Sick Day Tales

It's a sick day for yours truly.

My current miserable state was brought on by a few individuals who provided no warnings that they were plague ridden disease factories. These individuals know who they are, and they will receive their comeuppance in due time. Count on it.

"I'm sure you are aware of how we serve our cuisine..."

In the meantime, since the sore throat, headache, sneezing, coughing fits, and random body aches have pretty much decided for me that I will be spending the majority of my time in bed anyway, I thought I might as well prop the old laptop on my, well, lap, and entertain you all in the only way I know how.

Endless whining and self-deprecation about events in my life.

So let's set the WABAC machine to two weeks ago... *cue ripple effects*

Thursday, March 19th 2015
The day started out on a positive note. I had a surprisingly restful night of sleep-- surprising, because I never actually rest well on work nights-- and a delicious breakfast. The sun was shining, and off in the distance, birds chirped gloriously, celebrating the arrival of spring.

The day took a turn for the stupid when I managed to stub first my pinky toe on my left foot, and then my big toe on my right foot. In the span of five minutes. On the same damn corner of my desk. So that happened. Hopping around like a mad bunny, cursing profusely, I gathered my things and headed out the door to work.

Upon exiting my apartment, I saw that the sunny skies I had awoken to had been replaced by thick, dark clouds. Clouds which were spewing heavy rain. I grimly zipped my jacket up and rode my bike to the bus stop. In the five minutes it takes to get from my apartment to the bus stop (and sweet, sweet shelter) my pants, jacket, and shirt got soaked through by the freaking rain.

The best part is, once the bus arrived and I boarded, the weather stopped trying to reenact the story of Noah's Arc, the clouds parted, and beautiful sunshine bathed the rain-slicked streets. Meanwhile, I sat, drenched from head to painfully throbbing toes.

Friday, March 20th 2015
Quiet the opposite of the previous day, I woke on the wrong side of the bed. Right from the time my alarm went off and my bloodshot eyes creaked open like wood-warped doors, an angry cloud hung over my head. Maybe it was due to spending the majority of the previous day working in wet clothes. Regardless, I was in an especially foul mood the whole day.

Nothing truly earth-shattering happened that day; it was just a long, tedious, stressful evening at work. The entire time I couldn't help but have a feeling of...foreboding.

Saturday, March 21st 2015
My feelings proved to be accurate, much to my dismay. I had just exited the bus and retrieved my bike, again on my way to work. The weather was, thankfully, mild. My job is located right next to the Alderwood Mall. The bus stops at the opposite side of the mall from my job. On bike, this ends up being a quick five minute ride.

I ended up being 15 minutes late to work that day. The reason for my tardiness? I crashed into a fucking tree.

"Watch where the fuck you're going."

Was a drunk? Was I high? Perhaps I simply wasn't paying attention? Or maybe a gust of wind blew a stray dust particle in my eye and caused me to misjudge the distance between me and the tree.

Wrong on all accounts.

The reason the tree and I got so well acquainted was due to the gear on my rear wheel deciding to stop working as I was peddling. One moment I was in complete control, and the next, I was peddling away without any sort of traction. I lost my balance and crashed into the tree.

Fortunately, I was wearing a helmet like a responsible rider, so my head wasn't reduced to a crushed eggshell state. My bike wasn't so lucky, though; the handle bar was bent out of shape, the brakes were wrenched, and the front wheel was bent slightly out of alignment.

Sunday, March 22nd 2015
With no bus service on Sunday and my bike doing its best to get me killed, I was forced to rely on the kindness of a coworker in order to get to work. I was finishing up a quick email when he texted me, informing me that he was outside.

That's when things got weird.

I pulled on my jacket and shut down my computer before snatching up my phone and heading out the door. Only to hear him pulling away out of the parking lot. What the hell?

I pulled out my phone to text him, asking why he had left, when I saw something downright spooky.

Him: I'm here.

Me: I'm driving.

Him: So you don't need a ride?

Me: Nope, I'm good.

I never texted those two lines. I didn't even bother replying to his text telling me he was here. So there's only one possible explanation.

My phone is fucking haunted.

Afterwards, there was some frantic scrambling about, as he turned around-- after already getting on the highway when my text telling him, no, I actually do need a ride-- and we made our way to work. Luckily, we got there just on time. But regardless, now I can't trust my phone.

Monday, March 23rd 2015
I had signed up to work a half shift from 5 pm to 9 pm, seeing as I am perpetually broke and in dire need of additional funds. So when a friend invited me to hang out in Bellevue with another friend, I was a little hesitant. However, said friend assured me that he'd be able to give me a ride back to Lynnwood with plenty of time for work, I agreed; it had been a while since I'd hung out with either friend-- or had any fun at all-- so I said 'fuck it' and agreed.

A few hours later, when it was time for me to head out, he dropped a delightful bomb on my head.

"Yo," I said to him. "I have to be at work in an hour. Are we ready to go?"

He paused, and then said, "Actually, the girlfriend and I are going to stick around here for a while." he motioned to his girlfriend, who offered a little wave in my direction. "You can find another ride, right?"

So that happened.

Rather than reiterating that he had agreed to take me back to Lynnwood, and that no, I didn't have any other ride, I said, "Yeah, sure. No problem." Needless to say, I promptly deleted his number from my phone.

Doing some quick thinking, I zeroed in on the nearest bus stop and found a bus that would take me back to Lynnwood. The only issue was that I would arrive about 15 minutes late for my shift, but it was my only option at that point. I called work and informed them of my impending tardiness, and hopped on the bus.

I ended up being a little over an hour late for work.

Traffic was truly nightmarish, in true Seattle style. Even being in the carpool lane, we inched along at a pace that snails would find adorable. By the time we arrived at the mall, I was a little irritated. My irritation blossomed into full blown rage when the bus driver promptly ignored my stop request and zoomed right by my intended stop.

"Excuse me, that was my stop!" I said to the driver, doing my best to contain my ire and speak in a civil manner. He ignored me. I stomped up to stand next to him and asked, this time not so politely, to please let me out.

"No," he said shortly, keeping his eye on the road. "We aren't allowed to let out passengers unless it's at designated stops." Never mind the fact that he had intentionally skipped my stop, most likely because he was running so far behind due to traffic.

So I stood there, fuming, as he drove all the fuck down to the Lynnwood Transit Center, which is at least 30 minutes away by foot from work. And the next bus going in the direction I needed wouldn't arrive for another hour.

So I hoofed it.

I arrived at work very late and tired, with sore feet and calves. The first thing I did once I got off was file an incident report about my wonderful and purely professional driver.

Tuesday, March 24th 2015
I spent the entirety of my day holed up in my room, hiding under blankets. Nothing happened that day. These aren't the droids you're looking for. Move along.

Wednesday, March 25th 2015
I took my bike to the bike repair shop; I could feel a slight trembling coming from my back pocket. No doubt it was my poor wallet trembling at the coming financial depletion.

Getting the gears and chains replaced, the tire unbent, and the brakes set came to a grand total of $80. My wallet wept in grief. I did the best I could to comfort it, but it was only insulted by my empty platitudes.

I feel that there should be some kind of moral or lesson learned from this, but for the life of me, I cannot think of one. Perhaps sometimes, things just don't go your way. You take your lumps, roll with the punches, and move on.

Or, more likely, I've somehow offended some random deity from a pantheon I've never heard of.

Off to the Emerald City (Comic Con)

           

  ECCC (Emerald City Comic Con) is one of those events that has managed to slip under my radar for the past few years; despite it being a pretty large nerd event, and very relevant to my interests, I never seem to muster up the energy to attend. My reasons (excuses) are the usual diatribe; I've got bills to pay and am too broke to have some fun, my work schedule sucks and I can't take time off, etc.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself actually attending this year. A friend of mine had graciously offered the use of his three day pass last week, since by then they had all been sold out. I had been in a pretty awful funk that week (more on that later) and he had reached out to me. The usual excuses began to form in my mind, but I managed to smack those down.

For those not in the know-- or who aren't paying attention to the title-- ECCC is all about comics, graphic novels, and artwork in general. It also features cosplayers great and small. Cosplay being one of my favorite aspects of any convention, I was looking forward to doing some wandering around and people watching.That would have been good enough for me, but than one of the friends I was with casually said, "You know Ivy Doomkitty has a panel at ECCC, right?"

I froze, and managed to keep the squee of utter excitement internalized.

"Oh yeah," I said, attempting to sound casual. I failed.

"Yup," he said. "You gonna go?"

His question brought up a myriad of emotions; eager excitement warred with embarrassed fear and stoic grumpiness. Of course I wanted to meet her; she's one of my favorite cosplayers and a stone cold fox to boot. But at the same time, I didn't want to; I don't like meeting famous people I admire, for two reasons.

1. As I mentioned in a previous post, I have jealousy issues when it comes to famous people I idolize.

2. I was afraid that if I did go and meet her, I would dissolve into a freaking puddle of goo and start babbling inanely. I don't like the notion of becoming another hyperactive fanboy who ends up making a fool of himself just because he meets someone he admires. I didn't want to be that guy.

I said as much to him and his wife, my other friend.

"Pussy," he said, chuckling.

And so I found myself, after some aimless wandering and sightseeing, standing in line at Ivy Doomkitty's panel. She was dressed in her Star Trek Red Shirt cosplay, the first costume she had constructed. Naturally, she was gorgeous. When at last my turn came, she greeted me and, to my amazement, I didn't start drooling. I managed to say, without any gushing, how much I respected her work and how thrilled I was to meet her. We chatted for an all too brief moment, and then before I realized I was saying it, I mentioned how nervous I was talking to her and how I was afraid I'd start babbling and making a fool of myself. She blinked in surprise.

"Really," she asked incredulously. "You don't seem to be nervous at all."

Thank you, years of acting experience.

We took a couple of pictures together, and I made to excuse myself. Because I was holding up the line, and definitely not because I was jittery with excited nerves. "Now if you'll excuse me," I said, keeping my tone light and fighting to keep the goofy smirk off of my face-- something I was only half successful at-- "I need to go away, over there somewhere, to faint."

She laughed and then pouted prettily at me; I stayed upright, because it isn't manly to swoon. Still pouting, she said to me, "Awww, that won't do. Would you like a hug?"

"Yes please."

And she hugged me.

'I can die now,' I thought to myself.

Being careful to keep the squeak out of my voice, I gave her my sincere thanks and walked away from her booth. Only then did I let the biggest, silliest grin I've ever grinned escape. I'm almost certain I was hovering a few feet off the ground like a cartoon character.

The rest of ECCC was neat, but couldn't compare to that.

On the car ride home, we-- my two friends and their seven year old daughter-- were chatting it up. Exhausted yet elated, we spoke of what panels we'd attended, what swag we picked up, and the like. When the subject of Ivy Doomkitty came up, my friend 'A' mentioned her daughters reaction to meeting her.

"Look mom, she's so pretty," her daughter had said to her. 'A' had nodded in agreement.

"Take a close look at her," 'A' had then said to her daughter. "All of this, her cosplay and panel, all of it is her own doing. She's in charge of all of it."

And suddenly, something clicked in my head.

I had an epiphany at that moment, and realized why I'd been so gloomy of late, and why I had this silly jealousy thing going with people that I look up to and idolize. It wasn't their success that I envied, nor the fame or money.

It was the fact that all of them were in charge. They weren't beholden to anyone. They had achieved a level of success that allowed them to live their lives free of the burden of answering to someone else about their work.

That, more than anything else, is what I want. And that is exactly what I do not possess at this point in time. Right now, I am living the opposite of that. I have no control in virtually every aspect of my life.

I'm stuck working my job not because I enjoy it, but because I have to. It pays more than any other job that would hire someone like me, who has no marketable skills or education or experience. Because of my debt, I cannot afford to move on and make less money; I'm barely making ends meet at the moment, which then affects my ability to live where I want; even getting a vehicle is limited by that one factor.

It all came crashing into place in that one moment. Much like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, my visit to the Emerald City had provided its own revelation.

I was silent the rest of the way home, my thoughts a jumble, my mood bouncing all over the spectrum, from depression to anger to hope to grim determination. I resolved then and there to do...something.

And that's where I'm currently at. I don't know what to do or how to change my situation; what I do know is I can't continue  living as I have been, with no control over my own life.

Knights Who Say Knee

Last week, I was forced to make an appointment with a doctor about an ongoing issue.

"Cry baby says 'what?'"

I have nothing personal against doctors, mind you. Rather, my issue is with the American Healthcare System. It doesn't take a genius to see that the system as a whole is nothing more than a bloated, Godzilla-sized tick, feverishly sucking away at the life blood of its customers, hiking prices up by 1000% or more, just because they can get away with it. All in the name of profit. And that would be fine and dandy, if we were Ferengi.

Rule of Acquisition #10- Greed is eternal.

Since the middle of October, I've been experiencing pain in my left knee. It didn't really restrict my mobility or inhibit my day to day life; I could still walk, ride my bike, run, and drop kick puppies with the best of them; it was a minor irritation, not unlike cleaning a litter box after both cats decide to make back to back trips.

Thus, I've done my best to avoid doctors, hospitals, and medications of all kinds for as long as humanly possible. Because I don't feel like having my bank account ass-raped with a sandpaper condom anymore than it already is-- I'm looking at you, student loans. So I did what any reasonable person living in a country where Making Money is more important than Healing the Sick would do.

Rule of Acquisition #23- Nothing is more important than your health...except for your money

I pretended the problem didn't exist. You know, like the way Florida pretends Climate Change and Rising Sea Levels don't exist.*

I'm sure you can guess how well that strategy worked out.

Beginning in January, the pain began to worsen; rather than being something that I could ignore, it decided to spit on our truce by growing progressively more whiny. A few random twinges here and there turned into an achy soreness that would persist for days before finally quieting down. I first became aware of this new stage in our relationship when I was at the gym. It was leg day, and so my knee felt that was the perfect opportunity to explain to me, at great length, why it wasn't a good idea to be doing what I was doing.

I patiently listened to it's argument, and offered a proposal: I would take a month off from leg days, and in exchange, it would stop screaming bloody murder at me every time I squatted.

And so much to my disgust, I skipped leg day for a whole month.

But once again, Left Knee reneged on our deal; he started doing his impression of an 8 year old girl who insists she isn't tired and refuses to go to bed-- there was screaming and tantrums for hours on end.

Realizing that things would probably only get worse, I hung my head in defeat and scheduled an appointment with a doctor. I can hear the insurance companies cackling evilly even now.

Rule of Acquisition #1- Once you have their money, you never give it back.

After a close examination of my knee, followed by a detailed description of my symptoms-- I was assiduously taking notes each time Left Knee misbehaved and threw a tantrum-- he stated what the issue was.

Patella Tracking Disorder

Basically, my patella (the kneecap) shifts out of place when I bend my leg. My mind immediately supplied me with all sorts of gruesome and painful outcomes of having such a disorder. Imagine the hell scenes from Event Horizon, all centered around my left leg.

"Do you see?!"

My doctor kindly dispelled those thoughts, though. The disorder, in my case, was caused by some muscle imbalances; I have old man hips. Like, really old man hips. Even as a child, I recall being extremely uncomfortable sitting cross-legged on the ground, due to having the hip strength of a ninety year old woman.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I also have a few other muscle issues contributing to my nagging knee:

1. My core is kind of not in shape.

2. My glutes are constantly tensed up when I stand upright, doing everything in their power to keep me from falling over.

3. My IT band, the muscle that runs from the hip all the way down to the ankle, is also ridiculously tight. That's what is shoving my patella out of alignment.

4. Due to all the biking I've been doing, my quads are strong-- too strong. They are overpowering my hamstrings, which are weak and girly little things.

So all this is bad.

However, I'm happy to say that the issue can be taken care of with lots of stretching and some exercises focused around my core. My doctor recommended me to a physical therapist, who in turn is working with me to fix the issue so that not only will I correct my knee problem, but I might also gain some much needed mobility.

Maybe one day I'll be able to sit cross-legged without weeping. Who knows?


* In case you weren't aware, Florida officials have banned the use of 'climate change,' 'global warming,' and 'rising sea level' in any government emails, communications, and reports. You can read about it here: http://www.miamiherald.com/news/state/florida/article12983720.html

A Tale of Waste

Back in December of 2012, I got a job as a part time merchandise stocker at the local Home Goods. For those unfamiliar with it, it supplies home-decor items, furniture, and kitchenware. At the time, I had been more than grateful for the job, even though it only paid minimum wage and offered less than 20 hours a week; at that point in time, I was a year into unemployment, and the chance to be a productive member of the household did my self-esteem much good.

I can't say that the 8 months I worked at Home Goods benefited me much beyond the pocket change it provided and the aforementioned boost to my self-esteem. But it did open my eyes to a big, nay HUGE, issue we as a society face today, though few people realize it.

We produce so much waste, it's staggering.

This Home Goods was tucked away across the street from the Alderwood Mall. Being a typical American center of commerce, the mall boasted many such stores, of which Home Goods was just one.

A typical day of work for me would start at 7 am. Myself, along with five or six other stockers would unload a truck filled to the brim with merchandise. Each of us standing in our own assembly lines, we would slice and dice the cardboard boxes contained said merchandise with our handy dandy box cutters the way a hunter skins a fresh kill. Slicing away the dull brown cardboard skin, we would then with brutal efficiency remove its guts and innards-- those being packing peanuts, shredded newspaper, and large blocks of styrofoam-- and callously dispose of them in the nearest garbage receptacle. Each assembly lane had two large garbage cans for just that purpose. Once a garbage can was full, we would remove the garbage bag, close it, and cart it outside to the convenient dumpster behind the store.

As is common when one is engrossed in a relatively mindless task, I paid very little attention to just how much trash I was producing while liberating kitchenware, tacky vases, carpets, and other prizes from their cardboard prisons. I was just there to do a job, collect a little spending money, and go home.

That is, until the day I was on garbage duty.

For a smoother, more efficient assembly line, one employee was designated Garbage Man, the worlds lamest superhero. That employees only job for the shift was collecting cardboard and garbage while the others worked. Not exactly the most stimulating task, but then it wasn't as if anything else was. At least we didn't have to deal with customers.

On that day, that inquisitive mental spark which had been hibernating for the past year behind a heavy wet blanket of depression, apathy, and cynicism stirred. Just a bit.

I began to count the bags of garbage I was hauling out to the dumpster, as well as how often I needed to take one out and replace it with a fresh bag. I even kept on my person a sheet of paper and pen to make a tally.

Over the course of three and a half hours-- a typical shift for us-- I delivered 46 bags of garbage, bags bursting at the seams, to the filthy green dumpster behind the Home Goods. That dumpster was literally overflowing with trash bags; near the end of my shift, I was forced to set the trash bags around the the dumpster, because no more would fit.

And that didn't even include the trash produced by the rest of the store.

 As I stood outside staring at the mountain of mess, my expression no doubt slack-jawed, my mind ran the numbers. This particular Home Goods was on the small size. All by itself, it had produced 46 large bags of junk in less than 4 hours. It was a single store surrounded by many others like it. Each of those stores likely had their own large ugly green dumpsters filled to the brim with more garbage. And everyday, they would be emptied by a garbage truck and disposed of in a landfill, conveniently out of sight and mind, only be filled again the next day. Day in and day out, week after week, month after month. For years.

I was overcome with a swell of emotions. I felt an astonishing amount of anger, at myself, the store, and our consumer society as a whole. Then came the sorrow and grief over what I felt was a hopeless situation. Year after bleak year, stores all over the world produce vast mountains of waste and garbage. Where does it end?

At the end of that days shift, I washed my hands of the dirt and grime it had collected and went home. But for the rest of the day, I was haunted by visions of that horrid green dumpster. It made going to work the next day and the day after that much more difficult.

When I was a small boy, I wanted to be an environmental scientist. I wanted to save the world. I paraded around the neighborhood, preaching at the other kids and adults alike about the virtues of planting trees and picking up liter.

I was often called a slew of derogatory names-- the nicest of which was "tree hugging pussy." As time went by, I learned to keep my environmental opinions to myself; it was easier to not get picked on and beat up by the other kids that way. Ah, youth.

"You care about stuff? Ha ha, nerd!"

But the urge to do something, to save the environment from what we like to call progress remains to this day. The problem is figuring out how.

There are so many issues of staggering scale that I can't help but feel intimidated by them. Climate Change, Ocean Acidification, Colony Collapse Disorder, Strip Mining, the clear cutting of vast tracks of rain forests and more. Entire species are being brought to the brink of extinction, or pushed past it. The coral reefs around the world are being eroded, plastic bags and bottles are strangling ocean life, and there are entire regions of oceanic dead zones, areas which are oxygen depleted due to excessive nutrient pollution caused by our species.

This is a PROBLEM.

The list goes on and on. But it appears that no one really cares. They can't see these issues or how they effect us all, so why care? Ain't nobody got time for that, not with their Facebook feeds exploding with the latest article about the next iphone and the exploits of Kanye West.

"Yo, imma let you finish."

I can't help but feel nauseated and not a little angry when I mention pressing issues such as the mass death of honey bees and all I get is a disinterested expression staring back at me, eyes glazed with lack of concern. And that, more than anything, scares the living hell out of me. Because even more than the greed of big corporations, the lazy disregard of the ignorant will doom us all.

It feels as if I am the only person I know who seems to truly care. Am I? Someone please tell me I'm not alone. Please.

Envy and Admiration

After I got home from work, I found myself in an unusual state of restlessness. Before I realized I was doing it, my room was being tidied up; random sticky notes filled with inane scribbles, empty junk food wrappers and other clutter were removed from my desk, much to its relief I'm sure.

"Thanks, bro."

 It wasn't until I found myself carrying a pile of dirty laundry to the washing machine that I discovered the reasoning behind this strange compulsion to not have my room look like the money shot scene from a Michael Bay flick.

The only time I get the urge to clean and tidy is when I want to write. Because as any writer knows, the best way to avoid doing the deed is by doing everything else that needs to be done. Right now.

Last night was the Oscars. I hear it was entertaining, and a bunch of stuff won awards, while even more stuff lost. I say "hear" because I didn't watch the Oscars; I barely paid the excited gibbering of my coworkers any attention as they compared opinions about this movie or that film, which actor should have won, which director did win, and all the rest.

The reason for my inattention is due to my keen interest in such events.

"Holy contradiction, Batman!"

Clarification is probably in order.

If it wasn't blindingly apparent by now, I am a huge nerd; I love anime, video games, books, comics, cosplay, films, and theatre. All of these things make me happy. And yet, when it comes to events like the Oscars, I can't bring myself to watch.

And the reason for that is I am an envious little snot.

Under the vast geek umbrella in which I take shelter from the cold, banal humdrum work week, there are folks for whom I have a great deal of admiration and respect; cosplayers such as Jessica Nigri, Yaya Han, and Ivy Doomkitty get to make fantastic costumes from scratch and obtain the adoration of nerds everywhere. Writers share that same adoration; from Stephen King and Jim Butcher to Neil Gaiman, Sylvia Plath, and William Shakespeare, these are people who have mastered their craft, brought exciting and entertaining works of writing to the minds of millions.

Look at this smug bastard.

It is much the same with movie stars and any successful actor. I find myself experiencing a confusing mix of admiration and envy. When there is something that I want and feel I can never have/attain/achieve, I ignore it. Much in the same way I avoid writing by sudden bouts of organizing.

For instance, I am a big fan of the ABC show Castle; the stories are great and the acting is spot on; the chemistry between Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic is obvious and can be felt through the television screen. That being said, I have avoided watching the last few seasons for one specific reason: watching a show about a famous novelist having adventures and getting the beautiful girl makes me want to write.

And since I'm convinced that I'm a terrible writer and will never achieve anything resembling success, I'm filled with that envy I mentioned before.

That's right. I feel envy for a fictional character. There isn't an adequate word to describe how sad that is. Even worse, I also feel envious of the actor playing said successful mystery writer.

"Sucks to be you."

Thus I can't bring myself to pay too much attention to the Oscars. Watching a large auditorium of A Listers receiving awards for being awesome would likely cause me to literally turn greener than an Orion slave girl.

I often joke with a friend of mine that I hate the successful in this world. Alas, it isn't a complete jest, much to my shame. Actors, singers, dancers, youtubers who reach a million likes. You name it, it makes me a wee bit green.

Phew! Now that I've gotten that off of my chest, I feel...about the same. Drat and curses.

Post NaNoWriMo report

My original intention was to blog about this in early December. But then I got the call my grandmother was dying, literally as I sat down to start writing. So yeah, this blog post is almost two months over due.

Waaaay back in November, I finally grew some balls and participated in something that I've been interested in for years, but could never bring myself to do. You know, because I lacked the aforementioned balls.

"You finally lost your virginity?"

That activity was NaNoWriMo.

For those of you who don't know what the hell I'm talking about, NaNoWriMo is an acronym for the National Novel Writing Month. It was created by a genius by the name of Chris Baty. He, along with 21 others in the San Francisco area decided to sit down and write a novel in a single month. And despite how crazy that sounds, they did just that. The next year, they decided to do it again, this time in the month of November, because other than nom of turkey during Thanksgiving, there's not much else to do during that time of the year.

"November is nothing without me!"

The rules for NaNoWriMo are fairly simple: you write 50,000 words in the span of the month, starting at 12:00 am on November 1st, and ending at 11:59 pm on November 30th. It can be any theme, any genre, and in any language. Fun, no?

Having had the strange yearning to write for some years now, but nothing to really write about has been a plight I've wrestled with for sometime. But somehow, I had developed the inkling of an idea for a book; apparently my muse decided to stay sober long enough to do her freaking job for once.

My muse.

So with inspiration for a story in my head and the grim determination of a would-be writer, along with some much needed encouragement from a few friends, I set out to play an epic game of chicken with my laptop.

NaNoWriMo was, if anything, a learning experience which presented a number of challenges and obstacles for me to overcome, such as:

1. The need for speed. In order to hit the 50,000 mark by the deadline, I would need to write an average of 1,667 words everyday. Which was a daunting prospect for me considering I'm a notoriously slow writer;even during those rare moments that I know exactly what I want to type, it takes me a few moments shy of eternity to actually get it written up. So you can imagine how slow going it was when I would have to pause and collect my thoughts or even think up a scene...

It doesn't help matters that I technically don't know how to type. I'm a certified chicken pecker; I only use two fingers to write, and my eyes never leave the keyboard.

I'm happy to say that my typing speed doubled over the course of the month; my average was around 500 wph before I started NaNoWriMo. Now, I easily hit 1000 wph without too much effort; during day 11, I managed 1300 words in just 49 minutes, which is the equivalent of the tortoise sprinting ahead and lapping the hare.

"Do you even run, bro?"

With this boost in speed, I only needed about two hours each day to hit my word requirements.

2. Shutting down the need for perfection. I can't speak for other writers, but I suffer from this idea that whatever I'm writing as to be perfect the first time, otherwise it's putrid garbage that has to be disintegrated for the sake of the world.

This affliction is one of the major reasons why, despite having the desire to write a book since President Obama was first elected, I'm only just now actually trying; why put so much effort into something that will undoubtedly suck worse than Dick Cheney's aim? Better to play it safe and let the dream live a bit longer.

Well, the great thing about NaNoWriMo is that in order to win, you don't need your novel to be perfect. Or even good, for that matter; this first draft is going to be uglier and grosser than a greased up Hutt.

So, a hutt...

The only thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is the word count. 50,000 of them, to be exact. You can write the biggest piece of garbage on Earth, and as long as it meets the word count, you're golden. With that in mind, I was able to suppress that horrible itch for perfection and hammer out 50,076 words of pure vomit. And it was glorious.

3. The need for a plot. The motto of NaNoWriMo is "no plot? No problem." While it certainly helps to have a plot outline, character biographies, and copious notes about the setting, it isn't necessary. There are two types of people who do NaNo, plotters and pantsers. Pantsers are the folks who "fly by the seat of their pants" and don't do any sort of planning. They just sit and write whatever comes to mind. Or whatever would be cool. Or whatever their cat tells them to write. I'm sure you can guess which group I belonged to.

"Dude, write about vampires. Everyone loves vampires."

Originally, the concern was that I would never be capable of completing the challenge; 50,000 is a lot of words after all, and I'm not very creative/smart/etc. The well of inspiration would run dry long before I reached the goal and I would be left floundering in the sand.

Thankfully, I was very much wrong about that. While 50,000 words sounds fairly daunting, it's not quite as bad as it seems. At the end of November, much to my surprise, I found myself meeting the word count goal with my book still incomplete. As it stands, it isn't even the fully formed skeleton of a story; half the bones have been stolen by wild animals, who have proceeded to suck the marrow out.

And I still have much to write before this first draft is done.

In the end, I managed to complete the word count goals and "win" NaNoWriMo. It was a truly awesome feeling, because I'm not used to winning at anything; I mostly fall flat on my face in the mud. Being able to sit back in my chair and exalt over a hard won victory is a rare thrill. These days, I am in desperate need of any sort of win, and completing NaNoWriMo was like a balm.

With that victory came a rush of hopes and ideas for the future. Maybe I can do this thing. Maybe I too will make the New York Times Bestseller list. Perhaps people will one day compare me to the greats, like Stephen King or Jim Butcher or Terry Pratchett.

Perhaps, perhaps. We shall see.

New Year, New Goals

You guys smell that? That's the scent of a brand new year, fresh out of the box. Notice how pleasant the aroma is? It's a stark contrast to last year, which smelled like rancid, three day old moldy diarrhea near the end. So with that wonderful mental image firmly implanted into your mind, I bid everyone:

Let's get right down to it, shall we?

I want to talk about this years goals. But before I get to that, I want to clarify something: I fucking hate New Years Resolutions. And yes, I know I made a few last year, which I may or may not have actually gotten around to (I didn't), and that's my point. For most of us, a New Year Resolution is made the moment that fresh clean New Year smell hits your nose like a perfumed soaked brick. You proudly puff out your chest and declare to the universe that this time, this year, you'll finally accomplish some obstacle you've been grappling with. Maybe you want to finally quit smoking- and more power to you, because smoking is gross, and smokers smell worst than 2014. Or perhaps you want to shed that extra weight. Something I also support, because I would love to see less morbidly obese women running around in yoga pants this year. Pretty please? With sugar on-- never mind, no sugar! You've had enough.

Regardless of what your resolutions are, you grit your teeth and plow forward with the grim determination of an action hero out to slay the dragon. For about two weeks.

You see, the vast majority of people give up after those first two weeks. There are no doubt countless reasons, but the biggest one is they discover that accomplishing stuff actually requires work, and fuck that! This is 'Murica, the land of instant gratification where all of your answers take the form of a pill. After two weeks-- three if you're one of the stubborn ones-- you wake up and discover that you haven't dropped those fifty pounds and don't look like Chris Evans. Or you find that you still have that awful craving, and the overwhelming urge to suck on that cancer stick.

This should take 10 days, tops

Hey, I get it. That stuff is really hard to shake off and overcome. Change doesn't come easy, to any of us. I know I've been battling my fair share of bad habits for years, with few successes and many failures.

My issues with New Years Resolutions are:

1. They are made out of tradition rather than a desire to change and grow. Think about it: if that resolution was so important to you, why did you have to wait until this fresh, shiny new year to go about doing it? Why wait until the new year to stop smoking, when September would have been even better?

Because much like fire works, the Times Square celebration, and getting absolutely smashed beyond recognition or hope of recovery, it's what is done during the new year. It's all part of the routine. And people are always slaves to routine.

Happy New Year!

2. Everyone is making them. There are times when it's good to have a morale boost in the form of your friends, family and coworkers working toward a resolution. The problem is you've got a few assholes shy of everyone doing this. At the same time. In the same space that you're doing it. Having a hard time with that smoking thing? Find yourself cranky, irritable, and looking for the slightest reason to punch a motherfucker out? Well, guess what: there are likely hundreds, if not thousands, of other cranky, irritable quitters also wanting to introduce your nose to their meaty fists.

And even if there's no violence-- which would be a pity, I know-- you have to keep in mind how easy human beings are swayed by the group. We're a social species. If you get together with a group trying to quit smoking, you are just as likely to convince each other that it's a futile effort and start lighting up on the spot as you are to keep going.

"Well, we tried. Maybe next year."

So to summarize, I don't like resolutions because they're done out of a sense of tradition rather than a genuine desire to change, and every schmuck is doing them. I guess I could have just said that and moved on, instead of that blatant display of verbosity. Meh.

Anywho, I'm going to list my goals for the New Year. Goals, not resolutions. These are things I've been working on all along, not something I decided to do because it's January. They, like me, are a work in progress; some will take longer to accomplish than others, and some will be discarded. In no particular order of importance:

1. Acquire a vehicle. As much as my tree-hugging, hippy side rebels against the very notion of a car, I fear I am forced into a corner; my job recently moved to a new location, and I now spend roughly 43 minutes biking home from work each night; on holidays and Sundays, I also have to bike to work. While this is excellent cardio and ties into another goal of mine, it's also time consuming and not a little exhausting. And I have to bring an extra set of clothes to replace the sodden mess I rode in with.

2. Become healthier. Personal wellness should be on the forefront of everyone's mind. You truly only have you health going for you, and should something happen to it, you have nothing. My goal is to cut back on the garbage, eat more veggies, and get plenty of exercise. Should some of the belly disappear from around my waist, that will be a bonus, not the goal.

3. Go to War. For years, I've been tormented by crippling debt, thanks to foolishly being convinced a college education was the way one advanced in this country. I'm 32 years old, and I have nothing to show for the thousands of dollars I've spent on college; I have no house, no car, and no savings; I'm living pay check to pay check. I'm one emergency away from true disaster.

For the past year, I've been just managing to make the minimum payments. At this rate, I will be paying this debt off into my 40's. Once paid off, I'll be 42 and broke, with no savings or retirement plan set up. Trying to do normal things like starting a family-- should I suddenly go insane and actually desire such a thing-- or vacations will be out of the question.

Enough is enough. I'm tired of having this debt hanging over my head, a veritable Sword of Damocles just waiting for the right opportunity to strike me down. I'm sick of the nagging worry of missing a payment and having my credit score suffer, or to experience the dozen or so phone calls from collection agencies at all hours of the day demanding my blood.

I'm sick of having my life limited by what the debt will allow me to do. It's like I'm a slave, and the debt is adamant chains held by monstrous, diabolic overseers. Every move I make is met with a cruel tug of the chains.

This is your life in debt

Starting now, I'll begin to wage war against this debt; I will no longer be a slave. I will begin to pay them off in earnest. It will be difficult, and the coming years promise to be exhausting, but it has to be done.

I plan on a two pronged method of attack. I'll reduce my spending to the bare minimum by going with a smaller phone plan, ditching my netflix, and the like. And I'll need to get a second, part time job. If I can pay an extra $500 on top of the minimum payments I've been making, I can be completely out of debt in roughly 6 years, even faster if I can scrap together more.

4. Finish my book. Back in November, I participated in NaNoWriMo for the first time. I plan on detailing that wackiness in another blog, but the point is I have the skeleton of a book written; 50,000 words on paper, with much more left to do. My goal is to finish it, edit it, rewrite it, and repeat a few more times until, by the end of the year, I have a book ready for publishing.

5. Learn to like myself. It's no secret that I don't think too highly of myself. I don't know where I got the idea that I'm animated garbage in human form, but it isn't healthy, and so I'm going to toss that mindset into the nearest landfill.

A self portrait

There are more than likely others, but I can't think of them. But since these aren't resolutions, there won't be any problem with me adding them to the list down the way, rather than putting them in my back pocket until the end of the year.