[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Monday, July 19th, 2010|
|Is a marriage worth it?
At some point during a marriage, you begin to question it. For example, when it seems one person has stopped supporting the relationship, or when that person has become selfish. I am speaking about my wife, of course. I've noticed that she's become quite selfish and doesn't do anything for the relationship anymore. Or maybe she always was selfish and I'm just now seeing this. So, is a marriage worth it when it has become one-sided and the other only cares about themselves? The obvious answer is no. So what's my problem? That's what I'm dealing with.
The feeling I get from my wife is that she cares more about her career, and herself. I'm beginning to believe that the only reason she has stayed with me as along as she has is because she has had no where else to go. Basically, it seems she's just been using me. She rarely does anything for us, relationship-wise, and leaves that all up to me. When I try to be romantic or anything, she accepts it as it comes, but rarely will initiate anything on her own. As far as intimacy, you can throw that out the window at this point. I think I'll make a different post about that subject and about how my confidence in that matter has been almost destroyed.
For a long time, I could never decide what I wanted to do when I grow up. My wife always wanted me to make a decision. When I finally did, she didn't like my decision because it could affect her career. It would involve a moved about 2 hours away and she would have to turn down a promotion at her job. So, she makes it sound like she doesn't care about working out things for our marriage, but only cares about her advancement in her career. I love archaeology and want to study it. If I get accepted to school, and get to work in that field, I could be moving a lot. She says she doesn't want to start over everywhere she goes. The truth is, we wouldn't really have to move much. I think she just doesn't like that I made a decision and it doesn't fit with what she wants. Especially when she said to me, "This doesn't fit with what I want."
If you're in a marriage and you love someone, you work things like that out. You don't say, "I want what I want, period." I will post more later. Time for lunch. Current Mood: contemplative
|Absences, life, and problems...
Where to begin? I made this livejournal account years ago, and have since stopped using it. No real reasons. None of my friends use livejournal anymore, either. Why did I return to this old account? I guess I just wanted to write about things going on in my life, things that trouble me, and keep them somewhat anonymous. It is intended as a method to collect my thoughts by writing them down here. Perhaps by doing this, it will give me perspective on things that I wouldn't otherwise see. We'll just have to see.
|Wednesday, January 25th, 2006|
|It's not Faire!
I was reminiscing earlier about Renassaince Faires. Yes, those little get-togethers where one can re-live the glorious and exciting ages of medievil and renassaince Europe--minus the plague, religious wars of attrition, burning women at the stake, torturous inquisitions, and people dressed in Star Trek uniforms. Don't get me wrong, they're a lot of fun to go to for the whole family. You just never know when you'll get the overwhelming urge to see a jousting match, throw tomatoes at a jester, or bludgeon a hapless midget with a mace. So it's a good thing that our society has these outlets for people like me.
I myself haven't had the chance to visit a Faire in some years now. I've basically been occupied with my work for the government (screwing the Middle East and dodging crappy Arab drivers). Ironically, I get paid more for braving Middle Eastern traffic than I do for translating those important documents from Iraq that pertain to national security, i.e. Saddam's plumbing bill to fix his toilet, stuff like that.
It would be good if I had the chance to visit a Faire once more and witness the raw spectacle of pimply-faced teenagers who cancelled their Dungeons & Dragons or Vampire: The Annoying Struggle games, draped grandma's table cloth over their shoulders, and put on Spock ears proclaiming themselves Lord of all Elvendom. It would bring back fond memories because I'm speaking from personal experience.
What if someone wants to experience this magical event, but has never been before? There are some pointers I can offer. Namely the pointing out of bad Renaissance Faires. So, here it goes.
If it appears that every Fair workers' costume was purchased at either Sears or Wal-Mart...bad. (Unless of course they bought their costume from one of my ex-girlfriends, then that's ok)
If the wandering minstrel turns out to be William Hung...bad.
If there is a mosh pit near the wandering minstrel....good.
If you head to the stage to see a Shakespearesque show and the leading player is Ben Aflek...bad.
If the bar maid's previous arena of employment involved Czech porn...good.
If the bar maid's previous arena of employment involved Jabba the Hutt porn...bad.
If the Faire imports actual, live British people to work there so that you might forget you're really back country Kentucky...good.
If there is a class in British accents being conducted by Christian Slater and Kevin Costner...bad.
If the knights have adversting endorsments for Pepsi and Halliburton engraved on their armor...bad (Nike is okay I guess).
If they serve mead in a pewter flagon with a turkey leg large enough to feed Botswana...good.
If they serve you drinks in those little cups that dentists use to give you flouride, and the food consists of quesadillas and Mcdonald's...bad.
If you see Paris Hitlon anywhere near a Renassiance Faire...run...for your life.
|Sunday, December 25th, 2005|
|Military administration and other forms of deliberate chaos.
I was reading a blog from a friend of mine, and in it, he expressed his frustration at dealing with today's banking system. I noticed that the banking system is not at all unlike the military's administration department. I'm sure everyone has experienced the frustration of having thousands of dollars missing from their Swiss bank accounts, or having important records of payment and certificates of completed training courses turn up in places like Azerbaijan and Geraldo Rivera's gym locker. What I'm about to tell you is the training process that all military admin bitches and bank employees have to go through. In fact, I think it's the same training facility (Gladys Smith's School for the Blind, Deaf, and Dumb, Alabama).
Initial recruits into the aformentioned training facility undergo a rigorous battery of mental and physical tests. Some of which include wadding up pieces of paper and throwing them through a miniature basketball hoop stuck to the refridgerator door(most recruits are failed Dennis Rodman wannabees), speed dialing Paris Hilton's cell phone, caber tossing, bull milking, forced data amnesia, clown punching, etc. As you can see, all the things they are taught are designed for one purpose; to be completely useless to the job at hand and aggrivate any and all potential customers to the point of Post Office homicidal tendencies.
Just know that all administration and banking recruits are taught three mottos. 1- The probability of a document becoming lost(sent to Charon the boatman) is directly proportional to its importance. 2- Abandon all common sense, Ye who enter here. 3- If it isn't broken, fix it until it is.
I suppose there is one piece of advice I can give to help allieviate any frustration...don't open a Swiss bank account. Current Mood: lethargic
|Thursday, December 22nd, 2005|
|It's almost Christmas at ground zero!
Wow, it's the first day of winter! The solstice! And I'm in the bloody desert in a country where the call to prayer sounds out five times a day and sounds like a cross between a wailing banshee and Rod Stewart. Basically it's enough to make anyone repeatedly jam an ice pick in their ears because it would be less painful.
I guess I'm saying that I'm having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year. It's kinda hard when it's supposedly winter and the temperature is in the 80's, there is ash-like sand everywhere(even manages to get into my third floor flat), there are kids whipping a donkey outside, and the entire population of Saudi Aramco comes over on the weekends to--get ready for it--pray(get whores).
The Navy base I work on tried decorating the place with lights, stupid, oversized plastic candy canes on the sidewalks, and a Christmas tree the size of the Eiffel Tower. It still doesn't work for me. I suppose I could try drinking enough eggnog until I contract diabetes, or singing carols until one of the marines either joins in or shoots me. Instead, I think i'll just resort to the next best thing. Alcohol.
|Thursday, December 15th, 2005|
This is my first entry into Live Journal. It being the beginning, I don't really expect anyone to read this. Regardless, I'll make posts and hope that this doesn't go by the wayside like Milli Vanilli's music career. I'll reveal bits about myself through various entries. For now, have a gander at this:
From the years of 2002 through most of 2005, I was working in a National Security Agency facility(no shit, I really was, scary huh?). For the first two years that I worked there, I couldn't even tell my family who I was really working for. Then just this year they went public, yay? Anyway, while working there we worked a crazy shift schedule so that we could further mess with the Middle East. It was 6 days on/3 days off, followed by 6 nights on/3 nights off...repeat. Shitty, ain't it? At the end of the last night shift of every set, I'd say around 4am, the watch officer would assign a new guy to be the "Break Chicken". Now, the poor schmuck picked for this glorious honor was forced to wear a giant, bright-yellow chicken suit. Then he was to run around the entire building and into every office screaming "breeeeeaaaaak! break! break! break!" just like a chicken would. Usually the people in these offices would become annoyed and throw things at the poor Break Chicken like mouse pads, golf clubs, farm tools, chairs etc, or just plain tackle him. To me, this whole thing was fucking hilarious.
I'm sure that any who may read this right now are thinking that this is all bull shit. But I assure you, I'm not making any of this up. Yes, this is what really goes on inside the top secret National Security Agency. Too bad I can't tell you anymore, like what the Secret Squirrel room is(again, not making this up). I hope that whatever it is that ails you goes away and dies a horrible death like Elvis did. Feel free to email me anytime. Current Mood: curious