Journal; j'ai vingt ans.

I have now taken twenty rides around the sun and am wondering if I can get frequent flier miles out of it.

The sun ignored me, so I guess not.

So far, my birthday has been peaceful, which I like, and I have received some wonderful presents. My parents gave me a kit for four-wheel drives that helps them by providing traction. It is a set of scored metal plates that you wedge under the wheels when stuck in soggy terrain; likely quite useful, though I have yet to get stuck. They also gave me three books that I have wanted for a while; The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, Six Tales of the Jazz Age and Other Stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and, the one I have most desired, Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I only asked for money for my birthday, so my parents must have lifted the names of these books off of my Christmas list; one that also emphasized money first, followed by a list of books and nothing else. I love all sorts of gifts, really, I just do not like asking for them because gifts mean much more when there has been thought put into them. My parents also gave me a card which contained two pieces of paper. One piece was a confirmation of my renewal to National Geographic for another year! And the other was a bank statement showing that my parents transferred $100 into my account. Both great gifts. I also asked my sister for money, but knew that she wanted to get me something so I made her a list, off of which she chose two items to give me. The first was Ulysses by James Joyce. I am really excited to read it but will probably wait until summer or when my patience for an 800+ page book is slightly stronger. The second was the graphic novel Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. I am very glad that she chose this book, as well as Ulysses, and intend to make Watchmen the next book I read.


A few people have wished me a happy birthday on Facebook. That makes me happy. I have recently removed my birthday information from my profile so I only get birthday wishes from those who actually want to write one. I do not care for words from those who only do it because their Facebook home page tells them it is my birthday so they obligingly write a mindless line full of pseudo-camaraderie and exclamation marks. I do like exclamation marks, but only when they follow something meaningful, like "I love you!" or "Warning: Poison Gas!"

More later.

Journal; Happy Twentieth Birthday, Maggie! Part II

Rereading that last entry, where I wished you a happy birthday, I feel really unsatisfied. So, to make up, I am posting what I posted on your Facebook wall earlier today:

One score and several hours ago your parents brought forth on this day a baby girl, conceived in Love and dedicated to the proposition that their girl will be better than all the rest.

They succeeded.

Happy Birthday, Maggie Pie!

I thought it an appropriate parody for the time.

Journal; Happy Twentieth Birthday, Maggie!

Dear Maggie,

On paper you're 20. In spirit you're 13. But now you can "detest teenagers" from a distance!

I love you.

Chad

Journal; A craving.

Tomorrow, which is now today as it is 1:14am, I would like to only eat food that have names beginning with the letter A, but I know that is not realistic. One day, though...

Journal; a mellow and conscious self indulgence.

I find that I can not sit in front of a computer, television or film all that long anymore. I do not think that it is a permanent feeling, but rather a welcome liberation of my dependency on other things than myself for entertainment. I have been reading and writing (not as much as I would like, though), and doing various little things, like teaching myself how to make a great cup of tea. Reading a good piece of writing does not give me the forced feeling that I get with other media, instead I feel as if I am conversing with the writer, as if I am in on whatever they are up to. So, lately my life has had a theme of creativity and artistry. I imagine that, if I were living somewhere more desirable, this is what a happy and content life would feel like; a mellow and conscious indulgence in one's own self pleasures and needs, only venturing out to the world when necessary or bored.

Journal; home, sick.

I do not want to count the days since I have returned home. I am sure that the number is small, so a confirmation would only remind me of how many more days I have to pass through to see Maggie again. It feels like a week, at least.

This parting was not as traumatic as the last. Maybe I was better prepared. Maybe it was because I was the one leaving. See, when Maggie left in the the summer, I felt slightly abandoned. It was not a logical feeling because I knew that Maggie was mine and had to leave. Like jealousy, love, lust, and a few others, the feeling was an unavoidable one; it could not be tamed, no matter how much I analyzed and understood it. Over time it softened, but I can not recall a point at which it was fully remedied from my system, except for the moment that I returned to Maggie this winter.

With Maggie I forget so much. I forget nearly everything, actually; the world dissolves. Like, the only piece of news I received over the week and a half that I was there, came to me on the streets of New York when I overheard a man say to another person, "I really hate Israel." But, I did not learn what was really going on until I was back home and told Dad about the man. I did not care to think about his comment more; I was busy imagining how cool Central Park will be.

Now I am home and sick. Emotionally sick. I can function rather well, it is merely a cold, but it would be nice to have some medicine. My dosage ran out in New Jersey. I have gone through withdrawal and I am now beginning to exhibit symptoms, such as cynicism, sarcasm, and restlessness. Living in the moment, which was so easy out east, is now a fantasy. I am social, but it is just not the same. Sometimes I forget my sickness and feel fine. Sometimes my sickness is all that is on my mind. I will get better, but I hope never to be cured, for my medicine tastes wonderful.