Pencil Lead and Heartbreak

*This is really old but I never posted it here. Enjoy, you heartbroken motherfuckers.

Diamonds are nature’s proof that something beautiful can come from harsh, ruthless conditions. Diamonds are formed one hundred miles below the earth’s surface. The temperature reaches 1400 degrees Celsius, where intense pressure and stress is applied to specific elements, that are very similar to what is in the lead of your pencil. The only difference between pencil lead and diamonds are the atoms; they are arranged more tightly due to more stress and pressure in diamonds. Gases like nitrogen and elements like sulfur get trapped in diamonds, becoming apart of it, which is what gives the diamond its color.
Getting over a girl, in most cases, doesn’t take quite as long as it does for a diamond to form, but the rocks you are squeezed between put you under just as much pressure and stress, if not more. It is a long, difficult process, but in the end you will come away with knowledge and maturity. You will be a diamond, engrained with the gases that now give you color.
The immediate reaction to rejection is denial. You will often think about how perfect you were together, and be confused that just yesterday, you had an amazing time at the movies; or so you thought. That’s when you begin making excuses for her: She’s just confused, she’s a free spirit, she’ll figure it out. Or my personal favorite, she’s scared of how much she likes me. In a movie, these explanations might be possible, but in reality she’s just not that into you. But that realization won’t come until much later.
After denial, comes anger. You are reminded of all the things you did for her. You were there for her, you fought with friends defending her, the words you wrote for her feel wasted. She didn’t deserve all the time you spent writing her stupid poems.
The anger phase usually ends with drunken, angry text messages and/or phone calls. It’s not until you have completely obliterated your pride and dignity that you reach the depression phase. The depression phase is by far the worst. You question the existence of love, you’re unshaven, below average hygiene, and you have worn the same jeans for a week now. You remember how long it took to find her, and how bleak the chances are of finding another like her. She was the girl of your dreams—how does one move on from the girl of your dreams? At this point in the process, you might wander down to the local park, hang out near the entrance to the slide to warn the boys not to fall in love. You wish you still thought girls had cooties too. Your friends are constantly the victims of your rants about women and love. You dread every night, because before you sleep, you think about her for hours and remember all the happy times. You remember looking into her eyes—that’s the worst; remembering the sparkle in her eye that no longer shined for you. The dreams are equally as bad. You dream you are together, happy. This cruel illusion feels so real—and then you wakeup. She’s not next to you and you feel the sting of the rejection, for the first time, all over again.

After being away and without her for so long, you lie to yourself. We can be friends. I’m mature enough; we’re not in high school where ex’s are arch nemeses. You might send her a text or give her a call explaining your desire for friendship. She accepts because after all, “you are such a great guy.” You start talking again, even hang out in groups. She thinks your new friendship is great, but your mind starts playing tricks on you. I think she likes me again. When I handed her a beer, she touched my hand. She didn’t have to touch my hand—but she did. It’s this type of thinking that leads to your relapse. You pour out your soul all over again, because after all, you believe in true love and you know that it’s meant to be. Again you feel the rejection, or sometimes even better you find out that there’s a guy she’s been talking to (so much for “not wanting commitment at this time in her life”). This time it’s easier however. You develop a callous, or numbness. That feeling leads to the last stage.

Acceptance. You reach the point where you make many realizations about your life. You can admit that, to an extent, you made her up in your head. You wanted so much for her to be the girl you fabricated in your mind, so much that it became real. Often times you conclude that seeing her or being friends with her is very unhealthy. It is hard to say goodbye to someone, especially after being so close. Maybe someday you’ll be friends again, but not anytime soon.

People who don’t take chances at love end up pencil lead. They never get hurt or undergo the extreme conditions that a diamond does, so they remain useful or necessary, but are never cherished.  People who take the risk end up diamonds; eventually deeply valued by someone, as a precious jewel.

My Mustache

"Textual Harassment" could very well be detrimental to my reputation/image. Some people would advise me to just buy a journal, but for some reason I feel a desire for people to see another side of me. I'm better at keeping other people's secrets than I am at keeping my own.

I didn't go through puberty until about late freshman year, maybe even sophomore year. I know this because when I played freshman football I was still a little boy going up against testosterone flaming young men. I couldn't lift weights, I couldn't block, and I certainly could not take the angry man yelling/spitting in my face because I couldn't block baby Shaq over there.

The combination of being a late bloomer and having blond hair has caused me to suffer from "lack of facial hair." This might not be a big deal to some, but to me it's like a deformity. Ever since I was young I have wanted facial hair. I always begged my dad to grow some kind of beard, goatee, mustache, so he could be like Chuck Norris (I loved Walker Texas Ranger). Whenever I dressed up for anything, I would look for excuses to draw some kind of fake facial hair--got pretty good at it too. See the key is to draw a ton of little lines that somewhat match your hair color, (for me I chose brown because yellow wouldn't show up...and blond looked too Spencer from the Hillzy) and then smudge those lines to create a fairly convincing scruff (for a twelve year old I guess).

Now as I am growing up, my facial hair is finally taking form--ugly form, but form nonetheless. Now if I wait a week, you can see some beard action if you look at it from the right angle in the sunlight. It's pretty exciting. As a matter of fact, I haven't been this excited since pubic hair.

The only problem with this facial hair is that it still looks amateur. If I let it grow awhile it just looks like a fifteen year old kid who's parents haven't bought him his first razor yet. However recently I have decided that I don't give a shit, and although a beard is my ultimate goal and would look super sweet, I have decided to shave myself a mustache--that's right a mustache. It started weak, but it has grown to the point where people have recognized it without cocking their head. You want to give me the ultimate compliment? Comment on my facial hair. Regardless if it's meant as an insult or not, the sheer fact that you noticed my facial hair would make me giddy.

*Now this blog takes a little more of a serious tone--"ahhh dammit Nick!"

This mustache is a symbol to me. It represents the end of my obsession for the need to validate my image. My mustache, no matter how immature, is real. It is not artificial. It is also a reminder for me to stop trying so damn hard. I don't mean that academically or professionally speaking, but more socially speaking. It's my barrier. Without my mustache I actually stand a chance, with it I don't. That is why I need it; to be reminded of that. Not many people (if any) will understand this reasoning. Reading it out loud even sounds ridiculous. But if one person can relate to it, then that's a success for me.

I also just REALLY like Chuck fucking Norris!

(I promise I really will try and write a light-hearted one soon!)

We're Not "A Great Catch"

DISCLAIMER: At this point in my life my opinions are normally shaped by my emotions. That means my opinions change month to month, week to week, or even day to day.

Ok, there are some inconvenient truths that you may or may not want to be made aware of. No, they do not have to do with global warming or Al Gore, but they are some traditional phrases that I would like to dissect.

"Girls always go for the bad boys/dumb asses": Who are mainly the people that are complaining about this? The failures, losers, rejects, ugly ducklings, the socially-retarded-kids, etc. I am guilty of using this phrase all the time so don't get your panties in a bunch. It's a lot easier to be nice when personality is the only strength you have to play to. I, like many other people, have never experienced being ridiculously good looking. Do you know what that's like? Statistics show that you don't.

This brings me to my next point: When you are super good looking it's harder to be nice. Nice people are generally average looking or even ugly. You have special cases here and there, but this is true the majority of the time. That is because you have never had the challenge of balancing an ego that gets fed daily, while maintaining a "good" personality. It's not easy. I mean I would be the first person to admit that I hate stuck up girls who think they're the shit because guys think they are hot, but the reality is they struggle with things that a lot of people don't have to.

Also do you know how irritating it is to be hit on daily? Odds are you don't. I'm sure it gets really old/uncomfortable. Maybe that is why the girl you hit on last week was such a bitch. She gets it all the time, and I'm sure it's not easy to sit there and make you think the conversation is going well. So what if she is nice to you? You think that there might be something there that isn't. Then a month or two down the road you hate her because she led you on. So either you hate her for being a bitch or you hate her for leading you on. It's a lose/lose situation but you and I are too biased/bitter to acknowledge that.

My intention with this post is to not to defend the superficial, stuck up, brainless, hypocritical, shallow, people in the world. This is my attempt to remind myself and others that maybe you're not as good of a catch as you thought you were. So you and I can keep telling ourselves that everyone is missing out on what we have to offer, but the reality is NO ONE GIVES A SHIT.

I'll try and limit my "emo posts" to just a couple a month. Which reminds me (and makes a bad conclusion for my post): Ever since social networking (mainly myspace and facebook) has taken off there has been an influx of emo kids. I personally believe that it is because social networking has become a voice box for the introverts. That, and there are just a lot of emo jr. high kids.

10 Things I Would Do with a 10 inch Penis

*FIVE YEARS LATER* Apparently I stole the M&M joke from Dane Cook. It was an innocent mistake of my subconscious. I'm sure Dane Cook, of all people, would understand.

***I hope I don't lose too much respect for the raunchiness of this entry. Children under the age of 17 should not read this. Pursue reading under your own discretion.

1. Get an erection, put M&M's (preferably plain, because I believe peanut M&M's wouldn't be stable) on the tip of my penis, and catapult them into my mouth.

2. Dip it in glue, wrap it in felt, draw a face on the felt, and go around asking girl's if they want to pet my ferret.

3. Attach a grenade launcher to it, find an open field, and before I shoot it yell "Say hello to my little friend!"

4. Put it in a 10' hot dog bun, squirt mustard and ketchup onto it, bring it into Weiner Schnitzel, and tell them "I asked for no mustard."

5. Pay a prostitute $50 if she can hide it from plain sight.

6. Provide shelter for a Smurf family with my mushroom tip.

7. Go to a Star Wars convention, paint it blue, find someone dressed as Darth Vader, whip it out, and say "I'll come on the darkside."

8. On Halloween dress up like the Hulk and tell people "You won't like me when I'm horny!"

9. Lay down on Megan Fox's kitchen counter and be her "Official Paper Towel Holder." (You might have to think about that one a little)

10. Masturbate.

Bitches Be Crazy

Bitches be crazy. I first heard this phrase from a noble philosopher who would prefer to remain anonymous. "Bitches be crazy" is the only bit of truth that I am sure of in this world.

I mean, I love bitches. All the affection they give me, the way they stare into my eyes, and man I go crazy when they try to rub up against me.

But let's be real: One minute they're sitting in your lap loving the belly rubs, the next they are sprinting out the door in some pointless attempt to kill a squirrel. I wonder some times, do these bitches care more about me or a full stomach? If they could choose between me loving them for eternity or endless food I'm not too sure they would pick me; I'd like to think they would.

Also why are my bitches always rolling in shit??? Do they think I like petting shitty fur? Yes, that is just what I want. I want my bitch to come running up to me with her fake bitch smile and rub her poopy self all over my hands and clothes. My mom says it's like bitch perfume. I say it's like dog shit.

Hey bitch! Stop begging me for food. Have I ever given you one of my chicken nuggets? Ever? I don't even give friends or family my food but for some reason you think I'm gonna let you enjoy the majesty McDonald's has to offer? How many times have I asked you for any of your food? How many? This paragraph had more questions than answers.

On a side-note: Why are dogs allowed to rape each other? Where is PETA in this very serious, reoccurring issue? At one time in my life I had this sleazy, asshole, golden retriever living next door named Kyle. My bitches were still very young, enjoying the innocence of their naive life when my main bitch Allie was raped by that asshole Kyle. Bitch got no justice. Was it because she is black? Well let's just say that if it had been some yellow lab bitch, that golden retriever would have been put to sleep faster than you can say red rocket. Gold-on-black crime is an ugly reality that we all need to wake up and see.


Insert peanut butter joke here.

Look I get love from bitches all the time. I'm grateful for that. But I'm just getting sick of trying to understand you crazy bitches. It's like you're a different species or something. I always feel special when you cuddle with me and lick my face, and then I come home to find you doing the same thing with my own brother! You bitch! If it's an open relationship you want, fine, but don't sniff me every time I come home wondering where I've been. Yes! I was petting a pussy.