This Blog Is The Boy I Once Was (We'll See How It All Turns Out)

July 2008-August 2009

Last Week in Town (It's Pretty Weird)

I saw 500 Days of Summer today, and it was pretty magical.

Any movie starring my future wife (zooey deschanel) and a cast member from 3rd Rock from the Sun is going to be right in my wheelhouse. Especially if it liberally references popular bands that people pretend are obscure.

Also it has a guy brokenhearted about a girl, so that's a pretty big draw.

This movie managed to couch something i've been trying to elaborate on in the Magic Blog better than i have been able to couch something i've been trying to elaborate on in the Magic Blog.

There is a sequence of events where female romantic lead opens up to male romantic lead in that super special we're special friends way, and mr. voiceover narrates, "Male romantic lead knew that these were stories that not everyone heard, these were stories that had to be earned."

First of all, I appreciated that they called these exchanges of words "stories" because i like to describe things as stories. But also, i think this may be a more (genuine, no) (appropriate, no)... complete explanation of my constant complaint about "carrying someone else's baggage." The way things happen is that, not only must I be bonded to someone through these packets of emotional hpv, but in order to receive one in the first place, I must work so very hard. I must sacrifice, i must love, i must put up with all manner of nonsense, to phrase it eloquently, I must earn it.

Here again, we draw on another theme that runs throughout my life and the life of the magic blog. My very immature way of not seeing the world for how it really is, but as this sort of fanciful wordfairy land populated by charming, beautiful, and interesting people, with myself as the ruler of this adolescent candyland.

Every once in a while, the real world sneaks up on me like an agile freight train and ambushes the back of my pretending-nodes. (In my brain!) And i take a mental-breath and take reality-stock of the actual-situation.

I am a nineteen year old college student who is moving to a new town to find something that I probably just imagined. I couldn't even tell you what this thing is. If pressed, it would be a girl. A girl like Clementine in Eternal Sunshine; a girl who by her very affections makes the world into something different, something out of a story.

I am studying journalism because i want to be a household name. I want to be iconic. I want to be an archetype.

I want to be a fictional character.

I don't even want to be superman or anything, i want to be famousrichhappyman (I would like flight), and i would settle for just happyman.

This distresses me.

I am distressed because as far as I know, this person has never actually existed. It's just me getting caught up in fiction again.

(Let this be a lesson for you future parents; don't let your kids read)

My friend nelson left the state today. He is going to Colorado for the year. Despite us drifting apart some in college, as i left his filthy apartment this afternoon, i still felt that sting in my psyche and bruise in my gut that comes with separation. I can only imagine how it will be on Friday.

I recently described my current emotional state as "lumpy." And i feel that it is a remarkably accurate way to describe the way i am feeling the things that i am currently feeling.

All these different emotions are just floating in my cut like clay (non-toxic) with no discernable form or shape. And maybe that's pretty much how it as to be until there is some new stimuli to act on it. To mold it like patric swayze in ghost into something i could readily identify, like, sad, lonely, hungry, happy, magical.

This is the problem with summer readers, not enough to say.

Kyle's Sappy Blog (Sappier Than Usual)

It's good to see you internet, it's been a while.

This is my third to last day of work. I've been here for around a year, and now i'm ready to leave.

I head to Austin on the 20th, it's not very far away.

KMB erupted from my mind-placenta a little over a year ago, and things have changed a lot since then.

Back then, I was insecure, mopey, and isolated. I'm still insecure and sometimes I get a little down, but it's not the same. I've figured out how to be happy.

It wasn't even a conscious decision, just something that grew organically out of my socializing and the normal maturation that comes with age (a whole year!).

I used to come home every night and lie in bed and feel smothered by nothingness. Even if i spent the whole evening with friends, having a good time, I would come home and be consumed by all kind of negative emotions, usually worry, often anger, and sometimes just apathy. And ever so slowly, God brought me through that.

This just dawned on me last night, as I was laying in bed. I'm leaving basically everyone I know and love in two weeks, armed only with awkward social skills and the wit of oscar wilde; but as i sat there, waiting for tired eyes, I was perfectly content with this, perfectly confident; everything is alright.

More than anything, this has made me grateful for the people in my life, I'm trying to see as many of them as possible in this short time, and as i'm doing so, i'm seeing the influence they had over me that i never noticed, and I love them all for it. I love you guys.

So here I am, at this weird empasse, that I don't know if i'll ever experience the same way again. This transition, a year late, from everything i've known to everything i don't. It's a new beginning.

And I wonder what the implications of this are for the Magic Blog. The way I see it, the Magic Blog was a story. A story in a couple of layers, the story of me figuring out who and how i want to be for the rest of my life, the story of my first year of college, the story of me working out all of this misplaced sadness and aggression in front of all of you with a few turns of phrase; but most of all it was the story of me trying to tell a story about a boy and a girl.

And i never even got around to sharing it.

A long form of the story exists. I wrote it a week after I graduated high school. It has all the gorey details, beginning to end, every jot and tittle, other cliches for completeness. But, you guys don't need that, and I don't need that.

So here is the story I made this blog to tell.

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. The boy thought the girl was the most special girl he had ever encountered, so he tried to make her feel the same way. Sadly, the girl couldn't make herself feel the way the boy felt. This made the boy very sad for a long time. But, one day, he realized that maybe it was better to be friends than to be sad; so he stopped. And it didn't matter so much anymore and things were better.

So now the Magic Blog has to find a new identity. The awkward part is that every story I told featured characters that I was familiar with for years, which enabled a certain sort of honesty that I feel i might be incapable of duplicating, especially since I will be writing about new people.

I can't really see myself telling the story of the girl that I like from my film class in the Magic Blog, especially since i'm trying to use it as a seduction tool; she'll think i'm a fourteen year old weirdo.

So much like myself, the Magic Blog has to make this transition blind, hopefully she will survive, she should, she's a fighter.

Tonight I Write (Words and Sentences)

Hello world (the little slice of it that visits my corner of internet that I am renting from the benevolent proprietors of blogger.com, which i believe is the mighty google) I have decided to return to the Magic Blog; I apologize for my prolonged absence.

I haven't really been ruminating on anything to talk about recently. My life has been remarkably stable and predictable. I wake up every morning at 7:15am. I take a shower. I get dressed (just shorts). I drink orange juice from the carton and instant breakfast from a glass. I always stir it with a little spoon, because using a big one is superfluous. I put on a shirt, then i take it off, then i debate whether it will get too sweaty over the course of the day. Usually, I convince myself that it won't, but eventually it does. I pack up my computer, cord in the front of my backpack so it doesn't make a weird shape on my back, the actual laptop sequestered in a neoprene case.

Then I go outside. The annoying mockingbird squawks at me, and I think maybe Atticus got it wrong. I get in my car, slinging my backpack into the passenger seat. (WORLD! if you will allow me to get a little fanboy, Max Bemis posted a song from Baseball on youtube, this is marvelous news!). Then I start my car, usually, i see the "low fuel" light and get a little annoyed thinking about going to the gas station and putting in $10. Then my ears are assaulted again by my ipod adapter waiting a few seconds to intercept the magical sound wave it uses to give me music. (fm 93.2). Then a few seconds of fumbling with morning hands and I'm pulling out with This American Life or The BS Report or The Bugle, or later in the week, shuffle, accompanying my ears.

Left, Right, Left, Right, weaving through the border between half built suburbs and half diminished prairie, rolling through stops like a common criminal. Then down a dirt road, bumping and rattling, assuring myself that eventually i'll take better care of my car. Then down the newly constructed loop, getting angry at New Mexican drivers and those who don't understand it's a freeway. Slumping in annoyance at the ill-timed lights on campus. Parking under a shady tree if I'm lucky and grabbing my bag and ipod and strolling inside.

I clock in, always eight minutes late, go upstairs and grab the ticket selling machine (old dell laptop) and return to my post. I put on my poorly knit work polo and set up my laptop and the school's laptop. I check my blogs, trying to hold off on world of warcraft or watching tv shows because i feel that the time passes faster that way.

I do weird stuff like that sometimes. Every once in a while I give myself weird little endurance tests. Like how many days can I go with only five or so hours of sleep. How many days can I go with just sleeping and not eating except when my mom makes dinner. Or even stupid things, like, how long can I go with an irritating rock in my shoe. On saturdays, I refuse to get up out of bed and use the restroom, instead, just being uncomfortable for about a half hour before i realize how stupid I am.

I don't know why I do those things. Maybe it's the aforementioned doldrums of my life. In high school there were all sorts of ways to push myself, be it academically or in baseball. And in college I pretty much focused on getting As, kind of transferring the energy that used to go to athletics toward academics.

In the summer there's not so much to do.

After work, I come home and nap. I wake up around six. If my mom makes dinner, I eat with my family. If they are at tennis or something, I take a shower, drink some orange juice, and then repeat my morning routine. I text someone and go to where they are, getting food at some point.

Then I come home and sit in my bed, propped up by pillows and a headboard, I talk to people on facebook and check other blogs. (Sometimes the MB for comments, futiley).

Then I go to sleep and it happens again, but dreams happen in between.

Magic Back (After A Magic Mini Hiatus)

I have returned internet.

My life has not been particularly eventful recently, I have been a peripheral character in my friends' stories for the past few weeks, which is pretty alright with me.

I have not blogged in several weeks; if asked, I could not provide a reason. Perhaps, subconsciously, I felt that the Writing Monster post sort of bookended a year of thoughts. You know what I mean readers, a real year (January 1-December 31), just doesn't adequately fulfill the mind's need to cut up life into twelve month blocks. So, at least while i am young, the year is more usefully divided between beginnings and endings of school.

I don't know how this works in the future, once one is employed year round. Maybe anniversaries, or children's birthdays, or perhaps the Gregorian (that's what my last name is) calender reclaims its rightful place as the king of the time-keepers (grandfather clocks are the princes, metronomes are the serfs, the sundials were all killed in the people's revolution).

Regardless, in addition to be conveniently timed with a mind year, that entry also sort of finished up the Blog's mission to try to make claire fall in love with me.

A mission it did not succeed in, but, to be fair, it's probably not entirely Mr. Blog's fault. He performed well, always posting my entries, with limited spacing issues. The fault lies with me. (Any songwriters who want to make that the name of a gentle acoustic lullaby are welcome to, with proper attribution).

So for the next monthish, we're in a bit of a limbo, as not a whole lot will be happening. KMB's one year anniversary is July 23rd, which might herald a rebirth.

I have to find a new story. I've spent a year telling one, and never even got around to finishing it, but it doesn't feel necessary anymore. I think i'm a little more mature and not as insecure and i'm learning how to not be lonely.

Michael Jackon died the other day.

This is relevant to me.

When I first lived in Lubbock, as little child, I had a VHS tape. On this tape were several popular music videos with equally popular cartoon characters superimposed into the videos. These cartoons would dance, lipsync, and generally cavort with the singers in the videos. I had a favorite video. In this video, Alvin, (of Alvin and the Chipmunks) donned a red jacket, some shades, and a sparkly right glove, and proceeded to dance around on pool tables with Michael Jackson to Beat It.

I thought it was cool.

I wasn't aware of who Michael had become (creepy ghoul, possible pedo, child endangerer). So whenever anyone mentioned Michael Jackson, I would associate it with a young black dude wearing a snazzy glove, singing a catchy song (with an animated rodent), and an eddie van halen guitar solo.

UPDATE THE VIDEO EXISTS ON YOUTUBE, it also has Smooth Criminal. Apparently Mike wasn't rocking the glove, and my memory has been tainted. Memories

I was too young to pick up on the cheesiness, which is kind of endearing to me now; I identify with Dave Chappelle's sentiment that, whatever you think of Michael, he really did want to be loved, he turned himself into a white alien creature because he thought people would like him more. It's a pretty tragic tale.

I could write a pretty lengthy tale about how MJ is the modern Oedipus (father issues, undisputed ruler, disturbing pecadillos, and a catastrophic self destruction) but it's too soon after the fact to not feel dishonest.

Anyway, this exposition all to say that, Michael Jackson is important to me because he was the first artist I ever identified as my "favorite" and Beat It was my first favorite song.

Keep in mind, it was 1996 when I was making these claims, well into his crazy stage. And I remember riding in the car with my friend Chris' mom, listening to the radio, and she asked me who my favorite singer was. Not thinking anything of it, I replied, "Michael Jackson." She gave me a very strange look. "Really, you know he's weird right?" I didn't know he was weird, but after she said that I didn't really watch the Beat It tape anymore.

I don't like lists, but I feel like doing a list.

A List of Kyle's First Favorites (Excluding Song and Artist, As They Have Been Covered)

Book - Goodnight, Moon (my mother and father would read this to me all the time before bed, it used to make me feel safe and happy)

Movie - Dumbo (foreshadowing my future insecurities about myself?)

Halloween Costume - Pinocchio (much like Tim Kasher, I was pretty captivated by the tale of the wooden boy)

Allow me to explain why Pinocchio is brilliant.

Pinocchio is a story about what it means to be human. It tells that universal tale of self discovery, and doesn't skip over the hard parts (being turned into a donkey, eaten by Monstro), and it has a happy ending.

It's also a Creation allegory, and the story of the prodigal son; with songs!

Pinocchio is the best movie for children to love. You learn early not to lie, not to run away, to trust your conscience, and most importantly that you have a Father that loves you unconditionally.

I have thought about getting the album cover of Is A Real Boy tattooed on my foot one day. This is a good tattoo because, not only do i love that album, but because it is also Pinocchio's nose.

It also let Tim Kasher write Driftwood: A Fairy Tale, one of my favorite songs ever, so I feel like it is a good thing for me to love.

My mom still has my Pinocchio costume in her closet, tiny red overalls, white shirt, little felt hat, and a rubber nose.

Readers, I am happy to be writing, but I am out of practice and tired. I feel like I will cut this entry off now, maybe soon inspiration will strike and I can write an entry that makes me stay up all night sweating and whispering to myself about how brilliant I am, but tonight will not be that night.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Dreams (The Kind That Accompany REM Sleep)

Hello magic groupies, how are you all today? I am well, thank you for e-asking.

Today we are going to talk about dreams. I have done this before, in fact, dear readers, the very first taste of Magic you all received was just a simple little description of some dreams that had recently played in my mind theatre. (I think it's an AMC).

But today, my friends, we are going to discuss a different kind of dream, are we excited? (Yes!)

This kind of dream is called a recurring dream, and I've been having three different ones!

Here, I will describe them.

The first type started occurring shortly after my beloved childhood dog, Piha, died. In these dreams I bomb around with a dog. They are generally pretty uneventful. Usually just me taking a walk with a dog. Usually it's a Boston Terrier, sometimes it's Piha, other times it's some future dog that my parents have not yet bought.

Normally these dreams are good, because, as we have documented several times, dogs make me happy.

Other times they take a turn for the tragic, and the dog I am walking will run away and be struck by a car. But whenever the dog getting hit by a car dreams happen, the dog either changes from a Boston Terrier to a German Shepherd or was a German Shepherd all along.

According to The Google, "Pay attention to dreams about dogs, as they often bring important messages. Dog dreams that are positive mean that the dreamer is lucky in friendship. A threatening dog signifies discomfort with large social groups."

So apparently, sometimes I have good relationships with my friends, and others, the relationships are threatened?

I think I probably just miss my dog, and wish that Chopdick had died instead of her.

My second dream is fairly common. I will be tooling around some mountain pass or other high thing, and suddenly, the ground will release me and I will fall for a bit, and then of course you realize, "Hey, I'm dreaming," and then you wake up. UNLESS YOU HAVE MASTERED WAKING LIFE!!! But, I haven't, so I just wake up.

MORE GOOGLE INSIGHT!!!

"As with most common dream themes, falling is an indication of insecurities, instabilities, and anxieties. You are feeling overwhelmed and out of control in some situation in your waking life. This may reflect the way you feel in your relationship or in your work environment. You have lost your foothold and can not hang on or keep up with the hustle and bustle of daily life"

I don't know about this one, I feel pretty in control most of the time, if a bit annoyed about how scheduled my life is.

"Falling dreams also often reflect a sense of failure or inferiority in some circumstance or situation. It may be the fear of failing in your job/school, loss of status, or failure in love."

This one makes a little more sense, as they tend to correspond with Magic Blog posts. Maybe they'll stop happening now?

"According to Freudian theory, dreams of falling indicate that you are contemplating giving into a sexual urge or impulse. You maybe lacking indiscretion."

My already tenuous relationship with Freud has just gotten worse with this "interpretation," God knows I'm not in any position to give into any urge, I can't even get kisses with tongue!

My other dream is probably the most unusual.

I always dream that I am preternaturally good at ice hockey. This dream has no basis in fact. After my years in CO, I am an okay ice skater, but i've never actually played hockey in my life. Yet, often enough, I dream that I am taking people part on the ice, either with my brother (who played roller hockey and is also good in the dream) or with a bunch of people who aren't as good as me. Let's consult Google.

First, we'll tackle the times when I am just skating alone. In a section the "dream dictionary" calls "Playing Sports - Individually."

"You may feel responsibility for your own success or satisfaction. Many times, entertaining ourselves stems from being neglected by others, so we dream of playing alone and enjoying ourselves in spite of them. Other times, it is a product of distancing ourselves from others, even if perhaps they would want us to play in the group."

If we follow this interpretation maybe I just feel isolated, possibly from dwelling on and then executing my move back to my parents, as well as my eventual move to Austin. The website also has handy feedback questions.

The website asks, "Do you feel a sense of loneliness or comfort in the dream?"

Well dream page, as a matter of fact, I enjoy these dreams a lot. I like to effortlessly slide on the ice and whack stuff around with an aluminum stick.

Now we will address the part of the site that says "Playing Sports - With Others."

"Dreaming of playing with others can be a symptom of your need to enhance your interpersonal communication skills. It can also inform you of the possibility that you have been neglecting communion with others, and that you need to seek more camaraderie in your life."

This is bullcrap dream website. I have lots of friends and I communicate excellently. I think that maybe the webpage is jealous of my human emotions and the ability to feel, and that's why he is trying to bring me down.

Also his question is, "Is the game being played for fun or competition?"

In my dream state, it's always just for fun, it also always has both genders represented, in more of a pick up game type atmosphere. This also makes me the star of the dream, because, as I said earlier, I am the best player out there.

Maybe this is just my brain letting me enjoy what it feels like to be the best player, because there is never a situation where I am playing a team sport and I'm the best person out there. Maybe that's why it picked hockey, because I won't be able to say to my dream self, "Hey, you're not better than that person in basketball, you've played them before."

I suppose it doesn't really matter.

There are some dreams beloved readers. I hope you enjoy reading about them (slash) interpreting them, and always remember, if you dream about falling, wake up before you hit the ground, or you will die in your sleep!

Writing Monster (Blogheara)

Hello friends,

I am concerned. I am concerned because there has been an almost criminal dearth of comments on my most recent updates to KMB, and honestly readers...this hurts me where my heart is.

I think it may be psychological for you cats. Apparently the entry Night Writing made people too sad. I find this strange, seeing as there have been countless similarly disheartening dissertations on my still difficult to discern emotions. Maybe we just reached a critical mass, like it was all too much for my beloved readers. The omni-present bitching, regardless of how poignantly expressed, overwhelmed everyone's sympathy receptors.

The fact that I could potentially be writing to empty air, that no one might read this for months is, in a way, liberating. (also lonely). I could say whatever I cared and damn the consequences. This is usually the attitude I have when writing, but occasionally, i will refrain from being too eviscerating in the name of good taste and common empathy.

I am one of the angriest people I know, but no one is ever directly affronted by my rage. I like to spread it out, mail little packages to neutral parties, so that eventually only a shadow is left. But the shadow is just as dangerous. It colors my perception, influences my interaction, casts a pall on every sentence i speak, type, or text. I don't know why this is. I like to pretend it's out of sincere motives. That I don't confront people I care about because I don't want to risk losing that camaraderie. And I realize that's probably disingenuous and being a crappy friend, but maybe i'm just that caring. Or maybe I don't care enough. Or maybe I'm just a wiener.

I don't know team. I'm used to using my Magic as a sort of outlet. A way to express myself with thinly veiled messages.

And for the past year almost every message has been directed at one person.

But i want that to change.

I'm tired of trying to please this one person, I'm tired of this, as Jordan so eloquently put, "Fight Club type situation," defining me and defining how i see myself. I'm tired of trying to insert myself in someone else' story.

I think I turned a corner the other day. I think I may have, if not resolved, at least articulated how I feel and how I want to change.

But I'm turning a corner like a firetruck. I can't do it alone, and i'm worried, i'm downright scared that if the driver in the back doesn't help me get around this corner; then maybe history is doomed to repeat.

But this person, this passive aggressive little coward is not who I feel like I am. I'm an angry son of a gun, I'm like Bill Hicks, without the addictions. (Also I'm funny). (TAKE THAT BILL HICK'S ESTATE).

So now i'm apprehensive to be all up on front street in the Magic Blog, maybe it's time I started behaving like a man.

A few months ago, I wrote an entry called Checkmate. It was good.

When I wrote this, I listened to La La Lie on repeat, it took twenty-two listens. All I could think was "Guess what? I'm done."

I realize that maybe that wasn't the way I should do things. Maybe there's no such thing as all or nothing; maybe i shouldn't focus on one relationship so relentlessly. Maybe I should find fulfillment in something else, rather than this imaginary wonderland i've convinced myself would make my life ever so grand.

Maybe it's a process, maybe it's gradual, maybe hours of dialogue and honesty aren't enough. Maybe every problem can't be solved by slight of tongue. Maybe sometimes it just takes time?

I don't like things that take time readers. I don't especially like things that take action either. I pretty much just like to hear myself talk. I also like to overthink. I think the overthinking is what does me in. I analyze everything so much and I expect others to do the same, to devote a lot of time to hypothetical pursuits, when in reality they have much more productive and probably healthy things to spend their lonely times doing. So when that time comes, when i'm free to pontificate; it comes out in a rush thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts, a tower of babble, if you will. And after i have flushed my brain, I expect the other person to feel this same sense of relief, to see it as this wonderfully cathartic experience. Maybe they don't see it as that, maybe it's just a step in the right direction, not the destination. (Dinosaur Comics has made me realize that we need new metaphors world, i'm tired of everthing being about traveling or playing sports).

This is where I err. People are not all me. Things take time. I think I'm ready to take time, I think I'm ready to spread myself out. I think I'm ready to find genuine fulfillment.

I think maybe my love letter ends here. This is the conclusion of the pages and pages, and maybe it's better that way.

Or maybe it's just the first step.

I love you readers, even if you're just me.

I Think I Talk To You Best When I Write (I Write About Most Everything)

dear world.

Tonight i am sitting in my bed. There is a tv in front of me. It's name is Westinghouse. It is a poor man's sony, but i don't care because it accomplishes what i need. My Bill Murray poster is also looking at me, six Bill Murrays in fact. From caddyshack, stripes, ghostbusters, ed wood, lost in translation, and life aquatic. Bill makes me want to be a comedian.

Behind Westinghouse is a rolled up poster of Hunter Thompson. Hunter makes me want to be a writer.

My name is stacked in vertical letters beside my tv.

K
y
L
e

There is a poster on the wall over my left shoulder. It is green and says Manchester Orchestra in red lettering. Above the lettering, in beige, it says Mean Everything. Below Manchester Orchestra, also in beige, it says To Nothing. This album makes me want to love albums.

Beside me (left) is a cup that once cradled some orange juice, it is white and says Buns Over Texas, with a Texas shape behind it. This cup makes me want to eat hamburgers.

To my right is the door to the bathroom.

I had a blow out on the way home today. There was a nail in my back right tire and as i drove over some railroad tracks, it pulled some sort of maneuver that led to all of the air escaping. So i inched along to my house and pulled into my brother's garage. I proceeded to loosen the nuts (hehe), jack up the car, remove the tire, attach the silly donut, tighten the nuts (hehe), and de-jack the car.

This car blow out occured at a rather (in)convenient time. It happened to coincide with my own brief explosion. Events have conspired over the course of the years and today that have made me lose myself (like eminem) to a three minute burst of mad. It was a pretty uneventful attack. I just jacked the car down forcefully, took a brief shower where I scrubbed sand off myself forcefully, and then i dried off forcefully. Then i got on the computer and said bad words to Stephen.

And now it's pretty much done.

I really enjoy the EP that came with Mean Everything to Nothing. It's called Fourteen Years of Excellence. The second track is particularly spectacular. It's called It's Ok With Me. It sounds like Andy Hull wrote a hidden track for Heartbreaker. I wish that I had seen them live when they played in Dallas four days ago, sadly, I had to give pool cues to foreign students.

Over the past week, I have endured three remarks about my belly that were not made by members of the BFC (that's right, we get colors). This has made me decide to get fit, as it were. I have been running daily and stopped drinking cokes, (except on the weekends, and even then i limit myself to two). I am also seriously considering getting Wii fit. I am essentially on the workout plan of a sixty seven year old who is recovering from a broken hip.

I am working twenty eight hours a week at the SUB. This creates awkward encounters because my phone cover is UT themed. I have to hide this so my boss doesn't ask any questions. I have what is probably the easiest job in the world, but i still hate going to it.

Also I am pretty hungry. I've also been eating less what with my new fitness plan, and this leads me to dream about eating and/or drinking a lot. I fear that this revelation will remind my friends of an unflattering nickname.

I don't have a lot to say tonight and no one reads this anymore. So goodnight readers.

A Year (A Whole Year)

That's devotion, or something sad.

Writing Like A Novelist (An Experiment)

One thirty am is a bad time to be alone. In the back of your mind, slightly beyond the reaches of your consciousness, but ever present, is the knowledge that everyone around you is asleep; or in a state of fortified frivolity rousing and carousing, illuminating the night with their own exuberant glow.

I sat in the kitchen alone, my yellow highlighter to my right, marking passages by Dr. Thompson that struck me, ruminating on my isolation.

I had felt unusual since driving home, four wheels on the pavement, engine softly humming. Not a spaceship, noiseless and ethereal, but like a slightly precocious ghost, never revealing himself except for the slight bump and rattle that added a discordant beat to the music softly drifting from the speakers.

When I say, "I felt unusual," I don't mean in the sense that I was feeling different than many other late nights at home, I mean that my brain felt disconnected from my body, wandering on its own solitary plane.

I put down my book and retrieved my hookah from the cabinet. It had been purchased online, touted as being "handmade in Egypt" a fancy way of saying that it was a serviceable product, but nothing that would last much longer than a year. I carefully assembled it, enjoying the ritual. A quick rinse, the chink chink of ice on glass, and the graceful connection of metal tubing. I filled the bowl with mint tobacco, covered it in tinfoil, and used a fork to make sixteen square holes for heat to travel through.

As the coal lay nestled in the tongs, I sparked it with my lighter. It was a purple lighter. I always buy purple lighters. Purple is the favorite color of a girl I thought I loved in high school, my own personal remembrance of a story that everyone shares. This girl led me through my first period of real self-doubt. Not any lasting doubt of course, not the kind faced by any forty year old man looking back on what he's accomplished. No, this was emotion that birthed musicians, writers, and artists, when they first realize that maybe they are better off expressing themselves to the anonymous masses, rather than the one they care about. This was the emotion that leads foolhardy teenagers down paths of self destruction and rebirth.

I never had the nerve to be self destructive. I think I'm too smart to be, or possibly to stupid. Most people with the word brilliant littering their obituaries have gone through periods of self induced personal hell. It was never my bag.

I puffed. The creamy white smoke slowly filling the empty space between the water and the rubber seal, listlessly floating, unable to escape, except into my lungs.

I decided to draw a bath.

I set down the stopper and turned the handle, warm water crashed onto porcelain.

I debated whether it was intelligent to have a hot coal within striking distance of my nuptials, but in the end assumed that with all the water around, I would probably be safe.

Carefully, I carried the pipe into the bathroom, setting it on the tile and congratulating myself on not burning the house down.

I looked at the open bathroom door, there wasn't a soul around, no one to see me as God intended. My housemates were spread across the state, probably asleep somewhere in West Texas. In the end, I decided to close it, I wanted an ambiance, I wanted the tiny room to fill with smoke.

I relaxed into the water. A towel rested on the edge of the tub to dry my hands, and my book beside it, in case I tired of suffocating myself.

Short, slow bursts of noise came from both my feet and my face. The faucet emptying steamy water that mingled and contrasted with the cool mint in my lungs. It was entirely pleasant.

As the tub filled, I turned off the faucet. I turned it off earlier than usual, I had recently showered after a haircut and straight strands of brown were still in the pipes, giving the drain fits. The only sound now was the gentle bubble of ice and water as I breathed in every few seconds, relaxing.

I spit in the water, the white flecks floated between my knees for a while before they dissipated or married themselves to a bit of hair that had not yet gone on to brutalize the drain.

The bathtub of two collegiate men is not the most sterile place. I watched as bits of sand from days playing volleyball with friends, shaving cream islands, and assorted bits of soapy detritus floated around my ankles.

I didn't mind, my only concern was turning the faucet between my toes whenever the water cooled too much for my liking.

Smoke doesn't like being underwater. It escapes to the top as quickly as it can, and spreads like fog on some Irish peat bog. I blew bubbles like I did as a child in Houston, remembering swimming with my parents in our neighborhood pool. It was a community made of young parents, all of them enjoying the sun and teaching their toddlers not to fear the water. Pool staff would hand out dixie straws so that we could blow bubbles without having to get water in our noses, for no other reason than the pure childlike delight that comes with the pop and splash of making harmless noise. I remembered my dad holding me around my chest as i paddled in the water, my tiny arms stroking back and forth like a fetus, never moving anywhere, just learning to enjoy being outside. And whenever I tired miming a freestyle, I would sit on my dad's knee with my straw and blow happy bubbles.

I was blowing happy bubbles again, without the luxury of a straw, and without that crutch I once again felt the sting of water rushing into my nostrils. Snorting and sneezing like a donkey, I sat up and blew smoke and water out my nose. My left nostril was clogged, so a lazy stream shot out my right.

"I should stop doing this," I thought to myself, but in sitting up, the blood returned to my brain and with it, the pleasant buzz of tobacco. My concerns about my health were temporarily sidetracked and I reflected on the evening. In truth, there was not much to reflect on, so I decided to imagine the next day, Memorial Day. Memorial Day would be busy. I had to wake up sometime in the morning and call my mother, telling her that I wanted to eat lunch with the family rather than dinner, as I have a graduation party to attend in the evening. I thought about what might happen after the party, wondering if I would be able to get coffee with the girl who inspired all of my lighter purchases. Wondering about what we would say, knowing what we would say, me making funny quips and dissing her music, as she smiled and treated me not unlike a petulant child. I knew there would be the inevitable awkward moment, where I would mention my previous affection and her ever shortening patience for such remarks would shine through. Then I resolved to stop smoking hookah so much.

The water was cold and I was too lazy and afraid of burns to move the coal and get more smoke. I resolved to get out of the tub and have a shave. Inspecting my patch of hair, plotted haphazardly across my neck and chin, I decided to shave down to a goatee. Shaving is one of my favorite things. Whenever I shave, I pretend that I am Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate, slicking back my hair and lathering up with Barbasol, I slide the razor over my cheeks. It sounds like paper shredding. I dry off, get dressed and hang up the towels. I always use three towels, I wrap one around my waist, drape one across my shoulders, and pin the third to my chest. It drives my mother crazy, she doesn't like to wash towels. I just don't bother.






(I just wrote over 1000 words about a bath, TAKE THAT FAULKNER YOU ARROGANT BASTARD)

Possible Future Band Names (French-Anglo Trance Fusion)

The Rockodiles

Rockodile and the Manimals

I Hate Myself But Love Neal (neal diamond/my chemical romance cover band)

I Hate Myself But Love Nealon (kevin nealon dialogue over trent reznor moog loops)

Kyle Gregory and the Captains of Industry (Me on lute, Chopdick on maracas)

Chick Singer and the Flat Chests (best new music on pitchfork)

Beep Beep Ribby Ribby (every album will be self titled, but have an image of a different barcode on the cover)

The Scrapbookers (also a scrapbooking club)

The Bookscrappers (also a book burning club)

Look Out! (i'm right behind you)

;;;! (dance-punk...IN SWEDISH)

Tums (also an antacid)

Animal Collective Blows

Coldplay

Night Writing (Deserves a Quiet Write) *With Bonus Quiz!*

Summer has begun readers.

It is time for sleeping, being outside, working, and moving back in with your parents.

This is my last week in the Magic Manor, and soon i will be forced to Magic Blog from my Magic Bedroom.

MM has been good to me. Despite being an ice-cave, it has provided me shelter from the elements and clint eastwood; as well as giving me a taste of that zany college experience.

I don't have much to say tonight my friends. The problem with updating so frequently is that I have less time to squeeze thoughts out of my mind-grapes or have zany experiences to document.

I suppose I will continue my high school saga theme at some point in the future, but they take a certain mood and a block of uninhibited time, neither of which i possess at this moment.

I usually break out KMB to absorb the catharsis that comes with writing neat words; but recently (other than the last essay) it hasn't had its usual soothing effect.

I don't know if this is because i have been burnt out of blogging, or if it's just that i don't feel that I have anything to say, or if i'm simply just too, not overwhelmed, more like anxious and befuddled to gather any sort of lasting comfort.

There is a new girl at work. I can't tell if she is cute or not. I want to her to be cute and I wonder if that is influencing my assessment to the positive or negative. It is difficult to judge the attractiveness of people at my job because we are forced to wear remarkably frumpy polos, and the new girl in question had her hair up and glasses on. I think she may have that 80s comedy hotness, whereupon, once the hair is let down and glasses removed she is attractive.

I don't have any assessment of her personality because i didn't talk to her, and more importantly, i only judge women on their looks.

(I just looked at the amount of text i have filled this box with and was immediately disheartened)

It's tough to write when you don't have anything to say.

There was a small get together at my house last night.

Joel and Stephen came over, along with a host of friends who left town to go to other schools, including a man i didn't mind seeing.

Not to discredit my lovely friends from over the state(s) but the only one who has really been mentioned in this blog and is sure to illicit at least a paragraph or two of text who was at my humble abode last night was miss claire.

I don't like being social with that woman. It bugs me, I feel like she ignores me, which could very well just be my own paranoid narcissistic delusions, but it seems to be true.

Why the hell am i writing about this? There is no upside, at this point my teenage heartache has been exhausted as a literary device, it's not like i'm unveiling any sort of new and exciting information. I sure none of you magic groupies care to hear anymore about it, especially since i know all of you in real life and do plenty sufficient bitching to y'alls faces. And, i don't think she does, but if claire ever got a mind to read this, she'd probably be horribly weirded out and think i was some sort of obssessive Oliver character. Hell, i'm writing it and I think that.

I mean, i have a theory as to why she gets so much press in the MB, it was developed when i spoke to lindsey during the formation of Sometimes I Feel Fourteen (not a link, just colors).

I said something that I found rather telling and may explain this pathological need to e-gripe.

As i was talking to lindsey i said, "It bothers me that i can write pretty words and it means nothing to her."

And I think herein lies the issue.

Kyle's Magic Blog was birthed essentially as an extension of a very long and personal letter that was written by me, to her, essentially a much crappier but probably more earnest version of the probably inevitable Year Twelve (A Prompted Reflection).

Long story short, she read it, it seemed to mean a lot to both of us, but didn't really change anything; at least not the way i want and had deluded myself into believing it could.

But that, plus my entrance into higher education made me realize that it would be a good idea to keep writing, and I did.

But other than the MB's stated purpose (to celebrate me) it also had an ulterior, not exactly sinister, and in its own way, beautiful motive, which was to try to get the pretty girl across the state to notice me.

I think we may have hit a breakthrough readers. (I think y'all need a name, like juggalos, something magic related, unicorns?).

Maybe all of my romantic frusturation is fed by magic blog.

It makes sense.

I wander through my pretty boring life looking for situations that could make interesting magic material. (Today i wondered if I found out i was dying in two weeks and wrote a book in the short time if it would become a perrennial best seller after i was gone).

And not like specifically romantic material, just material, just things i can write about and put clever parentheses after. Just things to say, in an inane little attempt to show off.

And I realized this last week but didn't vocalize it.

This is what I do best. More than anything. It's what I want to do best. More than anything. This sad little blog that produces the occasional quality joke is the sum and culmination of what I want to be known for and what I want my future to be.

And that's why I'm dejected, that letter/this blog is my best and final effort to get her attention.

I suppose i thought it would even the playing field. All of my physical faults are negated by this particular medium and i'm able to express myself more honestly and articulately than I ever could with my mouth. And the words last, even if they are stupid and goofy, they are forever honest.

So in my fight club fantasy land, all of these words, be they pretty, funny, or pathetic, are a 114+ page long awkward approach at a bar.

A super personal pick-up line that is about as effective as asking if she was hurt by her fall from heaven.

And even this semi-revelation/semi-confession is essentially meaningless. It's all just mental masturbation.

It doesn't help me in the practical.

After sebastian, stephen, susie, and lindsey read this, it won't have changed anything.

It will still be awkward between claire and I because she just doesn't care about me the way I care about her, and my stupid selfish jealousy will forever get the in way.

It bothers me that we interact so well one on one, but in a social situation i just feel like a horse's ass.

And KMB just exacerbates the issue, because all of the people around us know how i feel about her more than she does! (i wish there was a punctuation mark that was somewhere between a period and exclamation point in severity).

I just chase my tail, best friend -> love interest -> hate interest ->best friend -> &c.

Also, in our year apart she has gotten hotter, which really is just pouring salt on my heart.

I wish i was more mature, or could meet another girl to distract my idiot face.

Advanced Global Personality Test Results Extraversion |||||||||| 38% Stability |||||||||||||| 54% Orderliness |||||||||||||| 54% Accommodation |||||||||||||| 54% Interdependence |||||||||||| 43% Intellectual |||||||||||||||| 66% Mystical |||||||||||||| 56% Artistic |||||||||||||||| 63% Religious |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Hedonism |||||||||||||||| 70% Materialism |||||||||||| 43% Narcissism |||||||||||||||| 63% Adventurousness |||||| 30% Work ethic |||||| 30% Humanitarian |||||||||||||| 56% Conflict seeking |||||| 30% Need to dominate |||||||||| 36% Romantic |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Avoidant |||||||||||||| 56% Anti-authority |||||||||||||||||| 76% Wealth |||||||||||||||| 63% Dependency |||||||||||||| 56% Change averse |||||||||||||| 56% Cautiousness |||||||||||||| 56% Individuality |||||||||||| 43% Sexuality |||||||||||||| 56% Peter pan complex |||||||||||| 50% Family drive |||||| 23% Physical Fitness |||||||||||| % Histrionic |||||||||||| 50% Paranoia |||||||||||||||| 63% Vanity |||||||||||| 43% Honor |||||||||||||||||| 76% Thriftiness |||||||||||||||| 70%

Take Free Advanced Global Personality Test
personality test by similarminds.com

Stability results were medium which suggests you are moderately relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic.

Orderliness results were medium which suggests you are moderately organized, hard working, and reliable while still remaining flexible, efficient, and fun.

Extraversion results were moderately low which suggests you are reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

trait snapshot:
does not make friends easily, secretive, introverted, reclusive, observer, dislikes leadership, somewhat socially awkward, does not like to stand out, dislikes large parties, values solitude, solitary, avoidant, ambivalent about fitting in, not dominant, unassertive, suspicious, prudent, unadventurous, worrying, weird, intellectual, frequently second guesses self

Year Nine (A Prompted Reflection: Part Two)

Tonight, I compiled all of my blog entries into a single chronological word document. Keeping my crazy spacing intact, it was 119 pages long. The word count was 34,022.

To put that in perspective, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is about 120,000 words. That means I only have one-fourth of the angst required to be a success in the mope genre. (But I'm much better).

Because I love you readers, and for some reason, every night in the appropriately named "witching hours" (I don't know if there are actual "hours" or just one "hour," it's been some time since i read the Big Friendly Giant), appropriately named because this blog is magic, and I am a modern day wordlock. I get the desire to type words into a little white box surrounded by a larger beige box with all manner of colorful buttons.

I have to imagine this nightly writing sesh (sesh = session) won't continue all week, what with the working MWF, but I think summer is probably just conducive to extra blog attacking.

So, four months after her inception, I have decided to continue my brief history of trinity. Here, I will attempt to document various and sundry important parts of my Freshman year of high school.

You can read the first bit here.

If you are a longtime reader (you all are) then you will remember that my basic prompt, from Meagan, was "You should write more about people I know and times I know. Maybe things will start to come back to me."

I will do so admirably.

My freshman year marked my first major swing at adolescent romance and the arts of love. I have already detailed the Jenna saga (less of a saga, perhaps telenovella?) but that lasted all of three weeks so I don't believe it really impacted me.

No, the real heart destroyer of years fourteen and fifteen was Chelsea.

Chelsea was attractive to other fourteen year olds. The kind of girl that, in retrospect, you realize had nothing on the interesting looking girl that everyone overlooked until it was too late. She had bleached blond hair, bright blue eyes (i am always attracted to women with striking eyes), an american eagle wardrobe, and an ultimately immature view of attraction.

She was the girl that would be cast as the lead crush object of the younger quirky son in a tv show that prided itself on being a realistic portrayal of youth. (Think Sam's crush in freaks and geeks).

Chelsea intrigued me. Coming from the strictly regimented caste system of public school, and unaware that trinity was, in a rather positive way, a melting pot. She was shallow, self-obsessed, and catty; the recipe for popularity in the school I was accustomed to. (Please don't take this as an indictment of her present character, I never really talk to her anymore, but no one is who they are going to be at fourteen.)

Allow me to digress for a moment. As I wrote, "I never really talk to her anymore." I realized that this was my main strategy for girls that I perceive as rejecting me. I haven't spoken to Chelsea since I was maybe sixteen. I only recently reconnected with Susie, mostly because she is unrelentingly sweet and forgiving. And, more often than not, when I am irritated with claire, I flat out avoid her, as we have documented in the MB with my mall dodges as little as two months ago. I think I just like to pull a third eye blind and cut ties with all the lies.

Regardless, after high school retreat, I started chatting with chelsea via AIM. (the club for people without photo ids and frumpy sweatpants). I still remember her screen name (sn) but i shan't share it because God knows what kind of creepers read this blog, I wouldn't want them to travel back in time and harass her.

As almost any female can attest, when my visage and flop sweat are hidden and my mumbles concealed by pretty text, I manage to be moderately charming.

With this e-ace in the e-hole, i worked my magic on chelsea. She liked fashionable things, and by that i mean, things that are fashionable to other fourteen year olds. This consisted primarily of sweatshop manufactured clothing and gifs of cutsey phrases that could be plastered on a xanga. I showed her my sensitive side. Quoting lyrics from oasis, yearning for my own personal "wonderwall," totally getting john lennon's message of peace and understanding (massively marketable at that), and sharing her desire to be kissed in the rain. Coupled with my bad boy persona (my xanga picture was me holding my stratocaster); this onslaught of sensitivity overwhelmed her.

I was staying at a friend's house with my mother in Colorado Springs the first semester of my Freshman year. I was in Colorado because I was getting my braces off and my parents would rather drive ten hours than just have some orthodontist in lubbock do it.

I stole away to the computer and hopped on aim.

There is a certain piece of courtship that is very specific to our generation. You can have your drive-ins, your football games, communes, etc.; but for me, there was nothing as exhilarating and exciting as seeing the screen name of the girl you had a crush on lit up in black on your buddy list. As the program loaded you waited in anticipation, hoping beyond hope that she would be on, but never letting yourself get too excited, because she might not be, and then you were stuck just talking to sebastian.

But when she was, it was so wonderful.

This particular afternoon, Chelsea (who was "spazy" and possibly ninety-seven) happened to be on at the same time as me.

She was the only one on my buddy list that was online. It was fate, it was like we floated alone, tethered together in the vastness of the internet.

We chatted. I played it cool, describing my trip, asking about volleyball, standard friend stuff.

Then the conversation took a turn to the flirty. At first of the innocuous type, but it drifted into serious "do you like me" territory.

(i told claire this cute anecdote the other day, but i've been trying to work it into the magi b for a little bit, just never gotten around to it. Plus she never reads this. possibly because she has become a villainous character. i even call her voldemort)

We chased each other tails, like kids do (also dogs), neither of us ever actually confessing to being attracted to the other. So in the end, the ever pragmatic miss chelsea devised a scheme.

"ok," she typed, "how about, we do a countdown together, and if we like each other, at the end, we type '1' and if not we type '2'."

A bead of sweat ran down my side. I ran my dry tongue over the dry roof of my mouth. I thought.

I thought, "Do i really want to do this, do i really want to be rejected by the most popular girl in my grade, maybe it's better to just live in mystery."

I was tense and adrenal, this would not end well. There's no way a sexy hoe like chelsea would ever be interested in my goofy ass.

"Ok," i typed, "let's do it"

"3"
"2"
"1"
...

"1" "1"

I was relieve and surprised and encouraged. "I am going to have a girlfriend."

I didn't know then what I know now. That for all her faults, she was still a nice girl who didn't want to hurt my feelings. When I typed one, i threw my fragile young heart into that white window, she typed one to keep it from getting too terribly damaged.

These days, I don't type one anymore. I live in mystery. It's better that way. I can have all of the pretend girlfriends I want. We talk online, we text, we hang out every once in a while, and I never have to worry about that sting of rejection. The best part, I never have to get to know them. Sure, I know their favorite bands, and foods, and characters on the office; but i don't have to deal with their baggage. I don't have to know the things that make them hurt, those things don't have to make me hurt; and it's better that way, at least for now. I can still be the fourteen year old kid talking to chelsea on the internet, not the fourteen year old kid staring at the pretty girl with green eyes and a potter puppet pals patch on her backpack across the room.

I was elated. This girl, this girl, who, in my adolescent eyes, was perfect, liked me; me!

I was back in Lubbock soon, footloose and braces-free; and my courtship was redoubled.

At first all went well. Just because we liked each other, it didn't mean we were "going out," no, that was a whole nother level, and it required finesse to get her to agree to such a formal arrangement.

It was weird, the first face to face meeting after our prime conversation. Awkward smiles and glances, each of us remembering, but neither of us confessing.

We started talking for hours on the phone. Like her screen name, I can still remember her number, a number that I haven't dialed in almost five years.

Phone conversations were nice. I could crack little jokes, play on words, feel clever, while she let loose the occasional giggle. The night would wear on and as i got sleepier, i tried less, my chipper conversation devolving into a languid drawl, as she yawned every few words. But it made me feel happy to be so connected to another person. Even when she was having a sleep over, she would ignore her friends and talk to me.

She loved the rain. She wanted a boy who would call or text her whenever it was raining, just to remind her that he was thinking of her. Since I didn't get a cell phone until my sixteenth birthday, I would borrow my mom's and call her whenever it drizzled; just so she knew.

A common topic of conversation was the fact that she had never been kissed, and the circumstances she wanted to surround her first kiss. It had to be nighttime and in the rain.

I wanted to make this happen. (spoiler: i did not).

Around december, the vinyl started to crack. She started ignoring my calls, paying more attention to her friends. I would get irritated, complain about her to jade, but I still pursued, john eldridge style.

She claimed she was into me, but she was talking to another guy. A baseball player from lubbock christian. (A school I would end my pitching career against undefeated). This was shocking. I was shocked that she would abandon sweet sensitive me for a better looking douchier guy. It was my first taste of the future.

She said she appreciated me, she understood that most guys wouldn't keep it up after she made it clear that I was her second choice. She never pulled the "let's be friends card." She kept it honest, she told me she appreciated me, and to make it extra gay, compared me to some stupid jesse mcartney song about a guy who never gave up or similar bullshit. I was like a feeding tube for her ego, a constant source of nutritious compliments.

(I wonder what it would be like for chelsea to read this, I bet it would be interesting at least. I wonder if somewhere out on the internet there's a thousand word dissertation on me?)

She was on a ski trip with lindsey, I was in my grandfather's garage, listening to Hot Fuss on repeat, quoting "Change Your Mind," at her. I made my last push, laying it all down on the keyboard, explaining that she was the only girl for me, and nothing would make me happier, all the things that you say with absolute conviction one night but bring the blood flushing to your face in the years to come.

It wasn't the same after that.

I asked her to homecoming, but she would rather go alone.

I tried my best to look good. I wore my new american eagle jeans, and my american eagle vertical striped pink shirt (she loved pink shirts on guys), and put a little gel in my freshly cut hair.

We rode in a limo, a mix of the dated and the dateless, we ate the same restaurant, tried to enjoy each other's company, I tried to pretend, but it was far from a date, it was a lesson in self pity.

Maybe that's where it started, my lack of confidence bordering on contempt with myself, in the ladies department. Maybe it was all born that january evening in a Carinos. Three and a half years later, i would almost throw up in that carinos' parking lot, anticipating what was, at the time, the most devastating thing I could ever hear.

Fuck carinos, i never liked it and it's overpriced.

The next semester was all angst and desperation. I tried as best I could to reclaim Chelsea, but it was useless. I became annoying.

I was spared further embarrassment when she transfered the next year. (i wonder what would have happened if she had stayed? Would it have been the same story, but with a much less worthy girl? It almost makes me happy to think about, it's so weird)

In a way I am grateful for the experience. Sure it set a rather crippling precedent when dealing with the opposite sex, but it did make me realize that i didn't want the popular girl, she wasn't worth it, and sometimes she wasn't that nice. But, i do have to give her credit, she was never mean and i don't think she ever intentionally meant hurt me, if not for my own sense of pride, it would have been a nice clean break.

She also got me to stop dressing like daria, for which i am eternally grateful.

And i also killed two and half hours writing about her, i wish they had been at work rather than at night-nap time.

It's fun to remember readers.

Sometimes I Feel Fourteen (Like Tonight)

Today was the last day of high school for the TCHS class of 2009.

A little less than twelve months ago, I was leaving too.

After the 3:30 bell rang, I circled the foyer and said goodbye to the lion. My friends and I, grouped together for the last time, trading stories, laughs, general geniality. Anticipating the cruise we were embarking on in two days, not really considering this to be our last hurrah; the sadness not creeping in.

Truth be told. I was never sad about leaving high school. I wasn't sad the last day, i wasn't sad at baccalaureate, and I was so preoccupied with other things that I barely remember graduation.

I remember getting my diploma, head shorn, nose making me look like the eagle from the muppets, smiles, handshakes, awkward hug, and sitting down, filing out sound by side, strictly regimented joyless hat throw, then changing into my scorpion shirt and cargos, blasting Work, heading to the reception, nauseos.

(i just burned my wrist on a foreman grill)

Looking at my table, receiving my gifts (entirely gracious), flashes (the camera kind, not the good kind), stupid conversations, driving to the party, half-hearted basketball, stale cookies, dominating at ping-pong, nausea, lying on the sidewalk, stars, clouds, and jimmy eat world, lindsey comforts, back inside, pineapples, yelling, chickening out, chickening in, an hour of emotion, driving, waiting, cuban cigars, vomit, home, bed.

I guess I miss it sometimes now. That mischevious camraderie is gone forever.

I had a good night tonight.

I went to Mcalister's and enjoyed a corned beef on rye with mustard. I went with my most complicated best friend. We chatted, we caught up, we enjoyed each other's company. I told stories, she pretended to be interested. It was pleasant, we arranged to meet again soon and often. I loved it.

One bit sticks at me. It's a common enough bit. Nothing important. I dismissed it. Now, at night, alone with my xbox and kevin spacey, it bothers me. It shouldn't, why am I not the sweetest? (My sweetness is not the bothersome bit).

I feel like fourteen year old me is still around.

Braces, long hair, black shirts and insecurites. Flirting over aim, making stupid videos, and staring at the pretty girl across the room; hoping we grow up together.

More than any of my peers, i think the pretty girl made me grow up.

It bothers me that I have not kissed a girl in six years.

It bothers me that I think about things too much.

It bothers me that I think about things that do not exist.

It bothers me that I try to wish things into existence.

Tonight I am pretending that I am the sweetest boy she's ever met. (But I'm Not)

It bothers me that I burned my wrist.

I'm just concerned that, despite what she says and I think, I'm not mature enough to not take it personally.

I think romantically, I am still very much fourteen.

I believe that leaving will help. Being away from all but two people I know. I will have to grow up.

(I just had a chat with miss lindsey)

Lindsey says this should be exciting. It terrifies me. I am bad at making friends. I am awkward and I don't speak well and I'm sweaty and fidgety.

(For the past few days I have been listening to the same forty-five seconds of Ben Gibbard playing Brand New Colony acoustically over and over)

Sebastian weighed in on my melancholy, "Why are girls so retarded with that shit? She obviously knows you've got feelings. Its like they do it to be mean."

I claim that I have matured beyond taking everything personally and he rebuts with, "Whatever. No one does."

He has a point.

I am an unfair man.

I expect too much of everyone but myself. (not true, i expect a lot from me, but i actually live up to my expectations of myself)

I blame books and movies.

We've been over this months ago.

I won't lie, I am developing a self satisfied smirk. It's a little comforting. Actually, in an odd way, hugely comforting that the Magic B, has kind of returned full cycle. Like a pathetic phoenix, he rises and falls.

I don't know. I am much more cheerful now, I have high hopes for tomorrow. Thank you for accompanying me on my lonely little late night trip down memory lane.

You are my favorites, readers; welcome to my livejournal.

I Have Nothing But Time (To Write In My Blog)

I just got finished watching Fight Club for the first time in years.

While i've probably outgrown the pseudo-anarchistic themes that so captivated me when I was fourteen, I am kind of depressed that I will probably never in my life write anything as cool seeing the last thirty seconds of that film for the first time.

It also made me remember how freaking good Frank Black is. Isaac Brock could learn a thing or two about yelping from him.

One thing that I notice about myself when I watch movies or read books like that, ones where the main character thinks or acts in super unusual ways, is that for like thirty minutes after, i tend to emulate that sort of, i don't know how to explain it, like escapist way of thinking?

You know what I mean, where, while thinking you do it in choppy, almost disingenuous bursts, where you're almost thinking as a character, not as yourself?

The following films/books make me do it.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Catch-22
Fight Club
A Confederacy of Dunces
other things like that.

Catch-22 was the worst, after reading it, I would only be able to think in twenty word sentences for what was probably an unhealthy amount of time.

Regardless. Fight Club has gotten me a little ruffled, like a word slinging chicken. (Boggle player?).

It is because, I, as I always do, wikipediaed the film/novel as I watched and came across this little quotation by
Chuck Lastnamenotworththeefforttolearntopronounceexceptwhentryingto
soundcoolinfrontofgirlswhoarethemselvestryingtosoundcoolbynamedropping
amaleorientedauthorwhointentionallywritesbooksthataredisturbingandpromote
antisocietythemesbutmostlikelywasjustliketherestofusbutneededawaytoget
publishedbutmaybethat'snotgivinghimenoughcreditmaybehesincerely
believesinhisnovelsandpeoplethatreadthemreallydogainsomemodicumof
selfsatisfactionandidentificationwithhischaractersregardlessthenameisdifficult

The quotation is as follows, "all my books are about a lonely person looking for some way to connect with other people."

Good work, Chuck. You just wrote up my hopeful future career more eloquently and concisely than, more than likely, I ever could.

The point of this.

Being famous is hard.

I know that most of you don't have a wildly successful e-diary, but for those of you that do (arianna huffingtion, kanye west) you know exactly what i'm talking about.

Despite the fact that I am the most clever man to ever put flesh and nail to half-inch by half-inch plastic, there are other clever people that may draw the public's attention, thus reducing the amount of attention that I, quite frankly, deserve.

This is unsettling.

What if my dreams are realized, and I write a super-duper awesome book that is popular not just among elitists (dave eggers), nerds (cormac mccarthy), and retards (stephanie meyer), but also people who don't annoy me?

This will work toward some of my plans. Particularly the one where I marry my best looking female fan and build a modest fortune, but what then.

Above all, I deserve the adulation of my people. What if I can't repeat my success? I think I would feel very constricted, also lame.

This bothers me. Being famous takes a little work. Not if you're an actor or some other essentially talent-free fame siphoning star-monster, but someone legitimately famous. (Authors musicians, and filmmakers only; designers, poets, etc., don't count because no one outside of a specific (lame) circle cares what you do).

Stephen King says the key to authorial success is writing for two hours a day.

Listen, King, there's only one thing I do for two hours a day, and it's make fun of people and/or watch television.

This makes me concerned.

I don't know if I can deal with the expectations. What if I run out of ideas, what if no one gets what I'm saying, what if my hoes move on to the next hotshot young genius?

I worry about getting ulcers.

I don't know readers, life seems like too much hard work. But when I'm not working, I'm bored, much like mick jagger and crack cocaine addicts, I can't find any satisfaction.

Another thing that worries me, is about being able to emotionally connect with people. (Another thing that worries me is if that long name a few paragraphs up will jack up the formatting of this entry).

Like, I am concerned about sounding forced and cheesy. I can go back and read something I wrote months ago, that was written with absolute and total honesty, and I won't feel anything, except maybe pride at a particularly precocious piece of phrasing.

I am curious if maybe emotional impact is a learned skill?

Like comedy. You can say something, and you can appreciate that it's funny, but you would never laugh at it, but vocalize it anyway because you know that other people will appreciate it with their sweet comedy receptors.

Or maybe i'm just pissy because i legitimately feel like the quality of the Magic Blog has dropped off in recent months.

It's the same old shtick. Kyle is sad/irritated/humorously narcissistic/making attempts at non-sequiterial humor. It all feels a bit stale and stagnant and silly and stuck and soft and sad and lazy.

Why am I not an innovator readers? Why do I not tell clever little tales that make you squint your face and fall just a little bit in love with me? Or perhaps dark epics with post-apocalyptic themes that warn of the perils of consumerism or global warming or overfarming? Maybe even some personal stories where I grow and you learn a little bit about yourself?

It just bugs me. If I can't be funny, why can't I be earnest?

If I end this with a question will it seem self-absorbed and stupid?

Song Lyrics (THEY MEAN SO MUCH!)

hello bloggersphere.


(I'll be the grapes fermented bottled and served with a table set in my finest suit like a perfect gentleman).

I decided to write tonight because I am a little bored and I took a rather extensive nap this afternoon and then drank a Red Bull to orient myself.

I think that I will forever enjoy that bubble-gummy tang of Red Bull, as I used to be known to chug a can at 6am before I went to work. This kept me sharp and focused when I was browsing the internet and looking disinterested.

I am done with my first year of college and now it's summertime.

When I was a younger man, full of both vim and varying amounts of vigor, I used to very much anticipate and romanticize this particular season.

I used to have a playlist devoted to songs about summer. It was pretty rad.

Selections include, "Summertime" by Mae, "Warmth of the Sand" by Dashboard Confessional, "Summer Skin" by Death Cab, &c.

Back before I realized I was lacking some attributes necessary to be a musician (sex appeal, talent) I wanted to name my first EP "Songs about Summer" (applying both to the season and Rachel Bilson, I was a big O.C. fan).

Now that I am a college student and blogger (futurely famous) summer is not so exciting. It's basically the same as the school year, except with more work and platonic fake-dates.

(Right now, I am listening to Ben Gibbard, courtesy of NPR: Live Concerts, I can see why Zooey would marry him, even though he looks vaguely like a giant baby) .

My brain is sleepy right now, I can't really focus on anything, facebook chat, ichat, and itunes are all distracting me from the Magic Blog. I like the color blue, it brings out my eyes.

So, as you all probably know from following me on twitter/reading it on perez hilton, I am moving to Austin in August to attend the University of Texas.

I will miss my friends but I'm sure there are all new adventures to be had five hundred miles away. (Perhaps Spike Jonze will make a movie about it?).

I don't have much to say about it yet. I haven't really hit the emotional impact stage of processing this change yet. It's all just facts and organizing, cars and bikes and beds.

Sometimes, I wonder why I wanted to leave, others I feel spectacularly certain.

I don't really feel sad. I've just kind of accepted it passively, in the back of my brain, I know that leaving the BFC will be tough, but that is how life operates.

I can only hope that by leaving, I will gain an exotic sexiness that I can then use to manipulate female friends from Lubbock into kissing me with tongue.

(Ben is covering Nirvana)

I don't know that I think as much as I did when I started KMB(NAM), I used to just kind of mull things over in my brain until I pulped them into e-ink that I could transfer to mr. blogger. Now I'm just running on instinct, taking things as they come robotically.

I kind of imagine that on days I work, it will be like this, it's the only way to endure eight hours of pretty boring desk managing, and maybe i'll be super intellectual on my days off. (We can only hope).

KMB has kind of deviated from its central purpose. Which was to be openly and sickeningly honest with the e-denizens of Lubbock and beyond (Colorado).

I don't know if it's better or not. But I suppose I will drop a little honesty on my e-friends.

This week I am going to see Voldemort for the first time in a long time. I am conflicted about this. Not in the Mean Girls, catty sense of betrayal way that used to accompany my encounters with her, but in ways that I can't phrase eloquently.

I am very excited and happy to see her, and I appreciate the turn our relationship has taken into what I feel is more genuine territory.

But I am worried. What if, (apologies to my beloved susie) I fuck it up?

I am worried that I will go all were-idiot, and fall into my old selfish ways, bring back the whole "If I can't date you I will be an insufferable prick" motif I had rocking for a while. I used to think it was interesting and dramatic, but have recently realized it wasn't very nice.

It's hard to explain how you appreciate people. Sometimes you just have to write about it on the internet and hope they read it and pick up the paragraphs between the lines that you don't know how to articulate. (e-ticulate?)

(Brand New Colony makes me want to be a better person, which used to be my justification for a lot of things, including, being a dick, ironic, in an alanis morissete kind of way).

But as for my arrangment with the dark lord. There's something that concerns me almost more than acting like an idiot (which is fairly inevitable).

And it's something that's been nagging at me. (I wanna be the fire escape that's bolted to the ancient brick where you can sit and contemplate your day).

What if I decide that it's not worth it.

It's no secret that I have devoted inordinate amounts of time and emotional energy to one person. And, what's bugging me is, I really don't want to exert that effort again.

What if, in the presence of this person that galvanized this adolescent fire in me, i realize that I don't want to try it again.

Who is done with love at twenty?

At the same time, as I'm rediscovering my teenage years with the advance of summer (rejuveniling) I'm kind of feeling that cheesy, self sacrificial itch that songwriters can sing about but sounds retarded coming from anyone else.

I kind of want to be that guy again. I need to find some girl to force my self-sacrificial nature on.

I want to be the platform shoes that undo what heredity has done to you so you won't have to strain to look into my eyes (not necessary, i'm average height).

I blame the music, stop making heartache so appealing.

(I'll be the water wings that save you if you start drowning in an open tap when your judgment's on the brink)

I've been listening to the same forty-five seconds of the same postal service song for the past hour.

I like it, if nothing else, it's familiar, and not so roboty.

Best Band Ever? (Probably!)

Is this the single greatest band to ever exist?

Probably.

For those of you who are unable to identify Steve Perry's disconcertingly feminine features, the band in question is Journey.

There are literally several reasons (at least seven) why Journey is the pinnacle of modern musical expression, and I'm not going to bury the lead.

Reason Number One Journey is Awesome
Don't Stop Believing

There is not a person on this earth that does not appreciate this heartwrenching song, describing that unique blend of loneliness, romance, and trains that has held sway in America's heart since the dawn of the steam engine.





Whenever you ask someone what their favorite Journey song is, you're really asking them what their second favorite Journey song is, because Don't Stop Believing is their real favorite.





I don't want to say that this song is better than Thriller in its entirety, but I won't not say that either.

This song is so incredible, people that quote Family Guy love it, and people that quote Family Guy are retarded!

Part of the appeal of Don't Stop Believing is the song's versatility, it can be played anywhere, weddings, funerals, Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, federal hearings, graduations, birthday parties, cinco de mayo celebrations, births, engagements, divorces, graduations, may day, earth day, president's day, mlk jr. day, inaugurations, galas, premieres, juntas, sporting events, scrabble events, sleep overs, slumber parties, the Olympics, assassinations, church, Halloween, Christmas, Easter, and New Years.

My senior year of high school, Don't Stop Believing was my musical intro whenever I stepped on the mound to bring the heat (82 on a good day).

Don't Stop Believing is potentially more accurate and reliable than a Voight-Kampff test, because to hear it and not smile would mean you were nothing but a replicant or Rutger Haur.



Reason Number Two Journey Is Awesome
Diversity.





Think about your favorite Journey song, does it feature pounding bass, brain exploding synth, and blistering guitar? Of course it does, but you know what else it has?





The depth and breadth of all human emotion.





Take my favorite song, Separate Ways, as it begins you hear a sweet synthesizer jam over a mighty kick drum, you're thinking, this song rocks, it's going to be about Journey kicking ass, but then, you step back as Steve, in a howl of pure emotional exhaustion screams his heart out of his chest, "Here we stand! Both of our hearts broken in two! two! two!"





Even Steve feels the pain of ruined relationships.





Consider also, Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin', a simple folk ballad about making lemonade and getting to second base. That's right, not only is Journey tender, but the know how to party.





Then there is Wheel In The Sky, adapted from Perry's senior thesis on the Roman deity Lupercalia, to remind you that he's more than just a pretty face.





Lastly, of course, is Faithfully, the touching tribute to Steve's dog.





Reason Number Three Journey is Awesome


Musicianship





Little known fact, everyone in Journey but Steve is/was a nerd.





The first few albums they released were boring prog-rock pieces that no one wanted to hear, if Steve had remained undiscovered, they would have fallen into a lifetime of mediocrity and become America's Rush. But luckily, for all of us, Steve washed onto the shore of the San Francisco bay from whatever moonplanet he was born on and graced us with one of the greatest frontmen ever.






























Which of these is best? Journey Greatest Hits? or Journey Greatest Hits Live?


TRICK QUESTION!!! IT WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE YOUR BRAIN TO CHOOSE!

Little known fact, the CIA tried to make Castro choose between the two in a botched assassination attempt in 1953...30 YEARS BEFORE THE TRACKS WERE RECORDED!!!
(To avoid explosion, Castro lied and said he preferred Styx)






Reason Number Four Journey is Awesome.

I AM WRITING ABOUT THEM!!!

Words Go Here (Snarky Words Go Here)

The following is an actual transcript from a conversation I had on Friday.



Me: Cutie reading a book i like beside me, should i talk to her?



Friend of Me: Comment on the book! You have a perfect in!



FoM: Yes!



Me: What if i misjudged? What if she's only attractive at a glance? What if it's required reading?



Me: Also, I smell like pizza.



(Eighteen minutes pass)



Me: I blew it.


An exposition.



After enjoying my traditional Friday 11am One Guy pizza (I don't like the numbers in that sentence or how they look), I walked to Holden Hall to endure my equally traditional boring fifty minutes of history discussion. The discussion in question occuring primarily between the TA and the weird kid with a mustache.



But today was different. Today, after loitering around looking for rollerblade girl (aka rollerskate girl, aka rollerskate skinny) (She is called this because she wears rollerblades, inside), I leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe of my room and was surprised to see a girl that had, until this point, never shared this particular 20 by 20 space with me at 12pm on a Friday morning.

She appeared to be cute enough, and the most striking thing was that, not only was she cute, but she was reading a book. Now, you must understand that this particular discussion of 25 people may have a composite IQ of 800, they don't take kindly to booklearning. Also, there is only one decently attractive girl, and she looks like she's seen more dick than a New England phonebook.

This new apparition was reading a book that I particularly enjoy, Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Not only does this book appeal to the imaginary expatriate side of me, but it also appeals to the pretentious side of me, because it's written by a well known author, but not one of his more well known works. So, being the sly devil that I am, I sat down beside her to make a quip about how I enjoy the book and then con her into falling in love with me.

Except, as I sat down, I panicked and sent the previously transcribed mayday text message. So, rather than make simple small talk, I just listened to my iPod and stared at the chalkboard.

This would have been alright, had she not been, literally, the only person sitting in this particular row of fifteen desks. She was sitting at the end of the row. When, I made my tactical approach, I sat in the open seat directly beside her. We sat beside each other and endured a classful of silence. We were the only two people in the row for the duration of the period.

I later gleaned, from her conversations with the TA, that I had never seen her before because she is in a different discussion and had attended this one for scheduling reasons.

The poor girl (who could have potentially been my future wife) had to endure an hour beside a guy who smelled like pizza, said nothing, and was apparently OCD because he kept peeking over and reading the title of the novel she was reading.

Yesterday, I went to a wedding.

I like weddings. They combine two of my favorite things. (Wearing a suit and the potential opportunity to do the chicken dance).

This particular wedding was a celebration of the love between a friend of mine who is several years older and her fiance, whom I had never met, but he appeared to be perfectly nice.

This was an outdoor wedding, I watched my friend laugh off crazy bursts of wind that drowned out the pastor and tossed various matrimonial accoutrements across the sunny plains, and how she cried as she read a sweet little poem from a rectangle of paper, and how, in what I thought was the sweetest part of the ceremony, as she read words of love off the same rectangular batch of paper, her fiance helped her secure a page that was flapping in the wind by gently guiding it into her hand; I was struck by something.

I am terrified of relationships.

Toward the end of the ceremony, the pastor started talking about the symbolic nature of the wedding ring and I noticed that every married man in the audience was looking at their left hand, gently massaging the ring on their first finger from the pinky.

Then I realized that I was doing the same, twisting an imaginary piece of metal round and round and pondering my future.

Then there was the weird bit in every religious wedding where the holy man makes the required statement about his power being vested by the state of Texas, and the bride and groom kiss and everyone claps and the parents dry their eyes and the ushers do their escorting and people filter into a large hall to exchange small talk and eat sandwiches and my terror spasm receded.

The reception was nice. I had tried to put my best politician's swoop into my part and wear a suit that was conservative but with a little punch of color, and I looked remarkably like the junior senator from Illinois or someone of similar stature. I ate a sandwich and said a few hellos and felt remarkably happy. It's difficult to feel sad at a wedding, unless you're in love with one of the people being married and you're bitterly attending just to be a good sport, but even then, you can take comfort in knowing that you have a good plot outline for a Hugh Grant-type picture lined up.

I drove home eventually and changed. Then I went to a friends house to celebrate his birthday. We ate homeade tacos, played nazi zombies, and discussed TULIP; and the whole time I felt wonderful.

Then I came home and watched a little Arrested Development and then laid down to sleep.

I was still basking in the post-wedding glow of the prospect of relational bliss and felt like I would soon be adrift in the land of dreams (which have been weird and sad lately) but it was not the case. Lurking beneath the comforting emotions I had been cushioned in all day were shards of crippling inadequacy rolling about in my stomach.

I reflected (and continue to be reflecting) on how happy my friend was to be married and how happy and laid back she was about the whole affair.

And it all just seems like too much work.

I don't want to find a girl, and put the work into pursuing her, and enduring the ups and downs. And what if she's high maintenance, or she doesn't get me, or i always secretly think she's not as into me as I am to her, or she is secretly not as into me as i am to her, or i can't provide for her like she wants or deserves, or i am too distant or too clingy, or we stop relating after a year and collapse out of love.

I don't want to have to find a house to live in or raise kids. I don't want responsibility, I don't think I can handle it.

I didn't apply for a job at the school paper because the application was too much work (three 600 word pieces and a letter of reccomendation), and this is what I want to do with my life. That's how little work I put into things.

I don't know. I don't get happy thinking about being married in the future, I just feel overwhelmed, and my life isn't even that stressful.

At least I have friends, it makes me a little less anxious, at least I'm comfortable where I'm at now.

I wish i had reassurance.