eff it. it's free.

How do I refrain from becoming something I’m already becoming

in a place that makes me feel insane?

I feel two feet tall when I walk through these halls,

where I swim in a pool of insecurities

that’s inundated with actions and words so cruel

that I fear I’m not the only one holding these thoughts back.

  ‘Cause I can deal with a physical attack:

the pain’s temporary and maybe even deserved every once in a while.

But when that physical pain is replaced

by a proverbial slap to the face

in the form of words shaped by guile,

it’s harder to deal with because I can feel it.

After all

words hurt more because they’re permanent.

  You see,

my path took a wrong turn somewhere

and got crossed up with a guy

whose sole purpose was to imply that he owned me.

At least

that’s what he said

with the sole of his shoe massaging my head

after he’d stripped me of all my money

and stuck it in his back pocket.

  And I hadn’t sought that.

That feeling of someone stealing your soul

by making you lie on your stomach

in front of the entire school;

in front of your peers who send jeers

that manifest into your own tears,

all the while making it known that he’s got his thumb on the fact that

you must be dumb because you never raise your hand to speak in class.

Which is crass, right?

Why should I reach for the sky,

towards the clouds and heavens and whatever ubiquitousness the Bible outlines,

when I know that no God is gonna reach down and save me from this?

  So I keep it all inside during the day. Then at night,

when my parents are asleep

I creep downstairs to find

the steak knives that wait up for me.

  The strange thing about slipping a knife into your wrist

is that it fits; or at least it fits better than my face in a place

that’s supposed to be reserved for an education.

‘Cause what kind of education is this?

I mean, there’s no Miss Bliss, Zack Morris or Screech Powers

to teach me a lesson every half ‘n hour.

In fact

the only lesson I’ve learned is that there’s no bell on this earth that can save you;

the myths of JFK Middle School and Bayside High are simply untrue.

  But TV, like the news, has helped me.

I constantly measure myself up to those guys

who’ve turned their schools into shooting ranges,

knowing full well that we’ve probably wandered through similar mazes.

And contrary to popular belief,

I’m not mad at the entire world like most people think.

  In lieu of that,

the reason I won’t waste my time masterminding a school shooting,

why I won’t “speak up” in front of the cliques that spend way too much

pondering quips to pump themselves up and put others down,

is because I’m more worried about the future than the present.

  Because one day,

I won’t be treated like a peasant.

One day

I’ll be a parent

tasked with helping my child see life’s bigger picture.

  And in those moments I’ll be lent

a chance to embark on a story that’ll be cogent,

featuring a former student who was pushed around

but saw the bigger picture a little further down the road.

  And it’s a winding road that leads us to becoming ourselves.

Which we undertake by putting our issues on the shelves

and growing up

and moving on

and maturing

and forgetting about how we felt in high school –

in a bubble that felt so big in the present

and shrunk every second we were beyond it.

  If reciprocity was only something I’d dreamt while in reverie,

it’s my job as a tormentee to make living well a reality.

To start from scratch

and teach respect regardless.

To teach myself that, yes,

a fraction of my life was hell

but that doesn’t mean the rest of it has to be…

nor that others have to suffer in place of me.

  But that’s a lesson learned once we realize

When I was in college, I noticed images manifesting out of nowhere and have tried to make sense of them ever since. That's essentially how I came to love writing. But tonight, while working on note cards for a story I've written and rewritten a bunch of times, I found myself making more process than in previous drafts. And with that came an image of these characters -- the ones whose back stories and plot lines have changed numerous times -- applauding me.

Today I learned that my razor and Michael Bolton share something in common. As I pulled my razor out, he surprised me by going through the shaving process without a hitch.

A first.

And then as he was lying on my towel, watching me clean up, he unleashed this mini-monologue:

Have you ever seen the movie, “Pirates of the Caribbean?” Well there’s a character named Will… something. I can’t remember his last name, but he’s played by Orlando Bloom. And the most memorable feature I’ve long since remembered from the character was his uniquely thin mustache. It was as if the mustache didn’t even want to be on the face; like a prop person put it there against its wishes. Like Orlando’s face and the mustache didn’t get along and wanted nothing to do with one another.

Anyway.

That’s exactly what the present state of yours looks like.

As the sixth day of Movember reared its curious head, I had spent the previous two pondering whether my facial hair would be mocked again by my razor. But sure enough, as I opened the door beneath my sink, my razor was sound asleep.

Until, of course, I reached down to pick him up.

“Hey!”

And let’s be fair. This wasn’t a pleasant salutation one would use with a friend. Rather, he was groggy and irritated; and only grew more irate when he began to understand what he was being used for.

“Oh, no. You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

His question was spawned by the fact that I had just placed him by the sink, as the water flowed into the bowl like it was part of Niagara. Knowing he was about to go toe-to-toe with the stubble on my cheeks and chin, my razor started dropping verbal bombs across the counter.

“I can’t believe there’s less hair than last time,” he said with a smirk as he stared up at me. “You’re so delusional.”

But after I swiped him once against my face, and he came away with hairs in his mouth, silence came over him. A refreshing silence, at that. In fact, that silence was so amazing that it allowed me to shave and realize that, yes, I currently have what could be considered by most as a mustache! Progress after six days!

However, my razor’s silence failed to last.

After finishing my shave, I set my razor near the sink and began to clean my face off. And then I took a look in the mirror to make sure my mustache was centered under my nose.

From below I heard a chuckle and looked down to find my razor snickering to himself. To make matters worse, he was also smiling brighter than I’d ever seen him before.

I drew a breath. “What could possibly be so funny?” I asked him.

“Dude,” he started, “now you look like you drive a windowless van.”

I’m three days into Movember and everyone’s already embarrassed. Which includes my razor, who I awoke this morning from his slumber atop the plastic bed he’s worn in over the years. He was surprised, and for good reason. You see, typically I don’t shave but once every month because I’m lazy. And thus, my razor hibernates like a bear in winter for an average of thirty days.

Given the fact that I last shaved a week ago, he had every right to feel this way; gone in an instant was a routine he’s become a pro at. But seconds later, his frustration grew to laughter when he saw the useless stubble lying across my face.

That’s right. This morning, in full-blown humiliation, my razor crow'd at me like Rufio to Robin Williams before he re-became Peter Pan.

Hearing a voice in my head I assumed was his, I had no response to, “And what exactly do you need me for, Skipper?” I imagine he calls me Skipper because I’m his guide all the time. Or whatever.

For the record, ‘til then I had never told my razor about the month of November. Not about the way men grow mustaches to raise awareness for causes like prostate cancer. And not about how I was planning to partake in it this year. And truthfully, I’ve still yet to have that conversation with my razor because, well, he’s a razor.

But he’s also a gamer.

I laid him back down on his bed and let him go through his usual pre-race routine. And yes, we call shaves races because he’s in constant motion. He stretched out while I threw water on my face, and then we went at it, un-stubbling my face little by little -- save for whatever is growing at a snail's pace below my nose.

Four minutes later, my razor found his way back onto his bed. I told him I’d see him in two days. But as I moved him from my counter top to his bedroom below my sink, he unleashed one last nugget on me.

“I’ve seen old women with better mustaches than you.”

If my mind was a restaurant and thoughts were food, my kitchen would be the busiest it has ever been. And tonight, the grub it decided to dish up was based on a topic revealed in my class last week: the psychology of a child’s mental development.

While perched upon that topic, I started to harvest on the thought of an adult’s jealousy toward a child’s mind because children don’t think about the things we do. Things like money and job security, and real worldian worries that often wear us out.

And as I was chewing on the context of that, I started to wonder what life would be like if we stripped everything away. What if we stopped paying taxes and, as a people, jumped the ship that carried the philosophy of following laws written by those who don’t always live by them?

[Cut to: A demonstration in front of the White House, where people come in droves and drop tool belts on the sidewalk opposite the great lawn. They don't shout, but rather utter, "We don't work for you anymore."]

Because let's face it: Our current society sucks. We live under rules that keep certain people from getting married while others can marry and divorce as much as they please. We live under rules that allow certain franchises to screw up monetarily, only to be bailed out by a government that's already in debt itself. And underneath it all, we live in a society that's short on work.

So why not leave it all behind? Why not wash our hands of rules developed by people who don't understand the concepts of our evolution and just move on? At their core, rules are just words on a string. And if we were to clip ourselves from that string, it's highly doubtful that we’d be struck down by lightning from the heavens or anything like that.

Imagine a world where people policed each other fairly. (It’s a pipe dream for a capitalistic country like ours, but still.) In reality, a nation of people outnumbers a government; and although power is earned in this country, it can be assumed by a billion starving hands. Having noted revolutions of the past, coupled with present times in which it has become mainstream to hate the way of the mainstream, I’m lost as to why a revolution based on dropping the code of adults -- the one where we hold true to following the rules and such -- in lieu of a child’s perspective hasn’t been put into play.

The other day, I read a Kurt Vonnegut quote on Twitter that said: “We’re here on Earth to fart around.” And once we’ve departed here for elsewhere, I’m pretty sure we’ll look back and realize we took Earth way too seriously. That we based our lives too much on rules instead of common sense, mainly because the rules clouded our common sense. But that’s probably why there’s also an idiom that also reads, “Such is life.”

Regardless, I feel as though I'm strung by a tiring soul, worn by frustration that grows from as simple a thing as a job. When you consider that we spend more time working than anything else, it’s unfortunate that most people are working to pay bills instead of to enjoy themselves.

Would we enjoy ourselves more if we stepped off the road that was paved years before we stepped foot on it? Surely we’d find hardship in growing our own food and learning a new way of living that may not involve owning cars or houses as we know them. But we may enjoy the pride that comes with new discoveries, such as the benefactors of with living without strings attached. We may enjoy the pride that stems from starting over.

When I was younger, my subconscious discovered a magical paintbrush. And this paintbrush was special for two reasons. On one hand, it could paint the most beautiful masterpieces; which it began to do right away, and has since turned the inside of my head into its own Sistine Chapel of sorts.

But there’s always another side to every coin. And in the case of this paintbrush, it is also magical because it never runs dry of paint.

Now, after the great Michelangelo had covered the walls of the Chapel in angels and demons, he set his brush down and ceased the new life he was breathing into the famous edifice.

Though I wish that were true in my case, my subconscious prefers to paint over the lines and colors it has already created, time and time again. Over the course of this operation, it has become increasingly hard to focus on daily tasks. I find myself floating often and get lost in thoughts as colors and lines are fading together.

What do you do when you’ve spent most of your adult life trying to impress people with stuff you create, only to realize that you’ve been going about it all wrong? I mean, I know that, monetarily, creators can only make a “successful” life for themselves if they can sell their shit, but I’ve been inside my mind all day and I just don’t get it.

Why worry about how you translate your world into this world – into words or paintings or such – just for the sake of other people saying, “Wow, that’s cool”? Why do creating-type people feel the need for that?

I’ve struggled with the validation factor for a while. At times, I’ve wanted it really bad from certain people. But over the last year or so, I’ve just lost interest in it. If I feel something, I'll do it for myself and that's it. If it falls into other hands, so be it. Or, if I’m happy with the way a world is manifesting itself inside my head, I’ll just let it continue. I won’t write it down and fall for a concrete translation. Because what fun is that?

But lately I’ve been tossing this around: What if we’re all meant to share something? And for those who choose not to, that one thing you brought into this world will create a sizable black hole in the universe that may not seem big, but will eventually grow in size somehow.

During days like today, that makes me think of those who've put their lives on the line to keep us safe. Or who've found themselves on the unfortunate side of an event like 9/11. To think that thousands upon thousands of souls have been exhausted from their bodies since then, carrying thoughts and love and intentions to pursue things before their untimely deaths, definitely aided my mood throughout the better part of today.

In that case, I'm probably wrong about keeping things inside. Sometimes I'm sure we all feel like we're light years away from shaking hands with death. But as we're reminded on days like today, that guestomation may not always be true.

I’ve been thinking about people a lot lately and have started to wonder if there’s an actual universe within us. And maybe we’re all here colliding with one another until the energy that was created inside us dries up. Then once we’ve passed on, our soul becomes some sort of vehicle that delivers the entire universe within us back to the place we came from. At that time, we’d get to meet all the voices in our heads – labeled as our subconscious and whatever else – and understand the true meaning of why we did certain things in that life time and why we didn’t.

Or maybe I’m just trying to make something up so I can come to grips with the fact that, if I once had an angel and demon resting solely upon my shoulders, they mated a million times over to create a thousand souls with which to spend their two cents over and over again on what I should be doing with my life.

What a setting it would be: The soulship lands and I’m led down a main street of some sort. People stare at me as I pass; some speaking into the ears of others while some smile and wave; all of whom who've been a part of me throughout my life on Earth. Some are happy I was able to figure out how to silence myself, while others wish I would’ve listened more. And from my point of view, all I can understand is the level of confusion consuming me. On that day, the sky is just as hazy as my mind.

I guess all I want sometimes is a word with myself. I want to shut myself down like a warehouse and walk around in the dark when everything is quiet. At times I wonder if whatever's creating my thoughts wants more credit for the thoughts I conjure or the way I am. I wonder if those thought conjurers see me as a puppet or a mouth piece.

But on that day, on that main street of some sort, all the confidential files would be released. And at the same time, I wonder if my stress would be released as I stared into the eyes of everyone who had been trying to give me advise from their place behind a black curtain for all those years. In a sense, they would take their masks off and throw them on the street. And with no wall between us... what would that feel like?

This life feels like such a game sometimes. And for me – for most of us, probably – the game is played between the ears. Am I winning because I’m happy? I guess I won’t know the answer until that day of release.

But I just hope I don’t lose my own thoughts – if that even exists when all is said and done – because I’d like to hope that no matter what those onlookers lining main street think of me, I’ll still have a chance to speak the final world. Like I feel I do now.

Two weeks ago, I returned to the Centennial State and was fortunate enough to spend five days in the Rockies; Breckenridge be thy name. I ventured there to hang with my buddy @RJscholl, and it was glorious.

I arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. And after the 90-minute drive from DIA to RJ’s front door, we BBQ’d and sat on his porch with friends of his – one of whom, @LeRiethmiller, I’d met last September but had gotten to know over the past year via Twitter.

Lo and behold, the next morning we rendezvous’d to a breakfast stop along Breck’s four-light long Main Street with @LeRieithmiller's [Darren's] friend Rachael, and a hash tag war broke out amongst our Twitters. Rachael wasn't feeling it because she's never tweeted a day in her life [however, she paid for breakfast so all was forgiven], but the tweeting continued throughout the rest of the trip and, thus, is the reason for the shout outs that graze this page.

On Thursday, we biked. On Friday, we hiked. And of the entire trip, I was most amazed by the amount of people outside, riding their bikes on a Thursday afternoon. You just don’t see that in Los Angeles, and I’m sure it has to do with the fact that people feel bullied into working long hours here instead of leaving early and enjoying the natural world they miss out on while strapped to their desks. Or at least I feel that way, and it's a travesty. I'm sure we'll look back on our youth and wish we worked harder at our relationship with Mother Nature.

Our nights were spent chatting it up in bars, and the humor was nonstop. I couldn’t get enough of RJ’s and Darren’s jokes and remarks, which shifted from rat-a-tat-tat responses to slow and winding dialogue dipped in those surrounding us. Two unique sense of humors, I must say, and their conversations were a thrill to be a part of. But one of the most remarkable things that surfaced during those nights were the bar tabs we served with. Two draft beers and a shot for $5? Count me in numerous times.

One thing I learned on those nights of chattery, though, was that the people who call Breck home never intended to. It’s a mountain town, but it feels more like an island. And that’s quite an addictive trait.

I must've asked everyone I met the same question. And when they mentioned what brought them to Breck, most said it was vacation while others said they came to visit friends. But when they told me why they never left, it always centered around the weather and culture -- which is interesting because the culture of that town has obviously manifested through the waves of migrators.

But at its core, it's a culture where time fails to exist in lieu of good times created by good people. Or as Darren would say, "sunny skies and high fives."

Though I made it back home, I can see why people love that town so much. It’s far-removed from the electricity of Denver, but close enough that you can get there if you need to. Plus, it presents countless opportunities to stay fit in fun ways [biking and hiking, or walking everywhere]. And then there's the weather…

The first two days were a little overcast, but the boys kept telling me about the blue skies that reigned overhead the mountain they snowboarded on from October to May. Then finally, Thursday brought us a blue hue that looked as if it'd been shined and polished prior to its debut.

It was the richest of blues and I became lost in it.

Since returning home, I have yet to see a shade of sky in that shape. Which is one of the reasons people keep going back to Breck. Or just downright staying.

There's nothing like that place or the people who live there. But you'll never know until you see it for yourself.

I’m a firm believer that, sometimes, things just work out in your favor. Some might call it karma. Others, fate. But I’m not into labels, so I tend to subtract over-thinking from certain equations and instead become instantly grateful when things fall into place.

And for the second straight year, my trip to Colorado did just that.

For starters, I was late to check-in online for my flight and thus lost out on a good seating arrangement. Fast forward to the next day, while I’m checking my bag, and the Frontier Airlines worker at the counter not only offered to move my seat to the emergency row [I’m 6’3” so that was amazing] but also waved the $15 bag fee. And the seat change was huge; not just for my legs, but because of the person I ended up sitting next to.

Her name was Amelia, and she was partaking in the final leg of her flight home from Uganda – where she’d been working at an orphanage for the past four years. A native of Colorado, she was two hours from returning home for the first time since 2007. That was heavy.

We talked for most of the air trek about life in Uganda; about what she was looking forward to most upon her return home; about what my trip was all about. And as we exited the plane, I watched her run into the arms of her mom, who hadn’t seen her in two years. That was heavy-er.

It hit me that the thing I love most about airports and flying is that you’re given an opportunity to rub shoulders and exchange stories with people you’ll probably never see again. But the key word is opportunity. Not everyone chooses to engage in it, and that’s fine. But I love it and was grateful that, somehow, the Frontier Airlines employee offered me that seat. Otherwise I would’ve been on a flight with a really interesting person that I never would’ve gotten to talk to.

I think my soul hates the nights I stay up late.

When I first moved into my house, my bed sat against a window that harbored no blinds. Though it failed to shield me from the morning sun, it provided an open look at the dark and quiet street that I used to gaze at while walking along the four stepping stones towards sleep.

During those nights, a world manifested in my head where souls would leave sleeping bodies, walk into the street, and eventually meet up with other souls newly freed. Those souls were on timers; knowing full well that they’d need to be back in their cage by the time our bodies were ready to wake.

But until then, they were free to roam as humans do.

I imagined them as colorful figures, dressed in a plethora of hurried pastels, walking into a local bar and celebrating by having a drink -- just as we would after a long day at work. Maybe it was the bartenders’ soul who tended bar, or someone else who found a key, let everyone else in, and was held in high regard for such service to this underground brigade. Regardless, they’d do as we would: talk if they wanted or shoot darts and laugh at how stubborn their bodies were.

Of course, there were also daring souls amongst the bunch. I used to lose myself in how they’d set their watches and see how far away they could soar before slipping back into their sleeping chambers. Surely there would be jet-setters who, upon their return, would provide their body's mind with playback from those adventures [a.k.a. dreams] as the body slept the following night.

But the most fun I had was when I started wondering if there were souls who had become best friends, despite their actual bodies never crossing paths. They’d spend the night sharing stories of days that were much different. Maybe one was rich and the other was poor. Maybe one was a musical soul trapped in a clumsy body and the other was as free as a bird -- life no different inside or out of that cage.

I've always wanted to be a fly on those walls.

And what of souls who don’t slip back into their bodies in time? Perhaps that's the reason we sleep through our alarm clocks every so often. And wake up exhausted.

When my dad’s legs could afford to, they’d take him on long strolls that began at tee boxes. Those walks would continue through fairways and end by tapping a white ball into a small round hole that was punched into the surface of a green plateau of grass. He’s loved golf since his younger years. So on Father’s Day, my brother and I planted ourselves on the couch and the three of us watched the final round of this year’s U.S. Open.

The final round was the fourth part of Rory McIlroy’s tournament-long clinic, as the 22-year old from Northern Ireland whooped the rest of the field by shooting sixteen under par. To put that into perspective, the tournament’s second place finisher, Jason Day of Australia, finished eight shots behind him.

McIlroy’s victory made him the youngest U.S. Open champ since Bobby Jones won it in 1923. The countless records he set throughout the weekend reminded people of the style and dominance that hadn’t been seen since Tiger Woods was new and exciting. And so, after arriving home tonight, I ventured to SI.com and ESPN.com, hoping to find some positive stories about how refreshing Rory’s win was for the game of golf. But instead, I found exactly what I thought I would:

The byline of a photo on ESPN.com: “Rory McIlroy blew away the filed with a record-breaking show at the U.S. Open. Now what? Obvious comparisons to Tiger Woods.”

I know I shouldn’t be surprised because the media loves storylines, and because comparing two entities is easier than coming up with a new line of description, but Tiger doesn’t deserve to share Rory’s spotlight.

After going into the final round of the Masters in April with the lead, McIlroy shot 43 on the back nine [a terrible score if you don’t follow golf] and finished fifteenth. Since then, he’s been asked about everything from, “What happened at the Masters?” to “Does LeBron James’ epic fourth quarter fails remind you of your breakdown at the Masters?”

A 22-year old who goes through that and then schools the rest of the field during his next shot at winning a major deserves more than to share the spotlight with a man whose golf bag is too small for his clubs and baggage.

But that’s sports media for you: Taking the easy way out by comparing two players instead of finding new ways to brand a new phenomenon.

Fortunately, athletes are attempting to change that stigma, as fellow golfer Miguel Angel Jimenez offered this line: “[McIlroy’s] going to be the first Rory, not the next Tiger.”

Which is a good thing. After golf’s longtime champ lost his game as his world went up in flames, the sport needed its new heir to be a humble lad with an easy smile and a likeable personality that would excite longtime fans like my dad and newcomers like me.

To the tune of Foo Fighters’ “Best Of You,” I’ve got a confession to make:

My ability to keep this blog updated has fallen below the Mendoza Line. Without making excuses [but doing so anyway], I work 50 hours a week as a medical writer and have found it tough to come home and wax poetically about my bellowed Halos. That said, I’ve had a lot on my mind since Opening Day.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Led by JWeave and Dan Haren, the pitching staff is the reason the Angels are able to dream of having success this year. But the success has been saddled by a myriad of headaches [see the loss to the ChiSox on Wednesday]. Tyler Chatwood has been surprising, but so too are the struggles of Kevin Jepson and Fernando Rodney. However, given that the Halos have the lowest run scored/runs allowed differential of any AL division leader [+15 compared to Tampa Bay’s +34 and Cleveland’s +41], an over abundance of credit is due to those who’ve provided the Angels with the fifth best ERA in the MLB [3.28].

Big D

But obviously, pitchers don’t succeed without defense. With a team fielding percentage [counting pitchers] of .989, the boys have been spectacular. Between the flashiness of Erick Aybar and Alberto Callaspo, the left side of the infield is easily the team’s strength, along with an outfield of fleet-footed natural centerfielders who keep balls off the grass. Plus, the versatility possessed by Howard Kendrick playing left – spelling the injured and slow-starting Vernon Wells – allows manager Mike Scioscia to keep four hot bats in the line-up. Which brings us to the most fickle piece of the Halos’ 2011 puzzle.

Little O

Thanks to the hitting of Aybar, Kendrick, Callaspo and utility-man Maicer Izturis, the Halos are in the top 10 in batting average [.269, 3rd], on base percentage [.327, 9th] and slugging percentage [.405, 9th]. But what they’re struggling at is getting those base runners around the diamond.  Currently 17th in runs scored with 163, the boys need more timely hits to take some weight off the shoulders of the pitching staff. Surely, the lack of runs is due in some part to the Kendrys Morales’s bat missing in action, but Mark Trumbo has stepped in and had some key hits. I believe GM Tony Reagins will let him play into July, but might make a move for that power bat the Angels have always coveted yet never owned if the team is one player away from over-stepping the Texas Rangers.

The Halos only lead the ailing Rangers by a game and a half, but if they can get timelier hitting and a bullpen that can learn to lock it up in pressure situations, they’ll find themselves with more room to breath during the dog days of Summer.

Of late, I've found it hard to let people in too far because of fear that they might change me. A quiet arrogance.

I'm not trying to say I'm a good person. I'm just proud of what I've become. Of the comfort I feel after the lack thereof that used to trouble me. I'm proud of not giving up.

It's taken me a while to attain comfort within, and I think I'm nervous because I'd like to enjoy this for a while.

Then again, one never knows what's around the corner. Nor what change people could bring. Especially when the people around me have had a hand in the change that's taken place throughout the last nine years.

Perhaps letting others in will make me feel even more comfortable.

And I, like everyone else in their own ways, could always use that.

When you were a kid and people would ask what you wanted to be when you grew up, I bet the term “unemployed” never came to mind. But a year ago today, that’s exactly what I became. And looking back, it was one of the best experiences I've ever been through.

In early 2010, I was in a rut. Working as a copywriter for an ad agency in Los Angeles, I’d begun taking work so seriously that at times it felt impossible to be creative.  I had lost the ability to let things flow and was forcing everything, which often made for long days, frustrating drives home and long nights – since I usually brought work home to finish before hitting the hay. I felt like a plant deprived of water and sun.

After losing employment, I started asking myself the simple questions I never had time for in the past. What am I doing with my life? Why am I doing this with my life? And my personal favorite: What would I rather be doing with my life?

As soon as that last question leapt off my tongue, I emailed Matt Malley, former bass player of Counting Crows and a guy I’d been in touch with for a few months, and asked if I could stop by to jam and chat. After that experience, I vowed that unemployment would serve more of a purpose than finding my next gig. I was going to spread my wings further than ever before and, in the interim, house any thoughts and experiences in this blog. I hoped it would become some kind of verbal time capsule that would help me understand the ways in which I was watering my seed while wandering towards a new opportunity.

And a year later, I know unemployment helped shape me for the better. I can sense it in the comfort I’ve found within my skin, along with the peace that presides over my mind, the strength I’ve found in my character and the creativity that's reincarnated itself inside me. And I found all of that through trips to Panama, Colorado and Virginia; a trek to the top of Mt. Whitney; daily bike rides beneath the striking summer sun; a 100-mile bike ride amidst rain with my friends and family; and a plethora of people who’ve either crossed my path briefly or long enough for me to love them.