Shortest (and brownie point-iest) post ever.

HAPPY BURFDAY MOM!


I heart you. Have fun being 29. Again.

July 4, 1776

I learned something yesterday. It turns out that King George III had a diary. And that his diary entry for the date of July 4th, 1776 was "Nothing of importance this day."


Yup.


So, what's the moral of this story?


I think it is very clearly this:


Don't get too comfortable. You never know when your colonies might revolt from you.

Love Rocks

Please don’t toss this aside expecting some sort of sappy soliloquy where I detail my deep and eternal appreciation for the concept that is “love.” I assure you that it is not. Nor is it a sarcastic tirade against false, demeaning feelings that only leave a person emotionally crippled and increasing their collection of felines. I promise it’s not that either. This is a story. It is also a rather painful one for me.

             There was this girl. Her name was Meg. Admittedly, I was stricken with intense feelings of admiration and frequent heart palpitations. I liked her a lot, ok? She liked me too, as I had recently learned. The funny thing about cute girls is that they tend to be crazy. Well, Meg had a disturbing way of showing her affection. You might meet her for the first time and think you had stumbled upon an adorable angel of cute adorableness who could do nothing remotely wrong. If you thought that, you might end up in stunned silence when she revealed her true, sinister self.

You see, this girl possessed an appearance of sweet innocence. It was that very appearance that disguised her inner darkness. She was, and is, prone to violence and constant bitterness. Honestly, I don’t know how I was fooled. Meg managed to keep up the ruse for quite some time. She actually seemed nice for a while! I thought she might even be a promising prospect of romantic interest. How very wrong I was.

Before long, her motives came out and she could bury them no longer. One day, she lost control. We were with a group of mutual friends, being silly and doing the sorts of useless things that teenagers tend to do. Somehow, a small-rock throwing contest got underway. I don’t know why, as I was innocently minding my own business. Well, I made the mistake of getting between Meg’s projectile and Meg’s brother. If you read that sentence carefully, you’ll see that it clearly spells “danger.”

The rock hit me in the head! Yes, you read that right. She was fifteen years old and threw a rock at the face of a guy she apparently liked. Those aren’t mixed messages. Those are messages that have been put in a blender all weekend. I was confused. I am still confused.

            I might be showing my ignorance here, but is that normal? It doesn’t seem like it to me. To this day, she claims that she meant to hit me in the chest and that she only did it because she liked me. I’m not sure why that’s reasonable, but she seems sure that it’s a legitimate excuse. Before anyone calls the police to inform them of a psychopathic girl with a penchant for stoning potential suitors, please know that it was a tiny rock and it was hardly a forceful throw. Still, it wounded my pride and gave me a captivatingly beautiful bruise.

            Frankly, I don’t buy her story of it having been intended for my torso. She should have stuck with the “I meant to hit my brother” excuse. I’m fairly certain that she MEANT to hit me in the head. She MEANT to cause brain damage. For a psychopath, she’s actually pretty smart. What better way to trick someone into dating a crazy person than to give them brain damage? Sadly, it worked. Apparently, that rock hit me harder than I thought, because I still like her.

            Actually, she’s sitting next to me now and encouraging me to tell this story. She finds it humorous to look back on. At that point in time, she felt horribly guilty. Now, she’s forgotten feelings of remorse and settled on chuckling about her own cruelty. I’m not sure if these romantic feelings I still feel for her are because of or in spite of the rock incident. All I know is that I still like her. I like her a lot. I might even love her. I just hope the throwing of a rock was a one-time deal. My poor brain cells can’t take any more abuse.

This Giraffe Knows Where He's No Longer Stray (Unstrayified II)

It's a vast, empty world we live in. It's a lonely path I walk on. I'll be attracting a lot of attention, I imagine. With my pursuits, it's only natural. It's to be expected. People will be watching me. Others will be telling me how to live my life, and how I'm a failure. Pressures surround me. They crush me. After a while, it's gotten old and I've gotten bitter.

I'm caught up in it and lost in anger. That's not where I should be. My focus has been taken away from God. One step at a time, He's led me where He wants to. I've learned so much and grown even more. One thing after another, God has taken care of for me. It's like He's paving in front of my footsteps.

I'm not complaining. God has blessed me so much. So much more than I deserve. All that is another post. This is about the greatest blessing he's given me: my best friend.

I've mentioned her before.

Her name is Meg.

She's incredible. She's persistent and unbearably stubborn. That's good though. She's stubborn about loving me. Probably too stubborn for her own good.

You see, when I'm struggling to be in a good mood and because of chemical imbalances in my brain I can't, all she does is try to make me smile. She tells me that she loves me a thousand times. She grins. She does loving things. In short, that girl melts me. She scares away the stress. She promises it'll all work out.

I love her. So much.

I want the whole wide world to know that she is the best, most incredible girlfriend ever.

That's not a smitten, sappy guy talking. That's not someone who isn't thinking clearly because he's madly in love. I mean, I AM smitten, sappy, and madly in love with that girl, but that's not where this is coming from. I've had her in my life for a brief two years. In comparison with the rest of our lives together, we're just starting out. But I know she's amazing. I don't just say that as her boyfriend. I say that as her best friend. I say it as the person who knows her better and loves her more than anyone else. I say that as the person who knows all her deep, dark secrets. And as the person who has cried with, hugged to death, and survived so much with her.

Mostly, I say that as the man she'll marry.

I'm not just saying a tired, old line when I tell you that I'm the luckiest guy in the world. She REALLY loves me. She loves me so much. That young woman is everything to me. And she'd do anything for me.

I can't stop thanking God. He's blessed me so much. Of all the little and large things He's orchestrated all my life to get me here, the best one was that little piece of paper. The one that I wrote one little word on. The moment I said, "sure," was the best thing I've ever done. I'd say it was the best choice that I've ever made, but it wasn't a choice. You don't "choose" to love a girl like Meg. She forces your heart into love with nothing but a grin and those brown eyes that have more love than I've seen everywhere else.

I love her. I always will.

"Where it's all a blur

You are the hard line

In the disorder

You are the peace sign"

Shivers

You're in a small house. Warmth and wood and light surrounds you. It's a little bit loud with all the people buzzing about. You don't mind though. The evening is too optimistic to bring down with thoughts of silence. Weeks have been spent mourning, but not tonight. Tonight you'll dance.

Everyone is hurrying to hang up decorations and string together lights. Apple pie is being baked in the kitchen. You smell it. Everyone smells it. It's both torturous and pleasant. You can only bear the wait because you know it can only bake for so long. Soon you'll taste it, only to forget about the wait. So you decide to enjoy the wait.

It's a beautiful night inside. Outside, the wind is howling and swirling around the tiny home. Trees rise up and glower at the house. It's a brave, little cabin sitting all alone in a forest of trees. Daring to shine out into the night, it attracts all sorts of attention. The wind batters it. The rain soaks it. The moon glares and growls.

You walk over to the frosty window to check on the moon. Just to make sure she's playing fair and minding her own business. Something catches your eye. A shape in the snow. The shape is red and curled up and shivering. It's alone.

The shape is a boy. The party is for him. He knows that. He planned the party mostly alone. The boy is sitting out in the snow expectantly. He's waiting to see headlights. No, he's straining to see headlights. Peering around trees and hoping to see light soon, he's practically bouncing. Mostly, he shivers though. He shivers a lot.

The boy wouldn't think of heading inside. He wouldn't dream of hanging up his coat. How could he? The headlights are coming soon and he must be ready when they do. Others will attend to the party. They'll set it up. But who else can wait for the headlights? No one but him.

The boy waited hours and hours. Night was dragging by. Finally, the smell of apple pie dragged him inside by the ankles. He flung off his jacket and sunk into his favorite sofa. Before he could think of pie, sleep took him. And sleep took him for a while. Not too long though. Sleep never takes him for too long.

His eyes shot open at strange lights. Headlights shone on his ceiling. He leapt up, not seeing the party. He was out the door and in the air. His feet hit the snow, toes tingling. The car was here. The lights were here.

I am the boy.

A Snowflake On Your Cheek

This is what I had written right before the power went out. It stayed out for over 67 hours. That's one heck of a coffee break. I'd finish writing this but it seems silly. Bigger and better things, Nate. Bigger and better things. If you'll excuse me, I have a rant to compose.


I might never have enjoyed peeking outside my window so much as right now. It's as if sugar is leaping from the sky and landing on my driveway. I'm not gonna lie. I love this.

I know, I know. I'm a lunatic. A marauding band of people from the surrounding areas is, no doubt, walking to my front door with evil intent. I'm sure they plan to take me from my home and murder me deep in the woods somewhere for stating such heresy.

I don't care. This is too good, too perfect not to praise. Nothing matches the first snow of the year, whether its in October or January. The first snowflake is so magical that it almost makes the subsequent months and hundreds of snowstorms worth it. Almost.

I have a confession to make.

This snowstorm is a direct result of my actions.

If that offends you, I'm sorry. If you feel a sudden and nearly unbearable urge to shove a pillow over my mouth until my flails cease and I can no longer cause emotional turmoil, then I'm also sorry.