Reflections

This cold weather provokes a lot of thinking. As I ponder the year that has passed me by, I think a lot about how my focus and motivation has shifted a great deal more than anything else. In fact that is what consumes my mind the most. A whole three-hundred-sixty-and-something days ago I was mostly interested in what new shoes or jackets I could get that could make me look good that might help me be a little more *popular*. Now I just want to find the warmest shoes and jackets but then again even the best won't give me the comfort I need.

Come summer time I had a phase where I was convinced I was going to live off self sufficiency alone, that me and myself alone was the key to finding happiness. I learned a great many new skills and tips and tricks and facts and ideas and beliefs that I truly thought could fly me to Paris. I figured out the hard way it takes more than one person to pilot a plane, and if you want to get to Paris, you need a skilled crew of trusted friends. Of nakama. Now, nakama is a Japanese word for friend but more of like a trusted comrade that you would be willing to risk it all for. Someone that is with you on your journey.

This year I stopped trying to make friends. I set out to sail the seas and find my nakama. Somewhere along the voyage I discovered Insolence, and he my first mate. He has given me courage, audacity, sarcasm, perspective, assertiveness, and a little brashness to balance things out. A true nakama.

I believe the rest of my crew knows who they are, as it is not easy to be a nakama of someone. Though I think I need some more before taking on the world, as it is no simple ordeal. Our destination is Paris with the wind at our backs to get us there. We follow the stars because they are more beautiful than any map and softer than any compass.

Still thinking back it never fails to amaze me how much I need others. Truly need others. The way I am drawn to those people with a whole world in their eyes and magic in their hearts. The way I want to stay beside them like a good fireplace.

The way I can't seem to figure out if what brings me to you is the light of your flames or the warmth of your embers.

- Your captain, Insolence is Bliss

Everything I'm Not.

I'm no artist, but I can paint you a picture with my words.

I'm no poet, but I can think of one hundred and one ways to tell you I love you.

I'm no astronaut, but I can take you to the moon and fly us through the stars til we reach the heavens.

I'm no Superman, but I can catch you when you fall from the sky.

I'm no Clark Kent, but I will write all about it, under a mask, and not tell you it was me.

I'm no magician, but I can make us disappear from this world.

I'm no wise man, but I can follow your star until I find you.

I'm no French man, but I can introduce myself in french. Je m'appelle Insolence.

I'm no gardener, but I can pull out your weeds even if my hands get cut.

I'm no Spiderman, but I can kiss you passionately in the rain. Even upside down if you want.

I'm no preacher, but I can write a three hour sermon about your eyes.

I'm no singer, because well, I can't sing. At all. But that doesn't mean I won't try to serenade you.

I'm no advertisement, but I can try to convince you to want to be with me in 30 seconds.

I'm no homeless man, but I can beg for you to be my shelter.

I'm no hobbit, but I can travel miles on perilous roads to give you a ring. *will you marry me?* Precious, I know.

I'm no hairdresser but I can play with your hair for hours on end.

I'm no French man, but I can French kiss.

I'm no gatekeeper, but I can try to hold both of our demons back.

I'm no Thomas Edison, but I can light up your world.

I'm no chicken soup, but I can be good for your soul.

I'm no Phantom, but I can make music with you. Scars and all.

I'm no Rauol, but I can be dependable and have nice cheekbones.

I'm no archaeologist, but I can dig up your secrets and piece them together.

I'm no calendar, but I can make every day feel like the weekend.

I'm no Winston Churchill, but I will never, never, never give up on you.

I'm no weather man, but I can touch your warm front or your cold back. The temperature tomorrow has a high of falling asleep while star gazing and a low of separation.

I'm no vagabond, but I can make wandering aimlessly the most fulfilling experience of your life.

I'm no cruise control, but I can have you not worrying about when we get there.

I'm no Leonardo Decaprio, but I can find you in your dreams and fix our reality.

I'm no construction worker, but I can take our bricks and build something for the world to see.

I'm no English teacher, but I can inspire your words.

I'm no alphabet, but I can put "u" and "s" together because us lasts longer than "u" and "i".

I'm no Midas, but I can make your skin golden.

I'm no French man, but I can take you to Paris.

- I'm no Insolence is Bliss, but I can write you this.

Sunday's New Kind of Sacred

There's a new gospel going around. 

Spread the word.

It will change your life 'cause I know it changed mine. There are religions for discovering God but this is for discovering yourself and the world around you. When we give talks, we all preach hallelujah about crayons and love and bricks and the moon and more love and whatever is on our mind.

The prophet is Harold Miner, not the one who almost hit the stars but didn't reach them and missed the moon on his way back, but a humble, observant, wise man. A man who is seeking revenge halfheartedly, not because he lacks the effort but because he lost the other half of his heart a long time ago at space camp. He claims it is now somewhere between the Asteroid Belt and Saturn's ring yet doesn't go looking for it because the belt doesn't match with his tie and the ring makes him question his fidelity.

Our church is Paris, and we meet there whenever we want, the doors are always open but it takes a good thought to get in. We pass the sacrament on our keyboards and read scriptures with mouse clicks. There's a magic in the air because we all attend church naked, leaving our masks, winter coats, and hair gel at home. We let the scars and the imperfections and the humanity show. Most people show up on Sundays, and that's when the night lights of Paris shine the brightest. For there is love in that city. The new sabbath is special, not because of the holy ghost but it sure is holy and it definitely is comforting.

We pray to the omnipotent Nelson (and on occasion, we pray out loud). He is our deity and our judgement. With the gospel there is no heaven nor hell. Instead, there's artists and tourists, and it's an unorthodox religion in that the almighty Nelson can determine if he feels like you go to the heaven or hell of Paris, but ultimately it is for you to decide where you belong.

We're having a baptism for everyone on January 10th. See you there.

- Your Captain, Insolence is Bliss

Dependence.

I am no ones motivation

I am free to go

Unacknowledged precipitation

Nurturing wherever I show

I am no ones shelter

I am not a storm

Seeking to be your helper

Break you from the norm

I am the lending hand

I am invisible

(you can't see me)

My offer always stands

And will give of it freely

I am the graveyard shift

I am neither sweet nor sour

This fog will never lift

No more sun for your flower

I am an empty suggestion box

I am no ones home

Falling asleep to the ticking clocks

Sharing this solace alone

- Insolence is Bliss

The Monster Under My Bed Hates the Red Sox

The monster under my bed tells me stories. Tales of his younger years and the one time he fell in love. I tell him how the Yankees are doing and give him the best websites to pirate music from because he doesn't have a job. And if he loves music half as much as I do then I don't consider that a crime. I'll tell him all about the movie I saw and whether it was worth seeing or not.

Sometimes, when it gets really late, like so-late-that-your-facade-and-your-pride-disappears hour at night. Our talks become intimate and sober. He'll tell me the things that make him sad and all he has to hide from other people. I go into detail about my great list of insecurities and my anxiety and even though he can't relate on most of them he gives his whole attention.

And in that moment that gives birth to silence, right when the crickets stop chirping, we talk about our fears. He's worried that one day, he won't be able to scare children like he used to be. That he will never find a spot under a bed big enough to support a family. That one day the bed he stays under might collapse on top of him.

I talk about how I worry I won't be able to get an adequate education, that won't get me an adequate job, that won't give me the adequate funds which won't make me an adequate husband and father and when you equate that I'm an inadequate person. I also want to tell him I'm afraid of having a handicapped child but I don't because I don't know if he would take offense to that. And that scares me.

I continue to tell him how right now I'm an adult but I don't feel any older and I'm worried sick that I might never shed this skin and grow up. I'm scared silly that responsibility won't carry more motivation in the future than it does. I'm fearful to say more, but afraid to stop talking.

I tell him I fear God but not as much as how I fear what will happen if I don't fear God. He says he doesn't know a God, but that just scares him even more.

The future is what we fear. That much we agree on.

Right now all we have to be afraid of is if the Yankees are gonna win.

- Insolence is Bliss

Memory is a Fickle Thing.

It's there, in my mind. Yes I am thinking of you, April 22.

It was just after Easter, around noon, on a Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays. They called me down to the office. It was urgent. I felt like a million bucks just like any 7-year old who gets to leave class. The scene was so surreal. My aunt stood there, overwhelmed with tears and sorrow, but she was not alone. Beside the leftover Easter decorations, there was the two office ladies' faces, the ones who I had seen almost every day of school and belonged to the class of "adults" who never showed expression and seemingly lived at that desk, yes those faces now streamed with tears and messed up mascara, the unbearable mortality emanating from every soul within each pair of eyes in that room. And then,

a pause.

No one could bring themselves to tell me. Oh, that memory is so clear. By the time all the sniffles and hesitation and slow phrases were over, I couldn't believe the words. They echoed in my head like my brain was an asylum prison cell with no windows. Like a recording studio with broken microphones from all the tears. She was gone? No. The hospital must have saved her. A group of doctors who went to school for it, lost sleep for it, spent their careers to save lives. I was so confident. I even told her I was okay enough to go to school. She said she was glad I was doing well in school, and wanted me to be happy there.

That was the last conversation we ever had.

I remember.

I remember your nickname that only you had for me, the one you would say as I ran into your arms when I came home from school. I remember your hair and your laugh and your smile and how everyone complimented on them. I remember how you complimented others too, on seemingly the most strange and simple things, but it was so genuine that they loved it. I remember looking at the way you treated him and thinking to myself that it was beautiful. I remember all our time in the car together and that one crash that wasn't your fault but you weren't angry with the other person. I remember the Cayenne Pepper punishments when we were misbehaving. I remember the Flintstones vitamins you made sure we had every morning. I remember the incredible joy from doing nice things for you, because I wanted to. I remember how sick you were with each pregnancy, and the look of pain it would put in your eyes. I remember the expression of joy after you gave birth that radiated so brilliant it made up for all that pain. I remember that Easter, when you told us about love and remembering Jesus and how he died because he loves us. When you told us that you wouldn't trade the world's riches for us, and I believed you.

Yet I remember.

The ride with my aunt that I would rather have been riding with you. Even if we had to be in another car crash. 

The desperation of trying to find solid ground when my heart was trembling from the after shocks that earthquake caused. There was no Richter Scale to measure the way I felt.

The way I was treated as an unfortunate case and no one cared to help make reality consistent again.

How I had never seen a grown man cry til then, and the emptiness in my dad's eyes.

All the meals the neighbors made for us, but no matter how delicious, it wasn't your cooking. 

I remember the empty seat at the table, the extra Christmas stocking, and how we now fit in the side row at church. And how I hated that.

The next morning you didn't take a shower. You didn't wash your hair. You didn't pack me a lunch with the note on the napkin you include. You didn't kiss your husband before he left for work that day. Or the day after. When I began to doubt God and my beliefs. My baptism that you couldn't come to. Or the school play. And how I was the only kid by himself for Muffins for Mom.

I can't forget when I first realized I knew an angel. I can't forget you, but the memories are slowly fading away.

But I remember that I'll always hate Easter.

- Insolence is Bliss

My Musings on Winter.

It snowed today.

I don't know if today was the first snow,

 but I know I almost died twice when my car drifted.

Today I became an insect.

You see, insects are much smarter than us.

They wear their bones on the outside.

Ours are inside.

We are just more

stupid,

fragile,

susceptible to love.

I sat by the fireplace today.

I drank hot chocolate today.

The fire warmed my exoskeleton

but the hot chocolate went right through the cavity in my chest

and made my stomach warm

and my throat burn

and my mind race

and it only lasted a moment.

A moment as fleeting 

as your warm embrace.

Yes, that melodic, euphoric embrace.

The painfully short one.

You are justified though.

It probably hurts hugging someone with their bones on the outside.

It probably hurts even more loving someone with their bones on the outside.

According to Darwin, I'm smarter right?

Survival of the fittest, yes?

Maybe I should become a bear tomorrow.

Hibernate.

Skip Winter, and the cold that comes with it.

But I became an insect to protect me from this weather.

Then why am I using these bones to protect my heart?

Because if you can't touch my bones than you can't hurt my heart.

But I can't seem to figure out why the fireplace

 can't warm me the way your skin does.

Or all the hot chocolate in the world

Even with marshmallows

Couldn't satisfy or comfort the beating heart under my bones.

I am evolution! I am efficient!

If this Origin of Species,

if this is surviving,

Then why can't I shake this feeling from my bones that 

 this insect isn't alive at all

because I am devoid of that look in your eye,

 that energetic, life-filled gaze

that vibrates my senses

and makes me feel.

Perhaps Darwin was wrong.

It's not about who has longest life span

or the best chance at reproducing.

It is about drawing with your crayons

and making yourself worth introducing

and your personality seducing

and listening to the hearts that do sing.

Because choosing to be human

and losing the insect

Erases confusing assumptions

and abusing regrets

My Musings on Winter.

Vacationing By Yourself

(A picture of me sleeping)

The only open room the hotel had was the honeymoon suite. I enjoyed the box of chocolates, the scented candles, and bed all alone.

(97.3% sure I can't find anyone who'd marry me)

The Yellow Brick Road Will Lead You Nowhere

Bricks are made with the color of love.

Shaded by the crayons you left behind for me.

Bricks make up the wall that I call writers block.

Bricks comprise the road that my writing follows when it seems to travel on it's own.

I wanted to use the bricks to build a castle in the sky

You used them to play a game of Jenga with my heart.

Now the bricks are colored with my blood.

I don't need your crayons anymore.

Bricks hurt.

-Insolence is Bliss

How to delete your blog.

Having done this before, I feel like I can share my wisdom with a quick and easy guide.

Follow these simple steps:

1. If you are to make this decision, make a resolution with yourself that you will commit to doing this the whole way.

2. Read over your blog posts and then realize how much you don't want this to disappear.

3. Read over your blog posts and then realize how much you dislike your writing, and understand it needs to disappear.

4. Now that you're serious about doing this, click on design on the top right corner of your blog.

5. Go to settings on the left column.

6. Click on the "other" part of settings

7. Click on "delete blog"

8. Reconsider. After all, you have put a lot of time and effort into this.

9. Have an angry teenager moment and continue on.

10. Seal the deal.

11. Do not download your blog or try to recover it. You are a man of your word. You've already committed this far.



I hope this helps any tourists out there who won't find the need to blog once this class is over.

Which is ironic because they won't take the time to find this anyways.



Oh well.




Your welcome for the guide.

-Sir Insolence

Little Rascals and Love

Love is how the moon looks better when you're alone.

Love is the call you didn't answer on purpose to save the voicemail so you could always have her voice.

Love is catching your first leaf as it falls from the tree.

Love is a snowball fight that I forgot to wear gloves.

Love is the after-glance you give after you say something funny, when your head is half turned away.

Love is the headphones that I broke because reality finally began to sound better.

Love is turning a piece of paper into a crane.

Love is the misspelled tattoo you left on my brain.

Love is the initials we carved that ended up killing your favorite tree.

Love is reading through all your blog posts, no matter how long they are and if they have a lot of comments or not.

Love is the pair of new shoes I got in 3rd grade that I went around showing off to everyone.

Love is trying on glasses for the first time.

Love is mispronouncing my name, and how you are the only one I'm okay with doing that.

Love is the one part of the school you hang around enough to claim it as your territory.

Love is how your eyes breathed life into mine whenever we made unexpected eye contact.

Love is wanting to walk on my hands for a day to see what the view is like.

Love is the handwritten note from the stranger who knew exactly what you needed to hear.

Love is when I'm wanting to play with your hair more than playing video games.

Love is knowing all the words to a song you've never heard before.

Love is how I enjoyed kissing your forehead more than your lips, and realizing the movies all lied.



Love is Alfalfa, the underdog. The man who saw love and sought it out persistently.

Love is Waldo, the guy who has it all, but somehow has it all taken away from him.

Love is Insolence, who unlike the other two, was ultimately never given a chance.

Music in my Head

This Friday I got invited to go to the football game.

Apparently the possibility of it being their last game (which it was) makes it crucial for me to be there.

Because my presence in the crowd is a real game changer you know.

But I respectfully declined,

Cause I've got music in my head.

I was also asked to come watch a movie at my friends house that night.

Perhaps I would've met a nice girl. Chances are we might have talked about favorite snack foods, or how we both love cookie dough better than actual cookies. Maybe even our meeting could be the start of a relationship, or eventual high school sweethearts getting married.

But it would probably be just another nice girl I met.

Though none of that mattered, I didn't care to attend.

I've got music in my head, and that's all I need.

My mind composes a symphony so sweet, a melody so marvelous, and a harmony so heavenly that it puts those Friday Night Lights and nice girls to shame.

I weave together rhythm so relaxing it could sing Satan to sleep.

And it's all in my head.

A world so brilliant it dulls my surroundings. Or, rather, my surroundings were never brilliant to begin with.



With my Treble Clef eyes and my Bass Clef heart I keep in time my love for you.

But it's all in my head.

You left bar line scars across my chest because no matter how many key changes I made we still couldn't harmonize.

You had the voice of an angel, but your sheet music is what I fell in love with. I tried to make our lines match up but to you I was a tritone that kept you feeling minor.

Then it ended not long after it began. No repeat, no second verse for us. No d.c. al fine or go to Coda happy ending.


You stopped playing your song for me.


Though I could hear bits of pieces of your sound that infiltrated my music because I couldn't bring myself to forget your melody.

I've got an orchestra. And it's learned a lot. It plays a haunting tune, that captures the beauty of ones soul.

But it is played with empty notes.

The conductor is lonely and heartbroken. No one has shown to watch his orchestra perform, even though it was a sold out show.

The only seat he truly cares about is the vacant one next to the seat of the ticket he has. For he longed for nothing more than to watch his own performance with the only person he had loved. The only person he had shared music with. Yet he continues to play his music.



And it's all in my head.

- Insolence is Bliss

What is wrong about me.

I'm sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I've been so frustrated lately, as everyone that sleeps under the roof as me has been trying to figure out what is wrong with me. 

That's not how it works: Look for the wrong, to make their child right. Maybe we could beat the wrong out of him with a stick made out of ignorance, condescending attitude, and the absence of good parenting.

Makes sense, right? 

I hope I don't turn into such a monster when I'm a parent. It's not even the direct things they do, it's the culmination of turning their head the other way and not treating me like I belong in this world.

I've apparently been demoted to the heap of flesh that just eats all their food and sleeps and argues and plays his music too loud and is the source of every problem in this house. Don't forget I'm too unintelligent and mindless to think otherwise though.

In their position, they made the obvious decision to send their "trouble child" to a therapist. Among many things I gained from that appointment, a few stood out to me.

- Not all therapists are crazy psychotic whack-jobs who belong in asylum. In fact, they can be really chill.

- I have no home to go to. There is nowhere for me to fall back on.

- He diagnosed me with  Dysthymic Disorder. Look it up if you really care to know whats wrong with me.

My concern was, now that my parents proved there is something wrong with me, is that the best step to making it right? If not they can always fall back on plan B, beating the bad out of me so only good will be left behind. Logical, I know.

Perhaps all parents at some point go through a mandatory brainwashing to force them to think and treat their offspring and non-adults differently. Maybe when the first child is born they make the parents lose all reasonable feelings and critical thinking skills towards their children by means of some diabolical machine.

(Nelson, please tell me how you avoided being hooked up to that machine, because you're different when it comes to being an adult. I don't want to be an ignorant person. I need to keep my insolence. It keeps me alive) 



All I want is for someone to prove there is something right about me, that I have purpose in this world. And for someone to provide a home. No, not a place to sleep, but a place where the heart longs to be. A place of comfort. People always say they want to run away, to move out. There has to be a place I belong to before I have a place to leave.

There needs a place where what I do right is celebrated.

Because right now I don't have a home.

And that scares me.

-Insolence is Bliss

What Remains of My Big Box

Tattered, torn, pathetic.

A once noble box now worn from age, not high usage.

A box that at some point captured every refraction of light in the spectrum from loving someone and you can't tell why to falling into leaves in the brisk autumn weather.

When that box was your prized possession, that you would without hesitation display for all to see. To those who were interested, or didn't give it a second thought.

Back then in the box, sky blue, blue green, blue violet, navy blue, midnight blue, blue bell, and blue berry all represented a unique thought or feeling.

Armed with your box, you couldn't draw like Van Gogh. But I'd rather look at your art than his.

Even though everyone told you that you couldn't draw, or were drawing incorrectly.

That wasn't important, because with your box, and your 150 different colors drew a beautiful paved road to travel on, though the colors were drawn a little outside the lines.

But you liked it that way.

Though it didn't stay like that for long.

The lines took priority above everything and you began to draw like everyone else.

Your pictures hung on empty frames for the blind to enjoy.

I felt right to criticize, you had used the three colors you were most comfortable with. After some time, even the lines began to become bland.

One day, you approached me, and asked me where my box had been the last few years.





I couldn't reply properly. I was taken aback.

I was so obsessed with finding faults with the color usage and the tasteless frames of others I neglected my own expression.

Cobwebs don't look well on a box of crayons, as I found out.

I couldn't face you. I had forgotten how to even draw in the lines. I forgot how to hold a crayon. To just doodle and be simple.

What you said to me, and what all of this did, I can't figure it out, but it made me feel.....

Blue.


-Insolence is Bliss

Take Me Back

Take me back to 1950 when Isaac Asimov wrote I, Robot. Back to when, the concept of robots was a new -- new and intriguing. Mechanical people was so far fetched, yet real.

Take me back before growing up including the concept of robots everywhere. You could say a desensitization of an idea. One that would have been fascinating to witness in your time be created, and then have it grow. Grown to the point today where every movie theater in the world will be showing a movie with robots in it (at least it would seem so in my head)

I am here, because if you did take me back, I would still be Insolence is Bliss. Things would be different,  but I wouldn't be battery powered.

I don't promote the thought of taking me back as one of those counters you come up with in an imaginary fight with your friends ("I shot you with my mega-freeze ray!" "Well I am wearing my anti-mega-freeze ray repellant!") I just find it a way to prove I'm existent

Then again, I am proving why I am HERE. For if you did take me back, I wouldn't be here any longer. I wouldn't be able to blog to show why I'm human. Though it would mean I'm not a robot. Doesn't prove I am human.

I was up last night, my mind troubled and my body ill, and I could not fall asleep til some ungodly hour. Robots are pathetic, they can just plug in their chargers and go to sleep. No insomnia worries at all. At least that's how I imagine it'd work.

Now, take me back to my birth. Where the worth of a human is extraordinary. Fragility woven with innocence and potential. Though at the time it amounts to nothing.

Take me back so I show you where the difference is. Where robots are born with their purpose installed and their motivation hardwired. Whereas man doesn't have a clue (and still doesn't), but will spend their days searching for their purpose, and seeking their motivation. Above all, humans need to be acknowledged. Which is why I write well, to express, but to receive recognition that I can selfishly take to heart and feel good about myself. Taken to a heart that beats, that loves, that is quite mortal.

But it's really up to you to believe me or not.

But right now, I'm here. And I don't plan on that changing anytime soon.

- Insolence is Bliss

STATISTICAL REPORT ON TODAY

- 0630 HOURS: UNPLUGGED AND OILED JOINTS

- 0700 HOURS: RAN CHECK ON MAINFRAME FOR MALFUNCTIONS. NONE DETECTED

- 0940 HOURS: HAD AN ENCOUNTER WITH A HUMAN WHO WAS VERY UNINTELLIGENT. DEALT WITH BY PROTOCOL.

- 1250 HOURS: A FEMALE HUMAN TOLD ME SHE LOVED ME. CANNOT COMPUTE THE MEANING OF THIS. NOT PROGRAMMED HOW TO RESPOND

- 1600 HOURS: A LIQUID OF UNKNOWN TYPE, FELL DOWN MY FACE. SEEMED TO ORIGINATE FROM THE EYES. COULD THIS BE WHAT THE HUMANS CALL, SAD? TO INVESTIGATE FURTHER WITH THE MAINFRAME.

- 1945 HOURS: WAS BROWSING A STORE FOR NEW PARTS WHEN I HEARD WHAT THE HUMANS REFER TO AS "MUSIC", PLAY. UNKNOWN ANOMALY OCCURRED WHERE MY LIMBS BEGAN TO MOVE ON THEIR OWN, SEEMINGLY IN TIME WITH THE SOUNDS PLAYING. REMINDER TO CHECK ON WHEN PLUGGING IN

- 2200 HOURS: A CHECK WITH THE MEDICAL COMPUTER REPORTS THAT I AM EXPERIENCING HEAVY AMOUNTS OF "FEELING". BY THE MORNING, ALL SAID FOREIGN "FEELING" WILL BE TERMINATED.

Too Much To Eat

I have too much on my plate

Of various kinds of food

The aromas are indulging

And yet I want to brood

This dilemma of my stomach

Not enough room for all

A self-induced hunger

Is the cause for my withdrawal

Should I eat what I can

 And throw the rest away

Or avoid it all -- have nothing

Let consequence hit full sway

Will the judgement feel lessened

To partake of all but a few

Unless the remains look lonely

Leaving me guilty and confused

Dessert on the table is tempting

I think I'll have just one bite

Then I regain my awareness

Realize I feasted all night

People were hoping I'd eaten

And gained a healthy pride

Instead I did the opposite

Had fed my gluttonous side

Leftovers are typically good

Yet unsure if they'll be ripe

As tasteless, bland, unsavory

Are traits that aren't my type

Continual lack of calories

Would define me as anorexic

Though it's not what I want

Causing my health to be hectic

Putting it off then bingeing

That makes one a bulimic

While some food will be eaten

The effect will leave me sick

I cannot handle this concern

Feel as if I'm wasting my breath

Time to throw in the towel

Embrace an almost timely death.

- Insolence is Bliss

Introduction and the story of Insolence thus far.

in-so-lence

 [in-suh-luh ns]

noun

1.

contemptuously rude or impertinent behavior or speech.

2.

the quality or condition of being insolent.

in-so-lent
  [in-suh-luh nt]

adjective

1.

boldly rude or disrespectful; contemptuously impertinent; insulting: an insolent reply.

noun

2.

an insolent person.

I feel somewhat at a disadvantage right now, for a slew of reasons. Not only do I feel obligated to meet the requirements of introducing myself in this post, but I have convinced my mind that I need to do a lot of explaining. Or rather to detail the story of Insolence thus far, and hoping to captivate you to join me on my quest, in the same fashion a countless number of you have kept me engaged with your blogs.

Enough with the formalities, which I despise in the first place, but I need to explain Insolence. To be more correct, the "experiment" which is Insolence. Having known Nelson well prior to enrolling in Creative Writing I figured he had hopes for me to discover my inner artist, and that the odds of me being a tourist was less-than average, or somewhere around there. Then I thought of an idea, to this day I cannot determine whether brilliant or idiotic, though that has yet to be fully revealed.

The idea was this: Create 2 separate blogs, on the one I give the name to Nelson, do absolutely nothing. On the other, maintain it properly and follow along with where the class currently is, without anyone knowing. I had a plethora of reasons to follow through with this plan, but one caused me to pursue this course more than the others. I strongly wished to see if and how Nelson would me differently if I behaved like a tourist. The goal was so obsessing I really began to outdo myself. Even with my journal completed, up to date, and with blood and sweat bestowed within it, I did not turn it in as if I hadn't worked on my journal at all. Intentionally, I withheld turning in my disclosure regardless that it was signed. 

In other words, a complete zero for my grade. Maintaining this was no easy task, as I took plenty of heat from my parents regarding such an ugly grade. It had it's rewards too, Nelson responded well beyond my expectations, which brought me joy. It made me happy to see him treat me with less enthusiasm than the others, and express subtle disappointment towards me. It proved that he loved his work, and his class, and he disliked tourists. So Nelson, if you are reading this, good job. I've gained so much respect and admiration for your reaction to my efforts. Oh, and *surprise*.

It was a complete success according to my findings with the experiment so far, but after truly thinking about how long to keep the act up (the original plan was to be just a few weeks before we reveal our pen names) but there were problems too. The aforementioned grade-parent issues were/are still very present, but I also realized I was missing out on a key part of the experience this class brings: the sharing, commenting, and feedback made possible by linking our blogs together. And that made me sad, so I decided in 2 weeks time from then (4 weeks ago) I would reveal the blog to the world.

If you have a thought process anything like mine you would be thinking of all the inconsistencies with this so far. For example, if this is an introduction blog being posted now then how does that connect with the claim of keeping the blog up with the class from the start of the year? And what is up with the odd time frames? The answer is simple, stupid, and embarrassing. One week from the time I was going to reveal the blog, I was overwhelmingly frustrated with my blog, and on that day it happened to be the last straw on the camel's back. I was so angry that I deleted my blog permanently.

 Looking back on it, I need something more than just a facepalm to express my feelings towards that event. The days following, I was really ashamed and at an emotional loss, having no real way of getting back all that effort. Reality told me to give up, and I just about did, but decided to give it another shot. And that's where we are right now. Beginning anew. I'm happy to be doing this again, but it also feels like a watered down version of killing my own child and then adopting a new one in it's place. That is where we meet the present

I just realized how long this is getting. Congratulations to those who have made it this far, comment below and I'll stalk your blog, or continue to do so.

Let's not forgot this is also my invitation to Insolence. I am chronically obsessed with insolence. It has been such a healthy beneficial thing to my life. I find it most fitting the fake blog is Insolent Bystander, the one I deleted was Insolent Awakening, and this is Insolence is Bliss.

Here's a list of what I think our world could really use some more of:

• Studying
• Passion
• Innovation NOT related to a better smartphone or apple product
• Imagination
• Rebellion
• Romance for adventure
• Meditation
• Self-actualized people
• Insolence

When people identify what direction they want the world to take, especially the heavily optimistic folks, they strive for peace and equality and all those unreachable goals. I, on the other hand strongly encourage the world to embrace more insolence. There is a serious deprivation of insolent people and attitudes these days. A person shouldn't be completely insolent, as that would put them in my venn-diagram area of "people I really deserve to punch. hard"

What I am getting after is that the world would be more enjoyable for me if everyone was a little more insolent. Bold, unafraid to criticize, and even disrespectful at times. From about 8th grade until the start of junior year I felt, even by my tears and depression I had a good life, yet something wasn't there. Eventually I discovered insolence; and insolence changed my life for the better.

Insolent behavior provided me with the balance I needed, always giving me fresh perspective, emboldening my actions, and criticizing my sphere of existence. It was the equivalent of falling into toxic waste and gaining superpowers. My world was rocked, I was in control. You could even say insolence has helped me get to where I am today.

I hope you will join me on my expedition into the unknown, and I challenge you to seek out insolence, and dream that my writing can help you find it. Pressing on, ignoring the feelings of loss and emptiness from my mistake involving my other blog, I will see if for this world I can shed some light, offer perspective, and provide INSOLENCE.

- Insolence is Bliss