For as long as I can remember, I was never comfortable with the idea of people wishing me well on the day that I was born. It’s not as if I did anything noteworthy enough on my birth date thirty-something years ago to warrant everybody’s praise. Every asshole on the planet started breathing at one point or another. Why the hell does everybody have to bother me when the date of my first living breath rolls around every year? I know all of that attention comes from a place of love, but I honestly and sincerely kind of hate it.

Jessica Freibergs made this for me in 2011 for my unbirthday. She's such a smart ass.

The thing is, I don’t enjoy undeserved attention. If people are going to celebrate me, I would rather they did so because of something I accomplished. So I guess that begs the question, “What the hell have you accomplished lately, KZ?” To be frank with you, I haven’t made a noteworthy accomplishment in a very long time. I’m just a mundane man who lives his life in the most boring, ordinary way possible. I spend the majority of my days as a tedious accountant who dutifully trudges his way through each week towards the promise of a brief and unfulfilling weekend. Sometimes I write something worth a damn, but most of the time, I sit around and daydream about what it would be like if I were a more motivated writer. I guess I’m a dreamer who’s forgotten how to dream. And you know what? I don’t really care at the moment that my life is dull and boring as shit, because I’m actually kind of happy for once. Don’t ask me to explain it. I just am. There’s something comforting about the comfort of boredom. Anyhow, I’m not really accomplishing much right now, so why don’t you people go throw a party for somebody else?

If you’re still looking for an excuse to celebrate me on my birthday, could you do me a favor and leave a comment on this old blog post of mine back from June 2007? It’s a little grandiose in places, but it’s still one of my favorite pieces that I’ve ever written. I’m also convinced that nobody has ever read it.

Anyway, good day to you, friends. Today is just another day — as ordinary as yesterday and the day before. But who knows? Maybe this will be the day when I actually do something worth noting. Just maybe. Go get the party started without me, and I’ll stay right here and give it a try.

KEVIN: God?

GOD: Yes?

KEVIN: What is the meaning of life? I want to know the truth. Please don’t feed me some horseshit answer that will only reinforce my resentment and my disdain. What the hell is the point?

GOD: Would it be such a bad thing if I told you that life amounted to nothing more than the endeavor to exist?

KEVIN: I know I’m not the first person to have asked you that question. Are you telling me that that’s the best answer you’ve been able to come up with after all this time?

GOD: Well, it’s one of my favorites.

As you might have guessed from my previous posts, I live in a neighborhood full of douchebags and shitheads. Unfortunately for them, I am well versed in the ways of the asshole. Okay, that sentence came out kind of wrong. Let me try again.

Unfortunately for the assholes in my neighborhood, I am well versed in the art of retaliatory douchebaggery. Score.

This afternoon, my next-door-neighbor got his hands on a trumpet. He is not a musician. As soon as I arrived home from work, I was greeted by the sound of my neighbor ceaselessly playing the same stoccato note out of his window: G-G-G-G-G-G-G. I was not impressed. The only person who could ever pull off a one-note song is Jack Black. In a pinch, I would accept a two-note song by Wakko Warner. After listening to this single-note trumpet solo for a solid half hour, it became clear to me that my neighbor wasn’t attempting to do anything constructive, and that he was perfectly content with making noise for the sake of noise. Needless to say, that bullshit was infuriating. I was tempted at first to stick my head out the window and shout something boring, yet direct, like “shut the fuck up!” But I mulled it over for a minute, and came up with a better plan instead.

So I grabbed my trusty Panasonic RX-DS620 stereo system, faced it outwards on my bedroom windowsill like a college frat boy, turned up the volume to max, and blasted the most raucous bebop jazz track that I own on disc: “Leap Frog” by Dizzie Gillespie and Charlie Parker.

I never knew there was such a thing in this world as a retaliatory jazz song, but there you have it. I know, I’m a petty guy, but sometimes you have to stoop low when you get tired of being pushed around. I don’t have a problem with people trying to learn a new instrument, but I do have a problem with idiots who think it’s cute to play the same note for an hour like a lonely alarm clock sounding off while nobody is home.

My ears were pulsing once the song was over, and it took me a moment to adjust before I could hear again. After a few cautious seconds of listening and waiting, I was satisfied. The music had stopped.

Forgive me for tooting my own horn (pun intended), but that was the most gangsta shit ever. That’s how you play a motherfucking horn, asshole.

Good night, Snoopy. You make this sleeping thing look so easy.

I can’t sleep tonight. Maybe you could blame it on insomnia, or on the pain from my injured ankle. Or maybe you could blame it on the six-hour nap that I took when I crashed out after eating dinner. What the hell do I know? I’m not a sleep doctor.

Oh well. There are far worse things that could happen to you than not being able to sleep when you’re supposed to. For some reason, my favorite time of of day has always been late at night. Nothing beats that calming sensation of solitude you feel as you roam your conscious mind while the world around you lies asleep. There are no distractions, no obligations except the ones you’ll have to worry about in the morning. But worries are what mornings are for. Nighttime is about dreams and possibilities.

Late at night, when you defy the urge to sleep, you are free to think, to write, and to believe. Night is the time when possibilities reach their ripest peaks, when you can entreat the twinkling skies with earnest prayer, and when you can indulge yourself and surrender to your most honest emotions. Night is the time when you are afforded the opportunity to rediscover the joy of solitude. But please don’t misunderstand my meaning. It’s not as if I’m idealizing the life of a misanthropic hermit. In fact, one of the greatest things about the solitude of night is the inevitability of losing it as the sun begins to rise. Loneliness has its merits, but loneliness is for the night.

So I guess I can’t sleep tonight. At the very least, I’ll console myself in the knowledge that all the world around me is wrapped in luscious slumber.

Good night, gentle dreamers. Unfold your tensely wound conceits, your murmurs of weary madness, and dare to believe that this night will grant you the reprieve you seek. May you rest with tired abandon, free and unafraid. Grant me your desires, your dreams of longing, of loss, and of regret. May you dream of only beautiful things, and may you wake in gentle wonder, enriched by your consoling rest.

Good night, gentle dreamers. Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow.

On Thursday afternoon, my friend, Joie, sent me a text message to ask me how I was faring with my bum leg. I wrote out a transcript of the conversation below. As you will soon discover, both Joie and I are absolute delights.

Joie: Hey gimpy. How’s the foot? Hope you’re not in too much pain.

Kevin: Hey walky, it’s all splinted up. There is discomfort because of the swelling and abrasion against the splint, but the ankle doesn’t hurt as much today. Thanks for asking.

Kevin: It sucks not being able to drive though. Can’t even go to work.

Joie: Nice! Can’t drive with the other foot?

Joie: If you’re headed to downtown area, either Lee or I can pick you up and carpool. It’s on our way to work.

Kevin: That’s not a bad idea if you’re willing. I work at [cross street] and [cross street].

Joie: Crazy bastard, you’re not supposed to take me up on the offer! Don’t you have sick leave?

Kevin: Oh shit, I mean no! Fuck carpooling! Go choke on a granola flavored ****, hippie!

Kevin: And yes, I have sick leave.

Joie: I’m kidding. Seriously let me know when you’re thinking about going back to work.

Joie: Don’t say tomorrow.

Kevin: How about tomorrow, hippie?

Joie: Whatever.

At first, I didn’t think much of the injury because I was still able to walk around and bear weight on my right foot. But as the afternoon rolled on, my ankle began to swell up, and I started having to walk with a limp. Later that evening while I was resting at home, I started to alternate between crawling on my hands and knees, and hopping around on one foot. Gleefully, my girlfriend, Diana, started to alternate between calling me “Gimpy”, “Little Bunny Foo Foo”, and “Hopalong Cassidy”. That was kind of a dick move on Diana’s part, but I have to admit that I probably had it coming.

Since Saturday, I have been in and out of various medical facilities, had numerous x-rays taken, sat through an hour-long MRI session, and had my leg wrapped and re-wrapped inside a fiberglass splint a handful of times. To be honest, all of this medical attention feels like a massive overreaction. I could be wrong, of course. I’m still waiting to hear back from the ankle specialist regarding the results of my MRI.

All week long, I’ve been stuck in a weird limbo. I can’t drive to work because I’m supposed to keep my right ankle as immobile as possible. My parents have been nice enough to drive me to my doctor appointments in the afternoons, but their schedules don’t allow them to drive me to and from work on a daily basis. Aside from that, I have basically been “on call” every day this week because my podiatrist office has a strange inability to schedule appointments any further in advance than a single afternoon. This week, while I haven’t been at the doctor’s office, I’ve been sitting at home catching up on my reading, clearing off my Netflix instant queue, and grudgingly accepting Diana’s generous and attentive care. Contrary to popular belief, there actually is an element of romance and nurture in our relationship.

So here we are again. I’ve gone and sustained an unheroic leg injury while pursuing my quirky, expensive hobby. I just need to rest, take care of myself, and make sure my ankle heals correctly. On the bright side, at least I get to spend more quality time with my books, my unwatched movies, my girlfriend, and my awesome red penguin pajamas.

The Wicked Few Gargoyle

It’s been hard lately getting the whole team together in one place due to scheduling conflicts, which makes every team outing a special event these days. I miss those guys. I wish we had more opportunities to play together.

To tell you the truth, I don’t consider myself a very good paintball player given the amount of time that I’ve invested in the sport. I play two to three times a month; and at best, you could probably rank me a mediocre player who occasionally hits a lucky streak. Even so, every time I play with my teammates, I shoot a little straighter, I snap a little faster, and I just feel like a different player. My team is made up of a good group of guys. I’m glad they’re on my side.

For as long as I have been a part of the team, we have never found the time to take a group picture with all members present. Saturday, unfortunately, was no exception. A few of us couldn’t make it out there to Infinite Edge that day. Still, we made the best of things and posed for this group shot below.

Although I think the picture came out well enough, it kills me to see all of that negative space where our missing teammates should be standing. So, through the magic of Photoshop, I seamlessly integrated our missing team members into the photo. You can barely tell the image has been doctored.





Okay, fine. I admit it. I’m not the best at Photoshop. Could you please just do me a favor and ignore the fact that Josh is ghostly pale compared to everybody else, and that Chris and Jenn seem to be lit by a completely different light source, and that Robert’s cell phone hand is freakishly huge?

Actually, you know what? It feels like there’s something missing. I’m going to give this one more try.

There we go. Perfect.

Here we are, folks. This is my team. Paintball is good, messy fun, and it only gets better when you play it with friends. It is an honor and a privilege to say that I play alongside these guys as a member of the team. Here’s to paintball, here’s to friendship, and here’s to us, the Wicked Few. Fear the gargoyle. Fear the sombrero.

For all of my conceit, I’m just a humble beast — a breathing mass of bones and skin not much further removed from the simplicity of paramecium — those single-cell vessels of contained little equilibrium, formed to eat and reproduce by transferring weight and water and information, dancing in the perpetuation of that quivering, living mass, to undulate and collapse amid the rhythms of the collective breath. It’s all a sea, this arid heap of waste — and you can’t help but drown amid the indifferent waves.

Back in October 2011, My awesome writer friend, Rachel The Curly Muse (pictured above, assaulting me with her freaky hair), challenged me to write a short story by providing me a randomized creative writing prompt with really messed up plot requirements. Predictably, I didn’t make much progress in the past few months.

Tonight, Rachel came over to my place to visit, and she started giving me massive shit for failing to meet her writing challenge. Luckily for me, I write my best work when I’m under pressure and facing a deadline. All the while Rachel was breathing down my neck and snarling her nagging fits of disapproval, I wrote the following short story. I think it came out pretty well.

“I love to drink, but I hate kids.” That’s what Jerry said one day while getting piss ass drunk. He also went on some mystical journey or some shit to find a valuable treasure. He found something, all right.

The end.

Or, is it?

This has been a KZ joint.