You go about your life, you do your job, you make your plans, and you don't think you're a bad person. You come up with neat ideas, books you'll never write, movies you'll never make, comic books you'll never draw. You entertain yourself with your ideas, and if you're lucky, you entertain others, too. And they smile, because your ideas are neat, and you don't think you're a bad person.

You work on something, and you put a lot of emphasis on it, and when it doesn't happen it makes you feel like a failure. You feel stress about your job and start to wonder if you really matter there or if you're just a body filling in until someone better comes along. You think about your family, and you realize none of them care, not really, and you never feel it more than when they're pretending they do. You think about your friends, and you think maybe they don't care either, or you think you don't have any at all. But you don't think you're a bad person.

You think about her a lot. Mostly you think about how you screamed at her all the time back then, and there's no taking that back, no making up for it, not ever. You think about how even now you still blow up, and even though it's not as bad, it's still bad. You think about her friends, and how you know that if any of them had the chance they'd hurt you like you hurt her, and it fills you with shame because you know you deserve it. And you think, okay, you've done bad things, but you're trying to be better, you really are. And you wonder, are you a bad person?

You think about your future, and it doesn't look good. You think about those neat ideas, and they seem so worthless in your hands. Like maybe they'd amount to something if only they came from someone better than you. You think about her, and how you're probably going to lose her, because let's face it, there's better things out there for her, and you're just holding her back. And you look back on those days when you went with her to social events and were ignored or talked down to, and you think to yourself, hey, at least you got invited. At least there was a time when people tolerated your presence and pretended they wanted you around, if only for her sake. And you realize you'd be nothing right now if it wasn't for her. You'd just be that same closed up shell that you were when you met her. And on the tail of that, you realize that's exactly what you're going back to, little by little. And you know she's not going to stick around to watch that.

And you think you're a bad person after all.

I've been posting LJ entries since January of 2004. Over four years.

In that time, I have poured my heart and soul out to the masses, but mostly, I was just telling my friends about my life. Filling them in on the day to day happenings. Because, hell, you guys live so far away, and I don't get to see you very often. In fact, the last time I got to see one of you was over two years ago, and that didn't go well. Looking back over the entries, looking back over my life, I've come to realize something in the past four years. I've come to realize how much the gulf of physical distance has impacted our friendships, and always to the negative. You don't post replies on my entries, and I don't post any on yours. We don't chat on AIM anymore. We don't send each other email. We're friends, but in name only. And that really sucks.

I'm not a social guy. I have very high standards for those I call friend. If you're one of them, it's probably because you've proven to me that you'll be there for me through thick and thin, and all that. You're my friend because you care, but more than that; you're a friend because you've made me care about you. You've made me think we're in this for the long haul.

But when old friendships die, they always die slow. It never happens with screaming or yelling, or vehement pointing of fingers. It never happens with a great big "Fuck You" or a one finger salute. It happens soft and gentle, like quicksand, and you don't really notice it until you're up to your neck and there's no way out. And even then, the struggling just makes you sink faster.

So this is me, sinking. I don't really feel like struggling anymore. It's gotten old, and I just want it over and done with. It's bandaid time. It's not time to peal. It's time to rip.

I'm not posting to LJ anymore. Maybe I'll delete it, I don't know. I've got a lot of memories stored on here, so maybe not. In any case, you can take me off your friends lists, I won't be coming back.

Goodbye, folks. It was really nice knowing you. Really, really nice.

Or, to leave you with a smile: It's been swell, but the swelling's gone down.

I passed someone being evicted on my way home for lunch just now.

She must have gone through the bitter crying/pleading part of the process, because by the time I saw her she was morosely picking through belongings being summarily deposited on the sidewalk by two stony-faced men in street clothes and worn cloth work gloves. She would pick up an object - perhaps a picture in a frame, perhaps some kitchen appliance, cord dangling like the tail of a dead animal - stare at it for a moment, then put it back down for lack of a better place to put it. There were children's toys and clothing still on the hanger, some already soaking in the mud of early spring as all around melting snow dripped off eaves and trickled down storm drains. A child was still inside the apartment, and it was crying.

Just as I rounded the corner, leaving the scene behind me, I heard one of the workmen say, "We have to lock you out now."

Yeah. I'm so ready to move.

I had a dream last night that wasn't fun.

I was back in my mother's house. My brothers were all young again, my brother Michael around seven or so, but I was still the age I am now. Michael kept throwing up a lot of clear liquid with yellow chunks in it, more than a child of seven should have had in his stomach. The thing was, he seemed completely indifferent to this, and would let it just run down his shirt or fill his bed, and several times I caught him just sleeping in it.

I finally lead him into the bathroom to throw up in the toilet, but he kept missing. I was getting more and more worried about him, thinking how serious it must be for him to keep throwing up when all logic told me he didn't have anything left in his stomach.

This was about the time I started throwing up myself, small chunks of yellow stuff the consistency of day old oatmeal. No clear stuff. In my dream, I tried to rationalize it, saying to myself, "It's okay, I'm just throwing up because he's throwing up and it's gross. I'm not sick." But even in dreams you have a subconscious, and it was working overtime, whispering to me that it was more than that, and that whatever Michael had, I had it too, and it was going to kill us both from the inside out.

And then I woke up.

I took a rather nasty fall on the icy sidewalk outside my apartment last night. In another light it might have been funny: I had been warning Jannel to be careful, to walk gently, that it was very slippery, and then down I went. I landed hard on my left side, and since my hands were stupidly in my pockets I couldn't sufficiently stop myself. I hit my head, shoulder, hip and knee against the frozen sidewalk, and the wind was more than a little knocked out of me. My glasses went skittering away, and even now I'm shocked they weren't damaged (Flex frames ftw).

I rolled around in agony for a little while, Jannel kneeling worriedly over me, then got up when I realized nothing was broken. I did, however, receive a hell of a bruise on my left forearm that instantly swelled to the size of a golf ball. Half an hour of icing it finally brought it down from severely angry to slightly pissed off, and I was able to get some sleep. Today, my whole left side hurts, and my shoulder ached so bad I couldn't pick up any of the kids at school. My head still hurts where I hit it a little, but it was never anything serious. All in all, I should consider myself lucky, but I don't.

First an infection, now this. The god of lefties must hate me.

Yes, that's right. After months of waiting, days of computer tinkering (by my good friend Steve), the purchase of two parts to replace defective ones, and hours of worrying, I now am the proud owner of a kickass computer of ass kickery (+1). After much thought, I have decided on its name. It came to me when I thought the face plate made it look a bit like a bird of prey, and I had been wanting to work something about shadow or shade into it, so I have decided:

Shades of Prey.

It perches on my computer desk, ready and willing to fly on my command and soar amongst the pigeons and swallows of the Intarweb. It shall claw and rip at my bidding, and none shall stand against it, muah ha ha ha haaaaa.

*Ahem*

So now I go and install WoW and Fable and oggle graphics. Ta!

Good news: The infection is going away. The redness has greatly decreased, the line is much more faint, and the itchiness has all but disappeared. I love you, antibiotics.

Greater news: I didn't get around to posting about this, what with other stuff happening. Jannel and I did our taxes nice and early, and I got a big fat return which I used to order parts for a new computer online. The parts arrived yesterday, and my computer savvy friend Stephen was kind enough to put that sucker together. The bad news is that the CPU didn't come with it's own fan, so I have to buy one today.

Aside from that, though, the thing is friggin' sweet. 4 gigs of ram, 2.6 ghz AMD2 processor, GeForce 8600GTS 256MB 128-bit video card, 250 gig hard drive, and the case looks like this. The bottom line? It cost me $150 less than the crap-tastic E Machine I bought last year.

Excuse me while I do my happy dance.

Last night I noticed what looked to be a small pimple on the back of my left thumb near the knuckle, so I popped it. Clear fluid came out, and I thought nothing more about it. Then it started to hurt, so I put some antibiotic cream on it and went to bed. This morning I woke up and went to stretch, and a shooting pain lanced up my arm. In my sleepy-headedness I assumed I'd slept on my arm wrong.

But then I got to work and noticed a dotted red line running up from the pimple to just before my elbow, where it petered out and picked up again as an even fainter red mark a little bit below my armpit. I of course became highly concerned, and received permission from Boss Lady to go see a doctor.

My primary doctor wasn't in her office, but the receptionist was kind enough to direct me across the street to a walk-in clinic. After an hour wait I was inspected by first a nurse, then a doctor. The doctor told me it might be a staph infection, and she gave me a proscription for antibiotics, which I later filled at a corner drug store. Boss Lady said I shouldn't come back to work (all a kid would have to do is touch my hand with an open wound on theirs), and hopefully a weekend of antibiotics should show some improvement. Meanwhile, blood work is being done to determine the severity of the infection, and that should be back by Monday or Tuesday.

I still don't know what it was or how it happened. Some people have been suggesting spider bite, but that would leave two holes, and I only saw one. Who knows, maybe I just poked myself and didn't notice. Either way, I really hope this goes away soon.

(Edit: The red line is no longer dotted, but solid, though it remains a faded red, like a marker line after it's been washed off. I'm not in Roland territory yet, but I worry. I've never had a staph infection before (*eyeroll to Andee*), so my mind is conjuring up all sorts of lovely, bed-ridden scenarios. I've done some research, but even the knowledge that most infections of these sort die off with antibiotics, I can't help feel a little anxious.)

So Heath Ledger died yesterday.

...


damn.

In music news:

I've been listening to the local Christmas radio station at work, mostly as background noise, and because I know the parents won't object when the come in to pick up their kids. I don't mind most Christmas music, as long as they don't get too preachy or sappy, but there's a few I really, really hate. There's one in particular they've been playing a lot recently that drives me up the fucking wall with it's lyrical idiocy: Happy Holiday by Andy Williams. I came home with the intense desire to rant about it and rip it a new one, but after doing a Google search I stumbled across this blog post that does all that for me.

I agree with every word. All I have to add is that as far as I'm concerned, Andy Williams can come back to life just long enough to die of rectal cancer for unleashing this holiday brick upon the world.

In movie news:

What.

Okay. It looks like it might be really funny. And hey, it's Will Smith. I don't think he's done a bad movie in his life. Well, maybe Hitch. But yeah.

Can someone please tell me why it is that any time there's a movie about a black superhero, it's a comedy? I mean, what the fuck? It's not like there's a lack of quality superheroes out there: Storm, Static, Bishop, Prowler, Steel, War Machine...and that's just off the top of my head. So how come none of them get their time in the spotlight? Why is it whenever someone gets it in their head to make a movie headlining a black superhero, it's got to be some no-name asshat like Meteor Man or Blankman? FUCK.

Also:

What.

My rant here isn't so much that they would make a live action DBZ (because, let's face it, it was bound to happen), but that Justin Chatwin is Goku and James Marsters is Piccolo. Wow, this movie is going to suck. I can't wait!

So halfway through The Candy Shop War, I come across the mention of Creature Crackers and my heart just about stops. See, in Cool Beans I have a character that acquires animal crackers capable of changing her into the animal they're shaped like. Since the creator of the magical treats is Chinese, they are shaped like the signs of the Chinese zodiac. Just now, however, I looked them up online, and to my great relief, Creature Crackers only alter a person's body and make them appear monstrously misshapen. WHEW!

That little incident aside, the more I read this, the less worried I become. The similarities end with the premise, and that's wonderful. I'm still really annoyed that a concept so original, one that I published first with no real press, is getting all this attention by another author. If/when Cool Beans gets on shelves, it'll no doubt go through the "I've seen this somewhere before" phase before I can convince people that (no really!) I was there first.

In the interest of keeping my private life private, I have made a separate lj account just for the posting of book chapters. Take note, the lj account is called conrad_book, so please add that to your friends lists. Like I edited below, I shall be posting the prologue tomorrow night, and will follow that up with a chapter a night until all of them are up. I invite everyone who is participating to be brutally (but politely) honest with me. Please, pick this thing apart, I need it if I'm going to get this thing on bookshelves.

Okay, that's all. See you tomorrow night!

This business with The Candy Store War has taught me a valuable lesson, and that's to get my act together on my other projects before someone else publishes them first, too. So in that respect, I'm editing the hell out of my first book in a young adult trilogy, The Clockwork Girl, and I need your help!

You (yes, YOU!) can be a part of literature history! In the next few days I plan to post a chapter of the first book in the trilogy each day on this very LiveJournal, and I need some suckers kind hearted people to read it through and give me their honest, no holds barred opinion and help me figure this out.

Now, I only want those people who would be willing to commit to reading a (not very long at all) chapter a day and give me constructive criticism that goes beyond just "Man, that was way cool, keep it up!" Keep in mind, I'm trying to get this ready to be published, so I want to know how I can make each chapter better. But for that, I need beta readers. And so I turn to you, People of teh Internets! Join me, and we shall rule the galaxy as father and son make books happen!

So if you're interested and serious about helping me out, leave a comment so's I can add you to the extra special friend's only filter made just for this occasion!

Come on, everybody! Let's sexy reading!

Thanks, friends, I've got the number of people I need. No more need apply. I'll be posting the prologue tomorrow night, and a chapter each night thereafter.

I hate you, Brandon Mull. I hate you with the burning passion of a thousand suns, and I hope you curl up and die screaming.

But could you please finish the Fablehaven series first? Because those books are seriously kickass.

Okay, okay, so I don't really hate the guy. I mean, he's incredibly talented, and great minds do think alike. Still...of all my ideas...

Jannel and I went to see The Golden Compass opening night.

( Here's my spoiler filled review. )

I'm feeling better.

Throwing up is perhaps the worst feeling I know. I'd rather have any other physical symptom than throwing up. I'd rather have a fever of 103 than throw up. I'd rather cough and sneeze and get no sleep than throw up. Goddamn.

It's the anticipation, that "will I or won't I" feeling as your body teeters on the edge of nausea. And then the actual act itself, your vision swimming as every muscle in your body clenches as one and everything comes pouring out. And then there's the dry heaves, when every ounce of food has been purged from your body, as wave after wave of muscle spasms wrack your body, trying in vain to push some imaginary invader from your stomach. It is a pain I would not wish on my worst enemy.

I really hope this is over soon.

Perhaps the most disturbing thing I ever, and will ever, have seen: