(To all of those out there reading this: One, Sally feel free to read this one. I don’t think there is too much in it that will upset you. Two, my editor took a few liberties in the editing process and I only recently discovered them. I left them for posterity sake though)
Many people have found that one of the negatives of growing up is you tend to grow apart from the friends you made as a child. It makes sense if you think about it; people change, move, get married, have kids, grow up, grow old, grow apart, get sick, and die. It is one of the negatives of aging. As a child the world is an endless array of possibilities. The person you ride bikes with down to the 7-11 to grab Slurpees, even though your parents told you not to go there without them, will one day have his or her own life across the country only to be heard from occasionally on social media. (Only a short 10 years ago or so, even this wasn’t possible, and the only way to know where someone ended up was through rumors and local lore with tales starting with, “Did you hear where Kat went?”). Fortunately for me, even with all of the crusades I ventured on, the many times I decided it was time to pack my bags and head to a different part of this globe, I am lucky enough to have one friend (this is not a retelling of the story of my best friend, so please continue before growing bored and assuming I have run out of wonderful tales to tell) who, through all of the hurdles Life put in our way, has remained one of the lynchpins of my existence.
(Sally: This one has some things you may take issue with. I wouldn’t recommend it. Not today anyway.)
Not too long ago a buddy of mine was visiting me in sunny south Florida. Right before he left to make the atrocious 11-hour drive back to Nashville he decided to impart some unsolicited words of wisdom on me. He informed me that the one thing that would “complete” me “as a man” would be a little puppy. To this ridiculous statement (as if I need anything to complete me as a man, I’m pretty darn perfect) I laughed, and told him that would never happen. He attempted to convince of me of his idea for what seemed like way too long to be discussing whether or not I should own a puppy, and when his attempts ended fruitless he started his venture back to Nashville (leaving the better portion of his clothes in my dryer. I hope he doesn’t need those anytime soon). Continue reading Why I Don’t Own Pets (or have children)
(Sally: I think this is mainly ok for you to read. There may be a little harsh language throughout, but I hope you get a chance to enjoy. And for all the people who know Sally and read my blog, let her know)
There are a few areas in life where I am not fully adept at coping in the proper ways. I am lucky enough to know this about myself and am glad I can recognize this as my flaw. I have never been the best with handling breakups, either as the dumper, or the dumpee, which is why I don’t date anymore. I would rather just hang out with someone until we mutually get tired of each other and then amicably split ways. I have found it is much less messy that way. When real labels and emotions are placed on relationships is when people’s feelings get hurt. This drags on way too long and eventually I am either breaking up with you in a fashion where you will call me a narcissistic sociopath (Shannon), or you are breaking up with me and I have to struggle through months of alcoholism in order to come out on the other side realizing you are a terrible individual who has the ability to be the Typhoid Mary of every STD known to man and the only benefit to our relationship was that I didn’t end up with some disease that would have cost me my (and some friends of mine, their) favorite body parts. Normally, though, one can tell when a relationship is about to end and can typically brace themselves for the shock of losing someone they considered someone who would be a positive influence in their lives. What I don’t deal with is when you don’t see a relationship of any stature ending. This can apply to significant others, parents, family members of any variety, friends, Romans, countrymen and so many other types of relationships. What I don’t cope with properly is when people pass away. Continue reading Putting the Fun Back in Funeral
(*Sally: Do not read this one. Actually, if you know me personally you may not want to read this one)
As I was sitting in a Starbucks with a friend of mine who was detailing the horrors of sex education, and how the absolute fear of utilizing what she didn’t know was called a diaphragm made her completely uncomfortable (a conversation that made me completely uncomfortable) I started to remember the years before I became the person I am today, when I was still under the impression I would wait until marriage to lose my virginity, and envisioned that by this point in my life I would be a happy, successful, family man (run on sentence for the win). That was a long time ago, before my heart had grown calloused to the thought of being in a relationship and still believed in things like Cameron Crowe movies, and that John Cusack was the best actor in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Cameron Crowe movies, I just don’t believe in love stories anymore (Sorry How I Met Your Mother). Continue reading Sex Ed, Video Stores and V-Cards
(Sally: I think this is actually ok for you to read. You already know about the worst things I talk about in here. I hope you enjoy this one.)
A few nights ago I was talking with my good friend, Carter, on the phone while we were playing backgammon against each other online. This was a throwback to when he and I were roommates in Virgina during our late teens, and then again in our mid-twenties, when we would sit outside on our balcony, smoking cigarettes, drinking beers, and playing backgammon until the sun came up. Then we would walk over to the McDonalds a block away and get breakfast (this was before a McDonalds breakfast would cause me to spend the better portion of my day reading in the bathroom). While we were playing the virtual game the other night, he started reminiscing about the days when we were living lives that were more or less void of any sort of responsibility. Instead they were filled with nights of playing backgammon while sitting at Mike’s Diner with a group of modern day self-prescribed beatniks, drinking coffee and waxing on philosophically about the simple fact that “2 is always less than or equal to 4.”
(Sally: Do not! Do not! Do not! You don’t want this in your head. I 100% promise you that. Do not open this link.)
(Everyone else: If you know me, this may change the way you see me and not in the same way as other stories may have changed the way you see me. This story is really dark. Be warned before proceeding.)
Right now, Jupiter can be viewed from earth by the naked eye. That doesn’t have a lot to do with the story I’m about to tell, but does have a lot to say about the importance of timing in our lives.
Timing is uncontrollable, and undeniable. There is this girl I had a crush on a while back, but I didn’t have her number so I couldn’t get in contact with her. One day I went to the gym (because even perfection needs maintenance) and realized once I got there I had left all of my swimming gear at home. I drove back to the house, grabbed my gear, and got back to the gym as quickly as I could. As I was walking through the lobby of the gym, the girl I had a crush on happened to be walking through at the exact same time. We talked for a few minutes, and I almost asked her out, but I am a huge sissy when it comes to asking out girls that I actually like, so I didn’t (I know, the ending is very anticlimactic, but it goes along with the theme). If I hadn’t forgotten my gym stuff, I would have already been in the pool swimming with absolutely no chance of running into her, the opportunity to ask her out would not have presented itself, and I would be able to live with the delusions I would ask her out if ever I randomly bumped into her out in public. Now, I can’t.
Writer’s note: Some people doubt the validity of this story, but trust me, everything I talk about here honestly and truly happened.
Like many other people in this world, as I approached my thirtieth birthday, I slowly began to realize my life wasn’t anywhere close to where I wanted it to be. I was Matt Wright. I was not supposed to be in the situation I was in. I was supposed to be a well-known writer, as well as an exceptionally popular socialite who people enjoyed having at parties. I was not supposed to be a failing real estate agent who was slowly losing his house and struggling with the fact that, not only was he single but, the last girl he thought he was dating had been with someone else the entire time. (Thank you, Julie.) I was supposed to be a member of the elite. I was supposed to be better than everyone else because, let’s face it, I am better than everyone else. Struggling with all of these different aspects of my life, I also started thinking about leaving the DC area because I was tired of dealing with its fake, plastic, hypocritical demeanor. Nevertheless, I was still there and about to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.