This is going to be my longest entry ever, I can almost guarantee that. Of course, as unimaginable as it may be, I'm even more long-winded in thought than in word/type. If such a lack of brevity is a turnoff, go ahead and skip this one, but I plan on writing a lot of crucial things, and I'll try to make it as entertaining as possible (of course, I always do, but more often than not, I fail). Also, this may be my last entry; if not my last entry ever, prob'ly my last entry for some time. Probably. Who knows? This world of LiveJournal is unpredictable. We'll see what happens.
I suppose I'll start by telling everyone why yesterday was a contender for the title of "worst day of my life." (When I say "yesterday," I mean Saturday, July 22, 2000.) It started when I woke up in Klamath Falls, Oregon, at 3:10AM Pacific Time, after having acquired less than four hours of sleep. I ate a bowl of Lucky Charms, drank some Orange Juice, and started driving my Grandmother's 1991 Dodge Dynasty, with my Grandmother in the passenger seat, and my brother Royce in the back seat, at about 4:05AM. I drove for approximately a little over six hours, stopping only once for rest in Willows, California, and arriving in Hayward, California, at approximately 10:20AM. I have never driven that far, though I've ridden just as far, and further. In Hayward, we met my step-Grandfather, Bill Macabe, and he drove the three of us from there to the San Francisco airport, at which we arrived about 11:00AM. Our flight was to leave at 12:05PM (just Royce and I were to return at that time), so we were about on time (standby passengers are expected to be there about an hour early). Well, that flight was overbooked, oversold, too full, et c., so we had to wait around for the 3:05PM flight. The four of us ate some lunch in an airport fine dining Chinese 'n' Italian restaurant, which was all right, though not for the outrageous prices (at least I wasn't paying, though); all the time crossing our fingers that we'd make it on the 3:05 flight, which seemed rather full as well...the next flight out of there and into St. Louis after that didn't leave 'til half past midnight, and that woulda been a pain. Luckily, we got on the 3:05PM. Well, sorta luckily. I was assigned to a seat in front of what I assume to be the biggest prick this side of the prime meridian. He kicked my seat just about the entire time, and though I was asleep for part of the time and didn't notice it/can't remember it having happened during that time, I'm positive it did. I mean, it woulda been excusable if the kid was some toddler, but he was 14 f*@!ing years old. He knew he was being a dick, and he was being as such on purpose. I didn't even recline my chair 'til about an hour and a half into the 3½-hour flight, but whether reclined or not, he was a-kickin' at my seat. As the flight was nearing a close, all at once, he kicked my seat several times in succession, for about fifteen seconds straight. At that point, I decided it was prob'ly time to un-recline my seat, even though the familiar voice of the flight attendant hadn't yet instructed me to return my seat-back and tray-table to their respective upright, locked positions, and also even though he'd still kick, I thought maybe he'd cut it out just a bit. As I was un-reclining, he called the flight attendant over and said something like "Would you please ask this guy [indicating me] to move his seat back up?" What gave this kid the gall to even suggest that I didn't have the right to keep my seatback down? At any rate, I was putting it back up, so I didn't bother with it. The flight attendant hadn't heard him, and asked "Excuse me?" to which the basterd replied "oh, nothing." All along, I thought this kid was sitting next to his mother. If I had known that this was not the case, and that it was merely his sister or some other such appropriately aged-looking female, I would have said something; prob'ly cussed him out. However, I held it all in. You know, prior to the point at which I found out what a GD anus this kid was, I hadn't been having that bad of a day, it was just kind of a slow, tired, tiring, boring day. That f*$%ing kid turned it into the terrible day that it ended up being, making me realize that it really was a pain that I'd had to wake up so early on so little sleep, and that I'd had to drive for 6¼ hours, only to wait in the airport for 4½ hours, prior to the situations on the plane and thereafter. So, I un-reclined my seat a few minutes before the announcement requiring everyone to do so came on, and endured the remainder of kicks that came. As we were getting ready to land, I was just kind of looking at the cool effect of the lights in the city and such, at night. This kid behind me, he had somethin' to say about everything, I tell ya. At that point, he was going on about how he was going to Chicago, and going to Chicago was cool, cuz you could see all the lights and such at night, "kinda like this, but cooler." Oh, brother. Then he went on to say that he was going to be a high school freshman in the coming year, and that he planned to attend Stanford. For crying in the GD sand, kid, you don't "plan to attend" anywhere if you haven't even reached High School yet...and if you do, well...well, you just don't. The kid carried on about how he'd flown some planes or something in some Junior Aeronautics League, or some crap like that, and how fun it was to fly planes. To whom he was talking about all of this, I don't even know. The sister-type person sitting next to him? The person on the other side of the sister-type person? Who knows? The time I've spent on airplanes in my life prob'ly amounts to more than this kid's entire lifespan thus far. As we came in for the landing, for some reason, I noted that it was an especially good landing, and I almost never or never take note of how the landing goes, unless it's especially extreme. However, I recognized that it was an unusually smooth landing, hardly even a bump or anything, really nice. At this point, the kid said something to the effect of "Oh, man...that was a bad landing. He came into it too fast." I swear; it was almost as if he could read my thoughts and was contradicting them, one at a time. For f&^#'s sake, kid; you may (or more likely, may not) have flown in that GD Junior Aeronautics League, or whatever, but flying a GD 747 is a diff'rent story, and you don't make fun of a guy who's gone through years and years of training to fly this huge metal beast, especially when (as I'd know better than he) it's a good landing. That was basically the end of the kid, but if I ever see and recognize him again, well, I don't know what I'll do. Moving on, we got off the plane, arriving at about 8:55PM Central Standard Time, and headed for the pickup site for Thrifty rent-a-car. We always park our car at Thrifty when we go on vacation, since my father gets some discount there for being an employee of a travel agency, or for being an employee of TWA, or something like that (he is, after all, both). Well, we got to the pickup site at the airport, and this guy and this woman were sitting there, and soon after, two more guys showed up, and one of those guys asked the guy already there, "Are you waiting for Thrifty?" "Yeah," replied the guy, "we've been waiting about fifteen minutes, but I just called them; they're on their way." This was no problem with me, as I had just then arrived. So, we took the shuttle to the lot, and I think I was the only one that tipped the driver, cuz quite frankly, I felt sorry for him, and thought maybe he was having a bad day, and in that event, I should do something nice, in spite of the piss 'n' sh!t that I'd waded through to get to that point in the day. At least somebody would be happy. We got to the lot, and in the little building with the desk, there was only one guy working. There were three guys in front of us, being waited on (they were all together), and another group of two guys and a woman off to the side, waiting to be helped. The three guys had obviously rented a car or something for a prolonged period of time, cuz their bill was about $644.11. They paid in cash. After the guy behind the counter had checked them out, he proceeded to check out the three people off to the side. For some reason, these people were renting a car, even though they were from in-state. At Thrifty, apparently, you need proof of insurance if you're an in-state resident renting a car. They didn't have it. The guy just kept saying how his insurance was through his church, or something. Eventually, they got their crap squared away. By this time, it was about 9:35PM, and the guy came over to help us. I let him know that our car was parked there and that we were there to pick it up. He paused for a second, as if this was a ridiculous request, then was like "all right." He took our little time-ticket that showed when we had first left our car there, punched it with the current date, and went into the back room, emerging some seconds later with the keys and the question "What type of car is it, sir?" "A white Ford Windstar," I replied. He went out the door to retrieve the car, even though about ten people were, at this point, waiting in line, and he was the only worker. Then, the phone started ringing, and did so for some time, 'til he came back in, keys in hand, and picked it up. "Thank you for calling Thrifty rent-a-car, how can I help you, please?" he asked into the phone, but the person had just hung up. After asking "hello? HELLO?" a few times, he hung up, too, and turned to me, asking "what, exactly, is a Ford Windstar?" Now, don't get me wrong, I felt so sorry for this guy. Other than the shuttle driver, who was constantly picking up more customers from the airport, he was the only one there. However, if one works at a car rental facility, shouldn't he or she know what kind of car is what? Or shouldn't he or she be able to look at the labels on the vehicle that say "Ford" and "Windstar"? At any rate, I told him it was a minivan, and he went back outside to find it. He pulled up to the curb with it, and came inside, at which point Royce went out to the van. Since we had had the van parked there for six days, and the discount got us a $4.00/day fee, we should have had to pay $24.00, right? Well, this guy rang it up on his little calculator for seven days, at $4.50/day, so it came out to $31.50. I wasn't sure if the price had changed, or what, but I didn't care much, I just wanted to get outta there, so I decided to let my father deal with it later. I presented the two twenty-dollar bills my father had given me the day before with which I was to pay for the parking. The attendant greeted my offer of forty dollars with "Uh, we don't have any change, sir." Okay, so...three guys just paid cash for a $644.11 charge, and they didn't have $8.50 in change for me? What kind of place is this, anyway? Well, luckily, I had a $1 bill in my pocket, and Royce--who had come back in after seeing me ask the people behind me in line if they had change--had a ten and a one, so we paid with all that and one of the twenties, a total of $32.00. So, we paid 50¢ more than we owed, which was $7.50 more than we should have owed. I reckon my father will clear it with them sometime soon. As we were leaving, I remembered my father wanted me to get a receipt for the transaction, so I asked for one, but all the guy gave me was a copy of our little time-card ticket thing, with our last name, his signature, and "$4.5Ø × 7 = $31.50" on it. I told him that it would indeed suffice upon his inquiry as to whether or not it would. With that, we got outta there, at about 9:50PM. We made record time getting home, and I don't even think we sped that much, if at all (Royce drove). We made it home in 22 minutes, by 10:12PM. After we got home, listened to all (15) of the answering machine messages, extracted our own mail from that which had been delivered in our absence, and took our luggage up to our rooms, I called the "girl of my dreams," whom most of you all know by name, but due to my cowardly demeanor, I'll reserve that information in such a public medium as the internet. I doubt if she herself checks this, anyway. Nobody picked up on either phone line of hers, much to my dismay. As much as I was looking forward to hearing her voice, I figured "so it goes." I then called the second of three people that I feel comfortable calling after 10:00PM or so: Chad Kennedy. He was home, but he was working on a model, and by the time I'd finished telling him about my day up to that point, he figured it was too late to do anything. We chatted for quite some time, though, and after hanging up with him, I, in a desperate attempt to actually do something that night, called the third and final person on the aforementioned list: Ron Warner. He was also home, and he picked up, in fact, but his girlfriend Sara Pilarski was on her way over, and actually got there as I was still on the phone, so what may have been a plan there was shot to hell. If only we'd been able to make that noon o' five flight. Curses. Thus essentially ended what is most certainly one of the worst days I've ever experienced. I got online and didn't even get close to reading all of the livejournal stuff I wanted to read before nodding off and ultimately going to bed. Oh, well, that's what happens when you're gone for a week.
Speaking of the week during which I was gone, it was all right, I suppose, for a vacation. However, in spite of my change of heart, whereby I desperately tried to enjoy the time I was having on this vacation, my parents found something about which to b&%$! at me. Who knows what they're talking about? I certainly don't. At any rate, at least I got to see X-Men again, which was cool, as well as some 1979 movie called Breaking Away, which I'd seen before, but not known by name, on AMC. AMC rocks, and so does that movie. On the plane ride over, I saw Erin Brockovich which I'd wanted to catch in theatres, but as many movies, I missed. It was quite good, I thought. I didn't bother watching the movie on the way back (Return To Me), though it looked intriguing...I was just so tired at the time. I also watched "Win Ben Stein's Money" and old episodes of "Saturday Night Live", like, from back when it was actually cool, actually funny, on Comedy Central, in the condo. Saw a bunch of other cool shows, too. Having cable, even if only temporarily, can be a great thing.
However, in a way that I can't exactly explain, this past week of vacation has just totally thrown me outta whack. I reckon it just seems like I've missed so much that I didn't want to miss, like parties thrown by Matt Smith and Jamie Collins, but there's something else. Something in me snapped on this vacation. That, I can't explain. I feel like I'm going insane, but I know I'm totally sane. Nothing seems to appease me anymore. I don't have any will to do anything. I feel like a robot, just doing things to do them. No life left in me, that sort of thing. Whereas I used to be a slacker about getting to bed and doing homework and reading for pleasure, now I can't bring myself to enjoy much of anything; I don't even feel like being on the computer much anymore, and that's something in which I used to always find a certain solace. After I read the first several LiveJournal entries that I missed while on vacation, I didn't feel like reading them anymore, in spite of how badly I wanted to know what happened while I was gone. I just felt so restless...I didn't feel like doing anything. Not sleeping, not eating, not using the computer, or listening to music, or watching TV or a movie, or talking on the phone, or walking, or working, or vacationing...nothing. As much as Jason and I joke about it, I really felt like it was just time to...well, time to die. Of course, being the gutless wimp that I am, I don't reckon I could ever commit such a heinous deed as suicide, or murder of any variety, for that matter. I felt restless and frustrated, and to a certain (great) extent, I still do. What is wrong with me? I need therapy, but how? My parents are way too overbearing, and they'd never understand something like that (whether emotionally, mentally, or, quite frankly, financially). I feel like I'm in some weird plastic bubble of unmoving and unwanting goo. That's why I say that this may be my last LiveJournal entry, at least for a while, if not forever. I enjoy reading others' journals, and leaving commentary, and shall continue to do so, but for some reason, it just seems so useless and painful and redundant to post this drivel that almost nobody prob'ly reads anyhow, and that almost nobody prob'ly enjoys, of those that do, in fact, read it. I'm just in the mood to explode, due to lack of interest in doing anything else. Am I making sense here? Even at church today (which I never find myself liking anyway, honestly), I felt especially restless and...well, just this overwhelming feeling that what I was experiencing, what I am experiencing, was and is intolerable.
I've also realized other things in recent days. One is that I'm a basterd. I suppose I have a lot of friends, in spite of the fact that many of them never return phone calls, or initiate phone calls themselves. The fact that I have such friends, or supposed friends, surprises me. I don't find myself to be a likable person, and if I weren't me, I'd prob'ly find myself to be an annoyance, more than anything else. Gall, this sounds like a freakin' cry for pity, or something like that. Please, be not mistaken, it's nothing of the sort. I'm merely stating my views about myself. However, since I have to live with myself...well, I've...uh...learned to live with myself. Simple as that. If I'm alive, I'm gonna have to live with myself. Which is merely another argument for death. Oh, well. What a tangled web I weave...I wonder why so many people take to me. Have I really got such an attractive personality? I certainly wouldn't think so. In fact, if anything, I'm more often deliberately harsh towards people. This only brings more suffering to me, considering that I value so many friendships so much, in spite of the hard-guy, unsentimental attitude I often put on. In addition, recently, a part of me has been telling myself that I don't have so very many great friendships, that it's time to sever some things. Maybe I've got MPD in addition to everything; wouldn't that just beat all? At any rate, I find myself always apologizing or wanting to apologize to people that, on further reflection, should be apologizing to me. What have I got to be sorry for? I don't even give a damn! Well, so maybe I do, and due to the fact that I'm such a freakin' softy, I'll be the apologist 'til the day I die. Maybe I just wish I got a little more respect, a few more phone calls, from friends, family, and everyone else. Why should I always be the one to keep a friendship alive? Well, I know the answer to that. It's cuz I care more than a lot of people do, sadly. Am I making sense to anyone at all? I reckon I'm not, considering my thinking and logic prob'ly reads like stereo instructions to most people. Maybe I'm making too much sense. This is saturated stuff, in my opinion.
To continue this long spout of seemingly meaningless and absolutely pathetic hogwash, it seems to me that, more and more, as my friends fall upon good fortune, I fall upon worse and worse fate. I mean, I always fall upon bad fate, and I expect to be disappointed...have for quite some time now. As They Might Be Giants wisely spoke for me, "If it wasn't for disappointment, I wouldn't have any appointment" (from their song "Snowball in Hell"). So, by setting myself up to get the shaft in something, I'm not really disappointed when I do, in fact, get the shaft. And if I don't? Well, in that case, I'm all the happier for it. At any rate, like I was saying, a lot of my friends currently seem to have ever-improving lives, while mine just goes from something that was already bad to something that's much worse. Prime examples of this are Ron and Jason, though these two are by no means alone. Oh, and don't get me wrong; I'm happy and proud for these guys, in a major way, as they're great friends of mine, but I can't help but feel a pang of envy when I'm reminded (by themselves, or myself, or someone else, or something else, or nothing in particular at all) of how great they seem to have it, and how crummy my life has become and is still becoming.
News Bulletin: I just found out that Jason Young is missing in action. He was to arrive at the Phoenix airport at 11:32PM on Saturday night, and here it is, 5:20AM on Monday morning, and there's been no word from him. He was goin' down there to visit Carrie Loeffel and Angie Cornish, and he has their phone number, but has not yet contacted them. They, however, have contacted his mother, and she, like me, is worried sick now. This really kinda blows; he's been missing (by most standards of the word) for over 27½ hours now, if my math, dates, and other information are correct. That really blows quite a lot...
Only myself, my mother, my father, and Royce are in the house now. Rhett went to basketball camp in Columbia, Missouri, and Crystal stayed at Grandma's house to go to church with her, for who-knows-what reason. Hopefully this empty house and lax work schedule (I work every day this week, but I close every time, so sleeping in is an option) will do me some good.
Sleeping would also prob'ly do me some good.
If you'll notice, the time listed on this entry is 2:28AM. It is actually now 5:22AM. That's right, it took me almost three hours to make this journal entry. It is time for bed. Please respond to this journal, whether you're someone I know or not, whether you've actually got a LiveJournal account or not, but please identify yourself. I'm quite interested in what anyone and everyone has to say, and I promise to read it all. Regardless, thanks for taking the time to read this far--that is, if you did, in fact, make it this far. Over 'N' Out.