Holy balls...

...I'm tired. I've been working at the Pov a bunch. I get a break soon and I'll update. Hope all is well...

A few random notes...

...Alisia and I got an apartment...
...I got my class schedule figured out for the semester...the less I think about how tired I'll be, the better...
YAY! haircut...
....................................the other night a guy from Crazy Mike's on Broadway called to ask if he could send a drunk person our way. The Pov's zero-tolerance on booze, so we said no...the guy aksed, and I quote, "But what am I supposed to do? He's passed out in the action section and I need to close up."...h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s..........................
......Sleep man, it's good....If you see it just tell it I said hi.......
Holla.

Day 184-185: Child-sized Parachutes

So, Mr. Sean Breslin and I are beginning a quest to make the greatest band since George Dennison and The STARFIRES! (like Wulfgar!, STARFIRES! demands an exclamation point, but also needs CAPS to show you hot IN YOUR FACE it is). We're calling this catastophuck "Child-sized Parachutes." We need some cover song suggestions. So, feel free to leave them in the comment section.

In other news: I start a new job at the Pov next week, which should be fun.

Nothing much else to report.

I'm going to see The Dark Knight tonight at midnight. I am WAY too excited. I'm serious. Anyone who knows me knows that my Batman obscession is kind of sick. But they love me anyway. And they should. Batman rocks, and I rock for liking him.

Also, I just heard today in Ochenski's column that Jackie Corr died. For those of you who don't know, Jackie was a Butte-guy who, I think it's safe to say, exchanged e-mail with just about every journalist in the state. He had a knowledge of state politics that would have made any historian envious. He was always on the edge with his commentary–hard-lined liberalism straight from the richest hill on Earth. And I agree with Mr. O: Corr was a tough guy (anyone who ever met him in person, and had their hand crushed can vouch for this).

I'm out kids. Laters

Days 180 through 183: Camping, the 5-monther, and more

Quick words: Apparently a few people got the idea from my last update that things were bad. Real bad. Actually, things are good. Real good. I'm happy, and I have some direction with my life again. I also have a good thing going on with my lady friend, who for some unknown reason six weeks ago (she says love, I say "drug-induced insanity") agreed to become my roommate for the following year. (I asked her by giving her a stuffed monkey holding a note that asked, "Would you mind living with me?" She doesn't! And this when our 5-monther is only today. So, as I've been known to say: Holla.) Here's a picture of us before a party back in May:

Our friend Tonya called this picture "adorkable"

Alisia's the first girl I've ever lived with, which is odd these days, especially since I've had several decent length relationships. But I've never really wanted to live with any other female before her. Maybe because the party was more fun without having added responsibility. Or, more accurately, because at some subconscious level I just didn't really want to live with anyone before her.

Anyway...

While this doesn't really do much more than make me laugh, here are some other memories from the same night the above picture of Alisia and I was taken:

John T. sports a molestache that would make Burt Reynolds grimace.

A drunk man sings. I know this drunk man. I regret knowing this drunk man.

This last weekend Alisia and I camped in Challis, ID (60 miles south of Salmon) with our friends Sean and Tonya. It was a good time. Challis has a really decently priced hot spring ($10 gets you a spot and free use of the springs) so I recommend it to any bored Missoulian low on cash.

One last thing kids, a present for all of you readers. I've been working as a research-temp these past few weeks, which means that I've read nearly four decades of UM's fine paper, The Montana Kaimin. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry, and sometimes I find gold. In this case, I found gold that I now will give to you:

President George Dennison, circa 1952, as he studied history, sold shoes, and fronted the STARFIRES!

You kids can thank me later for finding this image.

Laters

Day 179: Just where the f*ck have I been?

Imagine this: You wake up one day and you can't move. I should say, you can move, but what's the point. You're body hurts for no reason. Your eyes ache, but the room is dark. You feel a panic attack building rapidly.

At this point your girlfriend leans over and asks if you're okay. You lie. You're fine, you say. She goes to the shower and gets washed. You make her a bagel, and then for some reason you're staring at the counter and you drift off to a different world...

you...

just...

Stop. Lose your mind. Get lost. Your girlfriend finishes her shower. She ask if something is wrong. You lie. You're fine, you say. You hug her. You kiss her. You put on a smile.

She goes to work.

Three days later you request a special night. One where you can just sit at home – preferably in the dark – and ask, again and again, what brought you to this moment.

A day later you have what can only be described as a nervous breakdown, but, you think, to be fair: you were not nervous at all. You were just completely fucking obliterated. You felt completely separated from what makes you a person. You sit. Shake. Cry. And at one point you're faced with the reality of your own fragile state of mind.

It happens like this:

You know damn well that you are on your couch. You are home. You are doing the whole shaking and crying bit. You can taste salt.

But, all the same, you're not on the couch. You can actually see yourself somewhere else. Noe somewhere better, mind you. But something not like this. You're not in the room. You're on a road, a standard country road desolate and nowhere. And you are looking at two paths. Right and left. It occurs to you that right means a complete breakdown wherein you lose the last bit of your sanity. Left means coming back. Feeling bad, possibly. Left means having to own up to the fact that things are hard lately.

You go left.

You cry more.

You spend a week getting over this event.

You cannot blog about your life.

You take 78 days to think of how to start again. You write a chapter to a novel. You visit Phoenix, Ore. for a week and see Portland one night. While in Oregon you have a huge fight with your girlfriend and feel bad for days. You go to Challis, Idaho too. There's a neat hot spring there. No fighting in Challis, though maybe because it happened before Oregon.

There are a few beers. Some laughs. You watch the HBO show Rome, and read a few books. You constantly think of that road you were on weeks before. And then one day you don't. You're past it. You're resolve returns. You feel better.

You breathe again.

Suddenly you don't care if UPS, USPS, the Montana Abolition Coalition, or anyone else wants to hire you. Fuck it. You decide one night that only one thing in your life ever truly made you feel happy: Working at Montana State Hospital.

You ponder this for a long time, keeping in mind that a few weeks before – exhausted, sad, and desperate – you nearly took a plunge into the deep blue ocean of insanity. But didn't You're here. And it's okay. You're okay.

You come to terms with yourself at 23 in a way that you didn't expect to.

You decide, without really consulting anyone, that you want to be a nurse. You sign up for credits at school. You become a student again. You get hired to work part time in the Student Involvement and Leadership Development office at UM. You get hired to work at the Pov part-time as well.

You see things getting better. You feel better.

You start blogging again.

You stop writing in the second person.

So okay. I'm back kids. I'll be seeing you soon. I'm out of town this weekend, but I
ll be back posting regularly next week. Until then....

Laters.

Oh, and P.S.: If this post just didn't make much sense I'm sorry. It's my way of just laying out some of the heavier stuff from my last few months without boring, or seeming whiny.

Small Update...

Whoa nelly! Such a long week kids. I've been working my ass off. Weirdness: Haven't had any Kettlehouse in six days...I think I'm losing weight (Though, oddly I'm not happy about the loss seeing as I'm forgetting what Honey Hefe, Coldsmoke, and many more, taste like).

I'll be back this week kids, fresh from a depressing funk, and a week of work...

Anyone see this CD review? What a shitpickle....

So I...

...need a week off. Sort of. Actually I'm just a little tired of writing and this week I'm working as a driver for a certain event and won't be allowed to talk about it anyway (non-disclosure). So I'm just going to leave it at that...

I may post later in the week if I have time.

Special Update about my Netflix...

Okay, so as I've talked about, I love Netflix. It's great. But one thing I find annoying is its "suggestions" based on what I've rented before. And today's suggestion ranks as particularly bad because...well...just look...
In case you can't see the text, it says, "Because you enjoyed: F**k, The King of Kong...We think you'll enjoy: Dexter: Season 1."

Just an FYI: F**k and The King of Kong are both documentaries; one about the word "fuck," and the other about one man's quest to get the high score in Donkey Kong (I wrote about it here). Neither seem to be anything like Dexter, a show from cable channel Showtime that follows the exploits of serial killer Dexter Morgan – a very moral mass murderer. How Dexter lines up with either documentaries is beyond me. Honestly, I'm confused as shit.

So anyway, I got to get to work on some other stuff, but I thought this would entertain ya. Laters.