Paint Chips and Salsa

Life for me is too routine lately. I do the same thing every day. At the end of the week, I start over and do it all again. At work, especially, I constantly feel like I am just going through the motions. Nothing changes. Nothing is exciting. The hours drag by and I end the day feeling empty. I yearn for excitement. I hunger for adventure.

I want to be famous for something. I don't need to be world famous. I don't even need to get rich (although I wouldn't complain). I just want to have some sort of fame associated with me. And I want it to be for something awesome.

And the three of you that read this blog can someday say, "Hey, I was one of the three people that read his blog back before he got famous."

Coming Soon: A New Project

I am inspired to take up a challenge. I will begin April 1st. It will be fun. Look forward to it.

Confessions are for the guilty.

Are jalapenos a substance? If so, somebody needs to call a substance abuse hotline and report me. I can't get enough of them. I feel like a meth addict with a conscience. I know how they make me feel the next day. I know how they inflame my esophagus with a fire that would make Satan himself break a sweat. But in my case, knowledge leads to stupidity and the desire to have even more. Something about that spicy sensation and the steady flow of liquids from every hole in my head keeps me coming back for more. Someday it will be a crime to have jalapenos and I will be an enemy of the state, garnishing my salads and enchiladas in a secret compartment under my house. And when they finally catch me, my only two requests will be immunity for my family (as they will know nothing of my secret jalapeno lair) and a prescription for ulcer medication.

The Punchline.

Every Tuesday, I cut my hand in some way. It isn't on purpose, it just happens. Sometimes I try to put something on a shelf and skin my fingers on the side of the shelf that I should have avoided. Other times, the box cutter that I am using mistakes my finger for cardboard. I was looking at my hands and the various scrapes, scabs, and scars when I thought to myself that it speaks volumes about my character: I am clumsy.

In a sense, we are all just as clumsy. Some of us are physically clumsy, while others are socially awkward and clumsy. I speak from experience on both. I haven't always been this model of confidence and (at times) arrogant security.

When I was a teenager, while all of my 2 friends that I had were into sports and cars, I was interested in Star Trek and reading a good book. People would ask what I thought about "the Bears" and I would have to ask what sport these "bears" played. I was more interested in what Captain Sisko would do about the impending invasion by the Dominion or if Captain Janeway would ever get the crew of the U.S.S. Voyager back home to the Alpha Quadrant.

I didn't even pay attention to girls until I was 17 or 18. It wasn't that I didn't want "love". It was because I felt that I didn't deserve it or couldn't obtain it. Females weren't scary to me; rejection was. Luckily for me, I met the wrong girl and gained two things: confidence and the knowledge that I could do better. Almost 5 years later, I am confident that my life is the best that anyone can ask for in a life.

So, next week when I cut my hand, I'll wipe off the blood and be thankful for clumsiness.

The Life and Death of my Sanity

Somebody once told me that you can't loose your mind if you never had one to begin with. I disagree. I am slowly, but surely losing my mind. The sad thing is, I don't really seem to care. I don't care about much these days. I can count on a three fingered hand the things that I care about. 1) My wife. 2) My family (this includes the little guy/gal currently residing inside of my wife) and 3) My job.

I have come to realize that the "friends" that I had growing up are merely acquaintances now. I see them here and there and when we talk, it seems like we are strained for topics and feigning interest. But for some reason, I knew it was going to happen years ago. Sometimes I wish I had a group of "the guys" that I could hang out with. We would drink beer, play cards, and piss and moan about our jobs, finances, wives, etc. You know. The kind of guys depicted on sitcoms and in movies.

Right now, besides my biological siblings, my closest male friends are Lisa's four brothers. I love those guys like they were my own blood.

I let work and "growing up" take priority over my other friendships. I guess that's what happens when you grow up.