January 31

There isn't anything wrong with wanting some alone time. We all need a break from each other now and then. I love living by myself because it's nice to go home after a long day of work and just relax in whatever way I want. I can sit and watch TV, read, listen to music as loud as I want, or just go to sleep.

Even if you don't live by yourself, it's still nice to get away. When I had roommates, I found that spending the day at the movies was a nice break. A lot of people think that going to the movies alone is sad and pathetic, but when you're sitting in a dark room and you aren't supposed to talk to who you're there with, I find that it's a perfect place to be alone.

A restaurant, on the other hand, is different. I could never eat by myself at a restaurant where the guest is waited on. Everyone that walks by can see you sitting there by yourself and not talking with anyone. Some people are okay with it. They find ways to entertain themselves. Some read books, magazines, or newspapers. Others sit and listen to radio programs or music. Some patrons even go as far as watching DVDs on portable players.

There really isn't anything wrong with visiting a restaurant by yourself if that's your thing, but you have to realize that it does look a little unusual. If you're aware that other people notice you sitting there by yourself and that doesn't bother you, then go for it. If you find yourself in the situation where you're there without anything to keep yourself occupied with though, do not make the mistake that a woman made on her recent visit to the restaurant where I work.

Throughout the entire meal, everything was going smoothly. She was one of those guests that just sat there and played with her food for 45 minutes because she didn't have anything else to do. When I dropped the check, she leaned towards me with a plate full of food in front of her. "I have two things to tell you," she said. Because she had barely eaten any of her food, I was convinced she was going to complain about the entree. I was just about to apologize and put on my "I'm just an unintelligent server at a dead-end restaurant" face when she continued. "The first thing is, did you know you can milk anything with nipples? The second thing is, did you know you can put anything into a tortilla?"

This woman was probably in her mid to late thirties so she didn't have the excuse of deterioration of an aged brain. I don't think she was retarded because she had made it this far into the meal without any other hiccups. What on Earth would possess her to tell me either of these things? I knew the first thing she "had" to tell me was a quote from Meet The Parents, but it didn't have anything to do with anything! She wasn't drinking milk, my nipples weren't visible and I'm pretty sure her nipples weren't showing either. The line literally came from nowhere! The tortilla comment, I could sort of understand. If I remember correctly, she did in fact have a tortilla on the side of her entree. But because the line was prefaced with a line about nipples and milking it was guilty of absurdity by association. I no longer felt obligated to make small talk with this particular loner. I wanted to get her payment and leave the general vicinity of my section and not return until she had made her exit.

There isn't anything wrong with doing things by yourself. There are, however, a few things that people should keep in mind if they go against the norm. When you put yourself out there for the purpose of some alone time, you might look little awkward or odd, but when you tell your server that "You can milk anything with nipples" without any reason, you will be forever remembered as a complete lunatic.

January 30

The alarm sounds bringing you back into the here and now. You desperately try and hang on to the last remnants of the dream you were having, but it's futile. You swing your legs over the edge of your bed and in a groggy state, search the ground with your bare feet for the slippers that you kicked off the night before. You find one and slip it on only to realize that it belongs to the other foot. Your head bobs as you make the correction and search for the other. Once you’ve found both slippers, you slowly stand, stretch your arms, arch your back, and grab your robe that is lying in a heap at the foot of your bed. Your blond, tangled hair hides your half-open eyes as you make your way to the dark bathroom. With your head turned toward the ground, you flick the light switch on, look into the mirror, and I look back.

I have been with you for as long as you can remember. You can still hear the shrill sound of taunt as the other children on the playground laughed and pointed at me. Why your parents never eliminated me, you’ll never know, but now it’s too late. It would be so easy to eradicate me now. You have the money. You have the time. But my absence would ruin you. Your professional days would come to a screeching halt. I was there for your first big scene. Cutting your hair only to realize that it grew right back. How cute you were with me. You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman; if only you could close your mouth. I am who you are. I am as big a part of you as you are.

I’ve been a cheerleader, a pageant winner, and even a tennis star. I’ve been in blockbusters and made appearances on the red carpet. I’ve grazed billboards and advertisements as big as buildings. I’ve been a part of the tabloids and rumors as you’ve gone through your young life. I’ve had conversations with David Letterman and Conan O’Brien. I’ve shared screen time with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise. I’ve been intimate with Toby Maguire both professionally and personally.

I am the norm for sharks and alligators, but I am a thing of wonder and confusion for the human race. I am the first thing people notice about you. Thoughts of vampires and mythical creatures dance on the minds of people as they talk to you. You will never make eye contact with others as long as I am here. You tell a joke and everyone laughs. You grin and everyone shutters. I am your snaggle tooth, Kirsten and I am as big a part of you as you are.

January 29

It is my crutch. It is what I live for. I wake up from dreaming about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. My mouth waters at the thought. My stomach growls and my tongue aches for its cool, crisp taste. My breathing quickens. My heart races. I know I shouldn't fall victim to its wonderful taste. It's everything that I should avoid. The very thought of it makes me sick. It makes my stomach groan. I feel bloated and lethargic when hypnotized by its power.

Waking up the morning after a visit with my sweet-tasting friend, my stomach curses at me. My eyelids are slow to open. All of my organs collaborate to weigh me down. They are not individual pieces of my composition. They are one coagulated blob of viscous accumulation and concretion.

I had resisted its urge and itch for 64 days. 64 days of freedom. 64 days of agony. It patronizes my thoughts during times of stress. It lurks in the shadows of my mind during an argument with a friend. The memory of its smooth texture on my palette plays over and over after a long night of work. I want to sink into my favorite armchair and hold its frosty surface in my tired hands night after night. It is my downfall, yet it is my savior. It is what tears me apart and makes me whole.

Although never entirely absent, the memory of its delicious flavor was in the furthest crevices of my mind before last night's shift. The nightly routines started off slow, but like a runaway train gaining speed and momentum the evening's pace blossomed. Visitors came and spent. Laughter was a thing of surplus. My comedic remarks, gestures, and witticisms were things of pure elegance as the night progressed. The evening's gaiety had lifted my spirits and roused a feeling of invisibility and carefree from deep within.

As I maneuvered my vehicle's Rugged Terrain tires over wet pavement towards the local grocer, the lost hunger for sin made a familiar and metaphorical knock on the door of my taste buds. I couldn't, though! I had been so good and faithful. The image of its label on my mind's memory blinded me. It was so serene, yet tantalizing. I stepped down from the driver's side of my eight-year-old pickup and out into the dark parking lot. The giant, glowing orange letters sitting on the roof of the building peered down on me as I entered the brightly lit stomach of the beast.

Past the checkers. Past the paying customers. I could feel each person stare and watch me pass. I could feel their judgment reigning down on me. My rubber-soled shoes refused to make a sound as the aisles towered over me and I made my way to the back. Raisin Bran Crunch was on sale for $2.50 a box. I grabbed two without hesitation. With the Two-Scoops Sun looking out from under my right arm, I opened a glass door, bent down and grabbed a gallon of 1% milk and checked the expiration date. February 13. I could finish it by then.

My feet felt heavy. The moment of truth. It was possible to make a straight line to the check stand and be free of the temptation weighing heavy. I couldn't ignore it though. Like a marching band, the yearning played loud and I could feel its beat vibrate amongst my ribs.

Before I knew it, I was back behind the wheel and aiming headlights through a mist of warm rain. My windshield wipers cleared my vision in perfect rhythm. On the floor of the passenger's seat sat two white, plastic grocery sacks. One contained two boxes of cereal. The other held a gallon of milk and pure torture.

It wasn't too late. I hadn't done anything wrong. I could still get out of it. I sat in my cold and quiet apartment and turned it over in my hands. The frost came off in flakes to rest on my fingertips for a moment before they melted into drops of cold condensation. The plastic fought as I pried it off. The lid held on with all of its might before I forced it away. There it was. Laughing at me from my lap. "Chocolate and vanilla ice creams with fudge brownies and gobs of chocolate chip cookie dough." Ben & Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream had gotten the best of me yet again.

January 28

I had been staring at my computer screen for a half an hour trying to decide what to write about today. I had two tabs open in my Internet browser. One of them was Blogger with an empty text window and a blinking cursor in the upper left-hand side waiting to create an insightful piece of thought. The other tab was my escape to procrastination where I was cycling through my daily websites hoping to find something new and interesting to look at that might give me an idea of what to write about.

One of these websites that I visit on a daily basis is Twitter. I don't tweet because I think blogging is narcissistic enough and I don't need to express my thoughts in 140 characters or fewer. I visit Twitter everyday because I follow other people. MLB Trade Rumors is one that I follow. Other tweets I follow are Jeff Probst of Survivor and Dalton Ross of Entertainment Weekly. I also follow Funny or Die. Occasionally there will be a funny quip or a link to a new video. The latter is what got my attention today.

It was a link to the Funny or Die website with a new video that was posted by Jeff Garlin. You might know Garlin from Curb Your Enthusiasm or Daddy Daycare. The post on Twitter suggested that I see this video which was also written and directed by Garlin. I'm a big Curb fan and I like his character a lot on the show so I thought, why not?

I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I think Funny or Die operates similar to that of YouTube. Anyone can upload a video to the site, but unlike YouTube, viewers then have the ability to vote whether or not the video was funny and should stay posted or if the video should die and be taken down. When I clicked the link, a new page opened up and as the video started to load, I noticed that it was a "Chosen One" on the site which means a viewer has no say in whether or not the video can stay. I think you can still vote, but the voting doesn't actually mean anything like it would if you were voting on a video that wasn't a "chosen one." These particular videos are usually funnier than a normal submitted video. They usually have some kind of celebrity stamp on them as well which makes the quality much better.

The video was titled, "Breakup in a Noisy Diner." The two minute clip was one scene that takes place at a booth in a noisy diner. Clinking glasses and people visiting can be heard very clearly as the actors are going through the scene. Aubrey Plaza (actress from Funny People and Parks and Recreation) played the main character. She looked distraught as she sat to the left of the table and went through the cliches of breaking up with some guy sitting across from her. The co-star looked familiar, but I didn't know who he was or where I had seen him. As the breakup came to a conclusion, another guy sat down next to the first guy and she went through the entire speech again almost word for word. When she finished, the second guy and her just looked at each other and the first guy turned to his left and looked directly into the camera and said, "I'm a ghost" and gave an ear-to-ear grin that he held for the remainder of the video which lasted another thirty seconds.

I get it! The first time that Plaza went through her routine, she was talking to herself and preparing to breakup with the second guy. That's hilarious! Not! This was a "Chosen One?!" The second comment that was left about this clip was, "This is 'Chosen???' Missing the funny here..." so I'm obviously not the only one that couldn't find the humor in this exclusive video. And right there is my complaint for the day!

Just because you are a celebrity and you upload videos to a popular website, does not mean that the video should be excluded from any kind of voting or ridicule. If you make a piece of shit clip, people should have the right to say so and vote it off of the site. The site is called Funny or Die and not Funny and/or Celebrity Endorsed or Die. If it isn't funny, it should die. The video should not stay up if it is not funny.

I like Jeff Garlin's character on Curb Your Enthusiasm. I think he offers a good balance to Larry David's character which, in turn makes the show more enjoyable. I don't think he should be using his celebrity on that show or any other show, for that matter, as a pass to make videos like this. They aren't clever. They aren't funny. They should die.

January 27

One of my favorite pastimes while in college was that of a little game that we called Frisbee Golf. What is Frisbee Golf, you ask? Well, there are two different versions of the game. Many cities across the country have designated parks with trails that weave in and out of trees and out into clearings. Scattered throughout these public parks are the holes or targets. These targets are basically five-foot metal poles with circular rings with a diameter of two feet at the top. From the outside of the rings, metal chains drape down to the pole where they are connected just above metal baskets to hold the caught disc. The idea is to throw your disc from the "tee" and get it to land in these baskets in the fewest possible strokes as possible. Basically, it's just like regular golf. Just like any other sport, there are shops that specialize in all of your disc golfing needs. Drivers, putters, and mid-range discs are sold for the most experienced and serious player of the game.

The other version of Frisbee Golf is much less complicated. A bunch of goofy college buddies get together at around eleven or twelve o'clock at night and they play with any kind of frisbee. They could use official Ultimate Frisbee discs or they could use frisbees that he or she received at student orientation. Once the group meets up, there isn't any specific course that needs to be followed. You just go with the flow. You decide as a group what the first target is going to be and you start recording how many throws or "strokes" it takes each person to get to the designated goal. When everyone is ready to call it a night (usually at around 1:30 a.m.) then whoever has the fewest throws throughout the game is the winner.

Now, if a metal basket in the middle of the woods is an official goal in Disc Golf, what is classified as a target in Frisbee Golf? Anything. That's what makes it so much fun. Some of the targets we used when I was playing in college were fire hydrants, parking spots on designated floors of parking structures, specific doors in school halls, certain doors in residence halls, and even gates that kept cafeterias closed and safe after hours. This last one was the most fun. We would start on one end of the campus and agree that the cage that locks the cafeteria up would be the goal. It would usually take us a good fifteen throws to get there, but once inside the dining room, we would be throwing frisbees past Hispanic janitors and maintenance crews. The looks on their faces were priceless as we came in and tossed frisbees around their clean, shiny floors.

Another great target usually ended the game for anyone playing. There was a single road that led into the residence halls that we would follow on our way back from the cafeteria. On the right-hand side of the road, there was the six story parking structure and on the left-hand side there was a two-story residence hall that wrapped itself around a basketball court. The goal was always to get the frisbee through one of the hoops as if it were a ball. The thrower could either choose the safer route by going through the entrance or he could take a risk and possibly shave off a few throws by going up and over the roof. This was extremely crucial if the game was separated by just a few strokes. What was fun about this last target was that everyone pretty much knew that the frisbee was going to land on the roof, but if the game was close enough, it was worth the risk.

Today I played a great game of Disc Golf on an actual course. Being out there in the fresh air was fun, but it reminded me how much fun I had in the wee hours of the night at good ol' Chapman U. I just wish we had made one of the targets a woman with a mop.

January 26

The texting thing has gotten way out of control. Does anyone know how to use a telephone anymore for anything other than texting? One of the top cell phone manufactures, LG, actually holds an annual competition that awards the fastest and most accurate texters scholarships for college. I saw a clip of it on the news a few months ago. There was a stage with about five to ten contestants (all tween girls, mind you) standing shoulder to shoulder with their heads facing down and their thumbs-a-blazin'. Yeah, that's the kind of thing I want to go to. I want to sit in a dark auditorium and watch ten-year-olds play with phones and then be rewarded for having the ability to say a whole lot of nothing without speaking a word.

Thousands upon thousands of texts are being sent and received every day. Entire conversations are being conducted through the means of acronyms and text lingo. LOL, J/K, and OMG are the terms that I am most familiar with, but apparently there are so many more that I wasn't even aware of. I recently did a search for the most popular text terms and the result was surprising. I found a list of the top 50 on a website called NetLingo.com. I knew what a few of the terms were, but overall, I don't think I would have had a clue what any of the meanings were if they were sent to my phone. MHOTY? I would have guessed that was some one's cute way of saying, "Mmm, Hottie" as in, "I think you're a stud, Brandon." Nope. It means, My Hat's Off To You. Number 23 on the top 50 according to NetLingo. MHOTY beat out OMG (Oh My God/Gosh), TLC (Tender Loving Care), and WTF (What The F**k).

Maybe the list wasn't in any particular order, but the fact is there are some really dumb acronyms that people use when texting. WEG is Wicket Evil Grin. I can't imagine ever being in a situation where I would feel it necessary to text WEG. I would really like to see someone with a wicked evil grin sending a text message because that would make for a hilarious image. Do people actually use these?!

The only text lingo I use isn't even on the list. I will occasionally spell out my laughter to let someone know that what I thought he or she had just sent was amusing. Ha ha. Only two short words. If I thought what he or she said/sent was really funny, then I might add an extra ha for a grand total of three. I will not, under any circumstance, use LOL. Laughing Out Loud. If you want to hear my infectious laugh, call me up and earn it.

The only other text lingo I ever use is J/K and I only use it in jest and mockery when I'm talking to someone in person. Having a face to face conversation and throwing in a "J/K" is ridiculous and funny. No one actually uses the two letters when they want to alert the listener that he or she is, in fact, just kidding but he/she doesn't have any problem at all sending that as a text message. I don't think anyone should send a text that he or she wouldn't say in person.

Another reason I hate text messaging so much is that people don't deem it necessary to use proper grammar. It even bothers me when someone sends me a text message where the first letter isn't capitalized. Maybe I'm being a little sensitive on the subject, but people have commented on my perfect texting form and I think more people should work on their own form.

Anyway, back to these acronyms. It's amazing to me where these terms come from. Who decided to send the first ROTFLMAO (Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off is by far my favorite one because of its length) and how did he or she get it to stick? Didn't that person have to send another text explaining what it meant? Wouldn't it have been faster and less complicated if he or she just said "I'm rolling on the floor laughing my ass off?" I can't wait for the next time I'm actually rolling on the floor in laughter just so I can audibly yell those eight letters. That's all I have for today, but here is a link to the list of the top 50 most popular text terms according to NetLingo. I'll TTYL and THX for reading.

January 25

When I was younger, my family would take weekend camping trips to the Colorado River near Blythe, CA. We would try to go at least once a summer, but always hoped for more. My family never went on extravagant cruises or vacations to the Bahamas or Hawaii, but in my eye, these trips were just as special.

My mom would pack all of the food, drinks, and anything else she could before my dad would get home on the Friday that we planned on leaving. My dad drove his truck into work each day, so we had to wait for him to get home before we could load the heavier items. When he would get home, we would start the loading process. My dad, by the way, is an expert packer. He knows exactly how to arrange everything in a tight space to make it all fit perfectly snug and secure.

Everything we needed for the weekend, we could fit into the bed of my dad's truck. This is because my family went camping the right way. We didn't own an RV so we could watch TV and take showers. We went camping in a tent and slept on the ground. We went to the bathroom in the bushes and took showers in the river. That was camping.

After loading everything into my dad's truck (including our inflatable red Zodiac boat and 25-horsepower outboard motor) he would take a shower and we would be on our way. We would usually be on the road anywhere from 6:30 to 7:30. For most of my childhood, my dad drove a white 1988 Chevrolet Silverado. There was one bench seat in the cab where my dad drove, I sat next to him, my sister sat to my right and shared the passenger seat belt with my mom. It was a pretty tight fit, especially as the years went by and my sister and I grew.

The trek usually lasted about three and a half hours with one stop for a Taco Bell dinner in El Centro. Once we got off of the main highway and crossed the river that separated California and Arizona, we would spend about a half an hour looking for a vacant campsite. You see, we didn't go to a campground that had plumbing, picnic tables, and lights. We would slowly drive down a pitch-black gravel road that ran along the east side of the river's edge. The only signs of life you could see were illuminated by my dad's headlights as tall, ominous bushes that lined either side of the dusty and sometimes uneven road slowly crept by.

About every hundred yards or so, there would be a break in the bushes on the left-hand side and an extremely narrow "drive-way" would break off of the main road and snake its way down towards the river bank. At every opening, my dad would put the truck into four-wheel drive and slowly descend into the darkness hoping not to see any vehicles in the clearing. We would go through this motion of creeping into each camp until we found a clearing that was private enough and didn't have any other campers already occupying the space.

Once we found our new home for the weekend, Dad would park the truck to the side of the clearing, find the lantern in the truck's bed and shed light throughout the dark campsite. Dad would let our Yellow Labrador Retriever out of his crate and we would laugh as Sport made a beeline towards the dark water for a late night swim. We would then lie a tarp down on the spot where we wanted to sleep and work together to assemble the tent that was to sit on top of the blue ground cover. My mom would then climb inside to unpack bags of clothes and line the ground with blankets. My dad, my sister, and I would set up our foldaway table, inflate mattresses, and do anything else we could with virtually zero light. Before climbing in bed, the four of us would silently sit around in folding chairs, drink ice cold water, and listen to the river softly lap the shores as a curious dog would run through bushes, splash in water, and sniff everything.

My dad always woke before the rest of us. I can still hear that high-pitched zipper at 5:45 in the morning as he and Sport would leave the tent. It would usually take me another half an hour to get up and help him start setting up the canopy that would provide protection from the harsh sunlight for the weekend. Once we had all of the stakes hammered into the sand, we would start on the exhausting task of inflating our boat. We had a pump that we were able to connect to a car battery, but it still took a long time to inflate and assemble the floorboards. Once inflated, we would attach tires to the stern of the red boat and struggle to install the heavy motor. I would then stand at the stern and keep the boat from running away on us as my dad would lift the bow and let the weight of the boat take itself to the water's edge. This was always the best time to get out on the water and go for a ski. It was still early enough where there weren't any other people out so the water was smooth as glass. It was on one of these first runs that I had the worst experience of my life on water.

I chose to ride the knee ski for my first run that morning. A knee ski looks almost identical to a wakeboard except it doesn't have any boots. It's a fiberglass board with a soft, cushion covering the top surface and a Velcro strap that goes from one side to the other to keep the board and rider connected. The rider tucks his feet under his legs where he sits on his shins. He then straps the Velcro seat belt over his thighs and holds onto a rope that is pulled by the boat.

I was all strapped in and sitting on the beach with the nose of the knee ski just barely in the water. The rope in my hands extended out into the river where it was attached to the Zodiac. "Hit it!" I yelled and my dad revved the 25-horse powered beast. As the slack from the rope was pulled taut, I gripped the handle tightly and the knee ski did everything in its power to stay on the beach. I leaned my weight back as the board slowly scraped along the sand and pulled up on my strapped-in knees to get the nose to rise above the surface of the water. As the friction between board and sand weakened, the nose shot above the water and I was riding!

My dad drove the boat up stream for a few hundred yards as I tried to get comfortable in the impossible-to-get-comfortable riding position of a knee ski. The rocky banks of California flew by on my left and the brown bushes of the Arizona side waved as we passed. As I made my way outside of the wake, my dad gave the signal that he was turning us around to head back downstream and towards camp. This is a signal that the driver gives with his right arm where he raises his hand toward the sky and makes a circular motion. This is a signal that is used for the safety of the rider and he can expect what is about to come. This is a signal that I didn't see.

I was gliding on the smooth surface to the right of the wake and adjusting my strap. My dad made the signal and then turned a wide left to take us downstream. I didn't realize what was happening until I felt gravity's pull which sent me flying to the outside of the circle that I was creating at the end of the rope. When you swing a rope with a weight on its end, the weight travels much faster than the end of rope you are holding. That's what happened with me. I was the weight on the end of a rope that was being swung by the turning of the boat.

I stared in terror as the California banks came closer and closer at an alarmingly quick rate. It's funny the thoughts that go on in someone's head in the heat of the moment. I could have easily let go of the rope and been fine. Instead I thought (and this actually went through my head), I'll just hang on to the rope and use the board as protection as I ski up the rocky bank and back down to the water. As you can imagine, it didn't work as planned.

The next thing I knew, I was floating in the water and screaming. I had let go of the rope and my dad was circling back to get me. The knee ski had flown off and was floating somewhere down stream. I couldn't move my legs as I bobbed in the water being kept afloat by my life jacket. To make a long story short, I didn't break anything. I was incredibly lucky to end up with just a few nasty scars on my shins as reminders of my stupidity.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much lost for me. I couldn't go knee skiing any more because my legs were in so much pain. I couldn't even strap on the water skis because I had cut up one of my ankles pretty badly and the boots of the ski would have been pure torture. I had to be on flag duty for the remainder of weekend and watch everyone else have all the fun.

When I think back on the days of my childhood, our trips to the river are some of my favorite memories; with the exception of this one event. The trips were usually so simple and relaxing. I can only hope that I can continue the tradition of camping trips to the river with my kids some day. I'll just make sure that whatever kid is skiing at the time sees the signal.

January 24

Let me set the record straight. Not all of my posts are true or factually correct. In the middle of December 2009, I was taking a shower when I came up with the idea to make one blog entry every day for an entire year. That was it. There wasn't anything else to it than that. I knew I wanted to improve my writing and I thought this was the best way to do so. I didn't want to just post anything every day, either. I didn't want this project to turn into a place where I could just go to for five seconds and post a link to a website I saw on that particular day.

I have had a lot of people coming up to me or making comments about my posts not being true. When I write a piece that is supposed to be fake, I do my best to make it as ridiculous as possible to eliminate any doubt for the reader. The senator from Iowa Googling me? Come on, people! Do you really think that happened? Even if, for some strange reason, it did happen, why would he look my name up another 39 times? When I include something like that in a post, don't you think it stands to reason that the post isn't true? Most of my posts are, in fact, true to life. My post last night, for example, was entirely true. My complaints about handshakes was a legitimate one as well.

There is a very thin line between a blog and a journal. A lot of things in my life are private and I don't want to share them so I do, on an occasion, have to get creative to get a post published. I suppose if I didn't want to share anything at all, I would have just kept a personal journal, but there are a few topics that I think are worthy of sharing.

I get really excited every time someone new leaves a comment or approaches me about what he or she read because it means I'm not wasting my time with this New Year's Resolution, but try to comprehend what you're reading. Try to put the pieces together and use your common sense. With that being said, I hope I didn't offend anyone or lose any readers. Thank you.

January 23

There is a place in Anaheim Hills that people all over Orange County refer to as the MILF Capital of the World. It's a magical place that is visible from the 91 and it just happens to have a hotel in it's backyard. This is a Mecca where young men from all over the country flee to because of its legacy. MILFs everywhere come to this wondrous place to get a drink, a young man, and a room with a view. This is Foxfire: An American Chophouse.

What is a MILF, you ask? MILF is an acronym that stands for "Mother's I'd Like to F**k." I'm not positive, but I think the term originated from the 1999 film, American Pie. There really isn't any more to it than that. If a man finds a sexual attraction towards a woman with kids, she is a MILF. The term, however, is very easy to confuse with "cougar." A cougar is an older woman that frequents clubs in pursuit of a much younger sexual partner and doesn't necessarily have any children. Although Foxfire has earned the prestigious title of MILF Capital of the World, it doesn't necessarily mean that all of the women that frequent the joint are mothers. But, that's not what this post is about, so it doesn't even matter.

I had heard stories about guys going to Foxfire and getting picked up by MILFs that have rooms at the nearby hotel. I actually heard a story that a woman bought a guy that went to my school brand new tires for his truck just for staying the night with her. Naturally, I wanted to check this place out for myself and see what all the talk was about. One night, my very good friend Max and I went, and this is our story:

I don't remember too many details of the night, but I think it took place in January or February. From the outside, one might get the idea that the inside was a place of class and stature. It has a grand entrance that's illuminated by rope lights along the restaurant's every edge. Three-foot flames reach out of a chimney on the roof to lick the night's air during hours of operation. It really is a nice entryway, but inside it's actually a bit sleazy.

Upon entering, you might feel instantly transported to the 1970s. There is an old musky scent that lingers on the thick air and you almost expect to feel shag carpet under your feet. If I remember correctly, you enter the front door and find yourself standing in the bar area. I think there was a large square bar surrounded by high-top tables and bar stools. There were also a few billiards tables scattered around the bar. Deeper within the bowels of the restaurant is the actual dining room. It was back in this area that a band was playing on the night that I went. During the later hours of the evenings, the dining room closes and the restaurant turns into more of a social gathering. I remember the room being very dimly lit. If you continue past the dining room there is a backdoor that leads to a nice wooden deck that overlooks a few trees and other random shrubs, but we didn't spend much time out there seeing as how it was a colder part of the year.

Max and I had a few drinks and played some pool with some guys that Max was playing soccer with at the time. Nice guys, but I don't really remember too much about them. As we played, I kept my eye out for a cougar in the shadows about to pounce on me, but nothing came my way. There were a lot more middle-aged couples than I had expected. I was kind of hoping to walk into a room of scantily clad older women. I walked in prepared to have to fight women off me, but it wasn't like that at all. There were groups of women talking to each other, couples that were minding their own business, and then there was the four of us playing pool and trying to make sense of it all.

It wasn't until two in the morning that we found ourselves in the Foxfire parking lot that the fun really started. The lot was full of drunk older women not willing to call it a night and a lot of guys my age. The few couples made their way home as the rest of us stood wondering what to do next. All of the bars were closed, but someone somewhere made a suggestion. "Hey! Let's all go to Denny's!"

The next thing I knew, I was riding shotgun in Max's Honda Element following at least seven cars down the road to the nearby 24-hour establishment. We parked, met Max's soccer friends and followed the crowd into the restaurant. Upon seeing our giant group enter, the eighteen-year-old at the host stand just stood with a blank look on his face and blinked a few times in disbelief. I can't imagine what was going through his head because our group was so diverse that it had to look really unusual. Luckily, a man in his late thirties/early forties from our group took the reigns and told the host that there were sixteen of us and we all wanted to sit together. Keep in mind that I didn't know any of these people save for Max and his two friends.

Before long, I was sitting on one end of a long table occupied by the shaggy-haired guy, maybe two weasely looking dudes in their early thirties, and my group of four. The rest were drunk women in their forties and up. We ordered our food (I went with the Moons Over My Hammy) and got acquainted with one another.

The shaggy-haired ringleader of our group was great. In his drunken stupor, he went around the table, person by person, and asked each one of us what our name was, what we did for a living, and what we had just ordered. He reminded me of a mix between Patrick Swayze's Bodhi from Point Break and a surfer-esque Brett Michaels. Of course he spent more time interviewing the women, but as an observer, it was fantastic! I don't remember any of the answers, but there was definitely an astonishingly high number of women that had kids in beds at home. I think the oldest kid mentioned was seventeen. Seventeen! That was six years my minor!

Because I was still slightly buzzed, I couldn't stop giggling. The woman next to Max kept dozing off as her friends tried to keep her awake. It was hopeless, she insisted. The only thing that ever kept her awake was sex. There was the class I was looking for! As the interviews came full-circle, it was time for Bodhi to tell us what he did for a living. With a proud/intoxicated nod and slow look around the table, he informed us that he was a teacher. Oh, cool. What did he teach? Surfing lessons? No. Fourth-graders. What a guy!

I finished my Moons Over My Hammy and started to retrieve my wallet to pay my portion of the bill when Bodhi slowly stood up, spread his arms like Jesus Christ and announced what great people we all were. He exclaimed how much fun he had and how great it was to meet each and every one of us. As a token of his thanks, he wanted to pay the tab. The women swooned, the men applauded, and Bodhi hiccuped.

The air was cold and crisp as we left the eighteen-year-old to clean up after us. I shook Bodhi's hand and thanked him for the meal. As the neon lights from the Denny's sign got smaller and smaller in Max's rear view mirror, we exchanged looks and busted out laughing. We couldn't believe what had just happened. I wasn't offered any spectacular gifts in exchange for sexual favors, but I had experienced Foxfire. It was one of those nights where it was so amazing and unbelievable that I will never return for fear of tainting my image of the MILF Capital of the World.

January 22

Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned handshake? It was so simple. I'm out on the town and I see a friend. We approach each other, extend our right arms with hands open, grasp the other's hand, give a firm squeeze and maybe throw in a little up and down action. Release the grip and we're through. That's it. Nothing else. What was wrong with that? It's become such a show.

I'm pretty sure that the evolution of the handshake started with "slapping skin." This was where the two members approached each other with right arms extended and hands open. Just as they were about to grasp, they would keep their hands open, hold their palms together, and slide their hands back. This act usually incorporated something along the lines of, "Hey, man! Slap me some skin." They would then usually fall into each over in fits of hysterical laughter. They knew it was ridiculous, but they didn't care. They were young and free.

After skin slapping, the young kids went back to handshakes, but they got rid of the up and down pump, held on longer and added a hug. It was one continuous act though. No handshake, break, and hug. It was a handshake, hang on, pull me into you while still hanging on, wrap the left arm around and slap the back a few times before letting go. This choice is still very popular, but I feel it's used more in the brociety. Those who dress in Ed Hardy and can bench a thousand pounds love this greeting. Guys that drive lifted trucks with silhouettes of naked angels and devils on the back windows love this greeting. Be careful with this one though. You will lose any and all credibility if you laugh while partaking in this salutation.

I don't like the wrap-around shake, but I can deal with it. I'm not wild about all the hugging and the close proximity it puts me in with other people, but I've learned to adapt. What I can't stand is the next form of acknowledgment in handshake evolution. This is the slap and pound. Two guys approach each other, right arms extended, hands open, they go into a skin-slap, but as soon as touch is broken, they clench fists and end with a light bump of the fists. No laughing. What is this? Skin slapping was funny because it was absurd, but now we're adding a bump? That's not funny. That's not cool. It's idiotic. It's confusing and bizarre. It's socially acceptable.

The slap and pound was the last faze before our current era of greeting. The simple fist bump. No precursory skin-slap necessary. Even President Obama is doing this one. That's what makes him so cool. Look at him! He's bumping his clenched fist with that lady. What? Oh, that's his wife? That's cool. Man, he's so damn hip! How dumb do I feel when someone comes up to me with his clenched fist? I'm supposed to entertain this guy by bumping my fist with his? This is friendship? I'm pretty sure it's impossible for me to bump a dude's fist without sarcastically saying, "Pound it." Just to add to the lunacy of the act, I slowly pull my hand back and spread my fingers after the bump. Sometimes I'll even make a little explosion sound as my hand slowly falls to my side. My hand is a firework. Get it?!

The problem with the whole handshake phenomenon is that the evolution from each acceptable form of greeting has taken a maximum of ten years to get to this point. That's a very short amount of time and it doesn't allow us to faze one out before moving on. Some people (myself being one of them) still prefer the original handshake. The bros are using the wrap-around shake while some jokers are slapping skin. How am I supposed to react when I run into someone that I know? What is he going to go for? I always screw it up. Here's my handshake, I offer. Oh, you want a hug too? The timing is all wrong. He pulls me in, but I wasn't ready. Awkward.

There are so many different types of greetings that I didn't even mention. Wiggling finger tips together. Slapping palms through one another only to come back and slap the tops of hands with a fist-bump ending? I do however enjoy approaching a friend, slapping a high-five as we pass and follow through with a low-five behind our backs as we continue on our way. That's a good one. I feel an extra sense of confidence after a successful high-five/low-five passing.

Let's be honest, though. Don't we all feel a little nutty trying to guess which greeting to use? Let's just do each other a favor and stick with the original. There wasn't anything wrong with it. Sure, you had some weak shakes and some "Oh, my God you just broke my hand!" shakes, but at least to the outsider, we looked like we knew what we were doing. Stop with the fist bump and all of the others. I don't care what Obama deems as cool.

January 21

The wait is over. After spending countless nights wringing my hands in frustration, I can finally relax. My hairline has recessed and the color is now sprinkled with gray from all of the stress that I’ve gone through these past few years. I’ve lost sleep, weight, and friends. My eyes have been bloodshot and my skin has yellowed, paled, and peeled. But all that’s about to change. I can finally go on with my life because I now know who has Googled me.

I was doing my thing on Facebook the other night when I came across the ad that has changed my life. “Who Has Googled You? Enter your name at MyLife to see who has searched for you!” There was even an option for me to "like" the marketing campaign; which, of course, I did. Immediately.

I ended my Facebook chats, stopped my wall-posts mid-post, sold the Farmville and logged off. I went right over there to the good folks at MyLife and, you guessed it, entered my name. The results were shocking. They were unbelievable and mind boggling.

The way it works is you enter a name and MyLife creates a list of all the people that have entered that particular name in the Google search engine. It lists all the searchers by the number of times he or she has searched the name and it goes down in descending order.

The first name was no surprise at all. With one hundred and thirty-three Google searches for the name Brandon Roesler, was none other than Brandon Roesler. I Google myself quite often just see what I’ve been up to. Who have I been hanging out with? What events in my past have played significant roles in shaping who I am? Nobody knows these answers better than Google.

The second name was not really a shock either. My mom (ironically posted by MyLife as “Your mother”) has Googled me forty-two times. Mothers will be mothers and she’s just concerned about me. I can understand that. She wants to make sure I’m ok and that I’m taking care of myself.

Third on the list took me by complete surprise. Senator Chuck Grassley of Iowa has Googled Brandon Roesler exactly forty times. I’ve never been to Iowa, but I guess because I’m such a big supporter of the whistleblower laws, he wanted to know more about me. That’s cool. Whatever.

My fourth biggest supporter was some girl named Tammy Chung from San Francisco. She’s Googled me thirty-eight times. I wanted to know more about Tammy, but didn’t want to Google her because I didn’t want a place on her list. So I guess I’ll never know.

MyLife reported my ex-girlfriend as number five on the list with thirty-one searches. This one was a little surprising to me. I would have thought she would have been higher on the list because I get at least three texts a day from this chic. I’ve come home twice to find pictures of her taped to my front door. Based on these two examples alone, I’m flummoxed that she didn’t land ahead of Chuck, but that’s what makes life so much fun. It’s just hard to predict sometimes.

Number six brought a smile to my face. You’ll never guess who has Googled me fewer times than only five people. I don’t even think anyone would believe me if I told them that this person was such a big fan of mine. In fact, I’m not going to waste my time or yours by telling you who it was.

MyLife only provides the top seven people before making you pay for a subscription. I haven’t been making much money at work lately so paying the $39.95 fee isn’t very feasible for me right now, but I digress.

With twenty-six searches of the name Brandon Roesler and sole possessor of the seventh spot was Mark Burnett. For those of you who don’t know, Burnett is the Executive Producer for Survivor. I’ve audition for the show eight different times and he’s Googled my name twenty-six times. That’s right! Twenty-six! Two. Six. I don’t even need to be on the show anymore. This is good enough for me! Cross that one off my bucket list!

So the excitement is over. I know the top seven people that have used Google to search my name. I have to admit: It’s a good feeling. I have a sense of ease about me that I haven’t experienced in quite some time. Life feels a little slower and more at peace. I can breathe easier and it will definitely be nice to get a good night’s sleep in tonight.

I want to take this time to thank MyLife for coming up with a way for me to find out who has Googled me. While I’m at it, I want to thank Facebook for selling valuable ad space to MyLife. For those of you that I had to prematurely end Facebook chats with, I apologize but my life is complete now that I know who has Google me. Thanks again, MyLife!

January 20

In this age of "instant gratification," it's easy to get lost in the onslaught of what's available to us. Anyone can get news that happened just moments before by opening his or her favorite news website. I have fallen victim to downloading music through torrents and any time I hear about a band or a new album, all I have to do is wait five minutes (which in some cases is a long time) before I have it in my iTunes library.

I'm quickly approaching 10,000 songs and with so many options, one might think that I would never have to ponder what to listen to. I've noticed, however, that because I have so many choices, it's become easy for me to forget what I have and I can't remember what I enjoy listening to.

An Entertainment Weekly "Best of the Decade" issue was published at the end of the year and one of the top albums was The Blueprint by Jay-Z. I had heard a lot about Jay-Z, but never really listened to him. There were a few things that I really enjoyed; His remixes with Linkin Park and Coldplay mostly. When I saw the article on The Blueprint I jumped onto Vuze (my torrent client of choice) and within minutes, I was downloading the album along with the two sequels.

It wasn't until yesterday when I went on a bike ride that I decided to listen to my latest download. I have to admit, I was pretty disappointed. I am a big fan of what Eminem has done with hip-hop so I assumed that Jay-Z would blow me away, but I really hated it. Nigga this and nigga that. Here an F-Bomb there an F-Bomb everywhere an F-Bomb. What the hell is a "hova" anyway?! I ended up stopping mid-ride and switching to Weezer which instantly pumped my adrenaline up and made for a much more enjoyable ride.

Because I am constantly downloading music, I get my mind wrapped around the last five albums that I've added and can't remember anything else that I have. Last night, however, I was playing with my new iPod Touch when I gave the Genius feature a try.

Genius is a tool in iTunes that finds similar songs to the one that you're currently listening to. For example, if I were listening to a country song and then accessed the Genius feature, iTunes would create a playlist of country songs by other artists as well as the one playing. It's really a cool feature.

Anyway, I remembered how much I loved The Postal Service and decided to see what Genius recommended. As I sat and played with my iPod, I was thrown back into a familiarity of what I love to listen to. Death Cab for Cutie, Arcade Fire, Coldplay, Ben Folds, The Shins, Travis, and so much more. It was so nice to be brought back to what I had been missing. I had been in such a music funk lately and being reminded of these bands was refreshing and fun.

Instant gratification has its ups and downs, but it's nice that we have a technology like Genius to instantly bring us back to the ups.

January 19

I was recently going through some files on my computer when I found this mock write-up for a Major League Baseball Division Series game from 2008. At the time I was applying for various jobs in the baseball industry and some of them required that I had a sample of my writing. I wrote about a game between the Chicago Cubs and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

As I reread through it, I realized how much my writing has improved in the short time that I've been doing this little project and I'm really excited to see how my January 1 post will compare with my December 31 post. I had titled the article "Cubs About to Pass the Century Mark" and here is the piece completely unedited:

Uh oh! It's been one hundred years since the Cubs brought a title to Chicago, but fans might be re-thinking their “This is our year” campaign. After winning 97 games during the regular season, northern Chicago is staring down the barrel of elimination at the hands of the suddenly red-hot Dodgers.

After losing Game 1 yesterday, the Cubs needed to even the series and turn the NLDS into a best of three series. The way the infield was playing, it looked as though the Cubs were thinking more about their next off-season game of golf. An error each for Mark DeRosa and Derrek Lee respectively in the second, another one by Aramis Ramirez in the fourth followed by an error by Ryan Theriot in the ninth capped a game in which every infielder botched a play allowing three unearned runs to score in a 10-3 victory for the Dodgers.

The game was set for a Cubs’ victory with the newest member of the no-hitter club, Carlos Zambrano at the helm for Chicago taking on the 24-year-old inexperienced Chad Billingsley. Zambrano got the Cubs off on the right foot by plowing through the first inning including striking out Manny Ramirez. Alfonso Soriano led off the second by drilling the first pitch he saw from Billingsley into left field for a single and then advanced to second on a passed ball by Dodgers’ catcher, Russell Martin. (Martin would kick four pitches around in the first inning, but only one resulting in an advancement by Soriano.) And that, folks was the end of the action for the Cubs.

Andre Ethier started the second inning off with a single to right and advanced to third on a hit-and-run by James Loney. Blake DeWitt followed Matt Kemp’s looking strikeout with a hard grounder to second baseman DeRosa. DeRosa was unable to handle it, allowing Ethier to score, Loney to slide in safely to second and DeWitt to make it safely to first.

Derrek Lee made only nine errors during the regular season, but chose a bad time to make his first of the postseason. Casey Blake’s grounder took a bad hop, hit Lee’s glove and was temporarily lost as the Dodgers loaded the bases. Luckily for Zambrano, he had a pitcher to deal with and Billingsley easily went down for the second out on three fastballs. With the bases loaded and two outs, the Cubs still had a chance to get out of the inning with minimal damage, but Cubs fans everywhere will be able to tell you that it never comes that easily and it didn’t tonight either. Rafael Furcal noticed how deep DeRosa was playing at second, so he sent a bunt single in his direction which scored Loney and kept the bases loaded. Russell Martin followed with a bases-clearing line drive double to left-center to clear the bases.

That was the story until the Dodgers tacked on another run in the fifth on Manny Ramirez’s second homerun in as many games and an RBI double by Kemp in the seventh. It wasn’t until the bottom of the seventh that the Cubs scored their first run on a Jim Edmonds’ RBI double to score DeRosa.

The Dodgers answered with two more runs in the eighth and another run in the ninth to bring their total to ten before the Cubs had their most exciting frame of the evening. Derrek Lee led things off with a double followed up by a single off of the bat of Aramis Ramirez. DeRosa then hit a double to plate both Lee and Ramirez, but it wasn’t enough as the Cubs couldn’t get anything else and finished the game with a two-game deficit to the Dodgers.

97 wins, home field advantage, a healthy Carlos Zambrano, but nothing to show for it but one game shy of elimination to a team who were three games under .500 at the All-Star Break. Winning three games in a row is not impossible, but unlikely in the postseason. Uh oh!

January 18

The sun had just dipped below the horizon leaving a sky of vibrant oranges, purples, deep reds, and fading yellows. The distant mountains were nothing more than silhouettes against the natural canvas of blended color. Neighborhood lights were beginning to take the place of the sun's illumination.

It was that time of day when only every fifth or sixth car on the road refused to acknowledge that daytime was over. People were leaving work and picking up kids from day cares. People were making their way to home to start the evening's routines; making dinner, watching television, proofreading homework for sons and daughters.

Two light-hearted beeps from the vehicle's horn as he walked away with the key less entry remote in his hand. The jingling of metal as he produced the ring of keys to unlock the front door which sat in a pool of yellow light from the nearest street lamp. The air was still and cold as he entered and flicked the light switch up, throwing a blanket of light on his living room.

As he walked past his computer, he pressed the space bar; throwing his appliance into a state of awareness and waking it from its sleep. Making his way to the kitchen, he let out a silent yawn and stretched his arms and arched his back.

The dark burgundy wine didn't make a sound as it silently poured out of the long neck and into the water-stained glass. A few bubbles made their presence known around the perimeter of the liquid's surface. Darker around the base of each bubble, but allowing the reflection of the fluorescent lights above to shine at the top of each rounded pocket of air.

He stood at the counter in deep thought as he sipped the dark liquid and let the bitter taste of grapes dampen his tongue. The events of the day were playing in his mind like a slide show of moving pictures. He saw the secretary in her white blouse with her back towards him making copies for his boss. Her long legs stared at him from under her black, wrinkle-free skirt. He saw the accounting reports on his desk reaching for the ceiling and daring a gust of wind from a passing co-worker to send them flying. He saw the empty space in the refrigerator where his lunch sat just two hours prior. He felt the anger grow in him that someone had taken his lunch and he would be forced, again, to eat at the inadequate cafeteria. The images played over and over again as if on a repeating loop.

Back in the present, he opened his own refrigerator hoping to find his sack lunch waiting for him with a taunting smile. It wasn't there. Just the unknown figure of a Chinese word printed in red on a white cube of folds and tucks. Orange chicken and fried rice from a week ago. Two minutes in the microwave felt like two hours as his stomach growled and wrestled with itself. He let the hot steam uncurl from the box and he breathed in its scent.

The computer had gone back to sleep. With his dinner on his lap and his wine on the desk, he awoke the machine again. No new personal emails. No news in the world of baseball. What was he going to write about tonight? He had so much on his mind, but he couldn't form the thoughts into words and the words into sentences. How could his mind be so crowded with thought and question and not be able to write anything?

Did he want to try something new with tonight's writing? Maybe try his hand at poetry. Maybe a fictitious short story. Did he dare write about the secretary's legs and the feelings she stirred in him every time she walked by? Maybe tonight would be a good night to write about the cretins he worked with that thought his lunch was up for grabs.

He could think of plenty of good topics to get off his mind, but didn't think they were appropriate for an audience he didn't know he had? What if the secretary read these posts? Unlikely, but still? He wanted the thieves to read, but then again, he didn't want to use this medium as a way to criticize. It didn't seem like the right way to express his feelings of frustration. It felt like a cop-out.

Another bite of left overs. Another slow sip of wine. Another blank stare forward. He still had no answers. Outside, a car drove by causing a dog to bark. A door in his unit slammed shut followed by heavy footsteps past his front door. The sun had retired completely leaving a sky of stars trying to outshine the lights of the city. He sat and stared without any progress.

January 17

Day sixteen. As I posted my most recent blog entry on Blogger, I became excited at the thought of sharing this one with my Facebook friends. I copied and pasted the link to my profile which prompted me to re-type the curvy, unbalanced words of the security Captcha. "Eye Onyou" was the encrypted message. The two words stood out for some reason. I didn't know what an "onyou" was, but every time I reread the turing test out loud, the words that left my tongue and slid through my lips sounded and felt familiar. I reread it slower and focused on every letter that was involved. E Y E ON Y O U.

My heart made one last heavy thump before it sprinted into a breakneck pace. The message wasn't two encrypted words like I originally thought; but three. Eye. On. You. Maybe it was the ominous feeling I received when I made the discovery. Maybe it was the squiggly, and slightly out-of-focus way the three simple words were crammed together that sent the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at a salute.

What did this mean? Was I over-thinking the whole thing? Captchas were simply tests to verify that a human was using a website, right? That's all. They were created to protect computer programs from hackers. The technology wasn't there to scare people or steal the identities of unaccomplished bloggers. They kept computers from infiltrating other computers; nothing more.

Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. It was a test designed in the year 2000 by four men out of Carnegie Mellon University to be simple enough for humans to solve, but complex enough to keep computers from hacking into whatever piece of information was in need of safekeeping. A Captcha was supposedly there for my protection.

Yet, there I was - terrified by my revelation. But did I even unearth anything significant at all? Was it just a paranoid bit of narcissism? Who would want to watch me? Keep an eye on me? I hadn't done anything wrong and I wasn't involved in any shady business. Why would anyone want to monitor and follow me?

After coming up empty-handed in my search for an answer, it was time for me to go to work and try to focus on other things. As the day progressed, all I could think of, however, was what had happened to me that morning. My mind raced as the time dragged. I pondered the buts and the what-ifs as the day crawled by at an annoyingly slow rate. However, I didn't want to leave the comfort of work and go back to what I was afraid was waiting for me at home. I didn't want the day to end at all.

No matter how hard I tried, the clock still found a way to end the day and send me home. It was time for another blog. I could avoid the entire matter, but I had made a promise to myself. One post every day for one year. Period. I didn't want to write anything. I wanted to avoid the inevitable Captcha waiting for me on Mark Zuckerberg's social networking site, but because of my stubbornness to see things through, I had no choice.

I started typing with a blank mind. I was going through the motions while my thoughts were elsewhere. I knew this wouldn't be a very good post, but a promise was a promise. I could only hope that my next Captcha would be a pointless coupling of words. But what if it was another warning? A foresight into what was about to become of my life. What adventure awaited for me?

As I finished my third habitual read-through of my new post, my body's temperature began to drop as my brow grew damp with a layer of perspiration and my hands became clammy. Concentrating on what I had just written was futile and I couldn't get comfortable in the chair I was sitting. Being vigilant about my grammar and basic punctuation had suddenly seemed trivial and weightless.

I published my post to Blogger, but the excitement had just begun. The mouse's pointer slid up the computer's screen to the link in my browser's window. As I held the button down and left a blue, highlighted trail over the URL, my breathing became quick and shallow. My pupils dilated as I held down the Command key and followed it with the letter C.

I ran my fingers through my short, lazily styled hair as I waited for my browser to transfer the necessary information to get me to the Facebook homepage. My fingertips lost all sense of feeling as I navigated my mouse's pointer to the "What's On Your Mind?" window at the top of the page and my ears failed me of representing any sound as I pressed and held the Command key once again followed this time with the letter V.

As those three familiar progress bars danced with each other and grew and shrank with a rhythmic pulse, I stared blankly ahead as my twenty-four inch monitor illuminated my terrified and paralyzed expression.

January 16

I don't know what it is, but people develop connections with cities. I will forever associate a part of myself with Allentown, Pennsylvania because I spent the last summer there. When someone tells me that he or she is from Allentown or that he/she is about to visit, I will more than likely chime in about my experience. What I don’t understand is why people feel it’s their duty to get two separate people together that they know are living in any given city.

Anytime my mom mentions my recent move to someone and he or she knows someone in the area, they feel some kind of obligation to get the two of us together. Why is this? I’m all about making new friends (God knows I need more of them) but I can’t imagine ever being comfortable with meeting someone when the only thing we have in common is the city we call home.

My mom is constantly telling me that she ran into an old friend at the grocery store that just happens to know someone in Austin. These acquaintances have ranged from a daughter, a nephew, a neighbor, or a friend he or she went to high school with thirty years ago. Suddenly, my mom is being asked if she thinks that I would want this person to call me sometime.

Can you imagine getting that phone call? It’s 12:32 and so-and-so is on his or her lunch break: “Hey, Brandon. This is (enter name here) and my mom, aunt, mom’s neighbor, or friend from high school thirty years ago gave me your number and I just called to say hi. Maybe we can get together for a drink some time.”

Ok, I admit. That doesn’t sound that bad, but wait until the meeting! Two days have passed since the phone call. I’m wearing my best pair of jeans and I drive to the bar and walk inside. I remember that the voice on the phone said that he or she would be sitting at the bar wearing some kind of noticeable article of clothing. Oh, God, there he/she is. I have to sit and talk to that?

“Hey, (enter name here)?”

“Brandon! Hi! Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, thanks. You too. Have you been waiting long?”

“No. Have a seat. I already got a beer. They’re having a special on drafts tonight.”

“Oh, great. Hi, yes, I’ll have whatever your amber ale is.”

And scene! That’s it! It doesn’t and can’t get any better than that. What’s next? “How long have you been in Austin?” Maybe we talk about what bars this person has been to or what places I’ve experienced since being here, but I can’t imagine striking up a conversation that has any value or meaning to me at all.

I know people that live in New York, but I don’t suggest people visiting or moving to New York call that person! I couldn’t care less if they ran into each other. What is the point of suggesting such a meeting? Do people think I’m so miserable and lonely that they feel obligated to help in any way possible? Or are the people they’re setting me up with such losers that he/she needs people to make friends for them? Why would I want to hang out with someone like that?

Some of the people that my mom talks to don’t even know me! I sold him or her a candy bar for the Boy Scouts fifteen years ago and now he/she feels they have to give me friends? If I knew that when I was standing at his/her front door, I would have turned around and forgotten about that badge I was trying to earn. It wasn’t worth it. Keep this in mind the next time you discover someone moving to a city where you know someone else. Just say, "Have fun" and be done with it. Thank you.

January 15

One of my biggest griefs about Facebook is when I get a friend request from someone that I thought I was already friends with. I lead a very simple and monotonous life, so I get excited when someone new has found me and I will be able to see what he or she is doing with his or her life. There are very few things in life that are more disappointing than discovering that a new friend is simply an old friend on Facebook. I almost get angry at the people that do this, but when it happens more than once from the same person, I get livid and I take action.

The first time someone did it, I didn't think too much of it. Maybe something happened with his list of friends and he had to go around and add people again. Maybe he went through a bit of an emotional crisis linked to his Facebook and he decided, "To hell with it" and canceled his account. I've been in moods where I just wanted to delete it and rip myself away from the meaningless daily activity that keeps me from doing anything productive so I could sort of relate.

Anyway, I accepted his request and put the matter behind me. Very shortly thereafter, I received another friend request from the same guy! I couldn't believe it! I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and this is how he thanks me? As a punishment for not being able to make up his mind, I left his request in limbo and didn't respond to it for a few weeks.

If you want to be my superficial friend, that's fine, but I'm not going to encourage this kind of behavior and let you continue to rebuild your list of friends in its entirety over and over again. I'm pretty sure my little lesson sunk in because I haven't received a request from him and I still see his Farmville progress on the main Newsfeed every day.

The next guy that did this to me wasn't so lucky. I didn't (and won't) play his cat and mouse game. I just clicked the ignore button when I received his second request. This guy must have been keeping tabs on his pending friendships because the next day, he had the audacity to try again with me! Ignore.

Let that be a lesson to all of you out there. I love all of my fake cyber friends, but I can only play this game so long. If we've crossed paths in the real world, I don't have a problem being friends in the fake world. But don't think that means I will always be willing to accept your friendship. It should be an honor to be friends with Brandon Paul Roesler from the Chapman Alum network. Don't take it for granted.

January 14

The term "Extrasensory Perception " or "Sixth Sense" has been around for a while. People use it all the time. Haley Joel Osment used it as an excuse for his hallucinations. On Seinfeld, George Costanza claimed to have a sixth sense about finding a good deal to which Jerry replied, "Cheapness is not a sense." Some people are convinced they are able to predict the weather while others can count cards. I don't really have a sixth sense, so-to-speak, but I do have the uncanny ability to choose the wrong line in any type of store.

It never fails. I could go to the grocery store, survey all of the check stands, make my decision based on what the customers in each line have and how many people there are, and I always choose the wrong line. Whatever line I decide on comes to an abrupt halt as soon as I take my place behind the last person. It doesn't matter if I'm in a hurry or if I have all day. Once I step into that line, something will go wrong.

Just the other day I was at Wal-Mart. All of the check stands that were available had about the same number of people waiting to make transactions. I chose the line that had the least amount of items to be purchased by the customers. I had other things on my mind that day, so I didn't realize until about ten minutes later that I hadn't even taken one step forward the entire time I had been waiting.

Either the man at the front of the line didn't know how to use his credit card or the machine wasn't accepting it. Whatever the case, all of the other lines that I could have been in already had a new group of people waiting. If I had selected a different line, I could have been on my way home by then. Of course I couldn't just take my things to a different check stand because, like traffic, as soon as I were to move, my original line would speed up and still beat me.

Now I understand that things happen and things go wrong, but the fact that I always choose that one particular line is amazing to me. Sometimes I'll even use the "10 Items or Less" line (which I hate doing because I feel like I'm encouraging poor grammar) and somehow that gets screwed up as well.

I've tried picking lines based on race and creed, lines with fat people, skinny people, people kids, senior citizens, and people my age. I've tried determining the average level of intellect of the customers waiting. It doesn't matter. Whichever line I choose is the wrong one.

I've considered doing all of my shopping online. I wouldn't be in line, I would be online. That would still cause me to wait an extra day to get my things only to find that the postman came on a day that I wasn't at home. I would be right back at square one where I would have to go and wait in line at the post office. Maybe as soon as I decide what I'm actually doing with my life, I'll be able to afford to have someone wait in line for me and I'll let them deal with the problem.

The bottom line is this: If you and I ever go to a store together and you want to wait as long as humanly possible, just ask me which line I think will be the fastest. Trust me, I've got a sixth sense about these sort of things.

January 13

I met a girl last night. "Don't Stop Believing" was playing over the sound system and people were dancing, drinking, and having a good time. Our eyes met from across the room and she quickly looked away. I didn't think anything of it until our eyes met again; this time staying locked upon each other for a split second longer. As she broke our connection, I noticed the corner of her mouth rise just a bit to form a smile. She turned to face her friends and I downed the rest of my beer before chucking the bottle aside.

After apologizing to the guy I had hit, I made my way across the dance floor. I reached out as if reaching through a cloud of fog. I had my blinders on and the room moved in slow motion. All I could see was her beautiful, blond hair and everything else was a blur.

My outstretched fingers grazed her left shoulder. She turned, and like a dream, a gust of wind picked up her golden locks and pushed them off of her face. She looked at me and I at her. I made a quirky remark and had her hooked from the first line.

We talked all night as Bon Jovi, Michael Jackson remixes, and more Journey filled the smokey air. As time passed and the crowd dissipated, the bouncers took out their flashlights and forced people into the cold night air, but I couldn't let the moment pass. I couldn't let this one get away like all of the countless others. I asked to borrow her phone and entered my number before pressing send. I now had her number and she had mine. I wasn't going to screw this up. She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen and I was going to play this one right. This was the first number I had ever received and I knew the rules: No calling for three days.

In the parking lot, we said our goodbyes. No hugs or kisses were issued because I knew I had to keep her wanting more. As she drove off, I noticed one of her tail lights was out. Something had to be done! Someone had to tell her! I reached for my phone, found her number, started a new text, but then remembered my promise to myself. I would not try and contact her at all for three days. Besides, what would she do about a tail light at 2:17 in the morning?

* * * *

Tomorrow would have been the third day. I was so close. Every minute that passed, made my heart beat a tad faster. She's the one; I just knew it. I could still see her smiling from across the dance floor. I could remember every detail, small or large, about her. I would have given anything to wake up every day for the rest of my life and look into those beautiful brown eyes. Or were they green? No, they were definitely blue. How could I forget those glacier-like blue eyes?

Today, after I got off work, the sun was still out. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was beautiful. A walk around the local lake would have been the perfect first date. It wouldn't cost anything and it would have been the perfect time to continue with our discussion of whether or not we thought Simon was really going to leave American Idol. I knew she didn't have to work her shift today at Starbucks (location undetermined) so she had to be available, right?

I wanted to call right then and not wait for the completion of the third day. Why was that such a magic number anyway? We got along great the other night! So what if a lot of alcohol was involved? I felt something and I knew not waiting for three days wouldn't ruin that. Two days was better than calling her after just one. She was probably wondering if I would ever call. If the past thirty-seven hours felt long to me, they must have felt like an eternity for her. I was going to call her.

My heartbeat quickened and my breath became a series of short inhales and exhales as my shaking hand reached for my belt. I could barely unfasten the clip that held my phone to my waste. After stumbling through my contact list, I came upon my newest addition.

A part of me kept insisting that I shouldn't call her. "It hasn't been three days! That rule had to be there for a reason. People don't just make things up and have them stick."

Another part of me was fighting off the first voice. "She wants you, but she's not going to wait forever."

"Don't do it," responded the first voice. "Rules are rules and breaking them will cause horrible things to happen. Do you want to permanently lose her?"

As I sat and listened to these two voices of reason battle it out, I stared blankly at my phone's screen. God, she was beautiful; the closest thing to perfection I had ever encountered. With that, I had made my decision. The three day thing was just a silly superstition that people who couldn't get girls made up. I was going to do it. I was going to call my future wife and ask her to meet me at the park. Send.

It began instantly. A breeze as sudden as lightning rustled the leaves in the nearest tree. Soon it became a strong wind that whipped the branches of all the trees back and forth. In my shock, I dropped my phone. My heart stopped as I watched the phone slowly descend. Please don't let the battery fly out causing me to lose my call, I thought. Luckily the phone hit the top of my loafer but slid on its back down the rough sidewalk's surface towards a crack I swore wasn't there moments before.

People were running for cover as clothing and papers were thrashed around like flags in a hurricane. I could still hear the beautiful sound of the phone trying to make a connection as it slid away from me and stopped just short of a few inches from the crack in the sidewalk. In the chaos of trash being thrown around and people scurrying, I noticed the crack was growing. It crawled in both directions to split the sidewalk. I dove for my phone, but in my haste, I accidentally knocked it closer to the expanding crack that had now reached a staggering four feet in length.

It wasn't just growing in length, though. It had actually begun to cave in on itself as it continued to grow. At the last minute, I was able to reach out and grab my phone before it fell into the endless and cavernous void.

As I held on to the device, people were still running, screaming, and panicking as pandemonium spread. In the time that it took for me to save my phone, the blue sky had been replaced by ominous and dark clouds. Flashes of light, interspersed with loud and booming thunder, shot across the sky as the ground shook and the hole in the ground kept growing in pursuit of escapees.

I lifted the phone to my ear just in time to hear someone answer. It was her! I parted my lips to yell over the screams of people and thunder in the clouds. Before I got the chance, someone ran into me causing me to fling my phone towards the gaping mouth in the earth.

I watched in horror as my phone flew through the air towards the hungry abyss. There wasn't anything I could do. I yelled as loud as I could, "I love you!" but it was too late. The phone flew over the edge and down into the nothingness that waited below.

The ground continued to shake and groan, but the crack had ceased in its growth. Was it just my imagination, or was the hole actually closing in and filling itself? How could this be possible? Just as I squinted and tried to make out what was happening, the wind kicked up even more; stirring dust, trash, leaves, dirt and anything else it could grab. The air became so opaque with obstruction that I had to hold my arm over my face and pray for the best.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the wind stopped as suddenly as it had started and I felt the warmth of the sun again on the back of my neck. Slowly, I brought my arm away from my face and expected to see what Hiroshima must have looked like after Enola Gay had dropped Little Boy. To my surprise, everything had returned to exactly the way it was two minutes before. The air was still and the clouds were gone.

I looked around and expected to see the same confusion that I felt written on the face of the people that I had seen running for cover just moments before. There wasn't one sign of what had just happened. Everyone was carrying on as if it was all a dream. No one had ripped or torn clothing and the grass wasn't covered in strewn garbage. Not even the sidewalk showed any sign of ever being split. The only evidence that anything had happened was the absence of my cell phone.

Let this be a lesson to all of you. If you ever get a phone number from a girl at a bar or anywhere else for that matter, don't let my mistake happen to you. Rules are made for a reason. Don't ever, under any circumstance, call her until the third day.

January 12

Have you ever experienced something embarrassing that you couldn't control? Perhaps you had to wait for school to end while sporting a cafeteria Sloppy Joe stain on your new Ninja Turtles t-shirt. These sort of things happen all the time. Some of them are horrible and life-changing while others are forgettable, but still embarrassing nonetheless. Today the weather was beautiful here in Austin. I had the day off and decided that it was a perfect day to go for a bike ride, get some fresh air and work on giving my pasty, pale skin some color. And here is where our story begins!

After having some breakfast, I put on my flamboyant silver and white bicycle cleats, white-framed Arnettes that I got my Freshman year of high school and my favorite denim shorts. Instead of wearing this particular pair of shorts, I should have worn my bicycle shorts because they "wick away moisture." Denim shorts, however, do not. Sure, they're stylish, comfortable, and a guaranteed way to pick up girls at a bar on a Friday night, but wick away they do not.

The first half hour of the ride was fine, but as time progressed on the saddle and my lack of air circulation increased, I could feel my loins begin to perspire. Every time I stopped at a traffic light and the January breeze met the seat of my pants, I experienced a cooling sensation. There was definitely some perspiration down there and it only got worse the longer I rode. Was it visible through my shorts or were only my boxers affected? Either way, there wasn't anything for me to do except to keep riding.

Now, I don't think it's a top priority for many drivers at stop lights to check out the cracks of stopped cyclists, but because I could feel that breeze, I knew there was moisture down there; I just didn't know how visible it was becoming. Even though I didn't have a clue who these people were and I'll never see any of them again, it was hard not to feel a bit ashamed when the my shorts were quickly becoming a dark sponge of wetness.

Nobody honked or whistled, but it's still a bit embarrassing to think that my sweaty ass might have been out there on display for everyone's amusement. The only thing I could do, though, was to just keep peddling and hope for all green lights. This wasn't an event that I will remember for the rest of my life or next week for that matter, but it sure did make a good blog entry, didn't it?