My Head Hurts

     Growing up people always ask you, what do you want to be when you grow up? As a little kid the answer is easy, a cop, a farmer, a teacher, a this, a that, but now in my youth (almost a child, just with more complex emotions) I just cant seem to figure it out. The answer given cant be so simple, it has to be more just this, then die, and the end.
     My chameleon is dieing and I can’t help but feel at fault. The only problem is I thought I had it all right. Its aquarium is amazing with great scenery, places to hide, lots of water, crickets galore (I even fed the damn crickets). Then why is it dieing, unable to even open its eyes to the cruel world around him, and why does his upcoming fate make my hands tremble so?
     I see the connection with him and myself. We have it all good, the place, food, environment and even some buddies to keep us company, but then what ails us. In his attire the chameleon looks tough, ready for any upcoming cricket that might spring to his side, but his eyes lack the hunger. I comprehend his dilemma as much as I can comprehend mine. Is this what it means to be a parent, to blame yourself for the outcome a being you decided to take care of? His life (more like her life since she is a female) seems too dull and uninspiring yet at the same time so amazing to just be alive, doing what she does, survive. Is that enough with her or is that what is dragging her to eternal rest.
     Before life was so simple, back and white. Now as I venture on I can see that the road curves, combines, and eventually fades. I try to be the person I once was but I no longer know that guy, although his being still inside me and I am that man. It seems like tiring to preserve a part of me that wants to fade.
     Lately everything I write I hate and that which I don’t hate later I don’t understand. Am I tiring to look to deep to answers that are just unanswerable or have more than one answer? Faith, here is a good question. To have faith in anything or anybody can be devastating, finding out later that it was a sham would condemn all that you worked for. Then again Faith is powerful, it drives men to be better, to be honest, to believe and to try again. So would it be a waist to have faith and turn out you were complete wrong even though the outcome of it was good?
     Sex before was good at anytime or place and still my instincts drive me to lust and want. Then again having sex without any intimacy has always rendered me with a half satisfaction. My instincts are suffice but my mind thinks there should be more. Sex is just sex but nothing in life (to my knew understanding) is just what it is. Boo is just a dog, and at first glimpse a terrifying one, and to some people he will always be terrifying, but coming to understand him is to see his want for attention, passiveness, but like anybody he has his bitchy days.
Death, another big question and recently brought up by Woody Allen in his movie Annie Hall, which yes I did enjoy last night. Can the universe run such a complicated cores and bring so much pain, affliction, love, and happiness for it just to be over so simple. Maybe that is the reason why people cling so much to their hope, faith, in religion, seeming almost more logical, with its complexities, than just “The End”. Maybe my mind can’t come to understand nothing, being that I have never seen it, felt it, or even heard of it.
     In a world where nothing is what is seems and you think one way one day and change completely the next, how do you make what is what? I hated broccoli as a child now I love it, or you see that movie that you loved when you were a child and now it seems so dull and stupid. I guess the question in my head is, what the fuck? I know there is no right answer but that’s the question I am struggling to answer about life in general, what the fuck?

I Change My Underwear.

     Question: Are you very random? Answer: I’m a writer. Yes? She is my friend and her answer, although almost questionable whether she is being sarcastic or funny, is actually in my thought a very serious answer. While taking English classes in OCC and trying to improve not only my vocabulary but also my method in writing (not sure how well I'm doing) I have come across a very desirable teacher, a woman, unlike most I have ever met. She seems to inspires most of her students to become what she glorifies, writers.
     When analyzing the answer that my friend animates, I have come to a conclusion that Glynis, my teacher, has implanted a narcissistic view of writers in us, becoming the thing to be if you want a beauty like her, or be one.
     To best describe what a “writer”, or as Glynis discreetly imposes “highly educated” should be I have come across a film which Glynis is so fond of, Manhattan. Woody Allen is the star and the “writer” in the film, and although it was not as horrible as I first thought it was going to be, finding Woody Allen’s manner of speech irritating after the first five seconds, but it was pleasant and at times funny. AHA! See the brain washing has begun, before he was not even considered watch able and now I seem to relate!
     How cliché it is to say that all writers see the other side to life like artist when painting an abstract form of a simple object. Full Moon In Paris, again the writer, Louis’s friend finds himself at the top of society, educated and ultimately much more understanding to life and the mechanics behind it. His talks about going to café’s with an abundance of different people, becoming a is a necessity for writers, considering that the same old people would dull his life and his writing, tying my friend’s answer with his.
     It seems to me that I have none of those characteristics, and maybe neither did Kafka. Don’t misplace my intentions; writers do add the spring to our lives and those great writers, which turn societies mind into blinking light bulbs, do deserve their right of passage and their crown of glory. But to say that they are all random and separate themselves form the rest of human life, just would not work. How would they appeal and describe the normality’s of life if they themselves have not first experienced it.
     I guess you are asking, why am I writing this down trotted review of writers, what dose it have to do with anything? It must be the raging writer in me, when coming across something that I see so fake and also surreal. Then again I am doing what any writer would do, arguing against the rest and lending all to my view, the right view (It has to be it makes perfect sense to me). So are writers random? I don’t know, but damn that Woody Allen is funny!