Checking In

I haven't posted for awhile, and now is a good time, I suppose. I've really been concentrating on getting through this latest semester of school with a 4.0 gpa. It's been harder than I thought at some points, and easier at others.

American National Government is a really frustrating course. I can't quite put my finger on why. Is it because I don't find our government interesting? Is it because the instructor offers no "fun" activities, instead having us write and write and write some more? I don't know what it is, but this is the class I've hard the most trouble with. I'm not cut out for the world of politics, whatever the reason.

Psychology of Human Relations has been cool. I still plan on Psychology being my major, so already I know its something I enjoy. The instructor does a good job with lectures as well and invites class participation. Not a horrible class for 7:30 am.

College Algebra hasn't been a bad class, just really challenging. I spend a lot of my time studying on this class. It is a constant struggle not only to learn the lesson in front of me, but also to see how this lesson fits in with every lesson I've learned before. The instructor makes all the difference in this class as well. He is very available for assistance when I'm having problems with the course material.

The real gem has been Cultural Anthropology and Human Diversity. The guy that teaches this class cracks me the hell up. He doesn't get off subject and just start talking about anything either, he actually makes the course material exciting and fun. MATC got a deal on this guy, no matter what they pay him.

Finals are next week. I have two of my three projects done, my second to last exam for College Algebra today, and one comprehensive final exam to study for. Psychology and Anthropology are A's. I'm comfortable saying that. I'm pretty sure about College Algebra as well. American National Government is a coin toss between an A and a B at this point. We'll see what we see, I guess.

The art of forgiving

I have a hard time forgiving people. A really hard time. I remember almost ever single thing that anyone has ever done wrong to me. Every sneer, every dollar not paid back, every knife in my back. I still remember what those people look like, what they did to me, and dream of what I would do to them if I ever saw them again.

But why do I dream of what they've done wrong to me? Why do I obsessively fantasize about getting even when no one else remembers what it is I'm so upset about? Answer? Because I can't forgive myself. I can hardly begin to. I constantly beat my own spirit up about what I've done to people and how evil I am. I can hardly stand myself some days. I literally have dreams about going back after the kids that bullied me in elementary school when I was undersized and bullying them because I'm the crazy one now.

But what if I go back, and no one remembers? What if they've all forgotten? Would that be better because I could carry out my sick dreams and never get caught? Would that really help me? Wouldn't that just make me more evil and sadistic? Wouldn't that make me less able to forgive myself?

Why is it that I'm unable to forgive myself, you ask. Well let's see. I HAVE been that bully that I hate so much. I've beaten down the weak and defenseless. I've been the overly violent one. Let me just say that being the overly violent one is very hard on the soul for me. I feel great when the power of anger is gripped tightly between my clenched fingers that form fists. I feel righteous and invincible and the air tastes so sweet when you breathe it in deep gulps. And then... and then... and then... it ebbs. The feeling of power and control leaves me, and I've done it again. There before me is a crumpled shape that was a confident person that I had to take down a notch for some imagined slight. This slight may not have been directed at me, mind you. It's just that I feel like I have to equalize for everyone I guess. That is such a horrible, empty, desolate place. All the colors come out of the world, and all I'm left with is shame. Hot tears are sure to follow.

So what's this all about? A dream. A dream where I saw someone that used to pick on me when I was in junior high because he was bigger than me, except that now, I'm bigger than him. I'm still pissed off at him, by the way. I have not been able to forgive him yet.

So I see him in the dream and he owes me 500 dollars. I knew he wouldn't be able to pay me back and that's part of my joy. So the next time I see him, I beat him down. I have him hemmed up in a corner and I kick him a few times while he's down for good measure. Nothing in the face, mind you, but he knows he's being kicked. I bend down to him and put my fist in his neck right under the jaw, so he can't go anywhere and I really put my weight into it. I tell him he's got 30 days to pay me, or else it goes up 25 dollars every day after that.

I know he can't pay me back, but that's the beauty, right? I've just told him that's he's mine until I say he isn't. Except that's just a dream. That's not really what happened. The fact of the matter is, until I forgive him, I'm his. He probably doesn't remember me. I remember him. Who's really owned here?

All the things that I'd take back

I'd take back the words that hurt you
I wouldn't make myself lose
I'd keep my dick in my pants
And my hands off the booze

I'd pick you up off the floor
Put the tears back behind your eyes
The knife back in the drawer
I'd give you back your lies

I'd keep the car on the road
The weed out of your lungs
I'd speed up the parts we slowed
I'd take us back to young

The glass would come out of your face
Your smile would be whole again
And your bones would reform in place
...unfinished

Ryan and Frankie

Ryan Johanssen sat on the newspaper box and cracked his knuckles. He hated when his parents fought. He hated having to take his sister Frankie out with him when they did. What was he supposed to do though? Leave her in there while they fought over who blew all the rent and grocery money on what drugs? Even his slow flickering mind could cast light on the idea that this was no good.

His stomach churned acid. They were going to have to go to the shelter to get something to eat again. He hated scraping and groveling but how else would he eat today? The church ladies always looked askance at him when he walked in. Almost like they thought all he did was walk around looking for free food all day. There was nothing he could do about his size. Food just stuck to his ribs better. That’s what his grandmother always said, but the shelter ladies always looked at Frankie and then Ryan like he was stealing her food. He had never even fathomed such an idea. He had to protect her and keep her fed on days like these, otherwise she would begin to cry and sniffle. If there was one thing Ryan was not equipped to deal with, it was Frankie’s emotions.

It was a long walk to the shelter though. If his parents realized he had taken his sister on that far of a walk they would punish him. Ryan also did not have the tools available to deal with someone being mad at him. His two responses were silence and rage, and neither flew with his parents, especially when they were sober.

They had owned bikes once. Not that they were great, but they were faster than walking, and kept the two from feeling as poor as they actually were. Ryan didn’t really know what happened to them, it was better not to ask. They were probably sold for a few rocks of cocaine while the kids were sleeping.

The kids wouldn’t even have clothes on their backs if it weren’t for holiday presents from relatives and their grandparents. Sometimes Ryan wished everyday was a weekend day and his grandparents were actually his parents.

The soundtrack of his real parent’s argument was indistinguishable from any other: Various yelling punctuated by something being slammed or thrown. Occasionally the cacophony of breaking glass could be heard. No possession lasted long in the ground floor apartment. The sound would die down from time to time. Ryan knew from experience that this was not the end, merely a chance for his parents to catch their breath and find something else to argue about. To enter during one of those intermissions would simply invite punishment of some kind.

It wasn’t so bad when they punished him. He could wait it out. He knew it would be over soon and that someday it would be over for good. What hurt most was when they went after Frankie. She had stopped reacting. He glanced over at her to see how she was doing. She had crawled into the other newspaper box like some feral creature trying to protect itself from predators. The only way that someone could get to her was from her line of vision. Her stare was listless and spacey as it was in times like these anymore. She had her ways of protecting herself, and they were somewhere deep in her subconscious.

Ryan’s stomach churned again. He made a decision, for better or for worse. He coaxed Frankie our of the newspaper box, held down the lid so that she didn’t scrape herself as she got out. He then scooped her up and started walking. She would walk eventually, once she came to and realized they were going somewhere. He just hoped there wouldn’t be too much trouble for them when they returned. Only two more days until the weekend.

Ty Ty the Bitch

Gabcast! Ty Ty the Bitch #1




She was just a blonde
bitch the first time we met
She ran over and grabbed my hand
I hadn't learned her name yet

Her golden eyes looked up to mine
Take me home they said
But I had no home
So I went back to jail instead

Then I heard the stories
Her home life wasn't good
I mused about taking her
After my release, decided I should

She was grateful
Her rear end trembling with pleasure
She held my hand whenever she could
The length of her kisses was without measure

We share our pasts in common
Both raised to fight, to win
But we would rather just love
Forgetting our past sins

She's always disappointed when I must go
She sighs and hangs her head
But inside she knows
Soon I will return and we'll run to the bed

Where she'll leap right in
Her hands busy in play
Her body telling me she loves me
Her panting telling me all she cannot say

Until I figure out she smells like shit
Once again she's been rolling in flowers
Delicately I pick her up, holding her away from me
And take her to the bathroom for a shower

The Pardon by Richard Wilbur

My dog lay dead five days without a grave
In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
And a jungle of grass and honeysuckle-vine.
I who had loved him while he kept alive

Went only close enough to where he was
To sniff the honeysuckle-smell
Twined with another odour heavier still
And hear the flies' intiolerable buzz.

Well, I was ten years old and very much afraid.
In my kind world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man. My father took the spade

And buried him. Last night I saw the grass
Slowly divide (it was the same scene
But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
And saw the dog emerging. I confess

I felt afraid again, but still he came
In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies
And death was breeding in his lively eyes
I started to cry and call his name

Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
...I dreamt the past was never past redeeming:
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.


This poem affected in a couple different ways. Obviously, it speaks of death and the fear of those who are dead coming back to repay us for the ways we wronged them in their life or their death. The boy who is ten is worried that he neglected the dog, left him alone too long, and that he may have died because of it.

I also liked the contradictions the poem presented in the last two stanzas. Even though a dead dog is rising from it's grave, the green glows a fierce and mortal green. The flies intolerable buzz instead becomes a hymn. Death is breeding in his lively eyes.

I related to the fact that as children, we don't understand, tolerate or accept death. The first death is always the strangest. How could a pet or a relative simply be gone? How could our parents, who can fix everything, be unable to make this right? Why would a being who created our world and who is all powerful let this happen to a soul that we wanted to keep around?

Then the author tries to come to grips with the idea in the last few lines when he says I dreamt the past was never past redeeming... I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead. The author humanizes death ( as many of us try to do) in order to understand it. He asks forgiveness from death itself for his childhood transgressions against it. Maybe because he fears his own death someday.

This poem jumped out at me. I've lost alot of relatives and pets over the years. I've never really been a fan of death. Now as I grow older however, I try to show death some respect so that I may be treated well in my own death. It doesn't make any rational sense, but there it is just the same.

The Card Sharks

The kitchen is smoky and hazy, even though the ceiling fan turns at a decent pace. It’s cold outside but the small house is kept warm by the old furnace in the basement and by the 15 or so people that are packed in to it’s small floor plan. It’s Friday night, and as always, the extended family flocks to my grandparents’ house for some cards and company.

I am six years old and the scene is nothing special to me. It is exciting, however, because it is a chance for me to play with all of my cousins and mingle with the older relatives. My grandfather calls on me again and again to perform in some way while everyone plays cards. Every time I do perform, he throws his head back and laughs from his seat at the end of the table. My grandmother smiles quietly when everyone else laughs because she knows this is not who I really am. I do this only to appease my grandfather, the patriarch. Besides, she never speaks much when playing Canasta, but she wins a lot.

My cousin Earl and I end up rough housing on the floor at my grandfather’s feet. Earl is older than me and heavier, but I can beat him if I try my hardest. My grandfather looks down and gives a quick “QUIT IT.”

We sheepishly comply and end up playing some simple game on our butts in front of his chair. He calmly works the cards around in his new hand of cards until he has them arranged and then looks down at us, smelling of Afta Shave. “Do you like to sweat?” he asks me. “What?” I don’t know what sweat means. He turns to my older cousin. “Earl, do you like to sweat?” My cousin quickly chimes in, “Yeah, I like to sweat Unca Earl!” I’m still confused. My grandfather repeats the question, but I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. What is sweat? He tells me it’s what happens when you work hard, and that I should like it. I quickly stammer that I like it, but he’s already playing this hand of cards.

The Promise

My grandparents lived two houses down when I was a child. It was like I had 4 parents, 2 mothers and 2 fathers. Both mothers had very strong maternal instincts and both fathers worked in road construction. They both worked too hard as well.

My grandfather was a pretty big guy. He wasn't that tall, but he was thick with muscle. He was a cement worker and he did yard work on the side. He worked out quite a bit as well. All of this high energy hard work led to a need for a huge release, I think. Maybe he just wanted to show off his strength. Whatever the reason, my grandfather drank. When he drank I don't mean a sip or two. I mean a case or two. Then he'd pick a fight with someone. Anyone. He could punch well with either hand and from what I've heard and saw for myself, he punched like he had a sledgehammer in his hand.

I asked my dad about it one time. All he would say was, "You want to talk about someone getting knocked across a room..." but he wouldn't tell me any stories.

My grandfather did. In a way. I asked him why his nose got so much bigger from when he first entered the army to the time I was asking him. He told me it kept getting broken. I asked him about the scar that ran from the corner of his left jaw to halfway down his neck. He told me a one armed man wanted to fight him in one of the dive bars around town (my grandfather was black-balled from nearly every bar in town). My grandfather wouldn't fight him. The man broke a bottle and stuck it in my grandfather's neck. It punctured his jugular and he was rushed to the hospital. They stitched him up and told him to go home. What does he do? He goes BACK to the bar, big neck brace and all, looking for the guy. The other patrons were smart enough to hide the one armed man.

When I was little I never finished anything. Both fathers were handy with things. Need something for the house or yard? They'd make it. They'd always have me do little projects to get used to working with my hands and various materials. It never interested me though. It still really doesn't. So I'd never finish. While my father would just wave his hand and say, "This isn't for you," my grandfather would ride me a little bit about it. He pointed out he wasn't going to let me start anything else because I never finished. I remember that stinging. It still stands out in my memory.

I grew up and my grandfather got older. Even as he hit his 60's he was performing exceptionally in his jobs which were almost purely physical. We moved away to Wisconsin and I saw less and less of him. I still talked to him on the phone quite a bit. I started having my problems and in light of this he started asking my mom if I could come live with him so I could be straightened out. It never really flew with my mom.

The last time I saw him, I was 17. I was a cross country and track runner. I was 6 feet tall and weighed about 135 pounds. There was nothing really to me. My grandfather had just returned from a trip to Germany. It was Father's Day and he had brought all of us gifts. As we sat around the table, I could tell something was wrong with him. He was more serious than usual. None of the prankster antics that we had come to know him for. Somewhere during the day, he looked at me and said, "I want you to have my weight set." I asked him why. Wouldn't he be needing it? He told me to just take it, that the next time I saw him I'd look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. I laughed. He told me to promise him. I laughed uncomfortably again. How could that be possible? I was nothing when it came to weight lifting. My natural strength was endurance. He repeated himself. Make the promise. I made the promise knowing full well it was impossible, but what the hey, I tried to make him happy. It was Father's Day.

He died the next Friday night. Massive heart attack. He went quick. We were all crushed of course. He was the patriarch. The glue that held all the extended families together. A minor celebrity in the hometown. His funeral was a who's-who of cement workers and well... I saw a few types that looked a little mafia-ish. It was packed. I left pretty quick.

It wasn't until some years later that the thought struck me. I don't believe in Christianity. (Let's not get into it.) I do believe in the afterlife. I knew the next time I saw him, he'd be at the door of the next world or however you want to put it. And I had promised him. He knew he was going to die. He had complained of chest pains but wouldn't go to the doctor. He knew what the deal was when he made me promise.

So I started working out. My first time through, I benched 60 pounds with difficulty. Extreme difficulty. I kept at it. My strength and knowledge of my own body grew. I slowly began to hoist more and more. I wanted to quit the whole time. Before I was lifting, while I was lifting, even after I was done for the day, I wanted to concede defeat. It was too hard, I was too small, my body and my genetics were not suited for this. The promise stuck in my head though. The thought that he said I never finished also stuck in my head. I found a love/hate relationship with the weights. I would conquer them someday. I couldn't gain weight though.

Then I went to jail. Jail was a blessing in disguise in a lot of ways. I wasn't able to move too much except for working out there. There was no weight set, but I made do with push ups. I did air squats. I used the bottom bunk to do tricep dips. For the first time in my life, because I wasn't either running every day or doing hallucinogenic drugs, I ate everything in sight. My weight skyrocketed. There were no scales at jail or at my job when I had work release, so I didn't know how much I had gained, but my sleeve literally split on my work shirt one day. Something was happening.

When I got out, I weighed myself. 190 pounds. I had gained 55 pounds in a year. Much of it was fat though. I bought a cheap weight set (it was purple I think) and started really going to work on lifting.

My father saw me working. He saw that I was really serious about it now. He asked me if it had anything to do with my grandfather. I told him it did. My father then did one of the most surprising things he's ever done for me. He took me to a sporting goods store and bought me an olympic style free weight set with a squat cage. It wasn't the most expensive one, but it was more than I could afford at the time. I was so happy I started working out like crazy.

I learned of a way of doing bench press called pyramids. You started at a low weight and did 10 reps. Then move the weight up and do 8 reps. Continue until you hit 2 reps and then travel back down the pyramid. My max bench shot through the roof. I flew by 200 pounds. I did 230 and then 240. I had to buy more weights. My shoulder began making a clicking noise when I worked out but I didn't really notice or care. I figured the pain that I was having was normal, a sacrifice I had to make to keep the promise.

That changed when my left shoulder gave out in a jolt of pain while I was lifting 250 pounds. That was actually just working up the pyramid. I had lifted 285 pounds with my father spotting me a few weeks before. I was so close to 300 pounds that I was planning out how I was going to just keep going until 400. The shoulder gave way though. I felt something pull... out and then a little down. I had the spot bars put in place so that I could let it drop down without hurting myself any more and wiggle out.

That left shoulder was screwed up for awhile. I couldn't figure out what had happened. By this time I was a manger at a Subway store. I kept working but rested from working out until my shoulder worked itself out. I've never had health insurance, so I don't go to the doctor unless something is seriously wrong and not getting better on it's own.

Then I got a hernia at work. I picked up something without bending the knees. The good old way of doing it. I had the surgery and didn't work out for another 3 months.

For my birthday that year, I worked out for the first time in months. I benched 120 pounds. The shoulder was still weak. The hernia scar pulled and hurt. I felt hopeless. I thought about selling the weight set and figured grandpa was right. I just couldn't finish.

I kept working out though. I started reading about shoulder injuries in medical texts and workout magazines. I had never worked out my back muscles before, and if I was bench pressing, there were certain muscles I had to work to avoid injury.

I began working those muscles out and started building back up though. I plateaued oddly this time though. I hit 220 or so and just couldn't push more. As much as I grunted, "cheated", swore and tried to fire myself up, I couldn't do it.

We ended up moving. The house we were buying didn't have a room that was really ideal for the olympic cage. I came to the realization I would have to buy something else. What I finally settled on was a bowflex. I was worried I was going to get ripped off, that it would be too easy. It would break too quickly. I would lose interest after making this investment. None of it was true.

Instead of being too easy, it was almost too hard. No wonder so many people use these things as drying racks for their laundry. My bench press weight dropped 80 pounds right away. I just couldn't push it the same way somehow. I got the bowflex around thanksgiving of 2005.

The best thing about it was I could do squats and leg exercises easily. I hated leg exercises with the free weights. My wife always gave me crap and called me "popsicle" or top heavy because I had no muscle in my legs. So now I did squats. The wonderful thing about squats is, it's the one exercise that actually makes your body create and release more testosterone.

I have never done steroids. I tried creatine once and it made me violently ill. I figured that was my grandfather's way of saying there would be no cheating allowed. Once I started doing squats though, everyone thought I was on the juice. My arms and legs simply inflated. Suddenly I was squatting the stack 48 times. My arm curls and tricep exercise weights doubled. My bench weight stayed the same though. Each week when I did my chest workout, I would do my 48 reps, but my strength seemed to be maxed. I remembered the pyramids.

I tried them again and did 280. The next week 290. The next week 280. Finally, 300. I had done it. I had benched 300 pounds after five years and so much pain. I had accomplished my goal. I looked around my workout room. I still had to finish my workout, do my homework, and pick my wife up after work. Nothing had really changed.

The promise still applies. If I'm alive at 65, I'll still be lifting weights. It might be 10 pound arm curls, but I'll be doing it. Now that I've done it this long, it's too large a piece to my puzzle to let it go away.

My next goal? Shave some fat off again. I let myself get a little fat for this goal just to get it out of the way. Then I'll probably go for something ridiculous again. My max squat weight is 390 lbs 48 times right now. I need to find a machine or a spotter for around 600 pounds sometime I'm thinking. I'd also like to attempt the Rich Franklin workout. You can check it out at the bottom of my page under the youtube stuff.

I still miss my grandfather. I wish he would have taught me to be more patient with people giving me shit. It was more difficult to learn at age 23 then it would have been at 3. He just told taught me to punch my way out of any problem. He did his best and he did what he thought was right, but it didn't work for me. The working out does work for me though. I'm glad he left me with this. Anytime I'm having a shitty day or I felt like choking the shit out of someone, I just put a little more weight on, let myself get angry about it, and go to town. It works wonders.

The Glove

Real quick here. Some people notice I wear a glove on my right hand. Some people don't. Most people don't ask but if I bring it up I get one of those, "Yeah, I was wondering." It's not some weird, "Hey I want to be like Michael Jackson" thing. Although, it is true that Billie Jean was not my lover. I'm not a huge fan of baseball, I'm not on a softball team, I'm not breaking the glove in for anything I'm doing later. I have a horrible case of psoriasis. It's not on my elbows like most people. It's on my fingers, one of my ankles and both of the bottoms of my feet. To go along with all this goodness, I got one of the rare symptoms that goes with it: arthritis! What kind of lottery from hell is this? During the winter months, when the arthritis is bad, I take a bit of low grade morphine derivatives to make it through. In the summer, the arthritis goes away, and the psoriasis flares up. It's simply lovely. The only thing is, if I get near an ocean, it goes away completely. This makes no sense to anyone, but it's true. For that reason Amber and I will be selling the house next year, packing up our shit, and moving to South Carolina. We will be only making the move with one of the pit bulls because we're moving to a smaller place (condo or apartment) and anytime someone hears we have two pit bulls they usually look at us like we're unholy. Which we are, but not because of the dogs. So back to the glove. Due to the lack of skin on my right index finger, everything I do makes it hurt like... well bad. The glove doesn't stop it, but makes it more bearable without being on an ibuprofen regimen. And there you have it.

The Epic Story of Amber

This is Amber. I share my life with her and we are married in the spiritual sense, but not in the state sense. Confused? Join the club our families are in. We have our reasons.
We were married on Friday the 13th. Quite a few people were weirded out by this. Everyone thinks 13 is such an unlucky number because... well, because someone told them it was. It's not unlucky for us. I especially like to watch how differently people act when it is Friday the 13th. Their whole attitude changes because of a day on the calendar. Silliness.
We met at a gas station I was working at after I got out of jail. She walked in with a guy and another girl. Amber and the guy seemed pretty close, so I assumed they were dating each other. She went to the bathroom and he came up to buy some soup. I asked him if the girl he was with was his girlfriend, as I was going to compliment his taste. He replied by saying, "No, no she's not. Did you want her phone number?"
Needless to say, she was a bit taken aback. Who does that sort of thing? She did agree, however, that I could call her.
I promptly lost her number. I don't know how. I was honestly excited about talking to her. It just... wasn't there in my pocket suddenly. I was pretty pissed. Not as pissed as she was though.
She walked into the gas station some weeks later. I had, from time to time, lamented about my miserable luck to friends. How could I lose her number? So stupid of me. I lose everything, I know, but HER number? shit. But then, yes, she walked back in. I didn't even think. I just pointed at her and boomed, "YOU!" She took a long look at me and said, "Are you the one that was supposed to call me? Why didn't you?!"
She didn't even remember what I looked like. It wasn't even that she liked me. She was just offended that I didn't call her after all that drama the first time I saw her.
Her not being attracted to me was a reoccurring theme. We talked on the phone and she would remind me how she wasn't interested in dating. But the conversations went well... until the psycho ex-girlfriend came into the picture.
Ever had one of those? If you have, you know how this goes. If you haven't, avoid it at all costs. So, the ex breaks into my PARENTS house. I was living there, I was just out of jail. She sees Amber's number on my bulletin board, takes the number, calls her, threatens her and then comes to my job to brag about it. I wonder what the hell she was thinking. Did she think my reaction would be something along the lines of, "Wow! You did?! That's awesome! Let's screw!"
Because it wasn't. I did what I was supposed to do and what I never did before. I let the cops handle it. Bye bye, psycho.
Amber stopped returning my calls though. I thought that was it. I went through 6 months of being alone because I don't date girls to just date them. I wait.
My mom told me one night there was a message on the answering machine for me. I kind of hear her, but she's always going to be my mom, right? There's that mom-filter on my hearing that tones out a third of what she's saying. Usually it has more to do with housework, but whatever. I check the message and sure-as-shit, there's Amber. She's moving to Madison (she was in Wisconsin Rapids before) and she doesn't know anyone and would I want to hang out? Does the pope wear a funny fuckin' hat? Hell yes, I want to hang out.
So we did. She didn't recognize me again. I recognized her. Let me say something here. Amber has this... something. I don't know what it is, but for me, she's got it. It's this way she has of talking and smiling and liking the things I like, and hating the things I hate. It's her hairstyle and her size and her shape and her smile and her eyes. The thoughts that constantly run through my head slow to a minimum when I look at her. Even when she's angry, especially when she's angry, she's beautiful. Ok I said it. We can move on.
We went to Hooter's the first time we hung out. Her roommate worked there and... whatever. I didn't like her roommate. But her roommate, in a rare act of coolness, asked if I was coming over to the house for a beer afterwards. I said yes. Which meant Amber and I ended up at her apartment together, drinking a beer. The rest of the night we... played cards.
We were just friends for like a month. That's not a lot for some people but for me that was like the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. We had good times, but I wanted to have better times. You know what I mean.
I finally did get a kiss though. We always had this thing when I was leaving at night. We would do "fist love" which was just the pound or whatever. You know where you bump fists with another person. Then I would walk out her door. Go home. One time though, I could tell. It was my shot. I kissed her. And Amber being Amber who would say things to me like "You're kind of like mold. You're growing on me," kisses me, steps back and looks at me. She then says "That just messed everything up."
Turns out it didn't. At least not for me. We've been together ever since. We bought a house, got married (in a sense), got some dogs and just settled down. It's been good and it's been stable and it's surprisingly still pretty fresh and new.
If you made it this far, way to go. Now go do something ADD so you can even yourself back out and get all this crappy romantic stuff out of your head.