My law school applications are done. After four years of diligent rehabbing of my academic image, it's officially out of my hands. I've got three safety schools, six priority schools, one stretch school (perhaps better termed a "no-chance-in-hell" school), and there's literally nothing I can do at this point but wait. 

In a strange sense, I'm alright with that. Actually, I think I need this time period right now - this interlude of powerlessness that swirls around me like those initial, restless winds before a powerful surge of storm and tide. I'm not the restless part; to the contrary, I'm actually as calm today about this process as I have ever been and likely ever will be. I have a few lines on my calendar devoted entirely to school and excelling at final exams and term papers, while my applications make their way through the scrutiny of admissions committees. 

One thing that has always bothered me is the concept of someone reading something I've written and not being aware in real time that it's happening. I know for a fact that at least half of my applications have received their initial glance-over, and someone has likely already pointed out a flaw in my personal statement that took me months of revision to come to a draft even remotely close to my standards for personal creative writing. It might be while I stop to pump gas, or walk from my car to a building on campus, or while I take an afternoon nap - institutions all over the country are, at one point or another, deciding who I am and whether I'm worthy of their time, and my present self has no say in the matter. Sure, some past iteration of my existence, manifested through a series of forms and artificially manufactured essays has given them the illusion of knowledge on the subject of me, but the person they are evaluating ceased to exist the moment I hit send on that application and moved forward to the next one. Even the perspective of gaining perspective on what is seen and unseen, inferred and implied, and blatantly stated or openly acknowledged allows me to change for the better, or for the worse. A paper summary of me is not omniscient, and that is the only part that worries me.

It comes from the inner conflict I find myself consumed with, in that I do not have a shred of self-doubt. Yet, I simultaneously have to fight every morning to believe in myself. Those may seem like diametric opposites, and trust me - I don't understand how they coexist with some degree of harmony, and yet they do. This is the part of me I can't let show through papers and essays and personal statements; this guy who is both self-conscious and self-confident, not in a balanced sort of way but in the way those terrible old evangelism brochures used to describe Jesus, as the 100% God, 100% man, 200% God-man. Am I comparing myself to a deity? No. Absolutely not. (At least, not that I'm willing to admit). In all seriousness, it has nothing to do with the subject of the analogy and everything to do with the principle of the analogy, in that these concepts do not shift from one side to the other; they each occupy all space inside of me. 

I don't have a great resolution to this stream of consciousness (which, you could argue, is certainly not atypical), but I do have this: I can't wait to move forward in life and feel the terror and morbid sense of abandonment that comes from plunging into an unknown. But the only part of this process that bothers me is being judged and evaluated based on these data and that clever phrase and that failed class from community college, when the person who will eventually arrive at their door is a jumbled mass of experiences that can't possibly be summarized in three pages and a few questionares. I get it; that's how life works, and I don't blame any school for using a model of evaluation that is really the only one possible. But it's an odd feeling to know that somewhere, at some point, your next life decisions are being narrowed based on the standards of a room of people you'll almost certainly never meet. It's necessary, but I hope it's not something I have to experience too often. I'd like to think that human beings are complicated and wonderful enough that we ought to seek personal bonding and mutual experience before making ultimatums. 

Idealism starts with an idea. Everything starts with an idea. Idealism is everything.

Eight years ago to this day, I started writing here.

I don't have anything particularly profound to say beyond that, except to reflect on what eight years can mean. 

I have this bizarre memory in my head from when I was six or seven. I went into the bathroom in our house in Bowie, and turned around to lock the door. For some strange reason, my younger self decided that I was going to remember that precise moment of locking the door for the rest of my life. Ever since then, I haven't gone a single day without at least once remembering that I locked the bathroom door on a random day when I was young. I've tried to do the same with other meaningless events and it just isn't possible. For reasons I cannot begin to explain, that one second has permanently attached itself to my daily routine. 

Eight years ago, I was a sophomore in high school. Today I am a senior in college, preparing to go to law school and waiting on pins and needles every day, anticipating the moment my LSAT scores appear in my email inbox. Life changes, but some things remain constant. For example, here's a quote from October 26th, 2004:

"I cannot believe it. For those of you who know me, you know I find online journals somewhat pointless and misleading. Feel free to call me the world's biggest double-guesser after this, but hey, it's my life. Sorry."

Recognize the beginnings of the rambling, strange adult you know today? It's all there. Also, I spelled guarantees as "guarontees," so that certainly hasn't changed either. I also ended most of my first entries with "~Ben~" - just so we're clear, if I ever get the classic scenario of one trip back in time to fix a past wrong, Hitler's making it out unscathed while my tilde-inspired endings get deleted before they ever occur.

I've rarely edited, never held back, and made as many private entries public as possible while still respecting other people's privacy. I have no clue if people read write I post anyone, but I occasionally throw the link on Twitter just because I like to believe, in the words of eight-years-ago Ben, "I can be interesting occasionally." That's not really true, but it's the least of my concerns. Sometimes a place just feels like home. 

I don't know where I'll be next year, and I don't even know if I'll wake up in the morning. But as long as I do, I'll be here to occasionally make snide remarks about some event that occurred in my mind. I'd like to think you wouldn't have it any other way. 

Wednesday marked the first day of my senior year of undergrad. In many ways, it's an occasion thoroughly unworthy of celebration. I'm twenty-three years old, studying the social sciences at a school known internationally for math and engineering. Getting to my philosophy classes on this campus requires an intricate knowledge of the Fine Arts building, which may pre-date the American Revolution. I've been told more times than I can count (and trust me, I can count to at least sixteen) that I have this crazy amount of potential and I just need to motivate myself to use it.

The beauty is that I finally, truly, understand that.

I was a lousy student in high school, despite somehow being asked to join an AP pilot program after my first two quarters. My grades were mediocre but my PSAT scores were top-5 in my grade, so I was given a slot that many others coveted. I preceded to laugh away the significance of high school grades because being the slacker with obvious talent meant that people paid attention to me, and I needed that. It's how I made friends at first, and however shocking this may seem, those relationships didn't exactly last. I dropped below a 2.0 my sophomore year and should have learned my lesson when I had to immediately withdraw from every extra-curricular activity. Instead, I spent the rest of high school hovering barely above the minimum standard necessary to be deemed eligible for the various musicals and clubs that I always seemed to end up running. 

I spent my senior year of high school directing/producing/partially choreographing (I swear to you) a musical, carrying mock trial to state semifinals, running Model UN all over the east coast to Ivy Leagues and major conferences, and yet I don't think I did a bit of homework that entire year. Beyond that, I was chasing a girl I though existed when in reality I just created this absurd picture of how she needed me. (She didn't). I was voted "most likely to succeed on a college campus" not because I was a good student but because I achieved things (some of them great, if I can say that) in spite of my own incredible stupidity.

After that, I didn't apply to college because I wouldn't have gotten in anywhere. I went to the local community college and spent the year in a high school relationship (with a wonderful girl, by the way, who is now one of my closest friends - this has nothing to do with her). But that was just a piece of a larger reality that I never really left high school, where I helped run nearly every major event that occurred. I found myself again on academic probation, but this time it was at a community college. You pick the acronym; all applicants can come, any asshole can come - they're all true. Community college is simultaneously an incredibly important institution in the U.S. educational system and a festering shithole of sorority girl nursing dreams. I swear to you, I actually considered changing my focus to the hospitality industry. Not to disparage anyone who works in positions like those (i.e. hotel management, etc) because they're incredibly important (that sounds patronizing but it's really not intended to be) but I've had huge dreams since before I understood what a dream was. I want to change lives, do something right, and die knowing that I won't be forgotten for at least a generation or two. 

The funny thing is, I don't have a transformational moment. If this was a movie, you'd get pissed off and give it two stars on Netflix (but only because of the one scene with the topless chick). I went through another epic failure when I put life on hold to go to Colorado and work for the summer, only to come crawling home eight days later. It took me a few months, but I started working at a restaurant and applied to two local schools.

Zach and I got our acceptance letters to UMBC on the same day, but I knew before he did - I logged onto the website and saw the little green "admitted" check next to my name. Both of our packets came the next day. That evening, I sat down with him and asked him if it was ok for me to go to the same school as him. He laughed, said it was a stupid question, and we made plans to get an off-campus apartment. 

The rest is pretty sappy and boring, but here's the whole reason I'm writing this - it doesn't make much sense. Nothing that anyone told me contributed to my turnaround. I mean that literally - there wasn't a human being on the planet who could have helped me make the ultimate decision to turn things around. That's not to say I didn't have help, because I had more compassion and generosity than a dumb guy like myself could ever dream of deserving. But ultimately, I took a few steps in the right direction. I took them slowly, and I didn't exactly take the most efficient route (to borrow from my navigational skills), but I put one foot in front of the other and walked.

That's all I'm doing now. I can be awkward, uncertain, goofy, unfunny, strange, and sometimes just a downright pretentious jerk. On the other hand, I like to think I'm loyal, forgiving, and willing to go out of my way to help anyone in need. I'm a guy who wakes up and does my best to walk forward, and I'm fine with that. It's gotten me this far, and I'm confident it's going to get me quite a bit further.  

I'd characterize my current emotion as one of collective disappointment - it's not that I feel depressed or unhappy, but rather I simply find myself on an incredibly unlucky streak of being let down by individuals who I thought were deeper and more complex than they actually turned out to be. It's not unusual, and it's not necessarily even a negative character trait, but it has thrown me for a bit of a loop. I'm not disappointed in any one specific person, but rather I'm simply frustrated on a broad level over certain scenarios and outcomes. 

I suppose the best way to summarize is that I'm tired of words. I've reached the point where I find myself hesitant to accept anyone at their word, not because I believe people are inherently inclined to break promises but simply because I seem to disproportionately bond with those of us who can't find a reasonable correlation between the two (meaning those very words and the deeds that become connected to our oaths and vows). People are worth trusting even when they haven't earned it or don't desire it, because none of us really earn or deserve trust. I like to think of myself as trustworthy, but I'm really not - I'm just a flawed animation like the rest of us. People have given me second chances that I rejected out of pride or a failure to accept humiliation and humility (which are both similar and vastly different attribues and experiences). 

People are exactly that - existential entities, with oddities, quirks, and boundaries. It's odd, but entirely predictable, to go through an extended stretch of bumps and missed connections. At the very least, you're a story.

I had a very death-filled day today.

Granted, that isn't really true. I suppose it is, but not in the context that sentence appears to suggest. I was doing some reading on the Olympics tonight, and it reminded me of the gut-wrenching documentary One Day in September about the 1972 Munich Massacre. I found that documentary on YouTube and was watching a portion of it, when I noticed one of the related videos was the 2006 film The Bridge, which studies the epidemic of suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge. I clicked on that video because I've seen that film before, and for some reason I watched it from beginning to end. 

Side note: the first time I watched that movie, I was sitting in the control booth at the theatre I used to run sound for, fighting over text messaging with my ex-girlfriend slash then-somewhat still girlfriend regarding a party we were supposed to go to. Holed up in the little crevice between the wall and the power amp rack, I would pause the film, sometimes with an individual in mid-jump, and send another passive-aggressive message trying to cling to something I knew was a waste of time and yet could not separate myself from. I would then resume the documentary until my phone buzzed a few minutes later. I'm not sure if I remember that fight because of the suicide movie or I remember the suicide movie because of that fight, but the two are irrevocably linked in my mind. 

Returning to this evening - I finished the movie, set down my computer, and decided to continue watching Scrubs (I'm currently making my way through season six). I figured it was a good way to relax my mind after randomly submitting it to multiple snuff films within heartbreaking interviews from those left behind. Naturally, the episode of Scrubs I watched centered on suicide and was not remotely funny for the majority of the twenty-two minutes it played. In the episode, a patient who the cast had grown attached to attempts suicide because he cannot return to the military due to his injuries. Naturally, each character then spends the rest of the episode introspectively pondering their own dark times and using that to relate to one another. Needless to say, it wasn't a pick-me-up. 

Suicide is a rough topic. I tried it once - I've told the story here, and it's just something I've learned to accept. I went through a period of time when I probably should have been receiving professional help for feelings for worthlessness and an inability to motivate myself for basic tasks. I quit a dream summer job eight days after leaving home because that battle came back, really fast and stronger than ever. If you think you're feeling worthless, try waking up to the Rocky Mountains. It doesn't help. Honestly, I'm not ever going to be completely convinced that I'm worth something, at least at every moment of every day. I think that's a commonality, to be truthful - from what I've seen, every human has a moment where they feel like a waste of air. 

Here's my point: it comes from faith and philosophy. The central teaching of Christianity (when not distorted and politicized) is sacrifice: living and making decisions not for personal well-being but because of others. On those darkest of days, I think of my family and the devastation I would cause for two brothers who I couldn't possibly be more proud of, and two parents who have given everything to help me accomplish even the smallest of achievements. Whether I deserve it or understand it, people care about me. That's a responsibility that cannot be taken lightly. When you kill yourself, you're not hurting yourself - you'll never understand what you took away. You're devastating the people around you, who would give anything just to be the first stone on a path to recovery or stability. 

The philosophy of the cross isn't so crazy, then - we live for one another, both in life and whatever the opposite happens to be. Accomplishments and achievements are inherently defined by a population, as greatness is a manifest of rising above the crowd. We are meant to exist for one another, or we have no means to exist at all.

I was asked recently to identify the proudest piece of writing I've ever produced. Junior year of high school, my AP Lit class did a warmup exercise: we each pulled a random item from a bucket and were given five minutes to write anything we wanted. You could use the object as inspiration, or you could ignore it. My artifact was a Lord of the Rings movie stub, and in five minutes, I managed to capture something I've yet to repeat. It's a bit juvenile, and occasionally uses awkward phrasing, but it's me, plain and simple. Enjoy.

"One boy. One girl. Both aged at fifteen years, together for two months, three weeks, four days. She is calm, a little scarlet from the brisk winter air. She gently leans on his warm side, as his hand reaches twenty dollars into the ticket booth. She lightly teases him about his obsession for the broad landscapes of Mordor, but makes it all better with a light brush across the lips, spreading her warmth. 

Directly behind them stand two more people. One boy. One girl. Both aged at seventy-three years, together for fifty-two years, nine months and one day. She stands to his left, gently stroking his back and remembering him so long ago, when this movie first appeared, in the form of a novel. Smiling lightly at the youthful innocence in line before them, she takes his hand and follows one generation into theatre eight, to mix with the world and all those who share her partner’s love. Perhaps, she wonders, as her eyes find the young couple once more, this will be worth it after all."

I spent a lot of tonight trying to answer a question I've asked myself a few times. 

I'm not a perfect guy by any stretch of the imagination, but I like to think I'm pretty good at letting things go. People say tough things sometimes - they have bad days or get frustrated for a few seconds and make a mistake. Heck, sometimes people make incredibly hurtful decisions that last for days, weeks, or even months, and I try to teach myself that it's not worth judging someone's character based on a small sample size of the way they act. It's a lot easier to tell who someone is by how they treat you when you need them, and some people just naturally need unconditional support. One of my best friends has lied to me more times than I can count, but this person is also a rock of compassion and understanding in my life. They have earned the benefit of the doubt. 

Why, then, do I have no interest in giving this benefit to these two people, and really just one, who left my life a few months ago?

Allow me set the scene. It was a few years ago when these two people came to church and I bonded with both of them. One was more superficial; a friendship based on similar sports teams and occasional male stupidity. The other was more real; I found a friend who thought like I did and would listen unconditionally to my frustrations and struggles. It was a simple commonality centered on a mutual understanding that we were similar enough to trust each other, and they became like family. Their two young children were like siblings; I cannot possibly use words to describe how much I adore their beautiful daughter, who I held four days after she came into the world. 

There was one night in particular where I was over at their house until after midnight, just laughing and having an occasional drink as we killed hours on a meaningless Friday evening. The kids eventually went to bed and I got up to leave, because I'm not one to deprive a young couple of alone time without interference after a long week. I was told to sit down and stay awhile, because I was family. One of them went to bed soon after, and I spent several more hours just telling stories with the other, really learning who they were and sharing some memories from high school and personal insecurities that most people have never heard. It was special in its simplicity, because I'm not a guy who lets people in very easily. When I decide to trust someone, it comes after serious consideration. 

Here's the core of my problem: I don't have any patience for people who run away from life. We are naturally social creatures, and because of this, we form a network of support. Some friends are superficial, and other relationships are more cerebral. We have those deep, strong bonds because we need them; we aren't capable of doing everything on our own. Trust me, I try. When you build a network like this, with friends, family, godparents, and responsibility, and then you abandon it all without having the character to acknowledge the ramifications of your decision and how it affects this very web that you've spun around you, I find myself simply unable to care anymore. 

Last point: I have lived in this state and region for over twenty-one years. Do I identify with the midwest and consider it home? Yes, I do. But this place has made me who I am: independent, strong, intelligent, and damn proud of my individuality. It isn't perfect, and it's definitely not for everyone. But if you want to pull the pseudo-maturity card while bashing my church and the people who took you in as family while painting a smile on your face, be my guest. Just don't expect me to waste another second pretending you all were anything more than a phase.

President Obama officially voiced his personal support for same-sex marriage earlier this week, and naturally it sent the internet into a frenzy. Liberals (such as myself) praised him, conservatives bashed him, and opinions across the political spectrum were batted back and forth. As long as the discussion remains civil and educated on both sides, there's nothing wrong with healthy disagreement. 

There's been a specific vein of cynical criticism, however, that I can't help but take issue with. Some have suggested the decision was politically motivated, and I can see that point. Although it doesn't improve the President's re-election chances (and may very well hurt them), it's fair to say his evolution on the topic, at least in the public forum, was accelerated by the comments from Joe Biden and Arne Duncan. However, multiple commentators and closed-minded Christian friends of mine have suggested that the decision was entirely political and that his "evolution" was calculated for maximum political gain at every junction. To refute that, I want to offer my own personal story on how I evolved to my current position as a passionate supporter of same-sex marriage rights. 

It's important to understand that I'm an evangelical Christian. I've belonged to the Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod my entire life; we're the denomination that is always referenced at the end of articles about the ELCA as "the staunchly conservative wing of the Lutheran Church." I'm currently employed as a music leader at my home church of 21 years. (Naturally, the implied disclaimer applies here - my opinions in no way reflect those of my employer or the church, etc; they are simply my own and do not impact my work and any leading or teaching capacity I may serve in). For the majority of my life, I was in the category that same-sex marriage was simply not the way God intended marriage to occur, given that it was not capable of producing children and was forbidden in certain passages of the Bible. I have never once held an ounce of hatred or bigotry towards those who identify as gay, but I did not use to believe they should have the right to marry. I wrote as such on this very blog, back in 2007. The day after J.K. Rowling announced that Dumbledore was gay, I penned this sentence:

"I support gay people and their right to be gay; I do not support gay marriage, and never will." (10/21/07)

That was my simple and clearly stated position back in 2007; no hatred, but no support for marriage. At the time, two of my closest friends were either gay or bisexual, and I couldn't possibly care less. It didn't matter to our friendship in any way, but I just didn't believe marriage was meant for anyone besides a man and a woman. 

But you know what happened? I got older. I started to meet more people and take new classes in college, and challenging arguments to my position were presented on multiple occasions. I had respectful but heated discussions with people about why I held the position that I did, in that my faith should dictate public policy. You see, that issue right there was one I could never quite be comfortable with. I'm a liberal voter and a fan of a large, active government with a broad safety net, but I could never find myself understanding why the government needed to legislate a religious position. All the other arguments against same-sex marriage (mom and dad home, bad example, etc) have been shown to be propaganda and pseudo-science perpetuated by fear mongers, and so the only reasonable argument left was one of legislating religion in the government.

Eventually, I just woke up some random morning and decided that what I had been taught didn't make sense. I quietly began to change the way I expressed myself on the issue, and slowly become more comfortable being vocal in my belief that same-sex marriage was a legitimate right of homosexual couples. Over the last year, any lingering doubts about my evolution have been completely removed, and I have no hesitation speaking passionately in favor of such rights in public at this stage in my life. I'm proudly in favor of legalizing same-sex marriage throughout the entire country, and I do not see it as a state issue. I do see it as a civil rights concern, but also do not believe comparisons to the African-American civil rights movement are completely valid. Certainly, however, gay citizens are being denied the franchise of marriage, and I see that as discriminatory.

My point is this: my position evolved. It didn't change because anyone told me it should, but rather it changed because I came to one conclusion at one point in my life and a different conclusion a few years later. I was exposed to diverse perspectives, and I found myself more educated and enlightened towards the entire issue. I reevaluated my position, and I changed. It's not ridiculous or farfetched to suggest that the President, a human being just like you and I, couldn't have the same thing happen to him. For once, let's be sane and reasonable - if you disagree, do so respectfully and with a command of the facts, but don't call into question the integrity of the President because he went through an evolution process on a difficult and emotional issue. As a nation, we're better than that.

At the top of this blog, I have a conceited little blurb of ass-hattery proclaiming how I'm never getting a tumblr. (Side note - spell check doesn't tell me "tumblr" is misspelled. That's not ok). Look, I'll be honest; most of that is just rubbing in the cheap satisfaction and novelty points I like to take from being the last man standing on this bastian of middle school thoughts. Don't get me wrong - I love this site and everything it stands for; simplicity, functionality, privacy, and user respect. If any of the Xanga folk I've spoken with happen to read this, you're awesome. Keep doing what you're doing. But the reality of my personal experience is that this site hit peak popularity among my social circle somewhere close to summer of 2005. Since then, people have slowly abandoned their poorly punctuated musings in favor of newer and sexier offerings, and I can understand why (to a degree). Why stay on a social network that may not have the newest quirk or gimmick when you're not looking for a meaningful experience? In a strange way, I can respect that accidental honesty. 

The reality is that despite my best efforts, I've been to plenty of tumblr sites. Texts from Hillary was a masterpiece, and fuckyeahwestwing feels like visting an old friend. I'll occasionally poke around a close friend or casual acquaintance's site, curious for what their thoughts on life may be on that particular day or week. But see, there's the problem - I'll never find those things out. 

I'm going to make an incredibly random transition here to make a comparison that you're going to laugh at, but trust me; it won't make any sense. That's why I feel inspired.

Here's the simple truth: to our generation, re-blogging and awareness campaigns have become the same thing. 

Look at Tumblr for a second. Let me preface this by saying that there's nothing wrong with Tumblr. If it's how you express yourself, than put your heart into it and be passionate and expressive. You're an individual, and you get to choose how that individualism is broadcast to the planet. But Tumblr is centered around regurgitating content. You find something that you like and you let the rest of the world know that you like it. There are so many original artists on Tumblr, letting their creativity out in different ways, but for the average user, the site isn't about creation - it's about awareness.

That word has become so synonymous with our generation, and it makes me furious. I wish I had words for how much I hate the word awareness. Awareness is what our generation says so we can sit on our asses and tell other people we deserve their respect because we're doing our best to help out. Hard truth here - if you participated in Kony 2012, you literally did nothing. You actually made a negative contribution, because you took energy and enthusiasm and a passion to help (which is fantastic and amazing) and you wasted it on awareness. You refused to get original. You refused to use your hands and your voice for real work and real action, because we've convinced ourselves as a generation and as a group of young adults that we can't bring real change without sexy presentations and videos.

I've heard a lot of opinions, both positive and negative, about the Occupy Wall Street movements, and both sides have valid points. I think in some ways the protests were brave and in other ways they were comically inept. But you want to know why I got excited when I saw those protests? I got excited because it is the first example of our generation standing up with the proud tradition of American civil disobedience and screaming that the status quo is unacceptable. Look, if you think the status quo right now is respectable and strong, you're a blind fool. I support our current President, but don't think I've got rose-colored glasses glued to my face. (It would be illegal to drive anyways). Our generation has limited time right now to get our voice together.

That right there is why awareness is foolish. Yes, you often hear about awareness for breast cancer, and that's important. Awareness of something has its purpose, if you understand that awareness is to change what a week of being clean is to an alcoholic. It's a step, and it's barely past the first one. Awareness has to lead to unity, which must lead to commonality and purpose and drive and action. It is absolutely, without a doubt, unacceptable to claim that awareness is what makes a difference. We have been coddled and caressed and told that our voices matter, and they do. But they matter most when we use them not to defend our feeble attempts at movement, no matter how pure-hearted they may have begun; our voices matter when we let them speak for themselves. 

That's why I still write here, after all these years. My voice comes through on this site, from my immature thoughts back in October of 2004 to my angry rantings during numerous breakups to my struggles with self-worth and all the way through today - it's all me. It's who I am, and I'm damn proud of it. Every word, even the ones I don't agree with any more, is a word I embrace because it meant I was letting myself out. 

I'm nowhere close to the perfect example of someone who uses their voice, but I think this domain is a reasonably decent metaphor for a larger comparison that, as I promised, makes no sense. Let me close by trying to summarize in a simple way: good intention does not automatically beget good action. But action, of whatever kind, begets education. Education allows for change, and another attempt at action. It's a process that freed the slaves, ended Jim Crow, and god-willing, will bring about equality for all kinds of love in this country. 

We just had "May the 4th" and the world flipped a shit about Star Wars day. I found it obnoxious and overplayed, but there was a hidden treasure amongst the stupidity. (Side note: "Hidden Treasure amongst Stupidity" is now my autobiography title). I saw people frequently quote the classic Yoda line, "do or do not; there is no try." How perfect is that? Awareness is trying - by itself, it's useless. If you don't do something, you did nothing.

There it is right there, so I'll repeat myself to conclude: if you don't do something, you did nothing.

This is my first attempt to write an entry of semi-serious capacity on the Xanga iPhone app. I have 40 minutes to kill in the Writing Center and a head full of frustration, exhaustion, and general need for a long break involving the beach and no technology.

Here's the deal: I'm not going to pretend I'm having a great semester. I dislike or borderline despise the vast majority of my classes, and I can't seem to get healthy. The combination of allergies (which are particularly brutal this year), poor eating habits (usually due to a lack of options) and personal stress and frustration has led to a generally lousy mood. I alternate between loving and dreading my job, and summer holds only the promise of departures and more classes. I don't know when I'm going to take the LSAT, and I don't have room in my schedule to take the prep course I'd like to take. I look back at my GPA from community college and would basically give anything to make it dissapear so schools can't ask about those ugly semesters of Ds and Fs, with a few incompletes tossed in for good measure. I've built myself a bit of an obstacle course, and I'm struggling to figure out where I left the map to make it through.

I also keep looking back at one circumstance and wondering if I made the worst decision of my entire life. I'm certain it's just melodrama from a tired and overwhelmed guy, but sometimes it seems like more than that. It affects the way I interact with people, and it darkens my usually positive and optimistic outlook on something that used to bother me.

I can't pretend to understand what to do in a few situations right now, especially given that my common sense and my impulses are running in completely opposite directions. I've gotten really good at being logical and rational over the last few years, and yet all that training seems to be abandoning me right when I would find it most helpful. People often tell me to just shut off my brain for awhile - that's funny to hear. It just can't happen. Trust me, I've tried.

God, this is a load of whiny bullshit, right? Look; I'm incredibly blessed. I have a loving family, incredible friends, and a life ahead of me that is completely uncharted and full of unpredictability and uncertainty. That's a good thing, and I recognize that truth. The truth is that I'm a fairly simple guy in some respects, and this is one of them. I think about everything that happens to me, and usually I love that I'm that way. It allows me to find things in other people's lives that might not be visible at surface level. But sometimes it just gets a little heavy for myself, over-thinking and reprocessing every event and outcome. In the end, I've got so much to love and so many people willing to share life with me. I have nothing to complain about. But sometimes the simple things in life seem to weigh a little more than usual, and this is one of those times. Nothing is coming easy, and that makes everything seem like it's moving around me while I'm bolted to the ground.

In the end, I'll do my best to remember how much good each day holds, and I'll trust myself to figure the rest out as it comes along. I can live with that.