I am not drunk, Occifer

Have you ever been drunk or stoned and tried to give the illusion that you are neither?


I spent a lot of time in high school and college drinking and getting stoned.  There were many occasions where we would get drunk or stoned before class or church or school functions.

The challenging part was to not be caught or noticed by the adults.

I'd come home stumbling through the door late on a friday night and mom would start speaking to me; asking me what we did that night.  Because my mom believed her son was an angel, my inebriation was the furthest thing from her mind.  I would speak in some incoherent language, tell her we went to the movies and then loudly crash my way into my bedroom.

But for the five minutes she would grill me on my whereabouts that evening, I would prop myself up against the wall and slowly attempt to prove my sobriety to her.



Mom never had a clue how drunk I was.

I was the lucky one.  My friends were always caught.  Their parents saw right through them.


I never put much thought into how delusional we become when our system is overloaded with alcohol or drugs until our alcoholic friend spent a decade drunk; all the while trying to conceal his "problem" from us.

He was perpetually under the influence.

He would get drunk prior to any social setting.  He would drink in solitude and then emerge from his cave ready to do whatever our plans were for the day or night.  He couldn't function without his fix.

We shared a lot of laughs at his expense as he would attempt to appear sober.  No amount of mouthwash and cologne could hide his problem.

He would speak slowly and appear very attentive to every word we spoke.  He truly believed no one could tell he was drunk.  Now, we never confronted him when he was drunk.  He would have denied it.

His dead giveaway was this really retarded Italian accent he would speak in when he wasn't sober.  He had no self-awareness when it came to his tics and tendencies when drunk.

Right before his death, his alcoholic persona had replaced his sober one.  He became unrecognizable in appearance and in word.  The Italian accent became his first language because he was always under the influence.

It's funny watching a drunk man try to act sober.  

The laughs stop when you realize he is dying right before your eyes.


Ironically, I learned a lot about myself through his death.  I became a disciple of self-awareness, perception and all the illusions I found myself entangled in.

I began to realize that how I view myself is not necessarily how others view me.

It's a quite powerful reality check when you realize that who you believe you are is not consistent with what others believe you to be.

We can all sit here behind our keyboards and claim we don't give a shit what people think about us.  We can sit here and convince ourselves that we love who we are and we don't need validation from others.

We can sit here all day and lie to ourselves.

We all have a need for general acceptance and validation.

Some people come across as complete assholes and when they are called out for it, their immediate cry is, "I am misunderstood."

Some people play the nice guy routine really well and have convinced the masses that their online persona is consistent with their real life persona.... kind of like the drunk friend who wants to convince his friends that he is sober.

I will be the first to admit that I am the nicest guy around.  I will also admit that I have a really bad mean streak.

I am in complete awareness of who I am.  It's taken me a lot of time to come to the realization that I am not misunderstood; that how others perceive me is important.

If I am perceived as an asshole, it is my job to stop being one.

If I am perceived as a nice guy, it is my job to make certain that I am consistent in all aspects of my life and treat everyone with kindness.

The reality and the perception should be the same.



At some point before we reach the age of two, we learn to recognize ourselves in a mirror.

The mirror test is a great tool for parents.  Basically, you paint a large red dot on the child's forehead and then put a mirror in front of him.

The child will do one of two things:  He will either reach for the child he sees in the mirror and attempt to "clean" the dot off of his face OR he will realize the dot is on his own face and attempt to rub it off.

It's funny to realize that by the age of two, we have the full capacity to recognize ourselves.

The laughs stop when we are adults and we no longer are aware of who we are.

Do you know who I am?‏

Of all the regrets I have, one stands above the rest.

It was New Years Eve, 1988.  Kristen and I attended a party.  We, both, were fairly drunk.  Shortly after midnight, I decided to leave the party with someone else.  Kristen chose to stay.

I shouldn't have.  Beautiful girls with an all too trusting and naive perspective on this world should never be left alone in a house filled with strangers.

It's a lesson I learned the following day.  A lesson my future daughter will pay the price for.

New Years Day, I paid my beautiful friend a visit.  "She's still in bed", her mom said.  "at dinner time?" I asked.

When I walked into her room, she wasn't asleep.  She was simply curled into a ball; crying.

Sometimes rape leaves such an indelible impression on a victim's face that words do not become necessary.

I was afraid to ask what happened.  My gut knew the answer.

So, I didn't ask.

I just sat on the foot of her bed and said, "I am sorry."

At some point, she spoke loudly.  Angrily.  With shame.

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

That's all she said.

A few minutes later, she clarified her question.

As Kristen was led unknowingly into a bedroom, the rapist to be restrained her arms as he slid his dirty hands up her skirt.

NO.  NO.  NO.

She told me she remembered saying NO.  Over and over.

"I was first team All-Arizona last year at linebacker.  I can have anyone I want.  I chose YOU."  As if ,his resume warranted this.  As if, she should just consider herself blessed.

NO.  NO.  NO.

The last thing she remembered was the sick, twisted look in his eyes as he said, "DO YOU KNOW I AM?"

Kristen never told anyone.  Her parents would have blamed her.  She believed being drunk would be a viable alibi for him.

She blamed herself.  She was dirty but it was his sin on her hands.


I was reading an article earlier today about Ben Roethlisberger and the rape accusation he faced a few years ago..  

Whether or not he is guilty isn't even relevant.  What I found interesting is that many character witnesses stated that over the years, Ben has been fond of using that question...

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

To be admitted entrance into a club.  When meeting women.  When pulled over for a speeding ticket.

The sense of entitlement athletes and celebrities have is nothing new.  Hell, they learn it early in life.  Star athletes in high school or even younger learn early on that their worth is greater than the rest of their peers because of their talent.

Superior talent= entitlement.

But to say that only celebrities are guilty of this is wrong.

Maybe, it's why I was shocked when I lost my job.  I felt protected behind my 20 years of service that I was entitled to job security despite the perceived complacency.

Maybe, it's why some of us lose wives or girlfriends or husbands or boyfriends.  We believe we are entitled to FOREVER because they fell in love with us at one point.  We stop working on the relationship and replace it with expectations.


One night, months later, Kristen and I went out for dinner.  The wound of being raped was still wide open but she was coping.     

Her anger seemed to be directed at this young man's sense of entitlement more than aimed at the act itself.

"I should have answered his question," she told me.

"How so?" I asked.

"I should have told him I do know who you are.  You are a rapist."

True character is revealed when no one is watching.  Better yet, true character can not be revealed tied to a sense of entitlement.   

From Awkward teens everywhere, thank you, John Hughes‏

On the very day I found a lonely gray strand of hair embarrassingly trying to blend in with the rest of my hairs, John Hughes died.

Just what I need another reminder that I am getting closer to that scary word.... OLD.

John Hughes was the genius behind such movies like; The Breakfast Club, Home Alone, Vacation, Ferris Bueller's Day Off and one of my personal favorites, Sixteen Candles.

Sixteen Candles was the first movie I bought on VHS.  I was 15 years old.

It was the first movie I had seen aimed at my age group.

Who can forget the scene where Molly Ringwold's character Samantha gives Farmer Ted her panties in order to allow him some brief popularity?

Then she uttered that classic movie line, "I can't believe I gave my panties to some geek."

The brilliance of John Hughes is in the immediate scene when Farmer Ted charges $1.00 to all the freshman boys to SEE her panties in the boy's restroom.

I recall watching this scene and thinking, "who the hell would pay $1.00 to SEE girl's panties? I might pay $1.00 to SNIFF a pair but definitely not to just look at them."

When you're 15 years old, you are awkward, inexperienced and horny.  Or at least, I was.

No matter the subject material that John Hughes tackled in his movies, he captured the very essence of life as a kid in his teens.  Be it the geeky kid who just wants a little respect or the emotionally imbalanced girl trying to find love and affection. 

John Hughes got to the heart of the matter without speaking down to his audience.

He was an adult, a man in his 30's, yet he wrote and directed some of the finest movies that only those of us who were in our teens could relate to.

Speaking to an audience at eye level is the true indicator of a great communicator.

Making that same audience laugh and cry all in the matter of a 90 minute movie is the mark of a great mind.

John Hughes died at the young age of 59 today. 

Left behind is a legacy of art for future generations of awkward kids to cling on to as they try to find their place in this world.

Some movies have the power to be life changing.  Maybe his movies don't fall into this category, but his movies did have the ability to make an awkward kid like myself feel a little less alone.

Next time I find another lonely gray hair sprouting from my head, I can turn on an old John Hughes movie; feel young again and remember how it feels to be that lonely gray hair trying to blend in with all the other "normal" hairs.




*written in 2010

Exposing the Douche‏

Back in 2010, there was a story in the news about 33 Chilean miners stuck in an underground mine for two months.

In the aftermath of the Chilean miner rescue, we learned that a few of those men emerged from that hole with some explaining to do.

Apparently, a few of those men not only left wives behind anxiously waiting for their rescue, but some had mistresses as well.

Imagine you're a miner trapped in a mine for two months and when you emerge, standing side by side waiting to embrace you is your wife and your mistress.  Whose arms do you run towards?

I thought being a douche was isolated to Americans.

For awhile, I believed being a douche was isolated to those here online.


Just the other day, I heard some startling news.  It shouldn't have shocked me but it did.

About 15 years ago, an old friend of mine got married.  Prior to marrying his fiance, he was cheating on her.  In fact, at the engagement party we threw him, he fucked a woman in the backyard while his fiance was inside the house being congratulated for their upcoming wedding.

Even worse, one week after returning from his honeymoon, he was fucking another woman.  Actually, two hours before he and his wife were moving out of state, he fucked that woman in his loaded U-Haul in front of their house while his wife was asleep in the house.

Because the world eventually exposes douches for the douches they are, it was 2 years later when he found out that he impregnated the girl he was having an affair with in that U-Haul.

After a court order required him to pay a significant amount of money in child support, he had to tell his wife about his cheating ways.

Like any self-respecting woman, she divorced him.

Now, here's the startling news:

Eight years ago, my old friend remarried.  He was in love.  He said he changed.  This woman was the one.  He vowed to remain faithful.

Last year, she divorced him.

Why?

Because my friend, the douche, was having an affair and impregnated another woman.

Two marriages.  Two kids.  And neither child is a result of his marriages.


I admit I am a little bitter.  Women who reward douchey men is probably my biggest pet peeve.

Woman breaks up with boyfriend because he cheats on her.  He begs for forgiveness and claims he has changed.  Woman takes man back.  Months later; the cycle repeats itself.

Or woman breaks up with man because he is online flirting with every woman that is kind to him.  He takes kindness as an open invite to send every nice woman dick pictures.  Girlfriend finds out and breaks up with him.  He begs for forgiveness and claims he's changed.  Months later, the cycle repeats itself.

Or woman sleeps with man.  Man brags all over town that he slept with her.  Woman who believed this man genuinely liked her feels betrayed.  Man then realizes his piece of ass wants him no more.  So, man begs for forgiveness and claims he's changed.  Woman sleeps with man again.  Months later, the cycle repeats itself.


Here's some late breaking news:  Change doesn't happen overnight.  If a man claims he has changed just because he was punished for his behavior, odds are he hasn't changed.  He will just be more careful next time to not be caught.
Change is a process; not an event.


Many years ago, a friend of mine was getting married.  A few days before his wedding, I went to the drug store with him to buy some KY Lube and condoms for his honeymoon.  As he handed the lube and condoms to the checkout girl, she looked at us and laughed. 

Apparently, she believed he and I were gay lovers.
Because I wanted my masculinity to stay intact, I decided it would be wise to explain to her that we were two straight guys; that my friend needed these for his honeymoon and I just happened to be shopping with him.

She didn't believe me.

Now, I bring this up because well, it's a funny story.

But also, because last week, my mom called me and asked me if I was going grocery shopping anytime soon.  Since she doesn't have a car, on occasion, I will pick up something for her at the store.

Mom calls.  She asks, "Son, can you go to Walmart for me?"

I reply, "I suppose.  What do you need?"

Her response, "Douche.  Preferably Summers Eve."

I already have a hard time buying toilet paper because I prefer people believing I don't shit.

And the image of my mom douching doesn't sit well with me, either.


So, all of this comes down to this....

There are two types of men in the world:  Douches and those who buy douche.

In other words, men with larger than life egos or men who are finally learning about humility.

A Matter of Time

I'll probably think about her when I can't remember where my car keys are.

It's conceivable I will remember her when something random, something obscure, hops onto my train of thought.  Like the state capitals.  Or the elements of the periodic table..  Or the starting lineup of the 1988 L.A. Dodgers.  Or the lyrics to a song I haven't heard in twenty years.

I am certain I will be more cognitive of both the remarkable ability our brains have to retain information we learned a lifetime ago and the momentary lapses of recalling something as simple as our next door neighbor's name or where our car keys went that we literally held in our hands a few minutes previously.

I will think about her when I amaze myself with my own intellectual grasp of retaining information and I will think about her when I frustrate myself for forgetting things that I should know without having to think.


She's a stranger.
A passerby in my life.


Imagine, because you can, you are still fairly young.  You're sitting in the waiting room at your doctor's office.  Thinking what to cook for dinner.  Wondering how the kids and grand kids are.  Planning out the rest of the week in your head.

Imagine, because you still can, that life couldn't get much better. 

Then, the doctor calls you into his office.  And he gently tells you that you are in the early stages of Alzheimer's.

Suddenly, flashes of memories pour through your mind.  Jumping rope as a little girl.  That first kiss.  Dad teaching you how to drive.  Your wedding vows.  Yesterday's weather.

Imagine, just because you still are able to, that you are now aware that all of those moments that make up one's life will soon be forever erased from your mind.

Imagine, because it is your duty to, that it's only a matter of time.


She's just a stranger.
Potentially, a reflection of a future me.
Or maybe a bullet I will dodge.


It's a matter of time for her.  She told me so.  Today, on my birthday.

It's just a matter of time for her.  So, she's imagining what those days that lie ahead will be like.  She's imagining so because she still can.

She spends her days now doing puzzles.  She's reciting the names of each family member in hopes she never forgets.  She's reading a lot. 

She won't forget where her car keys are.  Not now.  Not today.

But she knows, it's just a matter of time when misplaced car keys will be the least of her frustrations.

She's just a stranger.
Someone who wrote me a note.

Someone I will never forget.

God willing.

Dangling Thoughts

I am always taken aback when someone says they love me.  Be it, the one woman I expect to say it or someone here on the internet or real life everyday friends.  When those three words are said to me, I dissect them, probe them and then determine if there's an agenda attached or if they are saturated with disingenuous sentiment.

I grew up believing being loved had to be earned.  As if love is just a dangling carrot or a conditioned reflex like Pavlov's dogs to a dinner bell.

A lot of things I grew up believing still are an essential part of who I am today.

A little bit of something is better than nothing...

I always wonder what these little league teams are thinking by giving every team a trophy; losing teams and winning ones alike.  Hell, some leagues don't even keep score anymore.

Hello, equity.  Goodbye, competitiveness.
Hello, mediocrity.  Goodbye Excellence.

I'm stitched together with this belief that there are winners and losers.  I expect that if you are the winner, you get rewarded. In fact, I believe winners should be elevated above others.  I believe winners should be praised, admired and loved.

Yes, loved.

I don't want to be the clumsy athlete that gets a trophy because he almost ran to the right base after almost hitting the ball out of the infield.
I don't want to be the politician that is defined by sound bites and photo ops.
I don't want to be the man that is loved for trying.

When I say "love", I am not talking about prejudicial jargon based on pity or said with condescension.  I want to earn one's love and then be rewarded with action.

But maybe, I am flawed in my thinking.  Maybe, this whole notion that love is unconditional means there is no earning involved.  Maybe, we are supposed to love others just because... but in my mind, unconditional love is no different than giving a trophy to each player on the losing team.  I recognize it's a flawed analogy.

I struggle with this little thing called love.  I don't wrestle with giving it.  I struggle with accepting it.

I came across this little quote last night:

I had never heard of this or even considered these words.  Immediately, I thought of my last dog; the greatest dog a man could own.

I could yell at that dog or get frustrated with him and tap him in the nose; no matter what negative reaction I imposed onto him, he still loved me.

I don't like to equate animals to humans nor do I want to compare a pet's devotion to his master to the love between two people.  However, I wonder if dogs love us because they need us or if they need us because they love us... like a conditioned reflex.

Maybe dogs are just brilliant at being manipulative.  I don't know.

What I do know is that I am slowly learning that love is not a dangling carrot to be yanked away if I fail nor is love something I have to earn on a daily basis to the same people all the time.

I had this belief that there is a battle between neediness and independence.  As if they both are at odds with each other. 

They aren't. 

As needy as dogs are reputed to be, if you allow them off their leash, they will run to their independence. 

But at the end of the day, they always come back home.

Chasing Cars

A friend of mine has a unique way of walking her dog.

She puts her dog in her car, drives to the base of this hill in her town and then lets her dog out.  The dog promptly trots to the top of the hill as she follows him in her car.

Once they both reach the top of the hill, she drives downhill and the dog chases her.

At the bottom of the hill, she opens her car door, the dog jumps in and the walk is over.


Back when I had a dog, a walk included a leash and of course, it included me walking as well.

Maybe she is smarter than me or better yet, lazier.  It could be possible that I am simply jealous that I never taught my own dog how to chase cars.  Then again, the very first dog I ever owned was killed chasing a car so it could be I have a lot of bitterness left from my days as a kid.

I remember very little about my first dog, Smokey, except his obsession with chasing cars.

As analytical as I am now, I may have been worse as a kid.  I questioned everything.




I always wondered why a dog would chase a car.  Cars don't look like giant tennis balls nor do they look like cats.  A dog really has no chance of catching a car and if he does catch the car, then what?

And if I think about it, some of us are no different.

We chase unattainable things.  We target something that logically will do us no good if we happen to catch it.

It's almost like some of us just enjoy the pursuit more than the actual capture.

I think back to those days of high school when I would watch girls chase after boys with bad intentions.  They would throw themselves at them; only to be disappointed when they were used and discarded.


I think back to the many times I would seek acceptance by others by choosing to join them in self-destructive means that my conscience would otherwise tell me to avoid.

I think of the friend that was searching for the meaning of his own life by drinking himself into a stupor every damn night for a decade.  His happiness was never attained until he swallowed his 5th shot of vodka.

Chasing cars.  Some of us are sick.  We are too busy chasing things we shouldn't.  We are clinging to some imaginary ideals that we, for some damned reason, believe is out there waiting for us.

We ignore the obvious because the pursuit seems better than the capture.

Maybe life would be less complicated if we didn't waste so much time chasing cars.

Maybe the key to happiness and capturing that elusive dream of being loved is simply to slow down and spend more time dealing with...

Parked cars.

Beautiful Liar

beautiful liar is about to expire
framed by her own guilt
holy roller and all the goods that he sold her
ashamed of the temple he built

fact or fiction it’s a beautiful religion
from baptism to the crucifixion
faith in the form of indecision

brother of lies, what causes this friction
cover your eyes, i have risen

beautiful love, what are you afraid of
excuse my intrusion
it’s a blood bath when they unleash their wrath
heaven above gets lost in the confusion

broken arrow, broken wing
ashamed of this unspoken thing

beautiful spider caught in her own web
of deceit and desire
doubts she’ll ever get higher
she’s so sick and tired of being sick and tired
this beautiful liar has expired

The Perks of Being A Significant Other

Maybe, it's just the word significant.

That word holds all the magic.
The importance
The potential.
The worth.

There are a lot of rights granted in being the other half.
The sex
The affection
The monopoly of both
Supposedly

There's responsibility involved.
The care
Comfort
The love
Unconditionally.

Of course, it's not perfect.
The fights.
The cruelty
The lies
Unfortunately.

Like it or not, independence is the first casualty.
Rightfully, so.
Pride is the second.
But it never truly dies.
Nor surrenders.

There are a lot of perks in being a significant other
sometimes those perks become disadvantages
always preceded by the feeling of being insignificant

and the magic disappears
and your importance to the other is voided
and the potential evaporates in the heat of once was
and your worth then becomes questioned

And those rights have been amended
the sex is available to the highest bidder
the affection is a smile in a crowded room
the monopoly of both has been divided and sold

Those responsibilities now are simply chores
With only yourself to truly care about you
And maybe a new vice for our own comfort
to replace the old vice we mistook for love

But as imperfect as it ever was
Those fights
The cruelty
The lies
were significant enough to draw blood or tears or any specific emotion

Because significance is the perk of being a significant other.

Unimaginable

We get into a lot of arguments.

Well, I get into a lot of arguments.

Because I am always right.


She knows my affinity for those animal shows.  So, she asked me what animal I would want to be.  And I thought about it.

Strange that of all the things that I have answers for, this was an occurrence where I did not.
I thought, okay, maybe a great white.  Top of the food chain.  Feared by everyone.
Maybe, a dog.   Sleep, eat, walk and shit.  A simple life.  Everyone loves a dog.

Back and forth, I went.

Do I want to be feared or loved?

I have answers for everything except when it comes to the hypothetical.

Because in the hypothetical, I can never be right.


We had one of those fights that lasts for days.  Over something so ridiculous. Where neither person will budge.  Because, in a sense we were both right.

I broke the tension.   I'd rather fight with you than be fucking someone else.

Levity.


She doesn't exactly believe in God.  Or heaven.  Or angels.
But she wants to.


There was a night I spent in the hospital.  The room was dark as I laid there all alone.

I saw her face.  It illuminated the room.

Of course, she was miles and miles away but at that moment, in the comfort of her own bed, she was thinking of me.  At that exact moment she was thinking of  me, I saw her next to my hospital bed.

It's unimaginable.  Even impossible that she was actually there.


When I get sick, she worries about me.  In a twisted way, it makes me want to be sick.  But I'm as healthy as an ox.  Ironically, the ox is an animal I would never want to be.


We get into these fights.  Ones that I can never win. 
Even though, I am always right.
She's smarter than me.

My only defense is to quote that campy movie about angels back when Meg Ryan was something to behold:  Some things are true whether you believe in them or not.


We don't talk about our story.  How we met.  The differences.  The ups.  The downs.  The angels.  The devils.  The fights.  Our times of peace.

But we do talk about the love.


It's unimaginable that we are both still here. 
Still together.  Still apart.

Faith doesn't move mountains.  Determination does.

Because some things are true whether we believe in them or not.

Natural Causes

I know of a story of an elderly man who died within weeks of the passing of his wife.  For several decades, they were a team.  They were partners.  They were in love from the moment they met.

When she unexpectedly died, he soon followed.

His death certificate simply stated natural causes.

I can't think of anything more natural than losing your will to go on when the one you love has passed. 

But that's me.

I see it all the time.  When one is suffering from a broken heart or when one is missing a significant person in their life, their health deteriorates.  It's only natural.


The dad I have never known died three years ago. 

When a soldier dies in war, the military protocol is to send a notification officer to that soldier's family to break the news in person.

Google was my notification officer.

Upon reading my father's obituary online, his cause of death was natural causes.

From all accounts, he left behind a pile of debts, many enemies, an unacknowledged son and a legacy of shame.

And I can't help but wonder if guilt played a part in his dying naturally.


I have listened to people engage in the You complete me vs. No person should depend on another to complete them debate.

I have my own thoughts.

I could sit here and say, we should be complete on our own.  I could throw out every cliche in the book.  I could convince everyone I am made of granite.  I could say some are weak and some are tough.  I could put up a false facade.  I can suggest that I have weathered all storms and nothing can break me. 

I could lie.

But it wouldn't be natural.  For me.


A man points at his heart and says, it hurts right here.  He isn't speaking literally.

I know a woman who buried her own child.
I know a woman who was once young and foolish and aborted the inconvenience growing inside of her.

I know a man who watched his own mother take her last breath on his bedroom floor.

I know a girl who found her brother's lifeless body in his own bed.

I know a man who over communicates because he just wants answers or a semblance of hope due to the feeling he is losing all he holds dear.

I know a mother who believes she is unlovable.

I know a man who watched lymphoma slowly rob his mother of her life for two years.  As he stood in front of the congregation at her funeral, he calmly said, "My mother.  The woman who gave me life."  That's all he said.  He slowly walked off stage , sat down, and smiled.

Three days later, he was in the hospital because of a sudden aneurysm.

No one can convince me that we don't need each other.  No one can ever make me believe that our lives are in our own hands. 

I believe we are a sum of our parts and our parts are made up of those we choose to love and those decisions we make or fail to make. 

We all die naturally.

When my time comes, I am certain it will be written... natural causes.

What a beautiful way to exit.

Thirty Two

“I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze.  But I think maybe it's both.  Maybe both are happening at the same time.”

That feather; floating randomly but with purpose, all these years later, still leaves this image in my mind. 

Maybe it was the haunting piano theme that played or maybe it's simply because it was such a quiet yet symbolic way to end a movie that was both heartbreaking and inspiring.

Maybe, it's the irony of who I saw it with and where I saw it.

Maybe, it's because I vehemently reject this notion that anything is an accident.  That anything is random. 


At birth, thirty two seemed impossible.  She'll admit that if you push her hard enough.

But I don't dare.

We see the world differently than the other.


She thinks that feather is floating accidental like, with no purpose; as if wind is just some aimless anomaly.  And I've come to the belief that wind is the breath of God.  And that feather has a divine purpose.


At birth, thirty two seemed impossible.  And she knows that.

My glass is always half empty.  Except when it comes to her.  Or us.  Or them.  Or him.

I saw that movie with him.  Twice.
Eight years before he left. 
Ironically, he left at the age of thirty two.

At birth, thirty two seemed impossible.  And she knows damn well that is the truth.

Everything is ironic.

He left at thirty two.
If I had never met him, I never meet her five years later.

Because that is how life works. 

A friend of a friend of a friend from a different time and a different place.  Everything so neatly sewn in a perfect storm with a carefully crafted script. 


From my lips to God's ears
A tragic ending and a new beginning
From Uncle to a snapshot
The blind leading the blind
To questions without answers
And everything but silence is now taboo
To marching to our own drummer
On the backs of the huddled masses
Embracing whatever we are told
As if life is just an accident
As if the breath of God has gone cold


At birth, thirty two seemed impossible.

And she'll admit it if you push her hard enough.

But I don't dare.

We see the world differently than the other.