The next tasks ahead of me are A: Financial Aid, and B: Admittance to the School of Journalism. Both are important, and will require a bit of resolve on my part - but I approach them both with newfound feelings of confidence and determination.

I can do this.

I won’t digress into the institution’s individual ineptitudes, but it’s worth mentioning that I had never intended to return. In fact, this time last year I had recently been denied admission by the University of Iowa, and was forced to consider a very frightening reality - in order to make headway in my education, I had no other choice but to finish what I started at Scott.

In light of this discovery, I nearly surrendered. I nearly gave up on school all together, rather than attend Scott for another two semesters. The concept was so disheartening that I found myself on the verge of accepting the a life behind my desk at Tech Team.

But, here I am at the closure of said semesters - degree framed, packed, and ready to be mounted on the wall of my new apartment neighboring the University of Iowa.

I’ve been admitted - I did it.

My how things have changed.

In no particular order:

• I created, planned, and participated in an event that raised over $1000 for children’s hospitals.
• I left TechTeam, which was probably the smartest decision I’ve made since deciding to take the job with them in the first place.
• I’m a week away from my two year degree, and ready to start on my BA.
• With any luck, I’ll have my own place within 30 days.
• I’m host of a weekly gaming podcast, which I’ve helped develop from obscurity into a respectable show with a  modest listener base. More importantly, I create something every week.
• I’m in a relationship that makes me genuinely happy.
• I’ve lost a ton of weight, and managed to keep it off.

So… yeah. Things are going well. I feel like I’ve managed to climb my way out of a rut and get back up to speed again. I feel like I’m making progress.

I feel good.

“Love and Mathematics” is echoing in my mind as I sit here - exhausted, frigid, and restless. Before me lay the incomplete works of the past month, each title proceeded with a parentheticaled “Draft #” - as though to excuse their apparent flaws with an abbreviated “I’m not finished yet!”.

It seems appropriate then to proceed myself with that same moniker - “Draft”. I’ve spent my life quoting an imagined reservoir of potential energy, a limitless pool of possibilities from which I would acquire the resources necessary to achieve these goals I’ve set for myself. Each period of mediocrity is excused by the upcoming evolution - my emergence from the cocoon of normality.

Yet, here I sit.
Exhausted, Frigid.
Restless.

Anyway, perhaps I lack devotion, but I simply wasn’t willing to wade through the pharmaceutical offers, porn advertisements, and all around trash that had built up around the banks. As such, any comments made within the past two months has likely been overlooked. My apologies to those commenters with pulses.

Anyway, expect some cosmetic and functionality improvements in the upcoming weeks - as well as a draft or two if I ever get around to finishing them.

Two dollars and fifty cents - Such was the cost of the painting which glowed in forbidden neon tones and dared to call itself art. Its sharp pigments contrasted the bleached-white walls where it waited, framed and sheltered above the bed of the lonely girl.

You’ll find the lastest version of “Like Bricks”. The majority of the first half has been completely redone, though it carries the same purpose and theme. The second half is mostly a rehash of the initial draft with a few edits in flow and diction.

As always, all comments are much appreciated.
Let me know how this newest draft (namely the first half) compares to the last.

Real hard to cause.

The bad folks though, they just go down. They’re so heavy with the weight of all that sin - there’s only one way for the scale to dip. Takes no time at all. They don’t fight it, neither. They’ve been carryin round this terrible burden. It makes ‘em rough, and hard. Makes ‘em like bricks.

Anyway, I guess this all got started with a fella named Warren Heeler, he owned the drug store in the town where I grew up. He was a big man, always clean shaven but a bit of a slob. He had this kinda upturned nose too… ya put all that together and you’ve got a man that looks more like a pig than any rightfully should. “Squealer”, us kids called him, both on account of his hog like nature, and his habit of callin on our folks each time he caught us pocketing somethin from his store. We didn’t think much of ‘im. We’d all had our asses whooped on more’n'one occasion thanks to that “old hog”. But really, we were scoundrels, and we deserved every bit of what he sent our way. He’d just done right by us - squealin us out. Lookin back now, I know he was a good man. I just wish I’d had the eyes to see it back then. I might not have had to carry such a burden down the road.

This one afternoon, ol’Squealer caught me tryin to walk out with a pack of Junior mints, my favorite. He had me by the arm of my shirt, shakin me about, and he was gettin on about how I was gunna learn a lesson that day - how I was gunna finally figure it out.

If only he’d known.

Well, right in the middle’a'this lecture, some bent son of a bitch comes crashin through the front door like he’s on a god damned crusade - set the door bell alive with a sound like breaking glass. Just as soon as he got up to the counter, he started shoutin somethin about how ol’Squealer needed to figure how to keep his mouth shut, and how he had a message for ‘im. Warren’s hand was still grippin at my sleeve, only now it shook from panic, ’stead of rage. Scared shitless I reckon.

In my head, I rooted the Crusader on. Here’s this guy - cool lookin guy, got this look in his eyes like he didn’t take any shit from any body – but he shows up outta nowhere to put ol’Squealer in his place.

You tell him, I thought.
You tell that old hog off.

I was a kid - I didn’t know any better. Spent too much time with my nose in the comic books. Hell, I didn’t even snap out of it till I felt Warren’s grip tighten on my sleeve, like it was a fuckin liferope. The man had drawn this wicked .45, and was usin it to show Warren where to find his own belly button.

Then he shot him. Bastard shot him right in the gut, with me standin right there, rootin him on. Jesus Christ - I was rooting him on, like he was my god damned hero. Awful.

Slowly, almost casual like, Warren slid down the wall. By the time he hit the floor his face was white, blank, and cold - a blizzard - and he was lost in it. The bullet erased all his color, wiped his emotions clear. I guess he was shocked - like his mind hadn’t absorbed it as well as his belly.

I guess I was shocked too.

Wasn’t but a moment after, I heard another shot from outside. My Crusader caught one himself, but he didn’t stick around and make a fuss of it like Warren. He just went down. Bam, thud - like bricks. They knew where he was headed, and they didn’t take no more than a moment to send him there.

Bam, thud.
Like bricks.

By this time, Warren’s mind was catchin up with everything, but I guess the jury was still out. The pain musta hit him hard then - he started squealin like he’d vowed to give the term new meaning. He put his fat bloody palms against the hole in hisself - tried to damn this river of red that was pourin out of him so. He started kickin his legs about - his shoes squeaked as they slid across red-wet lenolium.

Somethin changed in me then. I wasn’t shocked anymore, wasn’t even scared. I just stood there, blank faced, and ate those god damned junior mints. Jesus, fat bastard is breathin his last breaths, and I’m actin like I’m at a god damned picture show. Awful. Just fuckin awful.

That was it - that was the start of all this. I enjoyed a pack’a mints while I watched a good man die, but I didn’t feel nothin. Nothin but the weight of the mints as I swallowed - the first few ounces of this grand burden of sin. It was by no means the worst thing I’d do - but It was the worst I’d done, and it would stay with me forever.

Since then, I’d seen lotsa Warrens bleed, lotsa bricks fall. It’s made me into a pretty decent judge of character. Enough so, I can mostly tell just by meetin a person whether they’re a brick or a Warren.

Like this guy I work with - soon as I met him, I knew he was a brick. Cold motherfucker, built like a Sherman and twice as dangerous. Ironic bit? His name’s Danny, but they call him Danny the Brick, or sometimes, just Brick. The weird shit life throws at you sometimes, yeah?

Anyway, whoever gave him that name was right on the money. This guy wanted nothing but to bleed people; watch em squirm. Sure, I’d punched my share of tickets for people who might not have deserved it - but I didn’t revel in it like this guy. He laughed as he did it. Always cut em, too - never used a shooter. I thought to ask him once - why he always gutted em so - but to be honest, I didn’t much care to know. Besides, when you’re in the business of killin people, it’s often best not to ask questions.

So one day, orders come down to this Brick and I. Some dumb shit bet the wrong people’s money on the wrong fuckin pony. Debt’s way past due, and it falls on us two to remind him of his place in the world. Now, there’s no good to be had in putting a bullet into a man that owes you money, so instead we’re sent after this shit’s daughter.

I’d seen this girl around town - good woman, sharp. Legs for days, that one. Soon as I saw her, I could tell she wasn’t no brick. It was too bad - fine woman like that. She’s the kinda ticket you’d love to punch in one way, but hate to punch in the other, yeah? At least, that’s how it was for me - as soon as that Brick got his eyes on her, I reckoned he was lookin forward to punching both. Like I said - a brick if there ever was one.

The job didn’t feel right by me - but by that time, any job killin a Warren had started to feel a bit off. Mighta been that I’d just had enough, mighta also been on account of how much that fuckin Brick enjoyed it. Either way, I kept out of the dirty work and minded the door. That Brick had no complaints - he’d made it clear what he wanted from the poor girl. Even took the time to remind me that me and my “limp dick” would only get in the way. Motherfucker. Anyway, I was just keeping watch, so my conscience was clear. Not that it mattered; I was a brick just the same. Whether or not this girl got cut didn’t make a lick of difference.

She kicked and screamed as he wrestled her down - bawled even, squealed. I couldn’t help but think of Warren - the first Warren. He laid there, squealin, waitin for his train, while I snacked on his junior fuckin mints. How awful that was.

Brick, just the same.

From there, it’s mostly a blur. Somethin changed in me. I tried to pull that Brick up off the poor girl, but he had his knife in me before I knew he’d swung it. Three or four times he must have stuck me - like he’d been beggin for the fuckin opportunity. Jesus H - what a fuckin Brick that guy was. Had barely finished gutting me before he turned back to the girl.

I fell back against the wall. I could feel this warmth pouring from my chest - this cold snap of copper in back of my mouth. I don’t remember firing - I don’t even remember drawing my gun, but I heard familiar sounds as I put a bullet into his skull.

Bam, thud.
No surprises there.

The girl stood – I guess she was shocked. Her mind hadn’t absorbed it as well as his. God damn, she looked like hell. She passed this glance as she walked out the door – looked like gratitude.

Hah. Wishful thoughts of a falling brick.

I sat there a spell, and wondered.

What am I doin, waiting?
Ticket’s punched… was I wrong?

Fuckin A.

People don’t die like they aughta.
Not at all like you’d expect ‘em to.