Wednesday, June 28, 2006

When I'm at work, I always try and think of something to write about. I guess it really helps me pass the time. Working at a car wash is not ideal, nor is it good in any way, but it gives me money, and that's all I need right now. I have to save up for college, for a car, for too much. I'm saving up to give away, to put it in simpler terms.

I have really been pondering the idea of going to Florida State for college, just so I can leave Jacksonville and my house and have some sort of freedom for once in my life. I don't want to be so dependent on my parents that I can't leave my home and feel like I can't succeed without them holding my hand. I've always hated how people can rely on their parents for their entire lives. Case in point: the children of J. Howard Marshall, the wealthy octogenarian, as well as the late ex-husband of Anna Nicole Smith. Those children never had jobs, never made their own money, and they just sat around waiting for their father to die, so then they become millionaires for doing nothing. I'm just glad that they didn't inherit that, because in some sick way, Smith deserves the money. She had sex with a senile dinosaur.

If I go to FSU and leave Jacksonville behind, I have a feeling I won't feel any discomfort in it. Though I do have plenty of people here that I'd miss, there is nothing here that I am emotionally attached to that couldn't come and see me. Leaving Jupiter, I missed bike rides on dirt roads, thunderstorms at 3pm during the summer, and skating at the elementary school. Leaving Chesapeake Beach, I missed snow days, late night Wal-Mart with Ben, Shannon, and Morgan, my basement, and skating the curbs with Ben, Shawn, and James. Leaving Jacksonville, I will miss...people. People can always visit, but Mother Nature has never let the weather come and play.

I would love a house to call to call my own, as well as a lawn. I would love my own couch, my own television with my own Playstation 2 connected to it. I would love my own windows, my own flooring, my own rooftop.

I have a feeling I'd treasure everything quite a bit more if only I bought it. Then, maybe, I'd have something to miss here in North Florida.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Everything in your house holds some sort of memory to you. Whether you realize it or not, everything is held in your heart as either a good or a bad memory. It may be the couch in your living room that housed your first kiss, the lamp in your basement that you had in your first house when you were a young child, or that Cure record that you remember listening to in your girlfriend's father's truck. Your brain is able to conjure up an incredible amount of recollections, but most people don't use their minds to their full potential, making it hard to expand your "power center", if you will.

No matter how hard it is for us to block out memories, there is always something around us that will kickstart our brain and bring it back up for us. Like elephants, we never forget. But, somehow, like goldfish, we never remember.

Yes, nice guys finish last. We understand. We get it. It has been burnt into our brains eversince middle school when, in the sixth grade, Lisa Smith wanted to ride bikes with the boy that gave you a swirlie rather than you. Do you remember how you felt when you laid in bed that night with the thought of Lisa's hand holding his hand as they rode down the street? Do you remember how it felt to have your heart sink to your stomach when the same thing happened to you in high school, though, of course, it was under different circumstances?

For some reason, girls are still attracted to the "bad boys"; the "rebel" type. Every girl would love to have the 'James Dean meets Colin Farrell with just a touch of Marlon Brando' boy rather than the 'John Cusack meets Seth Cohen with just a touch of Rivers Cuomo.' This danger aspect that the "cool guys" put forward is apparently so arousing and unpredictable that girls fall for it like drunks to a lit neon Budweiser sign.

While these females are out enjoying themselves driving fast cars, egging houses, or doing whatever those rebellious ones do, the "good guys" are always left alone on Friday and Saturday nights, because they are the ones that the girls would rather call to talk to about those motorcycle-riding tough guys to than actually opening their eyes and realizing that the good guy is not a bad choice. They'd rather go shopping with the boy than to actually wear the clothes that they purchased to impress them.

I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that there has been no "good guy" that has taken a stand and flipped the metaphorical bird to the old phrase, "Nice guys finish last."

And then there's me: sitting behind a keyboard and trying to think of what to write for this, though I know that I will never have the guts to speak up and change my lifestyle if it means that I'd have to exert any type of energy at all.

But, hey. At least in the end, even though I'll be last, I can say that I finished at all.

Though, I don't remember Dawson being too happy with that fact when Joey got with Pacey.