Play the game

Firstly, I'm sorry.

Secondly, I lost the game. This thrice accursed bane upon humanity as we know it.

The only rules to the game:

Once you hear about the game, you're playing the game.
Once you think about the game, you lose the game.

Once you lose the game, you announce loudly that you've lost the game.

How do you escape it? Well, there are some people *coughcough my sister coughcough* who merely refuse to play and refuse to partake in anything to do with the game. I am not one of those lucky people. I feel as though I would be lying to both myself and to society as a whole by not playing. It all started harmlessly enough when one of my sister's friends said "I lost the game" and everyone around groaned and repeated the sentiment. Unknowingly, I asked, "what game?"

I have been cursed ever since. There are certain triggers which cause me to lose the game with no warning. Some triggers make sense, like hearing people talking about games repeatedly. Other triggers make no sense. For instance, every time I see the window of the door to the music loge in my old school, I lose the game. I suppose I could trace the origins of this loss back to its roots. There was a while, when she was a senior and I a lowly sophomore, that a particularly evil friend of my sister's sought me out and tried to force me into losing the game. After about a week, every time we saw one another, we would race to see who could get the words out fast enough. One fateful day, I was walking down the first floor hallway. She stood behind the door, gesturing and mouthing something. I came closer, curious. When I came close enough to see, I could tell by the smirk in her eyes that I shouldn't have been looking. Indeed, she mouthed "I lost the game." I have been haunted by her memory ever since.

For some reason completely unbeknownst to me, seeing people drink vanilla coke also makes me lose the game. I still play, but with a lightened heart, due to the website that finally freed me. I can only hope that you'll accept my apologies for making you lose the game by clicking here and freeing yourself as well. Please, let the world know. YOU ARE FREE!

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

I am not an addict

I swear. Obsessed? Perhaps. Addicted? Nah.

My obsession/addiction? Pixel Knight 2. What is it about these odd games that entrances me. Forcing my tiny character to kill again and again. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Flying eyeballs, zombies that throw fireballs at you. All in the name of evil. And it's my job to protect the world from these evils. I don't care what weapon I have, boomerang or sword, axe or orb.

I wouldn't say that I'm generally a video game addict. I'm a fan of some, but I don't claim any knowledge of what's hot in the gaming world. I enjoy games, but I don't seek them out or spend tons of money on them. I leech off of my sister's love and play Fable, or games on the PS2 that she asked for many birthdays ago. More often I find myself turning to Mindjolt games on Facebook or the versions of solitaire that are built into PCs. The only downside of the wonderful MacBook Pro I use now is the lack of said games.

Ah, of course there is my love for the traditional Pokemon games. But I don't consider those games in the same way that most other games are. There's something very different about being a trainer than there is about being the man doing the action. If it were available for Mac, I would probably buy the game Oblivion, since I've played it on some friends computers.

There are a small number of games that I truly enjoy and find myself struggling on the edge of obsession with, and I guess that's best. After all, being too easily obsessed would only lead to another addiction, which would lead to even more time spent in virtual realities and less in my own.

Speaking of my own reality, I have a dog to feed and walk.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

I believe in love

I believe that love defies all boundaries. I believe in love that overcomes all differences. Love is beautiful in all shapes, sizes, sexes, races, religions, and forms. I am a romantic, though you might not think it when you first meet me. A classic romantic.

Ferry rides into the sunset. Holding hands and gazing at the stars. All the sappy stuff that never happens in real life, that's what I want. A single red rose.

I'm a bit of a sucker for love, and I've never really found a reason for it. I wouldn't say that any of my parents are classic romantics. My romanticism surprises me. I suppose you could say that while my outside surface is pessimistic, under the initial crunch there lies a big sappy gooey center of hearts and roses and sunsets. I believe in poetry and words and music. I think a classic tux is best, and a classic dress. Sometimes I wonder if my romantic side even belongs in this day and age. I think of clandestine messages passed by hand and think of how superior those methods were to our ability to text or email.

Romantics are a dying breed. We are being slowly weeded out by pop culture. I think about my ideal date and all I can ponder is how old fashioned I must seem, especially seeing as I was never a part of that old fashion.

All I can hope for then, is someone either as romantic as I am, in which case we would become a cesspool of gooey emotion, or someone willing to put up with my romantic tendencies.

I just don't know if they'll be lucky or annoyed.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Objects of my affections

I don't classify myself as a materialistic person, but objects hold a lot of significance for me. That's the graceful way to put it at least. The less graceful way to put it is that I'm a packrat. I like to keep things for a long time, and I don't like letting go of them. A prime example is my stuffed animal collection. Between my two houses, I easily have 200 stuffed animals, collected from when I was a baby to now. I'm not a huge collector anymore. Actually I never really was a collector, I was a keeper. I took care of them, named them all, and played with all of them. I sobbed when, in fifth grade, I had lice and so the ones I played with most went into the wash. They didn't come out the same. Their fur got all matted. It was only recently that I was finally able to box some of them. Before that they inhabited my top bunk, several shelves, and, for the ones I was less attached to, a laundry basket at the top of my closet.

I'm not this way with just animals either. I have 4 or 5 shoeboxes full of notes, cards, letters, and the like from the past 17 years and 8 months of my life. If you give me a note or a letter, chances are, it's going to end up in a box. To my own credit, it's not as though I shove them in a box and forget about them. On the contrary, every so often when I'm feeling sentimental, I pull out a box or two or four (depending on what years I want to look back on) and read every word. They contain forgotten hopes and aspirations, friends who got left behind, pictures, and most of all, memories. I'm almost certain that my packrat tendencies can be traced to the fact that I feel as though I can go through all the seemingly meaningless objects scattered around my room, pick them up, and remember all about the time I got or made them.

I suppose keeping all my stuff can be problematic. After a while I simply stop having space, and while I hate to box things up to be forgotten in the garage, I get so claustrophobic from the clutter that things need to go away somewhere. My bookshelves are full and then some, my desk never has a clear spot on it, my walls are decorated with pictures and posters, my closet stuffed, under my bed full of boxes. I find comfort in the fact that I can pick up a book from my shelf and remember the first time I read it, and what I thought of it at the time. Similarly, I love picking up odds and ends and figurines and remembering where I got them, who from, and so much more.

Just the act of feeling something familiar is extremely comforting to me. I like to do things with my hands, so I normally have a rock or two from my collection in a pocket. Feeling something, smooth or rough, hard or soft, is so concrete and real. I run my hands against walls, touch ceilings, feel the floor against my feet. It helps center me sometimes, and other times it just provides a certain infallible comfort. I recently came across my old collection of Magic: The Gathering cards. I got my cousin Thomas into the game, and so I now have a mix of the old and the new. I'm well aware that some of my cards, since they are the very first editions, could be worth lots of money. I'm also aware of the fact that giving them to Thomas would probably make more sense than keeping them for myself.

However, something in me tells me to hang onto them. I feel as though there are so many things that can be taken from us that we need to hang on, literally, to what we have. Good health or fortune can never be guaranteed. People in our circles shift and change, and we change as well. So why not keep things from your childhood?

I suppose that someday I'll have a spouse and a family and I simply won't have space for all of my things. And if it comes down to selling them or putting them into storage where I'd never see them, I'd probably sell them, since I plan on going into the theatre business, where you need every penny you can scrape just to get by.

For now though, I see no reason to let go of the things that make me happy. Even if that makes me a packrat. Some of the most significant events in my life can be tied to certain objects, and that makes them invaluable, not necessarily in monetary worth but in emotional worth. I keep playbills and ticket stubs because I can hold them and look at them and remember.

And remembering is so much infinitely better than forgetting.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

I dreamed a dream

I know that dreams supposedly all have some meaning hidden in all the nonsense, but sometimes I find that hard to believe. Some messages are very clear. The subconscious realizes that you are thirsty or need to go to the restroom, so you dream about bodies of water until you either wake up or have to change your sheets.

Others, however, are more vague. Exactly what does it mean if you dream about a walking Jello cup chasing you with scissors and toast? What is the significance? Do you need to eat toast? Cut your hair? Buy new sneakers, like the light up ones the Jello has on? Do you have a hidden fear of lime Jello? Or is something else the important part?

There are countless books about dreams and how to interpret them out there, but have you ever noticed how contradictory those are? I think that people are just making that crap up. Sitting around going, "okay, thunder means that someone really needs to buy a new suit." I really don't understand.

I would go on, but I've been working all day and will probably fall asleep with my face on the keyboard.

Tomorrow's post will be less disappointing and longer (hopefully).

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Oh, and happy birthday to my cousin Patrick. Love ya bud.

Ain't nothing like the real thing

Today's post is going to be about a show that, despite my original predictions, has grown close to my heart. Some people hate it, some people love it, some people feel indifferent towards it... Glee.

Before you judge me, let me explain something about Glee. Yes, I am fully aware of the sheer ridiculousness of the characters and the situations they find themselves in. Yes, I am also fully aware that most of their covers are not as good as the original songs. I am aware of the fact that these are not characters that exist in real life, and thank whatever god you believe in for that. They are all a bunch of drama queens, and at points, they can be completely irritating due to their unrealistic tendencies.

HOWEVER, there are a number of reasons why I love Glee and its quirky cast. Firstly, while, as I stated last paragraph, I know that the covers are not as good as the original songs, but at least tweens and the like are experiencing the wonderful music of artists like Journey and The Beatles (not enough, however). Secondhand is better than not at all. And for some people, myself included, hearing the covers on Glee has given us inspiration to dig through older CDs to find the originals. Secondly, and probably more importantly, I find that I watch Glee, thinking to myself about how unrealistic the situations are, and then, out of nowhere, they hit me with a moment so real I wonder how they managed to capture it so truly and beautifully. My favorite example of this is the shockingly honest portrayal of Kurt's relationship with his father. However, I've found that they've managed to tackle many real issues with almost brutal honesty, and by finishing every particularly emotional episode with a warm-hearted cast song, they still end the show with a happy note (pardon the pun).

In addition, there are a number of extremely talented singers, dancers, and actors on the show. I am always impressed by Lea Michelle's triple threat, and the fact that her character is so unreal is part of what amazes me most about her. She is playing an exaggerated character, as they all are, but she has moments of emotional honesty that worm their way into your heart. Even Sue Sylvester, who everyone loves to hate, and who is probably the most exaggerated of all the Glee cast, has moments of crushing reality when you see her with her sister.

I think that one of the things that fascinates me about Glee is how the show is able to maintain a balance between the fantastical and the real. In one episode we see characters wearing Lady GaGa outfits (for several days in a row) and we also see a heartbreaking scene in which Kurt's dad rails on Finn for using the word "faggy." It is this balance that captures me.

(okay maybe it's also partially the good singing and theatricality)

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

You feel like flying

I find myself getting caught up in the stress of life very often. I think we all do. That's why we find hobbies and interests; things to do when we're bored or when we want to relax. There are a lot of things I love to do, but I've recently discovered one big new one.

First of all, just to clear any confusion, I'm gonna start by saying something about my life. I have four gay parents. My biological mom and dad were married once, had my sister and then me, and then they separated, divorced, found out they were gay (not necessarily in that order) and are now each happy with a life-long partner. I was very young when all this happened, so I only remember meeting one of my parents, my second father, when I was around 7 years old. However, I would say that I feel equally attached to all my parents.

Anyway, that makes it make a little more sense when I say that my moms recently got interested in getting motorcycles. As of now, my step-mom (for lack of a better term) has a 250 bike and my mom has a 125 scooter. My step-mom and I love to go for rides, and she's the more comfortable of my mothers with riding, so she takes me all around.

There is no feeling like it in the world. I can honestly say it's the closest I've ever felt to flying. The wind inflates my sleeves and goes under my helmet and sunglasses and into my eyes and ears. I can see my face in the reflection of my mom's helmet, and my smile is always huge. I live in a beautiful place, and last night was an amazing ride. I could see the sun setting over the water. I could smell the ocean. I could taste salt on the air. It was like I was feeling everything I was normally feeling, but more of it, if that makes sense. I really wish I could articulate the amazing sensation, but I can't. I close my eyes sometimes and I feel like I'm in the air. Even breathing is amazing. You're inhaling as the air is pushed into you. You can smell when someone is grilling. You can hear the tires against the asphalt and the wind and the buzz of the engine. You can feel every turn and twist in S-curves.

I truly felt free last night. I felt like I was free to be whoever I want to be and do whatever I want to do. These rides make my mind whirl and think about profound things and I love it. I love feeling like I'm not tied down to anything; as though I could just float away. The only other thing I can say about motorcycles is that yes, there is a signal/handshake/thing when you are on a motorcycle and pass someone else on a bike. It's pretty awesome and enhances the feeling of being in a secret club or society of some kind.

The only other experience I can relate to a motorcycle ride is horseback riding. I'm not great, but I'm not awful either, and I've done a fair amount of riding. The horse I ride is pretty stubborn, but she can fly. It's different than a motorcycle, and wonderful in some different ways, but it's the closest I've got.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

What's left of the flag

Warning: for some reason, this font is different than usual. I apologize for the inconsistency.

I don't think our forefathers would be particularly proud of where we are as a nation. Nowadays, so much is about sides. Republican vs. Democrat, "right" vs. "left", red vs. blue. We focus so much on our disagreements and all we want is to be the "right" side. Politics are such a heated topic, and I don't want to get into the pros and cons of either side.

I think that there are things in our country and in our world that need work and that need to be fixed and discussed. However, if these issues are truly to be tackled, we have to stop approaching them in such black and white ways. I feel as though if the parties that make up the politics of our country could agree to disagree on some issues, we could at least work on the things that we can agree on.

I am proud to be an American. I'm not a particularly patriotic person, however, and I disapprove of some of the choices our country has made. As a teenager, coming into the world of adulthood, I'm trying to be more aware of the politics behind actions. Obviously as I grow physically, I want to grow emotionally and mentally as well. But I get very disappointed with how financially motivated most leaders are. We are so focused on money when we should be focused on issues, and problem solving. I'm well aware that it takes money to solve problems, but we can't shoot down every idea just because it costs something. At the same time, we can't keep dumping money into everything and just hoping that everything settles down.

We need to be more intellectually and ethically motivated if we are to make our forefathers truly proud.

I don't want to tread on any opinions or offend, so I'll make this my last sentence.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Waiting for an answer

Waiting is difficult. Even those with great patience must find it hard sometimes. People tell you if you find yourself in a situation where you don't know what to do, just wait and the answer will come to you. I would like to call "bullshit."

I have personally NEVER found myself in a situation where doing nothing but waiting has given me the answer. You could make an argument against me, and you might be right, but I've yet to see it in effect. When you're in a situation where you need an answer or where you need to make a decision, waiting always makes things worse. You put it off and hope that if you don't think about it, the answer will come to you. Answers don't "come." If anyone knows of an answer bait product, by all means, please point the way. I find that answers come when you think about it and talk about it and act on it. Situations don't fix themselves. Problems don't solve themselves. So why is everyone so content to tell you to sit back and wait?

Samuel Beckett wrote an intriguing play about waiting. Waiting for Godot anyone? In junior year I wrote a research paper on it. That was most certainly a play where waiting provided no answers, no Godot, and no help. Perhaps it has to do with my personal impatience, but I find waiting to be one of the most daunting tasks in the world. You present someone with a question and they say "wait, I have to think about it," or "wait, the time just isn't right." We have to stop waiting and start doing.

I agree that perhaps there are situations like waiting for testing to be done where it is true that nothing can be done but waiting. But that's not a situation where you have other options. In a situation where you have some other choice, do the other thing! Don't leave yourself hanging. Or at least think about it. Discuss it. Figure it out, don't expect it to figure itself out.

As you can probably tell, Waiting and I are having a bit of a fight right now. But I still think, even if you take away my general frustration, that I have a slightly valid point. Sometimes waiting hurts and makes your stomach twist into knots.

Right now, for example, I am waiting for dinner.

And now it has been made.

Impatiently yours,

-T.A.D.

The fear

Everyone is afraid of something, whether they know it or not. After all, being fearless isn't about having a lack of fear, it's about having fear but having the courage to face it anyway. Everyone has a weak point, an Achilles heel. For Achilles, ironically enough, it was his Achilles heel. I have many weak points, but I find that I am most often fearful for those I love.

My father is having surgery tomorrow to receive a kidney from his loving sister and my aunt. I think her act is one of selflessness and bravery, and I could not be more thankful. At the same time, it's a very scary thing. But I think it's okay to be scared. Being scared means you have something to lose. Being scared means you care about something. If you aren't scared of anything, I think you are either in some denial or need to seriously re-examine your life and priorities. I'm afraid of things happening to those I love because I care about and love them.

Some fears, like these, are probably healthy ones to have. Other fears are ones we need to face and conquer. If we are too afraid, we become paralyzed by our fear. We can't move or think without facing something we fear. I've been in situations and times in my life where I have been paralyzed by fear, and I've come out of those situations a healthier and happier person.

We need to learn the difference between sensical and nonsensical fears, and we need to purge the unhealthy fears from our lives. At least, I know I need to.

I'm sorry that this post is shorter than normal, but I think I need to learn more about the subject of fear before I talk about it in greater detail.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Heart and music

For me, music and emotion go hand in hand. They have to, if music is to mean anything at all. I have similar sentiments about the music of today as my cousin Patrick. To read his thoughts go on over to his blog here. A brief summary however: in my opinion, the quality of music, in both sound and lyrics, has plummeted in our decade.

I look around and see the downfall of music identifiable in many forms. The Disney Channel, always hungry for more money, now forces any teenish actors they have to produce record after record. The tweens seem responsible for a great deal of the downfall of which I speak. But you can hardly blame them. How exactly are we to expect that an eleven year old has good taste in music? How can we even expect them to tell the difference between overplayed and overdone crap produced by people merely because they are expected to produce it and great music? I wish I could say that when I was eleven I had great taste in music so I could pretend to be above it all, but I didn't. Honestly, I listened to maybe four different bands. ABBA, some country band I don't remember the name of, Brandi Carlile, and the Dixie Chicks.

ABBA is still one of my all-time favorites, and anyone who disses Brandi will have hell to pay with me around. And Brandi, now there's an example of someone who ties her heart in with her music. Her second "real" CD wasn't wonderful in my opinion; I disliked the fact that she leaned more towards country than she had before and she was doing a LOT of her wailing stuff, which to me is best in moderation. What I truly enjoy about Brandi is listening to her evolution. I have tracks upon tracks on my iPod of her very early songs, ones that have never been released to the general public. I listen to them and the poetry in them gives me chills.

I think that shows like American Idol are also partially responsible for the downfall of mainstream music. Music has to come from the heart and soul. Your voice is such a personal thing that it has to be. I listen to a friend of mine play the piano and you can feel the earth quiet around her. I wish that in all this ranting I had a solution to this tragic fact of life, but I really don't. I want musicians to be passionate again. I want them to make music because they want to rather than doing it because it earns them tons of money.

There are artists out there still doing what they're doing because they love it. And there are artists out there who I refer to as "cookie-cutter" who do what they do out of love as well. We just need to find that right mix of love and talent again. Or, if not talent, at least get some decent poetry going, right? Lyrics should move people. I listen to songs that are made up of lousy verses with a phrase repeated eight times for the "chorus" and I want to cry. One line does not a chorus make.

Heart and music,

You gotta have heart and music.

-T.A.D.

In the real world

Sometimes I'm told that I'm lazy or boring for wanting to just stay at home all day watching TV shows or movies, or reading books. I guess you could say that's true, but I only ask that you wait for my reasons before you judge me.

Reality is boring sometimes. The real world gets boring and so we seek different worlds, more exciting worlds, worlds in television shows, movies, books, plays, tons of things. I like to escape reality sometimes and get captured in the thrill of it all. I like seeing what people's imaginations can conjure. Magic wands and potions, lasers and space cowboys, pie makers who can make the dead alive again; these things excite me and inspire me to imagine my own fantasies. I love storytelling. I love good characters more than almost anything, so when I find a show that writes its characters well, I appreciate it.

Other times, we need to know that our reality is better than alternates. I watch Dollhouse and shudder and think "what if." It reassures me when I see people screwing up in fantasy worlds because they screwed up too. I like it when characters aren't perfect; they're people. You follow the choices they make and sometimes you agree with them and sometimes you don't, but either way, you enjoy watching them grow and change. I get very connected with characters in shows and movies. I think I have a very large capacity to suspend disbelief. I feel close to the worlds I encounter and observe. When a character messes up or does something we didn't want them to do, we watch them learn from their mistakes. When they do something wonderful that we've been waiting all season for, we celebrate and see that we can move forward as well.

Another great thing about these realities is the fact that no matter what genre you watch or read, you encounter the same very human conflicts. It doesn't matter if you're in the world of Firefly, 500 years or so into the future, or Merlin, way back in the time of King Arthur (well, slightly before his time), you see the same issues at the root of these shows. In LOTR and Star Trek, we see the same things. This grounds movies and shows in the reality that you and I are familiar with just by being humans.

I love sharing the worlds I find. I cherish them and love them, and to share a good story with someone is so wonderful, which is why I want to make it my life by going into theatre. Everyone interprets things slightly differently, which makes it so cool to watch something with a huge group of friends and then talk about how it moved you all in different ways. The same can be said about a good book, I'm just generalizing here. My dad and I share our love of stories, and even though some people don't think of the time we spend together as "quality time," I strongly disagree. We sit down and suspend disbelief together. We let shows touch us and move us and anger us. We let characters into our hearts and minds. And then we get all riled up when we talk about them, it's wonderful!

Dad and I sometimes just conk out in front of a screen for hours. And maybe some people don't get it, but I think we learn more about each other by witnessing these stories and seeing each other's reactions to them than we do by having some pointless conversation about something neither of us particularly cares to talk about. I love seeing the good in people and in shows. Or seeing the spark of similarity between a friend and a character. My dad wrote me a letter one time that moved me to tears. It was about a lot of things, but part of it was about these stories that we share, and he wrote a page telling me how I was like certain parts of certain characters. I wish I could do the same for him without just seeming like a copycat.

Stories are something to be treasured, and while I agree that I spend far too much time in front of glowing boxes, I do treasure the stories I see and read.

Sometimes we learn more about ourselves than we realize when we see a character go through an all too familiar situation. Pay attention next time. You'll see.

-T.A.D.

Randomness

Why are we as humans so unique?

We fight when we should give up. We try when we know we are reaching for the impossible. Humans are different. Some things are good, some things I'm not so sure about. We see things differently. Some animals supposedly can't even see in color, and look around at what we see. We are surrounded by vibrancy and life and beauty.

We don't see it sometimes, but it's there. It's there in the simplicity of nature or the beauty of that special someone's eyes. We catch glimpses of things so far beyond us. We are aware of our mortality. I disagree with the hypothesis that animals have no knowledge of their deaths. I think they know. I don't think that they think about it and fester on it like we do, but I know they are aware of it. Just recently a very good friend of mine had to put down her dog. She was supposed to be gone last year, but she hung on. Animals amaze you like that sometimes.

Wow I'm jumping from subject to subject.

But it's related I guess. We dwell on our mortality. We can't stop thinking about it sometimes. We think about more than us. We think about the universe and more, we think about spirituality and religion and we philosophize and question and grow and evolve. We amaze me. I am in constant awe of the things that happen within the human race. Our capability for love. Our capability for hatred. For grace. For fear. For empathy. For violence.

Our capabilities astound me, and we continue to have new capabilities. The minute someone thinks about something new, everyone starts thinking about it. Even our ability to lie. It's crazy. It's another thing that has become a survival instinct.

I think the world we live in is amazing, and I think all the creatures on it are amazing. Call me naive, but I really do love nature and in general, I try and love humanity, even through my pessimistic haze. I think we have to love each other and ourselves and the rest of the world, because we have to take care of each other. We can debate about whether or not there's some higher power taking care of us all we want, but either way we have to help each other.

Take off your pessimism goggles for a day and try looking around. Things are pretty amazing when you look closely.

Enjoy,

-T.A.D.

Don't mess with imperfection (part 2)

I finally found that poem of mine, so I thought I'd share it for today's post.

Perfection

she told me "nobody's perfect"

and though we may strive to be,

she is right.

but is she?

it seems to me that perfection

is that which everyone chases

and though a few may catch it

most of us simply give up.

but what is this thing we chase?

I think about what makes people perfect...

the way they listen.

the way they're always there to lean on,

and to catch you when you fall.

the way they laugh with you, at you, and for you.

the way they cry with you when the need arises,

or the way they just help you cry.

the way they always pick up the phone when you call,

or how they always call you back.

the way they are honest, loyal, steadfast, and calm.

the way they keep you from falling apart when they can

and the way they put you back together again when they can't.

the way they stick with you

through the hard times, the bad times, and the good times too.

the way they love you, just as you are.

the list goes on;

and as i think about it,

I finally realize,

all these things are merely ways of dealing with imperfection

if only she knew this

as she laughs at me

for saying that she's perfect.

little does she know

that what I'm really saying

is that she is perfect through my imperfection,

and that I am perfect through hers.

***

Please, keep in mind as you read this and critique it, I was 14 when I wrote this.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Don't mess with imperfection

Today I watched the first few episodes of a show called "Dollhouse."

It was created by Joss Whedon, and I basically worship at the altar he has created. My favorite has to be Firefly and the consequential movie, Serenity.

Both Serenity and Dollhouse bring up an interesting point that I'd like to talk about today. They both bring up this idea of people making people better. Making people perfect.

Imperfection is what makes us human. It's what makes us perfect. Honestly, if I were actually to meet someone who was perfect, I would probably first doubt that they were a member of the human race and then die of jealousy or frustration.

We weren't made to be perfect. Mistakes and messing up are things that make us learn and grow and change. You can like a friend for what makes them good, for their laugh or humor or whatever. But you know you love a friend when you like what makes them imperfect. Maybe they have a tendency to be honest that translates into cruelty sometimes. Maybe they have a goofy laugh. Maybe their eyes don't match.

I think it's the things that are "wrong" that make us who we are more than the things that make us "right." Our quirks and oddities define us much more than the things that make us similar. I'm defined more by my refusal to wear makeup than I am by my looks by themselves. People notice the fact that I have only one dimple, and that I never wear socks that match. It's the imperfect touches that make people "perfect."

I wrote a poem on the subject back when I was a freshman in high school, and if I ever find it successfully, I'll post it.

Individuality and imperfection are joined at the hip. The same traits that make us imperfect make us individuals. I stand by the principle that you will never find two people with the same set of imperfections. If just one or two people were perfect, we would find them annoying and refuse to interact with them due to jealousy or frustration, which would in turn make them imperfect. If everyone was perfect, no one would be different. We don't live in a world of ultimatums, and we shouldn't try to. The world isn't black and white, and it isn't "many shades of grey." The world is a whole spectrum of colors and people and wonder and amazement. Start throwing around words like perfect and the world becomes black and white; perfect and imperfect. Nothing can be or ever will be perfect. Perfection is all about perception. I can perceive something to be perfect, and to me, maybe it is. But to someone else, maybe it won't be. Perfection isn't universal. Everyone strives to make themselves better, and they should. We should all try to grow and change to be better people.

But setting a bar at perfection is ridiculous, when flushing away our imperfections is equivalent to flushing away our personalities and quirks and everything that makes us unique. I think that if we can go through life and find one person in the world who thinks of us as perfect, that's enough.

So let your flaws be.

Imperfectly,

-T.A.D.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore

What is it about feelings that make them so gooey and raw and hard to deal with?

Sometimes I feel as though I have heightened emotions, as though I’m feeling everything that everyone else is feeling, just more of it. Maybe I just don’t see it and criticize it in other people the way I do in myself. Or maybe I have a heightened awareness of my feelings. Say what you like about me and my emotions, but I can almost always identify what I’m feeling. Not only that, but I actually literally feel it somewhere. Not all the time, but sometimes, when I feel something really intensely, I can feel it in weird places in my body. My step-mom (she’s a massage therapist, so she knows things) says that there’s a scientific reason for this: when you get an intense feeling, hormones and endorphins and all sorts of emotion signals are running through your blood and they get stuck like lactic acid in your muscles. That’s why we identify certain feelings with certain body parts.

That makes sense, right? I mean, we all clench jaws or fists when we’re angry. Everyone does those little things in response to emotions. What always baffles me is the rebound that comes with this. What gets stuck must come unstuck. Which is why when my step-mom is feeling generous and works on my neck and shoulders, I feel fear. Logically, it makes sense. But it’s still pretty freaky.

Then you have to deal with it all. Obviously you didn’t deal with it when you were feeling the fear or guilt or anger or whatever for a logical reason, so now you’re stuck dealing with it when you’re in a situation in which bundling up into a blanket or yelling at someone might not be appropriate. Feelings are out to get you. They say, “oh, you better deal with me now, when I at least make sense and you can identify why you’re feeling me.” (I guess feelings are pretty articulate and snide) But you say, why bother? It will only make this situation worse. Or maybe you just don’t want to deal with it. So you take a deep breath and you shove the feelings aside. And in your head, and maybe even in your heart, that works. You use whatever methods work for you, and you manage to suppress your feelings.

At this point, you feel pretty confident. “Look at me, dealing with my feelings.” Little do you know that four weeks later you’ll be exploding with the same rage that you bottled up when your sister spilled ketchup on you, except now it doesn’t make any sense because you know the stain is okay, it actually looks kind of artsy. Feelings are devious little guys. Then they gloat. “HAHA. You didn’t listen to me and look where it got you. Yelling at your grandmother about bacon trying to hold back tears. You think you can repress us? WE RUN THIS TOWN!” (wow, my feelings are sounding more and more like a mini gang inside of my head, or a small mob… I am part Italian…)

I guess the moral of the story is this: deal with your emotions when you feel them, or they’ll pop back up when you least expect them to.

Feelingly,

-T.A.D.

Dear Mr. President

“It must suck to be the President.”

This is the thought that popped into my head as my sister, my sister’s friend, and my cousin tackled me. We were playing a game that I had just been introduced to, called, quite appropriately, “Mr. President.” This game consists of a few simple steps and reminds me of the card game “Spoons.” If you have ever played spoons, you know that being the last one to clue in can be humiliating and, if you are very sensitive, scarring. “Mr. President” is scarring in a more tangible way. The idea of the game is that one by one, people in the same room as you put two fingers to their ear, as though they are a member of the secret service. The last person to touch their imaginary headset is “The President.” In unison, your faithful secret service yells “GET DOWN MR. PRESIDENT!” And then comes the tackling, as though you are being shot at.

Personally, I would rather take the bullet. One round ended with me rolling off the bed to avoid being tackled, as I screamed “I AM DOWN, DON’T DO IT!” To their credit, my sister and her friend respected this (or didn’t want to make the extra effort) and so did not tackle me. Thomas, my cousin, flew over the bed, landing on my head. This might not have been so bad had I successfully rolled off the bed. As it was, I didn’t make it all the way off, so my head was hanging there. By my neck. Which made an unpleasant noise. Thomas responded well to my desperate shrieks of “GETOFFGETOFFGETOFF” and we decided to be done with the game for now.

All I can say is, it’s a good thing I already have an appointment with the chiropractor tomorrow.

After this game was over, the thought stayed with me. I don’t care what you are, Democrat, Republican, whatever. We all have to agree, it must really suck to be President. Not only is it a ridiculously stressful job to begin with, seeing as you are in charge of one of the most powerful nations in the world, but then throw in the fact that you have the hopes and dreams of the American people riding on your shoulders as you struggle with recession, war, global warming, and the hundreds of other things that make this country so special. [PLEASE NOTE: I am not getting into politics right now, this is universal suckage no matter which President you want to talk about, Obama, Bush, Clinton, Bush Sr., all the way back to Washington] In addition, because this country has become increasingly divided into parties, you are basically putting yourself in a position to be hated, or at least disliked, or at least looked down on, by approximately half the population.

I get that it’s also about power and yeah, maybe it would be pretty awesome to have that much power. But, as Spiderman has taught us, “with great power comes great responsibility.” You live under the scrutinizing eye of the press. People watch and then talk about your every move, word, and decision. Sometimes the talk is good, sometimes it’s not so good. I wonder sometimes how any of our Presidents still have their ears if that saying about gossip making your ears burn is true. I’m surprised that one of his secret service men doesn’t carry a fire extinguisher with him at all times.

That might make for a more exciting version of “Mr. President.” Instead of being tackled, you would be sprayed on multiple sides by fire extinguishers.

Oh the fun we’d have.

Off to ice my neck,

-T.A.D.

Tell me that you'll open [the box]

In this time and day, modern technology has made easier countless tasks and projects. Computers are accessible, and, for most people, pretty easy to use. Communication is easier than ever with phones, texting, Skype, AIM, and so much more. Social networking is a breeze. And now, we can share our thoughts and stories with strangers on the internet due to the invention of blogs.

However, even with all these advancements, I still find that there is one task that technology has done nothing to help, and has probably hindered more than anything. Ever try and open something recently? It can be just about anything. A bag of chips, a pack of Magic cards. Where I am currently residing, we have lost our scissors, so opening things is even more of a challenge. If you doubt me, think back on the last present exchanging get together you had. I'm sure somebody around you, or perhaps you, received a CD or DVD. I find that it takes at least a song and a half of time to get INTO a CD. The packaging is cruel, and mocks us. "Pull here," it says, as though that's all it takes. Before you finally get it open, you turn into a wild beast, slashing at the plastic with fingernails and scissors.

While I guess I can flow with this, seeing as I can't remember an easier way, there is an experience I must share that surprised and disappointed me. My cousin Patrick and I recently made dinner for ourselves, and the logical choice was, of course, Kraft mac and cheese. The wonderfully orange taste of childhood. Patrick was off doing who knows what, and I was left alone with the boxes (oh yes, we ate two) of Kraft goodness. Anyone who has ever tasted this deliciousness knows that the side of the box has handy perforations and a kind reminder to "Push Here to Open."

Or at least, the side of the box HAD perforations. Oh yes readers. Perhaps the Kraft company decided to lend themselves to the anti-obesity wave in America and made opening mac and cheese more difficult on purpose. Perhaps they discovered that it took less money if they only created a dim reminder of what perforations are supposed to look like rather than taking the trouble to PUT THEM IN. I was forced to grab a knife and stab the box in the general area of the side. It's a children's food! Let the children eat! PUT THE DAMN PERFORATIONS BACK ON YOUR BOXES!!!

Perhaps I'm overreacting, but this signifies a disturbing productivity trend. I find it creepy and wrong that I can google a list of John Travolta movies ON MY PHONE faster than I can open a box of Kraft. Some people say that working harder for things makes you appreciate them more. Maybe that's true of actual achievements, but the only thing I felt due to the backbreaking labor it took to OPEN THE DAMN BOX was frustration and stupidity. I felt like a caveman smashing something with a rock. I felt no sense of triumph, no elation, nothing, zilch, nada, zip.

Not until I dug into my half of the two boxes of macaroni that is. However, I still contest that the happy wonderful feeling I got once I was eating came from the food itself, not the trials and tribulations that I went through to open the box.

Now I'm going to struggle with an ice pop and hope that I don't chop a finger off in the process.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

It won't be long...

...until I write a real, new, and creative post.

However, I've become quite exhausted and am going to fall back on sharing something I wrote some time ago. I know, I know, two pieces about friendship in less than ten days. But this is different, and is basically a two second guide to how I feel about making friends with yourself.

Making friends with yourself is probably the hardest relationship you'll ever have to forge. When you're a little kid you learn from your parents and your teachers how to make friends with other people. You are polite and kind and genuine, whatever that means. But no one teaches you how to love yourself. Or even how to just be friends with yourself. You can't really be polite to yourself, just like you can't really be rude. You can't share with yourself. Sharing in definition requires at least two people. Your parents don't teach you. So how do you do it? How do you learn to like yourself? It's not even on your radar when you're young, but then you find yourself in a position where you don't know yourself, and you sure as hell aren't friends with yourself. And you don't know where to begin.

If anyone has any insights on the topic, by all means, comment away.

I promise to write about what I intended to write about tomorrow.

Apologetically,

-T.A.D.

Pretty pink ribbon

Never in my wildest dreams would I call myself a girly girl. I wouldn't even really say that I'm all that feminine. Here's why: for the most part, it seems to be more trouble than it's worth.

Prime example: makeup. I don't wear it because I don't really fully grasp how to put it on. Additionally, my first two makeup experiences were forced. Both in middle school. Once was in the back of a moving car when me and an eyeliner pencil got way too close. Second was before my eighth grade graduation. I was cornered between a wall and the toilet as the stuff was rubbed on my eyes, cheeks, and lips. Not only am I scarred for life by these horrifying experiences, but I really fail to see the point of it. Stage makeup I understand, and I understand the idea behind makeup, but the execution of the product rarely makes me go, "wow, I guess that's why people wear makeup." I think firstly that people are beautiful without makeup. Then there's the whole double standard thing that bugs me, not enough and you're ugly, too much and you're a whore. I feel like makeup gives other people the idea that because you made an effort to improve your appearance, they can judge your looks much more harshly. I would go on, but I feel as though many of my sentiments are much better expressed in the blog Methyl Ethyl Aldehyde. I suggest going there and reading Trope Girl's post about makeup. If you do read it, you know pretty much exactly how I feel about the application of makeup.

The constant wardrobe and handbag changes required to maintain standings as a "fashionable woman" are also quite peeving. I personally know that I simply do not have the budget to keep up on the latest trends. Plus, most of the latest trends are things that might look good or even great on stick figure models, but let's face it, almost everything looks good on them. They are size -2s and shrinking. AVERAGE people are forced to feel obscenely overweight when we try these outfits on. I feel more comfortable and more attractive in a nicely fitting pair of jeans and a t-shirt than in some odd contraption with multiple straps. In general, my rule is, if I can't immediately figure out how to wear it, or even what part of my body it's supposed to be covering, I don't even try it on. I can just imagine myself two months later picking it up wondering if it's a skirt with straps or just an oddly shaped tunic top thing.

Dresses and skirts, eh. I wear them when I want to look really nice, or when I HAVE to look really nice. But I like wearing things that I can do everything I do on a daily basis in. Walk my dog, roll on the floor playing tug-of-war, work, cook, wash dishes, relax on the couch, etc. That's why when I do end up wearing a dress or skirt, it usually ends up back in my closet approximately five minutes after my return home. I like wearing a nice pair of shoes every now and again, especially if they match one of my dresses or skirts, but I always end up cursing them and remembering why I don't wear them several hours and five blisters later. I don't even try with high heels unless I have to. They seem to increase the gravitational pull the earth has on me. I don't understand the science behind it, but I have learned to stay away. I was asked not to wear heels at my high school graduation because all of my friends voted me "Most Likely To Fall, Bringing The Whole Class Down With Me." That damn gravitational pull!!!

Hair is another issue. Mine is nice and I like it. As a rule I actually like hair. I think it's attractive and soft and fun to play with. However, the fun to play with thing never seems to apply to my own hair, and so I normally let it grow, hang there lifeless, and chop it back another few inches. The tricky thing about my hair is that it grows fast and it's thick. Hair disgusts me the moment it leaves one's head, so the shedding problem is one that I approach with fear and horror. I have also found that my hair actually looks better once I've showered, slept on it, and woken up, combing it just enough to get the tangles out, than it does straightened or curled and sprayed.

I was recently told that I have a natural look about me, and that it was fairly pleasing. I was pleasantly surprised by this compliment, since I've never really been complimented for my failure to put on makeup or fix my hair or pick out the best clothes before.

I suppose you could say that I'm merely in the tomboy phase I never grew out of, but my "ungirly"ness goes past the surface straight to the core. I don't really follow any of the basic girl rules. I heard there was a handbook passed out in preschool, and apparently while everyone was getting theirs, I was off playing pretend flying tigers with the boys.

This topic has proven (at least to me) much more interesting than I anticipated, but to spare you from continuing tonight, I will write another post about the deeper girly things that I avoid.

The note upon which I will conclude is this: Pretty Pink Ribbon: an amazing song, but nothing more.

-T.A.D.

I'm way too old to hate you

Why, when we grow up, are we expected to mature?

Yes, it's good to stop saying "you're not my mom" and "I HATE YOU FOR FOREVER AND MORE!" but I feel as though we lose much more than we gain with maturity. When we're kids, we are free to express ourselves and how we feel, even in inappropriate situations. When we're hungry or uncomfortable, we say so, not having to worry about what our host will think of the fact that they make us feel squirmy inside. I feel as though some perks of childhood are more useful to young adults (or old adults) than they are to kids. We don't savor our immaturity, not realizing that eventually it won't be okay to just start crying from exhaustion.

When we grow older, we suppress everything on the chance that what we feel or think makes OTHER people feel uncomfortable. We surrender our own comfort for those around us. But what's the point of this when everyone else (okay, some people don't keep it in) are suffering from the same discomfort? I'm aware that this idea is flawed: it's simply not appropriate to share EVERYTHING with everyone around us. But what's wrong with saying what's really on your mind? Instead, we have to say what we think the other people want us to say. Here's an example of when I think we should be allowed to share:

Most of my extended families lean more towards the Republican side of issues and people, etc. However, most of my close family leans the other way, including myself. Because of this, when family comes to town, we pretty much have a silent agreement to NOT talk about politics. However, some of my family fails to grasp this seemingly simple idea, and so political discussions run rampant, and I'm unable to say anything about how incredibly awkward I feel.

Imagine how much better life would be if we were able to come to some sort of worldwide agreement about what level of maturity to act upon. Another example, a common question is "How are you?" Well, I'm smart enough to know that if you ask me and you aren't pretty close to me, you aren't REALLY interested in how I am. And so we respond: Fine. Riiiiiight.

If everyone who said they were fine actually were fine, depression rates would be much lower. The number of short-tempered people in the world would me smaller. I could go on. I suggest the simple solution of not asking unless you really care. If this were so, you could feel free to answer honestly. Sometimes the honest answer is "fine" or even "great."

Let's immature people. Start being as honest as you were as a kid, regardless of the social stigma attached. Surround yourself with people of your maturity level, so you can be as uppity or young as you want to be. When you are hungry, say so. Needing to go to the bathroom shouldn't be something we're ashamed to say.

Stop repressing your feelings and express yourself.

Let's start a revolution.

-T.A.D.

To youth...

My faith in the next generation is slowly coming back to me. Today my younger cousin Thomas arrived. He is six years younger than me, smart as a whip, louder than life, and I love him to pieces. I was sitting at the table grating cheese, as per my grandmother's request *coughordercough* and he sat next to me, iPod in hand, snapping his fingers to the beat and earbuds soft enough that I couldn't hear what music he was listening to. His answer when I asked him? Billy Joel. I could have cried with happiness. It sounds like a small thing, but bear with me.

As I made somewhat clear in my previous post, I have my doubts about the children of today. I watch them growing up, disturbed at some things in their life. I see 10 year olds with cell phones and 7 year olds with iPods, personal DVD players, and laptops. Minivans of today almost always come with a TV/DVD built in. I'm not going to turn this post into a rant about technology, but I must say, with full knowledge that I am influenced and sucked in by this as well, technology gives people many ways to not interact with one another. Saying that I'm above this would be hypocritical of course, especially saying it on my personal blog. It just saddens me to a certain extent.

Back to the point. Today, MTV is a joke, Disney starlets are taking over the music industry, and some of the most popular books, TV shows, and movies are about sex-driven vampires. So in this time and day, the fact that my cousin was listening to Billy Joel and calling him his favorite artist gives me hope. Living in an increasingly apathetic and robotic world, but still being able to shoot pool and listen to records with Patrick gives me hope. Playing games with my family at night instead of going to a party where kids my age are getting hammered gives me hope. The future makes me nervous, especially the future of some of the things I care about deeply, such as music, literature, and theatre.

As an official high school graduate, I'm actually entering the world of adulthood. Okay, so college probably not so much. But I'm heading there fast, and I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not even a high school student anymore. Growing up is hard, and watching the younger generation listen to Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus is harder. As always, however, my pessimism has been lightened by the example some of my younger relatives set.

I suppose, to be true to my own words, I should put down my laptop and ask to play a game.

Five Crowns anyone?

-T.A.D.

To catch them is my real test, to train them is my cause.

Anyone who recognizes the song lyric of the title of the post wins an award. At least an imaginary one.

Yes reader(s), I am talking about Pokemon (GOTTA CATCH 'EM ALL!).

DISCLAIMER: IF YOU HAVE NO INTEREST IN POKEMON, DO NOT READ THIS POST.

Unless you want to hear what I have to say on the matter.

Today I downloaded a GBA emulator, a cool program that allows you to play GameBoy games on your computer. I also downloaded the best versions of Pokemon that have ever or will ever be made. Red, Blue, and Yellow. The primary colors, representative of the primary games. I have a particular affinity for Yellow version, as it was the first video game I ever personally owned. My older brother had Red, my sister had Blue, and I was left out. There was no point to purchasing a second of the same game, and so when Yellow came out, I was delighted, finally fulfilling my place in our sibling trinity. My older brother whizzed through the games, only training a select few Pokemon. My sister and I both struggled, sure that we would find a use for every creature we captured, and so we took much longer to make it through the game.

As I got older, I developed strategies. I went through the guides diligently, and made lists and timeframes for what levels my beloved virtual pets and companions needed to be at. I chose from the 150 candidates who were most useful for each type. Back in my day (I shudder to say those words, but I must) there was a small enough number of types and Pokemon that choosing the best fire-type, for example, was easy enough (Charizard). As time progressed and versions kept popping up from Nintendo, I followed along. I would devour one game and move on to the next. I accumulated each version from each world. To this day I am the proud owner of the Red, Blue, Yellow, Gold, Silver, Crystal (probably a close second favorite to the beloved first generation, Crystal was by far the best of the Johto region because of the increased availability of the legendaries), Ruby, Sapphire, LeafGreen, Diamond, and Heart Gold versions. In case you weren't keeping track, that's eleven games, and in total, I only lack five. Pokemon was important to me. I was also a player of the card game, until I lost interest and began selling them. I think this was somewhere around the release of the Johto creatures.

By the time the number of different Pokemon passed 300, I became skeptical. While I enjoyed the fact that the graphics in Ruby and Sapphire were infinitely better, I felt the integrity of the games was slipping. We weren't even fighting Team Rocket anymore. Some of the additions in Ruby and Sapphire felt pointless, such as the contests. What was the point, I wondered, of entering your Pokemon, your trained fighters, into a beauty contest? However, this wasn't enough to sway me from my goal to keep evolving in my quest to become the greatest trainer ever. Besides, the Running Shoes made walking faster, and the Mach bike enhanced the speed even more. Items were cooler, there were awesome new moves, and even some pretty awesome new starter Pokemon.

I don't have much good to say about the remake of the Kanto versions. While I appreciated the makers saying "Hey, we haven't forgotten, this was the coolest" I was heartily disappointed when no remake of Version Yellow, a sentimental favorite, was made. I was even more disappointed when after defeating the Elite Four, your character was forced to CONTINUE the game to go on the rather redundant and altogether pointless Island quests. LeafGreen was the first game that I never actually "finished," mostly because of my hatred of the Islands. This hatred was fueled by the fact that I saw a huge gap of creativity in the naming of the isles. Seriously, numbering them? Why not just put a sticker on the front that says "WE DON'T CARE; WE'RE OUT FOR YOUR MONEY AND NOTHING ELSE."

The only reason I bought Diamond was to play with a younger cousin of mine, Thomas, and I was even more disappointed with this world. I finally cracked when I started to realize the extremely nonsensical names of the newer creatures. Bidoof, for example. Please, explain the name, and, while you're at it, explain why the heck we needed this pitiful creature. I defeated the 8th gym leader but regarded the championship with apathy. I realized that I didn't care about my Pokemon team as I once had. I've tried starting Diamond over again, urged on by Thomas and the nagging sensation at the back of my head that maybe if I gave it a chance, it would be better the second or third or fourth time. It wasn't.

Heart Gold and Soul Silver actually impressed me. Senior year limited the time I was able to commit to my DS, but I have enjoyed going through the wonderfully familiar Johto world. The Pokemon, gym leaders, features, and functions, (for the most part) are all endearing reminders of the earlier years, and I know them well. I have enjoyed the luxury of not playing bent over a guide as I have with the past several versions, and the added features seem fun and interesting rather than pointless and inane.

If Nintendo does create a companion to the newer Johto versions, a remake of the Crystal game, for nostalgias sake, I will probably purchase it. However, beyond that, I find myself ready to ignore the existence of any new creatures and worlds. Playing Blue version on my laptop today was wonderful. I recommend to anyone who still feels attached to Pokemon to download an emulator and the roms for the games that they like. One of the best parts is that the computer allows you to go much faster, and hilariously, the game counts time in the sped-up version, so according to my rom, I've played for over 20 hours today. This makes training a breeze.

As any child of the 90s will tell you, Pokemon was, and to some, including me, still is, "da bomb." However, my childhood excitement about new versions has worn off, and when I find myself reaching for my gameboy, I always choose the older games, with the exception of Heart Gold. I feel bad for the kids of today. When I was a kid, the ultimate test of Pokemon was to capture all 150. Now, with over 400 different kinds and the promise of more to come, Nintendo is giving kids an almost impossible task.

Pessimism comes with age and wisdom, and so I know now what I didn't when I was a kid: that Nintendo continues to produce new Pokemon games merely to make more money. But I look back on my favorite games and feel as though they were at least putting effort into the story as well. Things make sense in the Kanto world, or as much sense as they can in a world where ten year old children catch and train "Pocket Monsters" to fight for them.

Until tomorrow,

-T.A.D.

P.S. Please don't read this and think of this blog as devoted only to Pokemon. I promise, I won't be writing many (if any) similar posts.

Every dog has its day

I'm a dog person. I have nothing against cats. I love them and think they are beautiful and wonderful and mysterious creatures. But for companionship, I prefer dogs.

I own a beautiful and expressive and all-around amazing dog. For continuity's sake, I will give her a pseudonym, J.C., and leave it at that. She's part lab, part something else, so she's a real dog, not a ten pound look-alike.

My dog cracks me up. When I first got her, she was definitely a morning dog. Woke up perky, happy, ready to face the day. She would practically prance out of my room, and, upon seeing that I was not following her with the same enthusiasm and zest for life, she would return, nudging my cold, practically lifeless body with her even colder nose. I'm not sure how she does it, but she always manages to get her nose through my blankets to either the small of my back or the inside of an elbow or some equally patch of soft skin. I don't know if anyone else has experienced this doggie torture. I swear, a cold nose shove could wake you from a coma. After the nose-shove, I would startle, hit my head on something while flailing wildly, and finally but groggily get out of bed. Once I was vertical, my dog would do her happy dance, leaping in circles. In all honesty, her enthusiasm was a bit disgusting to me.I'm a night owl, so I'm a bit of a morning zombie until I get caffeine in my system. I prefer either a giant cup of coffee or an injection directly to blood stream.

Nowadays, she wakes up at the slow pace that I do. Even once I'm out of bed, dressed, and eating breakfast, she lounges, either collapsed on her side by my feet or in my bed. Generally by the time I've finished eating, she has her head on my pillow.

Additionally, my dog has learned that when I put on socks, I generally intend to put on shoes, which usually means she gets a walk. When it's raining, however, which it does quite often, J.C. categorically REFUSES to go for a walk. She sees the rain, turns and looks at me, and, only because I have her connected to a leash, walks grudgingly and slowly behind me. She makes a mad dash for the bushes beside my house, which provide cover from the TWO DROPLETS falling from the sky, and does her business. She then sprints back to the front door. I stand at the end of the leash. She looks at me, then looks back at the door. Looking at me again, she gives me the pleading puppy dog eyes (she is a puppy dog after all), and at that point I give up entirely and join her inside, if for nothing else then to stay up to an insane hour and sleep til noon with her at my side, hogging the bed as always.

Next time I decide to talk about dogs, I'll fill you in on the yapping beanie baby that my father calls a dog. I call it annoying.

In the words of my favorite spring-tailed tiger,

Tata for now!

-T.A.D.

Just the right amount of awkward

Wow. I wasn't going to post again today, but the awkwardness of a situation I just went through must be shared.

I've always had a knack for getting into awkward situations, probably because of my mental tendency to turn everything around me into a sexual innuendo. (You say immature, I say, why yes I am, in some situations) And also because I have permanently bad timing. I'm sure I will blog more about some awkward moments in my life later, but for now let me try and stay on track.

So, as mentioned in my previous post, right now I'm staying at my cousin "Patrick"'s house. Let me give you a forewarning- Patrick's family is Catholic. Which I have no problem with, at all. I am an atheist, but I pride myself on my ability to respect others and their beliefs. There's already a kind of un-spoken awkwardness just about the whole religious thing, and I'm not even sure if all of them know I'm atheist.

Yes, yes, moving on. So my friend Patrick has his friend over, and we hung out, watched Serenity (incredible movie), and then, after the younger kids had gone to bed and it was just > 17s around, we went downstairs and played a game called "dirty word Bananagrams."

Basically, create your own crossword with letters, like Scrabble, but different. Your understanding of the game is non-essential to the telling of this story. A great friend of mine (my mother's age) and I began this game (I believe it all began with the word "fondle") and so I was passing it on. It's very fun, and it's not like this is something I wouldn't play at home. My mother helped me with spelling, so you can tell that it's not frowned upon in my own household.

We had a giant map, almost a complete set of Bananagram tiles, completed. Everything was wonderfully dirty. We had taken precautions, but apparently our enthusiasm and zest for our game was a little too high. Patrick's mother opens the door.

A silent alarm went off in my head, and I "fell" on the tiles, "accidentally" mixing them up. Patrick and went for the less subtle and possibly more effective method of throwing himself in front of/on our crossword. Pro: it prevented his mother from actually viewing the words. Con: our odd behavior was not subtle enough to hide the fact that we obviously didn't want her to see what words we had made.

She had actually been coming downstairs to send Patrick's friend home, since this was about half an hour ago and it's 11:27 Virginia time. I'm relatively sure he went running. Patrick and I were treated to a king-sized portion of shame with a guilt sauce and awkward on the side.

One remark stuck with me. First she said "How evil are your words?" (Thank you Patrick for putting me in the spotlight with that one) and then, this is the one that hit hardest, "If you're ashamed for your mother to see it, you shouldn't be doing it."

The ridiculous part of it all is that I wouldn't be ashamed if my mother saw it. She might cringe with embarrassment, but more than anything she would probably just shake her head and chuckle quietly. My mother isn't concerned with a game consisting of dirty words. She has acted a bit curious about where I learn all these words from.

Perhaps I'll show her UrbanDictionary one of these days.

-T.A.D.

PS: The last word we managed to make was epic. I won't repeat it in full form. I feel it's enough to say that it was a two-part word that ended with the first syllable of a certain turtle-like water Pokemon and started in a word that was very awkward when I announced my spelling of it in this form "Hey, I got _ _ _ _!!!"

If you can guess that, props. If not, sorry for wasting your time. (All TWO of you readers. Love you)

Why can't we be friends?

First of all, points to anyone who is sensing a theme in the titles (wow, all TWO of them). Yes, I love music and I am going to continue to attempt to make each blog title correspond to a song. You get brownie points if you comment with the artist and or song name. (Unless it's you, cousin Patrick)

You get the basic rules, but not the specifics. There's only so much that can be taught about being friends with people, and then you're left on your own. You don't know because maybe you aren't supposed to know. Maybe friendship, generally thought of as one of the most universally easy relationships to make and maintain, is not so simple. Friendship evolves and grows with you because friendship is as much a part of you as your nose.

Maybe that's why some people have to be taught how to share and to others, sharing is a natural instinct. We are taught that we make friends with people once we get to know them; that once we are in a friendship, we know the person. But in reality, getting to know someone and becoming friends with them are both things that need to be nurtured and continued. It is an expansive process, not just an agreement. You cannot ever know someone completely because people never stop growing. There is always more to know.

There is always more to love.

Because people never stop growing, the opportunities for change in friendships are endless. Some examples from my own life feature the good and the bad.

The bad: I've actually had this happen to me a few times. I get into these cycles where I feel like I know someone and they know me and we're both comfortable with that. Then something shifts, someone grows. And it's nobody's fault, but all of a sudden, we just don't click like we used to. While this is a hard thing to accept, I have found that letting go of blame or anger or sadness helps a lot. Two people make a friendship, and two people break a friendship. Yes, there are situations where this isn't true, where one person clearly does something that causes a fight.

The good: When I was a little kid, I used to see some of my cousins a lot more than I do now. In particular, I was really close to a cousin (let's call him Patrick) who was only four months (and four days) older than me. Then, for a multitude of reasons, almost none of them having to do with Patrick and I, we stopped seeing each other. We tried and failed to keep in touch frequently. Years went by, and it's not like I forgot about him or anything, but he just wasn't part of my life. A few summers ago, I saw him for a day. We hung out and after a few hours realized: "Holy crap. We're like... the SAME person."

I'm sitting in his house right now, after flying across the country to attend his graduation. And he's downstairs waiting to read this blog.

I think all I'm trying to say is, with friendship, you have to take the good and the bad. It's only through the bad that we grow and make room for new good. Always let people surprise you too. "Patrick" and I have a few fundamental differences, but we still end up being more similar than not.

I'll try to have something a little funnier and less... philosophical, though that's not the right word, tomorrow.

Until then,

-T.A.D.

And I wanna know... What's the name of the game?

Welcome,

You have now, either by sheer coincidence or with great (okay, maybe just halfhearted) purpose, stumbled upon my blog. ((RANDOM TANGENT: Why does Microsoft still not recognize the word “blog?” And where did the word blog as we know it actually originate? END RANDOM TANGENT.))

A little bit about myself and this blog.

I’m The Artful Dodger. My paranoia keeps me from revealing much personal info, so listen up because this is all you’re gonna get from me directly, though I’m sure you will learn more about me in coming postings. I am a student. I have a dog and a ridiculously large family (some of whom are blood related, others who are not). I consider myself to have a rather eclectic taste for music, literature, and movies. I don’t like conformation, ignorance, condescension, or disrespect. I find them all to be unattractive qualities, and I tend to avoid those who embody such qualities. I believe most of us do.

I’m a verbal thinker, so we’ll see how thinking out loud translates to blog form. I imagine that the topics I discuss will range from irrelevant but amusing to profound and intellectual (we’ll see where that goal is in a month). My aim is to make one posting per day.

A word about why I am starting this blog.

There are billions of people in the world, millions who read blogs, hundreds of thousands who write them. So what could possibly make this unique or interesting in the slightest?

Other than the hokey “everyone is different and special” answer, I have none. But I think, even though it is hokey and used over and over, it’s a viable excuse. While you may meet people like me, know people like me, or even feel like me after you read some of this blog, the simple truth is that none of those people, not even you, is me. Except me. People can have similar, even identical personalities, but try looking for two people with both identical personalities and identical life experiences.

Aha, I got you there. Maybe I didn’t and maybe you are skeptical and don’t agree. Maybe you even have scientific evidence that disproves my theory of individuality. You could agree or disagree for hundreds of reasons based on both facts and opinion. And each argument has some validity to it.

Anyhow, I’m writing this for a few reasons.

1. I believe that individuals are just that, individuals, which makes their opinions, experiences, and thoughts interesting and valuable.

2. I want to share my own opinions, experiences, and thoughts with the world.

3. I’ve been told that I’m funny and/or quick and/or annoying. All of which are qualities that could bond together to make for some good writing.

4. My favorite reason: If you can’t be a good example, you have to be a terrible warning. (Take that as you will.)

-T.A.D.