My submission to the Many Worlds Interpretation - Khanh's Cat.

In one world, the cat is dead. In another world, the cat's totally alive...having a great time...writing letters home to ma about what a great time it's having...creating time machines that defy the time space wave function continuum...ending up in the dead cat's universe on a particularly wild night. It finds the dead cat. Slaps the dead cat in the face and says, "When are you going to wake up? Don't you realize you're nothing but a part of a very flawed theory?!" There's no response. Drunk and disappointed, the live cat stumbles back into his time machine navigating his way back home. Except, there's no home anymore. There's a steal cage and some nutty Austrian physicist named Erwin Schrödinger standing there going, "I've got an idea."

Moral of Interpretation: Don't fuck with a dead cat.

-The End-

Nothing like waking up...

...and finding out you are still you. It'll take me a few more hours to determine whether or not this is a good thing or a bad thing.

In the meantime, I'll take it as a good thing because the other option, not waking up at all, pretty much sucks when you're least expecting it.

-the end-

Attempt #6780789

The words used to come out easier. But lately, all I've done is write for hours only to eventually find myself repeating what I normally do...paralyze my pinkie finger on the backspace button deleting my thoughts and words one letter at a time. I've forgotten what the point was and resolve that it wasn't all that important to begin with.

I figure I needed to really attempt writing it all out again, pointless or not, because how I've been handling it is getting me nowhere.

I'm in a relationship. It was working on it. I've reached the point of realizing I've put in too many overtime hours without any benefit. I need to move, and I'm struggling with it. I question what it is I'm struggling with...is there something telling me I've been going about it the wrong way or am I hitting that age where I'll take what I've got because I've ruined everything else and loneliness is my only other option.

I hate my job. I don't really. It's just not what I want to do. What I want to do gives me a lot more freedom but a lot less pay. Can I live off freedom? Ideally, I could, but freedom doesn't pay an overdue electric bill. It doesn't put food in my stomach. I mine as well look for a job raising magical ponies. Both would be equally non-realistic.

I would like to find the body wash that erases the mysterious pheromone attracting all the perverts to me as of late. You think this is me speaking from arrogance, but I've had more than one too many incidents of attracting the wrong crowd. Something is raising red flags around me saying, "Yes. Feel free to talk to me, react to me, attempt to molest me. I don't mind." I do mind. What can I do to give off THAT vibe.

Self actualization.
Esteem
Love/Belonging
Safety
Physiological

I've fallen of Maslow's Pyramid. I've allowed myself to be satisfied at the bottom of his triangle, and barely so. I'm barely a trapezoid.

-the end-

I kind of miss my best friend.

I kind of wish things weren't so awkward. A boy and a girl can be friends without it being complicated. But sometimes, it gets complicated just the same. You wait it out. You talk again and you punch each other in the shoulder. It's not time to punch him in the shoulder just yet. Waiting it out. I'll punch him eventually.

I remember when...

Is it accurate that I feel like using the term unseasonably cold for the weather here in Texas? It's terribly cold outside. Frankly, it's cold inside. My bones are feeling chilly.

I broke out a jacket I haven't worn in years. Perhaps the feel of cow leather and nostalgia would warm me. It does it's best to block out winter. Not so bad, but not so great either.

My hands, they go unprotected. I'm knitting them into armpits trying to catch whatever bit of warmth I can manage. It's the cold that knocks out my sense of reason and causes me to forget that jackets have pockets. Into them, my hands finally go.

A scrap of paper. No, it feels oddly different than the normal detritus that I keep there. Usually a collection of gas station receipts for cigarettes snuck while my parents weren't looking. A gum wrapper for the spearmint I gnawed on to cover it up. A ticker tape jumble of a careless youth.

No, this certainly felt different. Even with my blind and numb hands, I could feel the sharp creases of intentionally folded piece of paper.

Curiosity piques me and I dig the scrap out of the pocket. Opening the first fold I read an apology.

It's the apology of a shy young man I once knew very fondly. He's tired and the first thing he decided to do that morning was write this very letter to me. He's saying sorry about how clumsy he appeared after our first date and how even clumsier this letter appears. But, he doesn't apologize for what he really wants to tell me...that he likes me and that he'd really like to get to know me.

I'm a little giddy at finding this letter. A bit warmed even. It's the last time I remembered someone going out of there way to tell me they cared for me. That doesn't happen as often these days. But it happened once. I remember.

I'm going to be late to work.

The cupie doll says it all. Big whoops.

I've got either streaks of good luck, or streaks of bad. I'm coming off my several months long streak of bad. Coming upon the new year, things are looking a bit up. I won't dish on all the details as I'm pretty sure that's the easiest way to set me on a streak of bad luck again.

Just know, I'm just a touch giddy. The concept of breakfast in bed still boggles my mind even though it's the third time this week I've had it brought to me in slumber. I'll eventually find a way to muck it all up, but while I nurse on a mug of tea, I relish the fact that in that moment, I"m absolutely harmless and he thinks I look innocent nonetheless.

Other business...

At the very moment, I'm surrounded by what I can only call Kabuki theater meets IDM. Through a friend's recommendation, I'm listening to Drawing Restraint 9, a soundtrack drummed up by Bjork to accompany a performance art/ sculpture/ cinema piece by Matthew Barney.There's lots of wailing and synthesized woodblock. It's crazy and chaotic. I'm in love. I'm pretty sure that the neighbors aren't liking it as much. I'm also pretty sure they are under the assumption I've just staged a dramatic sepukku next door. Nevermind. I'm falling to sleep to it and wondering what the hell the dream sequences are going to be like tonight.