October and Beyond

Sweet Zombie Jesus, it's October!

Summer has officially ended. The leaves are turning gold, red and brown from their once vibrant verdant. The air is growing chillier by the day; there's already snow in Anchorage, Alaska. Autumn brings with it two things.

The first being fucking pumpkin spice EVERYTHING.

EVERY. THING.

But more important by far than the drug of choice for every white girl ever is, of course, that October signals the beginning of the writing season for myself and a myriad of others. Okay, obviously people-- by which I mean actually dedicated writers-- write all year round. I try to as well, but let's be honest: I'm not good at doing what's best for me, writing included.

But Fall is different. The vigor and energy of summer has waned; the crisp, chill air brings with it an instinct for introspection and contemplation. Fall makes me want to curl up in a warm blanket, with a good book in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. And for me, it also signals a desire, nay need, to put pen to paper-- or in my case, fingers to keyboard.

Hold the fucking pumpkin spice, thanks.

One reason for that is that the day light hours- and that wretched ball of brightness-- sink below the horizon earlier and earlier as we push on towards winter. For reasons I can't explain, I can't do any serious writing during the day; it's not the noise or the desire to get outside. I just... can't focus properly. Only when the sun has set can I finally work on anything seriously. Even as I write this, the sky is dimming.

October and beyond will be fairly busy for me when it comes to writing. In the next month, I need to finish the first, very rough draft of the book I've been slogging through for the past year. It needs to be done by the 31st because next month, November, is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), in which I will be participating again this year. Last year I reached the coveted goal of writing 50,000 words in 30 days, something I fully intend to do again this year.

everythingeverythingeverything

So in addition to finishing my rough draft, I also need to begin preparations for my next project. The rules for NaNo-- such that they are-- being that you can't work on a project you've already started, I'll need something new to write. Fortunately, I already have what I think will be a fun idea.

Last year's NaNo was basically me dicking around on a computer with a very loose idea for a plot. There was no character development, no plot outline, and no real direction. As a result, it was more difficult writing  than it needed to be. This year I'm going for a different tack and actually working on a plot outline and character bio's before NaNo starts, rather than near the end of a horrid rough draft.

So, for the month of October I'll be:

~ Finishing the first draft, which will be anywhere between 20,000 and 70,000 more words by my estimate.

~ Researching for the book I'll begin in November, including making a plot outline, character outlines, and probably a bunch of other stuff I haven't considered yet.

~ Trying to either squeeze in some more hours at work, or find a very part time job which offers supreme flexibility and the option of only working 10 to 15 hours a week. Yeah, I'm not holding my breath on that one.

EVERYTHING.

And all that is in addition to the ongoing goals of trying to get more acting work, and developing a social life. So it's very likely I'll either be a sleep deprived zombie or an actual zombie because I'll have worked myself to death.

My Friend Lives

After careful consideration,  my Mom has decided not to have our dog Turo put to sleep.

With some input (tearful pleading) from my brothers and I, we convinced her that something might be wrong with him and he should visit the vet before any rash decisions were made. He could have doggy dementia, or been in some kind of pain. She agreed, having no desire to Old Yeller him anyway. I spent several days in quiet anguish, hoping there was some sort of medical explanation for his actions.

Alas, Turo is just a dick.

As far as his doggy doctor could tell, he's a perfectly healthy specimen. Other than his advancing age, he's fine. The vet recommended that my Mom not put him down, but advised that she keep him away from my nieces and nephew (who are 8, 3, and 2 respectively) until they were older, in case he did it again.

So Turo gets to live after all!

It is with much relief that I write this, as his imminent demise was causing me a large degree of heartache. The downside for poor Turo is that he will be wearing a stylish muzzle whenever he's around the kids, or outside of the house.

But it's much better than the alternative.

Birthday Introspection

As much as it pains me to say it, today is my birthday. I hope somebody had the foresight to get me a walker as a birthday gift, because I am old. 

"How old is he?"
"He's so old, he's using us to make a joke!"

I'm thirty three now. The number sounds...odd (get it?). Like a pair of brand new shoes, it just doesn't fit right. No doubt in time I'll get used to the idea of being thirty three. Right around a few weeks until my 34th birthday. 

I'm having a poor time adjusting, if I can be honest. When my 30th birthday rolled around I handled it in the best way possible: I used it as an excuse to take a week long trip to Vegas in the hopes that I would conveniently forget the fact that my twenties had withered and died, only to rise from the ashes as my thirties, not unlike a phoenix. An older, decrepit, crotchety phoenix that needs to invest in some Depend Underwear.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

The point being, I entered my thirties full of hope, of aspirations of awesome. Because to be honest, my twenties weren't all that pleasant- other than that whole youthfulness thing. I spent all of my twenties miserable and broke. I had hoped that by the time my thirties crept up, I would have overcome that little hurdle and figured shit out. 

Fast forward to today, the beginning of my third year of my third decade, and I have come to one conclusion: I cannot adult. I'm still broke, and still miserable. Except now I have a mountain of debt to go along with the standard all purpose misery that buzzes angrily in the background of my day to day world like white noise. But I've bitched about that often enough; at this point, what can I say that's any different from bitching I've already been doing since I started writing this thing?

Instead, let's review the last year.

Surprisingly, Year 32 had some not-too-terrible moments to add spice to the otherwise bland Suck Soup I subsist on daily. 

1. I met a pretty lady who would become one of my closest friends. Okay, that technically happened at PAX last year a few weeks before my 32nd birthday, but I'm still going to count it. The point being, she has been someone whom I could talk and vent at all year without worrying about being judged. True, good friends are hard to find in this world, and I'm happy to have found another to add to my small collection.

2. With some encouragement (nagging) from another friend, I finally got off my hump and got back into acting. With her assistance (nonstop flailing of the arms as she lectured at me), I even managed to get represented by one of the best talent agencies in the Seattle area. 

3. I finally gave in to my aspirations at becoming a professional writer and began the arduous process of writing a book. While there have been numerous twists and turns (a lot of whining,procrastinating, and binge watching of netflix), I'm happy to say that the first, really rough draft is near completion. 74,478 words of word vomit sit on my computer-- and a few usb drives to be safe (paranoid). While it is still unfinished, and nowhere near being anything remotely resembling good, it is technically a novel. 

4. I got to meet one of my idols (someone whom I look upon with great envy in addition to respect). 

As I reflect on this past year, I'm forced to acknowledge some painful events-- the passing of my grandmother being the worst. I lived in an awful area for most of that time, under cramped and uncomfortable conditions. I've had my stuff stolen multiple times. I suffered through difficult financial burdens-- which still haunt me like an overly handsy Ghost of Christmas Past. 

I can't shake the disquieting sensation that my life just continues to slip by, like fine sand through half-numbed fingers. While I'm probably still a little young for a mid-life crisis, if I keep up in my current direction, I may get an early start on one.  Another year past is another year gone forever, one in which I didn't do so many things that I want to do. For instance,  I've still never left the country-- not counting the three or so hours spent driving through Canada to reach Anchorage. 

So this year, I'm going to work on doing all those little things. 

I don't know how well things will go, but I will declare this: by September 18th of next year, I will either be a published author, or well on my way to becoming one. The silly little word document of verbal excrement I've written thus far is just eight or nine chapters away from completion. Then comes the editing, the shameful tears and fits of explosive rage. Then more editing. Repeat until complete. 

That way, when I'm writing next years birthday reflection, I'll be able to describe in great detail how awful writing is and bemoan those life choices.

Assuming I haven't given up writing all together and accepted my fate as just another listless drone shuffling from one crap job to the next until the Grim Reaper comes along and offers sweet, sweet release.

Happy Birthday to me. 

The Passing of a Friend

My dog is going to die today.

Not because of old age, though that would have been the likely cause if we fast forwarded a few years; despite being eleven or twelve years old, with a black coat more and more peppered in gray, he's as spry as a puppy, full of bouncy energy. Whenever I see him, he prances around the room in a display of doggy joy, ignoring all commands to sit and behave. He'd jump up and desperately try to cover my face in saliva as he lavished dog kisses.

Nor is disease the cause; horses would envy his health.  His visits to the vet always revealed a healthy, happy dog who is aging well and not suffering the indignities of the time ravaged.

And accident isn't the cause either. No horrible story about a clueless animal running in the streets, ignorant of oncoming traffic.

Part of me wishes it were because of one of the those causes. Because the reality is far worse.

My dog is going to die today, because he made a mistake.

I should clarify. Turo isn't my dog personally. He's my mom's dog, but we all love him. He's been a part of the family for ten years now. He was there for the good times and the bad. My late grandmother fondly referred to him as her "body guard dog," a role Turo relished as he trailed her where ever she would go around the house when she visited us.

I don't know much about what happened. What I do know is that I received a text from my mom a little past midnight, as I was heading home from work. Turo had bitten my mom, and wouldn't stop growling at her. My heart sank as I read it, for my mom and for Turo.

I'm having a hard time articulating how I feel. There's too much. My heart aches for my mom, who is shocked and dismayed. Once Turo calmed down, he seemed to realize what he had done, because she says he looked sad and ashamed. But the damage has been done. She can no longer trust him.

I feel so bad for my mom, for what she's going through. For what she has to do. Despite what happened, she loves Turo. She doesn't want to hurt him or see him suffer, but what happens if he attacks her again? What if he attacks my nieces and nephew when they visit her? It's understandable that she can't risk that. And simply taking him to a shelter wouldn't work; if he bit her, the woman who had raised him from a puppy, no one else would be safe.

I feel so terribly sad for Turo, who knows that he messed up, that he crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. He's going to spend his last day on Earth knowing that he hurt the person who loves him the most. And the sadness will be mixed with stark terror as he's carted off to be put to sleep.

I feel so helpless. They are both in so much pain, and there's nothing I can do to help either of them. I'm going to miss Turo so very much; I can't express my grief. I just feel...heavy, as though a mountain has settled on my heart.

Goddammit. This sucks.

PAX 2015 and the Aftermath

PAX (Penny Arcade Expo) has come and gone once again.

I had originally intended to give my semi-annual report on the geek fest immediately after it ended, while it was fresh in my brain. Alas, I fell ill the day after and spent the remaining four days of my vacation suffering sporadic sneezing fits strong enough to give me headaches, late night coughing which prevented me from returning to slumber, and a nose that oozed green slime whenever I decided to crawl out of my bed long enough to interact with other humans.

So now that I've recovered, I can report what little I remember of PAX: there were people everywhere, I spent the majority of my time standing in lines (or standing in line to get in line), and I've eaten enough Cheesecake Factory to last me a year.

It doesn't sound very entertaining, but believe it or not, I had a blast. I got to visit with friends I haven't seen in a year or more, and the mere idea of doing something not work related had me walking on air. Stuffy, stale air that reeked of b.o. and doritos.

Because some gamer stereotypes are real.

And then it was over, and I found myself experiencing a common phenomenon called the Post-vacation Blues., wherein you realize that the party's over, and you now have to return to the mindless drudgery of your miserable life. Much like a hangover after a rowdy night of tequila shots, it hits you like a stampede of elephants-- elephants who also had a long night of tequila shots.  In my case, I felt the jubilant energy quickly seep away from me like a leaky balloon.

"Some night, eh?"

Going back to work was hard. I had two weeks worth of emails to catch up on, which I still haven't gotten around to. I already know that at least one of them is from my boss, asking me to pick up some extra shifts to help out. Now, I'm not adverse to helping the team-- when it doesn't inconvenience me-- and considering I only work three days a week now, it's entirely understandable to ask me. I have intentionally not opened that email.

Because to put it bluntly: No. I don't wanna.

Fast forward to the present day, a week after the end of PAX and my vacation. My birthday is a mere 9 days away, and like always, I'm not looking forward to it. Not because I'm getting older; I've made peace with that-- though I have noticed a few grey hairs in my beard, which does cause some concern-- rather, it's because it represents another year of my life that has been spent doing nothing of importance. I can't recall a single thing I've done in the past year that was truly exciting or exceptional.

I should probably work on that.

Today I found myself with time for a rare moment of introspection. I had no work today, no D&D game, and no plans of any kind. My PS4 has been on for the last 13 hours downloading the latest expansion for Destiny, so I couldn't even play that.

As I sat in my room, bored, lamenting the poor choices I've made and my inability to correct them, my gaze happened upon a slip of paper that has been sitting next to my laptop for the better part of a year. Having forgotten what was written on it, I unfolded it.

It said, "Change enough of the little pictures and you'll find you've changed the big picture."

I have no idea where that quote came from, but it seems like sound advice. Plus I had nothing better to do, so why not? So I started with something simple: I cleaned my room.
My room hadn't been properly cleaned once since I moved in. The last week of June. That's not saying it was a pigsty either; I just haven't gotten around to unpacking all the boxes. Or dusting. Or vacuuming.

Shut up.

Once my room was neat and free of debris, I sat down and wrote out a few character outlines for a story I'm going to be working on.

Okay, I lied. I didn't actually write them out. But I did think about writing them out, which is pretty much the same thing, right?

It's some kind of progress, dammit. Don't judge me.

A Beautiful Day

Meeting someone you admire and respect for the first time can be a daunting prospect. As you approach, you can't help but experience a nervous flutter in the pit of your gut. Your hands get clammy with icky palm sweat, and your hearts speeds up to about a million beats per second. Part of you is excited, and another part is demanding you flee to the opposite direction. Now. At great speed.

Well, that's how I feel anyway. Your experience may vary.

So I did a thing today. I got to meet Felicia Day.

She just published a book, and today she stopped in Seattle on the last part of her tour. Myself along with about a thousand people were crammed into a church in North Seattle to listen to her speak, and then get our books autographed.

Now, I'm not usually the sort of guy who deliberately goes out of his way to meet a celebrity. I don't enjoy the huge crowds that inevitably spawn around famous people like murlocs on beachfront property.

I'm not a fan of waiting in long, tedious lines either. I don't think anybody is. Nor am I particularly fond of being in a large space with a bunch of people when the air is stuffy and a few degrees higher than is comfortable.

But I make an exception for Felicia Day, because she's awesome.

I'm not going to do that fan thing and start gushing. Because at the end of the day, celebrities are just people. They eat, drink, shower and sleep like the rest of us. That being said, she's one of those rare few who I can genuinely respect both as an artist and a person, because she's down to earth. She's unafraid to be her geeky self, and has done very well in turning that into an amazing career.

She lives how I'd like to live.

While I was waiting with one of my roommates, I got a flash of inspiration. I turned to my roommate and whispered to her, "I'm going to ask Felicia Day to check out my blog."

Naturally, as soon as the words left my mouth, I desperately tried to capture them. To no avail, of course. What the hell was I thinking? Felicia Day probably has fans requesting stuff like that all the time? No doubt she's a busy woman, with better things to do that read my nonsense.

My roommate turned to me and responded with a fierce, "Fuck yeah, you totally should."

Well, shit.

Fast forward another hour or so, and I stood in line to get my autographed copy of her book. The aforementioned nervous breakdown was going as planned. Peeking past a few people, I could see her at the end of the line, chatting animatedly with her fans. Yikes.

Finally my turn arrived. Swallowing my nervousness, I strode forward. She smiled and said hello. I think I responded in kind, but I honestly can't be sure. For all I know, I spewed green slime while spinning my in a head 360 degree circle.

She signed my book, and then stood next to me to have our photo taken. My arm around her waist, I plastered a fake confident smile on my face. It's the smile I use whenever I go to an audition and have to act like I don't want to vomit from nerves. Granted, by now I've mostly perfected it, so it looked genuine. Maybe.

After a few shots from my phone, there was a pause. The nice lady taking the picture for me looked up from my phone and said, "She's looking at you."

I turned my head, and there was Felicia Day smiling brightly at me, close enough to kiss.

I'm embarrassed to say this, but my confident mask slipped, and I found myself both amused and terrified at the same time. My smile sort of melted like wax and I looked, frankly, ridiculous.

The face of a star-struck idiot.

Felicia Day laughed and the fans laughed and I died a little inside. And it was over. As I collected my signed book, I remembered my presumptuous plan. I turned to face her.

"So, I hate to be that guy, but I sort of promised my roommate I'd try."

She looked back at me, her eyebrows quirked.

"I was wondering if you could check out my blog," I rushed, getting the words out before I lost my nerve. "You know, if you ever get a free moment."

"Wow," she responded after a pregnant pause, not quite smiling. "You get five bonus points for courage."

I grinned a big stupid grin as I stammered out an apology.

"No, it's fine," she said to me. "You have to take chances. Do what you have to do." And she smiled at me. It's okay for men to swoon, right?

I scampered away. Because I didn't want to hold up the line. And definitely not because I almost made like a chihuahua and peed a little.

"I wasn't scared at all. Not even a little. Nope."

So that happened. I don't expect she would actually check the blog out, but it would be really awesome if she did. Regardless, it was amazing getting to interact with one of my heroes.

Taking a break

I moved down to a part time employee at work the first week of July.

Being a teleradiology imaging assistant sounds fairly impressive on paper, but what it amounts to is being a glorified switch board operator at a company which is becoming more and more something I despise: a call center.

Now, to be fair, unlike some of the more hellish and evil call centers out there, we actually serve a useful and necessary purpose. Unlike, I don't know, Comcast or every motherfucking student loan agency on the planet, we actually help people. Sometimes, we even save lives. That helps me get through each shift, especially since I've come to learn in my two years in this position that hospital patients need all the help they can get. Because hospital staff, those learned individuals who are responsible for curing the sick, are almost all fucking morons.

I spend each work day on the phone, for hours, with a wide assortment of doctors, nurses, medical assistants, physicians assistants, technicians, and operators. A disturbingly large number of them are ignorant, irritating, lazy little prats. And so stupid. Doctors are whiny and pretentious, techs get paid entirely too much for how little they do-- they're like the Congress of hospitals-- and don't even get me started on your average nurse practitioner. Rather than rant your eyes out, I'll just say this: I have very little faith in the American Healthcare System.

Hence my decision to reduce my work hours. The irony is, since I started my new shift, I've been working more hours than usual; I've actually managed to accumulate consistent over-time, which just doesn't happen. I blame the incessant mewling of my near empty bank account.

Over the past few weeks, it has been pointed out at work that I've been in an extra foul mood. I didn't do anything to dissuade them of that idea, though it is patently incorrect. I'm always in a foul mood; my neutral emotional state is grumpy, and it just goes down hill from there. The difference is that I'm a credible actor; it would be unprofessional to snarl at my colleagues, so I expend a great deal of energy acting less grumpy than I truly am.

Lately, however, I haven't had the energy to pretend I'm not a cantankerous, misanthropic mess. Perhaps because I've been working so much more than usual. Maybe I'm just over the bullshit, and like Bilbo, I'm in need of a holiday.

That being said, I felt it was time to take some time off, and so for the first time in about seven weeks, I've not picked up any extra shifts. I get to sit back and enjoy a four day weekend. After that, I'll have a short three day work week, and then my vacation officially starts! I'll have a solid week and a half of free time, during which I'll get to meet Felicia Day (more on that later) and then go to Pax!

The real challenge is going to be figuring out what to do with myself besides that.

Eye of the Beholder? Or Skin Deep?

I spent the majority of my day hidden in my room, huddled in a dark corner while using a thick blanket as a shroud. Much like the way trolls are known to hide under bridges, I did my best to stay out of sight, away from the light of day.

Kind of like this, only less attractive.

I've made it no secret that I sometimes have confidence issues; in my youth, I often believed that the world at large had been created for the sole purpose of tormenting me. I was one bad day away from painting my nails black and becoming some kind of emo super villain.

I'm not going to subject anyone to the images I found on google of black emo guys, so here's a puppy instead.

Of course, I grew out of that as I got older and came to realization that the world was not actually out to get me. The world is a big enough dick to target us all, and it was arrogant of me to believe that I was a special snowflake that received closer attention when in fact we all are gifted with a giant middle finger.

That being said, there are some days were those old angsty feelings of emo rage creep to the surface like the foul contents of a leaking septic tank. You blink once, and suddenly your well maintained lawn is a sodden, shitty mess and your roses smell like Chris Christie's crotch after a humid afternoon spent watching the game while inhaling hot wings and stale beer.

Lately, I've been feeling very...unattractive. Not in the "I can't seem to get my hair the way I want it" way, but something more. The closest adjective I can come with is dumpy. I feel dumpy. According to Merriam-Webster, Dumpy is defined as "short and fat; dirty and in poor condition." And yes, I'm on the short side, and maybe I've picked up a few pounds. But I do shower and launder my clothes, so I have that going for me, right?

I can seem to shake this feeling that I'm some sort of pockmark on the face of humanity and that like the previous mentioned troll-- or Chris Christie-- I should spend less time in the bright light of day, and more time hanging out with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Down in the sewers, where no one can see me and sneer in disgust.

"Sorry, guy. Hot news reporters only."

Writing this is hard for two reasons. The first reason is that it's embarrassing to admit that in addition to ALL of the other issues I wrestle with-- misanthropy, surliness, destitution, and general laziness-- I also have to struggle with body image problems. The second reason is because even though it is 2015, as a man, I'm not allowed to talk about this particular problem. It sounds girly even to me, and I'm the one writing it. Body issues are for the women folk, society says, not charming, handsome rogues such as myself (I roll my eyes derisively at myself as I type that particular line).

The point being, there are days when I manage to feel halfway attractive; a hot shower, the right clothes, and I might even fool myself into believing I'm a good looking guy. And then there are days like today, where going to work was pure agony because I was sitting next to a hottie and I felt like the Sarlacc after a long night of binge drinking.

As a consequence, I spent the rest of the day miserable and depressed, unable to shake the sad conviction that I'm going to be alone forever, bereft of friends, family, and love. 

Now if that isn't the most angst ridden thing you've ever read in your life, I suggest you think long and hard about changing your reading material

A Milestone

July was an unusual month. I had a break from the standard suckfest that has become my day to day existence.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Lame shit did happen, as it always does, but there was some actual good things going on as well. The Ice-Crap Sundae had a liberal dose of whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a cherry on top.

That isn't chocolate sauce.

First, I moved into a new area well away from that shithole known as Everett. Second, I finally got my work shift changed down to part time, freeing up four days a week for me to work on my other endeavors. That includes Fridays, meaning I can actually go out and possibly develop a social life.

And yes, I know what you're thinking. "Darren, you brilliant bastard, if you're constantly hard up for cash, how is reducing your hours going to improve that? Have you thought this through?"

Actually, yes, I have thought this through. You see, faceless comment-monkey, I'm still working roughly the same amount of hours per week. But rather than have a set schedule inhibiting me, I can freely pick up extra shifts whenever I feel, allowing me some much needed flexibility. And the best part is, thanks to a provision of the Affordable Care Act-- or "Obama Care," as it's commonly referred to-- I still get to keep all of my benefits while being part time.

"I'm still waiting for a 'Thank You.'"

It is this new found flexibility which allowed me to hit a milestone. Thanks to my new schedule, I was able to audition for a commercial I normally would have turned down due to it conflicting with my job. And thanks in part to my new shift, I got hired. That's right, I was cast in my very first commercial! After five long years, I can happily say that I am once again a paid actor.

It was filmed just a few days ago, on the 27th and 28th. I'm not ashamed to say that as the shoot date neared, I grew more and more apprehensive. After all, I'd never done any acting in front of a camera before, and new experiences can be nerve wracking.

But cold feet wasn't the issue. My own cynicism was.

There was a tiny, persistent voice in the back of my mind, constantly telling me that I was going to blow it, and ruin my chances of ever working as an actor again. 'Good things don't happen to me,' it whispered insidiously. And since good things don't happen, I was obviously being set up to fall down. Hard.

Pictured: Me

Clearly I need to start thinking positive.

Thankfully, I firmly told the voice to die in a fire and moved on.

The shoot was definitely an interesting experience. I was a background character in a commercial for a local casino. Myself and about twenty others were escorted onto the gaming floor, where we pretended to be having the time of our lives playing slots. I learned that during these kinds of shoots, you spend the majority of your time standing around, talking. Or sitting. The shoot lasted nine hours both days, and I'm pretty sure I only "worked" for around two hours.

Clearly I need to do more of this acting thing.

The best part, I think, was the food. By Odin's armpit, they feed you well. The buffet alone was worth the trip and the time. Between that and all the snacks, I probably gained twenty pounds. At least.

Stuff and Things Part 2: Stormy Weather

Have you ever had one of those truly amazing days? The kind of day that right from the moment you drag your bleary, sleep-encrusted eyes open to burn in the harsh light, every little thing seems to fall in place? Your breakfast is delicious, you hit all the green lights on your way to work, and your whole experience runs as smoothly as a greased up toddler sliding down a hallway?

Well, my day was kind of like that. Except the exact opposite.

The sun shone brightly through my blinds as I opened my eyes, and yet there were clouds dark and stormy hovering over me as I lay in bed. I can't for the life of me tell you why; my sleep was restful and lengthy. I couldn't recall experiencing any annoying or distasteful dreams.

And yet, I was in an atrocious mode.

I wish I could say that I shook it off and went about my day, secure in the knowledge that things would be alright. After all, it was Monday-- the end of my work week-- and soon I would have three days of cool relaxation to look forward to. But not unlike a swarm of fruit flies hovering around an overly ripe banana, the black cloud followed me as I showered, ate breakfast, and left the house to start my work day.

Pictured: Me

Mondays suck. This is common knowledge. Especially at my job, which has a higher than normal level of suck attached to it much of the time. Between answering non-stop phone calls, dealing with demanding doctors and trying to get incompetent techs to do their job in a way that isn't half-assed, you can imagine how exhausting things can be on a good day.

This was not a good day.

I found myself sequestered on the opposite end of the room, safely tucked away from my coworkers. Being the kind individual I am, I didn't want to inflict anyone with my bad mood. Plus the last thing I wanted to do was snap at someone and end up in my bosses office, getting a lecture while restraining my urge to glare spitefully.

I'm pragmatic like that.

Beyond the tedium, which is vexing all on its own, the storm clouds started to rumble with the beginnings of thunder when I got my first good look at my coming paycheck. The last couple of weeks had been productive for me; I had managed to put in 10 hours of overtime-- something I am loath to do-- and had even worked on the 4th of July for that sweet, sweet holiday pay.

Only to find out I my pay amounted to a measly one hundred dollars more than the usual number. My eyes bulged in disbelief. I feverishly scanned the pay stub. Yup, OT and holiday pay are accounted for.  It was then that I realized what the problem was.

Uncle Sam had fucked me. Hard. With a condom made from sandpaper and spite.

"You didn't need this money, right?"

A full 30% of my check had been drained away from taxes, effectively negating any benefits for the overtime I had worked. Now before I go any further, I want to say that I don't mind paying taxes; they're a necessary part of a functioning society. That being said, this is fucking ridiculous. More than $400 leeched away, leaving me in the incredibly uncomfortable position of having no extra money for little luxuries like food or bus fair; I literally have just enough money to pay the rent and my student loans this month. And absolutely nothing else.

Clearly I need take a look at a W-4; as much as I despise paying taxes during tax season, getting a refund isn't worth starving each and every week.

So there I sat, staring furiously at my computer screen, a thunderous scowl no doubt plastered to my face. My mind frantically running numbers, desperate to find a solution to what amounted to 16 days of hunger pangs and sore feet. So of course a work related issue came up, demanding my full attention and jabbing a taunting finger at my inner Hulk, who was doing everything to he could to burst loose.

"Work is Spider-Man, only not nearly as cool"

But with a titanic amount of willpower and restraint, I endured rampage free. The work day ended, and I made like a tree and left.

I have to tell you, I'm truly sick and tired of dealing with these little catastrophes. One after another, disaster springs out of nowhere, doing its best to make my life as difficult as possible. I do my best to weather the storm, but it seems to have a hard-on for me, because I keep getting bent over.

End rant.

Stuff and Things part 1: Moving on Up

Sometimes, life decides to chuckle mockingly at your well laid plans and then alter them. It happens to some people more than others. It happens to me quite a lot.

For instance, the plan today was to venture forth from the relative discomfort of my sweltering apartment, into the soggy heat of the outside world. I was supposed to go take a test so that I could obtain a drivers permit-- because I've finally decided that I should probably learn how to drive like a big boy-- and then go the the sweet, blissfully air conditioned gym to break out in a sweat that doesn't involve the sun trying its best to convert me into a California Raisin.

"We ain't pretty, but we make bank."

Instead, I'm sitting in front of the computer and the only form of exercise I'm doing is lifting a slice of pizza from the plate and into my mouth gullet. My belly hangs over the top of my sweatpants, distended as if I had swallowed a child. The fan sits next to me, blowing enough hot air in my face to make me believe it's going into politics.

I did try to accomplish the relatively simple goals I had set out to do. I truly did. But like the old saying goes: I suck at life and fail at everything.

But hey, it doesn't have to be a total lose, right? If my efforts were going to be foiled by bad timing and poor luck, I could try to salvage it. Maybe I could sit down and write, an activity I've neglected for a couple of months now.

In typical Darren fashion, things have been...interesting. And by that, I mean a bunch of stressful, tiring stuff  came up and threatened to bury me alive. I'll tackle those delightful slices of heavenly goodness one at a time. So let's start with one of the biggies.

The city of Everett and I have parted ways. As much as I enjoyed my stay in that festering heap of broken dreams, I felt that our relationship wasn't working out. Everett is a needy, lying bitch who did its best to drain me of life and suck my soul out of my body. I'd compare it to a dementor, but that would be unjustifiably mean; at least the dementors don't lie about their intentions of making out with you and then eating your vital essence.

"Wanna make out?"

It had been my intention of dropping Everett and moving on with my life in April, when the lease was up. However, as with today, Life saw my plan, let out a hearty bellow of a laugh, and promptly shoved me in a bush like the schoolyard bully he/she is. I found myself without the savings to fund a move, and my roommate was in the process of searching for a house to buy. Thus we collectively decided to extend our stay in the welcoming embrace of Everett, city of shit-holes and ass-hats.

My escape finally commenced a couple of weeks ago. I pack my stuff, bid Everett a jovial FUCK YOU, and moved on from that pusing sore of a city, saying goodbye to the petty crime, tacky graffiti, and moronic people.

My new apartment is in Bothell. So far, the neighborhood is a sweet balm to my ravaged nerves. No longer do I have to stress out about some lowlife stealing my stuff in broad daylight. Gone are the fascinating conversations detailing the best methods of selling meth held between residents of my former apartment complex. And I would be remiss if I didn't include the disgusting spectacle of two morbidly obese residents trying desperately to fuck each other senseless in the courtyard.

Long story short-- too late, I know-- I am positively jubilant at my long awaited escape from what I now affectionately refer to as the Comcast of cities.

Leveling up or wearing down?

I spent three hours playing Destiny today. It wasn't exciting, or all that interesting; I spent the entire time flying around the same small map, shooting low level Fallen, farming Helium Filaments. Destiny being like every other MMO out there, requires you to spend a lot of time looking for randomly dropped junk to make your weapons and armor better. Which is fine; I didn't buy the game expecting anything less. The fact is, I would be extremely disappointed if I didn't have to waste precious hours upgrading my stuff. Item farming is all a part of the MMO experience, and a mighty step in the goal of leveling up.

I need them. All of them!

We all want to level up. I certainly do.

In a way, I totally understand how some people can withdraw from the world at large, hide in their parents basements well into their 40's, and play video games all day. The thing about video games is, unlike the real world, they have rules. There's a logical progression in a game that's both comforting and oddly therapeutic. That's not to say that video games aren't challenging, or even unfair-- I'm looking at you Ghouls N Ghosts.

"I fight in my underwear because apparently my armor is made of tinfoil."

But video games follow  a certain line of reasoning. In the game world, all of the tedious minutiae and hours of efforts eventually bear fruit. In many games, that sweet, succulent fruit takes the form of level increases.

The formula goes something like this: you spend way too many hours of your rapidly dwindling free time running around killing monsters, picking herbs, and skinning randomly spawning creatures. After you do this enough time, a bright aura not unlike the beauty of a starry night illuminates you, and you find yourself better than you were before. We in the geek culture like to call this leveling up.

If leveling up was a food.

In my experience, my desire to level up is the only thing that the real world and video games share in common. Unfortunately, the paths to that elusive goal diverge sharply. The game has clear, simple rules: Do stuff, gain levels. Easy.

Gaining levels in actual life doesn't work that way, alas. Oh, we are told it does from an early age. Go to school, study hard, get a job, work even harder, and you'll gain epic levels-- the muggles call it "The American Dream" or some such rubbish.

However, as should be evident by anyone who isn't a trust fund baby or a Kardashian, hard work doesn't always equal leveling up and getting ahead. Depressingly more often than not, hard work translates into barely staying afloat. Doggy paddle through the muck, earn enough to pay your rent and bills, and hopefully have some left over for a wee bit of fun.

 I followed all of the rules (the lies) I was told as a youth. I did fairly well in high school, then went off to college, because that's what was supposed to lead to a good job. And yet, after years of school and even more working for a living, what have I to show for it? Certainly not that sweet +3 Longsword or the Cloak of Displacement I've been eyeing since forever. No, I remain a low level worker drone, with nothing in sight but more of the same for the next thirty or forty years, after which I'll retire worn down and used up.

Unlike in a video game, my efforts don't level me up so much as wear me down. I'm thirty two years old, close to thirty three, and while I'm certainly not old yet, I'm beginning to feel like it; I wake up groggy and exhausted, my joints creaking in protest as I stiffly clamber out of bed. There are all sorts of little pops and snaps as I stretch. My stamina bar never seems to hit its peak; it starts out half full, and steadily lowers as the day drags on, until finally I make it home with a thin sliver remaining.

My inner gamer geek screams in futile rage at the pattern; much of my efforts allow me to barely keep my head above water. Whenever I try and surge ahead, even just a little, I seem to get knocked back several steps. It's like advancing deep into an game level, only to die and respawn at the beginning. It's frustrating and exhausting.

"Gee, working is fun!"

Life doesn't play by the rules. There are no rules, as much as we like to pretend there are. Some people are born higher level than others, or have the means to jump ahead. Others are stuck as low level NPC's, doomed to repeat the same line of text over and over and over. As time goes by, I can't help but feel like one of those doomed NPC's.

The only solace I have is that I'm not one of the random mobs spawning in the forests like little juicy bags of xp, waiting for adventurers to kill me off in their own quest to rise in level. Unless you count the 1% as Adventurers, in which case all I have to say is:

"Oh Shit."

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.