Today, I got to introduce some very good friends to each other. Everyone got along famously, although it couldn’t have gone any other way with these guys.
It was the first booster draft for three of us. I was massacred in every game, and didn’t have any less fun losing to such great sports.
Two Innistrad and two Dark Ascension. Oh what glittering golden symbols lie beneath these wrappers.
Unfortunately, nothing interested me when we were picking out rares, so I got nothing for the deck I’m currently building, and no direction for a second deck. But as Aaron said, even if you lose, it’s cheaper than a night of poker. Sometimes you lose it on the river, sometimes you draw 13 consecutive lands, and sometimes you OH GOD WHY ARE MY CREATURES DEAD ARGHGHHGHGH LETS PLAY AGAIN.
Live according to the seasons
In the town where I was born
Things have gotta have a reason
The sun don’t come before the dawn
(Thanks again, Antje.)
How did I lose another week? Another week of that snow smell and guitar lessons and Nordique redheads I never asked out again. Lost to the trappings of life. So much has happened, and yet nothing has changed, though things will be different soon enough. And while I wish I could say that I had more to say about it all, I don’t.
Over some ancient moonlight white tea, Heather G asked how my belief in Taoism was going. It made me realize I hadn’t thought about it in a while, which is exactly the point. I’ve been trying not to try to act, and just been acting. Doing my best not to over-think things. Taking it one call, one conversation, one day, one week at a time.
It’s been another crazy week. Between the appointments and the hangouts, I haven’t had a night to myself.
One thing I wish I had more time to appreciate is the weather. The most recent blizzard draped the city in snow wet and heavy, and all I want to do now is go out and shoot with a nice piece of glass that goes wider than f/2.8. I keep promising myself I’ll do it next snowfall, but life always seems to get in the way.
The overstimulation has left me with my guard down, and I’m stuck in my memories again. Left remembering old conversations, nights lost to the senses, and my regret at not mentioning how much I liked those nails done up in white and nude.
It’s not my fault. Honest. I get pulled into it in the most innocent ways. That song will come over the tinny speakers in the produce department when I’m picking out tomatoes. Or I’ll be on the 12 home, going through random songs in my collection to try out my new monitors, when I catch someone sharing what I always saved for us.
I’m starting to understand how helpless I am to change the past, but at the very least, I can change myself. And that’s often good enough nowadays.
cause you speak of it like it’s the answer, when you define yourself by your singledom. It’s a status you try to wear proudly, but how much you talk about your ideal mate only reveals how much you hate being alone.
What you’re looking for is hard to find. That’s your excuse. But your “high standards” are defined by the most petty things, and all those petty things keep holding you back, a hypocrisy that makes you the victim. That’s why your life is filled with part 1s and never any part 2s. Then you talk as if we should be shocked that you’re single, vulnerable, and lonely.
You think love is something one does, instead of something one means. You can see the beauty in a gift, but not the thought behind it. Then you pass off your ideas on love as wisdom and advice, when they’re simply the things you want, cause you don’t have the wisdom to know what you actually need to be in a successful relationship.
It’s the most shallow form of love possible. That’s why I hate the word. Not cause of the way you define it — I don’t judge anyone by their definition of happiness — but because you think it means the same thing I do every time you use it.
And I want to tear it from your throat.
The drive home is always easier. Not because I’m leaving, but because it’s when I can catch my breath after some relentless debauchery I excuse as being for a special occasion.
I’m at an age where my body will feel this over the next two days, spent recovering physically and emotionally. Luckily, exhaustion numbs the senses, and makes the time pass quicker on those long stretches where distance is measured in hours.
Cousins, British humour, heartbreak, shots, gluttony, rumble strips, but never enough time.
The 401 is the kind of highway that Springsteen used to write about on his heartland folk albums, the only ones I ever liked. The songs were never about a road itself, but about all the lust and hate and change that happened between two people when they travelled along that road.
In the same way, driving the 401 has always been when I have a chance to find myself. It often leaves me feeling like a different person when I get to where I’m going.