I usually think about bodies.

I stayed up last night. Until about 3 of the clock. After the time change, it was around 2. I began working on my script, finally. Kris and I are writing a movie about all the shenanigans we'd gotten into as kids. Except we'll be playing ourselves, so we'll obviously be much older. We decided to adapt the script so we wouldn't have to be little children, just big ones.
I had to wake up at 6 this morning for CARE+ training at work. It wasn't nearly as bad as anyone had expected it to be, our supervisors keep it interesting by putting on antique best buy training videos after we watch the modern ones, just for the sake of laughing at the choice of words everybody uses. Best Buy employees used to "tuck and roll" when talking to customers, I guess? I learned that eighteen-hundred year old people don't know much about the integration of technology into their everyday living, but know a lot about how it can expand your lifespan roughly seventeen-hundred-and-twenty years beyond the average. I hate the way coffee makes me feel. I drank two cups of it this morning to stay awake, and the comedown from a caffiene bender is atrocious. It had me jittery to the max after 40 minutes. During the class, a supe was talking about how our customer demographics change during the holiday season, how our main one's rev percentage goes up by about 15. It's basically the middle class male segment. But he got into specifics of why and he was talking about how dads always want to buy the best gifts for their children. There was a hand-raise question that I chose not to participate in. For the next few minutes after that, I wasn't thinking about anything else but how I can't remember the last time my dad's actually given me a gift. But it didn't make me sad, because he gives me so much on a day-to-day basis that I really wouldn't want him to get me anything anyway. I appreciate him and I'm really glad he does what he can for me, even though I'm really not worthy of it yet. I just plan on returning the favor someday. I snapped out of it and got back into thinking again, like a corporate robot again, and got a few pieces of candy for answering some questions. I really don't need candy as an incentive. Having a job is incentive enough. Took some classes online, blah blah, day at work.
I feel love. I have love. But I also know how it feels to love somebody that you don't want to.
I'm in love with something that can mold me. It can scar me, but scars are an art to me, so I don't mind them. But it can mold me. It has the power to turn me into whatever it wants. I'm not going to let that happen, but it can. I'm in love with something that I can't leave a mark on.
It's surface is impenitrable, and if it leaves me it will find new love in an instant, while I'll just have to sit back and ponder the world more. I'll have to philosophise. And I don't want to do that. I can only do it in litte chunks and I have a lot of little chunks to go through.
I don't want to love this thing. I do love it. And I love loving it. But I don't really want to.
If it fades, it fades. But if it doesn't, it was meant to be.
I don't have a safety net.
I'm not well.
I've been seriously thinking about killing myself lately.
I'd do it without a doubt in my heart.
If I didn't have a brother, I wouldn't even think about it.
But I'd do it like this:
I'd wash my car, put on my sunday best and drive up to Max Madsen Mitsubishi.
I'd be so excited. Excited to drive last year's Lancer Evolution 9 GT.
I'd spend two hours walking the lot, looking at the car up and down. I'd burn that car into my brain. I know the ins, I'd learn the outs. A black one. With the 17" alloys. 1997 cubic centimeter turbocharged inline 4 cylinder engine making 366 horsepower at 6900 revolutions per minute.
Six-speed manual gearbox. Curb weight around 2900 pounds. Zero-to-sixty in 4 seconds.
Active split differential and yaw controller sending power to any of the four wheels individually as it's needed to keep the car on the road.
You can turn it off.
And I'd walk confidently onto the sales floor and casually bullshit the car with a salesman for another 45 minutes.
With the story I'd make up, I'd convince that asshole to let me take it for a spin.
Ten minutes, I swear on my life.
It'll take me maybe twenty to get to where I'm going.
I'll take one last look at the outside of the car.
The shiny black paint; the car is hunk of obsidian formed into a race-sedan.
All of the sharp angles, the symmetry is perfect.
There'll be plenty of sharp angles. Maybe not so much symmetry.
The door opens with a crisp pop, and the Sparco racing seat cradles me firmly, but allowingly.
The door shuts with a very positive connection.
I'd start the engine, and it would quickly whirr up to 1800 RPM and drop back down to an idle.
The weather would be just as it is now. About 60 degrees, no breeze, very dry air.
The car would run as good as it'd ever would on this day.
I'll drive it due north. The radio would never turn on. The engine getting more masculine as it warmed itself up would be enough.
I'd be so happy. I'd be the first one to drive a brand new Mitsu straight into heaven, right onto the Nurbergring.
I'd stop at a gas station on my way up to Chicago. And I'd remove the enormous rear wing that is attached to the trunk lid. Too much downforce. And when I leave, I leave the wing behind, laying on the ground. And I'd hit route 57 North towards Chicago, then 90-94 East towards Indy. Once onto 94 I'd press the gas pedal. Hard. It'd be about 5 of the clock. The car would hit 140 with ease. After that wing is gone, the car would essentially go faster, at the cost of high-speed rear-end stability. Right around the left hand curve that takes you towards the skyline, I'd push the car very hard. The tires would be screaming in pain at what I'm putting them through. The yaw control would be working hard trying to keep that loose back end on the pavement. And then traffic slows down. I'll keep on trucking at 160+ now, on the shoulder.
The seating position in the car is such that you sit at the perfect angle to see far in front of you.
I turn the stability controls off. And I'm staring into the skyline. It's not that great coming up from the south. Up the road, the grade in the road drops a few degrees. to a car going 165 miles an hour with nothing holding it onto the road but it's own weight... think of a paper airplane.
But I think of physics. The laws of physics.
If a car going 168 miles an hour suddenly hits a drop grade of 5 degrees over a 1000 foot run, with approximately 3000 pounds of negative lift, how far will the car fly before it meets the road below?
Let's find out.
Well, there are some variables.
I'll be turning the wheel ever so gently. The quick change in velocity before takeoff will send the car rotating through the air.
And I didn't plan on landing back onto the street. I planned on overshooting the boundary on the side of the skyway and plummeting to the coast below.
5000 feet.
3000 feet.
1000 feet.
427 feet.
brakes.
and 450 feet later I come to a complete stop.
What a rush.
Car off.
with no time to cool down after that run, and no oil pump rushing oil through it, the turbine casing is glowing red hot. it will be severly damaged after it cools. brittle and scarred.
I'll pull out a knife.
Hold it high into the air.
And strike down, as fiercely as i can muster.
1
2
3
4! times.
now there's no air in the tires.
Let's try it again.
I saved the turbine's life by starting the car back up.
it's heart is pumping blood back through it again.
I should only need about 2500 feet to gain enough speed.
When I put the car back into gear and release the clutch, there's a wonderful shower of sparks that bellows from each wheelwell.
Now that's more like it.
And we're going.
and going.
I can see it coming up.
This is such a waste...
...some chinese-made machine worked really hard on this japanese car.
I hit the grade.
And I'm sailing through the air. There's a long drop ahead of me.
This is retreatism. There's a place for me, too.
And before I crash land on the ground below, I say to myself...
Jesus will want to talk to me. This is a way more interesting story than every other devout christian who lived a life of servitude and wants to kiss his stinking feet has.

And I'll take him out for a few laps on the track.
We'll ride in my car. In my cupholder there's an iPod with all of my stuff on it.
And in his, there's an orange mocha frappucino.
We'll talk and he'll have a good time because I'm not all caught up in his presence. I'll be able to talk to him like I talk to my best friend. Ask him unclouded, unbiased questions about life and love. And then we'll change the oil together.

He tells me that didn't plan on being the apple of everyone's eye. And that he's really nothing to cry about. He is born of earth every so often and tells me that when somebody says that they're jesus, and you ask them and it's very likely, that really is him.
because he is really just an idea. And when somebody understands that idea enough, it inhabits them. He tells me that he doesn't like when people call it crazy.
And when people expect a "moment"
We'll grab a beer and take a walk to my old town.
He'll ask me if i want to hang out with any of my friends.
I'll tell him no, because there's only one other that would be able to just hang out with us, jesus.
And he's probably playing final fantasy right now.
Jesus wil tell me that he just can't fucking beat Ruby Weapon in FFVII, and I'll laugh and and tell him that I did. He'd call me a fucking liar and I'll just tell him to shut up and drink his beer.

That's what I accomplished at work today.