I figured that I would start a new "series" for my blog. I can only think of two people that read this blog and I'm not sure how interesting this will be, but I'll give it a go and see what comes of it.

I started my college career like most other seventeen years olds from Podunk, Oklahoma. I knew that education was the only thing that going to get me out of the backwards ass town I was in, but I had no idea what I wanted to do. I started out with Psychology. I soon realized that I wasn't learning anything. I had only gained the ability to judge myself and others more harshly. Then decided I would follow my dream and go to law school. That went no where. Not for lack of motivation, but because I was informed that there were too many lawyers in Tulsa and I would finish my post-college days chasing ambulances or working for the district attorney's office. Neither of these were things that I was willing to do.

So I did what any other college student would do: Drank. In took the number of hours required for a degree, yet couldn't pass a single class. I drank so much, I failed Drama Theatre. I drank so much that the state of Oklahoma forced me to take a two year "leave of absence."

(That chapter is for another day...)

When I finally came home, I had lost everyone's trust. My own Grandparents refused to give me money for fear that I would spend it on earning DUI number two. They suggested I find a job at a call center or fast food joint and claw my way to lower middle class. They felt that someone with a record like mine couldn't aim much higher.

To add insult to injury, I was on Academic Suspension until I could bring my G.P.A up to at least a 2.0. (How sad is that?! I had managed to bring my average down to a 1.1.) I was banned from dong the only thing that I ever enjoyed. I had no money, no real job, and I had lost faith in myself. Everything that meant something to me had been stripped away. Ashamed and hopeless, I did the only thing I knew to do: I surrounded myself with low-lifes and poured a round of shots.

I refuse to lie to the world. I had a blast. I worked maybe twelve hours a week and partied about 42. I became an local superstar. People knew my name, at least. I couldn't walk into a bar, grocery store, or club without being recognized. At the time, I thought any attention was good attention. I thought that being the life of the party was something wonderful. Instead, I had become a joke to the other low-lifes.

To prove my own point.

What does "I need to start doing right by you" even mean?!

meh

I feel like one of the recent posted scrines...I'm tired of being ignored.

I know that I probably shouldn't be doing this. I know that I should probably just move home with the grandparents and be miserable for a semester before I move off the the land of the younguns *AKA OSU*. I know I could save more money living there and be able to afford better things.

But you and I and everyone else know that the situation would last MAYBE two weeks. I couldn't handle not being able to cook, not being able to enjoy my nightcap, not being able to BREATHE without someone asking me where I was going or what I spent my money on...

Back to the topic at hand, you said we might not have time to do lunch...That's fine. A girl cannot survive on bread alone; there's got to be meat somewhere.

I know I shouldn't want you like this, but it just feels so damn good. When you called today, I could picture you in that uniform. If we weren't 900 miles and 8.5 hours apart, I would have jumped you like a starving dog would jump a pork chop. Just the thought of it sends shivers down my spine.

I shouldn't be thinking about what it's like to have you. I know that when it's all said and done, I will be the one searching for meaning in every thrust, sigh, and moan. But I don't care at this point. I need you to make me feel like myself again. I need to know that I can still make your toes curl. I need to know that I am still beautiful in the eyes of the one that sparks my inspiration and fuels my insanity.

I love you. Every jagged scar, the curve of your stomach, the mole perched on your full lips... All of you.

The living contradiction that I find in you keeps me together and tears me apart. So perfectly flawed. You're a work of art created by a schizophrenic. Nothing means everything and everything holds no meaning.

Eh...I'm still smirking. I can't seem to get this stupid look off my face...You know which look I am talking about. It seems that I never get enough of you. Through the confusdark clouds and lightening, there's a little ray of sunshine and a chorus singing a ridiculously upbeat tune.

I appreciate you . I adore you. You're my end all to be all. Hopefully this all goes as planned. Wouldn't want to waste a fresh haircut and a pretty dress now would we?

just me being a baby...

All marriages are stupid and they suck. Men turn into these big whiney ass babies the minute they get a ring on their finger.FUCK MARRIAGE. I will never do it, ever.(PS Men are big irritating babies anyways...I hate them.)I love having friends that talk to me about their problems instead of deciding that I am not good enough and ignoring me. (I hate it that they have problems though.) I am actually a good listener when I want to be. What good is a friend that doesn't tell you anything at all ever?

Seriously? Thanks...It really makes me just want to curse you out.

meh

Who knew that I would be soooooooo lost without class in session?
I feel like I have nothing to do and that I should be doing something!

So, this is essentially a rant that I didn't want on MySpace because I am tired of bitching on MySpace...Because then I am obligated to read other people's rants and honestly, I don't really care what some people have to say lately.

George Clinton was AWESOME. Got to meet him. Also met a hot new guy...Then I find out he's an optimist and has kids...DOUBLE negative in my book. There is a difference in being an optimist and being easy-going. This guy is like the Easter Bunny on Meth or something. It's ridiculous. I feel like I am talking to a high school cheerleader or something. Fuck, just shut up already. I really don't think the grass is that green on your side of the pasture either.

The guests are pissing me off as well as the employees. I shouldn't be working at an Econolodge in the hood, but you know why I do it. I have a degree in this shit, but I've got to finish school before I start trying to be uppity.

Thanks for talking to me about the car. I know that it's not really you're problem anymore. I love you. You make me feel better about things usually. Whether or not you're in my life, you're still my support system...However messed up that might be.

You know, I am perfectly fine until I have to hear your voice. I can handle talking to you for a few minutes about things related to the apartment only. What I can't handle is thinking about anything related to our relationship. I really want to scream and cry and tell you to get the fuck out of my life forever, but I need that lease. I really mean it this time...That lease, that roof over my head, is the only reason I continue to deal with the bullshit. When I thought I was going to be able to move, I was perfectly fine. When I thought that I wasn't going to have to deal with you again, it didn't hurt me. I only miss you when you're in my face.

SO what the hell am I supposed to do at this point? Am I supposed to just let you sign the lease and then act like you don't exist? That's probably the right thing, but what I really want is you completely out of my life. I don't want to be forced to rely on you for anything...No matter how small.

Yeah, you were joking about the strippers, but in that instant, I almost lost it. I almost threw every ounce of self-control and strength out the window. I hung up on you because I didn't want to hear it. I almost burst into tears...Like I am so close to doing right now.

It fucking blows (and that is a gross understatement) to love someone so much that you almost break under the weight. I can't be your friend. I am not capable of listening to you brag about your meaningless sexcapades, self-destructive drug habits, or complete lack of ambition and motivation. I worry about your safety and sanity as much as I worry about my own.

Yeah, I fucking care about you. So? It's not like you can't say the same for me. You're not complete evil. If you didn't care, I know that you would treat me in the same way you treat Ambre. I am unsure whether this whole mess is a product of my stupidity or the bastard child of your undesirable qualities.

I cannot say that I do not love you because that would be saying that you never meant anything to me.

It's different. As time passes, I find myself unafraid of my life without you. Instead, the thought of my future with you terrifies me. I don't want to do this for the rest of my life with you. When you leave, I am okay. It's when you come back that I fear for my sanity and security. Every aspect of my life suffers when you are around.

It's because when you are around, you're never really there. It's a mirage...An illusion...My false hopes lead me down paths that I am no longer willing to travel.I am not doing this...I keep telling myself that, but everytime I pull myself back into it.

I love you. I always will.

But I love myself more and the sooner I realize that and put my needs before yours, the better off I will be.

The Drinkin' Chair

I'm sitting in Marcus' chair...His "drinkin'" chair. It is undeniably the most comfortable chair I have ever sat in, but it's ugly. Not typical ugly, horribly ugly. It's leather or could have been considered leather at one time. There are stains from his greasy mechanic hands on the arms; scuffs from his work boots on the reclining part. Scratches from his dirt caked jeans mar the surface. A spot of white paint is splashed on the seat and there is a definite groove (and oil spot) in the place where he used to rest his weary head.

I'd like to imagine that once, someone loved this chair very much. A man probably bought it, brand new, from some fancy furniture store in the city. He probably went into the store with their wife (or girlfriend or who ever it is people do furniture shopping with) looking for a couch or maybe a refrigerator...Anyways, so they're in the store and they're looking for the fridge and he sees this chair out of the corner of his eye. I imagine it was beautiful in it's earlier years. It's tan leather shone under the showroom lights, inviting him to sit for a minute. Just a minute. So he plods over and plops down into the chair. He leans his head back and pulls the lever. He lays his head on the smooth cool leather and lays flat, staring at the ceiling. Just relaxing. Then he imagines how awesome it would be to sit in this very chair after a hard day's work. He almost feels the cold beer in his hand. He sighs. He stands and turns to face the chair. It stares back at him like a puppy, begging the man to take it home. His wife (or girlfriend or whatever) walks over to him, rambling about the fridge that he doesn't give a shit about. He doesn't hear a word from her mouth. Instead, he's imagining the sounds of the game and the smooth leather of the chair. He turns his back on the chair and wanders over to the stupid fridge that he doesn't give a shit about, she's still talking, he can hear the announcer calling plays.

Then he stops. Dead in his tracks. Without a word, he spins and ambles back over to the chair, placing his hand on the head rest. A man needs...No...A man deserves a good chair. Every hard working blue collar man should have somewhere to rest his weary head and put his feet up. A drinkin' chair...A chair of his own.

"Stop. This chair. I'm buying it." His girlfriend (or wife or whatever) scoffs. She fingers the price tag. Again she laughs. She speaks, but he's not listening, he raises one rough finger to her lips. "I'm buying this chair." She shakes her head.

So he buys the chair and they take it home. It doesn't really match anything else in the house, but he's doesn't give a shit. It's his damned chair. No one sits in his chair, not even company. He eats dinner in his chair and sometimes, after one too many, he sleeps in his chair. The woman begins covering the chair with a quilt when he's at work, worried that he's going to ruin it's shiny leather with his dirty work clothes. Every night, he comes home and throws the quilt in the floor. The feel of the leather is part of why he bought...A small part, but a part...

Several years pass and one day after a particularly long afternoon at work, he comes home, he grabs a beer, and drops down into the chair. It's a good chair, it doesn't even creak under his weight. He turns the game on and proceeds to sip his beer. His dog comes over and lays down at his feet. His wife (or girlfriend or whatever) walks into the living room and stands in front of the television with her hands on her hips.

"Frank (or Mike or Joe or whatever), we need to talk."

He grunts and stares through her. He doesn't want to talk. She's been nagging at him for a week (maybe longer, men aren't good with time) and he just wants to watch the game and drink his beer and be in peace. So he's ignoring her and she clears her throat.

"I can't do this anymore."

He hears her, but he still doesn't want to talk. OU is down by ten because that piece of shit Quarterback can't keep 'hold of the ball...

"Do you hear me? Are you listening?"

He replies with another grunt. She kicks his chair, leaving a long rough scratch in the side.

"Listen to me!"

She turns on one heel. She's ranting and raving now. Going around the house, throwing things into her suitcase, bitching. "You don't care, blah, blah, Your fault. Nag, nag. We don't go out..." She sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. He chuckles. This makes her even more angry. He turns up the volume on the game...She's marching and nagging and it's halftime. He gets out of the chair to get another beer from that ridiculously expensive fridge that she just had to have. She follows him into the kitchen.

"I've been cheating on you."

He looks at her standing there with that smug look on her face. He grabs a beer and opens it with his dirty arm. After a long pull, he says, "I know." and walks back to his chair. The cushion forms around his butt as he sinks into it's seat. She's crying now, OU is down by fifteen now. She's apologizing, but he doesn't give a shit, his team is on, there's a beer in his hand, and a good dog by his feet.

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Nothing changes. He still comes home every night, plops into that chair with the dog at his feet, and drinks a beer. The chair is showing it's age. His ass groove is visible now. A water spot crawls over the arm of the chair from Super Bowl Sunday when he had too much and dropped his beer. The foot rest starts to sag a little bit, but it's still his chair and he still loves it.

One night, the man goes out with his rowdy friends and meets a girl. They date for a long time, she's a nice girl. She comes over and cooks and cleans. She plays with the man's dog. She doesn't touch his chair. After about a year, she moves in...Slowly, the way most women move in...a toothbrush here, a couple panties in the drawer, maybe some shoes in the closet. No sudden movements as if men are wild animals...

So he asks the girl to marry him. She's a good girl.

After the wedding, she tells him she's redecorating; Get rid of the chair. He doesn't for a few months. He still comes home and plops into his chair, cold beer in hand. She replaces the furniture around the chair. She tries to put a slip cover over the chair. He throws it in the floor and sits down, cold beer in hand.

One Friday night after a particularly long day at work, he comes home, grabs a beer, and turns on the game. OU is up by fifteen points. She comes in and lowers herself into his lap. He shrugs her off, leans over, and starts to pet his dog. She stands up and kisses his forehead.

"Honey, this chair has got to go."

She's not angry. They don't fight. She never nags about his dirty boots or threatens to leave when he stays out too late. He loves her and he knows he has to get rid of his chair.

He wakes up early the next morning and loads the chair into the back of his truck. As he's wheeling it into the consignment store, something catches in his throat.

The shop keeper comes out and eyes the chair suspiciously. The leather is cracking, there's a large scuff on the left side. The foot rest sags on the left side and there's a water spot on the right arm.

"I can't give you anything for this chair."

"I know." The man grunts.

I imagine that the man's eyes begin to water. He's not crying because men don't cry, but he's not happy. He wipes his eyes with his dusty shirt sleeve. He gives the chair one last look, shakes his head, and leaves the store.

A couple of days later, Marcus stolls into the store, looking for a coffee table and a sofa. There's the chair. He walks over to it and plops down. He doesn't notice the cracked leather or the crooked foot rest. The chair hugs his butt and he sinks down into it's cushions. He imagines sitting in this very chair, large glass of Everclear and Diet Pepsi in hand, playing X-Box, with a big dog sleeping at his feet. He's found his very own "drinkin'" chair.

He gives the shop keeper $5 and takes the chair home to play X-Box.