On keeping the horizon horizontal.

In response to SweeneySays' prompt.

Define the horizon. (is it the future? is it what you want? is it what you're aiming for?)

Keep it level. (look straight ahead at it. focus on it. see it for what it is. see earth and sky, dark and light. define the path that leads you there.)

Behold the road ahead. (see the things in your way. the steps you must take, the stones must stride over, the holes you must not fall into.)

Look at the things. (with your eyes on the horizon, keep it straight. don't turn your head at the people and events in your way; see them all from the same direction, facing forward.)

Know the things. (how do they fit against the horizontal line? do they stand in your way or guide your steps?)

Measure the distance. (that which is far away seems small. know they will grow as you approach, compensate accordingly.)

Keep the horizon horizontal. (the wind resistance will lower your gaze. obstacles will alter your trajectory. lift your head. remember to refocus. keep your perspective stable.)

Walk. (never stop walking.)

On a quick note about nachos.

Whenever I get nachos at a restaurant, I'm always sad to see them pile on the toppings, then throw the cheese on top to melt in the salamander before it comes out. It always ends in sadness - the soggy chips, the having-to-use-a-forkedness that nachos, true nachos, are supposed to obviate.

If you top the chips with cheese before you put the rest of the toppings on, the tasty lipid-rich shreddings create a waterproof barrier that delays the toppings' inevitable drippage, offering the perfect balance of crisp, toasty chips with the moist deliciousness atop it. Plus the steam from the meat or beans or what have you has somewhere to go other than down.

Science.

On some days.

Some days, you wake up and you hate everything. You realize it's still icy out and you parked on the wrong side of the street, which means your door lock is probably iced over. And your back hurts and you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in days.

And then you realize that in a week and a half, you'll be in Amsterdam.

And suddenly the world sucks a little less.

On a conversation about sandwiches.

Me: I am unfamiliar with this 'love' concept. Is it a kind of sandwich?

Pigtails: Yes.

It's a sandwich someone makes for you every day and serves you in bed. It's hard to make, but it's the only sandwich you want- so they make it every day. And it's amazing.

The most amazing sandwich in the world.


Beautiful.

On Christmas decorations.

So here's what my across-the-street neighbors' decorations look like at night. (Blurry as fuck, don't bother clicking on it.)

Cute, right? Now here's what they look like during the day.

Anyone else find this mildly horrifying? I can't be the only one.

On being too old.

Pigtails and I were talking last night about the concept of being too old for something. It's strange; I've been telling myself for the last few years that I'm too old to do this or that, to wear my old leather bracelets or get a new tattoo.

But why?

Fear of societal judgement, of course, always ranks high. No one wants to be the old guy at the club. But what if you still really enjoy getting drunk and sweaty and dancing your face off? Does the fact that you're VP of Marketing automatically mean you have to cut that part of your life out? When do you get too old to bleach your hair out or eat a pile of mushrooms on a Tuesday night?

I'm not going to lie; when I dyed my hair back in August, I was afraid. Afraid my old friends would judge me for doing something I used to do all the damn time in our 20s, afraid the people at work would consider it a pathetic attempt to reclaim my youth. But instead I was presented with grins and compliments, conversations and nods of approval.

I liked who I was back in New York. Sure, I wasn't going anywhere with my life; I was coasting in a dead-end bartending position and spending most of my free time getting drunk and playing pool. But I felt comfortable in that skin, my laugh was easy, my stories vivid and real. I didn't end my time there on my terms; I was shoved forcefully into a painfully adult situation in the desolate reaches of South Jersey. I stopped drinking and going out. I stopped having fun.

And yet I can't regret the intervening years. I tried and failed to run a business. I bought a house and experienced the freedom and responsibility that comes with that. A marriage came and went, teaching me the value of commitment and when to let go of something that's just not working. I've widened my skill range exponentially, making me significantly more valuable in my field.

Now I'm back on my feet, working a job I really like. Cracking jokes and fielding questions, making people feel comfortable and warm in my care. It's reminding me of what I liked about bartending, what I liked about my past self.

So what do I care if I want to dig out the bracelets and blast Less Than Jake in my car? Sure, I want to roll out, pound whiskey, and knock some pool balls around at night, but in the mornings I'm still researching information on starting a food truck. I think it's fair to say can take a step or two back if it gives me a better place to move forward from.

On waking up.

You know that little stretch of time between when you stop sleeping and when you wake up? That little half-sleepy range where you're slightly cogent and kind of dreaming. When you think of tangled limbs and laughter, shadows and comfort and the safety in the absence of light when you're not alone.

At least that's what's in my head more often than not in those magical few minutes. It's what I smile to as my eyes open and I hear Alistair scramble for breakfast, or my phone buzzing on the empty pillow beside me.