On an aspiration.

One day, I hope to have more penises drawn on my whiteboards than things on my To Do list. It's looking grim at the moment, despite a friend's best efforts. But I have hope.

And isn't hope what life is all about?

On anger.

An old coworker of mine once said of me that I didn't have a fuse so much as I had a detonator. I laughed it off, took the appropriate amount of offense, and carried on with my day.

But he was correct. One second I'm smiling, cheerful, happily going about my business; the next I'm snarling, shoving things off the bar to clatter to the floor because they're in my way. I've struggled with anger issues my entire life; I could trace it back to all kinds of excuses - being bullied, not having a proper outlet, being taught from a young age that expressing extreme emotions was a sign of weakness. But the end result is the same.

I've spent years learning to suppress it, countless hours exercising restraint and relaxation, broadening my understanding of people to be forgiving to a fault. But now and then, one stupid little thing stacks upon another with no respite, and I lose it. Admittedly, nowadays, me losing it is far from dynamic; I'll usually find some way to inflict pain upon myself to override the feeling (usually by punching something I shouldn't; brick walls are my favorite) and shake it off. Gone are the days when I would want to fight, to yell.

But it stains the rest of my day. My face becomes stern, my voice sharp, my comments curt. My displeasure emanates from me like a cloud; I can darken a room with a look.

I suppose it's just the way I am now. I've improved greatly from my younger years; standard advice has been given to me thousands of times, evaluated, attempted, et cetera. And I've been mellowing with age; each passing year brings a little more tranquility, a little more patience.

We all have our demons to wrestle with. I suppose mine could be far worse.

On a very important event today.

Meg put radishes in her salad.

That is all.

On a lack of passion.

There was a time in my life when I felt like fire. I needed to get out and consume, to devour everything in my path and leave ashes in my wake. I wanted to have all of the fun, meet all of the people, do all of the things. And I did have fun (from what I remember). I met some incredible people. I've forgotten more stories than some will ever acquire. I also inflicted a fair amount of collateral damage, both physical and emotional, to the people and places in my life.

But it's quiet now. I can't really put a finger on what broke me. Maybe it was my dad, maybe it was trying to run a business long before I was ready. Maybe it was the failed marriage, or the substance problem I've cultivated in recent years. Maybe it's just age. But whatever it is, I don't have that spark I remember having. I've lost the desire to put myself out there because I know how exhausting it is. Even new things I learn are just systems I already know in different contexts and combinations.

Now, I don't want you guys to think this is some kind of cry for help. I'm actually quite content, if a little bored. My life is easy and pleasant. The few times I do get out of the house, I relish greatly. Things that used to outrage me, that would blind me with fury, now just induce a calm sadness or mild irritation.

But is this the way it's supposed to be? Am I just this now? Will there be no more bursts of furious, crazy passion? This is what makes me uneasy; the question of whether or not this quiet life is what is to span the rest of my days. And if it is not, what must I do to recapture it? Will I remember what it's like?

On last night's episode of Game of Thrones. (very minor spoilers)

Can we talk about how awesome Grey Worm's spearfighting is?

No? Still stuck on that one thing, are we?

Fair enough.

On a little nugget of wisdom.

Ants may love sugar, but they love protein more.

On aging relationships.

So the Animal and I went to go see Alkaline Trio recently, a band I've been listening to since 1999 or so. The venue was large and shiny, the crowd young and... well, shiny. I could tell immediately I was one of the oldest members of the audience.

I could feel a familiar excitement build in me as Matt Skiba took the stage; it had been a long time since I'd been to a concert, much less seen Alkaline Trio live. It was like seeing an old friend I hadn't seen in years.

More so than I anticipated, in fact. In the entire set, I recognized three of the songs. And it wasn't that they were playing all songs off their new album - with each intro, the crowd came alive, screaming every word along with them as they played. These were old standards, songs that have been out for years. Songs I'd never heard before because I didn't keep up.

I felt old. I felt betrayed, angry that they'd moved ahead without me. Where was the loyalty? Where was the respect for the old school fans?

Luckily, it didn't take me long to realize what a selfish and douchey standpoint that was. Relationships work both ways. If I wanted to feel included, I should have kept up with them. It wasn't their responsibility to play the songs I wanted to hear. Maybe I was there to support them towards the beginning, but this concert was now, for the kids in the pit, for the ones who knew the words.

And I sat back, happy that a band I loved kept moving forward, making music, and finding people who love their songs today like I did back in my shitty apartment in New Brunswick. Like watching an old friend laugh and chat with the people in their life now from across the room, glad to just be.

(And then they played Radio for the encore, Lauren and I screamed the lyrics to each other at the top of our lungs, and all was right with the world.)