The Group Formerly Known as BOB.

One, two, three, four!

We roamed the halls without a care in the world. The only thing on our mind was what was for lunch and the weekend to come. Altogether we were bob plus me. Me being the boy, the guy, the man. And bob of course being my three female best friends. One was pretty, smart, athletic. She seemed to have it all. But she was a bitch. Two was pretty, energetic, spoiled, and fun. She seemed to have it all. But she was a bitch. Three was pretty and driven. She had nothing to work with but all to fight for. She too was a bitch.

One grew up in the most suburban of homes. Mom, dad, two younger sisters. She made her way from butch to beauty in a mere three years. By the end she has a beautiful smile and gorgeous hair.

Two has had a difficult life. Two moms, but neither of them loved her as they should. Two dads who were just there. But not much help. She was on the fancy side; family drives nice cars. They live in nice houses. But the bruises tell a different story.

Three had very little. She lived with her mom in a two bedroom house with all her siblings. She is yet to have her own bedroom. Barely making ends meet. But always seems to look good.

I knew two first. She broke my heart. I asked her out, and she said yes. But then a week later she dumped me. She moved away and I was happy as could be. One introduced me to three, but two is how I knew one. One and I became friends when two was gone. I said “hey, you are two’s friend right?” and she replied “yeah, but now I’m yours.” And so it began. At first it was a simple acquaintance. But then it grew into something much more. Something fun. Fun for all of us. One was my best friend. She and I would strut our stuff through the halls of junior high knowing that we were the shit and that no one could touch us. We would find a toy store out of a piece of card board, and a candy shop out of a single piece of gum. We loved life. Nothing could kill this high. Three and I were really never great friends until ninth grade. We never had our moments. Not yet. One was the first one to break the silence. Then she was totally dorky. But now she is the shit. We would eat lunch together. Play together. Make movies together—Joke, laugh, kid, wrestle, pound each other’s heads into glass windows while trying to convince each other there was a doughnut on the other side.

I slowly moved into ones locker. And in turn into three’s as well. We were happy. But then I heard them call two’s name over the intercom. At first I was mad. Who the hell does she think she is? She can’t just come back. No, I still hate her. But then I let my thoughts wander. And I found myself imagining her and me together—again. This time it would be different. I would love her and she would love me. And only me. But I couldn’t very well just jump right into that. Plus… she had a boyfriend. I hated him. Two was my first real love. Slowly, I became friends with two again. Talking on the phone, hanging out, chillin at the water cooler—but it never happened. I’m glad it never did. Three and I, by now, were friends. We could hang out just us two. We didn’t, but we could have. That summer before ninth grade is when it was official. They were hence forth referred to as bob, but only by me.

High school began and things were awesome. Love interested bloomed from one, two and three, but not in that order. Two still had the upper hand; three was next, followed closely by one. As it failed with all of them, the idea of a relationship beyond friendship was pushed under the carpet. As high school progressed, one met four, making us more. I dated some random number, as two was with a string of read heads and three was with strangers. Four seems to be the only one to stay.

Soon after high school, three fell out of our lives. ‘Twas I, one, two and four—we were real cool. Then, again, as it seems, another seemed to slip through our fingers. But not before we meet five. Five is a cute girl in a normal life. She is pretty, funny, silly and driven. As I was saying, two began to fade. She became a mere memory even with our best efforts to keep her intact. All is well that ends well, though. I, one, four and five are having the time of our lives.

Of course, the numbers don’t stop at five. Our numbers have only gotten greater. There is six, the used-to-be curly headed fuck who we adore, caring, passionate and in the army, six is who we live for. There is seven, eight and nine, but they’re just siblings of one. Ten I met through a friend. She is pretty, silly and a bit of an alcoholic, but that is what we love most about her. She does things by year, perhaps because of some OCD she’s got going on. Yes, the numbers go on, too many to count. But who wants to spend time counting when we could spend time having fun? My number = adventure, and it is so much better than math.

On the occasion, I do miss the group formerly known as bob, but I don’t think they miss me. I try to keep in contact with three, but I feel as though she thinks she is better than us. But we really just want her to come back. And while I miss three a whole lot, I hope to never have to deal with two again. One phase of my life I am happy that it’s complete.

Not Till the Sky

Lets look back at the year. Lets turn our heads, open our eyes and see what we were. Who we were. What lessons we've learned. How we've grown.

People learn lessons everyday. Some lessons are for a guitar, as teenagers and middle aged men want to learn to play. Some lessons are harder learned. Lessons as "simple" as behavioral sciences of the schizophrenic mind, or as complex as trust. Those who learn these lessons have a pulse; they breath, walk, talk, eat, sleep. They are just like you and I. But what keeps those miraculous little muscles dancing?

The heart is a miraculous muscle. It not only pumps our blood for our own health, but it functions as an alarm as well. The heart alerts us when something is frightening. When things are glorious, exciting and scary. It tells us when we're in a place we shouldn't be. A single chest begins to pound when walking down a dark alley way, or in a house full of drugs. The heart also tells us when we know we're in the place we should be, whether it be among friends, or in the arms of a loved one. Have you ever felt that feeling of flight? That feeling of escape. The feeling one feels when words are whispered. Three simple words can take your breath away, but not because the lungs can no longer release the contractions they create, but rather because the blood is suddenly rushing from one end of your body, to the next. It has to pass through your chest; through your heart. Millions of cells are at work for three simple words. The same millions of cells are at work for the words that are never said. They work for those who never get to hear the words. For those who long to hear them. I love you.

We're all looking for one thing; that is something we've all got in common. Many artist write songs about the phenomenon, many groups of teenagers and young adults sing drunken songs about the concept. A brush is touched to a surface with the idea in mind. A dancer warms his body in preparation to glide across a stage. A father prepares a favorite meal, a mother leaves early from work, a dog wags his tail; all in the name of love.

But what is this thing we call love? Is it something you can buy? Is it something you make, borrow or steal? Does love expire? Even now my cursor blinks in search of a definition of the word. What is love?

Many people wake up everyday in hopes of finding the answer to that question. They clean the house, go grocery shopping, take the kids to school, rake the leaves, attend class, mail bills and letters, and ignore or embrace thousands of thoughts while doing it. Is it not always on one's mind? Subconscious, dormant, hidden from immediate thought. Love is what we're always thinking of. When will I meet him? When should I ask her. Will he say yes? What if she says no? Where should we go to dinner? I love her. I love him. I love you. I love you too. these are the subtext thoughts to all things said, thought, written, read and heard. But our question remains, What is love?

Is love not being able to keep someone out of one's mind? Having them always on the train that we call our thoughts? Riding through one's everyday, comfortably, with a pillow and a tasty drink? Is the absence of love, therefore, not having that person on one's mind? I don't think it is that simple. I feel as though love begins before that moment.

Every time one opens his or her mouth to say the words, "I love you," he or she is not only expressing the love for the person meant to hear it, but to him or herself. That sentence begins with the word, "I."

Love begins with oneself. The ability to love oneself is power. It is, as I believe, the greatest power there is. And this is because I believe love is what powers the world. One may hear the words, "Above all, I believe in love." Or, "All you need is love." Every one assumes that these words mean that we should all find someone to love, but what we're missing is that the one we should love the most, is ourselves. I'm sure that there is a biblical scripture denoting the same concept, but I'm not about to find it.

How can we share love, when we ourselves don't hold it. How can one have a best friend, when one doesn't get along with him or herself. I am my own best friend. I have the most fun with me. I'm always there in the times of need; my shoulder is the closest for my crying eyes to fall on. I'm present at those moments that we think of when we hurt, when we want to laugh, or when we're being attacked by Dementors.

I am excited to share what I have with someone else. Because if they can feel a fraction of what I'm capable of feeling for myself, that person will know that my love is honest. They will know that my love is true.

As strong as I am, and as ready to love as I think I am, I'll wait. I'll wait to go after you. I'm not ready. But I will be one day, and when that day comes, you can bet that I'll be at your doorstep.

Marvelous will happen again.

I owe it all to him.

No, I don't mean that literally, I'd like to say that I'm pretty great without him, and that I've got my own ways of giving back... But still.

I'll explain what the hell I'm talking about. This holiday season I've been more charitable than past years. I think it is because I actually have the money to this year. Last year I was so down on my coin that I made all my friends their gifts. This year I did it again, because I loved it, but this time, with the money I've saved, I've managed to give Christmas cheer to more people. I've got a better job and I spend less (arguable) money on myself and stupid things this year.

Hmmm... Maybe we should fast forward to a few weeks ago. I was walking through the union building at WSU when a hot coco machine caught my eye (best marketing tool ever). I stopped for a cup, knowing that you don't actually have to do whatever the hell those tables always want you to do. As I was pooring, I felt bad that I didn't even inquire as to why I'm getting this delicious free coco. Then I inquired as to why I was getting the delicious free coco. It turns out that the lovely people behind that purple table were promoting something called "the Angel Tree Program." Not unlike the "Giving Tree" where you take a paper flyer-ornament-thing (has the name of a child, age, and sizes, along with their wants and needs for Christmas). Anyway, you pick one and buy a gift for a needy child that would otherwise have nothing under the tree. I took two. I knew that I could afford it this year.

When I told my mother about it, she offered to help pay for it. She bought the clothes, and I bought the toys. This was cool because I was only planning on buying the toys. Anyway, on my way to the station the other day, it occurred to me that maybe we were only supposed to buy one of the gifts... As it was after Student Involvement Office hours, I consulted the inanimate "Angel Tree." Because the tree doesn't speak, it answered no questions. Instead, I picked up another child. I went shopping for them today. While out, I came across a blanket for a good price. It was so warm and fuzzy. I remembered that there was a child that needed a blanket on the tree. I bought the blanket. I get to take the last two children's gifts in tomorrow; I already took in my first two this afternoon.

This is all so helpful! I love it!

In addition to that, I donated 20 of my pay check to something about warming the soles of children (there was a shoe involved on the design of the flyer)... I wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it is all for a good cause!

No, I am not trying to toot my own horn, but I am trying to toot a Horn. Every time I donate, I think of Taylor Dewey Horn. He is so selfless. He is amazing and thoughtful; he is caring and giving. He will one day save this world from the thing it has become. It all starts with just knowing him. I have someone that I care because of. I hope that we've all got someone like that. Someone that makes us stronger and nicer and kinder and just all around better people.

Go out of your way to give someone else a Christmas this year. Please.

I know you read this...

I miss you.

In time.

It has officially been more than a year since I last saw him. A lot has happened in this past year. I've grown and changed a lot. I've got a stronger outlook on life, love and people. I've changed my life, I've changed my home, I've changed my oil, my sheets and my clothes. After all these things have changed, one thing hasn't. I, inside, still have the same desire to see him as I did one year ago. Nothing has changed the way I feel about this boy. I miss being able to say goodnight, it was my way of letting him know that I was thinking about him as I feel into my peaceful slumber. I miss waking up with a pleasant "good morning!" from him. I miss the hugs he gave me, and the time we shared together. Probably the thing I miss the most is when he would scrunch up his face. For some reason, I loved that.

He wants to hang out. I'm terrified. But I need to do this. If for no other reason, I need to be, at least, at peace with myself when he is in the room. I owe it to our friends that we share. If I ever actually get the opportunity to attend a party of theirs, I need to be able to be there and have fun with them. It also wouldn't hurt to finally have him as my friend. It is something that I've been wanting for such a very long time. I'm still scared shit less, though.

How I feel right now. You ask me how I feel right now? You want to know? You want to know how I feel... How I REALLY feel?

Ok.

First off, I am comfortable with myself. I like my body, with the exception of the fluff that will put a damper on hot tub season. I like to wear the clothes I own because I think they make me look good. I think I look good. Some might feel self conscious about their appearance... I'm just conscious. Aware. I know what is going on, but I am also ok with the fact that I can't change that. I know that I don't have perfect skin or eye brows. That is ok. If I see myself that way, then you see me that way.

Second, I like being alone. Mostly just because I don't have time to be with someone. Between work, school and homework, I am exhausted daily. That is not to say that I wouldn't mind having someone to cuddle with at night... But, honestly, even if I began to date someone, I feel that I may rush things (again) and it would just be another relationship over too soon. Yes, I like being alone. And what is more, I am good at it. I just need another blanket to protect me from the harshly frigid nights.

Third, I love going to school. I have felt that since I began a few years ago, school has gotten so much more fun and cool. I like seeing my friends everyday, I like learning all the things I am taught, and I love experiencing the incredible happenings that occur. That being said, I hate homework. I do it... but I usually do it right before it is due. I also hate my Spanish class, in addition to my History and Literature class. They suck.

Fourth, I like my job. I've always liked it. I am good at it. Everyone I work with is fun and cool and energetic. I've made some really great friends that I adore. I love that my work recognizes the hard work I do and they've given me raises and promoted me to shift leader. However, I hate when I do dumb things. Things that could have been avoided if I just put more thought into it, or spent more time analyzing the situation. I hate feeling dumb about my performance.

Fifth, I love my friends. Some of them are bitchy on occasion, and some of them are three hours late, but I love them. They make my world go round. I miss quite a few of them; I hope to change that. I want to see a lot of them more often than I do...

Sixth, I feel like the world is falling apart. Yes, we are actually making progress, but as I become more aware of the things going on on this Earth, it actually looks like we are getting worse. When I was little, nothing bothered me. I was so ignorant. My friends actually got me to tell my parents to vote for Bush. Luckily they saw that the opinion of a fourth grader was not valid and voted for Gore instead, but that just shows how little I knew! Now, I see war, death, violence, disease, poverty, hate, etc. It is a terrible place to live. And you can't escape it.

Finally, as always, I believe in the power of love.

I hope you got what you were looking for.

Higher Than Clouds

I know. I am aware. It is to be expected... And yet, when it happens again, I'll be surprised... Again.

A couple of days ago a friend from high school, Destree, posted on her FB page how she agreed with the new LDS president (What the hell happened to the old one?!). Packer was saying that man was put on this earth to replenish it-that lead to the subject of homosexuality. Because of this, Destree believes that gays are "unnatural and perverted." A few people commented and said either she was wrong or they agreed with her. I felt, naturally, that she is/was wrong. I put my cursor on the white box that said Comment here... and I clicked. I began to right. At first I didn't know how I wanted to approach the subject. I don't really like hearing the phrases, "I'm not gay but I still support them." I feel like no one ever said, "I'm not black but I think they should be able to share our water fountains." Isn't it obvious who is not black? And while it may not be as obvious, sexuality should not be defined in a defensive comment. So I began it with courage. "I'm gay," I said.

"I'm gay. I am not perverted. I don't feel I am unnatural. In fact, being the way I am is the most natural thing in the world for me." I went on saying what I believe and defining what is actually unnatural. I suggested that not all homosexuals are perverts and that most child abusers and sex offenders are "heterosexual." I ended my rant with a simple note. "I might add that we aren't looking to share our beliefs, we are merely looking for acceptance. Love has no gender."

Apparently, for Reese, another kid from high school, this did not fly. He began with, "Derek Williamson. Youre a dumb ass." Resisting the temptation to comment on the fact that he spelled you're wrong, I continued. Reese spoke of many things. None of which made sense. He got belligerent, violent, and rude. He spoke very highly of himself and his church (LDS, of course) and called me a faggot in passing. He demonstrated the utmost foul way of going about being a good person. Mind you, I cannot say I have ever really liked or disliked Reese. We were never friends. We went to high school together, but we never actually spoke. I found it funny, though, when he knocked up our Senior Class President in the back seat of a car in the parking lot of BYU, where she had a full ride scholarship. Why, you ask, did I find this funny? Because it is always funny when a dumb-ass gets pregnant! Haha, and he called me the dumb one?

His comment was not unnoticed, Adam, (another former class mate) took the more calm approach to explaining what Destree was trying to say. He said his church believes in marriage and family and all that great stuff that people believe that I will never have. Let me tell everyone here something, I'll be damned if I allow society to determine whether or not I will be allowed to have a husband or to start a family. I will be a far more fit parent than Reese, or my brother, or the 16 year old crack head in the alley.

Religion is the opium of the people. They thrive on it. They flock to it is going on sale the day after Thanksgiving. Without faith, people fail.

I believe in love. Above all things, I believe in love. With out it, I fail.

Of all the things to hate in the world, with all the crimes and criminals, you hate a little green vegetable.

I've nothing good to say at all. Which means, of course, that I'm going to say it all!

I hate peas. I think they're gross.

I hate showering. I feel as though I earned my filth.

I hate naps. I think they're a waste of time.

I dislike Bryan Butters. I think he's a tool.

I hate brushing my teeth. It is so so so boring.

I hate having a job. It is too much work.

I hate when people try to be someone else. Isn't that just generic?

I don't like drugs. I think they destroy people.

I don't really like soda too much. It makes my tummy hurt.

I don't like boys. They're dumb.

I don't like musicals, and yet, I sing as though I am in one.

I don't like computers. They're no good.

I don't like dirty. Clutter, rather.

I don't like the mouse's in the Union Building. You can't scroll down.

I dislike the taste of black coffee. It is too bitter.

I can't say I enjoy being alone.

I don't like to cry. It leaves my face all wet.
I don't like saying good bye, because I don't like to cry.

I don't like reading anything other than Harry Potter.

I especially dislike homework. It is tedious.

I loathe Spanish class. Fuck Queen Rita.

I don't much care for any font other than Times New Roman.

Slide shows bother me if I didn't make them.

I don't like to be corrected. I hate that I need to be.

I am afraid of heights.

And elephants.

This guy sitting next to me is tacky. I hate that.

I don't like stereotypes. I think they're ridiculous.
I hate that I stereotype people.

I don't like politically incorrect statements.

I don't like that I don't get to decide what is politically incorrect.

I hate it when people are late. Even by just a minute.

Especially Chelsea.

I don't like being called little Dustin, but that hasn't happened for a while.

I don't like talking on the phone. Unless it is a boy.

I don't like when people are offended by the things I do.

I don't mean to offend anyone.

I don't like animal abuse, therefore I don't eat meat.

I don't like that I like cheese so much, I want to be vegan.

I don't like that I am weak.

I don't like that my head phones may or may not have crapped out on me.

I hate it when you paint a room and have to tape it off first.

I hate that I have to do my own laundry.

I don't like that I have to read almost 2 plays everynight.

I dislike that I don't own any of them.

I hate that I never read the plays I am supposed to.

I dislike lists.

And counting.

I don't like telling time with an analog clock. I get bored.

I don't like the taste of okra.

I find it ridiculous how some people can accomplish nothing.

I find it even more ridiculous how some people are such fuck ups.

I don't like adultery. I think it is disgusted.

I am attracted to very few races.

I dislike that about me...

I don't like Mac's, I'm a PC.

I don't like keanue Reeves, Nic Cage or Kristin Stewart.

I hate that they get to be famous while I go grocery shopping.

I love to have my picture taken.

And I love Broccoli.

I also love my Friends and good times.
Life is full of adventure, but no one wants to play.

I hate that.

REM stage 4

A few dreams I had a couple of nights ago stuck in my memory. Unless I'm fighting Zombies, Dinosaurs, or Zombie Dinosaurs, they don't exactly stick around for me to remember them in the morning. I usually prefer to have dreams about Harry Potter, as I am recently completely obsessed to the point of awesomeness, but the occasional inspirational dream will do.

The first, as plain as it is, I've had a little bit more trouble interpreting... It was in a bedroom, not my current or 131 bedroom, but a rather familiar (I can honestly say to the best of my knowledge I've never set foot in this room) bedroom. The walls were grey/beige lit easily by two lamps on either side of the bed. The bed, as with most adult bedrooms, was in the center of the room with the head board against the farthest wall. At the foot of the bed sat a blanket the color of blood, and the bed spread covering legs was a light brown color. The legs belonged to Taylor. Yes, that old boyfriend of mine. He was reading. His torso outside the bed spread and his arms upon it. I can only assume he was reading an Augustus Burrows novel. I walked in the room doing the thing I do every night right before bed (mind you, I don't actually have a bed routine, but in the sense of the dream, it felt as if I had done it every night for 10 years). Just having brushed my teeth, I take off my glasses. I would assume I was about to put them on my side night stand and roll into bed, but my dream ended. I cannot recall if I woke up after that or not, but I just know that it felt so real. So... Natural.

My second dream, although less... Happy (assuming you interpret the first vision as happy). I was at my parents house, for some reason, I was drawn to visit the front lawn. When I passed over the threshold of the house door, I noticed something odd. It wasn't that the sky was purple (but for all intensive purposes, it very well could have been) nor that the lawn was a sea of hats. No, what I saw was a crowd. As I drew closer I realized that the crowd was circling a car that lied, parked, beneath the oak tree.

I began to inquire why everyone was so intrigued by the vehicle when a stranger exclaimed that someone, a girl, was about to be raped. I was appalled. Why was no one doing anything? That poor girl is about to be violated and emotionally scared in front of an audience. She's going to have to live in this world knowing that she was so traumatically hurt and no one bothered to do anything about it.

Knowing that it is a horrible thing not to have hope, and that she must be completely terrified and in severe danger, I began my search for a blunt stone. My plan was to use the stone to break the window and rescue this poor girl. The moment I wielded my newly found stone to the window, I realized that there was no window. Or, at least, it had been rolled down. I was confused. Could she just not escape herself? After having paid so close attention to my new discovery, I found that I was near a group of the girls friends. They kept saying her name, Danielle. Her name was Danielle. It is such a beautiful name. Such a beautiful girl. Just to clarify, I asked one of her friends, "Her name is Danielle?" "Yes" was the quick response.

"Danielle," I said softly to the girl in the car, though she didn't react. I don't think she heard me. "Danielle," I repeated, this time followed by a quick glance from a crying, young, beautiful girl. I don't know why or how, but as soon as I had her attention, "The greatest lesson you can learn is to love, and be loved in return." The past couple of weeks this has been my moto. I of course came upon this insight while watching Moulin Rouge, this being the central theme of the film. After I said the words, Danielle stopped crying. She wiped away the tears that had been running down her face and she looked at me with the most astonishing eyes. She crawled out of the window of that car and jumped into my arms. I embraced her knowing that I just changed her life forever.

If you were to ask me what I took away from this dream, I'd come up with a mixture of answer and theory. My theory being that, while I believe that she was about to be rapped, I do not believe it was sexually. I cannot recall another person being in that car below the oak tree, so I believe that the idea of rape is more appropriate. Abuse, or improper treatment is one definition of the word. I believe that her life has been so incredibly terrible up to this point, and until now she had been blaming it on bad luck and shacking responsibility. When I came into Danielle's life, she suddenly found the courage to realize that her life is what she makes it.

The answer I'm looking for is that we have to take responsibility and stick up for ourselves. Take action and be who we are. This world will walk all over you and leave its foot print without so much as a warning. We've got to stand our ground and live. We've got to stand our ground and love.

Floating On By.

I think too much.

More importantly, I think too much of myself.

I doubt anyone else thinks so much of me, and yet, I find that people always ask for my advice. While the possibility of my ears being the closest in range is likely, I always let myself think that it is because I know best. Why?

What makes me the expert? Who the fuck am I to tell you how to live your life?

Yes, I do think that I live my life to standards that a lot of people should follow, but, as I was saying, that is just something I do. The key word was THINK. I THINK. I think too much. I think too much of myself.

Given the knowledge I have based on the experiences I've taken part in, I can tell what I know. However, I throw in my opinion on situations that I have absolutely no personal connection, empathy, or experience in. Why must I do that? I'll tell you why, but you're not going to love the answer. It is because I am always right. I can always give out the best advice while standing as a completely third party member with absolutely no personal interest in the matter. It is easy to be your guide.

It is, however, less than easy to guide myself. I have found, for the most part, who I am and who I want to be. But that isn't because I have made the decisions I would advice, but rather the opposite. Chronologically, I advise based on the decisions I've made. I know, now, how to deal with problems because I've faced them before.

I guess the only thing left to say is.... Well, prove me wrong. Or right. Or just show me that I should stay out of peoples business and just nod politely. I can nod. I am good at that.

Throw your best, life, and see how we end up.

I hear you scream it, but I want to hear you sing it.

I want to meet a boy who can sing. I want him to sing to me and I want him to sing with me. I think that having a good singing voice is such an attractive quality. He can write music for me and play it on the guitar, or uke. We'll sit around a campfire and just sing. The only care we'll have is what the next verse in the song at hand is. Thats what I want.

Tired of drowning.

It doesn't hurt. Not anymore. These are the words I keep tellimg myself. The longer I say it, the more it becomes true.

Life goes on. They were all right. It was not the end. Existance doesn't suddenly cease just because one boy is gone. Or two...

I like to think that I've become more independant these last nine months. I've taken a rather rocky approach to words of confidence, but I believe I've reached my destination just the same. I'm happy to just be me. but that won't stop me from my mission of finding us.

My expectations and reality are so completely different. That is to say that my expectations are really more like day dreams; dreams that I alone cannot make come true (my dreams involve a second half). This is becuase I'm not dreaming the proper dream; I dream of us. So far, every fish has succedded in snapping my line. That is okay, though; I hate fishing. What I am doing is just living my life on a boat (mother fucker), while trolling an invisible, sturdy line behind me, without attention. This means, If someone bites, neat; if not, neat. If no fish takes the line, at least I'm on the lake. Or in the lake...

Don't look at me.

Some times I feel like I'm a bitch. I am aware of the idea that I am an attractive person. I like to think I am more attractive than I probably am, but that is just me being the narcissist I am. Anyway, the point is, I spend time trying to look my best, as everyone does.

It used to be that I saw myself as the ugliest, biggest person in our group of friends. Now, after I've changed my body image, I feel more confident. I don't have to wear a t-shirt under all my clothes to soften the weird bumps my body had, and I am completely comfortable taking off my shirt to go swimming with my friends, now.

Chelsea and I have talked about how when we are sexy, we're not going to use our powers for evil; we'll only use them for good. This means, we're not allowed to be a bitch to ugly people, etc. Something that I do, that I've contiplated whether or not it is okay to do or not, is looking in the direction of girls, smiling, and flirting with them a little by winking. I know that I am gay. I know that I am not going to ask them out or anything, but they don't. They don't know that I'm actually not interested. As far as they know, I am just a cute boy who has taken notice of their image. The key to the concept, is I usually do it to the girls who look not as confident. To the self conscious girls who look like they worry about what other people think. Who look like they don't get very much attention. I know it is rude of me to be able to pic those girls out, but when you're not confident, it shows.

The girl that wrote the post from Six Billion Secrets could very well have been one of the girls I've given the confidence to feel beauty to. Maybe I don't actually have that effect on people....

But maybe I do.

Do not collect 200 dollars.

I can't express how hard it is for me to imagine a world outside the one we're in. I live an everyday life; I go to work, I come home, I go to sleep. Everyday. I live an ordinary enough life. I go to church on Sunday. I pray, I worship, I read and I try to stay awake. Just as any one else will do on the Lords day. I live at home, still, with my parents. I moved out once. To Europe. About a year out of high school I got called on my LDS mission to Europe. It didn't work out. I was sent home dishonorably. With the promise of returning if I straitened up, and acted according to standards. The only thing I want in life is to make my mother proud, so, without a second thought, I accepted the second chance. This could have possibly been the worst mistake I have ever made.

I am not happy. I do not look forward to my life nor my future. I don't want to return to my mission. I don't want to return to anything. I am so miserable. So very miserable. I live a life of melancholy, but that is normal enough.

I haven't dreamed in a very long time. Not because I am unable to, but because it hurts too much. I used to spend so much time in my thoughts, thinking about everything magical and beautiful. I loved escaping to my mind. I'd find that things were different. Things were perfect. I could be happy, free and loved. I know it sounds great, but bliss is so wrong. I don't deserve to be happy. I knew this, and the second I came to terms with it, I stopped dreaming. It is all for the best. Dreaming a beautiful dream and then returning to reality sent waves of pain across my heart forming a mark I have come to know as nothing. When I know that tomorrow is a simile to today, I move forward. I would like to say that I wish for yesterday, or a different tomorrow, but I don't wish either. Right now I just go.

I've heard that a man who is fifty that lives his life the same he did when he was thirty has spent twenty years waisted. He didn't learn anything. He didn't gain anything. He just kept living the life he always had. I do the same. I'll probably return to Europe. I'll probably die in my sleep. No. The sad thing is I won't.

My name is Bradley Johnson, and I dream of electric sheep.

The man behind the curtain.

I wasn't supposed to know it existed, after all, he never spoke of it while we were together. He always wrote in his journal, sometimes telling me that I was the subject of conversation. I never meant to find it, but I did. I stumbled across his blog. His online journal. I was looking at the profile of a mutual friend, and saw that she (possibly they... I haven't found out if they're keeping it as a couple, or if one just has guest entry's) was following. It was called "Captain Oats" or something similar. Thinking it was a reference to the Captain Oats featured on the "OC," I pondered. Looking almost immediate to the side, after noticing the dull and boring back drop, I saw picture that sent shivers down my spine. There was no mistaking it, this was his blog.

After taking a few seconds to contemplate if I should read or just go back to facebook, I start looking for my name. I didn't do it on purpose, but something inside me kept searching. I soon found that there hadn't been too many posts. I find one, fourth from the top, submitted at the end of September. Thinking back to when We broke up, I find that this was while we were still together. Looking for a more recent post, I find what I'm looking for. I had just started reading when I realize it is what I don't want to be reading. It isn't a happy memory, nor a sexy one. It is the only memory I have with him that made/makes me cry. As I continue reading, I find that this premeditated thought had been rehearsed. I find that he was forced to pretend to be enjoying my company. I find that I don't like this anymore than I used to.

My heart begins to pound as I read. Each little memory of the night coming back to me. I correct him in my head, saying things like, "I didn't say that." "That didn't happen." The point was that the story is right on, it is just told slightly different. Each letter I read brings painful sighs back. My breathing gets louder and my arms begin to pulse. He was worried about what kind of cryer I am. Not the fact that I was about to have my heart broken, but whether or not he was going to get wet from tears or have to plug his ears as I sobbed.

I force myself to keep reading, all the while thinking, "I don't want to hear this." Despite everything I've led myself to think about our relationship, I draw back to the perspective that our relationship was just fun for him. Why am I hurting so bad when he just saw it as another silly old experience.

I feel like a fool for having cried in front of him. He didn't earn that right. I should have never showed my heart to him. And although I didn't exactly say that I loved him, something along those lines sure showed as I cried in his car.

When we were together, I made a bracelet. I used the rope that I found back stage, and I tied it to my wrist. I thought it was so cool, despite the fact that it was so simple compared to the other bracelets I make. Loving it, I made him one too. I gave it to him and he said he liked it. Reading his entry, he writes about how before leaving his car as a goodbye, I removed the bracelet and stuffed it in my pocket. At the time, that was a symbol that things were over. By putting that black rope in my jacket pocket, I was letting him know how much I cared about him. I was telling him that every time I looked at my wrist, I would think of him. And when I removed it, he finally understood that. As told, the thing that went through his head was no longer guilt (as it had been the feeling after seeing me cry) but instead justification. He writes that he had never put on the bracelet. Showing that it is just another testimonial that I am not/was not that important to him.

I thought that was what separated him from Nick. I thought that he was the guy who actually took notice of me, who appreciated me. That was one of the things I loved most.

I was wrong.

Moving on.

It is finally time. I've spent too long being attached to the idea of still dating Taylor Horn. I miss him and will probably always miss him, but most every time I think about him I get sad. Therefore, I have decided to part ways with him.

I sent him a text to ask if he missed me or not. When you break up with someone you often wonder if they miss you as much as you miss them. While he says that he does in fact miss me, I'm confident that he's happy without me. Which leads me to my next point... I need to be happy without him. Yes, I have my friends. They're the real love of my life, but even as they try, they can't be the one you truly fall in love with. They're not the ones that leave smiles on your face every time you wake up. They are wonderful, but they're not that person. They will hold you when you're sad, as best friends should, but they don't hold you when you're happy, cold or just for fun.

When asked what makes me cry, I had to think about it. I hadn't cried for ages. It used to be the lack of attention that I got. The strangling situations my brothers put me through, and just other highly emotional middle-child bullshit. Now... Now it is different. Aside from movies or sad stories that leave tears in the corner of my eyes, the only thing that can get them running down my cheek is a boy. After Nick and I finally broke up, I cried for as long as I could before I had to actually get out of my car and get ready to go on stage. When Taylor and I broke up, I cried in his car, and then in my car. And then in my bed, and everyday for a week or so. Even after that, after the recovery period, I had my occasional slip. A song, an image, a thought. Anything that reminded me of him would send a signal to my brain telling me that it was time to open the flood gates.

After asking if he missed me, I had to tell him what I thought. I think that he and I aren't friends. We never were. We never will be. We never really had the opportunity before we started dating, and after. Well, after he told me that he would continue talking to me because I told him that I would feel like I lost one of my best friends if he didn't. Did he? Obviously he didn't. If he had, I would've been able to move on long before. I would have had the opportunity to see him as only a friend and nothing more. Instead, I see his name and break down.

I didn't just let this happen. I tried talking to him. Quite often for having had my heart broken. He never made an effort to return the favor. I personally don't understand how you can go from dating someone to just not talking to them at all. So quickly. It isn't like we broke up over a fight. We simply stopped dating. Against my will. If I were to work harder to be his friend, what would I find? Would I find that he is doing very well in school, that his social work dreams are coming true? or would I find that he has done poorly, so so, or dropped out of his dream completely. If that the case is that he is doing well in his field, then I would see no hope for ever being able to see him again. After all, the reason we broke up was because I wasn't the number one seller on his mind. He wanted to focus all his energy on one thing; School. That is great. I completely understand. I was supportive and I didn't fight it. He will change the world someday. He already has. But changing the world doesn't include me. However, if he is doing poorly, then I would resent him for not trying to see me again. With all his spare time, he should be able to fit me back into his life, shouldn't he? Or maybe I don't deserve that privilege.

Honestly, I hope he is doing well. I hope that all his actions and my heart ache is justified. I also hope that I can move on. I don't want to be hurt anymore. I don't want to find someone, if finding someone just makes me cry. What I really want is to be ok. I just want to be ok with wherever I am. Right now I am lonely, but that is only because I miss the feeling of someone caring for me. I miss someone holding me when I'm happy. I miss being happy enough to be held.

Dog as an Anagram.

Every time I try to determine my religious views in a blog or on paper, I struggle on whether or not to capitalize the word "God."

On the occasions that I write god, I assume he/she will proof read it and change it for me, before it is submitted. Or is it me who is motivated enough, hopeful enough, to write God? Am I the one who decides? If I write god, will God punish me? If I were to write God, would god himself/herself be disappointed?

It doesn't ever change before submission, which leads me to ask, "How do people spell my name?" Does derek even care? Do people lie awake and think about Derek, derek, or just about [Gee] oh Dee?

Murky Waters

I just keep telling myself that things are ok. That I am ok. And yet, when I see pictures of him, my chest starts pounding. I literally just hid him from my news feed on facebook. I don't want to delete him, because I know what that is like... But at the same time, I'm sure he wouldn't notice if I were gone.

The worst part about it is that I can only hide him until I refresh the page. Then he is back in all his glory. Mocking me. Hurting me. I wish this would end.

Not just another day, but everyday.

I never really got a chance to catch our fall. I never got a chance to put up my defenses. Within a flash, it was all over. No dramatic music, no foreshadowing. It just happened. The only clue I got was that night at dinner, he seemed so distant. I didn't catch on until I noticed he wasn't holding my hand. God, I still feel the same pain I felt that night. It hurts to think about it. I really have nothing sacred. Nothing that doesn't remind me of him. After all these months, days, hours, minutes, seconds... after all this time, he still passes through my thoughts most every second. It is almost as if he left yesterday, or today for that matter. I try to keep my mind occupied on other things, but it doesn't really work.

The truth is, if he talked to me, it would be different. If we saw each other every once in a while, I would see him as just another friend whom I used to date. But the cold truth is that he doesn't talk to me. We don't see each other. I doubt he even thinks about me. I doubt he's going through what I am.

The sad thing is, if he were to talk to me again, I would take him back. I suppose it isn't really that sad considering it was the best thing I've ever had. We never had a falling out. We never had a fight. We never did anything to each other that would make it a better life to live apart. I would love to take him back. In fact, that is what I think about. I think about how we dated, and how it is possible we will one day date again. I just wish I knew that was a true thing.

I still hate this.