most days, all i ask for is a little patience.

most days, i don’t get it.

most days, i have faith in people. all people.

most days, people prove my faith is misplaced.

most days, i know.

most days, i don’t.



it is no sin to be angry.  the real sin is choosing to channel your anger to the emotional, physical, or psychological hurt or destruction of another.

the truest measure of maturity is how well you handle the things (and the people) that make you unhappy or uncomfortable.

childhood is undervalued by children, and grossly overvalued by adults.

your entire life is a series of choices; your days are shaped not just by the things you choose to react to, but how you choose to react. make better choices.

don’t depend on others for your happiness, unless of course you’re looking for a life of disappointment. perfect self-sufficiency before seeking external satisfaction.

don’t take anything personally.

don’t make the mistake of thinking that everyone you meet is a reflection of your motives. the single biggest mistake we make as human beings is assuming that everyone reacts to everything the exact way that we would. we are wrong, and it won’t kill us to admit it from time to time.


and sometimes someone else creates a box that you don’t fit into.

so what do you do?

you ask questions that have no answers.
you realized the futility of such an exercise and promptly abandon it.
you shed a few tears, because loss is loss, no matter which way you cut it.
you feel really stupid, for no discernible reason.

and then you remember that this person was one of an untold many, one leaf in the tea bag.

on to the next, yeah?


i have sorted nearly all aspects of my life into boxes. these boxes have very clear, easily definable labels, and until now nearly everything i know falls within the scope of at least one label. family, friends, work, home, relationships… all things have their place in my little universe.

occasionally, i am presented with something that does not fit into one of these predefined spaces. rather than simply enjoy the thing for what it is like a sensible creature, it is my instinct to mutilate it. i cut it down until it fits into a box, even if that means trimming away the essence of what made the thing enjoyable to begin with.

the boxes are a myth. i know this. the boxes exist because i called them into existence, because some part of my brain tells me that obsessively cataloging and categorizing everything in my life with make it more manageable. that may be true, but it leaves very little room for life to actually happen. twenty eight years of living has (slowly, almost painfully) taught me that life is not organized. it is messy and complicated, and most of what makes it worth living cannot be tagged an sorted and stored in a box.

i created the boxes. i can un-create them if i choose to. i just have to choose to.