Not much to say this week, nothing happened much except a brief weekend excursion to Williamsburg, VA. Didn't do much there except hang out with family, but it was nice to bond for longer than just over dinner.
Also, if you can afford a time share, do it. It's fucking awesome. And once it's paid off, your children and your children's children have something to look forward to.
Anyways, I won't be back for another month or so. Decided that Lent was the perfect time to try and kick my mild addiction to my computer.
Six weeks ago, I became extremely ill. Actually, I'm addicted to cocaine, but once I went into rehab, something changed. Nobody seemed to recognize me. I'm the Vice President, for Christ's sake. After I checked in, people around me changed too. The treatments for the patients became less effective. One of the doctors was arrested for possession two weeks after I came in. Somehow I know it's me that's affecting these people. This is my last day in the clinic. I pack my things and let myself out. The nurse at the desk looks tired. She started shooting heroin a couple of days after I showed up. As I walk out, I see one of the orderlies lying beside the door. He's drunk again. He's been drunk for three days straight. I turn my cell phone on for the first time in seven weeks. It beeps fifty or sixty times; twice for every voice mail I've received. I don't bother listening to any of them, they'll all be the same. As I'm tapping the screen to erase them all, I pass a store with some televisions turned to the news. They're showing some footage of an island, and a ball of light shoots from what looks like a military base, then static. Back to you, Phil. "What the hell is Atlantis, anyway?" I ask myself as I give a dealer some cash for an eightball. I find a rather secluded alley and throw my crap next to a dumpster. I'd stolen a spoon and syringe on my way out of the clinic, so I fish them out of my bag and begin to melt the drug into sweet nectar. Just as I'm about to fill the syringe, the ground beneath me ripples as though it's turned to liquid. The fluid in my spoon spills onto my bare arm. That hurts. I jump to my feet and curse, but the ground continues to shake and I fall on my ass. The buildings around me begin to fall apart. I crawl out of the alley to keep from being killed, but it doesn't help much. As the street comes into view, I realize what's going on. The road looks like a wave on the ocean, and buildings are being torn apart. I try to stay close to a wall, but I'm thrown into the air and land flat on my back. That hurts too. From this position, I see the sky for the first time. It's on fire. The earthquake ends, and I get back on my feet. The entire street has been destroyed. Jets of water shoot from the cracks of the broken pavement. Vehicles have been tossed around like toys, explosions or just their sheer weight destroying property in their wakes. It figures that Armageddon would start in the City of Angels. I limp back to my bag in the alley, which is now covered with dust and concrete, and look to see if my phone is alright. Still intact. And oh, its vibrating. Bruce is calling me. Why the hell is Bruce calling me? "Hello?" I answer, a little confused. "Are you alright, Mr. Vice President?" Bruce asks in a frantic voice. "A little banged up," I reply, not quite prepared to explain my hiatus. Apparently, I don't have to. Before I can get another word out, he asks, "Can you make to LAX quickly, sir?" "Why?" I reply, even more confused. "There's a plane on its way, Mr. Vice President," he says. "You're being transported to Langley Air Force Base." "I'm on foot, and an earthquake tore up this street." "It wasn't an earthquake," he says, "Los Angeles has been attacked." "By whom?" Now I'm beyond confused. "There's no time to explain, sir. Please just get to the airport as soon as possible." It was a long walk to the airport. The city was in ruins, and people were in a panic. None of the roads were drivable. LAX was packed. After a series of excruciatingly painful explanations of who I am, I'm directed to the tarmac where my plane is waiting for me. I look at the city from the sky, and an enormous ball of golden light falls from the clouds and the city is engulfed in dust from it's own buildings falling apart. I could do a line right about now.
So I dug up my old New Found Glory CDs, and got some new ones (new to me, at least). I decided to look up some videos on YouTube, because I hadn't seen any since their Sticks & Stones album was released. On several comments, I noticed that some people were bitching about how NFG "isn't punk anymore."
Really? What would you call them, then? Rock? Not really. Their latest album was certainly inspired by a more classic rock feel, but none of their other albums can say the same. You certainly couldn't call them Metal or Industrial, either. Alternative could be the closest thing they come to, but even that's a reach.
The truth is, NFG remains unique among other established genres. That is exactly what Punk Rock is. Whether or not it's Pop is irrelevant. The only irony is that Punk originally set out to deviate against the mainstream, but found its way into the mainstream itself.
P.S. Going to try and get out of the habit of posting every single day, because fairly soon I won't be able to anyway.
I walk into the President's office with a stack of paperwork in my hands, as I've done many times this week. The Department of Foreign Affairs has been busy this month, especially since I was blessed with the honor of becoming the director after my predecessor died suddenly in a car accident in New York City three weeks ago. "What're we signin' today, Bruce?" asks the President. "Just a couple of documents finalizing my induction, Mr. President," I reply, "The rest are for the Vice President." The President nods, and examines his part of the stack. "You know," he says, raising an eyebrow but keeping his eyes on the document, "my secretary usually brings this sorta junk to me." I open my mouth to reply, but he continues, "You're worried about Carl," he says, looking up from his paperwork. I nod. "Have a seat," he says. I sit as he signs one of the documents. I am worried. Carl Beckham is our Vice President, and he has been in a hospital in Los Angeles for the past three weeks. In all honesty, I'm more worried about the island that appeared suddenly off the coast of California. "We've called it Atlantis, sir," I say, changing the subject. Something's bugging me today, and I don't feel like finding out exactly what right in front of the President. "What?" the President asks, not realizing right away that I'm talking about something else. "The island, Mr. President. We're calling it Atlantis." "Oh," he replies. The President doesn't like being confused; therefore I try to confuse him as much as possible. It makes me feel like I've accomplished something, given how dreary my job is. "Might as well," he says, "The media has been calling it that for days." "It's inhabited, sir," I say flatly. "What?" the President says, jumping to his feet. "You have proof?" I nod. The one item I hadn't given him yet was a manila envelope. I hand it to him, and he opens it a bit apprehensively. He pulls out several photographs of aerial images above the island, in which buildings and roads could clearly be seen. The President chokes and sits down as he views the final photograph: it depicts what appears to be an enormous military base, and the vehicles look vastly technologically superior to our own. "Satellite monitoring shows that these are not just ruins, Mr. President," I say, "They're really there." The President clears his throat and wipes away the sweat that's forming around his hairline with a handkerchief. "We should send an ambassador," he says. "I've started arrangements to go myself, sir," I reply. I need to get out of my office. I've been there a year, and when Kurt died, they just moved all the important crap to my office. Bastards. My thoughts are interrupted by the President's phone ringing. He pushes a button and leans forward. "Yes," he says, yet another confused look on his face. He must've seen my expression. "It's General Aimes, sir," the secretary's voice crackles, "He needs to speak with you." "Send him in," replies the President. General Aimes is a large man. He bends his head to get through the door. Yeah, he's big. He approaches the President's desk, stopping exactly two of his enormous strides away, and salutes his Commander-in-Chief. The President returns the salute and gestures for Aimes to sit. Several Secret Service agents file in. The Oval Office is a bit crowded now. "I'm sorry, Mr. President," says Aimes, "but we're here to transport you to a safer location." "Why?" I say, standing up, "What's happened?" The President nods as if to ask the same question. "The island has attacked," says Aimes, They've shot down one of our satellites with an unknown weapon." "Unknown?" the President asks, raising a brow. "Sir," I say before Aimes can say anything else, "I'm sure we'll be able to get the details at our destination. Right now, your safety is the most important to us." Aimes nods in agreement. "Very well," the President sighs, and exits the office behind two agents, followed by Aimes and myself, then the remaining agents. I know what's been bugging me all day. I'm pissed off.
I killed her. I'm the one responsible for her death. I'm always responsible for their deaths. My mother died while giving birth to me. My father died on the way to the hospital to see me for the first time. All the doctors and nurses who handled me died shortly after my birth. Some people have vivid memories of their toddler years, others even have vague memories of their infancy. I remember everything. Like when I was left for dead in a dumpster three weeks after I was born. Imagine you're a doctor helping a young woman give birth to a child. Now imagine that after sixteen hours of labor, the mother stops breathing. Despite all your efforts, you can not bring life back to her - then the nurse screams. As you walk around the corpse, what you see between its legs is neither a stillborn nor a healthy newborn. No, what you see in the nurse's arms looks sickly, almost skeletal - an infant that appears to be in a late stage of decomposition, but it moves and whimpers as though it were alive. Everyone who touched me that night died within forty-eight hours. Three weeks later, a nurse snuck me out of the hospital and left me in the dumpster. She was killed by a car on her way out of the alley. That's not to say that I wasn't responsible. It certainly isn't that I do it on purpose, either. I just do it. Like the woman that now lies dead before me; she was stabbed by a mugger in the park. She bumped into me yesterday, so I know it's my fault she's dead. I step over her body and make my way out of Central Park. Stray dogs growl and cats hiss. My hooded sweatshirt hides my more dashing features, but my scent is unique. I find myself strolling down a familiar street, one that I've found myself walking every night since Nine-Eleven. I walk for what seems like hours, the silence ringing in my ears so loudly I feel like my head will explode. After some twists and turns, I find myself at Ground Zero. So much death that I had nothing to do with. It happened so long ago, but I can still hear their screams. I see their ghosts reenacting their vain attempts to escape. A chill runs down my spine as I realize that I'm not the only one with a gift. Absent-mindedly, I cross the street without looking. A car hits me. He has to be going at least fifty. He doesn't even hit the brakes until I roll onto the hood of his car. He screeches to a stop and I slide off the front and roll out a few feet away. "Jesus Christ!" the driver cries, in shock from what he's done. He jumps out of the vehicle and rushes to me. I just lie there, knowing that I was going to kill him whether I wanted to or not. He's already got his cell phone out and is dialing Nine-Eleven as he kneels beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder. He's done for now. I roll onto my back, my hood still hiding my face. He looks shocked that I'm able to move at all. I mutter something about being somewhat of an acrobat, and that I knew how to keep from being seriously injured, but we both know I'm lying. I stand up slowly. Just because I can't die doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell. I can hear sirens now. I assure him I'm fine, and that I'm not going to sue, and he gets in his car, still dazed from the experience. I start walking in the same direction he's driving, so I immediately see him broadside the ambulance that just turned the corner. Too bad he forgot his seatbelt.
You decided that our relationship was too stressful, so you broke up with me. What made it alright was that you told me that it was something you wanted to try again. Ok, fine.
I gave you your space and two weeks later we decided to try again. I was the happiest man on earth. You told me you were happy too. The next day we talked on the phone and you seemed happy still. Not twelve hours later you call me again and your attitude has turned a complete 180. You're still too stressed, but you still love me. This is not alright.
I'm a very forgiving person, too forgiving at times, in fact. But suddenly changing your mind makes me wonder. What could have caused you to change your mind so dramatically, so quickly?
I can't help but feel supicious. Is it someone else? Have you done something that you regret? Have I done something wrong? Are you arranging something in such a way that you won't be tied down to do something you would regret?
I'm not accusing you of anything; like I said, I just wonder. Did someone convince you to change your mind so quickly? Are you being pressured into thinking this way?
What's more is that I feel as though you aren't telling me everything. Yeah, you're stressed. I know, because I'm stressed too. Granted, this stresses me out even more, but this isn't about me. I wasn't doing enough the first time around, but this time I was determined to make every effort to be there for you when you needed me. Now I feel like you only want me to be around when it's convenient to you.
I'd like to be able to support you when you're not at your best, but I can't do that and only be your friend at the same time.
I told you I wasn't angry with you. But I am upset, though. This sort of thing makes me bitter. I'll probably be angry for quite a while. But I don't want you to think it's your fault. You aren't the first to have done this to me.
Now that I've thought about it, maybe this is about me. Maybe this is my grown-up-ish way of whining that it isn't fair. Maybe i'm being selfish. Whatever it is, I'll go mope in the corner, and cry, and be emo for a few days, but I'll get over it.
It can easily be said of any sport, but it's really the high-contact sports that invoke a sort of genetic memory, a hidden recollection deep within our psyche of the gladiatorial competitions our ancestors enjoyed (or perhaps participated in). Whether in the past or the present, we envision these men and women as the things we aspire to be, either literally or metaphorically.
They become an extension of our consciousness - tapping into that part of our minds that can't be controlled. That part of us that, if left unimpeded by our higher brain functions, would render us little more than feral beasts, vying for domination of our chosen territory.
Perhaps I make it seem like a negative thing, but it is in fact the contrary. We need to live vicariously through these gladiators, our champions of the modern world. Every time our team makes a great play, that sub-conscious, primal instinct to dominate the field feels satisfied that its accomplished its goal.
Or maybe I'm just over-thinking it, and we just really fucking like our chosen teams.
Back in the day, a couple of friends and I were knocking back Jager bombs back-to-back (and by "a couple of friends and I," I mean "I"). We were celebrating the return of a mutual friend who had been in Central America or some other place that wasn't here in the States.
He said he'd been at a bar overseas that didn't serve Red Bull. The problem was that he REALLY wanted a Jager bomb. He's a resourceful fellow, so he ordered whatever passed for beer in that part of the world, and dropped a shot of Jager in it. He decided it was quite tasty, naming it the "Mexican Car Bomb." When he came back, we found that our bar didn't carry the brand his new drink required. So in another spark of ingenuity, he ordered us each a shot of Jager, then a glass of Sam Adams. That, my friend, is an awesome combination. We named it the "American I.E.D" (improvised explosive device).
Later that night, I experimented on my own and discovered that Jager also goes very well with Killian's Irish Red. I ordered him a glass and a shot, and we named it the "IRA Car Bomb."
Watched the Super Bowl. I don't really watch American football except for the Bowl. Just kind of a thing I've done with my family for years. About halfway into the first quarter, I got this splitting headache out of nowhere. I stayed on the couch trying to endure until sometime after halftime, then I was in too much pain to not take some Advil.
Didn't help.
I also overfilled on snacks and junk, so my heartburn pills aren't working very well, despite taking them at prescription strength.
On the bright side, my headache is starting to fade. Maybe there's something wrong with the television.
Anyway, I drew this:
It's an adaptation of one of Allie's blog posts. I looked and looked and looked for anything like it on the interwebs, but I think I managed to make a unique one.
This song is amazing. It basically says "who gives a shit what everyone else thinks?" and it isn't exclusive any specific types of people. Everyone has a place in this song. It doesn't judge you. It welcomes you to the party regardless of what you believe, what colour your skin is, how you dress, what types of entertainment you enjoy, or what gender you prefer to hook up with. I can literally listen to it over and over and over again, and it can nearly bring me to tears every time, because there isn't enough of this in the world.
Worse than the judgments from others are the judgments we impose on ourselves. The negative things we tell ourselves can be the harsher and more oppressive than anything anyone else could ever say. This song won't let you get away with that. It tells you to let go of the baggage weighing you down. You're too awesome for that. Who gives a shit what everyone else thinks?
Get in here. Grab a drink. Party like a rock star.
My name's Cody. It's not short for Dakota. My name used to be awesome, because nobody could ever think of any other Cody they'd ever heard of, apart from Wild Bill. I've had various nicknames over the years, some awesome, some not so much. The most frequent names I've had are "Code-man" and "Code-ster." In the fourth grade, I tried to get peeps to call me "CJ," but I quickly learned that forcing a self-given nickname doesn't stick, and it's sort of awkward. A lot awkward, in fact. Also, 1990 happened. Suddenly tons of peeps were named Cody. And now my name isn't as awesome as it used to be.
I promised myself upon creation of this little corner of the inerwebs that I wouldn't hide or sugar coat anything. That's probably because I'm mostly doing this for me, since I don't have any reliable outlets that don't involve consuming hours upon hours of my day until I've realized that I hadn't accomplished a single thing, and it's too late to do anything about it. So here goes.
I have depression. I won't say "suffer from" because I'm sick of being a victim. It's constant, and chronic, and I quite often use it as a crutch to squeeze out what little of my family's sympathy reserves are left. At this very moment, I am able to own my depression; I know the differences between what's real and what's twisted by my perceptions, and I have control of my mind and how it interprets information. But it's also only 5 A.M. I've been up since roughly 3:30. I'll probably end up drained and going back to bed sometime between 10 and noon, and wake up late-afternoon, hating myself and the world because later in the day I will be a victim and I'll find reasons to blame others for my misfortune. It's a pattern will repeat itself for weeks.
I also promised myself that I wouldn't open with something so heavy. We see how well that worked out.
I don't intend to always post heavy stuff; I'm more interested in creating a place where I can allow my thoughts to flow freely and unfiltered. It turns out that people think you're strange or annoying when they ask a question and you give them the history of why your answer is the best one on the planet.
And yeah, I teeter on a precarious fence between unbridled arrogance and crushing insecurity. It's not enough to know that I'm awesome; I have to prove it to everyone around me or my confidence shrivels up into a husk that reeks of shame and failure.
Most of the time, though, I clog the air with verbal diarrhea because I'm entirely socially inept. I like to think of myself as a savant, of sorts. On the internet, I can freely monologue without interruption. Most of what you've read so far has spilled out of my mind with little editing. I've only used the backspace key and handful of times because I'll see something and be like "oh man! I totally could have said that better!" or I have extra words that don't belong, thus giving me the illusion of having greater command of the English language. I don't have that luxury in speech. In fact, in social situations, I'm more like Allie's simple dog.
I have the compulsion to elaborate on that, despite the fact that Allie tells her story just fine, and it's a more than adequate analogy. I do that in social interaction. A lot. Elaborate, I mean. It drives my family nuts.
That's the other reason I'm doing this; I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to express myself to my own family these days. It's certainly not their fault. I just need to learn how to spend less time in my head.
I suppose that's enough for now. But don't worry, I'm not always going to be so soul-crushingly self-flagellant.
P.S. It's also entirely possible that, after reading this single post several times throughout the day, that I'll burn myself out after a few new posts, and reading them several times.