How is it that love is all around me, but yet, is exceedingly elusive. For me, it appears in an almost dream-like state...and when I reach out to grab it, it disappears into the ether, as quickly as it arrived.
Am I dreaming that I think I will ever find love? Methinks....maybe.
09 July 2009
09 April 2009
My life is over
Too much, and too personal to write here. My life, as I know it, is over. I've made a few mistakes in my life, a few too many. And everything I know and love has been taken away from me, which probably serves me right, but doesn't make it any easier to accept.
I'm at the middle of my projected life expectancy, and I feel like someone who won the lottery and pissed it all away, only to be in a worse state.
I'm not sure how I am going to go on.
It is going to be intensely difficult to cope.
I am numb beyond compare.
I regret. And I am sad.
I am alone.
I'm at the middle of my projected life expectancy, and I feel like someone who won the lottery and pissed it all away, only to be in a worse state.
I'm not sure how I am going to go on.
It is going to be intensely difficult to cope.
I am numb beyond compare.
I regret. And I am sad.
I am alone.
04 November 2008
Voting
As you've probably read in my Twitter update (to the right), I voted. I was up at the crack of dawn (Romania time). Had about, oh, a gallon of coffee. Read the (online) paper -- it was so early that today's paper hadn't been updated, so I had to read yesterday's news. Now that's being up early!
I arrived at the polling place, which conveniently is across the street from my building (FTW!). I was there 10 minutes early. Huge line (as compared to four years ago, where electioneers were begging people to come in and vote....that was 10 minutes in and out). So I stand and wait. And wait. 20 minutes in, and having checked my Blackberry no less than 50 times for new messages (as if anyone is going to be sending me e-mail or texts this early in the morning), I pull out my latest edition of Crain's and read it. 10 minutes later some guy walks down to my end of the line announces that the election precinct I am in has a much shorter line towards the front. FTW! 30 minutes later (I notice that the line I previously stood in has not moved), I'm at the registration table. 10 minutes later I have my ballot in it's privacy sleeve....but, receiving that ballot came at a price listening to the "election officials" argue about who's going to write "the number" on the voting slip, and the lady who takes my ID mumbling, "I'm not a whore. You're the whore." Stay classy, Chicago!
With ballot, privacy sleeve, and acid-free, special "electronic" marker (it was a Sharpie on steroids) in hand, I am directed to the nearest voting booth. I'm in!
First vote is for the Illinois Constitution Convention. Or, the Con Con, as it's known. What?
Next vote, the big one, drum roll please, "select your choice for President and Vice President of the United States". As opposed to Mexico or Trinidad Tobago or Laos.
I reach the end of the page, and it reads "turn over to vote on next side". Next side? In front of me lay a list of no less than a hundred Illinois Circuit Court judges wishing to be retained. Seriously?
So I start "connecting the arrows". At this point, I turn the ballot on its side so I can relieve the cramp frmo connecting side to side and connect up and down. 20 minutes later, I'm done.
I place the ballot back into the privacy sleeve and bring it to the "ballot reader" and slide it in. The machine lets out an electronic yelping sound, lights are flashing, and the display reads "SPOILED". What? Spoiled? What the heck does that mean?
Apparently, I voted YES and NO for a particular Circuit Court judge. D'oh! "Can't be overridden," says the ballot reader machine election official, "You'll have to go back to table 2 and get another ballot." Which I do, and the ballot I just filled in is tattooed "SPOILED"...the official who hands me the new ballot snickers, "don't mess this one up, cuz we ain't givin' you 'nuther one! Just kiddin'!" So, I had to vote again! Chicago politics at its finest.
20 minutes later, my ballot is read correctly and I'm handed my generic "I VOTED" receipt. That's me, the guy with the spoiled ballot. * sigh *
I arrived at the polling place, which conveniently is across the street from my building (FTW!). I was there 10 minutes early. Huge line (as compared to four years ago, where electioneers were begging people to come in and vote....that was 10 minutes in and out). So I stand and wait. And wait. 20 minutes in, and having checked my Blackberry no less than 50 times for new messages (as if anyone is going to be sending me e-mail or texts this early in the morning), I pull out my latest edition of Crain's and read it. 10 minutes later some guy walks down to my end of the line announces that the election precinct I am in has a much shorter line towards the front. FTW! 30 minutes later (I notice that the line I previously stood in has not moved), I'm at the registration table. 10 minutes later I have my ballot in it's privacy sleeve....but, receiving that ballot came at a price listening to the "election officials" argue about who's going to write "the number" on the voting slip, and the lady who takes my ID mumbling, "I'm not a whore. You're the whore." Stay classy, Chicago!
With ballot, privacy sleeve, and acid-free, special "electronic" marker (it was a Sharpie on steroids) in hand, I am directed to the nearest voting booth. I'm in!
First vote is for the Illinois Constitution Convention. Or, the Con Con, as it's known. What?
Next vote, the big one, drum roll please, "select your choice for President and Vice President of the United States". As opposed to Mexico or Trinidad Tobago or Laos.
I reach the end of the page, and it reads "turn over to vote on next side". Next side? In front of me lay a list of no less than a hundred Illinois Circuit Court judges wishing to be retained. Seriously?
So I start "connecting the arrows". At this point, I turn the ballot on its side so I can relieve the cramp frmo connecting side to side and connect up and down. 20 minutes later, I'm done.
I place the ballot back into the privacy sleeve and bring it to the "ballot reader" and slide it in. The machine lets out an electronic yelping sound, lights are flashing, and the display reads "SPOILED". What? Spoiled? What the heck does that mean?
Apparently, I voted YES and NO for a particular Circuit Court judge. D'oh! "Can't be overridden," says the ballot reader machine election official, "You'll have to go back to table 2 and get another ballot." Which I do, and the ballot I just filled in is tattooed "SPOILED"...the official who hands me the new ballot snickers, "don't mess this one up, cuz we ain't givin' you 'nuther one! Just kiddin'!" So, I had to vote again! Chicago politics at its finest.
20 minutes later, my ballot is read correctly and I'm handed my generic "I VOTED" receipt. That's me, the guy with the spoiled ballot. * sigh *
24 July 2008
And, now, the time has come...
Have we met the Apocalypse? Have we really run out of things to study? I mean, come on, honestly? What's next, "Is pet ownership really for white people?", or something equally as absurd?
And, where are all of the "studies" on Asians and their socoiological needs?
And, where are all of the "studies" on Asians and their socoiological needs?
02 July 2008
Today is my Friday...
...although it's Wednesday, and when asked earlier what day it is I answered, "it's Thursday."
I really need a break.
I really need a break.
01 July 2008
26 June 2008
Perception
If you haven't noticed, I use my Yahoo avatar as my image on this blog. I do this because I don't find myself particularly photogenic. Some may disagree, but, it is, after all, a matter of perception. [did anyone notice the number, of, commas, in, that, last, sentence?]
So, I would like to perceive myself looking like this:
However, I feel like I look like this:
It's kinda sad, I know. * sigh *
So, this is what being an asshole is like?
I'm at the gym this morning (don't worry, the apocalypse is not upon us, just that my pants have staged a revolution...story for another time).
I get on the elliptical. The one on the end, because I don't like other cars to park near me and ding my doors on at least one side.
Ellipting.
Ellipting.
I notice the woman two or three machines to my left is glancing over.
[No shame,] I look directly at her (all the while I'm ellipting even faster...Chicks dig fast ellipterers).
She smiles. I smile back.
She's making eyes at me (Swingers' style, just without the baby).
I now puff my chest out like some kind of Mutual of Omaha mating moment.
I glance over again. Pretty face. Sweaty in that "I'm-sweaty-but-I'm-sexy-cuz-this-is-what-my-face-looks-like-during-sex" kind of way.
She dismounts. One big step. That's gonna be a 3/10 point deduction, but shouldn't affect her all-around score.
I notice her legs. They're funky. Funkily shaped. Skinny ankles, almost tapering to a point to her heel. But, as you look up, each leg widens to almost 10X the width of aforementioned ankle.
Her legs look like, well, table legs.
She glances back one more time. I start repeating my Spanish lesson on my iPod a little louder, glance back, and crack a Charlie Brown, squiggly line smile back.
Game over.
I'm an asshole.
I get on the elliptical. The one on the end, because I don't like other cars to park near me and ding my doors on at least one side.
Ellipting.
Ellipting.
I notice the woman two or three machines to my left is glancing over.
[No shame,] I look directly at her (all the while I'm ellipting even faster...Chicks dig fast ellipterers).
She smiles. I smile back.
She's making eyes at me (Swingers' style, just without the baby).
I now puff my chest out like some kind of Mutual of Omaha mating moment.
I glance over again. Pretty face. Sweaty in that "I'm-sweaty-but-I'm-sexy-cuz-this-is-what-my-face-looks-like-during-sex" kind of way.
She dismounts. One big step. That's gonna be a 3/10 point deduction, but shouldn't affect her all-around score.
I notice her legs. They're funky. Funkily shaped. Skinny ankles, almost tapering to a point to her heel. But, as you look up, each leg widens to almost 10X the width of aforementioned ankle.
Her legs look like, well, table legs.
She glances back one more time. I start repeating my Spanish lesson on my iPod a little louder, glance back, and crack a Charlie Brown, squiggly line smile back.
Game over.
I'm an asshole.
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