To Danny

It's been a while. And the circumstances which have inspired me to write are much less than desirable. A good man has died.

My great Uncle Danny barely knew me, yet, he spent a generous chunk of change to send me to college. His financial support depended upon attending a catholic university, and it just so happened that the Catholic University of America was my school of choice.

I am not a religious person.

He did not ask questions. Before college, I would not have been able to recognize Uncle Danny in a crowd of old people. In fact, I'm not sure I would be able to recognize him among the living, today.

Someone once asked me if I felt hypocritical attending Catholic University under false pretenses- the assumption of my generous uncle believing he was fostering my catholic spirit. A little guilty, I've felt, at times. I've never felt hypocritical. My uncle never asked if I went to church each weekend or took part in campus ministry activities. He never asked if I believed in god. He only asked that I retain an average gpa, which I did.

I wrote him a thank you letter at the conclusion of each year, notifying him of my accomplishments and the new goals I had set for myself. I always seemed to write with new found determination to make my way in some field of study that I had changed, a few too many times.

I sent him souvenirs I had purchased when the Pope visited campus.

I called him when his wife died.

I sent him my graduation photograph.

I learned he became ill with esophageal cancer. I heard he couldn't swallow solid food. I heard he couldn't speak much above a whisper. But I also heard he made a point of hitting Atlantic City to gamble and enjoyed his scotch at his favorite local bar when he could. God bless the old Irish spirit.

I visited him in assisted living. He was enjoying a baseball game on TV. On his table, he had displayed my letters, gifts, and, my picture. I was told he was proud but didn't know until I saw it for myself, laid out in front of me.

Uncle Danny was a selfless giver. He gave to me and never thought twice about it. And, my collegiate success was a gift to him.

He truly saw life as a gift. Even after the death of his wife and while enduring his failing health.

I look up to this. I'd like to see things his way, too.

Whether or not life is a gift from god is an uncertainty I have struggled with. I have profound doubts. And to write truthfully, I'm not usually a fan of the religious folk. Danny didn't have doubts. Danny was a good person, and I don't doubt that he is at peace.

Alcohol, it's not just for breakfast.

Last evening, I fell asleep on the metro ride home from the bar.

Sorry, let me correct that.

Early this morning, I passed out on the metro ride home from the 3 bars and 1 comedy show.

Alone, I woke up when a passenger told me we had reached the final stop and I needed to get off the train. Extremely drunk and only partially conscious, I stumbled off, more than confused. Fuck, I was at the last stop in MARYLAND. OK, I thought, just catch the train going in the other direction and go home.

So, I waited. No train. What time did trains stop running on a Friday? I had no idea, at that moment I was too drunk to remember my own name.

I approached a metro worker and said- let's be honest- I slurred, "whaattiiime doo trainsstopp runninng I don'tseee nothher traainn acomingg, sssooonnn...?"

Metro worker: "What?"

Me: : Blink ::

Metro worker: "Where are you going?"

Me: "Takkomaa. Felll assleeep..."

Metro worker: "Get back on that train and STAY AWAKE."

Me: "Oh itsss goinngg to goo backwardss???"

Metro worker, after a brief pause: "GET ON THE TRAIN AND DON'T FALL ASLEEP."

So, I stumbled back on the train. Don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep. Did my adventure stop there? Oh, of course not.

The car I chose to board contained a passed out individual- a young male, around my age, perhaps a year or so younger. In my intoxicated state, I made it my mission to wake this guy up.

I'm not sure if there was another passenger in the train car with us, but it must have been an odd scene. At first, I just slurred "HEEEY" very loudly. No response. I proceeded to clap in his face for about 30 seconds. Nothing. Finally, I slugged him in the shoulder. He opened his eyes wide and I saw that they were red and bloodshot. I sat down in the seat in front of him and told him he had fallen asleep.

The following sequence of events are a blur (which I only partially blame alcohol for) but give me reason to suspect that E may have been a player in his fucked up state.

Suddenly, he was conscious and sitting on the seat next to me, his arm around me, staring intently into my eyes. Uh...? Hi? Our conversation on the metro ride back, which may or may not have been traveling backwards, consisted of him trying to convince me to come back to his place to get it on and me telling him my name was Jessie. The guy was intent on us hooking up and I was intent on creating an alias. Somewhere in that exchange, I provided him my digits and looking back at drunken texts, I read:

Him: "Jesse?"

Me: "No... Jesse?"

Him: "Haha, no, Mike."

I was too drunk to give out my name.

Needless to say, I made it home last night, alone. I woke up early, with a vague and blurred memory of the random adventure that was my metro ride home. I wondered if I would hear from "Mike."

I did.

At about 11 AM I received a text that said "I have a girlfriend Haha".

Blacking out the friction

If you know me, you know that I lose things, a lot. And quite often, alcohol is involved. In my collegiate, undergrad days, I had to replace an entire wallet and its contents, twice. I had to replace dorm room keys, track down a cell phone, and get a new Cardinal card and a new debit card on one, too many, occasions. For the most part, the stories that accompany my drunken escapades that involve losing my shit are hilarious and could be recorded and chronicled in a collection that could be published and perhaps entitled "I Hope They Serve Rum at the Lost and Found."

Considering doing that.

It has occurred to me, upon reflection of recent events, that not much has changed since college. I have lost my debit card twice since mid-February. I lost a very personal journal during a blacked-out, but apparently adventurous and risky, evening in Atlantic City, that involved gallivanting in the parking garages and on the rooftop of Bally's. I awoke that morning with my shoes on, missed calls at 5 AM, and the jumbled memory of attempting to get into my hotel room using a Points Rewards Card. My wallet was devoid of cash and my debit card was missing, again. My purse was devoid of my journal.

I may have a problem.

Losing my journal was far worse than anything else I have ever lost in the history of my drunken losses. The history of my drunken losses is, as noted, quite extensive. I have suffered in the aftermath the inability to pay for myself, to prove I am old enough to drink, to unlock my own door. But losing cards and keys is temporary and they are replaceable. Losing personal thoughts and insights, jotted down dreams and quickly dashed observations, the seeds of poems and stories, and the solutions to problems conjured in the middle of the night, are infinitely irreplaceable. I can't order copies or excavate their skeletons from my brain. This may be worse than the painfully, pulsing reality: someone else, freely, has access to them all.

This weekend I experienced a similar loss. It seems the hard drive of my computer has malfunctioned and I need a new one. This time, alcohol was not involved. Did I back up my files? The vital question. The answer is: no. I can hear the fatal tone of a lifeline running limp.

All of my stories, poems, documented thoughts. Gone. Instantly.

I need a drink.

Why do I run?

Because I feel fucking cool when I do.

Since I quit dance after high school, running has become my choice of exercise. This is odd because in high school I attempted track and quit 4 times in 2 weeks. I ended up assisting in managing the team's scores because I wasn't allowed to quit anything. Yeah, I felt reeally cool.

It's somewhat ironic that that is what running does for me now- makes me feel cool. I started concentrating on running freshman year of college when the freshman 15 began adding up and adding to my waistline. Running for me, started on the treadmill at my college gym. I picked the treadmill because it seemed the most intense of the cardio workouts and I'm competitive when it comes to fitness. I remember the first time I stepped on that treadmill- I was sucking wind after half a mile. One mile was torture to get through. Turns out I wasn't in such great shape and it wasn't so easy to feel good, competitively.

For whatever reason, I kept up work on the treadmill and it was such a sense of accomplishment when I was able to run a mile without sucking wind. One mile turned into two, two miles turned into three, and so on. I have since also completed a handful of 5k's, as running has extended to the outdoor course.

My favorite running story is this: I used to run outside with my very tall, long-legged, roommate (at the time). Being so long-legged, her strides were much wider than mine; I would have to run to keep up with her jog. It was the summertime, and we decided to run down to campus. I was running fast to keep up pace with her, and we were rounding a bend along a busy street, when my shoe lace got caught on an uprooted wire fence. The damn thing caused my foot to fly out from under me. I was totally not expecting this- I was running full speed one minute and eating dirt the next minute. Not to mention, I had fallen in front of a huge line of traffic. This was extremely embarrassing and I'm positive people in their cars were laughing. Initially, I wanted to cry. I stood up and took a deep breath. My knees and hands were bleeding dirty blood. My roommate asked me if I wanted to walk back home. I considered this- but I decided to finish. I made sure all of the people in their cars saw me pick up my pace, instead of limp back home. I finished the run.

Another sense of accomplishment (oddly).

Whenever I finish a run, I feel accomplished. Whenever I finish a run that I ran longer or faster, I feel more than accomplished. I beat myself. This is another reason I enjoy running so much- it allows me to compete against myself. It's a time when I feel in my own head and in the zone with myself. I feel focused and whole. It's me against me.

Today I went for a run outside, which I have not done all winter. It was a nice change in challenge. Plus, I like to think that the people I run past in their cars or on the sidewalk look at me with a sort of admiration- perhaps even envy. They are impressed, for sure. This is probably a sick fantasy and I realize that. But it helps keep me running, so I will let myself have it.

Give me the treadmill or the outdoors. I'll run either way.

People have asked me numerous times why I like to run. And I never tell them all of this- it's too long winded and reflective. I usually respond weakly, "I don't know, its a good exercise." That response, though weak, is usually sufficient. I have been thinking about the answer to this question lately, however, because I encountered an individual who was not sufficed by my response. The issue was pushed,"Why run? You're not going anywhere." "Why compete with yourself? You should compete with other people."
I sort of just gave up responding after that.

I've had some time to think, and, the more I think- to sum up- I run because it makes me feel good, all around. I feel good about myself as a runner. I feel cool being able to say I'm a runner and cool when I'm running in front of other people. Even when I fall down, I feel cool when I pick myself back up and finish, bloody knees and all. I have a comedic war story to tell.

So that's what I will say next time I am asked why the hell I run. I will say because it makes me feel cool. And if that's not enough, I'll challenge the challenger to a race.

"Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting..."

Last Sunday morning, I woke up and my shoe was in my purse. That morning "confusion" was an understatement.

I awoke face planted in the middle of my friends fold down couch. A sleeping bag was covering me. All of my clothes from the night before were still on, except for my shoes. Sitting up, slowly, my first thought was "What happened last night?" My second thought was "Did I do anything stupid?" My third thought was "Where is my coat and where is my purse?"

Peering through the curtain of glittering dots that had draped before my eyes, I spotted my friend curled up in the big round chair (which I later described as a dog bed) to my right. We'll call him B-man.

He woke up and I exclaimed "Where is all my stuff?!" He appeared as confused by the morning as I was.

Upon standing, I realized I was still very drunk. I also knew that I remembered absolutely nothing past a certain point at the bar.

I located by purse and my jacket in a pile in the corner of the room. Opening my purse, I found one of my shoes. Immediately, I began to crack up. Turning to B-man, I said through laughter, "Oh man, my shoe was in my purse! How did this happen and where is my other one?"

"Oh, I put it in there because it kept falling off. And I don't know, your other shoe is probably outside." This was the matter-of-fact response I received from my very practical friend.

The sun was cruel blaring through the open door, bouncing brightly off the frozen snow covered earth. Sure enough, a lone, little, black flat lay about 20 feet from the door. It was resting on the smooth snow, next to a ditch that quite possibly was a body imprint.

B-man went to retrieve my shoe as my other friend, we'll call him P-man, burst out of his bedroom door. He exclaimed "WHAT HAPPENED?! I don't remember anything!"

Beer. Video games. Tequila shots. More beer. More shots. A bar. More beer. That's what happened.

Deciding it was smart to get breakfast before any of us hit the road, we stumbled to the local diner in search of fresh air, carbohydrates, and sobriety. B-man was able to recount some of our adventures from the night before and offer some explanations to the morning's mysteries. Apparently, the three of us "fell" out of the bar at closing. I then fell in the middle of the street and cars had to stop. People were looking. B-man said it's good that I don't remember this.

B-man had to help me stumble home and I kept losing my shoe. This is why he put it in my purse (thanks). P-man disappeared, on the phone with his girlfriend. Later we found out that he had told her we were on our way home and were alphabetizing, L for land and O for ocean. He also had denied being drunk.

B-man struggled to get my drunk-ass home and we made it to P-man's house, where P-man suddenly reappeared. Sensing the vulnerability of B-man and myself, P-man seized the opportunity to tackle both of us into the snow, where I lost my other shoe. It was a man-made ditch.

Somehow, we all made it inside, where we spent at least 10 minutes lying on the floor. I then face planted in the middle of the couch (no room for B-man) and P-man neatly folded his jacket (haha), got himself a glass of water, and passed out. This is unusual for P-man. B-man covered me with his sleeping bag and then promptly threw up (which is probably why he remembers so much). He then curled up in P-man's dog bed of a chair until morning.

There exists speculation over whether or not the three of us attempted to play video games before passing out. If we did, we were highly unsuccessful.

Parting ways, we spoke excitedly about making plans to do this all over sometime. I think we all know, deep down, that such times cannot be planned and that's why they are great and priceless. And we all know we are going our separate ways. I was heading back to my life in DC and B-man was flying out the next day for an interview in Washington state. Getting together is not so easy. But it is possible and the future looks hopeful because of this.

Before leaving, I noticed P-man (being a writer) had quotes from writers on his wall. I picked up one by Foster: "Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting." I completely agree.

They are more like guidelines, anyway...

1. The truth is right.

2. The truth is universal.
2a. Relativism is negated by contradiction.

3. To each his own.
3a. Judgment is inevitable.
3b. Your way is okay if it's not hurting another. Okay does not mean right.

4. One must strive not to be hypocritical in all action, thought, and intention.

5. A person's ability to change relies on an existing potential to change.
5a. Some people are just screwed.
5b. A person can only change for himself.

6. Treat others as you would like to be treated.
6a. Don't ever expect this in return- you will never get what you think you deserve this way.

7. Expectations set the stage for disappointment and lay the foundation for a worrisome and stressful life. They can make you demanding and bitter.
7a. This is exhausting.
7b. This is illogical- everyone wants to be happy.

8. Second chances are debatable, very often untimely, and highly situation dependent.

9. Emotions can complicate the truth- always be weary of cognitive dissonance to avoid such complications.
9a. The truth, very often, hurts, a lot.
9b. Denial is not a better way. Ignorance is not bliss. These things catch up with you.

10. It is important to take the time to do things that are good for your soul (and by soul I mean your personal energy and your mind; your general sense of self).
10a. Poetry is good for the soul.
10b. Chocolate is good for the soul.
10c. Acoustic guitar is good for the soul.
10d. Laughter is great for the soul.
10e. Chicken soup is debatable (couldn't resist, haha).

11. Accept yourself within the context of your abilities and your limitations. This is you, truly. And this is okay.

Now bring me that horizon...

And we'll all float on...

Driving north on I-95, I was feeling kinda down. I found myself listening to depressing music and engaged in circular thinking (which can lead to insanity, I hear). Realizing I needed to take action and break the cycle, I turned on "Float On" by Modest Mouse. This is a song that reassures me everything's going to be okay. In need of some reassurance, I turned it up. The speed of my car increased with the song's volume.

My favorite part of the song is the part that goes "I backed my car into a cop car the other day, but he just drove off, sometimes life's okay." That part was coming up, adrenaline began to pump, and I was preparing to belt out these lyrics. I was speeding. I looked to my left and who was driving beside me? A cop.

Immediately, I hit the breaks. "Fuckkkk" is what I belted out instead. I watched the number on my speedometer quickly reduce to a speed that was only a few digits above the legal limit. He would pull me over for sure- I was guilty of speeding and it was obvious I knew that. Only, he didn't pull me over. He drove off. And it was okay. This all seemed to take place during the 11 seconds of that part of the song.

I cracked up. I started laughing, hyterically. Coincidence? I watched the cop car disappear ahead of me.

I know not getting pulled over for speeding is not exactly the same thing as not getting arrested for backing into a cop car. But, I still found meaning in the alignment of these song lyrics and my life. In that moment, I was able to laugh and I was okay. I was floating on.