Pursued, pursuing, busy, and tired.

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

The pursued:

Glossy, marble, cookie cutter jaw
Dental doctored porcelain finish
Pockets full, and clothes still tagged
Single malt sip and cigarette drag

Have not one, but three daughters
golden locks and daisy flowers
Hampton homes, church bell bothers
picket fence, void of drothers

Pursuing;

Happiness lies in a field somewhere
just beyond a restless shore
Pockets are thin, devout of change
love is lost, desiring change

One more shot, one more smoke
fills the insides up with hope
foggy now, and faded later
Alas awaiting destined fate here

Busy:

Racing, waiting, counting, pushing
traffic stops, and stopwatch drops
Carousel spins not once but twice
ticking-tocks the only vice

Almost there but wait a minute
only 60 seconds you cannot bare
Back peddling to another task
barely time to fill the flask

Tired:

Days are numbered far and few
mirror glances hardly you
face looks worn like captain shoes
Donning still the boy scout blues

99 days out of 100
time for one last final draw
Reaching deep into the marrow
This is the last straw

Man.

The Real Hangover

Most people complain about their hangovers, commiserating with co-workers about its negative effects on their body and overall lack of productivity as a result of superfluous consumption. I for one revel in it. I take it for all its glory. The subtle and often times less subtle reminders throughout the morning hours that you made multiple mistakes on top of one another during the day prior, resorting back to your college day roots. The pain is there, the regret is ever prevalent, and the cold sweats make you soberly aware that something is simply not right on the inside.

Despite what we all wish was true, a real hangover is not like the movie. Things go wrong and they usually dont get better until a full, non intoxicated night of sleep. The only part that is accurate about that movie is the lack of memory and the ruined clothing. 

Waking up hurts, and your wipe the crust forming under your eyelids. This was due to the fact your slept in your contacts for the third night in a row out of sheer laziness to take the 24 seconds needed to remove them before sleeping. You rationalize this by the fact that you had "better things to do," like passing out, having another Stella Artois and making sure the Red Sox game is Tevo'd tomorrow, since you are already predicting an early sleep on the following night. You stroll heavily to the bathroom as your overactive and overfull bladder is in need a immediate release, but yet the flow is as slow as you are to allow it to happen. You can physically hear your steps as your bare feet slap against the wood floor, as it creaks and sound louder than silverware being dropped on linoleum floors.

You're roommate is in the kitchen after a very well rested evening cooking up breakfast and lunch at the same time looking like chef morimoto dicing up peppers with his eyes closed. Meanwhile you enter the kitchen with your eyes close by force not choice and blindly dump ground coffee into the tea kettle instead of the french press. You decide eating is not a possibility and would run the risk of making you tardy for work since you will be taking an extra 15 minutes to instantly remove the consumed food through the opposite orifice. Packing up your bag for work you dont even double check to make sure you have the eleven thousand key cards needed to enter the office, nor to make sure your personal computer is charge (which it fucking isn't) of course. Rolling down the stairs and out the door, looking like Robert Downey Jr after his third relapse and stumbling into the open air, which is the first and probably only relief you will feel all day. The cold wet air hits you in the face and you realize that you underestimated the ability for New England to change from 75 degrees one day to 4 degrees the next. Its cold.


Subways move too low, people move to fast. The entry ways are crowded and people look far too awake in comparison to your zombie like state. You feel that everyone is staring at your as we compulsively check your breath for the stench of whiskey and orange juice, hoping that it has since subsided from the taste that you woke up with. It hasn't, people can tell as it pours not from your breath but from the overactive sweat glands ever present throughout your entire body. Shame. You fear conversation and avoid eye contact with anyone. You start thinking about the day prior and the laundry list of events that inapropriately unfolded throughout the arduous day. Morning cocktails, 5 layer nachos, entering cheescake factory, acquiring waitresses phone number, leaving the factory, arriving home, passing out, waking up to call from cheescake factor waitress, she comes over. Watch the Celtics game, eat more nachos, drink beer, buy more beer, make out, find out her age, make out some more, bed, history. At no point did you think that a harmless drunken game of "high five acquisition would lead to you spending the evening with a Northeastern sophmore being questioned about your watch that could pay for an entire semester. Be careful with high five acquisition - one minute you are high-fiving 6 women with an average age of 73, and the next your are ID'ing the girl you are about to sleep with.

The day carries onward as does the hangover. There are glimpses of hope that present themselves throughout the morning, but they are brief an innocuous towards rectifying the situation. You are short in breath and your reflexes are about as "on point" as a 62 year old obese man with parkinsons disease. Sitting in your desk contemplating 101 different reasons to tell your boss you have to leave, and deciding each one of them is completely inadequate. There is not enough Keurig coffee and advil in the world to help, unless of course and IV was rolled over dripping Italian roast and sugar into the bloodstream, which in itself would only offer a temporary reprieve from your suffering.

This is the real hangover. This lasts all day, and constantly reminds you of the shortcomings that took place over the weekend, for most people. For me, the pain is a gentle solute to the achievements of the weekend. I am still standing, I still have my job, my friends dont hate me and I STILL GOT IT. I can still close on a wild Sunday afternoon at cheesecake factory with a girl who is a full standard deviation close to the age of my little sister than she is to me.

You're welcome.

Note To A Friend: Run

Hey Brotha, 

First and foremost, I hope your date went well last night. If it was anything like my night you ended up balls deep in a cuddle session sucking your thumb trying to repress eight year old tears and mild self hatred...stomach acid boils up and you dont know whether to run to the bathroom or just let it gurgle. You side with the latter and cross your right fingers for good luck since your left had is preoccupied by long hair sifting. All the while you really just want to flip her over and fuck like you used to with a bit of a post coital cry, which is inevitable.

I am sure your luck is not as bad as mine. I wish I could have carried on through this weekend not knowing at all that my high school sweetheart (as much as it pains me to use a cliche term) had broken up with her long-lasting boyfriend, and is essentially on the market again. It would have been easy to just not find out, drink excessively and hit on a random passerby at a local Boston establishment. Or even text a recent fling and ask her to "come by and watch a movie," with a harsh undertone that says "don't wear underpants." I wish I could continue to move onward with life, letting her and all the memories be simply that, a moment(s) in time, tucked into the sepia tone shoe box of love lost and love gained. I would like to say that I didn't say "I love you" under my breath. Gripping my vocal chords with a hypothetical straightjacket in order to repress any possibility of those words flourishing into action and dancing off my pallet like manic hopeless romantic punch drunk and high on epsom salts. Which, as a side note, are used by kids across the country by digesting or inhaling them into their system to produce a ridiculous high that mimics a zombie doing a comedy show. The zombie being the only one laughing at his jokes and then losing his mind and eating the crowd to death.

There was a lot of wishes and could have been's in that last paragraph. But, I did find out about their impending breakup and it immediately effected my mood, my demeanor, and my goals for that evening and the next 30-40 years. That's how it goes for good bad guys like us. We fall in love too quick, fall out of it even quicker, then we scrape at gravel trying to dig ourselves out of the hole of despair. We drink, and we smoke, and we ask ourselves how do we feel? We answer better, transgress to greener pastures, and into the next bottomless cocktail of overall romantic underachievement. The good news is we do it with style and panache. We smile at the right people, and earn the right amount of money to get by. Life aint that bad, but we are never really satisfied. There is always "the one that got away." And when you are able to get her in your grasp again, there is the other one that got away. I feel it is different with this one, the first love, first lover, and last piece of innocence. In part I want her to feel bad for taking that away from me, as I did to her. Maybe that's why I move aimlessly as I do now, stopping only briefly to attempt to be rational in thought, wholesome in love. 

I am attempting to get over this impossible hurdle and scorn myself in the fogged up mirror of my steaming hot bathroom I have a thought. I wipe my face down, clear the air, untie my tongue and depart the tiny vestibule of a room. The air is cooler outside and the drink is prevalent. I say fuck the towel walk down the hall ass naked, because really who cares? At this point I have the one thought that I usually do when something earth shattering like this happens: RUN. 

Where to? That is where you come in. It has been far too long since you and I have spent more than a night out on the town, and when we do it is in some of the WORST towns you can fathom. We discussed months ago about a trip to Copenhagen, and to California, Atlantic City, Netherlands. Honestly, I don't give two partial fucks by non human being or even a quarter shit from a calfs ass about where we go. As long as it is more than 1000 miles from my front door. Let's make like Hunter S. Thompson and pull the damn trigger. We don't have to shoot at anything but the feel that we get driving back the trigger of the 44 Magnum as it pushes our should uncontrollably away just makes my blood run to places I enjoy. 

Almost went on a ridiculous tangent there, but seriously lets plan something. My credit card has way too high of a limit and way too little of that limit used. Let's spread her wings (man I am fucking full of cliche comments today). 

LA?

Denmark/Sweden?

San Francisco?

St. Maarten?

Hawaai?

You be the judge, just tell me when and where and lets get on that plane, boat, bicycle or electric scooter and get on our merry way. Plus I am starting to get the "fear." 

We can talk about the fear on the trip. 

R

The Ways We Wonder - Part 2

Martin Amis, a mildly alcoholic yet literally privileged European novelist once said, "Lately I am having trouble remembering a lot of my actions and events of my life, or perhaps its that my life has just become less memorable." I sit staring out the window watching the heavy rain fall from the sky, feeling heavy myself because I just cannot figure our where it is exactly coming from. I think about this Amis quote. The comment, rooted in worry. A man, afraid that his best days are behind him, only at the age of 37. Will I be that man? Was my sexual peak at 18 years of age, and from now on I will under-perform and sleep with less adequate women, or turn to men? Have I experienced greatness and failure, two necessary feeling to be alive? Is what awaits me simply checkerboards and discounted carnival rides?

I like to believe not. I try to not let the tougher things in life get me wondering too much. Such as finding out where exactly the rain comes from, or why some blades of grass grow longer than the others standing upright next to them. I try not to think about why a human heart physically hurts when someone "breaks it," when the only mechanism truly effected is the brain. I suppose oxygen flows through both during each breath, so as we breath sorrow, hatred, bliss, or fear, they extend both to the brain and heart, an inevitably causes a shutter of pain. The heart doesn't truly break, but that sharp pain inhibits its core. You are left wondering why you couldn't just settle for being a pretentious, nacissistic, douchebag with a superiority complex, thus making you incapable of pain done by another human being. After all, man does historically have the tragic propensity to hurt the ones and things he love.

Amis sits there nervously trembling and forcing drink to interact with his stomach acid giving him immediate relief from the dark contemplation of an ominously dull future. I on the contrary revel in the thought that the best days could be behind me, that my days are numbered, and that life as a whole is over. I take this thought as a challenge. To transgress the boundaries of limitation, and to uphold the only true agreement we have....to live. To live fully, mostly happy, and with causing as little pain to other as possible. I have realized that my actions to live, and to enjoy, do not always positively effect others, and at times they press hard on the fringe of cruelty. However, I know I will get mine, as long as someone else is living like I.

I am not too naive to realize that some people are dealt a bad hand, others have crippling disabilities, and accidental set backs. I do however believe that for the most part, the people who are unhappy fail to wonder correctly. They wonder about what is to come in a negative fashion, and are unable to embrace challenges and turn them into successes. Those who are happy, wonder well. They wonder how they can make a change, they wonder what they can do to make things better, or their lives more well-rounded. Those who wonder well, do not wonder too long. It is when time is too often spent within ones own head, that it goes erratic, maniacal, and hopeless, searching for answers in a place where the answers never rested. They are out there, not stuck within. 

To sum it up moderately bland, make life memorable and stop worrying like Amis. Stop fearing that you may have made all the "memories" that you will make in your life. The life of one is still constrained by the powers that be, and is mind-blowingly and comparatively short to mans existence on this planet. Perhaps Amis just drank too much and is mind was clogged by potato vodka, and cheap Manhattan whiskey. Alas the acerbating tinnitus that plagued him daily obscured any possibility of looking on the bright side. So I will take away what I can; drink often, but not superfluously, and wonder about the good days to come.

Happy Mothers Day - May 13. 2012

July 10th, 2005 (3:32am PST) - "Mom, I know its late..really late there, because it is late here. You know how you gave me your credit card in case of emergencies? Well, Chris, Mike, and I are stuck in Tijuana, Mexico and we spend all of our money to get home. How do I get cash back from your credit card?"

Response: "Ryan, you have to be kidding me."

October 30th, 2008 (10:32pm EST) - "Hey mom, I fucked up. My Audi is up against a Bank of America ATM machine wall, and I do not know what to do."


Response: "Call you father" followed by an ominous click

Two very valid responses for two calls that a mother should never have to receive from her son. Oh, the joys of parenting with regards to slow growth through elongated adolescence. Through thick and thin, I know my mother is proud of me, regardless of my many shortcomings. This however is not a day about me, and my moronic approaches to socialization across the US. No, this is a day to celebrate our mothers. The mothers who take these four am collect calls, who drove us to school, who packed out lunches, taught us to cook, iron, read, and to love.

Truthfully without my mother: I would see my life going something like this... 5 year graduate with a degree in plant science from Northwest Connecticut Community College. Driving around in a 1990 Ford Taurus listening to Hatebreed. Getting ready for their fantastic comeback tour, while sipping monster energy drink simultaneously smoking a menthol pall mall and blowing the smoke out of my roll down windows in Route 8. No girlfriend, no real friends, except a pet rabbit who's only contribution to the world is an unfathomable amount of bullet shits left on the basin of a "should be quarantined" kennel. Waiting for something to show up and happen, not fighting for my dreams, and never really creating them.

Mom - You have helped me grow into the man I am today. I am successful, I try to be as honest as I can most of the time. I love people, they love me. I sing, I write, I dance, I play...I cry. I love my sister and I would do anything possible for my family. I earn a good living, but always want more - never settle for just "okay." I have dreams, I have hopes, and in these dreams you are there for many many years. I make mistakes, and I learn from them, for the most part. I am a son.

I hope that you take some time today to put down that lousy 50 Shades of Grey book, if you finally decided to purchase it and just think. Think about all the amazing things you have done. It wont take long. Look at your two children who are now living together in Boston, successfully. Without you, they would not be where they are, they simply would not have made it this far. And, as you sit back with this pleasant thought in mind, remember all the good times we shared together, when we cannot be with one another, these beautiful memories will help us get through until the next time.

I love you.

Ryan

The Accomplishments Of Others

Sometimes I have found in life that it is the sheer happiness or accomplishments of others that truly bring light to your day. Sure, I am brought joy by reaching a new advertising revenue mark within my job, or when I receive a new watch worth more than the average American makes in one full calendar year, but I am not overjoyed.

Today, one of my closest and dearest friends Nico, graduated law school. He is the fun loving fuck to the left in the above photo.  I will not mention his last name for the chance that this post diminishes his chances of receiving any sort of gainful employment in the future other than working at the admissions office of a lesser law school. Yes, him and I did spend each and every night, snuggled up in a full size bed at a villa in the Bahamas. And yes, there were other sleeping options. And yes, we chose against those options. We also sipped the great nectar of the gods, more formally known as Malibu and Orange Juice. We did meet to native Bohamians that took us on a 1 hour drive in a 1996 honda civic in search for lost dreams in a green like plant form. We did cry during this act. In the same trip, a close, mutual un-named friend, did defy the laws of the human body by releasing bodily fluids out of two orifices simultaneously.

We did sip on 137 bottles of 70% Shiraz/30% Merlot Yellow tail wine until we saw the sunrise. We did make the Burnette's family $25,000 dollar in revenue throughout 4 years of undergrad, which is approx 3,125 liters worth of low grade vodka for those unfamiliar. We did laugh, we did cry, we did send 8 page text messages when verizon only allowed 7, it pays to know people. We made backyard firals, skip classes, dominated midterms, opened a flask in Thursday night science lab. Amphetamines burst in and out of our veins to assure the grades stayed up and the parents kept writing the tuition checks. We did succeed.

Today, as Nico crosses that stage, I am reminded about all the good things we have done and experience in this quarter century thus far. It also gives me a glimpse of the future, and the smiles, successes, nerves, scares, loves lost, and loves gained that are sure to come with a vengeance.

We are all proud of you Nico and your success. I know you are bound to do many great things with that degree and a few really really bad things. But that's the thing about this life - Balancing work and play, and being an all around, "winner." Today, you have won. Revel in it. There are sure to be hard times to come, and better times to follow.

Congrats buddy and god- fucking- speed.

Ryan

Oh Good, It is Raining....Again

It rains a lot this time of year in Boston. A portentous haze builds around the waning moon, warning us of shadows to come for the third consecutive day. There is something about a dreary and wet New England morning that makes you strangely comfortable with the idea of pouring three shots worth of baileys or cheap whiskey in your coffee to bring some light to the day. Another perk of arriving early to the office so that the liquor has enough time to burn out of your mouth by the second and third cup of Joe, which are unfortunately void of any intoxicant.

Trains fill up with Zeta Tau Alpha's and Kappa Kappa Gammas riding into government center or North station for the commencement ceremonies. Unaffected by the tumultuous winds and soggy black gowns, they look forward to a few weeks of drunken Greek-like festivities while I contemplate what piece of office equipment I can break and not get blamed for, just to add excitement to the day. It often seems like I am complaining, but truly due enjoy my monotonous life for the most part. Knowing that each day will be there, and I wont have to duck a curveball, is comforting in its own right.

Still the rain continues, and still I refuse to purchase an umbrella. A piece of life equipment I always felt was inadequate. Most are too small, or flimsy, others make you look like a fucking idiot. As the nylon device fails to achieve its one purpose, keeping you dry from head to toe, you find its leaving you unbalanced as your body is pulled in the direction of oncoming traffic due to gusts of wind hailing from a not so distant shore. If you are fortunate to have one of those ridiculously sized Mary Poppins umbrellas and you are in fact dry for the most part, you look down and realized the most expensive part of you outfit, your shoes, are completely drenches and the brown leather is pure black as you can now see the outline of your toes. Fun.

You find me one person who enjoys rain, other than to assist in sleep or welcome a cuddle session, and I will find you a liar. I am not saying it has to be bright and sunny everyday because I can assure you that would burn me out. But, if we could pump the brakes on the precipitation around these parts it would be greatly appreciated, just tap the ol' pads every so fucking slightly. I believe it would be appreciated by all.

My walk to the metro, or should I say the goddamn "T" only allows for about 1 minute of exposure so I am being a raging child about the whole scenario. I am sure Mr. Fitness who rides 6 miles to Cambridge on his bicycle wearing shorts and fantastic Helly Hansen jacket, while carrying his over the shoulder bag and a gallon of protein has it much worse. But I digress. Good lord, I just want to leave the office today without getting wet. There is a time and place for that, and its not on my commute.