Her name was Jenny.

HOW META

It's not like I have nothing to write

But when I write something, it's typically taken from some sort of inspiration. And, usually, that inspiration comes somewhere from my life. At the end of the day, this blug has been a small collection of very vague feelings I have amassed over a short period of time. Which, in honesty, is disgustingly lame. But we have what we have, and if it gives me guilty pleasure, and others some good snickering material, maybe that offsets the fact that this blug is but another in the sludgy mire of similarly poor journals of angst.
However, I normally attempt to at least abstract whatever clumsily autobiographical emotions I'm feeling into something at least partially accessible. But I've just felt so... specific, recently, if that makes sense. Ignore that it sounds like a phrase Miller would use. So, I'm going to resort to my usual last line of defense- bullshitting.

When I was out today, I couldn't help but see the Jehovahs out and about, dolled up in their most trustful clothes. My sympathy goes with their children, paraded as tools of guilt. I can't wait until I have my own place, when I can answer the door to these intruders, pull out some deck furniture, perhaps take out a chilled jug of juice, and spend an entire morning debating with some very well dressed brick walls. Use their own tactics against them. And at the very least, waste enough time to take a bullet for the neighbourhood.

I feel I've been living far too decadent recently. Late nights, later mornings, bad eating, swinging from recluse to domestic tourist far too erratically. But that's Easter holidays. I can't wait until school starts up, and my lapses into slothitude feel justified, if not out-and-out deserved.

After I feel I've received all the tuition I'll ever need for Bass (Tuition for Bass? PSH! You and your talentless ways, Minnear!), I'm going to learn how to sing. I sing (badly) far too much, and if the world has to put up with it, I should find someone who can chip my voice into something tolerable. I can't even imagine the realms of pleasure attainable from even barely passable vocal expression.

I also need to learn the *tiniest* amount of acoustic guitar, enough to make pretty sounds, not enough so I play anything vaguely-professional sounding. I've had a bunch of ideas bouncing around that rely on a Buffay-esque sound, so my musical shitocity may come in useful. Of course, on websites, I'll call it "unorthodox". But it does mean "amateur".

Listen to more Decemberists. Can not overstate this. Very accessible earlier stuff, incredibly indulgent recent stuff. Smart, eloquent and an audial delight. Also obscure enough to earn a good number of indie points, if you're into that.

I may have to up sticks employment-wise, which upsets me. I need constant and More substantial pay, which may not occur in the summer, which is apparently when business slows down, and they don't need the extra help- i.e. me. They're not dropping me, of course, but I'm non-contracted, meaning they're not going to call me in unless they need me. This is all a huge bummer, as the people I've been working with are simply fantastic, and so friendly, and I can't help but feel like I'm letting them down a little if I left (despite the fact I'm a terrible waiter). I'll miss them terribly. But employment's a selfish thing, and I need financial backing if I want to drive, and go to Uni, and teach, and live the life I want. Of course, this then brings in the dilemma that should I even be employed in "The Best Years of My Life"? Am I squandering away prime youth? Which, of course, you don't get to find out until it's far too late.

Although.

The life I yearn most for isn't the partying, or the traveling, or anything typically associated with youth.

I literally can't wait for teaching, for marriage, and parenthood.
*DISCLAIMER* I'm not gonna get married and have a family of five at 19 years. Just to put it out there! That is a long way away, and I'm very aware of this! I do in fact understand I am nowhere near responsible or emotionally mature enough for that, and won't be for at least a decade.
I can and will wait.
But I can't wait.

1:42

I can't get to sleep, so I've turned on my Touch's toilet wi-fi to try and knock out some of the thoughts that may be preventing said sleep.
I've been thinking a lot about experiences, particularly bad ones.
A few years back, Niall and I got minorly attacked on the way home at night, which was pretty new to me.
Niall has since then been more cautious about where, when and how he walks, in order to avoid repeats. And rightfully so.
But I don't. And I know, that on some level, this is because I want to be attacked.
This blug, by the by, is not a confession of masochism, far from it.
But doesn't everyone want an ineresting life?
I want a life full of experience, bad and good. I want to go down highways in a beaten convertable with a select handful of friends. I want to pick a direction, someday, and just go that way for a day or two. And I want to get punched in the head more often, if it means a more interesting life.
I'm sure this lust has limits somewhere. I'm sure I wouldn't wish cancer or rape upon myself (though I'm resigned to the eventuality of the former). But a very, very stupid part of me does.
I mean, not to dip into clichéd amorphisms here, but phrases like "The road less beaten" and the such weren't coined on a whim.
Eugh, this sounds like an advocacy for Bohemianism.
Either way, I'm not sure I've broken nearly enough bones to have lived a full life. I'm going to take a lot of care choosing my mistakes.
(Also, like to point out that this has been worded very carefully to not contradict the first ever post that dealt with incredibly similar themes)

I had a scary thought.

A recent need to research that soul Fred Rogers reminded me the nigh cliché point he and many others made that "We are everyone we've met", etc. Which is all very deep, and sparks all those idealist notions of Grand Unification a lá Evangelion. And on a psychological level, this goes along with the thesis that the conscious is composed of experiences, and the thoughts and pre-dispositions hitherto contrived from them.
But I'm a forgetful person.
I can't recognise a single member of my primary school. I have forgotten fairly important people in a matter of months. If I search through my memories of My childhood, I'm met with memories of idiotic moments, of odd jokes and mundane trivia. If our personality is fundamentally composed of our dealings with everyone else, and you forget them and those memories, have you lost a part of yourself?
I managed to qualm my fears with assurances of the power of the subconscious, but then that makes me someone who doesn't know why they are what they are, and how they got there.
But then, it gets worse.
So, if everything impacts us as a person, we go through hundreds, often thousands of social interactions a day. Each one with the potential to mould and change us. So even if we are this amalgamation of half remembered instances, we're never that exact person for more than a few seconds. And we can't even keep track of, or even be remotely aware of what has affected us, and in what way.
And for me, and the majority of people bored enough to be reading this, this is the most vulnerable phases of our developments. Our brains are actively rewiring themselves for adult life.
Just by having a chat with anyone, I could be setting myself up to be a worse person than I could've been.
And on the opposite side of the spectrum, what about extended relationships? Of families, partners, best friends? These connections, incomprehensibly potent and poignant? Do they realise what they're doing, or have done to me? Do I? An argument, an idea, hell, a joke, that's all these people need to radically change me.
And me. Making the somewhat arrogant assumption that I am not completely without charisma, and that I am paid attention, I too am contributing to this constant, manic reworking of Super-Egos.
I sincerely hope I affect positively.

"There's nothing more cosy than having a few restraints to kick up against"

I'm using haikus
To exercise precision
Maybe it will work.

My current constraints
Should focus these abstractions
To something solid.

One final preface
**** Kireji and Kigo
This ain't about that.

I seem to be ill
For I've lost will and resolve
Saudade-itis

Think about Auschwitz
Everyone despises it.
I don't think I do

Maybe I'll explain.
Disgusting horrors occurred
They should be hated.

But the halls, the bricks,
The construct is innocent.
That is how I feel.

It's getting better,
But I need to make my joy.
I've done it before.

Am I living right?
I don't see enough sunsets.
Should I make more too?

I'm scared of slipping.
I'm supposed to go way up.
High stakes, big losses.

If I took a leap
And you caught the moment right
I would be flying.

My corpse is heavy,
But I would sink far further
If it stopped holding.

Through the floors and ground,
Burrow, freefall, descend, sink.
All, so I could be.

I'm drained, depleted.
But I'll make myself human.
I'll do it by force.

Now I've put away
Every nothing I'd conjured
I'm cleansed, Cathartic.

"O Happy, Living Things! NoTongue/ Their Beauty Might Declare:/ A Spring of Love Gushed from My Heart/ And I Blessed them Unaware.

It was a day in July
And I was going through the tedious motions of delivering papers.
I entered a street, and duly took no notice of my drab surroundings, as I circled into a driveway.
And I don't know what it was when I came out
Maybe it was a change in the lighting
Or maybe a change in whatever background music I was listening to
Or a change somewhere else
But as I walked away from the driveway, I noticed how stunning these flowers were.
They were bright, radiant, literally radiant.
They were illuminating everything around them.
The moment was so slow.
I actally stopped walking for a split second, and intook a little.

In a way, I regret this moment ever happened.
Not so much that it did happen, as it was a stunning, poignant one.
But I regret that it had to happen.