I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me.

Take a line from a song that you love or connect with. Now forget the song, and turn that line into the title or inspiration for your post.

Pulling my feet through the sludge, I don’t know that it is possible for my boots to get any heavier.  My bag follow behind them through the muck and my hair has a ten foot radius of frizz around it as the rain blinds most of my vision.  Why no one decided to make windshield wipers for glasses, I’ll never understand.    I see a near by ledge and run under it.  I pull out my notebook from my bag and write, “# 75 Wipers for glasses.”  

Don’t ask me why I write down my ideas when I don’t act on them. Maybe I just want to have proof that I had the idea first so when someone makes it and becomes a billionaire, I can cry about how it should have been me.  

I flip to the back of the book where a flyer is taped.  “December 3rd! Meet the Author!” A glimmer of hope rises in my chest.

A car speeds past me, splashing the muck and slime from the puddle all over me and my notebook and I’m immediately reminded that it is only March.  I don’t care if I get to the meet and greet to simply breathe my last breath, but I swear, I will make it there.

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How do you slow down your life? Is the great struggle really that we’re all losing time or are we just doing it wrong? Maybe it’s the way my mind works, but I think we’re doing a lot wrong. 

The negativity swirls around my head like a toxin, sucking life out of my chest with each breath.  People are always unhappy.  We’re sick, tired, there’s simply too much going on. We are never satisfied.  Rather than appreciating that sky, we say ugh I’m here so I can’t appreciate it.  

I’m transitioning from a world of imagination to a world of facts.  Facts seem ruthless and cold. Imagination offers endless possibilities as you float through the beauty of the world.  

Looking at the students in my classroom, it seems inevitable that we will be the same tomorrow and the idea of it weakens my soul.  Until we change, you can find me clinging to books and films where imagination reigns.  I will hide in my possibilities and smile through the cold, gray faces surrounding me. Go ahead and tell me that my dreams are impossible, how I should be a teacher instead. Ask me what the point of my degree is.

The point in my degree is this: happiness. I don’t want to wait for a mid-life crisis to go after my dreams. If I fail, at least I can say I tried.

My wife and I were curled up under the covers and were getting ready to fall asleep when I heard the front door open.  This would be acceptable, even normal, if we had a teenage child who wasn’t home yet or any children at all for that matter…or even a dog.  No, my wife and I live alone.  I wrapped myself up in a robe and headed for the door.

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Now Hiring: Some Therapy Required.

[Note: Apologies for not posting yesterday. Didn’t have time to get online and post it but I will post twice today.  This piece is a very rough draft of a piece I’d like to submit at some point.  It doesn’t have an introduction yet. Feedback is highly appreciated.]

Professionalism has gone out the window.  It’s not to say that we are not trying, but the execution could use some work.  We seem more like a family that child services are frequently called to visit.  Mom is usually hiding from the kids outside, smoking a cigarette and praying that her nagging mother in law will disappear.  I can’t tell what will harm her first, the cigarettes or the impending breakdown. Continue reading

Charles and Liliana

He sat in the brown paisley chair, engulfed in his pipe smoke.  He sat with with back erect against the chair and his legs crossed, carefully to make sure he did not wrinkle his suit.  A piece of hair had fallen in front of his eyes but he did not move.

It has always been his dream to have enough time to actually sit in the parlor room. He was never quite sure why.  He wasn’t even really sure why anyone needed a parlor room.  It said more about the preconceived notions the homeowner had about wealth than about whatever a parlor room was for.  When he presented this point to his mother years ago, she rolled her eyes at his ignorance.

“Charles, it is to entertain guests.”

He didn’t dare ask her why no other room in a house was worthy of entertaining guests.  Does a name and a preconceived notion truly define something’s worth? He hoped not, because that was a devastating thought for humanity.

“Excuse me sir?”  Her voice jolted him out of his thought process. Continue reading

The Funeral Director with Necrophobia (introduction)

Isn’t it slightly sadistic to have fall be your favorite season? I mean you are reveling in the beauty of somethings death. I guess I just don’t find death beautiful.  I don’t really think it is something that I can cope with.  I work in a funeral home. You’d think I’d be able to cope, even understand, death it’s because of my career.   But no. I can’t handle it.  I know everyone at some point learns how to cope with death but I’m not there yet and I don’t know how to get there. I don’t know how people just accept that everything you care about will be gone.

But you can’t just up and leave the family business, even if it leaves you teetering on the edge of a breakdown.  See, if you are a guy, you can do whatever you want.  Your role is to pass on the family name.  If you marry a woman who can’t have kids, you don’t want kids or heaven forbid are gay, you’ll cause the end of the world.  Yep. That’s the logic of my family. Intense much? I agree.  Now imagine what happens when the family’s livelihood actually depends on your career.