if there's one thing that'll hold you back its a woman waiting for you at home

I get to spend alot of time inside my own head. and believe it not, I get to thinking.

in regards to exactly that, I've been thinking about writing this blog post, and for a couple days now. I'll sit in traffic and start to assemble sentences, smile to myself about little twists of words and thoughts I've been meaning to tell someone.

I once told someone that the best moments of my life have happened to me while I was alone and I think thats true. i don't think its a coincidence either.

so i've been thinking about writing about my fantasies. I get to spend alot of time in my own head and then I get to thinking about things that are not. things that are not real, that wont be. fantasies. I'm not sure the exact dictionary definition. but now I've thought too much about it. thought too much about the things I've been thinking about and so, when I try to write them, the words come out stale (I've already written and deleted nearly five paragraphs).

but you can imagine I suppose; I think about girls alot, I think about trucks. I think about playing music on front porches and stomping my bare feet and people I know that are far away. I have a big powerful voice and I say important things with fire and vigor and conviction and excitement and people listen to me, they are entranced. I have a way with my words and it shows and I command. I think about Ultimate, but I think about spiking the disc more than I think about making actual plays. I think about humiliating opponents and people watching me from the sidelines.

I plan trips, I go places and do exotic beautiful things. I drive my truck to South America, to Alaska. I hitchhike to Vermont and swing on tree swings with Chris Schroth. I hitchhike to Salt Lake City and sleep on James Miska's couch. he plays the guitar. I wear dirty clothes.

sex sex sex I think about sex. there is a girl who wants to have sex with me.

and sometimes the girl gets more specific, but never more than a fantasy. Her, with a capital H. I'll assign characteristics to whatever cute girl I've seen last (today it was short black hair in a new white BMW) but I'm thinking about more romantic things, honestly. I'll recognize her in the library, holding a paperback Fitzgerald. or I'll notice her groceries, innocent conversation in the checkout line; she's buying tofu and cocoa pebbles. she eats fruit while she sits in traffic, no she eats fruit while she rides the bus, wait no she rides her bike. I'm riding my bike too, I'm not a construction worker that has to wake up in the morning. we write love letters. we tell eachother secrets. we lie in bed all weekend and she smokes cigarettes and I read out loud and there will be all kinds of things I don't know about her and she'll never tell me. and I think about a whole lot of other stuff too, this woman isn't real.

so yeah, I guess I got it out anyways - what I'd been thinking about saying. my neck hurts from sleeping funny last night and then smashing stuff with a sledgehammer all day.

almost every sentence in this post starts with "I".

welcome to me.