Nothing destresses like Metal Gear Solid, a couple of beers, and a good pal.

yanatonage, you are the shit.

That thing where you starting to reach the point where you have to decide whether you want to start lashing out at people because you've reached your limit, or to sublimate it in talking about people behind their back/keep a blog about how people make you angry/annoyed/frustrated.

I'm likely going to aim for the former.

I've always realized that I had this compulsion to help other people. I'm not too sure of how this compulsion came to be, but for as long as I could remember, I had this inclination to talk with people (my friends mostly), and when listening, I would just instinctively try to fix whatever problems that they had. Something that I had to work on was realizing that when people would tell me of things that were bothering them, that they were not necessarily looking for help, but rather wanted to share as a form of stress release. While I feel that I'm getting better at this particular thing, I still find myself acting as a sort of externalized Super Ego for a significant majority of my friends. I tend to feel proud of this designation, but I often find myself feeling mentally exhausted from it.

I used to think that my mother was some kind of weird creature because she was able to get anyone to spill their life story within 10 seconds of talking with them (my dad, sister and I timed this once). I started noticing that people have done this with me in my older years. I work in a social work capacity, so I'm always talking and empathizing with clients and their family members. I love working my job because I get to see people actually be happy with the results of my labors (and while sometimes things go to shit, for the majority of the time, things work out, and being partially or significantly responsible for creating a great outcome to a bad situation is really rewarding). I love that I can actually go somewhere and feel that what I do is meaningful. But it's exhausting, and it leaves me with very little of myself FOR myself. And this is something that I really have to work on: having emotional and mental energies ready for me, so that I can work on myself.

I'm talking with a friend who's going through a lot in her life, and I empathize with her situation because she feels helpless with everything that's in front of her. I have often felt this way. I plan on hanging out with her for a bit so that we can map out what her goals are, what her barriers are, and what her outstanding obligations are. I've only heard a bit, but it's already a lot. Her general fear seems to be that once she actually pays attention the magnitude of stuff that's laying before her, she'll just want to give up and collapse. I relate to this because when I was dealing with my own shit, I would avoid it. I'd developed a nihilistic attitude in order to minimize how much my shit was affecting me, and when I didn't give it attention, it didn't hinder my daily life. It was effective at the time, but when it stopped working, I had to develop new strategies to deal with my shit, and I think my getting a handle of my outstanding matters is what helped me to come into my own. I've always been responsible, but my refusing to back down from the shit that life has thrown at me has helped me to be comfortable in my identity, and to finally be okay with being an adult. That's really weird to write, and it's weird to think about, but I feel like an actual adult because I handle my shit. I've done this for a long time, but to not have the feeling that I'll need help or support has made me feel like a man. Perhaps that's funny or sad to whoever would read this, but not thinking about someone helping me if shit goes down has helped me to think of myself as being a self-sustaining individual, and that feels fucking great.

So I guess the biggest thing for me is figuring out how to help my friend while I keep my own boundaries up, since it would be easy for me to have feelings develop, and have them lead into something romantic or intimate. This is highly presumptuous of me to think, but I had been reflecting on how my feelings work and I've noticed that my acting as a caregiver has always translated into my developing feelings for someone, which may or may not be tied into my inherent desires to be loved (and since I'm doing good for someone, how could I not be loved for that?). I've always felt that this was problematic, because it basically means that whatever relationship I have is at risk of becoming a codependent one, and I'd rather have a relationship based on mutuality. And while it's comforting to be loved and appreciated for the good that I do, it offers this kind of false impression that whatever feelings are there will be enduring and sustainable, which obscures the fact that the feelings are arising from the fact that I'm caring for someone, and it does not necessarily relate to the person liking/loving me for who I am. It becomes what I have to offer, and that makes me uncomfortable. And that makes me realize that my being a good person is an issue for me, because I get mad, have rage, and I do bad things from time to time. And it's easier for me to believe that I'm neither good or bad, but with a great capacity for good, than to believe that I'm a good person who is deeply flawed.

I've been introspective about this topic because I'm always evaluating my feelings for Erica, and with Erica. I instinctively seek her out, and I instinctively seek to have contact with her, and she does with me. We've been talking about our feelings, and the progression of whatever our relationship is. It's clear that the complicated nature of whatever it is that we have makes our feelings jump all over the place. Something that had came up in the past was that she was fearful that i was intentionally limiting my capacity for developing feelings for someone, and that I was at risk of depriving myself of a very loving and enduring relationship with someone that would be able to give me what I want now without any complications (it's been an ongoing conversation in which I hope to get married and begin having children by the time I'm 37, and to raise kids in New York, and she's not on board with either of those two things at the moment), and that she would feel responsible for depriving me of what I want because we can't let go of each other. Every now and then, doubt enters my mind, and I wonder whether it's worth it to open myself up a bit. I do just for the sake of being honest with myself, and I find that many times, when I put myself out there emotionally for someone, that the response I would get back would be neutral at best, and hostile most likely. And I think that's why I don't put myself out there: i'm deeply afraid of having someone disrespect my emotions, and I hate being attacked. Last thing I want to be is provoked into an emotional exchange where I begin to cut into a person about their shortcomings and their unappealing qualities (this is a great talent in my family), because I don't feel good about it, and the other person feels like shit as a result. But more importantly, what it does is make me feel cynical about dating, and it makes me feel like people will never get or understand me, and that I'm at huge risk of being emotionally lonely. And then I realize that the reason why I seek Erica out is because she respects my feelings, and actually understands me what I'm saying when I say it. And that combination of being heard, understood, and respected makes me feel really safe, and I get to go to sleep with the knowledge that maybe there is a counterpart to who I am, and that someone will provide that for me. And while I can't be absolutely certain that I've had found that person years ago when we first went out, I have an instinctual feeling to hang in there, and that's why I'd rather have that ongoing conversation about long-term wants and desires, than to try at a relationship with someone who may give me what I want, but would be fucking terrible for me.


It's during days like this that I wish for my NYU days, where I can get affection, have amazing sex, and then have time at the bar. I've never felt emotionally exhausted like I do now. God, I need sex and beer.

I'm reaching that moment in life where I can't really empathize with people who do not have some form of legitimate trauma. And I think I'm getting there because everyone complains, and I feel that many people have no right to complain. I know complaining is a way of processing and filtering unpleasant experiences, but sometimes, I really just don't give enough fucks to listen to the sounds of one's mouth moving and the breathes inbetween their inane utterances.

Dear some people: kindly shut the fuck up.

If there is anything that I learned about life, is that being oblivious to norms and decorum makes some people very, very angry. And sometimes I feel bad, but a part of me always finds this hilarious. This may mean that I'm a sociopath, or it just may mean that some people need to fucking relax.

I have the entire apartment to myself, it's gorgeous out, and I have plans for tonight.

What to do with these next eight hours.

*looks over to the stereo*

*looks over his 1980s hair metal collection*

*looks over his underwears*


...Now I have ideas.

So on this day, six years ago, I received a call from clearly nervous and overcautious desk worker for the NY Daily News, who asked if I had anything to share regarding JB's accident in Harlem. I remember thinking it was odd that he was not answering his phone, since we had plans with our friend Abby, and we were to go out to our watering hole. Naturally, this was horrific news, and I distinctly recall downing a whole bottle of 99 Pipers Scottish whiskey. I talked to Ethan, then Marisa (JB's sister), and not really being sure as to how to take the news. It was grim, but I remained hopeful. I've never been one for doubting Thomases, and all. That Monday, I told my boss that I was expecting to hear news, and that I would have to leave work early. Ethan called me, said that the intracranial bleeding was getting worse, and that JB wasn't looking too good. I got to the hospital, and I saw him. My god, how horrible he looked. His neck was twisted and swollen, and there was bruising all over his body. Marisa and JB's father was there. Then came his aunt, uncle, his grandparents, and the rest of the group of friends. And once Grams came back, after being told of the MRI results, in which it was confirmed that JB was brain-dead, it was finally clear that we had lost our dear friend. And from that day, it was like a gaping hole was in my heart, and I couldn't fathom ever being able to have a life after that.

It's been six years since. SIX FUCKING YEARS. I feel a little bad for saying this, but life has certainly moved on. It's been hard trying to let go of the anguish and grief, but I feel like that I've finally made progress with that. Nothing can take away from the love and warmth that friendship has brought me, and nothing will ever change how that amazing and wonderful man has affected me for the better. But since his death, I've dated someone extraordinary, who was beyond caring and wonderful to me, and who has been instrumental in my healing. I've bonded with Ethan, in such a way that our friendship has been cemented in a way that wouldn't have been had JB been alive. I've certainly let go of a lot of the anger that I've used to have, and I've opened myself up to appreciating my friends and family in such incredible ways. I've began to gain awareness into my behaviors, my actions, and into who I am. I've saw that I took a lot of things for granted, and after losing JB in the way that I did, I certainly never wanted to repeat that mistake.

It's such a weird thing to see that such good can come out of something so goddamn fucking tragic. And it's so fucking weird for that to be okay. It's really weird that life, for me, has been really good, and it's weird that I'm having that, and not sharing it with him. It all feels weird, because he is so integral to who I am, that it's like his absence reflects that I still have a gaping hole (even if it's getting smaller). But I also know that he'd be fretting if his loved one didn't find ways to appreciate their lives, and I think to spare him that guilt. it behooves me to live my life for the both of us. And that's why I have such a thirst for living: because he can't have that joy. And since some fucking tools caused him to die, I'm gonna be silly and ridiculous and absurd for the both of us.

And to celebrate that fact, Ethan and I had this exchange, and I think this sums up who we were to a T (and it also reflects how shocked I am about how I was).

Ethan: i was thinking of my favorite JB fretting moment recently when he had like a paper cut and put his hand on the wall in a bar bathroom that had a red splotch (probably paint). he spent the remainder of the night worried he'd just got AIDS
Me: I remember when he picked up a dude from the bar
Me: and said that he took turns with him giving blowjobs in the bathroom
Me: and he was freaking out
Me: and I just said "you slut, i knew you were staying to have some fun."
Ethan: i remember you watching porn while waiting to meet with a professor. i was horrified and the publicness and he just looked at it and said "I didn't know a dick could be turned around that way"
Me: oh my fuck!!
Me: DID I REALLY DO THAT!!?


RIP Beej. We're still crazy, so don't worry. I hope you're making all the angels sick from SoCo.

I get the feeling sometimes that there are not a lot of opportunities for pause in my life. It's already February, and I just got over the fact that it's now 2012. What the fuck, man? Can a dude enjoy his time without it flying by?

I need a day where I do fuck-all, and free myself of distractions. I can see how people get burnt out by modern life. All the trivialities and superficialities just pile on top of each other, and it obscures perspective. I want to focus on more important shit.

"Sometimes you eat the bar. And the bar sometimes, well...it eats you."

Truer words have not been spoken by a film, ever.

Dear JB,

It has been well over five years since you have past away. And I suppose this letter is one of those weird exercises where people who grieve lay out their thoughts and feelings that they can't express to the deceased. While this is a tired and cliche thing to do, I'm having one of those emo moments where I get all pensive and sad. So, you know, bear with me.

So I remember how last year, a lot of repressed/overwrought feelings started to emerge, and I recall how messed up I was. Like, I lost virtually all faculty for thinking and feeling, and was just this one huge ball of fuck. I'm sure if you were alive, you'd know what I'm talking about. It was kind of a re-traumatizing experience, because I was re-experiencing the loss that I felt, the absence of your presence, and it was triggered by something unrelated (which had its own bag of problems). I always kind of hated that time in my life, but now that some time has passed, I now realize that it was kind of like my emerging from some metaphorical cocoon of numbness. I remember how everything preceding that was like this thing where I was reacquiring emotional sensations, and learning how to identify them. And when I thought I was about as close to 100% as possible (in terms of functionality and such) I just broke down again, and regressed significantly. Or at least that's what I thought. I now realize that it was less of a breakdown and more of a deep catharsis. It was kind of like I could FINALLY feel again, and by god, it was the more horrifically painful and excruciating sensation I have ever experienced. And it was amazing. I have felt so strongly, and that was something that had been denied to me for years. It took some time to let all the feelings settle down, as I was wired to basically seize up from anything overloading my emotional capacity, but I think I'm doing okay.

Around the 5 year anniversary of your passing, Ethan and I met up to drink in your honor. THAT was cathartic. I actually got to mourn. It was something I could not do. And it was with someone who understood. And it was during then that I realized that you, Ethan and I are kind of like brothers, in that we're bound by something outside of choice. Sure, I'm really happy that we are friends and that we've been friends since before puberty, but we didn't necessarily choose to become that close. And when you passed, well, that kind of cemented everything. And while I was extremely appreciative of everyone supporting me and helping me during the aftermath of everything, it didn't satisfy that feeling of acknowledging loss. It was like other people didn't understand. Hell, I couldn't understand. How the hell does someone die like that? I know the mechanics of it, but what is the significance behind someone as great as you passing away, a month shy of being 21? And yet, five years later, Ethan and I sat down, drinking whiskey,. and we just knew. We lost someone truly amazing, and no one will ever occupy that space again. But we're better people for knowing you, and dammit if we don't learn something from the way you lived.

The serenity that I've felt may have been attributed to understanding what that meant. But I also think it came from Ethan and I being able to say how much we loved you, and how much it fucking hurts that you're gone. And how painful but great it is to have so many memories of you. And to remember all the great times we had pulling stupid fucking shenanigans that only young 20 year-olds would pull; the kind of shit that only those without a sense of shame, regret or awareness of consequences could accomplish. And to have those memories burn in my mind, like fiery suns going supernova, leaves me sitting or standing on me feet, completely loss in them, only to somehow have my environment come rushing back into focus.

I used to take a medication for anxiety, because you died. It wasn't anything particularly strong, but I knew that I needed it. I haven't taken on in a while. I don't have that feeling of urgency to have them nearby. I'm fairly certain that I won't be worrying about getting a refill anytime soon. I may even toss them at a certain point. I don't get overwhelmed the way I used to. My arm doesn't shake when things become too much. My mood changes, and I overreact, and I get pissy, and I have my mean streak. I'm like I was before everything. And that is surreal to me. But I also realize that I deeply care for everyone, and I don't have that venom that used to sit within me. So I guess after everything, you've still helped me to become a better person.

I won't lie to you, man. I'm not where I thought I would be. I thought I'd have a masters already, playing out some shows regionally because I could. I'm making moves to get there, but there have been some delays. It's a bit hard, finding that stride, where your future kind of falls into place. But I'm working on it. I'm also more confused than ever. I realize how little I know. I don't really have that feeling of certainty that I'm right in my actions. I am...uncertain. And I'm okay with that. I don't have all the answers, and I'm not going to know things better than other people. But at least I still have that volume in my voice. And every now and then, I say something that is completely irreverent and downright shocking.

So I'm still working on it. "It" being that state of mind where I'm okay, and I'm accepting that you have gone. I will likely never get there, but it's a challenge worth taking on. Because while I was right in that there your passing has forever marked me, it does not deprive me of my life. So in that regard, I was wrong. I know that you would want me to craft a life for myself that would allow me to look back upon with pride. I know you would want me to not waste the opportunity to create something meaningful with however many years I have. And I know that you would do whatever first came to mind (shrieking "BITCH" at me, or using your fists to get your point across) if I squandered my time on a spiraling depression on account of you. I mean, how could I not, but I'm not going to argue with you.

I still hear your voice from time to time. It catches me off-guard. I can hear the intonation of your words, like you're trying to soothe the heartache for everyone you left behind. And while they may be nothing more than phantom sensations due to the grief, I sometimes wonder if it's meant to nudge me in the right direction.

Still missing you like crazy, man. I hope all is well for you, wherever you are.

PS: pardon if there are grammatical errors. I didn't feel it was right to edit something like this.