The Rules of More

Once upon a blog, I wrote about several rules that I wanted to try and live my life by. Well, those for the most part are still in play. But I do want to add some new things I've learned. And I'm going to confess to what I don't really follow any longer. The whole 'only meat from the ocean' bit, yeah, that's not happening. I'm an Italian! Somedays I need a good roast beef. Sometimes the only thing that can keep me from laying down on the highway is stuffed shells in a meat filled red gravy. Now, I am more then aware of the unhealthy side effects of eating meat that is ill prepared and full of preservatives and fillers. And the human body doesn't need to rely on animals as much as the American general public would have you believe. But, sometimes, I just need a fucking burger. Y'know?! Anyways.I still try to avoid fast food in general, and I am very strict about my dessert intake. I have reinvented my fashion more then one time, and when I wrote the first set of rules I was only wearing black, gray, white, and red. That is not the case any longer. Now it's black, gray, and cool colors only. I've also given up on skinny denim and displaying as much as possible. I sorta wrap myself up like a present these days; hiding instead of revealing. I'll leave the skin for the bedroom. I think the biggest downfall is not following my one drink a day rule. I think I'll try to reinstate that one once I'm a father, for now though, I'll meet you at the bar. Which brings me to my first new commandment:

Always make friends with the bartender.

This will get you much farther in life and most likely keep more money in your pocket. In my experience, it pays to have patience while bellying up for booze. Remember that the person on the other side is just making a living and probably would rather be on the other side, like you are, with their own friends. So, for the love of all that is vodka, cut them some slack. Show a smile, use your manners and treat them like an old college friend that your happy to spend time with again. Who knows how to make a double stiff whip and cran, five times, but only charge you for two. You'll be happier, they'll be happier, and your wallet will be happier. Which brings me to new commandment number two:

Make as much money as possible.

I don't care how. I don't care when. I don't care what you have to do to get it. Just. Make. Money. Don't be greedy, don't be cruel; do be eager, and do be ambitious. Like the hyper ambitious material girl herself. Be bold. Be active. Be driven. And be any other adjective that this seasons fragrance industry has chosen to convince you you are. My favorite is from a fictitious beauty creme ad from a Sharon Stone movie, it goes a little something like this: Be more.

I'm trying to be more, are you?


The New Rules:

-say no to fast food
-four desserts a month
-the three date rule
-the first date rule
-the no bullshit rule
-work out everyday, somehow
-keep a calendar, stick to it, follow it
-create a budget, stick to it, follow it
-make your fashion, and stay loyal
-read more
-befriend the bartender
-make as much money as possible


"I'm tough, I'm ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay." -Madonna

Tuck and Roll

So the hummus and cheese and spinach meal was delicious. It got me through the next six hours, but then I passed out during my lunch break at work. Then I drove home, somehow, and slept for thirteen hours. Thirteen hours! By the time I woke up, I had to be at work in two hours. It's so messed up. Literally, I just feel messed up. My spine feels like its crooked, my shoulders ache, my head is slightly foggy at all times, and my stomach is never content. And it keeps craving doughnuts. And Nicotine. Right now I'm the last person who'd ever be voted Most Likely To Become A Personal Trainer, I look more and more like the rock and roll reject friend. Worn out leather coats and torn up hoodies. Dark circles under their eyes. Constantly on edge. Once upon a time I was a gymnast....I had a farm in Africa. That's the tone I say it with when I tell myself that in my head, over and over and over again. I use to command a floor routine, and be fairly competent on the uneven bars. I could shimmy of ropes and poles that went from the floor to the ceiling of the practice warehouse. The floor exercises were my best, that's what I was most talented at. I always think that, had I continued, I could have achieved some sort of professional or award winning level or status. But I stopped, because gymnastics is gay. Or that's what the majority of everyone thought. And I wasn't about to throw fuel on that name-calling-life-wrecking fire. I tried to start back up in high school, but that plan fell apart. So now my plan is, once I'm a certified PT, find a gym that has a gymnastics area and get back into it. I'm still young enough to be able to teach myself, but old enough to know not to push myself too hard. I just want my flexibility back. I still have most of it. But I want it all. I can still do the splits, but I want to be able to do them up against the wall. I want my foot behind my head. I want my spine to do as I tell it. I can still do some flips and shit like that. I actually would practice those at the second college I went to. I would go to the track at like eight or nine at night, when everyone was doing homework or having social lives, and I would practice doing back flips and back handsprings. Yep, college was really beneficial to me. Ha! It just furthered my ability to tuck and roll. Literally and figuratively. College is/was/forever will be an exercise in hitting the ground running. Tucking and rolling, to make sure you don't break your neck. Dealing with problems A through D while anticipating problems D through Z. I left the floor mat for my dorm floor. Walked away from the uneven bars to deal with uneven odds. Quit the hand rings to hang myself out to dry. Jumped off the balance beam to walk on other fine lines. College was just another exercise for me. And I was always good at exercises. That is, when not being a 3rd shift zombie. I miss being a cardio monster. My love of running, dancing, and cardio in general is the only thing that has kept me fit and svelte my entire life. Not having the energy, or time, to throw on Madonna's Confessions album and sweat it all out makes me sad. Nowadays the only thing I'm sweating over is having no money but many bills, no man but serious urges to cuddle, big to do list and tiny free time. Life keeps bending me over backwards, knocking my around and pushing and pulling me in opposite directions. Good thing I've got so much practice at tucking and rolling.

ps- Looking for a good picture to go with this was depressing. I thought it might be fun, but no. Just a reminder of what I could look like. I need to work out.

"Let no one think that flexibility and a predisposition to compromise is a sign of weakness or a sell-out." -P. Kagame

Personal ReInvention Tour

So here's what I'm thinking. Changes need to be made. Little things, that will build up over time. It doesn't need to happen all at once. I don't think it would work if it happened like that. This is going to be gradual. This is long term. This is my own reinvention tour. I'm thinking about this next decade. It should be better then the last one. And not just because of credit cards, sex and grown up drinks. These next ten years are going to be what makes or breaks it for the rest of the decades I get. This is when I restructure the past and set out the future. I've got some rules so far.

-say no to fast food
-four desserts a month
-one alcoholic beverage a day, even when going out (this one might be difficult)
-the three date rule
-the first date rule
-the no bullshit rule
-no meat, unless it comes from the ocean
-work out everyday, somehow
-keep a calendar, stick to it, follow it
-create a budget, stick to it, follow it
-make your fashion, and stay loyal
-read more

The list might get added to, not sure yet. I am thinking that I would like to change my look up again. I know, I change my look a lot. Yet another thing me and Madge have in common. Also, me and my mother. I like the idea of picking a looking, a style, and image, and sticking with it forever and ever amen. All the iconic designers did it, and it makes sense. Which is why I like the idea of buzzing my head. It's always so clean and precise and certain. No surprises. No hassles. No issues. That's a big part of the look I want to create and keep for myself. Solid colors. Dark colors. Denim. Black. Grays. Reds. Maybe some white. No writing. I want it all to look sleek. Professional. Sexy Business. Hard edges and pointy corners. Ninety degree angles. Clean cut. Which is why I want to go back to a buzzed head. It's the definition of clean cut. Also, I've seen photographic evidence that the back of my head is thinning out. It's unfortunate. It's pathetic. And yes, it is noticeable. If I saw that photo and did not know it was the back of my head, I would make comments. Rude comments. So considering how it is late at night, and impulse decisions are also on my "do not do" list, I'm simply charging up my clippers and not using them just yet. But my shaggy hair makes me look younger too, and that's a negative. Younger and unkempt. And unreliable. Plus I knew this woman who, for her entire adult life, had a strategic hairstyle to hide the fact that she had hearing aides. I guess I shouldn't make that last sentence past tense, as far as I know she's still alive. Yeh, she's alive. Anyways, the point is: sometimes to look your best, and to have the most confidence and best outlook on life, you have to make some choices. Which is why the clippers lay charging.

Everything is going to take some time, and I know I'm going to have moments of wanting to bash my head into concrete, but I think these and other minor improvements will make a majority style difference. I want to last. I want the next ten years to be greater. And I'm relying on me to take the initiative.

"Better to live one year as a tiger, than a hundred as a sheep." -Madonna Ciccone

Drenched In Vogue

Changing outfits four times in one day. Getting naked in the parking lot to do so. Making sure your outfit has enough black on it. Cigarette to the right, hips to the left. Champagne flute on the table in front of you. Zip up your black boots. Skinny jeans on, tucked in, too make sure your edgy. Glamorous poetry read, followed by a fabulous post party, capped off my a tremendous late night stroll through the sparkling downtown streets. All the while checking your hair, your make up, your waist line, your smile, your pout and where your eyes are wandering. Don't show too much interest, but don't look bored. Seem completely enticed, but radically detached. Laugh with your eyes, but disapprove with your mouth. Arms folded, arms crossed, hand in pocket, hand on hip, shoulders curved, ribs out, heels planted firmly on the pretentiousness that is the pseudo-new-age-post-future-art-vogue moment you fell into. Strike a pose. There's nothing to it? I love Madonna like it's my job, but all that vogue shit is tiring. The song is great, but have you ever tried living it out for an evening? It's exhausting. My motives weren't entirely legitimate in the first place, but I was definitely up for the evening. Or so I thought. It was part homework assignment, and part boy chasing. Not just any boy though. A boy crafted so perfectly your eyes hurt if you look directly at him for too long. It's like staring at the sun. And you want to get as close as you can without getting burnt too. He was so perfect I would have cried in front of him, he has that effect. Have you ever seen someone and you just thought you'd be so safe with them you could cry in front of them and not care about it later. You just want to crawl in their lap and hold them, and try as hard as possible to have their atoms swirl up with yours. Maybe you haven't. But if you have, then you'd understand the lengths you'd go to get close to the sun without getting burnt. But somewhere between my second marlboro and my third outfit change I had to face the vogue, as it were, and admit that I can't keep up. I was wading in an ocean of retro-modern-vintage-fit-denim wearing hipsters, doing my best to stay afloat but I had nothing to cling to except my own failed expectations. The boy was sweet and personable but a wolf confined to solitary for hundred years wouldn't be able to touch this boys lone wolf mannerisms. And, after all, no one can live on the sun. It's hot and delicious, but you will end up getting burnt. Who knows, maybe I can go tanning every once in awhile. But, for now, I'll have to keep my glamorizing to a minimum because I'm not sure how to wash pretentious party out of my favorite coat. Or scrub the fakeness off my boots. What's the cleaning solution for that again? Two thirds realism and one third average. I think I could handle it all if I had a metaphoric pair of sunglasses and better denim. But I've not the time or energy to require such things. For now at least.