That quiet hope that maybe you're the thing that will set the whole world right followed by the peace and freedom that you aren't--you aren't at all.

You ever wonder if you're a good person in a lousy situation?

Trust me. You're a lousy one person who has it good.

If you were good, really good, you wouldn't need to try and justify the situation.

You'd just be good.

Two quick observations:

If asking someone what they real is an ambush question, I've been be shocking pretty women for ages now.

Why in the world are Republicans so obsessed with the notion of Obama as a religious figure? Is it because they're afraid that he'll replace The Free Market Order of Jesus McReagen?

Actually, one more: Why the hell is Obama still not considered a correctly spelled word? I understand why it wouldn't be in Microsoft office 2007 (this time it's personal edition) but Et Tu Firefox? You update your damn code every three minutes and your user base is positively overflowing with liberal douchebags like me. Get it going.

And yes, I'll give you that little smile. The one that says that I'm very sexually attracted to you at the moment but I'm just too tired and somewhat too focused on the road ahead to even sincerely go through with a plan to meet you for drinks. That I'd apologize afterwards and I'm sure you'd be reasonable, maybe even offering again before the holidays were over and insisting--not with words but your posture and eyes--that it wasn't just because you were lonely this time of year ever since he left.

But that little smile doesn't mean anything. Really, it is rather forced. It comes out of me because there is only so much a man can take of wide, docile eyes and exposed cleavage before he feels the need to throw you a bone and men like me just don't tell women like you, "I don't want to sleep with you, okay? I'm not in a relationship or anything, I just don't want to sleep with anyone." Mostly because men don't say this at all. Mostly because every other guy in the world seems to be some lucky bastard who is capable of being sexually attracted to women that he doesn't find emotionally or intellectually boring.

Also because it never bodes well when you scream at a woman in public. It never works out in the end.

It does not matter that you're spot on about me. That you know that I cross to the other side of the hallway and street from the woman walking in the same direction just to make her less comfortable. That I'd rather pay off a woman I loved to never see me again then try and go three rounds with her. That I'm walking wounded with my head in the clouds. You don't get points for easily seeing what a mess I am. That doesn't earn you anything.

To be frank, sometimes it makes me utterly uncomfortable that you're suggesting we have a tryst at all. It means that I'm alive enough to attract a woman worth a damn, while not being whole enough to do anything about it.

I am, sexually speaking, that inbetween stage of hair growth. It is itchy and uncomfortable because I am further along than I used to be, but I'm not where it looks good or feels comfortable.

Looking good being a metaphor, moreso than the rest of this, because you can never look good sexually speaking.

I would look into your all-too-wide eyes and tell you the truth if I had any assurance that it wouldn't crush you.

"No thank you. I really want to do math homework over meeting you for drinks and having a night of passion or two."

He had the beard of a crazy man. And the eyes of a bearded crazy man.

http://neatorama.cachefly.net/misscellania/zombiecake.jpg

Now that is a lucky guy.

"I don't think that's right."
"Are you calling me fallible?"
"What?"
"Are you calling me fallible?"
"Fallible?"
"Yes. Are you saying that I am capable of imperfection."
"Imper--"
"Why are you avoiding the question?"
"I don't mean to be, I just--"
"Do you not understand the question?"
"I rather don't."
"So you're saying I'm fallible."
"I guess. If that means you can make mistakes."
"The audacity to declare--"
"This is seriously weirding me out. Like, for real? The person who is perfect is supposed to be on the defensive. Right? Like, you have to prove it?"
"Oh you poor imperfections."

Holy Shit!

http://www.madmixmustang.nl/mp3/I%20Feel%20Good%20Inc%20%28Jamiroquai%20Edit%29.mp3

I usually want you.

But these days I don't usually want you more than I want to get back to bed or to start cooking soup.

The Nice Experiment:

I'm trying to be nice to everyone. Everyone and all, including myself. This is week four and so far it's going pretty well. I've passed the point where it is difficult. I can very easily compliment a clerk on her hair or his tie. I can very easily let something annoying pass by without offense.

Today I went to the gym and needed the help of one of the employees, and the guy who I flagged was clearly very busy and annoyed. He was short and gruff with me. I've never complained about something like this in the past, anywhere I've ever been, but I've always never taken the gentler path. When I was walking out I saw him and waited until he made (passive-aggressive) eye contact with me. I then smiled and thanked him.

The look of shock on his face when he said thank you and have a good day to me was palpable. I could feel something.

What that is? I have no idea. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was the bias of the observer. But maybe, just maybe, I made his day a little bit better. Maybe he gathered his be-khakied tribesmen around the great sauna and spoke to them of the man who he treated without prefect service but thanked him like a man anyway. Or, baring that, I made him feel good for a second or two, and if got lucky, he passed that on to someone else.

I've always been okay with people, for the most part. I've always treated them like I wanted to be treated. I have tipped well and said please and thank you to everyone of every station at every time in my life. But there is a difference between prudence and kindness, between peace and proper.

I feel better about myself just for doing it. I feel like the people I see on a frequent basis are happier to do so, not just because I am flattering them or bribing them, but because I am earnestly validating components of them from the bottom of my heart.

Not the top fo my heart, mind you. The bottom. Where the goodness is encrusted in goodness.

Maybe self-love isn't an emotion at all. Maybe it really is actions you take for and towards yourself.

Maybe. I'm going to keep going.

Also:

Holy Christ - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXVktRI04w4&feature=related

It's like my heart swallowed up my balls, and then was drop-kicked.

In the 1920's Time magazine interviewed a man named Eddington. One of the questions was, "It's said that only three people understand relativity, are you one of them?"

He responded, "I wonder who the third is."

http://www.makemymood.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/brilliantovui-01-1.jpg

You know a story is bad not when you grunt and scowl and turn up your noise in disgust as you slam the covers shut or click the big, red button on the remote. No, if you can recall why you hated it or what you thought it was so wrong at that particular moment, it wasn't really that awful at all; it just wasn't good.

When a story is bad you just sort of vaguely saunter off. You can't even remember why you stopped caring, or when. When it's just not worthy of memory at all.

I think it's time to start writing again and to see if I'm awful or just bad.

http://argonianfacial.ytmnd.com/

Not for everyone. Hell, maybe not for anyone else. But for me it was a gut-busting laugh.

Dear Music,

First off, allow me apologize for proclaiming that you were dead back in 1997. In my defense, I was a teenager at the time, and you decided that your incarnate form on earth would be MTV and then--wrapped in the glossy, stick glory of this avatar--proclaimed that the Spice Girls were not only had the right song but also had one of the top twenty songs of all time. Really, I didn't know what else I was supposed to do at that point but look over my own paltry sins (Ace of Bass? Did I really enjoy Ace of Bass?) and how I contributed to this land of the musical undead. It was as much my fault as yours. I see that now, and I am sorry.

But while I abandoned you, I can see now that you did not abandon me. While I thought that the musical industry went through in the 2000's what the Publishing industry already had (that is to say, appeal only to females 14-29) I did not see your master plan. Your slow resistance. Like Mao on the Long Walk, you didn't die in your exile. You grew stronger! You went to the fringes with your most adamant followers while the weak and unworthy continued to listen to Regina Spektor and The Best of The Wallflowers. They grew to choking, fat masses on their Hoobastank and Incubus while you waited on the fringe of the internets and in small oversea corridors. Waiting for your time.

And now, like Odysseus astride fate, you have returned.

2009 has not only been a good year for music, as far as I can tell, it's been an excellent one. Muse, Elbow and Pure Reason Revolution all releasing not only new albums, but amazing ones. Bands like Murder by Death, Klaxons and Doves pushing their respective non-genres to their limits and doing amazing work and having fun with it.

You make my ears happy.

Fucking cat has learned to use door handles.

Not safe anywhere now.

I've never understood people who listen to music while having sex. Then I listened to the new Muse album. Now once it starts playing I have to, whether I wanted it or not.

http://blog.graphicriver.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/lost.poster.1.jpg

http://www.someecards.com/card/id-be-more-open-to-hearing-your-viewpoints-on-health-care-reform-if-you-spellchecked-your-protest-sign

http://imgur.com/TKoOj.png

It's really cool when neither shirt gene is recessive.