The pool at my apartment complex opened over the weekend. That’s fine, but there should be limits. I mean, nothing says annoying like 23 shrieking kids in a little apartment pool right across from my window. Where are the parents? Furthermore, it is raining today. There was even thunder and lightning earlier. Why are there still kids in my pool? I would say something mean and spiteful, possibly involving the word “drowning”, but the last time I thought that on Monday an ambulance and a fire truck came speeding up and stopped right by the pool, sirens blaring. I felt a little bad. But only a little.

I hate DI. When I say DI, I mean Deseret Industries. It’s the Mormon version of Goodwill, except without the standards. In the rest of the world, when you have some ungodly piece of furniture or a lamp or some old golf clubs or something, you simply take them to the nearest Goodwill. However, sometimes Goodwill will reject the item based on its appearance or some other criteria. No one wants a couch with a nasty stain where the cat vomited in 1978 still clearly visible. No one wants the very first ever VCR with the top-load cassette mechanism and three buttons missing. Goodwill will say “nope” and make you take it away. Not so with DI. No way. You can drag any old piece of shit in there and they will gladly accept it without a word. Without a word in English, I should say, because no one that works in the drop off area speaks it. Walking into a DI is like taking a trip back to 1960. Tweed sports jackets with patches on the elbows, ancient televisions with knobs broken off, three-legged chairs, a couch with that gawd-awful floral print that looks like some kind of disease, old crusty books with pages missing, a radio from 1953, chipped and dusty picture frames (with pictures of Jesus still in them), bicycle helmets with the blood stain still apparent (not kidding), and lamps from the Lincoln administration. The only thing for sale in the place that looks relatively new and unused is the exercise equipment. Everything else is pure, absolute, junk. Just junk. DI sells nothing but junk.

I found a job on Craigslist that I’m eminently qualified for. It’s a job doing Photoshop retouching… something I can do exquisitely. I don’t mean to brag, but Photoshop is my bitch. I use it on a daily basis in my personal life, and getting a job doing that would be heavenly. Here’s the problem though: My resume sucks. All of my work experience involves mostly retail. No mention of Graphic Design or artistic endeavors at all. I can put that under “Interests” or “skills”, but I have no proof of experience or education in this area. I need to get my portfolio going again, but right now it’s not up to par. What to do? Do I send my resume as is, hoping for the benefit of the doubt, or pass up on this one and hope for another opportunity in the near future? I don’t want to embarrass myself with my stupid resume. All I need is a chance to show them what I can do. Sit me down in front of a computer and let me Photoshop something. I hate that my resume doesn’t reflect anything about what I’m good at or what I want to be. I hate my resume. It’s a pitiful document full of ordinary achievements. A complete travesty.

Oh… looks like the rain stopped. Very good.

As a guy, I generally don’t put too much thought into the state of my apartment.  That’s not to say it’s a complete wreck, because I’m not a stereotypical guy in the sense that I am relatively organized and clean.  It’s more to the fact that I simply don’t give it much thought, as with most guys.  I think pizza boxes make fine furniture, and empty cups and pop bottles add that air of "lived in" sense that every home needs.

Still, Spring cleaning must be done.  I valiantly braved killer dust bunnies and giant crumb monsters in an attempt to make my place presentable, and all I got done was the bedroom.

Unfortunately for most visitors, they don’t ever see my bedroom.  (Thinking back on that last sentence, I just became rather depressed.)  Even so, most people just see the living room and the "theater room", which by design was supposed to serve as a dining room, but whatever.  Occasional guests also see the bathroom, which, if I could trust them to go in blindfolded, I’d feel better about.  No, I decided to clean the one room in my apartment that no one ever sees.  How’s that for logic?

Actually, it was a good choice for me personally.  I practically spend almost all of my time in my bedroom.  Between sleeping and working on the computer, I could probably go for days at a time without leaving this room, provided the pizza guy could deliver to my window.  The clutter was starting to become a concern though, and small animals could potentially wander in and start nesting, so the bedroom became priority.  I started by moving piles of clutter around until they were in completely different places, then took a much needed break.  After that, I went back to the piles of clutter and threw them away.  Aha!  Progress!

Eventually I found my carpet, which was covering my floor.  Haven’t seen that for a while.  I decided that since I managed to locate the carpet, I’d get the WLV (World’s Loudest Vacuum) and go over it.  Who knows when I’ll see it again, right?  The WLV did the job of pissing off the neighbors well, gleefully running back and forth and not picking up a damn thing.  But at least it made the little wheel tracks that you see after a freshly vacuumed rug, and for a guy… that’s good enough.

Since I was cleaning, I figured I’d move the furniture around for no real reason.  Nothing says "clean" like seeing furniture relocated to different areas.  After a much needed break, I got to the task of moving the bed, the bookcase, several large, heavy things… possibly including Jimmy Hoffa’s body (found in a dark, cluttered corner) and my television, which — like my carpet — hasn’t been seen for a while.  I also found my Dust Buster, which came in handy for the inch-thick layer of dust that covered everything.  Aha!  More progress!

After a much needed break, I pronounced my room "clean", and lounged on the freshly laundered sheets covering my newly relocated bed.  I even turned on the TV, which I can actually see now, and watched a Family Guy episode.  As I savored the fresh air of cleanliness, I realized that cleaning isn’t all that bad.  Maybe I’ll tackle the living room.

Sometime next Spring.

Recently, on a walk in Provo canyon with a friend, we came upon a snake writhing its way across the sidewalk to the cool grass alongside.  My friend isn’t too fond of snakes, and the event was inaugurated by a shriek and capped by a conversation on what we’re afraid of.

I got to thinking about this.  Seems most people are afraid of snakes or spiders or some creepy crawly thing.  Others are afraid of bees or wasps or mice.  Still others are afraid of less tangible things.  More ideals or phobias, like heights or closed-in spaces.

I can’t say I’m afraid of any of those things.  I think snakes are pretty cool, and spiders even cooler.  Now, I’m not fond of being bitten or poisoned by one, but that’s not a reason to fear them in my opinion.

Here’s a fantastic picture of a friend of mine with a cool snake.  I got to hold this snake too, and it was sweet.  I looked and looked and didn’t find a picture of me with it, but my friend is  much prettier than I am anyway, so this was a better representation.  This particular snake was very friendly and well-behaved.  He was also quite strong and agile.  Snakes are creatures to be respected, for sure.  But not feared.

Heights don’t bother me.  Bees and wasps I just ignore for the most part.  Closed-in spaces, large open spaces, birds, mice, cats, bugs… no real concern.

I’m not particularly fond of some things.  Kids annoy me, but I don’t fear them.  Ideas, like drowning or falling off a cliff are not very appealing, but I can’t say I’m afraid of them.

My friend asked, "What about death?"

Again, nope.  I admit I’ve never been dead, so my frame of reference is minimal.  I’ve been in situations before where death was a real possibility, but there’s a certain awareness or clarity of thought or lucidity that happens in such times, and I don’t know that fear enters the mind until upon reflection afterward.

A quick, violent death — like being shot perhaps, doesn’t give you much time to fear.  The anticipation could be very fearful though, like if someone was coming after you to kill you, and I fully understand that.  I suppose I would be quite scared in that situation. 

A slow, painful death is more fearful to me.  But I think people in those situations come to a certain acceptance about it, and fear probably isn’t an issue.

After lots of thought, I decided what I’m afraid of though.  Yes — I have made up my mind.

I don’t want to leave without being remembered.  I want a legacy of some kind, and I want people to know who I am.  To me, the greatest thing in the world to fear is fading away without a trace.  To have never been recognized or noticed.

That’s what I’m afraid of.  What about you?

Well, I guess a 3,200 word post just wasn’t a good idea. I gave it two days, but my readership actually went down after posting it. For a couple of weeks, my reader base was on the upswing. I managed to go from 2 unique visitors per day to an average of 16. Pretty good results. I grew excited. Ideas were coming to me frequently and updating was becoming easier.

Then I killed it.

I was so sure my story device would work too. Maybe garner a few more comments than normal, but it backfired. In the end, I just suppose the article was too long. I got a couple comments (thank you, by the way), but I suppose I’d hoped for more.

According to my stats, a majority of the visitors to my blog stayed an average of 0.0 seconds. This is interspersed with a few 2 or three minute visits, and a couple of 20+ minute visits. Proof enough for me that the shorter the article, the more people read them.

I’m thinking 250 – 500 words is probably about right. It runs against my natural tendency to be super-wordy, but I’ll make adjustments. Perhaps I’ll just post more often.

That’s what my blog is for though. It’s an experiment, and a fun one. Forward and onward.