Max D'Aulerio's Blog

Don’t let me get in my zone. Which is where I feel I’m heading towards. I’ve been on a huge Kanye West kick over the past 3 days. But it’s weird, because it feels like it’s been longer. All I know is I downloaded Kanye and Jay’s Watch The Throne on the 11th, and now I’m listening to 808s & Heartbreak and My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy like it’s my job.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I used to despise Kanye. I thought he was arrogant, dumb, and overrated. Nah, he isn’t. The music he makes and produces, it’s genius. Well, to me it is. But I thought he was dumb and ignorant, saying stupid things, having erratic outbursts just for attention. Yet, when I think about it (and I’m not the only one. just google the topic), Kanye West most definitely has Bipolar Disorder. Every off-the-wall thing he’s said and done, his creativity, drinking problems… It all fits with being in hypomanic and manic states of mental stability. I mean, I really can’t hate him. I empathize with him. Even though he hasn’t seen a therapist or been properly diagnosed, everything is all too familiar.

Well, here comes the second main point of this blog. This will probably come off very egotistical, very self-aggrandizing to most of you, but I can’t help that this how I’ve been feeling recently. As much talent and creativity that Yeezy has, I fully believe that I’m just as talented. Actually, no, not just as. There are many differences between Ye and I, and I can’t compare myself to him. Okay, so, bottom line is I’m really talented. Really fucking talented. Sidenote: I’m having a horrible headache right now. What is this? Hey, stream of consciousness writing. Brb, gotta take advil or some shit. Word. Low on Advil, so I took Aleve. You know they’re different? Well, duh. But like Advil : ibuprofin as Aleve : naproxen.  Go figure. Anyway, yeah. I’m talented. I’m a great writer (I’m not going to be modest here). I am witty, smart, funny, etc. I can write a decently offensive rap that’s cohesive and has flow. I can play multiple instruments rather well, compose my own music, write rather decent lyrics, read drum notation. I have some of the best friends, family, and people in my life. They’ve stuck around this far, and those who haven’t don’t deserve to. There are some I’ve pushed away (not purposefully, of course), yet they love me enough to come back. Or to give me space when needed. Those who up and left, which really isn’t that big of a number, are I guess expendable.

You know, yeah this is rather self-aggrandizing. But you know what? These are the things I hold onto. They keep me going. They make me ME. They’re a blessing. They’re some of the only things that keep my self-esteem in check.

Yet right now, I feel like I have to explain myself to you. But I don’t. Yet I am, because this is a blog, and that’s what blogs are for.

Alright, you wordpress people who follow this somehow (hi mom), I’m changing the game. Usually I’ll post something that I’ve thought writing in-depth and such. But that hasn’t worked for me lately. I’ve felt as if things have been stale. I just haven’t felt creative. But I feel like what I’m doing now is something fresh. Recently, and well all the time, my thoughts come in short, sporadic bursts. That probably happens with everyone. So I’ve written down these bursts, and just ran with them. It’s kind of tackled in the movie The Sixth Sense, where Bruce Willis calls it “free association writing”. Anyhoo, I’ve written the next two things on my tumblr, and it didn’t feel right that I couldn’t share these thoughts with the general public.

Knowing me, a lot of what I say is off-color or not PC, so if I offend you, I’m sorry. But this will maybe give me and you a better understanding on what goes through my head.

why is it that every time I rub my nipples, I get very existential? I get this sick sinking feeling that it just isn’t worth it. Living, y’know? And it all comes from rubbing my nipples. as childish as that sounds, I get this fear that I’ll end up and die alone. Yet, I’m not actually afraid of dying alone. If I die alone, so be it. But I don’t like actually taking the time to think about dying alone. that’s really sad. and I’m sure I won’t. I’m probably going to have a wife, a few kids, and live comfortably. well, I hope to. but there’s a part of me that says my life is going to end up on an A&E or TLC tv series about hoarding. shit, what if my wife is gap-toothed? and my son has a shitty bowl cut and likes the Disney channel? fuck, I don’t want my son to be like that. I want my son to be awesome. I want him to be fluent musically. and smart. and healthy. and more suave with women then I’ll ever imagine that I could be. and I hope one day, if my wife rubs my nipples, I don’t sink into another depression like I’m in now. well, this depression is due to my meds interacting with the codeine I’ve consumed over the past week. but a depression none the less. you know, this has always been something I’ve thought about. I’ve thought about writing it, too. but I never did. not until now. did you know that if you flick your nipple when it’s soft (and I refuse to say “flaccid” because the thought of the phrase “flaccid nipples” scares me), then seconds later, it’ll be erect? the world we live in is a scary place. there are wars being fought, tyrannies crumbling, children starving, and here I am, rubbing my nipples, and questioning if my life has meaning. I mean, does it? I probably won’t have a wife, or a kid. if I do, they’ll be a shitty wife, and a shitty kid. or maybe they won’t. I’m preparing for the worst, I guess. I usually feel the most existential about my left nipple. I mean, my right one is nice, but I’m right handed, and it feels natural for my right hand to caress my left nipple.

Then again, it’s mainly my mom’s. She has as much as a Starbucks addiction as I do. She puts money on her gold card, which I keep while she uses her nifty Andriod app. Technology these days. Pretty neat. Anyway, it’s raining out today, and it’s chilly. It’s my second favorite type of autumn weather. My first favorite is dry conditions, but chilly and kind of overcast. That way, I can enjoy my hot Starbucks drinks (venti chai tea, or venti coffee -black, room at the top for cream and sugar (I sweeten it myself). So, anyhoo, it’s raining this morning, and I decide to take the scenic route home. I usually take rt 9, and some days I’ll take shore. If I take shore, it gives me an extra five minutes to reflect on my life, my choices, and to finish my cigarette. Today, I took the bike path, which adds more time on my trip. Which, I’m glad I did. I smoked, drank my hot chai tea, listened to empire! empire! (I was a lonely estate), and then that’s when I saw two kids, a boy and girl, younger looking, making out in the middle of the bike path, no one around them as a few cars drove by. Usually, tumblr, I’d consider myself as a lonely guy. Two of my relationships ended with the girl leaving me for someone else, another ended due to distance, and another bitched me out for telling my friends that we did sexy things on a yacht. That’s besides the point. Anyway, so here I am, lonely Max, driving by these two kids making out in the cold rain. And in that moment, I didn’t feel alone anymore. I felt happy. Happy for me, happy for them. I saw something in person that I’d probably only witness in some sappy chick flick, and never experience in real life. I saw something beautiful, I guess. Weather their relationship ends soon, or is long lived— it doesn’t matter. Because right then and there, three people were happy to share one moment. And tumblr, if we can be honest with ourselves, we’re all very, very sad lonely people. Don’t lie. I am. You are. And you know what? It’ll be alright. Recently, a lot of drama has happened between my core group of friends. Hearts are built when another is broken. And to some it seems like the absolute end of the world. But it’s not. It’s not. We’re young. We like, we love, we do sexy things on yachts. Most importantly, we grow. Our lives are filled with empty, shitty moments. And sometimes, it’ll help if you focus on the things that you do have. Usually, very easier said than done. Living with bipolar disorder, what I just said isn’t even a feasible option some days/weeks/months. But there are times where I remind myself that I’m only 21. And it will get better. Even if it’s a short time, or long lived. But when you’re in a moment where you feel happy, just try to remember where you are. What you were doing. Even if it’s something small, like driving in the rain, chain smoking, sipping hot tea, and listening to 90’s emo influenced indie music.

Hurricane Irene edition 2011.

Aha, all jokes aside, this is what I’ve been doing, and will continue to do for the next few days.

I currently find myself home alone, as my parents and sister evacuated to Philadelphia to avoid Irene’s wrath. I voluntarily stayed behind, because I feel as if this will be a growing experience for me. My parents should be home Sunday evening, so I’ve got the house to myself for 2 whole days (kinda sorta). Irene, which prompted mandatory evacuations of all of Cape May County, and Atlantic County’s barrier islands, including the cities of Northfield, Linwood, and Somers Point (yet, those last three happen to be mandatory only for all areas east of US rt. 9. Seeing how I live a black and a half east of rt. 9, I fall under the mandatory category. Yeah, well, Chris Christie, consider this my written “fuck you” to your laws and demands).

But you know what? I’m excited. I’ve got all of the essentials. Food, non perishables, etc. Mainly, I have three packs of cigarettes and a 12 of Miller Chill, a car that will help power my cell phone, some Vonnegut and Palahniuk for reading materials, batteries and candles in case the power goes out, and my pets to keep me company. I’m golden.

Now, knowing me, of course the title of “weathering the storm” has a double meaning for this post. Duh. That’s how I do things. Seeing how this is my first post in quite some time, I’ss briefly go into detail about what’s been going on in my life. I know, you’re totally excited.

So, it’s been a year since my run in with Atlantic City’s Psychiatric Intervention Program ER. I’ve changed mostly for the better, I feel. Yet, still, I have my dips, my set backs, and whatnot. Every week brings something new to the table, be it good or bad. Or both. Things are funny like that. One step forward, two steps back. Cliche after cliche after cliche.

You know the deal.

I had a month of what felt like a never-ending depression, jam-packed and fun-filled with rapid cycling of my moods and extreme bouts of anxiety. My manic episodes weren’t the “shit I’m super fucking happy!” type. They were the “I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker, motherfucker” type. Yeah, I quoted Jules Winnifield. That’s how I felt. During these times, I also did the whole avoidance thing, where I stopped hanging out with a good amount of my friends, stopped going to my youth group, etc.

A lot of the time during this depression, I drank. You know, because drinking totally helps the situation (it doesn’t) and it made me feel so much better (it didn’t). Recently, I’ve cut back on my drinking a whole lot. Tonight being the first time I’ve picked up a beer in three weeks. Go me.

I had a long-distance girlfriend for two months. She was a very nice and sweet girl. We’d talk on the phone occasionally, and text a whole lot. Yet, we never met, so now we don’t date anymore. So it goes.

Over the past few days, my Zoloft was re-upped to 100mg, and for the past 4 days, I was completely out of my wellbutrin and lamictal. An antidepressant and a mood stabilizer just completely off the map. I was beginning to feel a shitstorm a-brewin’,. I didn’t feel good. I felt weak. It was weird. Yet, yesterday, before things got any worse, I got a weeks worth as I await my original RX to come in the mail. And so on.

So, here I am. Weathering one storm and facing another.

And things are going to be just fine.

I’ve just learned that I’ve been blogging for over a year now. My first post was June 2nd, 2010. That’s pretty neat.

Anyhoo, I really haven’t been writing as much as I used to. It could be because I’m lazy (most likely), or because I really don’t have much to say anymore (which isn’t true. I always have a lot to say. I just don’t feel like typing it. Yep, I’m lazy). But hey, I thought, why not put a little quip up on here for funsies.

So, few things… I conquered my fear of fireworks. The 4th of July was a lot of fun, thanks to Greg, Dave, a $6 fifth of Kassers vodka and a 2L of Dr. Pepper.

Since the 4th, I really haven’t drank anything at all, which is why what I’m about to type doesn’t make much sense to me.

I haven’t been sleeping. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. Unless falling asleep at 3 or 4am, and waking up at 7 or 8am is normal, then I’m doing it right. But let’s be real here. Shit ain’t right. Another thing that has been bothering me are my mood swings. I’ve been way moodier than usual. Over the past three weeks, it hasn’t taken a lot to set me off. People, people in public, things I have control over, things I have no control over, big things, and even the most insignificantly small things will trigger these swings. The biggest trigger is anxiety. When I’m feeling anxious, it just turns straight into anger. It goes from “Hey, uh, guys, I really don’t feel comfortable at all, I think we should go” to “Jesus Christ, someone is about to get hit.”

No me gusta.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. When I get like this, if I avoid you or don’t talk to you, it’s because I’m avoiding everyone who isn’t my mom, Greg, Dave, Jackie, and Carolyne. For everyone reading this: I’m offline. Please leave a message after the beep. I’ll be sure to return within a few weeks.

It is?

It is.

Word.

Well, it’s been a month since I posted last (which was my Ethics final, which I hope all of you enjoyed/were offended by). Recently, I haven’t had that much to write about. Things have been relatively good, and have been on a steady pace of goodness for about (well, going on) three weeks now. After what seemed like 2+ months of being in a depressed slump, I’m finally, finally coming out of it. Will it last? Nope. But while I have it, I’m going to cherish every single moment of it.

So what’s new in the world of Maxy?

Uhm, well, I’m on my summer break, officially. My friends are home. We go to bars and have good times. The other night, I cut my thumb from a broken beer bottle (Thanks, Lauren, for not knowing your own strength) at Maynards in Margate, and proceeded to bleed all over my phone. Woke in the morning, and the right have was covered in dried blood. Gross, right? Looking back, yeah, it was gross, but during, I couldn’t help but think how bad ass it was. I also apparently cleaned my thumb off at the bar with a napkin dipped in beer (my logic being “Hey, beer is alcohol. It’s sterile, right?). That night was interesting because we (Greg, Davem and Greg’s roomie Steve) pregamed with Barton and Kessler vodka (both bottles costing under $10). So, I felt like we were already in cruise-control drunk mode while Greg’s mom drove us to Maynards. In the car ride, we happened to say offensive things, as boys do, which Mrs. Greg’s Mom seemed to enjoy. We only stayed at the bar for like an hour and a half, and then sat, walked, shenanigan’d around the pier across the street. We had a nice conversation with Da’Hir (spelling?), who wasn’t able to get into Sofia’s, due to him forgetting his I.D. at his home. It was around this time when I noticed how my group of friend’s demographic is 100% Caucasian, and that we need diversity.

Last week, my band, Back Seat Riot, opened for Mansions at the Hangar 84 in Vineland. I’m a huge fan of Mansions, so getting to talk to Chris, vocalist for the band, was rather legit. Cool dude. Creepy stalker fan status here on my end. BSR played really well, we had a lot of fun, but I didn’t get to stay for Mansions, due to the venue booking like 7 bands, running behind schedule, and my lack of remembering to take my meds. Whoops.

Also, yesterday, the new Limp Bizkit album, Gold Cobra, leaked, and found its way into my possession. When I heard the news many moons ago that there would be a new LB album, I became stoked. Limp was my angsty middle schooler band before I even knew what being angsty was all about. Three Dollar Bill, Significant Other, Chocolate Starfish… All of those album. Amazing. As nostalgia set in, I realized that LB has never been good. From Durst’s awful, childish lyrics and awkward white-boy-rap delivery, to Borland’s stage appearance, they’re just a… They’re just not good. Does that matter to me? Not one bit. As bad as they are, they’re beyond awesome. Awesomely bad. Which is what I expected from Gold Cobra, dumb lyrics, awkward rapping, and probably the same chug riffs. What I’m listening, as I type this, exceeded expectations. Are the lyrics dumb as fuck? Oh hell yes they are! But Wes Borland’s guitar work is just awesome. It’s heavy, it’s creative, and it… It just pumps me the fuck up. My middle school self and my 21 year old self are living harmoniously together, being angsty as shit, and enjoying every single minute of it. I won’t be surprised if this album ends up on my 2011 Album of the Year list.

So, uh, yeah. I guess this is where I leave you guys. I’ll try to maybe write twice a month, and keep whoever reads this semi-informed about things.

Since a few of you asked to read it, here it is. I’m done emailing peoples. Please enjoy and try not to get too offended.

Max D’Aulerio
Ethics final
D. Morrison
5/10/11

Out of all the issues we’ve dealt with this semester, I feel that the most pressing issue is freedom of speech. Freedom of speech is the theory that we’re free to say whatever we want, and basically get away with it. No censorship. In theory, this seems like a great idea. We can think, feel, and express ourselves without limitations. Yet, many people oppose this, by adding limitations to free speech. It’s really confusing, but I will try to clearly go into the subject as best as I can.

Now, I would like to start off this final paper with my opinion on freedom of speech. To me, freedom of speech is wonderful. Why? Well, because
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(yes, I actually had a page break. it was about a page and a half-ish of just blank space. this sentence was not a part of my essay. neither are the periods. those are place holders for the blank space in the middle of my essay)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

See what I did there? I’m free to say whatever I want. Yet, just because I can say whatever I want doesn’t mean I have to. It’s a wonderful, mysterious thing. I’m free to say (and not say) as I please.

Yet, people will put limitations on free speech. What I did just there will probably affect my grade on this paper, and probably for the class as a whole.

So, essentially, freedom of speech isn’t free. If you have to put a limitation on something free, then it really isn’t free. So a limitation of free speech just kind of makes it… Speech.

One of the big limitations of freedom of speech is the usage of “hate speech,” or using derogatory words and phrases that are meant to bring someone down, make them feel sad, and just bum out a whole lot of people. There are an insane amount of words and phrases that fall under the category of “hate speech,” which include, but isn’t limited to: Nigger, kike, faggot, spic, coon, towel-head, camel jockey, cunt, bitch, whore, dumb slut, dyke, greedy Jew, retard (context is important on that one), so on and so forth.

Now, I will admit, my friends and I are guilty of using some of these phrases. My friends and I, well, you may consider us bad kids (warranted), but we merely say such things for shock value, and because it’s funny to us. Our one word that we use constantly is “faggot”. Now, there’s a catch. We don’t use it as a derogatory slang term, using it to attack and put down our gay friends. We follow the rules laid out by famous stand-up comedian, Louis CK. To him (and to us), “faggot” doesn’t mean “gay”. We use it in a sense that if someone is being a little bitch about something, we call him/her (yeah, ladies aren’t safe from this either) a “faggot”. Not because they’re gay, but because they’re… Well… being a little bitchy faggot.

Now, my friends and I aren’t stupid. We have common sense. We know to use it in private conversations. Yet, in public, like at a bar, or something, if we say it, we try not to say it so everyone can hear us. And if we do say it in public, it tends to slip out. We know not to say it, but we say it so much that it’s a second nature thing to us. You might consider that to be a bad thing, seeing that we use such a bad word on a daily basis with no qualms. Looking back on that last paragraph, yeah, we really need to tone it down a bit. But we’re boys, and we have a certain mindset, and have plenty of gay friends, so we feel validated to get away with it.

Same goes for the word “nigger”. Only thing is, we don’t say “nigger”. We say “nigga”. It’s also second nature for us. Yet, if someone actually says “nigger,” we tell them to cool their jets. For us, dropping what we call the “hard E.R.” is against the rules. If the “hard E.R.” is dropped, then everyone in the room just feels awkward. Trying to reinstitute regular conversation after the droppage of the “hard E.R.” tends to be a semi-difficult task. It’s almost like when you’re in a room full of people, and suddenly the room goes quiet, yet there’s that one person who says something in the silence. You know what I’m talkin’ about. To come back from that is quite the task.

Now if I could quote Uncle Ben’s character from the first Spiderman movie, Ben said “with hate speech, comes hate responsibility”. Well, I think that’s what he said. I’ll have to double check. But it should make sense. If you’re going to publicly use hate speech, you better be prepared to deal with the consequences. The members of the Westboro Baptist Church aren’t allowed in Canada due to their usage of hate speech. Now, if one of us were to use the words “faggot” or “nigga” in public, and one of the two groups of people overhear us saying, and don’t know our modus operandi with words, well, they’re most likely going to get mad at us. And then we know we have to deal with the consequences of our actions, and try to find a way to get out of the corner we’ve backed ourselves in to.

Now, could my group of friends stop saying such words that may make others mad? Of course we can! Are we going to? Probably not. We’ve got such words assimilated into our vocabulary, so to just exile the words out of our lives will most likely be impossible. We’re a group of 21 year olds, and we feel invincible. We don’t feel prone to scorn. Of course, we know what we can and can’t do. Yet, we’re badass, and we do whatever the fuck we want. And we say whatever the fuck we want.

Why? Because we have freedom of speech.

Easter Sunday edition!

I saw a billboard from these guys on my way to and from Philadelphia, promoting that the end is nigh; and when I say “nigh”, I mean that Judgment Day is this upcoming May. The 21st, to be exact.  (Please be advise that it is only Judgment Day, and not the end of the world (which I like to call “End of the World Day 2011”) which is apparently supposed to happen in October. Go figure, eh?)

In the case of emergency, please remain calm, and find yourself to the nearest exit.

Which, I believe that this morning, I did.

Today was a very, very good day, filled with many good things; eggs, family, champagne, and church.

Yep, I went to church this morning.

Which to some may no big deal. Oh, Maxy, you went to church on Easter. Good for you, har har har.

But it was different this time around.

As some of you may know/care, I was raised Roman Catholic. But due to some circumstances, I totally just dropped off of thine holy grid.

The last time I stepped foot inside of any kind of church was Ash Wednesday, 2010. Exactly 405 days ago. I can not even tell you how many times in that period that my parents begged me to go to church with them, and how I protested.

Yet, last night, my mom asked me simply if I’d like to join her by going to the new non-denominational Christian church in Ocean City, The Calvary Chapel.

A month ago (almost exactly), I tweeted in a semi-joking-slash-semi-serious manner, saying “hey, maybe I need some sort of spiritual guidance. Thanks, Relient K!”

So, I felt that the timing was right. Go to a new church on Easter Sunday, with my mom. I make her happy, make Jesus happy, learn some sort of message, and we all win.

This morning, I posted this status on my facebook:

This morning, around 6am.

So, we get into the church, which is very nice. Air conditioned, no pews, comfy chairs, and a stage with instruments. Interests: piqued. Also, I won’t forget to mention that there were a few pretty girls there. They don’t hurt.

My only gripe with that… Everyone in there was so happy. Due to recent times, being surrounded by so much happy made me feel like the biggest, introspective downer imaginable. But hey,  promised my mom that I’d go and hold no judgments.

Earlier in the morning, I made fun of my mom for listening to the stereotypical overly-Christian praise and worship music. If there’s one thing I cannot stand is stereotypical overly-Christian praise and worship music. Why? Because, in my honest opinion, it’s cheesy. We get it. God loves us. Jesus died for us. Praise Him. I honestly have no idea how many records can be written with that being the only topic of conversation. I told my mom that the good Christian music is found when the singer/songwriter writes about his/her introspective struggles with faith and questionings of said faith. But then again, that’s just me.

Hey, if you actually enjoy praise and worship music, that’s totally fine. I wont knock you for it. Yet, unless your name happens to be Penni D’Aulerio, and you happen to be my mother, be prepared to feel ashamed for listening to such drivel.

Okay, drivel was a little mean. Again, opinions. I have them.

Anyhoo, band comes to stage, we’re asked to stand. They begin to play. Guess what they played? Yup. Stereotypical overly-Christian worship and praise music.

Yeah, I won’t lie, I cringed. But their drummer was not bad (a little stiff, and not as creative with his fills and syncopation as I would be, but hey. He did what he could. He provided a solid foundation), so I was able to stomach it.

Dear stereotypical overly-Christian worship and praise music… You’re not that bad. You’re not that good, but not that bad. I’ll get used to it eventually.

Then, the pastor came out and delivered his sermon. My first impression of the guy was that of which he was kinda like the-latest-season-of-Dexter-Jordan-Chase-kind-of-character, where you suspect something is fishy about him, but you can’t be too sure (*SPOILER ALERT* Jordan Chase was a bad guy). Then again, my feelings toward the guy could be due to my recent bouts of paranoia, not being able to trust anything foreign, and the distaste of the Catholic church.

Well, turns out that the pastor is very smart, rather funny (in a witty “Hey, I’m a pastor who likes to joke around and have fun!” pastoral way), and feels basically the exact same way as I do. That the church never promoted to have your own personal, spiritual journey and connection with Jesus. It was around this time where I began to feel “Hey, I like this place. And guy.”

So, after the sermon, the band came out again for their last jamboree. During this time, the pastor asked for any new members to maybe make the call to be prayed upon, and be saved, and welcomed into the new church.

And there I stood, rooted to my spot.

No one walked up.

He asked again.

A family walked up, and people clapped.

And there I stood. Nope. Not going anywhere.

That’s when he said it.

“Maybe you feel like a prodigal, making your way back…”

And that’s when it struck me.

My facebook status, where I joked about being the Prodigal Son on Easter.

Coincidence? Fate?

No idea. But it was at that time where I turned to my mom, and said “I want to go up.”

It was too weird to just deny what happened. It was meant to be. It just had to be.

So, my mom, not only ecstatic that I dragged my sorry ass to church at 8am, began to well up with tears (DENY IT ALL YOU WANT MOM. I’M NOT DUMB) as we stood at the front of the audience.

So, I guess I was saved on Easter.

Pretty cool, eh?

After the service, my mom and I went up to the pastor. I needed to tell him about my facebook status from a few hours before what went down, and how I mentioned being the Prodigal Son via a small facebook joke. What did he say to that?

“Yeah, mentioning being a “prodigal” wasn’t in my notes. I felt the need to say it.”

Then he prayed over me to start my new journey off on a good foot.

It was then I felt something inside me change. But I felt happy. And loved. And appreciated.

Feels good, man.

Now, do I fully believe that I’m “saved”?

Nope.

A single prayer and church service wouldn’t make a dent in some of the shit I’ve done/said/believed (or haven’t done/said/believed).

But hey, it’s a start. And I’m ready to change things for the better.

And I’m ready to join a church band. That’d be kinda cool.

I do believe that

I haven’t had one of these posts in a long while, but every once in a while, I feel the need to update you guys on my life. So, uhhh, bear with me.

So, where to begin?

I guess I’ll start around mid-March, post-St. Patrick’s day.

That’s when things started to go downhill.

And uphill.

And downhill again.

And uphill.

Lather, rinse, and repeat.

Phew, okay, so… Due to my drinking habits, it started to take a toll on my meds and my moods. For those of you who knew, my Zoloft was lowered to 25mg, had fluid taken out of my lap-band, and I started a vegan diet and P90X in the beginning of mid-February. The veganism lasted for about three weeks, but I kept up with the P90X for a little while longer. I stopped taking my multivitamins. Then, on occasion, I’d have a few drinks. I found myself eating more and more. And there went my good moods. And any motivation/drive I had to do anything went out the window. Then, to follow suit, I found myself in Depressionville (population: me and a shit ton of others).

So, what happened? I stopped exercising. I got a job, and lost it after my second day of working. I didn’t get a call back from the MTV casting directors. Talk therapy wasn’t helping at all. My lowered meds were starting to drastically change me. I didn’t want to leave my house. When I did leave my house, for class and such, I’d leave halfway through. My anxiety shot through the roof. I became more stubborn and insubordinate than I already am. I just wanted to lay in my bed all day, every day.

And trying to explain that to people was proving to be the most difficult. There’s a part of me that screams at me saying “why even try? they’ll never understand”.

And when I try to explain it, I feel like I’m just making shitty excuses that people won’t accept. And when I feel like I make excuses, that I disappoint every single person I come in contact with. My friends, my family, my therapist. There’s an overwhelming sadness that I can’t shake when that happens. And the more I feel upset, the more that I feel that I let everyone down.

And then I lie. I lie about everything. What I’m doing. How I’m feeling. I lie because I feel ashamed of the truth; that what’s happening is insanely pathetic, and that maybe I should just get over myself. And then I feel ashamed that I can’t bring myself to do anything productive. And I lie more. And more. And more.

It’s a vicious cycle, ain’t it?

Being stuck in a complacent  rut sucks. Only, it’s not complacent. I’m not happy with where I am; it just fucking sucks.

And maybe me typing this out will describe what’s happening with me better than I could describe when talking it out face to face.

But now I’m beginning to feel like I’m burdening all you with this petty bullshit that I’m typing out.

This is a sad, disappointing blog post, Maxy.

But hey, every dark cloud has a silver lining, right?

As until the last two weeks, I feel like I’ve gotten a small push to get going in the right direction again. I’m trying to try some positive self-care. I recently got more fluid put in my lap-band, I’m practicing healthier eating habits. I’m taking my vitamins again. I’m exercising in the morning instead of at night. I’m doing my work for school. I’m applying for jobs. I’m strengthening my relationships. I’ve began writing again. I’ve written two songs, and have had them recorded (and can be heard for your listening pleasure on my Autumn Arrested facebook page.

I’ve also told my therapist that I’ve been lying about how I’ve been feeling. Apparently, according to her, I’m great at “faking it ’til I make it”. Which is kind of cool. But then again, I’m not. Because if my sister can point out when I’m not myself, then I must be doing something wrong.

ANYHOO, talking to Norreen honestly is the only way I can fully get the help I need. Which is what I’m going to do. Especially today, because I have an appointment with her today at 2pm.

Now, the one thing I’m beginning to feel a little bit worried about is my meds. I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, and told him almost everything. My depression, anxiety, mood swings, all of it. So, he and I feel it’s necessary to up my Zoloft. So, starting this week, I’m taking 50mg. Then next week, 75mg. And then the week after that, I’m going to be maxing out at 100mg.

Woohoo.

/sarcasm

And I only say “/sarcasm” because next weekend is Somers Point’s annual drunken Bayfest, where day binge drinking is promoted. And I’m finally 21, and I was planning to hopefully be hammered by noon. Yeah, that was my plan. Sorry mom.

But due to my increase of meds, I’m swallowing the fact that I can’t participate this year. I mean, I can, don’t get me wrong. But I really, really, reeeeeeeeaaaaaalllllllllly shouldn’t. I’m nowhere close to being anywhere mentally stable. And if my meds are being upped drastically, adding a day of hardcore drinking would just be bad news bears. And it’s time that I get my shit together.

I want to be well. I’m not fucking around.

Swag. Swag. Swag.

Ah, rap music like this makes me happy. This really isn’t a post about anything. I mean, serious rap is good, but this shit is just too Based Goddamn entertaining.

Above is one of Lil’ B’s freestyles, titled “Ellen Degeneres”. Now you’re probably thinking “OMG BASED GOD, YOU CAN FUCK MY BITCH. SWAG 100 TRILLION”. But if you’re not thinking that, you’re probably thinking “Is this guy for real?”

He is.

When he isn’t freestyling. You can download his albums Thank You Based God and Angels Exodus, which do have their fair share of pretty decent songs… But his freestyles are just great. They cheer me up like no other.

One of the tricks to cheering yourself up is to just say “Swag”. Say “swag” whenever you feel like it. Any circumstance. Just got arrested? Swag. Found out you’re pregnant? Swag. Death of a family member? Swag.

Swag, swag, swag.

Now, another rap group who is swagged out would be OFWGKTA.

Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All.

Also known as just Odd Future, or WOLF GANG, or even GOLF WANG.

Tyler the Creator, (FREE EARL) Earl Sweatshirt, Hodgy Beats, Domo Genesis.. And a few other young adults make up Odd Future. If you like vile, irreverent lyrics, OFWGKTA is for you.

and an awesome live performance on the Late Night with Jimmy Fallon Show:

Swag.

Now parents, go let your kids listen to this music.

Which – knowing me – is a scary thought. Society wouldn’t benefit from me defending criminals at all. Wait, no, they would, because if I try to defend something bad, no one ever agrees with my radical ideals, and the bad guys would be put away.

I shouldn’t ever go to law school.

But something in me makes me want to stick up for those accused of wrong doings. I mean, Jesus did it, didn’t he? Then again, I’m not Jesus. Not by a long shot. But being compassionate towards others who done wrong is a nice thing to do, even if everybody else doesn’t feel the same way.

Now, I do have some sort of rules and regulations, per se. Mass murderers and people who commit suicide (which you probably already know) need not apply.

Everyone else is fair game.

Now, one of the things about me (which you probably already know) is that I love to get people riled up. I love to just instigate, sit back, relax, and watch people get up in arms. Yet, most times, I can’t sit back and relax, and I have to justify justifying. I always, always, ALWAYS spin everything so I’m always right. I preform some major mental gymnastics. And when I do that, people get even angrier. And I love it. It’s a pathetic cheap thrill, and I’m totally fine with that.

But somebody has to stick up for the bad guys.

People I will stick up for includes prostitutes, drug dealers, the Westboro Baptist Church, and guys who engage in sexual harassment in the work place.

And a few others, but these are the things that come to mind.

Prostitutes and drug dealers are a simple case. They’re trying to make ends meet. They have kids to feed, and they feel that the ends justify their means. Could they get a real person job? Surely. But in this economy, selling drugs/your body will rake in some serious cash. They’re trying to provide for themselves and their families. They also benefit society in a way.

Prostitution is one of the oldest professions ever (hey, remember how Jesus saved Mary Magdalene’s life? She was a prostitute, y’know. The whole “he who is without sin shall cast the first stone” ordeal). Men pay mass amounts of money to get off. The prostitute and man (or it could be a male escort (gigolo) and woman) both leave happy. Now some of you will say “Well, don’t you think some prostitutes hate being prostitutes?” Amen, I say to you, “Don’t you think some cashiers at Shop Rite hate being cashiers at Shop Rite?”

Same (kinda sorta) goes for drug dealers. Dealing drugs is very profitable. Along with prostitution, the ends of drug dealing justifies the means.

Now, many will argue that prostitution and drugs ruin lives and families and yadda yadda yadda. Be that as it may. Yet, if you’re married and your significant other turns to drugs or prostitution to find solace, then there’s a good chance that you’re doing something wrong. Take a look in the mirror, and realize that you’re not as awesome as you think you are, you egocentric bitch/bastard.

Now, when it comes to the Westboro Baptist Church, haters are really going to hate. Fred Phelps, the clan leader of the “God Hates Fags” crew, is one of America’s most hated men. His minions picket soldier’s funerals, gay pride gatherings, concerts, colleges, etc. And people hate them. They hate them so much. They spew hate towards anyone who “doesn’t repent to Jesus”, which includes (but isn’t limited to) gays, jews, Lady Gaga, etc.

Now, what the WBC does is disrespectful. Insanely so. Yet, they have the constitutional right to peacefully protest where ever they want to. As much as I don’t particularly like their tactics, they have the right to do it, so I can’t stop ’em.

The last group of people I would like to defend is men.

Last week, in Ethics class, we watched the movie North Country (starring Charlize Theron, Woody Harrelson, Sissy Spacek, Richard Jenkins, and that one guy who was in that new movie “The Town” who wasn’t Ben Affleck), which is about a mining company in the northern most bumblefuck of Minnesota in the late 1980’s that began to hire women to work in the mines.

When women worked there, the D to V ratio was 30:1. The mine was a total sausage fest. Once women were introduced to the picture, sexual harassment increased 100 fold. The only girl who got uppity over the sexual harassment was Charlize’s character, and once she got uppity, the harassment increased. She then took the mine to court for a class action lawsuit, and ended up winning the case.

Now, for Ethics, we have to write a two page reflection paper on the movie. And, who’da thunk it, I’mma justify the guys’ actions. Yet, I’ll use different situations where the same rules apply. Well, kinda apply.

Situation #1. You (a guy) and your guy friends are at a bar. Getting drinks, having fun, etc. In walks a girl. She’s absolutely gorgeous. What’s the first thing the guy thinks about? Bringing her home, and getting the sexing on. He will stop at nothing. Buying her drinks, pumping her with compliments, pumping her with alcohol, and then hopefully pumping her with something else. (You had to see that coming.) Now, there’s a good chance that you and your guy friends will fail at bringing this girl home. So what do you do? Find another girl, and do the same exact thing. Lather, rinse, and repeat until you get the results desired.

Situation #2. The movie Anchorman.

Situation #3. Being an inmate in prison. You’re surrounded by big muscular dudes. You have two options here. You either A) find the most feminine, weak man, and make him your bitch (which includes sexual harassment on the regular), or B) when you see a lady in the prison (be it for another inmate’s conjugal visit, or a lady prison guard), you say some horrible nasty shit to her. Why? Because, you’re horny, and tired of being surrounded by dudes. You’ll do whatever you can to get in that girl’s pants.

Now, what I’m getting at is a guy’s natural instincts to fornicate, and keep up with their male accomplices in acts of camaraderie. It’s in our nature. When surrounded by other guys, having a female introduced into the equation… There’s a competition between us to get what we want. Whoever gets there first is the winner. We all want to be the alpha male.

Now, the one thing we don’t realize is that most females do not like being sexually harassed. Finding a female who does like it… Well, good luck with that.

Sexual harassment, I’ll admit can be disgustingly wrong. There are better ways of picking up women. But when surrounded by many other men, our animal instincts kick in, and we’ll do what we feel is right. To us, all ends justify all means when it comes to getting sex.

So, can you really blame us?