The Tense Timid Air Circles Around You

Timid people have no reason to treat people like they're lower than themselves. These timid people, stop conversations, flare out arguments, over what! What is so important in life that these people have such an uptight view on the world? How could you, after your mom has bought you a car, after your family has sent you to college, say that your family needs to get a grip on life. Say that your friends need to be better people. What have you done for people? What have you paid back that you've taken? You're the one who needs to get a grip on things.

We! We are the ones with actual problems, settled in the corners of fucked up situations. We were the ones that never got saved. We were the ones that never asked for anything, and worked tooth and nail biting our way through ever since we could stand. We were the ones that needed saving more than anyone else. Where was our ride home? Where was our dinner? Where was our money to go to college? Where was our computers linking us to the opportunities that came short in of walking distance? Where was our HOME? Where? We had nothing!

You timid ones tell everyone to piss off, fuck off, quietly jestering the fact that you have no friends. No social crown. You're just lightly playing the crowds only to someday realize, the only people who bow down to your self acclaimed life are pathetic artifial people who will say anything for you, do anything for you, love the fact that they are second to you, and kiss the floors your foot traces shapes. Those aren't real people. They're facilitations. Unimportant ghost. The real people, are having a good time, patting each other on the back, fucking around, and asking where everyone will be tomorrow. Why? Because they have a sense of humor. And they could make friends.

See, I tell a joke and you get offended then leave. And a tense timid air surrounds the room even without you there, as if you just farted.

But, when you come into a room, the circle sees you, and that same tense timid air surrounds the room.

I fuck with you because I know you can't take it. I fuck with you because you know you need the change. I fuck with you because everyone around you deserves it. I fuck with you because your too fucking uptight, and you really deserve to smile. I fuck with you because you need it.

I fuck with you because I want to, because I deserve to.

I fuck with you because it's soo easy.

lights off

In the evening when we come home we turn the lights off to save electricity.

At night, when we're sleeping, we turn the lights on to avoid getting robbed.

At Large

I wonder what I should do about Grace.

Grace. <<
She went into a relationship a few weeks ago. Now every so often I check back with her profile, I see updates on who she is. It depresses me. The truth is, I fell for her. Since the first day, since the time I walked up to meet her, thinking, this is the one I'm going to take it slow with. This is the one who's going to stay. She didn't.

Like most PUA's, and like myself, I held out for the girl. Called her voicemail, and waited. Talked to her online, made plans to meet, and waited. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. She fell off the map. I saw her almost every time I got online. And I beat myself up for this little short punk music listening girl. I beat myself up for all women I meet and fail with.

I should just delete her.

But I know I won't. I know I'll regret it.

When I look at my life moving forward. I know there will be places I travel. I don't know whether or not I'd choose to share those places with someone, or find those places of someone.

I removed Nicole this morning. She got into a relationship. I thought about what leaving her on there could do for me. Then I thought about what taking her off altogether could do for me. So I took her off.

It's not something I'm proud of doing. It's just something I need to do altogether. Not hold out for people.

What you see, is so much more.

I, and a few others, transferred to Ms. Mullen's class the day before she was going to give out the test in 7th grade. She said if the new students wanted they could take it for extra credit. I sat at home, took my biology book, and read the chapter twice that evening. I woke up and read it again. It was lunch. I stayed in an empty classroom and read the chapter again, outloud, just like the other three times. I was 2 points away from an A. Out of 30 something people who've been studying the same subject for 2 months, I managed to get a better score than most of those people within one evening and one morning.

It was sophomore year when we had to write a poem. I threw a bunch of 4 letter words together, with rhymes bluntly stabbed in places, hoping that they would work. I remember looking at my end product. I remember not feeling so great about it when I turned it in. The big deal wasn't that I made a terrible poem, it wasn't, in fact there was probably no way I could've done poorly on it. It was a poem. However, the problem was, that I thought I was so much more better.

I spent my whole freshmen year doing whatever I could to beat Shawn in Cross Country. Why, because I thought I was so much more better, and after pretty much one third of the season, I did. I just wanted to be better. I just wanted to be more. After my poorly composed poem I threw myself in the corner of every local library and dissected poetry from John Keats, Robert Browning, Pablo Neruda, Emily Dickinson. I read several books on the art of producing poetry. How to books. Vocabulary books. Poetry for Dummies. Vocabulary for Dummies. I would attempt to read The Count of Monte Cristo and never get passed the first few chapters because all I cared about was looking up every single word that I did not know. I read chapters on assonance, the use of repeating vowel sounds. Onomatopoeia. Paradoxes. Stuff no normal teenager with a life would actually embark on finding out unless they really had to. I, on the other hand, had no life.

After a long long intimate timid relationship with words, I gradually, but not easily, eased off of it. I remember reading my classmates essay one day. We were reading essays out loud and after I read a certain sentence, I asked her if she noticed that it rhymed with itself. I said the sentence outloud again. I don't remember the sentence, but I remember that one of the words that rhymed was "pregnancy."

It wasn't until 2 years ago when I took a college poetry class, that I finally realized that I was reading mostly all poetry wrong; pausing after each line as if it were a sentence when there was no rhyme scheme. My class of pencil pushing, eyeglass wearing, tight pants conformed classmates looked down on me as the "untalented jock." I still remember everyone's face, I still remember my teacher's face, when I pointed out the reoccurring sounds in a poem, and called it assonance. Everyone's face flooded with confusion.

I wasn't stupid. I was never stupid to begin with. Somehow how I just come off that way.

After I watched Mystery talk on Conan O'Brien. I drove to Barnes and Nobles everyday and read The Mystery Method, along with several books about etiquette. After Mystery Method, it was The Game. After The Game, after reading a lot of Classic Writings, I was supposed to read Sinn's Speed Seduction. But, someone showed me Magic Bullets, The Routines Manual, How to make friends and influence people. I never had time to write field reports. I never saw my early successes as much of anything. I only saw them as assignments.

There are things I failed poorly at. There are things I failed to excel in. Guitar. Starting a business. Getting a minimum wage job. With most of these thing I feel my intelligence hasn't flourished. My potential squandered. And having hyperthyroidism, a disease that increases your metabolism sometimes messing with my nervous system, isn't helping.

Tim Ferris said, "It is often times what you do, not how you do it, that is the determining factor. This is the difference between being effective, doing the right things, and being efficient, doing things well whether or not they're important."

I remember one of my colleagues wrote on his blog years ago that he writes essays for fun as a result to taking so and so's class. I remember because I bet he thought he was a really cool nerd for self validating himself. Well I write essays and no one I know in real time is here to see how smart I am. No one ever knew what I was capable of. Whether it be blowing up a middle school, or writing a stupid essay. Where's my validation? It's nowhere. I'm doing this for myself. That I could be married with the woman I want. The books that I write that I'm happy with. The songs that I compose that say what I meant them to say. And the broad hope that maybe, just maybe, I'm doing something right.

Within minutes

The girl you're talking to mentions she has a boyfriend.

Her boyfriend's an okay guy. You barely know him.

You barely know her.


Within minutes

Her friendship draws you in peacefully

Her thoughts of you are only those you imagined

She laughs, she plays. The slight details of her eyes

Scream innocent drops of saliva churning under your tongue.


I'm glad we left early tonight. I'm glad

I left early tonight. She'll find it time to fall asleep.

And it was always inevitable. It was already written

the way she'll hold her hand in his.