The urge to write comes for me at two times. One, when I have recently been inspired by something I have heard read to me, or something (even better) that I have experienced, and Two, when I am bored and have absolutely nothing in my head to write about. Ideally, I should take the latter times, those bored times, and instead of trying to write, try to live, try to recruit some experiences for inspiration. That rarely happens.

So lets pose some honest questions here. Why do I bother writing? Well, I think of the scene in Fight Club, when Tyler asks the two members in the back seat of the careening car what, if they die right now, will they wish they had done before they died. They don’t hesitate. One says “paint a self portrait,” the other says “build a house.” I put myself in their position, and what comes out of my mouth is “write a book.”

Now, I expect that my answer would change if I were to actually write a book (oh, and my desktop-published poetry chapbook doesn’t count), but lets deal with the current answer.

Inside of me, down in the place where desire and motivation and the other vital pieces of who I am mix around, what will it take to make me achieve? Because honestly, I do not see myself as an achiever. I am a wisher, a dreamer, a mass of unsorted potential that may never be put to use. This is distressing. I believe that the life I live, the way I interact with people, is of much greater importance than whether or not I write a book. But this is also distressing, because I am so often antisocial, so often unsure if who I am is who I should be, and so often scared of the responsibility of committing to people, even in friendship. As a general behavior, I am so often convinced of my inabilities that I don’t even try. And this, in turn, hamstrings my willingness to live life to the fullest, and, in turn, my ability to write.

So what do I do? I will be 27 in two days. I am obsessed with failure, and it is destroying me.

Two posts ago, if you recall, I said all I want for Christmas is a job.

Well, I got one. And not the animal control job, either (although they did offer me that one, but I got the low-down on it in the interview, and trust me, it would NOT have been a mentally healthy job for me). Instead, I got a job that perfectly fits the needs we layed out six months ago. I'm the recieving guy at Price Cutter supermarket in Siloam. It's perfect. Only 30 hours a week (even if they are morning hours), my weekends free and just the right wage.

So, it's Christmas Eve. But it doesn't feel like Christmas Eve. Not to me, right here and right now. And tomorrow won't feel like Christmas Day either, I'll bet. I can't say why for sure. But, it doesn't matter. What matters is that God waited until Heather and I were on the verge of complete brokeness, until I was ready and willing to accept a job that I knew would be bad for me, and He answered prayer. He orchestrated things to his liking (i.e. my applying for a job at a place that the very day I applied had a position open, and it was a position that I have experience in) and, depsite my sense of desperation, was faithful to me.
To punctuate just how desperate we were, Heather and I are still going to have to borrow money to get us to my first paycheck. But we know that we can pay that money back within a couple months. And it feels good to know that. Finally.

Merry Christmas.

I feel blessed tonight.
I got to go see/hear The Listener (a.k.a. Dan Smith) at the City Coffee Co. tonight. He is one of the people who forces me to appreciate rap. It was a weird experience all around. This one event (a free pot-luck!) pulled together so many of the JBU alumni still living in this area - some people I hadn't seen for years and, in some cases, had no clue they still lived around here. Vance, A.J., Paul, Caleb, Dave and Melody, Ben and Vinny, Casey and Tracy, Libby and John, etc., etc..

Dan's rap is truly artistic. So different from most of the mainstream, unsubstantive crap. And it's odd for me to view him as an artist, now. I can still remember him and half the rugby team getting into the shower with me my freshman year. He was a meathead rugger, not a writer/performer. Fascinating.

The opener, Jamie Clayburn, played a type of music like an electronica U2. He performed most of his set with 2001: A Space Odessey silently running on a sheet behind him (though a music video, done by the brilliant Vance Reeser, accompanied the last song), and then Dan played his set with infomercials running behind him. The visual effect on Clayburn's set was stunning, the effect on Dan's was distracting (though humorous). Both of them used Ipods to back themselves up musically. Dan said he had the flu, and I suppose that may have affected his comedic timing a little, but his in-song energy was captivating. This was his final show of a 58-day, 58-show national tour, most of which he performed in peoples homes! Impressive.

In other news, Heather and I are moving. There is nice house accross town with our name on it. It is smaller, the rent is higher, but, unlike our current house, it's not falling off it's foundation and it won't cost an arm, a leg and three heads to heat (all praise the wood-burning stove). Plus it has a fenced back yard for Tigger to run in - he already loves it.

I'm trying to view this move as a step forward, not a step sideways, but my brain, as always, fights with me to make it so. At least Heather and I were able to come home and invest our coffee-high into packing. In the microcosm of this move, thats progress. And that will have to suffice for now.

****sigh****

Still fat. Getting fatter. Still not caring enough to deal with it. At least the cravings have decreased. My appetite is simply bigger than it's ever been. But I seem to have plateaued. My stomach muscles still hurt. My back is still killing me. And my moods are much more moderated.

And all I want for Christmas is a job. Even . . . . .*sigh*. . . . . a job with Animal Control Services (I interviewed today). Any job is necessary at this point. We have to survive.

Moderated moods or not, I'm already fighting serious depression over this job (and I haven't even gotten it yet). It pays amazingly well, but requires a lot of commitment, and I know I'm going to hate it.

I might as well resign myself to never being happy. I peaked in college, and even that wasn't so great. I don't know what it takes to feel fullfilled, but after so many years I still can't find it.