Play it to the bone my friends, play it to the bone.

I guess if I had to give some sort of advice on how to live life I would carry on for a few moments about how you have to live every moment like its special, how you have to embrace all of your emotions, and of course how you can't fault your self for your failures (let me see my failures for the dreams they once were)... but after a few moments I would come it would come down to this one statement: make everyone around you matter. Know their names, a little bit of their lives (not too much), say hi, talk to them daily, and most importantly, listen.

What do you think God does up there all day? listen, nothing but listen. Sometimes thats enough.

I read books on religion, I play out these long scenerios in my mind and I always return where I started, invigorated and yet wondering why I ever wandered in the first place... there are two lives out there, the hard cold factuatal and the spiritual. They don't have to intertwine, in fact that shouldn't. I've spent a year upset by what I've always known only to return to where I was understanding, what I already knew, with a renewed vigor.

writing about positive experiences seems a breach of ettiquette. Maybe it's all the beat reading or maybe my own inclination but I see no need to spew about and write down all my feelings of love and contentment; it just feels false on paper.
Maybe I was burned a while back, maybe I inherently know that writing is an explanation/poor attempt at relating experience and in dealing with death, dads, and alcohol a blog is at the perfect distance, comfortable enough to be read by others but removed enough from my self as to not cause to much pain.
When I am in love(with girls, the world, and otherwise) I would much rather go out and be in love. What's there to write about?
books and journals are for pain and poetry...
sorry,
I don't know if I'll be blogging much anymore.
jdon

you misunderstand me, my entire being, if you think that you've never seen me happy or completely content with my self. Now, for more than a moment, that might be another story; it isn't even a goal, much less possible...
I just thrive on competition - be it negative encouragement or otherwise.
And contention is for the dead.
That being the truth how could I ever stop pushing forward, stabbing another vein, and ripping another notion of life out of the wall?
- what the fuck does that mean? I mean really, I just wrote it but what did I mean? I meant that we're all mainlined into a world of bullshit and we've got to break free one way or another. So I get a little bloody? Am I really any worse for wear?

"anyway, Love? motorcycle? the connection ought to be fun to develop. Wear your helmet." - Omaha
- in both cases that would seem like a good idea...

Am I in love? well, what is love anyway? I'm happy, I'm content, and definitely begining to feel our lives intertwine. So yeah, I'll say I am in love... but then again I love corned beef hash so what does the word really mean?
Does it really matter anyway? That's the better question.
When we started dating a friend of mine asked me if I could trust her, knowing that she had just broke it off with her fiance, and I knew where he was going. My reply 'does it really matter?'. Why couldn't I trust her any more than any other woman walking down the street... my trust was given from the getgo, as my love is now. I see no reason that neither will not themselves become undone, that is the effects of life on a 27 year old man... And yet, for all my pessimism, there is a little bit of reason inside me that says maybe she won't; I can't quite shake the feeling that she won't become undone: that my friends is love.
And that is how I see her: for that little piece, for that small little bit of life that exceeds expectation and says, somehow, that the smile on your face isn't going to go anywhere soon...

Terrell Owens is a jackass, yes, but who didn't know that last year? What confuses me the most is how all these pro-union michiganders I keep talking to can't seem to support a man looking for a fair contract. That's right, I said it: a fair contract. The man is 32 (not exactly young) and locked in for seven years to a contract that doesn't even pay him top 10 pay for his position. Mind you that he was the best reciever in football last year and that played in the superbowl on a fucking broken leg. Call him classless, call him annoying, call him whatever you want but don't call him heartless. The man has more heart than brett farve - he just lacks tact.
And I blame the team for thinking they could get away with fucking him over. That's right, I said it: fucking him over. You want to make all that money in revenue, you want to contend for the superbowl? Then you'd best sign T.O. and get his ass into training camp.

yeah I don't blog much right now; I'm in love and there are so many other things to be doing...
remember before, maybe it was on the old blog, when I said if I had a woman why would I write? Thats about it: what would go here written is instead spoken late at night...
sorry.
maybe I'll post some more later.