I've become too complacent of late:
"You got a C in Calculus." Whatever. "You're going to be working 84 hours per week for 6 weeks." Whatever. "Gas prices are through the fucking roof." Whatever. "You have $13 in your bank account and $15,000 in student loans." Whatever. "You shouldn't go for a run, there's a bear in the neighborhood." Whatever. "You need to get those credits petitioned before it's too late." Whatever.
"Your Eddie Izzard DVD is scratched. Ruined." What. The FUCK?!


1
Here we are, teetering on the precipice of greatness.
And you're already stepping back.
I can feel you pulling away.


2
I've been watching the Minutes tick by for Hours.
Each one mocks me as it passes into Obscurity.
4:02... 4:03... 4:04...

3
The ecstasy was so worth the bruises.

4
Spring is here; a new dawn is breaking.
The sun burns through the mist and the light is caught up in the tiny prisms dotting the earth.
Each leaf, each bud is Nature's own version of a disco ball.
Soon the slumbering beasts are awoken by the melody, and they clamber to join in the ruckus of rebirth.

You weren't supposed to see my footprints, how they staggered all caddywompus away from you.
I didn't want you to follow me.
There was a lantern swinging in the frigid breeze, and I hid behind the inconsistent shadow it cast in the corner by the stairs.
I saw you walking by and knew that you could hear my stuttered breathing, feel me trying to melt into the mortar and away from you.
When you stopped and turned, I knew I'd been had. My secret hideout morphed from sanctuary to prison before I could even make out your features.

I didn't ask you to save me. I didn't want you to fix me.
But there you were, pulling me out from hiding and forcing me to face the warmth with you.

The cold is so much easier.

The significance of the mundane.

I hate flying. I really, truly loathe the idea of it. Every time I'm on a plane taxiing down the runway or queued up waiting for clearance, I close my eyes and think to myself "This could very well be my last moment on Earth. And what am I doing? Sitting strapped to a chair that is almost the complete opposite of comfortable, surrounded by strangers I've been sharing recirculated air with for the last 30 minutes. What a way to go."
With the realization that I ponder the abrupt end to my short (and thus far utterly unaccomplished) life, consider this: On a recent flight from the Midwest to the 49th state, I experienced what can be considered the least nerve-wracking takeoff in the history of me+flight. I was seated next to a friendly couple who offered me the window seat (apparently they could tell how hungover I was and how much I just needed to pass the fuck out). Now, usually when I'm around couples I get painfully awkward and feel like there's a bubble of happiness surrounding them which I have to be careful not to burst with my inability to function normally in society. But with these two, I felt oddly... like a part of them? I'm not going to be able to string together the perfect words to describe what I mean, but I felt un-ostracized (my blog, my made-up words) sitting next to them. Naturally I went through my typical "I'm about to die" mental prep, but at the end of that in-desperate-need-of-an-overhaul train of thought, instead of berating myself for choosing such a stupid way to die, I told myself that if I was to die right then, next to these people, I'd be okay.
I'm not a "warm fuzzies" type of person (not true - catch me on a bad day and I'm one big ball of emotion), but I felt at peace with myself for the first time in years. It's mind-boggling to think that two complete strangers could have a more profound impact on just one moment of my life than some lifelong relationships have had.

Or who knows, maybe I was just still drunk.

There is no happily ever after.
There is a happily.
There is an after.
But the two do not exist in tandem.

Bright and shiny!

Las Vegas really is a terrible place. It's the land of excess, and I've never seen anything like it. You can get lost in The Forum at Caesar's Palace (huge anachronism, by the way) literally for hours. I've done it. Every designer worth mentioning has his own little nook in there, and they're just itching to sell you that $400 shirt that is "oh my God so fabulous!" I shit you not, there is a shoe store with a 300-pound security guard at the door. We named him Bubba. It's no wonder so many folks from other countries hate America; I hated myself a little bit for contributing to such abundance.

What's more (and worse, in my opinion), there is a depressing number of parents who take their small children to Vegas. I'm not a mother, and hopefully won't be for a while yet, but even I know that it's not okay to drunk-stumble down the Vegas Strip with a margarita in one unsteady hand and the handle of a stroller in the other. I don't approve. Not to mention the plethora of "escort service" business cards adorned with nude women that litter the sidewalk. I'm not even comfortable seeing that. How do you think it makes your impressionable 10-year-old feel? Do you really want them to get their first anatomy lesson from a hooker's business card? Kids+Vegas=scars.

As much as I bitch about the city, though, I can't deny that I'm going back in March. I'm a consumer. They've got me hooked. Mind you that I'm staying in the cheapest hotel I can find, and have made a pact with my brother to spend money only at the sketchy places.