Excitable Boy

I wonder at which point birthdays stop becoming exciting. When I was younger, my birthday was like a second Christmas. I'd always have a birthday party, I'd always get cool presents, and I'd always look forward to being one number more than the day before.

Somewhere around my 13th or 14th birthday, my mom told me I wasn't having a birthday party because I was "too old." A side effect of this decision was fewer gifts, as most of my family members generally either forgot about my birthday or didn't feel obliged to send me anything because I wasn't having a birthday party. Interesting how when you're younger, you don't really need money, but people will give it to you. When you're older, you need money more and people want you to earn it yourself. Sort of a microcosm of America.

I think it was around this point that my birthdays began to lose their luster. Without parties, all I had to look forward to were the big milestones: 16, 17, 18, and 21. When my 15th birthday rolled around, nothing happened. I was just a day older and I could officially say I was 15 instead of 14. When I turned 16, I could get a permit. I didn't really care so much about getting my permit. Don't get me wrong; I really wanted to, but I ended up not getting it until a couple months later. When I turned 17, I could see rated R movies. Then again, at that point I still didn't have any form of ID, so it's not like I could prove my age if they asked me to anyway. Not to mention that I'd been seeing rated R movies anyway since most movie theaters don't really care how old you are.

Then, the next year, I hit a big one--18 years old. I was officially an adult (though "officially" doesn't really mean much with me...case in point, my Ghostbusters comforter that I've had for at least 12 years and still use to this day). I could buy cigarettes, porn, and I had no curfew. Then again, I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, I'm too nervous to even consider buying porn, and my parents wanted me home by 12 on most nights even though legally I could stay out.

But after turning 18, there's a big gap in the milestones. 20 seems like it should be big--after all, 10, 30, 40, and 50 are all fairly big milestones--but it's not. Nothing happens on your 20th birthday. Someone brought to my attention a couple weeks ago that I wouldn't be a teenager anymore--but truth be told, I haven't felt like a teenager since I turned 18. Since then, I really haven't matured all that much. I certainly learn new things every day, and my perspective on life is constantly changing, but in terms of emotional maturity, I haven't aged since that summer. Essentially, since I turned 18, my public status hasn't changed very much at all.

No, the true milestone comes next year. Young alcoholic or prudent choirboy, I'd say that 95-99% of young Americans are chomping at the bit for their 21st birthday. But what happens afer that? You wake up the next morning with a hangover worse than most you'll ever have in your entire life, and all of a sudden you're no longer the festive birthday boy or girl. You are now just a pathetically unkempt 21-year-old sporting a headache that gets readings on the Richter scale. Your last important birthday has come and gone. From now on, the highlight of your birthday will be crappy little notes left on your desk by co-workers just reminding you that you're one year closer to death.

And thanks to a severe lack of importance placed on the 20th birthday here in America, all I am today is one number higher and one year closer to death.

Captain Planet

Captain Planet was a popular guy back in my day. I never knew why. I mean, I'm for conserving the environment and all, but having a superhero for it? That's pretty lame. That's like making Smokey the Bear maul little kids who drop soda cans on the ground. No, wait--that actually sounds pretty awesome.

Anyway, Captain Planet was a huge fucking dork. He didn't do jack shit. He was a bluish-green pedophile who gathered five teenagers from five different continents (totally fucking over Australia and Antartica, by the way) and made them do his dirty work--that is, until the loser kids couldn't beat the bad guys, in which case they'd combine their "powers" and Captain Planet would show up.

But when Captain Planet showed up, he didn't do anything. He just kind of flew around and *poof* everything was all better. He had no specific powers, nothing. He just kind of vaguely helped save the environment from random Republicans.

And I haven't even gotten to the worst part of the show yet--this show is racist and stereotypical. The American character, representing fire--a harsh, oppressive element--was red-headed. Come on now. Give the poor fire-crotch a break here. He was also a skirt-chasing moron, exploiting further the stereotype that Americans are indulgent and ignorant.

The European girl sported a Scandinavian accent, and what do you know? Blonde hair to go along with it. She was also very hot. While this may be a positive stereotype, it's a stereotype nonetheless, kind of like how all Asians are good at math. How do you think the Asians who suck at math feel? What about the black guys with average-sized penises? When expectations are high and people fall short, it's not really their fault, but they're held to those expectations. It's a good thing we Irish have no positive stereotypes.

And finally, the worst character on the show--the South American boy. He represented the element of heart. When the kids combined their powers, they called them out--Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, Heart--and short sequences would be shown as they did so. Earth showed an earthquake, Fire a blazing flame, Wind a strong gale-force tempest, and Water a tidal wave. But what did Heart have? A BUNCH OF DANCING MONKEYS. What the fuck? I mean, what could the poor South American boy do? What are a bunch of dancing monkeys going to do to save the environment? Cover the culprits in shit?

Captain America was a sham. It even failed in its shallow attempt to get kids to conserve the environment. What's the message of this show? I'll make a short list of the morals I learned from Captain Planet.

1) Only bad people pollute. That soda can you dropped on the ground back in 4th grade? Yeah, you're going to hell for it, you son of a bitch.

2) Polluters all drive high-tech vehicles like hoverboats and military hummers. If you want cool shit, all you have to do is dump lots of crap into rivers and forests.

3) Pollute all you want, because even if you do, some blue freak and a bunch of loser hippies from different continents will clean it up for you.

4) "Hero" and "zero" rhyme.

Now, according to www.thefacebook.com, Captain Planet is also a student at Penn State majoring in Environmental Resource Management and Criminal Justice. He also has well over 2000 friends at Penn State, as well as many friends at other schools across the country. Here's a message to all you "friends" of Captain Planet: he is NOT your friend. He is a pervert and a blue-green loser with no special powers except a half-assed flat-top mullet. Do not join his cult of multi-cultural teenagers with stupid rings.

Random Thoughts on a Muggy Sunday Evening

I need a new pair of shoes. Somehow, at age 19, while my brain has most definitely stopped growing, my feet forge on. Nike is putting something in my water.

(Note: don't assume that I buy Nike products. But be wary when you buy your Converse Chuck Taylors, for they are owned by the evil empire of shoe companies.)

***

I'm torn by my desire to have really, really long hair and my love for wearing hats that fit me.

I think nature has punished people with big heads in that if they want to wear a hat, they cannot shield their large melon-on-a-stick from the world with hair. I'm just glad I'm not balding. There would be a sun glare national emergency.

****

Video Game Kevin Doran and Real Life Kevin Doran are two very different athletes.

***

Life is funny sometimes. I just read a comment from my first entry, likely from one of my sarcastic bastard friends, saying "like hell you're a good driver." I like to think that I'm a spectacular driver, and everyone else sucks. But the other night, I got into a fender bender because I was falling asleep at the wheel when I could very well have just slept over my friend's house. I shouldn't call it a "fender bender," because there was absolutely no damage at all as I was subconsciously driving less than 5 MPH. See? Even in my sleep, I know to hit the brake at a red light. I'm just not good enough at driving while asleep to know how hard to hit the brake.

***

Summer always brings up a few very difficult questions to answer: socks or barefoot? sandals or sneakers? underwear or freeballing? shower or chlorine bath in the pool? windows down or A/C? Now, I don't make the rules, but I'm of the mindset that you should always try to make situations as comfortable as possible. Some might object to freeballing while wearing shorts with holes in them, but I like to think it offers a sense of intimacy to the world. I'd like to teach the world to love, and the best way I know how to do that is by making the world my living room. If sitting around naked in my living room is wrong, I don't want to be right.

I write all this while uncharacteristically wearing both underwear and socks WHILE wearing sandals. Damn near a mortal sin, in my book.

***

I like my birthday. July is the Saturday of months. August is the Sunday. Sunday is the day of the week where I loaf around all day dreading what is to come. August is the month of the year when I remember that September begins the school year. It has got to be the most boring month of the year, for one reason. I'm always far too wrapped up in how awful school is going to be to make plans.

My birthday rests on the second to last day of the Saturday of the year. My birthday is 11 o'clock on a Saturday night. Is there a better time of the week? I submit that there is not. My birthday is that time of the year when everyone's at the party, and no one's prepared to leave. My birthday is that time of the year when the alcohol is just enough to make you lose your inhibitions, but not enough to make you an embarrassment. My birthday is the climax. My birthday is the peak. My birthday is the insurance run. My birthday is the final chorus, exploding with feeling.

Wow. Don't feel bad that you weren't born on July 30th.

***

So apparently Ellen DeGeneres has stolen my dancing style and made it her trademark. Why didn't American Express give me a commercial and lots of money? I might sue that dyke.

Sleeping Is Giving In

The Arcade Fire stole my lyric. I know I came up with this long before they did.

I don't like going to sleep. I've never been fully rested in my life, anyway. And when I do get a lot of sleep, I wake up wanting to go back to sleep. I think sleep is an addiction. I think if you kept an infant awake as much as possible, it would grow up and never be tired. Maybe I'll try that on my kids.

Nah, I'm too much of a pussy for that.

I don't like sleeping because I'm always missing out on something. If I went to sleep for eight hours, that's eight hours I've wasted. I only sleep when I can't stay awake any longer. And when I do that, I try to wake up soon enough that I can get some more stuff done. My life is an ongoing circus with intermittent naps.

Caffeine is my savior. If it weren't for caffiene, I'd lead a 99% less effective life. But in the same sense that sleep is an addiction, caffiene is too. I don't drink coffee every morning and I don't pop caffiene pills. I have work to do. I'm also struggling to stay awake. I'm going to get an energy drink. Outside of water, I drink Amp Energy Drink more than anything else. It's a godsend, I tell you.

***

I went to Wawa and got my Amp fix for the day. I finished studying for my quiz just before I had to leave for class. I aced my quiz, then fell asleep during the lecture.

Inspiration

Sometimes I think about taking drugs, not for the high but for the inspiration. I feel like my life is too generic for me to do anything of artistic value. My life is sponsored by a name-brand product. I am Kevin A. Doran, presented by Wal-Mart.

Optimism

My mom rudely interrupted my self-loathing.

"Kevin," she said in that tone I knew meant I had to do something I didn't want to do. "I need you to mop the kitchen floor." I hate when I'm right.

"Okay," I resigned, and rolled off my bed as slowly as possible.

"And this room needs to be cleaned," she added before walking out the door.

Making sure she was gone, I rolled back onto the bed and groaned.

***

I've always been an optimistic person. No matter how crappy things are going, I always find the silver lining. If I can't find a silver lining, I look to the future for one. For the first time in my life, I couldn't find one in the future. I thought about the prospect of suicide. Generally I can find a reason not to commit it, like "What about my family and friends?" For some reason I just didn't care. That reason didn't do it for me.

The one that always does it for me is having children. It's all I've ever wanted. I've known for as long as I can remember that the day I have my first child will be the happiest day of my life. This is what keeps me optimistic, more than anything else.

I don't know if it will ever happen. It's not that I'm incapable of attracting a suitable wife to have kids with or anything. I've just stopped caring enough to try to find one. That's why I don't know if it will ever happen. I don't know when I'll ever care enough again.

The reason I passed on suicide is that I realized, even though I don't see any hope for the future doesn't mean there isn't any. I'm sure it's there somewhere. I think that's the optimist in me again. Even when I feel suicidal and I can't find any hope, I'm sure it's still out there.

Returning Home

I stepped over the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor and flung my school bag onto the unmade bed.

I reconsidered, picked up the bag and dropped it onto the floor next to the t-shirts that used to be clean but would do in a pinch, and flung myself onto the unmade bed.

"I have to go to work again tomorrow," I thought aloud, but not loud enough that anybody else in my house would think I was crazy for talking to myself. I closed my eyes and put on my headphones.

Even the disappointment carried over to the music world. What used to be the thing I loved most in the world had broken my heart so many times that I’d become jaded and disturbed. I had dreams about something–writing, or being in a band, something. I might have been confused, but at least I had dreams. Now I was just going through the motions until something better came along. 19-year-olds aren’t supposed to work Monday to Friday jobs or squander money on diner food and gasoline.

It’s funny how everybody chases the American Dream that gets fed to them as little kids staring at the TV, but when they become jaded, there’s no such thing anymore. Now it’s just saving up money for stuff you don’t even want to pay for. I don’t want car insurance. I don’t need it. I’m a good driver. But I don’t even want to drive a car. I want to hitchhike and take public transportation and bum rides off my friends and parents. THAT’s the American Dream. Bumming rides off people.