My amnesia happened again today at the gym. I was packing up to leave when I realized that I may have left my gym gloves out at one of the machines. I quickly rummaged in my bag and checked the front gym bag pocket where I normally keep them and lo - there they were. I have no idea how they got there and I can only presume that before hitting the shower, I took them off and put it in there and hit some sort of mental lapse. It's disturbing that I'm on such a mental railroad track that I'm losing my thought at certain points. It makes me wonder if there will be any change in the near future that will shake me out of this funk. I think the snow needs to completely melt in order for that to happen.

Anyways, enjoy the next story post.

About three times a week I go to a gym in one of the neighboring towns that I work in (I'd like to go more but it turns out how my schedule works out that Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays are when I go). One night, I was making my way back as normal and something happened to me which is really odd. I had completely lost direction and sense of where I was. I was driving down 694 heading east and I was thinking about something to which I cannot remember anymore and when I popped out of my daydream I had thought I was heading south but nothing I was looking at looked familiar at all. For the next minute, I was trying to gather my bearings to find out where the hell I was. When recollecting about the event now, I realized from when I got off the ramp and started driving, I had forgotten the last 30 seconds or so of my drive. I'd like to inform the drivers of Minnesota that this isn't an often occurrence at all but peculiar none the less. It was around the same realm of drifting off in class in high school or college where you are seemingly aware of your surroundings, the people next to you and the lecture taking place in front of you - but nothing is processing. My only problem was that I was driving a steel brick hurdling down the roads at 65 miles per hour. Has this happened to you out there, oh reader of my blog? If so, please do tell.

On the same note, I'd like to talk a little more about my previous post that I had heard on NPR. Now, the thing you have to know with NPR and me is that when I headed down south near a stone throw away from the Iowa border, the choice of radio stations is pretty lacking. I used to ridicule my friends (Faraci especially) for listening to radio that I had assumed was the equivalent to paint drying on a wall. Yet, one evening after surfing the radio waves for something remotely exciting than the static I was receiving, I stumbled upon Fresh Air and the entertainment interviews they were doing. I remember one trip they had did a great interview with Judd Apatow. Another was Ed Helms right before the Hangover craze and soon the radio personalities of Keillor, the boys at Car Talk, and the best radio game show I've heard so far, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, started to blare out my speakers the latter half of my journey. (It's funny hearing people's voices and then seeing their Wikipedia pages and pictures. I'm looking at you Peter Sagal

Anyways, I was listening to The Story where Christopher Meyer was interviewed about his time as U.S. ambassador during the 9/11 attacks and hearing his story and the British point of view was pretty emotional for me. Everybody remembers where they were during those attacks and I have yet to have one American NOT know where they were as both towers were hit and collapsed.

I remember being in 10th grade - just starting in fact and heading my way to class when I passed by a classroom that had a television on to CNN where one of the twin towers was on fire. The next couple class periods were spent watching all morning coverage and seeing both towers fall on the screen. I remember school that day being a bit quieter that day. And now since having been to New York and seeing the hole in the ground there, that silence in my school was there nearly 8 years after it had happened. People were just standing and staring what what used to be 8 years ago. Some took pictures and other whispered. Others just walked on by.

I'm not really sure where this was all supposed to go. I guess I was just thinking about that all recently.

I'm going to trying to have my second part of the white room up by tomorrow and have it be updated every Monday until I finish it. That's a good plan.

I strongly recommend listening to this piece on Christopher Meyer.

http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_960_Sir_Christopher_Meyer_.mp3/view

So for my birthday I got many things. I got a new xbox controller (which I promptly threw in anger today at Darksiders), a GPS car mount that I needed since my old one decided that science of suction does not work in my car anymore and my Dad's cold. What's interesting about this cold is that usually you start with cold like symptoms that worsen by the third day then usually get better. No no, not this cold. This cold took each symptom, escalated them to level 10 annoyance factor for a solid two days and suddenly stopped, quickly moving on to the next symptom.. Let me explain what I like to call, the four stage cold of death.

The first stage was the sore throat which people usually bitch about being an equal to a piece of sandpaper glued to the back of ones throat. How about having each time you swallow it's like cats scraping the back side of your throat that you can feel down to your upper chest? How about the feeling that you could light a matchstick if you could stick one down your throat with ease? If I could have removed throat, I swear it could rub the callouses off my my grandma's feet it was that bad. I was popping cough drops like skittles candy and drinking so much nyquil at night that my shit turned green for the next two days. Drinking gallons of ice cold water or pinching myself in the balls to distract the pain during which I ran out of the Sam's Club bulk cough drops relieved me of such agony.

The second stage was nasal pressure and congestion. For this, I'd like for you to imagine two water slides. The ones that are in amusement parks where some are enclosed tubes that twist and turn as they reach the pool at the end. Now think about the lifeguard who has the minimum wage job of letting the little kiddies and the random overweight and hairy 40 year old down the slides. He waves the first excited chum down the slide who giggles and screams his way down. The second one goes down with the same results. However, like most lifeguards who work at an amusement park when they are 18 years old, they have no care for their job. So when a group of attractive girls start teasing him provocatively licked ice cream cones and 5th grader giggles, he nonchalantly starts waving everyone and their mom down through each tube. The first tube, which happened to be my left nostril got stuck with the equivalent of 10 fat obese kids. As for the other tube, it reminded me of the Simpson's episode where Homer got stuck and eventually had to be craned to safety and removal. It was that bad. It was the first time I actually felt glory in punching myself directly in the face as it temporarily relieved the pressure from my face.

Stage three was my favorite stage of the bunch as it allowed my voice to temporarily turn me into a white man's Barry White, Darth Vader, or one of those guys who have the smokerphone that you put up to your neck to speak...just not as robotic and cooler. Not to mention I had a cough that rivaled that of my uncles now deceased step grandma who, as legend has it, smoked a carton of hand rolled cigarettes every other day. My cough was so bad that it felt like a chestburster was coming out of me at times. It was so bad that people thought I had a megaphone turned on during a cough fit. I coughed so loud once that I think I was able to call some sort of strange animal to my front yard one night. I think my lung capacity went up so high after taking such a deep breaths from my sick mating calls that I'll probably be able to hold my breath for seven minutes underwater.

Lastly the fourth stage, my current stage, is the runny stage. If we can hark back to the second stage with my nicely detailed wet kids and Homer metaphor, the tubes have been finally cleared out by park maintenance and but these nuisances walk around the park, kicking up the flem equivalent of mud near the back of my mouth. I am able to actually taste food again which is a plus but I swear I'm coughing up flem that would rival some hairballs from cats. There are times where my nasal airways are so clear that I feel like like I'm on top of a mountain vista drinking in the crisp air. Then I will stand up or shift positions in my chair and it's like my nose took a gulp of swamp water. My hope is that the next day or two, this cold will be rid me and I can start doing sit ups at the gym without it feeling like whenever I do the actual sit "up", that my nose doesn't feel like two fingers got shoved down my nostrils.

So I hope my story inspires those to wash their hands after you pee, not touching door handles and staying a good 50 feet (if possible) for those that decide that they need to come in sick to do work...as I mistakingly did. Shucks.

The white room was nothing spectacular in any regard. It was your standard waiting room of sorts, it's bigger than the ones in an office dentist building but smaller than you would have at your local hospital miles down the freeway. Those long fluorescent lights that when you smash in anger or when they fall out because they aren't tight enough that they create that pearl mist at the break point, railroad across the ceiling shining and humming its dim light in the room.

Hard black plastic chairs lined the walls with cushions with a dark flower design embedded within the fibers. One of those cushions that look somewhat comfortable but when sat upon, you are met with an uncomfortable flat seat. Each corner had a simple coffee table, strewn about with copies of Highlights and Sports Illustrated from a couple years past. In the middle was a coffee table of, once again, ordinary sort. Solidly built but years of abuse of it being a makeshift foot rest, race track and dinner table has made the table seen it's wear and tear.

And then, standing boldly near the right corner of the room stands the Door. If one were to describe what would be the immovable object, this door would fit this description to the "t". Detailed cut into the painted white brick, it stands a good Yao Ming high with a Yokozuna width. It's frame built of a black painted steel that is concreted a good three or four feet in the ground. The magnificent door was built from a solid dark brown oak, sanded smooth like a baby's bottom and coated with a sealant that reflected close to that of a mirror. The matching black hinges dinged from attacks of screwdrivers, fingernails and what seemed to be gnawing teeth marks of small critters or hapless humans trying to escape. And last a silver, key hole less knob proudly protruding forward, coated in the prints and sweat of guest's past prisoners. This, my friends, is a Door.

The white room is nothing spectacular in any regard. It's your standard waiting room with with your standard waiting people. One of which is Richard who is slumped in the waiting chair and about to wake up in the waiting room. Drool runs down his stubbled beard that rivers his way creating a damp pool on his baby blue button up. He grows restless and makes use of his grey tweed jacket to cover him as he attempts to create a fetal position in the chair only to slip down creating a massive dark brown hair cow lick near the left side of his head. He groans, and stirs as the green crusty chunks of sleep begin to flake off as he awakes. Sore and alone, he sits in the waiting room waiting for his time to leave.

My war on soda begins today. Or tomorrow. I had a soda today so I can't say that I can start it today so it would officially begin tomorrow. That's right. You're going down you sugary delight. I will repulse you and your high fructose cravings. Your sticky yet tasty dew cannot seduce me to sip your devilish vein slimming concoction. Nor can your crisp, bubbling and icy call beckon me to grab a glass to pour you in. Your viper hiss becomes louder as the carbonation rockets off the top of the glass, sledding your way down the plastic walls, coming to a soft halt on the wooden table.

I am seeking the help of Mother Nature and her naturally grown vitamins and nutrients to be the sword and shield of this war. I drink the crystal, fluoridated springs of Lake Minnetonka to flush my body from head to toe. The elixir of....BananaBerryMelon or OrangeAppleRaspGrape will fortify my blood, muscles and bones with the protection it needs from the attacking empty creatures that feed the fatty tissues that embed deep within my stomach.

I am confident that my crusade against this poison will be successful. I hope that if I write about every passing day in this blog, I will be able to look back and see myself successful on paper and on the scale.

And in all seriousness, while I tried for the whole 15th/16th century Camelot thing, I want to try and make each writing unique in a way for a character that is either having a headache or in a good mood, bad mood in an attempt to get back into a writing flow and rhythm.

Here is to you, potential gallons of water I will drink and eventually...pee out.

I've taken for granted the ability to breathe out of my nose. I am currently suffering through a cold, the first of year, second of season. It doesn't put me out of social or work circles but enough to make things worse for simple activities. Eating or drinking anything has that slight taste of nothing in each bite or sip. Trying to breath is like having my nose shut in water. Hearing will come in and out as the wax likes to slip in the ear canal and stick when I try to dig it out. My sight is fine though as well as touch so I think I'll stop the complaining at that.

I left my notepad of rough draft musings of my latest short story at work. It's been frustrating as trying to get this story fleshed out by the first is looking like an impossible task. I haven't been reading, writing and completely out of my element for a good year a half. My choice to go back to school was, I admit, slightly rash but a courageous step forward for my career path.

In a way I feel like I'm trying to create a story that's too smart for myself. In my head I think of all of these great scenes but when I put them on paper, it seems to fall flat. Looking on it and just saying...man, how pathetic is this scene or this piece of dialogue - detail. Whatever.

One of the biggest problems that I have is that I had this post in my head that I wanted to do and now I've forgotten all about it. Mind you that this paragraph comes after a 15 minute mind detour. I watched this and it has inspired me a little bit. I really need to cut back on somethings if I am going to focus. On getting this done.

I'm surrounded by crumpled, wet kleenexes (yes, I went upstairs and grabbed a box)
But am I a Plugger if I prefer toilet paper?
By the way, I am a gulag orkestar.

Good night.

I heard about this on Sunday and unfortunately they are not accepting anymore submissions but I did it anyways. Basic rules of this was to make a three minute story (500-600 max) starting with "The nurse left work at five oclock." Any suggestions/comments would be wonderful. Thanks!


The nurse left work at five o'clock. The automatic doors clamped shut behind her as the warm haze began to invade and warm her body. The collective chaos of people bustling outside, specifically of an ambulance that wheeled an older man inside the building was followed by a crying woman, caught the eye of the nurse. Her eyes bled black, smearing the tears off her cheeks only to spread a thin layer of liner around her face which masked her in a light black and grey. Her eyes darted around quickly yet aimlessly searching for someone to tell her that it will be alright, only to be quietly escorted into adjoining doors. Her eyes met the nurse. The doors closed. The haze started to become stronger.

The ride home was not to far. A couple of blocks from the apartment building where she resided. The hills made for a diffcult walk or bike ride either to or fro. A couple blocks past a neighborhood she had looked at for starting her a famly. A right hand turn and she the drive past the park where she planned to take her children for a nice Saturday night dusk. She started to feel tingling in her feet and fingers. She loved it. Two stop signs later, she pulled into the public parking apartment spot and stopped. The haze creeped up near her elbows now.

She grasped for support on her car to have the cold steel bring momentary feeling to her hand only to be covered in the sweet warm haze seconds later. Dangled on her wrist was a lone gold key which she managed to retreive and put into the main deadbolt, twisting, the reaffirming click and turn of the doorknob to step inside the dark and quiet household. Her legs began to feel like they were in a whirlpool of bliss.

She walked passed the stacked letters on the table, passed the growing mountain of dishes, passed the mound of unwashed scrubs, underwear and casual wear. She opened the door to her room and sat. She felt as if she was submerged in a tank of warm water; able to breath like the fishes. She laid down and stared at the ceiling. She slowly rubbed her right arm up and down, feeling the red puncture bumps near her pit that spiked with pain when she passed them.

She cannot help that woman at the hospital. She can't help the man who will surely lose his life. She will only be able to have him feel the way she does. Right now. And never to wake up.

I was driving home from southern Minnesota last night and had a lone leaf that was tucked away from view on my left wiper slap up against my windshield like a dry orange hand. It stayed there for a few moments before being blown off onto the road; off to the near by corn field or one of the couple cemeteries that lined the 169 highway. Besides that, my trip was quite uneventful. There is something about driving at night that makes a trip so much quicker. Day trips usually tend to drag because I often look too far out in the distance and see just everything crawl by. Being in the dark focuses whatever is in the headlights making me feel like I am speeding home even though I am within the speed limit.

I had a funny feeling this weekend. It wasn't anything bothersome or something that was distracting me. I could feel it. It was this feeling of being home sick. Always after a certain amount of time, I get this feeling of wanting to come home, lying down to take a nap. The familiar smells, layout, the aura (my own computer :). It makes all the difference.

I'm feeling a bit sluggish today to creatively write but I do hope this is a starting point to write a few clips here and there.