I feel like writing a great, big, long honkin' journal entry. Something where I go from subject to subject, and actually put some thought into it. Flexing my writing muscles. Y'know. Stretching out for once.
But what is there to talk about?
My life consists of work. My next day off is Thursday; my last day off was Friday. The time before that was the Thursday before. I spend solid weeks either at Circuit City selling iPods or at the movie theater cleaning up after slobs and selling them the food I'll soon be sweeping up. That's if I'm not taking film and either fixing a splice or putting it all into one large continuous roll. For three years, I've worked at that movie theater. I'm soon coming up on two full years at Circuit City. My life feels kind of useless because of it -- I'm not doing what I dream, because debts have held me down. I crashed my car in 2002, in the midsts of January sleet and ice. Problems arising from that crash have led to my car costing twice as much as I originally paid for it. That would have been one-third of my film school money.
I'm middle-middle class; my parents don't have the money to throw at me and let me follow my dreams. Since I was 15, I knew that you had to work harder than everyone else to get anywhere -- especially when it became that you were going to have to fend for yourself. I've been watching a friend waste his mother's money -- here he is, a near-free ride to college -- as he sleeps through classes and spends more time on the Internet than he does studying. It makes me pity him; he's smart, but not quite dedicated to anything. His self-view is downtrodden when it comes to himself, and he has no urge to do anything.
Me, I feel like I can and should do anything I can, outside of learning an instrument. My mind and body don't agree with it. My fingers do what they want to do -- they feel as though they're trained to type and interact, not strum over guitar strings or across the keys of a piano. Which sucks. When I was 12, I fell in love with rock and roll completely after flirtations thanks to movies like Back To The Future with it's Chuck Berry/Jimi Hendrix/Pete Townshend homage from Michael J. Fox, and the crazed antics of MTV (this was in 1997, by the way, for those not acquainted with math). In school, they tried to teach us the guitar -- it didn't work out so well. People have suggested I should play the bass -- my sense of rhythm is intact (despite my fear of dancing, I suppose I move pretty well, which is like a +10 for a white guy), and my fingers do move more instinctively to the strings and tones than they do to a guitar's. It's quite an odd thing, actually. I can't read tabs for shit, though.
I never took the SATs. I wasn't going to a regular college, I knew that; I didn't want to spend four more years of my life dealing with homework and studying and the painful annoyances of a school life. I hate being forced to partake in a class when I know it'll have little to nothing to do with my future; calculus, triginometry, these things have little to do with my strong points and my passions. I suck at math. And I'm very proud to say it. My knowledge of algebra is enough to get me through regular life and tax season, and that's really it.
Where my true powers lie is in the written word. I remember the first time anyone said anything special about it. I was in 7th grade. The teacher walked over, leaned in to my face, and through her wrinkles, she wheezed, "where'd you learn to write like that?"
The thing was, I never learned. It was there from the beginning, and bolstered by my carnivorous nature with books. I must've read every Star Wars book that came out in 7th and 8th grade before The Phantom Menace killed my love of all things A Long, Long Time Ago.
I was 14 when movies hit me like a sack of a dead man's parts from a Mafia enforcer. The movie that changed my life starred Jake Gylennhall and Chris Cooper. It's name was October Sky. I don't know what about it turned my mind on, but it did. I figure now that my mind has always been set for movie-making. When I would write stories, my mind's eye was always as smooth and voyueristic as a movie camera, catching everything with a certain framing to it.
October Sky broke me into movies. I began to watch them vicariously (and I still do). I quickly learned what I did like and what I didn't -- my tastes reach more for drama and action instead of comedy -- and I watched my favorites again and again, studying the movements of the camera, of the actors, paying attention to the small details of the background, attempting to understand the actor's fulfillment of a character that was once only an idea on a page.
At the same time, rock and roll kept the rest of my mind busy. Devouring the history of this forever baby-faced genre, I learned of the melting points; where a band got so hot, rock and roll melted into their style, and their influence soaked other bands through and through.
This left little time for a social life, I suppose. I was the quiet one in high school. I asked a couple girls out. I got laid at 15 with a girl who was more or less a stranger to me then, and is quite more of one now. But I never had a real girlfriend until the ending months of my senior year. I hadn't even kissed a person in several years before then (although there was this one time at a concert...), and I remember distinctly: we were sitting on the steel benches of the town's Little League/soccer field, and we were talking. She asked me what I was thinking. I told her "I'm really thinking about how I want to kiss you." So she took my shoulder with her hand, and we leaned in a bit. We had started going out like two days before after a very shy and very confused courtship of one another. The first kiss was a bit off; I leaned in and kissed her again, and this was a million times better. I was quite the kisser. Some girls know this -- others only have heard of it. But I imagine I'm good because I revel in it -- it's just so brilliantly simple to hit that right amount of pressure, to lightly enclasp someone's upper lip with your own, to lightly press your tongue against another's. It comes to me quite naturally.
Anyway, after three months, once we had graduated, we broke up. The guy she started dating immediately after me became her husband of today.
And no, I never "did" her. Shortly after breaking up, though, I did go and exchange bodily fluids in that way with what was one of the hottest girls in school. A few months after those experiences, though, I realized how shallow it was, and how, honestly -- she wasn't that great. So I cut loose from that.
Back then, it was all freedom. I only had a job at the theater to worry about, working random days in and out, and spending a lot of time with random people who would slip in and out of the theater as though they were mist, wavering in for a morning or evening and then disappearing without so much warning as one gets when one is stabbed in the back. That summer, I did give a lot of backrubs, a lot of shoulder massages. In such a drama-filled workplace (to be expected; high school students like I was tend to be the primary occupants of those positions such as movie theater employee), I suppose I was soothing the knife wounds that would appear at least once a week. I'm quite the massuese, so says everyone.
Everyone also sees me as a future film director/actor. I understand that film is subtlety, whereas theater is exaggeration. A camera's always much closer than an audience, you could say.
I haven't really met anyone new in the past year or so. I imagine that's part of the reason I joined this site; people on here tend to be as geeky, outlandish, and weird as I am, and usually, they seem to be much more than I ever could imagine. I'm not looking for love; just naked ladies and perhaps a few new friends along the way.
That's my scattershot history. Bits and pieces of me from my own memory. And this is even longer than I expected. I don't imagine anyone's read this far. If you have, you've just learned quite a bit about me, but there's still more to add. Don't worry, this'll be in list form.
*I don't drink. It's not my thing.
*I rarely use drugs. Not even pot, really.
*My real killing vice is cigarettes. And caffeine.
*I'm always interested in other people's stories. Other people's lives. It's the voyuer, the artist in me that loves it. No matter if you lived in the same town your whole life or swam around the world.
*I hated high school.
*I have never dated a younger woman. I usually get approached by older ones, period. I like it that way.
*I know when a girl has a crush or is interested in me when she comments well on my car. Usually because it's so random.
*I deliberately skipped this past summer because, well, the story on that is not done.
And, yeah, I guess that's it. Your eyes probably hurt now, so I suppose you can rest and let your eyes finish burning from the radiation your monitor gives off.
Who actually got this far? Raise your hand.
But what is there to talk about?
My life consists of work. My next day off is Thursday; my last day off was Friday. The time before that was the Thursday before. I spend solid weeks either at Circuit City selling iPods or at the movie theater cleaning up after slobs and selling them the food I'll soon be sweeping up. That's if I'm not taking film and either fixing a splice or putting it all into one large continuous roll. For three years, I've worked at that movie theater. I'm soon coming up on two full years at Circuit City. My life feels kind of useless because of it -- I'm not doing what I dream, because debts have held me down. I crashed my car in 2002, in the midsts of January sleet and ice. Problems arising from that crash have led to my car costing twice as much as I originally paid for it. That would have been one-third of my film school money.
I'm middle-middle class; my parents don't have the money to throw at me and let me follow my dreams. Since I was 15, I knew that you had to work harder than everyone else to get anywhere -- especially when it became that you were going to have to fend for yourself. I've been watching a friend waste his mother's money -- here he is, a near-free ride to college -- as he sleeps through classes and spends more time on the Internet than he does studying. It makes me pity him; he's smart, but not quite dedicated to anything. His self-view is downtrodden when it comes to himself, and he has no urge to do anything.
Me, I feel like I can and should do anything I can, outside of learning an instrument. My mind and body don't agree with it. My fingers do what they want to do -- they feel as though they're trained to type and interact, not strum over guitar strings or across the keys of a piano. Which sucks. When I was 12, I fell in love with rock and roll completely after flirtations thanks to movies like Back To The Future with it's Chuck Berry/Jimi Hendrix/Pete Townshend homage from Michael J. Fox, and the crazed antics of MTV (this was in 1997, by the way, for those not acquainted with math). In school, they tried to teach us the guitar -- it didn't work out so well. People have suggested I should play the bass -- my sense of rhythm is intact (despite my fear of dancing, I suppose I move pretty well, which is like a +10 for a white guy), and my fingers do move more instinctively to the strings and tones than they do to a guitar's. It's quite an odd thing, actually. I can't read tabs for shit, though.
I never took the SATs. I wasn't going to a regular college, I knew that; I didn't want to spend four more years of my life dealing with homework and studying and the painful annoyances of a school life. I hate being forced to partake in a class when I know it'll have little to nothing to do with my future; calculus, triginometry, these things have little to do with my strong points and my passions. I suck at math. And I'm very proud to say it. My knowledge of algebra is enough to get me through regular life and tax season, and that's really it.
Where my true powers lie is in the written word. I remember the first time anyone said anything special about it. I was in 7th grade. The teacher walked over, leaned in to my face, and through her wrinkles, she wheezed, "where'd you learn to write like that?"
The thing was, I never learned. It was there from the beginning, and bolstered by my carnivorous nature with books. I must've read every Star Wars book that came out in 7th and 8th grade before The Phantom Menace killed my love of all things A Long, Long Time Ago.
I was 14 when movies hit me like a sack of a dead man's parts from a Mafia enforcer. The movie that changed my life starred Jake Gylennhall and Chris Cooper. It's name was October Sky. I don't know what about it turned my mind on, but it did. I figure now that my mind has always been set for movie-making. When I would write stories, my mind's eye was always as smooth and voyueristic as a movie camera, catching everything with a certain framing to it.
October Sky broke me into movies. I began to watch them vicariously (and I still do). I quickly learned what I did like and what I didn't -- my tastes reach more for drama and action instead of comedy -- and I watched my favorites again and again, studying the movements of the camera, of the actors, paying attention to the small details of the background, attempting to understand the actor's fulfillment of a character that was once only an idea on a page.
At the same time, rock and roll kept the rest of my mind busy. Devouring the history of this forever baby-faced genre, I learned of the melting points; where a band got so hot, rock and roll melted into their style, and their influence soaked other bands through and through.
This left little time for a social life, I suppose. I was the quiet one in high school. I asked a couple girls out. I got laid at 15 with a girl who was more or less a stranger to me then, and is quite more of one now. But I never had a real girlfriend until the ending months of my senior year. I hadn't even kissed a person in several years before then (although there was this one time at a concert...), and I remember distinctly: we were sitting on the steel benches of the town's Little League/soccer field, and we were talking. She asked me what I was thinking. I told her "I'm really thinking about how I want to kiss you." So she took my shoulder with her hand, and we leaned in a bit. We had started going out like two days before after a very shy and very confused courtship of one another. The first kiss was a bit off; I leaned in and kissed her again, and this was a million times better. I was quite the kisser. Some girls know this -- others only have heard of it. But I imagine I'm good because I revel in it -- it's just so brilliantly simple to hit that right amount of pressure, to lightly enclasp someone's upper lip with your own, to lightly press your tongue against another's. It comes to me quite naturally.
Anyway, after three months, once we had graduated, we broke up. The guy she started dating immediately after me became her husband of today.
And no, I never "did" her. Shortly after breaking up, though, I did go and exchange bodily fluids in that way with what was one of the hottest girls in school. A few months after those experiences, though, I realized how shallow it was, and how, honestly -- she wasn't that great. So I cut loose from that.
Back then, it was all freedom. I only had a job at the theater to worry about, working random days in and out, and spending a lot of time with random people who would slip in and out of the theater as though they were mist, wavering in for a morning or evening and then disappearing without so much warning as one gets when one is stabbed in the back. That summer, I did give a lot of backrubs, a lot of shoulder massages. In such a drama-filled workplace (to be expected; high school students like I was tend to be the primary occupants of those positions such as movie theater employee), I suppose I was soothing the knife wounds that would appear at least once a week. I'm quite the massuese, so says everyone.
Everyone also sees me as a future film director/actor. I understand that film is subtlety, whereas theater is exaggeration. A camera's always much closer than an audience, you could say.
I haven't really met anyone new in the past year or so. I imagine that's part of the reason I joined this site; people on here tend to be as geeky, outlandish, and weird as I am, and usually, they seem to be much more than I ever could imagine. I'm not looking for love; just naked ladies and perhaps a few new friends along the way.
That's my scattershot history. Bits and pieces of me from my own memory. And this is even longer than I expected. I don't imagine anyone's read this far. If you have, you've just learned quite a bit about me, but there's still more to add. Don't worry, this'll be in list form.
*I don't drink. It's not my thing.
*I rarely use drugs. Not even pot, really.
*My real killing vice is cigarettes. And caffeine.
*I'm always interested in other people's stories. Other people's lives. It's the voyuer, the artist in me that loves it. No matter if you lived in the same town your whole life or swam around the world.
*I hated high school.
*I have never dated a younger woman. I usually get approached by older ones, period. I like it that way.
*I know when a girl has a crush or is interested in me when she comments well on my car. Usually because it's so random.
*I deliberately skipped this past summer because, well, the story on that is not done.
And, yeah, I guess that's it. Your eyes probably hurt now, so I suppose you can rest and let your eyes finish burning from the radiation your monitor gives off.
Who actually got this far? Raise your hand.