It's all my fault

I need to update my blog...

I really enjoy looking at other people's blogs and keeping current with what is going on in my people's lives (yes, my choice of words is awkward, but I just couldn't bring myself to type "peeps"). It's such an easy way to stay in touch. But it gets ridiculous to try and type everything that's going on in your life. There just doesn't seem to be time or motivation on most days. And then you get into those moods where there isn't anything you can say that doesn't make you out to be a total freak.

But it just doesn't seem right. You get to read up on all of your people, but they don't really know anything about you and your life. As I told Clay, it's as rude as those people who show up without a gift at your birthday party; you just can't show up, eat the food, and leave without bringing the host a present.

Don't get too excited, though. It don't have anything to say. This is just an acknowledgment of fault.

More later...

Happy Nude Year

I feel so nice. Everything looks beautiful. I feel quite affectionate to people I don't normally like. I am on Lortab. Lets do a post.

When I'm on Lortab, I want to write thank-you letters. I recall the most insignificant things that people have done, and I honestly think, "My life would never be the same without them. I want to write them a thank-you letter." What a joke.

I am grateful. I'm a grateful person. But writing thank-you's for things that don't matter? I just have to laugh at myself. I want to run up and give people hugs. I want to take in a stray cat. I want to go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to feel the towels. I want to read Chicken Soup for the Fat Sap's Soul and cry over the fuzzy stories. I want to write a letter to our senators and tell them that there needs to be more art programs in our schools. Then I want to stand outside Burgers Supreme and smell the char-broil smoke being piped out into the surrounding neighborhood.

I don't take Lortab that often. I just take it when I need it. If I take it too often, not only will I become addicted, but my body will acclimate, and I'll need higher and higher doses in order for it to be affective. It may seem like I'm a pill head, but I'm not. It's too easy to reach for a bottle of meds when things are rough. They only mask the problem. I try to find Zen when the FMS pain becomes unbearable. And when I can't find it on my own, I let Lortab take me there.

All the same, I might name my child Lortab--if I ever decided to have one.

It's only fitting to talk about the New Year on the first day of the new year. I've thought about giving some advice to myself. I don't want to call them New Year's resolutions; let's avoid cliches at all costs. Why advice, you ask? Well, since I didn't have my lips all over someone at the stroke of midnight, I have to get my kicks somewhere.

No. 1 - Don't try to lose weight. Instead, try to lose your appetite. Run head-long into a post about every three days to give yourself a nausea-inducing concussion. You won't really want to eat, and your problem will be solved.

No. 2 - Be more vulnerable. The more one tries to protect themselves from potential threats, the less one is able to feel. Pretty soon you find that you're just a walking corpse. Christ was vulnerable, and he was able to love and feel more than anybody. Just relax, be brave, and be with the people you want.

No. 3 - Volunteer. Your beautiful little boy may be in Texas, but you can still care for little doggies. Lots of animal shelters would appreciate the time, not to mention what being with the little guys would do to your spirit. Start small, and make it a habit.

No. 4 - Change your wardrobe. There is absolutely no reason why you should spend more than fifty-cents a shirt and two dollars per pair of jeans. Then, as you walk around town, people will assume you are a transient and give you hand-outs. You'll save money and make money. Genius.

On that same note, be concerned about money--don't make it your life's worry. If you have to declare bankruptcy, move out of your apartment, sell all your things, live on the street, then get killed in a gang fight, it's okay. You will have had a life, and you will have learned some pretty important lessons. Learning, not gaining, is the most important part of life. Keep that in your mind this year.

No. 5 - Turn off your iPod. Turn off the television. Cancel a few activities here and there. You need time to meditate each day. Now some people can make do without thinking and reviewing what is going on in their life. You cannot. Give just a few moments to sit and reflect. Little Daisy Brown came into work the other day, and she was so content just to touch (not have) the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Just ponder life, and the more simple pleasures in life will come. Ponder, and you will have fullness.

Have a happy 2009--with whatever you decide to do with it.

And so, today goes like this:

So I prefer Blogger to Facebook--just so you know. I got on Facebook this morning (first time in a month), and I had no clue what to do with myself. I had a few friend requests, so I accepted them. I found a few new friends, so I requested them. Other than that, what do I do? I can't just write on people's walls; they'll think I'm weird! If you can't tell by that last statement, I'm no initiator. People have walls for a reason: you write on them. And I only accept Facebook friends that I really like, so there shouldn't be any reason why you'd think I'm weird. One of these days, I'll get over my ridiculous cyber anxieties, and we'll have lively conversation.

So I was late to work to day. We're not talking slap-on-the-wrists late. This is boot-you-rear-out-the-door late. As a senior operator, I was supposed to open the office this morning at 6am. I woke up at 7:30am. Lovely. I can't decide whether I'm more overcome with fear for the repercussions this will have on my employment, or if I'm more put out because I didn't get to shower before work.

Since getting tattoos, I like to wax my arms so that the tattoos look better. I haven't waxed them in a month, and now I look like this:

It's no wonder I haven't waxed them in a month. It's too hard to wax anything yourself, unless you can go like this:

I'm grateful to a lot of people for feeling like a burning monk (see last post), being accused of laziness, and telling me about it. Everyone's life sucks in some way, and I'm glad that some people can talk to me about their personal hells without feeling like their struggle is less or more important than the next guy's.


That little boy cannot take a drink without sticking his whole face in the water bucket. He comes out sopping wet everytime. He's always loved being wet. When I first brought him home as a 9 week old puppy, I shut off the sprinkler system so that he would get wet at night. Then, I thought to myself that he has to learn for himself to stay dry. But he never learned, and he never cared. I would come out every morning to feed and hug my boy, and his fur would be matted together from the moisture. He'd just sleep right through the sprinkler cycle right in the middle of the yard. And that one, horrible night that I spent at the old apartment, I took him out to use the bathroom in the morning, and the sprinklers were on. He just walked right through all of them, sniffing around, looking at everything. Pistol loves a good mud pile... he's such a pill. The only water he hasn't loved is bathtime, and this:

I decided that this post needed to have some kind of positive material, owing to the last post. So, I'm glad I could write about Pistol. There's no brighter spot in my life than that little boy.

Where did you go?

No posts for two months. No apologies. No excuse. No motivation.

Here's a brief update on how everything has been going. My body always feels like this:

But people think I'm this:

So my grades look like this:

This is always in my head:

While this is always in my heart:

And I can't believe that this got married:

I don't take all the exercise that I should, so I look like this:

That's how life is, so if you're inclined to judge, get the hell off my blog. Yes, my life and your life can be hard at the same time; it doesn't need to be a contest.

I'm failing school. I hate my grandparents because they choose not to do anything for themselves. My harp teacher refuses to give me the benefit of the doubt, and I always feel like a goober around her. Everybody wants something from me. I don't have a place to live or enough money to live off of. I'm tired of Utah. I hate being put in a box by most everyone around me. I don't respect myself because I'm playing the victim. And I hate not having my little boy with me.

Before the straw breaks the camel's back, I'm moving away. I don't know if it will be before the winter semester starts or after it ends. I'm still deciding on what place will be most affordable. Let me know what you guys think. Vote on a city from the list of places I've wanted to live in on the left.

Make time for life

Over a month since my last post...

It shouldn't get to me. It's no skin off my gluts if I don't write a thing or two for a while. But I get so frustrated when people don't update their blogs. This is the only way I keep in touch with some people, and seeing a new blog posting is like Christmas. I just about jumped up on my chair, screaming (nut-bag-Tom Cruise-on-Oprah style) when I saw that Crystal had updated her blog after moving to Florida. Granted, the woman had other priorities for a month and a half, but I was dying for any word on how she and her little family were doing. And TA-DA! One day, there it is.My dilemma? Life. It just gets in the way. That's interesting to me, how there are 30,000 students here on campus, and probably half of them hate what they do. You almost never hear school referred to in a positive light. People ask, "So how are your classes goin'?" And others respond with a look of death on their face. Why?!! Why the hell to we do this?!! It seems so stupid. We all only get one life; so why should we let one minute go by doing something that doesn't particularly make us happy? Somehow, we think that there's a trade-off. We have to slave away at school, trading our peace and health for a degree--a ruddy bit of paper and calligraphy. Those who think the trade-off is an acceptable one might end up doing the same thing for the rest of their lives: "I have to work this crappy job so that I can network and get a better job." Well, I'm done with it.

I felt so good about skipping class the past two days. On Wednesday, I woke up a little later than I wanted to. I had just enough time to shower, shave, and run out the door to class. Usually, I get up, get showered and dressed for the day, have a warm breakfast and hot tea while watching Frasier or The Golden Girls or Bargain Hunt, then I do my two and a half hour harp practice before leaving for classes. It's that unhurried morning time that gives me peace during the day, that leaves me feeling fulfilled with what I've done with my life. Now, when I have to rush out the door to make it to class in time, I just don't feel satisfied. I leave the house with anxiety, not hope.

I decided after a few minutes that there just wasn't time in my schedule for school, and I didn't go. Well, I did go to harp ensemble rehearsal yesterday, but that was only because I really wanted to.

It was so lovely. I gave my being what it needed in order to feel fulfilled. Perhaps on other days, school's not such a bad option--but only if I've taken care to give myself the essentials, and if I can be interested in the material.

How do you tell someone that you love "no?" Any suggestions? I would love to have them.

So, three weeks ago, I took my grandpa to have some minor, outpatient surgery. When we got him home, he was so loopy from the anesthetic that he ripped out his catheter and gave himself a near-fatal blood infection. We got him to the ER just in time to save him, and I threw my back out in the process of trying to lift him. He's been in rehab for the past three weeks trying to learn how to walk again.

This is the part where you think less of me, everyone. We'll just acknowledge that between us so there's no pretension in the rest of my post.

As a young person, I just don't have the time or energy to take care of these people like they want. It's not that they need everything done for them. They just want everything done for them. It's easy to see why; they think there's a big, strong man in the house that can pick up the slack. But, I have FMS, I'm going to school, I'm trying to work on my music. Young people are trying to establish lives for themselves so that they can support themselves financially and be very secure and happy occupationally. I just don't have what it takes to do everything that they want. It would serve them well to do more for themselves.

But could you say "no" if your grandma was asking you to do something for her in a desperate, weakened voice? See, it's just not that easy. It's a hole I've dug for myself that I have to get out of before it buries me alive.

My little boy weighs 48lbs. That's twice as much as he weighed when I got him. The family tells me that he no longer chews on his food; he just inhales--literally. He eats at three times the pace of his cousin, then he goes over to Tristan's bowl and starts eating his food too. I need to go home for a bit, just so I can see his face. I usually don't dream, I just nightmare. But when I do dream, he's always in them lately. I love my Pistol.

I'd like to always have posts that are upbeat, where I make especially clever jokes about how people are idiots, I write precious little haikus on the changing seasons, and I make observations that bring out the supraliminal in life. Be patient with me. We will get back to those.

A brief update

I'm feeling really irritated that I feel really guilty for still feeling crushed. I explained to my mother that I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl that got pregnant out of wed-lock and had to give her baby up for adoption; I made a choice that would make life better for the baby, but it doesn't mean that I won't feel like hell for a while.

Life is better for the baby, you know. My poor little boy had to endure an extra two and a half hours on the plane because of weather delays. When he finally landed in Amarillo and was signed for by my mother and sister, he was so happy. They let him out of his kennel to play for a bit, and he couldn't have been more excited to see familiar faces. He slept the whole way home on my sister's lap. My mother, being the good and conscious mother that she is, had to call me to ask if he normally snored.

This is Tristan--Pistol's new friend at home. They just sat and sniffed each other at their first introduction. There was some concern that the bigger dog wouldn't know how to play gently with a puppy. My little brother stood by the two of them, ready to pull Tristan off of Pistol or scoop Pistol up and take him away. But Pistol turned out to be quite the tease. He would wildly nip at the bigger dog's neck or leg, then dart back between my brother's legs for protection.

But Tristan is a champ. My mother texted me this morning to let me know that he shared his dog house with my little boy last night. I couldn't ask for more. He's such a patient soul. My family tells me that when the dogs aren't sleeping, they're playing. Tristan likes to come up to the rocks at the bay window, lay down, and feel the warmth that the rocks have absorbed from the sun as he sleeps. Yesterday, he did so with one leg hanging over the edge of the rocks. Apparently, my puppy wasn't ready to sleep yet, and he started nipping at Tristan's leg. Tristan just opened his eye (he's only got one), looked around to acknowledge the situation, then raised and released the leg to send Pistol rolling across the grass. Clearly, it was time to rest.

He's doing so well at home, just happy as much as he was unhappy here. He has great company, a twenty-four hour companion, and a back yard full of mischief to get into. That's all anyone can hope for.

It doesn't make it easier, though. There's too much I will miss out on with the kid. For now, I carry his leash in my backpack as a security blanket, just until the intensity of the loss can pass.

And as much as I hate directly addressing you readers in my blog, almost as though we were having a conversation (it just feels weird), I do have to thank everybody for sympathizing both verbally and in writing. Yes, all of this is just about a dog. But everyone has been so respectful enough to realize how important it's been to me. And every time I blog, I'm just going to expect Crystal to be reading it at the same time. You've commented on the last few posts as I've been writing the next one. It's great to have that little connection with another friend I miss.

Sorry for the disconnected writing and thinking. My form will improve as my head clears.

Requiem for my puppy

A friend of mine wrote letters to her unborn daughter on her blog. I think that's the only way that I know how to format this one and have it bring some type of consolation.

My dearest Pistol:

You're such a good little dog. Everyone that has seen you comments on what a cute puppy you are. I'm guaranteed at least five "precious puppy" comments every time we walk into the vet. You're always too stressed to notice. Even though you don't like the shots, the cold stainless-steel surfaces, and the rectal thermometer, you never fight; you just sit there very quietly and let everyone try to make you healthy. See? You're such a good puppy.

I absolutely love the way you stare at me through the sliding-glass door, following me with your eyes, waiting for me to come give you my attention. Sometimes you stand at the window, other times you lay down on the patio stairs, resting your little face on the top step. Other times you whine as you claw at the glass. I walk to the door and reach for the door handle. You know the routine, and your eyes follow me every step of the way. Then I open the door, and you go crazy. You make my heart melt, kid.

I laugh so hard when we get to play. I take your chew toys and drag them across the grass, and you pounce. It's such a simple game, but you just love it. You love to win. You just flop down on the grass and enjoy your victory... until I start dragging another toy across the grass. You keep the one toy in your mouth and try to catch the other. Never mind the fact that you already won; you just can't stand the idea that another chew toy would get away from you. You have to run at it with your front legs apart so that you don't trip on the toy you have in your teeth.

You're such a beautiful dog. I've wanted a St. Bernard since I was ten or eleven. I would check out books on Saints from the library and read up on their history as rescue dogs. I would beg my parents for one. I would draw them at school. I even had a piggy bank in the form of a St. Bernard. I loved their faces, I loved their form--I loved how they were like little bears. I've always wanted one. You're a dream come true, kid.

I love that just last week, you got so comfortable with sitting on my lap. We would go sit out on the front yard in the morning while you watched all the lovely people walk by on their morning walk. You love people, and if they wouldn't come to you, you'd always go to them. Then, you come galloping back to me, diving back into my lap. As humans get older, life holds fewer joys. Those moments when you came running back to me, almost tackling me as you jumped into my lap, will always be one of my fewer joys.

But kid, I failed you. Right now, we live with my granny and grandpa, and as much as they love you, they don't like dogs in the house. I looked for and found a place where we could live together. It took a while, though; not many people like the idea of a St. Bernard coming to live at their property. They put too much stock in movies like Beethoven and Cujo. They expect you to tear up the house and drool everywhere. They don't know that you only dribble when you eat or drink or when it's hot outside. They don't know how obedience is in your blood.

I spent last week moving in to our new place, and I got so excited about not having to close the door on you anymore, that I wouldn't have to draw a line that said, "Even though I love you, you have to stay there." After all, love isn't about drawing lines; it's about getting rid of them and feeling better for it.

Then, the weekend. Nobody could see that coming, kid. I had no idea how uncomfortable you would be with the place. Even though you liked watching TV, you just hated everything else. It was hell, buddy. It was absolute hell. I couldn't understand you to give you what you needed. And you couldn't seem to find a way to communicate with me. We tried, and tried, and tried to make it work. I cried so many times because I just wanted you to be happy. I cried when we went to sleep. I cried when we woke up. I cried when we went out for a walk. I cried when you wouldn't eat. I just couldn't help you at all. Everyone said, "Oh, give it time. He'll adjust. You just gotta give him time." I couldn't give it anymore time. I was cracking.

So, Pistol, Grandma, Grandpa, and I decided that it would be best to send you down to Texas to live with them and the dog at home. He's your cousin, Tristin. He's lonely for company too. You both whine when dogs walk by because you both want to play with them so badly. You're both such good dogs, and you'll be like two peas in a pod.

But kid, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry to put you through all this. I didn't think I was going to be the kind of pet owner that the Human Society targets when they say, "It's not just for Christmas; it's for life." I thought I was fully prepared to take care of you. I am such a fool--truly. Everything about this is a stressful and burdensome mess, except for you. I just can't seem to make you happy, and that makes me so sad. I tried to love and take care of you, I failed, and now I've lost a part of myself. We might say, "you're only a dog," but it meant so much to me to be able to take care of you and have you be a happy dog. I just feel so ashamed and so very sorry, kid.

Tomorrow, we'll take you to the vet to get your health certificate, then we'll put you on the plane to Texas to be with family. I'm sure you'll be a happy dog there. But me? My heart will break every time I walk by the back door, and I don't see you standing there, following me with your eyes. I'll cry every time I grill chicken, and I don't have you there to enjoy it. And my face will fall every time I go outside, and I don't hear the jingling of your ID tag against your collar as you come bounding up to meet me. I love you so much, buddy. You will always be in my heart.

Always,
Aaron