Just know that I love you with everything I’ve got. Any of my strife dissipates in your presence, and yours in mine.
And guess what? I don’t intend to leave your side through any of this. I adore you, Bunny. <3
P.s. Look at me with all my sappy Tumblr blogs about you now!
I miss bacon relationship analogies. I miss dancing in the dark. I miss cockney British voices, and taking half an hour to make ourselves a pot of tea. I miss phone conversations where we mapped the patterns of a UFO. I miss your voice in general. I miss sweet-nothings that mean everything. I miss atrocious morning breath, and I miss trying to meet you in my dreams. I miss listening to Harmontown and The Evens, or getting into heated debates on television and movies. I miss your phonophilia, and this may sound odd, but I miss your ears. Your eyes, lips, and body, that`s all a given. But your ears? Yeah, those too. I miss your ritual of smoking pot out the window. I miss your orange and black dress. I miss room service with marathons in another city. I miss watching you with my dogs, telling Adobe you`re going to take him for a picnic. I miss showers in awkwardly small spaces. I miss not getting to sleep just so we can have sleep deprived epiphanies and existential breakthroughs just before we shut our eyes. I miss going out looking absolutely disheveled with you, still beaming with pride to know that this was who we were. I miss the ticker tape where we anticipated watching the world collapse, and I miss the bench in the cold at the top of a hill. I miss when we`ll be walking and out of nowhere you begin to skip. I miss that smile on your face whenever I begin rambling my philosophies about punk rock. I miss your night time premonitions, and the sighing in your sleep. I miss the urge to buy you every stuffed animal under the sun. I miss hiding from security guards, and making out in parking lots. I miss deep relaxation. I miss happy morning texts, and kissing you while a drunk guy steals your beer on New Years. I miss buying you things, and breaking the bank just to see you grin. I miss being your prized pig. I even miss crying and holding you close through the worst of it, through hurt feelings and traumas because I knew we were going to make it through, because you were right there.
I miss how the mattress would bend, letting me know you were only two inches away from me. That bend isn`t there, and it feels like its been an eternity after twenty four hours.
What the fuck have I done?
I wouldn`t ever have let it get this bad if I knew how bad it already was. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you and I failed miserably. I know what I have to do, but at the same time, I don`t know what to do anymore. And it has only been a day. I know you wanted silence, I know you want action and not words from me, but I have to put this here in the hopes that you might stumble upon it, or even just to keep myself from crumbling further. I want to show you my actions. I want to show the world how much you mean to me. At some point I tripped, I took you for granted and neglected to see you were unhappy. And it only takes a day to see how unhappy you actually were for me to breakdown. So I`m dropping the prose and being candid. I remember when we talked things out. I will be disgustingly trite and use every cliche to let you know how fucking sorry I am. We fought through tears because we knew it was worth it, but somewhere I made you feel like you weren`t worth it anymore, and we weren`t. You`re right. I was soaking up all the happiness and relying on you too much for that myself, while you neglected your own. Please have your share, and then some, and I will invent deities to promise on that I will keep you happy, and do my share in the relationship. I`ll give you space, I will work twice as hard as I ever have, and I will do what I can to make you happy. I did it before, and I know I still can. The next time you tell me to come over, like you did the past week and I just thought you were joking, I will come, with or without my dumbass overnight bag.
I have drive, but I`ve been on edge. I`ve been worried things had gotten peculiar, but I never flat out heard how bad things were. We said we would give 24 hours and discuss them in detail. We used to? Why didn`t we now? You’re right, I lost sight of things and lost sight of us. Some say you should live without regrets, but I know the biggest one on my list will be if I can’t prove to you that I’m worth it anymore. I made a huge mistake, and this isn’t something I will take lightly. I get bad when I’m unemployed, and I just wish we could hash this out together on neutral ground. When it gets right down to it, nobody knows our relationship better than us. You make me want to do amazing things, and I want to do amazing things out there in Vancouver, with you! I want to be at your first show when you sing in a lounge, I want to volunteer at soup kitchens, homeless and animal shelters. I want ridiculous umbrellas so we can walk down to the docks while it’s raining and look out across the water to the ocean while. I want to be there your first day of classes for radiology, if you`ve decided that`s what you want to do. I want a Dumbo and Rex rat, or even a hairless just so long as he`s yours! My preoccupation with wanting to know if I was just being paranoid has distracted me. That`s a lousy excuse, but that`s true. When you come over, and we crawl into bed snuggling, I wonder how I thought anything was wrong. Well this is wrong, and I was wrong, and Dakota, I envisioned the next year, the next five years with that ladies emerald diamond ring on your finger, and I know whole-heartedly that I want that, and I don`t want it with anyone else. You were never a here for the moment girl. There`s a reason I asked you to come with me, because you make my heart leap, you make my mind soar, and when I`m at my best I`ve heard I do the same for you. And I never want to put you in the position where I`m making you unhappy like that again. And I know I won`t so long as I get the opportunity to show you that that guy who is self-conscious about his hair with the nice eyes that you started dating, that you saw is special, is still here, he just got lost in his head for a little while. I pray I haven`t fucked up for good, I pray you can forgive me. Me! Praying! Can you imagine how dumb that looks?! This isn`t about me at all though, it`s about you, and Dakota, I would move fucking boulders for you, I`m writing this without flourish to be visceral and honest, there`s no way to make I`m sorry a magic phrase, and I don`t intend on using it without action, but you need to give me a tiny chance to show you that you`ve become a reason for me to see light at the end of every day, and I want to be there when you get your big breaks in life. Again, with singing, and I`ll say it again, but I`m blown away by your writing, because you just do it with ease and grace and it sounds like poetry without rules. It`s intimidating, but you own it. Your paintings, your humanitarian efforts, I want to see it all, I want to see the amazing person you`re becoming and I want to be the person who supports you through those dreams, and not the glutton gobbling up all of the happiness for himself. I can thrive both as an individual and in a relationship with you, and I will support you. I want it more than writing to help you become actualized, and be your partner throughout it all. I want more stories starring us, I don`t want to wake up another day or go to bed another night without hearing you ask me to tell you something. I want to travel with you to England and match our lecherous phony accents with the real deal down with the blokes in Macclesfield. I want us to be that talented couple that everyone is envious of. Not fighting for this would be the biggest mistake of my life, but I don`t know how to approach it right now because I don`t know if telling you all of this is going to make it worse or better while you`re still making a decision. Or you might have already made it, I don`t know. I don`t want to be cloying, but you are worth fighting for, and yes, I will get up off of my lazy ass and show you that. I will stride on over there to High River right now if that`s what it takes. I will blow through my math, I will get my learner`s, I will finish my application all the while doing fucking cartwheels just to let you know that you`re the one who I want to lift up and be around, because all else pale in comparison. And don`t think that just want to be that guy for you to keep you around, but for me too. I want and need it. I hate who I`ve become and KNOW I`m better than this. The list at the top? I know it isn`t complete, not only because there`s plenty more to write in, but because there is so much more I want to experience with you.
This is ugly, and muddled, and sounds so manic and erratic. I know. It must even appear like I`ve just plain lost it. And that`s because I`m well and truly frightened. I don`t just fall in love with anyone, and you are beyond special to me, and I can`t believe I let myself fall into the trap of not reflecting that every day. Dakota, I fucking love you, so fucking much, and I`m saying it with tears in my eyes, leaving my sentence structure to go to shit and my palms to sweat, please don`t let me go. You mean everything to me and I want to make you proud and make you happy again. Please. You know grovelling and begging isn`t my style, especially in such an informal and public manner as a Tumblr blog, and this is me, digitally speaking, down on my hands asking you for a last chance for the opportunity to do it in the flesh. Publicly if it has to be, in a mini-skirt, or nothing. I don`t care, choose the outfit.
I know what I`ve done, and I pray this isn`t too late. I love you, forever and always (yes, cliche, but true), your Doctor, your Companion, the man with the silencer, your Love Button, Ryan. I want to be your Ryan.
These are just words, let me give you the abundance of action to let you know that they`re more to me than that. You’re going to see it in the days to come, and long after that. I don’t want to lose you, and I’ll do everything it takes to prove it to you.
So you`re right, one day I will shave your legs.
*Removed most of the rambling due to how distraught I was.
“I’ve awoken from another convalescent slumber. The prior evening yielded positive results with the latest narrative I’ve concocted, and I once more feel beholden to the beneficent incorporeal entity that continues to grant me lucrative opportunities in yarn-weaving. A career procrastinator and Rip van Winkle’s understudy long before it ever seemed financially viable, the natural progression of my daydreaming ways was a promotion to architect of Spanish castles.
I still resemble the chump from my formative years, a benefit endued both by my genealogy and the physically relaxing nature of what I can tentatively define as a vocation. Were I to take an introspective journey into my psyche however, I suspect I’d be invited by an interminably clenching ball of stress. The angriest looking peach core you’ve ever set sight upon.
My brain might resemble something the likes of a wrung out sponge, but that’s fine by my standards. This is how I wanted it. Slain in the spirit I am, every day. The sponge is kept moistened by the affectuous weather beyond the windowpane. A typical spring morning in Vancouver leaves the mind unfettered by doubts, the ego swelling with hubris, and the spirit inundated with ambition. I’ll absorb the moments between every blink, and the bliss underneath shuttered eyes; I live my life in two realities, and they’re more serene than I ever could have ever pictured.
DVD’s and literature line the shelves of my modest apartment amidst a methodical clutter, both collections painstakingly assembled and well-worn, with a noticeable degree of dust lining the jackets which have yet to be cleaned since the arrival back from my latest itinerant venture. The abundant verdancy off the balcony snakes its way inside by means of an array of small potted plants arranged next to the window. The kitchen breathes wakeful vapors as it springs to life, the bouquet of freshly brewed tea wafts in my direction. She’s awake. Neither of us can begin a morning without a warm beverage in our systems.
Romance is not a vessel many clamber upon expectantly, but once captained, it never transcends its form. Rather, it changes directions and weathers the tempestuous waters, and either stays oscillating above the sea line or capsizes and settles alongside centuries upon centuries of doomed passages. Wherever the drift takes this humble expedition of ours, I rest with the ease of motion that brought us to this very juncture and continues to sway us the course ever so gingerly.
An average day is now an amalgam of my work, home life, pass times, and social interactions with a near seamless integration. Over the course of many years, I have navigated my way through the process of compressing the fundamental aspects of each day into one unified existence so that no one portion of it is favored or neglected. This leaves me no room to hide from burdens that must be met head first. Detail is a requirement of my vocation, but when it comes to my life, I prefer simplicity.”
I can, and will, fix this.
Source: danharmonKids:
A few hours ago, I landed in Los Angeles, turned on my phone, and confirmed what you already know. Sony Pictures Television is replacing me as showrunner on Community, with two seasoned fellows that I’m sure are quite nice - actually, I have it on good authority they’re quite nice, because…
Saskatoon, August 2009
I sat in a basement with my thoroughly inebriated friend and the object of his affections (at the time).
A CD was slipped into disc drive of an antiquated computer. It was one of four in a set, ‘No Thanks: The 70’s Punk Rebellion.’ Dischordant melodies poured over the crackling speakers.
With some difficulty, he flicked through the tracks. Disc 1, track 17.
In his intoxicated stupor, I just barely made out the words “This is how it should be.”
He clicked play. I didn’t know it just then, but my life had changed forever.
Richard Hell & The Voidoids - Blank Generation
Artistic Rendering
No one has ever mistaken me for an artist, but I find this to be pretty damn accurate.
This was a portion of four panels I was told to draw, I’ll post the rest later in much better quality.
As I was drawing this, I had realized that I haven’t doodled myself (pause for the simple minded to giggle) since I was 18, and back then, I never in a million years would have believed that I would look like that now.
St. Patrick’s Day is for most, a jovial occasion in which they in which they adorn themselves with garish displays of verdancy, and at the end of the night litter the desolate streets with the contents of their suspect pub meals. An act that further shows their passion not only for the holiday, but for the colour and its sickly mutations. Anything with specks of creamed corn is alright in my books.
Despite my mixed heritage and the implications that come with it — German, Scottish, and Irish — I drink very rarely, almost not at all anymore. Which became glaringly obvious Monday night when I went out to Kilkenny with my cinema sensei to talk writing, film, and swap life stories. After downing three quarters of a fine barley brew, I asked our politely obtrusive waitress for dry spare wings.
While most everyone else is having interesting experiences, March 17th has become my night of austere pensive reflection, in which I sullenly and esoterically lock myself in the cimmerian dungeon which proxies as a computer room where I hatch, nurse, and raise all of my lovely ideas, and tally up the lengthening list of nuisances that drag me further to… Well, what is within that abyss is anyone’s guess, right?
Artistic perfection? Hah, no such thing, especially for the likes of me.
My own personal Bedlam? Getting closer.
An unfathomable fridge, filled with a life sentence supply of microwave pizza?! Yahtzee.
Whatever the case, since my eighteenth year the occasion has been marked with despondency, as well as a myriad of other tense emotions. That marked the first night I ever drank myself pie-eyed, which carried me over to my very first mental implosion. The following year, after my second jaunt into the beguiling world of fervent romantic intertwining, I took a steady look at my personality and questioned which of my characteristics brought two of the most important people in my life to run away screaming into the haze of obscurity as if I were a schizoid with an axe duct taped to his hands. I’ve since realized that I do have an axe on my person at all times. It is intangible, allegorical, and twice as bloodcurdling as a shimmering metal wedge with a fine oaken handle ever could be. The year after that I resolved to focus all of my attention to wielding a new weapon: A pen.
Last year, I went out. I poured tequila in my stomach as if I were giving it a place to hide from prohibition officials. I abruptly kissed a close female friend of mine on the dance floor, and socialized with a flock of my friends. Comiserating with my best friend, I discovered I still had one person left who understood the inner workings of my increasingly preternatural mind, though I would never in a million years yearn to get into bed with them like I do with a majority of people I get close to. I assume that compulsion has something to do with him lacking the appeasing properties of the female form.
There was a chill in the air as we stepped outside the raucous interior of Kilkenny. A chill far more piercing than the one we’re experiencing now, no doubt a result of the benign apocalypse that creeps closer everytime a tale pipe chokes black smoke into our deteriorating atmosphere. It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel bored. There stood a figure I hadn’t seen in a lengthy amount of time, halfway through a drag on his cigarette. Arash. My good buddy Arash.
All through middle school, I would roam around with this guy. He looked different. I looked different. He was one of those people you’d find it extremely difficult to hate, even as he would casually take swipes at you. A tall Persian kid, with an afro he grew on a lark that soon became his emblem.
Falling out of touch after middle school, he lost the distinct hairstyle for one that was more uniform among high school peers and became a victim of the party lifestyle. While he had his share of troubles, everyone had an innate but unspoken knowledge that this was a thin mask for the guy that Arash always was, and above all else, great respect for his character. He seemed sharp as an edge, but he was still that guy that could unify everyone.
The conversation went as if the gap inbetween years had only been months, with a joyous nature before it was back to the festivities. This was the last time I ever saw Arash.
Late on October 30th, 2011, Arash and a friend got into a horrendous vehicular collision. The friend died on impact, while Arash fell victim to his injuries on route to the hospital.
I have no pithy statements to sum this up, no screed on how to live life big without being reckless, and I won’t sprinkle in any abject moral opinions on the hazards of living too hard.
My friend is dead. My friend is dead, and this is the one year anniversary of the last time we pumped fists and had a laugh. Life whittles away quicker than you think. Appreciate what you have, strive to make what you can of the present, and never pause the struggle for something better. Indecision is the most costly sin of all.
Now with the vaguely condescending platitudes out of the way, let me pull myself out of the ditch I took a sharp right turn into there and simply wrap this up by saying Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh. Saint Patty will just continue to be a stanger who’s absent from my call list.
I’ve got way too much I should be doing right now.
-From that guy locked away in a cage somewhere.
Photographic Representation.
To you, my fair skinned, porcelain beauties:
If you are going out with your significant other tonight, or any night, please don’t coat your face in make-up.
Obligatory Valentine’s Day post: Bitch, whine, moan.
Yawn.
So as of mid-December I set a number of goals for myself. I chose mid-December for this activity because New Years resolutions drip with thick layers of bull excrement, and are bar none the most non-commital promises you can make for yourself; akin to a heroin addict proclaiming it’s their last high, or a recreational inebriate saying so long to the long necks, only to find a loop hole in their glass of scotch three days after the fact.
One: Suck it up and get the GED. I’ve learned far more outside the walls of educational prisons than I ever did on the interior, as far as high school is concerned. However, it is a point of pride now to get the damn thing as a little cosmic flip of the bird to all the naysayers in my life, be they standing by in omnipotent judgment or an echo from my past that have long since lost any baring in my life outside of my own psyche. Along with this I had made the decsion that I would also like to study etymology and folklore academically at some point. This is much easier when you’ve actually finished high school and don’t have to lie your way onto campus. I go back to class on the sixth of next month.
Two: Leave this God forsaken, frostbitten snowscape of a city to head for greener pastures. Literally. I was unaware you could fall in love with a city, but it’s the only way I can articulate my feelings toward Vancouver. I’m hoping to be there by fall or winter.
Three: To accomplish this, I need to finish my admissions work for VFS, which I am hard at work bringing to completion within the week. Why within the week? Because I am extremely temperamental and enjoy a quiet work space void of any other human presence. I have this advantage until Saturday. Aside from when I dwell at work, I have seen no other hominid but the pizza delivery man. This is nothing new, as the continued work on my multitude of oeuvres has brought me to the claiming the status of hermit. Which I am fine with, so long as I am not contending with the evermore puzzling affliction known as writer’s block. I have two components left, utilizing to the fullest extent the allotted twenty page maximum. My best-liked work to date, The Indigestible Truth, has taken up fifteen pages. To unwind, I’ve stretched the story into a hypothetical television show featuring a three season arc on a whim one day. I fell in love with the concept and the character’s I’ve written. The final pieces I must set in front of John Robertson will be a one page write-up of a passion project that I will focus on during my one year course (of which I have three to choose from), as well as a four page story I devised over the last week while I was making aimless searches on the net. The works of Martin Schongauer, Hieronymus Bosch and the like have been my guiding light on this current project. That’s all I’m willing to reveal for now.
This has been an extensive break. I’ve focused most of my attention on my work that is not yet ready for the public eye, though once I am finished with admissions I should be back to posting my rambling, vitriolic thoughts regularly once again. I have a bevy of half written posts just itching for full fruition. I feel guilty for even pouring time into this update, which is why it feels so rushed.
Though that, my friends, seems to be the position my Tumblr fulfills nowadays: An outlet which I can speak freely and somewhat unostentatiously with a handful of typos.
