Semirrahge's Xanga

Yes It's A Poor Substitute For A First Entry In Years...

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 07:33:39 GMT

. . . But I thought, "I've posted this everywhere else - why not Xanga too? I might even get some interesting or funny comments."

    And yes - I have no ties that are holding me anywhere, only the giant gap of money. That I am never to shy to abuse the generosity of my friends is welkin (but I do think you will also agree I allow my own share of abuse in turn) - and so if you provide for my transportation, or in some way lead me to a method of travel, place of stay and source of food and/or employment, I will come visit you, for as long as you'll tolerate my presence and drain on your finances. I'm not total deadweight. I'm a treat for pretty much any job you'd care to have me do. I'm not as strong as I used to was, but hey, I'm still only 25. Cut me some slack. Gosh.

    "Will Work For Needs."

- - -

WARNING! SUDDEN SCHEDULE CHANGES!!! Yes, I suddenly discovered tonight, upon careful accounting, I do not have the finances to cover a trip to Chicago - or anywhere else for that matter, besides back home.

So. Dutch Auction? You or a group of friend pool some gas money and you get me for as long as you care to bear with my presence - highest bidder first.

And: I really don't want to have to go home...?

- - -

So. There's my outburst for the day. Yes, I know I should write something genuine, but I really just want to sleep. Tomorrow has gone from neatly planned to sheer chaos of mystery timeschedules, opinions, Divine Mercy, disappointment, long drives, unplanned routes, detours, and General Serendipity of Travel.
    Although, my travels are often fraught with unplanned and even terrible adventures, but I must say that over time I've found each little journey a part of a bigger one, and so serendipity is a practical constant for me. :)
    Have I ever told you that you should travel with me? We should go somewhere. Anywhere. Bring me with you. Everyone has fun with me, even if you have to kick me in the head and laugh as I cry.

LOL

My Life of Boredom

Sun, 13 May 2007 10:28:16 GMT

It's interesting to watch myself - a high-strung, ADD-riddled individual - deal with boredom. Many years ago, I had the attention span of a dead goldfish and was the terror of my mother, who couldn't make me sit still for any length of time whatsoever.
    And then there are nights like tonight. During my teenage years I grew increasingly geeky and internet-reliant. I lived in ten different time zones and considered sleep a luxury afforded only to the dead. The overwhelming connectivity and unrestrained availability of uncensored data flooded my juvenile, sugar-and-caffiene fueled brain to fast to be actually processed and understood, the end result of which was a major emotional and physical crash somewhere around 18, when I discovered I could no longer go on 20 hours of sleep a week.
    In the last several years I learned the hard way about 60 and 80 hour work weeks, and to this day my biological clock has undergone so many rapid shifts that it no longer has any kind of reliance on the 12-hour standard day/night cycle.
    I've taken drugs of varying strengths for stimulation and wakefulness, and then drugs of varying strengths for relaxation and sleep. My infinitely variable body chemistry has responded by developing a sort of oddly passive existence, where sleep is casual and unimportant, and the waking hours are differentiated only by the fact that my brain and body interact with the real world, as opposed to the imaginary world of dreams.
    I can stay awake for three or four days, drugged to the gills on pain meds, or sleep while wired so tightly that my muscles vibrate from the flood of chaotic neural stimulation. Up, down, awake, asleep - these states of existence are so much the norm that they mean little to me now, whether psychologically or physically.
    Just as equally chaotic is my disconnection from the earth's time clock. For years every room I've lived in has had the windows boarded up with all the interior lights on dimmers. I prefer to live in complete or semi-darkness - and in fact have difficulty sleeping with any light source around, however dim.
    Climate control disconnects me from the weather, and the end result of all this is something akin to a cave-like dwelling, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees farenheit year round, and the average light source being a 300 watt halogen bulb running at half power.
    I've learned (too late, now) of the many downsides to this enforced life of disconnection, but there are also several significant improvements that I've learned, not the least being that 'day' and 'night' are arbitary terms, as well as the time of day or night being nearly as irrelevant. The only thing that matters to me is whether I'm awake or asleep. If I'm sleeping, it's 'night' - if awake, it's 'day'.
    Another thing I've learned from this totally alien lifecycle is how to deal with near-total solitude. In my younger years I listened to music non-stop during most of my waking hours, but these days I've grown to value silence, or, more accurately, the artificial 'silence' created out of the constant drone of computer cooling fans, HVAC units, ceiling and/or tower fans, and the phantom siss of audio amplifier noise floors elevated to audible levels.
    My contact with humanity has become increasingly erratic and dehumanised, with most of my communication being channeled through pure-text forms such as this blog, emails, instant messaging services of varying types; seconded by phone communication and with personal, face-to-face relegated to such a distant third that I grow quickly tired of such overwhelming intimacy and noise, even when filtered through the common fog of a chemically-altered reality.
    Recently I've experimented with wearing -30dB earplugs when around groups of loud or disagreeable people, and by a process of slow adaptation have learned to hear sounds in silence, being able to differentiate the dark pink noise of a sleeping, distant city from the open crystalline brilliance of a clear Texas night in the country.
    Because of my time disconnect from the rest of the world, I have learned to sit and vacate, doing nothing and thinking less - not bored, but not interested, in some weird median between waking and sleeping.
    This brings me to nights like tonight. One of my sisters informed me (at around 11:00 P.M. Saturday) that she'd been experiencing increasing abdominal pain throughout most of the day - having kindly failed to mention it even when dropping by my room earlier that afternoon to listen to me read aloud from various books.
    So by 12:30 (A.M. Sunday) I had decided that her symptoms resembled early onset appendicitis enough to warrant the waking of my parents and heading into Weatherford for a more accurate mechanical diagnosis (which occurred in the form of a contrast CT, for those who are curious) - the end result of which was a burst ovarian cyst.
    As my sister floated between lesser and greater states of wakefulness and my mother (bless her) slowly lost the battle against the rising need for sleep, I sat on the doctors exam stool with my legs locked against the bed and my back flat against the wall and logged my increasing pain levels as my opiates wore down, debated the merits of taking one of my many available uppers (deciding in the end to save my body's already stressed and limited dopamine levels for this afternoon), and as the uneventful hours passed while my sister and mother drowsed wearily - I simply waited.
    I did read, a Chuck Palahniuk book of nonfiction essays called "Stranger Than Fiction" - a book which I'd read before (as I've read nearly all my books more than once already), but nevertheless continue to enjoy and recieve inspiration from. I wondered at his grasp of Hunter S. Thompson's "Gonzo" journalism, and realised that I have in fact absorbed much of the same concepts of semi-objective near-fact relativism.
    You can read many of my own attempts at this type of writing - this being one of them, and in fact during the process of developing this idea discovered that I have attempted the Gonzo approach long before I knew what it was called or that a man named Thompson pioneered it long before I was even born.
    For those of you who don't know Gonzo, or Thompson, for that matter, I will take it upon myself to explain the concept. Like the quantum theory idea that you cannot observe something without changing what is being observed, a "Gonzo" journalist does not make any effort to report mere 'fact', but knows (or, possibly, does not have conscious knowledge of the process) that he is in truth a part of what he is reporting on and not only writes what he observes, but also records the interplay between the observer and observed.
    The end result, when done properly (one could argue that the process requires a more than slightly deranged mind for proper execution) is a fascinating interplay wherin fact and opinion are blended together to form an often shocking new whole, wherin the sum is infinitely greater than the parts.
    I am not sure that all of this essay makes as much sense as I think it does, but that's also part of the process. A Gonzo journalist writes what he sees and feels, but most importantly, his writing lays bare how his observations change himself, and the changes that, in turn, alters how he views his subject.
    Those of you who are familiar with Thompson's work (which I am, admittedly, not well acquainted with) will likely have their own personal epiphanic moments, but for the rest of you, watch "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". The true power of this approach to journalism comes in the latter half of the movie, where Johnny Depp quotes Thompson's eternally poignant view of the crumbling society surrounding him as the centuries tick inexorably onwards toward an increasingly hazy future.
    Admittedly, I've gotten somewhat (or more than somewhat, as the case may be) lost in these musings, but nevertheless find it endlessly fascinating that so much material should be inspired simply because I'm better at staying awake than those around me.
    I encourage you to take the time to watch yourself watching the world, and in your studies - whether casual or scholarly - learn to see a deeper, richer view. I do not suppose that everyone can do this, and I do not presume to rank myself with Thompson, but perhaps somewhere, eventually, my existence and the record thereof may leave another with a similar feeling of epiphany and inspiration.
    The very idea is, to me, both shockingly arrogant and simultaneously humbling - but I think it is that spark of inspiration that drives me to write as I do. One day, perhaps, you too will find the need to pass a similar spark onwards in hope that another might find similar inspiration.

I knew it couldn't last...

Tue, 01 May 2007 06:39:05 GMT

...And eventually I knew I'd get fed up with bumming around and, well... I'm pretty much fed up.

But. My back is still giving me issues, and my lung is not healing anywhere NEAR as quickly as it needs to. Manual labor of any kind nearly makes me sick, not to mention I have no stamina whatsoever, and anything physically stressful always makes my back act up.
I've been on opiates for my pain for so long that my doses are at long-term addict levels now - if my doctor hadn't been our family doctor since I was about 12 I'd have real trouble getting meds.
To make matters worse, if I let the muscle stress build up it starts to keep me awake... When I hurt bad enough that it makes me moan involuntarily - I hurt bad. *shrug*

So, I have to find a job that I can do, but who wants to hire an uneducated guy with long hair and a stutter? No one. No one at all.

And all because I don't have some godforsaken sheet of fancy paper that says I'm $200,000 in debt for four years of mind-numbing college lectures by professors stupider than I am. I'm still too proud to go to college and play their stupid games. Maybe I'm just as arrogant as they are, but I don't get why being smart and intelligent is a detriment to getting a job. Why is everything in this world about conformity and mindless servitude?

So I either be free and jobless and sit here wasting my life away, or I go into debt and screw away endless hours of my life learning to pretend to agree with some moron and his plainly asinine views just because he's got a phd at the end of his name.

Or, I get some cheap and dead-end job here - except mexicans who can't even speak english are hired over me, so there's not even any guarantee that I'd get hired for a minimum wage job.

Not to mention that I'd rather be in Chicago.

"He lives between the worlds; the worlds of gods and men..."

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 20:40:07 GMT

    I'm typing this at the Pasadena convention center, which happens to be the most horrible place imaginable for a gun show. The actual building is great, with spectacular acoustics in the main hall, VERY clean restrooms, working HVAC system, and a PA system that is not only audible, but you can understand it. Why is it horrible?
   Well, two reasons, mostly: 1) the place is quite small and the promoters pack it with so many tables that the aisles are barely 5 feet wide - even on slow days like today you can barely walk through the place; 2) the people here are about as dumb as posts, or minorities - or both. Now, I'm not racist, and in fact I don't usually pay attention to such things. I don't even believe in the concept of 'races' - human is human, there's no such thing as different species of Homo Sapiens.
    What does exist is different social structures, each with its own language and view of the world. You also have nationalities and localised social structures (like Texan) that can be very different from other areas - but people are still people. Another thing that exists is a common level of stupidity in humanity, and because of the way America works, the minorities are encouraged to not only remain backwater morons, but rely on that stupidity and cultivate it.
    Even as cynical as I am I never fail to be amazed and royally pissed off at how completely disfunctional people's brains are. And don't even get me started on multilingual signs.

    Hmm. Well, it appears that due to a very long phone call I am no longer able to finish this. Oh well. I didn't have anything interesting to say anyhow. :P

    Oh yes. Jonathan was kind enough to send me this image... *grin*

Houkiboshi

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 08:09:49 GMT

    I had a wonderfully pathetic and whiney rant all done up and ready to post here - but I changed my mind. I haven't blogged here in a dozen years or more, it seems.


    The chaos of my rushed departure from Chicago has started to settle down, and my unquiet discontent seems to be fading. I'm not certain why this is - it's just been over the last week or so... But I'm just starting to feel better about things in general. The lack of internet access still eats at me, as does this lonely country life, but I think I'm finally recovering from the chaos of the last couple years and slowly stabilising my frame of reference.
    The other night we saw "300" at the IMAX (which is possibly the greatest movie EVER), and on the way home I launched into a dissertation on my view of the world and my methods of doing Christ's work in it. My calling... such as it is, is something that I feel very deeply and talking about it at length invariably reduces me to tears and my emotional state to something resembling melancholy. I suppose you could say that my desire to understand and help those around me is really the driving force for my existence.
    Not so long ago I just wanted to have a job and make money. I didn't care how much I worked, so long as I brought in a goodly sum - but now... Now I almost regret the fact that money is so important to the world, because to make money one needs time, time that IMHO could be better spent with my ministry.
    In my rant the other night I explained the reasons why I do what I do and go where I go. I look like the people my heart is drawn towards, and, well... Let me put it this way: Last night my father, with his very firmly held black-and-white view of the world, came into my room and basically apologised for the scorn he had for me and my appearance. He compared me to Hudson Taylor and many other highly successful missionaries (?), because I look to go into a culture and be a part of that culture. I don't expect people to come to me, rather, I go to them. I join them in their places of gathering, I wear their dress and listen to their music.
    I say a lot of stuff during the course of a day, but for my dad to come to me and say that he was wrong and that he believes what I'm doing is truly the best way - in agreement with my admittedly radical and far-flung opinions (which he doesn't, or at least very rarely, agree with) - what more proof do I need?
    That night, after we got home, I stood out on the porch in the starlit darkness and thought while the tears came unbidden. My dad came out and asked me what I was doing and I just told him "crying." LOL But then I asked him (when I could get my voice to work) if I was actually doing the right thing, or if I was just, well, making excuses for unhinged behavior. And then a few nights later he comes in and tells me "yes" so resoundingly that, well...
    I'm a difficult person. Always have been - you can ask my mom. I think along bizarre lines and come up with radical (some have said heretical) concepts. My opinions are shared by very few, and it gets worse when I'm around my non-christian friends (which are actually the majority of those who I know), because they don't like anything having to do with such things as the God I follow. Furthermore, I have to stand out in that darkness and stand on what is tantamount to simply my opinion, alone and outcast from everyone around me. I can't go to elder Christians and ask their views on something because I know they'll mark me as trouble. Almost everyone does. And I can't go to the few peers I have because they're dealing with the same things and don't know either.
    I live, for the most part, alone - even when around friends - because I'm called to something very very few understand. But to have my dad (and also my mom) tell me they agree with me, well... That's reassuring. I knew I was right, but as strong as I am I don't think anyone can live on their own and even the leader-types like me need signs and guides every now and then to outline that narrow way I must trod.

    Things still are in a turmoil, and I doubt if I'll ever be settled. As much peace as I feel now I know that eventually I will go back to Chicago - but for now, at least, I am content to wait here until the Lord opens a definite way.

You can't always get what you want...

Fri, 15 Dec 2006 21:51:49 GMT

    But sometimes you might just get what you need.

    I've done some thinking recently - no surprise there, right? But... Since I've been just outright lazy this last week, among my entertainment activities has been watching the first season of House M.D. I like House's character. A lot.
    I think it's because I can so easily empathise with him - he has no time for games, he's stubborn and rude... And he's an incredible doctor. He always thinks he's right, and he usually is. We share a lot of things in common, including our loneliness.

    I wrote on MySpace that the last time I lived up here I had something resembling a girlfriend, and how nice it was to have someone special who would be willing to MAKE time to be with me. I know and understand so much, and yet I can't understand why someone who is such a "nice guy" always ends up... well, alone. My lifestyle exhibits this. I live in the dark - literally. I never or rarely use lights, I block up all my windows to keep the light out, and nearly all my time is spent doing things alone. I browse the internet, read books, listen to music, watch movies and lots of anime... My life crosses paths with others but nothing ever sticks - and they just slide off into memory.

    I've met and been friends with some really great people in my time - but most of them are gone. Even the friends I have here - they have their own lives and I just don't fit there. What is is about me that is so isolationist? Why do my friends live lives that grow and evolve while I just seem to become more and more introverted? And most importantly, why do I only get lonelier as I get older? It's not like I want much - just time.

    Which brings me to my next point... I've met this girl. One of the coolest people I've met in a very long time, and possibly the coolest girl I've ever met, period. We spent time talking, literally talking - not just me going off on diatribes and her commenting - a whole evening of two people talking about their shared interests. But there's that lifestyle thing again. Nothing will come of this, nothing can come of this - either she'll move on or I'll drift away, sick and tired of my emotional turmoil and go back to sitting alone... And for some reason I see myself 5 years from now, just like House. Someone living a life that doesn't exclude people, but who's life includes him and only him.

    It's really the reason I blog - I can come here and pour out stuff that I can't really tell anyone directly because it would make them uncomfortable or judgemental... But is it asking too much for someone to really take as much interest in me as I am in them?

"Stay"

Mon, 20 Nov 2006 23:46:53 GMT

    First off, when I talk about my dreams and ambitions, I'm not specifically talking about _my_ dreams and ambitions. For me, faith is very complicated and even unwieldy. It doesn't fit into my head in a way that I can utilize - it's something that's there, just beyond my reach and yet in some evanescent way is nevertheless all-encompassing.

    I saw the movie "Stay" the other night... And I have to say that it's truly amazing. But I'm not going to talk about the movie, I'm going to talk about something ancillary to it. In the movie, there is a psychologist who has a patient who says he's going to kill himself on a specific date and time. The psychologist is not so unnerved by the statement of the desire for suicide as he is by the patient's lack of concern. It's just an event to him.
    The psychologist is talking about this with his girlfriend, who actually DID commit suicide. She was a patient of his and he got to her apartment just before she died. He accidentally touches the scars on her wrist, and tells her that he's sorry - sometimes he forgets about the darkness out there. I'm not sure when she says this, but at some point in the movie she turns to him and tells him that when she slit her wrists, she took two razors. She asks, "Do you know what it's like, hating your life SO much that you take a backup razor?"

    And I thought to myself - "Yeah. I do." You'd think that it would be impossible to forget something so immense, but in the ten years or so since my depression, I had forgotten the absolute depth and horror of that darkness; and in that instant, when she said that, I remembered those days. I broke down and wept, sobbing uncontrollably in a torrent of raw emotion: the pain, the suffering, the fear... And above all, the abject hopelessness of everything. These days, I can still feel the pull of that void, that un-light that threatens to drown all that is good in the world. It's a daily battle, where I spend inordinate amounts of mental energy just focusing on the fact that there _IS_ hope. It's why I listen to the music I do: metal because I don't want to give up, I want to fight and live free in glorious light. Ambient, to calm the roiling waves within me, to understand the world from a perspective of peace and tranquillity. Psytrance, because it's a blend of the two, where I can see the world through the eyes of understanding, and share that vision with others who willingly stand up to live and enjoy that life with others.
    I don't know that I can properly communicate that emotional vacancy that can drive a person to destroy their existence - not out of any particular desire to not live, but out of hatred of not having anything to live for. Death, at that point, is merely a date. An event - the final event to end all the suffering, the eraser that wipes away the hate and self-loathing and abyssal vacancy of purpose. The end to the pain. Suicide is the death of the body that follows closely after the death of the spirit. When you reach that bottom, when the very air you breath is suffocating and the light is a perverse mockery of what you know it should be - that is truly death. It is said that there are worse things than death, and I've been there. It's waking up one morning and not knowing who's eyes are staring back at you in the mirror.
    I've thought long and hard, for many years, about why I never tried to kill myself. I thought about it enough, and I could feel its seductive draw even while I slept, but I never did it. The only reason that I can come up with, the only thing that matches the other side of that "why" - is that God had been calling me so loudly and for so long that my body didn't need to die to hear Him. In the way a child begs his parents to save him from the night terrors, I beg God to save me from that darkness. I cling to Him in utmost desparation - because so powerful is that darkness that even for that split fraction of an instant that I truly remembered what it was like - I sobbed and begged that God would pull me back to life.

    When I say that I have no other reason for existence than God; when I say that I know what it's like to hit bottom, that I know what it's like to be without concept of good; when I ask you to listen to my words and stubbornly defend my faith, even to the point where I'm incoherent - this is why.

    God Is. And He loves me.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Fri, 17 Nov 2006 20:03:28 GMT

    So where to begin? I've been here for just over a month. I think. Maybe it's just under. Whatever.

    Regardless, I still haven't got a job, I still haven't got a place to live, and time is running out. But I'm not worrying about that. I know that whatever happens, happens and it's all in God's hands.

    However, what is on my mind just now... Is people. Or, more correctly perhaps, a person. Not anyone in particular, but I think that for some reason, in spite of myself, there is some part of me, inside, that is alone and is horribly, dreadfully, tired of the whole thing. I'm feeling ... Shallow, and that all my activity and hanging out with friends and networking amounts to absolutely nothing. I feel that for every contact I make, every person I meet and every friend I make, a little bit of who I am just slides off into the void. It's nothing I can really put my finger on, and as my dreams slowly fade into obscurity I am left... numb and unworried, yet a part of me knows I should feel SOMETHING... but - what?
    I suspect a lot of this revolves around girls - or well, one girl - but again, it's not something I really dwell on. On one hand I really miss her, but on the other hand I like having my freedom back - but therein is the catch-22: what good is freedome to do whatever if you have no one to share it with? As I've said before, I'm done living my life for myself, and in many ways she was what I was able to really and truly focus on and pour my energy into. Granted, none of that was desired and nothing came of it, but at least I had a purpose, and someone to share that purpose with.
    Now, though, I spend my days filling out endless job apps, making phone calls, getting phone numbers and finding leads - for what? So in the end I can just sit here and watch my computer screen as my money supply steadily evaporates and nothing happens. Maybe I have hit a new kind of despair; one where I don't dream or have hopes of anything because seeing them shot down again and again before they are even fully formed is just too painful. And for someone like me, who lives in his head and derives strength and purpose from his dreams... Gone are the days when I had boundless energy and will to fight for what I thought right and appropriate. These days I'm lucky if I can just get out of bed.

    So yeah, this is pretty much a pointless, rambling post - but hardly anyone's going to read it or comment on it so I don't really even care about that - except I DO want people to care, and more than anything I want a reason to get out of bed every morning - a reason besides being bored of sleeping.

All about Lily Chou-Chou

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 03:32:08 GMT

At the risk of sounding even more melodramatic than normal... The movie I just saw changed me. Perhaps it's partly because of the stress I'm under just now, perhaps its because I'm still sick... Perhaps it's because I'm feeling more than a bit lost in a bewildering maelstrom of life...

But "All About Lily Chou-Chou" made me cry in a way I've never cried before. For almost the entire last half of the movie, the dull, searing pain inside me formed tears that wouldn't stop, but just slowly and steadily welled from my eyes. The movie is about the young people of the world, growing up with a future that promises nothing but mere existence, who's lives are filled with a blankness that screams silently to be filled, and who's answer is the echo of that silent scream, empty and vacuous as it returns to deadened hearts.

I know this pain of nonexistence, and in spite of my faith, and my stubborn insistence that I believe - I am yet weak. To weak to really, truly, deep down believe that I am alive, that I have purpose, that I mean something to someone. The movie uses a language I treasure - music - to express this longing for meaning. In some ways, I dislike musically-driven movies, because when I close my eyes to feel I can't see the screen; but in other ways, such movies are ineffably powerful because music can say things beyond words.

These days I'm tired all the time. I dream, but they seem like the fantasies of a five-year-old who thinks being a trashman is the coolest job in the world. I push myself harder and harder to live and grow... But faith is always hard for me.

And yet, God is merciful. He is strong, and the power of that knowledge blurs the screen for I know that I live only by His strength - even though the only proof I have that such strength exists lives in my heart, warring with science and fact on a daily basis. I love God with His own love. This love is beyond my understanding, but more real than my body... And I desire to share that love. I have to, because it's too much for me to contain. But how can I share this love with others like me, who are swamped by despair as great as life, when I can't even understand it myself? How can I love them, when I can barely allow myself to love me? And how can I share my faith, when my faith is only given to me by God, and I don't understand how it works or why I of all people have access to it?

I intentionally surround myself with those who live in darkness, because somehow I feel called to sooth the unhealing wounds of those unwilling to be healed. I see my old, dead self in the eyes of those terrified souls, souls who's pain is beyond mere senses and feelings - and then I walk away, back to the light... and I don't know that I made any difference. It's one thing to trust in God for my salvation, but I don't care about me. I'm safe. I care about the dead... But dead men can't hear. Dead men can't be given CPR. And it seems that I lack even the strength to trust that God's will is being done through someone as broken and weak as I am.

I blog here about how I'm sad that I can't find a girlfriend, how much I like music, and sticky buttons on my mouse - all the while knowing I'm ignoring the important thing - those people who live dead lives and breath vacuum. I know God is using me and teaching me and has mighty works planned for me - but... How? Oh God how? I don't know.

I want - I must - help others see God... But it takes every fiber of my being to allow MYSELF to see Him. How do I truly rely on Him to make me the valiant warrior I must be? This is why I cry... Because I should know the answers, I should know where to get them... But my eyes are blind, my spirit deaf, and my tongue dumb.

"Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief."

Monday, October 30, 2006

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 01:42:58 GMT

My mouse might be made in Asia, but it's not much of a drinker. The other night I spilled sake on it and now it's difficult to click it. *frown* For those of you who don't know, I have a Logitech MX-1000. Granted, it's nearly two years old, and I can get a newer, cooler mouse (the G7 for instance), but I like this one, and it's not fun to actually have to use force to click the button.

*tear*

I saw one of my prospective employers at church this morning. He hadn't been returning my calls and he looked horribly ashamed. I'm not the best with social games, but I can use my charisma to a certain extent - so I've at least got a guaranteed interview. Jeff tells me he's not the best people person, so that's two up I've got on him. One to get my interview and one to use it to my advantage, because he knows I'm a good worker and I've got the motivation to follow up with an idea. So we shall see what happens.