Interior Eval. 101

Self evaluation 101: Where am I in this life? What am I doing now, and how has that changed from years prior? In what direction am I headed? What is the state of my mind, body and spirit? Have I learned how to love? Do I want to live and die alone? Am I serious about my writing? Am I an alcoholic? Are corduroy pants ever going to make an official comeback?

Okay let's break it down, one question at a time. I am in Salem, Oregon, situated on the west coast amidst the rain and mountains, snuggled close to an ocean I seldom see. I live in a beautiful area of an enormously magnificent landmass, which I seldom explore. This is where I am physically. Where am I mentally? Rewinding. With every new year tacked onto my existence I find myself going backwards in thought. Why was I born? To what purpose? What am I supposed to do with this life of mine that feels so damaged and bruised? Why can't I remember my childhood? I want to, I really do. I want to remember everything: birthdays, schools, friends, family, tree forts, karate class, parties, bedrooms, girlfriends, SAT tests, college, vacations, neighbors, activities, good times, bad times, etc. All of these things are a fuzzy mess inside my head. Without these memories I feel like I never really lived. I am sad by this.

I am a trash collector, in every sense of the words. For money, I collect garbage and haul it to a dump. For fun, I collect DVD's which take up space in my apartment and my mind. For no reason, I collect broken images of everything I experience and store them in the cracks of my brain, never to be recalled. If I have changed much over the years, it doesn't show very well against my misdemeanor. I am reckless, defiant, unwilling to accept, stubborn, turbulent, cynical, angry, and pained by an invisible enemy. Which means I am headed nowhere worthwhile if I don't reign in my distraught emotions. I can't keep doing this.

My body is an exact representation of my mind and soul. I am out of shape, loosening quickly, becoming weak and vulnerable, weighed down by excess, and very unhealthy. Instead of jogging after work, I choose to drink and think and write and ponder the pointless. I make excuses for why I'm sitting at home instead of playing outside with the rest of the world. Typically they sound like this: not enough hours in a day, what's there to do anyway, my back hurts, it costs too much, I have a lot on my mind, etc. Fuck that shit, man, there is no excuse.

Love. Do I even know what this word means? If love were to leap out and stick to my face like the Alien facehugger, would I even recognize it? Well it has... and I didn't. I witnessed true love bouncing up & down in the driveway, excited at the mere sight of my car pulling in. The unbearable urge to run and hug me and shower me with happiness, completely overwhelming a tiny little heart before I can even switch the ignition to "off". And the desire to drive off a cliff, forever falling into nothingness at the thought of losing the love that is right there in front of me, burning like a forest on fire. She'd rather die than lose it, and I can't even accept it. I am sad by this.

Of course I don't want to die alone, although I am taking giant steps in that direction. I have abandoned everyone in my life, friends and family alike. I don't remember birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, or any special occasions, I seldom answer my phone when it rings and forget to call people back all too often. I distrust love and put miles of pavement between me and it. I've placed myself into an empty gin bottle and screwed tight the lid. Speaking of empty gin bottles...

Am I an alcoholic? I think so. I drink a lot, sometimes to the point of inebriation, although I never let it interfere with the following day. I get lit, I write, I go to bed, I get my sleep, I wake up, I do my job, I go home, I repeat. I believe this is called a "functioning alcoholic", which I suppose is much better than "full blown", but still. I drink too much, I medicate. Where some people use television or food or religion or drugs or shopping or sex, I use alcohol. Right now I am writing this blog fueled by four beers and a bleeding mind. It's just the way it goes for me, I don't know exactly how to change that. But I want to.

I'm pretty sure corduroy pants have seen their end. That's a fashion that won't flip back around in twenty years, I feel. But hey, as much as I like to think I am always right, chances are I've been wrong before and unwilling to admit it. So let's bring back the ribbed pants (for his and her pleasure) and prove me wrong yet again! (you start).

Self evaluation 101: end transmission.