Fuck MySpace

No, I’m not doing fine.

Forty feet East of me, that is, across the hall into another dorm room, sits three people in another dimension. Carelessness shoots from their mouths, and relaxed laughs and giggles fall out of their lungs. It must be nice. I think to myself.

It must be nice to not have to care. It’s got to be great, to be given help in this world. To be held less responsible for your actions, as their crucialness is split in half with a parent’s hand. Being able to go though college, without working, but yet, still being able to spend money drinking, or traveling, or partying, or smoking.

The idea of infinite inherited income. I don’t see the three people forty feet East of me, as people impacting society. I see them wearing things their parent’s bought them. Driving back home during break with a car mom gave them, on gas money dad put on a card. It must be nice.

Four hours from now, I’ll wake up at 5 a.m. take my shower, get dressed for work, and walk a good distance to the building on campus I work at. I’ll eat breakfast two to three hours after I clock in at 5:45 a.m. and wait until 1 p.m. until I can clock out and go home. Roughly seven hours of my day will have been spent at working, catering. The rest of the day begins at 3 p.m. where I will begin sitting through an hour and a half long college course. Seven hours, at Student Supervisor pay, amounts to three minutes at a gas pump, filling up for the ride home. A ride that will require three seven hour work days that share a few hours within them for a college class.

I filed my income taxes this year, allowing my parents to claim me. I spend three months out of the year at my parents house. While in college, I get maybe six phone calls from them. I have to pay them for gas to get here, to help me move in. I have to buy my own food, toothpaste, laundry soap, clothes, snacks, travel pay, everything. My parents’ portion of my annual income, is as round as 0%.

However, I filed my income taxes this year, allowing my parents to claim me….

They recieved over $500 because of me. Handed me $100 of it, and spent the rest, as follows:

Two Fiberglass Kayaks (We have two canoes in the garage, one wooden kayak, and probably almost a full inch of dust accumulated on each. Good thing they purchased two more) 

One Wooden Kayak Project (Please see above.)

My frustration, is trapped inside of me, as I write this. I want to scream, and throw things, and beat the shit out of people more fortunate than me as jealously moves as swift as my fists. But what would it prove? Why do I feel that is the only release from the dimension that is my own misfortunes. 

$500 dollars in my pocket could have paddled further than any fleet of water vessels would ever dream. It would have driven a car that has been garage-ridden for years, out and into the real-world. It would have helped me pay off a camera, I’ll be paying $25 a month for until I’m old enough to retire, and forget why I even went to school for photography. It would have helped me print a frame a photograph this week, I could have entered into an art show, and maybe been awarded, or brought into the spotlight.

It would have helped. Could have, would have, should have. But it doesn’t exist. The money that was taken out of my paycheck, went to people I paid with the money that was left in that paycheck to come up to a place that costs middle-class annual income to attend. A place that I pay $20,000+ a year, for five years for. A place my parents aren’t paying for. They won’t be around any more in the next 50 years during interest payments than they were these past three.

My parents, my schooling, my car, the town I live in, the people I go to school with, are the breeding grounds for such anger. I wish I could relax and enjoy life. But enjoying it, requires a kind of- positive outlook. A feeling of happiness. Relief in accomplishment.

I can’t say I’ve felt that way, in at least two years. I fucking hate my parents.

Both Hands (1)

Painful as the sight of a grandmother, skin wrinkled, hands taped and IV or oxygen hoses going every which-way inside and on top of her like wires behind a computer desk, I watch it sit in the operating room. I have a choice before me. Bring it back alive now, or replace it and let it rest for longer. I’ve told myself that if I cannot find a third, I will throw the money I have saved for one, into the second once more, at a last chance to experience it’s attitude between lanes.

Although I’ve owned you for a few years now, I feel as though our relationship is still at acquaintance status. I don’t know how you react, in fact, up until recently I have only briefly heard your voice. Will it be anything like my first? I wonder. My  money is on no, and part of that is a good thing. The money I have put into this car, far exceeds its worth- though common, the fact still remains that I have not driven it. I’ve heard it’s turbine at idle, I like that. I’ve seen it’s potential on the internet with similar and far greater builds. I was once known as EG Ursto’, but am far from that name plate as of 2009. This is not a beast I am building, rather, a very loyal, a very demonic platform.

All it needs is it’s passenger-side exhaust manifold- which in itself as become a complicality with the lack of quality in United State Postal Service’s well, “service”. Arriving to my door was only a box with a Prius T shirt inside as wrapping paper, but no manifold. Another delay, in the already patient Z’s revival. I must bring you back to the pavement you once devoured. I’m sure you were beaten like you love to be treated. I’m sure of it. I can tell just by staring at your dirty dark headlights, that then lead to a slowly rising hood and into a windsheild that I’m unsure as to how many were behind during your time on the road. I want to be the one who brings you back to life, that will certainly in turn bring me back to life. We’ve both been waiting for that moment. I do not mean to disrespect you by purchasing another Z to drive. I do it not to focus on another build, but only to allow myself to reach further and open more doors for income, that will make you a car that will only be public in one diary, and not scattered around the internet like an ad for penis enlargements.

It’s up to fate to decide whether I continue surgery now, or allow your coma to last another year longer than it every should have.

Black Rain (1)

I feel new. Almost brand new. A little bruised up, but I feel revitalized. I haven’t been woken in over a decade, since the incident. Traveling through the hills of lower Michigan, last I remember an animal came flying into me, I felt a rather warm sensation on my passenger-side, and then it all went black for what seemed like an eternity.

Who has resurrected me into the dark abyss that I assume to be a cramped garage. My compression is great, I feel stronger than ever. Someone must have purchased me, who knows, I could have been bought and sold so many times, who knows what parts of mine have been transplanted, replaced, or rusted away. I feel young again though. The humid summer air around me is beyond exciting.I can’t smell the ocean, but I must be near a lake source, perhaps still the great lakes? I remember my time in Florida, ew. If it’s still Michigan, they have a suitable surrounding for my goal. The lenient emission laws help as well.

My mounts stronger, my suspension missing, my pipes wider, my body still blemished, yet I feel as though I’m a few miles out of the showroom again. He is rebuilding me. But who is he? I am a bit uneasy, especially as the last owner I can recall re-wired my fog lamps in such a fashion that I literally feel like a fool no matter where I go at night. Foolish upgrades, distractions in the process of accomplishing my ultimate objective. Judging by his ability to put me together, his will to see me on the road, and his intentions seem to be to do it right, he could be the one. There is only one seat in my cockpit, I can only hope that number remains the same, and whoever is rebuilding me, remains determined to let me fly into the night once more.

-Black Rain

Good.

Finally… months after I start applying for work, both seasonal and part-time, I finally get a 40/hr job. How? It’s because I knew someone in hiring.

The newspaper job proves more and more interesting with each article and photo of mine that gets published. I never felt this excited or this… driven to do research and interview people for more information for an article than I do now. When I wrote for the newspaper on campus, not only was I getting paid pennies, my editor was a bitch! As a freelance writer/photographer, coupled with a 40/hr work week, I will hopefully be able to afford another 300zx by mid August. There have been a few cheapies that look like they are in good condition popping up all over craigslist. And no 1989 Nissan 300zx for $7,400 you are not included. You gotta be fucking INSANE to ask that much, especially for an AT Non-turbo. lol glws.

Working midnights is fun however. I only have to run into customers for about 3 hours before the store closes, and for the five after that, everything goes smooth and the job is very straightforward. One thing that I like best, is the ride to work in dawn, and the ride from work in the morning.

Last night was my first night, but I was already thinking about how much enjoyable it would be to drive home in a Z. Especially on my nights off, I could go do some spirited driving late at night when the roads are empty, or go V8 hunting early into the morning.

I’m happy things are feeling like they are finally looking up. I was extremely worried there for a while.

!@FQ!#**!

I have never been so broke, for so long.

How is it possible to drop off a resume with a cover letter over spring break before summer, and still not get hired anywhere, with a clean driving and criminal record?

I am stuck in by far THE most frustrating time in my life at this point.

How Dare You

The opinion of other people is above all the most infuriating thing I’ve ever had to watch, listen to, rinse, lather, and repeat. We all have a handful of different interests, thats cool. You like tree’s and warm coffee, I like tools and beautiful pictures, you think leopard print is cute, and I think you’re fucking brain dead.

However, something just as materialistic as a pair of heels, the car industry is by far the most misinformed, misunderstood, and could possibly be a bigger fan boy magnet than Apple.

HellaFlush for example. Does it look good? No, it really doesn’t. Does it look different, yeah it does, but so do people in wheelchairs (mean).

Lets face it, you aren’t doing anything THAT great, or DIFFERENT. You are taking your car to a shop, or if you can’t afford it, using the wrong tools in the wrong ways to do wrong things to a perfectly fine car yourself, and acting hard as shit with the gear shifter in park (or in 1st with the handbrake tight).

Hmm. Working on a car so it looks good, what does this remind me of? Neon Lights, BodyKits, Fiberglass cars, Eurotailights, Cut Springs, useless camber angles, and extreme negative offset.

It’s rice, and I don’t care what an entire state of people say. California started the rice sensation of neon lights and mexicans on gold daytons, and they have graduated to parked cars that can’t drive down city streets.

Cry about your parking ticket for being “too low”, the rest of us with tickets for speeding aren’t listening.

Hellafuckingpieceofshit. You’re a disgrace to car culture, and you Californians continue to create a negative stereotype for people with Japanese cars feature after feature.

Btw. You’re latest 370z is truly unique! I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone buy a brand new model with NISMO options, including fresh wheels, then spend more money on an uglier set, then get featured on a website with giant open mouth wheels that show of those aggressive stock rotors and calipers. You feature a car with more under the hood mods than around the fender mods, and NO PICTURES OF THE ENGINE!? Just a bunch of boring ass pictures of a white Z parked next to some godforsaken concrete? There so MUCH MORE TO A CAR THAN IT’S WHEELS AND RIDE HEIGHT! HOLY FUCKING SHIT BALLS YOU ENTIRE WEBSITE IS FULL OF DOGSHIT. It’s like shooting a porno and panning the camera around to show everyone the rest of the bedroom, and the beautiful walk-in closet THAT NOBODY GIVES TWO JERKS ABOUT. “oh wow, I really like what they’ve done with the place”

GTFOutta here.

Guilty

There are personal decisions in my life that I pride myself on. Choices, even to the simplest yes or no’s, that I look back on, and think, that was a good choice, or, damn I got lucky and went the right route.

Something I have always struggled with emotionally, are the regrets that ensue after I’ve made a mistake, or after I’ve been caught doing something I knew I shouldn’t have. These choices are a big part of why life is so interesting, and they’re are trillions of trillions of decisions that everyone shares throughout a lifetime, that really make up who they are at the end.

But think about for a second, making a decision. One that might have been caused purely out of curiousity. A decision that intenionaly could have terrible consequences. A decision that judging by a person’s history of actions, you would think, he/she would simply say no, and pass along without dipping they’re hand into it for a taste.

There is no excuse for what I have done. I cannot deny it, or play it off as if “oh, I didn’t know that happened.” I can’t simply scurry away under a floor of arrogance and just think hard enough about what I didn’t (but in actuality DID) do, all the while convincing the world around me to believe in a lie I had created.

I did something that I will NEVER EVER do again. Something I did once, but once was enough. I betrayed the only person I could ever honestly consider a friend, even though they are so much more. My honestly today doesn’t mean much, certainly nothing compared to what it used to.

It took me two years and a few days to the trust of six people, today I lost it all in one big swipe. I literally feel like one out of 50000000000000000000 xtrillion lillipads, in the ocean of liars, cheaters, POS, stupids, idiots.

This is a mistake I will never make again.

Two Years.

It has been a long time since I’ve insured and driven my own vehicle.

Lately I’ve been doing odd-jobs to fight unemployment during this struggling economy. Mostly yard work, some drywall, but as long as it pays cash, I’m happy. I watch traffic more than TV, out of both disgust and frustration. A car that drives by that ticks, a truck that drives by that has a Boat-Sounding muffler, a teenage kid in high school bumping some bullshit thunders through the neighborhood. I do not deal well with watching things I want so badly, be taken forgranted so EASILY. A car with a huge muffler is the same car with a huge dent in the passenger fender.

I have driven many different cars though over the past two years. From MazdaSpeed 6 Protege’s to G60 VW Corrado’s and just a few days ago a Pontiac Grand Am. Do I like them? Yeah they’re okay. Compared to my distant Z31, hell no. They are no more than a stool and a hoola-hoop. The interior is plan, the design is poor, and some of the cars seem fragile and really just a huge joke within four rubbers.

Jealous? Yes, I am jealous. I pride myself in my zero accident history. I feel I am a more than capable and accurate driver, even in my rusty nondaily condition.

I recently changed brake pads on a friend’s car, I told him, get your dust cap replaced it has holes in it. Get your oil changed, it’s 2k passed due. Has any of that happened? No. This frustrates me, and I shouldn’t care. But the fact I know that car will drive until it ticks, tick until it knocks, and knock until it explodes is on my mind. Clearly he is taking his car for granted, even though it doesn’t have cruise control.

I have made a promise to myself that if this turbo Z is not on the road by the time I go back to college, the last thing I buy for it is a for sale sign. I cannot afford to be off the road another year, I’m not patient enough. To be outside taking literally each peice of suspension apart while knowing you can’t afford to replace them immediatley is a feeling that I cannot describe. When you know you can’t move your car for months because you have taken so much off of it to get it going, so much irony insues. And then when you see the local rich kid get handed a 60k Cobra Mustang….

Neons, Tinted Tails, Carbon Fiber Intake?, Cheap ass NITTO wheels, and a fucking trunk full of speakers? It’s to know surprise he has pictures/videos of him racing a 1999 Pontiac Grand Prix around a BumFuck Hillbilly racetrack an hour from here.

Congratulations, you are the official poster child of why I created Midnight Run in the first place.

New People.

Over the past, two years, if theres one thing that I’ve done routinely aside from wasting my life on the internet- is meet new people. 

I wish I could write that it’s been a pleasure to meet so many new people- but thats a big fat lie, and yes, I do wish there were some I could have walked down life’s road without bumping into, but regardless, some folks have truly been a diamond in the rough. 

My first encounter during high school, after organizing a fleet (that later turned flock) of cars across the state of Michigan and back in one night. If theres one thing I learned, we might all be car enthusiasts, but some of us are some serious fags. Others, actually know what they’re talking about, and aren’t bragging about 13 second quarter-miles, they’re aiming for 9’s. Even after that, every time I approach someone about their car, I’m never sure what to expect.

Like the red S14 with Canadian plates when I was in Sault Ste Marie. A larger lady, carrying a 12 pack of Busch Lite was about to get in, and I was walking back to my dorm- but I stopped and said “Excuse me miss? You have a very beautiful car” She smiled and said thanks! Then on my way up the hill via sidewalk, she let me know via street that it wasn’t stock, and my judgements about her were very mistaken.

I met another guy up there by the name of Dennis, with a sick ass Subaru. Very cool guy, did a photoshoot at his dad’s garage, where STi parts sat in boxes, among ARP head bolts, and an old EJ20 engine block. 

The few cool guys that drove during Midnight Run, one of which was Dustin, who had a 400hp FC chassis “13BT” just as his license plate stated. Very outgoing guy, one of those people that you can feel the positive energy when they walk in a room, and just an all around cool guy! Yes, we all knew his car was the fastest, as did he, but he knew thats what it wasn’t about- and his modesty was distinct, minus the couple times he walked me from a 70mph roll haha.

The people who buzz around meeting people for phone numbers and to have someone to say Hi to in the hallway, I’ve met plenty of those. It’s interesting to see everyone try to be an “individual”, and end up all getting grouped up as TOTAL DOUCHEBAGS regardless. They come in, talk a bunch of shit, lie about a ton of stuff, and tell stories to a group of people who, if they did happen to be mentally retarded, may believe a percentage of what just came out of his/her mouth. 

Regardless, there are some genuinely great people out there. The kind of people who back up what they say, don’t make insane promises and break them, and at the same time, be themselves without casting a YOU NEED TO BE LIKE ME shadow over everyone else. These respectable few deserve a lot in life, and I hope they get it!

Take It All Away

At some point, during my almost 9 years of being Type 1 Diabetic, anxiety kicked in. At a blood sugar of 60 or lower, my mind peaces out, my worries run in as a herd, and my conscious waits outside and smokes a cig. It hears the loud stuff going on inside, but it’s taking 15. 

Things like, never completing the Z. Never being able to get my career going. Losing friends/family. Screwing up financially. These are all things that seem to poke at my pride- and thats usually when I say “Hey, somethings not right here”, check my sugar, and then correct. 

The problem I have when I’m within range, is just dealing with people. It’s like everyone loaded up their shit and hoped on the “This Is All An Act!” bandwagon. It’s as if integrity, honesty, and respect are just words you see written inside caves back before the wheel was invented. You can have the biggest dick, the best pair of tits, or the fastest car anyones ever seen, but theres so much more to being “it” than just what meets the eye. If you’re a genuine asshole- it somehow finds it’s way to one of the first few things people say about you when describing you. I blame the music, and this retarded economy. MTV, Music TeleVision, is nothing but reality shows, and CNN and FOX are nothing but commercials for a political party.

I’m so against mainstream, because many of today’s problems come from it! I can’ tell you how aggravating  it is to watch someone give advice about life to billions of viewers, when in reality, I bet they could maybe relate to 10. 

The fact is, just let people be. There are going to be fat people, white people, black people, racist people, arab people, pothead people, sheltered people.

And BORED people.