The room was dark, apart from that light that constantly blinks on and off on the other side of the volleyball pitch that shone through my window on the wall; the glory of the Soviet Union flickered with 100 watt illumination all night long. I went to bed thinking I was turning into Woody Allen--manic, convoluted, like every sphere of my existence was windowed with fun house mirrors through which I see the world.
The day began just as stirring as the previous one had ended. I entertained myself with "Fawlty Towers" (a love letter to patriots of the British humor), drank some juice boxes, and went to choir. But all the while I sat thinking. "You're turning into friggen Howard Hughes."
Thankfully I got a text message, which gave me reason to indulge in the sun's beckonings: "She brought your stuff, come over and get it." Relics from the sort of "Battle of the Bulge" of my love life. I decide to get some food while I'm out so I hop in the car and drive the 20 feet to my neighbors' to pick up my crap.
"She left you some money for the stuff she couldn't find."
"I can't even remember what it is she lost."
"Neither could she."
Well that's dumb, I think. Leave the money, take the cannoli. No use making her pay for something she might not have even lost.
I left the apartment. Hadn't even removed my sunglasses.
I got in the car and turned on the Beatles. I want to hear that song we're singing in choir. It wasn't there. How 'bout that other one? Harry Connick just did an arrangement of it. Not there. A title jumps out at me and I like it: "Carry That Weight." I turn it on.
"Boy, you're gonna carry that weight! Carry that weight a long time!"
Right, this can be my emo anthem for the day. You should put your hood up and embrace it. Actually, don't. It cuts off your peripheral vision and you can't drive worth a crap. Just carry that weight, a long time. Oh hell. The only weight you're carryin' is the one you fashioned for yourself. Stop yer boobin'.
Song change.
"I went up stairs and had a smoke, and somebody spoke and I went into a dream..."
You're not even hungry. Why are you even driving? You'll waste all the gas you just dropped 50 bucks for. Well, how am I gonna get around the city and enjoy this sun? You ever try walking? I'm not gonna walk around town like a freaken homely kid; just shut up and choose a place to eat. Look, there's a Subway. Turn. Sorry dude. (I bet that guy hates me now. I can't make up my mind until I've almost passed the place.)
I figured I'd get a footlong. Something cold, that can keep. A veggie. I don't need the chips though, or a huge drink. (I got waters at home).
Gosh, why do I always get this urge to "create" when I get in these moods? You're not freaken Michelangelo. Fine, that's it. I'm just gonna blog. I've shunned that cursed excuse for non-censorship long enough, perhaps I'll make its day and just punch out a taste of this existence I've created for myself the last two days. Everyone will think all those things they don't want you to think, though. Gosh, I don't even care. They're going to have those opinions anyway. And it's not like I'm gonna publicize this. "Come on over and read about the Fall of the House of Hunter!" You're not "falling." You're just ready to mean something to someone again. Oh gosh, not like that. I'm in no mood for twitterpations. I'm just saying that the sun has set on this whole "chart your own course straight into the iceberg" part of my life. I gotta get ready to meet the person who's gonna teach me what love is. You're not that person yet, Spencer. Yeah, thanks. I know.
And so here I am. Blogging, making copies of my internal dialogues so I can keep myself in check. Tell myself "I told ya so" should the need arise. Funny how those passing phases seem to set up shop for a while. I think I've been entertaining this passing phase since, oh, May. It's ok though. I'm sure everyone has a few oddball...years... It's just interesting how what seems like such a hallmark of life truly means nothing. It's like holding a mirror in front of a vampire. I wouldn't say I'm always this cynical or even this pessimistic. Just been one of those years. On the mission I would concentrate on my problems, make love to my problems, and then shrug them off. I would chuckle and tell myself that 5 years from now I won't remember the feelings of despair at how the babooshka couldn't freaken let her J Dub friends go or how much I hated Leonid for keeping Zoe away from the truth. I'll just remember that I did, and how it doesn't hurt anymore because that was 5 years ago and who the hell cares anymore. They'll all accept it eventually, why should I care if it was from me or not?
That's sorta how I'm tackling this whole post-mission, post-six kisses, post-life smacking you in the face and telling you to snap out of it and grow up phase of my life. In 5 years, I'll be a happy father and I'll be in love with my wife. What else matters? This has certainly helped me get over that flub of a year before my mission anyway.
That's life for you. Everyone's got problems, everyone's got baggage. No one's exempt from that fine, unifying truth. It's how we deal that tells us who we are and what lets others view past the veil and see the true nature of your intelligence. God is real. God lives. Of all the things I know, I'm the most glad I know that one. Everything else, eventually, just becomes what the Russians call "spare change."
I'll probably see all of you in class tomorrow. Know that I love you. Actually, there are a few of you I wish I could love more. Or even...know...more, really.
After all that, all I can say is I'm glad I got the cold sandwich.
