I will not be Michael Jordan.
I will not be Michael Jordan.
I will not be Michael Jordan.
I will not be Michael Jordan.
I will not be Michael Jordan.

Farewell.

I shall break the rule again for writing in this thing. No recaps, no mentioning names, and there was that third thing I couldn’t remember. Why not, if I’m stupid enough to make up implicit rules for me expressing myself, I’m stupid enough to break ‘em. And after all, it’s my last one anyway, might as well not halfass it. And hey, you know my address anyway. Pay a visit.

I had breakfast with Brooke this morning, good to see her and her gang are doing well. Then I went back to the high school for a little while, good to see other people are doing well too. Strange revelations here and there, none for myself, but I guess everybody hangs on to a piece of the past somehow, and they keep mutating to catch their attention. But enough of that and you have to lay it to rest. I picked up Chalmers’ assignment sheet for the CPT, and it sounds so simple to me now. I stayed up all night doing this? Maybe it’s growing up. I had a few good talks with teachers whom before I used just for my comedic prowess (or lack thereof.) But it’s good now to sit down and just open up, and through it all find out what exactly is going on with me. I guess it’s just nice going back somewhere where you do get the support, and a little less pressure, and just places where you remember the good times. 4 years, man. I guess I understand now what they mean by letting go of the past. You let go, but you never forget.

The winter really chewed me out. I wake up and it’s dark outside, holed up inside buildings for the most part of the day (and even if I wasn’t forced to, I would anyway, because of that inhumane weather), and go home after the sun goes down. That really takes a lot out of my day. But then I guess it is a little ironic that I did better in my first semester courses than I am doing now. At least I was never this close to failing. I hope I can cope with that if it actually happens, and the fallout from that. Mike and I used to joke about the guilt of the religious zealots, the conscience of the human heart, and you know, what other things are weak about me and you. But it’s true, even if I am a bad catholic, and maybe an even worse human being, you just can’t get away from that stuff. If I do end up flunking one, if not two courses, you think the guilt won’t be eating me up? It’s not my money, and by god it’s not my expectations. Eat it, conscience. Sorry to sound so morose, but I’m on the subway right now. I know the sky isn’t going to cave in, but will it really not? It’ll take me a whole lot of courage to face my parents, but neither of them is the most important person I need to take a good, hard look at right now.

I’m on my way downtown and see Stef, go to class, and all that stuff. It’s my second last week downtown before exams. For the fourth day in a row I slept through my alarm, I guess I’m starting to get tired now, all the traveling and assignments. For some reason, as I’m typing this, I’ve never felt this much satisfaction on my laptop, even when I’m winning Stanley Cups after Stanley Cups on hockey manager, or getting my dream buy on soccer manager, or the sims. Finishing the assignments made me feel good, but I’m sure that was adrenaline more than anything.

I want to get back to reading. Before when I used to think of reading, an image of a cluttered page of ink pops up in my head. With text so small that will overload my brain just thinking about it. But I’m looking down the aisle right now, and there’s a woman reading The Alchemist, looking like she’s enchanted with every word. Maybe it’s more fun than video games. I guess I don’t understand why I ever bothered with searching for more complex ways of fun. It was nice, back in grade school, when I used to come home, finish my work, and the sky was still bright enough for me to go over to my cousin’s driveway to shoot a few hoops. Maybe I’ll try that again sometime. If I get the chance to. But I’ll try.

There will be obstacles, I’m not stupid, but I don’t know what else to do. This is a desperation shot. If this doesn’t do it, nothing will, and I’m afraid to fail. Whatever I once had have really gone down the drain and given way to this blasé, lazy me who thought it was cool to not work and barely get by. I still think it is, but I’m not getting by. So maybe it’s time for a change. At least I’m not blaming my parents or my friends, god knows if I even see them anymore, but it was my fall, and I’m taking the hit. There’s no going away.

And we're moving along, so I will see Stef in a good half hour. I’m lucky to be with her. She makes me comfortable, and happy, and makes me feel like I actually have a future to work for. But above all that, she loves me and I love her too, and that makes me happier than anything else in the world.

I’m making progress. I started off feeling incapable to express any sense of emotion, or more specifically happiness, on my face. I do now. I laugh when I need to, pout when I feel like it, and I feel much better; you only go as far as you feel; passion, you know. I guess all that’s left for me to do is try. Put a little effort in and see what happens.

So there we go, I broke the records for maybe the most rule-violating entry. And I think I broke the number of personal pronouns used too. That must mean something, whatever it is. In one morning I’ve experienced the two things most important to me. I’ve revisited my past and then met up with my future. And I guess the present, well, that just falls in between somewhere. Good enough.

So there, my last one. No smartass cracks, no subliminal messages, no hidden themes, no acrostic poems. Just, you know, stuff. Who knows how that’s going to turn out.

And I need a mirror.

On second thought, nah.

Goodbye. Thank you.

HAPPY6.

You bet I missed these late night entries.

No, awake when the world's asleep and staring into a screen with doubt and and disinterest. What, is this supposed to make you feel alive?

Ever get that feeling when your heart is pounding so fast that your extremities are not only shaking but feel this mild ache? I just had it, and in a way, it feels good. It comes from not knowing what's going to show up next, something you've never heard, something you've never read, or something you've never seen before. Anxiety. Anticipation. What ties together those two words except for them placing near the front end of a dictionary? Their success rates. 50/50. And it's always one or the other. And I guess when you hit a right amount of those two feelings, you get those quakes. And by god, that was like morphine to the stomach.

2:13. Damn, nowadays when I look at the clock I usually catch it when the hours and minutes are the same. 11:11, 12:12, 13:13 (fuck you, I like my international clock), poor streak's gone then, I suppose. If you are awake involuntarily at two in the morning and you're not confronting your demons, I guess you're alright. But this is what we do, everything that haunts you, everything that ever made you flinch, made your muscle so much as to quiver, it usurps you and not only does it runneth over, it blows you away.

Sometimes some people go this far just to feel something. And the rest of us, hey, we just wanna stop.

I've never wanted the rain to fall, but somehow it did. It was this whole litany of messed up lies that made the sky cry and me curl up like a defenseless baby who's afraid of thunder. Droplets and droplets of tears sink into the ground, searching for every crevice to creep into, never missing a beat. But when the light turns off and you're all alone, what do you hear? Can you even tell the sounds of your emotions anymore? Was that really the rain smashing against your windowsill or was that merely a piece of your mind falling off. You never can tell, and you never will know, which is why you turned off the light in the first place. You see nothing, but you hear it all, and now all that's left is to drown yourself.

There are days.

There are days when the sun comes up and the birds are singing and the whole town is dancing to the soundtrack of The Sound of Music, there are days when the clouds race through the skies and the colour spectrum consists of various shades of gray, and then there are the other days. The days where heaven falls down and hell blows up, the days where after you stub your toe into the corner of the door you drop a paperweight on it as if to remind yourself the absurdity of such pain eminating from such little actions. These are the days when god becomes a comedian, life becomes a stage, and the shrieks and moans and whimpers of you becomes the cue to uproarious laughter. The boiling kettle the next prop to your demise, the setting sun a foreshadow of your next pratfall, the girl with the diamond in her eye your angel, and your demon.

And so you ask all that surrounds you, "Why? Where has my salvation gone?". And they answer in nothing but deafening silence. For all the care you've taken and all the faith you've invested, life, as you realize, is not foolproof. When the sound of night can exude tranquiility or sharpen the loneliness, when the glow of your computer screen can entice a hopeful glee or an overwhelming anxiousness, and when the faith of your heart can be bound and broken or saved and soothen by the slightest of touches, you know you're on the wrong side of the fence, that's all.

And then you look at the mirror, and you laugh. Now it all makes sense.

Ah, guilt, blame, fault. The relentless cycle of the doomed human species.

A wise man once said that our birth certificate is our proof of guilt. That's pretty damn true alright. Once we set foot on this earth, we're instantly guilty. Adults are guilty of numerous things. Single, and you're not doing your job to further the human race (which actually, might not be so much of a crime after all), married and you're bound to be fucking up your spouse in one way or another. Why do you think men always die earlier and women later? The man can't stand the woman bitching and so he develops cancer in his noggin' to die. And women, well, after the man dies and all her friends keep away from her, couldn't stand to not have anybody to spit their bile on, and whatever junk she's holding in develops a cancer in her noggin' and she dies. And if you have kids, look out, you're committing the worst crime to humanity of all-- raising a child, and in turn, fucking up the human race even more with that pack of flesh that's spitting out sour milk.

There are never any good parents. It's just a degree of how much you fuck your kid up. It's only logical that if, according to what most people believe in, the origins of the human species (for that, i'm talking about adam and eve, you crazy non christian followers who are bound to an afterlife of hell and torture) weren't perfect, (hell, they were naked AND weren't having sex, and just hanging around chilling) it would make sense that the human race can only be a slow decline from there. It's all they knew, and that was the best they got. But then, let's not shell the toddlers from any blame either, they are near the bottom of the rung. With no meaningful contribution to society, they mooch and the mooch and they mooch a free ride. What's worse, they cry for attention whenever they feel like it. Goddammit, people need to sleep, you ignorant sonofabitch.

And the worst, of course, are the teenagers. Yes, you, me, and everybody in between. We're so fucked we glorify ourselves for it. Especially the ones that aim to make something out of themselves. Who are you kidding? All of your misplaced motivation will soon turn against you and bite a chunk out of your ambitious ass. Face it, we're the generation of lazy sons of a bitches who pretends to know lots when we can't even survive without our fucking ipods. You're already doomed before you take your first step. It's not necessarily your fault, it's just that you existed in the wrong time. There's a whole bunch of teenagers like you. Goodnight, and goodluck, you turds.

I would one day love to write a movie about a lifelong fuck up who meets all the right people with all the right friends and still manages to fuck his own life up beyond belief. It will be a comedy, because he will know that he is fucking his life up, and we get to see, from his soulless pupils, that he really doesn't give a flying fuck about it. Which means further into the movie he will intentionally fuck up his life, ruining himself and all of those who came across. And here's the howler of a catch: He will live till the ripe old age of 107. 39081 hours of tragicomedic misery.

Alliance Atlantis, hire me now.

Ain't life grand?

Where there's smoke, there's a man smoking. It's not that life's unassuming blindsides will catch up with us all, it's just that nature's law of averages is too powerful to escape from. Take me for an example, a bright young fella with nothing but a dream in my hand and a twinkle in my eye, and as time marched heavily across my soul, I am now just another spin doctor figuring out the next best way to damage control the freefalling fortunes of the Christian Coalition party.

I had more to write, but I can't brush my teeth and type at the same time.

I must make a choice that will prove to work out best for me in the long run, aside from the dripping toothpaste.

Done.