Thud, honk, beep, gong. IT’s the beat of the drum. It’s the tick of the clock. It’s the cockin’ back of the glock.

Boom, bang, fire, shoot. It’s the whistling’ of the mortar. It’s the kick of the rifle. It’s the PING that signifies contact with the target made of three brass bars, and the scream that comes after.

Tick, Tock, Flash, Ring. It’s the typing on the keyboard. It’s the thunderous boom of the lightning. It’s the tears of terror falling into a pool of alluring mist on an Alfred Hitchcock movie that’s so frightening. The human race is obsessed with it. It is something that we can not control. It is something that we can not smell, feel, or taste. We can only see it or hear it. The changeover from red to green on a stoplight, the proclamation of acceptance of a product on a barcode scanner, this it the phenomenon that we know of as the beating heart of life.

Mother Nature, Jack Frost, and Fther Time. These are all examples of our obsession with it. Why are we so obsessed with something that we have no control over? The truth tis that our obsession exists as simply nothing more than a fear.

Knowing this, it is obvious as to the reason of why. If one was to pick up a health text book in a modern day health class, then they could easily find where the book says that one of the most common fears in life is the fear of the unknown.

This fear, however, differs from the fear of the unkown. We know what we are obsessed with is. It is it. We know it exists. The only thing that we do not know is when it will happen.

Some may notice that “when it will” is the future tense of happens, and that “when is does” is the present tense of happen. This brings a conclusion onto the fact that we are not really afraid of this beating heart when it is beating, but we are afraid of the fact that we can not determine when it will next have beaten.

It is what? The beating hear of life. It is when? Just time for someone to wake up to the sound of their alarm clock. It is whop? The man, constantly lurking in the shadows, that steps in the puddle. It is where? On the banks of the coast of Normandy, where the machine guns constantly howl for freedom.

It is why? For variety, for sameness, for music. If we as a species lived in a world where the beat was the same, where we were in control, would that really be as good of a world as we live now? Would you still hold that opinion if you were to travel to Darfur?

We know so much about it, yet it is still a mystery. We can always wonder about it, but in the end, all we really will conclude to, is the fact that it does happen.

Thud Honk. Beep. Gong. Hault. Boom. Bang. Fire. Shoot. Screech. Tick, Tock. Flash… Ring.

A Change of Heart

As recently as yesterday, I was wallowing in my depression.

I know, you’re an asshole and you don’t want to hear about my problems. Well, I’m not talking about my problems here, am I you orange-cockdick-palm-oil-loving, hypocritical cunt?

Sorry for that outburst. Seriously, it’s people like you who make me think there is no hope for the world. And now I’m one of you. I hate myself, because I am you, and I hate you.

And I have decided that this is enough of that. Enough of that miserable depressed bullshit. I was of the mindset that I was going to leave politics forever, because it was politics that made me so depressed.

Then I was listening to the song “SMILE,” by K’naan yesterday while I was driving home on the freeway and I had a good long listen to the lyrics. Whereas before I had been hearing the lyrics about how life is all just violence and terror, I had never really been hearing the main idea of that song. The crux of it.

The idea of that song is basically JUST SMILE. No matter what is happening. I don’t think I ever knew really what that meant when I first heard the song when it came out. But now, I think I do.

I think I’m going to go back to university and back into political science because I want to help change the world. That’s the reason why I declared as a Political Science student in my Freshman year, and as a member of the program in my Sophomore year. I wanted to help change the world. Only now, after having sunk down the hole, I know that I will never give up until I get that degree. I will never give up until I am digging toilets with my own two hands for villages that need them, until I am getting a traffic light built in an area that needs it, until I am taking big money out of politics, until I am myself standing in the capitol building talking for twelve hours about drones.

That still doesn’t stop me from being a lazy fuck. I just hope that I never have to go back on my principles.


The dog’s licking his balls again. Well, he’s been fixed for quite some time so I have no idea what he’s doing down there – but it annoys the hell out of me. Lot’s of things annoy me these days.

My family annoys me. My friends annoy me. My country annoys me. This entire fucking planet annoys me. I have lost my faith in humanity.

Being a DC insider has made me understand time and again that there is no place in the world for wishful thinking. Idealists get shot. Or drawn and quartered in front of the entire world on live 24-hour news coverage.

The cycle repeats itself over and over and over again. Good people sometimes come, they give us hope, but then you see them for who they really are. Behind the 6 centimeter thick blue curtains of the press room, oozes a culture of corruption and greed and general devilishness.

I hate it.

So I have retreated to a place far into the woods where no one can find me. I have severed all of my ties to the outside world but a precious few and, of course, those that cannot be severed by distance.

I have removed all of the distractions of what is “important” for others and have decided to focus on myself and my own well being. But my ghosts still haunt me. I think, above all of the disdain that I have for this world, the worst of my dissatisfaction is in my own self. I think I hate myself. I’m not sure though.

I know the dog doesn’t like me. Every time I walk up to it, it gets that look of fear in its eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. I don’t know.

To justify their immoral actions, smart people find reasons that were never there to begin with. Nobody is the wiser, and in fact those around them will extole them for their genius. Only you, and it eats away at your soul like acid rain.

I think I’m rancid. On the inside, of course. Not the out.

On the outside, I’m still a dashing handsome narsicistic political analyst and creative humorist.

Minding It

DISCLAIMER: This post is either slightly or extremely vulgar, depending upon the width of the relativity field which emanates from the gyroscope that is your mind. If you are put off by that sort of thing, then might I perhaps suggest something a bit more pleasant: cat videos.

It completely boggles me, bewilders me, befoggs me, to hear incredibly intelligent individuals who get stupidly/absurdly good grades at University claim that they don’t mind school. This, I have come to understand, is complete bullshit.

Of course they mind it. They mind it about 2.0 something’s more than someone who receives grades that are less than savory. They mind it like one would mind the gap, or mind the pointy spears at the bottom of the gap, or mind the boiling hot oil that is being poored upon them from above as they make their way across said gap in order to penetrate an impenetrable object or pregnate the impregnable or even on the rarest of occasions: possib the impossible.

But how much does one, anyone, mind school?

Human beings are instruments which require complex and simple systems of measurement to go about the rest of their lives measuring things.

One often finds themself when alone measuring random and seemingly unconnected things, like the size of their financial accounts and investments, the amount of Cheerios in a bowl, the amount of cookies in a jar – with the lid on and with the lid closed – or the color of Shrödinger’s Cat’s fur, or indeed whether or not it had fur at all. Did the car even have a name? What would have happened if you had put a piece of buttered toast right-side-up underneath the box? Would you have created the very first uncertain antigravity generator? This, as would be known to the vast multitudes that study the art of the Internet meme if indeed they have thought of it yet, to rival the simple antigravity generator which is achieved by putting a cat [which always lands feet-first] atop a piece of toast [which always lands buttered-side-down].

One can also quite often find himself measuring the size of his penis, and wondering how big that asshole Keegan’s penis actually is, or if his girlfriend is just lying to him when she tells him that size doesn’t matter and that she’s not actually cheating on him.

Perhaps more often than that, one can find herself measuring the size of her breasts, wondering why one hangs just slightly lower than the other one, or whether they are indeed at the age of 20 going to grow any larger. Or one might find herself measuring the size of other girls’ breasts – as they are rather more visible than male genetalia, and therefore far more stress-inducing – and comparing herself to them, wondering how Stella’s got so fucking big as if overnight. Stella says they’re real, but you never know about that girl.

So, you see, one can find themself at the mercy and whim of whatever measurements that humanity has deemed necessary to continue in its ridiculous attempt to classify the world.

In the case of whether or not one minds anything at all, or rather minds nothing at all, the measurement is difficult to come by. One can say, for example, that the degree to which one minds something is in the scores and marks that they receive throughout their natural life. If one receives a gold medal at a horse race, does this signify that the contestant minded the affair? Or does it signify that the horse minded it? This is entirely unknown, because the word of a horse jockey is about as reliable as the broken arm of an armchair in a sex dungeon.

In the case of whether one minds school, one could say that the GPA, or Grade-Point-Average, is a significant and time-honored measurement that accurately predicts how amazing someone will be in the marketplace beyond the confines of the University.

This is also, in my humble opinion, complete bullshit. But it is a measurement of something. I don’t exactly know what- and I’m not sure that anyone, anywhere, knows exactly what it is that the GPA is measuring. I mean… really measuring.

We can go along in our lives pretending that GPA actually matters at all. If this is what sort of person that you’d like to be, then you can go party with those assholes standing around the water cooler at the Bush Center laughing and secretly lying to themselves and the world about how they didn’t mind school.

However, if you prescribe to the idea that the GPA is an extremely antiquated form of measurement which is entirely inaccurate as to the intelligence of the individual in question, then join me in becoming one of the few people who actually can admit that they do mind school.

I may not care for the concept of GPA, and I may get absolutely poor, shitty grades – but I do mind it.

Once again…

Once again, I am left alone; to discover ever wider discrepancies within my Kingdom of Introspection. Beyond the typified amalgamous carnival freaks and gong-crashing circus monkeys that normally dance across the awoken torment of my imagination, my mind is presently occupied with the vital, critical task of disseminating what sort of extracurricular transcontinental paradigm shifts that have fallen atop of my weakened resolve like falling pianos over the past week.

     amalgamous [adj.]: aimlessness belonging to those who are stereotyped and who work for the carnival or circus, esp. circus freaks.

My mind right now is a cluttered mass of dump files strewn across the motherboard that is my brain. For all of you out there who can’t seem to semantically differentiate the mind and the brain, I’ll give you a hint. The mind is the operating software to the the brain, which is the computer.

I log into my mind and attempt to decode certain files, but I haven’t got the right cypher. Perhaps I haven’t gotten the right scripts… or applications. The little bits of information that I have managed to gather over the past week or so sit there in black boxes on a giant shelving system. That shelving system is only as big as it needs to be, because honestly I am afraid to spend too much time in there because my files are backlogged. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a picture of the backlog at the Department of Veterans Affairs, loose-leaf papers overflowing from bankers boxes creating cardboard mansions for house mice and little people.

That’s kind of like what my mind shelf looks like right now.

I know that it can be hard for some people to understand this shit. You say to yourself “I don’t understand this shit,” and then you leave. But on the way out, many of you ignorant asses leave the door open. In so doing, you have created quite a bit of a draft.

Now, I have to go pick up the certain papers which have managed to find themselves lying on the floor a few hundred feet away from the boxes that they belong in. Damn it, this file right here that I have just picked up is a bit of information from the State Department – I have to make sure that I put it back in the right box. Which box was that in again?


What I really hate is when I stay up sorting the shelves till the sun comes up, and the janitorial staff comes in. Some tiny asian lady says “OK, we clean now,” in that stereotypical asian lady accent that you think should belong to a South Park character. And then a bunch of janitors turn the lights on and start cleaning the ever most remote recesses of my mind. The nerve of those fucking janitors. I have to run around my intro-archives grabbing files out of their hands, and the trash can by the door, making sure that nothing incredibly vital or critical is lost to the bureaucratic system of the janitors from hell. Before I am able to get to them, however, a few names and dates fall through the cracks in the bottom of the trash can into the fiery pits of an incinerator below. After a few minutes I shout at the janitors to get lost.

“Get out of my head, you miserable sods, I can clean up my own fucking mess!” I shout.

And then they leave, leaving me once again to stare at the vast and innumerable files that are sitting in the giant boxes off to the left labeled “unsorted.”

Those of you few who may still be reading this may be asking yourself right now: “This is your brain, and your mind, isn’t it? Why don’t you get a better filing system?”

To which my response is: “If you lived in this head for even a fraction of a second, your universe would explode around you, and the very fabric of your own existence would de-thread and rip down the seams. Eventually, all you would be is a pile of spaghetti noodles on the floor. So shut the fuck up and let me do my own introspection.”

Immediately following that would come a lengthy apology, most likely via the internet, that would include a sworn statement from me that said that I do not prescribe to any form of elitism and a note from my clinical psychologist in which he told my I wasn’t actually a narcissist.

Some of the files in my brain are completely useless. Some of them are completely and absolutely essential to my existence. Some of the files in my brain are just filler. But it is my goal over this Thanksgiving break to actually sort through at least a few of them, and put them into their respective collective boxes. It will be difficult, but I am assured that it can be done.

I just have to avoid learning anything.

So, This is College?


Sometimes there are stories that we really do not want to write. Sometimes these stories plague our dreams and haunt our days. They remind us, chillingly, of the fragility of the human condition – especially of our own insecurities.

I am a decent human being. At least, I would think so. I struggle to live. I struggle to survive in this cold and crude world just the same as everyone else. But I am, as it is often pointed out, only human.
And being only human, I can not possibly articulate the position of every single atom in the universe relative to this dimension in space and time – thus I cannot predict the future. In my inability to predict the future, I am also unable to predict the consequences of certain actions that I take.

Let’s cut straight to the chase, because that’s the only way that I can think of to open this article: on Friday, October 10th, I moved into an apartment complex on campus after five / six months of living in my car. After having settled comfortably into my new living space, I feel more comfortable in having conversations with others about my recent precarious predicament and the unmeasured stress that resulted.

I am not here, now going to delve into the reasons of why I found myself living in the back of my Subaru. The fact is that I was. And it wasn’t pleasant. For showers, I used my gym membership at the University Recreation center. For food, I petitioned University Dining services for a meal plan while I wasn’t attending school.

To occupy my time, I spent my waking hours looking for jobs. Every day, for months, I would walk the four blocks up to the campus of Western Washington University – where I was enrolled to attend Fall quarter – and attempt to live out some semblance of a decent life. I would use the on-campus equipment every day to keep up with the wide world of job hunting. Computers, printers, photo copiers. Over this period of time, I applied to well over 50 separate jobs – I had callbacks on a few, interviews on a few more – but I never did get a job.

For entertainment, I watched movies and television shows on the internet. I would display them on the giant projectors at my university. Each classroom at my university is equipped with a full media block; PC, DVD player, VHS player, laptop cable, HDMI cable, microphone jack, and projector.

That is, until school started. Mind you, the majority of time that I lived in my car was during the spring and summer, while I was on “leave” from the University. When school started, I was still living in my car, but I would alter my schedule from going straight to the computers to apply for jobs – and I would head off to class.

Another thing. I did travel a little during this time. Since I am in the National Guard, I have commitments to make sure that I wind up at the Armory every month. My government commitments also found me in Washington, D.C. a couple of times (remember, military flights are free for me). So, I was not completely hopeless.

But living in my car has taught me a few extremely valuable lessons. I am still trying to exactly define what they are. Perhaps one day, I will write a book about it.

Staring at the Pointed Star

I’ve stared at many walls in my lifetime.

In fact, I do believe that I’ve also written a blog post that opened with a scene of myself staring at a wall.

It’s not that I’m fresh out of ideas – those come to me like water down a drain pipe. And so do the words to equivocate them upon people like you. I’m not in trouble as a writer.

I just realized that I have spent more time in my life staring at shit than I have done doing shit. Random, lifeless and inanimate objects.

Not the Television screen, albeit Ray Bradburry, in Fahrenheit 451, alludes to it as a giant talking wall – which it essentially is.

A chair on the side of the road. A desk in an empty office. The floor of a hotel lobby. The ceiling of my bedroom. An empty podium.

In this instance, I’m staring at another wall. This time, however, the wall is slightly different. There are words on this wall. Government words. Secret words.

And that fucking eagle.

I swear, if I ever see that Eagle in the next plain of existence – we will be having serious words. Until then, I have to sit here and wait.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Did that Eagle just laugh at me? I swear that eagle just tilted back its head and laughed. It laughed so hard the freaking aliens must’ve heard it.

I do sense a great lack of giant alien space rays and teleportation in this room though.

Maybe the Eagle didn’t laugh at all. Maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe deep within my consciousness I created a scene to help stave off the boredom of government that seems to have accrued within my psyche over the last seven years – if only for a brief and terrifying moment of excitement.


Check my watch. Has it already been 15 seconds? Man, time sure flies around here!

Check the magazines littered across the coffee table; VICE, GQ, Time, and Life. All wonderful magazines. Oh, look at that! They’ve even got a copy of Ranger Joe’s catalogue here.

15 minutes.

I’ve been thinking about getting that pair of sunglasses for the field. Oakleys are just too expensive for my paycheck.

1 hour.

VICE always has something interesting to say about the absurdity of the modern human condition. I wish they’d just hire me already.

1 hour, 45 minutes.

As the analogue clock on the wall slowly revolves in its infinite loop of nuclear weight measurements, so does my knowledge gained from popular waiting room magazines.

Eventually, I’ve read every interesting article in the bloody place. No cell phone in this place. No laptop. They took those at the door.

At this point, I’ve given up on waisting my time with keeping the time. Time after all, when stuck in a windowless box, is relative and entirely irrelevant. If it weren’t for that rotating wheel of fortune – made by the blind – on the wall above the door, I wouldn’t even know what time it was.

As for my sanity – well who’s really sane in this world anyways? I bide my time by ripping off the back pages of Men’s Health – a magazine I know that no one in this office will ever read, and drawing caricatures and playing tic-tac-toe with imaginary people.


So, this is boredom? Complete and utter inanity of activity.

The time passes. Oragami cranes are constructed. Paper planes are flung.

Hmm… there are thirteen points in that star, right? There’s a name for each one of those too. I think.

Snow falls. Icicles form.

Scenes from my past pass through my mind like gallstones through my bladder.

Snow melts. Flowers bloom.

Finally, after a sorted amount of time fading in and out of dream state, my eyes begin to droop closed. My head begins to fall.

“Excuse me?” a voice asks.

My head pops back up. I glare at this woman dressed in all black who has come into my world and totally turned it upside down. Again. I feel hung nearly over.

“He will see you now.”


Mom: Don’t Read This

MOM: don’t read this.

In the beginning of one of my favorite movies of the modern decade, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, there is a scene that a lot of people seemed to have missed. In this scene the main character, Walter, is doing something that is extremely important to anyone that travels – he is balancing his checkbook.

I, however, do not have that sort of cash on hand.

I should be in Africa. I should be on the other side of the world. I should be working with the Vatican on strategies to best work and open dialogues with Villa Somalia, and the Puntland, Juba, and Somaliland administrations. I should be working with my journalism contacts on the ground to rebuild Somalia’s public image here at home.

I should be, but I’m not. Instead I’m here in cozy Bellingham, Washington trying to get a job.

It’s boring. And not being able to sleep on a real bed every night is a bit of a drag after awhile. But I’m young, I can do this.

My hair is turning grey. Literally. I have about as much grey hair as my father did when he was forty – and he lived in a school bus for twelve years.

I’m broke. This much I already knew.

But something happened to me the other night that made me realize the full gravity of my situation as I had not seen it before – I realized that I’m also homeless.

I was living better than this when I was in the fucking jungle. At least there I was given MREs and field chow, and I got to sleep on a mattress. It was a really shitty mattress, but right now I’d give anything to be back there.

Right now, I’m struggling to find the basic necessities like FOOD and A SHOWER.

The only place that I’m getting any sort of solid income from is the National Guard, and it’s not that much. This isn’t a plea or a cry for help – it’s a warning to all of you who haven’t been balancing your checkbooks. Don’t do what I did.

Miley Cyrus called me lame

Another party I’ve missed. Another dance club I’ve walked past. Another foamy wet-tee shirt experience that I’ve chosen to ignore.

Who gives a flying fuck? At this point, I could care less about getting grinded on by loose girls or kissing random strangers or getting drunk out of my mind.

That life isn’t for me anymore.

I’m a better man – at least that’s what everyone from my past keeps telling me that I should be. Better than I was before… better than I am now. Better than they ever were or will be.

Just… better.

It seems a far cry from what I was being told five years ago – before any of the trivial bullshit of my recent past ever happened. Back then, it was my sole mission in life to marry a supermodel and live in a penthouse in New York City.

I sure have had an epic character development. Keep reading my blog, I might tell you more about it.

A single Conversation

09 MAY 2014

A single convo with a lady in Starbucks named Nan covered the following subjects. As a result, my brain was tired:

*Babies and Overpopulation
*One Child Policy
*Cancer treatment
*Fluorides in the water supply
*Chinese global interests and rise to the greatest nation in the world
*Great leaders only come around once awhile
*My generation
*Political Science
*International Relations
*Violence and anamalia
*Bill Clinton
*Political campaigns and greed
*Politics and corruption
*Abuse of power
*Diamond chemical / Agent orange
*Violent religion
*War and peace
*Washington, D.C.
*Great expectations for my future
*Mental breakdowns and burnouts
*Depression due to knowledge of international events