Articulated Vulgarities

God's Great Plan

"Bullshit is all the reasons we give for living.  And if we can't think up any reasons of our own, we always have the God bullshit.  We don't know why we're going through all this pointless pain, humiliation, decays, so there better be someone somewhere who does know.  That's the God bullshit.  And then, there's the noble man bullshit; that man is a noble creature that can order his own world.  Who needs God?  Well, if there's anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: that man is full of bullshit."

The soliloquy you just read was delivered by Peter Finch in the role of downtrodden, world-weary news anchor Howard Beale in the 1976 classic film Network.  Beale, disenfranchised with society, and his role as an influential newsman, uttered those prophetic words on the air during one of his final broadcasts for the fictional Union Broadcasting System (UBS). 

Over the course of the five months (has it been that long already?), I've heard many people say that Deborah's passing was all part of God's Great Plan.  We may not understand it yet, but there's a reason for everything.

To that, I say: bullshit.

Organized religion is one of the most vile, evil things in the world.  It teaches people to hate, fear, and judge others who may hold different beliefs or live a different lifestyle than their own.  People do and say awful things in the name of organized religion - and I'm talking about all organized religions.  Wars are fought, innocent people are killed, and people are harrassed for their beliefs.

Since I was very young, I came to several beliefs about the existence of God.  God does exist, of that I was certain (or as certain as one could be without any hard evidence, but that's what the word "faith" means).  There is historical evidence of the existence of Jesus Christ, though scholars now debate the time of his birth and death.  His resurrection is, of course, what causes the most contention. 

It's true, there is little indisputable proof that Jesus Christ, the son of God, rose from the grave or so loved the world that he died for our sins.  Oh sure, there's the Bible, but - and what I'm about to say will no doubt be controversial to many of you - I have always viewed the Good Book as sort of like the Telephone Game.  There is a reason there are different versions of the Bible, and throughout multiple revisions, edits, and changes, the original message may have become contaminated along the way. 

Having said that, the core tenets of the Bible remain strong foundations to live your life by.  You shouldn't kill, steal, commit adultery, take advantage of others, or worship material things.  I think of the Bible as sort of a collection of parables - not unlike fairy tales - that should be used as a guide to live a good, honest life.  Do I believe there was a talking snake or a boat big enough to carry two of every species of animal?  No, because I'm a logical person and I see the physical impossibility of such things.  Considering how many species of animal there are in the world, the boat itself would have to be more than half the size of the planet to carry two of them all.  Suggesting there were fewer animals back then only raises the question of where the rest came from, since evolution and creationism do not go hand-in-hand for many people.

What I choose to believe may be hard for some people to accept or understand, but so much of organized religion preaches belief through fear.  Deborah and I didn't even see eye-to-eye on our beliefs, though we ultimately reached the same basic conclusion, so I don't expect anyone else to.

All my life, I chose not to believe in the vengeful God you heard about in the sermons of your youth.  The God who would condemn you to an eternity of fire and brimstone if you didn't follow a very specific set of rules, or most egregiously, didn't believe in Him.  I had often heard atheists and agnostics say, "If there really is a God, how could he let bad things happen to good people?"  The answer, I thought, was simple: God does not play favorites.  As hard as that may be to accept, God does not get involved in our lives.  He sits back and lets us make our own choices, then judges our actions when our time comes.  God doesn't create murderers, idolaters, warmongers, rapists, thieves, and all the evil people of society any more than he creates the pillars of integrity and kindness - at least, not directly. 

After Deborah was abruptly taken from me, I tried to rationalize it.  I tried to believe in the notion that it's all part of the "Great Plan," but several thoughts continued to nag at me.  If, indeed, life is pre-ordained, and we are all merely playing our part in accordance with our predetermined destiny, what becomes of free will? 

Think about it.  God gave us free will, correct?  If life was pre-ordained, doesn't that contradict the very notion of free will?  If everything we do is part of some plan - every step we take, every decision we make - then we really don't have free will, do we?  If life is all predetermined, then by implication God is responsible for murderers, rapists, and all the evils of society because, for some reason we can't fathom, it was part of His plan.  I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to believe in that.

"Let me give you a little inside information about God.  God likes to watch.  He's a prankster.  Think about it: He gives man instincts.  He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do - I swear for His own amusement, His own private, cosmic gag reel - He sets the rules in opposition.  It's the goof of all time.  Look, but don't touch.  Touch, but don't taste.  Taste, don't swallow.  And whil you're jumping from one foor to the next, what is He doing?  He's laughing His sick fucking ass off!  He's a tight-ass!  He's a sadist!  He's an absentee landlord!  Worship that?!  Never!"

Al Pacino delivered those lines as John Milton, the earthly guise of the Devil himself, in the 1997 film The Devil's Advocate. 

Right now, some of you are probably mortified.  You're praying for my soul, and you're already typing up angry, outraged responses, or pleas for me to rejoin the flock.  "Beg for God's forgiveness."  "God loves you, don't turn your back on Him."  Do me a favor.  Stop.  Hit delete.  Don't bother.  If anyone should be seeking forgiveness, it's God. 

There are two options, the way I see it.  First, God is as I always suspected - omnipresent, ever-watching.  Watching, not doing.  He sits back and watches His creation take shape.  He watches us suffer, watches families torn apart by violence, cities leveled by natural disasters, and babies starve to death.  He watches it all... but He doesn't do anything about it. 

If God doesn't get involved, He cannot be responsible for your blessings, but by way of inaction is responsible for all of life's hardships, ugliness, and sorrow.  How could I worship something that has the power to make things better, but simply chooses not to?

The second option is that we are following a cosmic plan.  Free will is a myth that makes us feel like we're in control of our lives, but in reality we're all just playing our roles.  The logical conundrums in this scenario are almost too numerous to point out.

We are taught that God is infallible.  That's the biggest argument against the theory of evolution - the implication that God made a mistake and changed something, or that He is not in complete control.  Fine.  But if God is infallible, that means He is responsible for everything that happens, good and evil.  Sure, God got you that great job, blessed you with a beautiful family, and handed you that bitchin' sports car you've always dreamed about.  But he also created Ed Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer, Osama bin Laden, Ted Kaczynski, Adolf Hitler... You see, God cannot only be responsible for the good and not the bad if, indeed, we are all acting in accordance with the plan - and free will could not logically co-exist with the plan, because that implies that God is not in complete control. 

So which is it?  Does it even matter?  Why should I thank God for my blessings, but refrain from blaming Him for my pain?  Why does He get a free pass?  How can anyone or anything receive all the credit and none of the blame if it supposedly created the entire world and life as we know it? 

Of course, there is always the third option: that God does not exist.  Neither science nor religion has been able to adequately and definitively prove how all life began, after all, so I have to allow for the possibility that Deborah's death, and all of life's misfortunes, are a simple case of mathematics.  Bad things happen, and sooner or later, you or someone you know are bound to be a statistic.  In this particular example, I'm told Deborah had roughly a four percent chance of surviving.  Those are nearly impossible odds, and unsurprisingly they did not work out in her favor.  Our bodies weren't built to last, and there is so much about them we still don't understand.

We choose to believe in the afterlife because it comforts us.  For many, it gives people something to strive for - a reason to live a good life.  It is a frightening thought that death is the end, I admit.  It's a thought that has kept me up at night and given me anxiety attacks.  The idea that I will simply cease to be, and all of my memories, my experiences, will fade away with me is not one I prefer to entertain.  I would like to believe that the person I am will continue on after my physical body has decayed.  But how can I put my faith in anything that would let so many bad things happen?  Moreover, why should I need convincing that living a good life is the right thing to do in the first place?  Shouldn't we all strive for peace, prosperity, and happiness, regardless of whether or not it results in a potential reward when we die?  Most importantly, why should I grovel at anyone else's altar for things I've worked hard for and be thankful when they're taken away?

Yes, I'm angry.  I've been angry since July 6th, 2011 when Deborah died at just 33 years of age, and if you have any common sense you will shut up.  If you've read this far, you've done so of your own volition.  This is my blog, and these are my feelings, and you will not change them, so don't even try.  You can quietly judge me as a heretic in the comfort of your own homes all you'd like, but I don't want to read your comments, opinions, suggestions, or preaching.  Shut your mouths.  Stop typing that comment or that e-mail.  Do not try to win me back because all you will succeed in doing is making me angrier, and this time my anger will be directed at you.

I don't want to hear about how Deborah's death has a greater meaning and we just can't comprehend it now, because I don't believe it and it doesn't change the pure logic that God is either directly or indirectly responsible for the suffering of all humanity, whether through His plan or through observation rather than interaction.  If God exists, maybe He is not loving and merciful.  Maybe He is vindictive and arrogant.  How dare we question His plan?!  How dare we not worship Him?!  How dare we not thank Him for everything we work for.  God didn't give me a job.  God didn't buy me a car.  God doesn't pay my mortgage.  God didn't win Deborah's heart.  I earned all those things through hard work, and you're fucking right I'm proud of myself, so if pride is a sin then you might as well send me to Hell.  

Maybe God is a big kid with a magnifying glass and we're all ants.  He's a schoolyard bully, demanding our lunch money and we give it to Him out of fear of retribution.  I bet most people who read this post will react with revulsion and call it blasphemous, but if God is as loving, forgiving, and understanding as you'd preach, what would it matter what I say or believe?  Would He not understand my anger, my sadness?  Were we not created as imperfect beings and, thusly, should we not be forgiven for our imperfections, fears, doubts, and faults?  Instead, He demands homage.  He demands recognition.  He demands credit for everything we accomplish, but we absolve Him of all blame for fear that he will deny us entry into his exclusive club.  He's a cosmic bouncer with an inferiority complex, standing behind His velvet rope and taking out His issues on people who he feels have wronged Him. 

You're all free to believe whatever you want, whether that's in the Christian God, an alternative deity, universal forces, multiple gods, or nothing at all.  All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy and do not try to convince me of anything opposite of all I've said here.  I will not live my life in fear of eternal damnation or in hopes of salvation.  I will not live my life for anyone other than myself.  From this point forward, I will live my life the best way I see fit - in a manner that pleases me and not some entity watching over me, silently cataloguing and judging everything I do for His Naughty or Nice list.  

I have always said that intelligent people can discuss religion, whereas ignorant people will argue about it.  With that in mind, I must reiterate that I do not expect to see a single e-mail or comment telling me I'm going to Hell.  These are my personal beliefs, and I expect everyone to respect them and leave me to them.  I have chosen to share them purely as a therapeutic release, not to invite your judgment or opinions.  I don't care about your opinions, quite frankly.  If I did, I'd be reading your blog and not the other way around. 

Disappear Here

"Wait, I'm in the wrong house, in the wrong room
Some place in someone else's shoes
I want to turn back, I want to shut down
You'll blow away if I breathe out
Save me from sleeping now
Save me from flying out
I disappear here"

O hai!
 
What's been going on?  That's a rhetorical question.  I don't really care.  I was just being polite.  This is my blog, after all.  If you want to talk about yourselves, get your own blog.  They're free over at WordPress, you know.  Instead, I'm going to talk about me.  Not that you asked, but you have the option to stop reading anytime you feel like it.  I'll never know the difference.
 
November is a hard month for me.  It was two days after Thanksgiving 2009 that my dad passed away, which puts a dampener on the entire month.  I still carry a shred of regret that I didn't talk to him two days prior when he'd called to wish his sons a happy Thanksgiving, though I've forgiven myself for it.  This year will be especially hard with the additional grief of losing Deborah.
 
You see, this year we were going to hold Thanksgiving at our house.  In fact, we bought a new kitchen table together for the occasion.  When my brother and I moved back into the house, we had a small, round, four-person table.  It was adequate for the needs of two bachelors, but once I started dating Deborah I quickly realized the lack of foresight.  We couldn't even have a family dinner with my own small immediate family, let alone hers that includes children and relatives that actually talk to each other and gather on holidays. 
 
So to Art Van we went and we bought a new table that seats six to eight before adding the leaf, which will give it room for an extra two fairly comfortably.  It was an exciting moment - our first furniture purchase together!  We were turning my old house into our new home.
 
After Deborah passed, I still wanted to hold Thanksgiving at my house like we'd planned, but as time has gone by and it has inched ever closer the prospect has become more and more daunting.  Not that I don't want to keep in touch with Deborah's family - I do - but I think I'm trying to take on too much, too soon.  I haven't fully dealt with the severe depression I spiralled into after her death.
 
Oh, did I forget to mention that?  That's because I didn't realize it until about a week ago.
 
I used to have a policy against self-medicating.  I saw it as a sign of weakness that I couldn't control my own emotions or my thoughts.  I realized how fucked up I was when a friend told me to my face, "Matt, you need to stop because you're driving me crazy!"  That was really the turning point, and since that day that particular friend and I have never had another confrontation.  Indeed, we're closer friends.  But that moment scared me straight and made me realize I had a problem, so I set my principle aside and went on Zoloft shortly after my dad died. 
 
Man, what a difference! 
 
For those of you who don't suffer from anxiety, let me try and describe it as best I can for you: It's awful, horrendous, chest-constricting, irrational, irritating, obnoxious, annoying, terrifying, crippling, and generally shitty.  It's just a horrible, horrible feeling - and the worst part is that you often don't realize how bad it has gotten until someone snaps at you.  You see, anxiety breeds selfishness.  All you want to do is make that horrible feeling go away.  You need constant reassurance.  You need affection.  You need, need, need, and even when you get what you sought you'll just find something else to obsess over because most anxiety-based fears are irrational.  They spring from nowhere just as often as they do from traumatic past events. 
 
Even as someone who suffers from anxiety, it's irritating to deal with other peoples', but I always empathize and say to myself, "I know what they're going through."  Much like losing a parent, sibling, child, or significant other, or surviving cancer, or any number of awful, life-changing events, the only people who can truly understand it are those who've been through it.  Not to equate anxiety and cancer, of course, but you get what I'm saying.  It's impossible to accurately describe how terrifying it is to lie in bed, worrying that perhaps my brother has died unexpectedly.  In the past, my anxiety has caused me to go days without eating and/or sleeping (sometimes coinciding, sometimes alternately).  Once, when I still worked at Best Buy, I actually collapsed on my bedroom floor and slept there through the night after not sleeping for nearly four days.  My body just finally gave in and shut down. 
 
So I went on Zoloft, and I felt better.  Much better.  The grief from losing my dad was still there, but the irrational fears weren't.  The constant worrying and wondering and second-guessing and, most importantly, that dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach weren't there.  I did a complete 180 on my belief about self-medicating.  Hell, I was ready to become the drug's spokeperson!  Zoloft for everyone!  Viva Zoloft!
 
Among my myriad of problems is my inability stubborn refusal to follow doctors' orders.  I'm supposed to be taking cholesterol medicine; I don't.  I'm supposed to do stretches for my bad back; I don't.  I was supposed to take Zoloft, probably for the rest of my life; I stopped.
 
For a long while, I was OK.  I met a great girl, we were happy, and though I had a few episodes that she lovingly forgave me for, it was nothing along the lines of the crazy shit I put my friend through.  Right after Deborah died, I asked my doctor to renew my prescription.  I got my bottle of little blue happy pills, and I took about a week's worth before abruptly stopping.  I once again decided I didn't need pills.  I could control it on my own.
 
Oops.
 
Once again, it required a cold, hard dose of reality to make me realize, "Holy shit, I have a problem!"  Looking back over the last four months since Deborah passed, I can see the problem has been there all along.  I can remember the sleepness nights, terrified that someone else I loved was going to be taken from me.  I can remember feeling the crushing fear of walking into work, trying my best to avoid the sad eyes and pitiable stares that reminded me of what happened.  I can vaguely remember doing things with my family and friends just to keep myself occupied, but I honestly couldn't look back and tell you what 90% of it was.  The days ran together in one big blur, and I remember remarking to my brother about losing all concept of time.  I didn't care.  About anything.  Looking back, I'm almost ashamed that I didn't recognize some of the signs, but people seldom do when they're so wrapped up in the cloak of depression.  20/20 hindsight and all that...
 
I can't tell you how many times I've heard "I really admire your strength" over the last few months.  The truth of the matter is this: I am good at faking it.  I lived the life of a single, brooding, anti-social misanthrope for 27 years.  You don't think I know how to put up a front?  If I could build physical walls as well as I build emotional ones, I'd be the world's most prolific construction worker.  The truth is I've been running on fumes for quite some time now, and it's time to refuel before I'm abandoned on the side of the road by everyone. 
 
Last weekend I started taking my Zoloft again.  I have reminders all over my house to take it every night at 10 PM.  Already, I've had people remark that I seem different.  Already I feel better, more like my old self - or at least my 2008 self when I came out of my shell and started getting out more.  I'm not as quick to anger at work.  I'm calmer while driving.  I actually feel like playing video games again.  I feel creative again (not only am I still writing, but I'm seriously considering another creative project I've wanted to explore for a long, long time).  Some of the things I've broken may not be fixable, but that's my doing and I'll accept responsibility for it because it's my own stupid fault.  I never should have stopped taking my meds in the first place.  I lost the woman I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with.  What made me think I could handle that by myself?
 
I will own up to my mistakes.  I will own my dysfunction, but I won't beat myself up over it.  In fact, I'm not dealing with anything negative right now.  I've spent so much time worrying about everything else that I've neglected myself, and it's time to refocus.  If I'm not happy, how can I expect other people to be happy around me?  "Yeah, let's hang out with the mopey guy who worries about everything.  That sounds like a lot of fun."
 
Of all the unlikely sources, it was Chris who provided the most poignant advice: "Ignore the sucky stuff.  Look on the bright side, and find something to look forward to every day, no matter how small it is."  I knew there was a reason I kept this guy around!  Each morning I wake up and I think of something to look forward to.  Monday it was finishing up a long overdue video game.  Tuesday it was playing a new one and making myself a decent dinner (for once).  Wednesday it was dinner and shopping with my mom and brother, and so on.  It helps tremendously to think of life as a series of small events - getting an e-mail from Chris that makes me laugh, a game of Hanging with Friends with Ashley, lunch with Kristy or Emily.  These are common occurrences, but they're what make life bearable.  Let's face it, it's a scary world we live in.  If you don't find some way to laugh every day, all you're bound to do is cry. 
 
Will I stumble?  I'm sure I will.  I'm only human.  But I'll recover.  I have an amazing support group, and my belief that I have the greatest friends in the world only gets stronger with each passing day.  They've stuck by me through thick and thin.  They've been there for me, accepted me, and forgiven me.  Quite frankly, they all deserve medals.

This One's For Me

I was recently asked what would make me happy with regards to a career.  What could I see myself doing for the rest of my life that wouldn't make me miserable?  The answer was simple: writing.  But it was the follow-up question that struck me: "What are you doing about that?"

It gave me pause.  I've already blogged about how my self-doubt works its magic and leaves me feeling inadequate with regards to my writing, but that's only part of it.  One of the other key factors is that my brain moves a hundred miles a minute.  I have been woken up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep until I've gotten an idea out of my head.  The notes app on my phone is actually filled with typo-riddled 2 AM brainstorms.

While this should lend itself to a career that is as inherently creative as writing, it also has the detrimental effect of rendering countless projects obsolete as new ideas take over.  On my hard drive, there are no less than eight different stories in varying degrees of completion.  Some are outlines, some are very rough drafts, some are extended passages that have been edited and re-edited possibly dozens of times to the point where I feel they're as good as they're going to get.  The only thing they all have in common is that none of them are finished works.  Some of them date as far back as 2000, including text for a planned graphic novel I was collaborating on with an old friend.

That's just on my personal hard drive.  Somewhere amongst the things I salvaged from the house fire in 2009 are handwritten pages that were never transcribed to my PC, and my Drafts folder in my e-mail at work has a few more roughly constructed ideas.  Then there are the ideas I've been carrying around in my head for years, including an entire collection of horror-themed short stories that I had planned to turn into a collection.  Some of those stories are more than a decade old as well.

Much like my favorite musician, Prince, I often find myself getting bored with old ideas once new ones come along.  While I'm pointing out similarities, writing is, in some ways, like dating.  The best part of writing is typically the beginning - when fresh ideas spill freely and you're typing so fast you can barely keep up with them.  That's when it's really exciting, and after that initial excitement wears off, it becomes a grind.  You still love it deep down, but you get comfortable, complacent, and you start to take it for granted that you can take a night off.  That night off then turns into two, then three, and before you know it, it's a week... Then a month... That's how it always goes for me.  I write so much when I latch onto a new project that I burn myself out. 

Writer's block is a horrible thing, as any writer, aspiring or published, can attest.  There are few things more frustrating to would-be wordsmiths than watching that Goddamn cursor in your word processor of choice blink repeatedly.  It becomes a sign of mockery, but after writing feverishly for several nights in a row, I always find myself staring at it, daring me to continue, and no matter how long I sit there, how hard I wrack my brain, the cursor always wins.

Not anymore.

To quote one of my favorite bands, "I ain't losin'.  Cause this one's for me."

In the last three days, I've begun focusing on my writing again.  Why?  To prove a point.  I'm going to prove that fucking cursor wrong.  I'm going to prove to everyone I can do it and make those who've told me I could all along proud of me.  But most of all, this one's for me.

I'm going to prove it to myself.  Someone else's words - or challenge - may have been the catalyst, but this is for me first and foremost.  If nobody reading this post right now ever reads the finished product, that's OK, for there will be a finished product at least.  If it never gets published, I will at least be able to look at my completed story and say, "I did that, and I can do it again." 

Making a full-time career out of writing is very difficult.  Unless you become a best-seller, chances are it will amount to little more than supplemental career.  I would probably still need to hold down a full-time job, but I would at least be able to temper the frustrations by coming home and doing what I love on my own time (or during my downtime at work, for that matter).  I don't care if it's my career.  I'm going to do this.  For too long I've gotten in my own way.  I've let that vile, heinous cursor mock me.  I've let my doubt cripple me, and I'm not going to accept that anymore.  I deserve better.  I've been through too much shit in the last two years, and I need to do something I can be proud of.  I'm tired of feeling defeated whenever I try my hand at something.  I can accept failure at the hands of something I cannot control, but I cannot continue to accept self-defeat.  Fuck you, cursor!  I've got your number now, and just wait until you see what I've got in store for you.  You'd better be prepared for a workout, because the last three days have been foreplay.  The hot and heavy stuff is still to come.

Yes, I wrote today.  Yes, I'm happy with what I wrote.  Yes, I already know what I'm going to write tomorrow.  Yes, it's still going to take some time - possibly a whole year - because I need to pace myself to avoid burnout, but most importantly: Yes, it will get finished.  Nothing short of my death is going to derail me this time.

I may still take a day or a weekend off, and that's OK.  I can't beat myself up over that.  I'm entitled to that too.  I don't want to become the stereotypical eccentric shut-in we all imagine writers are.  I can still buckle down and do what I need to in order to make a better life for myself without ignoring my friends or my other hobbies.  I just need to manage my time better.  I need to push myself, and if some of you want to push me too, that's fine.  Friends, feel free to kick me in the ass if you ask, "Did you do any writing yesterday?" and I non-chalantly respond, "No."  Mock me.  Challenge me.  Encourage me.  Do whatever you see fit if you think I'm slacking.

I'm gonna do this.  I'm going to prove to myself, to everyone else, and most of all that fucking cursor, that I'm capable of seeing a story through to completion.  If it never sees the light of day, so be it.  I'll try again.  I just need to know I can do it.  I AM GOING TO DO THIS.

"I ain't losin'.  Cause this one's for me."

The Road Ahead

Last night was the first night I've spent in the house alone since Deborah was taken from us.  It went much better than I'd anticipated, with no breakdowns or fits of sobbing, and I feel like I owe that to her.

I keep more than a dozen pictures of Deborah on my nightstand, and I have several more framed around the room.  As depressing, or as cheesy as it may seem, I talk to them every night because I believe she can hear me.  Every time we "talk," and every time I've asked for strength and love, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me. 

Some would dismiss it as me finding comfort in my ritual, calming myself, but I believe Deborah is simply responding.  I've seen too many signs thus far, and I've known too many other people who've had similarly strange events occur, for it all to be just a large series of coincidences. 

Last night was a big step in my road to healing, but there's still a long, long way to go.  A friend and I were talking today and we got on the subject of dating - not each other, just in general.  I can't imagine spending my life with anyone other than Deborah, and that's no less true just because she's not physically here anymore.  Even the act of changing my Facebook page to say "single" seems an insurmountable task.  As far as I'm concerned, we're still in a relationship.  We didn't break up, and she didn't leave me by choice.  More importantly, I still feel the strongest feelings of love for her that a man can possibly feel for a woman.

Deborah is irreplaceable, and it wouldn't be fair to anyone I meet to expect them to live up to the impossibly high bar she set as far as girlfriends go.  What's more, I keep thinking I would be betraying her if I found someone else. 

Friends will tell me she would want me to be happy, and that's true.  However, what makes me happiest is the thought that one day, when my time comes, we'll be reunited.  I don't want her to watch me move on.  My goal is to be reunited with Deborah and if Heaven exists - which I believe it does - what would happen when I have that opportunity, only to tell her, "Sorry, I met someone else..." 

That thought is heartbreaking to me.  I don't want our reunion to be as friends; I want us to be together for all eternity, like we were supposed to be on Earth. 

To that end, let me make something clear: I believe that I'm a good person at heart.  I know I have my flaws, but ultimately have led a good life.  I certainly haven't led a perfect life, but then again, who has?  I know my sins, and I can't promise I'll never commit them again because I am only human and we are imperfect, flawed creatures to begin with. 

That said, if my time comes and I am judged unworthy, I will tear apart Hell to get back to Deborah.  Demons will fall at my feet, I will fight and climb my way out, and even the Devil himself will tremble before me as I make my way back to Heaven.  When I get there, I will knock those Pearly Gates down because there is NO force in Heaven or Hell or on Earth more powerful than my love for Deborah.  And if you find that blasphemous or offensive, then you have never truly understood what it is to love someone.

The Beginning

It's so ironic that things have come full circle.  It was in the same room that I took in my last image of Deborah where I first knew she would be mine.

We had dated for a short time prior to my dad's passing in November 2009, but Deborah wasn't ready to give her heart away yet.  She was still coming to terms with her previous relationship.  The fear of getting her heart broken once more was understandably great, yet she and I remained friends and through the months that followed, I had asked her if we might get back together some day.

Naturally, she brushed such questions aside, committing neither to an affirmative or a negative answer, only stating that no one ever knows what the future holds.  Fortunately for me, I'm not half bad at reading between the lines and I knew that a woman who isn't interested in the least will say as much.  I waited patiently and enjoyed the time we spent as friends, going to dinner and movies, out for drinks, and whatever else we felt like.

The day we got the news my dad had passed, Deborah was at Great Lakes Crossing with her sisters.  I texted her the news and she offered to come over as soon as possible, but I declined.  Having lost both of her parents at a relatively young age themselves, Deborah understood perhaps better than anyone what I was going through.

On the first day of visitation, Deborah and her sister Cynthia (Cindy) showed up to pay their respects and offer their support.  They had never met my dad, but they both knew the pain of loss.  I remember Deborah walking in, wearing a pretty green shirt, and thanking the sisters for coming before I was pulled in another direction to greet more visitors.  Deborah and Cindy sat wtih my good friend Chris, who has a knack for keeping people entertained with funny stories.

After a while, I finally had a chance to break away from the awfulness of saying "Hi, thank you for coming," to mourners and I sat on the couch next to Deborah.  I remember looking at her, watching her smile as Chris kept the mood light, and thinking to myself, This woman is going to be my girlfriend again.  It was then that I began to formulate a plan.

One of my friends, Emily, had a feeling about Deborah right from the start.  She knew Deborah was The One for me.  Others were a bit more skeptical after she had already broken it off once, and some even urged me to just move on, but I maintained that Deborah would be mine by Valentine's Day 2010.

In January, Deborah, Cindy, and some friends from their work all met at Augie's Bar nearby.  Deborah's birthday was just around the corner, and I had been planning on getting her something, but I wasn't sure what just yet.  Luckily, she unwittingly gave me the perfect answer. 

As it happened, Bon Jovi, her favorite band, were coming to town on St. Patrick's Day.  What better birthday gift for a fan than concert tickets!  She and her friends all agreed that they simply had to go, so when I got home that night I sent her sister a message on Facebook explaining to her that I was going to surprise Deborah with tickets to the show. 

On January 30th, 2010, the same group of people - and a few additional friends (Dawn and Melissa) - went to the 80's-themed nightclub Boogie Fever in Ferndale, Mich.  Let it be known that I am not a nightclub person.  I do not dance, partly because I'm too self-conscious, and partly because I don't want to be held responsible when other patrons die from laughter on the dancefloor.  I went, however, because it made Deborah happy and because I had quite a surprise in store for her.

Her friends gave her her birthday gifts, but I held onto the tickets in an envelope, hoping for the opportune moment - namely when the DJ played a Bon Jovi song.  As more and more time passed with no luck, I realized I couldn't continue to wait.  I signaled Cindy, who got her camera ready, and tapped Deborah on the shoulder with the envelope containing the tickets. 

As you can see, I was quite pleased with myself, but Deborah had no idea what to expect.  I think her face in the next picture says it all.

I can still hear her voice clear as a bell in my head shouting in excitement, "Matt got me Bon Jovi!"  Her friend Melissa joked (and still teases me to this day) that my gift overshadowed hers, a beautiful picture of Deborah and her sisters from Melissa's brother's wedding.  Melissa, for what it's worth, that picture still sits framed on our shelf and it will remain there.

Happy tears streamed down Deborah's cheeks as she embraced me, whispering "thank you" into my ear.  I felt my own eyes flood as I held her, knowing that I had just accomplished what I had set out to do - prove to Deborah that I was worth opening her heart for.  I knew in that precise moment that I had won her over; it just wasn't official yet.

On Valentine's Day 2010, right on schedule, while we were at dinner at Andiamo - the first time she had ever been taken out for Valentine's Day, she said - I asked Deborah, "So can we make it official now?"  Wearing her favorite red sweater - and one of my favorite outfits of hers, especially because of the emotional significance it now holds for me - she replied, "Yes, I think we should be exclusive." 

The next day, Deborah received a dozen roses at work with a card explaining that everyone gets roses on Valentine's Day, but no one expects them the day after.  It was the first time a guy had sent her flowers, she said. 

A month later, we attended Bon Jovi's Circle Tour at the Palace of Auburn Hills.  We took the day off work, as well as the following day, and had dinner at Andiamo once again, though this time we went to the more casual Royal Oak location. 

I should really point out that I am not the world's biggest Bon Jovi fan.  While I respect him, I cannot say I was ever a fan of his music.  However, after she had told me stories of the one and only concert she'd gone to with her last boyfriend, and how he complained the whole time, I made it a point to enjoy myself.  In all honesty, I didn't have to work very hard.  Fan or not, it's hard not to enjoy yourself when the person you love stands next to you singing along to every song with an ear-to-ear smile on their face.  Coupled with the amazing stage show, a great performance of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah", one of my favorite songs of all-time (even if Jon Bon Jovi forgot the lyrics), and a surprise guest appearance by Detroit's own Kid Rock, it was truly a great night and it made me realize that I would do anything for Deborah. 

One thing still troubled me, however.  I knew I had fallen in love, even long before Deborah was willing to accept it from me.  Having little relationship experience to speak of myself, I found myself fearful of the fact that she was uncomfortable saying those three words at first.  After a long discussion, she told me, "I've only said 'I love you' to two men, and one of them was my father.  It took me ten months to tell Sam," referring to her last boyfriend, the one who broke her heart.  I agreed I would not say the words until she was ready to hear them, and I told my friends in private, "I bet you she tells me in less than half the time it took her with Sam."

The morning of a wedding we were attending, Deborah and I exchanged cards.  It was comical because both of us had bought them for no real reason, and they were the same size in the envelope.  I thought, Oh man, I hope we didn't get each other the same card.  Though she had given me cards before, this one was different; instead of the usual "xoxoxo," she had signed it, "Love, Deborah."  I didn't say anything at that moment, but I kept it in mind.

At the reception, she coaxed me to the dancefloor where we danced to the Righteous Brothers' classic love ballad "Unchained Melody".  As we swayed together, I asked her, "Did you mean what you wrote in that card?"  She nodded, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "Matt Antonich, I love you."  At that moment, the crescendo of the song erupted like something straight out of a cheesy romance movie.  I swear, I almost wanted to look around for film cameras; it felt so surreal, like something out of a fairy tale. 

It took her ten months to tell Sam; it took her only three months with me.

I have plenty of memories with my Deborah, and there are many I'll keep just for me, but the moral of this story is that sometimes if you really believe hard enough, you'll find the things you want the most will come to you.

In Memoriam: Deborah Jean Tyler, My Love

Yesterday at 6:00 PM EST, my world came crashing down around me.  Deborah Tyler, the love of my life, passed away unexpectedly.

I know the immediate shock of everything is still in effect, but honestly, I really don't know how I'll carry on.  Not that I'm thinking of anything drastic - don't get that impression.  Deborah would never have wanted that, so that thought doesn't exist.  I just mean, I can't picture my life without her in it.  I have never been so happy, and now it's all gone.

I look around our house and see the rooms we painted together.  I see her furniture, the bed we shared, her clothes in the closet, and her stuff in the bathroom.  I can't believe I'm going to bed tonight without her, and that I'll wake up to an empty bed tomorrow.  I can't believe I'll never kiss her goodbye in the mornings or see her smile and say, "Hi, baby!" when I get home.  

We just bought the two cats, and she was so excited to come home to them every day.  Now she'll never see them grow up.  We'll never have a chance to get married.  We'll never have children together.  We'll never go on any more vacations, see any movies, go get ice cream, or celebrate our anniversary on Valentine's Day ever again.  I'll never get to feel her hands on my leg while we're driving, hold hands or kiss her at random just while shopping, or rub her back for her.

I was going to marry her, too.  I knew that almost immediately.  There was no doubt in my mind, and that belief grew stronger with each passing day.  In the year and a half we were together, we almost never argued.  We were honestly the happiest two people.  Today, I turned on her laptop to see links to wedding sites, jewelers, and caterers and my already broken heart shattered even further. 

I'm comforted that many times she told me how I was the best thing that ever happened to her, and that she had never been happier.  The feeling was beyond mutual.  No words will ever be adequate enough to describe how much I loved her or how happy she made cynical old Matt.  I always used to say that I didn't need someone to make me complete or happy, and now I can't fathom going through life alone, without the person who proved me so wrong.

Truthfully, I don't want to fathom life with anyone else.  Deborah was everything to me; the love of my life.  I know I can't replace her, and I don't want to even think about it.  Even decades from now, if I'm lucky to live that long, I will still remember, miss, and love her with all my heart.  Anyone I meet for the rest of my life will never live up to her, and they will never get all of me the way Deborah did.  My heart will always be reserved for her.  

She accepted me for everything I was; all my flaws, all my eccentricities.  She never made me feel bad for wanting to play video games on a given night, or going to a concert with my brother.  Looking back on it now, I wish I'd spent every minute of that time with her, but hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

As hard as it is to sit in this house we shared, I look around and see reminders of our life.  I'm reminded of our trip to Chicago and the western side of Michigan, where we experienced a beautiful sunset to cap off a perfect day.  I'm reminded of taking her to see her favorite band, Bon Jovi, as a birthday present - a present that effectively clinched our relationship when I sprung the tickets on her.  I think of holidays spent with our families, and how welcome we both felt around each others' kin.  The pain of loss is unbearable right now, but these memories endure.

It's just all so unfair.  Part of me wants to be angry at God, but the other part of me thinks that I need to believe she's in a better place because if there was anyone who deserved a spot in Heaven, it was Deborah.  She was the kindest, warmest, gentlest, most loving soul I've ever met, and everyone I introduced her to agreed.  

In the end, I suppose I should be thankful for the time I spent with her, but I can't help but feel cheated.  We had great memories - wonderful memories - but we were robbed of our ability to create more.  We should have had more time, but I have to believe now that she will always be with me.  I will never be able to look at another woman without comparing her to Deborah.

My other comfort comes from the fact that I have the best support system a person could ask for in my friends and family.  I've been on the phone all night and everyone lended a sympathetic ear, even if it had been months since I last talked to them.  As much as I hurt, I can't imagine how her sisters must feel, or her niece and nephews who loved her more than anything.  

I just can"t believe I'll never see her again.  I'll never hear her laugh again or see those green eyes I loved.  I'll never see her walk down the aisle in her wedding dress.  All the things I'll never get to experience with her break my heart and I don't know how I'll ever recover.

Know this, Deborah: I will always love you with everything that I am.  My heart and my soul will always be yours.  I cannot even begin to express how much I miss you already, and it hasn't even been a day.  More than that, no words will ever adequately capture what I felt for you, what I still feel for you, and what I'll always feel for you.  We were meant for each other, and I'll never understand why you were taken from me so soon.  You will always be my Baby, and I do take some comfort in the fact that we made each other happier than we've ever been.

Anniversary

One year ago today I lost my dad.  This marks the last "first" without him, and I'm told it gets easier over time.  It's still so weird to think about how long it's been since I last saw him.

 

There I was, sitting in my basement playing Borderlands when my brother asked me to come upstairs right away.  I paused the game, climbed the stairs, and he informed me that Julia - my dad's wife - had just called and he thinks Dad had a heart attack.  We left for St. John's Macomb immediately, both hoping that it was nothing serious based on Julia's calm demeanor on the phone, but secretly I think we both knew it was going to be the last time we saw him.  It was just an unlucky year, and we were prepared for the worst.

 

As soon as we arrived and gave our names, they told us to head to the waiting room and someone would be with us shortly.  We knew in an instant.  It's never good news when you're asked to wait in a hospital.  The kind nurse told us they tried to revive him, but couldn't get his heart to keep going.  She gave us a moment to compose ourselves then told us she would take us back to the ER.

 

I remember seeing him lying there.  The breathing apparatus still in his mouth, but otherwise he looked just like my dad always looked.  Being the practical jokester he was, I half expected him to spring to life on the gurney to surprise us, but we weren't so lucky.  The nurses came and removed the tubes, and slowly we watched the color fade from his face.  We sat there for hours, crying, reassuring each other, and even trading stories and laughing occasionally until we decided the time had come to say goodbye.  We walked out from behind that privacy curtain and it was the last time I would ever get a glimpse of my dad other than in photographs.

 

The house we returned to seemed unusually quiet.  We sat there, my brother and I, with our cat Meisha dividing her time and attention between us both as though she knew we needed her comfort.  Friends I'd told offered their support in all manners, but I declined their offers to come over.  After an indeterminate amount of time, we got up and returned to our lives - Mike to his room to watch television, and I to my basement where I continued playing Borderlands to completion, though more through reflex than anything.  To this day, I couldn't tell you much about the final hours of that game because I only vaguely remember playing it. 

 

Now a year later, things have never really felt the same, but we're still managing.  I'm still enjoying my life, but my dad is never far from my mind.  I still wake up sometimes and wonder if I'll hear his knock on the back door only to remember that he's gone.  We watched his beloved Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup only months after he passed, joking that he must have had a hand in their achievement.  I still miss him terribly and regret that he won't be here to see me buy my first house, get married, or have children, but one thing I have finally come to grips with is the fact that I didn't speak to him only two days prior to his departure.  In fact, I take comfort that his last words to my brother were "I love you both very much."  What more could I have said that is more powerful or meaningful than that?

 

I love you, Dad.

 

The Defining Moments of 2009

What a year.  And I don't mean that in a good way.

Aside from precious few bright spots, 2009 was easily the worst year of my entire life.  I know I only survived because of the help from my wonderful, beautiful, supportive friends and family.  Without them, I don't know what I would have done. 

This year was the polar opposite of its predecessor.  Whereas 2008 was filled with mostly happy moments, 2009 was filled with taxing, traumatic events for myself and numerous people that I care about.  I tried to look for some positive things, but they were positively buried under the avalanche of shit that came down the pipeline this year.

Bearing that in mind, these are the moments that made 2009 what it was.

10.  New Year's Eve Celebration
The year started out well enough, as I spent the new year out with one of my oldest friends, Jill, at a little local bar.  What's particularly noteworthy about this is that it was the first time in my entire life that I'd spent the holiday out on the town instead of cooped up inside my house.  It was one of the steps I took towards combating my shyness, and it was fun.

9.  Christmas 2009
Christmas is a perennial highlight, and this year was no exception, but not necessarily for the right reasons.  As my friends know, this was the first Christmas I spent without my Dad after he passed away less than a month before.  In spite of this, the time spent with my family was even more comforting than usual and it took on special significance. 

Beyond that, however, I decided to do something a little different this year and surprised several of my friends with gifts.  I have never exchanged gifts with my friends, but this year was no ordinary year.  I was desperately in need of a way to find the Christmas Spirit, and this became my method.  Seeing the surprise and smiles on their faces went a long way towards brightening my spirit.  With my Dad gone, I decided I would spent the money I had allocated for him on the people who were there for me every step of the way this year, and it made me feel good to do so.

8. My 30th Birthday Weekend
It's amazing how the smallest things can make the biggest difference.  I had been looking forward to my 30th birthday this year; that is, until the house fire about a month before put a dark cloud over it.  Still, a strange confluence of events occurred and in the days following my birthday, I was treated to not one, not two, but three concerts by three of my all-time favorite artists, beginning with Margot & the Nuclear So and So's, a special impromptu performance from Jason Lytle that took place in someone's living room, and finishing it off with The Silent Years and several more acts.

The icing on the cake was that my best friend Deanna had contacted two of the three bands about replacing some of the things I had lost in the fire.  At a time when I needed it most, this weekend was the perfect pick-me-up, and the last minute, one of a kind performance from Lytle ensured it was a 30th birthday weekend I wouldn't soon forget after all.

7.  Promcert
The shows on my birthday weekend weren't the only ones that had an impact on me.  On June 5th, five bands gathered together in Pontiac's Crofoot Ballroom for an unforgettable show that ranks among the best I've ever attended. 

Four bands celebrated the release of new records, including my beloved Silent Years, but the show was just as memorable for the discovery of The Summer Pledge, who played through their debut album in its entirety, and the theme of the evening - namely, the prom.  Everyone was invited to wear prom attire, and we saw everything from tuxedo shirts, to full blown tuxes and 80's style dresses.  It was a night of pure entertainment and happiness.

6.  Relationship Lessons
It seems I am just not cut out for relationships, but in spite of the lessons I learned this year - some of them the hard way - one great thing came from it: Deborah. 

I not only learned a lot about other people and ended a harmful friendship (if it can be called that) with someone else, but I learned a lot about myself too.  Regardless of the crazy ride, Deborah proved herself to be a true friend, even when I wasn't, and I'm glad she is still a part of my life.

5.  Growing Closer Through Tragedy
Last year it was Kristy.  The year before that, it was Ashley.  This year, Emily was the friend I grew closer to.  Though it was through some of the worst possible events, I can't imagine how I would've made it through this year without her support.

There are moments that define every friendship, and we had more than our share this year.  Whether she was crying on my shoulder, or I was crying on hers (quite literally in both examples), the fact that we went from two people who were convinced the other despised them to the friends we've become is a testament to the type of person she is. 

Tragedy can often bring people together.  We certainly had plenty to share, but there were also trips to Five Guys and a month's worth of work sifting through file numbers, and I'm glad she was by my side for all of it and I hope she feels the same way.  

4.  Carrie's Cancer
At one point during the year, I began to think I was a bad luck charm as more and more terrible things were thrown at the people I love.  When my oldest friend Carrie surprised me with the news that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, I began to warn everyone to stay away from me.

Thankfully, Carrie is OK, but the shock of the news left me reeling.  Regardless of the distance between us (what with her being born and raised in England), she has always been one of my dearest, most trusted friends.  I was a nervous wreck for weeks until the day she made a post on Facebook after her surgery, announcing that she had just ordered a big meal to her room and was recovering. 

The whole experience left me wishing I could be there, by her side, until the day I caught her on Skype and expressed that sentiment to her and she responded, "You are."  The internet was our gateway to becoming friends, and it allowed me to support her even from miles and miles away.  It may not have been the same as being right next to her, but being told I was there for her in her time of need was one of the best feelings in the world and I'm so thankful to say that she's A-OK.

3.  Grandma Riley
2009 was riddled with death.  Friends lost loved ones.  Celebrities seemed to die every other day.  In my own family, I lost my last surviving grandparent.

When you lose a family member, one of two things can generally happen: the family will band together, or they'll be torn apart.  On my Mom's side of the family, the latter happened.  All but two of her five sisters seemed only concerned with what they stood to inherit and the feud is still going four months later.  

Matters weren't helped any by the fact that my Grandma had none of her affairs in order, and her immediate cremation left no time for anyone to fly to Florida and manage them. 

I am thankful that we got to see her in March of this year, but after losing her husband shortly after she returned home, I think she just gave up the will to fight.  She had battled cancer and other health problems for several years, and I can only hope that she is now at peace.

2. The Fire
It almost seems silly to write anything about the fire at this point.  It dominated most of my year and the details have been well documented on this very blog (even getting their own category).  Still, it was a major event, and for all the sadness that it caused, the light at the end of the tunnel ended up being very bright.

As I type this, I'm sitting in what is essentially a brand new house.  New floors, new walls, new insulation, new windows, new everything.  It's energy efficient, clean, and free of clutter.  We went from having a basement filled with years' worth of junk and hand-me-downs to an entertainment area I have affectionately named The MattCave. 

Sure, we lost a lot of material things, but the important things survived - namely my brother, my cat, and myself.  It's a night that I still remember as vividly as when it was happening, and it has instilled a strong sense of paranoia in me every time we run our dryer, but all things considered, it ended up being a fresh start.

1. My Dad
When it came time to write my Defining Moments of 2009 list, I was sure the fire would be a shoe-in for the #1 spot.

That changed on November 28th when my Dad suddenly and unexpectedly died of a heart attack while happily moving furniture with his wife in their home.

By the time we reached the hospital, he was already gone, and I've already expressed my regrets in a previous post so I'm not going to repeat them here.  I'm still trying to come to grips with the fact that he's gone.  I'm still coping, and it's not always an easy battle to win.  Sometimes it gets the better of me and I end up a blubbering mess at work.

The idea that there are "stages" of grief isn't entirely true.  It's not so much stages as it is a rush of swirling emotions.  You never know how you're going to feel at any given moment.  Just when you think you've accepted it, the anger and sadness swell again, and they can disappear just as quickly. 

I can only hope that I made my Dad proud, and that I will continue to for as long as I'm around.  I'm sad he won't be around to see me buy my first house, or publish my first novel, or get married (if any of those things ever happen), but this is just how it is and I'll just have to hope the stories about Heaven are true so that I can believe he's still watching.

So there you have it.  In just under four hours, 2009 will be in the past, right where it belongs.  To say it has been a shitty year is an understatement.  I'm more apt to shout "FUCK YOU, 2009!" from the roof of the tallest building in the world.  I would love nothing more than to see crowds of people gathered in Times Square or around the world shout it at midnight, raising their middle fingers as a sort of exclamation point.  Though there's no guarantee 2010 will be any better, I'd say it fucking owes me and several of my friends, and it better damn well make good.

For all the pain and suffering endured this year, I can still only think of my friends and family and how much they mean to me.  I couldn't ask for a better support group of people, and I hope I did my part when I was needed as well.

To Mike, Mom, and yes, Dad, Lisa, Wendy, Deanna, Chris, Carrie, Ashley, Emily, Kristy, Cori, Jill, Deneece (who I also grew measurably closer to this year), and, of course, Deborah - I love you all more than the word could ever convey.  Thank you so, so, so much for everything this year.  You are truly the greatest group of people anyone has ever been surrounded with and I hope you all have the best 2010 imaginable.

As for me, I am going on record right now as saying that next year, one of the items on this list will be "Finished my first novel." 

Now, if I could have everyone join me for a moment.

In three...
Two...
One...
FUCK YOU, 2009!

My Dad

My Dad was many things.

He was funny.  He was generous.  He was loving, but in his own way.  It wasn't always obvious, but you could feel it.  His own father, my Grandpa, was the same way - stern, but affectionate under the surface.  My Dad loved his sons unconditionally.  No matter how bad things got, no matter what happened between him and my mother, no matter how mad we were at him, or how much trouble we got ourselves into, I know that the one constant in his life was his love for my brother and I.

My Dad was many things, but he was not perfect.  He was human and was subject to all the faults inherent in our species.  I will not ignore these faults because they are all a part of who my Dad was.  He was also a man who was quick-witted and readily cracked jokes to lighten even the worst situations.  He was a man who, like me, had no affinity for school, but stored almost encyclopedic knowledge about the things he loved - including music, which ranged from Motown to country to 50s and 60s "Oldies". 

He was an avid sports fan.  Hockey Night in Canada was practically a religious experience for him.  At various points in his life he played hockey, basketball, softball, and soccer, and even into his 50s he would challenge my brother to hoops contests in any backyard that had a rim.  

For every bad memory, there are dozens of good ones.  Watching them play basketball together countless times was always entertaining, and whenever my Dad would win he would point to the Notre Dame t-shirt he always wore, as if it somehow granted him abilities beyond those of my brother and was responsible for his victory. 

There are memories of family vacations to Higgins Lake where he calmly pumped gas into the family car despite the giant "NO SELF SERVICE" sign in the window of the little podunk gas station.  This act earned him the nickname Clark Griswold (from the National Lampoons Vacation series of films, which were some of his favorites).  I definitely inherited my sense of direction (or lack of) from him, as he would frequently take us on "shortcuts" that led nowhere, although somehow he always found the right way eventually. 

For most of my life, he had worked in plumbing supply.  Though he was never a tradesman of any kind, he could fix or build just about anything you'd ask him to.  He built the bar in our basement, the deck on the back of our house and my Grandmother's, installed new showers into several houses, and fixed up the basement in the home where he lived with his second wife nicer than some peoples' upper floors.  He used to come home from work and tell us stories about licensed plumbers asking for silly things, and he'd burst into hysterical laughing.  We had no idea what he meant or why it was so funny, of course, but it amused him that these so-called experts were asking for equipment that was either inappropriate for the job, or didn't exist at all.

It's all those little things that I'll miss the most - the plumbing jokes I don't get, the voices he'd give to all his (and our) pets, the way he could make his pet beagle howl at will by repeating certain phrases ("Riley go ni-night!" in particular), the distinctive way he'd knock on the door to announce that he'd dropped by for a visit, the way he'd imitate his mom's voice, going to minor league hockey games together, his undiscerning taste in movies (he liked and raved practically every movie he saw, and he saw a great many movies), playing the piano hook from Chicago's "Color My World" on a nearly endless loop on the family piano or the way he'd break into song at a moment's notice. 

There are simply too many things to encapsulate.  How do you describe a life; its ups and downs, happy and sad moments, laughs and arguments?  I have so many memories worth sharing, and some I'll keep just between me and my Dad. 

My only regret is that I did not talk to him on Thanksgiving.  I don't know why.  My brother called him, but I never thought to ask for the phone or to call myself.  I guess I should take solace in the fact that the last words they exchanged were words of affection.  You can't ask for a better thing to say than "I love you," but I wish I had said it to him myself instead of my brother passing along a message.  It's something I will regret for the rest of my life, and I hope it brings into focus why my friends are often on the receiving end of my sentimentality.  You never expect the last time you speak to someone to actually BE the last time, so I try to make every time count for something. 

It's unfortunate that so many of my friends have experience in this sort of thing, but I couldn't ask for a better support system.  Over the last three days, I've relied heavily on my friends and they've been there every step of the way.  Words can't express my gratitude or my love. 

I will miss my Dad.  It's still hard to believe that he's gone.  The next time something breaks around the house, he won't be a phone call away.  I'll never hear that distinctive knock on our back door again.  We will no longer celebrate our birthday together, for I was born on the night of my Dad's 30th birthday celebration.  I'm trying to take comfort in the belief that he is with his parents - and my wonderful Grandparents - but it's not really making it any easier.  I know it sounds selfish in light of that belief, but I wish he were still here.  

I know it's too late now, but I wanted to say I love you, Dad.

Sold Out

Damn you, Google! 

A little over two years ago, I happened upon a blog by pure chance.  I was hanging out with a friend who was using my computer to surf some websites I couldn't have cared any less about, and we were just chit-chatting when suddenly I caught a glimpse of someone I recognized. 

It was an avatar photo on a message board, and it was someone who worked halfway down the hallway in the building where I also work! 

"Wait, go back up!" I said.  I took a better look, and sure enough I exclaimed "I know her!"

I read this blog for a few months, lurking in the shadows, catching up on older posts and reading any new ones.  Sure, it may have been a bit stalkerish, but it was not only interesting, it was funny!  She had (and still does) an amazing way with words that made things that may normally be mundane hysterical and entertaining to read.

I was eventually coaxed out of hiding by, what else, a video game related post.  She was one of the lucky ones who found a Wii in 2007 and purchased it as a Christmas gift for her two beautiful, adorable children.  Naturally, I offered some friendly advice: secure the wrist strap tight to make sure you don't end up with a Wii remote embedded in your TV courtesy of the little ones.  Kids aren't known for their moderation, after all.

I signed it with the name I've used as a handle for nearly a decade: CynicalMatt.

Lo and behold, the very next day she made a follow-up post.  It was about Wii Sports mostly, but she appended this little message to the end:
"P.S. - It appears I have several readers from work.  (Hi Matt A. on the 3rd floor.  Sorry, I couldn't resist.  I'm really resourceful...  Google sold you out."

Damn you, Google!  DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!

My secret was out.  Surely this gun-toting woman and her gun-toting husband would kill me for stalking her.  I was a goner. 

But something happened...

She made a post about her 10 favorite albums, and I discovered we had another thing in common: an obsessive passion for discovering music.  Not just the crap you hear on the radio, but all kinds of stuff.  She was into Tricky and Massive Attack.  The only other person I know who even knows who Tricky is is deathly afraid of him and his on-stage convulsions, yet this female called Maxinquaye one of her 10 favorite albums. 

It was on.

E-mails were exchanged.  CDs were burned.  Many, many CDs.  I think I burned an entire spindle.  Two addicts, feeding each other's addiction.  Sure, we didn't like everything, but if not for her I may never have gotten into Death Cab For Cutie, Neverending White Lights, or M83, and she may never have heard Grandaddy, Orbital, or UNKLE.

In the span of a few short weeks, we moved from talking about music to talking about life - our pasts, our beliefs, and everything in between.  We had a plethora of in-jokes including "blue bunnies," spoon-smelling, and the infamous "I just got off - WEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

We have confided things in each other that very few other people on Earth know.  She has given me advice at the most critical times, and I hope I've been able to repay that favor.  We share funny blogs and photos, and yes, we still share music regularly.  We go to lunch often, even after her initial fear that other people in the office may start spreading rumors (to hell with them, for the record), and we try to make each other laugh when the other needs it the most (although I have been known to be a bit more serious at times - like right now).

Even at the worst of times, she somehow manages to maintain her sense of humor and it's a quality I admire greatly.  It's the kind of strength I wish I had.  I admire her blunt honesty, and her undying love and devotion to her family. 

Really, when you think about it, I guess it's not such a bad thing that Google sold me out because it was the catalyst to a friendship that I value more than any material possession.  In record time, she was not only added to my stable of friends, but the people I consider my very best friends whom I trust with any and everything. 

So God bless you, Google.  And Happy Birthday/Anniversary, my friend!