Upchuckle

"I'm doing everything I possibly can," he said, his fat fingers wrapped around a margarita. It was 4:30 in the afternoon; I stared at the sidewalk. The concrete shimmered brilliantly beneath us.

I've found it dangerous to gaze too closely at other people's faces. A man's entire biography is written there. In the lines and folds of his expression, within the eyes' deep shadow: a story desperately told. The story can scar your soul. The story is, inevitably, pain.

His life is seriously coming apart. Soon enough he would be high beyond belief, cocaine coursing through his bloodstream, staring at the ceiling, mouth agape, his problems all but forgotten. And I knew, even then, that I possess not nearly enough will or compassion to help him -- to lead a blind man from the shattered glass of his own life.

I excused myself, leaving him to lacerate himself on the shards.

This is all wrong

There was a time -- long ago, it seems now -- that a friend and I decided we would construct a bomb. This, I am convinced, is a perfectly respectable aspiration for an adolescent male. Most young guys satisfy themselves with an article or two about explosives; others go the extra mile and ignite cans of bug spray or detonate tennis balls filled with the sawed-off heads of strike-anywhere matches.

My friend and I, we had already done all of that. The thing about us -- the thing that distinguished us from legions of 15- and 16-year-old boys -- was, to put it simply, dedication. We were committed. Pyromania is normal at that age; we were in the throes of something deeper: an obsessive appetite for destruction.

So we enlisted a Persian associate to acquire the requisite chemicals to make this happen. I think it's delicious, in light of recent world events, that our ingredient acquisitor was of Middle Eastern descent. And when those jars filled with concentrated nitric and sulfuric acid showed up in my mom's garage -- well, that was delicious too.

What we attempted was incredibly stupid, incredibly unlawful and incredibly stupid. Also, incredibly dangerous: A real chemist would have used several layers of protective clothing and probably a respirator when mixing those chemicals -- the very fumes of which can inflict severe injuries to a normal human's eyes, nose, throat and lungs. We sufficed with a thin dust mask, some goggles, and the very scientific practice of holding our breath while pouring the corrosive fluids. I will always remember the metal tops of those glass jars, so punished by the acid inside that they drooped flimsily as if made of melted plastic.

And let's not even discuss how imbecilic it is to indiscretely mix illegal chemicals in a garage that is open to a neighborhood street, not to mention the legal consequences of even plotting to make a device that destructive. It is with a profound sense of relief that I can recall not having injured or incriminated ourselves that day.

When our experiment failed, I poured the steaming results onto the driveway for all to see -- instantly wiping the cement clean of all impurities and vaporizing a few ants in the process. We -- my friend, myself and the ants -- stared at the newly scoured spot with the same innocent curiosity that led us to so many uninnocent things. I can't help but think of how, in that moment, we shared so much in common with the ants, one step away from ruining our lives with our own ignorance. As if to illustrate the concept, one unfortunate little ant had its head and abdomen immediately disintegrated as it investigated the expanding puddle, leaving only an interestingly severed thorax.

There's a point I want to make tonight. We may not have ruined our lives that fateful day, but there's been a nagging doubt in my mind ever since. Did I really walk away unscathed? What if some of those invisible fumes permanently altered my brain chemistry, leading to the temperamentality and malcontentedness that now characterizes my adult life? This persistent, irrational doubt has been a voice whispering in the back of my mind for years. But just before writing this, my doubt was extinguished by a sudden realization: if I wasn't pretty malcontent to begin with, I wouldn't have been so keen to lay waste to a certain high school parking lot with my newly minted pipebomb. So I can rest a bit easier knowing I didn't do any lasting damage to either myself or anyone else -- except for a few ants, which, if my theory of the afterlife is correct, I will be punished for later.

Who can say what causes a couple of kids to pursue such wicked intentions? A trained psychologist, that's who.

Avast, awkwardness

She's telling me that she found the man that she will marry. The man that makes her feel full, complete. From across the crackling line, my terse reply: "that's great." I'm not smiling, but I mean what I say.

It is great. It means the quasi-vigil I've been maintaining, the watch I've been keeping over her... it can be ended. See, I wronged her in so many ways. She forgave me, and in my agonizing remorse, I told myself that I'd continue to be her friend. Instinct and convictions be damned. Why? Because she deserved it, that's why. She deserved someone to look after her, to lend a welcoming ear. She had other friends; maybe all of this wasn't necessary. But I was there, just in case.

I can only hope it works out for her, because I'm ready to let her go. Am I selfish? Have you forgetten that I've always wanted her to be happy? It goes without saying that I have. So I write instead about the things that need to be said.

She was good to me. I never made her feel special, the way that this new guy does. Frankly, I don't feel too guilty about that anymore. But I am glad -- relieved, mostly -- to see her happy. True, hearing about it does remind me of what's missing in my life...

Every time I've heard Death Cab For Cutie's You Will Be Loved, I've thought immediately of her.

She knows none of this, of course. Nor will she know how I intend to slowly, calmly, inexorably slip from her life. The prisoner stealthily escaping his self-imposed confinement. A dark cloud dissipating into hot sky. The memories? A dream vanishing into waking day.

As I swill vodka

Right. If nothing else, I believe this: since the earliest glittering sparks of sentient thought, man has harbored a desire to register his opinions of his circumstances, whether they be satisfactory, uninspiring, drastic or shameful. Hence, this god-cursed blogger culture, a great expanding reservoir of piss and bile to which I now contribute.

The first of many complaints: my life seems more grossly mundane than ever. I feel that I am simply passing the time between major purchases. I am struggling with the sheer blandness of modern adulthood, which is this:

- I wake up. SomaFM's BeatBlender is playing thinly from the laptop on my nightstand.
- I sit up and open the laptop. I close Winamp. I reivew the New York Times headlines and read Doonesbury.
- I have my breakfast: either a Cliff bar (peanut butter crunch) or plain yogurt and granola. And a glass of Odwalla substance.
- I walk eight blocks to work. Since the scenery seems more peaceful on Lawrence, I choose that street to walk south. Also, I'm spared Arapahoe's morning menudo stench.
- I walk up the stairs to the office and boot up. If the project manager is singing showtunes, I curse her openly for it.
- I spend the next nine hours drinking coffee and cursing many other things openly -- flash, photoshop and illustrator; the network, the coffee and the temperature; the creative director, the clients, my agent and all stupid people.
- I open the time tracking program and shamelessly fabricate billable hours so I can get paid. I am faster than our estimates, but I'll be damned if I let that affect my earnings.
- I power down and walk home. I visit the gym. I make some phone calls to friends and family. I stream some music on the Roku, my latest novelty. I check the scores on ESPN.

Mundanity upon mundanity! But most people would say I have it good. This makes me feel like an unworthy, whiny little bitch. Because they are right. Truly. I do have it good. At least by measures visible to the naked eye.

I live in a nice loft in a fine city. I have an easy commute. I am paid handsomely to do very little. And what do I do with these blessings? I petulantly brush them aside and instead focus on nitpicky little quarrels. Pretty arrogant, eh?

What more could I ask for in life? Well, being the precocious brat that I am, I will say this: many, many things.

I would trade all of this for a reasonable chance at a meaningful, mature, long-lasting relationship with a woman. I would trade all of it for a sense of purpose -- to have an undoubtable reason to rise up and attack each new day. For true blandishment between my parents. For forgiveness from those against whom I've sinned.

For those things I would trade this life. And so would anyone else with half a heart. Anyone who wouldn't is a threat to civilized society -- an unfortunate defect, a malformed person who ought to be eradicated.

For a new mind, one that banishes malcontent thoughts. For a new heart, a wellspring of courage and compassion. For those I would give anything.