Just a word...

The nice thing about a blog is that you can just write a few words and it counts.

The Definition of Refudiate

Sarah Palin is the new "W".
Here is what I came up with as a definition for her new word:

re-fu-di-ate v.

1. Refusal to accept or be associated with (a statement or theory) of being wrong.
2. Deny the truth or validity of proving (someone) is wrong.

Thanks Shakespeare.

Thank God I'm Alive

I have heard it said that the hardest part of marriage is the first year. And having been there I know. But it was not so much the first year as the proceeding years. The honeymoon had to wear off at some point. Once the reality of owning a home, paying for college and the day-to-day grind of dealing with each others respective bullshit kicked in, it was time for it to hit the fan. The arguments became more intense and the frustration grew with the pain. The pain for me was the realization that this was not the woman that God had chosen to be my wife but the wife that I had chosen to be my god. I worshipped the ground that she walked on, but why? She was nothing special. She never did anything unique and she certainly never had an orgasm. What drove me to want to be with such a wretch? Boredom. The understanding that I had was this: by Redneck Law I had to be married to get out from under the oppression of a small religious community that was beyond fucking everything. That if I didn't marry before the age of 25 I was doomed to die a thousand horrible deaths.

1. Jumping off of the I.B. Perrine Bridge.

2. Put the barrel end of a shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger.

3. Slit my wrists with that hunting knife that grandpa left for me as per his "Last Will & Testament."

4. Slow drink myself to death like the rest of the inbred mongoloids that called this shit hole home.

No good. Besides, I was afraid of heights after a Bacardi 151 filled night that involved me, the bridge and almost loosing my grip from the side rail after having climbed over the wrong side of the guard rail to show of for the guys. Which is not as cool in retrospect because a) I was not drunk. I took one swig from the bottle and started acting like an asshole because I thought I was being funny. b) If I had actually fallen it would have been an embarrassing headline for the news of the times.

Young Man Falls to Death After Pretending He Was Drunk & Loosing Grip

Putting a gun in my mouth lost it’s appeal after an orderly from the hospital came into the gas station that I worked at to buy cigarettes one night. He told me about some poor bastard that tried to off himself after he found out his wife was cheating on him with his sister. The poor fucker lived! NO shit! He blew the entirety of his head off except for the part in the back that kept him breathing and his heart rate regular. You would think that the amount of blood that he lost would have been enough to do him in. But since the poor fuck did not have any family immediately available, the doctors were forced by hospital policy to keep the breathing tube in until the family came to identify what was left of him.

Slitting my wrists was additionally out of the question because I could never remember which way to angle the blade. Was it up the road or across the street? I did not have the time or the patience to look it up at the library and "Emo" kids did not exist back then so I gave up. Also my grandfather never owned a hunting knife.

I did eventually try to drink myself to death. The difference being that I was not doing it out of boredom when I tried. I did it because I was a miserable fuck that lost everything. My wife, my house, my dog, my--Oh my God--this is the first time I have ever looked at my life and realized that I lived through five years of a country music song.

Crosswalks

I find it damn near impossible to avoid trying to piss off drivers when traveling across the street.

Although we have never seen anyone get hit in the cross walk outside our apartment, a day, I am certain, is coming when a car v. pedestrian accident will occur. This is why I go out of my way to make a scene when I am crossing the street.

Drivers typically come up to said cross walk and do not appear to slow down to stop, as they are required to do by California law (and in Theory the laws of karma and the universe). If this happens on my watch, I take the opportunity to show them how to slow down. When properly motivated I can walk at a snail's pace.

If a driver continues to roll through the cross walk with out stopping I go from 0 to 60 in 2.37 seconds. I could be having a perfectly fine day. Nothing bothering me. Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder. The finger that I save for this occasion implies several "meaningless fillers" that I should refrain from posting to the "Interweb".

If I am in a particularly feisty mood, I go out of my way to make this scenario happen. Seriously, for some reason, I get this urge deep in the pit of my being to go out there, wait for the opportune moment and step in to traffic.

Those pussies that stand out there for five minutes for a break in traffic to cross? They need to learn the meaning of the word "right-of-way".

Shits and Giggles

2 months gone by with no writing. This is a problem. Not wanting to get too bogged down in the day-to-day grind. Remembering that I promised myself that I would write something, anything, once a day. Maybe that was too ambitious. I would like to think not, but I digress.

Writing has taken an important role in my life. I am going to be married to a writer soon. She is grad school now, for writing. I find myself envious of her talent. She has the ability to mold words into a story that is funny and interesting. I like that about her. And it encourages me to extend myself. To try something new.

While reading the New Yorker one sunny, Sunday afternoon, she mused about what it would be like to have two writers in the family. She pointed to a picture of a woman that I did not recognize. She told me that she was a talented writer.

"She is married to Jonathan Safran Foer. A writer married to a writer. What would that be like?"

I am trying to imagine....

Starting a Gnu

According to Dr. Atul Gawande's book there are five things that people can do to make themselves "Better".

1. Ask an unscripted question.

2. Don't Complain.

3. Count Something.

4. Write Something.

5. Change.

Two years ago I moved to San Francisco for to change. This has been a successful task so far. I am happier, healthier and more fulfilled than I have felt in years. It was a long road to get here and I regret few things that have brought me to this stage in my life. Because with great change comes great responsibility...or something like that.

And here I find myself working my way up from the bottom of Dr. Gawande's list. I am writing something. A high school English teacher once told me that she would like to edit the first book that I write. I feel like I have had a propensity for this since a young age but never honed this skill. Thus, it has fallen by the way side. Encouraged by my fiance's career path and Dr. Gawande's book I have decided that it is indeed important to write. This will keep my mind working and paying attention to details in the world that my otherwise have been passed by. It is for my own good. What I write, "...need not achieve perfection. It need only add some small observation about [my] world." This according to Gawande...

So that leaves three items on my list of things to better myself. I have not decided what to count yet, but I have a few ideas. I could count the number of miles that I run in a week and try to increase that number in a timely manner. I could count the number of books that read or the number of times that I listen to the new album/MP3 that I just purchased. Counting, according to Gawande, is a way to learn. And learning, in my mind, should never stop. So, I suppose, counting and writing about counting my ward off early onset dementia.

As for complaining, I have not quite got this one figured out yet. Everyone complains. Or "vents". How could you not? Does not it make life easier if there is someone on the other end to listen to your issues? Anyway, I have made a commitment to this list, therefore, I will try my best not to complain.

And finally, asking the unscripted question. Another on going struggle. Some people just don't want to talk. That's okay. I have a problem with wanting to be everybody's friend and getting hurt when I realize that that is not possible. Some people just are not interested in at least being kind to one another. But I will try to keep the conversation going when I can and hope for the best.

"To Live Without Appeal"

I am preparing to take my final college exams. Which seems weird as a thirty year old medical professional. When I tell people that I am graduating from college, especially at the hospital, there is always an awkward pause in the conversation while they contemplate the absurdity of the fact.

I don't blame them, really. It will have been, in fact, eleven years, six months and twelve days, since the last time I was handed a diploma. Granted, I obtained a certificate of completion for a two year program and what the French call: le diplôme d'études universitaires générales. But having a piece a paper, that says you have completed what is commonly referred to as "some college", handed to you by the postal service lacks the luster of donning the appropriate regalia and walking across a stage in front of an audience of your peers and family. But still, I can't help but feel that something much bigger is beginning on a cold December day in Idaho. In my mind, walking across the stage will represent not only 140 some-odd credit hours worth of college, but also, a life change.

In the beginning of my college career I felt that I had been called to be a man of the cloth. But the clergy did not like me, and I am not fond of them, so we parted ways. But before I left I learned a little bit. A professor taught, in a class on youth leadership, that adolescence lasts from the age of fourteen to twenty-six. I believe that it was in that class that I first stumbled across the word "tween"; which leads me to believe that I should discredit anything that I was taught in said course, but I digress. Reassessing this age bracket after having exceeded those years is mind boggling. As an eighteen year old know-it-all, I felt as if being pigeonholed into adolescence was degrading and stupid. I moved all the way across the country, away from my parents for the first time, to earn the right to be called an adult. How could this "professor" possibly call me an adolescent. How dare he! Now, I think that he was wrong, but only in that I am twenty-nine year old adolescent.

A month after I graduate I will be turning thirty. Which, unlike some, I am looking forward too. Seven months later I am getting married and after that the possibilities seem endless. The possibilities have always been endless, but these new possibilities seem more tangible than the old ones. Maybe it is because I already have a good job lined up after graduation. It could be that I finally don't know everything. Or maybe it is because now more than ever I have become realistic about what truly is possible.