Title is irrelevant, but maybe it will get stuck in your head.

Any who, I suck at writing. I have no doubts in my mind about that. I hate the rigidity that I feel when I think of the technicalities of the written word. I just want put words out there. I prefer conversation over writing, but I can’t help but respect how writing can reach people in ways that verbal conversation cannot.

So here I am.

When I write stuff, I just get paranoid about making it look and sound pretty, instead of having my “voice” be heard in the things I write. Its stifling, and by extension, suffocating. I envy those with the ability to tell a great story. Those who can captivate others they are addressing with relatable stories that they can genuinely enjoy. The way they can create stories that people don’t even question whether it is true or not because deep down, they want it to be true and the details of their story are so well thought out and relatable that even if it were completely fictional, nothing in our brain is triggered as suspect, and therefore, we just listen. We hang on every word just waiting to see where things are going. The good ones know this is the case. The good story tellers know when their audience is waiting for a curve ball or a punchline, so they use that to their advantage and still find a way to outsmart even the seemingly prepared among their flock. A good storyteller possesses an extremely valuable skill that can create incredible opportunities not only for themselves, but for others as well.

I mean, OJ got off because of great story tellers.

Anyway, all this to say, I just feel like I can never quite get my true voice in my work because I am constantly paranoid about how my writing looks in black and white or how it sounds when it is read by others. A petty roadblock, but it is my petty roadblock. Ultimately, I guess I struggle to express my self creatively. I do feel as if I’ve been able to genuinely do it a few times, but the glory is short lived because the frustration that I can’t do it more often and more consistently takes over. Trepidation engulfs the machinations of my mind thus perpetuating an inescapable cycle of paralysis and self-deprecation.

Big word quota? Filled.

The hair on the back of my neck began to stand and the chills began running down my spine. My skin began to prickle the way it had whenever I saw him. Goose pimples my mom always called them; my friends preferred goose bumps so I did too. He was gentle as he ran his fingers down my arm until he found my hands and our fingers joined as if they knew they found their long lost kin folk. We lived in this moment for some time that seemed to simultaneously feel like forever but not quite long enough. Our eyes met. Shades of green flickered when the sun washed over his eyes, but in the low light, they were a lustrous gold that commanded my attention. The only thing that seemed to break the tension was the periodic movement of his hand to uncover my face, and I clung even harder to each of those moments. His fingers would graze the skin of my brow and temple and though it was a literal moment of contact, I'd stretch them to what my mind fathomed as eternity.

He told me how much I meant to him. I couldn't tell you to this day what exactly he said, but I could tell you in vivid detail how he had only one dimple on his left cheek that always showed up when he said anything that made his face resemble a smile. That seemed to happen a lot when we were together. I can also tell you that he had scar on his bottom lip from when he fainted at the age of 8 and his tooth cut clear through his lip, and the only reason he grew that ridiculous soul patch was so no one would see it. I always thought with his grey hair it seemed somewhat desperate, but it’s hard to argue when you are often at a loss for words. Most importantly, I could tell you exactly how I felt when he said that he was finally ready. My heart was pounding, and my palms were sweating. I wanted to pull away from him to save my self the embarrassment, but I couldn't get myself to do it, and even if I could, he began pulling me closer until we were chest to chest.

Our hearts were beating as one. Our breathing was synchronizing so that when one of us would swell to take in some much needed air, the other would collapse to exhale and seemingly make room for the other without having to separate from the other. Our arms were around each other now, and our eyes still fixed on another. Our noses pressed together and we paused. Neither of us ready to take the final step despite both knowing what would inevitably happen next. Not a word was spoken, but we both smiled when we knew the other was ready. We kissed.

The world disappeared. We disappeared. Our lips merged and soon, the rest of our being followed. We could not tell where one body ended and the other began. Simultaneously, the world had shrunk and our interconnected existence swelled until that was all there was. It was my first time, but I knew I had entrusted it to someone who was worthy; someone who valued me for who I was. He guided me through the unfamiliar experience and moments of pain with love and patience I had never experienced before. The kind that made you feel that anything was truly possible and nothing was out of reach. It was my first time, and I was lucky enough to have been in love.

The sun shined through the blinds and I looked at the clock; Time for me to go. I looked at him one more time before I left to etch the details of his face into my memory as if it were the last. He peaked with one eye at me and smiled the way he does to make that single dimple appear on his left cheek. I loved that. I kissed him once more, got dressed, and left. I couldn't tell you what exactly was said that morning, but I can tell you with certainty that I could not wait for second period to tell my friends about the night I had. It had finally happened. I never thought that I would have been lucky enough to be picked by someone like Mr. Peterson, but last night, I was.

Just the two of us, We can make it if we try

But nothing can go wrong when I have you by my side

You’re the apple of my eye and I wanna take a bite

Marvin started something but with you It comes to life.

Just the two of us, Building castles in the sky

Cuz’ When you are around I can spread my wings and fly-

Away, I believe I can soar.

Moving right along, won’t reference Kelly any more.

Unless we are in Scranton and the last name is Kapour.

Just the two of us, you and I

Just the two of us even if the world does not survive

Just the two of us, you and I

Just the two of us, against all odds we will thrive

I wish I had done something sooner.

I wish that she were stronger.

I wish I had the power to make that moment in time last longer.

I wish I were smarter.

I wish I knew what needed to be said.

Maybe If I did, then my sister would not be dead.

I wish I told her not to go.

I wish I told her sooner that her "friends" were no good.

I wish I could've told her that that needle does more than just "set a mood"

I wish I could've been there.

I wish there was a god that would show me how to atone.

Maybe if I did, I'd feel less bad that they found her all alone.

I wish they didn't.

I wish I didn't think about these things still.

I wish we could go back to the days of racing on the hill.

I wish I couldn't feel responsible.

I wish the weight would be lifted from my heart.

Maybe if it did, the rest of my life could start.

I finally lost my virginity, and it was great.

It was spacious, everyone was well groomed, they appeared clean. It was amazing, after having gone through the experience, I am satisfied knowing I didn’t catch anything and I experienced everything I think most people feel during their first time: apprehension, pride, confusion, and even some disappointment.

I had my first flight in first class.

I got on the plane and didn’t expect much. I thought I was going to be in the area where you have a little extra room, but then I saw the seat, my seat, the reality struck me. I was flying first class. The first thing I noticed was the size of the chairs. These were big, the padding didn’t look like a college mattress, and there was so much space between each person. This was one of the few times a couple of inches brought so much joy to my life. I was happy.

I took my bag and placed it under the seat in front of me. I freaked out for a second because it wouldn’t stop. Normally, when you push the bag, there’s a natural stop where the bag hits the bar under the seat in front of you, and when you get there you think, “well there it is”, and move on, leaving half your bag still exposed. Not this time. This time it just kept going. It continued to move further and further under the seat. I was so worried I was going to nudge the guys feet in front of me that I kept looking around the seat to see when he would say something. At this point I just thought my bag was going to disappear completely, and for a moment, I think I had a glimpse of divorce because I started thinking about what was in the bag and saying “oh, I don’t need that” or “maybe I should pull that out”. The bag eventually stopped and I snapped back to reality, forcing myself to stop mentally decorating my bachelor pad.

Honestly, I’d like to believe that I’d be confident, almost defiantly brave, in the face of divorce, but I know I’d probably be such a bitch. Especially in the beginning. I’d probably find the saddest looking apartment complex in the world. One with absolutely no color at all. Everything is just white and shades of gray, with the exception of the water stains on the ceilings and the permanent blood stains around the toilet that have been there so long it’s brown like all the other stains, so no one really knows the difference, except for me, the author, of this imaginary scenario. I so badly want to warn my sad divorced imaginary self.

The rest of the apartment would look like it was made for recently divorced men. Where there should be an oven with a stove top, I would just buy a little toaster oven big enough for a pizza yet small enough to be depressing. On the bright side, I’d save a ton of money. In times of crisis I think it’s important to stay grounded and practical. The fridge is probably the one place I would splurge a bit. Something with a water dispenser so I can get decent tasting water to stay hydrated when crying every night. I would also need to make sure it has enough room to store all my Digornos pizzas, because delivery every night would be ridiculously expensive… and you know… it’s not delivery. I also want to make sure it can care for my beloved Ben & Jerry’s: the name of the collection of my hopes and dreams respectively. I want to be clear: I would not allow ice cream to make it to the freezer. I’d just start eating it immediately and in the off chance I didn’t finish the whole gallon tub I would let it melt and eat it warm the next night. I would convince myself it is some sort of sick punishment, purely self-imposed, because I deserve it. I would really like a kitchen with a view, something I can look out when my eyes aren’t swollen and crusted over. I can take a sip of warm ice cream imagining my life after I put the pieces back together and watch the bodies of the other tenants plummet to the pavement as they scream the names of their former lovers.

The living room will have nothing in it except a TV tray and the main furniture installment would be a plastic outdoor furniture set. The TV would sit on a plastic bin that still has unpacked clothes in it because I’m probably rotating between 3, maybe 4, different outfits. It’s not a requirement, but I would like a good size balcony. I think it would be nice to have a treadmill in an outside space. I’d never use it but it would just take too much space in the unfurnished living room, and I would want to make sure there is enough space for a yo-yo collection. Why yo-yo’s? Well, I would need something in my life that comes back.

Finally, the bedroom. The place where the magic would happen. The place that would help me get my groove back. No. I would probably have a closet, but I wouldn’t use it. I would buy a makeshift standing rack that I would place across from my twin bed so I can keep the closet open for the memorial shrine I would inevitably build for the death of my ability to feel.

What a life I’d live.

Back in reality, I decided maybe once we took off, I’d might want to work on some things. Naturally, I looked for the tray table. My first instinct was to look at the back of the seat in front of me. It wasn’t there. I was confused. I must have sat for about five minutes trying to figure out what the trick was and even after I was convinced it wasn’t there, I started doing things that don’t even make sense. I looked up thinking it might drop from the ceiling. I was baffled. I had no idea where it was. Every time I flew I knew exactly where that table was whenever I needed it for whatever reason. I didn’t even need to think about it, but here I was in this unfamiliar place without one of the few thing I thought was a constant that I could rely on. Something that frequently brought me comfort was no where to be found. For a moment, it brought me back to my sad apartment.

I wasn’t there long though because all these thoughts started flying through my head: maybe rich people don’t need work surfaces; maybe they’re so successful that they don’t need to work on planes; maybe the flight attendants just feed them and hold their drinks for them. In this tray-less new world, anything was possible. I wasn’t completely convinced so I started my search again. At last I found it. It was on of those fancy ones that fold in on itself and tuck away into the arm of the seat. I pulled it out just to look at it but then I had a thought that made me pause, “what if this is a trap. What if this is the trap that they set to identify the imposters among the first class.” I immediately put it back and glanced around hoping nobody saw me. I think I was ok.

Although I remained slightly paranoid about the consequences of finding the tray table, I did feel comfort know it was there. Enough so that I could settle into my new reality and take a look around and take it all in. I looked around at the people of first class and the first thing I noticed: rules did not apply to these people. They were doing all sorts of things I could never get away with in economy. All sorts of heresy: the guy across from me was reclining his chair while were getting ready to take off, the lady diagonal from me was on FaceTime, but she was older and was holding the phone to her ear despite the video running, the imposter two rows ahead of me had his tray out writing on a notebook. There is no way this would fly in economy. Sin exists in economy. And these people were committing all of them. Yet no one said anything to them. The one time I thought a flight attendant was going to do something, he instead turned to me and asked if he could take my jacket for me. I was not accustomed to such courtesy on a plane, and naturally I thought it was a scam. I refused his offer. Eventually, I came to regret this because the climate in first class is much different from economy. Or so it seemed.

The only thing that separated the two classes was a curtain. Not a wall or anything solid, just a curtain. A curtain that wasn’t even closed. I was confused during the flight that I found myself trying to figure out how an airplane could have such a system that controls the climate of a relatively small area of the plane without it being a closed space. I even turned around because I was the last seat in first class (I had made it, but just barely) and reached out a hand to see if maybe there was a glass barrier I was seeing. At this point, one would that I’d have learned to live with these types of thoughts and the actions I inevitably take, but after I reached out, I did the ,” did anyone see that” check.

It was crazy. This anarchist new world was so intriguing and terrifying. I think you can get away with murder in first class if you wanted to, but only against other people in first class. And when I say “in first class” that means physically in first class. Obviously, the people seated up there would be fair game, but protect your own… right? If you could lure someone from economy to pass the magical climate barrier, then boom. New player. At one point a guy from economy came up to use the bathroom and immediately, I was very curious. I personally didn’t care, but I was waiting from someone to do something or make some sort of face. I don’t know how these things work up here. I imagined myself scaring him by pretending to take his leg out or something, and he would fall and be terrified and look up to see everyone giving me a sinister smile of approval, but one I would like because at that moment, I would finally become a “first class person”. Then they’d eat him alive. Literally.

The airplane was just starting to take off. Everything before this was only a sequence of 10-15 minutes. The flight attendants started making their announcements and safety briefings, and I heard them mention that they would not be doing food and drink service on the flight due to COVID-19 and what not. I personally did not care. I’m not a huge fan of plane food, and the water they serve on planes is laced with diuretic medication. No matter how small the quantity of water, I always need to pee 10 minutes after. I was good.

Random thought: do you think people in first class shit during the flight or is that just an economy thing?

Another 10 minutes passed and I felt it. As lawless as first class was, I had a strong feeling that what I needed to do was not going to be okay. I needed to cough. Normally no one cares, but with COVID everywhere, it really makes a person wonder.

I fought it. I felt the tickling in my throat that always starts the process. I did everything I could to keep it from happening. I started clearing my throat, I tried swallowing a couple times, I even started rubbing the outside of my throat with my hands like some how this would fix it. None of this was working. The itching just kept getting stronger. I started looking at the people around me and imaging their disgusted faces if I were to cough. I didn’t look at the lady diagonally behind me though because… its economy… and I am sure the magic barrier is COVID proof. It had to be. I was getting desperate and began thinking about my options and I thought: water. I need water. That will help. Of course, as soon as I thought of this I remembered that they weren’t offering those services. My firs thought: “I’m in first class dammit”. My second and slightly more rational thought: maybe I could hold my water bottle and the flight attendant could pour some water into it. Zero contact, should be ok right? But as I imagine this scenario in my brain, I realize how ridiculous that would look. Have this guy stand with a bottle that he pulled specially for me while we are in midair and pour water into my personal bottle. I would look like an entitled jerk. There is no way they would do something like that. Even THAT seems to much for first class. Besides, even if he did we’d probably hit turbulence and the water would spill on the flight attendance plants and shoes and the other first classians would laugh at his plight and then they’d eat him alive. Literally.

I don’t know why, but I’m convinced people who fly first class are cannibals. Maybe it’s a rich people thing. I’m not sure.

Needless to say I didn’t get any water.

I fought the tickling in my throat down and it was the worst twenty minutes of my life. I held it off so long the inside of my ear started itching and I started jamming my fingers in there to try to help and kept doing that stupid thing where you use your tongue to rub the top part in the back of your mouth and make that face that looks a dog with a bee allergy. But I did it.

I was finally in a place where I felt comfortable and settled in. I got my bearings, I knew where the traps were, I knew what was expected of me from the cannibals in an economist tried to use our bathroom, I felt more relaxed knowing I could rely on the magic climate barrier to keep me comfortable, and most importantly I didn’t need to cough. Life was good. I was looking around with my new sense of belonging and pride at the thought that “these were my people”. I turned to look at that tray using imposter two rows ahead to him the “I know what your really are” look. When I see the flight attendant pouring water into his personal water bottle.

“Son of a bitch”

The doctor arrived to join the group of seven that had been waiting around the bed for the inevitable to begin. The nurse would have included herself among the count but the sound of the chatter, the machines, and the monitor were too loud, so she had to step away. Not to mention her mask. She explained the situation to the family on the other end of the call desperately hoping they would overturn their decision to resuscitate him if it was necessary.

She said her piece and waited.

As soon as it was clear the answer was not what she was hoping for, she rejoined the group but stayed on the phone to let the appointed representative of the family say what he wanted. Her attention was split. Her eyes darted back and forth from the monitor that continued to chip away at hope and the individual who gathered their now group of nine to the bed. His skin was turning grey, his eyes were crusted from extended time under sedation, and his mouth was hanging open to allow space for the tube that kept him alive to this point. A mess of tubing that ran from his arm, through a monstrous set up of pumps, and finally to different bags that contained complex formulations that placated death's approach, but they all knew it was simply a matter of time.

The numbers on the monitor continued to fall. The nurse made her way closer to the pumps to see if there anymore changes she could make to buy more time to sell her case to the family. Nothing. The doctor asked the nurse to check the for a pulse. She switched the phone to her other hand. It was there, but it was weak. She held the phone to her ear and shifted her focus back to the voice on the other end offering his words of assurance that his father would come back to them and it will be just like before, but the nurse could not help but think that this man would never be the same again. She could not shake the inescapable reality that though every fiber over her being wanted the son's reality to be true exactly as he described it, it simply would not.

Just as the nurse began to slip away to take one more attempt at reasoning with the family, the alarms on the monitor went from a simple chime to a frantic warning signal. The doctor called for a pulse check. There was none. A male nurse began compressions. Despite all the sounds around that bed of the pumps, the monitor, the ventilator, the voices of the congregation, or even the voices of the family in her ear, nothing was more clear than the sound of ribs breaking with he first couple compressions. She notified the family. Medications were being given on strict time intervals followed by short pauses only to check if a pulse had reinitiated. With each failure to feel the heart working, the cycle continued. Two-minute intervals never felt so long.

She continued to keep family aware of the events as best as she could in the hopes that she would hear three simple words," Let him go". They persisted. This entire production of events continued for another six to eight minutes before an aide was able to find a pulse.

The nurse was torn. At her core she was elated that the team was able to bring this patient back from death, but the thought was haunted by the sinister idea of what kind of life this man would have if he ever made it back. She became a nurse to save lives and help people like the man in front of her and the family on the phone, so why was the thought of this man surviving paralyzing her.

She did not have much time to search her soul for answers. She looked at the monitor and knew that round two was going to begin. Fortunately, the rest of the team did not have a chance to get far, and they began preparations for the second assault. The nurse once again, made her pitch to the family, even allowing the doctor an opportunity to help them realize what each member of team already knew. The family pushed on.

Shortly after the phone was given back to the nurse, the time had come. the process began anew.

The cycle repeated itself five times that night. Loss of pulse, start CPR, give medications, pausing to check, eventual return, and eventual decline. It was not until the entire process was completed five times that the family decided that it was time to stop.

The team stopped and next phase began with the old man. Family had their time to say their last words to him over the phone, the bay was cleaned and different tubes and wires were disconnected from his now lifeless body, and the nurse was finally released from the paralyzing grip of her imaginings. It was over. The man who endured can finally rest.

The nurse finally sat down and was able to begin her charting on the events that had just transpired. She perused the notes a member of the team took and noted the total time. fifty-two minutes.

She glanced at her watch.

Only ten more hours to go.

Giving this whole writing thing a swing. I'm not much for grammar or spelling but it's been an effective outlet so far. I hate editorializing too, but here we are. Anyway. I find myself thinking a lot these days about concepts that I have always considered important, but now there is a sense of urgency and gravitas to them. I guess one could easily look at my life and say, "you're just becoming an adult" or, “These are the things you think about when you are going to have your first child". I can't say that either of these things are wrong but I just do not feel as if these explanations fit the mold. Also, it doesn't help that I am a firm believer in the fact that no one actually "grows up" per se, we all just develop a second personality that takes the wheel when your "big child with more money" default isn't quite appropriate.

I find myself thinking about politics a lot but not on the basic level of policy and conservatives versus liberals. I've lately adopted the attitude that politics has become more than systemic framework or a giant game of three-dimensional chess. Not to get too political here, but I do ponder often how we as a collective group of humans could have chosen such a person to represent us as not only a country but as a portion of mankind. I don't think I need to go into great detail as to why I feel this way, but I think most can agree that the list is not short and it continues to grow even at the time of this writing. All this to say, I do not blame ole' Donny. In fact, when I began thinking about it more, I really had to have a moment with God when I realized I couldn't blame much anything on him. Just to be clear, I do not condone much, if any, of what he has done, but at the very least, it’s hard for him to assume all the blame. When a wild animal eats another animal in the wild, we cannot blame them because they are simply doing what their basic nature intended them to do, and to me, the same logic applies with Don. He really did not do anything surprising when you look at the way he behaved in the past, and although he has done horrible things, he is doing exactly what he has always been doing. "So what’s the issue"? Glad you asked - Here's the rub. How did we as a collective group of people get to a point where enough of us were okay with those things that he was able to occupy that platform. I question where we are at as people. To go back to the seemingly abandoned statement from earlier (paragraph 2, sentence 2), Our political system, our government, has become a reflection of us as humans: The things we value, the things we are willing to accept, but also the things we deem as evil and the things we do not condone. Nothing profound, I guess. I am young and I am not stumbling upon anything that is original or new, but if you are willing to indulge me for a moment, take the four things I mentioned above and use those as categories. Next, take inventory of the things that Don-Don as a person, or his character, has brought to the table based on his actions and statements etc. Now try and place each of those things in the respective four categories. Be honest with yourself when you do this, but also be honest with yourself when you look at where the chips lie and ask yourself, "are you okay with this"? Again, this isn't really about Donny J. on da' mic as much as it is a question about us as people.

I think we have the privilege of living in an interesting time. I don’t think the basics of life have really changed since our parents or grandparents, but I think the lens with which we view these things and our ability to respond to them is vastly different. There is no denying that there has been an obscene amount of national and international atrocities that have occurred in just the last decade, and when these things happen, one has to ask the timeless question: "chicken or the egg"? While I have my theories, I do not have any desire to really get into these things here, and quite frankly, I'm not so sure it really matters. Either way, it ends up creating a self-perpetuating cycle that ultimately churns out fear in mass quantities.

I'm sure your probably ready for me to get to the point of all this, so there it is: Fear.

I think.

When you boil it down, fear is the ever-present element that hangs over most people’s lives and decisions. When you sort through the nuances of each a tragedy, big or small, fear is always there. It's a powerful thing, but more importantly, it's a universal thing. Any two people can argue until they are blue in the face about the details of an event or decision without really making headway of any recognizable sense. We do this all the time: They didn't need to steal that, instead they should have done this. This person was just lazy, they could’ve done X, Y, and Z before they did that. Depending on the way your life has played out, opinions about the details will change because when something isn't universal, we draw on what we know as rubric for evaluations, but when something is universally understood despite any and all factors, it becomes much harder maintain composure and clarity. The fear one feels when they have no money and their children are hungry is the same fear a widow feels when she tries to think of the rest of her life without her partner of fifty plus years. The fear one feels when the threat of imminent death approaches is the same fear a person feels when they entertain the possibility of never being worthy of love or acceptance. The fear one feels when they think that they will be remembered as a disappointment in the eyes of the ones they hold in highest regard is the same fear that is felt when someone is utterly helpless to defend and protect the ones they love. The details differ, but the root is the same. It will make people do horrible things, but it can also drive people to do amazing things.

As doom and gloom as this whole dissertation has been, I ultimately think that when it comes down to it, we as people will do the right thing. Sure, we might not do it the first time around, and sometimes we do, but I think that is because that’s just who we are. We are people, imperfection is in our nature, so why would a collection of people be immune to it? I think a big part of it, is people need to be given more than just an opportunity to succeed. I think what people need more than that is an opportunity to fail. When we all understand and accept this, it has a sweeping effect on so many things. When we are okay with admitting we were wrong, it opens the opportunity to learn instead of choosing to sink with the ship to avoid admitting you didn't get it right. It teaches people that just because you might have been right doesn't mean you are superior or that you will always be right, we can't expect perfection from them all the time. Finally, It dispels the fear of things like embarrassment, loss, or punishment that block people from the path of humility and ultimately knowledge and compassion that is necessary to support each other.

I guess I just feel like I want to have a better understanding of us. I've seen us do some horrible things to each other, but I've also seen amazing things, and in each of those times, I've seen what happens when fear and hate take the wheel, but I've also seen joy. The kind of joy that you don't even need to physically be around to have it force a smile on your face and swell your chest with pride and warmth. I want more of that. I want that for my wife, I want it for my soon-to-arrive daughter. I want it for everyone in my family. I guess I just want it for all of us.