Terminal F-77

Saturday/Sunday December 26th 2009 2313hrs
Dill Farm, Valley Center, Kansas
Current Track – Hurt Me Bad In A Real Good Way (Patty Loveless)

If I was a smarter man, I may not be here tonight. As the song goes, there ain't no rest for the wicked.

I awoke Thursday morning. I oohed and Aahed at the rain-turned-snow weather blessed by an overcast sky between cleaning up the bachelor pad from a previous night's hasty powdering of the living room in chalky fire-extinguisher breath. KoL and I made our plans, bid our goodbyes. He slipped out the door caught up in his own wake South, to Houston. My travel an hour later took me Northbound, deeper and deeper into a sad highway with my fellow Texicans. With me I had struck three bags, my camera, my iPod, and enough cash to get me to Valley Center, KS and back. Given no problems on the way.

I stopped at Propwash at about 2:30 and though the snow was a caress on the eye, the wind was leaping up to make that caress a harsh slap. Depositing some garbage, check. Rush into the hangar and coordinate with Maxzillian, the Prodigal Point B for his conditions while I did some final modern-day farrier work on my bronze horse. Weather looks iced but nothing out of the ordinary for a mid-northern state. Okay. Call Dad and see what his plans are.

Hmm. He's at Central Market. At least an hour from me in good weather; by the time he shows up the runway at the end of our property is veiled completely in snow, my car struggles to shake the weight of it's own snow load, and the weather keeps blowing, blowing. Ladies and Gentlemen, mission scrubbed.

It was an eerie christmas morning, the snow covered everything the light did. There were no airplanes. There were no cars. There were trees, steel buildings, and the occasional animal... I began to fantasize there were not even radio stations transmitting around me.

Car cleared of it's mane of white thanks to some handy Styrofoam packing blocks, I made a test run to the gas station to get gas for my car, scout the ice on the roads, and retrieve donuts as a trophy of my accomplishment. The gas pumps worked fine, the ice was driveable but I elected it unsafe when I missed two turns on the return leg, and I was the only one to eat the donuts before captain-crunch crusted french toast was concocted. ...I wish I knew where the hell Dad picked that one up.

Five hours of increasing antsy-ness finally made the decision for me – leave now or give up on the whole thing. Dad was set he wasn't going with any precipitation on the road, Preston had to work. I had been through a lot this month, and at the end of the month, money, and vacation, goddammit I /needed/ my holiday road adventure and I was /getting/ my road trip. I made the turn out of the hangar and off to HWY287 Northbound to Wichita Falls at 3:00 PM on the dot.

287 was benign at first, but once through Decatur things started getting competitive as my car and the road made uneasy peace with each other. Each side, deceptively deep snowbanks hardened by sunlight and ham-handed plow trucks held a spiderweb's treasure of rolled, spun, and abandoned cars. One exhibit might explain the complete ineptitude of those in charge of this chaos – that of a TEXDOT plow truck itself abandoned in the snow.

I could handle the trip, but my drive was quickly becoming a white-knuckle nuclear winter free-for-all; even the roadways seemed to give up and be overtaken by ice only broken by the cars ahead of me. I decided my better bet would be to track through Bowie and take HWY 81 North to Oklahoma and try my luck that direction. It may not be as far West as I wanted to be before I crossed the border, but the sooner I was in Oklahoma with larger cities in the area prepared and used to working in snowy conditions, the better chance I had of making some clear roads.

I missed the Bowie exit.

I stopped in a gas station and waded around through the slush watching panicked families and weary drivers switching with passengers-cum-drivers ready for their shift, and a dance of musical gas-pumps more complex than a russian ballet. Right after departing that place and it's overstuffed bathrooms, I got locked into solid Put-It-in-P-And-Wait driving for the next two hours. Then finally reached the ramp split between 287 Business and the ascending on-ramp to 287 and Wichita Falls at nearly 8:00PM.

Ahead of me, the on-ramp crowd of six cars was finally motoring out of an ice patch I assume they'd been at for some time – I had been watching the taillights not move since the road first came over the hill. Finally, they were going, all except a yellow tractor-trailer and a newer polished metal one behind it. Yellow Guy slipped and wallowed around for a few minutes before stopping, and started backing up. Which made the second guy back up. Which made me back up. This lasted for about forty yards before more unsuspecting fools came to a stop behind me. Now those truckers were committed. Either make it up the hill or stay here the night, because you guys are not going to make it down this ramp in reverse.

Yellow hops out of his cab and gets a brilliant idea, and under the wan highway lights he pulls a chain from his cab and wraps it around his driver's side wheel. As I sit watching this, expecting him to vanish to the other side and put his other side together, he hops back into the cab and tries to climb an icy hill with one tire chained. And it is no surprise to me when he doesn't make it.

At this point it's about 9:00 PM, and I've been in crawling traffic at best for the past hour and a half. I need some air. So I pull together the meager wintry clothing I have, suitable for a texas winter or a Maine summer, and brave the chill, still night air to enjoy a cigarette. The trucker in front of me hops out about the same time I do, and we have a little summit at the back of his trailer while waiting on Yellow. It is here I learn that Yellow does not speak English, has absolutely no idea what he is doing, and gets angry when you try to help him. Shiny Truck Guy is from Pennsylvania way, and knows how to drive, and is bitterly patient about waiting for Yellow to give up. Leaning around the truck I can see Yellow trying /again/.

After a few more tries by Yellow, people behind me are getting pissed off. More directly, the car behind me is full of women who I determine after overhearing their cell phone calls through /their/ car and /mine/ are in full bitch mode and ready to riot. Shiny and a trucker from the end of the line are having another party pointing and laughing at Yellow, and Head Bitch storms up to chew out Truckers before about-facing and heading back to her car. Shiny converses with EndLine and they walk the line back to help everybody turn around and back down the hill, rear cars starting first.

No sooner had Shiny turned around and started trudging his way uphill do I catch Yellow out of the corner of my eye. His stacks are blowing and his wheels are going, and he violently rocks and dips in the ice, finally burying his right fender into the snowbank next to him to help him muscle up and over the ramp. Whatever got into him, he sure was motivated. You never saw a truck climb a hill so fast.

I relayed this comment to Shiny as he walked by and he smirks and says, “Yeah, well, there's a bunch of State Troopers on their way up here now.”

NorthEast on 79 from there was a solid hour of off-road driving, and I was beginning to doubt my trip when absolutely nothing showed up. No light, no cars, no road. It looked like what I would expect purgatory to be like.

When road construction signs and Road Closed barricades started popping up, it looked like I was screwed. I had driven an hour to get this far and now the damn thing was closed. Possible that Oklahoma really was completely shut down. But it turned out to be road construction, and the bridge was finally under my wheels in the next two minutes.

I was shocked to find out that once across, the roads were perfect all the way to OKC. Deciding not to try my luck at 2AM, I bedded down at my cousin's place.

Major events that followed:

Got up this morning and had time to shower before heading off to Kansas

Left behind by cousin in truck. Good thing I had another cousin with me who knew the area.

No incident to Kansas.

Dropped off Matt and ran to meet Maxzillian. Great pad.

Went to eat, home, attempted to watch avatar, Bowling alley/sports bar. Scratch -sold out, too crowded. Went home and played ODST with Rish. Rish got first, I got last – never played ODST before.

Went home, ate some dinner with tail-end bye-byes as the OK crowd hop home (stupid Kansas stupid Oklahoma with their 1'-20mi scales. Texas is over twice that)

Now sitting here going through old photos and wishing with each page over that I find just one picture of a happy, whole Parcell family.

Turning in tonight. Tomorrow is a long hard drive back down through Ground Zero.

-STOP 0000hrs 12/27/09

Promised pics update.

http://img156.imageshack.us/img156/3121/dsc0323a.jpg Fantastic view from my porch.

http://img205.imageshack.us/img205/5696/dsc0320x.jpg Master bedroom, plus one occupant.

http://img140.imageshack.us/img140/3410/dsc0319br.jpg OMFG KITCHEN AAAAH!

http://img101.imageshack.us/img101/4241/dsc0317a.jpg It looks smaller than the real thing.

All in all, Hot Damn.

Recent events involving a clash between family life and work made it clear: I had to move, and I had to move within the month. I couldn't keep supporting my younger brother and still make it to work on time, despite how much I wanted to stay in the house and save my money. Especially since I was just recovering from an expensive dental surgery.

After about a week of searching around, I finally found a suitable place. The Village of Hawk's Creek lies just on the East side of Carswell AFB, where work is at, and also lies tucked in to the old base's golf course. Also right down the road is the North Hills Mall, my gym, a classy and quiet pub called Baker's Street, and a wild Rick's Cabaret.

Finally signed the papers last week and moved in. Pics to come in the morning.

Things are looking up, with the addition of a roommate from the Kaerwyn forums I've kept costs down to something managable and allows me to save at a pretty good pace. I never expected setup costs to be so damn pricey though. The typical minimum deposit has already been quoted to me about 300 dollars.

This is a twelve month lease in a very classy place (rightfully I should be paying 1200 plus for the apartment, but I'm a smart little scroungy fox and got it for half that). The new plan is to save my pennies, get in good standing at work – which should last until about march next year, which actually is about the end of the Flight Test program, so I don't know how well that's going to pan out – and work my little program (starting next week) to build myself up to stripper/escort quality, then move to Colorado about this time next year. What's one more year to put off your dream, right? In the mean time, I can return to the hangar when I'm not working overtime and finish the simulators, which I gather to run averaging seven thousand apiece. Should be able to net a nice little small business when I finally get set up.

I need to find more places to hang out, and more people to do that with. Tonight I was at Baker's Street just hanging out after work, and among the “high” points of being shanghaied to the dance floor by a woman who had to weigh two-fifty easy (not that I'm going to complain) to chatting up with a woman who vaguely reminded me of my mother and could see her tab just about as well- whilst burning up my last call Shiner I stopped a three-set of two girls and one guy and asked a question I thought was very simple, and quite honestly expected any answer to, positive or negative.

I have a friend who got into a polyandrous relationship and what do you think about that?

The girls didn't get a chance to answer; the guy instantly berated me about trying to pick up women with that line, and never acknowledged the question. Blatantly refused to.

This is why I hate Texas. This is what kills my faith in people. Isn't that supposed to be the typical male fantasy, and this asshole not only refuses to answer honestly but accuses me of trying to pick up his girls?

Oh, by the way, this mentality not only is the root of IRRATIONAL BEHAVIOR http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/05/us/05texas.html

But also leads culminates to FUCKING INSANITY
http://www.miamiherald.com/news/politics/AP/story/1340164.html

No doubt things will pick up. But honestly. What the fuck, hyoomans?

Lesbians make me jealous of being female.


That is all.

I'm hung over.


I'm wearing two day old contact lenses.

My car looks less the pristine charismatic bronze stallion and more the war weary cart horse dug from the depths of a mass grave.

My hands are shriveled from cold, pitted with gunpowder and white south texas mud and cosmoline.

I am convinced that the only thing holding my teeth in my skull is the tacky glue of leftover Jagermeister.

Damn I had fun.

Friday is when this whole mess started, as I beat and weaved a stuttered retreat through Fort Worth, stopping at gun shops and camping supply stores and WalMarts to gather The Essentials. I left the house at three PM and reached I-35 South at five, God Knows What to look forward to and confident with my survival rations, including:

-Five rifles; the ROMAK dragunov, AK-47, MKI Enfield, Mauser K-98K, M1A1.
-A rough total of 2000 rounds ammunition, most of which I had no means to fire.
-A travel cooler stocked with ice, 12 cans of RC Cola, and a bottle of Jagermeister.
-Clothes for five days, one set too fancy to wear anywhere but the hippest bar in all Hill Country.
-A $200 five man tent for one, used once.
-Sleeping Bag.
-Tepur-Pedic neck pillow I found in the hangar at the last minute (still in the box, no idea whose it is)
-The last two packs of Djarum Black cigarettes in Denton County (Contraband WOO!)
-Laptop bag containing Laptop, every movie I own minus Wolf's Rain and Repo! (Damn you Strill, damn you hard), Blackberry Storm and charger, Nikon D40,
-Both the Luftwaffe flight jacket and leather sport coat/fedora.
-A box of Cheese-Its.

The drive down was uneventful, but pretty, if a little lonely. Staving off the loneliness and boredom is an entertainment in itself - most of it spent replaying all the Repo soundtrack on my iPod and practicing the Nathan Wallace lines (...and a little bit I could squeak from Chromaggia)

...Damn you, Forgie Star Strill Sexytail.

This went on until I got through Waco and tried to remember my route through from here. I knew it was a sideways trip now, because it was the same route I had to drive to meet EvilWall in Killeen, just shorter. So I set about looking for the hand-drawn map copy we've been using for the last five years to plan my route.

Notice nowhere in that itinerary above is that goddamn piece of paper. I very clearly remember at this point that it's sitting under the soldering iron in front of my computer, the one I logged onto prior to leaving to try and catch KoL to know when he was leaving.

Well, shit. Luckily I stop panicking when my eyes fall on the green booklet from (gasp!) the road trip to Colorado! Lucky me! I've got it all in hand and I don't even know it.

Then I open it up and my route apparently includes taking a left at the Staple and going South, no wait, West, ...no, ...can't fucking read this thing and drive, and I have to fold it like origami just to make out town names. Forget road signs.

Well, looks like we're making this trip on instinct, kids!

I get to the range and manage not to miss the turn in in the pitch dark of ten PM, crawl over the evil rocks in the farm road, scowling at each one I think was the little bastard that broke my rear tire belt the last time I was departing and crossing my fingers that I didn't get the dates wrong; I don't want to post the story about how I'm at the cattle gate and somebody fires a shot punctuated with something about his property.

Turns out this is for real, because I park under a tree next to some other cars and look who's there! It's people I know, smiling faces and holy shits and The Parcell's are Here! Well, they were a mite let down that it was only I as Ambassador of Awesome, relaying the sad news that Dad left an hour before mine own departure in an airplane bound for the CAF Midland show to display the new pride of the aviary. But things quickly go back to drinking, smoking, carrying on at the campfire whilst the armorers and machinists huddle around this new device on the table.

This year, Sandy brought a modification to an AR-15 he didn't bring that allowed him to fire .22 tracer bullets through a .223 caliber receiver. It being dark and the natural feeding time of the Tracer family, he wants to test it out before the real thing tomorrow night. The problem is he didn't bring his rifle, and I don't have one (even though I brought the .223 can I have because I was /told/ that Sandy had bought /three/ of the damned things and was liable to sell one cheap). Well, Lenny has an AR-15 but it's down at the house and he's not drunk enough to go back and get it. That leaves the old national guard armorer, Woody. Woody's got an M-16, and he quickly turns to bring it from it's depth unknown. To my delight it's actually a by-God M-16 A model, selective fire automatic and all!

They slap in the subcal mod and it makes three loud noises and three red fireflies dart down the 400 yard range before trying to climb the mountain behind it. But that's it. The bolt is open a half-inch, and won't close. They fight with it for a bit and then drop it out to look at it. That kind of detail work doesn't lend well to flashlights and lighters, so we step back for the table by the field kitchen.

I go pull out my Dragonuv because we get on the subject of russian sights, and mine has a funny windage arc I can't decipher because it's metric, and off-center. Meanwhile under lights on loan from a gas-powered generator, the Men Who Know What They're Doing continue to play with the reciever. Now it's been stripped to the bolt, a section of the breech, and the .22 tracer round in it. They dry-cycle it slowly, Woody doing the work because it's his rifle and oh, what, he's also a retired National Guard Armorer. I've said this three times, you can bet it's important.

Because before I can blink the bolt jumps forward, strikes the rim of the .22, and my ears are blanketed with a firecracker kPOW and all I see are gasses from the primer reaching out for me. I follow the arc in the direction of where the bullet was facing, in a vain attempt to follow it, and watch the tip of the barrel point squarely over the fire pit that all the YoungUns are cloistered around.

Five Is Everybody Okay's later, a bunch of confused adults drink beer at a hole in a chair and make accusing jokes about how That Guy Knows What He's Doing. And what the hell, its about time for the Bavarian Nyquil to come out, and I share it with Sandy's daughter Kimberly. We get into the cycle of drinking and talking and drinking and mixing and drinking and talking and Ohshit, lemme get that, while the older men have split into two groups and wax on about early 007 movies and the time Tommy Keim lost his engine during a radio traffic broadcast and muttered the only known uncensored transmission of Oh Shit.

Meanwhile, Kim and I somehow get on the topic of lesbians, since I've known some very well through High School and she's had similiar happen, even being hit on a few times; this is quickly followed by strip joints and how she always wondered about going to one but knowing something insane would happen, to which I reply that's the reason you go to those places at all. I also mention that if you want a surreal experience, go to a strip club with your /boss/.

It is at this point that I see the glint of light over glasses frames and turn to see every face looking straight at us.

I also found I missed a phone call when I get back to the car from Dad. But he didn't leave a message and I figure it was to let me know he made it to Midland without a problem. Good. Then I get home and hear that Tommy had made a call around midnight to Lanny in hysteric laughter because he's hearing me "make moves" on Sandy's daughter and the conversation is insane and probably involved buttsecks.

I would like to point out that she brought up the topic, not me, and I wasn't making moves until Saturday night. By then, of course, I had a friend in tow who was a little outside the circle, and I had to look after him.

That's all that transpired Friday night. Be ready for Saturday's glorious breaking in of the New Shooter and the death-defying waterskiing of the Impala on the way home!

Ah, finally got internets back. Oh, what happened? Well, when last we left our hero...:

I have been communicating on and off with the Arts Institute of Colorado in Denver for a few months now, only just September finally gathering all my paperwork and sending it in online. Those I had to print off and fax, nearly every other document, I couldn't fax - I have a nifty little Epson Workforce that should do the trick, but I never did get the damn thing to play Fax. I managed to wake up and drag my tail over to a FedEx Kinko's halfway to Dallas, but ended up with the wrong fax number. Twice this happened. Urgh.

So the next week I hit all my little educational institutions, NorthWest High School and UT Arlington for my transcripts - leaving out Tarrant County Community College because the Private Pilot course is not for credit. I hate driving to Arlington- the roads are a mess, it takes forever, and I just want to leave as soon as I'm there. But I figure with the paperless problems I've been having, it will be worth the effort to go to Arlington campus directly and take out all the hassles. Plus, I'll probably have to sign to release the damned paperwork anyway; internet would be moot.

I get there and ask about sending out transcripts, and the clerk behind the counter looks at me like I'm a damned moron, and points to computers lining the wall behind me. "You can do it online."

I eyeroll, and proceed to order online. The first problem is choosing the recipient school- the databank it pulls the address from doesn't recognize AIC. Smug smirk and return to the desk to explain my problem. Asshole heaves himself up and goes to try himself. He fails miserably. We eventually put it in manually and now I get to pay seven dollars for the privilege of ordering my records from prestigious UTA and Asshole. After asking if that's all, I leave.

Halfway to the car I get a text message on my phone from my card company saying the transaction was declined- I need a signature authorizing the release of records. Mother/fucker/. I go back and deal with Asshole again, pay cash, and am told the records will go out tomorrow. Good.

One week later I take Friday off to drive to Denver. It's a long drive. I tell you Texas is the longest leg, and it won't let you go. I started at 9AM and with some help from Laken, was talked in to a Best Western not far into Aurora around 10PM. The next morning I took care of my business at AIC, took a look around the campus. Not really impressive, kinda low rent, but it's as I expected, and it's probably what I need at this point. What I wasn't prepared for was Laken bouncing off to northeastern colorado to an airshow (!) leaving me alone in the rain in downtown Denver with a Healthcare demonstration rampant in the streets. (Okay, it's funny, but come on, timing much?)

Thanks to the clouds and the deceiving streets, I got lost on the way back and had to get talked in yet again to Strill's little camp.

Breaking Colorado cell phone laws rocks. :P

Strill was awesome, definitely worth the long ass wait to actually see her, and I actually managed to get inspired to play sketches a little. We hung out at her place, did the sensible thing and hopped on #Kaerwynooc to celebrate the occasion, and even had Pizza and TV! Shame it was raining. Again. At least the weather was nice about it. What can I say, it's too much to describe even after two weeks. I fucking LOVE Colorado.

Naturally I had the sensible timing of showing up in the middle of a certain Soap Opera, which is part of the reason I never got to go play Laken. Oh well, that will have to wait for later, and hopefully some clearer skies.

Dirty little secret is I thought Strill was cute, and it made me mad that I had spent all day in my Jeans and DR Strangelove hat and never made it back to the hotel to change into my classier duds- at least get my hair under control. But aah, the Soap Opera goes on.

Anyhow, a day's insanity later, I get up early Sunday, eat me some IHOP, and hustle down to Centennial airport. Figures the pilot shop is closed for another hour, but I find something to pass the time until the guy comes out and lets me in for my information and Denver sectional. I'm told they pay well for sheetmetal guys, so there's an In, there.

On the way home I texted with MaxZillian and managed to find him in the weeds of Kansas. Fun guy, damn big. I texted Strill almost immediately afterward and said he'd make good climbing. Still, classy, big gearhead, and he even paid for the meal. Didn't even ask. That's a mark of a sophisticated person, there. And it was good for me, because I had sixty bucks in my pocket to make it home with enough to cover the hotel stay.

Apparently that didn't do much good, I still got a 200 overdraft Tuesday night and couldn't afford to drive to work for a day. But S'all good, and I needed the break.

That was only a taste of the shit I landed back in when I crossed the Texas line drunk on sleep. More to come later!

Got out an hour early, and had some time to myself to think. That's dangerous. It's dangerous for me to be alone with my thoughts. They eat children.

Actually, I had a surreal moment whilst leaving. I have to park on the "Hercules" lot, dead center of the Lockheed Martin Fort Worth compound. Right out the gate I had the radio tuned to an oldies station and Harry Chapin's Cat's in the Cradle started playing.

Picture this. A subdued Impala cruising down past a solid mile of two story buildings on the right, and fighter jets in various stages standing sentinel over the left; washed with wan yellow light every few beats from the streetlights leading to the gate, wheels whishing a hollow hum under the music; The son of a son of an aviation man at the wheel, singing along with Harry, singing a promise, singing an epiphany, echoing generations of that detente of life and family that only a son can understand. As if the radio understood, it showed mercy and hit Chapin's realization at the end of the song, just as I passed under the last stoplight marking the end of Lockheed property, and I stole off into the empty highway.

But back to my thoughts, and the asskicking I got from them.

This person does not get much in the way of emotional support. I posted something to that effect on Facebook and a distant family member I allowed to friend me saw it and was all "OUCH!". This is why you don't fucking friend your family. But the truth is the truth, and if it wasn't, then what could I possibly have to complain about? And it's not that I'm vain and need attention every five minutes. I know the facts, the score. Mom is divorced and living forty miles away, about to move near Houston with her new hubby. No help there. Plus, *crazy*. Dad, for one, he works days, second, he's an engineer and a pilot, and wrapped completely up in his own projects. He speaks matter-of-factly and approaches everything like it's a riddle or word problem. If you look for it, you might find that love in there, but you can't take it word for word. You can thank Granpa for that. They still don't talk to each other, even if they both want to mend fences. I suspect they never will. Brothers: one is autistic and one is an asshole. I love my family, but huggy feely they are not.

I find myself needing that, now.

Where else do you go if you can't get it at home? Friends? And, perhaps, on rare occasion, your coworkers? What about lovers?

My first experience with friends, back in the rank pits of Elementary School, didn't turn out well. Most people I suppose won their friends over by sharing a school project with them, or bumping into them in the hall and discovering they switched Trapper Keepers over "Oh, dude, Sorry"s. Not for the meek, these encounters are. Mine own was a tale of desperation. I actually could tell I would get along fine with one group, but for some unfathomable reason, after hanging out with me a little bit they set me aside and basically gave me the Get Lost.

That was my first rejection. It hurt. I couldn't understand it. I didn't feel like crying or running to Teacher, but I did have an idea, something I saw earlier that day, as a matter of fact, between girls. I was curious if it would have the same effect with males, so I paced to the end of the concrete, sat down, and put my head in crossed arms, facing the dirt.

Soon enough, they thought I was crying (not the case, but I was on the brink), and came over to talk. We were tight friends all up through Gifted and Talented, Upper Elementary School, and even to the day I moved to South Korea. Guilty as I was over having to resort to a Possum tactic, I felt that if they had bothered to talk to me in the first place and not reject me out of hand, the same result would have happened.

Now I don't see much of them, either, even though it's been ten years since I moved back Stateside. Some are friends, still, but most have moved to inaccessible places. My other friends since then are nowhere to be found in Texas, either. So now, I find myself alone, again. Naturally.

I had a similar experience with someone I consider a potential friend in a bar in Denton. Pretty much gave me the same schtick, too. I didn't bother to trick him, he's a good guy and I had other people to talk to. He just wanted some time, I figure. Plus, he's not really a Best Friend type of fit for me. Barely anything in common and I really couldn't be bothered to answer the phone if he wanted to make plans for a weekend thing anyway. Whatever, man, enjoy yourself.

What really bothers me is the seed these two events, over twenty years apart in my life, says about me. About my people skills, about my personality. I have a sinking feeling that I exist in the Little Black Book of the Mind with a little note under my face and contact info that says "Fucking annoying. Don't bother."

I know it's not the case, considering the people I've met, but it still crosses my mind. No respect, no respect at all.

Coworkers. Even at work I get no respect. I love my job, I enjoy the work I do (though I have absolutely no intention of making a career out of this). And for a kid with no formal experience and who's just skating by on talent alongside thirty and sixty year olds who spend lifetimes in the military and in machine shops over the world, I would say I'm doing a pretty fucking impressive job. These other people are not impressed. Even the FTI team is full of assholes ready to bend me over and tie me into the weapons bay because I GOT NOT EXPERIENCE AND YER DADDY GAVE YOU DIS JOB-- well Fuck you, guys, because what were YOU doing at age 22? Waxing Fords? And who is working hardest under this plane, anyway? First shifters do nothing but sit on their ass.

You can imagine the friends I make at work. Half of them think I'm gay.

Whiiiich brings me to the thing I'm concerned about most. The thing in my head that keeps me from just muttering all this shit to myself in the shower and not bothering to post publicly on an internet blog. Lovers.

That's what I need. What I need more than water, more than a reason to live, or a reason to die. And it's the one thing that is completely unattainable.

When I was in Korea, on the budding edge of discovering matters of the heart, and the most tender in innocence, I was the victim of an attempted framing attempt by a clique of girls. I've already described that disaster in these writings, so I'll leave it at that. But what happened after, and this is something that is very hard for me to admit to myself (it makes me so goddamn angry that I can do this), but I can trace all my problems with women to this moment. And this moment only.

...I really have nothing more to say there. I hope those girls died horrible deaths, because they did in my mind, and I just want to move on with my life, and get the love I deserve.

I'm scared. I really am. I'm scared that I'm damaged, that I'm unfixable. Women don't want a project, so I can't count on that. It's on me to fix myself. And... I can't do it alone. I've tried. I've failed.

My plan is still to save some cash up and hit up a Venusian Arts thing or a StyleLife academy slot. I don't /want/ to send in a sob story if I don't have to. But it's just so far away.

What do I want in a woman? I don't rightly know. Maybe that's my next project.

Now that people have called off their Rescue searches of me, it's safe to post again. Hee.

I am pretty much officially done with Texas. And I've been done for a while now. The few things holding me back are fizzling out, and though my employment looks strong until Spring '10, the time has come to start throwing out resumes again. And while it looks like I won't be getting into college *this* semester, that is probably for the best because I'll need to get set up and through whatever probationary whatsits my next job will have. I'm still going to scramble my shit together and send an app to Denver Institute of the Arts, JIC, but I'm not expecting anything immediate.

Cadillac. The Cadillac is pretty much done. I haven't touched it since Spring, when we pushed it outside so we could yank the body of the ambulance off of it's frame, and when we were done there was no room for the Caddy. So it sat outside for a few weeks. And froze. We pushed it back inside and a few weeks later I'm walking around enjoying the air and I hear something clink underfoot. Down there were five blue and steel disks. My freezeplugs. A sixth was hanging free on the engine belts. Six of ten freezeplugs, and only two are somewhere accessible. It sucks; these are the first things I ever fixed on this car, and now almost ALL of them are blown. I'll have to pull the engine out to get them back in, and I don't know if that's worth my effort and time anymore. Two years and nothing. Maybe it's best to get out now. I don't /want/ to. Not really that I want the car anymore. But this will be just one more project that I started that I could not finish. And that pisses me off.

Simulator. I've been building (restoring, actually) an AccuFlight SimCADE simulator. It's pretty cool, and I'm right on the edge of getting everything in working order. Plus, I'm learning a lot about how these things operate. Amateur as it is (hey, you don't get the best ones free, it seems), the simplicity of it's construction puts the other "home" systems (who can afford some of these damn things? Have you /seen/ them?) to shame. While I can't sell /these/ two (patents, legal shit - don't matter if the company has been defunct for some time), I intend to take some lessons I learned about this thing and make my own design. Ideally, something modular that I can disassemble and bring through a household door. That might be easier said about the AccuFlight sim, because my design... well, I don't really have one yet.

Hey, on a completely unrelated note, does anyone happen to have a set of blueprints for a Sperry ball turret? What about the old Dominator nose turrets? We used to have one and I wanted to restore it, but Dad /had/ to buy that fucking Ford, and when the engine blew, the warranty didn't cover the "normal wear-and-tear" of engine gunk, and we had to sell the turret so he could bring his precious Landbarge home. Fuck. Now I need the turret and I aint gots one.

More to come later. I just realized the time and I need to shower and go work. Workouts are out, now... too far away and too little time. At least I'm trying, but damn. I hate Texas.

Kinrrataiyath wants to kill me in my sleep!

Sweet.

Its been a long way back from the edge of April, so before we get started today, a quick recap.

Had a birthday May 3rd. Welcome to the Double Deuce.
May was a bad month for contacts. Second week I was put out of action when my right contact (its always my right eye, no fair) left a divot just south of my pupil. Had to order glasses, eventually get put on Tobradex for a staph infection. This was before I even opened my new pack of contacts.
Ordered the extra-helping of Revelation, sending up a signal flare that I'm getting charged to go back into the Game. It came in this week, and I have nothing but good things to say. Plus, its validated work, proven in-field and even on behavioral sites like TED.
Got my Biennual Flight Review at Pro Aircraft at Hicks Airfield (T67), putting me back in the Current Pilot category.

So! Ketrino came all the way to Texas to visit me, and even spend some time with her mother. Tell the truth, I was expecting someone with a more engaging personality, but I enjoyed the time with her nonetheless. We went to the Dallas Zoo and engaged in hijinks involving her newest tail and my camera (see her page), puttered around the metroplex accomplishing absolutely nothing for the remainder.
Yesterday I managed to finally get ahold of Guy, my hangar neighbor, and wrangled a day's worth in his 172. Things were looking up and I had the world on a string; called up Ketrino and set aside some time for today, and drove to my mother's house as I am housesitting until Thursday.

Today I went to work and saw nothing but bad weather all the way up. I sat down right after clocking in, called WXBRIEF, and got this result (translated, of course):
1053Z CONVECTIVE SIGMET Central McAllister, Abilene moving 280@25
FTW winds 120@14, visibility >6NM, broken @ 3000, OVC over that.
(This is bad news. For weather reporting we have a six-place system, three AIRMETs and three SIGMETS. AIRMETs can keep a small plane like a 172 from flying but may not bother a large airliner much. All aircraft steer clear of SIGMETs, and convective SIGMETs are the worst of all. Those are the kind with tornados, microbursts, and big-ass hail. The briefer lady even took the time to break away from the regular report format to say that there was “a /lot/ of convective activity out there for any vehicle” and suggested I strike the trip)

Of course, I know Texas weather well enough that if the precip looks light, and the low clouds have breaks in the morning, it's a good chance that there will be /some/ weather, but by the time the sun gets into gear most of that is going to push off or raise up and boil off.

After prodding Ketrino to commit to something, finally, I took off work, picked her up, and hot-footed it home to meet Guy. And we done some mighty fine flying. The 172 is pretty much the same performer as a 152 series, except heavier, faster, and you need a little more push on that rudder in a crosswind. Things were still sporty on the ground (it was blowing 17something at 16kts), once we got to pattern altitude, things played well. I had intended to cruise south to circle Ft Worth once, as I had Saturday, but the haze past Alliance was looking thick, and we were already kissing the VFR minimums. Its like flying the Dodo in GTA3 – the haze is where your game stops. So I turned to get past HWY287 (where the Class B airspace over our heads stops) and do a few maneuvers, maybe get Ketrino to hold the yoke for a little bit. We had topped-off fuel and could go play over Bridgeport with no problem.

Oh, wait. Theres that damned haze again. I was watching reeeeal close at that shit, because out past Bridgeport and a little ways south is Abilene. And we all know what's lurking over that, now, don't we? As I doubted Guy would be very impressed with his neighbor calling from a blue and white ball of tissue paper stuck in a line of barbed wire down there, I did a steep turn just to show I did something, then 180'd it back for Propwash as the clouds were getting uncomfortably close to me.

Did some landings, and one go-around thanks to too much height, too much flaps, and too much crosswind, and got some flattering pictures of that from Guy's vantage. When it was finally over, we were both beat.

Cooled off in his hangar and let Kettie fondle my gun (Teehee – no, my ROMAK PSL I recently bought OMGiloveitso) whilst the male figures talked various shops, smoked a collective cigarette, and let Ketrino's stomach settle (problems with turbulence). Then played Sabrina and went to seek Transformers figures that weren't supposed to be there. Found a few, but nothing I desperately needed – though I might make an exception for the F-35 guy for obvious reasons.

Came back from that to hear some news that the EPIC driver in my computer doesn't want to play with Vista32's registry suite. Stumped the hell outta R&R Electronics, and they're hot on trail to scrap the registy edits and make an INI file for it. Probably just in time for me to say Fuckit and buy a more compatable OS.

More stuff to come, but I's tired. All in all, Albeiho approves of this day's activity.

The aerospace industry is a strange place to be. A business based around a machine that is by rights the pinnacle of engineering, ingenuity, and frankly, balls-out madness and exhilaration - this spectrum of the world by it's nature brings out the squirrels. Even in the factories.

It's also no secret that all things military are practically a guaranteed boy's club. Since the standards for experience are set so high for military contractors, line service technicians, avionics... anything that revolves around experience around multi-million dollar equipment that only comes easily through the military, I work a lot with retired and reserve military types.

So yeah, we joke, and rib. There's some who have a surplus of machismo that I don't care for, though. Coincidentally, the two examples that come to mind are fresh from Pax River base in Maryland. I've been subject to the raunchy phone text message without complaint - some of them are pretty funny. But I just eyeroll when one of the macho's do it. It's obvious that they're only doing it to rip me for being a virgin.

Boy's club. Virgin. Youngest on the team. I lack what some people term 'Social Proof.' Thus I get a lot of jokes, shrug it off, and continue on working. I joke back, and a lot of them strike home, but with the Macho's it just doesn't work. These guys are all about pussy and are nearly completely one-dimensional about it. It's like working with thirteen-year-olds. I haven't even *had* sex and I can see this. Makes me wonder how these people can even *get* laid.

So I get to see another peek at this guy's phone, picturing an obviously photoshopped girl showing a camera how she uses a dildo that's the right scale for an elephant. "Y'ever seen onna these?"

Oh great. Another one. >.> Shrug, mutter, continue working.

SO I went back to working in reverse cowgirl atop AF-3. This coaxial wire for the antennae on top is proving difficult to route. So I'm rearranging this thing and thinking to myself. How can I get this guy off my back? I try not to let it get me, but it does. Blaming my history for sabotaging my experience with women again (and hating myself for being able to do that), tracing a path through my childhood and placing little pushpins where I proved inept. Wondering for another time if society got so sick while I wasn't looking, I just don't fit in the running.

*The following is diguy's real thoughts while working*

.oO(Maybe I'm just naturally bright and innocent *teehee*)
.oO(You know that's not true. But it sure comes off like that)
.oO(Yeah. Let's just sit this out- again. Things will pick up)
.oO(These guys are nothing but hounds, anyway. Thinking I'm worth nothing just because I haven't had sex. What kind of standard is that? Fools. I'll show them! I'll show them all!)

>.>

I had to laugh, because I was surprised that I actually had that moment. Have to admit, though, it felt pretty good. :P

I haven't figured out where the hell my money is going. But at least after pissing away my cash on the essential laptop, Nikon, and the obligatory car payments, I'm starting to remember how to save my paychecks. Considering I am trying to save up for a move to Colorado and maybe a Venusian Arts bootcamp, *and* advancing my flying training, I can say I'm still not saving as much as I want to, but the pace is at least comfortable.

This next month the new contract negotiations start, and things are getting really hectic at work. Aside from an in-house crackdown on misdrilled brackets which is generating its own soap operas, we had *this* article show up in the local paper. http://www.star-telegram.com/242/story/1272799.html Scuttlebutt is he's a disgruntled contractor who's blowing things out of proportion, but it makes me wonder what it does to the prospects of the union striking or what deals they make.

I spent yesterday afternoon walking the grounds, since the weather's turning nice and the grass is just burning verdant greens. I took the Nikon out to practice some detail shots of the tree blossoms (http://img16.imageshack.us/img16/345/dsc0030z.jpg). Not bad work, considering the lens is vaguely generic. Afterwards I discovered another killdeer nest in the front yard and gave the momma a mild heart attack by doing nothing more than standing near the nest (http://img14.imageshack.us/img14/2885/dsc0052egj.jpg). As you can see <-- she didn't like that. :)

A snapshot of a fox-skunk's life. It's boring and pretty and a little lonely, but at least it's a trip.

I gots a laptop! Yaay! Lenovo ideapad Y430 series. Not a bad little machine, really. And you won't hear me complain about the price, either. I will say that this is the last time I'm going into Circuit City, though. For some reason just because a little detail about the company failing is hanging around, the staff feels the need to just fuck off and do their thing all day.

That's got to be the best job ever right now.

Night shift gives me little time in the day to enjoy myself, and I've been considering joining a gym like 24 Hour Fitness. Mostly to get in shape, get out of the house, and just do my own thing. Going to spend a lot of time lapping in the pool, probably a mile's worth, like my SCUBA qualification run. That was a good workout and I enjoy it more than running. I still want to check out other places, LA fitness and the like, but frankly, I can't really do much. Nevermind the pissing away of my paycheck on the Lenovo. Third shift has been almost completely axed, all that's left is the FTI team and support. And the way things look, most of us will be bumped to days March 1st. The way seniority goes, odds are I'm in that group. So, now the question is, first or second shift? Either way, I'd have time to get one week in the swing of things and then two weeks to re-adjust to the schedule.

The great part about Thirds is you have Friday nights and Saturday nights off. So I been footing my way up to the Denton bar scene. And by "scene" I mean the two blocks of establishments North of UNT. My favorite is Lucky Lou's. Something about an open-air bar makes me feel more comfortable in a building full of strangers, and each time I've gone I've had no problem cranking up a conversation. I was actually kind of disappointed that with the term Mardi Gras being tossed around all of a sudden, the bars were kind of... ho-hum. Two beers and three hours past-dark later, I'm gone. The girl was cute, but frankly she was bone skinny and had horse teeth. I figured her for Italian, but she said she was 1/3 Cherokee.

God I love Native girls. Right up there with pretty Russians (the ones that aren't mail-order).

So anyway. Get home and spend some time IM'ing Oshay because I'm still wired, and at 3:30 I get a call from littlest brother Preston.

Turns out he's gone and gotten blasted drunk, and his sober buddy backed the truck into a ditch trying to U-turn.

A U-turn. The truck is a 2002 Ford F-250. The fucker is twenty four feet long. Rule number one in country driving mode is STAY ON THE FUCKING ROAD. You can not U-turn the truck. For some reason the kid doesn't understand this. Predictably, he failed miserably. When I got there my headlights flowed over something that looked like an elephant stubbornly sitting in a bush stand. It didn't take long to find it was high-centered on those chrome running boards. Not going anywhere, we packed up, called Dad to let him know his truck wasn't coming home tonight, and trucked the drunkies home.

Today we called in a jeep and I led two cars and three drivers to the intersection the truck was abandoned. We got there in ten minutes and... hey, what's this?

The fucking truck was gone!

Wise County Sheriffs picked it up maybe two hours earlier. We're told it took some work to get it out, I don't think we could have got it free anyway. But now Dad's got no way to get to work on Monday and a big huge meeting that has something to do with Northrop Grumman and the way they're building the next batch of F-35 center fuselages. Good going, boy.

I have some sketches I want to work, if I can find some time when I'm not sleeping.

http://www.myfoxdfw.com/myfox/MyFox/pages/sidebar_video.jsp?contentId=8268082&version=1&locale=EN-US

This was filmed at Hicks airfield, just a few miles away from my homebase of Propwash.

The yellow and white Cessna 150... It's my primary flight trainer.

This is MY plane.

It brings tears to my eyes. It apparently got sold to the training school. I was at Buffalo Wings and Rings drinking beer at bad karaoke and I look up and, HOLY SHIT THATS 6779Foxtrot!

By the transitive property, I'm in the news. XP.

So... anyone who might have been watching the ABC local news in Texas would have seen a blurb about a "small, single engine aircraft" pitching in and killing two people at "A Denton County Airport."

I love the news, don't you? How they can be so informative, yet so vague?

Today, while flying with two other planes, a blue and grey Nanchang CJ-6 with two people onboard dumped flaps and gear for landing, stalled on final, and spun in, two hundred feet short of the runway. Both men onboard were killed. I know this because they woke me up today, and I've been watching them since, wishing /I/ had a Yak or Nanchang to go and chase them around.

The pilot was from neighboring Aero Valley, flying with Mark Airey in his silver CJ-6, and another friend in a yellow and white Yak-18. Mark lives across the runway from me and is... really shaken up right now. We've had helicopters and airplanes violating our airspace all day long, not to mention some rubberneckers off the highway sneaking in to try to get to the other side.

They don't know there road dead-ends without a place to turn around. I wish I could have seen the moron who came in with a fully loaded Dually Dodge AND hay-trailer. I'm told he high-centered twice. THAT will learn you to trespass and gorehound on a community's misfortune.

Seriously, though. This is a blow to the airport - we haven't had a fatality accident for nearly ten years. This isn't a new thing for us, either, to gather buddies with a few planes and go play around somewhere for a while. It's become expected of you if you have a plane, and some friends, take them up for some fun, go fly to Hicks and get a burger.

It's a difficult thing to explain to someone who doesn't have their wings. Pilots are a peculiar breed. We know that taking a simple aircraft- some of which have little more than four cylinder engines - up to the mercy of the sky is dangerous, fun, and exciting. After all, that's the whole reason we shell out 4 grand in flying lessons when it's all over. But we put faith in ourselves and our flying machines, convincing ourselves that this is fun, not dangerous. This is living, not risking our lives. Yes, that bolt holding the left strut could fail and my wing could fold up over my head and there's nothing I can do to stop the fall, but the safety wire holding that nut on means that the bolt will have to snap in half before anything like that happens.

Then you go flying with your best friend, come down for lunch, go up again, and on the way home your best friend augers in and takes not only himself, but his buddy, and his trusted machine with him.

It's unreal how, at our house, business went on as usual, and if it weren't for the emergency crews and the attention that brought, the neighbors might have been none the wiser. Certainly people in Canada don't care what happened today. They didn't know the two brave men who thrust themselves into the sky and perished. But now we finally got our Dodge power-wagon ambulance to run smoothly, and Mark Todd's engine is running much smoother with the addition of a few key parts. And my plates for the Impala came in the mail today.

http://www.wfaa.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/latestnews/stories/010409dnmetairport.35838f75.html#slcgm_comments_anchor The article.


A shame, too. I really liked that plane, and some innocent guy also died in an accident he had nothing to do with.

O Wind of Heaven, by Thy might
Save all who dare the eagle's flight,
And keep them by Thy watchful care
From every peril in the air!

I did it! I've survived the grueling gauntlet of mad greeter/beaters, salesmen with provisional driver's licenses, cheap suits and loud ties, and miles on miles of generic inner-city plastic and steel tackyness, my victory coming forth on a mighty silver-cinnamon steed.

http://img384.imageshack.us/my.php?image=dsc00184ck9.jpg BEHOLD

http://img530.imageshack.us/img530/2845/dsc00183at9.jpg Behold AGAIN

http://img242.imageshack.us/img242/9007/dsc00186je0.jpg One for good measure

http://img185.imageshack.us/img185/6340/dsc00192to4.jpg Cockpit

It's a one-owner 2003 Chevrolet Impala LS. 78330 miles. Leather seats. I've never seen an Impala in this paint, and with the supertinted windows and matching smoker's windjammers, I have to assume it's been customized a hair. Mr. Owner was a smoker, and a sloppy one (there's a burn amid the window switches, and a few on the door post, and in the console ashtray which is plastic for some reason - maybe it's *not* an ashtray, y'think?), but he must have smoked Black and Milds or Djarum's or some other pipe blend because the car smells not of secondhand cancerous death, but of /character/. Maybe cheap air freshener. Whatever it is, I like it.

There's a few things I know I need to look at once the weather behaves and I recharge my bank account. For one I've been preached at by a certain someone that the coolant system needs to be flushed like RIGHTNOW. Since it's a Texas car I'm also going to give all the filters a once-over, pick me up some nice synthetic, and take a look at the condition of the tires and brakes. The shocks up front groan a bit when it starts bouncing, too, so I'll need to see whether or not they need to be replaced.

For the ride, I'm happy with, after taxes, a 10K even tab. 2 down, finance 8, 'round 300 a month if I pay all at once. This I can do on even contract labor rates. Even if it turns out that this doesn't actually build up my credit like it should (I *think* Frank Kent uses a lending agency, but they're big enough to do self-finance, so idk). After three weeks of rental PT Cruiser, umpteen attempts to buy a brand new car, beating my head against the banks for 18K financing... I am done with the financing/credit circlejerk. I'm just going to get a gas card or a short term loan (for which I stick into my savings and just pay the loan back and boom, there's credit built) and work with that the easy way.

What I discovered about my misadventure is that I don't like to shop for new cars. I just don't trust a system that puts me on the bottom rung of a sales transaction while the car company and the bank try to work out a deal that leaves me completely out of the loop. I prefer to handle things one-on-one and do my own dealing. Of course, I had no choice but to play along with this, because I don't know how to wheedle yet. Gotta take a dry run, take a hit, and save the high-power goblin merchanting for a brand new '10 model.

Awesome car for the "6 Month Plan", too. I always did want an Impala - granted, a 1960 model, but still, Impalawhoot).

Or in the immortal words of Steve Martin "Things are going to start happening to me now."

This last week, once my Lockheed Pedigree training finished up with some electrical work (that I, evil little me, already had practiced on from the first day I went into the back shop *smirk*), they started me off on my new shift assignment.

Third shift. At night. All night long. o/' All nite lawng- allni-ight o/'

Working briskly, too. There are two F-35's coming together that they want out by the end of the year. Overtime is not only had, but will be inflicted as soon as next week.

Which means I no longer can ride with me pappy to work; now it's all on me. What initially turned out as a "Hey, I can *totally* get me a nice new car" has been drug out into a "LAWL you can has a car NOT". People blame the auto industry, and want to punish them workers unions dragging the cumpnie down. But the reason I aint snapping up a vehicle from their backed up lots is that the FUCKING BANKS WONT GIMME MONEYS. I've tried everything from a brand new bottom of the line Pontiac Vibe (which is actually a fun car in standard) to a pre-owned 06 Charger R/T (which is UNDER 20K and I'm seriously fuckin pissed off that I can't get it).

If I saved mah pennies for, like, eight months, I could buy them in CASH. Where did we come up with such a screwball system like Credit? Honestly. They probably want to make it their own little CATCH-22 fantasy, having not read the book and known that CATCH-22 didn't exist in the first place, so it aint gonna work on me.

So I get to drive my Enterprise PT Cruiser for a few weeks more, and go visit some pre-owned lots for the Six Month Plan (R) where I buys me a beater that I eventually grow out of and give to mah lil bros - whereupon I take my new, improved credit to the car comp'ny, who says "Oh, sure, here's the keys to your Challenger SR/T. Now get out of here, you cheeky little so-and-so."

So yah.

On the home front, we had the first flight of Miss Diagnosis last weekend. Miss D is the newest Stinson L-5 out of the shop, being built for the son of a prominent figure in the Warbird movement. It's beautiful, and it damned well better be for the effort and money that Lanny has put into it. The flight went well, and the in-flight cameraman managed to snap some lovely shots of the back of Mark Todd's head and the camera ship's starboard wing struts. :P I'll see if I can go up the next time and get some postworthy shots.

College wise, I'm going to start looking around next week at the various TCC locations so I won't miss out on the Spring semester. My mother, doing her Mom thing, pointed out the Producer career track, to which I was like
*snort*
*Eyeroll*
...
>.>
<.<
HMMMMmmmm....

More to come with that. Berry eenteresting, since I'm pretty sure I know people.

And that fucking meme won't bold out. Saving it for next time.

Last week of my thirty-five day probation at Lockheed. Today I ended up departing from my plastic-coated copper familiars to learn how to sit in an F-16 without making it mad and launching my ass through the roof. Good for me.

Lately I've been floating between a sort of indignant panic and a righteous determination, and everywhere in between that I'm certain any animal with a paw in a beartrap experiences. Whatever this means, from an outsider's point of view it reads like "moody, bitchy, and snappy," I'm sure.

What the fuck am I doing?

I admitted that I was jealous of a player character online. Not necessarily because of who he is, but more of what he's doing. In a roleplay. I can't even put a finger on it- but every time I think of something like "You know, if there was any justice, 'character' me would seek out some female company at this time. Maybe the Pinkies." Then that character's next action is to leave for the attentions of said Pinkies. And I'm sitting behind the monitor going "That should be me."

Why? Look at me. Nobody can say that I'm not accomplished, that's for certain. I live in a beautiful house in the country, on a tidy little flying community. I can fly, run, dive, travel, learn incredible things. I have an incredible, safe job. But at what cost? What do I have to show for it?

I don't even know what a social life looks like. I feel so trapped, so old. I'm forced to sit on the sidelines and watch my youth pass me by, and I want to cry out, bust something, just fucking run and run and run until my legs give out and I don't recognize where I am anymore. It's petty, I know, but goddamn it this *matters*. I have all my life to be the adult; I want the twenties experience. I want to go to college. I want to live in a shitty apartment with two other people and struggle together until we can't stand the sight of each other. I want to party all night and go to class the next morning looking like Hell itself spat me back out. I want to write stories and plots and actually do something dynamic.

I can't do this. I can't even salve myself with the affections of a nice girl, because I can't get out of this house. This compound.

I watched The Last Emperor earlier this week. And not only could I say "I've been there" (The Forbidden City), I was watching myself, thrust upon a pedestal quite without my option, so high that I can't even make the step down by myself.

The T-bird was towed in to the tranny shop up the road, and they think there is significant oil pump damage as well. I'll get a call tomorrow when they get it in the air and knock the transmission out (which is bad as well, no surprise). Apparently my mother doesn't watch those oil levels, and Dad confirms this is a pattern. I hope it's just the old oil with leaves or shit in the filter collector. I don't want to spend 2K on this car.

I make it sound like I have everything under control, like I am in one piece. At least I have that strength.



I don't like it.

001. Name → Albeiho, Jennar, that guy, asshole... Trevor will do fine.
002. Nickname(s) → Trev, T-Rev.
003. Status → Involuntarily Single

004. Zodiac sign → Taurus
005. Male or female → Female. No, wait, male. Male!

( Moar travesty )

But that doesn't mean I won't enjoy it.

Ask me a question about anything you want...love, life, hobbies, whatever. All answers will be posted in the comments section of this entry unless you leave me an email address and ask me to respond privately to the question. This is totally open, and everything is fair game.