June 24, 2006
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Have
you seen people wearing phone earpieces throughout the day?
I sure have. And I've only, only seen them used by individuals of a certain race—African-Americans have begun sporting these stylish accessories as a sort of jewelry. I'm sorry but I've seen roughly a dozen peoples of black skin wearing these recently, alerting all they've got the newest (and most expensive) in cellular trimmings. Shit I saw like three black guys with these on today. Nonetheless I've designed a layout for some entertainment.
I'm not really happy about what I've created. It's not in good humor. It's racially offensive.
I feel that I can joke about this trend and the race-related points in good conscience. None of my friends would be offended by this and I hope you aren't either. Your reaction to this might be, "Oh yeah I've noticed that too" or it will make you feel uneasy. Either way I've created something possibly offensive that some of you will find interesting. From chrome rims and fried chicken, to 40oz malt liquor and afro picks, this is something I've noticed. I don't feel that I'm a bad person.
June 18, 2006
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I began freewriting with thoughts on Fast 'n' Furious 3: Tokyo Drift, and I soon found myself in the midst of a great essay reflecting my view on cars and personal strength. It's two pages. It's great.
The Fast 'n' the Furious : An Atypical Experience , My Musclar Appearance : An Introspective
June 16, 2006
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Dealing with It.
So I've seen most of my recovery—probably about 90% of what I'm left with for life—and I think I've done very well for reintegrating myself with most situations. I've brought myself up from fucking nothing, from a pathetic social nature, from a weak everything about me, which I try to keep in mind when finding trouble with something : bars on weekend nights. I've explored the Worcester party-scene enough lately but where I'm now turning away from this loud environment where 99.9% of patrons assemble around what I choose not to take part in. And the blarin' music doesn't help with any conversation.
I've gone to a few bars, just hoppin' bar to bar to bar, over the weekend, and now I'm very tempted to just stay home and do other shit—write, exercise, read—instead of mingling with many doing what I do not do in this unsuitable environment. My voice ain't so loud, and this dampers giving "daps" to my male counterparts and causes girls to feel uncomfortable when speaking close and them feeling a tickle on their vagina as per my lips brushing their ears. And I don't drink; I don't take part in a main feature of this scene; what reason should I have to enjoy hanging out at bars? What I enjoy are the danceclubs. =) I've basked in the glory offered by these organizations which unite men and women on a dark dancefloor with much simulated sex. And the volume isn't really a problem because my June hasn't yet said, "You want to what me?"
My self is very dependent upon situation and environment: I do perfectly fine in a quiet atmosphere where there isn't a group of drunk fucks provoking me, and I do absolutely wonderful when I'm spoonin' ass in a dark, quiet room. What doesn't mesh well with me is this: when I'm surrounded by intoxicated beer barons bumping into me while trying to entertain friends or whoever—that doesn't go over satisfactorily, and it's why I'm dealing, and it's why I'm not looking to go to bars or shit with my valuable time.
For sports, well, I don't play any sports, my friends aren't jocks in the least, and if I'm doing something athletic it's at the gym. Nonetheless I don't run all that quick or do so well at most sports. Yet my fit appearance garners a lot of respect independent from football abilities, so no problem there. I don't think you'll see me playing anything organized.
Driving, oh driving, how I miss ye! I've taken the Driving Therapy exam and passed with flying colors, thus I'm only hindered by the damn pigs from the court for any cruisin'. My reaction times and cognitive abilities have improved from their low. I'm not worried in the least about my workday driving abilities—although I've decided to not "cruise the strip" or "go on a hell ride" or whatever else involves automotive insanity on a packed boulevard of sweet cars. You won't find me doing that. . .
The one common thing I do for any "dealing" would be my fitness habit, as I regularly work with weights and cardiovascular training to create something better out of my body. At Gold's Gym I'm able to take a break from work and refine my sexy person. It's productive and it feels good, so what's the fuss? Also I've seen some of the classes offered—groups of people (primarily healthy women!) there for stretching and shit. They offer classes for spinning, abdominals, etc. and I picture myself there bumping elbows with those who care about their health, too.
So, dealing with it, I guess I do just fine. Productivity is my relief. Living well is my release. Bringing myself to such heights where I make you look weak is aiding me tremendously. And if you're now thinking, "Yeah that's overcompensation for ya!," well ask yourself this: Is your shit really so sweet where you can just take it easy through life; where you can rely on your looks; where you can fall back on a Regis Philbin personality; that you just do everything so well to begin with? It sounds like you should try some overcompensation. Because maybe you're not as wonderful as you think. Do me a favor and answer this: What are two things about your self—not your possessions—that make you better than others? Answer that. . . Quick. Okay I'll share : I'm stronger (with a far better physique) than each one of you, and I'm a great writer. Still searching? There are many people like me out there who make you look bad with the drinking, television, overweight, et cetera. And many people, who've seen disaster like me, notice all that they've been habitually doing wrong in their life, and they then change it all around. I'm really not the same person. By dealing with it, I've changed myself.
June 9, 2006
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Disaster Counselor.
On a weekday afternoon earlier this week, after many hours of lounging around the house naked and rubbing my dick on roommates' possessions, I thought, "Jeff since having seen disaster in your own life is there anything you can offer the world through what you've learned?" I thought, "Jeff you've done fuckin' marvelous after seeing the macabre—only demanding better out of yourself!—can you share your wisdom?"
I googled: "disaster counselor" and I got hits. It turns out those who've seen chaos, like me, could use a hand with "dealing." They must "come to terms." They are in need of solace. Those who lack my iron balls of machismo may be willing to pay for a man serving as a guide. I will be this disaster counselor! I'll teach my students that hitting bottom is a wonderful thing. I'll instruct them in viewing "everything happens for a reason." I'll prove to them that their dead spouse, coma ridden children, and extinct pets were only holding them back from great living and success. I will give them extreme confidence by instilling a belief that whatever disaster will result in glory.
My therapeutic techniques will be state of the art—and I plan to offer a book, a self-help book, for how to deal with disaster. I will grant survivors with a handbook of how to embrace any catastrophe: A Plan for Misfortune. Just you wait until the next 9/11—I'll have the public whimsical in their loss. I will have the sedentary crying, "BRING ON THE PAIN!" And in studying English now I'm preparing myself for a future of variability: author, counselor, etc. Jeffrey Marquis: The Disaster Counselor. I like the ring of that.
Can you embrace disaster?
CLICK HERE
June 5, 2006
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I ponder the Volunteer Aid.
I'm serious when I tell you I will lend a hand in years to come. Once I graduate from college with my degree of "English with a Concentration in Writing" I'll do something to gain some global perspective. It's a life-decision. I'm going to live an amazing life. That's my goal. While I won't make it as a Wall St. hotshot due to a damaged social finesse, I will certainly continue onward with the productive vigor within me. And while I won't make it as a public spokesperson, I'm shooting to see greatness through all that's fresh from having turned my life around.
That's all well and good but here I am promising you and myself that I'll be part of a great effort to help the needy in years to come. I feel like I've been given a second chance to live this life, and it would be a shame if I simply picked up where I left off. Look at my writing. Look at my sobriety and fitness hopes. And look at my attention to others—a big part of any humanitarian effort. I once viewed life in terms of dollars and luxury (lusting after cars), but that selfish and money-hungry me is no more. If anything I've reversed my previous ways so fucking radically with a desire to help out replacing my Scrooge mentality.
Now girls, which evidently frolic in my head often, I expect to meet a woman who tickles my testicles just right immediately before graduation, thus breaking my plan to go somewhere foreign. And that's great. It's just fine because love comes first in my life—although my plan would be kaput if the bond between this beautiful girl and I led to *gasp* marriage. If so, wonderful. That's just great because love and development are important enough to cancel any help-the-poor experience. This idea is only viable if I'm single! If this sweet gal isn't graciously bestowed the prestigious title of Mrs. Marquis, well, I'll then do this thing later in life when not much is going on. So no problem there. My plan expects the unexpected. I'll only carry out this thought if I'm working a replaceable job, with no woman by my side, and generally bored with life. (As maybe I see things developing. . .) But how much time will I give to this great cause? Eh, I don't want to be away from you guys for too long. . . so maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months, TOPS. You can see I'm not really into the idea of it. I'm not feeling it, but I know what I must do. I don't want to give up the chance to repay a spiritual debt.
And I ask you, please, don't think I'll be some hippie running around the world to feed the poor and who's given up a nice life to sleep in foreigners' huts. I'm not that "good." A large part of me is thinking this will look awesome on a resume. It's a big experience in life. Isn't that what life should revolve around—what we have to report from? Or what others take an interest in? It's why I'm an avid participant; not a spectator like what I see in those who sit in front of televisions wasting their lives.
There I go bashing what I consider pointless,
but don't you see just what I mean when I tell you the hands-on shit in
life is what's really important; that the cars you've owned isn't what
you'll look back at upon dying; that higher cost doesn't necessarily mean
greater value for what life has to offer? I'm looking to live a life of
experience. . .and perhaps I'll snag some global familiarity with volunteering
if the conditions are right.
And we have Writing in June. Or
. . .continue with May.
