Maybe just getting the first shitty sentence out is enough, right? Just kicking open the door, well knowing the risk you are taking might not be worth it. Actually, it probably isn't worth it. I'd claim writer's block if I actually sat down and started writing. I think that's 90% of writer's block right there: not that you CAN'T write anything, it's that you won't put yourself into the position TO write anything.

I'm writing from a difficult situation: aimless, bored, and uninspired. It happens sometimes, and I can roll with that. Hell, I always used to write from this exact spot. Crank out a few paragraphs of cynical, over-intellectual, hypersensitive introspection and analysis. And if I wasn't doing it on the page, I'd be doing it with friends.

My birthday is Sunday. I'll be 25. Two. Five. I have no idea why those two numbers feel so old to me when there put right next to eachother. I guess things could be worse, we could flip the numbers. Still, I'm getting closer to my scary age...30.

Is life where I wanted it to be by this point? Yes and no. Lately tonight for some reason I'm focusing more on the negatives than the postives, forgive me.

I hate my job and am going to be going back to school to get another degree in January. Beauty's been a huge influece on this, really encourageing and pushing me along. Finding a new job sucks. At least I have one that pays me enough, but really I'm tired of hating my job.

What else?

The time frame isn't set in stone but some point around November/December Beauty and I will be moving back to the twin cities for good. At which point she's going to spend some time living with back with her parents. This is good and bad. She's got some massive student loan and this should allow her a chance to pay a lot of it back. Also her mom had a stroke many years ago after she was in a car accident. Drunk driver hit her and put her in acoma for a few weeks durning which she had a crippling stroke. Beauty's close to her mom and she misses her while she's at school. I think part of her feels guilty about not being there for her more often. Overall this is totally fine with me though I'm dreading the thought of having to move back home with mom and dad while I try to figure out my own living situation...seeing as how Beauty is my only roommate. I'll figure something out though.

Let's try swimming in a different stream for a little bit.

I was out to lunch with a beloved friend of mine the other day, and was re-hashing a lot of the shit that I used to do when I was in college, behind closed doors. Nothing really scandalous or out of place in the average happenings of any given Brett Easton Ellis college-era novel (meaning none of the SHOCKERS in those books, rather the norms that many of those who have lived relatively straight-laced lives view as pretty extreme), and may I remind you that much of my public life was of the same nature—narcissistic, self-doubting, reckless, overly-intellectual, self-indulgent, embarrassed and stupidly romantic — but it was OF a different nature. Darker, more obviously born of the more sinister demons than the ones most had gotten used to on my sleeves.

I've lived hard.

The further I get from that, the harder it seems I've lived. Moments when I remember something and think "Holy shit! BWAAAAA?" When you're in the middle of it, it just seems that that is how life is. But now, when I can only know that life through memories, shit, I'm amazed I'm not dead. But aren't we all?

After a handful of loosely-strung monologues, my friend finally said, "Jesus Christ, it's like I don't know you at all."

To which I replied, "Yeah, but you know me better than most."

All this got me thinking about blogging, the days that I do it and why I do it. "Spilling my guts" to the cyber world. Living without reservation or hiding the ugliest, most mutilated skeletons for 3 or 4 pages of hypertext. I can tell you stories, I try my best to make sure all are as true as I remember. But I've been thinking about the nature of blogging. Like showing someone a page from your journal. If the person doesn't know you, and all they have to go on is the entry, they get a very clear, intimate picture of you. It's like opening a window and watching someone undress. The undresser knows someone is watching. There is a direct, limited, and momentary intimacy. An exposure and an acceptance. An exchange. But then the window closes. The undresser goes about the day doing mundane and exciting things; cutting toenails, making love, doing taxes, eating cereal, taking a walk, and so on. They all happen. They are all part of the undresser. The viewer catches none of this.

Blogging is a powerful thing. A strict filter, a way to sculpt the way people see you. You prepare a scene before you open the window and VOILA! There it is. The way you want to be seen. Intimacy, limited. So it goes. Then again, sometimes people see more than you intended. The undresser just wants to show off a little ass, forgetting there's a mirror positioned in a way that the viewer gets the whole show. So it goes.

Some friends of mine have taken a hard stance against Romanticism lately. Like this idea of "how it should be" is ridiculous. Maybe the word "SHOULD" is a rotten word. I try not to think that it is though. I like to think that there are little ways that I could make the world better. Even if it means that I unplug my coffee pot when I'm not using it.

Now with that said I can see where my friends are coming from. Should is a killer. Should makes it real easy to be unhappy. Should immediately implies that there should be something other than what is. No matter what. But than I might respond "Perhaps that's how things should be."

I'm letting go of expectations in favor of doing what's right in front of me, with all my attention, heart, and mind. Letting life have the wheel for a little bit. Expectations have gotten me into a lot of trouble; led to a lot of disappointment; and continually sent me into a revolving door of epectations and let downs. Having high hopes, life shattering your expectations, and being depressed as a result.

My mom always said, "Choose your attitude." Which I always wrote off as bullshit. HOW CAN I BE HAPPY WHEN I FEEL SO SHITTY. Well, I've realized it's not about being happy. It's about being grateful. No matter how low I feel, there's always something I can be grateful for. Not even can be. AM. Am grateful for. And this isn't some lame-ass cheese. Gratitude. Gratitude is something one can easily neglect. But regardless, when I am low, I can still be legitimately grateful for shit that doesn't actually make me nauseous when I'm in an unreceptive mood (e.g., bunnies and flowers). But that I can fucking walk on two legs, that Pearl Jam is still making music, that I have a job and an education, that I can play guitar with my 10 fingers. I'm not advocating reminding yourself of these things when you're pissed. It doesn't work because you don't want it to. I've attempted to adopt a non-comparative, grateful way of living. It's not about "Oh I'm so lucky because there are people in the world that don't have all the shiny shit that I've got." That shit doesn't work either.

Gratitude for gratitude's sake; that shit's Adamantium.

I love being outside. I love clouds. They are beautiful. I'm grateful for clouds, most days. And that's where the power of my gratitude first showed itself to me. I was ready to be grateful. And when I'm grateful, happiness feels like an option.

I'm not special in saying that I've done my time in hell. I have. I know I reached my personal bottom about 2 and a half years ago. I can think of lots of analogies to crawling naked through broken glass in the dark and lame-ass dante-off-ripped shit like that. Lots of people have visited their hells. Many revel in it. Shit, the music is better in hell anyway. But my time there is up and the gates have closed. I'm never going back. I'm sure of it.

I don't know why I've written this today. Maybe to inspire me. To remind myself of how grateful I am to be alive in a world that has clouds.

It's a good day.

It's a great night.

I'm ready.