33_Rowan Atkinson and My Feelings about Football

Ah, Mondays.  While the rest of you all slave away at that work thing you do, I get to relax and enjoy a beautiful fall day to myself.  What makes it so great?  It's simple really:  no football.

Now don't get me wrong, I like to watch football as much as anyone else.  It's a great sport.  But after this weekend, I just do not care anymore how awesome it is.  Having to work both the post-Maryland/West Virginia game and both sides of the Raven's game the next day, I'm over it.

I don't care if you're celebrating the victory or mourning your loss.  You're drunk, annoying and immature and I just do not care why they won/lost because next time they do the opposite, you'll be saying the exact opposite.  Also, keep it down in here, there are families trying to eat dinner in peace.

I could go on, but instead, I'll let Rowan Atkinson say it, because this clip is so spot on perfect, there's no sense in me trying to out do it:

- Kid

32_Warning: Feels.

The other night, I shared a link that was meant to be a list of things that us Generation Y kids should understand.  It didn't take long for a few of us to realize how pathetic and misogynistic this list was.  As much as we are going to create a counter list, there was one point that threw me into a rage:

#90:  You're most likely to be the cause of your own depression.

The implication being that if I were to not cause my own depression, I could be OK.  So all that I need to do is not be depressed.

Guess what.

As much as your article is categorically wrong about so many things, it is without a doubt, and offensively, wrong about this.  The depression that I deal with is not a matter of my mindset, but rather a matter of my brain chemistry.  It is not something that I can will away by simply wanting to be happy.  It is a part of who I am and it is a part of how I will be for the rest of my life.

Here's a story for you.  Once, when I was a sophomore in college, I went to get some chicken tenders and french fries for lunch.  I also grabbed some barbecue sauce packets.  But I grabbed too many.  And in that moment, I thought the worst things possible.  I thought about doing terrible things to myself because I took too many barbecue sauce packets.  No, there was no reason for me to consider those things.  But I did.

And that's what you don't get.  It's not about being sad once in a while.  It's not about terrible things happening.  It's about stupid shit that happens to you every day and the strange guilt, shame and hopelessness you feel making those decisions.  EVERY. DAY.  It's about seeing that extra packet of barbecue sauce and wanting to give up.

What people don't realize is that depression is not a weekend warrior.  It is not you just being sad.  It is a something that you deal with EVERY. DAMN. DAY.  All day.  Every day.  It's something that is a part of you.

So to hear things like this that imply that all I need to do to cure my depression is to simply not be depressed anymore is just...insulting.  To say the least.  I have built a life out of fighting my depression and I will not give up anytime soon.  It is something that I struggle with EVERY DAY. EVERY DAMN FUCKING DAY.  End of story.  But I will win.  Because, least of all, I refuse to let assholes tell me that all I need to do is smile more.

And I smile a lot.  Because I get it.  Because I have to.

- Kid

31_Anniversary

I wrote this piece of flash fiction about five years ago.  Maybe six.  I'm not too sure, but that's sort of the point.  The point is, and always will be, that some things stick in your mind and stay there.  No matter what year it is, what time of year it is, what day of the week it is, an hour or a millennium after it happened, you're always back there in that singular moment.  A part of me is kicking myself for not posting this on yesterday's calendar day.

The greater part of me knows that this is not about that day, but about every day after it.  It is about the anniversary of every day after, compared to that singular moment.  For a while that made sense, it seemed to fit.  Until, after a while, you start to wonder why you aren't comparing yourself back to other times, to other things.  And still, we don't have a good answer to that question.

Without further ado:

Anniversary

He lays behind her on the bed and pulls at her remaining feathers, whispering softly to himself with each pluck: “She loves me she loves me not...” She is brushing her hair, vaguely looking out the slits between the blinds into the morning sun. It is the day of the Anniversary and he can feel the tension in her shoulders, the apprehension in her spine.

“Are you alright?” he asks. She shrugs. Her face falls into a confused sort of frown. She stops brushing and looks down at her hands, unsure of what to do with them.

“Are you going out today or staying in?” she asks.

“Probably staying in. At least until it's over,” he says. She nods.

Outside the window the city is caught in morning gridlock. Cars snarl in the hot September air, spitting fumes out at the masses of pedestrians that weave between them. He has not been to the window to see, but he can imagine the same tension that is in her shoulders gripping the city, preparing to tighten and immobilize it.

“I hate watching the clock like this, waiting for it to happen,” she says with a sigh. He plucks another feather, twirls it between his fingers and then sits up.

“You'd rather be blissfully ignorant?” he asks.

“I'd rather go back to how thing were before it all happened,” she says.

“Blissfully ignorant,” he says.

“That was so long ago I don't remember what it was like,” she says.

“All you did was sit around with wings you never used singing songs you didn't believe,” he says.

She is about to speak as the clock strikes 8:45. In unison, the city's ten thousand church bells ring once, sending a deep shudder through the streets that echoes in every alley and every foundation.

The population stops in its tracks, the tension clamping down on every leg, every lung, pressing down on every shoulder. It is the Anniversary of the day the tallest buildings in the city tumbled down. It is the Anniversary of the day the angels started to lose their feathers.

She sits rigidly on the bed, staring out the window, waiting for a breath of movement in the stifling stillness of the city. He picks at his nails. Finally he sighs and plucks out one of her last two feathers.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“We're supposed to stay still,” she says.

He shrugs. “And you're supposed to stay quiet.” She glares at him. He rolls his eyes and walks over to the window. He pulls the blinds up, jerks the window open and leans his head out the window.

“Hey you all down there,” he shouts, “You're dead already, you just don't know it yet.” He pulls his head back in and turns around. She is staring at him, shocked and speechless. She opens her mouth but does not know whether to speak or scream. He walks back across the room and lays down beside her on the bed. He pulls out the last of her feathers.

“How in hell did you just do that?” she asks, her voice trembling between terror, hatred and fascination.

“You're like all of them, above and below. You're immobilized by your fear. You traded in your wings for this stillness and it killed you. You just don't know it yet. I'm too angry to be held down by that sort of fear, too angry at everyone else for falling into it.”

“You're a monster,” she says.

“And you wish you could be one,” he says. She looks down at him and then stands up without saying a word. She walks across the room and slams the door behind her as she leaves. He lays back in the bed with the very last of her feathers resting on his chest.

She walks back through the city to her own apartment. She packs only what she can carry and puts a note and a check on the kitchen counter for the landlord. She walks out into the September sun, past the frozen mobs, past the rumbling, idle cars and buses. She walks to the river and, when the city timidly starts to move again, takes a ferry to the other side, leaving behind the island fortress of skyscrapers.

On the mainland, she finds a bus station and buys a one-way ticket. She decides to head south, where the air is warmer, where things move slower and where people revel in their fear of God, death and change.

* * * * *

He does not watch her go but can imagine her storming through the silent streets, propelled by her anger. He picks up the last of her feathers off his chest and says to himself: “She loves me.” He smiles and rolls over, away from the window.

God might, but he does not blame her for being afraid, for being angry or for walking out on him. “She is,” he says to himself, looking at the pile of discarded feathers on his bed, “only human.”

- Kid

30_A True Story

The other day, actually the past two weeks or so, I was in a bit of a slump.  I blame the heat for the most part, but it just happened to be the kind of day that I was content to not even get dressed and instead just order take out while watching Netflix shows that I don't even care much about.

It happens.

So, to get out of it, on Wednesday, I decided to play a game with myself.  I started listing all of the interesting things that have happened in my life.  My thought was that if I'm the kind of person who would lay around in bed all day doing fokol (yes, this is a post about South Africa, so we're getting right in to it), it would be a short list.  It was not.  It was rather extensive and rather, well, interesting.  I was kind of impressed with myself.

It lead me to realize that I haven't talked much about South Africa in specific terms.  I mostly talk in general terms to customers on the other side of the bar.  "Hey Pete, how was South Africa?  What's it like?" "Well...[launches in to a fairly standard speech about the political/social issues]."  But I don't talk much about what I did.  In the interest of explaining how interesting I am, here is the story of (simultaneously) one of the coolest and worst jobs I ever had.

(A disclaimer:  I'm feeling long-winded tonight and I figure I owe you something on the longer side after my summer vacation.)

The Time I was a Driver for a Liquor Store in South Africa

I've mentioned this fact before, but like most of what happened in SA, not in detail.  It was something of a passing curiosity and I think the reason I never talked too much about it was because I chalked it down to the long list of odd jobs I've had.  Food service, retail, whatever category being a carny falls into and lots of others, I've had a lot of interesting jobs.  So I think I glossed over it.

29_The April Challenge: Day 33: Small Victories

Tomorrow I run my first half marathon.  To explain how weird of a feeling this is, I have to go way back.  In December, before running my first ever race, I felt like I used to feel when competing.  It was that laying awake at night, trying to calm down feeling, the anxiety bubbling up no matter how much I'd trained or how prepared I felt.  And I used the word anxiety, not panic, because anxiety works both ways.  It can freak you out, and it can make you want something more.  People forget that, this day and age.

Still I have to go back way further than December.  Three years ago, almost to the day, I was graduating from college, the realization that I had nowhere to go in life about twelve hours away from crashing down on me.  Two years ago, I was in South Africa, a four month old puppy in hand and nine months of trying to hold a crumbling relationship together ahead of me.  A year ago, I was back in the States, the idea that I needed to do something to improve myself floating vaguely through my head.

So here I am, trying to calm down, realizing that all of my disappointments with myself this past month - still too much drinking (despite a considerable cut back), not enough running, etc - pale in comparison to the past.  Have I really reached my goal this month?  No.  But what I've come to realize is that I can't call myself any sort of failure.  I plan on keeping this up.  I don't plan on stopping after this one month.  Every pound I've lost, every one I will lose, is another small victory for myself.

And apparently people are noticing too.  Which is cool.

Day 33 Stats:
Weight:  167 lbs
BMI:  27.0
Fat %:  21.0

Not As Embarrassing No-Shirt "After" Photo:


Current Crossfit Rating:


Wish me luck!

- Kid

28_The April Challenge (Day 2)

I was going to post this yesterday, but then you jokers would have assumed that it was an April Fool's prank and I assure you, it is not.

This month (well, a little more than a month actually.  From now until the Frederick Half Marathon on May 5th), I'm embarking on a fitness challenge including daily exercise, lots of running, a lower fat, low dairy, high protein diet and absolutely no booze.  I started back at the gym today and boy was it a doozey.  Thing is though, no matter how hard you push yourself, it's still a lot easier when you're not hungover.

So, some baseline stats:
Weight:  172 lbs.
BMI:  27.7
Fat %:  21.4

Embarrassing No Shirt "Before" Picture:



Current Crossfit rating:


Weekly updates to come.

Wish me luck!  Or, ya know, you could also do this and then we can complain about it together.  Either one.

- Kid

27_An Excerpt

The other week, I read at the Seltzer Zine's monthly reading series, hosted by Midtown Barbecue and Brew.  (Still the Yachtclub in my mind).  The first time I read with them, I forgot that you're only supposed to read for a few minutes and got politely cut off.  So, this time around, I decided to read something much shorter, much more to the point.  The following excerpt is an even longer version of what I read, reflecting on the progress I've made since.  For now, the piece is untitled, but divided into three parts, which explains the ridiculous title you see immediately below:

Part 2 (So Far)

Overcome by the crushing desire to escape the clutter and wreck of another wasted day, Bond asks Pratt to wake her up early on his way to work. He nudges her awake on his way out of the shower, water dripping on to her shoulder from his hair. She rubs the drops in to her skin and pulls the sheets around her as she stands. Pratt leads the way into the kitchen where the smell of breakfast cooking reminds Bond that this is the way that things begin. She falls into a chair at the kitchen table and smiles as she refuses a plate of bacon and eggs. It is enough for her to be awake with the entire day in front of her, marveling at the strange way that morning light is discernible from that of the afternoon. She looks away from the small kitchen window to Pratt. They lock eyes over their coffee mugs. For all the tenderness of Pratt's smile, the messy comfort of his hair and the stubble on his chin, all that Bond can see inside his eyes are closed doors. He finishes his coffee, dumps the breakfast plates in the sink, kisses Bond on the cheek and leaves.

Bond listens for the door to close and then walks into the unused second bedroom. She turns the blinds until the room is filled with the soft mid-March morning light. She drops the sheet to her ankles and crosses her arms in front of her breasts. She walks into the bedroom, removes the full-length mirror from its hook and places it against a wall in the empty room. There, naked in the prospect of another day, she feels like the skin she sees in the mirror is not a reflection of her, but rather a simple portrait of a blank canvass, waiting to be filled in. It is a study of plainness; that smoothness of clear skin she left behind with Eastern.

Now image upon image floods through her head. She sees dancing skeletons and vibrant flowers. She sees bold oceans and brilliant skies. Tigers bare their teeth at her. She smiles to herself at them. Vivid as they are, none of them seem real.

Finally she remembers the looming darkness of the windows in Eastern's office, looking out on nothing but a tangled wall of vegetation separating them from a darker unknown. She sees herself in the rooms of his house as a bird caged, always looking up and out at a world so much larger than herself, forbidden to enter in to it for fear of being swallowed by it. An image comes to her mind that finally feels solid.

Looking at her figure, its emptiness filled only by the pale freckles beneath her eyes, a mole on her

ribcage and the soft shadows where her limbs curve around themselves, she knows how she will start her day. She wants her body to feel real, without only her shadow to prove to the sun that it is.

She showers and dresses hurriedly and steps out into the warm, damp morning. Her feet, energetic, excited and over-caffeinated, carry her towards the waterfront. Only blocks away from Pratt's apartment, close to the harbor, sits a green-roofed tattoo parlor.

Bond steps inside and breathes deep, taking in for the first time the heady, anti-septic smell of soap and balm hiding raw skin and blood. There is the subtle static of loud music turned down low and the steady chatter of the needles in the background, like the voices of old friends whispering secrets to each other behind drawn curtains.

Behind the counter, a bearded man with his hands held in front of himself watches her.

“I need a tattoo,” she says.

“You're in the right place. I'm Reed. Do you know what you want or have a picture of anything you'd like?”

“I just escaped from something. So I would like something to reflect that.”

“How about a bird in flight?”

“How about an empty cage?”

“Interesting,” Reed says, picking up a pencil and a piece of paper, “You're not focused on the entrapped escaping, but rather the jail that is left behind.” He starts to draw and does not see the blush on Bond's face bring out the green of her eyes. She is silent, unsure of how to voice her approval. He asks her where she wants it and she points to her shoulder blade. He turns her around to measure a piece of paper on her back.

“Sorry,” he tells her, “I like to analyze people's tattoos too much sometimes. Most people ignore me, but it bothers some.”

“I don't mind at all,” Bond says, knowing for certain that she is in the right place.

As Reed draws the transfer sketch, Bond asks her questions, feeling foolish in her excitement, like a schoolgirl again. Reed answers patiently, if a little bored, the way that people get when they have to explain the most basic aspects of a skill they've mastered.

“It's OK if you're nervous,” Reed says, now sitting in his booth, pulling on rubber gloves and removing the needles from their packaging. “You're about to permanently alter your skin. If you weren't nervous about that, I'd say you weren't thinking about it hard enough.”

Bond considers this, takes a deep breath and steels herself, determined not to let herself down. She takes off her shirt, pulls her bra strap down and sits with her back to Reed. As the needle vibrates to life, she looks to her side to the mirror hanging on the wall of Reed's booth, but she cannot see him fully. She only sees his hands and the tattoo gun lowering towards her.

As the tattoo gun chatters into Bond's skin, she tells him the beginnings of her story, her words chopped up into quick phrases, the pressure of the line work acting as punctuation.

“His name is Eastern,” she says, her face twisting into the sneer reserved for parents, teachers or lovers who do not understand. Reed, concentrating, does not ask which he is.

“This is the whole reason I finally left,” Bond says, nodding to where Reed is busy with the bird cage, “and the first one I get is about him. I think that's funny, I guess.”

As Reed finishes and cleans her shoulder blade, Bond comforts herself against the pain. The raw, burning feeling, she tells herself, means that that part of her body, at least, is very real.