Going to Iowa in a few days.

But I won't be going home, because home is where my heart is.

Sigh.

What are You thinking?

AlwayS my favorite thing to know.

A lot of days I feel inadequate.

A lot of days I feel like she stopped loving me because I wasn't man enough in some way.

A lot of days I wish I knew what I did wrong to make her stop.

A lot of days I wish I could prove to her I can be the man she wants/deserves.

Pretty much every days.

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I think I'm moving to New Orleans.

Third Eye Blind released a new album and they kicked off the release with a cover of a Beyoncé song.

"Mine" – Third Eye Blind

I feel sorry for the president. How many fucking times is Obama going to have to deliver a eulogy in the aftermath of a mass shooting?

I saw the headline this morning about the shooting in North Carolina, and I lost it. Despite being a nonviolent person, every time I see a photo of one of these idiotic shooters I just want to beat them with a spiked baseball bat.

Donald Trump is running for president. Finally, a candidate I can believe in.

I wish I was with S because I would be making her laugh so hard right now. And she would be cracking me up too. I liked when we laughed with each other and our smiles mingled.

Marilyn Monroe

It's Bloomsday. The day that fans of James Joyce's Ulysses celebrate the author and his book.

The entire book takes place over the course of one day, June 16, 1904.

The reason Joyce chose June 16, 1904, is because that is the day when he first met the love of his life,  Nora. He met her where she was working, which was in a hotel.

Happy Bloomsday, everyone.

Sigh.

"... her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood." – JameS Joyce

my own cliché and archetype

You know what sucks? S used to be the one I could talk to about anything at anytime, and here it is past 11:00 pm and I have no one in my Rolodex willing to talk to me. I was rewatching the film Cast Away and realized that there is a profound connection between the archetypal and the clichéd. Writers such as Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell wrote about the archetypes in human mythology, but I didn't realize how clichéd they could be. And I was thinking how incredibly difficult (nearly impossible) it is to create a new archetype. Works of art like Buffy The Vampire Slayer haven't destroyed any archetypes but they have destroyed clichés.

I wish I could articulate what I'm thinking and wondering but it takes two people to flesh out a conversation.

... Long-winded way of saying, yet again, I miss S.

I played quite well today. I scored four goals and made two or three assists, as well as two or three key passes.

I also made up a dumb joke. It goes like this:

Which blud type is a universil donor?

Typo.

---

I hope it makes S laugh. If it makes her smile, then my day was worth living through.

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I met a little girl, age seven or so, at the water fountain in the park. I was filling my water bottle and she was attempting to fill her green pale but she wasn't having much luck. I goofed around with her. I asked her if she was trying to make mud out of the sand and she laughed. She couldn't fill her bucket so I poured the water from my bottle into it and she skipped away happily. It was a nice moment. The whole while I was thinking of R, of course. I haven't felt truly goofy with anyone in a long while. I miss S and R. My heart longs to be goofy with my two favorite goofballs.

But such is life. At least I have the memory of them.

I miss her eyes.

Add them to the infinite list.

Barcelona made history yesterday. As I was driving home after watching the match the only thing I could think about was how much better it would be to have a woman to go home to that would appreciate my enthusiasm. It's not about sharing the same interests, but about caring what the other person cares about.

It was a fantastic final to a marvelous season for Neymar, Messi, Iniesta and all of Barcelona. But without a silly sweet kiss from S, it just meant nothing to me.

I'd rather sever my own legs than have Ted Cruz be the president of the country I inhabit.

And don't even ask what I'd rather have done to me if Rick Perry or Jeb Bush were to be elected. It's too horrific to consider.

Every time I log into my email I think to myself, "Great... another day she didn't write me."

Every day that she doesn't want to talk to me is a completely entirely meaningless day.

Every time I realize I'll never again get to hold her late at night, I'll never again get to be in those intimate moments with her when her heart is beating and her face is smiling and she is happy, I realize there is no inspiration left in my life. Every motivation I ever knew was because I wanted to make her world a pleasant place. Every word I wrote, every flower I sent, every look I gave and every touch I made was meant to please her. When I think of her and I see her smile, I dream of writing her gorgeous songs, of captivating her attention, of explaining properly what she does to me, of fulfilling her heart.

I wish I could give her everything. I wish I was the one for her.

I never cared for anyone like I care for them both. And I never felt an emptier more fiery missing. It doesn't matter how hard I try to rebuild myself, I crumble at every memory.

I have no heart.

Great Moments In 21st Century Television

This is one of my favorite scenes in television history, because it's basically exactly what would happen to me if I ever met a rapper (except for the "too lazy" part):

Larry David meets Krazee Eyez Killah – Curb Your Enthusiasm

For the sake of discretion though, it's not TV. It's HBO.

Great Moments In 20th Century Music

"Troy (live)" – Sinéad O'Connor

For various reasons I was thinking heavily about Irish music today. I realized that Damien Rice is a male version of Sinéad O'Connor. Both of them being Irish musicians, they owe a great deal to Van Morrison, and neither would argue with that. I just never noticed the influence of Sinéad on Damien until today. They both have a ferocious, attacking approach to the guitar and to lyrics.

Another reason "Troy" is brilliant is that it references Irish poet W.B. Yeats's poem "No Second Troy" which is based on the ancient texts of Homer, one of the oldest poets known to mankind.

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I stared at S's photo all day. I miss her. My body and my soul aches for her. She is so beautiful. She could start wars (like Helen of Troy). And myself, like the ancient fools of old, should be content that her eyes once stooped to gaze upon me for a brief moment. But there is little consolation in realizing one's own insignificance. I'd rather have her smile kiss me one more time, and after that I could exit life unbegrudgingly. If her lips were coated with poison and they kissed me into death I could die content. Instead, I am what I aaaaaaaaaam.

I miss my woman.

Note I wrote down today: I wonder if she has any clue how fucking amazing her mind is. I miss S and R like the dead and drying sand misses the kisses of the ocean's pure water as the tide recedes into itself.