the intense weight of unbareable lightness

[Listening to: The Felice Brothers]

25 days

Alright,

so, I feel like I am slowly descending into madness. I can't say that it's pleasant, though truthfully, I can't say it's wholly unpleasant either. Life, as it were, for me seems to be teetering on the edge of some drastic changes. The only clear comparison I can make to speak of, is that of waiting on my Uncle Cid.

Directly after ingestion, anticipation takes a hold of you by the gut and hangs there like a five year-old suspended over a 10,000 foot chasm from monkey bars. That anticipation drags you by the balls through the worst leg of the journey, through the muck of uncertainty to the very brink of insanity, then: it drops; Tangerine Trees and Marmalade Skies. When it hits, it hits like a sledgehammer. That "hit" is unmistakable; things take a definite and heart-wrenching turn towards what can range from utter face-melting chaos to complete inter-connectedness and omniscient understanding. But: before one descends into narrating a novel which is their life, talking to tigers through a cafeteria tray, or turning into a glass of orange juice there is that transitioning period filled with remorse (best described by Buyer's Remorse), regret, eager anticipation, fear, loathing, and excitement. It's during this period The only thing that can be heard are the war drums of a periodically-human heart beating and rolling through a clouded drug-influenced mind like thunder, as the anger and anticipation that live in the coils in one's jaw start to wind with the pressure and concerns of a slightly browning strip of paper. Terror sweeps through and threatens to end the life of the mind; It's hard to step past the idea that one may or may not have sub-lingually absorbed the one only certain fact that can be recalled at the time. The only original thought that a racing mind can grasp onto in a situation such as this, is this: "Nothing's happening. Bad luck." and then it drops. This transition is the difference between night and day; it's this phenomenon that makes that teeth-grinding march of 30 - 45 minutes seem like an eternity. Effectively though, that span of time becomes a semi-colon of human existance. Separating two independent and decidedly different phrases of life.

This is what you do...

Take out a pen and paper right now and draw a line down the center of the paper. Calmly and logically, think of all possible advantages to buying a home and write them down on one side of the page. Afterwards, you should list all the disadvantages on the other side of the paper.

This process is supposedly how Ben Franklin used to weigh tough decisions.

It's this giant and terrible metaphor that best describes my situation at hand. To use two smaller shoe metaphors at the same time: I've got one foot out the door and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I kiss the city beautiful and everyone in it goodbye in 25 days. From there it's onward and upward. The allure of the opportunities and mystery Barcelona holds is back-breaking, ball-busting.

As I watch the time left I have here spiral down the sink-drain I can't help but to reflect on the things I've done, experiences I've had, the people I've met and the connections that may or may not have been built and I wonder.... What does it all mean?

What does this city that I can't wait to flee and say, time and time again, that I never want to come back to mean in the grand scheme of things (as I'm concerned anyway). I hate leaving places feeling like I've accomplished nothing. But by the looks of it the only thing I've left here as far, as roots go, is shaving cream residue on the sink-bowl of Orlando. What my life really needs is a good clean towel to wipe away the scum; good as new.

Leaving Behind:

1. Shitty, but comfortable Restaurant Job
2. Mickey Mouse
   
3. Selfish and difficult friends
4. Selfish and difficult family
5. half of a college degree (yay!)
   

Spain:

1. Primavera
2. Job
3. Life
4. Bacon
5. unending possibility

That's every reason to go. Thank you Ben Franklin.
, My life feels like it's going to shit. I'm in the shit.

'Cause an obsession with the past is like a dead fly
And just a few things are related to the "old times"

The Crushing Inevitablity That Comes from a Self Imposed Exile

"The Doorman asks, 'Then, sir, I must respectfully ask you: why don't you go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the moooooooon?'"

But seriously, folks: Why the FLYING FUCK does one feel the need to blog about anything in particular? Someone anyone please answer and tell me why? Whatever the case may be, I feel it. I feel the inescapable, all-encompassing, ever-pressing weight of The Future descending down upon us like so many vultures circling above over head, waiting. Waiting. It's all anyone can do when face with inevitably. Wait and prepare.

A note on preparation:

There are some things in life that no amount of preparation can surmount. This for instance. Cancer, an addiction to crack cocaine, interventions, peak oil, apartment fires,encountering a never-nude, The sledgehammer of commercialism on the delicate glass of the future of the American intellect...the list goes ever on. There is though, a stark difference though between that which cannot be prepared for and the things that remain vague abstractions because a person chooses to turn a blind eye to that which is crashing towards them at break-neck speeds. I can tell you though from first hand, though more exciting (or at least a lot more comfortable), this is inadvisable.

That being said, the future of one's digital role in the coming decades is something that a person should at very least stop to consider, and for the over-cautions make an adequate attempt at preparing for. That is the purpose for this blog, in a sense anyway.

For official use only:

Purpose: To create a digital Identity, Join the conversation of 21st century digital democracy, and totally ruin any hopes of having an air of legitimacy or professionalism when any future employers look back and label me, my blog, my future, and my lifestyle "reckless, fiendish, vulgar, drug-addled, perverse, self-involved, senseless, direction-less and ultimately worthless on the most visceral level"

What's worse than the draw of this god forsaken idea that I need to record a deprecated life filled with little more than menial tasks meant to pass what little time I have left in Orlando is this: For weeks I have had this blog set-set up with the good intentions of writing at least something. Slowly, and on many more than a handful of occasions, I have sat staring at a blank blog interface I though about how I have no credentials, experience, or previous knowledge on any subject what-so-ever. I'd rather not step up on a soap-box and rail against Hilary Clinton and her diabolical connections with the Wal-mart and big business. Or profess my clearly superior cut and-paste indie-hipster musical tastes. I've sat and thought about these things that I don't want to turn myself and this small corner of the internet into and it very quickly turned into a rushing deluge of healthy indifference. It's this indifference that has kept DITK empty. Though recently as the vestiges of my tenure here in The City Beautiful have begun to fade away, and the volume knob on the white-noise-chaos machine that has become my life is slowly but surely reaching closer to 0,
I can finally smell it. As the last pages of this chapter of my life are written it's come clear to me the things I do have:

• A plane ticket, and a quickly approaching departure date for a job in a foreign country.
• A penchant for the Non Sequitur
• A digital Camera
• A voracious appetite for all things "experience enhancing"

Also, I want a place to publish my terrible short stories. They do no good slowly corrupting on my hard drive that is never cleaned or de-fragmented. Also, they are not terrible, but they aren't very numerous. In order to motivate myself to write more and for my creations to grow: I need an audience. Feedback is the key to growth, I guess.

That, to me at least sounds like a good recipe for a blog that is at the very least, readable. If you don't agree with me: Go Fuck yourself.