The Art of Nixing Negativity

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Pessimism is sometimes seen as a highly held virtue. To some, it is a reserved strength that eases the bitter pain of disappointment by avoiding the perceived pitfall of hope. How can one be hurt by a negative outcome if there was no expectation for anything better? Although this may be a safety net for some, I do not want the training wheels to limit my speed.

You might not fall off of a bicycle with training wheels on it, but you won't be able to fully enjoy the experience of riding either. It is safer to assume that things won't happen, but where is the joy in that? How can someone enjoy their life if they believe nothing good will come of it? I'd rather ride full speed ahead on a bike and feel the pain of a nasty wreck than to gently caress the road with my tires and be safe.

I do understand the pain of falling though. A crushed dream is one of the most painful experiences in life, and it causes many to lay out a safety net in order to avoid being hurt again. I tried putting out safety nets in my own life, but the self imposed restriction was a lot more discouraging than the possibility of failure. This restriction meant to keep myself safe from harm managed to hurt me more than if I let myself ride in the freedom I was born with.

Instead of looking at the wrecks I've had in my life and dreading the possibility of failure, I decided to take a different approach. What if I looked at failure as an opportunity to improve? No one ever went up to Tony Hawk and said "You fell off of your skateboard. You need to go do something else." Even if they did, he probably would've looked at them like they were crazy and kept practicing.

If he fell off of his skateboard, he'd look at the board, what he did when he fell, and then adjust. He might have shifted his feet a certain way, or adjusted the speed of his kick to flip the board differently, or a variety of other methods I am not familiar with. I'm not a skateboarder after all. I'm a writer.

We look at practice as a means of reaching perfection, yet when it comes to dreams and hope, we see failure as an indicator of a permanent, lifelong sentence. If Michael Jordan missed a shot during a game, which he did, his coach wouldn't kick him off the team and force him into retirement. Yet, we never think of Michael Jordan missing a shot do we? We never think about all of the hours of practice he put in where he missed the basket entirely, or dropped the basketball, or tripped over his own feet. It's a funny image but I can guarantee you he probably experienced all of those at some point in his life.

So why are we different? Well, because I think we assume that success is something that comes naturally for some people, who were born for it, but not for the average person. A lot of people today look at their lives in bitterness because they didn't get to do what they were born for, and look upon successful people in envy because they were "privileged". Some people do have an easier life than others, but where you start does not determine where you end up. A person with no ambition or dreams could be born in a rich home and die homeless, while a person who has nothing can overcome it all and become a successful entrepreneur. The difference between these two people is in their perspective. It's like the old phrase, "what you see is what you get".

I believe that if we look at our lives with the expectation for success, yet with the adaptability and wisdom that can help us deal with failure, we will enjoy life. If we have the courage to stand together, encourage each other when we are feeling down, and help each other to become the men and women we were born to be, we can fully enjoy the life we were given. Life is not about successes and failures, but about what we do when we experience them. There is no avoiding failure, but it's easy to leave success behind.

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The Measurable Malice of Midnight

Photo Credit: Marie Higgins

Candlelight flickers in the cold, dark room as I sit in bitter isolation. Outside the wind howls through the trees and I shudder as I look down at what I must do. There's a strange power one feels in the night when alone. A slight tingle crawls through the skin as you sit and ponder your next move.

I start to carve a symbol into the remnants of a dead tree, being careful to make sure each curve and jagged edge is near perfection. One mistake, and the power is gone. One mistake, and all of my efforts are wasted. The squeaky application of the pink soot is only a temporary solution to a deeper problem. It may remove the marking on this archaic document, but it will leave a smudge to remind me of the sloppy imperfection of my ways. Yes, I shall learn quickly. My life depends on it.

Each ancient symbol has been passed down for generations, and their writings are a passage into adulthood. Without the necessary skills in penmanship and concentration, one cannot hope to conjure up the expected result. That result is required to become a man, and to live in the society that I call home. I shutter as I think of the possibility of failure. My eyes glance at the candle as it flickers back and forth in a fiery dance. It seems like the little flicker of flame is having more energy than me at the moment, but I must not let it distract me. This problem is more important.

Trails of black dust start to form recognizable shapes beneath my trembling hand. Each symbol has a special power when cast by a trained student, and I had become familiar with them all. By etching a black X into the tapestry, I am able to increase things greatly in size. This is a very important skill to use, since the crossroads rune (which looks like +)  is only helpful to a certain extent. When it comes to bigger problems, one should not attempt to reach a solution using the crossroads. Instead, the X is better used to summon a larger being. 

My long, black cloak lightly grazes the floor as I outstretch my arms in a glorious yawn. I had put it on earlier that evening after standing under the waterfall. It was very refreshing. The chair I sit in feels cold against my bare feet, but I don't care. Finishing up this assignment is far more important. I'll warm my feet up under the covers of my nice warm bed when I'm finished.

During our rigorous training, we were taught how to give to others, to multiply the fruits of their labor through our ancient arts. Many people smiled as they saw the results of our work, and what it could do for them in short and long term. But what of those who wish to reduce their load? Or divvy up the spoils among comrades?

When these times come, we have solutions for them as well. By combining a mixture of the dash and slash forms, we are able to slowly reduce or greatly diminish whatever they ask for. This can be used to help our allies or harm our enemies, but in my particular study we were taught to be pacifistic with our power. There's no reason to start a war over the wagging of a tongue, my professor always used to say. Instead, let their own tongue get them into trouble and reveal their foolishness. I always smiled at the thought. I've never seen anyone stick their tongue out and wag it around, but my professor was grey bearded and knew more than me so I listened. He was wise and whimsical, but there was one thing that worried me. What if I did not pass?

I'm supposed to have these mysteries solved by morning, coming up with answers to problems no one ever had. It seemed like foolishness but I knew there was a purpose. It gave me practice for when the power really had to be put to use. If I did not finish these problems by midnight, I would be in trouble, and may not pass the training I paid to enter. The price would be far higher the second time around, and I did not want to face the consequences of being left behind.

Sweat dripped down my tired brow as I continued to carve out new symbols and smile as each solution was reached. Success was a few moments away as I felt the tingling of nervous exhaustion creeping into my moving hand. Don't give up now, I thought to myself as my eyes tried to close shop early. I always hated it when my eyes wanted to go to sleep before the rest of my body. It made focusing really inconvenient.

When I finally finished brewing over the problems, I laid down my number two wand and sat in relief. My breath was shallow as I took another yawn. Rain pattered the outside window as I glanced at all of the hard work I had accomplished. Although the victory was sweet, there was one important thing I learned.

My mind wanders to strange places when I do math homework during a power outage. 

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An Awkward Amount of Cereal

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I'm a man of exquisite taste. When it comes to my cereal, I look upon the lavishly colored boxes as a sign of personal status and luxury. Every morning I come downstairs, I open up the pantry and take in the beautiful sight of the fashionable foods sitting neatly on the top shelf. This is the life, I think to myself as I pull down the box that I am currently working on.

See, according to breakfast etiquette, one must not switch boxes of cereal while they are only half-way consumed. Doing so represents a lack of discipline and commitment to the cereal you proclaimed would be yours to cherish once you opened the plastic seal. If you leave a box of cereal, only to feast your eyes upon another, you have broken trust. No one trusts a man or lady who eats out of more than one box at a time. If one cannot stay true to the box they have ripped apart for pleasure, then they mustn't put forth the effort to remove that box from it's kind, gentle resting place of wholeness that it once held.

There is nothing more depressing in the kitchen than to see a half-eaten box of cereal neglected by it's impatient owner. Now, there is one exception to this rule that I find it necessary to address at this time. If there is more than one member of your household who enjoy the pleasant sensation of consuming cereal, then it is within their right to eat a different box of cereal than you. If you enjoy the magically delicious marshmallows crafted by the hands of a lucky leprechaun, but another family member does not share your sentiment, then he or she may indulge in the cinnamon twisted flavor of a well toasted square. This is indeed acceptable in the eyes of breakfast etiquette.

But, every once in awhile, there is an awkward dissonance between the universe's alignment and the contents of your cereal bowl. You should endeavor to plan out your meals so that the final breakfast is a special occasion. It should be treated in the highest regard, as you pour out the remnants of that once full box of delicious, crunchy meal into your milk filled bowl. The finely ground powder at the bottom of the bag represents the swan song of a once beautiful relationship between the breakfast connoisseur and their subject of interest. This wonderful interaction can last many mornings, or only a few, depending on the appetite of the consumer, but no matter the length of time, the farewell powder is a sign of the end.  After embalming the subject, by taking the plastic bag out of the colorful husk, they send the cardboard corpse away. Some even hold services for the empty cardboard box that once held their morning companion, and then throw it away into the recycle bin, so that it can enjoy life in the hereafter as another box of cereal for someone else to cherish.

I personally have never held a service, but if you are inclined to that sort of ritual, that is your prerogative.  Now that my mind has wandered off the beaten path a bit, let us attempt to reconvene and refocus. The departing of a loved box of cereal is not the awkward moment I attempted to bring up previously. It's a normal part of life and is expected unless you never finish a box of cereal in which case you are wasting a lot of good life experiences and the hard work of everyone who helped bring the box to your undeserving kitchen. Now that I'm done with my rant, let's continue.

Sometimes, when the universe decides it hates someone, you will run into a compromising situation. You have already committed to enjoying a certain box of cereal, though you may have indulged in another on a few occasions, but you know you are nearing the end. Shaking the box no longer produces a satisfying, crunchy rattle of life. Instead, it is the empty whisper of a dying breed. It's a hushed rustling of a once proud box of breakfast, shivering in the confines of your closet, waiting for you to take it's final bowl's worth of vitality. But, if you're anything like me, it's difficult.

It is not because I care about the remaining crumbs, or of the inanimate thoughts of a box, but because of it's awkwardness. Once I have my two waffles toasted and smothered in butter and syrup, I don't want to have to think of more food to fill me. When I pull out my cereal I expect to be filled with it's delicious contents, not spurned by it's inability to live up to my groggy expectations.  I grasp the box in my two hands and realize that it cannot even attempt to fill one bowl that I placed before me. How can one be fed off of a measly few charms in the bottom of a supposedly lucky box? Then, I have to put the box down in disgust.

You see, the awkward part of this whole situation is that I cannot throw away the cereal left in the bag, because then I will be wasteful, and will no longer hold a position of respect among my colleagues. But, if I pour out the cereal and see the powder, then I have to eat it. I am not desperate enough or awake enough during my morning routine to finish off one box of cereal, which dedicated it's life to the service of feeding my appetite, and then wash out my bowl and eat another. You might say that I could easily pour another box of cereal into the bowl once I finish the first box, but this would show your ignorance.

The powder of a cereal's final passage leaves it's memories in a bowl of milk, even if the cereal has been devoured. It will infect any other cereal that enters it's dairy domain with a hint of flavor that reminds us of their life. It's like a forced memoir upon the taste buds of an unsuspecting victim. You may think you're done with charms, but once you stick that square cinnamon chunk in your mouth you will remember what it was like. Fruity hints of flavor will rudely interrupt your new sensation, and you will be left longing for a cereal you no longer have.

It's a sugary specter entering into the world of the hungry. The phantom of flavor will visit until you remove the milk from which it once resided. Then, it will leave you alone in peace. So, what do you do when you run into this awkward situation? Well, make sure you plan out your cereal consumption so that you may enjoy your final meal with your beloved breakfast buddy, and send them off to enjoy the edible afterlife they all long for.

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Jacks' Final Journey

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A few years ago, I lived in a neighborhood that was less than stellar. To put it nicely, it was a rough, seedy suburban place that housed the most eccentric group of ghetto individuals I had ever witnessed. To be more concise, it was bad.

Not everyone in this neighborhood exemplified the worst of mankind. One lady in particular was sweet and polite to us every time we saw her. My mom gave her vegetables from the garden, and the two of them would talk about life, and about other things I didn't pay attention to. Every once in a while, we would wander across the street to visit this lady to say hello and offer pleasant company. She was always happy to see us, and her smile would brighten up the dismal disposition of the neighborhood, which was difficult to do. Somehow, she managed to be one of the only positive people we ever met there.

But one day, everything was different. After not seeing or hearing from her for a few days, my mom and I decided it was time to pay a friendly visit. Mom didn't have vegetables at the time, so we just decided to bring ourselves. With a slight knock on the door, we waited for her to answer. I stood there, looking up at the clouds, wondering what kinds of animals I could imagine flying through the sky when she finally answered. When I looked back down, I froze.

Her eyes were red, and tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. She waved us inside and shut the door. My mom looked worried.

"Are you alright?" My mom asked her, gently searching her eyes for a response.

"I just miss him." She said, wiping her tears with a tissue and looking across the room. "That chair over there, that's where he used to sit." She stated, pointing her finger at the ornate furniture.

It was a beautiful chair. It showed signs of age, but not of wear. In my mind I could imagine a distinguished gentleman reclining in it, smoking a pipe and reading the newspaper in the morning before a healthy breakfast. No wonder she missed him. Such a gentleman probably treated his lady well.

"We used to walk together." She said, blowing her nose, which interrupted my train of thought. "One day, when we were outside, he collapsed." She paused, "I tried to give him water, but he barely drank any of it."

Suddenly my mind abducted my attention and forced it to relive this memory. The old gentleman, distinguished and mighty, collapsed to the ground like an old oak felled in the forest. With a sweet, gentle embrace, she grabbed him, saying "Jack, it's going to be okay ", and tried to let his parched lips drink from the plastic rim of the water bottle. His lips barely caressed the edge of the bottle, as cool streams of liquid dripped down his cheeks and onto his fine clothes. "Come on! Drink, Jack. Drink! It's going to be okay..."

"...I know you miss him." Mom replied softly to the woman. I shook my head and returned to the conversation. 

"I really do..." The lady replied, and then looked in the living room again. "He stopped eating his food too. I couldn't figure out what was wrong." She said, wiping more tears away.

The old gentleman sat at the table, grimacing at the delicious food before him. His wife stared at him with loving eyes. "Honey, please eat your food. I made your favorite. Chicken noodle soup. I even added the saltine crackers on the side." She said, pointing at the food with tears in her eyes. It was no use. With each passing moment he was leaving her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. After all of these years of being together, spending precious moments with each other, and loving one another, his life started to decline into a darkness that neither wanted to fully address. He was dying.

"How old was he?" Mom asked, bringing me out of my deep thought. I really needed to stop doing that, I thought to myself.

The lady froze up. Her body trembled at the thought as more tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks. She sniffed a few times and then slowly regained her composure. "He was nine years old." 

Suddenly, my body froze. Nine. All of my thoughts flashed back, replaying each scenario with the thought of an innocent boy as the victim instead of the distinguished gentleman. "Come on Jack! Drink!" She cried as the little boy sat nestled in her soft embrace. "Jack, I made your favorite food. Pancakes. Why won't you eat?" She said as the boy stared blankly at the hot cakes dripping with syrup and melted butter. No, this wasn't right. My eyes almost started to tear up as my mind wandered through the scenario, seeing everything through an entirely new and disturbing light. No wonder this lady was upset, she lost her grandchild! My first instinct was to hug her and tell her I was so, so sorry for her loss. I refrained, since I did not know her that well personally and wanted to give her the space she needed. This was awful. 

With a deep breath, my mom replied, "Well, that is a good ol' age. Jack lived a good life." She said, attempting to smile at the woman. 

That's it! A deep rage ignited in my gut. I understand trying to comfort someone, trying to make things better...but good age?! HE WAS A BOY! I screamed inside, trying to hold in my temper until we finally left the house. With fire in my eyes, I glared at my mom, who was walking beside me.

"What was that?! How could you tell that woman that Jack lived a long life?! HE WAS A KID! He deserved to live a lot longer than nine years! I'm OLDER than THAT! Do you not realize that this woman lost her grandchild?!" I growled at her, venting out the furious anger that erupted within my passionate soul. With a slight raise of the eyebrow, my mom stopped walking and looked at me.

"What's up with you?" She said calmly.

"What do you mean what's up?! You just told that woman that Jack lived a long life! What the heck was up with that?!" I said, raising my voice at her. 

With a deep breath, she responded gently. "You don't know who Jack is, do you?" She said, which made me stop.

"Her grandson?" I replied, trying to figure out why she was so calm.

A smile crept across my mom's face as she decided to reveal to me the identity of the deceased.

"Jack...was her dog."

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Good Luck Iguana

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There are times when I question the sanity of life itself. Sometimes, the rules to life's crazy game make sense, but there are moments when I wonder if I was dealt a hand of UNO cards during poker night. Even though I have a brilliant rainbow of numeric art fanned out in front of me, I realize that no one else at the table cares if my four is blue, and no one is willing to add four cards to their properly dealt hands. In other words, my life has been quite different.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Iguanas. I realize that you read the title of this blog and are wondering what this philosophical discussion on life has to do with Iguanas. Well, I'm getting to that. Throughout history, people have claimed that they have found a secret to steering life in their favor. This is known as luck. Everything from rabbit's feet to four leaf clovers have supposedly provided people with good luck since the dawn of mankind. Well, these may help out in life, but since I don't carry around these relics I couldn't tell you from personal experience.

But, I have found a unique secret. This is where the Iguanas come into play. It all started in Miami, Florida a few years ago, during the hot, humid season of Summer. At the time, I was helping out with a children's summer camp, and we were to go swimming in a private lake to cool off. In my mind, the private lake would be luxurious, full of palm trees, clear water, and a waiting staff handing me fruit drinks and olives while I watched the kids. Sadly, this was not the case.

Instead, when the bus stopped to a screeching halt, I realized that we had stopped at the most secluded, frightening pond I had ever seen. Some might disagree and say it was a lake, but lakes are not supposed to look like the remains of Godzilla sneezing into a hole. Green algae swirled around as unseen critters danced under the thin, disgusting layer of grime on the surface. 

My face scrunched up in a disgusted cringe as we took the kids to the pavilion. Surely this isn't the lake they are swimming in. This was probably just a pond on the property that was conveniently placed next to the entrance. I was wrong.

Within seconds of arriving, the children we were watching jumped right into the fermenting filth in front of me. Well, I guess I got to join in, I thought to myself as I slowly lowered myself into the grimy pool. If I don't watch the kids they could get hurt, and there is not a lot I can do without being in the water. Little debris and strings of algae pirouetted around my floating form. Great, I'm taking three showers tonight.

See, I'm not a squeamish person, but when you see objects in the water that would fit right at home in your toilet, you start to feel dirty. I tried to push it out of my mind as the kids asked me to swim out to where they were. With much mental discipline, I managed to push myself out to where they were.

We had a great time swimming around, laughing and enjoying the warm sun across our cooling bodies. Surprisingly, I had almost forgotten about the nasty refuse I was swimming in because of the bright smiles on the kids faces.

When the time finally came to leave the secluded cesspool, I was more than ready. With just a few strokes I would be back on the dock, ride back home, and take my nice, clean shower. A smile stretched across my face as I moved my body against the water. Just a few more feet and I would make it. Suddenly, the smile was wiped across my face by something wet and slimy. You may think that this is where the iguana comes in, but it isn't. The iguana was calmly chilling on the shore sunning itself on a conveniently placed rock. What I came into contact with was much worse.

I stopped my forward momentum to survey the damage. Across my face was a green, wet smear. I dipped my hand in the water, which was not much cleaner than the filth on my skin, and attempted to wash it away. In a few moments I managed to wash away the remnants of the green goo. A sigh escaped my lungs as I reached the shore and mumbled to myself.

"Stupid algae." I said to myself as I dried my body off with a towel.

"Did it look like green balls in the water?" The owner of the lake asked.

"Yeah, why?" I asked, knowing I'd regret the answer.

"That wasn't algae. There's iguanas in this lake. Sometimes they like to...ya know..." He stopped for a second, "...do their business." He said smiling.

Suddenly, I remembered. The iguana on the rock, the green orb in the water, and finally it hit me. I had been assaulted by an iguana bomb. It was a tactical strike against the clean slate of my once handsome face. I stared at the guy in shock and walked away slowly, trying my best not to freak out in front of the kids laughing and smiling around me. I'd recover from this later, I thought to myself.

Hours passed as I tried to forget the incident at the lake. Memories of green orbs and goo haunted my mind as I sat down at the table to play games with my friends. This would surely help remove the trauma from my innocent psyche. Let the games begin, I thought to myself as I rolled the dice. My friends stared in shock. I rolled perfectly.

Within minutes I won the dice game we were playing. The leader of our group switched the game, looking at me suspiciously. He dealt the cards and explained the rules. I looked at my hand and thought I had lost, but with a few draws from the deck, I played my hand. Again, with only the slightest effort on my part, I had won. Victory visited me often that night as we played every kind of game the group could think of. 

Finally, the leader of the group stared at me and asked, "How are you doing this?"

I stared at everyone and tried to figure it out myself. They were all games of luck, with very little skill involved. What was different about tonight than any other game night with my friends? Suddenly, the realization hit me and a big smile stretched across my lucky face.

"Iguana poop." I replied with a straight face, darting between everyone's confused looks. Everyone burst out into laughter as they looked at me in disbelief. They may not have understood the secret to good luck, but after that night I knew. The best good luck charm is not a lucky rabbit's foot or a four leaf clover, but an unfortunate smearing of iguana poop across an unsuspecting victim's face.

Just to cover my bases, please don't attempt to spread iguana poop across yours, or anyone else's face. The statements in the article above are not approved by the GLCA (Good Luck Charm Association). I take no responsibility for the actions of any reader who decide to try this tactic, nor will I endorse anyone who endeavors to prove this method as effective in private, controlled testing environments. It is solely based on the experience and opinion of the author of this article, and not on any scientific fact or information released by the GLCA. Thank you.

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The Danger of Dating Sites

Photo Credit: Clipart Library

Long before the days of my beautiful relationship, I was a lonely man looking for a feeling. My manly face and studly beard did nothing to attract the eyes of any local lady, so I decided to try something different. There were legends of couples who met magically through the portal of the internet. They smiled in each other's eyes, embracing with a tender touch, while swaying back and forth in a rhythm of romantic affection. As they kissed, the sun set behind them in the middle of a beautiful meadow, and an oddly placed bright white text appeared in the grass beneath their feet advertising the site from which they met. This was it.

After feeling the sudden urge for romance, I decided to sign up for that site. I logged in my credentials, uploaded the most attractive picture of myself I could find, and answered every question they assaulted me with. With each click of the mouse I felt more confident. How could someone not be attracted to me? I was someone with a steady job, clean, no kids, no smoking, available transportation, loyal, friendly, funny, handsome. According to my profile I was the most eligible bachelor. With that thought a smile stretched across my face as I clicked the final button.

There I was, ready to throw my line into the giant lake full of available, beautiful fishes. Within minutes I found a profile I found attractive, and sent a friendly message. I leaned back in my chair as the site loaded. So...it's not instant messaging? I thought to myself as the screen continued to load. I'm fine with email. If it helps me find someone, then sure. I will go the slower route. Why is this taking so long?

After a few, painstaking moments, the truth dawned on me. I wasn't sending a message at all. My letter of love was being smacked against a pay wall. The site mocked me, and sent me a small message in the middle of the screen. Nice message you got there Jonathan...but I can't let you send it. For a small sum of $9.99 a month, I can let this little love letter pass. Deal?

My message was being held hostage by a maniacal little website claiming that it was free. A growl escaped my gut. Apparently, it was free for paying members to send YOU messages, but to respond to their call you had to pay the programmer. Great, I thought to myself as I remembered the ad. It was all lies! Was love worth putting a price on? Could you really market off of loneliness?

How could a company charge you just for a CHANCE at finding true romance? Then I realized something...what about apps on the phone? Could there be a free dating app? Eureka! With a sudden rush of energy I downloaded two apps and started my search. With a little message here, and a small greeting there, I was on my way to success. Girls started responding and I felt proud. I was the king of this jungle, the biggest fish in the pond as girls continued messaging me left and right, wanting to meet, get coffee, go to movies. For a brief few weeks I felt important.

But, there was an inescapable emptiness in it all. After each date, I felt a deeper longing for the right girl. With each undeserved kiss, I began to feel more desperate inside. Nothing I did could bring feeling to my broken heart as I started planning multiple dates in a week, trying my best to find the right person, and having to deal with the heartache of letting ladies know that their feelings were unmatched by my own.

Then, a realization hit me. None of them loved me. With each date I realized that their views of me were shallow at best, and at worst exploitative. I may have been the king of the jungle, but I never realized that they were looking for someone new to join their circus. They tried cracking their whips at my wounded soul but with each attempt I left them empty handed, barely escaping with what was important to me. My desperation was leading to depression, and I thought all hope was lost.

I started realizing patterns in speech. Girls were starting to repeat themselves and I noticed that a lot of them wanted similar things from me, which I was not willing to give. Soon, I frequented the sites less often, and eventually I disappeared from the digital dating arena to focus on other things that were more productive. So what if I don't find a girlfriend? I thought to myself. It isn't the end of the world. I'll just be a happy single guy who learns to enjoy life. But still, there was something missing.

Well, technically someone. I sat in my room thinking about my life, and the weeks I wasted trying to become that dream couple on that ad. I almost gave up on trying to find love, until she showed up. Out of nowhere, I met a wonderful woman. She had beautiful brown eyes, round cheeks, and a smile that could light the world. There was something different with her, I thought to myself.

I was able to be my quirky, eccentric self and she still respected me. With each passing moment I felt us drawing closer, but fear tried it's best to set in. No. She is scarier than the rest. Either this is really love, or she is the best con artist I had ever laid eyes on. As time passed, I realized that the beauty of her innocence shone through in her expression of love to me. It was simple, pleasant, and without ulterior motive. This was real, true love.

After that first moment of realization, my life has never been the same. The dating sites were just a reminder that my heart was worth more than simple smooches and false expression of affection. It hurt from the pain of past experience, but this girl showed me emotion beyond any I've felt before.

Dating sites are not inherently bad, but can be breeding pools for broken hearts. When surfing through the ocean of dating sites available to you, make sure to keep one thing in mind. You are worth more than any one experience, deserve more than to be used by a pretty face, and there is a beautiful person waiting for those of you who are willing to stay strong.

And to my wonderful girlfriend, who helped me learn a lot about myself, and about the true nature of romance, thank you. You are a truly amazing, beautiful person. <3

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Steps to Being a Successful Detective...According to the Hardy Boys

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Today I decided to read my first Hardy Boys' book. By flipping through the old, browned pages, I began to discover a world of intrigue and thrills that kept my attention throughout most of the day. Although the book was shorter than most novels are these days, it's serial nature and the fact that there are so many of them made me want to read more.

That being said, I also realized that I learned about detective work from the brilliant minds of the Hardy brothers. Through these steps, I wish to bring to you...steps to being a detective.

- If you see two men fighting through a window, make sure to wait until the fighting stops, then knock on the door and ask the assailant what all the noise was about. Make sure that you are trespassing on the property to begin with to make this activity slightly less suspicious. If the assailant refuses to acknowledge that he attacked the other person, involve the cops, and make sure that you ride with the cops to search the house for the assault weapon. Surely, the perpetrator will not recognize you from the night before.

- If you see a mysterious creature swimming in a lake at night, jump INTO the water WITH IT to see what it was. Make sure it looks dangerous because things that could harm you are safer to swim with.

- If traveling by boat to a deserted lighthouse, make sure to never leave anyone to guard the boat, especially if someone is trailing you for the past few days. You wouldn't want that person missing the excitement of exploring an abandoned lighthouse with nothing in it. Also, make sure not to tie the boat down securely, and be surprised when the boat gets drawn away by the current.

- While on that island, if the wind is blowing make sure to light a match for a signal. If the match get's blown out by the wind, it is safe to assume that you can stay in the EXACT SAME place and light the rest of your matches. Surely, the wind will not douse your flame the same way each time. Nature doesn't work that way.

- When scuba diving into a lake to look for treasure, make sure to leave someone on the shore with these specific instructions "If you hear danger, tap two rocks together underwater so we can be warned." Sounds tends to carry further underwater, and since mankind tends to be amphibious creatures, we can definitely hear better when our ears are full of murky swamp water, especially far away.

- When you are aware of an obvious trap, make sure to step into it knowing you are going to be attacked, but leave your partner outside to rescue you when you do.

These are just a few things I've learned from the Hardy Boys in one book.

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