Suicide

Things come across stronger when they come from an honest place.  To put myself in this passionate place about suicide, I removed the optimism filter that reflects arbitrary negative thoughts and instead brings the silver lining into focus.  I let any and all the horrible thoughts infest my brain like maggots on a road side carcass.  Gnawing their way though rotting and bruised flesh; they would start at the eyes and feast their way through the softer tissues of the brain. 

 I let this go on for a few minutes, long enough to light a fire and heat the air, but not strong enough to burn me alive like those crazy fully engulfed protesting monk pictures.  Any place I could find a glimpse of negativity I welcomed it with open suicidal arms.  I sat imagining methods for success on a suicide attempt; a technique that would surely get the job done, no second chances.  I thought about the suicide note I would leave or if I would even bother.  The pain it would cause, what would change, and any feelings I’d experience.

Before my mother calls me crying and begging me not to off myself, let me preface this by saying I am not suicidal at the moment.  However, unlike the hundreds of “failed” attempts, if I did choose to take this route, I have the balls and the steady hand to get it right.  Even if a suicidal thought crosses the average citizens’ mind, most people lack the general conviction to go through with it.  People swallow handfuls of pills and immediately confess their deed to the 911 operator in a panic.  In my opinion, these people want attention, not death.  Everyone knows if you’re trying to end your miserable life by jumping off a bridge, you don’t land feet first.  The feet first approach often ends with bedside flowers at the hospital, visits from loved ones, and counseling for your over dramatic, attention craving actions.  Side note for all you bridge jumpers: this is such a haphazard and ultimately rudimentary way to go, rethink it. 

I’ve had a number of suicidal thoughts in my life, but they are quickly overrun by my logical and rational mind.  My suicidal fantasies never begin with me crying in the dark over a cheating ex-girlfriend, or general unhappiness.  They are usually born mainly out of curiosity.  Just a casual “I wonder what would happen if I just punched it and drove face first into this semi.”  I’m not in a constant battle with myself trying to prevent it, it’s there if I wanted it; I just choose to be alive and write shitty articles instead.

Some people actually do that shit.  Shaky hands as he takes that last gulp straight from the bottle of Jim Beam.  A few drops run down the side of his mouth into the stream of already present tears and they fall onto his gas station- hotdog stained t-shirt.  He stumbles to his dresser with tear and alcohol distorted vision and grasps for his pistol.  The only time he’s ever actually fired it was at the shooting range with his recently deceased father.   His cheating wife is out with her new fling getting drunk and hornier by the minute.  …No, let’s make him the cheater…. His wife sits in a rocking chair at her mother’s house holding his 1 year old daughter.  Just a few weeks ago they were a smiling, happy family.  Then he decided to bring his female co-worker home while his wife was out.  She wasn’t out long enough.  Now he’s pressing the barrel of this Desert Eagle to the base of his chin in an empty dark house.  His hands shake violently as if they already know the outcome.  Two letters sit in front of him; one to his wife expressing the deepest and most sincere apology that pen and paper can create, and the other addressed to his daughter at when she turns 18.  A neatly torn piece of paper with indiscriminant blurs signifying old tear drop landing zones.  One line: “I apologize for any pain my absence has caused over these 18 years, I loved you.” BANG.

He’d be found by his wife two nights later.  Bits of scull and chunks of hair cover the dried blood background.  This will be the pervading memory that haunts his wife 17 years later when she delivers the message to her daughter.

See suicide sounds way less attractive when you look at it like that.  But suicide isn’t uncommon, it happens.  There’s a forest in Japan, AokigaharaForest that sits at the base of Mt. Fuji where about 100 people a year commit suicide.  In 2010 there were more US Military suicide deaths than combat deaths in the midst of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts.  I look at it two ways.  First I think of suicide as the easy way out; cowards who can’t handle the normal daily troubles of life.  Then I think about how bad life would have to be before I got to this point.  How much has to go wrong and how bad are these people suffering before they make the decision to bleed out in the bath tub.  I also recognize the conviction it probably takes go through with such a permanent decision.  It freaks me out and intrigues me all at once.

I’m sure you’re all curious as of how I would commit the atrocious act of ending my own life.  Fret not you sick fucks, I’ll explain.  I have a few preferences that would shape my death choice.  The first is, I would not want anyone to find my revolting, half-rotted, probably naked, maimed body.  I don’t want my siblings or parents to be plagued with the memory of finding my body swinging from a rope in the basement.  I’m not a monk trying to make my voice heard so fire is out of the question.  I also want to be sure that there is very little chance of botching the mission.  With that I cross off; pills, jumping off of anything, and wrist cutting.

First I’d steal a boat.  I thought about renting one but fuck that, YODO, You Only Die Once.  I’d steal a small yacht from a harbor.  First I’d acquire the keys through a series of diversions and breaking and entering.  Then I’d get in the boat and drive directly out into the Pacific Ocean for as long as I could; ideally 10 -18 hours depending on fuel.  Then I’d do a back flip off the roof of the boat to experience that last rush of life.  I’d then swim away from the boat.  I’d swim until I was completely exhausted.  I’m not a very good swimmer so my guess would be 2-4 hours.  At this point, I’d hold my breath and start swimming down.   Since humans have this manifest desire to survive hardwired in our genes, I’d stay as calm as possible to avoid the desperate inhale of salt water.  I’d exhale all of my air as I make my final decent, then I’d continue holding my breath until I passed out.  Sharks and fish eat my flesh.  The rogue bones make their way to the ocean floor where they too are eaten by sea dwelling creatures.  My farewell note left on the fridge reads:  “I’m dead by now, at peace, live your life, don’t morn mine.”  I’d sign it with my first name, all lower case letters.  Then I’d smear a booger just under my name.  I’d circle the booger in pen and draw a line extending from the circle and label it, “my booger : )”.

5/28/2012

grant

The Science Behind the "Cross the Street" Button.

How many times is it necessary to push the “I want to cross the street” button at an intersection?

A) Just once.

B) One hundred and seventy-four times.

C) Don’t touch that fuckin dirty germ covered knob.

D) Just press it as fast as possible until you see the little white “walk” guy.

The correct answer will vary depending on who you ask. However, I wanted to know the true answer so I decided to do a little survey. The participants in my survey will remain anonymous, mainly because I just spied on them creepily while driving my car. The rules to my study were simple, I only counted people if I saw them get to the button and could clearly see their button pushing abilities. I also watched some random people but forgot to count.

My results are as follows:

Ok I’ll level with you, my survey was not very thorough. I only counted 7 people but I’m sure I’ve seen hundreds of button pushers in my day. Five out of the seven pressed the button between 15 and 29 times. Usually in rapid succession. The normal approach for these five people was to quickly approach the “can I cross the street” button, then press the shit out of the button, then stare directly at the little flashing red hand until it transformed into the walking symbol. One person who unknowingly participated in my survey, was an older woman who pressed the button only once. She approached slowly yet confident and her button push was more of a mush with the palm of her wrinkled hand. My analysis of this one push approach was that this lady really didn’t give a shit, she was in no hurry; and even if she was, she wasn’t physically able to walk very fast anyway. The reason she mushed the button instead of pressing it can probably be attributed to some type of arthritis. After her mush she just kinda hung out and looked around.

The final participant in my study was a tall, elder gentleman with a leather bag clenched firmly under his arm. He was attire was half golfer, half old man, and a sprinkle of I’ve been goofy my whole life. He was by far the most reckless of button pushers I have ever witnessed. His long index finger was strong and I could tell he’s pressed millions of buttons; elevators, water fountains, the button in public restrooms that turns on the hand dryer thing, if it was a button this guys was gonna push the fuck out of it. His approach was casual, but there was nothing casual about his “cross the street button” pushing. From the moment he got to the intersection he began jabbing at the button. Easily the fastest button pusher in my study, no contest. He pushed the living shit out of this button. I could tell right away, he was no rookie, his button pushing was sharp, almost too rapid to count even from only feet away. From the time he go to the the button until the light turned green this elder man tapped away at the button. 174 times to be exact. From the looks of it, he could have easily surpassed this number if the light didn’t change. The 174 reps took him right around thirty seconds which is lightning fast even for the most talented button pushers. I guarantee if this guy was on Jeopardy, no one would answer until this guy got his shot and Alex Trebek would probably be pissed. I would have recorded this guy if I would have known the button pushing skills he possessed but I was too busy counting to get to my phone.

After closely analyzing these 7 people it is apparent that multiple presses (over 15) is the most common technique. My study did not included any tests on the cleanliness of the “I want to cross the street” button but I can assure you that that thing is filthy. The amount of homeless man sneezes, palm sweat, coughs, Mormon bike chain grease, Jahova’s witness boogers, and general gross shit on those buttons has to be at an all time high. This is something that you must take into consideration the next time you want to cross a street with a stop light.

I have thought this through time and time again and I believe I have found the perfect technique for intersection button pushing. First of all you must not press the button with your finger tips or palm. As I stated before, that button is a disgusting cesspool of diseases. The best technique is the fist push. I understand you are still putting your skin directly in contact with the germ covered surface but it’s much better than using any other part of your body. Your fist doesn’t really touch anything else on your body so you won’t end up spreading the germs to your face or mouth like you would if you used your finger tips or palm. You also never touch your weenier with your fists, this is the most important place to avoid spreading the repulsive button germs in my opinion. Pressing with a napkin requires too much preparation and you have to find a trash can which is way too inconvenient. The elbow push is effective but makes you look foolish in front of everyone at the intersection; I’d suggest doing this only at empty intersections. So trust me on this one and go with the fist.

Now to answer the main question, how many time do I press the button? The perfect amount of times to press this button is 2.5. The reasons for two instead of one is obvious, if the button doesn’t work the first time the second should do the trick. Now, the 1/2 push is to ensure that the signal is sent in any scenario. Sometimes these buttons get jammed or have weak connection due to overuse or weather or plain shitty engineering. The half push should be done first to un-stick jammed buttons and warm up the connection. This should be followed by the first and second pushes. Worst case scenario, button is jammed and has old shitty wiring. Your initial half push will surely dislodge the stuck button. The first full push will not be received because of the faulty wiring, but the second push will be successful. That’s it, 2.5 no more no less. If the button works at all, 2.5 is all you need. Not only is your button pushing much more effective, it is efficient and you don’t look like that crazy elder man pushing 174 times. To top it all off, you’re not going to get a homeless man’s ball sweat on your fingers.

grant.

Fighting, Stare-downs, and Cholos.

Fighting seems to be a natural thing. Humans across the globe and even animals participate in fighting of some sort during their lifetime. I'm not going to get into the difference of fighting and "martial arts" because I don't think you care that much. I am however reading "The Book Of Five Rings" by Miyamoto Musashi a Japanese samurai who spent his days stabbing people in the face, a good read for martial arts people. Anyway fighting, plain and simple punch kick bite scratch type shit. Why is it so terrifying yet so appealing? Recently I chose to participate in an amateur mixed martial arts fight in a cage against some dude I didn't even know or care to know. Why? I don't really know. I enjoy the challenge that fighting offers I guess. Yes I'm sure there are many reasons behind my choice to fight which I probably won't get to but I seemed to make some realizations while getting ready for this particular fight.

First of all I realized how much I liked food. I had to cut about 15 pounds over the course of about a month. I assure you this is a very small amount compared to many real fighters, not to mention normal fucking people dieting. I didn't starve myself, I simply ate more small meals with healthier food throughout the day. It worked and I dropped from 170 to 153.5 lbs on the day of the fight. But during the last two to three weeks I was the angriest version of myself that I have ever been. It sucked. It didn't matter if people were nice or mean I disliked them equally. I didn't want to talk to people, the sound of a text message made my teeth clench. I felt like I was on steroids and my period at the same time. Thankfully I've never had to deal with either of these but I assume they wouldn't be a great combination. I am sure a lot of it had to do with the psychological side of "dieting" because I was never really hungry but it didn't matter. The diet wasn't the only thing making me a grumpy douchebag, some of this was definitely caused by the stress of the fight that I chose to do. I was busy training which inevitably required me to lift heavy shit, do shit that makes me breath hard, and constantly punch people and inanimate objects. All stuff that if done hard, makes you hungry. Then I'd go home and angrily eat a salad and try to convince myself that it was "actually pretty good today."

Training to fight, in my opinion, is usually fun. It's a good workout and challenges the fuck out of your mind and body. Unless of course you actually have a fight coming up, then is sucks and is way too stressful. So for weeks I was grumpy and tired and sore and knew that it would all end with me locked in a cage with some dude who is going to try to punch and kick me in the eyes. Oh yeah if you're not familiar with mixed martial arts they like to make it scarier by putting you in a cage like a fucking zoo animal. Yes again I choose this, but I can still complain if I want to. So all the while of being grumpy, my mind is making a billion and two different variations for the outcome of the fight. All negative of course. My mind thought about every possible bad scenario from me getting knocked out with the first punch to me actually being killed in the fight. Why the hell would I day dream about myself being brutally beaten and or killed on regular basis? This seems like something you'd want your mind to steer clear of right? Not my fucked up brain.

The closer I got to the fight, the worse of an ass whooping I imagined myself getting. I thought of how my parents would react, what people would say when they saw my face and what my reply would be. I even though of ways to get out of the fight. If I get hit by a bus I'm pretty sure I can't fight. Easier option, eat all of these cookies and I won't make weight and will have to forfeit. But I couldn't pull the trigger on either. Why? I'm grumpy and scared of being destroyed by a strange dude with too much testosterone, but it's too much of a pussy move not to fight after I've already agreed to it. I wasn't worried about people being disappointed about me backing out of the fight, I just didn't want to have to tell them. So I kept eating salads and broccoli and all of that rabbit type food, kept training, and kept being angry.

With about four or five days until the fight I begin to realize how douchey I was acting toward everyone and tried to shift to a more positive frame of mind. I knew what was making me like this and I'm a somewhat rational person so I try to adjust my attitude. Now as the fight gets closer I look forward to eating something delicious. Something unhealthy and fried and possibly wrapped in bacon. I begin to think of the very little significance the fight actually has in the big scheme of my life. "So what, if I lose, I lose." My mom will still love me. And after all, it's just a fight. Something that for most people happens without warning after school, or at a bar, or at a matinee viewing of that Michael Jackson movie because someone cut in line. Either way, it is just a fight. That's what I told myself to get through the last few day, false rationalization or honesty? Did it matter?

Day of the fight. The guy I'm fighting is by all physical standards a "cholo." From my upbringing and understanding, a cholo is a Hispanic thug type character that wears flannel shirts, dark shades (often on the back of the head), Nike Cortez shoes, and either baggy shorts with long socks, or uncomfortably large khaki pants and the mandatory freshly shaved head. Tattoos are often required. Depending on who you ask, these cholos are either scary trouble makers, or pussies that dress like this to try to fit in with their misled equally uneducated friends. I say their are probably some tough cholos and some pussies with the rationbeing about 95:5 pussies to tough ones. When I say pussies I mean men who are all bark and no bite and would only push for physical altercations when they greatly out number their opponent. But pussies is much more insulting. There was really no reason for me to describe cholos but if you want a visual I'll include a picture. Just think the Joker brothers in Next Friday.



Back to fight day. I'm by myself and watching the demeanor of about 24 people who will be fighting that night. Some people are quiet and mellow, others seem to have only brought their angry eyes. That was a Mr. Potato Head joke. Something that takes place quite often at these events are stare-downs. Stare-downs are the most hilarious art form of all time in my book. This is where two grown ass men who are having some type of altercation or will soon be fighting choose their most ridiculous mean face and lock eyes with their opponent. Sometimes the stare-down can be referred to as "mad-dogging" or "mean-mugging" depending on your geographic and economic location. The funny party of this stare-down business is that there is never a real winner. In a blinking contest first person to blink is deemed the sissy who's eyes require more moisture.
Not the stare-down, blinking is allowed although many choose not to, the name of the game is intimidation. This is the human version of the gorilla at the zoo who bangs his chest and slams his fists into the dirt; the only difference is the gorilla will actually fuck you up if accept his challenge and are for some reason inside of the enclosed area. These stare-downs are also self judged, only the two people in the stare-down are really aware of who's winning and in most cases might both think they've come out victorious. Anyway I think stare-downs are the most douchey, left over monkey DNA, acts ever but I always get a chuckle out of two guys in kissing range making angry faces. No stare-down for me, lots of looking at the floor and kind head nods.


Intimidation is definitely a factor when fighting don't get me wrong. Watch an old Mike Tyson fight video and tell me intimidation doesn't work. But a stare-down alone won't always protect you from an inevitable ass whooping. A few hours later I warm up, finally calm down and get in the cage against my cholo to fight. The fight goes well, I avoid his stare-down tactics by looking at my toes, we fight, I win and my stress and fear of being killed seem to wash away. If I ever get a video I may post it.

Moral of the long ass story is that fighting is the weirdest, natural, scary thing every. You can realize a lot about yourself by having to sacrifice something, whether it's time, energy, food, peace of mind, or whatever to do achieve a goal. For me it was that I was kind of a douchebag when I got stressed and hungry. But I learned from it....and I got to punch a cholo in the face.
=)
(For the record my cholo turned out to be a pretty nice guy after the fight).

Grant

Saudi Arabian journalism and basketball shorts

A brown leather couch. The most comfortable basketball shorts ever invented. They must be made in China or Indonesia by a child with nimble fingers and a kings salary. The basketball shorts will have pockets so I can store random objects nearby and access them with a simple downward reach. A laptop and one of those rolly chairs. Lastly a puppy which will be replaced every two months with a newer cuter puppy, unless I become attached to the previous in which case I will keep the animal for an extended period.

These are the essentials to an job that I created in my head. Some type of journalist slash blogger slash worker from the comfort of his basketball shorts with pockets. No commute, no tie, no shirt, no clock, no co-workers, yes leather couch.

Normal workdays would include some or all of the following. Semi healthy breakfast on the rolly chair, reading the newspaper comics or online news. No need to get up to put the dishes away, rolly chair accessible rooms and kitchen. Comfort of basketball short which would be washed every 2-3 days depending on the current average temperatures. Pockets would contain notes on napkins and that paper on the outside of water bottles. Notes would say things like "fuck the president" and "buy milk." I'd talk loud to myself and quite to other people. My attention span would be about a 4.3 on a scale from 1 to 14. Here is a picture of a bidet full of beer.



I'd be able to write/blog/journal about any topic that interested me. Except on Wednesdays I'd have a ongoing column about activities I do to prevent boredom and or heart attacks. This column would have to be done before 10pm each Wednesday including holidays. Procrastination wouldn't be an issue because of my ample amount of free time during the week. My journals would be scattered across the board on topic choice and writing tone; they would directly reflect my mood. I'd spend approximately 4-8 hours doing "work" related tasks, writing, thinking, brainstorming, interpretive dance, murmuring, etc. The remainder of the day I would be able to spend on personal tasks such as: exercise and practice strangling other adults, fishing, cooking, shooting balled up pieces of paper into a small trash basket, and browsing the inter-web.

The puppy would be named after some person in history that invented some arbitrary object such as Johann Verheem inventor of the shake weight, or George Washington Carver inventor of peanut butter. The leather couch would be for naps, thinking, and reading. I would have also have a permanent subtly red square on my thighs from where the heat from my laptop gives me .5 degree burns. I'd address this problem and begin doing my writing a portable computer stand. The .5 degree burns would heal over time and redness would reduce.

I'd drive a '92 Toyota Tercel with fading green paint and a fully functional air conditioner, it would get 300 miles to the gallon. Showering and grooming habits would be normal. The work area would be clean and on nice days I'd write out doors stealing WiFi from some unsuspecting neighbor. Pay would be average initially but would increase when my column gained popularity amongst a Saudi Arabian royal family who find my words insightful and fully entertaining. They would double my salary in order to have all journals and blogs sent directly to their royal palace.

It is irresponsible to shoot a stranger - ask JFK or tupac.

To all my loyal reader:
I regret to inform you that this post contains unfortunate news. About two months ago I was shot twice, luckily avoiding the third bullet. I was going to a kickboxing class at Mt. San Antonio College at about 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday. With flip flops scuffing the ground on the way to the wrestling room I clutched my bag in one hand and fumbled my wrestling shoes in the other. Nothing out of the ordinary about this day, so signs of my eminent unavoidable doom. Approaching from about twenty meters was a young black male walking directly toward me. Still no sign of danger. At five meters out, this man, (probably a mt. SAC student), makes his move and draws his weapon. His pinky and ring fingers curled into a fist while index and middle finger aimed violently at my head. His thumb stood straight up initially and at the two meter range tilted to the side. At this point his thumb quickly fired forward with three short bursts.

If you haven't put two and eight together yet this mutherfucker shot me with a imaginary fucking gun. A perfect stranger fucking shot me with his imaginary finger gun for no apparent reason and kept walking as if nothing happened. To top it off he held it like they hold guns in gangster movies. The first two imaginary bullets surely hit me in the head and or chest the third may have whizzed by my ear thanks to my natural instinct to avoid invisible flying objects. At this point I'm completely confused. Did a random dude just fake hand gun me in the face? It was hard to believe but it happened. He SHOT me. Why the fuck would you shoot a stranger, imaginary gun or not, he was out of line.

I kept my cool glancing back to see him walking away with his imaginary pistol now apparently in the holster. Not even a hesitation, the shooter didn't break stride as he left me to die....or whatever happens when you fake shoot someone. I forgot about it temporarily and went to the kickboxing class. After class I walked uncomfortably to my car. One part of me wanted to see my assailant and imaginary shot gun him in the chest; the other part of me was afraid the crazy dude would have a real gun on our next encounter.

Since then, almost every time I'm walking through the parking lot at Mt. SAC I think about the strange man who shot me. It some seriousness it was a very emotional situation. It makes me laugh because the randomness of getting fake shot by a stranger is absolutely hilarious. But it also makes me mad because it is incredibly RUDE and irresponsible to shoot a stranger in the face regardless if you're using a real gun or a two finger pistola.

All in all there is no lesson to be learned but I would like to personally tell the man who shot me at point blank range one thing....FUCK YOU. This is a true story, I can't make this stuff up. It's been two months and I still think about it. So if you want to be a real asshole or leave a lasting impression on someone pull that hand out of your pocket, tilt that bitch sideways and bust a cap in a stranger. Trust me, they will remember you. As for my shooter, if you are reading this for some creepy reason, expect an imaginary machete chop right in the femur next time I see you. Bitch.

Included is a drawing of the man who shot me and a short description of his physique. Yes it is drawn on the back of a paper plate with a sharpie and yes I am a terrible artist but so what he shot me.



yours truly,
Grant

self induced A.D.D. and delusional certainty (god and meth)

I have recently diagnosed myself with Attention Deficit Disorder. My definition of this possibly make believe disorder is the inability to remain focused on any particular task for any substantial amount of time due to your hectic surrounding and life which you probably created. My personal case can not be treated with Ritalin, generically named Methylphenidate, METH for short. I'd assume that I'm not the only one with this problem. Currently I have, one...two....six tabs open on my browser. Rob Dyrdek's fantasy factory is on the television approximately 12 paces away, muted of course, to battle my attention defecation. My phone, now sitting on the couch beside me, has buzzed four times with new texts since I started writing. I have the holiest of books in the history of ever to sitting to my left, yes the bible, I'll explain later. I am also currently eating chicken and a piece of wheat bread between sentences, not because I'm poor and black, but because it is a delicious combination and easy to prepare. Situations similar to this were included in my early studies on how I developed my severe non-fatal case of ADD.

Listing the tabs from right to left: (because i can list from right to left)

1. How High Fructose Corn Syrup Damages your Body. Why is it there? Cause it looked interesting and like chlamydia that shit is everywhere.
2. Methylphenidate - Wikipedia. Of course I did some research for this blog. Plus I didn't remember the technical name for Ritalin.
3. This blog page.
4. UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship. Because I like to watch people get punched in or around the face.
5. Facebook. Not currently logged in though, got to get my focus on.
6. YouTube - The Good, The Evil, and The Useful. This is a short video of a pretty smart dude named Sam Harris, author, debater, intellectual, and Atheist. This is where the bible came in and why I needed to look something up.

Screen-shot.



As you can see my range of attention spreads across the spectrum. But it rarely stays on one thing for very long lately. There is always some new interest that comes to me which takes me away from my initial task to something random like Shake Weight commercials. If you haven't seen them YouTube that shit immediately because they are awkwardly hilarious and I'm starting to think they aren't as unintentional as I would assume. Someone had to realize the awkwardness during production. Back to the point. I started watching Sam Harris because of a Tweet from Joe Rogan (UFC commentator/fear factor guy). From there I let my mind literally wander where ever Google/YouTube would take me.


Sam Harris said something about "faith" that caught my attention in one of the videos. He said faith is good is some aspects, but not so good the way some (many) religious people use it. Faith doesn't make sense as a delusional certainty the way most people use the word; it does however make sense in staying positive when dealing with uncertainty. I couldn't agree more and this is probably what gets me into arguments with religies (as I like to call religious people). I find it very hard to have a blind, "delusional certainty" in something that is backwards to my logic and knowledge about the world (which is limited I know). I'm not saying I do or don't believe in god, but I will definitely say I don't believe in the white bearded man dressed in a white robe that comes to most peoples mind. I must admit the beard does give him a bit of credibility though. All I am saying is I have no idea what's right and wrong when it comes to religion and too many people act like they have all the answers. You don't. If you're delusional and certain you have the answer to the religion debate, please explain to me in 3 and 1/2 sentences or less because as I have previously mentioned my attention span is iffy at best sometimes.

I will not judge your belief in god and I won't cry if you judge mine. I haven't read the entire bible or Koran yet because they are long and the writing is small but I did watch Passion of the Christ twice with subtitles so I'm pretty sure I'm a borderline expert. ADD is not always a bad thing, sometimes you go on spiritually awkward journeys via YouTube; so realize that Ritalin or Meth is not always the best option.

Now to address Meth. Ritalin, generic name Methylphenidate. They don't even change the name to try to hide the fact that it's METH. Don't let your kids become meth addicts because they won't stop jumping on the couch or watching YouTube videos of cats. Make them do something physically or mentally challenging and interesting. If you Google Methylphenidate (Ritalin) and Methamphetamine (crystal meth) you'll be surprised how similar they are.

Just letting you attention whores know it is OK to let your mind wander sometimes you might learn some shit. I will end this here so you can close one of your many tabs or windows and get back to work.

Idaho snake protected dandelions.

Little sister goes to college. The little jerk decides to make it 14 hours away at Boise State (Idaho). I used my photography skills to record the journey. 840 minutes or 50,400 seconds of mini van madness. And it begins: (cast: sister as "Chach", mom as mom, dad as dad, me).

7:30 departure.
Farmer Boys burrito deliciousness.
Chach says she's sleeping all 14 hours. I believe her.
Chach is out.

Navigation problems before the burrito is consumed.
Switch from GPS to old fashion convenient store maps, mom's decision.
Made a cell phone holder out of my hat.


Hour-ish nap. Reclining back seat.
Chach still out.
Uneventful into Nevada.
Stop for gas.
Ask surprisingly kind truck driver for directions.
My turn to drive =).
Rented mini van.
Passing slow people on a two lane highway.
Terrifying.
Satellite radio 70's and 80's classics.
Hip-hop, mom doesn't like that cussing shit.
Mom falls asleep.
So does dad.
Dance electronica interpretive dance moves.
Filmed by Chach who is somewhat awake now.

Techno music.
90 mile per hour dance moves.
No idea where I'm going.
Realization: everyone in car talks in their sleep.
Dad: says random stuff, falls back asleep.
Mom: random orders, "slow down," back to sleep.
Chach had a nightmare, yells "stop it" then smiles, still asleep.
4 hours of driving.
In Eli, a city, the armpit of Nevada.

Dad takes wheel, refreshed from nap.
Back seat boredum.
Cliff bars-0 Me-3.
Chach still sleeps.
Saw a buff cow, or a fat horse.
The wake up call:
Knowing Chach wakes up terrified for no reason, i film it.

Cabin fever.
Same road. Hours.
Almost through Nevada.
Chach Sleeps.
Welcome to Idaho.
White people.
Gas station.
Strange looks.
Upside down cross.


Black dad laughs.
White mom asks what upside down cross means.
Chach having second thoughts about staying.
Sign of black people....
KFC.
Lots of long hair (men).
Realization: long hair grown to cover red necks.
Camouflage hats, on white people.
Taco Bell, order wrong, go back.
Longer road.
Semi lost.
Back on track.
Chach wakes up.
Back seat boredom.
Going crazy.
Rebeled against being in the car for too long.
Took most of my clothes off, non violent resistance.


Mom shakes head.
Chach laughs.
Dad drives.
Clothes back on.
Country music.
Ipod.
Chach and me=2 Ipods.
1 song.
Panic at the disco "How to save a life."
Obnoxious singing duet.
Bob Marley.
Getting grumpily restless again.
Kept my clothes on.
Boise.
Best Western.
Sleep.
Food.
Pool workout.
See Boise.
Big ass river, fast moving, scary.

Saw huge dandelion, as big as Texas....on a big map.
Tried to touch dandy lion.

Saw snake.
Panicked.
Got closer to river.
Took pictures.

Chach starts climbing on rocks.
I suggest not doing so.
She is sure of her impeccable balance.
She slips.
Wet shoe dry shoe.

Chach is completely devastated.
I am still laughing.

Walked back.
Saw a giraffe.

Saw ants on top of ants.

Played in phone booth.

The trip lasted three days, two of which were spent in a van.
1,870 miles.
Ride back was much worse than ride there, 15 hours.
Miss Chach a little.
Cried a single tear.
It rolled down my cheek and hit the floor.
Grew into a magnificent oak tree.
Some details left out due to a phobia of longer blogs.
Conclusion.
Idaho is very clean.
Lots of white people.
Got a soccer ball from wal-mart.
I will need someone to pick on, while Chach learns stuff in Idaho.