The real question is should I tell them?

I was taking the bus to work today and we pass a sign in front of a bar that says, "Beer is cheaper than gas! Don't Drive, Drink!" The sign then advertised some beer at $2.00 a bottle.


No it's not...and you just proved yourself wrong on the same sign.

I know the sign is just a clever advertisement, but I just can't let it go. I know the sign is wrong but now I need to figure out how wrong the sign is.

I then begin making the calculations in my head to figure out how expensive a gallon of that beer would be, assuming it's being sold in a 12 oz. bottle.

For the record it's $21.33, which is way more expensive than a gallon of gas. How much more? We'll get to that.

I also have to mention at this point that this went on in my head, on the bus, while I got to work.

I also had no control over whether or not I made these calculations, my brain was doing this whether I liked it or not.

It's not over yet. Later on, while sitting in this very chair I remembered my time on the bus and I felt compelled to look up the average price of a gallon of gas in Albany and figure out how much it would be for 12 oz. of it.

Albany's gas is currently $2.801* a gallon, making it .26** cents for 12 oz of it.

This part and the next part I have some control over, because I needed a calculator and a website to make these calculations. However, I didn't have much of a choice because I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it until my curiosity was satisfied.

Then by idle curiosity I thought why not just figure out how much more expensive beer was.

Beer is more than 8 times more expensive than gas. Not only was that sign wrong, but it was ridiculously wrong.

I compulsively do this kind of thing in my head all the time and I'm not sure what that means.

By the way, the math changes if you choose to drink at home depending on the beer you're drinking, but either way the sign is wrong.

I'm like a poor man's xkcd.

*Gas prices supplied by http://www.albanygasprices.com/


**Some figures were rounded.

What Happened to Jean

It’s a shame what happened to Jean.

No one knows why exactly, but she always said that she spent all her time fighting off madness.

No one paid much attention, because she always said things like that.

The last day I saw her, she had gathered up all of the things she loved and arranged them in neat piles all over her room. She said she was only going to eat rice and steamed vegetables from then on, and that she planned on duct taping the windows and all the cracks in the room to block out the light. She said that it was because beautiful women were thin and pale. She said it was because she couldn’t stand outside anymore.

Then she said that she never wanted to die, but sometimes she wanted to fade away like pencil on very old sheet of paper. She wanted to go somewhere far and distant, where the world can’t get close. She said that she wanted lay in the grass and let the pain drain out of her like ink from a pen.

I didn’t pay much attention, because she always said things like that.

Later, we saw her standing on the bridge. She wore a pair of slippers and an old-fashioned bathing suit she had found in a thrift store. She had wrapped chains made of many colors of construction paper around her body. They blew in the wind and got tangled in the veil that trailed from the back of her head. Her make-up was perfect. We were drunk and tired, and we laughed and told her to come down so we could go home.

She laughed too. She tipped her head back and laughed so hard right before she jumped.

Her note only said that she had discovered how to fly and it wasn’t a moment too soon because she was very tired of being bored.

No one knows if it was a suicide note or if she meant it.

But I think it was both…

These days, we talk about and think about everything Jean ever said.

Now that Jean doesn’t say anything anymore.

Finish It!

Any time I’ve heard an aspiring artist ask an accomplished artist what he or she would do about their half-finished project, the accomplished artist’s answer always seems to be, “finish it.” For better or worse they insist the aspiring artist finish the damn…whatever.


It has occurred to me lately that I’ve never really finished anything. My life is a series of loose ends, abandoned projects, and forgotten ambitions. I am a node of untapped potential. By no fault but my own, my works are standing like Johnny Cage the end of a Mortal Kombat fight, dazed and wobbling. All I do is stare; no awesome combos ever come to mind.

Finish it…

Maybe I’m afraid if I finish something I start, it won’t be as wonderful as I thought. I don’t know where this comes from. I’ve never had anything I’ve done really reviewed negatively. Maybe I don’t want the streak to end.

I think this has much to do with my reluctance to see things end. I hate endings. Endings are usually so sad, so bad, so…final. However, I am fabulous at beginnings. I have started many stories with fantastic characters with awesome back stories and fabulous premises. I fail to do anything with them. I can never seem to push them forward to an ending. Happy endings are dull outside of a massage parlor and dramatic sad endings are equally lame.

There is nothing to be done for it though. I see myself pleading my case of unfinished business to every fantastic artist I know of, living or dead. In my head they all say the same thing almost in chorus.

Finish it…

My new goal is to do just that. Finish things. Finish everything I start for better or worse. I endeavor to tie up all those loose ends. I’ll complete abandoned projects and I’ll fight for the ecstasy of doneness. Every new thing I get excited about I will bring to its ultimate conclusion.

All those artists in my head would be proud, even if I never join their ranks.

The end!

A Terrible Essay

I am a terrible writer.

I only say that because I write in a noncommittal fashion, and mostly for my own amusement. I don’t write with technique, and if it weren’t for computers, the things I had to say would be unintelligible. This is just another manifestation of my desire to express myself in as many ways as possible. Another way to purge my thoughts. Another way for me to make life more interesting before I die.

I am honored to be surrounded by many people who when asked what the answer to life, the universe, and everything is, would proudly respond, “Forty-Two.” I wonder if any of them really put any thought to what Adams might have meant by it. I think Forty-Two is fine. I think that Forty-Two is just as good an answer as any, and usually I answer that question the same way. The point is the question is more important than the answer. The journey is more important than the destination. We never get to know the question, which is appropriate because I don’t think we all get the same one.

I spent nearly 30 years of my life trying to find my purpose. I was too afraid to do anything because I was afraid it was the wrong thing. I wanted my proper destiny. The truth is there is no destiny. There is no plan for you. You are spat out and you die, and everything in the middle is just what happens. One decision is as good as another, and the future is written by the actions of the present. Stop reading your horoscopes; there are no answers. Why are we so scared of the notion of no destiny? Your life is only wasted if you didn’t try to do what you most wanted to do at any given time. Why do we search so long for purpose in an otherwise cold universe? Why are we so afraid to make our own way? Maybe it’s because if it all goes wrong, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

I for one was not afraid when I realized this. To me the idea was very liberating. All of a sudden life ceased being a search for that perfect fit, and became this awesome blank template onto which I could write the story of my life.

“Elena once shot 15 grizzly bears from a hot air balloon!”
“Really?”
“No, they wouldn’t let her on the balloon with a rifle. She had to settle for a bottle of rum and 36 hours of Duck Hunt. To hear her tell it later though you would never know the difference!”

I became a person without destiny. I replaced that search with goals and means. I purged the doubt and regret from my life, and instead learned lessons and constructed plans. I had permission to do exactly what I wanted with the time between this moment and my last without the least worry about when that will be. There are temporary fuck-ups, detours, and distractions, but there are no wrong turns or wasted time.

My terrible writing has changed as well to the essay format it once was a long time ago, replacing a general boring diary format. I will probably never know if it has any real merit. Hopefully, I’ll say something interesting on the way to those goals and means.

What are those goals and means? The means is a college education. The goal is to get drunk in interesting places. I prefer to keep it simple, the recipe for a good time.

Things my mother taught me.

I posted this on the discussion board for my Sociology class a little while ago. The topic was about how we socialize our children by gender. It turned out to be more emotional than I expected:

I grew up in a Matriarchal household (picture Roseanne). My mother was clearly in charge and even my father answered to her. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that she had to be a single parent in a time where that was generally not acceptable for women.


As a child I was not given only boy or only girl things. My clothes were all kinds of colors. I had all kinds of toys. I remember when I was five I would spend a lot of time playing with this Superman action figure I had. I used to tie a towel around my neck and pretend I could fly. I had dolls I really liked I played house with other kids. I owned a bunch of matchbox cars. My toys were chosen by the fact that they were cheap and not because they were for a specific gender. I loved wrestling and My Little Ponies. I adored video games and running around getting dirty.

Mostly I was taught constantly that girls are just as good as boys and can do all the same things boys can do. I was told to never let anyone tell me I couldn't do something because I was a girl. I was taught to be a strong woman because my mother thought I should be prepared to survive on my own without a man. According to my mother, you had to be able to do it all and be strong.

Now I have interests in science and math, and I still play video games. I also like arts and crafts and dancing. I wear make-up and I consider myself to be a tough broad. I have my mother to thank for that. I thought with all this talk about how we gender identify our children from an early age it would be nice to present my life as an example of what could happen if we didn't.

On a personal note my mother died when I was 20. We didn't often agree, and this is the first time in a long time I teared up thinking about her. I had forgotten how much she really had to do with the woman I became.

Mission Statement

I want to say that I’m not sure what I want this particular blog to be about. That is, like so many other things I say, a lie. If I really weren’t sure, I would continue blogging on social networking sites instead of trying to find a nice, quiet corner of the internet.
I guess what I’m trying to accomplish is a place to put all the flotsam and jetsam in my head. Social networking sites are great when you have only a small thought to share, but my thoughts are very often navel gazing essays on everything from weight loss to social adjustment in an otherwise apathetic world. I need a place to put the big thoughts and I’ve never really been one for keeping private journals.
I have a hope and a wish to connect with other people and be understood too. I have this effect on people: When I’m around you think of me and when I’m gone I’m gone from your thoughts as well. Sometimes I want to run in the street screaming, “I don’t disappear when you don’t see me!” I am disturbed that this seems to be the way the world views me. They seem to think I have secret pockets of secret friends, or maybe that I’m perfectly okay on my own. Maybe they don’t think of me at all. I can’t help but think that it’s my fault this is so. I’ve pushed away countless chances at meaningful relationships. Honestly after everything I’m not really sure, and all I know is that I’m tired of it. I could go over a thousand mistakes in my past. I could relive every horrific awkward moment of my childhood (and there are many), but I realize I’ve done that, and the only other thing to do now is try to undo the damage and stop hiding from everyone, then wondering why I’m so lonely. To stop assuming no one wants to hang out with me and realize that they might actually think I don’t want to hang out with them. To try, despite instinct, to live in the present. To stop dreaming about when I’m going to live my life and start living it…right now.
I need and desire to start living in the moment and dealing with my shit so I can finally start having meaningful friendships with others. I wish that making that decision was all it took. I know there are going to be setbacks and failures as I try to undo many years worth of habit.
When you spend ten years alone you get a real sense of who you are.
I know who I am and now the real question is: What am I going to do with it?

I suppose this blog is really about that journey…with a few meanderings as always.