Sorry (I'm Not Interesting When I'm Not Angsty)

I don't really have much to say.

(That's not some retardedly enigmatic call for attention, I just felt bad not updating for a while, but the fact of the matter is that nothing really interesting has canoed down my brain river. Also I realize that writing a single definitive sounding sentence reeks of the finality of a 12 year old girl; but you know what, Hemingway never wrote a sentence longer than 6 words. So take that.)

Checkmate (A Resignation)

I'm done readers. It's been a long few months but I think I've overcome my thing for you know who. (Claire, not Voldemort)

It's not so much an overcoming, a conquering, mostly it's just defeat.

I had great things planned for this entry, a passionate discourse and dissection on the woes of romance, but I don't really have a passion anymore, romantically or angrily.

I used to have the first, but that went away, I thought, turns out it just spun a cocoon and burst out as a rage filled butterfly. (Mothra)

I got worn down you know?

It was very frustrating dealing with Claire.

I just desperately wanted to prove to her that I was the guy she needed.

Every time she came to me because some dude hurt her I just tried to be supportive, in hopes that she would one day realize that I was the one that was always there for her.

I may not be the best looking, most charming, or nicest, but I was always there.

And that was tough.

When a girl comes to you calling some guy mean names or saying she's not good enough for him and throwing the biggest pity party for herself it takes a lot of self control not to explode.

"If you're not good enough for him, what does that make me?!"

"Don't you get it, don't you see it, all these guys are just stupid jackasses that are trying to manipulate you!"

But I suppressed that, and maybe that was a bad thing. Maybe honesty would have been the better route.

I had this allegory that I used to describe the relationship between claire and I.

We play gender chess, trying to feel better about ourselves while simultaneously not letting the other person get too close, and she is the best female player I have ever encountered.

Our styles of play are polar opposites.

I try to draw her out of her shell with total honesty, telling her every silly and serious thing that pops into my head.

She is a robot. She will never say what she is thinking, and offers only the vaguest idea of whatever situation is distressing her to illicit sympathy.

This would infuriate me.

I felt like my transparent honesty would be moving and reassuring, letting her see that I really meant the best and wasn't trying to trap her with boyish posturing and manipulation.

One day, I thought we had turned a corner.

She opened up to me somewhat unprovoked about some guy that hurt her.

And even though I knew that this guy was probably not right for her and just another joker that thought she was hot; I kept my cool and consoled her.

I didn't mind consoling her though. Because she was so closed I always thought that she hurt a lot more than she ever let on. I just hoped that by comforting her through whatever she chose to share with me that would somehow transfer to the things that hurt her in secret.

It's nice to know someone is there.

I felt pretty good about myself after that. Sad for her, but I thought maybe she would finally take off the blinders and realize that there was a guy out there that was there for her always.

Later she said they patched things up, but I still held out hope.

Her reconciliation raised a question in my brain. "Why do girls chase jerks when they have perfectly nice guys waiting for them?"

I queried this to a more knowledgeable source and her response was, "we are stupid."

She elaborated that girls appreciated that they could make jerks like them, apparently it validates them more than an affirming man.

This was a new paradigm for me. I realized that I had been playing chess with missing pieces. Perhaps being honest with my anger would be the rook I needed to put her in emotional checkmate.

I meditated on the things she did that pissed me off, working up a good head of rage to unleash the next time she came to me for comfort.

Then things took a turn to where it would be wildly inappropriate for me to be jerk, so i put that one in the back pocket for later.

The week progressed without any chance to unleash my dormant fury.

Then friday night, I come to find out that she is off gallivanting around the hometown of the dude she was 5 days from calling names unprintable in the magic blog.

She went to some romantic weekend getaway with some dude she had known for a month.

I found out via text that she was having a "wonderful" time.

The only response i could conjure up was "awesome."

You can't see it, but if you zoomed in really close to that passive aggressive period at the end of "awesome." you would read pages and pages hurt, and confusion, and angst, that I wouldn't dare express out loud and had to hide behind one tiny piece of punctuation.

Then I finally gave up.

I realized that it just wasn't worth it.

I still love her and want her to be happy, but it was too much and I wanted nothing to do with her for a while.

I spent the next few days avoiding her, it wasn't worth talking to her, we would never be more than friends and it was too painful to be that close without it leading anywhere.

I decided to move on.

A few days later she finally started talking to me and we just picked up where it ended the week before, superficial displays of friendship.

It's unfair to say superficial because I really do love and care about her, but it just doesn't go beyond the platonic anymore. Which is probably what she's always wanted.

It just feels strange to me, the lack of passion or enthusiasm.

I don't want her to become just another girl that is my friend, I like to imagine that one day there would be some sort of romance, that all the waiting would pay off.

But I'm done and it's easier.

She wins gender chess, I'm not going to use my angry pieces. Instead I'm knocking over my king and conceding victory.

(Don't read this and think that claire is a bitch, she's not, well sometimes she is, but mostly i'm just a sensitive little guy)

I suppose that I might just be going through that nihilistic phase. You know, what does it all mean? Where am I going? Does my life make a difference?

I've always been a big believer in seeing the beauty that God has laid out in front of you in the world. If you take a few seconds to stop being a self absorbed dumbass and just look around you'll see a lot of really amazing stuff.

Cliche stuff, like clouds, and sunsets, and pretty girls.

And then there's stuff that seems like it's just for you, stuff that makes you happy.

Dogs for me, or driving down an older part of Lubbock.

I dunno if it's maturation or emotional erosion, but I'm losing that romantic sensibility that made me interesting to myself.

I see people walking around campus holding hands, or kissing when they get off the bus, and I know it's nothing more than an automatic response. There's no real affection.

I used to hate that, but now I wonder if that's all love is, faking it until you trick yourself into believing you need this person.

I realize that at 18, it's foolish to give up on the idea of fulfilling genuine relationships, but i'm just in one of those ways, you know?

In one of his comics, Neil Gaiman writes, "I don't know if I much believe in love. I think people are just horny and scared. So they find someone who makes them horny and cling to them because they are afraid to face the darkness around them."

If I believed that entirely, I think the world would be a pretty sad place. It would cheapen every spec of relational bliss that makes things a little brighter. Old married couples, the bond between your parents, Robert Jordan and his gypsy princess. (I realize how gay that sounds)

But that might be just indicative of the way culture has shifted toward cynicism. In the old days, Dante proposed that the love of a woman (Beatrice) could save his soul.

Dante is more highly regarded than Gaiman, but I don't know if he's any more right.

I just get annoyed that more people don't think like me. To be fair, I don't really associate with anyone beyond my high school friends, and people don't normally expound on their perceptions of romance when you first meet them, but still, you'd think two people of my nature would find a serendipitous way to get together.

I sort of talked about this earlier, in the blog about my imaginary bus ride.

Of course, that blog was just an attempt to illicit sympathy and admiration for my cute, sensitive nature/generate comments. And I partly succeeded.

The only comment that actually addressed the non-rhetorical question was Meagan's.

"a part of me feels like i'm holding out for some sort of romance that doesn't actually exist. it's just a myth that's been passed down by authors and screenwriters through the generations."

And now i'm starting to feel that way too. It doesn't make me too sad though. (I started writing this like a week ago, hence the emotional vacillation). I don't know how it makes me feel really. Like I understand conceptually that life is not a movie or a book or a song, but I still like to feel that it is.

The best way that I feel I can describe it is that that romantic center inside of me has kind of gone into hibernation. Right now I just don't want to think about girls or about friends or about college, I just want to put my head down and get through the semester; but I know it'll be back.

I never thought that I'd become one of those "I have to get out of Lubbock" people, but I'm just feeling emotionally capsized.

I went down to B/CS for the game this weekend, and even though I despise all that is aggie, I had to admit, my friends down there seemed to be a lot more stable and mature than my friends from HS that live here (no offense) and I'm just tired of feeling like I'm still in the 12th grade.

Apparently, a lot of people get kind of bummed the first semester of college, so maybe it will pass.

But if it doesn't I'm submitting my transfer application to UT in May.

Nothing to Think About (Nothing to Write About)

I'm sitting in the ticket booth right now, and it is very miserable.

My old friend the stapler is here, but I don't care to reveal the rest of his tragic story. (He gets hit by a car)

I should be writing a history paper, but I don't feel like doing that either, and I don't really want to write in the Magic Blog, but I have nothing better to do.

I don't have a story to tell, all of the entrances to my domicile have been adequately barricaded to prevent unwanted domestic animals. (David also scared the cat away with a bb gun)

I have been doing a strange experiment lately (the past 18 hours or so) in that I have been intentionally thinking angry thoughts so that I can be mean.

You may ask why I am doing this, I'm afraid that information is not appropriate for the Magic Blog. Due to my vast readership I am unable to be as intimate with you beloved listeners as I wish. I am trapped in my own kingdom.

I hate the ticket booth though. I was pretty cheerful today, but this place likes to eat every happy emotion and amplify every negative one. It's like being in Azkaban.

I had a lot of good thoughts this week (good in the sense that they made me feel like i was intellectual), mostly about the nature of selfishness. But I used up all my emotional energy complaining to people/soliciting advice. If the energy comes back, I may jot some stuff down.

It is strange how KMB has evolved. It was never intended to be this way.

It started as a way to distract myself at work during the summer.

I did have an outline though.

I started with the dream thing, just as a trial run.

Then I was going to go through my old xangas and juxtapose them with how i feel about whatever I was writing about 3 or 4 years into the future. (Still an interesting idea, I think)

Then it changed to where I was just going to do a High Fidelity sort of thing where I went back and retold the stories of all my failed relationships. (I'm being generous with the term "relationship")

This was all essentially an exposition to where I would post excerpts from a letter I wrote that I was particularly proud of at the time. (It was to claire [duh] and I still like it)

People (3 of them!) would read my correspondence and clamor for more peeks into my personal life. (Like Ben Franklin)

But I had to wait until the right moment to spring the word-trap.

Then I realized that I would essentially be posting the Livejournal of a 13 year old girl and stopped that nonsense.

Then it went whimsical with the restaurant thing, which was cute, but I think I'm funnier (I realize that is hubris) when I write slightly more intellectual things, non-sequiturs have their place but they get old.

Then I went back to the mope format (it's my go to) with some deviations.

I personally was very proud of Money Monster, but I think it was too cerebral for the audience.

I think the one about Mr. Stapler was a little weird, it garnered no comments, I almost didn't post it because I didn't want people to think I was severely depressed (I'm not, just a vagina) but I thought the joke was too classic to pass up.

I believe that was my last attempt at short fiction. I dislike short fiction. It's easily the most pretentious genre. (No offense to my good friend and commenter, Jordan). But short fiction isn't my bag if you aren't exploring the 3 laws of robotics. I bought a book of the 50 Greatest Short Stories at B&N like 4 months ago, and I like a ton of the authors. I've read 1 story.

(I realize that I have often claimed that I want to be an essayist which is probably considered much more pretentious)

Actually, amateur poetry is the worst. If you write poetry and you aren't impoverished, suicidal, or a minority, your poetry sucks.

What was I talking about?

Right the blog development.

Anyway the blog developed into what it is today, which I'm not sure what it is, just a way to distract myself at work.

So it really didn't develop at all.

I've had some more ideas for blogs though.

I already have "Me at Work" which is lame.

But I've thought of a series.

Like "Kyle's Magic Music Blog," this was going to debut with the new Ben Folds album, but my laptop was broken at the time so it has been delayed until I am particularly bored.

Then I could have, "Kyle's Magic Move Blog" and I was recently inspired to do "Kyle's Magic Rant Blog."

As you can see, I'm like Tinkerbell with all the magic I am capable of spreading.

There is more to this concept, but I'm leaving work and feel it deserves its own exposition.

Caterwauling (A Pun)

Tonight was pretty intense.

I fought off a home invader.

First, an exposition.

David and Nick are off hunting this weekend. Being the sportsmen that they are, they will sit for several hours in what is essentially a treehouse and wait until a deer goes to eat the food that has been left out for them for several weeks and then shoot them in the heart.

Meanwhile, I am at home alternating between watching college football, arguing on the internet about college football, and playing NCAA football 2009. I might watch a dvd or two. I assume at some point during the weekend I will have a dream that causes me to wallow in self pity for the better part of the day, until I see a dog or have a good cry.

This is a deviation from the topic, but still animal related, so I will proceed.

Ever since leaving home, I have been somewhat lonely, if the 23 pages of self reflection I have produced haven't revealed that fact yet. But the one thing that always cheers me up is seeing a dog.

This clearly has roots going back to infancy.

My first dog was a Boston Terrier named Tibideaux. (My parents lived in Louisiana when they bought her and reflected the geography with her moniker). There are pictures of me in my nascent state (infancy) rolling around on a blanket, with Tibby (her nom de plume) laying beside me.

Tibby was a major source of comfort for the next 6.5 years. She died one day while I was at school and I have very vivid memories of the night before her death, when my parents told me that Tibby was sick and probably wouldn't make it through the night, I read 3 Hank the Cowdog books and cried myself to sleep on the top bunk of my metal bunk bed.

The next morning Tibby was still ok and I said goodbye to her and got on the schoolbus and went to school. My mom was sitting in our old blue lazyboy recliner with Tibby lying with her head in her paws squeezed between my mom's left thigh and the armrest of the chair.

When I got home, Tibby was gone and since all of my experience with death up to this point was how it had been portrayed on Nickelodeon, I assumed that we would bury her in the backyard. But, she had already been cremated. I realize now that up until this minute, in my mind I always imagine Tibby dying in the same place I had left her, my mom sitting in the chair with her lips tightened into a slight sad frown at the corners, her hand ruffling Tibby's ears, but she probably died at the vet.

I wasn't very sad when Tibby died, I don't think I was young enough for it to really affect me yet, but looking back on it now, I imagine it must have been really tough for my parents, they had had Tibby for 6 years before I was born, and she was probably a reminder of those early years of marriage.

6 months or so later, my parents got a new Boston Terrier puppy. She was adorable and it amused me to no end that she was afraid to walk across the tile of our kitchen because it was cold. So I would ferry her back and forth, whether she wanted me to or not.

After about a week of deliberation, we (my parents) decided to name her Piha. They should have named her "Piha, it means freckle in czech" because that is how she is always introduced. My grandparents came from the small Eastern European towns in South Texas, and my Granny speaks Czech, so that's where that came from.

From ages 7-18, Piha has remained a part of my life and continual source of comfort whenever I'm sad. Whenever I was sick or feeling depressed I would force Piha to come and sit on my bed while I moped.

And now, in this awkward transitory stage, without any of those comforts that are so easy to take for granted, dogs are an endless source of joy. Whenever I see people walking them, they make me smile. Once I got to pet a lady's Great Dane and it made me happy for like 2 days.

I get to see Piha every Sunday, so that also makes me happy.

Back to the topic.

I'm home alone, and I hadn't had a cigar in a long time so i figured that I would smoke one tonight in my boredom. I went out to the porch to smoke and brought my computer. A friend invited me to a movie, and we always leave the backdoor open because both our fences are locked, but I forgot that I left the glass door open as well.

I go to the movie. (Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist)(It combined many of my favorite things)(Movies about music, love stories, michael cera, movies set in one 24 hr period). And I return home.

I go into the backyard to get a water bottle, and when I return, who is there to greet me but a large annoying black cat that frequents our porch.

I yelled at him to get outside, but apparently he found my tone rude and ran into the bedroom area.

I didn't know which bedroom he ran into, so thinking quickly, I grabbed Glenn (the roomba) and put him in my room to scare him out.

The cat didn't appear so I checked the other rooms, but he was elusive.

I was worried about him jumping out and scaring me, so I got on Ichat and started a video chat with someone so I wouldn't feel so creeped out.

I proceeded to go around the house poking things with a tennis racquet for 20 minutes.

I eventually heard the dogs next door barking so I can only assume that the cat made an exit.

If you don't hear from me after a while though, it's because the cat was hiding in my room and I died of an allergic reaction.