Ovaries ruin absolutely everything...

So it's that moment you met someone you actually want to give time to. That moment you sit down and go, "wow, I'm not indifferent for once." That's the moment you should try and turn off your soon to be cracked out on what I like to call "ovary inspired crazy time" which isn't actually what it sounds like, just merely the moment your girl side tries to take over and makes you absolutely insane with questions like "why hasn't he called yrt?" "does he really like me or is this all a game?" "is h in this for a relationship? should i ask him now?"
All of these questions are retarded. Why can't girls just sit back and let shit happen? Why are we in a stupid goddamn rush to get into something? We scare them away, people! The minute your crazy shows even in the littlest way, we are immediately looked at in a different light.

The formula is correct

I am under this new suspicion that I may have a problem. I may have an issue with being both impatient and all or nothing. I want easy. I want honesty. I want bluntness. I want relationship.

There's this world, a fantasy world that I am living in. This world consists of people willing to be honest with me and themselves. It's a world where I don't have to sit and wait for a guy to hang out with me. It's a world where I can immediately have that flutter feeling again without the anxious uncomfortable feeling of waiting to know what's going on.

This is manic city.

The confusion/bullshit of dating. I hate it. I hate the preemptive "i want to hang with you". I hate the un-assuredness of should I say something, should I wait. Two weeks is plenty for me to know whether or not I want to be near someone all the time. Kiss them. Cuddle them. Etc.

This is where it gets more confusing.

I know someone who is blunt. I know someone who is easy to talk to, whom I like pretty much. I'm sure I could date them. I liked them before. I would have to wait forever.

Enter someone else.

This one is available. I know them less. They are more awkward. I have a flutter. I don't know how to read said person. He says he likes me, but has only said it while drunk.

I'm sure this is the part I should just turn off my brain and wait things out, but I have ovaries which means I continuously over-think and over-analyze everything.

Guy on Couch syndrome

I'm dizzy. Dizzy from a lack of sleep, lack of food, getting sick, too much alcohol, too many cigarettes? The answer is in the question.

It has been an eternity of how life has been. Letting myself settle into a routine of easy self destruction and losing faith in the opposite sex. One one night stand after the next, falling for someone and realizing the loss in a span of 24 hours.

It took me a year to learn drunk post-bar fucking is not a plausible start to a relationship. After that, it was just failed attempts at making a false connection with someone who actually wanted to be with me. It took me six months to stop. Just stop and watch everyone around me.

I am apparently an advice guru on dating. I'm not quite sure how that revelation was made of my friends, but now I am the one they assume knows the answer. I guess I have dated plenty at this point. I'm really good at dating. Not so great at the step once it turns into more than that. They asked me to hold a seminar for them. I asked for a seminar in relationships.

I was doing so well until today. Losing weight. Telling people who were bad for me to kick rocks. Stopped drinking.

I made it two weeks. Two weeks of sobriety. And you know what? It felt like a real accomplishment. Then my pseudo AA sponsor wasn't there and I wanted a beer.

It wasn't bad, drinking. Better moods supplied an easier ordeal with that. It helped that I had met someone and I didn't want to say no to a beer. But reality finally hit again today. After a three day stint of drunk, feeling sorry for myself then stoked on life. I am right back in confusion.

I don't like this feeling. I don't understand it. I had cut off feeling for a while. I had managed to cut off some sort of ability to feel more emotion than infatuation. Now that I have the ability again, this thing for another human being feeling where I just want to be near him, now comes the crazy again.

Well, the AA sponsor is back in town. A good night of sober pool and wandering will do me well.

Close your eyes, breathe in deeply, and hope the world stops spinning when you open them back up again.

The mass exodus from the current world you live in, that moment everything clicks into place on what it means to grow up just a little bit more. That sensation is like waking up hungover. Your life so far being one drunken night. Spinning out of control, too many blurry spots to really connect how once moment led to another.
It's hard to guess how many you'll alienate before you figure out it's not working.

In the age of changes and fuck ups

When you have time to sit and breathe; reflect, if you will; there might be that realization that it's time to make some legitimate changes to your life. Usually in these times it's also easy to have thoughts dawn on you that haven't surfaced in years.
Sitting on my back porch, playing endless amounts of The Beatles on repeat, smoking cigarette after cigarette, I knew it was time to change. This whole life on fast forward thing is just tiresome. To have story after story about guy to guy to girl to guy is an annoying song and dance. The redundant "man I was so drunk last night" line echoing over and over again.
The plan to quit drinking came from a two night stint of stupid mistakes. The precipice of depression waiting for me. One night leaving me angry, then another sitting on a porch rambling at a friend about my life's mistakes. He could only reply to my wailing with "just stop". That is what I needed to hear. No real advice. No interjections. Just stop.
I guess it's helpful knowing there's someone else out there not doing the same as every friend I have. Someone who will be just as fun while sobriety kicks in. Someone to make fun of me. "You drunk yet?" being the text I get other than "How are you? Holding up ok?" Because I'm not really. But I'm not drunk either.
Losing track of emotions is the first step when you decide to take away a coping mechanism. I sit and try and remember what I used to do before I discovered the liquid socialization. My honesty juice. My self-esteem booster. The only answer is the lack of all of that I had before. So changes continue. Be more honest, courageous, happy with myself.
While this may sound more like something to go into an AA journal, but it's important to keep track of all your stupid emotions. So fuck it.

STUMBLING TO FINISH LINE-INTRODUCTION

Mistakes are an integral part of any person's life. Without mistakes, we don't know how to really live. Right versus wrong, other than the obvious of “don't kill people” or “don't steal”, is learned mainly through trial and error. Everyone learns things differently and sometimes the mistakes you make don't necessarily have to be extreme, but mistakes are made none-the-less. Your late teens and early twenties are the biggest times for mistakes and self realization.
I knew at a young age I liked writing. I wrote in journals and wrote silly short stories (most notably in my mind, an extremely morbid story about a stalker in the early 1900's when I was in seventh grade). When I was little, and many times after that, my grandfather told me to write what I knew. He meant that I shouldn't try to write something I couldn't be honest about, as in writing about a man and his life in Iraq or something. Unfortunately, I was quite young and had a very strange thought process (seriously, I thought Santa couldn't exist because my mom knew how to spell his name) so I took it to mean that I had to experience as much as possible in order to write. I guess that's not so terrible, but when Hunter S. Thompson became one of my heroes in late high school, I decided to throw caution to the wind and start immersing myself like an anthropologist into any and every subculture I knew existed in my school and tried to understand the inter workings of every person's mind in these groups. That, mixed with my own young mind and its developments, lead me to getting in quite a few mishaps and shenanigans.
Let me preempt this with a warning: this is not a self help book. I don't believe in them. Yes, advice is nice, but in the end, you need to figure this shit out on your own. This is merely an account of my mistakes and my just throwing it out there that no mistake (other than the aforementioned killing someone or something just as bad) is really the end of the world. You're going to screw up. You're going to hurt people's feelings. You're going to get fired. You may even spend a night in jail. Still, you will survive and hopefully look back on things with a smile and know you learned from everything and not look back regretfully.

Never Never Land (redone, descriptive essay)

When the stars couldn't stare back one more night, I felt empty. The night sky, my best friend, was turning its back on me. I had no winking eyes to give me comfort. Their cloud eyelids closed to me, just crying, sobbing onto me. My tear drenched clothing dripped onto the static ants walking by. It was freezing that night. Every breath I took, I had to chew and swallow in order not to choke. The cold metal bars of the fire escape dug into me like claws of a bear as I smoked cigarette after cigarette, hoping to suspend time, to keep the night lasting forever. I shivered, holding myself close, unable to go inside for fear of missing something, anything out amongst the city.
A crash-bang stole my attention, a brief moment of infidelity to my city as I stole a glimpse inside. The fire was mischievously jumping in the fireplace as my two roommates threw knives at a dartboard, drunkenly swaying as if on a rocking boat. The knives were shakily thrown and would hit, CLANG, and miss and fall to the floor, THUD, followed by a hideous sickly laughter. The ghostly glow of the television played with the fire and created extra friends to sway in tune with my roommates on the wall, mocking them and their throws, every once in a while jumping to show off their agility even while drunk.
Back outside, around me was the city with its shimmering lights, the ominous structures in the distance mocking me, reflecting what the stars could do if they really loved me; bursting to the brim with people, it's overwhelming noise attacking me from every which way. In this place, darkness can never truly exist, silence is just an afterthought. Below me on the sidewalk, the twitching malfunctioning cyborgs struggled to find solace from the rain; the tiny, frozen daggers of droplets slicing through their clothing and their cicuits. Cars drove by, angrily yelling out incomprehensible expletives by their owners command and racing each other to get to their important destinations first.
Even in that rain, I could still smell all the food from my neighborhood restaurants, like the Pied Piper’s music wafting up to me, calling to me. After nearly a month without really eating, my stomach lurched with want. The hunger clawed at my insides. I lit another cigarette, letting the smoke fuel me, to essentially feed me. I let the steel wool smoke fill my throat and lungs, scraping it's way down; clearing my mind, letting me think once more. When the city sparkled back at my own confused self, I had nothing but my memories. They dripped slowly from the IV of my mind, reminding me of what I really was losing. One thought after the other, dripping and getting lost with everything else. I grasped with desperate hope to each memory, trying to organize them, keep them in order, but when you really try to organize your thoughts, it all gets jumbled in a never ending mass. And that mass, all mixed together, is left for your brain to decipher and choose which ones are better than the other and it all just gets lost in the tundra, but it can't really be a tundra when all of this is going on. It's just suffocating as the two dimensional world closes in around you.
One drip brought me back to the night I left home. I was the rebellious version of Wendy and like a kid in an after school special, giving my parents the figurative finger as I flew out the window (hopped into a car) with Peter and one of his lost boys. Laughing as we flew, on a high from the impending freedom.
The next drip brought me a few weeks into living there. The thump, THUMP, THUMPING of our landlords music infiltrating our every pore, making sleep impossible. With all of us staying up all hours of the night, we were just wandering through a waking dream. In our sleep deprived stupors, we started to come up with fantastical ideas on how to use the apartment. The fire escape was now our smoking patio. Our fireplace also became a stove of sorts, camping out in our frozen apartment in the wilderness of the city, cooking our food like mountain men.
When Jason's dad had come to visit, he brought the house a bit of a strange gift, a set of throwing knives. We were super excited until: 1.We realized we both didn't know how to use such things and 2.There was no where for us to practice to learn such things. One excessively ridiculous night, however, we came up with a glorious plan. We took a large piece of cardboard and nailed it to the wall, then on top of that, put up our dart board. In our infinite wisdom, we believed this would be the best way to protect the wall. Then we began to practice, kind of. Our throws were terrible, ricocheting off of the dartboard, and coming back to almost hit us. We made gashes in the cardboard, going completely through, into the wall. That side of the room started to look legitimately like frightening horror movie style murders had occurred there. It was wonderful.
The next drip took me to when I finally got a job, for little while. My boss was Lizzie, known affectionately by her friends as “Lizzie the Lezzie.” She cared less about my less than pristine ability as an employee than about how she wanted to show me her side of San Fransisco. A whirl wind of driving and outings. One in particular being the night she brought me to a lesbian bar and made me dance with someone because I was “too cute to be straight!” she screamed across the bar.
As I sat out on the patio that last night, feeling the rain and the cold; watching the lights flicker in the distance; hearing the cars blaring by; I could think of how I had to leave in less than twelve hours and every part of me was lost. This city, my only real experience with freedom, my only hope for a break from stagnancy, was all I had. Three months of starving and endless wandering was all I needed. Going back to my home, the only home I ever knew, was something I needed, yet dreaded. It's not wrong to want to go where no one knows you. And it's not wrong to not really want to go back to where everyone knows you. But my heart ached to remain in this world of never ending childhood and yet my only real view of what I truly wanted as an adult. I knew this was it.
Now, four years later, I still want it. I'm not without want for somewhere new, I need to feel like a naïve child, wandering senselessly, unaffected by danger, worried by nothing, by my own time constraints of discovering everything. I am empty, broken. Sure, it may be selfish, but no relationship can sustain my never ending wanderlust, I will never veer from the need to travel to the new never land. I am Peter. I will never be Wendy again. I don't know what age is the “norm”, but for me, the night I turned twenty two, everything began to fall apart all over again. New realizations and epiphanies hit me in every which way, paralyzing me, causing me to double over in non-sensical emotional outbursts. There are only so many understandings of these hopes and dreams. And to realize that epiphanies are only the small part of it. Because it's moments like these you now understand what it means to have an autoclave for a heart. And that numbness, that empty feeling inside isn't senseless. You're not lost in selfish bullshit. The leaking coming from you isn't wrong because it's some sort of emotion again. You're not blank. Numb isn't real. It's a lack of what you need/want. Because you're not broken for knowing that your whole existence feels wrong.