My, how things have changed

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Inevitably, whenever I convene with members of my family, the topic of why I’m single, not married and popping out kids will arise. It’s as predictable as seeing dark clouds form in the sky and expecting precipitation.

This past weekend however, was slightly different. Whether it’s desperation, or acceptance of the times, I was suggested to turn to the unholy internet for my romantic pursuits. I won’t really go into detail why I do not agree with that suggestion, as it’s something I’ve written about many a time before, but I do have to admit it was pretty interesting that they made such a suggestion in general.

Somewhere along the line, the notion of meeting people on the internet versus meeting people in IRLand have completely switched positions as being the acceptable and the creepy dangerous places. Such a conclusion is never clearer than when the prior, slightly Luddite generation begin to realize this as well.

Meeting people on the internet is no longer the method that people try and be discreet about, the way that people don’t want to admit to having met the people in their current company. Meeting girls on the internet used to be searching for gold diggers and mail order brides. Now it’s become the norm.

Contrarily, the notion of meeting a person live and in the flesh on complete happenstance is seen with skepticism and concerns that these unknown persons are by default, devious and ill-intentioned cretins. Meeting random people in person is akin to being reckless and suicidal, because they’re all out to steal, rape, kill or all of the above and not necessarily in that particular order.

I accept the logic behind the acceptance of the internet as the safe default means of meeting people, but it doesn’t make it any less ironic to me. I still remember the skeptical looks people gave others when others would admit to meeting people over the internet, and how these people occasionally felt embarrassment or like there was something to be ashamed of. I’ve met people over the internet, and remembered feeling like I didn’t want to admit such, or that I had to rehearse my lines for if inquiring minds really wanted to know.

But now the old weird is the norm, and the old norm is the weird. Funny how perceptions change like that.

Caption says it all

It’s no secret that when it comes to college sports, I have a team in Virginia Tech, no matter how disappointing they are in football, no matter how mediocre they are in basketball, and no matter how much of a non-factor they are in baseball.  However, I have another team that I favor pretty often: whomever is playing against Duke.

Last night, North Carolina defeated Duke, which the fact of that alone is pleasing, but the visuals that accompanied the discovery of such news were absolutely abhorring.  After the clock wound down, the people of the Dean Dome stormed the court.

The University of North Carolina stormed the court after defeating Duke in men’s basketball.

Now I believe that there is a lot of importance in the act of storming the court (especially when it’s after defeating Duke), but in addition to the importance of doing it, there’s as much meaning behind in when storming the court isn’t done.

UNC is one of the few basketball programs in the country that should absolutely never storm the court upon defeating Duke.  They’re supposed to be Duke’s greatest rivals; equal, if not better, having a superior educational program and students and alumni of a higher class.

Doing it might have seemed cool and like a great idea at the time, but it’s probably going to have some petty, obnoxious (and very much white) repercussions.  Articles (again) about opponents storming the court on Duke by the Duke studentpubs, and heaven have mercy on all UNC fans if Duke wins the rematch on March 8 in Durham, because retribution will be insufferable and cringeworthy when Duke fans storm their own court in defeat of Carolina.

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Tears don’t come easy for this cowboy

When I was in the midst of one of my low points of my latest funk, I was sitting there in my room feeling crappy and alone and helpless and that my life was shit and going nowhere, and there was a part of me the felt like perhaps some tears were necessary.  I was by myself and there would be no shame in shedding tears in front of nobody, and frankly I thought that it might be therapeutic or something like that.  So I’m sitting there, and trying to manipulate my emotions to where I’d be sad enough for the faucets to start dripping.

They didn’t.  They never came.

A long time ago, when I was like 14 or 15, I was pretty involved with my church.  Obviously it all changed when I got my driver’s license, became disenchanted with the bullshit hypocrisy of the people I went to church with, and grew tired of how superficial and petty people were in a place where acceptance was quite literally preached.

But anyway, for like two years or so, I went on various retreats and church functions with the youth group, and actually didn’t mind a lot of them, in spite of how lame I thought church functions generally were.  Despite the clique-like nature of the youth group based on where you went to school, everyone was pretty civil, friendly and there was a decent sense of camaraderie amongst everyone.  I typically had a resentment for most other Koreans at this time due to how arrogantly exclusive they acted, and how often times they showed distain for me for being so white-washed, but I also naively thought that being in a church setting should inherently tone down a lot of this jingoism.

A lot of people don’t know this about me, since I don’t really bring it up, nor believe that it’s at all that important, but I’m a baptized and confirmed Catholic.  I don’t know if that has any significance to anyone, or if that makes me more or less Catholic than other Catholics, but that is the extent of my Catholicism.

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The day the joke died

In the grand spectrum of the wrestling industry, Nelson Frazier, Jr. was nothing substantial.  Most people have no idea who Nelson Frazier, Jr. was, including myself, because we remembered him as names such as “(King) Mabel,” “Viscera,” or “Big Daddy V.”  Some might even classify him as a glorified jobber, since he never held a major world championship, or even a mid-tier championship, and frankly, did his fair share of jobs throughout the majority of his career.

In spite of his marginally accomplished career, the news of Viscera’s passing still prompts me to write something about it, because the existence of Viscera was always something of a positive note in my life, and to actually lose him now is somewhat of a sour note worth sharing a few words about.

As a performer, I really couldn’t possibly have cared any less about Viscera.  He was the typical fat guy wrestler who was almost always built up to be something of a monstrous beast for smaller, more normal physique wrestlers to overcome and slay.  In the ring, he was slow and arduous as you’d imagine a 400 lb. man to be in an athletic contest, and his arsenal was the typical fat guy array of “knock opponent down and then squish him” and “squish him, get up, and squish him again.”

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Negativity

I hate my life right now, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I feel so utterly alone these days, and I don’t even know where to go where to find people I trust to discuss my problems. Family is out of the question because I cannot discuss anything with them without the underlying judgment for my life’s decisions. I don’t want to burden others with my mental weight, or I don’t frankly feel comfortable enough attempting to unload my problems with just any people.

Any attempts I make at trying to do something good, something fun, or anything that might bring me back to a happier place are constantly derailed. Be it the weather, conflicting schedules, things I perceive as inconsideration or selfishness of others, or just apathy on account of being depressed, I just am having a real difficult time in shaking this funk.

The worst part is that I’m fully aware that the trapped feeling I feel is imposed upon me by nobody but myself, and there’s the chance that I’m being too cautious about being too careful with those around me. I feel like I’m always in a state of walking on egg shells, and that everyone is tippy toeing around egg shells around me themselves.

I want to scream and yell out all my problems and hope that someone hears me and can be a stereotypical pillar of a personal support structure, but at the same time I don’t want to clarify issues and drop names, because I don’t necessarily think that solves anything either. So I remain quiet and stewing, which I know isn’t healthy either, but it seems like the safest bet until a better solution arises.

Underlying all these issues is the inherent fear that I’m turning into my dad; a miserable, solitary island of a man who may have felt all these things at some point in his life, but like me might constantly feel that bottling it up is better.

Life is not good right now. I am unhappy and I don’t know what do to about it.