Yesterdays post was something to cheer me up. These past few weeks have found me writing an abundance of tragic sentences, all of which ended up in stories I can't even bring myself to edit. While my teacher attempted to convince us that factoring polynomials would prove useful (hopefully sometime before we've purchased stone-carved epitaphs), I took a random jumble of memories and took a trip. My happiest moments are always those which are those simplest to create, hardest to remember, and always wickedly unimportant. Do enjoy life, will you? Sometimes the train never stops.I've never had a “woman of my dreams” but if you forced me to choose, it'd be Paz Vega. (I've heard that Google has an image search)Alias is back. Don't regret missing it for the rest of your life...Okay, the obligatory band news part: After a three week hiatus, things are back to normal, which is to say, rather dull. Dull doesn't mean boring though. Sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's torture. I'd compare it to a long boring relationship but it would be pure conjecture. Which bring me on to my next point...Don't have long boring relationships until your 30...A simple message brought to you by the National Association for a Sane America (NASA). Also sponsored by the Movement for a Reduced Divorce Rate (MRDR), and the You'll Never Know Before You Try Campaign.If you've been in a long boring relationship and your perfectly happy, I was wondering, can you spare a few Valiums? I'm running low.Yes, being me is as hard as it seems. I'm sure you have a tough time too. Oh, you don't? Try chewing on this. What is it? Molten lava.In an effort to end this post with meaning, a quote by a real writer...
I don't pretend to know much. Of philosophy I only know what men have known through the eras: Nothing. Absolutely nothing.- Jorge Luis Borges.
It took me two songs to get out of the car. The first, Billy Joel's “Captain Jack”, was spent debating the benefits of leaving behind a cold, refreshing Coke, a bag of sunflower seeds, and the car roofs ability to divert the rain to other (more desirable) places. The next, Ray Charles' painful rendition of “You Are So Beautiful”, was only half over before I decided that my search for an umbrella I already knew I didn't actually own was probably futile. I decided to occupy the next half of the song searching for something I did have access to which could act as an umbrella. Unfortunately, all of my belongings have little imagination and this search proved as useless as the first. By this time, Ray was nearly passing out from admiring my beauty. Knowing I only had a few measures left, I slapped a handful of sunflower seeds into my mouth, assured myself that I wouldn't be locked out of my car upon returning, and stepped out.The rain wasn't much more than a drizzle and I didn't even feel the need to run. The train station entrance was a huge ceramic arc which reminded me of a wheelchair accessible Cave of Wonders. Despite repeating to the ticket machine several times that I was indeed a “diamond in the rough” and related to Aladdin (a distant cousin on my mother's side), I still ended up paying $1.25 for a slip of paper stating I was headed southbound. Despite these minor setbacks, I still felt good about having gotten out of the car in the first place and cheerfully headed down the escalator.The train ride itself was uneventful. Usually I'd ignore my surroundings and bury my nose in a book, but I didn't have one. This was the reason I was on the train in the first place.Every stop along the MTA's Red Line is done to a different motif. The stop I'd boarded from was a shrine to industrial decadence. That included machined metal sculptures and tile mosaics of dread-filled, faceless factory workers. Fitting tribute to the American workplace.I got off at the Seventh Street Station. Here the walls were chock full of mariachi hats, corn husks, and tired looking farmers wearing over-alls; the “faux Mexican art” of Chicanos who have long replaced true memory with textbook fabrications. I took the steps to the exit, which only slightly smelled of piss and disinfectant, and stepped into downtown. The cold air felt good.
The book I'd come for had been checked out ten minutes before I'd arrived. Typical.That only threw me for a few minutes. After intense brainstorming I developed a strategy. I would choose a small book, minimizing the amount of effort expended lugging it onto the train. More specifically, it had to fit in my left jacket pocket. I browsed the stacks for a while and came up with nothing interesting. Not a single one looked appealing (there was one with a giant nipple on the cover, but it turned out to be a self help book). Almost out of time, I decided to tour the second floor.
The train took a few minutes to arrive. Two sheriff deputy's boarded the same car as me. They seemed aggravated and were having a heated discussion about something or the other. It made me uncomfortable knowing they both had a gun. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the book I'd found on the way out, “The Girl Who Played Go.” It was some sort of historical novel set in pre-war Japan, translated from French. It later turned out to be awful, but I enjoyed its refuge on that train.ppppp
As soon as I got in my car, two things began to happen. First, Dave Grohl strummed the opening chords of “Hey, Johnny Park!” Then, timed to the start of my engine, the rain began again. I wondered why God is such a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch. I threw the book in the back, turned on my windshield wipers, and couldn't help a big grin.
It's not that I don't care. I do, sincerely. If fact, the amount of time that I devote to caring is rather unseemly and seems damn near wasteful. However, care as I might, there is a certain point at which your words begin to incomprehensibly lose meaning. I'll struggle to comprehend for a few seconds and then, usually, I check out. You, of course, continue talking. Eventually my eyes glaze over and right before I begin to lose consciousness, you stop to take a breath. At this point I have three choices. One, I can nod vigorously with a concerned look on my face and brace myself for another round of useless information. Two, I tell you the truth (something along the lines of “I don't care”) and walk away. Three (my personal favorite), I try to kiss you. This technique works marvelously. You see, since your incessant jabbering is driving me to sleep, your probably female. At this point, I either successfully lock lips (at which point silence ensues) or you push me away and evacuate the immediate area. Another problem solved. Oh, and by the way, this is complete bullshit. Of course that everything you say is fascinating.Note: I don't think that women in particular are boring, I simply didn't feel I should admit I regularly kiss men.It doesn't go both ways. If you ask me for advice, especially about relationships, please refrain from ever: giving me your own advice on the same topic, giving my own advice back to me (at least paraphrase), or even expect that I actually give you advice. Exception: your problem is based in reality and I can genuinely help you. It helps if you own a matching pair of chromosomes.Note: I don't discriminate against people that own both an X and Y chromosome. I simply won't give men my usual advice, “sex solves everything.” They already know that.Is it too late to talk about Thanksgiving? I haven't posted since the holiday due to the increased consumption of tryptophan (gobble). Not me (I'm a vegetarian), but the general population. I didn't think anybody would be awake long enough to read much of anything. I had a good holiday, appreciated the time of leisure, and managed to get nothing done whatsoever, which is exactly how holidays should be.You might have noticed the new design. It'll come in stages, with this being stage one. Next I'll pretty it up a bit (but keep it simple) and maybe add a “link of the day” somewhere. Finally, stage three, will have (as the name implies) audio of me, Nick, speaking. Don't hold your breath.The band is doing relatively well (relative to what? Hmm... Blind Melon). I still continue to (attempt to) revolve my free time around music. The rest of the band selfishly dedicates their free time to daily life (with possible exception(s)). ph7 also seems to have only three permanent members, with two making various appearances at their own discretion. I argue that, like sitcoms, we begin to have guest appearances. Obviously, this is only me being bitter (and whining).We got a writeup in my school's paper, the SMC Corsair. Max dissects it on his blog, so I'll leave that for you to find. Needless to say, I didn't make the picture.Your friends waste more time attempting to hide the fact that they love you than they... well, anything else. This explains why they always seem brainless. Call me an optimist.Ja.You can now simply visit –NickSpeaks
Despite the results last Tuesday, me being down with the Flu, and having three major exams in the same week, I’ve had a good week. I found a few minutes each day to redesign this site. (Now sleek, mean, and so much easier to write for) I played guitar plenty, managed to go to practice twice, and wrote another couple thousand words of a short story I’ve been working on for the better part of the year. I watched two family-friendly movies (Incredibles, Spongebob) that managed something rare for films in the past few years, being both original and brilliant. (“Napoleon Dynamite” was a sad excuse for the existential, angst-ridden “Ghost World” If your <18, steal a copy of the graphic novel, then download a copy of the movie).it’s time for bed. This is the worst post ever, and I apologize. To be continued
I was going to mention that I hadn't posted here for a while (it's been a couple of weeks) but that would be a waste. Better to get started…When does life finally give up and let you live? I'm still waiting. I'm plagued by the same terrors that had me starring at the ceiling for hours on end, unable or unwilling to sleep, five years ago. The only difference being that I can't crash every few weeks because I have responsibilities that must or should be attended to. I've also managed to isolate myself within a group of people who live their own lives and avoid glancing at the periphery, perhaps unaware but most likely apathetic about those running alongside them. I've best keep running; stopping to rest has become a long forgotten scheme. I may be a psychology student but each semester I complete makes me painfully aware that I'll never go back to therapy. I'll wait until they can run a system reset; I was happy as a child. After stupidly inquiring for solutions, I've gotten supposed suggestions, all suspiciously sounding like statements. I'll fall in love. I'll shed the mantle of childhood. I'll lose my virginity. I'll gain independence. Check, check, check, check. All those things never managed to change the inherent problem in my unyielding nihilism. Ultimately I have to care about everything. Then, and only then, nothing comes easy.Over the past few weeks I've carefully noted some problems in my personality. The first and most noticeable being that I'm not funny and I have the misconception that I am. This leads to a large array of problems when coupled with the second and almost equally noticeable flaw: I respond with sarcasm approximately 60% of the time. This wouldn't be such a large problem if I kept to the tried and true mainstays of sarcastic humor such as "duh!" and "Ya suuuuuure. That's a good idea" But rather, I tend to indulge in subtle quips and strategize with tonality. All of which results not only unfunny but ultimately irritating. The last flaw (that we shall discuss here, feel free to mention others) is my misuse of one of the few positive traits I possess. My great-grandpa called it "Tener los ojos bien pelados e inquietos." I won't bother to translate, ask your housekeeper. I get to know people quickly and quietly, without piercing questions and late night sessions with binoculars. You can argue all you want that I possess no such ability but, just ask your mom. (That's me being not funny again) The problem with being able to do this is that I'm constantly pushing the wrong buttons and in my attempt to placate people I end up pressing them all over again. This had led to my continued goal of remaining silent for as long as possible, on as many subjects as possible, with everybody but my closest friends (of which I have none). Needless to say, this has been almost entirely unsuccessful, case in point, this paragraph.There are so many more things I've written these past few weeks, but I'll save them for tomorrow or the next day.Wednesday Night Confession: I hate your guts. You with the black hair. Stupid fuck.Ja.True Wednesday Night Confession: The band only serves to depress me. Somebody send me an intravenous form of apathy.
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