I wanted proof.
For about five years I had no proof. No proof whatsoever. Every woman I met was like meeting a foot with a face drawn on it; the verve of out moments together turning from the lilt of conversation into the decay of the evening. Such was life, and so it was. Life was no longer a river taking me places. Instead, I was in an inner tube in a lake, nursing a beer, floating around. Aimless, really. Not going anywhere.
Eventually every woman I met seemed to be soundtracked by some sad, sad, sad, sad, morose, sad, sad, sad, sad blues guitar riff set forth by some Blues God in the Sky; I’m an athiest, sure, but there is a Blues God. He probably looks like this:
As an athiest, you don’t have much to look forward to. Sure, a good sandwich. Sure, the new James Bond movie. But not much else. Possibly the Olympics. Maybe new headphones. Entire weeks went by where the highlight was seeing a dog across the street.
When you don’t believe in a higher power there’s always a distinct possibility that you’ll fall asunder to the power of getting high…
… which I did…
… for five fucking years. Five fucking years I’ve smoked pot. I like the stuff. I tell people I love it. Being a steady pothead is like dating a beautiful woman who can’t spell, like walking into a room with Natalie Portman until she opens her mouth, mumbles something about food, and then keels over laughing for twenty minutes. This is fun in your early 20s.
But then you grow up. A little.
I think that is what this blog is all about.
That and food.
The thing about chance, or what have you, is that you don’t expect it. Its a lot like falling asleep - a lot like falling, really - in that you have no control. Sometimes it is simply your bingo number that comes up. Or something. Analogy™.
If I was Tao Lin I’d make this into a clever analogy about a VCR and Adderall. Or if I was Cat Marnell I’d make this into a screed about fortune and hallucinogens written in the stars with gossamer tears or what have you but instead I am but a Ned and you’ll have to make deal with this baseball-bat-on-a-car-windshield-esque grasp of the English language that I have.
Sometimes you meet someone that makes you want to try harder, smoke less pot, and do good. Someone that makes you want to study for the class as opposed to just finding a seat in the back and slacking off, learning the minimum, and leaving behind a wake of burrito wrappers, whiskey bottles, and illegally hosted Tom Waits b-sides. Sometimes its a teacher, sometimes its a woman, sometimes its a friend. Sometimes they have eyes that you can stare into for hours at a time or a laugh that you can hear long after the last time you actually heard it.
Sometimes if you want to find proof you just have to stop looking for it and just accept that it is there, that you had it all along, and that circumstance brought it to the surface.
You can lose yourself in your own steadfast ways. Those things you let define you - the pot, the drinking, the lack of exercise, the fact you don’t read books anymore - they will come to define you unless you’re open, man. Stay loose, stay open, keep listening.
Sometimes you lose your voice from talking so much.
Sometimes the only way to find it again is to shut up and let the river take you both ways.