I'm about two-thirds of the way through Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and one of its main themes is striking a particularly relevant chord with me right now: the separation of the self into two opposite sides, particularly in the book's case, soul and body, light and dark, light and heavy. I feel this separation. I've always felt it and this book (and translation) puts it into words beautifully.

This separation into poles seems to be a naturally occurring phenomenon in our world and respective lives here. Recently, I am experiencing it violently in the form of my continued quarter-life crisis , as it has manifested itself into two distinct and separate destinies or roads for my life, both of which seem equally plausible, each having its benefits and drawbacks. The solution would be simple if there were any way to compromise the two, taking a page out of Diamond Rio's book and meet in the middle; this however, is an intrinsic impossibility as each option is completely exclusive of the other---they are polar opposites in every sense of the word and choosing one necessarily and absolutely means denying the other.

This is the same thing I've been writing about for months and, frankly, I'm a bit tired of the subject. But it keeps resurfacing in different ways, manifesting itself through any and every stimulus available, and this is the way I think best. It's a way of focusing energy into one sentence or word at a time, a way of escaping the constant onslaught of the rampant and raging rapids of the mind that continuously beat upon the shores of thought and demand to be reckoned with but offer no starting point. Writing is the magnifying glass to the powerful and unconentrated radiation of the sun of  my inner consciousness.

Here's my dilemma, in case you missed it the first 9,438 times I wrote about it, in the words of The Clash: should I stay or should I go?

There's nothing here. That is the sentiment of everyone from here, everyone who understands, everyone who knows. This place has nothing for me. But that's not true. Not at all. Not even close. What it lacks in opportunity it more than makes up for in sentimentality, familial loyalty, and blue-collar pride.

I am proud of the work of my father and the men like him that I grew up knowing, with rough hands, bad backs, and weary souls. I am proud of the working mothers who broke the mold not because of an inner drive to fulfill a desire outside of the home, but out of necessity.

I am proud of the brick home that stands empty on three acres of beautiful land in the middle of Kibler Road that my grandfather built with his bare hands to house his family. What will become of that house? Every day that I am here, there is a sliver of hope that someday I will again make that house a home, keeping it in the family and giving it the hard work and care that it requires and deserves. If I leave---when I leave---as planned, I will be turning my back on that house. Will I be turning my back on my grandfather's hard work with it?

I like it when the mechanic recognizes me from my name. I like being my grandfather's grandson. What of the legacies they've left behind? Who will carry them on? Does anyone in Tennessee know of the Seyberts? The Bushes? The Wellmans? The Kennedys? Perhaps at some distance or some incredible matter of chance and intertwining lives, but certainly not to the extent that they are known in this dried and shriveled area of what was America's heartland.

And what of occupation? My father would kill me for saying this, but a large part of me desires to seek training in some sort of skilled labor, join a union, and pay my dues---to scrape by with just enough to be comfortable but never enough to rest like we always did. There's something to be said for that. I like the way I turned out for it. What is more satisfying than falling asleep as soon as you hit the pillow because you are truly physically exhausted? (I'm sure it's not so romantic when you've been doing it for thirty years and your bones ache worse each morning and Mondays look more and more like the face of Death himself .) I say my dad would kill me for thinking this way because the very reason he's been working so hard, at least one of them, is what I'm rejecting here. He's worked hard and run his body into the ground so that I wouldn't have to, just as his father did and his grandfater before him. But if each generation works a little less hard than did the previous one, at some point the value of actual work will be lost. Would I value physical labor if I did not know it so personally? Would I realize the sacrifice had I not seen it every day in my own home? Would it not be, in some way, a living tribute to work just as hard and attempt to pass on this ethic to future generations? I personally believe our country would not be in this mess or anything close to it if more sons worked like their fathers---not necessarily the same occupation, but with the same ethic. The ration of white and blue collar workers has changed drastically, and perhaps there's nothing that could have been done to prevent it, such is the natural order of things. But there's no reason someone couldn't take a blue-collar ethic and values into a desk job.

And I may have just answered my own question.

Where does sense of humor come from?

Where do we get our sense of humor? Everyone's is different. It can't be genetic; my parents look at me like an idiot at least half of the time I'm laughing hysterically at something. It can't all be social either; I have several friends who actually think Dane Cook is funny. It's one of the most individualized traits in each person, and I want to know where it comes from?

I wonder when the first time I saw someone fall was. It must have been freaking incredible, because I think that's the funniest thing in the world. I can picture little baby me riding along in a stroller witnessing some jogger in spandex shorts and a fanny-pack tripping over a curb, landing on his face, smushing his mustache, and breaking his aviators. Little baby me apparently thought this was fantastic and filed it away into the part of the brain that deals with intense pleasure and under the tree labeled "funny".

On that same note, where does one's laugh come from? Just like sense of humor, everyone has a laugh that is uniquely theirs, and I feel that how a person laughs says a lot about them. A reserved and shy person might have quiet little mouse laugh to avoid being noticed for fear they weren't supposed to be laughing at all. A more outgoing person might have a loud and gregarious laugh that fills a room and draws the attention of every eye. An annoying person might have a weaselly whinny that embodies their very being, and a shrew of a person always seems to have a shrill cackle that sends shivers down your spine.

Laughter, to me, is one of the most attractive qualities of another person, both what they're laughing at and how they're doing it. When I think of my best friends, I hear their laughter. All of them have good, strong, hearty laughs. The same is true with members of the opposite sex that I find myself attracted to for any extended period of time. She might look good and seem cool, but if I don't dig the laugh---that's a deal breaker, ladies.

Ahh, well... off to watch some internet videos in hopes of laughing hard, outloud, by myself, at my computer screen.

Beating Boredom by Bypassing Business Burdens

I once saw a comedy bit by someone---I'm pretty sure it was Jim Gaffigan---about how you have those days where you have only one, small, menial task, but one thing leads to another and you wind up running out of time to get it done. The example I saw used was going to the post office. My personal example today is close: mail some stuff. 

Things keep coming up and getting in the way. I took a nap. That's okay, I don't feel too badly about that one. I couldn't get to sleep last night, got up at 3:20 this morning, and will likely be up well past midnight tonight due to a baseball game that starts at 8:30, then do it all again tomorrow. So, I took a nap.

Then, I downloaded the first six episodes of the Danny McBride show on HBO, Eastbound and Down. I watched one. It was hilarious. This came after I downloaded the first season of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and gave up on it. I just couldn't get into it. Some funny stuff, but it wasn't for me. Now that I've finished the series of Arrested Development, I've been needing a new comedy fix. This one has a promising start. 

After that, I read for a bit. I decided a while back to re-read The Great Gatsby, assuming that much of its meaning was lost on me when I read it as a junior in high school. I was probably right, but my evaluation of it hasn't changed much. It's a great book, no doubt. It's beautifully and masterfully written. That said, I just don't like it all that much. I guess my problem with it is that I find Nick the more interesting character than Gatsby for some reason. He's the one I want to know about, but I'm not getting much from him. I guess I just like it better when the narrator is telling his own story rather than regurgitating someone else's. But, I'm sure that's all part of the plan. Regardless, it's not my favorite. 

 Now, I'm here writing this. It has no point. I've just recounted my day. Why? Because it's a way to avoid the tiny and trivial amount of "work" I have to get done today before 5 o'clock. Will I get it done? I don't know. Probably not. Even if I get bored (which is highly likely to occur within the next hour) I probably won't give in and just get it done. I don't know why. It's just one of those days. 

Another thing, what the hell does one include on a resume meant for admission to graduate school? "I know my grades don't look all that impressive, but I swear I was a really hard worker. No, I don't have any academic honors to point out, but I did play a lot of baseball and drink a lot of beer. Oh yeah, I also changed majors five times and have twice changed my mind since graduating because I never had a damn clue what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. Oh, you're not impressed? hmmm well, I could mention that my GPA, while not that impressive, was accrued with the absolute minimum amount of work possible. That was pretty impressive to me, anyway. No? Not doing it for you? How about all those bible classes? Oh, those don't count for shit? They were really hard, I swear."

I guess that's probably why I'm putting the whole thing off to start with. I don't know what/how to write that resume. I didn't think I even needed it but then, wham! I get a letter from the school saying they need this and this and this and this and they're all things that I wasn't even aware I needed. I'm pretty worthless at having a clue as to what needs to get done and how things work. Someone seriously needs to lead me around like a little puppy and show me where to stand and what forms to fill out and what time to be at what place. It's pretty embarrassing.

And on that note, I'm going to list a bunch of reasons why I like words that start with the letter 'B':
Balloons
Bazookas
Boobs
Breasts
Bread
Brett
Beer
Beans
Baby
Blue
Boom
BACON
Badass
Badger
Bad news
Baggy
Bagpipes
Baths
Bail
Baked goods
Bakeries
Bald people
Balls
Baseball
Ball game
Ball
Balm "Who told you to put he balm on?! I didn't tell you to put the balm on!!!"
Bands
Bananas "BA-NA-NA-S"
Bands
Bandits
Bulbous
Bump
Bum
Boner
Bones
Blueberries
Bret Michaels
Brett Favre
Bluth family
Bottles
Birds
Bald Eagles
Brothers
Bachman Turner Overdrive (and the countless other amazing bands that begin with 'B')
Beaches (not the movie)
Bars
Black People
"Black" by Pearl Jam
BEARS
Blake Lively
Bar Rafaeli
BIKINIS
Blackbelts
Blackbeard
Bluebeard
Buster Bluth
Barry Zuckerkorn
Barry Manilow
Barry White
Bar Mitzvahs
Bobby Bonilla
Brant Brown
Barry Sanders
Breath
and... that's enough for now. But you get the idea. Oh yeah, one more---Butts.