September 20

Platforms

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It has always been my belief that if you have a platform, you use it. Time and time again, I have tried to use the social media presence I’ve gathered to do so. From Syrian Refugees to the inaction of the U.S. Government when it comes to protecting it’s people from gun violence. I feel compelled to try and take my little light from the internet and shine it as bright as possible on these issues.

I have talked about sadness.

About being a father.

About loss.

I highlight the rainy days and sunny ones. I highlight how we take up activism for a week before forgetting about it the next week. Hell, I even wrote about what being a mommy blogger is.

This platform I have built does not sit here to be admired. This isn’t a pedestal I have erected. I don’t invite people to stare at the hard work I put into the platform, because it wasn’t built to be something gazed at. I built this presence to highlight issues I believed important to my children’s future. I believe the things I talk about to be important to everyone’s children. So, I continue to stand upon this platform, stomping my feet while I shout, “THIS IS IMPORTANT. WE NEED TO DISCUSS IT.”

Not because I like reading my own words or having others read them. Not to gain some massive following and be recognized anywhere. Because we need dialogue. We need to talk. The far right. The far left. The highly opinionated and the unsure. We all need to come together and talk.

Why is it so hard to do for so many people? Why is the act of discussing our differing views of the world something we find so difficult?

In some cases, it seems we find it too difficult to do.

I’ve got a hunch as to why we choose not to openly engage in discussions. As much as we all purport to want to leave our children a better world, we also don’t enjoy being wrong. When voicing our opinions we open ourselves up to being really wrong sometimes.

Does this fear of being wrong override the growing sense that we aren’t leaving a better world for our children to live in?

Well, I am just fine with being wrong. Please, prove me wrong on this one issue, I would like to leave my children with something beautiful, not a flaming pile of shit.

We need to all collectively take accountability of our people. To accept things are different because we all walk different roads.

I will be the first to say I don’t fully grasp what checking my privilege means.

I will be the first to say feminism leaves me wary of the world. Not because I don’t believe in equality for women, but because I don’t quite know how to educate and raise my boys in a world that is finally shifting it’s mindset about gender views.

There are so many things changing in this world, some I don’t understand. But, I try to. I don’t scoff at them like they are common core math.

Common core math, haven’t a clue about it. I would like to try to learn it myself before calling it ridiculous.

There is a lot in this world I would prefer to learn before being stuck in my preconceived notions.

I think we need to advocate loudly from all our platforms. To shine our little lights on real issues. Today my newsfeed is divided. An unarmed black man with his hands up was shot dead. Brad and Angelina are getting divorced.

Guess which side had a more fiery comments section.

Nobody saw the divorce coming.

Another officer involved shooting is becoming redundant.

We continue to have the same arguments again and again. Whatever community you end up being affiliated with, whether it be comprised of similar views or skin color or job occupation. We have our lines drawn in the sand, with one side clamoring for accountability while the other digs their feet in for the defense.

We don’t like being attacked and we certainly don’t like being wrong.

I use a word up there I have used time and time again in my writing.

Accountability. 

I think we seriously lack accountability and maybe it is because we correlate it with being wrong.

We need good cops vocally distancing themselves from bad cops.

We need good black people vocally and vehemently taking down those who would try to undermine the message.

We need republicans willing to put country before party.

We need democrats willing to do the same.

We need gun advocates to be as outraged and upset over mass shootings as the rest of us.

We need to understand harassing good gun owners isn’t going to solve a growing problem. We also might need to figure out what the word AR stands for in AR-15.

We need men as vocal as women in their outrage of rape culture.

We need women who, well, we might just need women in general. For everything.

I believe in America. I believe in admitting faults. Not to show weakness but to acknowledge we can be better.

There is a middle ground there somewhere, where we can shed the pride and try to build an understanding. A place we can listen. Actually listen and understand. Without waiting for the chance at rebuttal.

I am talking, but are you actually listening? Did you get stuck somewhere and begin formulating your comment at that point?

This is my platform and I will continue to use it as a position to hold public dialogue over events that affect our children’s welfare. Whether you agree with anything I say or not, it doesn’t matter. Actually, it does matter. A lot. Whether you agree with anything I say or not, it matters that you use your voice. What matters is we look for that middle ground and try to find understanding.

What matters is we talk.

Because I believe in America. I believe in us. And I believe you want to leave the world a better place for your children, too. Regardless of whatever different things we believe in, I think we can find a way. We have to.

September 4

Boys Don’t Cry, Son.

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Boys don’t cry, Son. You heard me. I said boys don’t cry. But, you know what? Men do. Men cry all the time.

I cried. I cried when you were born and I cried when you came home. I cry when a movie comes on that reminds me of how special a bond between parent and child is. I cry at a beautiful song and I cry at memories long gone. I cried when my mama died and I cried when I saw you cry, too.

Boys don’t cry, son. But men do.

You see, there are a lot of times where the world will tell you not to cry. That it isn’t something masculine. There will be people telling you all the time. They will say

“Boys don’t cry, Son.”

And they will be right. Because boys don’t cry. Grown men cry. Men who have grown from being boys to understand that if you keep it all bottled inside, if you keep living with that sadness, there is no way to get it out that benefits you.

I will say it again, men cry.

Men cry when they need to and there is nothing wrong with shedding tears when you need to.

One of the biggest lessons you will learn, is that sometimes it is okay to cry. You’ll cry and wipe the tears and pretend they were never there but there is no reason for that. Because sometimes the most manly thing you can do is show your vulnerability. It’s okay to break down and cry.

Boys don’t cry, Son. But men do.

August 26

Long Day

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You can feel the air getting a bit crisper, as it gains the edge of chill. Soon, the leaves will turn vibrant shades of orange before coming to lay delicate and brown on the ground. Autumn is settling in after a long, hot, summer.

A little boy clutches a sippy cup. His fingers rest firmly in his mouth, and though countless times a day he is asked to remove them, he can’t seem to shake the comfort of sucking on his tiny digits. His slightly older brother tolerates his presence, although an annoyed look flashes over the brother’s face as he scoots closer and closer until finally resting his head on his older sibling’s shoulder.

There is a gentle calm over the house. Parent’s describe days as ‘long’ because they are too mentally exhausted to search their brains for more descriptive words. My head rings out like the popular christmas song, ‘On The First Day Of Christmas’. Except, in my version, there are no turtle doves or partridges in pear trees. I tally the tantrums, messes and fights that have made me roll my eyes so hard a tiny voice rings in the back of my head.

“You keep rollin’ your eyes and they are gonna get stuck back there.”

Yes, messes of chicken fingers and tantrums over trains. Beautiful Jackson Pollack-esque murals of ketchup cover plates, tables and floors. I know if I dared lift a couch cushion, I would find soggy Cheerios from a morning of spilt cereal.

I will leave them for another day. Today has been long.

But, in this moment, it isn’t the Thomas the Tank Engine tucked in the cupboard captivating my thoughts. Even though the very same engine spawned two fights and a twenty-minute stream of tears. No, there is a brief moment, where a baby brother is allowed to rest his head on his older brother’s shoulder.

On the heels of change of season are new beginnings. In five days, the little boy clutching the sippy cup will stand at the door as his older brothers step onto a big yellow bus and into the great unknown that is preschool.

I don’t dwell too much on the impending school year. Wasting too many thoughts on it leaves me a mess of worry and anxiety. As with most things I fear might consume me with panic, I just let it go and let be.

It isn’t time to worry about first days and new friends.

No, right now I watch a brother’s face relax of it’s annoyance, as his head too comes down to rest on his baby brother’s head. I think about how moments like this are almost priceless and impossible to catch. I am an outsider looking into a beautiful moment between siblings; I dare not disturb it.

Heavy eyes beget heavy breathing, as each child slips into an easy sleep. They cuddle up close to each other without fighting over whether the other is touching their blanket.

A calm quiet has settled in. The open window welcomes cool air in, forcing the children closer together. The air kisses my skin, a welcome feeling after a summer filled with humidity and clothes sticking to skin.

There is a change in the air.

The sleeping children don’t know it. They are busy cuddled up and sleeping.

After all, it was a long day.

August 16

Mama Didn’t Raise No Fool

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Mama didn’t raise no fool.

We sat in a diner, down Baseline, preparing for breakfast. My Mother told me what she wanted and I silently recited it to myself again and again until the waitress came. As I rattled off both my and my mother’s order, the waitress looked surprise at how such a young boy would know how to order for a woman. But that is what a gentleman did and Mama didn’t raise no fool.

In the eight years I spent with my Mother, there were countless life lessons she taught me. How to get up early and dig for worms so you could go fishing. How to open the door for people. To always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, no matter how redundant you end up sounding.

You see, mama didn’t raise no fool.

What my Mom never taught me, was how to deal with the special days piling up since she passed away. Maybe it isn’t a lesson often passed down from parent to child but, then again, maybe it should be.

I think about my Mama on the day she died.

I think about my Mama on Mother’s Day.

I think about my Mama on my twins’ birthday.

I think about my Mama on my birthday.

I think about my Mama on my youngest son’s birthday.

I think about my Mama on every special holiday.

Oh, and I think about my Mama today, when we would have been celebrating her birthday.

My Mother taught me to always approach life with a certain amount of optimism. An understanding that good times and bad times they all roll through and you just try your best to roll with them.

She taught me to sing my heart out and be myself. A lesson I forgot until I realized I needed to impress it on my own children.

She taught me how to love reading books. From fairy tales to Goosebumps, she created an insatiable desire that has me unable to put down a good book until I am finished with it.

My Mother taught me sometimes the best thing to do in life is forgive people. And forgive yourself.

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

I order my wife’s chocolate chip pancakes, with whipped cream, at the little diner. I tell my waitress ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ every time she stops by the table, beginning to sound redundant. I hold the door open as we exit into the early morning.

Maybe it is a bit old-fashioned, but that’s what Mama taught me.

And Mama didn’t raise no fool.

I don’t know how to celebrate the birthday of my mother. Today she would have been, but she isn’t. On today, and all the other special days that pile up in a year, I find myself somewhat lost. But, I get through them by remembering my stuffed tortoise that played These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things. I remember cowboy hats and boots. I remember a What Would Jesus Do bracelet and a dreamcatcher.

I remember the passion she lit in me for storytelling.

I try to remember everything she taught me over our years together. All the lessons I forgot and remembered. The compassion she instilled. The forgiveness she reminded me everyone, including her, needed. Cursive letters and long distance phone calls.

I look at my family and my life. Where I have been and where I am going.

I remember.

Mama didn’t raise no fool.

August 12

#Littlethings

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I’ve been focusing on the little things lately. A concentrated effort to spend five minutes a day highlighting life’s little blessings. A pair of new shoes, a sleeping child, general goofiness of wild hair. Things I might, if not actively seeking them out, miss in my day to day.

You know, the little things.

This week will mark what feels like the hundredth consecutive fifty hour work week. My schedule goes a bit like this:

Head into work at about 9:30 at night

Work until my boss releases me around 7:15 in the morning.

Spend 7:20 to 9:00 trying to decide whether I want breakfast or dinner. It might be the morning but I have just worked a nine and a half hour shift.

Sleep anywhere between four to five hours, waking up at 2:00 in the afternoon when the sun is too high for my internal clock to allow me to sleep.

Spend 2:00 to 3:00 wondering if I want breakfast or lunch, I just got up from sleeping. 

From 3:00 to 3:40 I listen to how my kids have been for the day, before my wife heads off to work. 

4:00 to 8:30, I try not to snap at my kids, because it isn’t their fault I work full time and hardly sleep. 

8:30 to 9:00 I pick up the house, before clutching my coffee mug and making a fresh pot of coffee to drink while I wait for the babysitter to arrive. 

My days blur together. I fall asleep on July 1st and wake up in August. Wake me up when September ends. (I couldn’t help myself)

So, I decided to keep track of my days. My schedule doesn’t leave as much writing time as it used to. It does, however, leave little moments to slow down and appreciate what hard work has given me.

A lovely family.

A big yard.

A pen for a bodybuilder named Chocolate Thunder.

I have a hard time spotting the joys of life naturally. They are something I have to actively seek out in a life that seems too busy for one person to maintain. I need to take a spouse challenge or a little things challenge or one of the millions of challenges on Facebook that force you to take five minutes out of your day to highlight what makes you happy.

These sort of challenges get a lot of shit. I can openly admit to teasing and mocking the challenges. They seem, at face value, to be trivial. Stupid little ways to show your stupid little life is better than mine. I want real. Life is good and bad, these posts are fake.

Right?

Their point isn’t to purport perfection. They aren’t there to convince people you have everything together.  These searches to find moments of good in a constant up and down of life are practice. They are reminders that even on the worst of days; we can actively seek out the good.

My days aren’t perfect. If you think citing an old picture or remembering a moment in time where pure joy was experienced makes a life perfect, maybe you’re missing the point of these sort of things.

When my body aches.

When my children only seem to remember how to fight and scream.

When I am not sure what type of meal to eat because of my odd hours.

When I am feeling lost.

Or sad.

Or angry.

Or any of the less than sunny emotions I find myself feeling every day.

So, today, I celebrate the little things. Tomorrow I celebrate the little things.

Everyday, I challenge you to try and celebrate the little things.

Like your spouse. Or your family. Or your dog.

I celebrated making a funny list. My little thing that makes me happy today is an underused blog, connected to a Facebook page vibrant with a beautiful community of people I have been lucky enough to connect with all over the world.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad
July 21

Why Do I Write?

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I have been spending a lot of time recently trying to strip away all the sequin attached to blogging. I have never been a fan of the term blogging or blogger, mainly for the simple reason blogger sounds way too damn similar to the word ‘booger’. I don’t want to be a booger.

But really, it is forever associated with the word ‘booger’.

I love writing. The instant gratification that goes along with hitting publish can produce a small high for me. Yeah, that’s right; I am a junkie for words.

It’s why lately I have been on a vision quest of sorts. Seeking out my origin story and my inspiration.

Why do I write? It is the latest in a life of existential crises. I mean, what is the point of it all?

I certainly don’t do it because I am some sort of activist. Most social justice issues I approach with tongue in cheek because even I can’t entertain the idea of truly caring deeply about things not happening to me. Bathroom issues? I somewhat sympathize, but I will never feel empathetic. To be honest, I feel enough things too deeply to get into feeling other people’s issues to my core.

I already have a hard time falling asleep with my own problems.

I do have things I need to say though. It started as a parent blah blogger. Before I knew it, I had listicles, word pictures and bears- Oh my! Over time, I feel as if I have refined myself. Taken the rawness and molded it. Worked it into something more than this passionate, emotion-laced rant.

I learned to be concise. Put a suit on and cleaned up per se.

Sometimes, I miss the way I used to write. Back when the rules didn’t matter because I didn’t know them. Sure, I couldn’t differentiate my ‘there their they’re’s with such precision but whatever.

I write because someone told me to do it, and in that moment of someone believing in me I believed in myself. I also had more to say than ever had I imagined.

I write for the rush. There is a certain synapse fire off that goes along with airing your dirty laundry. A false sense of bravado, leaving me feeling, for the moment, as if I can do or say whatever I want.

I can talk about the things most attach trigger warnings to, what else can I do? I put voices on demons and then hand them microphones and loud speakers.

Why do I write? Because, someone needs to provide Melania Trump with something to plagiarize. I write because I can’t plagiarize how I feel inside.

It is a conduit for me to express myself in a way I never thought possible. It is my interpretive dance. I am wild flowing motions moving messily along, but most importantly moving freely. I am following the beat of the fingers on the keyword, pirouetting through prose as if they were poems. It is slow before speeding up. I move from the bridge to the chorus, trying to dance across the paragraph.

There is a beat, you can find it hidden in the verse.

I write because it is more fun to be a troll with a blog than just an everyday asinine commenter.

A troll with a blog might be my new name.

I have so many reasons to write, every one of them important to me.

I write because I needed to give my voice safe passage into the world. I write because it can be as one-sided or conversational as I deem it. I write because it is a better way to pass the free time than drink and snort cocaine. I recently got a small plaque from work for being employed there for five years, and lamented over how when I first began working there if they given me the recognition thing it would have been the perfect surface for crushed up joy to be snorted from.

I write because I have a tumultuous amount of things to say.

I write because my sister killed herself.

I write because she wasn’t the first person I knew to end their life. Not even the first in my family.

I write because her father killed himself.

I write because my mother’s brother killed himself.

I write because I don’t want to kill myself. It isn’t a claim to know the reasons they or any others have had for ending their lives. It is an admission of not wanting to exist sometimes.

I write because if I didn’t, that admission of not wanting to exist would stay buried inside to possibly sprout and grow into suicidal thoughts.

I write because the highs and the lows are easier to navigate if I have a loose catalogue of them. I can read every post I have ever written and tell you if I was happy or depressed when I wrote it. I can tell you if I wondered about whether the world would be better off without me. I can read and be brought back to that moment, and remember why I needed to sit and say something that day.

I write because I haven’t stopped having things I need to say.

I write because…

I write.

July 10

From Jail

As I am writing this, I am currently incarcerated. Facebook has put me in cyber jail, banning me from posting, liking, and commenting. Am I being a bit dramatic about the whole ordeal? Maybe. But, as someone who spends a lot of time on the Book of Faces, after only twenty minutes in time out, boy did I feel sorry.

How will I gauge my popularity now? Twitter??
How will I gauge my popularity now? Twitter??

I like to fancy myself a freedom fighter of sorts. I champion causes with the fiercest of social justice warriors. So, upon being cast out, banned and labeled a rule breaker; it cut me to my core.

You see, I was only spreading a message about being comfortable in your own skin, when someone decided to report me to the gestapo. If given the chance to do it again, I would a million times over in the name of doing what is right.

It all started when I downloaded the Pokemon GO app. I grew up on Pokemon. In my youth, with Poked in hand, I dreamed of breaking out of my small town and making it to the Indigo League, to become a Pokemon Master. The Pokemon GO app made my dreams possible. Here I was, ready to CATCH EM ALL!!!!!

So there I was, having my dreams realized, when a wild pokemon appeared! I was super excited and went to capture it. The wild pokemon just happened to appear on the front of my boxers.

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I didn’t know the front of my boxers was such a hot spot for pokemon to appear. But, being the 25 year old, mature, adult that I am, I found it HILARIOUS. I decided to snap a picture, and post it on the Gods of Faces that are Books. I even captioned it cleverly with a ‘lol’. Now, most are not comfortable enough with their body’s to post recklessly pictures of themselves online in their underwear. This guy however, he has been known to occasionally post photos of himself on the internet some would see as distasteful.

Couldn't find anything to wear
Couldn’t find anything to wear

I find it important to celebrate my dad bod. I think being comfortable enough to do something in hopes of likes and comments is somewhere we all strive to be.

Guys, I was trying to break down barriers.

In my boundary busting movement, I also titled the art of catching trouser pokemon as Pokemon GO: On My Penis. Apparently, this was not nearly as well received as I assumed it would be. The Pokemon Go On My Penis Movement was swiftly and unjustly shut down as I was censored and banned from the one place I love with my whole heart, The tome of faces. I don’t blame anyone for slut-shaming me. I believe it was more out of ignorance than anything else.

But, I will not be silenced. And although I am currently facing and serving my Facebook jail time with my head held high, I will continue to fight on and champion causes.

You see, if we can’t post things for shock likes and laughs, what social media cyber world are we living in? You would think, between the constant video and images of people being shot, a wild Poke Penis picture appearing would be a blessing.

Guess not, folks. I guess not.

I spent the first hour of incarceration texting my friends to let them know I would be gone for twenty four hours and making it clear I wouldn’t go down without a fight. The second hour, I have spent writing this anthem for freedom of doing things in the name of social justice or gaining likes. With twenty-two long hours ahead of me, I plan to take as many pictures of pokemon on the front of my boxer shorts so I can pump them onto Facebook with the anger and determination of a woman who posts breastfeeding pictures.

I will not be forgotten. Pokemon GO On My Penis will NOT be shut down!

So here I am, getting ready to be the greatest pokemon master of my generation. To bust the stigma that goes with doing things to gain popularity on the internet.

You can not stop me, Mark Zuckerberg. I pay for this domain.

Pokemon GO On My Penis Lives ON!!!!
Pokemon GO On My Penis Lives ON!!!!
July 7

Comply or Die

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Fuck the police coming straight from the underground

A young nigga got it bad cause I’m brown

And not the other color so police think

They have the authority to kill a minority

Oh great, another shooting. The condemnation spreads through my newsfeed. A social media wildfire is sparked. Look at those lyrics. So much hate. When was this even written?

1988.

No, that can’t be right, can it?

Twenty years before hashtags became the norm for spreading social justice and bringing controversial subjects to light, NWA released an anthem for the angry minority. The ones who felt the brunt force of police brutality.

This isn’t a new issue. The only thing ‘new’ about this issue is the ability for a grotesque murder to pervade its way into the places we seek comfort from. I watch, as my Facebook newsfeed becomes gripped by videos, opinions, fighting. I search for the usual food videos and humorous memes, only to find they are gone and in their wake are images and disgusting stills. Men, with rosebuds turning into splatter marks seeping from their chest. A shaky camera, a gun and another officer-involved shooting.

When something happens in Los Angeles, nothing happens. Just another nigga dead. 

A post pops up in my newsfeed, it claims to be an anonymous commentary from a police officer. Among other things, he says the victim ‘determined his fate’

Maybe I am not fit for social commentary on these type of issues. I read something like this and it angers me. I want to tell the purported officer of the law to sit his wannabe Robocop ass down until his notions of dystopian judge, jury, executioner dream world come to an end.

And not the other color so police think, they have the authority to kill a minority

In the wake of these tragic and appalling cases, there always seems to be a protocol. Urge caution and waiting for the facts. Vilify the murdered person through posting any past crimes they had, while insinuating the world is actually a better place without them. Ignore the people’s call for change until it dies down. Kill another unarmed black man.

What isn’t in the protocol seems to be accountability. Between all the shoulder shrugging, deflecting and constant reminders that not all cops are bad; accountability falls to the wayside.

Officers, sworn to protect the citizens; except from the officers themselves. There isn’t a cop problem, it is a compliance problem? We citizens should comply or our friendly neighborhood officer will use his compliance pistol?

These deaths remind me of an episode of South Park, where the boys go out with their Uncle Jimbo hunting.

There needs to be accountability. Too many of these incidents have shown the general public something has to happen. No longer can we deflect from the issues by saying the amount of good cops outweigh the amount of bad cops. We see this argument with everything. When a system needs to be fixed, there needs to be decisive change. We cannot, as a society, continue to allow an issue to fester and boil over because ‘The good outweighs the bad’.

When lives are at stake. When there is a deep-rooted problem. We need to stand up and demand change. We need accountability. By refusing to acknowledge a problem and allowing it to continue; we become a part of the problem ourselves. When cops are killing unarmed men with little consequence and are protected by their fellow officer for blatantly disregarding human life, it sends a powerful and disgusting message to the people.

Comply or die.

I want to thank my friend, Bria, for inspiring this post with her social commentary on this issue. 

July 3

This One Time At Blog Camp

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There’s no cool way to say you have a blog. Hi, I am a blogger. See it even sounds awful. I like to think of blogging as similar to Iceland. That is to say, the awful name is to ward off people; convince them it is an awful place they absolutely do not want to be.

Hi, I live in the blogosphere.

I went to blog camp. Technically it was blog college. Either way, I paid to go to a stay overnight program exclusively for bloggers. I feel about as bad typing that as I did when I tried to justify such a thing to my wife.

“Baby, all the COOL bloggers will be there!”

So, I spent a decent amount of money to find my social anxiety crippled self around a bunch of strangers in Baltimore. Did I mention I have severe social anxiety?

A five hour train ride later, I found myself in the car of my best internet friend. Best INTERNET friend is a title I use here because when I found myself in her car, it was the first time I had ever met her. Thankfully, she didn’t serial kill me and, I think, we became real life best friends in that moment of chain smoking and getting lost on our way from the train station to the dorm rooms.

The conference was everything you would expect a death march to be. Surrounded by good people, trudging to what seemed to be certain doom.

Along the way, I learned cool things for sure. I learned how to survive walking six miles a day by the powers of sangria. I learned the reason you don’t talk to strangers online and meet them in person. I learned if you have social anxiety, a five hour trip to a campus surrounded by people you don’t know might not be the best birthday present to yourself.

I enjoyed BlogU. For everything I hated (The walking. The walking. Did I mention, I HATED THE WALKING) it was absolutely amazing to meet some people I formed a relationship online with.

I can’t believe how popular blogging is with people in the south. Usually I associate the south with burning crosses and fried chicken. It was a real eye opener to spend so much time with thoughtful, awesome, people. I actually picked up saying ‘y’all’ after BlogU ended. Y’all got to me, and not with racism so that is cool.

A blog college wouldn’t be anything without a little controversy, right? Well, aside from my constantly shouting “This isn’t a blog conference, this is a fat camp” I did get myself in some trouble.

Okay, I told one person they should cut out another person’s hair. I did that. That was me. To be fair, the person I told to cut another person’s hair- they didn’t even have the resources possible to do such a thing. We all brought a lot of things to BlogU, one of them wasn’t scissors.

I met a ton of great people at blog camp. I also met people who I will pretend I never met, for the sake of their internet profile. I think this is absolutely fair. I know I suck in person some (most) of the time. I can forgive people who suck in real time because most of my existence relies on being at least occasionally awesome on the internet.

I did try to convince my friend to write someone’s name on a desk next to “for a good time call” BUT, I am sure a phone conversation with anyone I met at BlogU would fall under the category of ‘good time’.

I learned a lot at Blog camp college. It was like a vision quest. I left it hungry and tired, with a new understanding of myself. I will always be the guy who tries to get his friends to do awful things like unsuspectingly cut someone’s hair or write their number on a desk. I never said I was a role model.

 

And, Sangria in Baltimore is GOOD. Find The Cock, sip from its fountain.