It’s much later than 9 o’clock on a Saturday. And I sit on a piano bench while a regular crowd of nobody’s doesn’t shuffle in. This scene would be much more dramatic if I was dressed in an unkempt tuxedo and had a glass of scotch on the piano in front of me. But then again, I’m just a virgin alcoholic, so how would I know what that’s like?
I play the same notes over and over again on the tired white piano keys. These notes are ingrained into my mind and into my fingertips. One day I will play these notes for someone else. Whether that’s in ten weeks or ten years, I haven’t the slightest clue. In the meantime I’ll just keep working on this song until it’s perfect.
Perfect for her.
This may seem like a screwed up post, but it is what it is. And since I’m not pulling out my narcissistic, hey-there-look-at-me tendencies by posting this link to Facebook, I’m not really stressing about what a handful of readers are going to read about.
I sort of feel like Good Luck Chuck. People have said that I sort of look like Dane Cook. Of course he’s probably just as big of a douchebag as I am. My Grandma showed me a Christmas card she got from one of my ex-girlfriends this evening. That’s kind of awkward for her to receive something like that from someone whom I have no relation with anymore, but hey, who cares? The girl is married now, has a couple of kids, has what she always wanted in life. A life that I couldn’t give her. Props to her. I wish her the best.
I wrapped around a dozen Christmas presents earlier tonight. Presents that honestly don’t mean a thing whatsoever. Material donations from one party to another that won’t be remembered six months from now. We celebrate the life of the being that we worship by passing along Carpe Diem Toms, LSU pennants, and long-sleeved ski resort T-shirts. These are items that don’t mean a thing in this speck of an existence that we call life. Things that in one eye are worthless, and in another priceless.
This has been the most bizarre holiday season that I’ve ever had the pleasure of handling. Having a Christmas party in a hospital meeting room isn’t always the best venue. Awkward pauses with second-hand cousins, doused with fabricated relationships to intruding uncles seem to litter the festivities year after year, holiday after holiday. It’s not that I don’t L-word mi familia, because I really do, they are just a unique brand of characters. And I’m one of them.
It’s close to 2 am, and I’m staring at the end of a blogpost that in a sense means absolutely nothing. Am I going to be laying on my deathbed ten, twenty, thirty years from now, and be especially proud in my heritage of blogging? To a whopping 44 people? It sounds trivial, miniscule, frivolous, and any other word that you can come up with using a thesaurus. None of this will matter in the long run. Technically I am on the verge of insanity for sticking with this. But oh well, that is life.
Day after day, myself and billions of others wonder about the meaning of life. Some say it’s being religious, others say it’s being kind to everyone around you, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy says it’s the number 42. Some days I don’t know what it is that drives us. And as I ramble on at the end of a page, all I can think about is controlling my own life and finding meaning in it. Bettering myself on a continual basis, working hard physically, academically, mentally, spiritually, and any other word that ends in “–ally”. In the meantime, I’ll just keep working on my life until it’s perfect.
Perfect for her.
I play the same notes over and over again on the tired white piano keys. These notes are ingrained into my mind and into my fingertips. One day I will play these notes for someone else. Whether that’s in ten weeks or ten years, I haven’t the slightest clue. In the meantime I’ll just keep working on this song until it’s perfect.
Perfect for her.
This may seem like a screwed up post, but it is what it is. And since I’m not pulling out my narcissistic, hey-there-look-at-me tendencies by posting this link to Facebook, I’m not really stressing about what a handful of readers are going to read about.
I sort of feel like Good Luck Chuck. People have said that I sort of look like Dane Cook. Of course he’s probably just as big of a douchebag as I am. My Grandma showed me a Christmas card she got from one of my ex-girlfriends this evening. That’s kind of awkward for her to receive something like that from someone whom I have no relation with anymore, but hey, who cares? The girl is married now, has a couple of kids, has what she always wanted in life. A life that I couldn’t give her. Props to her. I wish her the best.
I wrapped around a dozen Christmas presents earlier tonight. Presents that honestly don’t mean a thing whatsoever. Material donations from one party to another that won’t be remembered six months from now. We celebrate the life of the being that we worship by passing along Carpe Diem Toms, LSU pennants, and long-sleeved ski resort T-shirts. These are items that don’t mean a thing in this speck of an existence that we call life. Things that in one eye are worthless, and in another priceless.
This has been the most bizarre holiday season that I’ve ever had the pleasure of handling. Having a Christmas party in a hospital meeting room isn’t always the best venue. Awkward pauses with second-hand cousins, doused with fabricated relationships to intruding uncles seem to litter the festivities year after year, holiday after holiday. It’s not that I don’t L-word mi familia, because I really do, they are just a unique brand of characters. And I’m one of them.
It’s close to 2 am, and I’m staring at the end of a blogpost that in a sense means absolutely nothing. Am I going to be laying on my deathbed ten, twenty, thirty years from now, and be especially proud in my heritage of blogging? To a whopping 44 people? It sounds trivial, miniscule, frivolous, and any other word that you can come up with using a thesaurus. None of this will matter in the long run. Technically I am on the verge of insanity for sticking with this. But oh well, that is life.
Day after day, myself and billions of others wonder about the meaning of life. Some say it’s being religious, others say it’s being kind to everyone around you, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy says it’s the number 42. Some days I don’t know what it is that drives us. And as I ramble on at the end of a page, all I can think about is controlling my own life and finding meaning in it. Bettering myself on a continual basis, working hard physically, academically, mentally, spiritually, and any other word that ends in “–ally”. In the meantime, I’ll just keep working on my life until it’s perfect.
Perfect for her.
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