All of the Stars

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

 

Those starry-eyed nights. Those times when nothing could be wrong with the world, or at least, the solution to all the world’s problems seemed so very simple.

But there it is again. Like your heart just skipped a beat, maybe two. As if your heart decided to up and stop for two beats. Your lungs decided to stop imbibing oxygen for a moment. Your fingers and toes go cold, then as the blood rushes back, a prickly sensation sweeps across your skin.

Realization. Coming to. Finding that this isn’t the real world. Your happy thoughts interrupted by the dismal ugliness that surrounds you. You’re just scooting along in the sludgy lowest of lows.

 

I open my eyes,

but I am not in my apartment

I listen,

but the music is not there

looking down, my body is not visible

a calming vision eases into focus

as far as is visible, there is naught,

but a vast expanse of cloud – lucid and clear

lights appear,

every color across the spectrum,

in and around it

and, disembodied,

I take my place in the ethereal beauty,

this multicolored mist;

each particle bearing its own colors

the aura of wind is all that is audible

gentle, but strong – blowing ripples in the shimmering fog,

elucidating the individuality of each speck

and I am in the midst

my insignificance

one individual as a part of the whole.

 

And then you wake.

 

It came to a point where all I had to do was make a slight motion or facial expression for my friends to understand what I meant. A stupid TV show we all liked had a recurring bit where the slang between punkish characters became total gibberish: “It-eh-na-ye-et-oh… ‘Naw mean?” Roughly translated: “Aw man, I had to go get my car registered, but it didn’t pass emissions, and I had to wait the whole weekend to get the work done on my car before I could get my tabs, but I got pulled over on Sunday and the cop wrote me up not only for the tabs, but for my expired insurance, and I was so pissed! Do you know what I mean, bro?” Whole sentences were communicated in gibberish between the two characters, but not an ounce of meaning was lost. These bits were subtitled as if the characters had actually created their own language, but the show was making fun of the stereotypical druggy whose speech was so slurred that they couldn’t speak normally anymore.

 

There it is again – a pack too many cigarettes, three too many energy drinks, not to mention the hallucinogens you took a few hours ago. Each deviation is a life-threatening death-note from your heart.

If you slow your breathing when you’re body is in a comfortable resting state, your heart-rate will begin to drop; beat by beat, your bodily tempo will decrease to the point where arrhythmia is so obvious that even the least self-aware person will begin to perceive discrepancies in the pattern.

When you’re trudging across the ocean floor, scooting from thought to thought at what feels like an eternally slow-motion pace, every heartbeat is like the sounding of a kick-drum. Slowly – beating – away. You fall for what seems like millennia, pondering thoughts previously thought, searching through memories, opening your mind to anything that is visually perceptible, looking for the answers to questions you can’t even put into words. Caught thinking about the expanse of space and time, it’s impossible not to feel distanced from everything around you; the one thing that pulls you back is the harmonious relationship between you and the rest of the universe – a Zen oneness that prescribes itself as the solution to the world’s hurt.

 

The clock reads 12:36.

I’m sitting with some friends in my apartment, a freshly sparked cigarette between my fingers. The room is dimly lit by a heavily shaded lamp in the corner; the shadows frolic between the light of the lamp and the colorful low light of the music visualizer on the television. Radiohead plays softly from the stereo, adding to the room’s low-key persona. I hear myself breathing as if filtered through water. Another person is snorkeling through silent laughter, unable to emit a real sound. Another cigarette is burning, and I hear the crackle of tobacco as it burns within the paper. I feel the smoke pass like charred cotton down into the smoker’s lungs as if I were taking the drag myself. A slight snore escapes from a pile of blankets on the sofa, but the sleeper resumes his normal breathing.

I realize the music has stopped; it’s not been playing for the last who-knows-how-long. Nobody else notices, but it drives me crazy. Hyper-aware of every sound occurring, from the hum of the fridge, to the occasional car passing on the road a quarter-mile away, I wrack my frying brain to figure out how I could have possibly missed the end of the last song. My eyes are closed, and they have been closed for I-don’t-know-how-long. It takes every ounce of will to reopen them and allow the world to flood in like a bursting dam. The sleeper sleeps; the smoker smokes. The snorkeler has tears streaming down his face from his inability to laugh. My cigarette isn’t a quarter of the way finished; it still burns as it had before between my fingers. As I begin to attempt sucking it down – terrified of the world’s unexplained presence surrounding me, feeling like I’m going to black out from the knowledge of all the space enveloping me – the snorkeler looks up, a plethora of stars in his eyes, and cheeks shining with tears.

“Don’t forget to breathe, man.”

I gasp and my pounding heart skips a few beats. I begin to breathe again, sucking in as much air as I can, consuming that which fills the empty space around me. The snorkeler smiles and nods at me before closing his eyes and returning to his shuttered laughter.

The clock reads 12:41.

 

Earlier that night, all a little more mentally intact, we talked about the way words work: words are so unnecessary; all meaning can be conveyed physically in one way or another. One friend described a world where proper language wouldn’t matter: a world where subtle hand gestures, facial expressions, and monosyllabic noises would be all people needed to truly convey meaning. To help embellish his point, I chimed in, “It-eh-na-ye-et-oh… ‘Naw mean?” gesturing pointedly with my hands, and exaggerating the idea with eyebrows to the ceiling. They looked at me like I had invented the wheel; we laughed until we choked at the aptly timed gibberish. We laughed more-so at the idea that the mentally deficient punks who used this sort of speech in a bad TV show might be closer to our idealized oneness than we were.

Downers do exactly what you think they would do; hallucinogens – they’re a little trickier. Each person responds differently, but the same base effects apply: the users’ perception of time changes drastically, their breathing becomes inconsistent and their heartrate speeds and slows erratically, every action takes a monumental amount of mental and physical effort, and, perhaps most importantly, all emotional responses are heightened. The idea that everybody taking hallucinogens is in for a crazy, weird, mind-altering ride is definitely true. The idea that everybody taking hallucinogens is going to see some “crazy shit” is a fallacy. Previously experienced visual stimuli can lead to the user seeing things that aren’t really there, and I’ve heard some crazy stories, both good and bad, about people seeing some “crazy shit.” My experience with hallucinogens has only led to being more appreciative of the utter complexity that lies in everything that is physically before me. When I closed my eyes, I went to other places, different dimensions even, through my thoughts. But when I opened my eyes, the complexities of everything in front of me became lucid, and clear. Though the solutions to life’s quandaries remained ever out of reach, the fact that I could see them, and know what I was looking for, made all the difference.

The smoker is lost in oblivion, though his eyes are open, stuck in his head for an eternity. The sleeper continues to sleep, rustling occasionally. I start another Radiohead album and the snorkeler looks up, surprised by the noise.

“When did the music stop?”

“I don’t know, man. I was wondering the same thing.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Yeah.”

Reaching towards the table between us for my cigarettes, I see the snorkeler unclasp his case and pull a smoke out. My eyes haven’t finished catching the glint of light caught in the metallic reflection before he pulls out a second smoke and whips it at me. It arcs across the room, suspended in time as we watch it. Even the smoker turns his head in slow-motion to observe its flight. The cigarette descends, filter downwards, directly into my breast pocket. The smoker guffaws and pounds a pillow half-heartedly with his fist – his most enthusiastic action that night – as the snorkeler and I, mouths agape, stare in speechless awe at the perfection of what has just occurred: if he had meant for it to land there, it surely would not have. Giver and receiver both burst into tears because we cannot laugh. Pulling the cigarette out of my pocket now would be a sin, but I do. The snorkeler eventually collects himself, still choking back sobs, and leans over the table, flicking open his Zippo. He calms himself fully, breathing deep, and lights his cigarette, then invites me to share the flame. I see the galaxy reflected in his teary eyes as I too lean over the table.

 

“Don’t forget to breathe,” he says.

***************************

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Flutter

There it is again – the flutter. Like your heart just skipped a beat, maybe two. Not in the “Don’t jump out at me like that man! My heart skipped a beat” sort of way. Like your heart decided to up and stop for two beats. Your lungs decided to stop imbibing oxygen for a moment. Your fingers and toes go cold, then as the blood rushes back, the tingly-stabby sensation spikes.

If you slow your breathing when you’re in a comfortable resting state, your heart-rate will begin to drop; beat by beat, your bodily tempo will decrease to the point where arrhythmia is so obvious that even the least self-aware person will begin to perceive discrepancies in the pattern. Your body is not very good at keeping the beat. Those hospital shows where the patient is hooked up to a Holter monitor and the screen-blips go at a constant pace (beep1.2.beep1.2.beep1.2) are not very accurate. There are always small deviations (beep1.2.beep1.2…1.2.beep) and these occur minutely even in the healthiest person’s body.

There it is again – a pack too many cigarettes and three too many energy drinks. Each deviation is a life-threatening death-note from your heart: “You know… I like beating and all, but screw you! You do what you want? I do what I want! Maybe I won’t stop on you today, but just to keep you on your toes – pause – Ha! How do you like that?”

If your heart pauses, even for a second, the rest of your body will react. Your lungs may decide to take a momentary snooze. When they do, your once oxygen rich blood begins to go stale. When you remember to breathe again and your heart decides to cooperate, that oxygen depleted blood continues on its course through your limbs. Have you ever crossed your legs for an extended period of time and experienced them falling asleep on you? Maybe you’ve fallen asleep with your arm stretched underneath you in a whacky position. You’ve most likely done one or the other at some point, and in so doing, you’ve successfully cut off the regular flow of blood to these areas. As the tingly-stabby sensation spreads mercilessly throughout your affected extremities, you curse yourself for the foolishness of depriving these nerves of the blood they need to function. When the oxygen percentage in your blood becomes heavily imbalanced due to extreme arrhythmia, the same sort of effect occurs, though the extremity varies from person to person.

Usually, you are fully to blame when your socks or mittens feel like they’ve had pins stuck through each gap in the fabric. Curse your good name! Smoking, drinking, imbalanced diet, abuse of stimulants – all of these lead to the possibility of serious arrhythmia or even cardiac arrest! And should you choose to over-imbibe any of these substances, or choose an unhealthy diet, you welcome the side-effects! Have fun!

The scary part about all of this is that even the healthiest of people will experience minor, and usually unnoticeable flutters. An imbalance of electrolytes is sufficient cause for your heart to start skipping beats left and right.

With that in mind, what reason do you have to believe that, when you go to sleep tonight, your heart will decide to keep beating, and your lungs will continue to keep breathing?

What assurance is there that you won’t wake up in a state of ataxia, heart stopped, with your lungs collapsing on the nothingness that fills them?

The long and short of it: there is none.

The Chair

I’m late, but late is relative. Fifteen minutes early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable. Staying at work past my scheduled time off makes me feel ill. Such a waste of time to be stuck on somebody else’s time. Finally off, and on my way to James’ place, I suck down a couple cigarettes. My body is so deprived of carcinogens my fingers shake as I light up the first smoke. That first drag washes over me in a calming fashion, bringing me back down after the rush of work. All would be better soon, I hoped as I pushed through the afternoon traffic surrounding I-5.

Turning the corner towards Zach’s home, a second wave of relief floods over me as I saw that I was the first to arrive. Every day is a race. The early bird gets the worm so to speak. If you aren’t first then why even try?

There’s an old worn yellow chair in Zach’s room. It’s my chair. By that I mean it’s his chair, but it’s my spot. That is where I go after work. I take my place because I belong there. We don’t question it. It’s as if the chair is a black hole, reaching out to me wherever I am, and it sucks me in. It sits. It will continue to sit. It will continue to be used to sit. It is no ordinary inanimate object; no it is not an inanimate entity. It resembles that which cannot be put into words. That which, by definition, cannot be put into words. It is the bane of relationships, the destruction of peaceful living, and the horror behind every truth. It is the act of passive-aggression, and it is incarnate in the form of a chair.

Where do you sit now? Is there a reason you sit there? Perhaps it is due to the factor of comfort – a simple case of ergonomics, lighting, and positioning. Force of habit can lead to a preferential seating arrangement. Maybe you sit where you have been told to sit: this is your office – this is your desk – these are your seats for the show. Assigned seating is never an exciting prospect. In various cultures, seating is based on a social or political hierarchy. Especially at meals, the place of honor is next to, or opposing, the head of the household. While everybody is allowed to sit within proximity of the benefactor of the meal, those who sit farthest away are often the last to be served, thus implying their importance.

Not that any of this really mattered to Zach. His cornerstone mottos for life are, “I don’t give a fuck,” and, “You do you.” He never rejected his friends when they came to waste away another day with him. He never judged people for their inadequacies or inabilities. Though he cast himself as a person who was deeply absorbed in not noticing anything, never caring about a thing, it was obvious how much he cared. Like moths to a flame, we gathered around him.

Zach and I are best buds to this day. Imagine two people with perfectly yin to yang personalities and upbringings, who share the same apathetic indifference towards life, and there you have our relationship in a nutshell. Add a previously shared love for pot, and voila – a match made in heaven. We knew each-other to the point where speech had been rendered useless. Reading each-others’ body language and facial expressions was enough to get us by for hours in silent commune as we watched TV, or played videogames, and chain-smoked cigarettes. Imagine two old men sitting on a front porch, just watching the day go by, and you would see us. Young perhaps, but we had already seen too much of life for our tender years. A day spent quietly high and smoking with Zach was the ideal way to spend my time, and we both agreed that there was nothing better to do in this town.

I walked up to the front door and let myself in. Zach’s family knows me well. They expect me as Zach does, and they care for me as an extension of the family through him. As I knock open Zach’s door to take my seat, an imposter looks up and subtly smirks at me. “What’s up man?” I hope my disappointment doesn’t come through in my voice, though it doesn’t matter because Chance already knows.

As the usual crowd trickled in, the first would take the chair. The second would take the bed. The third would look disheartened and sit in the padded chair at the end of the room –no view of the television, the farthest from Zach’s own chair. Nobody sat there except Zach. It’s not as if there were any specific point for us to be there. Perhaps camaraderie was a part of what we were chasing after, but the purpose of fellowship is defeated when the people around you feel the need to prove they’re better than they are. Mostly, these guys wanted to prove that they were worth something, but I still haven’t put my finger on what any of us had to prove to each other. Maybe it was to showcase our abilities. The primary competition was “how stoned can you get, before you pass out and everybody makes fun of you.” Game, set, match. There was something I was the best at.

The usual crowd trickles in. I’m always ahead of the mob, taking the initiative to get there first. The early bird gets the worm. Considering myself a prompt fellow, it was a point of mine to always arrive early to engagements thinking it gained me a more informed perspective on the environment. If I didn’t get somewhere early, I would take personal blame for any circumstances gone wrong in the ensuing day’s events. This ritual of getting to Zach’s first became obsessive-compulsive by nature; I was unable to consider any other option. The trait that once seemed like seizing the day turned into the day seizing me. By a single action, or lack thereof, the entire day would be decided; one action became a virtual powder keg, waiting to blow the whole damn armament warehouse.

“What’s up man?” I sit on the edge of the bed and hope for the silent company I crave, fully knowing that I am to be disappointed beyond just losing my seat.

Everybody has that friend: the “bit-too-deep” sort of thinker, the “philosophizes everything based on his own life-experience” kind of guy, and the “please stop talking about how deeply you think about thinking” person that everybody has at least met once in their lives. Not to imply that I merely had a bad vibe about him, I despise his attitude to this day! They say: “You can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends.” Chance was the sort of guy who chose you, and wouldn’t let go until you had been converted to his own convoluted trains of thought. He was a master of doing this subtly, most of our other friends fell clueless into his schemes, but I had seen through his words the day we met.

Now is it possible to watch passive-aggression occur and not be drawn into it? Sure; definitely. But without recognizing it out in the open, bringing it into the light for all to see, it will surely take hold in your heart and leave you open game – a participant in the game. This was my sin – the fatal error that decided my relationship with Chance. He was never upfront about what he was trying to convince me of, but in my silence, I allowed him to continue repeating himself until his ideas took formidable roots in my own thought processes. As I had seen through him, so he saw through me. Chance and I were equally intelligent people. He knew when I was ignoring him, and this was a cue to raise his voice. Speaking louder and louder, he would continue on until I had to respond verbally or take action to calm him down. No amount of acquiescence would cause him to stop. The only options were to change the subject, or give him a task he couldn’t talk through.

Shortly after I would arrive, except on unusually boring days, the man of the hour walked through the door. Zach’s countenance never changed as he entered. A nod and a quiet “hey” from both parties might pass if one of us decided to recognize the other’s presence. Both of us knew that our presence was somehow required, as if the day would not continue to move on lacking the presence of either figure. Taking his throne, the man of the hour would sigh mightily and load one up, coughing heavily upon consumption of his poison. And so I would follow suit, reaching into my bag and loading my own. Coughing slightly, I would resume a stoic pose, leaned back with both hands behind my head. Hours go by before either of us might speak; mutual respect and familiarity drifting, heavily steeped in the aura of the room. In a brutal affront to the silence, I would speak up, pleasantries leading to useless chit-chat about the quality of living and work conditions. Zach would sigh and relay the events of his day. Nothing new was heard – same-old, same-old, day after day. We thrived on this polite conversation, both of us realizing the futility of sharing much more than that. There was nothing new to share, only what had occurred previously that could be rehashed. There is a point in any relationship when a decision must be made to either go find something new to experience, or to become content with the situation as it is. We had reached the latter, though both parties constantly hoped for better.

Others would vie for the position, but Chance and I knew the struggle lay between us. The first would get the chair, the second would act indignantly as they entered the room. As much as I knew the spot was mine, Chance knew it was his. You could smell the contempt in the air, though not a word was spoken over three years playing the game. To get there first was to claim ultimate victory over the day. It became difficult to leave after getting the chair for fear that the other would take the spot. It was the best seat in the house, right in front of the TV and right next to Zach.

Ignoring Chance, though I feigned open ears to him, I stand up and grab the bong. Nothing helps me disregard Chance’s talking better than a fat rip; nothing shuts Chance up like a fat rip. I proceed to take a hit and then load one up for him, ingeniously disguising the absurd amount I had stuffed in the bowl. It works, but only for a second. After a spluttering coughing fit, Chance goes back to his first point and begins to rehash the same argument for the third time. I lean back on the bed, both hands behind my head, and give in to my fate: failure to secure my chair and caught listening to a self-righteous rant until Zach arrives. My day is falling apart, word by word, and I am the only one to blame.

I was late, and late is unacceptable.

Colors

Life is a series of highs and lows. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Living life as a non-Christian was an outlet in my early adulthood. Instead of claiming Christianity and proving to be a hypocrite to my friends and family, I chose the path of disowning my beliefs entirely. From my perspective, this opened all the doors that allowed me to live life how I wanted to. No longer constrained by a set of beliefs, I was free to make all the wrong choices that I never could before, and make them I did.

However, my life was still based on a set of morals. No matter how much I let sin lay waste to my life, there were always obvious no-nos. In introspective turmoil, I would find myself judging my friends for doing these things. Sometimes, my warped views caused me to think badly of people who were deviating in the same ways that I had chosen.

To say anything judgmental would be hypocrisy; how could I judge someone who was doing the same thing I had chosen to do? To say anything in order to help them would be foolish; the blind will lead the blind. Self-checking against hypocritical inner judgments was my first step towards moving into a new realm of living. The second came on a night a few years ago.

Sitting with a friend, high on an exorbitant amount of acid, I saw God. No, not in the flesh. No face appeared. No voice spoke from on high. I closed my eyes. The room was dimly lit by a heavily shaded lamp in the corner; the shadows frolicked between the light of the lamp and the low light of the television. The only sounds to be heard were Radiohead playing softly from the stereo, and my own breathing. I sparked a cigarette. The flash of the lighter was blinding and a wisp of smoke danced in the light cast from the T.V. The smoke passed like charred cotton down my throat as I leaned back and closed my eyes

I fell for what seemed like a millennium, pondering thoughts previously thought, searching even to memories of my childhood for what I couldn’t begin to understand.

Thinking about time and the expanse of space always gets me. Oh, how time flies, and we are cast headlong into the midst of it.

I open my eyes, but I am not in my apartment. I listen, but the music is not there. Looking down, my body is not visible. My sight begins to focus and what I see is calming. As far as is visible, there is nothing but a vast expanse of a cloud, lucid and clear. All across it, in and around it, twinkle lights of every color on the spectrum. And I am in the midst of it. Disembodied, I am a part of the ethereal beauty in this multicolored mist. Each particle bears its own colors. The wind is all that is audible, gentle, but strong — blowing ripples in the shimmering fog, elucidating the individuality of each speck. And I am a part of it. My own tiny place, one individual as a part of the whole.

A thousand years spent in the cloud before I came down. My cigarette isn’t a quarter of the way finished. It still burned as it had before between my fingers. Thinking to myself, the only question I could ask was, “Have I seen God?” I didn’t know it at the time, but I was asking the right question.

There is a viral video on the scale of the universe. Going from the size of our earth, it pans out to the size of different, insanely huge astral bodies, dwarfing our planet until it disappears. Similar to this representation is a video where the scale starts with our nine planet solar system. The scale pans out to show our galaxy with all of its solar systems, and further to show where our galaxy rests next to others, and further to show the cluster of galaxies next to other galaxy clusters. The scale goes further and further out until it reaches the extent of space that has been made visible by the efforts of man. This picture looks like a cloud; a mist that twinkles with colors from every end of the spectrum.

Have I seen God?

By manner of many restless nights, convoluted trains of thought, and rocky life experiences, it is my conclusion to say that yes, amidst the turmoil and trauma, I have in a way witnessed God. But all that I have seen is dwarfed by the immensity of his plan.

Knowing these things has brought me peace: that I live in this solar cloud, that I am an insignificant yet important part in it, that I am not a disembodied consciousness, but on a higher plain of thought, that my good and bad choices will both add to the richer color that my life will exude to be seen by others. All of these things have stilled my mind, and more than that, they have convinced me that I have caught an infinitesimal glimpse of what an eternity will be like with God.

Crazy Holidays

God works in mysterious ways.

At this point I’m certain that I will continue posting after our class ends this semester.

Maybe it’ll be a New Year’s resolution — One post a week!

That seems reasonable.

Last year, I resolved not to shave my face entirely clean.

Well…

It started as no shaving or trimming at all.

Then it was not to shave.

Then it was not to shave my whole face.

I did it! I had chin hair the entire year, but you get the point.

Technically I failed. The long wispy beard of the ancients was not what I attained this year.

New New Year’s resolution!

Gonna make it realistic…

Having learned the ways of the beard, and with utilization of ample amounts of care, I will not fail at growing a glorious goatee fit for guru.

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^Relevant^ ^Possibly Impossible^

New New Year’s resolution!

One blog post a week.

That seems reasonable. I’m sure I can manage that.

I wonder who will be here to read them.

Despite all the rush and the hectic nature of the fast approaching holidays, I’ve been maintaining a relative cool.

Getting sick? Psshh. Go work it off.

No sleep? Psshh. Sleep is for the weak.

New living situation? Psshh. What are finances and time-frames?

God works in mysterious ways.

A month from now, with a little grace, I will be an official resident of Newberg.

That’s right. Moving into a house a block away from GF with super cheap rent to boot.

I’ll even have my own room.

Can’t tell you how weird it is going from living on your own to living in a dorm room with two other guys. I stayed with my parents for a little while before coming to school, but even there I had a modicum of privacy. There was a lot more (glad my room-mates aren’t following my blog) individual respect between my siblings and myself than I’ve found between my new living partners.

I’m confused sometimes about the difference between three things: coincidence, fate, and divine intervention.

Maybe they’re all the same thing.

God works in mysterious ways.

I don’t believe in fate. I think God nullifies that idea. It still creeps into my thoughts sometimes. “It’s like it was fate!” Similar to Karma.

(Really hope my room-mates don’t follow my blog!)

I had a little spat with a room-mate the other night. It was 2:30 AM and he was up and being annoyingly loud in the room.

Long story short, I exchanged words with him in a civil manner and eventually rendered him speechless with an unusually eloquent barrage of good reasoning. He didn’t really listen though — Just kept being loud.

Me an hour later — barely awake, head covered, still trying to get back to sleep.

I hear him typing on his laptop. He hit the last key with a fixated forceful finality.

Far too forceful.

Just a little too much pressure in just the right place.

His laptop started violently buzzing and crackling.

“Oh. No.”

Head wrapped in my blanket, I fought off a grin — held back a whole slew of sadistic thoughts: “You had it coming. This is what you get! Karma bitch!”

I’m horrible. The worst human ever.

Coincidence that it happened after three sickly sleepless nights?

Fate that it should happen shortly after our touchy conversation?

Did God suddenly take pity on my cold-ridden foggy-brained head and give me back my (relatively normal) night-time sleep schedule?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that now that room-mate won’t be up all night on his computer any more. Which means I get to sleep. Blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Selfish, sadistic sleep.

I don’t take joy in your pain. Losing a computer and any hard work on it sucks. I know.

Knowing that you won’t be keeping me up all night, every night for the rest of the semester though? That I am happy about.

God works in mysterious ways… I think it’s relevant. I hope that’s not blasphemous.

New New Year’s resolution.

Quit being the worst person ever.