Dentist

This weekend has been really boring so far.

I forfeited a Friday night of awful movies and Chinese food for the two-hour drive home to Lebanon. I had scheduled a dentist appointment back in March and had completely forgotten about it until last weekend. I didn't even remember what the appointment was for. I spent the entire drive home worrying that I would show up and the dentist would clasp his hands together and nonchalantly spit out, "Ready for that root canal?"

I've never had a lot of anxiety when visiting doctors or dentists, but my greatest fear is a root canal. I'm not even really sure what a root canal entails, but just the name of it sends me into a panic. Its name isn't friendly.

Root canal. Reading it makes me cringe.

If they utilized some deceptive marketing and called it something else, I might feel differently:

Happy-super-fun-time-with-a-side-of-uncomfortable-pressure procedure.

That makes it sound almost tolerable.

Or, if they called it something vague or complicated:

Extraction and transplantation of nonworking denticle.

I do know some people that have deep-rooted (ha! I'm so punny) irrational fears toward the dentist, though. I remember an episode when I was a teenager where my best friend Kate and I took her 20-something-year-old sister to the dentist. Her sister was having something very minor done and her fear of the dentist is so great, she couldn't even drive her own vehicle there -- I had to drive.

I don't even think we made it inside the building. I think we parked, got about 15 feet away from the door, and turned around and went home. I felt bad for her, but I just couldn't put myself in her shoes or understand what she was going through.

As I sat at home Friday night with my mom, watching her browse eHarmony for a new, rich father for me (because there are so many single, attractive, successful men in the world), I wondered about fears.

Where do they come from?

I can remember one instance from my childhood where I went absolutely bat-shit crazy at a doctor's office. I think I was 6- or 7-years-old. I was getting shots -- standard immunizations I imagine. And I remember that there were several people that had to hold me down so the doctor could inject me.

When I spotted the tray of syringes and vials of liquid, I threw a fit and had somehow acquired the strength of several grown men because my mother and the doctor couldn't subdue me. So another woman came in, and then another, and I think it ended with me kicking some poor innocent lady and screaming at the top of my lungs. I don't know why I went ballistic, but the sight of those needles sent me into a frenzy.

And after it was all done, I was fine. I completely lost my cool for no reason and I felt like a little bastard. Is this a typical childhood reaction, or was I being unreasonable?

And eventually, I thought about what I had done and rationalized that there was nothing to worry about when it came to the doctor.

But why do some people never outgrow these fears? Why do grown, rational adults lose their shit? My friend's sister is really smart and insanely successful, but when it came to that dentist's office she was crippled. Her fear completely hijacked her and transformed her into a child.

I've never really had one of those "novelty" fears: clowns, snakes, spiders, heights, dentists, etc. I feel left out.

And another thing that bothers me is this clown fear. Did everybody just wake up one day with this fear? It seems like the trendy thing to do now and people are just jumping on the bandwagon. Kind of like when being bisexual was cool.

I've encountered so many people in the past few years that are afraid of clowns. Grow the hell up or give up the charade, pansy.

I spent more than a year working at a gay bar and have seen more drag queens than I'd prefer to. A man the size of a linebacker stuffing his balls into pantyhose and applying 2,394,823 layers of Mac makeup is scary -- clowns are nothing.

The rest of my Friday night was spent with my mom who was completely glued to her computer and this really awful show, "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?"

I just need to rant about this show for a minute.

What in the fuck...

Who invented this show? It's a trivia show where the contestant can win $1 million, a la Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

But the questions are selected at random from a pool of facts that children from the 5th grade and lower should know.

Watching some of these people answer questions was hilarious. Watching my mother play along at home was even funnier.

One of the questions was about greek mythology, and asked what the name of the three-headed dog was that guards the underworld.

I think my mom said something like, "I wonder what that dog's name is!?!"

"...Cerberus." I said.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"...I don't know, but that's the answer. And the asshole on T.V. spelled it with an 'S.' What a douche!"

She then asked why I didn't apply for one of these shows and win us an assload of money. I explained to her that the producers of shows like these are out to make money. They need stupid people to come on these shows and win very little money because that's what is profitable.

Also, Jeff Foxworthy hosts this show. Never in a million years...

So, after a rousing night of redneck television and my mother looking for love in all the wrong places, I needed an escape. I retired to my room and transcribed notes from an audio interview for a few hours. It was a fun night.

The next day on the way to the dentist, I thought more about this "fear" theme that was going on in my head. I was hoping there would be interesting people in the waiting room. That's how I pass my time. Most people will read magazines -- I like to read people. I was hoping there would be a crying child or adult so I could have up-close-and-personal observation of this fear thing.

When I got there, I spotted this woman sporting the fiercest mullet I had ever seen and a guy who had very few teeth -- neither of which looked too anxious.

Out of boredom, I constructured this idea in my head that the man was there for dentures more than likely.

The woman was a different story. I couldn't peg her. Besides the fact that she was probably a fan of Nascar.

...and Jeff Foxworthy.

It turns out the woman was there with her husband, brother, boyfriend, whatever; a male companion of some sort. She was sitting there the entire time reading Ladies Home Journal, which I thought was hilarious because she didn't strike me as LHJ's key demographic. Especially with her awesome "Rider" jeans and Tweety Bird T-shirt. Field and Stream magazine seemed much more her speed.

After about five more minutes of waiting, my name was called to come back to one of the rooms.

My root canal theory was squelched when I asked the hygienist, "I'm here for a..." and let her finish the sentence.

"Cleaning and check up," she said.

She seemed like a nice woman, and possibly new because I've never seen her there before. When she opened up her mouth, it was a different story. Her voice was...unusually happy. This woman was too happy. It was frightening. Nobody is that happy.

She had prepped me for oral x-rays to check the status of my wisdom teeth, which have been happily resting in the back of my mouth, with little action happening for the past several years.

While I was reclined in my chair and she was done putting some bite guard thing in my mouth, she draped me with a lead apron and said, "...for a little extra protection from the radiation!!!"

And she said it in this way that just...cut right through me. This woman had just moved from my list of "nice stranger" to "unforgivable asshole."

Bitch, I know what the apron is for. Is what was going through my head.

And I tried to be nice, but what came out of my mouth was just as bitchy.

"You're directing a short beam of radiation directly at my head, and you think my neck is the area I'm worried about?" Except it didn't sound like that. It sounded like I had a bite guard in my mouth.

I always hate dealing with hygienists. They somehow think that small talk must come into play when dealing with patients. And without fail, this chit chat always occurs when they're wrist-deep in your mouth.

After the x-rays, she got to scraping and cleaning my teeth.

"So, are you a student?" she asked.

I gave her a thumbs up, since nodding and speaking wasn't an option.

"Where do you go?" she followed up.

I thought about what it would take to get this bitch to shut up. What was I supposed to do to answer this question? There's no easy or simple way to mime Penn State. And I couldn't pretend as if I didn't hear her, because I just gave her a thumbs up to the last question. She tossed out the line and I took the bait. There was no going back, so I threw her a bone.

"Pwlenn Schtate" I half-assed.

"Oh, cool. I had friends that went there," she answered, still scraping and polishing my teeth.

Everybody has friends that went there. Is what I thought.

But I just tried to smile with my eyes and said, "Cool."

Then she went on to tell me some story about her children. I started to zone out. I hate when strangers tell you stories about their children. It's just bad etiquette to assume that people give a shit.

So, after she was done poking and prodding in my mouth, she gave me a little plastic bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste and floss.

Does it bother anybody else that the bag says, "Smiles" instead of "Smile"? It seems like the bag would be directed at the person holding it. "Smiles" is third-person singular. If the bag were speaking (let's pretend), it would be talking to you. You smile, not he, she or it smiles.

It was a nice gesture, but I tried to give it back to her.

"I'm more of a Crest kind of guy," I said. "And, I already have a toothbrush, toothpaste and floss at home. Just keep this for somebody else."

"Oh, that's fine, just keep it, you never know when you'll need it," she said.

BITCH! You're not listening! I don't need this crap! Is what I wanted to say.

She wasn't budging, so I just complied and said, "Okay, thanks."

I've learned that a little diplomacy goes a long way.

Then, she went and retrieved my x-rays and tried to convince me that I needed to get my wisdom teeth removed.

I feel kind of fortunate that I don't need to get them removed. They've essentially stopped developing and are resting in the back of my jaw, kind of closed in by my jaw line, which grew over them.

It's hard to explain without a photo, but suffice it to say I'm fine.

But this hygienist kept going on about how I should get them removed so they don't cause problems later on in life.

"But later on in life they could absess or become infected," she said, with the same intonation that many Republican lawmakers use in those "doom and gloom" scenarios.

"But I don't really feel like having my jaw broken to remove four teeth that aren't bothering me right now and probably won't in the future. The doctor has already told me I'd more than likely be fine," I replied.

"It just worries me; I've seen a lot of people who think they're fine but end up with problems," she shot back.

This bitch was getting on my nerves...

I thought she was going to pull out an antiquated film strip from the 60s that illustrated "when wisdom teeth go bad!"

You know the type of video.

Like those ones they showed you in high school health class, where the two naive teenagers are at "makeout point" and give into their "urges." And then almost immediately, the video cuts to a scene of their graves, side by side.

Here lies John and Jane. They couldn't keep it in their pants and as a result of their sinful premarital fornication, they died.

I decided that this woman was a little too thick for civility and finesse. I needed to be more direct.

"Look, I'm not going to take time out of my schedule for an unnecessary surgery that will set me back a few days. Break my jaw to extract four teeth? No thanks! I'm fine. Thanks for cleaning my teeth."

So, then she bowed out and told me the doctor would be in to check me out.

I love my dentist. He's the coolest old guy ever. He has to be in his late 60s now, at least. I've been going to him since I was 12-years-old. He's seen my teeth through five years of painful orthodontics and one or two cavities. He just seems like the type of person you'd want to have a beer with and talk about politics. I feel like we understand each other.

So, when Dr. Daugherty comes in, he inspects my mouth, compares my past three x-rays and says, "There seems to be no development going on with your wisdom teeth. I don't see any need to remove them."

"If it isn't broke..." I said.

"...don't fix it," he finished.

Dreams

I've always been fascinated with the subconscious and dreams. Ever since I was little, I would have the weirdest, most elaborate dreams. Sometimes good, sometimes awful.

When I was younger, around age four or five, I would rest my head on my pillow and fall asleep listening to my pulse. The pressure of my pulse in my temples would resonate throughout my pillow and create this faint rhythmic sound. It was pleasant -- kind of like my form of counting sheep. But the image that I associated with this sound was horrifying to me as a child.

I would close my eyes and listen to this, imagining an army of tiny "sandmen" were marching to the beat of my pulse. I somehow convinced myself that I needed to fall asleep before these sandmen made it to my room. I don't know what initially created this correlation, but like I said several posts earlier -- I'm weird. I don't know why my brain operates the way it does.

But it was around this age when my mind truly started to wander right before bed. I've never had an easy time falling asleep, even as a young child. I have this problem of what I call "Wikipedia syndrome" where your mind will think about one topic, and then you'll link to another topic, and then you'll think about another topic, and so on.

The fun part of this is always trying to retrace your steps and remember what you were initially thinking about. Kind of like, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, 86 the bacon.

Another problem I have when falling asleep is my breathing will sometimes pause for extended periods. I know this because my mother told me. I don't know what is worse though: the fact that my breathing sometimes stops, or the fact that my mother has observed my sleeping patterns. Creepy.

But anyway, the constant mind racing has always been a big part of my falling asleep ritual; after a busy day, your mind just tries to decompress. You revisit things throughout the day and think about how it affects yourself or others.

I think we all have our little systems for handling stress and our own mechanism for decompression, and I think I need a new outlet. The right-before-bed thing just eats up too much of my time.

I keep all of my thoughts tucked away in the back of my mind all day, constantly trying to focus on the "here and now." The time I spend revisiting trivial things that I need to do is always right before I fall asleep, when I'm in bed, in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, cursing my mind for not dealing with stuff earlier at a more appropriate time in the day.

I need to write that paper!
Did I put my toothbrush back on the charger?
I should do laundry!
Where did that piece of tape on the ceiling come from?
I like the way this fabric softener smells.
I need to print out notes for tomorrow.
Ugh! I need to pee.
That segment on naked mole rats on the Discovery channel was interesting.
My cuticles look like hell! Why do I bite my finger nails? >At this point, my fingers would be in my mouth and I'd be biting my nails.< How could I approach this story assignment?
What are some sources I could contact?
Oh, here's a great idea! >At this point, I would grab the nearest notebook and write something down.< That was really interesting what ______ said today.

Today around 5 p.m., since my mind has been on overload lately, I decided to take a nap. I didn't have that time to decompress and, amazingly, I passed out almost immediately.

But the subsequent dream was familiar and one of those repeat or déjà vu dreams. It was full of references to stuff I would normally have thought of during my normal falling asleep ritual -- all the crap I would push out of my head before I pass out. I've been trying to piece it together, but I still can't figure it out.

I was at a party at my old apartment back in Harrisburg (6664 Terrace Way, Apt A, Harrisburg) where I lived more than two years ago. It was my apartment, but the layout was completely different. I was with my old roommate Kristie, and she was the only familiar person in my dream.

So, she and I were at a house party, everybody was having fun, the music was loud and everybody was drinking and talking and having a good time. I was with a crowd of people in the living room which was right outside of the kitchen. But for whatever reason, I couldn't make it to the kitchen, which had this red glow emanating from behind and underneath the door.

I desperately wanted to reach the kitchen, but couldn't. I wanted to know where this red light was coming from. And the one attempt at making a dash for the kitchen door was shot down because some force lifted me off the ground and pushed me up into the opposite corner, where I remained for the rest of the dream.

This was the familiar part of the dream. I've had this recurring dream where I will be doing something completely normal and then out of the blue, I get lifted up into the air and I can't get down. I can kind of control my direction, but I keep getting lifted higher and higher and I can never reach the ground again.

But while all of this was going on -- being lifted off the ground by some invisible force and pushed into a back corner -- nobody budged or noticed. Nobody thought it was weird that I had floated through the air and was suspended in a back corner.

Another weird aspect of the dream was that I was resting midair on some sort of narrow force that extended from the back of my head down to the small of my back. I felt as if I were going to fall one way or the other and I constantly had to shift my weight and had a difficult time keeping my balance.

I can remember I shouted to the rest of the people in the room:

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! THERE'S SOMETHING RUNNING FROM THE BACK OF MY HEAD TO MY ASS!"

But nobody stopped what they were doing.

The one person that thought it was weird was this girl who I know in my dreams, but can't pinpoint in real life. I say I "know" her because she's been in several dreams I've had before. She and I were coworkers at some restaurant that I worked at in another dream. She was also at some awards ceremony in another dream.

She has red hair, which I think is weird because I honestly don't know any red heads. The more I think about it, she sort of reminds me of the girl from "Strangers with Candy." The one that Jerri always calls "Red."

Anyway, she had entered the living room from the kitchen after I shouted. She was looking around, locked her eyes on me and let out this earth-shattering scream.

While she was still screaming, she looked at me with this awful contorted face of horror (think Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" music video). It was really surreal. Like her face had gotten really large and then began to melt, like one of those Salvador Dali paintings. I was freaked out.

I didn't know what was so scary about me being stuffed into a corner, but at that moment, I had this astral projection type of thing happen, and I could see myself. There was no invisible force that had kept me in the air. I had the narrow edge of a 2x4 nailed into the back of my head, with nails running down its entire length, straight through the board into my flesh. It was...disgusting.

And right after that, I woke up.

I still don't know exactly what it means, but it was one of the more unusual dreams I've had in a long time.

The good thing is I keep a notebook within an arm's reach of my bed, so I can write down all the details of most dreams upon waking up.

I think the dream could have something to do with the entomology course I'm taking this semester.

Today we discussed the organ system of insects and how their "heart" runs on the dorsal side of their bodies from their heads to their rectum.

The professor had also mentioned "pinning" insects several times for display.

The bad thing is, this class really interests me. I should probably start zoning out and using class time for decompression, because I don't think I can handle another dream like that in the near future.

Damn you, bug science!

Back to business

Wow... it's been a while since I've updated.

Since my last post I have:

• Gone home to Lebanon, Pa.
• Visited with a few friends.
• Hit my quota of mom time I can handle; I'm good until Christmas now.
  
• Not had enough time to visit with friends.
• Returned to my apartment in State College.
• Made it through the first two "syllabus days," which means it's time for actual work to begin.

Let's start...at the beginning.

A week ago exactly, around this time (10:20 p.m.) I had finished getting my car packed up and was driving out of Charleston. The drive usually takes six to seven hours, but somehow, I found a way to stretch it into almost nine.

Let me preface this by saying that I got lost...AND I have a GPS on my phone. How lame is that?

Charleston has two highways that run through it, I-77 and I-79. I had made the drive home multiple times over the summer and thought I knew exactly where I was going.

It was a pride thing for me to try and find my way home without directions.

It was a total lapse of judgment and I was having one of those "Clark Griswold" moments, determined to embrace the open road and all of its shenanigans.

I feel like I rely too much on my phone to get around, and decided to test my internal GPS. Which told me to take I-77 north.

...or was it I-79 north.

FUCK! I can't even remember now.

Either way, I took the wrong highway and didn't realize I was going the wrong way until about 40 miles into my travels. Talk about embarrassing. And it was one of those embarrassing moments where you're alone, you know you're alone, yet you still look around the car and road to see if anybody is pointing and laughing at you.

So, I turned around and spotted a nondescript off-ramp gas station -- like the kind you see in slasher flicks. I figured they probably had coffee and I needed to fill up my tank, anyway.

The entire scenario was weird. It was just me, the lonely pump and a dilapidated building. From the outside, this building--the convenience store, if you will--looked like it housed two things:

1.) food stuffs and products from the Nixon era
2.) an angry store clerk I imagined had posted a sign on the door that read something incredibly narrow-minded, like, "GO HOME IF YOUR NOT WHITE, CHRISTIAN AND STRAIGHT!"

And of course, the sign would have used "your" instead of "you're." It's more fun like that in my head.

I didn't see anything on the door, but the guy did look disgruntled from the outside. My "remember, not all folks act kindly toward gay people" sense was tingling.

I was just glad the pump was equipped with a credit card slot so I could spare myself the trouble and pay there.

I was going to go inside and grab a cup of coffee, but I was in these comfy pink-plaid shorts, solid pink shirt, and flip flops -- because pink is such a macho color and very fetching for West Virginia.

I figured I'd save both myself and the clerk a lot of anxiety and just get on without caffeine for the next few miles. From my string of run-ins with people in West Virginia all summer, I could spot this situation turning ugly from a mile away.

I don't know how many times I've been asked to my face, "You're not from 'round here, are ya?"

I had a happy departure at work that evening and wanted to keep that energy going.

So here I was, saddled with frustration and sleepiness and I still had about 400 miles to travel.

Oh yeah, and I had just traveled 40 miles in the wrong direction.

Super duper.

It wasn't that fun of a drive, which was made more miserable by my teeny-tiny bladder.

Because of my caffeine lust, which I chose to satisfy with lots and lots of coffee, I had to stop every 45-60 miles to pee.

I finally made it home around 7 a.m., right as my mom was halfway through her morning routine for work.

I was tired, but still very shaky, resembling the alertness and cat-like reflexes of a crackhead because I had consumed a lethal dose of caffeine.

My bags filled my car...and I mean literally filled my car. I didn't want to let them bake in my car all day, so I decided to move them from my car, down our driveway, and to the sun room (it's air conditioned).

My room is on the second floor, and I really didn't feel like lugging that much crap up a flight of stairs. I don't travel light by any stretch of the imagination.

Here's a photo of what I initially took down to Charleston with me.
Three full suitcases, three trash bags -- because I ran out of suitcases, two crates full of shoes and belts, a laptop bag, multiple books in another backpack -- and plenty of spillover books, and a bag packed with copy desk items (HUGE dictionary, AP stylebook, Working with Words book, The Elements of Style, two steno notepads, highlighters, pens, etc.)

It was just easier to half-ass it and live out of a suitcase for a few days. Plus, leaving all of my stuff in the sun room meant that my stuff was a lot closer to my car when it was time to come back to State College.

Just as I had finished carrying all of my stuff into the sun room, my mother comes out of nowhere and says, "You need to carry your stuff upstairs."

There was no, "How are you? How was the drive? I bet you're tired, let me do motherly things, like make breakfast!"

I asked her why I needed to carry all this crap upstairs, especially after just driving all night.

Her response: "This is the cat's room now."

Cat? What fucking cat? We have a cat?!

...I guess my absence this summer prompted my mother to get a cat. I felt sort of replaced. I, along with 8,394,823 lbs of my luggage, were being told to scoot for some 12-week old kitten.

I have this sneaking suspicion that my mother is slowly evolving into a lesbian and doesn't even realize it. That, or she's having some kind of midlife crisis.

Last year, she bought a brand-spanking-new Harley and got it all decked out and customized to accommodate her tiny stature (she's 4'11"). This year, she purchases a cat. Next year, I'm speculating something dramatic, like cosmetic surgery or some new lifestyle. Like, she'll adopt yoga or pilates and make it her mantra.

But back to the cat. He and I didn't exactly understand each other at first.

He would stare at me like, Yo, bitch, back off my kool-aid!

And I would stare at him like, ...I wonder if she'd notice if you "ran away"?

Despite him completely bogarting my resources and draining money out of my mom that I could be using for rent, he is really fucking cute. His name is PJ, but I usually just call him "Cat" or "Hey, Shithead!"

Here are a few pictures of him.
Here he is standing on my laptop.

And again. He was pissed off I wasn't giving him attention, I think.



Sorry for the crappy quality. These were taken with my iPhone, and my hands are about as steady as an epileptic in a disco.
PJ, totally tangled in a yarn-type toy in the kitchen.

We settled our differences and I decided to give him a shot after I saw how scampish he was. He bites at anything that moves and constantly wants to play fight. I could borderline torment him, and he loves it. We get along great.

My time at home flew by so quickly. And my mother seemed to want to capitalize on a lot of it.

She and I went shopping Thursday for business casual clothes for my upcoming journalism convention in Montreal.

We went around to a few places, and for dinner she asked me where I wanted to go eat. I told her, "CPD."

She had no idea what it meant, and it didn't even dawn on me that "Colonial Park Diner" isn't referred to as "CPD" by anybody except for my circle of homos and fag hags back home.

When I explained to her what Colonial Park Diner was, her face sank a little.

I think she said something to the effect of, "seriously? a diner? ......why?"

My mom is kind of pretentious about stuff like that. I think a bit of it has rubbed off on me. I'm not a snob, I'm just a product of my environment. I blame her.

In fact, my entire family is like that about certain things. We're not like ridiculously wealthy or anything, but my family is all about "quality." Or their perspective of it.

My mother can only use certain product brands, and I think it's more "brand loyalty" than anything else.

Growing up, and to this day, my mother only uses certain brands:

• Tide for laundry detergent.
• Downy for fabric softener
• Kraft for mayo
• Heinz for ketchup
• Palmolive (eww...) for dish soap
• Pantene for shampoo
• Stewarts for root bear
• Maxwell House for coffee
• COCA COLA -- not Pepsi

There are a lot more that I can't think of, but the point is my mother is just...weird. She only uses certain things and totally turns her nose up at anything outside the box.

When I told her "Colonial Park Diner" she acted like I said "The Dog Shit and Curry Buffet!"

Her reaction was...priceless.

The humor is compounded by the fact that her FAVORITE restaurant is this shitty little diner in Lebanon called "Heisey's," which is an old-school diner front that resembles a trailer. You know the kind I'm talking about.

Anyway, over dinner, we were talking about different things and she asked me what I had planned for March.

I looked at her and said, "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing tomorrow? How the hell would I know what I'm doing in March?"

||Sidenote: We never had rules regarding language growing up. We had free rein to express ourselves however we felt fit, but were always told to keep it to ourselves in public. It really took the novelty out of words like 'fuck' but I still use it in my everyday syntax, especially around my mother, who uses it probably as much, if not more, than I do.||

After grilling me about the fine details of what I was doing in March, she turned to me and said, "Well, I'm going on a singles' cruise and I don't want to go alone, so you're going with me. I need to make the deposit this week."

To which I replied, "I'll go, but just know that there will be NO MEN on this cruise. It's going to be all 40-something-year-old women and their gay sons. All the 40-something-year-old men are married to 20-something-year-old women. Also, if you want to hook a man, you may want to tighten up those thighs...and put down that burger."

We have a really loving relationship. Most people are astounded by how open my mother and I are to each other. It's not a lack of respect. I actually think it's the complete opposite.

We're weird people.

One of the great things about going home is meeting up with old friends. Especially when you can just get together, even after not seeing each other for months, and you feel like you never skipped a beat.

I hung out with my friend Nichole for a little bit while I was home, and it was awesome. I missed her. She's a bit more ridiculous than I am about certain things, and vice versa. We make each other look sensible, which is no easy task.

Nichole and I went to Park City one day because her iPhone case was jacked and she needed to hit up the Apple store. I needed to get a few last articles of business casual attire.

When she got to my place, we had that tug-of-war about who would drive.

I always want to drive when I'm with Nichole, because her driving is erratic, and she always brakes WAY TOO LATE.

There were at least four or five instances on the way to Park City (about 20 miles from my house) when I had to yell, "BRAKE NICHOLE, FUCKING BRAKE!!"

Whenever I shouted this, she did her goofy Northeastern Pennsylvania Laugh and said, "You're ridiculous!"

After shopping, she lamented about the MOUNDS AND MOUNDS of laundry she had to do and how her schedule was totally packed and she didn't have time to do it at home. She asked if I wanted to go with her to the sketchy laundromat in Harrisburg, Round the Clock Laundromat. I reluctantly said "sure..." knowing that this would turn into an all-night affair and I wouldn't get home until well after midnight.

We went back to her place, she dicked around for 20 minutes, and finally gathered all of her laundry.

...in two small laundry baskets.

In my mind, I just thought, "This is MOUNDS AND MOUNDS of laundry??? Really?"

But I just went with the flow, knowing that some sort of adventure would occur.

We're en route to the laundromat, and Nichole is frantically searching for her iPhone because it was absolutely necessary that she sent a text at that very minute as she was barreling ass down Route 22.

She can't find her phone, so we pull into Dunkin Donuts to get coffee. She then asks me to call her roommate Jamie (Me Blog U Long Time -- It's his blog, check it out) and ask him to look for her phone.

Jamie finds the phone, and then I have to ask him for a number. The number of Nichole's new beau.

So then, after getting the number, Nichole asks to use my phone to send him a text, to see if we can stop by his work.

I say, "sure" and surrender my phone.

I used the word "surrender" because I didn't see my phone for the rest of the night.

So, she's texting her man and we're sitting at the laundromat and she asks if I want to go with her to visit him while her clothing is drying.

I give in, and we get on the highway, on our way to meet her guy.

We stopped to get coffee, and in true Nichole fashion, she ended up knocking her coffee over, spilling it all over the floor. I have a picture of her cleaning it up. If you know Nichole, you will appreciate this. She's notoriously messy.


Finally, we meet her guy, who looked really familiar. I'm still not sure where I would know him from. I'd write more about him, but Nichole's a pretty private person, and I don't think I'm privy to tell too much about him.

So, my adventures at home were fun and completely typical for me.

But I could not be happier to be back in State College.

I'm really excited about this semester, because I have so many exciting projects happening. This really is going to be the best year ever.

I'll keep you bitches posted on the latest!

But now, I need to finish an assignment and sleep.

Oh, Lebanon...

...you silly town

I was a little pensive about writing an entry about this, but, here I am, finding myself so disappointed that I must.

HEALTH CARE!!!

Earlier this week, my hometown made national news because of some unruly outbursts during a town hall meeting in which Sen. Arlen Specter was discussing health-care reform.

This is a really contentious topic for a lot of Americans, so much in fact, that there really seems to be no gray area. The topic has polarized our country, which is evident from the videos of the town hall coverage posted on CNN, Larry King, New York Times, etc.

If you need a refresher, here are some links:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/12/health/policy/12townhall.html?_r=1
http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/politics/2009/08/11/sot.specter.town.hall.cnn.html
http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/politics/2009/08/11/sot.specter.questions.cnn.html

In the last video, around the five minute mark, Specter is fielding a question from a woman who says that she is furious at the systematic dismantling of our country and constitution.

In his remarks to the woman, which are a little jumbled (c'mon, Specter is getting old, give him a break, he's allowed to ramble) he says this:

"In our social compact, we have a provision to see to it that we take care of people who need some help."

To which the woman replies:

"But the good hearts of the people will do that -- not the government!"

This mentality just pisses me off to no end.

The good hearts of the people will do that? Blow me.

A broken system...

Health-care reform needs to happen. It's needed to happen for quite some time. I feel--and you should, too--such a great personal investment in the outcome of health-care reform. No matter which side of the aisle you sit on.

Growing up, I've had multiple issues with my health. I've visited so many doctors and been in so many waiting rooms, I actually developed a bit of a routine which most often involved me scouring the magazine rack or pile for the latest issue of Highlights magazine. I'd find a chair, sit down and do those little "hidden picture within the picture" things until my eyes went cross.

But anyway, back to the medical stuff.

I was born with Transient erythroblastopenia of childhood. It's basically just a decrease of red blood cells that your body naturally produces. It's not a huge deal, but I had to get blood transfusions from my father (we have the same blood type, but don't ask me what type it is) and was put on a regimen of steroids and some other medicine when I was a few months old.

When I was six, I was diagnosed with Legg–Calvé–Perthes Disease. It's a rare degenerative bone disease that affects the ball-and-socket joint of the hip. It affects something like, 4 out of 100,000 children. Something causes a lack of blood flow to the hip region, which leads to the bones not developing as quickly as the child. Ergo I was doing activities of a typical 6-year-old--running around on the playground, random gymnastic type crap, beating the hell out of my body--but my bones were only as developed as say, a 3-year-old.

The onset of the disease probably happened when I was four or five, and my bone specialist suspected that the TEC played a role in my bone development.

How I found out about the LCPD was by playing on the playground one afternoon with my family.

My sister and I were on the merry-go-round, and my father was spinning us around. It was one of those synergystic things where we would shout, "SPIN FASTER!!" and he'd huff and puff, turning the merry-go-round like a madman. We just fed off of each other's energy.

Well, I've always been a little clumsy, and I got brave and decided to try and move toward the outside of the merry-go-round and hang off the side (I didn't understand the delicate law of centrifugal force yet) and ended up getting thrown from the merry-go-round...because I'm awesome and have the coordination of an elephant on oxy.

I landed on my right side after I fell off, some five or six feet away from the merry-go-round. It hurt, a lot, way more than I thought it should. The only thing I can really remember was this hollow, throbbing pain.

I picked myself up, my parents checked to make sure I hadn't died, and we thought all was well.

The next day, I couldn't move. I woke up with a bruise that extended from just underneath my armpit down to the middle of my thigh. I've always been a bit of a "softy" but my parents knew this wasn't normal. Kids are meant to take a bit of a beating; I on the other hand, had bruised like a geriatric.

They took me to the family doctor, who didn't really know what to do.

Somehow along the line, we got referred to a bone specialist, Dr. Clark, at the Hershey Medical Center. We made an appointment, I went there, they ran some tests, and the doctor suspected I had LCPD.

I was scared, I didn't know what was going to happen, but that day, we made another appointment for me to come in and do some physical tests to measure my mobility and try to gauge the severity of the situation.

After a lot of poking and prodding, catscans and x-rays, the consensus was: Your hip is fucked up, kid.

I don't remember how many surgeries I went through (there are four that I can distinctly remember where I had to be 'put under') but I had a tendon cut, right hip bone repositioned, some sort of localized injections(steroids I suspect) and went through physical therapy to learn how to walk again.

I started off in a wheelchair, then moved to crutches, then moved to wearing leg braces for about 18 months. The leg braces were these ankle-to-hip length leather things, that laced up from bottom to top. There were two metal bars soldered to the inside of each leg, to keep my legs completely immobile and stretched apart. I can't really think of how else to describe them. I'll have to find photos.

But anyway, back to the health-care reform.

As a result of all this necessary--but really scary--surgery, my parents found themselves CRUSHED under a pile of medical bills. And my father had excellent insurance. He worked FOR the hospital for Christ's sake. I never once thought the treatment I was receiving was some sort of "luxury" and at the time, I thought that everybody's parents had decent jobs and could visit the doctor as often as I had.

But times got tough. My father's insurance company, Blue Cross Blue Shield (it used to be called something different) would only cover up to a certain amount. My medical bills exceeded $300,000, leaving my parents scratching their heads and wondering: "How in the hell...?"

Even with cutting back and switching from everything name-brand to no-brand, trimming the budget, selling one of the cars, consolidating our lives to the very essence of BARELY getting by, they ultimately had to file bankruptcy. This was in 1994.

It sucks, and I know my needs helped put them in in that "rock and a hard place" situation. And I know they don't hold any sort of resentment or anger; they're my parents, they'd move the world for me if I needed them to. But it's just a shitty situation. Especially considering we had insurance, fantastic insurance.

Even now, with no real "symptoms" still present, the disease always lingers in the back of my mind. People with LCPD are very susceptible to developing arthritis at a young age.

And now, my younger cousin Katie has been diagnosed with Lupus. She sees doctors constantly and undergoes many, many treatments. When I visit my aunt's house, sometimes her energy is so sapped that she just stays in bed. Other times, good days when her immune system isn't being a bastard, she joins us and laughs at all my stupid jokes.

But now her family is in a similar situation. And her family does quite well. And they have health insurance. But where does this end? Are they going to become so swelled with medical bills, or treatments that the insurance company doesn't deem as "necessary" and throw that burden on my aunt and uncle?

Fuck that.

And what happens if--God forbid--one of her parents dies in the next few years? Or if she would go to apply for insurance on her own? Would she get denied because she has a pre-existing condition?

Again, fuck that.

If all my cousin and I had to fall back on was the "goodness of people's hearts" I'd probably be crippled and she'd probably be dead.

Medical conditions pop up when you least expect them to. My parents were prepared to raise three children, but as the old adage goes, "Shit happens." They would have given up anything to make sure I could walk and have mobility, but going to the poor house is a bit extreme.

Anwyay, I'm really starting to ramble. I need to get showered for work.

Bleh.

If you're bored, and have a few minutes, READ THE BILL!! I'm tired of people bitching and misconstruing what this bill is about. Literacy is so important, and the materials are out there for you to read.

This is a link to the House version of the proposed bill.

It's a lot to take in, but if you really are concerned about this, and not just bitching because this is a "right or left," "blue or red," "democrat or republican" thing, then educate yourself and know what the bill is about before you dismiss it.

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h3200/text

I am a lobster...

...is your face supposed to be that red?

Today was a pretty unproductive day that I spent by the pool. I wrote a little bit in the morning, did some reading, studied a bit for the GRE and then treated myself to a day of relaxation poolside.

The place at which I'm living this summer has access to two swimming pools; I've spent the majority of my time cooped up indoors between work and home, so I figured it was about time I took advantage of the fortuitous situation in which I'd been placed.

I went and bought some suntan lotion at Wal Mart early in the afternoon. This Wal Mart excursion, like many other instances in my life, was rife with me asking that age-old question:

"Are you fucking serious?"

While I was browsing the plethora of suntan products available, I noticed something odd. The lotions either had a really low SPF or high SPF. There was no middle-of-the-road choice.

Growing up, as far as I can remember, suntan lotion came in few varieties -- SPF 15 or 30. And you bought either Banana Boat or Coppertone, which had that terrier looking mutt pulling the bottom piece off of that little girl. Creepy.

At Wal Mart today, there were SPF 4, 6, 12, 45, 50, 75, 80, 100, 100 +.

I was on the phone with my friend Bry at the time, and I stopped her mid-sentence and asked, "Why would a person need SPF 100 plus?"

I was trying to think of a situation that might warrant the need for SPF 100 +, a situation wherein SPF 80 or 100 would possibly fail and I'd have that extra 20 or 20 + as a safety net.

Is this an indicative of how bad our ozone layer is getting? Or is this another instance of some crazy, over-protective mother writing angry letters to Coppertone and demanding more coverage for her child?

I could just imagine some stay-at-home mom, hair in curlers, sitting at the kitchen table with a big box full of "sub-par" products and a spool of paper, her hand scribbling in an angry rage:

Dear Coppertone Bastards,

I FOUND A FRECKLE ON MY CHILD!! MY CHILD IS GOING TO GET SKIN CANCER!! WE MOTHERS DEMAND MORE SPF!!

Thank You,

Angry Mother

...and then, of course, she'd sign it with a smiley face or something. Just to prove that she wasn't that big of a bitch.

As I stood in the aisle, wracked with unanswered questions, trying to decide if I wanted to risk it all and take the 100 SPF rather than the 100 +, I came to my senses and thought:

Hey asshole, you're trying to get a tan. Go grab some cooking oil and let's get the hell out of here.

I opted for the SPF 4.

To me, the SPF 4 bottle subtley said, "Hey guy, don't worry, I got this. I won't let you burn completely, just make you dark. You'll look like an islander when I'm done with you."

And, in my mind, the voice I heard belonged to that of a Jamaican man. So, of course I had to believe him. Who was I to know anything about the sun? Now Jamaicans -- they know the sun!

So, after the bottle of Hawaiian Tropic was done "spitting game" at me, I picked it up from the shelf and made my purchase. Assuring myself the entire time that I had nothing to worry about.

So, when I got home, I stripped down, got in my bathing suit and oiled up. (I know what you're thinking, but I'll stop. This is getting you so hot right now, right?)

So, the oiling of self is finished and I grabbed my towel, phone, cigarettes and my newest book purchase, "I'm Down" and head for the pool.

By this point, it was about 12:30 p.m. The sun was bright and high in the sky.

This is perfect! I thought.

I went and threw my towel out on the cement next to the pool and set up shop.

I arranged myself like the Vitruvian Man, face pointed upward, and took in all the photon goodness the sun had to offer.

Ahh, this is nice... I thought.

It didn't take long for the sweat to start gushing out of my pores because today was quite the scorcher.

Every 10 minutes or so I made sure to turn my body, for that evenly cooked appearance.

After about an hour of controlled turning, I decided to take a dip in the pool. I was roasting by this point and needed to cool off.

I still felt good by this point.

Why haven't I been doing this all summer? This is great! I thought.

And then, I got out of the pool and crawled back onto my towel, feeling a sense of calm.

And before I knew it... I felt calmer. Things were starting to quiet down.

My mind started to wander. The tickle of the sun on my skin facilitated happy thoughts.

And before I knew it, or could help it...

...I fell asleep.

I woke up more than an hour later, still facing the sun.

This wasn't a pleasant rise-and-shine awakening, where you sit up, stretch out your arms and feel good about yourself.

This was horrible-excruciating-pain awakening. Worsened by the fact that instead of the sun beating down on me, a storm had rolled in and rain was smacking my medium-well skin.

Every drop that hit me felt like a razor blade, just slicing my skin open.

I sat up really fast, with my arms extended in front of me like some fucked up creature created by Dr. Frankenstein.

I turned around, not wanting to manipulate my skin in any way that would cause pain, and quickly gathered my things and got the hell out of Dodge.

I cannot even describe the pain I'm in right now. I feel...cooked.

...In the morning I'm finding out who that mother is that writes these angry letters to companies, and I'm sending her a fruit basket.

One page...

...to sum it all up.

Today I was working more on my Fulbright Scholarship application package. It's' an extremely thorough process, which includes an online application, research/study proposal, references, detailed schedule/itinerary and a personal statement.

The statement is pegged on the Fulbright Web site as a "narrative giving a picture of you as an individual."

The statement is limited to one typed, single-spaced page, using Times Roman pt 12 font.

I normally love to write. I think it's one of the few things I can do well. But, I absolutely hate doing things like this with such confined parameters. How in the world am I going to sell myself and stand out among a pool of about 2,000 (or more) applicants? How do you make that "hard sell" in roughly 400 to 500 words?

The country to which I'm applying, the United Kingdom, is the most competitive, receiving between 700 to 800 applicants each year. Of those applicants, there are spots for about 20 scholarships.

Rough estimate/rough reality -- one in 40 applicants is chosen.

Also, the specific scholarship I'm applying for only has one recipient. So, my odds are completely dependent upon how many applicants that specific scholarship receives. Here's hoping the applicant pool is low! It's a program designed specifically for those interested in journalism.

::crosses fingers::

...no pressure.

So, I've been agonizing for several days, trying to structure a statement that has character, purpose, theme, clarity and a solid approach.

There are three I've written that I'm quite proud of, each hitting on major points in my life. Three points which I believe have helped mold me into the student and person I am today; none of which I can make a firm decision to stand behind 100 percent.

The key to standing out among a large pool of equally qualified candidates is to play off of your life experiences, not so much your academics -- your resume is for that.

We've all taken similar classes, similar internships, but the thing that makes all of our experiences different is how we've treated this game of life.

That's where things like character and integrity come into the picture.

The three "gimmicks" that appear in my statements in no particular order are:

• My personal struggle with dropping out of high school my senior year and prevailing, making it into a good university and positioning myself as a top student in my major. Hinting at my determination, dignity, character and tenacity.
• My ability for adaptation, as exemplified in taking on new challenges and work in some of my classes. Hinting at my ability to manage my time and ration myself when I was already spread pretty thin.
• Growing up as a minority in rural land, Pa. This route illustrates a blend of the high school thing with the adaptation thing. It helps to define my moral attributes.
  

This is difficult to do in one page -- especially for a person who is so "Type A" like I am.

.....stresssssssssssssssssssssed

I'll write more later. I need to stop thinking for a while.

Another Pleasant Valley Sunday

The usual suspect...

This morning when I woke up, it was my pretty standard routine:

• Hit snooze a handful of times.
• Rolled around trying to find that "just right" position I was previously in.
• Once I found that position, I curled up into a ball and yanked the blankets up over my head. So much in a way that I no longer resembled a human, but this khaki, fuzzy blanket creature from the planet "Go Away-ulon."
• Pried one eye open just long enough to greet Mr. Sunshine (who can be a real asshole, more often than not.)
• Swatted my arm around my bed to look for my phone.
• Grabbed my phone, checked it for messages and dragged my tired, zombie-like ass outside for that first morning cigarette.

The last thing I do in every getting-up ritual is always the same -- no matter where I am, no matter whom I am with.

I always have that "need" to reach for my phone and immediately have a cigarette.

Is this merely a pattern? Or am I some sort of tech/nicotine junkie that has lost control and should call the Betty Ford clinic for smokers with iPhones?

Should we feel happy that we've developed such a familiar routine to help coax ourselves to reality and responsibility every morning?

Or should we feel sad that our routine has become so predictable...

...we could do it in our sleep?

Tethered...

This is the standard procedure for me to get up in the morning, and I don't think much about it while I'm in the act.

But now that I've had my eight hours, and some coffee is running through my system, the larger question is... am I in a very co-dependent relationship with my phone?

I'm going to use some Magic-8 Ball wisdom and say, "All signs point to 'yes.' "

My phone never leaves my sight. Granted, it's an iPhone, and if you have one, you can totally relate to my situation. It's a cool fucking phone!

There isn't anything the iPhone can't do for me. I check my e-mail incessantly, I check facebook around the clock, I check up on friends that are connected via certain applications. It feels a little "Big Brother" sometimes, though. But I can't get enough of it.

And although the iPhone is possibly my favorite purchase ever, it also is a magnet for shame and embarassment from time to time.

Luddite... or Bed me -- I have a HUGE...vocabulary

I was out on a date here about a month ago with a guy. We'll call him, "Mr. G."

Mr. G had and I had decided that we were going to go out for drinks one night and get to know each other.

When I told this guy what kind of work I was in, and the degree I was pursuing, he seemed to almost switch into this walking dictionary.

The typical first-date conversation went on, and I don't quite remember how we got on the topic of it, but he referred to himself as a "Luddite."

He was dusting off proper vernacular that hasn't been in common usage for ages, and tossing around a bunch of $10 words. Half of me thinks he was trying to impress me, the other half thinks he was just a showoff, hoping that by using a big word, it'd somehow translate into sex...I don't know?

Anyway, when he referred to himself as a Luddite, I did what any normal person would do.

I scanned my internal database of words and was trying to find Luddite.

I knew it was somewhere between "luck" and "lust," two words that are pretty thematic for my life, but I couldn't find Luddite anywhere.

After 30 seconds of that awkward smiling and nodding you do when you don't really know what else to do, I thought, "Hey! I have an iPhone. I can look up this word."

So, while he's talking, I whip out my iPhone and go to Webster.com.

...In just enough time for this guy to start going into examples of his levels of "Luddite-ness."

For kicks, here's how Webster defines Luddite:

: one of a group of early 19th century English workmen destroying laborsaving machinery as a protest; broadly : one who is opposed to especially technological change

— Luddite adjective

________________________________

So, this guy starts telling me how technology is taking over our lives, exactly at the same time that my iPhone is in my lap, and I'm staring at my e-mail inbox for new messages.

Of course, you could understand my shame.

Luddite? It wasn't even in my vocabulary. What the fuck is that? How can anybody hate technology? If anything, I'm the anti-Luddite.

So, while Mr. G, or "Too cool for school" as I like to refer to him, is going on and on about how technology sucks, or whatever the fuck he was blabbing on about, I'm checking the weather, texting people about how I'm on a bad date, checking my e-mail, updating my facebook status and yeah...setting up another date with somebody else.

But even in that moment, I felt so bad.

Granted, it would have never worked. He lives here in West Virginia. He doesn't have facebook. He doesn't text. He doesn't have myspace. He doesn't use instant messenger.

How would I ever stay connected with this guy?

I felt bad, because I got the feeling he thought we were hitting it off, but I just couldn't bring myself to go through another lecture about how the end of the empire is going to come at the hand of technology, or whatever the hell he was going on about.

He asked if I wanted to go to his house, but I politely declined and said he and I were two different people. We ended up closing out the bar--I'm never one to pass up free drinks, even on a bad date--and the night ended with me pulling out my phone, in plain sight and texting someone. Sort of as a parting gift to say, Well, I love technology, so go fuck yourself.

What really irked me about him, and not that it really matters now, but the arguments he was making against technology, I'm almost sure I had read them on the Internet somewhere.

...hypocrite.

Nice words go a long way

Just like your mother used to tell you...

Today on my way to work, I saw a woman and young child walking together though downtown Charleston. They were holding hands and the mother was pointing up at something.

It could've been a bird or a building, I'm not quite sure. But to me, I was imagining the woman telling the youngster some kind of time-tested advice.

"Treat others how you want to be treated." "Always say 'please' and 'thank you.' " "Hold doors open for strangers." That sort of thing.

The reason why I automatically think of that when I see a parent and child together is because of my upbringing.

I can remember many instances from my childhood where my mother would use different opportunities to teach me these sorts of things, which I think are good lessons to be emphasized when you're young.

By the time I was an adolescent, it was just ingrained in me to be polite and courteous to people. It's something I don't even think about now. Today, for example, I was walking down the stairwell at work to go outside and have a cigarette (I really need to quit...but after my life is back in order) and this man was behind me. I held the door open for him and let him pass. He shot me a smile and said, "Why, thank you!"

The tone of his voice really projected gratitude. He was truly grateful that I held the door open for him. He didn't just give the automatic response of thanks. I was a little taken back by it at first. In my mind, I had only done a small task that is so reflexive for me. By the way this guy said "thank you" you would have thought people were slamming doors in his face his entire life. Like, I imagined he would be approaching the door, inches away from crossing the threshold, and some asshole would then slam the door square in his face.

While I was outside smoking, I got to thinking: Is it a good or bad thing that such actions become second nature to us?

In any given day, I'm sure I say "thank you" at least 20, 30 times, many of which I don't remember.

Are we truly expressing gratitude, or are we merely regurgitating what was beat into our soft little heads when we were young?

The gentleman I held the door open for was probably in his mid 50s, I'd suspect. Maybe it's a generational thing? Maybe it's a West Virginia thing? Maybe it's some "pseudo-south" mentality. But his "thank you" was the first one -- in a long time -- that really struck me. I remember it. It sort of gave me a chill. It was...sincere.

I'm not saying that from now on, I'm going to preface my "thank you" with some creepy disclaimer:

"No, really. THANK YOU! Wow. Seriously. That was so selfless of you!"

But I think I will try to put a little more heart and feeling into it. That man's "thank you" really made my day. It made me smile, and chuckle a little bit when I think about it now. Not because it was comical, but because of my reaction to it.

It was like he had given me a gift (which, if you want to wax philosophical, in some way he did) that I was not expecting; it caught me off guard.

Life's lemons... or Momma's Boy...

Then, at my desk tonight, while I was browsing the Internet (it was a slow night) my mind started to wander as that particular experience as the jumping off point.

Sidenote: ||My mind is always doing offshoots of stuff like this. I'll start on one thing, something mundane like "thank you" and end up thinking about a topic like N. Korea or apples by proxy. It's bizarre. I've been inside my head for almost 23 years and I still don't understand it, so don't you bother trying to understand it, either.||

But anyway, I got to thinking at my desk about conditioning and "expected" behavior.

Do we only say these things to elicit a response of good tidings? Do we do it because we're all whores for the words "thank you" "please" or "you're welcome?"

Is this all just a huge game of politeness "tit for tat?"

And then I got to further thinking.

Are we sugar coating things too much for our youth? Do we only emphasize the positive life lessons? Do these things become reactionary to us because we're not even thinking about them?

Should we start preparing our youth for the inevitable shitty situations in life like breakups, unemployment, terminal illness, loss of a loved one, etc.? That way, when something awful happens, we can sort through it easier.

Should we feel fortunate if our childhood experience involved some sort of introduction into "life's lemons 101."

I'll never forget a conversation I had with my mother when I was 14 years old and had just come out to her as homosexual.

They are quite possibly the wisest words I've ever heard her speak, but they were so simple. And if you know my mother, you know she's certainly not Socrates or Plato. But every time I go through something shitty involving a guy, I go right back to that place in my mind where we were sitting on her bed, having coffee. She took my hand, and held it for a second before getting this really serious look on her face and said:

"David, I'm telling you this because I love you. Get ready for a lot of heartbreak. Men are whores -- and gay men are the worst!"

Her demeanor at the time was absolutely priceless. Looking back now, I kind of sigh and chuckle at how she said it. The way she leaned in and was holding my hand, I thought she was going to tell me she was special ops for the CIA or something, about to unravel an entire life of lies. That, or I was adopted.

At the time, I didn't quite know what to make of the words. I wasn't sexually active yet, or even interested in any particular guy. I don't think I had even had a crush on anybody yet. I was still bright-eyed and hopeful. Certainly not the jaded prick I am today.

But today, those words are so comforting to replay in my head...and I know why she said them.

It was preemptive shielding and mothering.

Her advice hasn't made me immune to sullen times in the dating world, though, nor has it made me bitter. But the frankness and honesty of her words have stuck with me.

The larger message I get when I decode those words is: "Sometimes, life just sucks. But be strong, you know I love you. You'll pull through."

It also reemphasized something she had told me from a young age about how I could approach her and tell her about anything. No unfair judgments, no expectations, just talk.

In a way, I think my mother has really helped prepare me for life's larger problems. I think more parents should make an effort to talk to their children, and vice versa.

I've met so many people in the gay community that are in their 30s and 40s who are still not out to their parents. The whole idea of living a closeted life just seems so foreign to me, probably because I never really lived that "closet" lifestyle. For that, I know I'm extremely fortunate.

I thought a lot about my mom tonight, and I'm going to write her an e-mail in a minute just to say "Hi. Thought about you today. Love you."

If you're reading this and lucky enough to have her available, take two minutes out of your day, call your mother and tell her you love her. Thank her for teaching you the fundamentals of being a good person.

...that is, if she didn't raise you to be an asshole.

...or Republican.

And just for shits and giggles, here's a photo of my mom and I, circa 2oo1. We participated in a little documentary called, "Jim in Bold." This is a promotional image from that project.

If you haven't seen it yet, check it out.

I'll have what he's having...

Oh, hai!

Hoo-rah for my first blog!

I'm a 22-year-old journalism/information sciences technology student. I'm about to enter my senior year of college at Penn State University in good ol' State College, Pa. (a.k.a. the best place on the planet). The few passions I've discovered so far in my short existence are writing, learning new languages (feeble as my attempts may be), current events, computers, techy type things, analyzing people and situations to the point of exhaustion and reading. I enjoy reading just about anything; I sometimes find myself reading ridiculous things out of boredom, like shampoo bottles or other personal-care products. You know it's bad when you're driving somewhere, kind of zoning out, and then out of nowhere you recite parts of a Bath and Body Works body wash label for no reason.

I'm a loser like that and I'm definitely that guy -- just to give you a brief introduction.

I should be doing something productive...

I've been meaning to delve into the blog-o-sphere and torment the masses with my incessant ramblings for some time now, but just haven't gotten around to it.

I find it odd that I'm choosing to start a blog now, considering my life is so stressful that I sometimes wake up feeling like Atlas, with the weight of the world on my shoulders...walking uphill...both ways...in the rain...barefoot...through a path of broken glass...and a river of lemon juice...laced with iodine.

Things on my plate at the moment:

• Senior year starting at Penn State.
• Really awesome [slash] challenging classes this semester, with most of the work starting several days ago, even though the semester doesn't start for two weeks.
• Exploring different grad school options.
• Studying my little ass off for the GRE (think SAT [slash] ACT for graduate students, except even more ridiculous.)
• Applying for a Fulbright Scholarship to study abroad for graduate school.
• Developing my research proposal to accompany my Fulbright application.
• Applying to American University's International Media program as a potential backup plan for grad school.
• Applying to University of Pennsylvania's Journalism program as another option for grad school.
• Paying off tons of credit card debt.
• Winding down my summer with the Dow Jones Newspaper Fund copy editing internship at the Charleston Gazette in Charleston, W.Va.
• Preparing for the NLGJA convention in Montreal.
• Finding contacts for my story to be completed at said convention.

My inner monologue at this very minute is: "FUCK! QUIT WRITING! THERE ARE 2938492384 THINGS YOU COULD BE DOING!"

I'm not sure if I can insert "emoticons" in this blog, but this is what my current emoticon would be: >:O

Shamelessly copying, if that's what you want to call it...

I think I'm turning to this blog as a means of distraction to take my mind off of all the imminent deadlines, which in my mind are holding me up against a wall--arms pinned back--pummeling me in the stomach, brass knuckles and all.

I'm also doing this because my friend Alex kept a near-daily blog of her adventures as an intern in China this summer.

Alex, whom's blog I visited frequently, was insightful and amazing in her writing. I want to be able to have a contribution like that. Even if it is small. I feel like blogging is a cheap and easy form of folk art. Since I don't have any tactile talents or artsy-fartsy knowledge, my words are the only thing I can offer people.

Think of this as a cyber "Keeping up with the Joneses" if you will. Except I'm not buying a new car or boat, and this certainly will not help the economy.

I'm an addict, gimme my fix...*twitch*

One way in which I am helping the economy is the small fortune I've been spending on McDonalds Vanilla Iced Coffees. Today, I frequented McDonalds three times to get coffee. I'm so amped up on caffeine I'm shaking. It's like, I'm Keith Richards, coming down from a weekend with Courtney Love, after we had discovered the long-lost medicine cabinet of Anna Nichole Smith and went ape shit on it.

McDonalds is the only real option for coffee in this town, it seems. There are some Mom and Pop style coffeeshops, but they're off the beaten path, or in the city, which is a bit out of the way.

Also, another thing that is so odd is the absence of Starbucks. I think this is the most Starbucks-barren place I've ever been to. I think downtown Tehran probably has more Starbucks than Charleston. It's so bizarre to me. Back at school, I go to Starbucks like it's my job. There are at least two that I can think of in State College, probably less than a mile apart from each other. In between the two Starbucks are a Dunkin Donuts, handful of hometown coffeeshops and a McDonalds. It's like State College runs on caffeine.

Homsick homo... or... What is wrong with people here?

I've been mentioning State College a lot, but I suspect it's because I miss it so much.

West Virginia, while it does have its own little...nuances, is completely different from back home. I just miss coming home to my roommates and verbally abusing each other. I miss standing on our balcony, smoking cigarettes and shouting at people as they pass by (Most often, it's my roommate Jamie yelling at people. She's fearless when it comes to stuff like that. I'm envious.)

The people in West Virginia are generally nice, but things are done at such a slower pace here.

I've had a few experiences with people in West Virginia that will forever make me laugh.

Por ejemplo:

A few weeks ago, I was on my lunch break and was sitting in the dining room of Wendy's. This woman, I'd say somewhere in her mid-to-upper 30s, kept staring at me from across the room. It wasn't that type of stare where you glance up at the person when they're not looking, then quickly jerk your head away when they notice. This was full-on, blatant staring. I felt like I had grown a dick on my forehead or something. I was a little creeped out, but kept my head down and tried to ignore it. After about five minutes of this woman looking at me, she gets up to throw her trash away, walking past me because the trash bin was several feet behind me.

After I hear her dump her trash in the bin, she makes her way over to my table and stops right next to it, my head still down the entire time.

Then, the most bizarre thing came out of her mouth:

"Where did you get your lips done? I love them!"

To which I replied, "...uhh... they're not fake....all real."

This woman proceeded to talk to me about how she was dissatisfied with her lips as I was sitting there eating my lunch. I kept looking around me for the sign that read, "Please, come talk to me while I stuff my face with a Spicy Chicken Sandwich."

I didn't find one.

This woman was so God damn awkward. I wanted to get up and run. I acted polite, kept reassuring her that my lips were real and fought back laughs at what she was saying.

After I was done with my lunch, I said, "Well, I hope everything works out well for you."

This was pretty cryptic, but from my intonation, I really meant, "Hope your family realizes you're nuts and institutionalizes you soon. Lips are the last of your worries!"

I MISS PENNSYLVANIA!!!

I need action. I need background noise. I don't need to be harassed about my lips.

I crave my old routine. And as dorky as it sounds, I miss not being in class. Learning is something into which I've never had to put forth much effort. It comes so naturally to me. It's a comfort thing for me to sit in a classroom and listen to a lecture. Classroom lecture and discussion give me such a high. I'm really excited because I have a class on entomology (bug science) this semester. I think that's pretty exemplary of my level of "dorkdom."

I promise to keep up with this blog and keep you all posted on the inner workings of this cynical, twisted brain of mine.

But now, I need to get back to something productive.

Studying for the GRE, perhaps?

Eeeeeeeeep...