Granted, I’m not still planning on being a professional baseball player who is also an esteemed archaeologist, but somewhere inside me I still believe there’s something bigger for me to do in this life. When I step back from myself and look at the combination of fuck-ups and accomplishments…well, I guess I figure I’m about even.

…and even is a great place to start.

Over the years there have been a lot of people who believed in me more than I ever could. When I graduated from high school it made me all sentimental to look back on the ones who had once put me onto their shoulders and hoisted me up when I needed them to. People…once saw potential in me.

Those people aren’t around in my life the way all of the great teachers and coaches once were. Maybe…maybe nobody believes in me anymore.

I’m pretty sure my own father doesn’t. I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten the day six years ago when he said to me, ‘son, if you get the chance, if you see that ball on the ground…you have to pick it up and run with it, and you can’t stop, never let yourself quit until you’re in that sweet, sweet end-zone. Because son, nobody can ever take that away from you.’ I cried then because I felt how much he believed in me. I’m crying now because I know just how little faith he still has in me. He told me never to quit…and I quit a lot of times. There’s really no way around that. I quit running, I quit school to join the Navy, and then I fucking quit the Navy. But the most important thing I ever quit wasn’t running or school or a stupid job…it was me. I quit on myself. How could I have ever expect anyone to believe in me?

Realistically, there have been a lot of people in my life who have told me I’d never be what I wanted to be. I think there are more of those people now than ever before, and in lieu of someone to lift me up…I’m using that as fuel to lift myself up. Don’t ever tell me…that I can’t do something. If you do, you’re going to get it thrown back in your stupid face.

The saddest part, is that even though you don’t want me to get to the top of the mountain, I don’t really want to get there if you’re not going to be there for me to hug you and thank you for giving me what I needed.

So, maybe I’ll send you a thank you card.

-J

It’s been over a week since the object of my affection decided that after not having any real feelings for me for almost three months…she was in love with my brother.

I’m trying to be ok with everything, because ultimately, it’s going to be this way no matter what I think. I can’t hate my brother for taking her and  I can’t hate her for wanting him. In the end, I can only hate myself. Maybe it only hurts because I’m so shocked…but should I be? I’m surprised that my brother of all people would do this…but he doesn’t have any self-control, so I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me. He’s always been envious of the older brother who had things going for him…I suppose this was his opportunity to knock me down.

But I’m back on my feet. This is why I have so much music to listen to.

And…that’s about all I have in me. I thought I felt like writing, but I just feel like laying here.

-J

Two saturdays ago, I was playing in a softball tournament and had a head on collision with another player…yup, neither of us saw the other…in any case, it was pretty brutal.  I ended up with the left side of my face smashed up and had to have surgery to make sure I wouldn’t look like a freak for the rest of my life. Yes, I know what you’re all thinking. Shut the fuck up, I’m part terminator now (yup, metal plates in my face). I’ll fuck you up, bitches.

So why didn’t I blog about that whole ordeal while it was all going on? Easy. I was too busy working all day and sleeping all afternoon/night, all knocked out on pain meds. Broken bones hurt. But hey, I’m back. Developed a little addiction to morphine, though…can someone pass the heroin?

I’d been seeing a girl for about 2 months. Well, kinda. Ok, not really. Maybe I just wanted it to feel real so badly that I pretended it was? She’s a real girl, she exists, I swear…but she’s not good for me, as a lover or a friend. A guy like me shouldn’t have to deal with feeling like shit about himself because he feels like a stupid girl would like him more if only he was…taller…bigger…darker…I’m white, I’m short, and I’m sure as hell not very big (and I’ve lost weight, too, so I probably weigh like 150 now,  who knows).

The point is…sometimes, even though you don’t hate someone…you have to make a clean break because you know deep down, that in the long run she’s just going to cause  you a lot more heartache than you need in your life.

That said, I’m moving on. If she reads this, at least she’ll have her reason, unreasonable as it may seem to her. But I guess it’s good that I left you out of all the blogs I wrote about times we spent together, huh? That should make it easier to hide you in the back of the walk-in storage closet in my head, under some old, moth-eaten thoughts.

I found out last week that I need 37 more credits to graduate by spring…I’m starting to wonder if it’ll be possible, but maybe I don’t need to rush so much? Maybe I’ll just take the same kinda schedule I had last year and take a class or two next summer. I could graduate in August 2010. I’d rather be done right now, but that’s not really an option. If only I hadn’t failed two classes last year, I’d have an easier track. But what can you do?

It’s hard to believe we’re halfway through fucking July already, isn’t it? I don’t remember summer flying by like this when it was just a three month break from school and I could spend everyday riding around town on my bike, getting into trouble…ohhh, trouble.

Who is sick to hell of seeing celebrity death stories on primetime television news every other night? I think if a few more keel over, they’ll have themselves a fucking reality show out of it. They could call it America’s Next Dead Celebrity, and everyone would watch it.

I have to work 12:30-11:30 four days per week and honestly, it’s not that bad. I mean, fuck, I get three days off every week! The team I’m on isn’t too bad, either…but the giant, disgusting, hideous fat girl who sits next to me smells like fucking foot cheese.

Today I locked myself out of my apartment because I was texting and leaving at the same time. Didn’t need to lock the door, but I did without thinking about it, and without grabbing my keys. I had to belly-slide through my bathroom window to get back in, but I didn’t fall and hit my face on a sharp edge or hard surface, I’d call that straight Macguyver.

-J

That said, last night I was walking and I decided I needed to write a nice, long list about why it sucks to be a ginger.

1.  The sun is not my friend, no matter how much I want it to be. Feelin’ that bright sunshine on my shoulders usually only means that my entire body has microscopic fires raging all over it’s surface. Every singer who has ever sung a song about the bright sunshine has neglected to think about people of a light complexion. On top of that, I have to feel all hot and nasty because my skin has little microscopic fires burning all over it. Thanks a lot sun. Somebody get me some SPF 900.

2. Because the sun only makes my skin burn/freckle/peel/eventually turn white again, no girl will ever fantasize about me. ‘I like tall, dark men’ is something that will never, ever apply to me. If a girl likes redheads, she tends to hide it from her friends out of shame. Fucking awesome. My skin lacks melanin and my hair is fiery, thanks a lot gene pool.

3. Younger, more desirable women may be ashamed when they think redheads are hot, but the old, wrinkly ones never are. This is why I developed the ‘mommy leg hide’ syndrome at a young age. ‘OH! Your red hair is so pretty!’ *cheek pinch* The thought makes me cringe…and it’s also part of why I’m afraid of nursing homes. When will old people realize that their opinions don’t matter?

4. If I ever have to hear another dickhead old man call me ‘Red’ I’m going to punch him in the esophagus. ‘Do you mind if I call you Red?’ they usually ask, and then, without your ok, they just start calling you Red. Somehow they think it’s an endearing term and that it’s also really original. Yea, like no one ever thought to call a kid with red hair Red, buddy. Don’t you think mayyybe I have another name that doesn’t have anything to do with the color of my hair? If my parents hated me enough to name me Red or Rusty or something like that, they would’ve named me Red or Rusty or something like that. ‘Hey bald old man, would you mind if I called you baldy?’ STFU.

5. As a youth, I got to deal with all kinds of fun-poking from the other kids in school for no other reason than that I was a fucking ginger. The problem with jokes about redheads is that they’re so overdone. If I had a dollar for everytime someone has thrown into regular conversation with me that they wanted to beat me like a redheaded stepchild, I’d be an annoyed, but happier millionaire. Redheaded stepchildren don’t get beaten any worse than any other stepchildren. And I’m not a fucking stepchild. Unlike your idiotic, white-trash parents, mine aren’t divorced.

6. For some stupid reason, everyone seems to think that if a blonde or a brunette has pubes that match, a redhead must …be a total fucking mystery. ‘Does the carpet match the curtains?!’ they ask with that shit-eating grin and a snicker. Well, here’s an answer in the form of a question. What the fuck do you think? Would you like to see them? Blow me.

7. ‘And you must be Irish, right?’ is a question I shouldn’t have to fucking hear, but because everyone lives in a fucking fantasy world where only Irish people have red hair, I get to field it regularly. I’m not Irish, and no, I don’t have any lucky charms for you to seek. Do you see a rainbow? Do I speak in an odd, easily misunderstood english dialect?

8. Lastly, because the population of redheads in the world is low enough to make us an endangered fucking species, I have a smaller number of celebrities to be compared to. Let’s see, Sherman from American Pie? Seth Green? Fucking Carrot Top? Danny Bonaducci? I want to point out that half of the celebrities I get compared to take HGH and steroids. Carrot Top has absolutely no comic talent and is regularly strung out on god knows what, and Sherman requires no comment. So who am I stuck with? Seth fucking Green. The best celebrity I can hope to be compared to is short and constantly typecast in films. But hey, I guess he’s had a fair amount of post-Special K (Can’t Hardly Wait) success on Adult Swim, which includes programming with absolutely no iq requirement.

With that, I’m going to go take a cold shower, because I’m bathing in sweat right now. To all of the gingers out there, don’t listen when assholes tell you you’re a soul-less daywalker. If that were true, everything would make too much fucking sense.

-J

But when I put on some music…sometimes maybe Billy Idol comes on…and reminds me of the nights I used to spend ‘dancing with myself’ to the Walkman my dad got me for Christmas when I was six. That was a memorable Christmas because I had to open my gift from dad and listen to him say, ‘didn’t I tell you I’d get you something good?’ on the phone from Korea. Thinking back on things like that…remembering how good it felt to hear his voice on the other end from the other side of the world…and how I used to wonder how it could be a totally different day there then it was here…sometimes it makes me cry to think about how long ago it was.

Awhile ago, I can’t say for sure how long…I started to die inside. Lately…I’ve started to feel like…

I’ve started to feel again.

I’m rising from the pit of despair…

I can finally see the sun.

It still hurts but I don’t care.

I feel like Ali must’ve when he knocked out George Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle.

If I had the chance, I’d ask the world to dance…-Billy Idol

I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go…all I need is to hear a song I know…-Jimmy Eat World

More and more often…I do.

-J

This weekend I drove home to pick up my younger brother because today is his birthday and I wanted to celebrate with him. Of course, when I got there, I found out that he was working all day. So, I sat down in dad’s garage and watched him get pissed off. He screams the most hilarious little made-up obscenities. Cocksucker, Harold!

When we finally headed back to town, it was late afternoon, but it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t much going on until later, anyway. By then, I’d had two of dad’s beers, and when we got back  I immediately went through a few of my own. So did Jake. The problem with Jake was that he had just started taking his medication again, and it’s the kind of medication that goes poorly with alcohol. Of course, he was well-aware of this fact, but when I warned him about it he just said, ‘no…it isn’t supposed to be taken with alcohol…but I’ve never really had a reaction…’ as he swallowed his pill and washed it down by slamming a warm Blue Moon in the passenger seat of my car.

Let’s flash forward about six hours. Jake has tits in his face and we’re all in the front row at the strip club. I’ve had about 10-12, but I’m ok. The night is slowing down for me. Jake hasn’t had as many as I have…in fact, he hasn’t had anywhere close. There was even a 1-2 hour period when I didn’t let him drink. When the dollars run out, we move back a row. Jake has to go to the bathroom. He goes.

Twenty minutes later it occurs to me that I haven’t seen him in about…twenty minutes. I decide to get up to go look for him. He’s not in the bathroom. Why the fuck would he be in there? That’d be too fucking convenient. I start to get the feeling that something’s a bit rotten in the state of Denmark right as I open the front door to find out that something is. Jake, my dear brother, has  been thrown out…of a fucking strip club…

I get a hold of him just in time to keep the cops from carting him off, sit him down, and remind him that he gets off probation in a week. At this point I must seem completely sober, but some dickface cop comes up to the two of us and asks me, ‘do you know this guy?’ ‘Yes, sir, he’s my brother,’ I reply.  ‘He can’t be here. he’s too drunk,’ he says. ‘I know,’ is all I can muster in reply without throwing a table at him. Dick.

I quickly run inside and close my tab, leaving one nearly full at the counter, and go back outside to drag Jake through the crowd to the car. I’m just hoping he doesn’t make more of a scene than he already has, because I don’t want anymore piggies snorting around. Jake’s eyes have that ‘gone’ look.

Looking back on it, I’d thought we were in the clear at that point. Then the little fucker took off running toward the police for no apparent reason. I felt like a fucking child abductor running after him and taking him down, but what the hell could I do? I managed to nab him right before the police noticed him. After that, he wouldn’t move very far so I slapped him around a little. I felt like a gestapo interrogator trying to get some goddamn answers out of him when I backhanded him across the face. But the thing was, I didn’t want answers, I just wanted him to let me take him to the car so we could escape the situation without ending up in fucking jail.

In the end we made it back safely and Jake passed out on my futon. Of course, this was after he punched out the glass enclosure around the fire-extinguisher and repeatedly tried to leap from the car while it was moving…

This just in: I’M FUCKING POOR.

-J

I was going to run tonite, but the sky looks ominous. I wonder if when the world ends, it will start like a regular mid-summer thunderstorm. Food for thought, I guess. Anyway, instead I spent three hours at the radio station making production and sorting through old music for the library revamping that’s in progress. Fuck, I even voice tracked my morning show for tomorrow…so you’ll get one hour of The It’s Too Damned Early Morning Show with Josh Creekmore tomorrow morning from 8-9 am.

Now, I have a bowl of hearty ramen noodles waiting for me…chicken flavored…and I feel like a fucking chicken.

The girl who I’ve been seeing…some of you know who she is, others don’t, and that’s fine…well, I tend to like sex…a lot…and with her the sex is amazing. However, the first time we did it, I banged her brains out and neglected to get off myself, which happens sometimes when you have stamina. I don’t really care if I get off or not, I can do it myself, afterall. I’ve always cared more about the woman. But, of course, she took it personally and ever since then I’ve been getting into my head about it. I know she wants me to get off, so I try to…and it almost happens but then it doesn’t. I wish she hadn’t fucked with my chi. Now I’m a total headcase and she knows that I got off for someone else, even though the sex was lousy. ‘That fucking hurts,’ she said. When I tried to make her understand I got a ‘fuck you’ and a pink slip.

I’m going to go eat my ramen noodles now, hopefully they’re cooling off faster than she is, or I’m never going to be able to eat them without burning the shit out of the roof of my mouth.

-J

Next week I start a new job. I’ll hafta be up no later than 6am to be at work at 7am. It’s not that I’m not a morning person, but I’m definitely going to miss not waking up to an alarm. Some people would say, ‘well, if you just go to bed a lot earlier, it won’t feel as bad.’ My reply to that: YES IT WILL. But, I suppose that’s part of being a grown-up…awww, who the fuck am I kidding? What am I, 50?!

This morning I got up to play in a softball tournament. My team consisted of members of three different teams. We have united to conquer the tournament and bring home the golden…something. Just kidding, that’s fucking lame. There are so many freaking teams in this thing that it’s taking forever. We played at 10am, won, and don’t play again until 6:30pm tonite. If we lose, we play again at 10:30pm. See ya later, weekend. Meanwhile, the fucking college world series opened today and my friends are all  getting shitfaced and enjoying the pageantry that is Omaha and Rosenblatt Stadium in mid-June.

Because I was granted such a lovely, long fucking break between games today, I decided, after watching Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood is the fucking man), that it would be a good idea to go get my hair cut. I was feeling a bit on the mangy side. Now, if you’ve seen me lately, you know that I have a fairly serious beard growing. You might not know that I’m in the process of growing my hair back out, however. Apparently those two things were  complete fucking mysteries to the stupid twat of a bitch who cut my hair. She managed to cut off way too much hair, while also trimming my sideburns down to my jawbone on one side and not on the other. If I’d wanted them trimmed below my ears, I would’ve told her to trim them. I didn’t.

Tonite I will take the field, and beat some serious ass. Afterward, I will drink heavily of the whiskey & rye until I am fighting drunk…no, fuck that. Have you ever tasted rye? It makes you vomit before it touches your lips.

I’d like to re-emphasize how much I love my iPod. Who the fuck needs friends or girlfriends? I’d fuck my iPod if it had a hole big enough…

-J

In the background while I sit here, ‘Smack My Bitch Up,’ the song with the controversial video, banned in the U.S. of A. is playing.

I’m wondering to myself why it is that whenever I want to do laundry, some stupid bitch is using all of the laundry machines in the building. It’s true, when I say ‘all’ I’m only referring to two, but still, how about a little consideration for other people? Just the same, if you have a lot of laundry to do at once on a friday afternoon, chances are no one else is going to need the machines, so go nuts. The big problem I have is that said stupid bitch will not only use both machines at once, she will leave her laundry in the washing machine for an hour after the load is done. This means that if I want to use the machine, I have to take her laundry (which consists mostly of panties) and put it somewhere else. I do this while muttering made-up obscenities under my breath.

I know Kung Fu.

-J

…Maybe I’m really doomed to wander alone…but hey,  if that’s the way it has to be, so be it.

I started running again. No, I’m not running from anything. But a few days ago when I mentioned the substance abuse thing as a void-filler…well…running can fill a lot of void. I’m going to get a lot of use out of my iPod arm strap. No more mindless lady banging. No offense to the ladies I’ve banged, you’re not mindless.

If I can’t be good for anyone else…well, I can sure be good for myself. Sometimes I feel like I should be good for myself already, like ‘what am I freaking waiting for?’ I’m going to be 25 this summer. Twenty-fucking-five…it’s hard to believe it’s been so long since that speech from dad.

The water in my apt. is full of really nasty things, and it smells as if it’s coming from a huge well of septic drainage below the apt. complex. Can you say Brita? I’m out of bottled water, so in the name of not dying of thirst…or worse…I should probably restock…and I should probably take the 9823590 empty plastic water bottles I have to the recycling center before I die of plastic-poisoning. My apt. will soon become like a ball-pit at Chuck E. Cheese’s…but with empty plastic bottles instead of static-charged, colored plastic balls.

I’m listening to the song ‘California Girls’ by the Beach Boys. It asks me, ‘don’t you wish they all could be California Girls?’ Well, in reply…I’ve never really known any California girls…so…no, not really…and who is ‘they?’ Are we talking about like…them? The ones? Brian Wilson, I feel like you’re taking for granted that I’m going to know who you’re talking about…

If there is a god…I want only to thank him/her for iPods. I think I’d be dead without my little silver piece of heaven. To quote my good friend Meri…

Without music, life would be a waste of time.

Thank you, iPod, you make shit happen.

-J