It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Tonight I sit to write in the midst of a slump, admittedly. I've shirked my daily "freewriting" duty after laying an ultimatum of sorts in my other blog, and I'll continue to shirk it in favor of writing this post. It's snowing outside, and I just went out for a walk. The beauty of the winter's first proper snow is merciless. I walked down the unplowed streets in the bitter cold. One might take many walks in his life, but few are as eventful as those in a blizzard. I encountered many facets of life in my short walk. There was a man plowing the parking lot of the office supply store at one AM, which reminded me of the efficiencies of government in contrast to the snow-laden city streets. I trotted across O Street to help shove a compact car over the drift in which it was interred, as its teenage driver spun his tires to little effect. Then I walked back in the direction of my house as the wind stabbed at my face, armed with flakes and devastating cold. I cleared my car of snow in preparation for tomorrow's work day and cursed at the pain of my frozen fingers as I fought to brush everything away.

But the obvious conflict and struggle of the cold wasn't the rub for me. The first thing that hit me after I kicked off my snowy shoes and returned my coat to the hanger was the thaw. My fingers screamed in ache as the blood was finally allowed passage. I had to lie down to avoid the queasiness caused by the sheer pain of it and I knew that when they were warm that I must write.

All my life I've expected complex problems in the context of a simple life, and I've been frustrated at every turn as I encountered the exact opposite. The problems I deal with are boringly simple. They aren't even taxing, physically, emotionally, or intellectually. In comparison, the bigger picture becomes exceedingly complex. I'm a man concerned with making some difference on a macro level, and I don't have a grasp on the simplest macro endeavors that are generally accepted as staples of American life. I'm not well-read or well-dressed. I have made virtually no progress in regards to a lasting romantic relationship in the whole of my life. A bachelor's degree, which maintains essentially the equivalency of an early 1900's high school diploma, took me six hard-fought, harrowing years to accomplish. All these years I've prided myself in attaining for a unique standard, and I'm now more convinced than ever that I'm not living up to it.

In my musing I'm brought back to the thaw. The freeze is a soft prick in comparison to the thaw. There was a quotation at work yesterday that good habits are as easy to form as bad habits. I agree with this entirely, if the starting point is neutral. However, breaking bad habits is more than just forming good ones. Breaking bad habits is brutal and disappointing. It hurts to the center of your knuckles and makes you want to vomit. Second-guessing is not allowed. The mirage of reason leads to complacency. I can't handle it. I'm not strong enough to tackle reason and thawing simultaneously. I feel simultaneously over- and underwhelmed. I'm impotent.

I'll be damned if I'm going to give up on this struggle for whatever success I'm after, but damnation seems like a viable option to me right now. Not two months ago, I went to one of my favorite spots on the planet, a valley on the Platte River, with a friend of mine and explained to him that I was dreading something terrible. I didn't know then what I expected, nor do I now, but I felt it. We had an intimate and encouraging talk, and I was pacified by my bolstered resolution to pour my efforts into my writing. I thought that, regardless of the resistance I encountered, some specificity would do me good. Now I look back and realize it may be that it's only for the progress that I'm susceptible to the stumbling, and the anxiety returns. I read what I've written in dismay. I can see no progress, and I wonder where I'll find sufficient gumption to continue before I cower in the insipid motionlessness I'm used to. I try to use an arsenal of vocabulary words to craft some grandiose thought, but I read back what I've written and I don't even want to post it to a blog that no one reads, in the off chance that they might. Things will get worse before they get better. At least, I hope so. I desperately need to thaw.

Housekeeping

Well, I failed to wake up this morning with sufficient time to do some serious writing, but I've made up for a bit of it this evening with my first freewriting session. Due to the nature of the blogosphere, the "reader" version of myself doesn't want me to post all my freewriting sessions to "Terminal Genius". He's a purist, you see, and a bit of an ass. However, for the sake of accountability, he wants to make sure I'm writing regularly. Despite his gruff exterior, he's a huge softy and just wants what's best for me and my writing career. Fine, reader-me, I'll make you another blog with only bare (and I mean BARE) minimum editing done to the fruits of my freewriting. I'm going to give it the working title, "Off the Cuff", which is super lame. I'm open to suggestions. Anyway, if I come up with anything good there, I'll edit it and post it to this blog. Look at me being all professional. I've already posted the first one.

PS - Buzz off, spell check. If "freewriting" isn't a word, it is now.

I Only Write After Films

Time for an update, lest this blog become an annual occurrence. I'm sure there would be many tears in that event. My resolve to write is usually eclipsed by my resolve to do 7,000 other things - things that may actually be more valuable. But probably not.

My whining has come full-circle now. I haven't known what the hell to do with my life for the past six years, but now I have a bachelor's degree. The ideas that most incessantly wage duels in my head are these:

1. There are wise men surrounding me who know how to live my life better than I do, and
2. I'm sunk if I can't do anything with the quarter-century of wisdom already bestowed upon me.

The lacking elements of self-actualization flutter in my head with varying levels of clarity. I need to formulate an identity; I need to gain perspective; I need to be content with remaining; I need to do my work. True that, double true.

Post-Sherlock Ramble

Every time I sit down to write in this blog, I am whelmed with the emotions that accompany resistance (a la Pressfield's "The War of Art"). Firstly, I am reminded that I am about to spend time writing in a personal blog, and blogs are generally accepted as a vast sea of ignorance and posturing to gain attention with a few shining stars of originality. I am obliged to surmount this obstacle instead of going around it, being a picky fellow and rather obsessive with protocol. If I'm going to accomplish anything with this blog, it must stand out from the others, and the reason the others are so obsequious is that they cut corners. They skirt around the stark fact that no one cares what they have to say, and say it anyway. But I am able to quell this red flag by remembering that this blog shouldn't be a channel of conformity, but a pure expression of my musings. It's easy to regurgitate information; it takes effort and intelligence to process the hell out of it, keep the good bits, and create something that is simultaneously unique and expressive. So my intention with this blog, as with all creative endeavors, is to turn it into an ATV with the purpose to not only break free of the superhighway of public outlook, but actually to work toward getting somewhere new. This in turn reminds me that in the voyage, I must ultimately be accountable to myself, and not to the established road system.

Secondly, I must acknowledge (quite paradoxically to "The War of Art" and the first paragraph) that there are people who, if I were to pump out boatloads of sensationalized, mass-opinion, group-think crap, would read it and love it, because they love me and somehow find me interesting. This step is vital for me to fight any notion of self-pity that lessens the value of the relationships I have with my people and shrug off "doing my work". Although I am internally accountable, relationships with people are central to my humanity. Being accountable to those connections isn't even necessarily contradictory to original thought; a healthy relationship should desire an ocean of creative freedom, as it benefits the writer to write and the mother to nurture.

These two aspects are where I see resistance most frequently, but today there is another beast that materialized the second I sat down to write. I had nothing I wanted to say. If I've learned anything about the writing process, it's that writer's block is best solved by putting words on the screen. This allows the thought that we're trying to reach to come out like a diamond in a stool. It also leads to a mass of writing about writer's block, but a turd is easier to polish when there's a gemstone at the center.

That said, I don't have anything to write about, but this post is for my benefit anyhow, right?

Identity

It's 7:00am and I've had less than three hours of sleep. I suppose I'm still jet-lagged, but the real ailment is lack of discipline.

I have very few habits in life, and of those, most are destructive. Lately I've finished full-time school and I'm facing independence more fully than ever before. There are certain emotions and reactions that are typical of kids in my situation, and the first mature step I want to take is to admit I'm not immune to them.

One of those feelings I am constantly tempted to believe is to doubt my readiness. Self-reflection is almost always appalling. I'm just a kid. How will I be able to do anything on my own? My habits will stifle any in-born greatness I could have hoped to realize.

Since I talked to Caleb Baber the other day, I've been thinking about identity a great deal. I think identity is a huge factor in the struggle for a life of greatness. There are many things that change the identity we use to make decisions and motivate ourselves to overcome the difficult things we need to do in life, but I think that there is an ideal identity we can strive to become. This ideal gives us the perspective we need to use our meta-knowledge to develop systems that avoid using inherent, immutable weaknesses to overcome those weaknesses caused by habit and lack of vision. I think mastery of these systems is the key to weed out the kinks keeping us from our ideal image. I'm sure this will keep me occupied for the rest of my life.

However, even mastery of this art is an ultimately negative pursuit. Like cleaning, eating, exercise, painting your house, and morality, it's an uphill battle that will remain until we've breathed our last. Familiarity with these sorts of things is non-negotiable in the process of growing up. Entropy is a reality with endless manifestations (ironically) and it is relentless in driving men crazy. Fighting it can be one of the most difficult things to decide to do when we wake up every day, but it can also turn into one of our great joys. What I am starting to understand is that our attitude toward such activities has very little to do with how good we are at it and a great deal to do with how it matches up with the identity we've set before us.

Identity is the gemstone in the crown of greatness. It gives us purpose to do things more difficult than we ever thought ourselves capable of. It is also a many-faceted stone; one can find his identity simultaneously as a businessman, a father, a brother, a friend, a husband, a hobbyist, a genius, a conscious citizen, and a Christian. Different facets are visible in different company, different places, and different times of day. The variation of these facets that comprises a single person's identity, some times additively, and others contradictorily, is beautifully complex and is the inspiration behind every permutation in every narrative throughout time.

Thus, what I am beginning to understand and prod with my thought experiments is the postulate that there is for each person a unique identity to idealize and pursue to the abandonment of certain comforts and even certain friends. The idea is very exciting, especially at this juncture. I want to live as if there is a switch to flip and be certain of every choice I have to make without deliberation and, when pressed for justification, simply cite, "Ibid". This ideal was preached to me often as a child - most frequently within a church context. At times it seemed to be touted almost exclusively as the fulfillment of righteousness. "Pray the prayer and be saved, and in all hardship refer to that day and the path will be clear." This is a great truth that is very effective in my life and will grow in its effect more and more the older I become, I am sure. But it is only true for some of the facets of my identity - the "larger" of them if you will; hinging the weight of personal righteousness on the others may well cause early hypertension. There are so many choices to be made in life(school or work? German or Computer Science? white or wheat?), and as you mature, there are smaller and more arbitrary choices to which the above philosophy provides no reference. In my case, I learned of the theology behind an entirely other Will of God that made almost every decision appear whimsical in comparison to my expectations. I thought that if my moral identity was established the other facets would follow. I had the good sense to realize that, in the event of a morally neutral decision, a wise man could take personal preference into account. But when even that became scarce, I chose based on ease, which quickly led to the absence of both choice and (presently) a college degree.

Recently I was offered the great blessing of traveling to Laos with my parents to visit my brother, who is working as Head Chef/Manager at a restaurant he helped develop. He, unlike me, actually believed that liberal arts is a heap of bunk, at least enough to forgo the typical four-year experience. Instead, he went to a two year trade school and learned solely what he wanted to do. Then he freaking did it. Since his graduation less than three years ago, he's worked on a ship, at a ski resort, and at his current position in Laos, which required him to learn the language, and where he's already been for more than a year and a half and will likely take a greater role if he wants to. His idea for culinary school began as nothing more than a whim, but while I was excusing myself from any actual responsibility to pursue my major field of study beyond graduation, he was becoming a chef. He's been many things his whole life, and a chef for three to five years, but when the acquaintances from high school see me, Eric's restaurant is most frequently the first thing they ask me about. His dedication to his identity has changed even my identity.

In conclusion, University is a terrible place to decide what to do with your life. Also, Eric - you're my hero, dude. I pray for an ounce of the balls it took you to just go into something without knowing if it would make you happy or lead to anything greater. I know far too many fun people to be bored, too many beautiful girls to be single, have too much food in the fridge to be hungry and too much brains to be poor.

I think I'm gonna go in a bit of a different direction with this. Stay tuned.

There ya go. The previous two were from my Writing and Literacy class, so I'll probably be posting more of the same in the future. But I'll try not to use them as my weekly post.

Fingers crossed.

I also wanted to make it clear that, although I haven't mentioned specific anecdotes in which my mother plays a role, she was indescribably important in my spiritual and literacy growth. That is all.

Food Court Philosophy

My seventh grade year, I had just returned to Christ is King, my small, private, christian school, after three years of homeschooling. Our principal and Bible teacher was a short, stocky, and vivacious Filipino man named Raul. As a function of the Bible class, he sequestered the top three grades at our school (7th - 9th grades), whom he called "forerunners" and formed a book club, among other things. Every Wednesday, instead of getting a packed lunch, we got money to go to the food court at the mall. There we would scootch the tables into a shape that fit us all, and disperse to purchase food. There was a dull roar that accompanied our discussion after we had all eaten. Being a slow eater, I was forced to listen to the first part of the discussion with my mouth full of some salty, greasy staple of fast food. We usually sat right next to the arcade, which was frequently a distraction. It had completely clear windows that offered a perfect view of a character on the side of one of the consoles whom my friend Lewis dubbed "steroid man". That was also back in the days when Runza used to give away free balloons, so I started getting them just to suck the helium and make my voice sound funny.

Overall it turned out to be a hit, though. The book we were assigned was called "The Crimson Tapestry" and it combined the vocabulary of a grad student in linguistics with the plot line and dialog of a horny adolescent. It remains one of my favorite books, and the conversations we had about it were revolutionary to me. Raul was a very passionate and influential man. He was constantly challenging us, especially the boys, in our thinking and worshiping habits. In every function he was involved in at the school, he called for a higher standard of maturity. To this day the seventh grade is one I point to as the one in which I grew up the most, and that primarily because of Raul.

Flags and Hot Wheels

One of the most revelatory and pivotal experiences in my life where literacy is concerned took place when I was probably around seven years old. What seemed like once a week, my dad would take my brother and me into the computer room where we had a big world map on the wall. There, we would sit and read the "Flags" section of the World Book and  memorize, putting each stripe and emblem from the encyclopedia next to a shape on the map. Every week there would be a recital of the flags we were expected to know, and for every five new flags we could name, we would get a brand new Hot Wheels car. Combined with the atlases and picture books from National Geographic, our unofficial geography lessons became a color-spangled foundation that grew into a great desire to experience all the places the world has to offer. It didn't bother us in the slightest that the scheduled time meant we couldn't play outside or on the computer, because it was just plain fun. We learned we could count on that time every week to explore and get some sweet-action toys. The combination of structure and creativity became a quality I look for in most all further discourses I encounter and plays a great role in my dissatisfaction with and under-performance in a university setting.

Scholasticism

Since it's entirely improbable that I will be able to muster two more of those posts before Friday, I'll give myself a break and post autobiographical snippets that I've been writing for class.

Aren't I kind?

Growthiness

As expected, my resolution's first deadline came and went without so much as a haiku to show for it. Since the second deadline was eclipsed by the first Husker football game, I now have three posts to write by Friday. My tardiness has one perk however. Namely, I have an easy choice for a perfect first topic: Personal Deadlines. Here we go.

I'll begin exploring the topic of deadlines using a situation I find congruent and helpful. Growing up in a Christian home, school, and church, we were often encouraged to assess our personal habits and choices to test whether or not we were "living what we believed". It didn't take long for me to notice the discrepancy, and I became very discouraged with the observation that I couldn't live up the the standard of religious living expected by my elders. There were so many ideas for applied principles that seemed like life-changing formulas for excellence after an evening in a group of like-minded folks, but far from practical in the morning or when I was alone.

Then I came across a different perspective on the matter that seems like a downer at first glance, but actually gave me a great deal of hope. I believe it was my dad who first introduced me to the concept and then it was reenforced through the various christian political functions in which I was involved. They posited that not only was it acceptable to legislate morality, it was impossible not to do so. This led to a more personal application of the postulate whose primary change was semantic, but revolutionary to me: It's impossible not to live what you believe, because your beliefs necessarily dictate your choices. The truth was naturally much more demanding than the hypothesis I grew up with. Now, there's still a bit of the old mentality that remains. It is possible to know and know about other beliefs that would be more wholesome and glorifying to God without actually believing them. It is also possible to use that knowledge to slowly change what you believe. The fundamental change for me came to a head in the difference between choices on a whim provoked by people and atmosphere, and those formed by habits and the product of consistent, deliberate exercise of will power.

This is where that situation really merges with the topic of deadlines, and where of course an excuse is required on my part. Since what one believes steers the choices he makes, the choice not to make my weekly blogging enough a priority not to forget it, it belies a baser belief that personal reflection and practice writing really isn't as important as I "know" in my head that it is. Personal deadlines, goals, and habits and the active responses that result ultimately make up one's discipline; discipline to a large extent defines maturity, and maturity leads to and is a form of excellence. Does that mean that my lack of response at first necessarily means that I'm immature? Yes. But my resolve to finish this post and catch up to the originally scheduled deadline represents growth, which leads me to the bright side of my above discovery.

Learning about the nature and definition of "belief" sparked a potent course of development in my spiritual development above everything else. Operating simultaneously on this new knowledge and the knowledge that without the actual, visible work of the gospel I would care nothing for a more perfect belief system, I began to notice that "living what I believed", which was called for by the christian culture at large, was primarily a call to respond to an emotional high. While there is nothing wrong with responding to one's feelings, or using them to perform otherwise difficult tasks, that pressure nearly overlooked the power of effecting an entire lifestyle and worldview that allows me to even sort through these emotions.

In closing, and in light of the above information, there are three things that have risen above the rest in my life as being beacons of God's work for me:


In ascending order,
3) My home church's devotion to world missions
2) The patience and loyalty of my friends
1) My parents' and their parents' lasting marriages

A Quick One

Dear diary,

I'm resolving this semester to write on my blog at least once a week. I might put a minimum word limit just to make sure I don't cheat. The first post is due Friday, August 26th. (The night of Jared and Jenna's rehearsal dinner.)

Boom!

kent

Ein Schritt

I have been thinking a lot lately about graduation. I have made the hard decision to let that be an ends in itself. The tough thing about this is that I don't hold any of its value as intrinsic. There's nothing about the nature of putting in the endless hours of tedium in order for the University to give me a gilt sheet of paper that says I'm a Bachelor of Arts. What does that even mean?

Without going into the ridiculous blind worshiping of college degrees that is clear in our culture, I want to go into my decision-making process. This is more for my benefit than anyone else's, but here is my reason: It's hard.

I had never struggled until school until college, being blessed with a healthy intellect, a knack for befriending teachers and parents who were immeasurably helpful with schoolwork. But in college I encountered a problem I didn't expect would be my downfall. Life unfolded itself before my eyes, and I saw paths besides the ones that funneled through a college degree. Like an electron seeking the path of least resistance, I found that not only were there ways around the load that was school's tepid busywork, but that, in my unambitious 360° view of what I expected from life, it was literally the only one there.

I shirked for a year, took off school wanting to prove that I could make a life without the cushion a Bachelor's Degree offered. But after a while of trying to swim upstream, I realized I was swimming in a lake. I expected the adults in my life, having grown up in a generation that viewed school as a necessity, to capitulate to my second-rate choice with forgiveness in their eyes assuring me that I had had good intentions. This was not at all my experience. They ensured me that they felt the same way, and were proud that I was standing firm in my beliefs. Not a soul uttered a contrary word. So it was that I again found myself on a plane extending in every direction, the only obstacle in view my degree.

I first wandered back to the University literally because it was the only significant direction. I didn't care about grades. I could play intramural soccer and live the life of a student with all the subsidies and none of the ambition. I lived here for another three semesters, trying to find a major that would spark some sort of desire to create, to find a field I could become an expert in and not resent. There were definitely bright spots, but nothing that really took, and I drove myself to the point where I wanted to drop out again in December, never really having hoped to complete school.

Here, I was given a providential shove I didn't want, and certainly didn't deserve: I passed a class I should and thought I would have failed. It was from then to now that I realized that I had missed the purpose of the one blip on my radar. I thought it was insignificant. I grew surer by the semester that the academic accomplishment I would achieve from overcoming it would offer me no lasting satisfaction or skill. Honestly, to this day, I doubt that it will. What came to me since the New Year is that the challenge was far more than scholastic. Since my graduation in 2006, I have heaped all my apathy and disdain upon the education system and its flaws. Now I see that that pile, the only blemish on my otherwise spotless plane of potential, itself is the very challenge that my perfectionism in decision-making can latch onto. This has more benefits than just the personal accomplishment or even the ability to look past frivolity in tasks I will need to do to provide for myself; I now discover its relevance in an array of relationships in which performing annoying tasks show patience and care, and supply its very building blocks. Surmounting my own loathing to do a task I find needless at best, suddenly offers a meaningful destination and a transferable skill.

In actually living this out, I have compiled a semester of classes that will be very trying on me. After this battery, however, I will have a semester of reprieve before I will have the required amount of hours to graduate. To that end I have both a plan and a wish. Now I can begin to climb the berg, made greater for the emotional weight, greater still for the years I built habits upon laziness and whimsy. I plod on knowing that I'm single-handedly responsible for my own annoyance, but believing in the joy I will find on the other side of the mountain.

People

You know, people read these things.
It's not what you think.

Snow is a catalyst

I was inspired by my friend, Lori Taylor, to write a sentiment that I've long felt, but never expressed in writing. I've noticed an astonishingly parallel plot line as I've grown older. It's faint and seldom visible, but follows me diligently, a Gollum with no aim beyond curiosity about how I will react to it. Many large themes in the Venn diagram of my life have begun to appear within that portion of my experience labeled "Snow".

When I was a kid, I needed no excuse (and used every one I could muster) to play in snow. We had some remarkable snowfalls in my youth, and I love making snow caves and forts and men and having snowball fights. The lack of responsibilities made loving snow impossibly easy in those days. As I grew up and began to be exposed to media expressing more adult viewpoints, I began to notice a bitterness among responsible, productive members of society regarding snow. It seemed to be a great standby in conversation that if nothing better came to mind, relaying the degree to which one detests snow would invariably find some inkling of common ground in the relationship. Again, in stark parallel to this idea other things that I took for granted, things I had no reason to question were suddenly called childish. There was erected a great framework of rules, roles and expectations that became the definition of my breeding, success and, to some extent, value to society. And this is not to understate the purpose of this structure; there is certainly great influence and beauty to be shared striving toward a life full of order and discipline. However, as I began to be instructed and participate in the rituals of our culture, I was profoundly blessed by a lesson that seems to elude many people. In the midst of the whirlwind of adolescence and the discovery of my place in the community, one of my teachers gave me a key that I will never forget. He taught us to "take play seriously". It was somewhat of a revelation to my young adult mind that the truss-work of discipline that I had warmed to and finally accepted wasn't the end-all in life. There is another vital part that consists of what looks like selfish indulgence in comparison to the hard work and productivity that are so necessary to provide for one's self. It struck a chord with me only because there was an undeniable longing for the innocent energy that was so commonplace in my youth. This principal taught me that these two desires weren't mutually exclusive, but each was necessary to the other to realize their relative fruition. Snow, like innocence, is a structure in and of itself. It takes regularly setting aside time to practice the transfer from one mindset to another.

To this day I can use snow as a barometer for my attitude toward life. It should set off a red flag for me if the tedium of scooping snow ruins my unadulterated love of the way it completely transforms the world around me. Beyond that snow is the perfect play material, the still, muffled quiet of a recent snow lit by streetlamps never fails to take my breath away.

I'm sure there will be snow in heaven.

Existence

I just got this crazy Dyna-Flex thing from my friend. It's a workout tool of sorts. You're supposed to spin it with a string like a gyroscope, and then rotate your wrists to make the inner wheel spin faster and create a greater resistance to your wrist motions. It's kinda counter-intuitive, especially when it moves slowly at the beginning. I had to endure many awkward attempts to get the swing of things, but now I can get it going almost every time.

A couple guys and I were talking about making a trip to South America a while ago. I said to them, "I know a month down the road we're gonna forget all about this, so I'm going, whether you guys come or not." I love inspiring moments like that, but I don't think I can endure another one unfulfilled. (I'm going back to school this semester, and it's not in South America.) I think I'll use this Dyna-Flex as a reminder of what I know I need to do.

The only reason I write this is because I just watched the movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." It made me see, if only until I go to bed, an aspect of life I rarely notice. Life takes many feeble attempts to really get tickin'. I feel like every day begins with an initial spin, and as of this moment, I haven't really been able to apply the knowledge I've learned about actually living it. But then I suppose that's been because my attempts have been shamefully few. In the film, Joel (Jim Carrey) meets the love of his life, Clementine (Kate Winslet), but doesn't allow himself to share his emotions. We get glimpses of some traumatic experiences he endured which hint at a trend of let-downs that might explain why he's such an island when it comes to feelings. I empathize with him quite a bit, but seeing the consequences of his emotional forfeit from an outside perspective makes me realize that any greatness or extraordinariness I wish I had in my life takes as payment the pain, shame and awkwardness I fear more strongly than death. I only now realize that I need to stop making oaths to myself in hopes that some extenuating slip of Murphy's Law will send me skyrocketing into my dreams. I'm not the one on whom their fulfillment lies. Only God knows what will truly rectify my dispair and failures to act. I can but rely on His teachings and trust the perverted advise of His depraved followers will somehow be unveiled as the unique antidote for the nitpicky pangs in my soul.

"WE BE WEBLOGGING," SAYS WITNESS

I've slacked. Even though Colby's the only other one who's read this blog, I should be more disciplined with my creative writing. I need an outlet. I will make this blog my new year's resolution, so it has relatively little consequence when I either forget or refuse to do it in my normative state of mind. Here are some tools to help me in my weblogging endeavor:

http://www.dictionary.com/
http://www.thesaurus.com/
http://www.freerice.com/
http://www.something.com/
http://dict.leo.org/
http://www.gizmodo.com/

Love,
Kent

RADIOHEAD FREAKING AWESOME

Watch this and melt into serenity.