Moving on to Greener Pastures

Dear Readers,

I am happy to announce that I am merging my blog onto a more flexible platform! I have enjoyed using blogger, but have found a site that looks a bit more professional, and has a mobile app so that you guys can read it on the go. From now on, I will be writing my posts to this web address!

https://jmshuffler.wixsite.com/lifethroughlevity

I have enjoyed writing for all of you, and look forward to continuing our adventures on this new blog site!

Thank you for all of your support,

Jonathan

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The Lunacy of Lag

SOURCE: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/uBGXI7muxZQ/hqdefault.jpg

Imagine playing football with your childhood friends. The wind playfully whips through the trees above and sends leaves spiraling down to meet you. Your feet sink into the soft soil of a luscious green field, and your eyes are locked onto the opposite team. Each of you is covered in sweat and tears. You've worked hard for this moment, and you know which play will win you the game.

In your head you can see the crowds cheering for you as you're hoisted high on the shoulders of your teammates. Everyone chants your name as you soar on the clouds of fame and fortune. You will be famous. You are the star. You are their only hope.

With a slight nod to your team, you yell hike! Everyone scatters across the field, forming the patterns that you instructed them to. Very good, you think to yourself as your eyes highlight an open player. You focus, and step back. As soon as you prepare to spiral that football into his glorious, open arms...he's gone.

Suddenly, a phantom player phases into view right in front of the player you were throwing to. Without warning, your arm flings the football high into the air as you scream inside to stop it. How could you have not seen this coming? How could someone so big sneak into view? Your player was wide open!

That is when you start noticing a slight flicker in the air around you. By some sort of wizardry, your football is levitating mere feet in front of you. It's no longer spinning, but there's a slight blur against the pigskin. The colors seem to blend into one another. Each white string along the back of the football smears onto the brown and black. You hear the noises of people shouting and the wet thud of their feet against the muddy terrain, but they are standing still.

In this moment you begin to realize that something is wrong, but it's too late. You already launched the ball into the melting sky. Each second passes like an hour of agony as you hear phantoms surround you. Their bodies are frozen in mid stride, some even in midair, but you are fully able to move. You can't think straight, and there is nothing you can do to prevent the failure that is about to wreck your athletic life. You brace yourself for the inevitable, and stand there.

Without warning, every player on the field is thirty yards away, watching as your ball launches itself into the neighbor's window. The shattering of glass and the ensuing turmoil it causes from within the house abruptly ends the game that you were so hopeful to win. You knew you threw the football to the open player, but everyone on the field says you freaked out and launched it at the window. You look down at your hands, and meet the eyes of every other player on the field as they walk by you, not even attempting to hide the bitter scowls on their faces. You ruined their game. You alone made them unable to continue in their sport fantasies that brought them adrenaline and excitement. 

In the gaming world, this is called lag. It's a loathsome, horrid aberration of technology that has made it's way into online play. Technically, it's existence is granted by limited connection speeds in contrast to the necessary data needed to perform actions over a network. In short, it's the inability of an internet connection to keep up with what's going on in your game. 

Sadly, lag is an ever present, deadly predator of the gaming community. In it's natural habitat, it stalks those who lack the speed to escape it. When it finds prey, it tortures them with the illusion of control, only to violently take it from them in their time of need. Oh, were you about to line up that perfect shot? It'd be a shame if your gun jammed and the enemy stabbed you from behind! Oh no! It looks like you failed the mission. Now your friends are mad at you for wasting their time. What a pity.

Lag needs to be stopped. It's silently ruining the gaming experiences of all those who fall victim to it's conniving ways. In order to stop it, we need to understand it. There are two main sources for this digital villain, servers and users. 

Server-side lag is when the gaming company is having issues hosting your game. One way to know if there is any issues with the server is a small phrase that no one wants to read in the middle of a match. Migrating Host. This means that the lag monster is slithering away to another network and is waiting to devour those it comes into contact with. Be careful. Host Migration is an important progress, but it can also be misleading. Just because you migrated hosts does not mean your gameplay will be any smoother. It just means that you are on a different host than you were before. Sometimes this new place is just as dangerous as the last. 

If the problem is not on the server, then that means it is the user who is being infected. Like any infection, a lagged player may affect the gameplay experiences of others in their session. This is how friendships are tested. Just like the football game example above, if lag commands attention at the right moment, your team may suffer. You might be the reason why the team couldn't score the last goal, or why the enemy has killed you thirty seven times. But don't worry, there is a way to stop it, but no one can do it alone.

The trauma that lag brings can be a lifelong condition. If you or a loved one have been afflicted with lag, please do not hesitate to call 1-800-stoplag or visit our website, www.stopthelag.com.

(DISCLAIMER: Calling the number or visiting the website will be at your own risk and/or expense. I am not responsible for anyone who legitimately contacts either of these sources.)

Thank you for your time and may your games be lag free.

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My Absence

Dear Readers of Life Through Levity,

I want to apologize for my absence. For months I was consistently giving you all new material to read and enjoy, yet when my personal life became difficult I abandoned you. Although my life has been stressful in more ways than I wish to share, I should've thought about trying to cheer someone else up instead of nursing my own wounds. By doing that, I became self-focused and less available to help people see life in an uplifting way that I originally promoted.

See, I realized something. It was easy to write this blog when everything was going smoothly. Each article was as simple as writing words on a page. There wasn't much resistance or difficulty in it, but still it proved to be an effective way to make you smile. I shouldn't have given up on the idea, but now I have matured and am more capable of helping people enjoy life even amidst the pain.

This season has been truly painful in many ways, but I learned something. Learning to live life through levity isn't only about laughing at yourself and the world around you, but also about how to heal from wounds we receive when life gets tough. Lately, I've been healing from a lot of wounds. These wounds, and my inability to properly deal with them, is what led to my absence.

One way to deal with these wounds is to keep moving forward. Take a few breaths, maybe a couple of days of relaxation, and then pursue your dreams again. Push through the doubts. Forgive those who've hurt you, and remember that the only thing in life that can truly stop you from enjoying life and spreading that joy to others is you. So don't get in the way of yourself, because everyone has a unique purpose in life that will make them feel accomplished, fulfilled, and excited. Reach out to others who need encouragement and uplifting, and don't be afraid to accept a helping hand from those who wish to encourage you.

I hope that all of you will still read my blog in the coming months, because I miss writing to all of you.

Thank you for being there for me,

Jonathan Shuffler

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The Puzzle of Perspective

Photo Credit: www.grand-illusions.com

Before reading this article, focus on the picture. Let your eyes gently look upon it's simplistic beauty. Have you marveled at the dark lines and distinguished figure? Good, because I have a very important question to ask you. Don't think about it too hard, just answer. What did you see?

Well, obviously you saw the young lady looking away in such an elegantly distasteful manner. You might even ask yourself what could have been said to made her turn so abruptly. Was it her lavish upbringing mixed with a sour disposition to those of less exquisite taste in fashion? We will never know, and the background behind her prideful plume is irrelevant to this piece. Wait what? You didn't see her at all? Her chin is nestled against the fur coat right above her pitch black choker, and her nose is slightly peeking over her softly curved cheek bones. See her now?  

Of course, some of you saw something entirely different. You saw an old lady with a firm grimace attached to her aging face. Her nose is crooked and pointed down towards her upper chest, and her eyes are receding behind little upturned wrinkles. There is even a wart on her nose, just above the arching bridge. She also has dark hair that is gently covered by a white head covering.

When I first asked you to look at the picture, most of you probably didn't see both ladies. You either saw the young, wealthy woman or the elderly lady. If you'd already seen this drawing, you saw both at the same time. Life works in similarly mysterious ways.

How we look at life determines how we live life. It all depends on what you accept and reject. If you accept failure and live only to disprove it, then you will never be satisfied even when you're successful. On the other hand, if you accept success but improve yourself after each setback, then you will be nearly impenetrable in your dreams. But, the main question is, how do you get to that point?

Some of us could only see the old lady in the picture above at first. It would not be a lie to believe that an old lady was in that picture, because she is, but it would be ignorant to disregard the young woman coexisting in the same drawing. By ignoring that fact, we failed to see the entire picture. We would only see what we wanted to see.

A lot of people do the same thing in their lives. To show an example of this in action, I will rip a page out of the story of my personal life and share it with you. I recently lost my job. It was a difficult experience that has taken some time to get adjusted to. Even as I'm writing this I'm still fighting back the negative thoughts that are assaulting my mind.

Why couldn't I perform well enough to keep my job? How could I have let my fiance down by not trying harder to keep it? Are my parents mad at me because of my failure? Will I ever be happily married and successful in my career? Will this be an indicator for the rest of my life? No. It won't.

I could list all of the screaming thoughts shrieking through my mind but I will spare you the discomfort. Instead, let's focus on what I am doing to silence them. Instead of speculating on what my life will look at based on what has happened, I will base my future on what I WANT to happen, and work towards that. Do I want to be homeless? No. Do I want to be a wonderful husband and great father with a steady job and successful, inspiring career? Yes.

So here's how to look at it. First off, we need to address the elephant in the picture above. Don't you see it? Look at the picture again. Harder this time. A little harder. Maybe just stop reading and scroll up if you don't remember what it looked like. It's trunk is nestled softly along the fur coat and it's eyes are big and black. Don't see it? Good. There isn't one.


Sometimes life tries to twist the picture into something it was never meant to be. If you lost sight of your picture, you're likely to believe anything. Your picture consists of your hopes, dreams, aspirations, desires, passions, personality, character, charisma, and everything that makes you a unique person. The moment you stop thinking about who you were born to be is the moment something else can be born in you that you didn't want, like bitterness, anger, grief, regret, and pain.

You may have had to scroll up to the picture above to make sure there wasn't an elephant, or you just assumed I was right and didn't check. If something in your life doesn't add up to who you believe you are, it may be time to double check your picture. Take some time to yourself, think about who you want to be, not who the world tried to mold you into. Once you get that down, you can start solving the puzzle of perspective.

Now, back to my story. There were two main trains of thought I could've boarded at the station. First, I could've believed that I was a failure, with slim chances at finding another job as good as the one I had lost. It was true that I made some mistakes at my job that could have hindered me from further success, but I couldn't allow myself to focus there. Learning from a mistake is one thing, but constantly lamenting an error would only lead to it's unwilling repetition later on in life.

The second train, which I am currently working on boarding, is far more uplifting. I realized that I had a gift to help others laugh, smile, and feel positive about their day. It was astounding to see the reaction to my departure. People checked on me and asked me if I was okay and told me they'd miss me. A lot of them were employees I didn't personally work with, but only spoke with on breaks. A few of them became close friends of mine, who I still keep in contact with.

I didn't need to focus on losing the job, which was painful, but on the friendships I made, the connections I established, the atmosphere I brought with me, and the laughter we shared while I was present. I realized from that point on that I could help lift up people who were sad, encourage people who were down, and inspire people to laugh at life even when it was being difficult. In fact, this blog started during the period of time I was employed there.

So, even though losing my job was difficult, I discovered more about myself and am able to confidently stand in who I was made to be. It's been difficult to get to this point, but I believe we all can. When life tries to show you pictures, always seek the one that fits in line with who you are and live in it. Whether your life looks like the old woman or the young lady is up to you. Just don't go looking for the elephant.

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The Drive Thru Dissolution

Photo Credit: wordartsme.com

I took a deep breath. The metal apparatus stood still in front of me. Brown blotches of rust crusted to its edges as if it were far older than it had any right to be. But, that didn't matter. I was here to order food, not investigate the cleanliness of the outside speaker. I rolled my window down and stared at the speaker.

It is proper etiquette, when dealing with such devices, to wait until a voice from the other side contacts you first. Speaking out of turn may cause unwanted chaos from within the walls of any fast food establishment. So, it is best to exercise patience and listen closely for the sound of crackling and barely audible voices to start ordering. Sometimes, in newer buildings, the speaker is quite clear and the crystalline cadence of a well trained voice can make it's way to your car with no delay or dilemma. This was not one of those buildings.

"Hey, may I take your order?" The voice said, amidst a crackling mist of static.

"Hi! I will take...will take...take...a sandwich combo...wich combo...combo...please...please...lease.." I said, trailing off into an infinite series of echos to the far beyond. Great, I thought to myself. 

"Uh, sure, what side?"

"I want fries...ries...ies...please..lease...ease..."

There was a brief pause, and then he continued. 

"What sides? We have rice, beans, fries..."

"No, I said...I said...aid...I want fries...want fries...ries...please...lease...ease..."

"Oh! Rice! Ok anything else?"

"No! Fries...ries...ries..."

"Yes, we got your rice."

"Fries."

"Oh! I got it." He said confidently. "Your rice will be ready soon." 

"FRIES!" I said, trying to be aggressively polite. It worked.

"Fries. What do you want to drink?"

"Sweet tea." I said, and took a deep breath. I was almost finished with this fast food fiasco.

"We don't serve Pepsi here sir. We have coke, diet coke, sprite, tea..."

"I want...sweet...tea..." I said in the plainest English I could muster from my slightly annoyed core. Behind me, a conga line of cars full of hungry souls was forming. There wasn't much time left.

"You want tea? Okay. Sweet or unsweetened?" He said in response.

"Sweet." I said, taking a deep breath and gripping the steering wheel. 

"Ok. So you want a sandwich combo with fries and sweet tea? Is that correct?" 

"Yes, thanks!" I said and started driving away, until I remembered something very important. I let my car ease backwards into the same spot. "Also, I have a coupon for that sandwich."

A soft silence fell over the speaker as little crackles filled the air between us. Did he leave? I thought to myself as I leaned closer. 

"MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?!" The metallic device screamed at me.

"Look, I have a coupon for the sandwich I just ordered."

"What kind of sandwich?"

"The one I ordered a few seconds ago. I forgot to mention it."

"You want to add a sandwich to your order?"

"No, I want to add the coupon to the sandwich I ordered."

The silence was deafening. The line of cars began to look far more menacing. I should've just added the coupon at the end instead of backing up to the speaker again, but it was too late now. I was going to get my discount.

"Pull up to the window. Thank you."

"What about my coupon?"

"May I take your order?" He said again. Fine, I will bring it to the window.

As I drove up to the window and presented my coupon, I thought about what had just happened. An incident in life that could have ruined my pre-dining experience turned into a story that you are currently reading. Look on the bright side. There's always a story in everything. You just need to know where to look.

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The Shoestring Redemption

 Photo Credit: www.dailyartmuse.com

Shoes are a unique compliment to one’s feet. They protect our partners in transportation while simultaneously giving them a sense of comfort. Before the invention of these cloth bound carriers, we had to endure the harsh heat of the summer sun burning away our soles or feel the unpleasant sensation of a frostbitten winter evening. But now, glancing down upon the shining star achievement of man, I realized that they are a double edged sword. They do have one weakness.

I discovered this weakness while treading dangerously upon a speeding treadmill. As my eyes watched the colorful glow of a well animated Netflix series, my feet bounded off of the constantly revolving pathway. Sweat dripped from my brow as I tried to push myself past my perceived limit. With each hard landing my heart slammed against the inside of my chest. It felt good.

Air flooded in and out of my weary lungs as I continued my energetic endeavor when I suddenly felt something suspicious. If it weren’t for my extremely keen sense of observation, I would have fallen to my doom. My feet were slowly drifting away from their sole mates, and the slithering serpents were escaping from their designated caverns.

My eyes glanced down and realized that my well calculated loops I tied were slowly unraveling before me. I stopped the treadmill and panted as I bent down to fix the problem. My fingers gently caressed the dark strings until I felt the need to firmly tug them back into place. On any normal day, they would have complied and tangled themselves in a gentle web of embrace, but this was not a normal day.

Within seconds the serpent decided to escape from its former partner and run off in an audible snap. It was an escaping fashion hydra with nowhere to run. What a sneaky little shoestring, I thought to myself as I observed it in the light. It no longer wanted to be part of my foot laden vessel and instead wanted to venture off into the soft carpeted landscape below. Well, I guess I had no use for it then, I thought to myself as I slowly walked away. The other strings will pay for your insolence, I sneered.

I could feel the other writhing tentacles pleading for mercy as I tore them away from their comfortable homes. There was an odd satisfaction in seeing the discarded fragments of two frayed strings lying still on the ground next to the gutted remains of my shoes. Now, to find a replacement.

My eyes wandered around the room until I happened to see a discarded pair on my back porch. Perfect. With a gentle suggestion I unwound the dirty tenants from their equally messy homestead. They were covered in little specks of grass, but they were easy to clean. Every swipe of my hand across the shoestrings made them a little darker, until the pitch black tones revealed themselves. These strings matched perfectly, I thought to myself as I introduced them to their new home.

Feeding the soft serpents through the proper holes had a cathartic effect I didn't foresee. They softly overlapped each other, and with a tug, tightened into a functional piece of string. Progress was quickly made as I watched in awe at my handiwork. My hands were like dancers, twirling the strings around like ballerinas in a beautiful ballet. With each passing moment, I could hear music accompanying the wonderful dance the shoestrings and I were performing. It was magical.

The soft glide of the cloth contrasted with the hard, plastic end made for a delicate and intrinsically spectacular endeavor. Soon, I finished each shoe and relaxed, looking at the art I had just created. With just two hands and two strings, I was able to save myself from disaster. Instead of falling hard to my face upon the unrelenting pace of an electric treadmill, I learned a new art form.

Tying shoes isn't all about function. Surely it was created for a brief and noble purpose, but there is more behind the layers of string than meets the eye. To most people, it is seen as an unnecessary and mundane affair, and on any other day I would have agreed. But the day my string abandoned me, I realized something.

There is an art in any activity if you take the time to appreciate it. In this case, the art was good for my sole.

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Tasting the End

Photo Credit: images.clipartpanda.com

For years I have perfected the art of pepper tasting. Through strenuous trial and error, my taste buds have become accustomed to the searing pain of uncontrollable fire. I have conquered many peppers, from the elusive ghost pepper to the deathly sting of a Carolina reaper. With each victory, fighting through tears and sweat, I gain more confidence. Deep inside the bowels of my being, there is still an insatiable appetite for more.

There is only one place on the planet that has met my desire for fire. It's mascot smiled at me as I walked underneath it to the wood paneled interior of my domain. The name implies an ornate design full of royalty and extravagance, but the reality of it's existence lies in the simple fact that only true masters can walk out of there alive. Welcome to the Pepper Palace.

As I walked into my trial, my fiance swiftly shot me a gentle but concerned glance. Are you sure you want to do this? Her eyes whispered to mine. With strong, manly confidence, I nodded my head and walked to the counter. From my past experiences I've learned that the "hottest" sauce in this shop is a  shifting entity. Pepper Palace is constantly experimenting with new concoctions that are hotter than the last, or use different peppers, or are an altogether different kind of spicy delicacy that only true warriors can appreciate. Usually, these sauces are named something ridiculous, like "Barnie's Butt Burner Sauce", or "Hottest Hot Sauce in the World" complete with a little pepper flying around the globe.

I expected a crazy name for the sauce as I walked up and asked what the "hottest" sauce was THIS time. The lady looked at me, and then quickly shot a look at my fiance, who kept her distance away from the counter. She could sense the tension in the air and didn't want to face the flames. My eyes glanced at the big sign and were greeted by a simple title. It confused and amused me. "The End" the bottle read, and I glanced back at the lady. That's the hottest sauce?

It's foreboding bottle was dripping with black goo, and an ominous warning label that warned of what could happen. One of the side effects was truly terrifying. Loss of consciousness. Most peppers had labels that warned of hiccups, or even vomiting in extreme cases, but this was new to me. This pepper, if my body couldn't handle it, would actually knock me out cold. A shudder shot up my spine as I looked at the lady and back at the bottle. What did they do this time?

No pepper ever conquered me before, and this won't be the first one, I told myself as I signed the waiver of possible doom. My signature was messy as usual, but I didn't care. My fiance just shook her head and looked at me. Here we go.

With a stern look I reached out and grabbed the chip with the little dab of darkness patiently waiting to be devoured. I slipped it into my eager mouth, chewed and swallowed. After just a few seconds, I realized my mistake. When tasting peppers, especially potentially dangerous ones, you're not supposed to let the goo slip onto your taste buds. But, without realizing it, I cracked the chip and spilled the sauce directly onto my tongue. The liquid then proceeded to travel throughout the rest of my mouth and eventually down my throat where it belonged.

For the first few seconds, my body had no reaction whatsoever. I stood there speechless, looking around the store in bewilderment. Was this really the hottest hot sauce? A simple little dab of nothing that ceased to impress me? I almost started to laugh until I realized my tongue wouldn't move. My body froze as I realized the true terror of what was happening. The searing pain of the intense heat was merely receding, like the ocean before a tsunami. Then it crashed.

Tears poured out of my eyes as the sudden shock of heat erupted inside of my exposed mouth. Everything burned, from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat. Little coughs escaped from my lungs as I tried to catch my breath. My fiance looked at me in terror as I continued to breathe in and out, gasping for oxygen. Every breath I took ignited further flames in my mouth like a wild brush fire in the Savannah.

A sudden tinge of regret stretched across my suffering face as I tried my best to keep it together. I will not fall, I told myself as I looked at the lady and thanked her for letting me try it. It was getting difficult to see as my eyes drained tears out of their drying sockets. Finally, I gave in.

I decided to get some fudge that we had bought earlier. It wasn't completely quenching the fire, like drinking milk would've done, but I couldn't allow myself to do that. I was going to conquer this sauce, even if a little bit of assistance was needed. With a quick glance to my fiance, I said "Baybeicanhavesfudeg?"

It was at that moment that I forgot my tongue wasn't fully operational. She looked at me, confused. "BayebahveIfugede?" I repeated myself and pointed at the bag. Each swallow of my saliva burned my throat further, leaving me gasping for air, which reignited the fire that I eventually swallowed again. It was an uncomfortable loop of spicy suffering. If I could just have some of that chocolatey piece of heaven I'd be okay.

She eventually got the message and handed me a gooey chunk to slide into my burning mouth. The sweet sensation slid around my mouth, dousing the fire in a swirl of chocolate and delicious caramel. Within half an hour, the fire died down, except for little burps that were like embers in the back of my throat. The pain of the pepper lingered for hours after the experience. Thankfully, I did not lose consciousness and was perfectly functional that evening.

After the incident, my fiance just stared at me with her beautiful brown eyes. I looked into hers and asked, "What?" She took a deep breath, and wiped away the tears from my sore eyes and a smile crept across her face. "What?" I repeated as I sniffed and wiped away the liquid from my leaking nose. "I'm okay! It was fun." I said and smiled, still feeling the little embers searing the back of my sensitive throat.

"Baby, I love you, but you're an idiot." She said, and walked away with a playful smile stretched across her face.

If you want to try "The End" or other amazing hot sauces, here is the website for Pepper Palace.

http://www.pepperpalace.com/

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Culinary Combat

Photo Credit: c1.staticflickr.com

I stood there, staring at the crunchy, cheesy concoctions I marvelously put together. Little pops and crackles rose up from the sizzling silver surface beneath me. On my left were some of the products of my culinary precision, waiting under the bright lamp to be eaten by the many students I'd see that day. I was ready.
 

I looked through the smoky, scratched screen in front of me as the cafeteria sat empty. It was the calm before the storm. It was in those brief moments of tension that I knew they were coming. I realized that my collection of culinary art would soon be devoured, and that it wasn't enough to dent the oncoming invasion of ravenous, rampaging humans. 

The lives of my crunchy compadres flashed before my eyes as I saw their gooey interior splatter across across the paper layered pan. It's my job to make them meal ready. And they were, fearlessly sitting under the heat lamp waiting for the tongs to embrace them.

Suddenly, I realized that I had become lost in thought, and the people in front of me had lost their patience. My attention was suddenly drawn to the empty pans. Nothing was left but cheesy, crunchy remnants of my previous masterpieces. A slight nervousness tingled through my skin as I looked ahead. Everyone was blankly staring at me. Some of their eyes drooped down to the quesadillas on the grill, and then slowly back up to meet me.

They were hungry. Nothing would get between them and their feast, not even time itself. Suddenly I started pacing back and forth, unwrapping tortillas from their self contained barriers of cryostasis. They stuck together, refusing to leave their brethren. Some of them left segments of their fractured shells behind, which meant that I had to condemn them to the dark pit of refuse.

Time passed as I continued to make sure the food was cooking. My hands wrapped around the nice, wooden handles of my ninja flippers and within seconds all of the quesadillas were grilled side up. I was half way there. Sweat dripped from my brow as the pressure intensified. My mind started calculating...chicken...pepperoni...pepperoni...chicken...cheese...pepperoni...I thought to myself as my hands pointed at them all.

The crowd shot me a blank stare as I mumbled to myself like a madman. I tried to make casual conversation with some of my guests, but all they could hear was the screaming howl of hunger from within their desperate souls. Finally, the time came.

It was the maiden voyage for the little self contained vessels I created. A sigh escaped my chest as I wiped my brow and brought them to the bilateral incision board. With one fell swoop I halved all of my creations, and tossed them into the breach. I knew none of them would last long, and I mentally said good bye to all of my work.

Suddenly, I noticed something odd. One of the students, who ordered pepperoni quesadillas, walked off with cheese as well, leaving two ladies stranded in front of my grill, staring at me with sad, pitiful eyes. "Where is the cheese?" They asked sweetly, looking at the empty tins. Then, without any break in concentration, I started over, repeating this endless cycle of satisfying their voracious appetites.

Through the heated battle of culinary combat I successfully satisfied all customers with their own custom crafted quesadilla. After closing time, I cleaned away the remains of a well fought war. I had managed to win this battle, but I knew they would be back. College students were never permanently satisfied. One week from now, they would return, hungry for another greasy feast. Until then, I had to rest, refocus, and remember that each battle got me closer to achieving the ultimate goal in this season of my life. One day, I would be a master chef.

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The Scanner

Photo Credit: us.123rf.com

 

I sat in the small, wooden chair thinking about the shift I was taking upon myself. My calloused hands grasped the black, ergonomically comfortable scanner as I looked at the crowd approaching me. Their eyes showed signs of hunger, of thirst, and of minor depravity. They were hungry, and the only way to cure their insatiable appetite was through the power in my hands.

My eyes glanced down as the red light vibrated over their zebra coated bar codes. A little chuckle escaped me as I realized the position of responsibility I was given. On this throne I could determine who could eat and who would be turned away, stomachs grumbling by my royal rejection.

At first it was a simple job, being in charge of the mighty portal of porridge, but I knew that my time would end. Soon, the crowds died down. They relocated to chairs around the cafeteria with the food I had so graciously allowed them to receive. Then, boredom set in.

It's tendrils crawled through my nerves as I sat there, staring at people enjoying their food, while I sat motionless behind the cash register. Suddenly, a few ideas entered my activity depraved mind. My laser was now an instrument of entertainment instead of a mighty scepter of service!

I realized that with a few vocal sound effects, I could make it into a club. I beatboxed happily while I shone the laser around the floor, acting like a culinary DJ with no audience. Then, by a stroke of genius, I scanned a pencil and realized it was safe to go through security, followed by a retinal scan of myself (which was probably not the greatest idea). But the most interesting discovery I made about my newly held position, and something that biologists worldwide might be astonished by, is that my hand apparently has a secret, natural barcode.

When I reached the end of my wits, I decided that scanning myself to find out how much I was worth was a clever use of my imagination. With a steady hand, and a focused eye, I scanned my palm, and suddenly the receipt machine sprang to life! I looked down at the receipt, and it said, "transaction failed". My self esteem fell a couple of notches as I watched the receipt print out this very disconcerting message. I either had no worth, or could not be sold. In order to salvage my shattered self esteem I chose the latter option, because selling myself would not be the best idea I ever had.

Time went by, and I realized that my position of power was suddenly beginning to fade. 1:30 rolled around, and I sighed. It was only an hour of power, but it felt good to experience such a gratifying sense of importance. Immediately my boss came in, turned off the cash register and told me to return to my normal life, away from my temporary position of power. I walked back to my lonely, quiet room on campus and realized that in those fleeting moments I had discovered something new about myself. 

 

I am easily entertained when given a barcode scanner and too much time on my hands.

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Attack on Toilet

Photo Credit: www.fineartamerica.com

Sometimes, the human body has no understanding of convenience. It's an autonomous, ticking machine that calculates each second of our lives while we observe in awe. Millions of signals are sent throughout the complex network of electrical nodes in our system to help us perceive the world we live in. Even though our intricate brains have come together to determine acceptable patterns of behavior, the body is still primal with urges and reflexes beyond our limited control. Although our mind discerns the appropriate time to fulfill certain duties, we still are at the unbending will of our urges.

Sometimes those urges put us in predicaments that are unavoidable, which brings me to the greatest saving grace mankind has ever developed. It's curved exterior and clear liquid pool are easy on the eyes, while the soft rushing water of a well deserved flush is music to the ears. When you see the signs, and your body is loosing control, it's the safe haven for humanity.

I was in need of one of these portals when the glorious sign hung firmly above a nearby storefront. At last, I said to myself as I walked in and shut the door. After doing what needed to be done, I was ready to take on the world once more. This throne would be missing it's temporary ruler, but I had to go back to the world beyond the white washed cells of this peaceful asylum.

With a firm push of my outstretched palm, I could hear the rushing waters flushing away beneath me. It was a truly satisfying experience. The swish of liquid mixed with the deep rumble of the bowl being refilled was a symphony to my soul. This was my friend, I thought to myself as I started to rise from my seat of sanitation.

A gentle tug at my pants brought them to their assigned seat when suddenly...I knew something wasn't right. They were dry when I walked in. My eyes traced down my shocked body to the jeans at my waist. I gently lowered them a bit to see the backside. This wasn't good. My jeans were blue before...but not that dark. Or wet.

I dropped them to the ground and looked around to find out what could have caused this catastrophe...when suddenly I knew.  While I was focusing on the intense pleasure of the flushing, I was attacked. The wet, scarred fabric of my once clean blue jeans was rinsed by the disgraceful shower of a cracked commode. To put it simply, the toilet was having trouble. Since I don't commit to fifteen point inspections before doing my duty, I didn't see the tiny cracks in the porcelain.

Ah great, I thought to myself as I tried to dry off the offending stain with toilet paper. No use. My eyes glared at my once faithful friend. How could you? I asked the silent bowl as I squished my way out the door. My hands loosely tied the belt to my waist, so that my jeans did not cause me any further embarrassment. It's one thing to feel the soggy slap of wet jeans against the rear, but it's quite another for the innocent civilians of a public place to see it. I will not explain further.

As I slowly sloshed my way across the bright bathroom, I realized that I almost forgot to wash my hands. I faced the mirror and turned to look at the marked area. It was painfully noticeable. What's my girlfriend going to say? I thought to myself as I sighed. Well, it's too late to worry about it now. After rinsing my hands for a few seconds, I reached over to the soap dispenser.

I didn't realize until that moment that the toilet was not the only aggressor in this lavatory. With a soft press of the handle, a puff of white goo erupted from the bowels of the sink onto my left leg. A gooey, dripping mass slid down my pants as I attempted to wash it away. I should have realized that soap reacts to water. After trying to scrub the soap off my jeans, I realized that I had lathered the denim. Not only were my jeans wet, but now they were bubbly. Little suds slid down my leg, while some inflated in little orbs of air on my pants. Great, I thought to myself as I dried it off with a towel.

With one last look in the mirror, a giant exhale escaped my lungs. Now it looked even worse. The seat of my pants were soaked from the traumatic toilet experience, and the front was assaulted by a soap machine gone haywire. In the back of my mind I could imagine the sink and the commode laughing as I left their domain in shame. I had to go out to face the world, but not in the way I intended.

I wasn't leaving with pride at the job well accomplished, of my duties fulfilled with my head held high. No, I left in shame and realized something that I never thought of before this moment. When I finally met my girlfriend, she met me with beautiful, concerned brown eyes.

"Baby, are you okay?", she asked softly.

I paused for a moment, trying to think of a way to respond to that question. Inside I felt like I was being bullied by a bathroom, but I knew I was stronger than that. In a few brief seconds, I had my answer.

"Baby...I'm a soggy bottom boy." I smiled and walked with her out into the world together. I may have squished and squeaked my way through the rest of the day, but I was happy. Nothing in life can keep me down forever. Not even a treacherous toilet experience.

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Spin Me Round

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Boredom is a terrible mistress. It teases you with the possibility of an idea, then leaves you stranded in the emptiness of your mind. One second, you think you have something brilliant, but then you slump down in despair as you realize the dull throb of an unoccupied mind shooed it away. I was in one of these times as I sat there staring at my phone screen. My body was seated comfortably in a chair, but my mind was bored and tired of wandering around the empty void of boredom I currently inhabited. What was taking the lady so long?

She said she needed to step in the back and make a call, but I didn't realize that it would take so long. All I wanted to know was a simple quote on the item I was attempting to buy. A sigh escaped my chest as I sat there. Some people wandered in and decided to use my shoulder as an arm rest. Their eyes glanced from one item to the next as they maneuvered around my seated form with the grace of an intoxicated elephant. Great, I thought to myself as I watched someone put their face right over my shoulder to look.

If they were children, I wouldn't have had a problem. Kids have a way of not understanding personal space and I would just politely ignore them. But these were adults. I glanced down at my phone screen as their wrinkled hands pointed and gestured in front of my annoyed face. I asked if I could move so they would have a better view, but they said I was fine and continued to make me feel like a part of the furniture I was sitting on.

The pleasant glow of my phone screen kept me company as I ignored the shuffling seniors. Eventually they will go look at something else. There weren't that many items on the shelf. Soon, I popped open the App Store on my phone to look for a distraction from my desperate boredom. There were plenty of little games that could've occupied my time, but none of them caught my eye.

Through my years of gaming experience I had matched so many colored jewels, soda, candy, pirate treasure, diamonds, and every other conceivable object under the sun that I needed something original. It had to be something simple enough to pick up and play, but engaging enough to keep me occupied. As I scrolled down the list, one particular game took my breath away.

My eyes fixated on the little icon and I gasped quietly to myself. No way. This can't be real. I thought as I clicked on it for more information. As my brain hungrily digested the text I was reading, I realized that this was not a dream. Within seconds I clicked the download button, and watched eagerly as the loading bar spun around the orb. Almost...almost there. Finally, within a few seconds, the icon popped up on my phone's screen.

Boredom no longer had a place inside my occupied mind as I clicked on the icon and watched the object load in front of me. It was magnificent, a monument to human ingenuity. The little three pronged dream weaver spun in front of me as I swiped my finger. The beauty of the moment is hard to describe in text. No word in the human dictionary could properly capture the elegance of what I was witnessing in that brief moment.

Suddenly, it stopped. Gold coins filled an invisible piggy bank and I was not yet satisfied. With a quick swipe, the magic began to happen again. Little blue and green swirls melted together into a kaleidoscope of colored wonder as my heart melted at the sight. It...was...beautiful. A little numbered counter steadily climbed higher at the top of screen, filling up a bar indicating my skillful achievement. But, the number didn't matter to me. For once I was not captivated by the increase of meaningless numbers on my screen. Gone were the days when I longed for a higher level than others, or to watch the steadily rising numbers of achievement to satisfy my thirst for purpose. Now, the simple act of spinning this wonderful device left me speechless.

A little, salty crocodile tear dripped down my cheek as I felt the urge to hug my phone tightly to let it know it was loved. Why had I not thought of letting this darling little device into my life before? I don't know, but ever since I discovered it, my life has changed. I no longer feel the bitter sting of boredom in the darkest hours of meaninglessness. Now I have a playful companion to keep me company whenever I am alone and have no other tasks to attend to.

But, I wouldn't be a good friend to all of you readers if I didn't let you in on the secret. Throughout this article you have probably asked yourself, what on Earth is this guy going on about? Well, I am here to say that this particular little game may change your life. It changed mine.

Thank you Fidget Spinner, you have shown me that there is still beauty in this world. With your swirling, colorful gadgets, you have made a believer out of me. At first I believed you were a fad, a short term obsession that only the middle school kids would get into, but I was wrong. You are beautiful. You are the cure to boredom, and a dear friend. So may I offer support to you by telling the great readers of my blog to download you and to experience the beauty of spinning you round and round til the end of time.

Oh, excuse me, I got a little distracted. I think I may have a problem that I don't want to fix. With all due regret and acceptance I must admit that I have become temporarily enamored by the digital Fidget Spinner on my phone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must take the app for another spin.

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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

Photo Credits: assets.howtobecome.com

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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