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My eyes are burning from sleepiness, but theycan’t stop darting back to the TV where Bobby Flay is challenging a San Antonio woman to a “puffy taco” battle. My head is throbbing with every beat of my heart. My nostrils are flaring because of the damp smell that mysteriously emanates from the downstairs shower. Yet all of the sudden, I’m feeling marginally inspired to post.

I have been reading this blog I found today for about 5 hours now, and something the guy said really hit on the hardest part about writing for me. He said “blogging can really alternate between being a chore and being fun.” It’s not just blogging, which I feel is done primarily for the (desired) enjoyment of other people, but also straight-up personal stuff as well. I wouldn’t consider writing to be a chore unless it’s some lame thing I need to do for class, but it definitely becomes a sort of burden at times. When I am writing, it’s great. When I feel like I’m on a roll, my flow is good, and I can get my ideas out, I’m totally Zen. But when I can’t get down to it, I feel mentally constipated. It’s all building up in there, it’s practically marching to the gate, but it’s stuck. Maybe a little something comes out, like a few adjectives on a scrap of paper, or a fragmented rambling in a Word document, but it’s more frustrating than satisfying.

My left pinky twitches to the shift key as I make it halfway to starting a new sentence. My right ring finger lands on the backspace button to erase some ill-begun thought or sloppily-arranged sentence. My thumbs dance on the space bar in an impatient routine. My brain acts as a child’s hand grabbing at fireflies in the night air, always reaching, but mostly missing the words I want to use completely, or crushing them in the haste of catching them. All this makes me understand why poets and authors are often accused of being broody or morose– it’s because they’re pissed they can’t write. Because when I’d rather scratch at the peeling sunburn on my back than pound away on my keyboard, I’m not a happy camper. Because I know there’s this great well of inspiration in my mind, but every time I lower the bucket to pull some of it up, the rope’s always too short. Writing is only not fun when I can’t seem to do it.

But for all my frustration and impotence, at least I know when to give up. And that “when”, my friends, is right now. I think I’ll go have a beer.

Some people have their biological clock ticking down to Parenthood.

Mine is winding down to Success.

I’m sure it seems arrogant, but I feel like I gotta do something awesome with my life. I know success isn’t something that can really be quantified, and that being successful doesn’t mean being rich and/or famous, but I wouldn’t mind if it did for me. Everywhere are people who fail and succeed, some more spectacularly than others. Our culture is obsessed with the lives of celebrities and criminals, whose comings and goings we know as well as our own. We’re already living their lives along with them through our computer screen, TV, and gossip rag, but there are some people who really idolize and mimic celebrity behavior– for better or worse. These copycats usually wind up self-destructing in a big, face in the gutter, shots of them in lewd situations fluttering in the winds of the Internet, used and abused and burnt out kind of way. But if I were to pilfer from someone’s lifestyle various aspects or achievements, it would be to some creative end.

The choices of who I could imitate are legion, but after careful daydreaming and deliberation, I’ve managed to pick a handful of potential candidates whose lives might be worth snatching up. Or at least Xeroxing.

At first I mused that it might be nice to live the fat life of a musician or actor. But I figured out that I have virtually no tendency toward practicing music of any kind, despite my ability to achieve moderate skill when I do practice regularly, and I just wind up bored, mired in instruments and sheet paper. Being an actor is something I’ve always enjoyed toying with, but aside from being randomly and miraculously discovered while I go about my daily life, I would have no chance of competing with the svelte and coiffed starlet wannabe clones that flock to LA like seagulls to the city dump.

Oh, and have you ever seen “Catch me if you can”? It’s about this kid who was a criminal superhero, basically. Frank Abegnale Jr was a crazy multi-millionare by the time he was 20 or something. Granted, he was an enormous career criminal by the time he was 19 who specialized in bank fraud, but he was a crafty motherfucker. And now he’s got a sweet gig working with law enforcement to catch the crooks that do what he used to. He’s not in a bad place at all.

But I think I’ve narrowed my list down to a single field of specialty: writing. There are so many dynamic and incredible authors whose books I’d like to take a page from. However, I’d found there’s a big difference between me wanting to temporarily live someone’s life and me wishing I could use someone’s life as a template for my own. For example, while I’d love to write an entire novel in a matter of weeks, I don’t have enough Bennies to last a cross-country road trip. And though there is a sort of sinister appeal in going on crazy drug binges and keeping my nose close to the campaign trails, I probably wouldn’t do it in my body since I don’t want to fry my brain and wreck my body before I get to have a mid-life crisis.

So I’ve shortened the list even more. Because the technology for life-borrowing hasn’t yet been invented, my remaining option is to emulate. And even though few people I admire did anything noteworthy before they were 30, I see no reason to procrastinate all over the place and panic when I’m turning 27 that I’m running out of time. But since I know that I probably would just put things off for nearly another decade, I picked someone who would light a fiery blaze of productivity ‘neath my arse. Someone who not only did something before she was 30, but made her big move at the tender age of 23: author Carson McCullers. For her 50 years of life, she was generally melancholy and poetic, with a fondness for the drink, whose moodiness and illness only lent strength to her mind and skill. Although we’re nowhere near a perfect match in a side-by-side comparison, there are definitely similarities that lead me to think “Hey, if she could do it…” with eager, yet complacent hopefulness. Carson wrote her first novel, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, when she was 23, and damnit if I won’t try to do the same. I oughta get crackin’.

Plus, the harder I work at something I actually want to do, the less I’ll have to work at crap I hate– like a real job. I’ll be a happy camper if I can hold off on getting another job for a handful of years more. With a spectral Quiznos sandwich mechanic playing my Ghost of Corporate Past, I’d be hard-pressed to run my Luck Ship aground that hard again. From foot-long subs piled with more than a pound of meat and slathered in lardsauce, things can only improve. And that’s one hell of a relief.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must fix myself a drink and get back to brooding hunchedly over my laptop while I feverishly work on my manuscript.

Some people consider themselves to be “lovers” and not “fighters”. Some people are just downright aggressive and seem to lack the capacity to be calm and caring at all. As for me, I think that because I’m a lover, I’m also a fighter, and vice versa. Although loving and fighting might appear to be a world apart from each other, they’re actually more like different points of interest along the same meridian. If you head due-north from Anger, you’d see how the climate would change on your way to Love. Maybe things would mellow out as you get closer to the Equator (indifference, perhaps? Contentment?), but as you closed in on your second destination, things would have spiced back up again. Probably because they both involve a good deal of passion.

And they both take up a lot of energy. I typically save up my urge to debate, argue, and occasionally erupt for people I also enjoy talking, cuddling, partying, or relaxing with. Why? Because I can’t be bothered to grow a whole field of flowers and I’d rather just nurture the few kinds that I really like to look at. It’s laziness transformed into efficiency. Odds are good that if I like having you around, I’m going to find something to debate about at some point. It’s just because I think you’re interesting (most of the time) and I’m curious to see where the conversation is going to end up. It’s like dragging a child along in a sled when she is more than capable of moving herself; she just wants you to bring her someplace fun. Don’t begrudge a kid her adventure.

One of the people I watch from my Livejournal page said something that more or less kicked my brain into gear for this subject. He said:

“You’re family,” I said. “I might get pissed at you, but I’m never going to stop loving you.”(http://theferrett.livejournal.com).

And that certainly rang true with me, especially when it comes to people I consider my best friends. In fact, I usually don’t bother to get pissed with people I don’t care about. That’s not to say I don’t hate those assholes on the road who cut me off or go really slow, but that anger is more of a stationary angry cloud that dissipates rather quickly, not unlike a lingering fart smell that you walk through, crinkle your nose at, and then keep on moving. But being pissed at someone often means that they (the offender, possibly a friend) did something that hurt you (something you care about) and you feel strongly enough to be affected by it. I wouldn’t really be bothered if some random jerk online called me a foul name, but coming from a friend that would hurt. I’d pro’y call them on it and work it out, and we could continue being friends after repairing our relationship.

But just because I love someone doesn’t mean I’m gonna pick fights with them all the time. I have a few friends I’d probably never really get into it with, but that’s only because I know them well enough to realize they’re pretty submissive or sensitive and wouldn’t do well with me pokin’ at them. My general rule is to know I’m gonna get hit back before I put my gloves on. Even if it’s just one of those hit-and-hide things, as long as I’m sure I’ll get swiped at in return I’m comfortable stepping into the ring. I’m not trying to clobber our differences to death, I’m just getting them riled up a bit so I can enjoy them (most of the time. Sometimes I’ll lay into someone for being an ass, and that’s something I’m trying to smack out of ‘em). I don’t think there’s a person out there who would have the same opinions and ideals as me, but if there was, I wouldn’t be friends with them. It’d be boring as all hell! If I had this conversation: “Man I really hate it when those weird guys on the street ask me for money. I don’t give them a dime.” “Totally! I mean, get a job!”  “Right… Exactly.” I’d probably swap to an opposing opinion just to have some fun. If I just chatted with another Me all day long, it would be like getting locked into a sensory deprivation chamber. I love when my friends have other views, even if they (the views) annoy the crap out of me.

On second thougt, one advantage to having another Me to hang out with would be that she would get all the obscure references I make that go unnoticed by other people (and usually wind up making me look like an ass when I was, in reality, being hilarious. Bummer). For instance, I could pronounce Coup de Grâce like “coupe de gracie” and have her laugh at my impression of the grandpa from Rugrats. Yeah… that would be nice.

When you’re first getting to know someone, it’s common to ask your new acquaintance what interests them. This is a chance to either realize you’re dealing with a vapid nitwit (I’m only using that word because I learned its etymology today and I got excited about it) or some superdeep well of information. Whenever I’m asked the question of what sort of things interest me, I’m likely to pause, reflect, and respond brilliantly with “Uh, I dunno… Stuff?”, which runs the risk of turning me into a former prospective intellectual peer of  the asker. The most readily available excuse for my brain constipation is that all my thoughts are bottlenecking and can’t get out in an orderly fashion and causes me to act a fool, which happens regularly, I’m loath to admit.

The thing is, I have so many interests that it slows me down on a regular basis. It does literally slow down my web browsing, since I have at least three different tabs at all times. Right now I have fifteen. Fifteen separate and important tabs. The highlights are Wowhead (for quick and easy reference for WoW), a YouTube video showing some kid performing Debussy’s Claire de Lune, my school online class page, two tabs on people mentioned in a book I’m reading, the store for the Human Rights Campaign, the Wiki articles on handfasting and empiricism, an informative guide to the biliteral cipher, and the one I’m using to write this. My internet all but gives up from the strain if I try to surf when I’m playing World of Warcraft. But I’m an information packrat, and I’d be lost if my tab bar was unpopulated by things to help me efficiently procrastinate and learn.

It’s clogging up my family’s DVR as well. My ravenous feeding frenzy fills up the recording device almost to capacity, with varied shows like America’s Next Top Model, History Channel documentaries on Nazi and Aryan culture and Armageddon, Logo channel shows like Ru Paul’s Drag Race and a documentary on transgenderism, movies like Grindhouse or  Shawshank Redemption or Showgirls, and numerous episodes of nostalgic sitcoms. I went from hardly watching TV at all for over a year to recording multiple shows a day on a successful channel-surf session. And it doesn’t help that I have to be in a special mood to watch most of what I’ve recorded, so it’s very easy for it to pile up and cause issues. Just today I had to erase all my Fresh Prince episodes because the DVR was at 90% capacity. Such a shame.

And I’m going to need my own library when I settle into my future home, because a small, finite space like my single bookshelf does little to contain my ever-growing collection of fiction and nonfiction books. I’m such a fatty when it comes to buying new books, I really am. I’m busting out of my jeans, yet I tell the server to keep the cheesecake coming. I was out of space (again) before Christmas, but I filled my wishlist with all sorts of things and got many of them. New additions to my nonfiction collection were Collapse, Guns, Germs, and Steel, The Salem Witch Trials, An Easy Out: America’s Addiction to Outsourcing, Othello’s Children in the “New World” about moors, and The Spanish Civil War. I also got four new novels, I think. And I’m currently reading five books to varying degrees. I’m actively reading Why I Became an Atheist as my primary, the collected works of Jorge Borges when I need a short story here and there, Wolves of the Calla for bathroom reading (working through the Dark Tower series again), Legacy of the Drow (five books in one, I believe, so I read one in between other books I finish), and The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama to a lesser degree since I often forget I’m in the middle of it (I will start it fresh to give it a fair go sometime in the future). My Amazon.com wishlist calls to mind that quintessential “I Love Lucy” episode with the candies on the conveyor belt due to the rate at which I add to it versus the rate at which I buy off it. Pandemonium.

And it would be terrible to neglect to mention all of my other brain babies like how to start a micronation, the virtues of an egalitarian society as embodied by communes, Norse mythology, Maya culture (I can thank my love for the use of a textbook to make it easier to research), the influence of pagan practices and beliefs on Christianity, how to make various kinds of alcohol, advantages and disadvantages of holistic medicine, the Dictionary.com words of the day (“brobdingnagian” is my favorite discovery so far), etymology, and how to work the stock market.

I’m so glad I’m relatively unbound in my life so I can do nothing but read or research for hours on end. I have no idea what I’d do with myself if I actually had a job to get in the way of my desire to compulsively Google anything and everything. But with freedom comes much responsibility, I suppose. I have to rein in my urge to one-click order books online and live at Borders since I don’t have much money flowing into my account. But I’m currently pondering the efficacy of using the stock market (and my not-yet gained ability to make money from it) to give me the financial fuel to accomplish my life goal of being a constant student. And my breadth of knowledge in many different areas would lend itself well to trying my hand at being a freelance writer, too.

The secret to lifelong wealth could possibly be held in any one of my many interests, so I like to use that to rationalize my insatiable hunger for an ever-growing collection of books and browsing tabs. I wonder if there’s a market for a “gister”, that is, someone who can give you the gist of something real quick like. I’d have no problem whoring my brain out in that manner.

So if anybody wants anything neatly encased in a nutshell for them, don’t hesitate to come a-callin’. I could really use the cash.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, this year a veritable deluge of frozen precipitation has been graciously given to us New Englanders by the mighty meteorological powers that be. This generous gift has been received with welcoming, salted driveways, and our shovels runneth over. Though we trudge and toil, plow, blow, and scrape, I have rediscovered the necessity of enjoying the show once in a while, lest I forget the joys of whitewashing.

Last weekend, I gave the most precious gift I had to offer to an eager, snow-shocked Texan: her first sledding adventure.

Because I hadn’t had a good slide down a hill in maybe nine years, this excursion to the local golf course for some wintry wiping-out was atypical from the start. First off, I was driving; artfully maneuvering my snow-pantsed legs and booted feet to their correct clutch-and-gas positions proved about as difficult as I’d imagined, but luckily I stalled nary a time. Another major change from my tobogganing days of yore was that there were no parents to supervise me! Woohoo! If I wanted to try the side of the hill with lots of bumps and ramps, damnit I was going to try it. With a renewed sense of youthful freedom, my love and I grabbed our plastic disk sleds and began our ascent, gloved hand in gloved hand, to the first plateaued area of the course.

Being the veteran sledder between the two of us, it was decided that I be the first to go down the hill to illustrate the safety and the enjoyment of the experience. I was a bit hesitant to get started, since I had gained years of wisdom and experience since my last encounter with a slicked hill and recognized the potential dangers that only a preening preteen could pretend to ignore. Setting myself into place at the top of the slope, I dug the heels of my boots into the packed snow and stabilized myself enough to secure my path of motion. Once I felt relatively safe, I tucked my feet up onto the sled to sit cross-legged as I had already begun to creep forward. I careened full-speed down the hill, coming to rest a considerable distance from the starting point. In a response to my beckoning, my adorable novice came rushing toward me, her face nearly cleaved in two by her ebullient, toothy grin. After a brief, snowy snuggle, we marched back up the hill for another ride.

She set her path, grabbed her sled, and let herself be yanked down by the momentum. Once she was safely sitting still, I placed myself at the ready and gave myself over to gravity. Already, I started to see the treacherous frozen phantoms nudging me into the course where a rowdy bunch of teenagers had gleefully dug bumps and ramps into the formerly smooth slope. At that moment, I was torn between two possible courses of action, each with its own perils attached. With my body beginning to wobble and my sense of balance wrecked more by each rotation of the sled, I pictured (vividly and quickly) how redistributing my body weight could adversely affect the day’s fun and …my life.

Option one: I fall backward, causing the back of my sled to gouge its lip into the hard-packed surface of the snow and effectively catapulting myself ass-over-elbows and breaking my neck, the light in my eyes dimming before my lifeless body comes to a slushy stop half an acre from the base of the hill, widowing the once bright-eyed Texan and leaving her only two sleds, my corpse, and no fortitude to relearn the finer points of driving a car with a manual transmission. Option one wasn’t bringing me a lot of optimism.

Option two: I flop forward, slamming face-first into the rushing, wet, frozen ice-ground and crushing the bridge of my nose, transanguinating the breadth of the fairway, and frightening the on-looking children and setting into motion a series of events that would send them running into the arms of a therapist when they, in their mid-thirties, can’t even think of bringing their own kids sledding without succumbing to panic attacks and spontaneously assuming the fetal position. That wasn’t looking so bad for me, but with so many innocent victims, it would certainly be a tragedy fit for Oprah.

I didn’t exactly choose my next crucial movement so much as I slipped into it, but I felt myself tipping backward. Upon connecting with the sun-glazed tundra, I managed to instinctively curl my head in toward my chest as I made contact with the sandpapery snow and proceeded to scoop up several handfuls of the gritty stuff into the collar of my jacket, my sled having long-since jettisoned from underneath me to skip merrily along the path in a whizzing blue blur. After my disorientation dissipated and I was able to crane my neck enough to glance backward, I noticed my animated amiga was gaily laughing in my general direction. I waved, flopped back into my haphazard snow angel mess, and exhaled deeply before picking myself up and tracking down my runaway sled. We climbed the hill again, and again, and again, taking the snowy spray like champs until we couldn’t bear the thought of walking back one more time. Sated (and sweaty), we threw the sleds into my trunk and drove back home.

Unless each one of you is a crusty old adult, I whole-heartedly and most emphatically insist that you take even a scant few minutes to enjoy what’s good about winter. You’ve got a couple months to make your peace yet, since spring probably won’t begin to bud on the bare trees until April at least, but at all costs you’ve got to try to make winter into something other than a nuisance. Hell, about half the year is consumed by it, so you’re pretty much fucked if you don’t. So don’t be a weenie.