The Salvation Army typically employs a certain type of person. I don’t mean to offend with the following, they are merely observations I’ve made.

They are intelligent, certainly, but not the kind of intelligence you’d find at a bookstore, say. The majority of their employees have what are commonly referred to as “radio faces,” but rougher, leaving traces of lives lived before or separate from this one. I do not fit all that incredibly neatly into this mold.

The Salvation Army aims to help a certain element of society. Unwealthy, mostly uneducated, pierced if below 30, tattooed if above 16, a vocabulary suited well for the list of unacceptable words for a PG movie. I fit into this mold.

I am a Salvation Army employee.

The Lack Of Grandeur That Comes With Age.

I realized that with years, maturity, and experiences, all priceless and valuable, comes a diminishing view of grandeur.
When I was younger I remember the local skating rink being a place of value, wonder, excitement, and yes, disgust.
But now, the value, wonder, and excitement seemed to have made way for more disgust.
The bathroom used to be a sacred place. A place where you might find something of value - which at the time was a quarter. Now…..no thank you.
Going around and around never got old, and mine you, still doesn’t, but it takes much more of a toll on my back and my feet.
The one redeeming quality is the time travel of the music. Serisouly, I haven’t heard some of those songs in years. I’ve decided that I don’t really miss them much.

Funny Dialogue for Future Short Film

Okay, so today while eating a spoonful of ice cream I had a funny thought.
Here it goes:
Scene begins.
Roomate #1 enters the empty kitchen. He opens the freezer and takes out a half gallon of ice cream. He takes out a clean spoon from the drawer and gets a spoonfull of ice cream. He eats it. Roomate #2 walks in and stand, watching, in the doorway. Roomate #1 very quickly and inefficient rises it off. He then puts it away in the drawer where it was produced from just moments earlier. Roomate #2 just stares with a look of terror on his face. Roomate #1 says simply, “Theres a 50-50 chance I’ll be the one using it next time.”
End scene.

Roomate Problems.

Hypothetically speaking, of course, it all goes back to the fundamental experiments performed on mice and rats back in the Middle Ages; you know, Monty Python and the Holy Grail style. You alter a the habitat of the creature and observe how it adapts, measuring carefully the amount of time it takes, the success the small mammal has, and other varying scientific calculations.
This time it is a bit different. This time, instead of a mouse or a rat, it is a grown adult.
Through a series of alterations I will observe the changes in my roommate, we will call him “Neil.”
First I will stop doing his dishes. For the last time I have retrieved them from the living room or dining room. I found out the hard way that the remains of a chocolate peanut butter shake really stink up the kitchen. No more will I clean out his moldy and disgusting food from the refrigerator.
Will the change take place in the first 3 days? One week? Hopefully soon, but we shall see. All I know is that I am done playing the role of housekeeper for him. His wife will thank me later.

NOTE I am very thankful that my mother never did such things to me, but I was 18 at the time, not 21, and I refuse to think that I was this bad. Thought perhaps it would have cured me. Or it could have made me upset with her. One or the other.

My Decision.

This is for me really; a record of things that will not burn in a fire.
But if you decide you would like to read, then by all means, read away. And if a chord is stuck in you, comment and tell me about it. If there is a spelling error, correct me. Have additional thoughts, please.

The first thing I would like to post is just a beautiful line from a song.
The song is “The Poison” by Pedro The Lion.

"My old man always swore that hell would have no flame, just a front row seat to watch you true love pack her things and drive away"

There is something beautiful in that line, and I don’t think it takes much to find it. I wonder if the writer, David Bazan, has experienced this; if the song is from within, and not just wrote to sell a few copies.

Until later.