Lucky like the Irish (and if you look at their history you'll see why thats ironic)

Sometimes I think I am the least lucky person in the world. If a friend were to ask if I thought it would rain and I were to look up to see the condition of the clouds then when I answer the question I would be wiping the first raindrop from my eye. I used to think I am just spastic, but recently I came to the relization that not only am I debilitatingly clumsy but I also am very unlucky… usually.
The fact I run into as many walls as a pin ball and fall down more than apples from a tree has given me bizarrely quick reflexes. My bad luck on the other hand left me overly superstitious and more than slightly ritualistic in my habits. My friends tease me for some of my more blatant superstitions such as not saying the name of the Scottish Play, you know MacB, that infamous Shakespearian catastrophe in a book. I do not walk under ladders not do I wear green on Wednesday.
Sometimes, though, for no apparent reason, and without any kind of prompting my luck will spontaneously change. Yesterday I turned a profit at the vending machine. I put in 60 cents and it spit out $1.25, now it turns out the machine was broken so I did not get that coveted orange soda, but, I now could afford a bottle of Coke Zero when before I could only afford a can.
The truth is: Luck seems to anticipate not what you want but what you need then serves it to you at the opportune moment.

Please, a moment of silence, you're teen angst died

I have never understood the strange relationship some youths have with bad poetry. They cling to obvious rhymes and gory imagery as if it would keep them afloat and quality were a rock. I also have never understood the sense of aw that they give each other when they are able to grasp rudimentary metaphors. Yes I know you can compare your behavior with a mask, this does not mean you should. I could eat rat crap but that doesn't mean I should. That would be yucky.
In my youth I was a victim on teen angst poetry, please, no laughs, no judgment, I am reformed. But much like an alcoholic a teen angst poet will never fully be able to escape that world once they crossed into it. It has left me scared with a deep deep hatred for the stuff. But not only a hatred for the poems but for all those associated with the misguided form of generic expression, middle-schoolers. I hate them. I always hated them. Middle school is what hate would be if it were formed from silly putty into a building- dirty, pointless, and impressionable. When I see middle-schoolers in the mall I want to push them off their overly hormonal horse and then rob them of their precious dark sweat bands.
Perhaps I'm judgmental. Perhaps I'm a bit angsty myself. Perhaps it is just the shame of having been one of them. I'm not sure. But as unreasonable as my prejudice is, it has it's root in something real. Shame. That really is all prejudice is: self shame, self loathing, self disgust. Not that I am shameful of who I have become nor do I loath myself or am disgusted with myself, but, when I look back at my notebooks and see three to six poems describing my four walls as a prison, how can I not want to bang my late teenage head into all four of those oppressive mask wearing walls.
The truth is, when we are prejudice against others, it shows what we do not like in ourselves.
This story is 100% true.

When I said "thats wierd" I was talking about fate...

Sometimes I think I was born to be crippled in a bizarre way. Trees, cars, and bedposts just attack and attack my leg. But lets start out with the most recent attack on my litte Achilles Heel... my ankle.
I, of late, have acquired a car that my constituents would refer to as "Ghetto." Meaning I have been forced to cover the passenger window with thick plastic due to a broken thingymabob that refuses to allow me to roll up said window.
Unfortunately the plastic did not want to stick today and so I was forced to try and wring the water out of the cloth seats, it didn't work. But as I patted and patted the seat in vain with a towel I noticed that my feet were becoming cold and wet so I closed the door... unfortunately I did not move my ankle out of the way before hand.
My poor sister whose virgin ears will always be marred my by blasphemous mouth from this day forth helped me into the house.
Luckily this is one of the least severe injuries I managed to cause myself and so my ankle is only bruised but that doesn't mean that I came away uninjured.
There is a part of my in constant motion. I sway, I skip, I walk, I pace, I pace, I pace. There is nothing more debilitating terrifying to me than loosing that. It's like a model whose face was seriously marred by an accident. Losing my mobility is the scariest thing that could happen.
It's not just the fear being restrained and out of control, it's the way people look at me. When I go on crutches everyone else seems to loose their hearing. "I'll get the door.... No... seriously I said I got it.... I'm serious... Don't!... DON'T!... UGH... hhhhh... whatever....thanks..." I loose a major part of my personality. People don't see me the same.
I am independence. I am freedom. I am ferocity. But when I'm incapable of moving that's not what people see. I become dependence, weakness, meek. People assume I don't mean it when I say I don't want your help. But when I can't move, even the small act of opening my own door is the small dignity that keeps myself intact.
The truth is... Fear is not an object, it's a loss.
This story is 100% true... I promise.

Nature is mysterious

I like nature, I like walking outside, I like the woods, I like animals. I can even tolerate bugs, as long as they don’t touch me. I do not like to touch them or their homes so I expect the same respect from them. I have a friend who does not see the world this way.
He jumps into ponds to hunt out snakes, turtles, toads, anything that moves and isn’t human. While waiting for class to start we would always sit on a bridge, not a big bridge mind you, but just a foot path over a stream. We would sit, dangling our feet waiting for the rest of the group before we walked to class together. He managed to see the head of a snake behind some bushes one afternoon and automatically started unlacing his sneakers to chaise after it.
“Is it poisonous?” I asked hoping to make him pause and consider the ramifications of his actions.
“Do you have your cell phone?” I failed to see the relevance of his question, but I answered anyways.
“Not on me.”
“Then I certainly hope not.”
Boys.
He never caught that snake, to fast for him, but he always found ways to make me nervous on that bridge. His favorite way was to pretend to fall. He would let himself fall backwards and then catch himself at the last moment, stopping my heart. When I told him I would stop watching if kept doing that to me he just started making gasping noises not even bothering to put himself in danger anymore.
“Why do you do this to me?” I asked once. His response was simple.
“I like messing with people, and you give better reactions than most.”
Sometimes human nature is as beautiful and mysterious as the moon. He reminded me more of walking headfirst into a spider web while walking the dog.
This one is 99.9% true.

A night under the stars

I found my self not to long ago on the roof of an RV that neither I nor relatives of mine own, with two friends who do not own the RV. In fact none of us know the first or last name of the owner, or even what they look like. The owner was not aware of our presence there looking at the stars and lying on one another hoping to God that none of our cell phones started to ring. This is the first “bad” thing I have ever done.
We were playing manhunt; actually we were beasting at manhunt to be more accurate. But, never the less, as I looked at the rising waxing crescent of the red moon I found myself wondering, “Why the hell am I on the roof of a complete stranger’s RV. This cannot be a good idea.”
One moment I was running the next I was climbing up a ladder that seemed to be held together with silly string and thumb tacks the next I was lying on my stomach on a dirty roof with a friend on top of me giggling. Am I up here to hide? Sorta. Am I up here to impress my friends? God I hope not! Am I up here to get a better look at the beautiful moon rise? No, but I am appreciating it. So why the hell am I up here? I could say it was to suck the marrow out of life, or to have a great adventure, but the truth is I don’t have a clue why I am up here. I don’t know what I am thinking! But isn’t that what living is? Not considering the reasons for an adventure or why not to do a thing but just enjoy it while it is happening? And sometimes living calls for doing things that later make you ask: “Why the hell did I do that?!” and the answer always is “Because I could.”
I'm not telling you if this one is true or not...

Educating people on the follies of thier ways.

It would do some people a lot of good to get punched in the nose, no serious damage mind you, but enough to make their eyes water. It would help them. I'm not sure how, but somehow I just know it would. I've never been in a fight, if I were I would loose. I am not strong. I am not fast. I could not defend myself and I could not run away. I would loose miserably. This is not to say I have no defenses, I have my mouth. Now a mouth can do considerable damage, whether to myself or to my adversary I am not totally sure, but I have always had the gift of making fairly graphic threats. Some people are just gifted that way. While my peers where threatening to punch someone in the face I would say I would rip their throat out with my teeth. Would I ever do this? No! That would be disgusting, plus I'm a vegetarian and therefore do not eat humans. But, much like giving a gift, it's the idea that counts.
My best friend got into the best fight I had ever heard of. It got him kicked out of his school but, nevertheless, it was amazing. Apparently some terd at his school made a slur about his father, this is not to say the slur was not justly deserved but insulting someone’s parents is just wrong. My BFF responded with a punch in the mouth, knocking this terd backwards into a vending machine. The terd broke through the glass and was literally sitting inside the machine, which would have warranted my friend the second best badass I know... if the story ended there. My friend reached back as if to further humiliate terd boy with a slap in the face but instead reached behind the kid's head grabbing a bag of skittles. He opened the bag took some out, ate them, right there, then turned and walked away into the sun set. Now he did get paneled and charged with fighting, destruction of school property and theft but, they dropped theft after he walked up to the judge and handed him 50 cents., paying for the bag of skittles he ate.
I am just a mouth though. But I promise you this. That story is 100% true. I know. He told me it was.

Just another intro...

If you have ever read anything by Charles DeLint you most likely already know about accepted reality theory... If you have ever taken AP Macro then you also most likely know something very similar to it. Reality is as you accept it. Everyone has a different reality because of this. So if someone says something is true, it is, even if it is a lie to you. Keep this in mind as you read, this is my reality, it is not some spectacular fantasy... but spiders are scary as are needles and tornados are Mother nature giving us all the middle finger. The ordinary is spectacular and the extrodainary is often accepted at ordinary. Some of these things happened to me, some of them happened to other people, and some I think should happen sometime to someone, I'll never tell you which is which. So. Welcome, this is my first blog.