Life is Plan B

Are you who you thought you would be when you were younger?

Of course you aren't. I mean, who the hell would have come up with YOU?

Or me, for that matter. I certainly didn't.

I'll tell you more about it another time, but I really didn't think I'd even be alive this long. I know that's weird to hear, but you gotta understand I was a really weird kid. I didn't pay attention to most things going on around me, and to tell you the truth, it was a lot of fun not paying attention and then having to try to snap back into the moment afterwards. You probably think the goofy, silly, unfocused, wayward, and abstract people that you know can't help being who they are. I'm sure most of us can't, but the great majority of us also don't really want to help it. Or we do. I have only met a fraction of the other abnormal people that walk the earth. And I must say, one thing we don't do well is let others know what to expect from us.

To let others know what to expect from us, we would have to know for sure what we were capable of, and that's just not realistic. You don't usually see what your future holds as well as those around you, usually that have been down the path you are starting down or that have been around you long enough to observe something you couldn't have seen for yourself. As many realizations that we have in our own heads, that are complex and are built with all of this insight into our own experiences that no one else could possibly know, some of the most clear and crystallizing moments in our lives are made up by other people introducing concepts to us that we never imagined we'd hear, that in tun shift fundamental ideas in our own minds for years to come. The most mundane piece of advice, that another lives their entire life on and doesn't even consider worth taking seriously, well that may be the missing piece to the puzzle of unlocking the true potential of you have always been searching for in your entire existence. You never know what thoughts will end up blowing your mind, or another person's mind, or starting a thought train that takes you way stage left and brings you to a realization that you can't believe no one ever told you before.

Realest piece of advice I ever got was on a plane that had touched down in New York City. The plane got into La Guardia airport sometime around 10 in the morning, and I was barely paying attention as the passengers started trying to get off the plane and the person in the seat behind me asked if I'd been to NYC before. And I hadn't, so i said I hadn't. And she asked why I was there. And I told her I was there to visit Columbia University and that I might end up running track there, which was also true. I don't know why I keep affirming to you that I didn't lie to this stranger on the airplane, but the point is, she said that was great and that I should enjoy the trip, even if I decide I don't like the school or the city is a bit too much for me.

And for some reason, that surprised me a bit. I had been looking away, out the window trying to see what I could of the city, barely even really talking to her. But the last bit, about not liking the city or the school, it made me turn and ask, "You don't think I'll like it here?"

And she shrugged and said, "No, it's not that so much. It's not for everyone, but that's not really what I mean."

Now my interest was piqued. "Well, then what do you mean?"

And she just shook her head and said, "Life is Plan B. You have absolutely no idea where this is all going to take us. Just enjoy the ride." And she smiled and pulled her bag down from the overhead bin, and there she went.

And it's not like I didn't enjoy my visit. The city itself was massive and chaotic, but fun and inviting all at the same time. And Columbia University had a beautiful campus, and it was a great school and an amazing opportunity and I was so blessed to even be in the running for admission there. And yet...

I didn't really want to go there. I mean, would it have been really cool? Probably. Would it have changed my life in ways I would not ever fully realize? Almost certainly. Was it going to be way too expensive? Yup. This place was also going to cost me an arm and a leg, and if I was going to run track, those were going to come in handy. Plus, I wasn't sure about the coaching staff, because they didn't really have a coach for my events, just one main coach for all of the mens events and a few others that basically walked around praising whatever advice he gave out. The coach was a former olympian, so it's not like he didn't know training in general, but watching the little bit of the practicing that I did, there wasn't a lot going on that I was going to learn from. I was going to be, at least for the time being, largely on my own. Which may not have been such a bad thing all the time, because I definitely liked doing things my way and still had an idea of some of the things I could do to improve, but I also knew that I benefit from being pushed, and working by yourself doesn't usually have that built in.

There were other factors, too. It was going to be too expensive in retrospect, and I knew it already without wanting to admit it. Also, I was going to be cramped into this little corner of Spanish Harlem far from home where I would need to learn a lot of things in big city living that I don't think would have sunk in as quickly as they would probably need to for me to not get robbed or get a severe ass kicking or both or worse. So just other stuff for why I didn't end up trying to go there. I told the coach I was not interested, even though I thanked him for the opportunity to see the school and the training facilities, and that was that. And I ended up attending Wisconsin, and ran track for them, and blah blah, other stuff that was amazing and a great time yada yada National Championship and Big Ten Triple crown, I know, you don't really care and it's not the focal point of the story.

But this is. I had this friend that I met freshman year that played another sport, who we'll call Cynthia. Cynthia was a hardworking, goofy, enjoyable, successful woman, and I don't think she ever once believed that anything she did was good enough. She was always pushing for the next thing on her list or trying to find points to improve on everything she did. I noticed this more than a few times with her while we were both undergrads, and then after we graduated, I lost track of her for a while. But I ran into her randomly on campus a few years ago, on a summer weekend with my fiancé and her parents on campus. I had to run to the car to pick up, of all things, my wife’s purse. And on the way back, I run into Cynthia, and we chat for a bit, and it was nice seeing her and all but I could tell right away she was still frazzled, like always. And I asked her what was up. She said, in a nutshell:

I’m in the middle of moving my life from here (Wisconsin) back to my home (California) and I don’t know how long I’ll be there or what I’ll be doing when I get there, or if I’m going to grad school or law school, and I’m basically freaking out and not knowing what I’m doing. So I have about 3 days left to figure out my life.

This is closer to accurate than you probably think. Anyway, I tell her my story on the airplane and the whole “Life is plan B” gist and I think it helped. And I admitted to her that she didn’t actually have to  listen to anything I had to say. I mean, what the hell did i know? I was holding a purse like a football because I thought it was somehow less awkward that way. But I just said to her, "You're gonna be fine. No, you're gonna be great. You are great. So stop worrying about how you're going to do it all and just figure out what you want to go do first. I mean, shit, you've got this one random life, just go do it all, right?" I'm fair certain that was my ending advice to her, which wouldn't be advice for everyone, because not everyone is going to go off and do it all. But she might, I really believe that she could and she probably wants to. I hope Cynthia is doing well.

Anyway, she may also be on a completely different path than where she was when I last saw and spoke with her, and that's cool too. But I believe you're better off finding out for sure what your plan B is than insisting that that your personal plan A has to, HAS TO come to fruition. You don't have to go do it all, you don't have to settle for plan B, but you do have to... well, I guess you don't have to do anything. You could just sit here, reading this blog over and over again, and no one could necessarily stop you, if that's the path you really want to adhere to. But hopefully, you expect more from yourself than that, and others around you do, too. And something like that will build you to do more than just accept whatever is on the path for you, but to go and choose the path you want, even if it means preparing for a backup and a backup to that and so forth. After all, life is plan Q sometimes too.

Talk at ya later.

The DSW DJ

My sister and I were talking a while ago about something that occurs to me today: persistence. We were talking about it because she wants to be an actress, and is trying to pursue this on a few fronts in a crowded and talent-packed place like New York City. And we were talking about actors that had to struggle for a long time, and work shit jobs and almost give up and then break through. And you know who came up? Peter Dinklage.

Who some of you may only know as Tyrion Lannister, while others only know that he's the midget (or little person, my bad) in Game of Thrones. And people know the movies he's shown up in and the success he's had now, but probably don't know that he had to struggle and work a data processing job for years, and then decide if he was going to quit the job to pursue acting seriously the whole time and be broke until it pulled through. But he did it. And he's one of the easier actors in Hollywood to recognize, both from his talent, his distinct roles, and his diminutive stature.

My point in bringing it up to my sister was just that it could have been someone else that broke through in his first big role in "The Station Agent" or who appeared in "Elf", "Find Me Guilty", "Death At A Funeral", another "Death At A Funeral" or a bunch of other roles. There were like 30 other little people that didn't get the parts, and had to keep struggling. Everything the dude had to do to get by allowed him to progress, but we've never even heard about all these others that could have had it worse or been more talented, all of whom probably hate Dinklage's guts for taking all the good little jobs.

Here's a link to the video project my sister recently posted, if you're interested.

My point is just that you have to take advantage of whatever opportunity you have, and basically not worry one bit how it looks while you're going through the process of getting where you want to get to. It's not something anyone wants to hear, especially while you're going through the rough, ugly part of this particular process. But going through ugliness or unpleasantness, or even randomness, tends to bring us to opportunities we didn't plan on hoping for, and that can lead us to discover things about ourselves that we may not have realized otherwise.

It can, of course, also break us and ruin the opportunities we thought we would have, and leave us clawing through the remaining opportunities. And when that happens, we have to push through with whatever we have left to work with. And that is easier said than done basically every time. It is tough to stay positive before, during, and after the fall, except to acknowledge that what you're dealing with 1. probably won't kill you, 2. hasn't killed you yet, or 3. didn't actually kill you even though maybe it still will slowly without you realizing it. And I know this might not sound overly positive, even though I kind of do mean it in a positive way.

Okay, let's try to explain this a different way.

A while back, I got dragged to shopping at the Designer Shoe Warehouse with my wife, who was at the time my fiancee. I'm fairly sure it was in 2016, the year before we were to be married, and I was all about doing things for her and spending time with her but still very much not a fan of shoe shopping. Come to think of it, I've been in the stage of hating shoe shopping since before I met her. I think I was born there, and I have no plans of leaving anytime soon. But there I was, on a football Sunday afternoon, stalking my fantasy teams while wandering up and down the wide aisles, aimlessly and apathetically while Tara was in her zone trying to find options to match several of her outfits and all this other stuff I really couldn't bring myself to focus on.

I remember being a bit mad at myself for allowing her to bring me out of the house at this particular time, regardless of how much I love her. I remember quite specifically that the Packers were playing, and it was a good game, whoever they were playing, and here I was, trying to give as little pushback to whatever my wife-to-be said so we could get out of there and back before at least the 4th quarter. I also remember being mad at others in the store with me, both male and female, that were wearing Packers gear. I mean, what kind of shit is that? You'll go out and buy the Clinton-Dix jersey and then not sit and watch the only game of the week that the guy wearing that shirt appears in? What kind of lame poser punk-ass mother-...see, I need to stop for a second, it's still fresh in my mind. Gotta just bring it back calm and remind myself that this is how much I must love my wife, to be discussing the colors of heels and cross trainers on any given Sunday.

There was another reason this day stuck out to me. Don't ask me why, but there was a DJ working at the shoe store on a Sunday afternoon. No crowd dancing, no hype man, no one singing or rapping or playing alone. Just a dude with two turntables set up about 20 feet in front of the entrance, with a little mini light show going along with his beats. Probably the lamest possible setup for a performance of any kind (I understand if you want to debate that DJing is ACTUALLY a performance, but that's not the point here). I mean, the light show was a sign that this guy might have had promise, a sad reminder of how out of place this set up was, and completely useless with the overhead lights all at once. Encouraging, dismaying, and curious all in one fell swoop.

Here's the thing, I was half paying attention to what he was spinning, and I must say, this dude was actually setting up a good vibe, all things considered. I found myself nodding back and forth to some of the tunes, even mouthing out some of the words, which meant I knew lyrics to whatever he was putting down. So regardless of not really enjoying shoe shopping, not wanting to miss watching a football game and not wanting to be a punk to my future wife, for several moments I found something to enjoy at the Designer Shoe Warehouse on this chilly afternoon.

At one point, he played the Cha-cha slide, and I lost some respect for him. But that means I had respect for him to be lost. He was DJing at the god damn DSW during the Packers game, and he still made his way up the ranks in my book. And it reinforced a valuable lesson for me: You better make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. I had to tip my hat to him as we walked out, because not everyone can take a job like that seriously and still thrive. Because he could have showed up drunk, or messed up on mollies and been just a shitshow. He could have panned to his demographic and played overly emotional pop songs to further emphasize feminine vibes where it was clearly already the main focus of everyone in the building. Hell, he could have played stuff just to mess with everyone there, like orchestral opera or Himalayan monk chanting, or playing popular records backwards and pretending it sounded normal. But he didn't. He earned that check and grooved his ass off and damnit if I didn't get a bit inspired from it.

My point in all of this is that this DJ almost certainly had other shit he'd rather be doing. I really hope so, anyway. The DJ that turns down other gigs to play records at a shoe store on a Sunday afternoon, he's not thinking too far down the road, is he? But the dude, he showed up, and did what he does, and he converted a skeptical bystander, me, which means he can probably do this kind of thing in a better environment. And don't get me wrong, this guy may have gone home that night and smoked a ton of meth because this was his last night of sanity before a breaking bad moment. But maybe, years later, he will look back at that same afternoon as one of the reasons he grinded through a relatively less successful part of his career like a god damn champ.

And truth be told, I'm now a bit let down when I get dragged shoe shopping and there's not a DJ now. Payless needs to step their damn game up.

Bubye now.

In a Sentimental Mood

"What is our life? It's looking forwards or looking back. That's it."

Al Pacino said that in one of my favorite movies. Glengarry Glen Ross. Which is based on a play, come to think of it. So it's not like I should credit Pacino for saying what they told him to say. I should credit David Mamet, the guy that wrote the book that became a movie worthy of Pacino, Jack Lemon, Alec Baldwin, Ed Harris, Kevin Spa- never mind who else was in the movie, okay? Al Pacino said this line, and it's always stuck with me. Especially anytime that I get sentimental.

Hi, by the way.

I was looking back through pictures this afternoon, because I have all of this homework that needs to get done before Superbowl Sunday, and naturally I can't really concentrate on anything I'm trying to get done for tomorrow. I've been watching action movies at close to full volume, I've been reading up and watching tutorials on ethical hacking, I even brushed up on my Italian lessons on Rosetta stone. Nothing seemed to help me get focused. and because I can't get focused, I know myself well enough to know that I pretty much have to let my mind wander on whatever odyssey it wants to pursue before I get everything out and can focus again. And so here we are.

Also, we had some Apple Wine left. So I've been drinking what equates to spiked apple juice. So there's that.

Still, the thought of looking forward and looking back has always appealed to me. I'm definitely someone who lives a lot of their life within memories and fantasies. Re-envisioning the past and the future, well, it happens quite often for me. And it's not such a bad thing to do, so long as you can still go through the present without being overly influenced by what happened or what my happened. And maybe that's a problem of mine. I don't really know. We never really know our biggest weaknesses while we are experiencing them, no matter how self-aware we are. No one ever comes up with a flash card and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, the answer we were looking for is, "Constant fear of disappointing one's mother. You lose everything you wagered from the second round."

And not that I fear that, but it doesn't change the fact that I always wonder how I'll look back and remember these exact moment. Will I see them fondly, or will I lament that I wasn't doing something more productive, something specific? Will I recall this evening and say, "Guhh! Why the hell wasn't I studying Mandarin? That would have put me so much farther ahead with my clients right now!"? Or, will I regret not trying to write more of my book about the events of Webster St. in Madison, WI between August 2011 and August 2014, when so much random and entertaining shit went down and only a select few know the full story and perhaps only those individuals would really care to hear it all?

Maybe others would, maybe not. I'm sentimental for that kind of shit.

Your own story is always so much more interesting to you than others. That's just how it goes. Your memories, your intentions, your actions, even the stuff you didn't do, it's way more important and interesting to you than to anyone else who wasn't there. It is what it is, I'm sorry if that doesn't sound right. It's damn near impossible to appreciate what's going on while it's going on.

For example, I ask you, what is the funniest thing you've ever seen in person? Like, the thing that made you laugh the hardest that you've ever laughed? I'll bet it's not something that can just be simply explained. It can't be explained for me quite so easily.

I saw the funniest thing I've ever seen at my high school graduation practice. At that event, I have never laughed harder, in my entire life. I came close to passing out because I couldn't breath on account of laughing to hard. And here's the story.

There was an individual. We'll call him Joe. Or rather, Joe-Joe. Sure, why not? Joe-Joe, or JJ for our purposes, was not one of my favorite classmates. I distinctly didn't like this guy. He tried way too hard to act like he was an awesome guy, and an awesome athlete, and a smart and high achieving student, and he was none of these things. And if he had just owned who and what he was, he would have been fine, because not everyone is a high achiever, or a stud runner and football player, or a huge ladies man. But when you're not one of those things and you won't stop talking about how much you are, well, people get tired of it and they start to take notice. Given enough time, they start calling you out about it, leaving you with two options:

1. Own up.

2. Show up.

Guess which of the two JJ tried to do on this story?

We were at the practice session for our graduation, where all we did was simulate how we would walk down the aisles for our graduation ceremony in about 2 weeks time. There was so little going on, so after the obligatory ten minutes of instruction, on a week day of our senior high school year when grades had already been locked in place, all any of us had to do was stay quiet and  not embarrass ourselves.

Enter our 'friend', JJ. Because I'm playing a bit fast and loose with the term 'friend' here.

It wasn't just me at this point that was fed up with this little bastard. I'm sorry, the guy would not SHUT THE HELL UP. He had no game, he was a goofy looking dude with nothing to brag about, and he kept trying to tell my friend, whose name is John so we'll call him Johnny for this story, he kept telling Johnny that he could hit on any girl at graduation and get them to give him their phone number. And if you can believe it, this was worth our time back in 2005, when phone numbers were still a big deal and you had to try to get the ability to contact a member of the opposite sex. So JJ goes on and on about his non-existent game, and finally, Johnny puts him on the spot and says something like, "Okay, JJ, you can get anyone, then go get someone's number right now! Stop talking about it and just do it! Stop flapping your gums and fucking do it!"

Now, I don't think Johnny actually meant to provoke a reaction with what he said. I think he just wanted JJ to slink away in embarrassment. And, in retrospect, that would have been the better move. But alas, JJ, looked around, confused, and then started off toward a particularly large group of young women who were playing cards.

I have to pause and contain my laughter because of how much joy I got out of seeing him shuffle off in this direction while I watched. Because, wow. Just wow. You talk about watching the numerous Crusades that left Europe that didn't take back the Holy lands like they thought they would, or the people that took off in planes trying to cross the Pacific ocean that just never came back, or the poor bastards that start trying to chug a gallon of beer at a bar when they've been drinking too much all night as it is, that's the feeling I got when JJ shuffled off to try to get a phone number from one of this group of adolescent females, most of which knew him and had no such interest, but others whom didn't even know he had gone to school with them. It was like the band playing as the Titanic started sinking, I both couldn't turn away and  had to work to contain my laughter on his walk over alone.

Now you're probably thinking, okay, he'll go over to someone specific, and try to strike up a conversation, or even drop a pickup line than will at least start something specific. Nope. JJ walked over, sat behind the girl he wanted to say hello to, and didn't say anything. You've got all these girls in a circle and some chairs lined up behind them from the practice about 3 feet away from who we'll call Jenny for this, and that's where he chose to position himself. He just sat down silently and watched a group of fifteen girls continue to play cards. But it was painfully obvious that he had walked over and sat behind Jenny specifically. And gradually, each girl in the circle playing cards looks over and wonders, what the hell is that about?, and then goes back to the game. And this lasts for a good ten minutes, without JJ saying a word. And it should be paralyzing, and kind of sad and almost endearing. And I'm telling you that I hate this bastard enough to have laughed harder and harder through ever minute of it, where when it ended, and he finally just got up and walked away because the entire circle was just staring at him, and he waved casually and then just got up and strolled away like a god damn racewalker, I spent an hour trying to recover from how hard I was laughing. It was that serious. I was worried I wouldn't be able to stop. 

And I get that it doesn't mean anything to most of you reading this, but this moment will be forever cemented in my mind as one of the funniest things I've ever seen, hands down. Not just a matter of 'you had to be there', which I've mentioned in a previous blog post. This is a matter of,  you had to be there, and know the people involved, and even then, you might not think it was so funny unless you were me. Some things are only funny, looking back, as yourself, remembering the shoes that you were wearing (figuratively). Never forget that your own perspective will always shift certain things to where only you understand why the thought you had was exactly appropriate. Don't feel weird about looking back every now and then, or looking forward to the specific thing that you can't wait to see different. Enjoy feeling something that no one else could possibly feel in the moment.

That's more than enough. Bye now.

Victor Green

To quote the late Biggie Smalls, "I got a story to tell."

You see, this blog has filled somewhat of a pattern for me over the last... well, basically the entire time I've been writing this blog. I didn't really know why I started writing this way, but it started to occur to me that maybe this is what I have the most to share. I could try to write about politics, about music, about sports, about geography. I could try to relate about my work experience, or my family, or my grad school program that I have about a year left. And do you know what I do basically every time that I start writing? I share a bunch of embarrassing shit about myself, usually that no one ever knew about and definitely without being provoked to sharing such mess. Is it that I enjoy being humiliated on a regular basis? Or is this just what I have to share with the world?

And by the world, I mean the eleven or twelve people that actually read this shit when I post it.

A lot of embarrassing moments don’t even get mentioned for me. You have to understand, it's a stiff competition to even get on the list for me. Like the lay up I would have made to win a basketball game that skipped off the backboard hard enough to reach half court. Like knocking an older woman over while running out of the bathroom (the wrong bathroom) that I’ve already mentioned. Like the band competition that I had to show up late to, without my instrument, wearing my track and field uniform. Like the alt right book store I walked into and didn’t realize it for kind of a while. Damn, I guess I have covered a lot of this already, now that I'm thinking back.

This tops all of them. And it’s a curious thing to fully explain, even in a project like this, but I feel like it’ll help you understand why I am at least partially the way that I am. I can trace this moment back very vividly, but at the same time I realized a few years ago that I had literally blocked this moment out from my memory for fifteen years before I told anyone. I had told myself that it hadn’t existed, yet I know the impact it has had. I’d be hard pressed not to give ode to it and to the fact that it didn’t cause me to crumble into oblivion. This is the moment that could have, but didn’t, ruin me as a person. It just ruined me as a normal person.

Let me tell you about the time that I almost probably ruined my life.

And let me start by saying that 6th grade was already a rough time. I was one of 7 black kids at my entire middle school. My main interests were hockey video games, pokemon cards, and the comic strip Dilbert. I had glasses thicker than most encyclopedias (exaggeration, but still). Oh, and my voice cracked every 4 words, and I hit a growth spurt that borderlines upon actual cruelty. My legs grew a whole lot in the span of a few months, so none of my pants fit and it looked like everything I owned was high waters. And then my arms grew past where my legs did so I could grab my knees without bending over. Just, yikes. Oh, also I thought I was funny. Like I’d make jokes that were funny to someone that was like me. And was into these things. Hockey video games, pokemon, and Dilbert. Mmmph.

On a fateful day in 6th grade, I walked from my English class to my math class during an in-between period. It was that simple. I didn’t make a decision to do something that was going to fundamentally change the way I lived my life, I just went to math class. I walked in and set my books down and realized, just before the start of class that I had to go to the bathroom. And I was not nervous about it, it was a natural, simple feeling. A human desire. But as a 6th grader, I procrastinated. Besides, it was 6th grade, not like we were doing anything anyway. Do you remember middle school? Do you remember days where literally nothing was learned? I remember whole months that didn’t matter. So I figured this one period, I could just go to the bathroom once class started, not a big deal.

I waited until about 2 minutes after the bell before I asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. Her name was Dr. Selma, which it really wasn’t, but that’s what we’re going with. She was petite, she had curly brown hair, and this unmistakable Latina flair about her. Or she was just bitchy, I’m not sure anymore, I don’t remember everything about my teacher. I remember about the day though. She said in simple enough terms, “No. You cannot go to the bathroom right now. Go sit back down.”

A quick side note: you may be asking yourself why a doctor was teaching 6th grade math in suburban Texas, and the answer is fairly simple. She was a doctor of marriage psychology. Which, last I checked, only has a few applications. It appears one of them was teaching 6th grade mathematics.

So I went to sit back down, not really sure how to take the idea that I had greatly mistaken how this class period would go. I don’t remember us even trying to learn anything, we basically just sat in silence and had a study hall. Dr. Selma was pissed about something or other. I, meanwhile, felt worse and worse. I felt like I was about to explode, I’m not even kidding. You know the term turtleheading? I was beginning to squeeze a roll of playdough out. Not a good feeling at 1:15 in the afternoon among ruthless middle school peers. So about 4 minutes later into the period, I get up and ask again. Because screw it. This is real crisis that was brewing here. And again, Dr. Selma said to sit down, this time even more cross than before. I did my best to communicate my distress in my looks and the sigh that I gave out, but I still didn’t think she really understood the dire consequence that I felt was to follow. I would have lobbied with some eloquent speech, some provocative insight that I could have dropped on her. But no. The only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Okay, but this ain’t gonna go like you think.” Which was weird, because I had never used phrases like that before.

Long story short, I just stood up about 35 seconds later. I didn’t even care. She had no idea, I mean NO IDEA what was going to happen. I made an executive decision. But on my way to the door, I said to her, in no uncertain terms, “LOOK,” as I made my way to the door. To my surprise, and really my saving grace, she finally decided to acquiesce. “FIne, just GO!” She basically mirrored my attitude. Thank god, thank allah, thank Buddha, vishnu. Whichever supreme being that pulled that string, owe you big.

Now, 2 doors away from my math class is the 6th grade bathroom. In a different world, I walk in there and lay down the #2 nice and simple. Well, as simple as this dookie ever would have been. This was some nastiness to end all nastiness, but we’ll cover that soon enough. But nasty also covers the bathroom in the 6th grade hall. I mean, to date, basically the most consistently disgusting place I’ve been around was that bathroom. You know, that would have ever been in a middle school. Looking back, I think the reputation of the place was more vile and disgusting than the actual bathroom, but alas, that’s how reputed this bathroom was. It was a banal enough image I had of this bathroom that taking the most necessary shit of my life was not even an option.

For that matter, I guess I was a nervous poo-er, because I was kind of particular about where I’d take my dumps at this time in my life. In my fairly uncrowded and upper-middle class middle school, there were still only a few places I felt comfortable with dropping the kids off at school. One was a bathroom on the 2nd floor next to the stairs that seemed to get next to no use, one was the boys bathroom in the band hall, which saw a very select clientele, and my personal favorite, the bathroom in the art room hallway. It was an oasis, a hall with one classroom and  a computer lab that never saw use. Sure, there were plenty of lockers on that hallway, but with 5 minute passing periods, who has time to pinch a loaf? I found myself crossing the entire school on certain periods just to find a certain solitude here.

But not this day. On this day, I sought not just solitude. I sought asylum.

In a hurried kind of racewalk, I struggled across the courtyard that separated the hallway I began on and the ramp up to my destination. My ass was in full clench mode. I was sweating, both from the effort I was putting in and the mental prospect of having to explain any of this in the near future. I cannot describe the exact discomfort I felt, because I blocked this day out in my mind for so long. But let me get to the part that I felt needed to be locked away in my own proverbial Disney vault.

I get up the ramp with no problem. I open the doors, and walk into the far side of the building still on full clench alert. Not even racewalking, I resemble someone in a petticoat with a herniated disc. I look like I’m being pushed in the back as I walk, but my ass hasn’t caught up. That’s what you should picture with me walking right now. And I get all the way to the door of the bathroom still clenching, and I make the mistake of not walking close enough to the door before reaching for the handle. Essentially, it was celebrating before getting into the endzone. Because by reaching for the door to this bathroom, I ended up losing my full ass-clench. I mean, by a few inches of stride, I just basically needed one more small step towards the door. But now, I felt that I could reach and yank with no issues. In doing so, my levee broke, and the dam could no longer hold. So the dam broke. And...damn.

And this moment will live, in my mind, for all of time. The infamy of… the event.

What followed could not fully be described with any single thought. It sounded like a legitimate 12 seconds of continuous farting. It smelled like an onion patch. It felt like instantaneous shame, with a side of self consciousness and horror. I don’t know what I looked like when this occurred, and I hope I never find out. Point being, this was the worst thing that ever happened to me on school grounds. Of all the embarrassment I suffered throughout my academic and extracurricular career, this was as dark as it had ever been. I hurried into the bathroom, still farting. Well, farting among other things, forget about that. Literally 10 full seconds were occupied by this loud and malevolent force of exodus from my colon. To my additional horror, there’s someone in there with me. Some older kid I don’t recognize. He didn’t even want to look when he heard me come in, based on what he was hearing. Good, I figured. Don’t even look at me. It makes it more likely that I won’t have to explain shit later.

*Note: I’m not trying to be humorous when I use the word shit through all of this.

So this kid is washing his hands as fast as possible, and I’m doing my best trying to play off how rattled I really am right now. Like, I’m pretending to look through the stalls to choose the least dirty one, when I’m really making sure that NO ONE else is in the room when I try to deal with this situation. The kid leaves in a hurry, probably sensing the smell and hoping it doesn’t sink into his clothes and haunt his dreams. When I hear the door close, I check to make sure he really left and didn’t just pretend to leave, and then I take refuge in the handicap stall at the end and try to prepare myself.

It’s not gonna be that bad. You can handle this. You’ll survive.

I’m reaching for anything I can to make myself feel better and literally nothing is helping here. Shit. SHIT. I pull my pants down not looking, trying to psych myself up to deal with this, knowing that it’ll likely be the thing that ruins my life, this IT that I’ve long felt was on its way but now that it’s here I’m still not really prepared for it, like if I was off hunting Big Foot and then actually found it and was like, “Oh shit, I didn’t bring a single thing that would actually help me in this situation.” That’s how this shit made me feel before looking at it. But I'm willing myself to stay together.

It's not gonna be that bad.

And then I looked. And freaked out for a completely different reason than anything before.

You see, there was a shade of green within this shit. A shade I’m not familiar with. A shade I didn’t know existed, nor was possible. A shade I have not seen before this incident, and haven’t seen since. It wasn’t sea foam, it wasn’t olive, it wasn’t emerald. It was, as far as I can tell, a new color. And I didn’t know what to call it. I have to assume, if I can’t find it anywhere else, that I created a color with this shit. So this color, this Victor green I saw on this fateful day, is staring me back in the face in the bathroom of the art room hall. And I’m way more scared than before. This color has completely taken over my underwear. It’s not even underwear anymore, it’s the vessel for which this color came into the world.

And so I jettisoned the underwear and pants I was wearing and just sat there, bare-assed on the bathroom floor for a few minutes. No words, no thoughts. I just pondered what I beheld. In horror. This was that thing I had sort of always seen coming that would be my mark on the world. I was no longer thinking about homework and band practice. I was worried about math class and history assignments. I wasn’t just worried about changing my pants anymore. I looked at this color and thought that now I had to change SCHOOLS. I needed to move away and undergo surgery to change my appearance. My family needed to go into witness protection. This is Def-Con 17 we’ve reached here. Code black. Code green. Code VICTOR GREEN. There was no going back from this. FROM. THIS. SHIT.

But alas. Could I come back? I pondered if I could pull myself together. Come on. There had to be something I could do before just giving up. And I did this thing that I do all the time now, where part of my mind suggests something, and another part of my mind shoots it down and gets angry that the first part even suggested it.

Okay, I thought. Can we get new pants?

Like where? The lost and found? You gonna stroll down the hall and look there for another pair of jeans your size? Really? They’re just gonna have pants for you? Are you a fucking moron?

The gym locker?

No, they locked that right after our period. (I knew that they did, I had tried to get my dirty gym clothes after hours before.) Besides, that also requires walking down an open and public hall to get to to the locker room that won’t be open, and then you’re trapped out in no mans land. Then you’re walking around the coaches’ domain, with an exposed ass for someone to break a foot into. Dumbass.

Okay, go to the office and call your parents.

And say what, exactly? That their oldest child is incapable of bladder control? You want to have that reputation in the family? No one, NO ONE will ever let this go. Your family will be worse about this than most of these asshole kids. White people have trends, they’ll find something new to torture in a few months. In your family, you will always be the one that shit his pants in school and then voluntarily drew attention to himself. This doesn’t leave the room.

Besides, that didn’t work for another reason. Calling parents meant I needed the front office phone, and those women that worked there didn’t keep anything quiet. They were bigger gossips than the kids at school were. Involving them in anything meant the entire school would find out by the end of the day. Hell, they would probably make a schoolwide announcement, “Calling all students with spare pants, Victor Dupuy is in need of your help here in the front office. Underwear too, if you’ve got it.” So yeah. Not an option.

Briefly, I did consider killing myself. Like, just hanging by my neck right there in the stall or drowning myself in another toilet. I’m still a bit embarrassed to admit it, but it really did get a few moments of consideration. But that quickly faded as a real option, and here’s why. The only thing worse than dying, I reasoned, was dying in this much shame. Surely there would turn out to be an afterlife if THIS was what caused me to take my own life. And then I’m dead AND I shit myself like this. This was the kind of thing that people would live and die remembering. Like I’d be chilling in heaven (or hell) and people would walk in having lived full lives and would still bring this up. Or this would be like the thing that kept me out of heaven, like God is sitting there judging me and he’s like, “Vic, I like you. You had a good thing going. But 1, you killed yourself and didn’t repent. And 2, and more importantly, is that shit was GROSS. You gotta understand, Vic, I’m God, and I didn’t make that color. That shit was crazy, I can’t have that in heaven. People have a certain expectation of what gets in up here.” So screw that. This was no way to leave a mark on the world. A skid mark? Nuh uh.

Now, to be fair, I also came very close to just leaving school. Just running home without any pants on. It was also a very real possibility. It was about 2-2.5 miles to my house from middle school, at about the right time of day that I could have done it and been alright with it. I was in good enough shape that I’d have done most of it all at once, not that I was ever a cross country runner. Then again, I’ve always been a sprinter, and the prospect of needing to catch my breath while walking around without pants on? Yikes. Besides, it seemed like this was the type of thing that people would piece together if there was anything suspect with me the rest of the day. A kid runs home with no pants on the same day that Victor just disappears from class? I don’t want to say it sounds like something I would have done as a kid but… well, I almost did do that as a kid.

But that gave me the idea. Could I salvage the pants? The underwear, gone. Destroyed. I will never wear those again, you cannot clean those. Wow. But the pants, were they redeemable? I checked. To my surprise, the jeans were not particularly damp. I mean, I could tell something horrible had happened from the inside and I thought they still had some of the Victor Green smell, but in the end, it wasn’t beyond redemption. A few minutes with some paper towels, and they were passable. The jeans were a darker shade and the...um, added moisture, well, it didn’t really show up unless you were looking right at it, and it was in the crotch area where no one should be looking anyway. Jesus. This was doable. This was not just possible, this was plausible.

I tried them all the way back on, the jeans I mean. Leaving the underwear in the toilet of that stall, I tried to flex around in the pants in a way that made myself feel more comfort. It didn’t come. I tried to ignore it, but it was hard to get past some of the thoughts I had just had. A few minutes ago I had considered leaving school forever without saying goodbye and starting a new identity. I had thought of informing my parents of how weird and hopeless their first born son might really be. I had briefly considered suicide. Now I was going back to class like nothing happened. I was not a kid that hid his emotions well. It wasn’t what I did. So there was a little bit of prep time taken in the mirror, trying to practice my faces to make when someone would inevitably ask why I smelled exactly like shit smells. I won’t lie, I didn’t like the takes I was getting from myself. Wasn’t believable. I just didn’t commit to the character, you know, of someone who didn’t soil himself.

I then took the longest walk was back to class ever. It’s hard to explain my mental state during this. But the idea centers around 3 points:

1. The weight of everything I had just taken on. I’m not an actor. I’m not a good liar. Terrible at poker. So pulling myself back together was not only a chore, but I was very aware of how bad at it I usually was. I would have stayed in the bathroom longer to go over my lines and practice my faces, but I was all too eager to leave the ‘scene of the crime’.

2. (these are in no particular order) I had been away from class for about 40 minutes by this point. Middle school classes were only 50 minutes or so, and I had left somewhat close to the beginning of class and was getting back just before the bell. It was going to be very obvious I was walking back in like this, and I was less than enthused at how it was going to look. All I needed was for someone in the class to remember that I came in looking freaked out, and then hear that during that same time period someone had experienced an explosive deuce somewhere in school with catastrophic consequences. Reasonable dots to connect.

3. I was not sure if I’d left any evidence to track me down. I was making sure no one saw me leave the bathroom, so I actually took a different route back to math class. The way back literally took longer and was a different path, just to check if I was being tailed. Also, I was trying to think of whether or not they could identify people in the world by their fecal matter. It was in the early days of crime scene investigation shows, I didn’t know if that was a possibility yet or not. Still don’t know. Maybe.

On top of all of this, I hated math class in general. Never once liked math. I hated going into this class with dry pants on. So this did nothing to improve my take on this subject.

But alas, I was not cursed on this day.

I walked into the room and saw everyone sitting in groups laughing and playing around. Some kids had cards, others were talking about new cell phones, a few of my friends had a board game out. Someone was just sitting there, napping in a loud room.I had to restrain myself from celebrating out loud. I pulled it together and slunk down next to one of the tables they had drawn together. As it turned out, right after I had left, Dr. Selma had completely loosened up, told everyone to do whatever they wanted to do, and had left the room. She wasn’t even there when I got back. No one could verify if I had come and left again, or if everyone else was even there. I was home free. I was safe. I exhaled uneasily as I sat and trying to play it Bogart.

And then the scariest thing happened. One of the girls in the class looked up, sniffed the air, and asked in a somewhat loud and confused voice, “What the hell is that smell?”

And for an instant, it seemed like EVERYONE in the room looked at me. I almost shit my pants. Again.

And then someone said, “Steven!” And they all blamed it on this fat kid standing behind me. And for once, I was happy to let someone else take a fall. I let the spatial profiling go on without batting an eye. I had enough I was trying to get through that day. I actually pretended to get up and move out of disgust.

Somehow I made it back to my room in my own house. Along the way, I had to get a ride home from one of my friends, who actually ended up taking me to his house, which I normally would have been excited about. Today I was excited to get home and take the 3 different showers that I desperately needed. I then looked myself in the mirror and vowed to not acknowledge this happened for at least ten years. And believe it or not, I made it about 15 years or so before remembering this as an actual thought. I mean, at first I was just faking it, but somewhere along the way, so many other embarrassing or mesmerizing things occurred, I forgot I was even trying to forget this one.

My point in all of this though: I could not subconsciously just go back to myself from before after seeing Victor Green. That was the dawn of a new age in my life, and perhaps in the human race itself, assuming I ever figure out how to recreate what i saw. It was not something that just happened and I could get over it completely with time. It changed the course of my life. Dead serious. Imagine something really embarrassing that happened to you. Now imagine something that sucked, but was way less of a big deal. If that 2nd thing happens first, and then the worse thing happens afterwards, that a really crappy day because of these two things. First this one small thing happened to set the tone, and THEN the really bad thing happened.

Like let’s say you get splashed by a puddle while in a nice suit, dress, uniform, whatever. You look nice, and you get splashed wet. And then on top of that you get hit by a car and break your leg. That would suck. I mean, you’re all wet and THEN you get a car running into you. You didn’t need that. But flip it. You get hit by a car and your leg is broken, and then a puddle splashes you. Who gives a shit about the puddle?! You’re writhing in pain on the street, and some water gets on you, big fucking deal. It might help wash off some of the blood, who knows? Now, you may be saying, the puddle isn’t a big thing even if it happens first. And I get this. Yeah, that's technically right. Try not to get too caught up in the theoretical shitty things that did or didn’t happen.

So yeah, that’s probably the worst thing that ever happened to me, from a traumatic memory type of perspective. And because it happened, a lot of other things happened that didn’t really register in comparison. So in a way, this event in 6th grade may have helped me more than it ruined me. Perhaps this is the true effect of seeing Victor Green in person.

But shitting your pants in a midddle school bathroom? I wish that upon no man.

Bye now.

Vincero

This is an apology
For the stars we cannot see
That burned out bright as phoenix tamed
But came to quick serenity
This brings to mind those of the flames
Who burned out bright without a name
That turned out not to have the time
To beckon from us their acclaim

This is an apology
Because not everyone we see
Will truly get to be
Not every fired arrow
Finds its apple or its sparrow
But if I can, before I go
Vincero

I find myself gazing yet again
Upon my shining, starry friends
Of worlds and lands I will not see
For they have long burned out to end
But now and then, I breathe back in
The thought that maybe they did send
A story worth admission
Who's submission's plot will ought contend

I remember pondering while watching my mind wandering
Wondering where in all this yonder I can find my own calling
And thus can stop this feeling that my time has been spent squandering
Looking down into the abyss from up in the mist
Up on the cliff, up in the bliss
Trying to figure out how long I've been...this
And I'd be remmissed not to blow a kiss to everything that brought me
Fought me
Distraught me
And therefore, taught me how to exist
For each of those pieces mark a shift
In the paradigm that now I'm trying to fix up
And bring out of the mix up to have to deliver as my gift

And that's what this is
If this counts for an ounce of anything at all
Let it be me looking up after a distant fall
Just to recall
That I've gone through anything at all
Looking up at the stars, set humming
Shimmering back and forth from sunning
Swooning, mooning, blooming, and ballooning
I must give thought to the ones long done
The ones still running
And those that perhaps I'll never see coming

All I can do is wait to congratulate
Those that meet their victory gate while I can stand and wait
For many more may slip by on just the date
That I must bow and duck out late
And if I miss these twists of fate
I beg you not to castigate
For I may have light of my own
That I'll need you do decorate

If I'm not here, when you shine brightest
Please think of me in the politest
For if you miss my moment coming
I hold it against you not the slightest
For sure, I strive for purity
Before I find obscurity
But I can settle for knowing that
In the end, it was always me

This is an apology
Because not everyone we see
Will truly get to be
Not every fired arrow
Finds its apple or its sparrow
But if I can, before I go
Vincero

Wildcard, Bitches

I used to read the strangest things as a kid.

Oh, wait. I should say Hi first.

Hi.

Anyways, I read 'The Art of War' by Sun Tzu as a kid. Or, most of it. 

Mostly because I was bored while visiting my grandparents in Florida as a kid, but also because it seemed like the kind of thing that you should read at some point in your life, to gain perspective or at least be able to feign that you have perspective, which was up my alley. So I read it over a long weekend while hanging out in Blountstown, FL, or most of it, and then I finished it later in life as an adult that could truly appreciate it.

A lot of things stick out when you read a book like 'The Art of War'. It's not like most books you would just read. The book itself isn't any kind of literary organization, it is just a bunch of rules and principles. Stuff like when to attack an enemy, when to evade. methods for cultivating a successful army, ways that leaders get screwed over by their supporters. Things that build morale, things that kill it. That kind of thing.

This book single-handedly made me hope I never have to go to war. I mean, the fact that war, as a concept, was dumbed down this much and is still by no means straightforward. Screw that. I had enough trouble applying these ideas while playing Starcraft on my computer. I cringe at the thought of world leaders going to war and not thinking it through, but again, in the interest of not getting overly political, I won't go into names. But man, I hope those individuals don't pick fights with the U.S. army.

I bring up The Art of War, however, because of a particular passage that I will forever remember. This passage is in the elongated version that my grandparents have, that hold a lot of extra commentary and explanation of the book itself. It's about different types of soldiers and the jobs that you give them. The passage goes like this:

"The skillful employer of man will employ four types of men: the brave man, the wise man, the covetous man, and the stupid man. For the wise man delights in establishing his merit, the brave man likes to show his courage in action, the covetous man is quick at seizing advantages, and the stupid man has no fear of death."

I thought to myself at the time: Oh shit, which one am I?

Not just at work, mind you. You ever stop and wonder who you are, in your group? Are you the brains, or the muscle, or the looks or even... the wildcard? TV shows always dumb it down to cliches like "the dumb blonde" or 'the jock" or "the rich douchebag" and make it painfully obvious, but there could really be individuals with roles in your own circles of friends, and you may or may not realize that there's something specific about you that keeps people around you regularly. Oh, sure, it may be money or fame or a parent in law enforcement that can make legal trouble go away, but it could be even more basic, or abstract, than that. 

Like, I don't know, maybe your life is so screwed up, people like to have you around to remind themselves that shit could get worse all the time. Maybe you're the funny one in the group. Shit, maybe you just think that you're funny and the others rip you to shreds when you leave the room. You might be the best cook, have the best apartment, be the most fashion savvy. Maybe they just all actually like you, and you're the only thing holding your group of friends together, and without you they would all fucking hate each other. I don't know, I'm not sure who you are, but you must have done something to get friends. And it's not likely to be that you were the smart one, the brave one, the sly one, or the stupid one.

Again, in no way am I saying that every person in the world falls into one of these four categories. Definitely not in job or military settings. After all, come on, how many skillful employers are even out there? Every company has a few employees that you look at and think, 'Damn, who in HR came in drunk at work and let this dude get a job?' But also, people in general don't always fit into nice boxes like this, not that these are all even nice boxes. 

But I do always think of that last option. The stupid man, or wildcard as we say more often nowadays. The one who is not afraid to die, probably in a horrible and embarrassing way. The guy who makes the interesting decisions that get everyone else into a certain type of situation, but can also be the random one to get everyone out of the same type of mess. You just never know what the hell this dude is going to do, or be willing to do. And this type of individual just might come in handy sometime. 

I mean, even back in the Ancient times, they understood the use of a fall guy. Same thing today. I know for a fact that certain huge corporations have people on hand almost exclusively to step in front of nasty situations so that the upper management doesn't have to be inconvenienced. Some refer to them as Customer service. I even know of a video of an ex-NFL player, Cris Carter, talking to incoming NFL league rookies about the entourages that they keep, and having a guy there that will take the blame if something bad happens and someone has to face serious legal culpability. 

Imagine being that guy in a group, where all your 'friends' agree that if shit goes down, they're just all gonna say that you did it. Like, that's the only reason you're even around. Someone has to explain to you, "Alright, Benny, here's what's about to occur. The police are on their way, and there's way too much cocaine here for us to finish in time. We're gonna need you to take the hit this time, buddy. Yep, just, yep, just tell them that it all belongs to you when they get here. We're gonna head out the side door here. And Benny? We really- huh? Oh, sure, you can do some more cocaine while you wait, no problem, but Benny? We're really gonna miss you." 

Take Zeke, for instance.

We’ll call him Zeke, anyway. Zeke is a big ass burly dude who loves to get into dumb situations with others. I forget how I know Zeke, but I know him and I will always remember that I know him now because of the story I'm about to tell you. I’ve never seen him get into an actual fight, but I’m guessing he can throw them hands pretty nice. His teeth are a bit fucked up too, so I’m guessing he has experience in taking a punch. Anyway, as intimidating as he is, he showed me that he has no real fear of death or injury or consequences. Oh, and he also taught me the value of being oddly specific with your threats.

We were at a bar, enjoying ourselves after a football game one night, years ago from today. I don’t remember exactly what was going on prior to this, but we were already pretty rowdy on this particular evening. We go to a bar down the street from the house we were hanging out at, and it was pretty packed. Dimly lit bar, loud music, beer pitchers being poured everywhere. I'm sure you’ve never heard of a place like this, right?

So it was packed enough that there were limited tables and chairs for everyone that wanted one. And we had one table and had grabbed most of the chairs we needed, and were trying to get one more, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice the next table trying to pilfer one of our chairs. Now, this wasn’t a big deal at all, but it was annoying and in our defense, it was OUR chair that we had gone and collected. And Zeke notices at the same time I do, and we approach the two guys on their side of the next table. Not big guys, not small guys, just two different regular looking guys, nothing imposing or anything. I try to be diplomatic, and explain that they have grabbed one of our groups chairs, and that we want to keep that. And they start to go into something about it was really theirs first and we should just let it go and find another one. And it was at this moment that Zeke utters a phrase I will never forget as long as I live:

“You give the chair back or I’ll beat your fucking dick off!”
...

Now, when he said that shit... I forgot what we were even talking about. I briefly forgot there were other people there. I turned my focus to Zeke because I became very concerned all at once. Mostly for my own safety, but also I had a few issues to unpack.

First, and these are in no particular order, not really an appropriate reaction to losing a chair, is it? We went from calm to blowing up in a matter of seconds, so there’s that. These are chairs, they are not the new iPhones or seats on a space shuttle ride, or really anything that warrants an outburst. Because nothing warrants an outburst quite like this one.

Second, what exactly did he mean by that? Did he mean beat their dicks off, like ejaculate them here in the middle of a crowded bar? Because that’s not something you should just go around offering. People shouldn't be doing that in public to strangers that they're unhappy with. Or… did he mean he would beat their dicks...off? Like off, off? Because that’s a whole different set of questions. Ejaculation might actually have been weird enough to scare somebody away, but the later option, that's not really something you should do to, well, anyone. Ever, under any circumstances.

Why would you do something like that? The punishment does not fit the crime. And why are you announcing that shit, like it’s already a foregone conclusion that beating off a human penis is where this has to go now. Is that what you’re prepared to do? Are you just saying you are willing to do that over this chair situation, or are you saying that you know from experience that you can remove a man’s dick from his person? Like, for real, have you DONE THAT? This is the kind of person Zeke is, that I have to ask these questions out loud. I need to re-evaluate the people I associate with if this is the company I’m keeping. Like, what else have you not told me? What are you prepared to do if someone spills your beer? If we get into a bar fight, do I need to be concerned for my own crotch region, regardless of whether your on my side or not?

And I don’t even want to look at these bastards we’re facing off with. I'm concerned with how they'll react to this oddly specific threat. If they were told that they may lose their penises in the course of fighting for these chairs, and it doesn't shake their resolve, then I want nothing to do with these men whatsoever. I don’t have time to be fighting dudes that aren’t scared about losing their junk over something so trivial. Any man who is willing to risk losing his penis for, well, really anything... that's a dude that doesn't care about LIFE in general.

I honestly don’t remember if we got the chair back or not. I haven’t hung out with Zeke since.

The point is, these things reflect on you. The people that you associate with, the company that you keep, it matters. Partially because of the situations that you get each other into, but ultimately, the role that you play in their lives and the role that they play in yours, even when you aren't around each other. You cannot be there to constantly explain to complete strangers, "He's kidding. He's not really the kind of person to rip genitalia off of a living person."

On the other hand, we didn't get into a fight, that much I do remember. Maybe it was a calculated move on Zeke's part. Holy shit, maybe Zeke actually is the wise man! Or is he brave for putting himself out there for something so stupid? Or wait, no, is it that he's clever for out-thinking everyone and using an approach sure to work in his favor?

Who am I kidding? Definitely a wildcard move.

Wildcard, Bitches!

Bye now.