Latest Entries »

Jimmy John’s

I have become gluttonous for punishment. I stare at a job that spits on my standards and overlooks its own on its way to employee maltreatment. All I’m motivated to do now is to lie back and think of England; England is a hypothetical place, from my perspective, but this childish belief that something unknown is better than what’s perceived feels more enlightening than this Americanized idiosyncrasy.
After my boss throws me into a role where I have to fulfill two separate job descriptions in a shift for nearly two months, she then tells me yesterday that she schedules herself today “so you can drive.” She may as well have told me, “You’re having your cake and eating it, too, since you’re both driving and managing for maximum profit, and you’re doing them both better than two people collectively doing those jobs. So, I want to diversify (by the way, in ‘ignorant, small-town hick’ language, diversify literally means, ‘mess with integrity’). Let’s take away your ability to excel and replace it with incompetence; you have to respect the new system more than yourself, by the way.”
I hate being in a mental place where giving up is part of the plan. I hate looking at a place, literally, every single day and seeing that no one cares in such a way so that everyone looks like an expert in sandwich making; my only solace in that statement is that my boss is a woman. Putting my thoughts against women’s rights, though, to quell my animosity for this job is not a habit that I want to have. When I started, I cared about the well-being of this place, and I helped it get better, and sales figures visually grew. After everything got pear-shaped, progress has stopped, and numbers have been the same for the last two years.
Yesterday, I had a conversation with a couple of fellow compatriots from Playstation Universe, and we sought for a more positive outlook on our lives. Now that I’m back in my “life,” I want to be rid of it. The only reason that I’ve stayed at this damnable place is because I’m only staying in Marshall one more year and learning another job would throw off my education. It’s done it before, and my life here is bad enough.
One more year, and I’ll be done with this hell hole. My boss looks at the Misses yesterday and asked if we were staying in Marshall after school was finished. She replied, “No way are we staying in Marshall.” Boy, was our boss surprised. That’ll have to do for us until we’re finally able to be human again.


My choice of life

It’s hard to argue with results, especially if they’re contradictory. I’ve chosen a life of solitude. I can’t keep holding a grudge against people for being themselves. The grudge is my fault, though the cause isn’t my onus. I want to be a different person, a person that can get along with more people and tolerate more of individual flaws and self-justifications. But the results show a different revelation.

I bring my life into a perspective of self-worth and dedication, and I try to mind myself. I work in a job that looks down on personal output outside of it, so any accomplishments matter less than what happens on the other side of the world. Because of this, I keep to myself.
I have friends that regard insignificant misdemeanors in a higher regard than anything I’ve ever said. I can’t control the thoughts of others, but I can control my demographical intake. Because of this, I keep to myself.

I worry constantly that I’m becoming more and more like my father, who’s stricken with mental illness and is a pompous ingrate. I find myself judging people in a similar fashion, and I can’t help but feel self-loathing. But I can’t help but find myself engulfed in characteristics sewed and highlighted by the ignorance and disregard of others. Sure, it’s my fault that I retain my attachment to those that put brief fulfillment over overall progress and choose to live a life meant for both hobos and groupies. But, much like every single frustration in my life, I go through a self-analytical phase that breaks down all bits of my life, and I find some sort of way to blame myself for the mistakes and the issues that I have with others. I can’t keep living this way.

Time is something that I hope can fix things, like people. It can’t seem to fix my perspective any better than that which I perceive. I hope too hard. I wish too positively. I want this life to be something like I see in my head, a life where one can live a life through one’s efforts and inputs. But, that’s how it really is, and the result isn’t what I want. So, it’s my fault that I expect too much. Still, I can’t help but hate feeling forgotten and disrespected even after all of this self-refinement and spent time on my own life and its betterment. What can I do besides remain in solitude?

Today is my birthday, and, in prime fashion, everything has already gone wrong. I have been kept awake until after six AM by stoners and drunks, one of which is family. I don’t go to the defense of drunks and stoners, and I obviously take my own birth far too seriously. Apparently. On top of all this, it bothers me the absolute most that all of my words now are filled with so much self-hatred that mimics suicidal tendencies. God, does it bother me, almost as much as it does to hate my own birthday. The Misses mentioned my birthday, and I immediately got mad. What can I even do about that, when my memories of birthdays are of solitude? Why am I complaining when that’s what I want? I obviously expect too much of others to regard my existence.

I hear things like, “I need a dictionary when I talk to you,” or “you need to stop using such big words in a writing class,” or “why don’t you ever go out?” I’ve obviously chosen the wrong path in life by choosing integrity, and that fact pisses me right off. The only thing now that keeps my thoughts in place is the act of writing. I feel fulfillment after doing it, a fulfillment that can’t be compared or matched, so I’m going to stick solely to it. I don’t feel value in human interactions, because my life has been disregarded for far too long to hold any respect in it or others. And I hate that fact.

I want to have hope in people, even though I’m still being kept up by stoners and drunks as I write this on the sleep-deprived morning of my 25th birthday, but my desire for hope dwindles as each experience shivs my motivation to respect my own race. It’s hard to be me, because I make it that way. But I can’t find anything else when I’m backed in a corner.
Sure, Crystal is here, but I feel as though I’m bringing her down with me. She’s so incredibly talented, and I don’t want to be the reason for any failure in her life. So I can’t help but put myself on the back burner. Everyone else knows what they want out of one’s life, so what can I do besides watch and hope? Apparently, nothing. I can’t help but hate my life, though it’s all self-inflicted, according to the results of my life. I’m one opinion versus the rest of the world, and I can’t help but feel insignificant.
I hate my birthdays.


I spent most of last night cycling between consciousness and unconsciousness. I was unable to sleep decently, because our inspector was expected to come today. Yes, today, Christmas Eve; this douche has done it before.
In the midst of all my troubles with fatigue and rest, I had a dream, a dream that gives me a justification to what I’ve dedicated my life to these last 10 years. In my dream, I had a house. My house. The feeling was superb. I was married, and the immediate family was visiting.
After the family left, I had the misses. She was all mine, to have and hold, all for me without discontent or life issue. It was beautiful.
I spend far too much time gazing into the past to find my answers. Hollywood could be right that the present is all that matters, but I don’t buy it. That dream showed me potential, and potential doesn’t come from the present; it’s a gift that keeps on giving if the proper investment is made.
I’ve always known what I’ve wanted. This dream, a projection of my subconscious, shows me that I’m going I’m the proper direction. The time for the present is in the future, and we well enjoy it then, Lady, as we work now to gain that ability to enjoy our lives fully and freely into our old age. Unfortunately, our dreams are nothing but that. Our dreams are not false, but rather the potential we hold in each other. I want that house off the beaten path where ideas flourish and minds wander, so we can mingle with the stars as we make our way to the life we want to live.


I need a venue. Preferably a positive one. It doesn’t have to be elongated or even substantial, but it would be nice if it was reoccurring. I need a positive influence, mostly for my well-being.
I have things. Things that I love. have a muse who I love. Contrarily, I have nothing to site for any of these aspects. I have three more semesters of this rubbish location and I’m high-tailing straight to the nearest friendly venue to start my life.
My problems aren’t major, or,  hell, even a big deal. I see friends with larger issues daily. But my friends seem so far away. A natural side effect of growing up, this is, I’m sure. On top of that, my problems are minute and nagging, like a hamster constantly untying my shoes and the hamster is immune to punting. So, complaining about my issues increases my self-loathing, because I complain about little things that don’t matter in any sort of grand scheme while others have “grown-up” issues in their “grown-up” lives. I constantly corrode at my core with cynic and pessimistic thoughts of predestined turmoil and bad karma, and it’s both ridiculous and incomprehensible. I need a venue, for my own sanity.
Indeed, I can write for many reasons and many causes, but excuses have a strong hold on me. I could probably blame my upbringing, since I had to fend for myself in most personal cases. Which is fine, since my psyche is strong, but it doesn’t allow me much room for error or personal empathy. I need a venue.
Without a doubt, my life is simple. But I am a person that can deal with big problems and not small ones. I need a physical reason presently to thwart my harsh standards and strengthen my integrity. I’ve become attached to SMSU in a very surprising way. It’s not like the city of Marshall. Maybe, reader, I should spend more time on my goals than thinking about it.

Persistent and Broke

During lunch this afternoon, a lady well dressed in quite fancy clothes, walked in and ordered two meals. Upon trying to pay, her three credit cards were declined.
She wanted to split the cost between two cards after that, which also didn’t work, after which she looked up at me as asked, “now what do I do?” What do I say to something like that? It’s clear that personal standards are undisciplined and beyond her financial output. How terrible and dire her straits must be to ask a complete stranger how to handle her sudden and, as it seemed, unexpected money problems. Her first fix may be to eat at home, perhaps?
What about her outfit? Over six accessories were endowed on her person, all of which had a falsified exquisense. Is debt worth the contradictory viewpoint of a worker from a sandwich shop to go into debt to look as fake as one’s accessories? Her self-esteem needs some work, and, I can only assume, her friends and family need to be much more appreciative and supportive.
I hope, to whoever is reading, that you hold yourself in a proud esteem that knows that limits don’t mean weakness.

Tech Support

For the past week, I have spent nearly 6 hours on my phone speaking with Alienware tech support about the problems that I’ve been having with my laptop. These problems have been disgusting, ranging from locked Windows startup to the BSOD that doesn’t have an error code. And tech support hasn’t had an answer for me outside of “try this other way to reinstall Windows.”
I resorted to Google, the greatest show on the super highway. What I found came from a Frenchman with the same problems with the same model of laptop as I have, in regards to both counts. Apparently, the Windows 7 disc that is provided with my Alienware laptop doesn’t include the proper BIOS file, but all I have to do to make the installation work is to apply the driver as I start the installation. I mentioned the process to my tech support representative, and she declared the process as not correct. When I asked her reasoning, and why the process was bad, she simply said,”The installation shouldn’t be failing, and it should be working.”
Indeed, trial and error is required for this sort of ordeal, but I found a working make for my laptop that has been attested by other users. I also mentioned the BIOS debacle to the rep, to which she replied, “Your model of computer isn’t knoen for BIOS problems. It’s known more for hard drive problems.” This entire ordeal has been one big work around, and my patience has been wearing thin.
Anyway, the reason I sought help was to see if I could find a quick and permanent fix to my computr problems so I could return to my freelance writing job and also complete the rest of this semester without having to bend over backwards at the school in order to jump through hoops to hav an opportunity that I can’t access because of work. So, I’m going to tell the rep when she calls back tomorrow that it is not having the problems it had been having and that this functioning install is working much better than it ever had. Which is entirely true, in regards to the testing I have already run. My laptop hasn’t locked up since this install took, and I have restarted this thing at leat 15 times this evening installing drivers; according to the rep, the machine is sensitive and needs to be restarted after every install. Since it’s working, I’ll take it. I even followed a driver install order list that she provided. So, it wasn’t all bad. And the rep was even very nice to deal with when the process was occuring. Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly where my laptop is right now, in terms of full functionality. But, I only need so much for the next week, and then I can baby sit the hell out of this thing.


I don’t really know what is to blame, but I am exceptionally frustrated with my laptop at present. I am on my second attempt at installing Windows 7, and I don’t know why it failed the first time.
This ordeal is quite on the borderline of an inconvenience most untimely. Finals are within two weeks, and I have projects and writings to finish before Finals begin. I’m sure it’s entirely situational whenever it has happened to me, but times like this throughout my life have determined my likenesses for things. Microsoft has been one of the most unreliable functions in my technological life. Both generations of Xbox have been unreliable and needed replacing, and the last two Operating Systems have torn up my computer functionalities.
I’m sure I could blame Alienware for being purchased by Dell, but Dell polices as many updates as it possibly can to maintain properly functioning computers under its name, since Microsoft doesn’t have any precautionary measures to the like.
With that in mind, it’s not to hard to understand that my love for Playstation, even through the hardest of times, has been strong, since the brand has always been there for me. That is only my situation. I know many have had bad luck with Playstation. But that’s how things work. Loyalties come from reliabilities, and it’s unfortunate that not everyone can be completely reliable.


During the middle of last week, I was asked to enter a writing contest, and the subject matter initially felt out of my league.
The piece was to be about a women or about women in general. As unorthodox as it may seem, I’m not a woman. I don’t know about normal thoughts pertaining to the subject, but I’ve spent extensive time thinking about what being a woman would be like. Unlike anything else in this world, being a woman is something I truly cannot do. Sure, aesthetic options are available for such a thing, but it’s only a process of alteration. In other words, a man in a female form.
But, I digress, as expected,  I suppose. With all of this in mind, I took all of my life experiences to their full extent of applicability and entered the contest. I joke a lot about women, much not than I should, especially since my true opinion of them is much more positive. I started writing a paper over the Thanksgiving break. After finishing two pages, my words started feeling ingenuine and almost hypocritical. So, I scrapped it–in a sense, since I still have it. I opted for a poem instead; more meaning with fewer words, a metaphor in and of itself.
It felt good. Almost above me, as if the content came from someone else. I worry still that the general male stigma will come back to haunt me. On a lighter note, the entries will be anonymously judged.
I’m anxious, reader, to hear the results. I want to be compared to competent writers. Being an eagle among turkeys isn’t good enough for me. I’ll keep you posted.

Public schemas

In a country founded on individualism, it’s almost ironic that regulating patterns occur through social behavior. Every occupation has them, and every social circle has them. In my case, fast food has many which are not identified.
A schema is a trained thought that corresponds with a mental expectation to a person, place, or situation. For instance, one thinks differently in a bathroom and in a kitchen. Both rooms are meant for different things, so it’s only natural. The same goes in terms of one’s food and those who serve it. I’ll use two real situations as examples from this evening. I delivered to a business, and the lady, who was standing next to a till filled with cash, handed me a large bill and asked for change. Regretably, she sees those who deliver food as money managers and expect them to be able to do what she could so easily do with a little extrinsic thought.
The other example may be a bit more intrusive. A man paid with a big bill later tonight, but he used that bill after having enough small bills to pay for his food in spades. I can only imagine that, since the job of a delivery driver, is to accommodate, he expects that treatment all around; I can definitely attest to that, since he didn’t tip.
Most of these behaviors must stem from self-sustainment, reader. I veer away from the weird “survival,” since this life only requires money and not actual physical effort, but I digress. Since today’s average human being doesn’t have much use actually fighting someone, perhaps giving oneself the satisfaction of a higher societal status or manipulative behavior helps enhance self-esteem.
Too bad, reader, they don’t see what we see. Life is what it is, and it doesn’t have to be harder by making it harder. It’s already difficult on its own.


Let’s talk about disappointment for a little bit. Certainly, I can’t be mentioning issues with a Game of the Year contender without looking like an ass. Regardless, I’m doing it.
Bethesda needs a bit of help. The help isn’t challenging or even overbearing. And this help would probably be handy for all developers in the industry: test the final product on a commercial model of each console. Issues that are apparent to consumers won’t be regarded on developer kiosks, I’m sure, especially the 360 ones. They have that massive addon bit on top of it to aid in development. I really wish I knew more about the development process, because this industry is far too personal for me to start picking it apart due to one terribly executed game that’s supposed to new great.
Save file issues? Texture issues? What are testers, and what are programmers? U would imagine that PC games can be more easily developed, since computers have compensative abilities. Console games need optimization. If that sort of dedication is too challenging or not worth the time, I would much rather prefer that the effort is not put forth.
I can now forgive Bethesda for their issues, as long as they fix it. I can get through this simply because I can say what I want as a small time guy and no one will see it.
I hope, reader, that these issues with the PS3 version of Skyrim can be fixed, so I can stop grumbling and start enjoying why this game may win Game of the Year (though Uncharted 3 is going to take it, hands down).