason there are more prisons than schools. Same reason you have more underwear than you do pants. Same reason more than fifteen percent of people in the United States are without health insurance. Same reason people who are married stop having as much sex. We thrive on applying logic when there is none.
Our world uses and destroys, demolishing thousands upon millions of acres of jungle, forest, and farmland. And for what? To build more homes, to give more loans, to have more teenage pregnancies, to overpopulate the world, to run out of food, to kill innocent children, to send young men and women off to die in foreign lands in the name of democracy that no longer even exists in the US. For a president who refuses to put his hand over his heart and say the pledge of allegiance? Sure, I admire people who sign off their lives to the government and say I don’t give a flyin’ FUCK if I die tomorrow. I love those people. I just don’t believe the government loves ‘em back.
We either confront our fears or we run away. I see very few people in this world who choose to walk right up to that in which they fear, whether it’s relationships, commitment, life, just anything, and actually confront it. Instead, we run away from things. We take the easy way out. People want the easy money, they want the easy things in life, they want things to fall in their laps, wanna win the relationship lottery and marry the next model millionaire who comes along. Why is that? I suppose we all just wanna get off some way or another. It’s just too bad we don’t have the patience for foreplay.