I...
am reborn.
Factually, with my exodus of Grand Rapids nearing quickly, it's become time again for me to get people involved in my life. I do this because I haven't had much human contact since EVERYONE EVER LEFT ALREADY LEAVING ME ALONE AND FORGOTTEN PLEASE SEND HELP
But I digress.
This summer was basically spent at work. Nearing the end I decided to quit my job a bit early to take advantage of the last few weeks with my friends and loved ones and Stephanie, who I guess fits both categories. There wasn't much activity that took place of any particular merit to anyone but myself, but still, I won't ever forget getting the opprotunity to say goodbye to people. I was personally pretty impressed. Everyone's been cool about it. There were no tears and I have the feeling I can stay in touch with the ones I really super-care about. For the people that I don't really care about, don't worry. If you die in the next couple of months I'll still come to the funeral, arriving twenty minutes late, dressed in an unironed black shirt and wearing sunglasses with my head pointed down to feign sadness but also to surreptitiously look at the digital clock on my cell phone (I'll leave the ringer on) so I can tell how long I have to be at your stupid-ass funeral. Later I'll realize that watching your casket tumble into the ground caused me to miss Family Guy and I'll go "Fuck! I fuckin' missed Family Guy! Fuck!" Times are good.
The past couple days that I'm going to remain in my hometown have been - in contrast to the more exciting days that preceeded them - like being a lifeguard at a municipal pool; I feel like I should be doing important things, but mostly I'm just wading through piss and liquid feces. Times are icky.
Yesterday I woke up pretty late because I went to bed pretty late because the only thing that there is to do is play Fight Night: Rd. 2 on my Xbox and it seems like the only time I ever want to play video games is when I should be sleeping. This causes the arrival of the bitch goddess that is the 2:30 pm wakeup. The 2:30 pm wakeup is always the same, too. You open your eyes, rise to the good side of bed, do that exaggerated yawn/stretch combo move that you only see in cartoons, and then there's the quick look to the clock where you see that it's 2:30 and the rest of your day is fucked. Times are rough.
It's a strange vantage point - post graduation - for any red blooded mammal. You kinda look back at your high school career and you think about the good times. You're aware entirely that in all likelihood the good times are going to be even further magnified when you're in college since there's booze around and all the girls have belly-button rings, but just the same you're thinking that it would be a whole lot better with your friends and you realize that, for the first time since the second week of sophomore year, you're actually going to have to worry about wearing pants without stains on them because you're going to have to try to charm a stable of friends. Times are strange.
And another thing - at what point to you reach the age when you start referring to all the people I've met so far and shared so much with as 'a guy from my high school?' I hear that all the time. "Honey, we're a white Protestant 46 year-old married couple. I'm going to go out with a guy from my high school. You won't care because it's not like we have sex anymore 'cause we're old and married. I'll be home at 10 to watch Law and Order and eat something that gets microwaved and comes in a piece of molded plastic. Bye." Times are bleak.
I have noticed certain things about my personality that seem to indicate that I'm getting older and, by association, less cool. Kids that are not my age but that I used to refer to collectively as 'kids my age' are doing strange things now. Like take two days ago for example when Paul and I went down to Belknape to play tennis and there was a (what I can only assume was) Scr-emo concert down at the Liquid Room and the guitarist was yelling something that the amps made sound like "BWWWAHHHAHHUHLLLHHOOO." I remember wondering to myself what the 'racket' was about. This is a clever joke for two reasons: one because I used the word racket while describing a situation that involved a tennis scene, and an effective two because it effectively expresses how old I'm getting - I'm getting old enough where I used a word like 'racket.' Then Paul aced me a bunch and we went home. Times seem timeless.
I'm a pretty sentimental guy so I usually find myself making mental notes a lot that commemorate the importance of events that are probably fairly unspectacular in all likelihood. I'm not a psycho, it's not like a think to myself, "Oh, gosh, this is the last time I'm ever going to order eggs at this Denny's," it's just that certain things seem to have some sort of emotional weight now when previously I would have done them a thousand times. There's this track by my house, for instance, and every night I used to go run there over the summer. Now, I haven't run in about four months, but every day this week so far I've been running just because I'm worried me and the track haven't spent enough quality time together. I want to remember running at the track and I figure memories that are the most recent are probably going to end up the freshest. I was sad the last time I saw Charley, for example, I'll be sad the last time I see the track. Sometimes times are sad.
But at the same time all this doesn't seem to matter as much as it should or it seems like it should or at least as much as I seem like it should seem like it should. I know that I'll see Charles again at Thanksgiving just like I'll see the track (well, maybe not the track) and it'll be just like old times for the most part. But still there's that normal and rational fear that perhaps it won't and that something integral will change and dilute the taxonomy of my life. If I change like everyone says I will then there's a good chance that the way I view the world will change, and then the only thing that needs to change will be me for the whole world to be different. If I ever meet Kant on the street I will stab him until he dies. Time's a bitch.
I wonder what you think when you'll read this. Not you in any sort of strange, fixed-avatarial sense like bad teenage poetry, but you as in you as in the entirely subjective individual reading this post here. I wonder if you care about me 'cause I figure if you're just leaving/left home you're wondering who cares and who doesn't too. I certainly care, for what it's worth. Guarantee it. Even if you're Sam Simmons and I'm just waiting on the time machine so you can be suffocated, I still care (it was a joke, by the way, I don't hate you). I think about the little ones, maybe the kids who are just sophomores or juniors now who are just starting Xangas or the ones who have had me on the subscriptions list for a long, long time. I wonder if you're wondering about losing me because to some extent or another I'm wondering about losing you - I'm either convinced that it will happen and saddened or pretty sure that it won't and glad or completely indifferent but just the same I'm wondering. I know this sounds a little gay and I understand that I'm probably not winning over man-points here, but I hope that whether you're here in GR or in East Lansing or Allendale or Mount Pleasant or even all the way down in Gainesville, Florida that you'll think of me once in a while and won't forget to write or just gimme a ring. Times don't have to end, unless you want. And it's all good.
I was thinking just yesterday as I was doing all my laundry ever (did you know I had a USC shirt? I'd forgotten) that the best practical joke in the universe would be to build a spaceship and fling yourself around the Earth at lightspeed for six years and then to land and laugh at everyone because, hey, you're only six years older but they're all drinking geritol and rapidly gaining interest in voting. Then if they were mad that you were laughing you could say "Don't blame me fuckers, blame Einstien" and you'd all have a good laugh.
Hope you weren't hoping for a sentimental ending to this. See you guys in six years... OR SIXTY! Ha ha! Fuckers! | 
