[

Current Mood

|

peaceful

]

This page has had quite a run since the beginning of my junior year in high school. I've rambled, vented, hoped, dreamed and reminisced for three years. I've kind of outgrown it, though, both as a writer and as a person, so I'm posting under a new username now.

theoldsport

 It's a play on both my love of sports and a claim I once made about being Gatsby from F. Scott FitzgerIn a wayald's classic novel. I'm looking to focus more on independent writing projects, bringing my personality out more through them than arbitrary daily updates. Also, I'm going to link the family to the new spot, so they can keep up with what I'm writing and how I'm doing as a college student.

I'm not sure what this means for the flyrz. Perhaps I'll update here every once in a while. No matter what, though, this is a large, important chunk of my life that I'll always have to go back and reflect on. The memories in this particular journal are ones that mean something to me, and it's a good thing to have them all collected here. I want to move on, but I don't ever want to lose sight of where I came from.

So head on over to theoldsport.livejournal.com and continue this unique jouney.

I've still got a lot of thoughts, dreams and memories ahead of me.

GO FLYERS!

[

Current Mood

|

frustrated

]

Last year, I found the Eagles radio broadcasts on a central Pennsylvania radio station's live-streaming radio broadcast. It wasn't much, nothing to get excited about unless you're some sports-obsessed loner who's "on his own" for the first time in his life.

But I did get excited about it.

I was excited about sitting there at the computer in my Eagles gear, snacking and drinking soda while living and dying with Merril Reese's distinct voice as it shot to my dorm room from south Philadelphia.

It wasn't just a sports ritual. It was one of the few ties I had to back home. My ability to stay connected with my favorite sports teams gave me a constant in one of changinest times of my life.

And that's really what sports means to me, a constant that can keep me connected to family and friends, to childhood memories and to places I called home in my lifetime. Sports linked my basement on Fremont St. to Grandma's house to family party venues to my friends' respective living rooms to a dorm room in Falconio Hall.

So I was kind of looking forward to today's season-opening game between the Rams and my Eagles. The local Bills were on FOX (since they were playing the Seahawks from the NFC), so the Eagles would not be part of the regional television package here.

I still had hopes for at least something on radio.

After a shaky Sunday morning, I was looking forward to returning to my dorm. Eagles on the radio and the first game of the Phillies/Mets double header on Gameday with the nightcap on ESPN.

At 1 p.m., the local radio station was still playing today's "cutting edge" rock music. Either it lost the rights (even though they did have the Birds on in the preseason games) or the NFL caught on to me getting *gasp* free radio broadcasts and put on the clamp.

The sports station out of Philadelphia also gained the rights to broadcast games, but, being a sports station out of Philadelphia, those broadcasts are obviously blocked out for those of us surfing the net.

So my options are to receive game updates on Yahoo or spend an exorbitent amount of money on some package that allows me to watch 43570984356438726085 games a week when I only really want to watch one.

Fucking NFL. You made a ridiculous amount of money as it is. I buy a $67 jersey, a $25 hat, hell, even a pair of green socks with the Eagle head logo on them. If I could afford it, I'd spend egregious amount on tickets and two weeks' wages on a fucking hot dog and soda (because you're no longer allowed to bring your own food into the stadium). Despite all this, I still blindly worship your product, doing everything I can to follow a franchise that doesn't even know or care who the hell I am.

And now all I want to do is listen to my favorite team on the radio. Unlike baseball, football is a sport that needs some kind of live, realistic component to it. A fan needs a voice or a moving picture to follow. A series of dots and a short paragraph describing what happens after every play doesn't suffice.

If I lived a certain number of miles southeast, I could pick up a radio and follow my team for free. Anyone with a radio in most of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia and Delaware can listen for free,

Other than that, those of us with the same ability to pick up the radio signal are screwed. I know there are millions of us out there, just wishing to suck oodles of revenue from the NFL. We're asshoe criminals trying to run the innocent NFL out of business.

Wait a minute. I'm just a broke college student trying to bring a little bit of home, a little bit of something I love up to a dorm room in western New York.

Now, if you'll excise me, I have to get back to my dots and short, action-packed paragraphs.

14-0 Eagles.

At least if they win, I'll feel a little better.

[

Current Mood

|

thoughtful

]

It was one of the mot surreal experiences, sitting there in a half-empty room. It was the first Thursday night of the NFL season, and I watched the game at the Skeller. By the time I returned, my roommate had already moved out, leaving half of the room in a dark void.

Not that it was completely bad. I ended up enjoying living in a single the rest of my freshman year. Still, though, I couldn't help feeling so alone that night.

Then, by some weird series of events, I ended up talking to Amanda on line. And I felt better.

It was the last meaningful conversation I had with her.

One year later, I'm back. This time, my roommate has yet to move out.

- I went to sleep at 5 a.m. last night after leaving the BV's office a little after 4:30. I had to wake up to give a power point presentation on unity and multiplicity for Art and Literature. I worked on the slides during the long hours I spent barely working on the school paper, but I had to finish this morning. Upon finishing, I realized my flash drive must've jumped out of my laptop bag at home. It surely wasn't here.

The presentation went okay. Some girl even said "good job," though I'm sure it was just a formality. Then I went to the first off-ice hockey practice and spent more time at the BV after.

- A few notes on said newspaper. Yeah, it sucks working (or, in my case, not working) on it until the wee hours of the morning. It didn't help that I had the presentation stressing me out in the background. But I do enjoy it. I wish I could do more of the hands-on work at deadline time, instead of watching. Once I learn the program, I'm sure the sports editor won't mind letting me take up some of the layout jobs.

Yesterday, I had an interview with a sophomore runner for the women's cross country team. I like interviewing people. Being a journalist (or pretending to, at least) connects me with people I wouldn't normally be involved with. And I like sharing their respective stories with those who are willing to read them.

The BV might not be the most reputable organization to be involved with right now. A lot of people probably look down on it. But tomorrow morning, I'm going to grab a copy between classes to see the fruits of my labor. There's something about seeing your name in print and seeing something you worked on sitting there for the public to read and experience. I don't know if I should be proud of it or not, but I am.

It might be my life, but I can think of a few worse lives to be living, anyway.

As long as I don't sign up to do presentations for Thursday classes.

-Mom sent me an email tonight. She linked me to some local news. Barack Obama made a stop in Lancaster today and she went to see him, at Buchanan Park, actually. "Couldn't pass on this one - the office is less than 2 miles from Buchanan Park & there are a lot of memories there, too," she said. 

There are a lot of memories there. I've been meaning to contact the family this week. Hopefully the weekend will give me a chance to.

-I got a work study job here on campus. It's PR work, mostly, writing thank-yous to people who make donations and organizing a few events. I'm not looking forward to adding another task to my schedule, but it will be nice to get a paycheck here.

Looks like I've come a long way from sitting in my room, alone in the dark one year ago tonight.

I've got a long way to go, too. And I'm looking forward to it.

[

Current Mood

|

hopeful

]

...since I packed up and moved back to Bona's as a sophomore. There's surprisingly not a whole lot to report, at least until I get back into the swing of things.

I've adjusted much better than I anticipated, even without having electricity on my half of the room for the first day. I've slept fine and I've even managed to eat a little better and get in a daily run each day this week (except Thursday).

Classes are shaping up with some promise. The dreaded core science course (Inquiry into the Natural World or "Natty World," if you will) that I'm taking without any close friends doesn't seem too bad. I survived honors science courses in high school, so hopefully I can swing a general overview of them here for a few months. Denny's class is another Denny class, French 201 is supposedly just a review of French 101 and 102 and Western Arts and Literature seems to be just like Humanities, but without the cool teachers and awesome field trips...and the professor doesn't rag me nearly as much for being an Eagles fan.

I'm still on the fence with hockey. Every part of me wants to participate this year, but it seems like we're getting a good turnout this year and I might end up being thrown down the depth chart. Maybe I've worked my way into a spot in the lineup already, even if I'm not good enough. No matter what, though, the hockey players all greet me and talk to me around campus and that feels pretty good.

I've survived my first of many BV deadlines. Wednesday night was awful, especially since the Phillies/Mets game was on. I didn't know how to do a whole lot, but apparently it wasn't much less than the other sports editors. I ended up sitting in the corner until 2 a.m., waiting for something to do and rolling my eyes while the rest of the crew went nuts over a Playboy (the one with *gasp* Kim Kardashian) to pass the time. Thursday went a lot better, though. For a while, I was the only sports guy there and I actually was able to do some hands-on work and actually got some editing done, which felt good. It's a lot of (sometimes unnecessary) work, but when the papers come out Friday morning, it is a special accomplished feeling.

Not a whole lot of homesickness, really, but I'm not bubbling with excitement about being here. Granted, I'm feeling good and I'm around some pretty awesome people. Sometimes I feel like I'm on top of the world, that everything's exactly the way it should be in a place that's perfect for me. But there have been a few times this week during which I felt trapped and out of place I've felt like something is missing and I've wanted to be anywhere but here.

Over time, I guess, as I get back into the swing of things and get used to being here, I'll be feeling more the latter and the former will fade away. After all, this is sophomore year. I'm ready to learn some new things, try new some things and connect with some new people. 

And the same-old, same-old is always good for me, too.

It's never good to leave, but it's good to be back.

 

[

Current Mood

|

irritated

]

In case no one heard about this, American swimmer Michael Phelps won eight gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games. I mean, China is on the whole other side of the world, and it hasn't really been publicized here in the States.

End sarcasm.

Even with his race for eight over with, Phelps is still swimming in the pool of media attention. 

To be honest, my own interest in the Olympics has diminished. I feel a little cheated spending prime time watching events that happened hours before. NBC made a fuss about getting the golden boy and the gymnastics squads into a suitable time slot for U.S. viewers (at least those of us in the Eastern Time Zone), but the network executives either feigned interest or couldn't get the Chinese to budge any more scheduling.

I still keep up, and I'll watch a heat or two on the delay, but I'm no longer glued to Olympic coverage that's seemingly going through a Phelps hangover. I mean, how many interviews am I going to endure? How many features am I going to have to read on the guy?

Why, with track and field heating up and marquee events approaching the medal rounds, am I bombarded with all this drooling over Phelps? Why, all of this media drool could fill an olympic-sized pool.

Then Phelps could swim in it, faster than anyone else. (cue light bulb).

I could deal with Phelpsmania. It was, after all, a good story. Like I said, the guy is a phenominal athlete, the best in the world and possibly world history. He deserved the attention and the attention he received, and the way it was presented to me, was second to none.

But then the attention started getting a little tired. Then boring and slightly annoying. Now it's just frustrating.

I probably wouldn't be as disappointed about this if I was reading about how phelps plans on training for the 2012 London games or how he's going to give back to his community and various charities with all the endorsement money coming his way. Instead, But I'm reading, instead, about how his father has yet to congratulate him on his accomplishments.

According to stories from the New York Post and the Baltimore Sun, Fred Phelps has been absent throughout most of his son's adolescence. Apparently, if you have an estranged son, you're supposed to reconcile and share the spotlight with him after he overachieves and the world falls in love with him.

But this guy hasn't even talked to his son, or most media members, during these Olympics. He has watched every race on TV, claiming to be "on pins and needles" the whole time.

This, apparently, is a problem for some people.

Just looking over the comments on Yahoo!'s story, I read, "irresponsible low life IMO" and  "Grow a pair and head to Bejiing...sorry buddy too late!!"

Look, I'm no family therapist. I'm not saying this guy should win Father of the Year. I'm not condoning his 1993 divorce from Debbie Phelps. And I'm not even taking this in as any of my business.

But would it have been more honorable for Fred to show up (likely without an invitation from his son) at the Games, soaking in the spotlight and becoming a celebrity overnight? Before we label him as some gutless prick, can we not try to understand where he's coming from for a minute?

I mean, if I had a poor relationship with my father and won eight gold medals, I would feel more ripped off if he tried to come back into my life immediately after the fact (thinking of that scene from The Waterboy: We can be like Tiger Woods and his daddy!!!!!). 

Taking nothing away from mommy Phelps, I'm a little tired of watching her sitting on the bleachers, crying and grabbing Chris Collinsworth's knee. It's a cute story, good for TV, but it's not really something I want to see the cameras cut to IN THE MIDDLE of a LIVE race at the OLYMPICS.

Without the cameras down at his house in Baltimore, how do we really know how Fred Phelps reacted, either? Maybe if there were cameras there, and NBC cut to them IN THE MIDDLE of a LIVE race at the OLYMPICS, we'd see Fred as he said, on pins and needles, quietly but excitedly cheering on his son, the greatest olympian ever. 

After all, he did know Michael Phelps before Micheal Phelps won eight gold medals.

Now, those eight gold medals are hanging comfortably. The podiums have been taken down and the last notes of the national anthem have been played. The speedos are dry and Michael Phelps is through with this year's olympic games.

At least the games part.

His father declined multipe interviews with the press, claiming he wanted to keep the attention on Micheal.

How about we keep the attention on Michael (at a minimum, though)? This isn't fuckin' Maury Povich. It's the Olympics.

Keep it in the pool.

I do realize I'm hypocritically writing about things that are tired and unnecessary. I just hat how a feel good story always has to be felt until it starts to feel bad. 

And my one uncle is Michael Phelps' distant second cousin or something like that.

So when is The New York Post going to do a feature on me? (This is the same paper that wrapped up the NL East a month early last year. It didn't turn out so well for them...) 

*** 

Okay, so I read a few more comments on the Yahoo page. To be fair, there ARE people who do agree with the father's decision to not get involved

[

Current Mood

|

curious

]

At what point does a model become a supermodel? 

Is there official criteria or just some vague acceptance based on reputation? Does it have anything to do with what's being modeled (sp?)?

Now, I'm not looking to become a supermodel myself. And, even if want to at some point, I probably won't end up dating one. But I am curious about the technicalities of the industry.

It's like my ambition to become a senior writer, which has nothing to do with age.

[

Current Mood

|

numb

]

It was a frustrating opening shift at McDonald's yesterday. Waking up at 4:30 in the a.m. (4 o'clock sharp today) isn't always a fun summer activity, especially when I had to single-handedly cook and prepare everything in the store within the hour. The only other driving-age teen employee without his license finally earned his Friday. He came in to work at six, along with two other grill workers. Though his licensed presence did wonders for my already shaky self confidence, he was part of unusually large team of employees this early on a Sunday. We finally had enough people to keep up with the weekend crowd, the hungry pilgrims heading off to their various churches.

It was maybe the slowest Sunday I ever worked.

On my break, my breakfast burrito contained pieces of either plastic or some inedible plant. Disgusting.

And I had just made that burrito ten minutes earlier.

But alas, as with any other shift I've worked these past few weeks, I was in survival mode. By lunchtime, the much-anticipated hour of one, my clockout time, approached ever-so slowly. I was on side two, stuffing buns in the toaster. Talk of raises bounced around the grill area. I looked at the clock. 12:20. Only 40 minutes to go.

Then I looked out beyond the front counter. It was as if I had just seen a ghost. No, three ghosts. And a skeleton, half rotted.

But all I saw was a witch.

Rachel, my once and only girlfriend, was strolling in, left to right, wearing a green t-shirt, Her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. A sketchy-looking guy hovered over her shoulder. Yeah, it was her all right.

Logically, I wasn't surprised. Shouuldn't have been, at least. It made sense that I would've seen her somewhere at some point around these parts. But, for some reason, my body went into alarm mode. It wasn't the alarm that sets off red flags or bubbly hearts. It was an alarm I've never experienced before.

Upon seeing her, I felt like a bolt of lightning had hit me, from the lump in my throat down to the bottom of my abdomen. I felt like my insides were spilling out onto the prep table, creating an emptiness dep within me.

I broke out into a sweat, took on a headache. When I reached out to grab some regbuns, I could feel my hands shaking. Not in fear, not in anger, not in excitement.

They were just shaking.

I was alarmed, not by seeing the girl I once dated, but by my own reaction.

There was no thought process or emotional connection to this reaction, either. My mind didn't shoot back to the thrills of being with her or the countless episodes of heartbreak I suffered. I wasn't filled with any kind of emotion; my hypothetical guts seemingly took all my emotions with them when they fell out.

I kept looking up to the front counter. I looked into her eyes, hoping they wouldn't look back. I didn't want her to see me. Part of me did, though, just to see what kind of reaction she would have. I don't think she noticed, though.

Each time I looked back at her, hands shaking, body and mind like jell-o, I didn't see her anymore. This girl's face was a bit lighter, her blonde hair a little lighter. And when I looked into her eyes, I didn't see any sign of stimatism. If Rachel changed her looks, she didn't change them in the liberal manner I had expected. No purple hair or nose rings.

By the time she finished paying for her meal, pulling out a handbag devoid of skulls and chains, I realized this wasn't even Rachel. Despite the overwhelming surprise and anxiety I felt, despite my body going into freakout mode, I realized I would've recognized the only girl I ever dated.

This wasn't her.

She left and I wondered what had brought on this unusual reaction within me. Why something so typical could have caused something so extreme. It's almost four years now since we broke up and I've let go of all the controllable feelings I have for this girl. She's gone and I've moved on. But yesterday I saw her, even if she wasn't there. From that angle at that time, Rachel was walking not 10 yards in front of me. My response, surprised and confused me to say the least.

Life is full of surprises.

***

Today, Facebook treated me to a wonderful set of pictures of Amanda vacationing with the boyfriend. Bathing suits, clear, sandy beaches. Fun-looking boat expeditions. And that incredible smile, shining without the faintest of thoughts of yours truly. I can't care about this girl, anymore, but it hurts to see someone who meant so much to me cruising away with "some guy" on a tropical vacation.

Sometimes I wish I was "some guy," standing there and smiling with her.

She didn't like the roller coasters, anyway.

Not that it makes me feel any better.

Thanks, Facebook. 




 

[

Current Mood

|

quixotic

]

She takes one final, elegant sip from the plastic bottle. The last drop of $3 water rolls down her soft, moist lips and settles for a moment on her tight, pointed chin. In one smooth motion, she drops the bottle into the recepticle and wipes the moisture from her chin, revealing a refreshing smile.

The temperature has dropped since the afternoon began, the crowds thinned significantly. The final remnants of daylight were fading, purple and red, into the darkness of a pleasant night sky, along the hills a majestic backdrop to the flair and excitement held within the walls of the amusment park. 

A short line. A brief wait. Then the gates open, slow and deliberate, to the momotonous, inaudible droning of the ininerary recording.
 
I don't hear a word. No, instead, over the droning and the buzzing and the half-dozen voices of children that remain, I can hear my heart beating a slow, steady beat. 

And it's about to beat faster.

The adrenaline hasn't kicked in yet. The roller coaster's hills, its shaky tracks, its promising speed haven't even crossed my mind.

That mind, this ride, this night. They belong to her.

She enters the gate first, crossing over the car's padded seats to the bag-check station. She stradles the dividing hump and undoes her barette, letting down hair still wet from the log flume's cruelly refreshing splash. She tosses the barette over to where she placed her bag and slides comfortably into her seat.

I climb in beside her, reach my arm deliberately around her waist to toss the seatbelt around the both of us. She flinches when my hand subtly caresses her exposed lower back.

A buzz, a hiss. The lap bar leans down and in toward us, securing our place in this ride.

Her ride.

For a few seconds, We're sitting there, her and I, buckled into a roller coaster car. As the teenage attendant makes his rounds, checking seat and lap belts, the world inside our coaster car is still. I look over at her, admiring the person beside me. The smooth skin on her bare shoulders is moist with a light sweat. It seems to make her skin shine under the dim lights of the coaster's station. Every breath I take in rewards me with a fresh scent. A slight hint of perfume masking her naturally sweet scent.

I reach over with my right arm and softly rub her right shoulder. She lets out a slow, relaxed breath as I pull her closer to me.

Looking into her eyes, I can see the effect this day has had on her. They reflect an early wake, a long drive, a busy day of waiting in lines for rides built to wear down the body and spirit. 

Though weary, they still reflect the beauty of her unwavering excitement. They reflect the fun she's had and the fun she hopes for in this ride. Her ride.

Our ride.

A close, intimate look into her eyes. I can see myself in them, smiling right back.

I slide my left hand over her hands, comfortably resting on the lap bar. The light sweat on her hands makes them feel smoother, softer as she gently wraps them around my hand. Still smiling, II slowly turn my head toward her, one last look at her beautiful face in the light of the station.

"Ready?" I ask.

"I'm ready." A soft, angelic voice.

Another buzz, one last inaudible drone. The coaster jerks once, drawing a giggle from the both of us. 

Our ride begins.

The coaster rolls out of the station and into the first slow turn onto big hill.

I turn to look at her. She's still facing forward and the white Christmas lights strung up on the side railing illuminate her features. She's sitting, calm and content, an angel making her way toward the heavens.

I turn for a moment to look at the stars dotting the night sky. The click, click clicking of the track's chains are pulling us closer to them. I'm approaching the stars with an angel, the girl of my dreams in my arms.

The first car reaches the summit, pauses for a nanosecond before gliding down the track. Each car after follows suit until the last car, our car, reaches its peak. For that split-second, I look at her, glowing under the stars, between the lights. She's as beautiful as she ever was and as beautiful as she will be for the rest of our lives. For that split-second my heart stops beating, my lungs stop breathing, my mind stops thinking.

For that split second, we are higher than the world itself. For that split second, it is just her and I, sitting at the top of the hill in each other's arms beneath the stars.

The drop.

In front of us, some throw their hands triumphantly in the air; some unleash screams of fear or amusement. Around us, lights flash and objects spin. 

We don't notice any of it.

We lean toward each other gracefully in our free fall. My lips lock onto hers. The usual coaster-queasiness in my stomach is displaced by a horde of butterflies. The adrenaline finally kicks in.

The chemistry between us is strong. An attempted kiss on the hill of a shaky wooden roller coaster has broken noses and chipped teeth written all over it. 

But we're in perfect harmony.

Our kiss is slow, deliberate, soft but powerful. The car rocks with the force of the fall, the wind rushes through her delicate hair. Our lips press firm against each other and, as we hit the bottom of the first turn, they separate.

A kiss of 2.5 seconds. A kiss of a lifetime.

We both let out a cheer and throw our hands in the air with the rest of our train. Once again, I reach around her and hold her hand in mine. Throughout the rest of the ride, we connect with a few more soft kisses.

Finally, the coaster hits the brakes. It returns to the station.

Her hair is dry now and all over the place. Her lips, soft and warm, part once again with a smile. She shifts her gaze in my direction and breathes a quick, satisfied breath. I squeeze her tight in my arms. Our ride is a success.

*** 

Tonight, my lips are dry and chapped. A few clouds interrupt the stars in the sky. The seat beside me on the roller coaster car is empty.

But I still can dream. I can get on that there roller coaster and always ride up that hill, waiting and hoping for those dreams to come true.

As the click click clicking of the track's chains pull me closer to the stars above the amusement park.

[

Current Mood

|

content

]

It looks like I won't have a license - or even a permit - at the end of the summer. I failed the road test, failed it good, too. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I ended up moving on faster than I would've via car and ended up having a string of awesome days.

Right after I bombed the test, we went out to my mom's cousin's annual summer picnic. It was a light turnout this year, but most of the usuals on my mom's side - even some of the unusuals - attended. It was fun, sitting and socializing and eating with the family. After a steady rain came and went, I went outside with Charlie, who discovered the thrill of playing in puddles. He had a great time jumping, splashing and sitting in puddles and rolling a basketball through them. I don't think my aunt and uncle were too happy with me after I let him soak his only set of clothes and put puddle-wet fingers in his mouth (that I at least tried to stop).

Toward the end of the festivities I organized a whiffle ball game. They're always fun, especially with the number of people we had. I ended up being the all-time pitcher.

I would have forgotten about the icense-lay if Steph, my 13-year-old cousin from Philly hadn't given me a hard time about it. "Timmy, you FAILED?" was the first thing she said to me. Later, she pointed out that Charlie was running PARALLEL to one of the games. I finally gave in and told her to park it (that fist bump thingy) because I knew I couldn't. 

It's good to be able to laugh at yourself.

Waking up to go into work at 5 on Sunday wasn't a lot of fun. I did manage to leave early to go to church with the out-of-towners, but I wasn't early enough to shower in between. I guess God doesn't really care if you're coated with sweat and grease in His house.

After church, we hosted a lunch party. We ordered subs and hung out with Uncle Bob's family, Grandma and Pop-pop, Uncle Mark and, visiting from IL, Katie and Joey and Molly with two-month old Allia. Most of us napped in the afternoon. Later, Uncle Mark and I joined the Illinois folk in a few rounds of speed solitaire, I had one positive round. 

"Aunt" Katie put the baby in my arms while she went to eat dinner. I wasn't really ready to hold her, but I enjoyed it.

We watched the Phillies. They won.

Monday, we went out with the Chicagoans, Uncle Mark and Greg, Jeff and Nick to the Barnstormers game. They lost but we all had a fun time.

Today we went to Roots with only a little bit of debate over how it's pronounced. 

So I've been keeping myself busy and have been enjoying the company, especially the family I don't see too often. I've been battling some kind of stomach virus and I'm a little tired and a little annoyed. But at the bottom of it all, I'm happy, and that's what matters to me.

Tomorrow is another busy day with a trip to Hersheypark. My last trip to Hersheypark was one of the best times I've ever had.

Here's hoping that trend continues.

[

Current Mood

|

disappointed

]

fail

[

Current Mood

|

nervous

]

A long time ago, Amanda said I'd be a good driver because I care about people. I was never entirely sure what she meant by it, but it was one of the few genuine compliments I've ever received from her.

Tomorrow, I'm going for my license, three years, eight months and one week since my sixteenth birthday..

Not only will this be my first crack at mastering the road skills test, but it will be my only shot before I go back to school, before my permit runs out, before the tedious, inconvenient process begins all over again.

If I pass, I'll most likely get a car (Pappy's black 1999 Mercury Grand Marquis). A whole new world will open up for me on the road. I could take a job or an internship somewhere beyond walking distance. I can get together with friends without being a dependent. I'll be able to take a day trip to the mall without cross-referencing the city bus schedules.

But the prospect of having a license, for me at least, goes well beyond the independence, the sense of a new kind of freedom. For me, having my license would mean finally putting to rest all the troubles I've had on the road to acquiring it. I could finally sit back and laugh at the things that have stood in my way. An epic failure would become an epic story.

And I'd finally feel like I'm 16 years old.

I wasn't the kid who woke up on my sixteenth birthday and rushed down to the DMV to land a permit. No, I was patient. I had the rest of my life to drive; why hurry into it? Why not wait a few months.

And I've survived without one (obviously). But those few months turned into almost four years. Four years of some DMV employee telling my eyes didn't work. Four years of brain farts and lost paperwork. Four years of scrounging for loose change to pay for the paper my learner's permit was printed on.

Four years of disappointment and frustration.

Four years that, hopefully tomorrow, will be present in the rear-view mirror only.

With a license, I'd have an actual proper form of photo identification. I'd have a right that I've worked for, with patience and determination.I'd have one less headache. My life would be a little less inconvenient.

I don't want a license to drive myself anywhere. I don't want a license to be like everyone else. I want a license to be through with it, because I deserve it.

Tomorrow, I'll either be an accomplished driver wirh a right, a priviledge that I deserve, or I'll add yet another painful, disappointing and embarassing chapter in the lengthy tome of Why I Don't Have a License at (age).