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.