Life=Adversity

I always imagined that my senior year would be the easiest out of all four years. For some reason, it made sense to believe that after three years, you would have your college and personal life down pat, and be ready to get a “real” job. Days of wondering how the rent is going to be paid, and if you studied enough for that terrible exam, would almost be over and life should be good.According to my thinking if my bills were paid and I had groceries, it couldn't be that bad. However, life is messy and the older I get the more complicated my problems seem to become.

I thought totaling my car a week after I bought it was devastating. Or living on tuna, crackers, and Ramen for an entire week because I was broke and jobless. Being stranded an hour outside of Wilmington seemed pretty bad. Especially since I was a lone girl on a dark road with no power to my vehicle. I had to wait an hour for a tow truck to come as the heat slowly seeped out and was replaced by the freezing temperature outside. I thought life was messy then. My car, my money, my ten page paper were the worst problems I knew yet. I didn’t know what I know now: if it can get messier it will; and if you think you can handle just about anything then something else will be thrown your way.

Right now, I have reached my breaking point. Three things have happened in the past week to make me consider how much personal strength I possess. Two are hard blows; one life changing. Sitting down and thinking, it’s overwhelming to realize how much your life can change in just one freaking week. I wonder what would happen if I just gave up, said screw it all and pulled the covers over my head and didn’t make an appearance until spring. What happens if I truly give in and give up? Will I end up much further from where I am now? Will life be any better if I keep trudging on crisis after crisis?

My mom wrote me an email and said she hasn’t heard from me for weeks, but that it’s probably because of all my projects, papers, and exams that I have going on. My only wish right now is that life would stop long enough for those to be my main priorities. I thought my senior year would be most difficult because of school; in actuality, it’s trying to even concentrate on school when my life seems to be turned upside down.

I know that I can make it through a lot. I have been supporting myself and making my own decisions since I was 17. I am a self-sufficient person. I know, logically, that crises make me stronger and I am a better person for it. However, sometimes enough is enough. I wonder how much more I can suck up and still keep on keeping on. I’m strong, but not that strong. In the end, I have no choice, as I guess most of us don’t. But every once in a while, I think it’s okay and even necessary to absolutely give up. Just for a second; right before you keep trudging on. So I give up.

Jump In With Two Feet

Relationships. Uggghhh. The word makes me cringe. I cannot say I hate relationships; in fact, I love being in a great relationship. Truth is though, not every relationship is great and therefore you must survive those not so great, or even terrible, relationships to find the great ones.

It makes me cringe because of all those connotations that it brings to mind. Work. A lot of work. Mistakes. Choices. Heartbreak. I am the type of person who sees the line that should not be crossed, refuses to, and then for some insane desire for self-destruction promptly crosses that said line. We all want to believe we are the exception to the rule, and sometimes we are. But dealing with not being the exception is far worse than simply acknowledging your disappointment and moving away from that potential relationship in the first place.

Dating an older man? Why not. Dating a boy my mom hated? Let’s do that too. Taking back a guy who had dumped me for another girl? Just couldn’t help it. Dating my brother’s friend? Well, let’s just say I was smitten at the time and not willing to admit that it was a bad idea to begin with. I have never been the exception to the rule, but at the same time I keep trying, and ending up asking myself the same question: why do I do it to myself?

For my senior seminar project, I took up dating self-help books to examine and compare them to established philosophers. This meant I spent the majority of my semester engrossed in books that told me just how to catch a guy’s eye, play hard to get, and whether or not I was emotionally stable and secure enough to be in a relationship to begin with.

The funny thing is, even the few books that I found to be full of common sense and reason I began bashing to pieces as I compared them to Aristotle and Epictetus. Who made up these “rules”? Rather than principles to live by, the books tend to espouse themselves as the absolute end all be all of dating. Every single one claims to know the secret to finding the love of your life and how to keep them. And what I believe now is that the whole genre of self-help dating books is full of crap.

So I thought what my own rules would be:
1. There are no absolute rules. Life is complicated, and dating is more so.
2. Jump in with two feet, give a relationship all you got. (Not in a psycho way, in a living whole-heartedly way.)
3. No matter how much your friends hate him, or how many books tell you to dump him, you have to learn the hard way.
4. If your heart gets broken, it gets broken. It’ll make you stronger and pickier next time.
5. Sometimes, despite heartache, doubt, and tough times, it does work. And that’s what makes it worth trying.
6. Everyone says not to waste time wishing for someone you’ll never have. Don’t wait for him to call, don’t waste your tears crying when he disappears. Thing is, you will at some point in your life. Even if it’s just five minutes. So just don’t let them know, and your secret is safe.

No, they are not perfect rules but they will change as my relationships change. And maybe someday the word “relationship” won’t make me run and take cover.

Expanding Consciousness

The mind is inconceivably powerful and influential. Consciousness is more than just nerves and synapses, or secretions of chemicals. Consciousness is real and one doesn’t have to be “knocked out” to be deemed unconscious. A friend and teammate of mine in high school first opened my eyes to the power of expanding consciousness. We were teammates on the varsity wrestling squad in the fall of 1996.

Mike was average wrestler at best, fairly new to the sport but had a world of potential. Most wrestlers begin their careers between ages 5 and 8, Mike didn’t start wrestling until his sophomore year of high school. His first two years as a wrestler were losing efforts, finishing both seasons well below the .500 mark. Mike worked hard in the off season and was improving dramatically but he had along way to go to in order to compete with athletes that had nearly 10 years of experience on him. He was severely behind the learning curve. I noticed a marked progression in his ability and we both looked forward to his final season as senior. Our team opened each season with a tough dual meet against cross-town rival Kenwood High, Mike would be matched up with their best wrestler, a former state champion. Mike fought valiantly but lost the match by a few points. He did better than anyone expected, but he still didn’t win. He was knocking on the door to success but he hadn’t quite put all of the pieces together yet.

Following that meet, might met with his counselor who suggested hypnosis and meditation as a supplement to his wrestling training. Desperate for a winning season, Mike followed the doctor’s advice and began to meditate. He underwent when session of hypnosis and then meditated on his own from there on out. Our teammates and coaches knew nothing of this at first, Mike didn’t say a word and went about his normal routine. Two weeks and a few unimpressive wins later, Mike defeated 2x High School All-American at a tournament in Delaware. He didn’t get lucky, it wasn’t a fluke or aberration. He flat out beat the kid! We were dumbfounded, what happened to this guy in the period of two weeks? “I’m hypnotized,” Mike said. We laughed it off, it sounded comical of course. This was the type of thing you’d see on a made-for-TV movie right? Well, Mike went on to explain the hypnosis and his meditation practice but we were still skeptics to say the least. A week later he did it again. Wrestling for the championship at the Dundalk Tournament, Mike absolutely throttled an undefeated wrestler and eventual state champion that year at 130 lbs. Now we were convinced, something extraordinary was going on here. Mike finished his senior season as a county champion, region champion and state runner-up, defeating some of Maryland’s best wrestlers along the way.

I didn’t understand what that extraordinary factor was at the time, but since researching Transcendental Meditation I’m quite convinced that expansion of consciousness was largely responsible for Mike’s new-found success. He was able to make mind-body connections that would have otherwise taken years in a matter of weeks. I’m not claiming that this same process could work miracles on any wrestler, or athlete in general, that wants to step their game up dramatically in a short period of time. Mike had the potential, the foundation was there. He was ready to take shape as an athlete but just needed time. Without those tools, none of this would have worked for him. Without meditation, those tools would have taken much longer to sharpen.

Anbar Province or Bust

Drill weekend. Standing around with the usual grind going on. A urinalysis test. A blood draw for the entire company. More standing around. When will it end? Finally, last formation. Saturday breezes by without a hitch. My arm hurts from having my blood drawn and I was still on a high from passing my PT test that I took the day before. All I want to do is go to sleep and wake up refreshed Sunday morning. While Saturday is uneventful, Sunday is when the real bomb drops.

I had gone out to the bars with my sister and her friend Melanie. I got only a few hours of sleep (literally three hours) and had to be up at around 6am Sunday morning. I wondered what we were going to do for the day considering everything else we had to do pretty much was done the day before. Anyone who was important as far as senior leadership and officers would be in a meeting for God knows how long. So, we were told to go back to the Wilmington Armory (we were currently at Carolina Beach) to put an install kit in a Humvee for the radios. I got down and dirty, getting greasy, running antenna cables along the underbelly of the vehicle and we all finally finished up. More sitting around.

Lunch time rolls around and I go back to my apartment to munch on some leftover, cold pizza, which is the best, in my opinion, no matter what time of day. I watched a few more episodes of Nip/Tuck, by far one of the greatest shows ever made. I had bought the DVD series 1 and 2 on Black Friday. They were $15 each. I also bought my 22” LCD monitor for my laptop. Its something to do when you’re bored. 1:00 rolls around and lunch is over, so I drove back to the armory wondering what was to become of our idle time.

We sit around for another hour or so awaiting what was to happen the rest of that day and next drill in January. We were sitting around and getting the news on what was to happen in the near future, and that’s when we were told where there was a strong possibility of us going. My jaw dropped and for once, I actually thought God hated me. I laugh at that, but where we were going was punishment. My world stopped, and the first thing I thought about was calling my father to tell him.

Everyone was leaving around 2:30 and I drove home, dialing my dad’s number as I drove. I told him, upset, but not insanely concerned because it was still a year out. I could tell by my father’s response that he was in denial and he knew that his baby boy was going to be in harm’s way once again. I felt like shit for signing up again, knowing full well what was in store. But why I did it was for the life I missed, for the bonds that were formed, for the pride the uniform provided. And once again in my life, what I served for wearing that uniform was about something bigger than me, and I knew on some level that my dad understood that. He was a retired Marine and Gulf War vet himself.

No one wants to see their children in harm’s way, and as strong as my dad is, I knew that it hurt him to know what was in store for me because of where we were going. He had the optimist’s view that things would change and maybe I wouldn’t have to go over there or maybe I would go somewhere else. I’m a realist. I never wanted to hurt my dad, but in the end, he knows I’m going to do what makes me happy, and signing back up was what did it. The best he can do is be the supportive parent and back me up 110% like any good dad would who is always proud of his son.

Beginner Mind

This is an attempt from me to try recollecting the things I know about Buddhist religion.

Buddha and Zen are synonymous.

Awake at six in the morning on a Monday. I'm my common mindset described best as, "after a long weekend state of mind." I reach across my bed to the bottom corners and sift through some of my books lying in the corner. I have trouble deciding which one I want to feed this early morning coma, it's a transient stage, you're half awake but feel like you are dreaming and any noises you hear may or may not be real, that kind of consciousness. Because I feel dualistic, I grab the white cover with Zen Mind, Beginners Mind Shambhala Library written on the cover.
I think, "Zen trance, an interesting concept and must be confusing to Buddha himself."

The things I have read about Buddhism continuously expand my trouble understanding the dualisitc transient state of being.

It may be the description of life conceptually being that it is what it is. This is how the practitioners and masters ask you to look at life. Say if something exists in your conscious stream of thought, then you must not think about that thought for it has more than one property. The "property" is mainly of confusion as I see it, also it is a certain kind of weight which grips your ability to think, see, and act clearly. Any way, it's awfully, and painfully, and regrettably, and frustratingly more complicated than that. Because in the "beginners mind" it's preached to make sure none of those qualities exist. The zen paradox in my eyes.

The topic of reading I have for the moment requires determination and certain "mindless" concentration. I'm close, I'm reading in the concious like the kind I have when it is six in the morning on a Monday. By mindless, in this case is when the mind should be missing from your reading. An idea that one must rid themselves of all predisposition, starting over, like the mind of a beginner as Buddha sees it.

As I prepare the minds-eye for the universal-directional whim I'll receive from my prefered style of reading. I constantly ask, "will gaining this type of insight, or "enlightenment" help train myself to become a better person, will it teach me to correct then realize the how-to's in getting through life and forgetting about all the inanimate problems and issues of my existance?" The conclusion is to focus on life itself about how lucky we are to be alive- better yet, conscious.

I believe this question would not be answered directly in any reading let alone this reading.

Zen conciousness teaches us to not look for such answers or search for any truth, just exist and be harmonious. A question or problem such as this can only be answered by seeking "it." I think I'm fighting a difficult battle, one with too many complications, too many variables for myself in answering dualistic theory. That is, the beginners mind.

As I read on I'm reminded zen mind is not about answering self-enlightenment questions, or great insightful dominance over fellow man, it is simply balance. The balance is all things exist as one, at the same time exist as different parts, which are in everyday life. The reading describes it like this, "The mind which includes everything, and the mind which is related to nothing." A dualistic nature of our minds that Buddhism teaches us, having these "two" minds will make concentration on single ideas difficult.

I still have many difficulties wrapping my minds fingers around Buddhas conceptual insights or practice beliefs. Honestly, I don't think a word exist that defines what is taught in Buddhism and Zen practice. While I lie in my bed reading these books you can feel and imagine that there does exist such a comfortable existence. I say comfortable to mean frictionless existence. This is enough for me to continue my own practice. Naturally many things along with my maturity must continue to grow in order to understand more of this natural state of being.

The Greatest Story Ever Told About Secaucus

The melody of a shitty ringtone fills the air. Awake. Where the fuck am I?! Ah, the hotel room.

Hello?
Hey Mom, Good You?
The game was good. The score?
What WAS the score of the game?
Hey, what was the score of the game? I asked my friend, Sags as I covered the phone.
3-1 Barcelona

After a short conversation, I hang up the phone. Phew. Close Call.

What the fuck happened last night?

Glimpses of the previous night come and go like some kind of dream. To get you to understand my current state of alcohol-induced confusion, I would have to start somewhere around 24 hours ago.

So here I am, sitting in the smallest of backseats in some kind of corn-powered hybrid with 75 horsepower or something like that.

*Shoulda called shotty*

And we are off, with Shane to my right, Tommy riding shotgun, and Sags driving...or is he pedaling this piece of shit. I'll never know. Onward, we trek towards Secaucus, NJ to watch Barcelona play the NJ/NY Redbulls. Up Rt. 1 towards the hellhole known as Northern Delaware.

Fucking 45 in a 55?! What the fuck are you doing, Sags?!

*Shoulda taken my car*

As if we aren't late enough as it is, we hit traffic. Does this thing have A/C? I don't think it does. Don't you know that a silver car is like tin foil. I'm dying back here. Finally, we reach Christiana Mall for food and to reevaluate our driver. Should we leave him here? We're late. How are we going to pregame for the soccer game? We better hurry. I grab my teriyaki chicken and my giant-ass iced tea and walk to the car.

And we drive on, listening to Will Smith unsure of what lay ahead. We drive and drive. I sip my iced tea, hoping that Sags flips the car and I die a quick death and end this hangover from the previous night. I slip into a coma-like state until something jolts my attention.

A sign reads: Truck-Buses Only

Now, I've seen trucks and I've seen buses. Hell, I'd even go as far as to say that I had seen a few fucked up things before in my life, but never, not once, had I seen a Truck-Bus. The thought of a bus fused with a truck in some kind of fucked-up creation was scary. Had man become so absorbed with innovation that he would mend a vehicle for cargo with a vehicle for passengers into one single being? My mind raced as I imagined a Truck-Bus bearing down on our little ball of aluminum foil at 75 MPH. I slip in and out of conciousness. Iced...Tea...Wearing...Off

...Crashing...Asleep.

I snap out of my slumber by a loud noise.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?! A TRUCK BUS?! JESUS CHRIST!!

No, just my imagination.

Where are we?
Not too far.
Hurry up
Your'e only going 65?!
FASTER!!

We near Secaucus but come to a halt as traffic gets heavy. Ah, Secaucus! We can see it. With a little less than 2 hours to find our hotel and pregame, we begin to worry.

I'm not too familiar with what a Triangle Motor is but our place of residence was called the Triangle Motor Inn or something like that. We finally get off the highway to Secaucus but have no idea where this place is.

STOP, STOP
Fuck, you passed it.

Apparently, In New Jersey, if you miss your turn, you are fucked. With absolutely no way to get back to the parking lot of the Triangle Motor Inn except for going the wrong way for 30 feet on a highway, we park in the lot next door. Trust me, it crosses our minds. No one bothers to mention to Sags the dangers of being towed. It was better that way.

A laughing fit mixed with a Giant-ass Iced Tea makes me piss my pants.

*Shoulda gotten a small iced tea*

Fuck, I pissed my pants

They don't believe me, or they don't care. Fuck it, we made it, who cares? Check-in takes way too long. Hurry up. We gots to drink. Less than an hour to get drunk! Psh, easy.

10 minutes later, we're settled in and ready to drink. In some act of desperation, we make some retarded drinking game out of a really bad game show on TV. It turns into shots, Shots turn into chugs, and chugs turn into too much fun. We take our gatorade and Svedka and get to the car.

I feel I must give a disclaimer at this point in the story and say details may be fuzzy and every thing done in this story by these four characters is in every way, shape, and form, fictitious and not to be used in a court of law. Thank you.

We sit in traffic and drink as we pass hispanic after hispanic with Barcelona jerseys on. I hate Barcelona and that's for one reason, a fucking alien that people call "Ronaldinho." We pass drunk people who sense we are drunk. It's a silent understanding. Jubilation ensues. We make our way to a parking lot and pay an obscene amount of cash for three hours.

We park and play bartender. We make them stiff and strong. We have a chug before we leave the car. Don't want to be caught sober at the game, so we mix a strong one to take in the stadium. Tickets are dispersed and we make our way to the gate. We join a mass of moving bodies like cattle to the slaughter. Faces become blurs but somehow we manage to stay together.

Sorry, No beverages allowed inside.
Fuck, we have to drink them now.

We take our lethal concoctions of half-vodka and half-gatorade to the face. No sweat, Right? Did we just drink countless shots of vodka infused with the uber-drunkifying gatorade in 45 minutes? Yes, I think we did.

Seperated into two groups yet guided by some unseen force, we all find our correct seats. It's funny how when you're wasted, you manage to do miraculous things like find your seat among 90,000 others yet you can't keep your pants on.

We take our seats next to Tommy and Sags.
Fuck, they have Miller Lites.

Where's ours?
Gimme money!

Shane and I watched hopelessly as Sags and Tommy sipped their delicious Miller Lite out of plastic bottles. Hmmm Plastic Bottles? I suppose it's so when you give them to children to drink and they drop the bottles, they won't break.

Sandwiched between Barcelona fans, a father and son, and two older men, I tell myself to behave. Ah, the two older men, they were wearing trench coats, it was August. Are they jacking off under there? I think they are. Gross.

The electrolytes in the gatorade carry the alcohol to my blood quickly, creating a thirst for more. After some announcing and the National Anthem, I sit down. America, Fuck Yeah. My world was spinning.

We had successfully completed our mission: Get drunk before the game. Kudos to us.

Sags and Tommy set off to get Shane and I a couple of 8 dollar beers. After 20 minutes of watching the game beerless, Tommy returns. No Sags. Fuck. We laughed and joked that he had left with our money, got kidnapped, or got arrested. HA, arrested! That's so crazy it's funny. Too happy or too drunk to care, we watch without him.

bzzzzz bzzzzz bzzzzz

NEW TXT MSG

From: Saagar Patel
Sent: August 13th, 2006

Yo I got arrested

FUUUUUCK

Somewhere below the stadium, he is being detained in a holding cell with other fans for some crime. Half an hour later, he returns with stories of his time in the slammer. Cruel guards who refuse to put on the game for the prisoners. Many of Sags' fellow prisoners were being detained for throwing bottles. Sags had tried to use a bad fake ID. Foolish. Who wanted beer anyway? Oh yeah, Shane and I. They let him off with a firm warning, a firm anal raping, and a permanent ban from the stadium unless he wrote them a letter beforehand. Better get writing for next year pal. Oh yeah, and they took his ID!

With confirmation of no KIAs on Operation: Get Shane and Alex beer, my inebriation hits a new level. My voice grows louder, my random thoughts become verbalized, my hatred for Ronaldinho grows, My reputation as the drunk asshole at the game is set in stone. I had become THAT GUY.

The laughter of others fuels me. My three friends laugh. The father and son laugh. The two creepy guys laugh. Sweet, I had gained the approval of the guy who was whacking it under his coat. HIGH FIVE. maybe not...

Suspect: Alex Clark

Alias: Asshole at the game

Known offenses: Yelling Profanities at Ronaldinho, Yelling "FLAVA FLAV,'' Telling the refs to "MOVE THOSE CHAINS" (an AMERICAN football chant, not soccer), Flashing ass to 90,000 fans, Trying to start a wave, Underage drinking, Public Intoxication,
Associating with a known criminal, Saagar Patel, and Corruption of a minor

Partner in crime: Shane Barry

The game comes to a close and we make our exit. How I did not get kicked out, I do not know. We exit a different way than the way we came in. We follow a path that resembles the US-Mexico border in Texas. Fences, Hispanics, Security Guards. The whole nine yards. Again, guided by an unseen force, we find the car.

I grab a parking cone and climbed on top of the Honda Shitpiece and continue to yell shit. Out of control. Madness Ensued.

What is this? A green mask?
My green Goosebumps mask from 3rd grade resembled Ronaldinho which is why I brought it. It has found a new purpose though. Stuck in traffic leaving the stadium, something inside of me is inspired.

It tells me, Put on the mask, C'mon, Do it.

Even the mask looks at me yearning to be worn. I put it on.

It tells me, Now take off your clothes and run around traffic.

In bumper to bumper traffic, I hop out in my boxers and mask and run around. Protected by anonymity, I do foolish things. Some cheer, some laugh, others threaten and lock their doors. Fuck them, I live for the people who laugh at the half-naked guy in the Goosebumps mask. I make my parade short and sweet. Back in the car, we make our way back to the Triangle Motor Inn.

Wasted at this point, I want sleep. They want to go into New York City.

ME ALEX. ME TIRED. ME BREAK CONCRETE PLANTER FULL OF PLANTS ON HOTEL FLOOR.

Come on, Alex!

They lead, I follow. I slip into a zombie-like blackout state. All aboard the crazy train. We make it two blocks and Shane and I have what I like to call a difference of opinion. Words turn into shoves, shoves turn into wrestling, wrestling turns into an epic battle. We battled and battled. A small crowd gathered as we wrestled on the ground. Like two modern-day gladiators, we fight. As quick as it starts, it ends with a cop nearly running us over.

We were just playing around officer.
GO HOME!
Yes sir.

The fun is over. To the gas station we head for drinks and such. I grab a drink and take it to the counter. Fuck, no cash. I dump my wallet in front of the man. Blood donor card, UNseaW card, ATM card, Driver's License, but nothing of value.

What the fuck is all of this?
Let's go, Alex.

Fun's over. As the drunkest and craziest out of all of us that night, I get a bed by default. After a tirade of abuse by Shane about being out of control and being too drunk or some shit, I don't remember, I am too drunk, I pass out.

The melody of a shitty ringtone fills the air. Awake. Fuck.

Self therapy and a worried state of mind

Something has been happening to me. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess what is causing it. I’ve stopped caring. My friends have recently been bringing up senioritis, but I don’t think that is what I have. It’s not that I don’t feel like doing homework or studying, because that’s what I feel validates me most in life. If I fall behind academically, I’m consumed with thoughts of failing in life. If I could, I’d stay in college forever. I have lots of friends that aren’t in college and they have a waiting job at a nearby restaurant and they know what their schedule will always be. Meanwhile my nights are plagued with homework and stress. I wonder why I would want this life to go on.

I’m planning on moving to England after I graduate and I’m scared it won’t work out. If I really wanted to, I could stay at UNCW and double major or stay for graduate school. But I’m taking a huge risk and moving to a different country. I talk about it a lot, but the more I talk about it, the more I’m not sure if I’m making the right decision.

I’m spending three weeks in England this break and I think it’s going to be my deciding factor as to whether or not I feel I can commit to such an extravagant decision. I’m guessing the reason why I’m not myself is because I’m afraid of making a huge mistake. Will I be ready in January to start the paper work for my living abroad?

I’ve started to gain weight. I’ve stopped going to the gym and I’m splurging on foods I never would have before. I stand in my room everyday for several minutes just staring at the floor thinking, do I get dressed? Do I go run or spend the day in the library or brush my hair? Then I usually get in my bed and take a long nap, thinking it will recharge me, but it only makes me more sluggish later.

I always try to be a healthy person, thanks to my parents. I’m very much emotionally charged, as most females are. If I’m feeling more about something than usual, it lasts for weeks. I’ve only been in therapy once for it and it was a waste of time. I had to go because I was breaking out in hives from stress. But I’ve decided that from now one, I’m going to be my own therapist. If I feel I’m having a problem making a decision like leaving my country next year, I need to sit down with myself and work out all the pros and cons. I need to count backwards from ten when I get nervous and I need to force myself to do things that benefit me. Even simple tasks for other people seem like huge endeavors for me when I’m not at my emotional best. I live alone, so I should start a hobby. I have uneven sleeping patterns, so I should start a schedule and stick to it.

I don’t know if becoming my own therapist will work, but even if it doesn’t, it will be a great way to learn more about myself and help me make important decisions in this crucial time in my life.

The Art of Damien Bowling

The house that I rent has hardwood floors. I do not own a pair of toenail clippers for my dog. My roommate owns a chicken suit. These three facts seemingly have nothing in common. However, they were all essential in the creation of the newest sport to sweep the Wilmington athletic community.

A Quick History

Damien bowling, like all truly great inventions, came to me in a drunken haze. My roommate and I had returned to our house following the bar crawl the weekend before Halloween. I had thrown my costume together in five minutes, but my roommate spent $80 on a full-size giant chicken costume. The one thing he hadn’t counted on was how hot it would get inside six feet of polyester completely covered in feathers. He headed straight for his room, ripped the Velcro backing apart and tossed the chicken suit to the floor and walked into . He was drenched in sweat and it looked like he had spent all day at a water park. Had he gone into his room wearing his costume the great sport of Damien Bowling may have never come to be.

While my roommate was changing in his room, my dog, Damien, was scratching at the door. I let him out and that’s when inspiration hit --I was going to scare the shit out of my dog. I walked over and picked up the chicken suit. The aroma of B.O. hit and immediately sent me back to my high school locker room days. I fought through the overwhelming odor and put the suit on.

I crept out of the hallway and lurked around the corner. I had left the front door open, and now I was waiting for Damien to come back into the house. Damien walked through the door, obviously relieved, and aproached the corner I was hiding behind. I charged at him, screaming as I appeared out of the darkness and the dog took off. He was terrified. He tore through the living room at full speed seemingly oblivious to the limitations of the house. When he caught a glimpse of the far wall, he tried to stop suddenly. His incredibly long and sharp toenails tapped furiously against the hardwood before he slammed face first into the wall. Five minutes later, when I stopped laughing, I came up with the concept of Damien Bowling.

What You Will Need

-A very stupid and easily startled dog
-10 empty 24-packs
-A chicken suit
-Hardwood floors
-And, unless you’re Michael Vick, some cushions to put behind the boxes

How To Play

You will need to consume a lot of alcohol before you get started. Damien Bowling is too asinine of an activity to try to attempt sober. Get Damien drunk as well. His poor balance and flailing limbs will not only be hilarious but it will also help your score. Once you’re a good 8-10 shots deep, it’s time to suit up in the chicken costume. You’ll want to make sure Damien doesn’t see you putting it on or he we be desensitized to the terror of a giant chicken chasing him through the house.

While you’re putting on the suit, have some one else set up the empty beer boxes like a regulation bowling pins. While Damien is still drinking beer out of his dish, throw the door open and charge him. Damien will take off down the hallway, like he always does, and fruitlessly try to stop before sliding on all fours and knocking over beer boxes before slamming into the padding against the back wall.

Your score is however many "pins" Damien knocks over before he hits the back padding. Beer boxes that fall while he is regrouping himself do not count. My best score is eight. I'm still trying for a strike. You can usually only go one time before the dog figures out what’s going on, so you’re basically competing against yourself. There are no winners or losers. Except for Damien. He definitely loses by having me for an owner.

Walking in a White Dress

Every little girl dreams about the say that she will walk down the aisle on her father’s arm. She is in a white dress and she is beautiful and she is walking toward her prince charming. Her father is smiling and her mother is crying. Nowhere in this dream does the little girl see that getting to this day means that she and her mother will almost kill each other.

I am getting married in eight months and I am in the middle of planning, what I thought, was a very simple wedding. I wanted to marry the man I love and have been with for eight years in the church where we met. I wanted be in a simple white dress carrying a bouquet of white tulips and have my cousin and a few friends as bridesmaids. Then I wanted to go to the reception hall behind the church and be with my family and friends having cake and punch. That was my vision—a small, traditional Southern wedding. I did not know I would be fighting my mother the whole way.

I want a hundred and fifty people to be invited. That includes my close family and friends and my fiancé’s close family and friends. This happened to be the first piece of information that would send me and my mother on a bad downward spiral. I was driving with mother to meet with a photographer that I was considering for the wedding. We started talking about the amount of people that the church would hold and who the most important people would be to invite. I mentioned that we would not be able to invite everyone who attends my church. She shot daggers through my head with her eyes. She burst into tears. She said, “How can we have the wedding at the church and not invite our church family?” I was driving and trying not to jump out of the car from shock and fear. I said with trepidation, “But there are eighty people that go to our church.” She screamed back, “Yeah, I know that!” Things continued to escalate. To make a long story short, she ended up crying and we were fifteen minutes late to meet with the photographers because she could not go into their studio crying.

Let me be clear, my mother is not crazy. She is normal—I think. These little incidents have continued when I told her that I wanted only white and green as my colors, that I did not want her cousin to be my guest book attendant, and that we told only invite a hundred and fifty people to the ceremony. Each of these incidents has ended with her crying and me waiting in confusion for her to stop.

During one of these episodes, she told me that she had been dreaming about this day longer than I had and it meant more to her than me. She said that one day, when I had a daughter that I would understand. I could not believe that she said that! How could my wedding day mean more to her than me. I am the one getting married!

Then I considered where she was coming from. I am her only daughter and as long a have been dreaming of my wedding, she was dreaming of it before I was born. Maybe she looks at my wedding plans and she wants my wedding to be prefect and better than hers. I am not the type of person to back down from want I want, but maybe I need to handle her a little more gently. My strategy now is to tell her everything I am doing with the wedding and give her some control on the things that do not matter to me as much. I never thought the biggest obstacle to planning my wedding would be my own mother, but then again, she is my biggest inspiration.

A mental goat rodeo

The question is inevitable for a college senior.

"So, are you going to graduate on time?"

If the answer is yes, there follow up is "do you know what you're doing after that?"

Since I was 16, I have been able to answer that question with confidence. My response has always been some varying form of "Yep, I'm going to go into sports writing / television / radio."

The response was usually one of shock, as most kids my age barely knew what kind of liquor they'd be drinking that evening.

With five years invested in my career and five months remaining until graduation, most everyone my age has finally pulled it together and found something that they want to do.

I went the other way. Five years into my 'career,' I have no idea if this is what I want to do with my life anymore.

I still love sports and I still love writing. I like the feeling of writing a story that captures the despair of a moment or explains someone’s personality. Mostly everyone that I’ve ever worked with has been great and I enjoy going into work on just about every trip.

I have noticed that when I’m at home I find myself flipping past ESPN a little bit more. I rarely read newspapers anymore and I can see that some people in the business aren’t happy. A lot of the more famous sportswriters turn into cynical assholes who hate everyone and everything, screaming out obvious points and making little sense.

I’m sitting in the office right now. I’ve got my dinner on my desk, a basketball game on television over my desk and we’ve been talking about the BCS all night. It’s basically how I’d spend part of my evening with friends.

However, some of those evenings can wear on you. I had planned to be out of work around midnight on Saturday to go out with some friends. I probably would have made it, except for all hell broke loose when Missouri and West Virginia both lost and most of the section had to be redone for second edition.

I couldn’t even enjoy how awesome the football games were because I was praying that they’d end quickly so I could get out of there. I ended up leaving at about 12:45 and had to go home to get ready to go.

Those long nights can wear you out during the week as well, with homework and all of that fun stuff still needing to be done. My time management skills are god awful. Mix that with my night-owl tendencies, and sometimes, I don’t start my work until 2 a.m. That makes for a lovely morning.

Working from 5 p.m. until 2 a.m. isn’t something that I envision myself doing for the next 20 years. But, there’s going to come a day when this is about more than me.

From my desk I can hear a coworker tell his daughter goodnight after a few minutes on the phone. The brief phone call is a large portion of his contact with her on days he has to work.
Not only is it hard to support a family emotionally in the journalism business, but also financially. The money is an absolute joke. I’ve seen ‘good’ jobs for college graduates that pay just over $20,000 per year.

The money isn’t getting any better due to the fact that many people are getting their news online now. Job security isn’t great either as newspapers are having to watch their finances due to lost money.

Am I overly concerned with the money? Maybe, but that’s no one else’s problem but my own. The thing is, that I’m not trying to sell my soul. I could still write on the side, but I want a steady job that I enjoy. My mom is ‘disappointed’ because she thinks I’m going to chase the money.

Does this blog even make any sense? Probably not. That’s how little the situation makes sense to me. I can feel the disorganization of my thoughts coming out on the page, but for some reason, it's comforting to see them there.

Who knows, maybe I’ll get the internship that I applied for at the Washington Post.

That’ll solve everything…

Some women are from Mars and some Men are from Venus.

Relationships is one of those topics that anyone could write a book on. We have all had experiences in relationships. But, why are we forcing ourselves to be in bad relationships when it is projected that over 50% of marriages end in divorce? I see so many unhappy relationships and I just wonder where the animosity that builds up in a relationship would potentially stem from. There are the obvious physical differences that do tend to cause skiffs within relationships. Women have a menstrual cycle that men love to blame for their significant other’s strange behavior, but in all honestly men have times in which our moods change also. That doesn’t necessarily have that much to do with the true physical differences because most of the true differences occur in the psyche of a person.

The behavior of the two different sexes has been a popular form of entertainment and has given the anti-Christ, I mean Dr. Phil, a wonderful job telling people what they think they want to hear. Besides Oprah’s bosom buddy, many authors have utilized this problem between the sexes to get their interpretations across. But I have a question: If women are from Venus and men are from Mars, what happens to those of us who live on the East side of Mars and the women who reside on the East side of Venus? Not all of us behave the same, but one-fact still remains the same is that we are human. The authors, of books about the Venus and Mars epidemic, stereotype people and do not look at each person as an individual. These authors grossly simplify and stereotype the real problems that we are having by masking these books with interesting and useful ideas for your relationship. Besides the obvious female to male differences, we as people have behavioral patterns. All of these self-help books, talk show hosts and know-it-alls who have the answers are useful if they would just try to help us appreciate the uniqueness of each other as an individual.
The emotional aspect to relationships has long been indicated as the undisputed fight starter. I used to hear my girlfriend and many other friends (who are girls) rant, rave and straight out bitch that we men never talk about our feelings. This has got to stop. We men do talk about our feelings, yet our phrasing may not be in the exact context in which you would like. And men always say that they find it so difficult to figure out what women want. Even the famous psychologist Sigmund Fraud asked, “What does a woman want?” And women women respond that they do tell us what they want, but men are listening to the wrong parts of the text.

As a man, I urge women to understand that most men don’t like to elaborate on our feelings. We are straight-to-the-punch, ‘just-the-facts’, and ‘no-filler’ types of guys. Most of our conversations are carried out with these terms in mind. But most women enjoy the process of talking. They are more concerned with the intricacies or the inner-workings of our minds, trying to understand what we’ve already told you. We tell you everything that you need to know about our day, how we are feeling, and how everyone is getting along just by saying ‘it wasokay’. I’m not stereotyping men and saying that we don’t have feelings, nor am I saying that sometimes we don’t like to elaborate about specific subjects, but a large majority of the time we like to keep it simple. Women want to emphasize specific understanding and men just yearn for simplicity.

Relationships are complicated, but I think that all in all we deserve to give them a chance. We might have to do a little bit of work in regards to understanding the way that our specific love interest thinks and acts but they are possible. Each of us, as human beings, are different. Though behavior and emotional differences may occur, to make this co-existance between men and women work we must delve deeper into the hearts and minds of one another. We must try to forget about the bullshit representations that Dr. Phil presents on TV and completely disregard whatever stereotypipcal man that you think lives on Mars.

Slipknot Sucks: I Say Death By Axe!

What’s sad about Mushroomhead is that their image is supposed to be EXTREME!, but they are slower and poppier than Slipknot. Their masks brought them a few moments of spotlight, but their appearance was too similar to Slipknot and they were not as talented musically. Slipknot is kind of a joke amongst real metalheads - it is metal in the same way that Lil Jon is rap; it's a poppy and superficial ripoff that appeals to angsty teens and other people who are unwilling to really delve into the genre. However, I loved them in highschool, and occasionally I still put them on to remind me of more rebellious and stupid times. I used to like the percussion but the fact that they need three different drummers to produce that sound is really pathetic: why not just get a good drummer like Hellhammer, Gene Hoglan, or Thomas Haake. I did not realize until later that they had nothing original to offer the heavy metal genre outside of there weak attempts at combining turntablism and rap vocals in their distorted slurry; ironically, this is my least favorite part of their music. But at the time, I genuinely liked their brand of down tuned, fast paced sludge, this was before I discovered baroqueian pedal points in death metal, or the classic “gallop” which originated from the Gods: Judas Priest and Iron Maiden. Even back then, before I was schooled in the ways of rock, I thought the masks were silly.

I love Ace Frehley’s Signature guitar excessively equipped with three humbucking pickups, but I have always hated KISS. I must admit that their first album is mediocre, but then everything "spiralled out of control." Their movie, KISS Meets the Phantom in the Park, is the funniest piece of crap that was ever filmed, and that's kind of how i feel about them musically; plus the costumes are lame. Lordi, Finnish hard rock/heavy metal act, does have intricate and very expensive costumes, but they may be the worst “monster band” I have ever heard. There is no variety in their sound and with serious lyrics such as “the devil is a loser and he’s my bitch,” they have no musical creativity and they are not even scary; their image is the only reason they are famous. Combined with their shitty sound, their stupid look just makes me dislike them that much more, and most musicians who have to dress up to sell generally suck.

There is one exception to this rule which really stands out: Gwar, an acronym for God What an Awful Racket. Comprised of evil monsters from another planet, they may be some of the best performers I have ever seen, and it’s mostly because of the costumes. This may be an unfair claim: it's not that they are posers, because they were around in 1985 during the birth of thrash, the seeds of death metal had been planted and later they would dabble in it. They do sometimes bark sarcastically, but their vocal style has never had strong metal characteristics, no ear piercing hair metal crescendos, no raspy black metal screeching, no growling death metal cookie monster grunts. Their vocal style has been inconsistent throughout their 11 studio albums, but is largely punk based, and I think they are definitely influenced by the maniacal monk vocals of Jello Biafra from the Dead Kennedys.

The guitar is not as fast I remember, and they will occasionally play fragmented slow gallops while the bass chugs along faster. The parts that I enjoyed the most were the lightening speed “breakdowns” which are reminiscent of Dimebag Darrel from Pantera. This element which is now widespread in metal originated in hardcore, and is when the main melody stops and becomes minimal. This is often the climax of the song, when everyone moshes the hardest, and is usually driven by one loud guitar riff accompanied by either rests or palm mutes in between. This produces a jarring and/or pounding effect: it's stereotypical headbanging time. When the strobe lights came on they seemed to be synchronized at the same speed as the guitar. The guitar solos are also Dimebaggian, except not as technical. They are short and often start out with slow tapping, and end with basic tremolo picking. I’ve noticed that they also really like pinched harmonic vibratos.

Lordi formed in 1992, and recently have become popular, and there have been many comparisons to Gwar because of the appearance (Lordi claims to have never heard of Gwar until they hit it big, which I have a hard time believing). Aside from Lordi totally sucking as a band, the main difference between Lordi and Gwar is that Gwar is a parody. Their lyrics are satirical and intentionally overexaggerated. They normally talk about the joys of politics and enslaving the human race, they love war and think violence is sexy. They also make fun of the metal genre: watching Gwar feels kind of like seeing a thrash metal version of Spinal Tap: except so overdone and extreme that not even Dethklok from Adult Swim’s Metalocalypse could compete. In between songs, they tell jokes and indulge in grotesque theatrics. Monsters or politicians or religious figures will come on stage and flick off the crowd or anger Gwar by claiming to be more evil and they will get into axe or sword fights. During a fight someone always dies, loses an appendage, and literally sprays fake blood all over the crowd for at least a minute while writhing and dancing around.

I’d say the most offensive and funny thing I saw this year at the December 1rst show was Pope Benedict goose-stepping onto stage, screaming “heil Hitler,” making fun of the fact that he was a former member of The Hitler Youth; obviously, he was killed by axe. This was followed by some dummy which came out on stage claiming to be Jesus, and he spoke to Gwar and the crowd at the same time talking about salvation, and death to all Jews, which did not make sense until it turned around and on the other side of the head was Hitler. It went back and forth from Hitler to Jesus, until Gwar became aggravated and they drew weapons. As Hitler-Jesus was dying, spraying blood from its neck, it masturbated blood from his extremely large phallice all over the crowd. With all of the Jewish jokes, it only seemed appropriate for the giant, 9-eyed, bird-dog-monster, Jewsifer, to flap its dime-pinching Jewish wings and attack. This was the grand finale fight, and the star-of-david-wearing demon was definitely their best dummy.

The show was almost ended when Gwar left the stage, and a cop strutted out waving his nightstick, telling us there was nothing to see and to go home, he was then beaten and killed, and Gwar played an encore just for the hell of it. They recently had an appearance on MTV's Viva La Bam, which I think is lame, because I dislike Bam Margera as a person. However Bam Margera did come onto stage and talk with Gwar, "Hey dudes, I'm filming Jackass three in Hell right now." Gwar was not impressed, and began to poke fun "Yea, well maybe we'll see you down there, and instead of getting Jessica Simpson to suck your dick, we'll get OJ Simpson to suck your dick." Bam thought that sounded like a great idea, and leaned in to make out with Oderus Urungus, and to his surprise, got his tongue and part of his face bitten off; then his eyes were poked out, and he started screaming and spraying blood, saying "this is great, are you filming this?" The city of Charlotte once banned Gwar for a year, and fined Urungus for obscenity charges. They made a reference to that saying, "This town once stole my penis, but God I love this town." In 1993 one of Gwars shows was shutdown in Athens Georgia and with the help of the ACLU they sued. When they won, they donated the money to charity.

2004’s show was better and funnier than this years, probably because they had more political material to work with; their 2004 cd, War Party referenced the war on terror. That and they had an actual "blood cannon", which was awesome. There were far more characters: Lacy Peterson gave birth to a lobster, Michael Jackson talked about how much he loves kids, President Bush asked us if we wanted any coke, and Osama Bin Laden came out of with a bomb strapped to his head talking about how he was going to be having sex with 72 virgins. The show was ended by a Gwar rap side project with great beats, and one of the gwar monsters spraying the blood cannon all over the crowd going wild.

The costumes are really incredible, some really are scary while others are just outlandishly stupid. Their music alone is not unique enough to distinguish them from literally hundreds of other similar sounding bands, but I will see them live every chance I get. This first class novelty act will never die because they have always recieved warm support from their diehard cult following. In return they have served us with more than twenty years of brutality and stupidity, and have always charged moderate prices, even though their shows cost them a lot of money. I paid twenty bucks, and fourteen bucks last time.

Despite their over-the-top image, they have not let rock star excess affect their performance, reliability or reputation. I know that when I am 35 I won't have to drop 180 euros (starting price) to see their one time reunion, like the upcoming Zeppelin shebang. The audacity...you disappear for 20 years, and now you charge 250$ for one ticket?! This sucks, I don't have that kind of money! I just want to rock out to Valhalla, is that too much to ask!? Some moron just paid 83,000 pounds online for a pair of remaining tickets, setting the record for most expensive concert ticket. Only rich bastards or psychos will be able to see this, which is not fair because i'm relatively sane and poor. Come on Jimmy, way to repay the fans: I say you are now obligated to tour world wide for this tremendous tease, or else you will meet inevitable death by obsessive fan, like John Lennon. Just because your biggest fans will pay big prices doesn't mean you should exploit them. I mean, you know most of your fans are stupid, they did all the same drugs you did in the 70's, remember? ...oh yea, I guess you don't. Gwar should beat your ass.

Anyways, as a fan/audience member I am primarily influenced by sound, and have a pretty short attention span for anything else. The moral of the story: if you’re in a band that's going to wear costumes, you better have a pretty good act to go along with it. It's probably best to have a sense of humor too. This is not for those who are easily offended, but it is a great time that I would suggest to anyone who likes metal or punk, and wants to see something insane. Just don't wear anything nice, because they do spray a lot of blood.

Poetry Passion: Revealed

There are a lot of things that go along with being a writer. Practicing the craft, staying on top of grammar limitations, but in my opinion, being an active reader is essential to growth for a writer. My studies in creative writing have expanded the reach in regards to genre. I no longer head straight for the fiction section when I enter a bookstore. I like to challenge myself--pick up a cook book or a how-to piece on gardening. The other day while browsing the isles at Barnes and Noble, I found myself in the poetry section. I happed to pick up a thick collection of poems by a previous Poet Laureate, Billy Collins. After thumbing through the pages, page 15 caught my eye.

Is there a more gentle way to go into the night
than to follow an endless rope of sentences
and then to slip drowsily under the surface of a page
into the first tentative flicker of a dream,
passing out of the bright precincts of attention
like cigarette smoke passing through a window screen? ("Reading Myself to Sleep")

In Questions About Angels, Billy Collins captures in a simplistically beautiful way the journey that is life. The broad range of subject matter almost lends a sense of universality to the collection; everyone is bound to find something to relate to in his ninety page masterpiece. His tone varies greatly from piece to piece. In "The History Teacher," Collins takes on a very playful tone-- as if speaking to the students in this particular professor’s classroom.

Trying to protect his students’ innocence
He told them the Ice Age was really just
The Chilly Age, a period of a million years
When everyone had to wear sweaters.

Then, in poem’s such as "Pensee," Collins explores life and death with strong metaphors embedded deeply in historical facts and figures such as Pascal and Magellan. This was one of my favorite poems in the book. It is a perfect example of Collins’ ability to take the simplest concepts and transform them into an astonishing, explosive image with so much power.

We die only when we run out of footprints.
Then the biographers move in to retrace our paths,
Enclosing them in tall mazes of lumber
To make our lives see more complex, more arduous,
To make our leaving the room seem heroic.

Another trademark of Collins’ is seen in "Pensee." He maintains great control throughout his poems by choosing a single image or concept, sticks with it and finds a way to creatively incorporate it until the end of the poem.
Collins writes with impressive diction and winds in and out of incredible metaphors with ease. His words always seem to fit perfectly onto each line. Typically, his lines are much longer than most would expect in poems but his poems, with their lengthy lines and lingering images stay true to his own style, which is truly remarkable. He is not afraid to use big, convoluted, sometimes confusing words because the reader gets the sense that it doesn’t really matter that much to him if you don’t get the word, skip over it, keep going-- you’ll get it in the end. Collins’ also doesn’t shy from name-dropping; he turns these great figures into humans the reader can relate to. Cezanne is merely “… a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,” and Kafka is struggling to put words on his page just like every other troubled writer. Collins is a great leveler, which I believe is very important, especially in published work, poems that have an audience. Finally, Collins’ metaphors are ultimately what grab at you from each page; they leave you dumbfounded, all you can write is a pathetic little “wow,” in the margin. Sometimes there just aren’t words and that’s it. Collins’ Questions About Angels is magical, mystical and leaves you completely unsure of what it is you have experienced once you finally put it down-- he makes you feel alive and for me, that was enough.

I will feel the rotation of the earth
As electrically as the sudden touch of a stranger.
I will wonder how many thousands of days
It would take the two of us to walk to the moon.

La Dolce Vita: The Greatest Film of All Time

“I wish that every young person with an interest in film could have had the same experience that I had back in those days; to be young, open to everything, and to walk into the theater and have your expectations not only met, but surpassed time and time again. We all had one film that was a turning point, a touchstone, and I suppose that Fellini’s 8½ was mine.”

–Martin Scorsese

Federico Fellini carves his greatest masterpiece from the vacuous characters devoid of moral fabric in this celebration of film. La Dolce Vita is about excess, wanton desire and un-fulfillment. No amount of money, fame and partners can satisfy Marcello Rubini’s hunger. On top of this he is weighed down by his emotionally needy girlfriend who is a complete bore. He is an outsider wanting in. He knows this, the celebrities he leeches on know this but it fuels their egos.

The beginning of the film has Marcello Rubini played by Marcello Mastroianni flying a helicopter following a statue of Jesus being carried by another helicopter. This overt symbolism is a bit over the top but powerful nonetheless. He is sidetracked by some sunbathing woman on a pool rooftop. They make small talk about the statue and he is on his way again. To him the statue is just as much a celebrity as the people he writes about in his columns.

What La Dolce Vita does so well is make something as stereotypically glamorous and alluring like fame, power and casual sex seem so depraved. Why is Marcello trapped? He has famous friends, disposable cash and drunken parties on end but he is lost. He is a chameleon to whatever trend he feels he needs to mask his true self under. He is a nomad with no home because he does not know himself and once he gets a glimpse of who he is, he runs.

The celebrities he meets as a journalist are whatever his mind projects them to be. To him they are exciting, desirable and posses whatever he lacks. They fuel his insecurity by the very need of him wanting to assimilate and be part of something that he is not. What ultimately happens though is that plays an enemy to himself by being no more than an observer. He does not question what he sees and believes that nothing he sees could be an act. Like the mystery that allures people to another, he is enamored by their image and success. After spending so much time with these movie stars though he sees their cracks and weaknesses but is unfazed. He wants to believe the elusive lie that is their representation of happiness and not his own.

The turning point of the film is when he is at the beach with the famous crowd he has leeched onto the whole film. He encounters an angelic looking girl who looks at him invitingly. She offers him self redemption but he falters. Instead he goes with his fake friends and ultimately kills any sort of self worth he may have ever had. He seeks the lie of something fake because it is much more exciting even though it offers nothing substantial. Her eyes trail off of him and onto us for falling into the same trap. It is hypnotic, haunting and unforgettable.

Gold Digging for Dummies...

Alright ladies, here it is. The holy grail of dating and using men for their money. Have you ever wondered how you will pay this month's rent or afford the new pair of stilettos you've been eyeing at the mall? Are you gutless and desperate? Can you handle the stigma that goes along with the title? If so, you are on your way to becoming a gold-digger, draped in furs and diamonds or at the very least, set with a full tank of gas. The following is a how-to guide on getting what you want for free (ish).

Step one: Acquire a suitable target. Upscale bars and other establishments are the most promising to find a good gold-diggee. Try to steer clear from any man wearing denim jackets or overalls. Those are two characteristics that will ultimately lead you to a trailer park and a can of Busch Light. And beware of popped collars and boat shoes. While seemingly trendy, they tell tales of daddy's money and a pre-nup. Stay away.You want to look for class. We're talking baby calf-skin jackets and alligator loafers. Sunglasses encrusted with diamonds and pinky rings are also accessories that scream "cha-ching". Remember to take your time. Proper selection is key to a true gold-digging lifestyle.

Step two: Focus first on charming your subject. Bat those eyelashes, nibble on your bottom lip, then casually drop something on the floor--bending over seductively to tease him with your goodies. Did his mouth open slightly at the sight of your booty drop? If so, he's hooked and you can move on to the next step. If not, jiggle the twins a little more or move on to a more interested subject. Remember: while looks are a bonus, they don't fill his wallet with cash. Focus your aim on his checkbook rather than his potbelly.

Step three: Test the water for gold-digging potential. You don't want to invest a great deal of time into a subject that doesn't put out monetarily. Clear your throat and ask what he's drinking. A true gentleman, perfect for gold-digging, will most often offer to buy you a beverage. Test the waters by ordering a premium, top shelf cocktail. But do not go overboard and ask for a double Grey Goose. Ease him into it and save the doubles for date two. If your target does not offer to buy you a drink or scoffs at your high alcohol standards, take this as a clue that Wal-mart may be more his style and that he will not be game to buy you Manolos or Prada. Suck it up as a loss and move on to the next suitable guy.

Step four: Set up for continuation but do not go home with the target. Remember the golden rule: No money, no honey. While this is a give and take relationship, don't give it up until you are confident that he will continue showering you with not only his love and affection, but with credit cards and cash. Check out his car, his house, his job and if possible, his bank statements. You need security that your pampered lifestyle will continue. No one wants to give up the goodies and be left knocked up with a mini-van.

Step five: If you are confident that your target is a perfect gold-diggee, than build the spending momentum by taking a trip to the mall. Breathe admiration of diamonds and couture and sigh sadly as you look at the price tags. A worthy sugar-daddy will whip out his credit card and sign with a smile.

While gold-digging is a seemingly shallow job, you will grow to love your gold-diggee. Trips to the Bahamas and Milan will bring the two of you closer, making you realize that there's more to him than meets the wallet. Shower him with love and kindness and he will be sure to continue to fill your closet and your heart.

Beauty in Aging

There is a commercial on TV that I frequently see these days that disturbs me. It is an ad for product that removes "fine lines and tiny wrinkles" to make you look years younger, at least according to the word of the beautiful actors on the screen. It is similar to Botox and must be administered by a medical professional. It isn't the product that disturbs me as much as the ad itself, particularly the line one woman delivers. Different people say "I use it because..." giving their personal reason. One very attractive woman who is being embraced by an equally attractive man says, "I use it because he thinks I am younger than I am." This five second blurb pricks at my sensibility and aggravates my normally easy going acceptance of all things commerical. Why? Because it illustrates all too clearly the fact that our society no longer sees any value or beauty in the inevitable process of aging.

In less than two weeks I will celebrate my 46th birthday. And I do mean celebrate because every birthday signifies another year I have been able to live on this planet, sharing the joys and sorrows known as life. If I am lucky enough to live into my 90's, I am truly middle-aged and I am comfortable with that and all that accompanies it -- including the idea of looking my age. But that feeling, according to the standards now being set by our society, is no longer acceptable. Thanks in part to celebrities like Elizabeth Taylor, Cher, Priscilla Presley and Joan Rivers, it is no longer considered acceptable to grow old gracefully.

The idea of being beautiful in your 50s and 60s now seems to include lips puffed to bee-stung proportions, eyes so tightly stretched that many might assume there is Asian ethnicity in the genes, and cheekbones honed to a razor sharpness. Of course, anything over a size six in the wardrobe department is also considered nearly obese, with exception of the chest area which should firmly ride high over the unnaturally perky 36D cups. Women of any age now should now look as close to twenty-five as possible, even if it requires removing any part of the body or face that actually makes you your age.

I remember seeing an interview with an aging Audrey Hepburn a while back. I was struck by the thought of a what a beautiful woman she was. Not a beautiful older woman, or the beautiful woman she had been in her youth, but a beautiful woman altogether. Age had softened her, created a looked that exuded class, warmth and wisdom. I wasn't distracted by eyebrows pinched into her hairline and dyed coal black hair coyly draped over a misshapen cheek. Hers was a simple beauty of a woman aged into her sixties, seasoned by life.

When I look into my senior years, I can't help but think of my grandmother, a little old lady that looked remarkably like Granny in the Tweety and Sylvester cartoons. She was a tiny thing, with powder white hair and a soft peach complextion that surrounded her lively blue eyes. I can remember telling her that I loved how soft she felt because it made her better to hug. She was beautiful to me, to my cousins and to her own children, and she looked nothing like the senior starlets portrayed in the media today. She gave me the understanding of growing old gracefully.

While I may miss some of my looks from my twenties, especially the flat stomach and firmly set chin, I am much happier with who I am today. With every year that passes, I gain new wisdom and confidence. I no longer concern myself simple with how a pair of jeans fit or if I can turn someone's head. I just want to be that person my grandmother was to me, someone who my children and grandchildren look up to and value. For that is the true beauty in growing old; I honestly don't want someone to think "I am younger than I am."

My Purple Car

My pocket vibrated as my phone started ringing. “Hello?” I said. “Hey Chris,” my dad replied, “I, uh, didn’t want to ruin your weekend, but your car has been vandalized.” “Dad, what did you do to my car?” I said jokingly. I thought he was playing a prank on me and had placed Buffalo Bill stickers on my car or something. He replied, “Chris, I’m not kidding. I didn’t do anything to your car.” “What?!!” I screeched. He spoke quickly, “Honey, don’t worry about it. We will get it fixed. You just enjoy your weekend.” It was too late though. Tears shot up and threatened to spill over onto my cheeks. It had been such a great day too and now it was ruined.

Thursday afternoon, I drove to the Trask parking lot with my adidas bags packed full with my running shoes, uniform, and extra clothes for the weekend. The top eight lady cross-country runners were going to Louisville, Kentucky to race at Regionals. I was so excited to go. I pulled up to the building and ran inside to grab a parking pass from my Coach. I jogged back to my car and hurried to park at the UNCW track so we could get on the van and start our ten hour trip to KY. I jumped into the backseat of the van and we were on our way. We arrived in Louisville on Friday and started preparing for our race on Saturday morning. I was pumped and ready for the race.

Saturday morning finally came around after a restless night of sleep. We drove to the park where the race was and my family was waiting there for me. The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was in the 50’s. It was the perfect set up for a great race. After one last shout, “Go Seahawks!” the girls lined up at the start. The gun went off and the pain began. A grueling 23 minutes later, I finished the race with my personal record for the season. I could not stop smiling as we packed up our bags so we could go explore downtown Louisville and eat some delicious food.

We stopped at Joe’s Crab Shack to eat lunch. We all sat down and excitedly discussed our race. What an awesome day. I thought. I got to see my mom and all my siblings. I set a personal record in the 6k which ended our season on a great note. And we were going to get to downtown Louisville. Nothing could have ruined my joyous mood and then…I felt my pocket vibrate. I glanced at my phone. Oh, it’s my dad. After the conversation with my dad, I found it hard to go back to celebrating. The thrill of the end of the season and the last race had vanished.

The next day we started our trip back to Wilmington. Knots tightened in my stomach as I impatiently waited to get to campus so I could look at my car. We pulled in the track parking lot and I held my breath as we inched closer and closer to my car. Then, I let out a startled shriek. My usually glimmering dark purple Dodge Stratus was covered with dirt and mud. Both my side mirrors had been knocked off. One was missing while the other dangled pitifully from the blue and red wires out of the car. My passenger back door had a dent the size of basketball in it. Rage rose through my entire body as I observed the damages. Those stupid jerks!!

I drove my beat-up car home and depressingly went to call my insurance. They informed that since I had liability only they would not be able to help me pay for the damages. I held back a frustrated scream that was making its way up my throat. I went back outside to observe my car one more time. As I stood there contemplating why it had to be my car, I started to laugh. Of course it would be my car. Why wouldn’t it be? I called my mom so she could humor me with some sympathy. I thought I had to salvage what was left of my Sunday. I told her what happened and then was silent, waiting for her to feel sorry for me. And this is what she said, “Well, next time don’t buy a purple car.”

Welcome to the “Real World”

My eyes keep glancing at the clock on my car radio—1:45. I have fifteen minutes to get there. As I frantically try to smooth out any wrinkles left in my skirt, the traffic begins to back up like a hair clog in a drain. As soon as I merge onto 440 cars come to a complete stop, as if anything else can go wrong. I don’t even live back home in Raleigh again and already I am starting to hate it.

“Hi Garrett, this is Amanda Adams. I have an interview scheduled for 2:00. Yes, I am going to be a little late, I am stuck in traffic and just wanted to let you all know, but I will get there as soon as possible. Okay thank you so much, Goodbye.”

This is wonderful. My very first job interview and I am going to be late. This isn’t like me; I am usually early for everything. I scramble to make sure my resume looks presentable while at a standstill, and realize the printer was evidently running out of ink. The first half of the print is black, and then fades into a light gray. That looks professional.

As I finally merge onto my exit, I continue to follow the reliable Map Quest directions. I have lived near Raleigh all my life, but I never had to drive around much, so it was all new to me. After traveling ten minutes and not seeing the next road, I panicked. I called my boyfriend in desperation of where to go as tears streamed down my face. Nothing looked familiar and I couldn’t stop anywhere. He calmly told me which turns to make and I was back on track. It is now 2:05. He informs me I still have ten minutes to go before I would arrive at my interview, and I immediately contemplated turning around and going home. This is not the stress I wanted to endure over Thanksgiving break. However, I remembered how fortunate I was to receive a call back from this company—it was a possible job.

I speed walk into the tall, glass building with all the confidence I could dig back up. While riding the elevator I whipped the tears from my eyes and gave myself a pep talk. “You can do this. They want you. Just be yourself.”

My legs began to shake as I approached the door labeled “JRW Marketing Group.” Just then a million questions rushed through my head. What if they don’t like me? What if I am not qualified? What if I freeze when answering a question? What if I throw up in the office? I felt like I was in a dream, wondering aimlessly around the “real world” life.

I quietly walked in and was greeted by a friendly receptionist. Two seconds after I sat down, another guy who looked to be my age came in the door and sat next to me. My stomach dropped. I bet this guy knows what he is doing. I bet his resume is all the same color. Well, at least he was late too.

After anxiously waiting only a few minutes, a man named Mitch introduced himself to us and took me back into his office. I took a deep breath and sat down. He joked with me about how bad traffic is in that part of Raleigh, which relieved some of my guilt for being late. I explained to him how I’ve lived in Wilmington the last four years, and we quickly engaged in a conversation about UNCW and life at the beach. I forgot I was even being interviewed, and my legs stopped shaking. He was down to earth and nice. I realized I wasn’t being judged; Mitch simply wanted to get to know me.

It was business talk from there on, with discussions about what the company is about and what my job would entail. He explained that since it is an entry level job, it involves a three-step interview process, where I would job shadow to learn and observe. The fear of being thrown into a position unaware of my responsibilities frightened me like being trapped in a cage of hungry lions. Mitch explained a few more details concerning the job environment, and it was over. We shook hands and I was still alive. I made it through my first “real world” job interview, and I felt satisfied.

When just finishing school and entering the work force, everything is new. In my case, I assumed I should already know how things work and be able to handle all the pressure. But the interview taught me it doesn’t work that way—it is a continuous learning process. I am thankful I had a positive experience with my first interview, because there will be many more. For the others I will refill the ink cartridge, allow plenty of time for traffic, and most importantly, focus on proving who I am and why I am valuable.

Going Home

I love going home to the comfort of my bed, the familiarity of my kitchen, and the love of my dog. There are a million memories and a million laughs that have been shared in that home. My hometown is where I met my friends and where we had all of our childish fights. My home holds my past and I know that I can always go back and enjoy the things I have left behind, but there is a problem-I go home a different person. The place I remember, the place I love, has not changed but I am so different. How can you go back home, if you see the world in a completely different way?

I go home around every other weekend and almost every time I go home he tells me that I have become too liberal. My family is strictly conservative and I used to be as well. Like most young people, I thought the sun rose and set in my parents’ opinions. Now that I have been in college and away from home for over three years, I see things and examine my own beliefs before I think “What would my parents do?” They are happy that I challenge them and have my own beliefs, but I am a great debater and my Dad and I get a little competitive with the heated conversations. I know that everyone grows up and their opinions and beliefs change, but I never noticed how rigid my parents’ beliefs were until mine had changed.

At graduation everyone says that we are going to be the friends that stay close forever and that we will be the exception to the rule that says everyone drifts apart after high school. We were wrong. I haven’t seen my best friend form high school in two years. He was just like me and knew how to make me laugh when I needed to the most. He went to North Carolina State and I went the UNCW. We talked for the first few weeks we were away, but by the end of the first semester we were barely talking. Looking back on the things that made us friends, the things that we had in common all of those things have changed. In my hometown, we were the two smartest people in our school. We worked together and we had every class together. We were friends because we had so much in common we had to be. Now everything that made us friends is gone and I cannot imagine us being friends now.

Every time I go home for a high school football game or go shopping in our local Wal-Mart, I am afraid that I will see a former close friend. That awkward “how are you” conversation is something that I avoid, because I cannot tell them how I am—I am stronger, more independent, and the childish things that made me think you were going to be a great and successful person are gone.

I can go home anytime I want, it’s only an hour away, but I am not the person who left. Nothing has changed there, but everything has changed in me.