Happy birthday to me

I just want to thank everyone that left a comment on my post for my brother. It means a lot to me that you all took the time to share with me, even if we don't know each other.

I just don't want him to be just another name on the obituary page.

Subjective rant on the subject of: death

Death -- what is there to say? It sucks. It always sucks. It's inevitable, unavoidable, and unwaverable. Death cannot be argued with. It's non-judgemental -- it takes the deserving, the undeserving, and the just plain unlucky. Death is a natural part of life, and we all have or will experience it. We're all going to die, in time.

Some deaths, though, are much harder to handle than others. Take this past weekend, for example. Friday night, Bob from Life Misled had a big party for his brother's return from the Navy. Lots of people showed up; there was beirut, plenty of alcohol, and even snowball throwing. A really fun time, all in all, and I didn't even get to sleep until about 7 am (getting up at 10 and working a double shift was awful, but totally worth it).

Anywho, the following night after work, I returned to my boyfriend's empty apartment -- he left that morning to visit family in Chicago and New York for the holidays -- turned on the television for background noise and plopped down at the computer. One of my closer friends IMed me, telling me to call her because she had something important to tell me and didn't want to do it over the internet. I moaned and groaned a bit, because I'm not big on phone chatting, but eventually I agreed.

I thought it was strange when she asked me if the guy "Munky" on my top ten MySpace friends was my brother. "Yep, that's him," I said with a grin, thinking she ran into him somewhere and had a story about it. I was holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder and trying to dump some water out of my Easy Mac without spilling any of the pasta when I heard her say, "Sweetie... your brother... he died last night." Thinking back now, I actually laughed a little, one of those exhalation laughs that come right before you say, "... What?"

She explained what had happened and expressed her repeated condolances, along with many offers to come comfort me and suggestions to go home so I didn't spend the night alone. I promised I would and quickly had to get off the phone, because I was starting to choke up and hate anyone witnessing my tears. Afterwards, I returned to the computer to check my brother's myspace, and was shocked to see R.I.P.s and "we'll miss you"s littering his comments.

All I could think was that it was a joke, just an awful, cruel joke, and I'd have to kick his butt later for being such a dick. "That's not even funny, Matt!" I'd yell, and give him a girly slap or two in the arm, then I'd lose my facade and start laughing, too.

That's the way my big brother was, always happy and always good at making other people happy. It could be the worst day of your life, and my brother could make you feel human again without even trying. He was so laid-back, so easy to get along with, and -- even though I don't frequently use the word -- just so damn chill. I think that's the best way to describe him. My brother was really fucking chill.

The very worst thing about it was that he didn't do anything reckless or make any stupid decision -- it was his asthma. He's always had really bad asthma, but I guess lately it had been particularly awful. He even left me a myspace comment in August that went as follows: "yea actually things have been kinda bad lately...i had the worst asthma attack i've ever had in my life, i even had to call 911. i lost ALL lung function in my sleep and woke up to not being able to breathe at all. the doctor told me if the paramedics had taken 5 minutes longer i would've passed out from lack of oxygen and i would've died :( it totally changed my life, no more smokin, no more construction work, ima go back to school for computers and get an office job...what a close call..."

I guess this time, it was so bad that even his prednisone didn't help. Jenelle, his best friend whom he loved more than anyone, was with him, and she was the one who called 911. It was so bad that she called twice, the second time to tell them to hurry, because she was sure he was dying. She tried his nebulizer, but he couldn't hold it to his face, and shortly after, he collapsed on the floor. Jenelle said his face was purple, his fingers were blue, and he was foaming from the mouth. She kept telling him she loved him and he would be okay; he kept telling her that he was scared and he wasn't ready to die.

According to the girl, he was dead before they loaded him into the ambulance.

Now, I've dealt with family deaths before. My uncle Jerry, my aunt Shirley, and my mom. My mother's death was, obviously, very awful and entirely life changing, but I honestly think it was easier to handle because we had all been expecting it. She'd been diagnosed with sclerosis of the liver several years prior and, completely ignoring the doctor's warnings, she continued drinking her 101 proof peppermint schnapps. So while it was a horrible tragedy, it was easy to just be angry with her, because she did it to herself. She knew what the alcohol was doing to her, and she kept drinking anyway, knowing she would die and not caring.

(To be fair, I should probably mention that I think, in the end, she did regret it. It was in her eyes the last time I saw her, though she couldn't say so with the tube in her throat.)

Matt's death, though, was wholly unexpected and entirely unfair. Death doesn't take fairness into account. You can't negotiate death away by reasoning how awesome your brother is, how everyone loves him, or how it's just not his time; he has so much left to do, so much going for him in the future. Death is a bitch, and when my time comes, I'm going to fight hard and show the reaper that I don't approve of him sneaking up on people.

If I could please have everyone's attention (or at least, that of those who've lasted this long): I'd like you all to raise your glasses to my big brother, Matt. He was one of the better people in this world of assholes. Everyone loved him, and everyone will miss him dearly. It's not fair, and it's hit us hard, but we'll continue on, because that's the way he would've wanted it.

I'm sorry you had to go so early and in such a hard way, but know that we'll never forget you.

As for remembering him, I think he said it best:

"Memories....

I remember sitting in ur room playing Darius Twins...

I remember going to the beach and going swimming with u and mum...

I remember playing with the ouija board in our back yard...

I remember mum's delicious swedish meatballs....

I remember being inseperable and the best of friends, luv ya sis :0)"

And Matt, the next drink I order will be a Grateful Dead, just for you.

R.I.P. Matthew Paul Stebbins
July 2, 1983 - December 21, 2007
I love you.


I'm sorry
I heard about the bad news today
A crowd of people around you
Telling you it's okay
And everything happens for a reason

When you lose a part of your self
To somebody you know
It takes a lot to let go
Every breath that you remember
Pictures fade away
But memory is forever

An empty chair at all the tables
And I'll be seeing you when all my days boil down
But it's better where you're going anyway

I'm sorry
I heard about the bad news today
It's really hard to get through
Tough times and long days
But it really just depends on the season

For now we'll say goodbye
We know it's not the last time
I've lost the best part of my day
But it's better where you're going anyway

This is the last thing I
I will remember
It's better where you're going anyway

"Sonny" - A New Found Glory

A Glimpse into: The life of a wanna-be.

That's right, I said it -- I am a wanna-be.

And just what is it I want to be? Well, here's a bulleted list for you:

• Novelist
• Child psychologist
• Sex therapist
• Police officer
• Animal cop
• Veterinary assistant
• Vet Tech
• Vet
• Neurosurgeon

Jesus Christ, you might be saying. Jesus Christ, indeed. My problem is not that I am unambitious, no; quite the opposite. I'm far too ambitious, and I can't pick and choose just one thing and stick with it. It's really god damn annoying.

Right now, I'm clearly on the psychology path, what with getting my degree in it and all. Yet, is that really what I want, to listen to other people complain, pretending the whole time that I actually care and see them as more than just a walking credit card? That doesn't sound so appealing. And how about that writer dream I've had since I wrote my very first story when I was six (and it wasn't bad for a six-year-old, either)? Can't forget it. And I love animals, wouldn't it be great to work with them instead of insufferable humanity? Damn right. I'm not joking about the neurosurgeon bit either.

Lately, I've wanted more than anything to get into law enforcement. Problem is, even with frequent google searches and such, I can't seem to figure out how. The best I can guess is you have to have an associates or bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice ( allcriminaljusticeschools.com ), and either apply directly to a law enforcement agency that may have no openings, or hope a recruiter comes to you. After that, you have to attend a 12 to 14 week police academy program.

Come on. That's retarded. If I want to put my life on the line and ultimately get shot in the face by some kid robbing a fucking Honey Farms, it should be a hell of a lot easier for me to do so than spending two more years in classes I don't want to attend, followed by maybe getting into a police academy, and spending four months having the spirit beat out of me, and then maybe, just maybe be hired by an agency that'll probably be halfway across the damn country, forcing me to pick up my life and move away (not that I would mind leaving this state forever and ever).

Since when did it get so hard to have a goddamn career?

A Glimpse into: the Life of a Waitress

As you may have seen on my profile, I work in a restaurant.

Now, the food industry is not for everyone. It's very stressful -- the work is fast-paced and people are really, really demanding. Some people aren't going to tip you well no matter how hard you work. Some people will go so far to tell you how great you were, that you're the best server they've ever had, and they're so grateful... then you get to the table to find a shitty eight percent tip. Some people think ten dollars on a hundred-dollar bill is an amazing tip! Hell, some people know you were great and know they're stiffing you, and just don't care.

But really, that's the gamble you take in this business.

Just to add a personal story in for everyone's amusement: I was working the lunch shift today and was sat with a party of two. The girls looked to be about eighteen, and one of them was rather large. Not monstrous, but clearly a big fan of food. This actually encouraged me a bit, figuring they would get appetizers as well as dessert to go with their meals (and I was right).

I greeted the table and immediately sensed dislike radiating outward from Chubs. She answered all my questions in a flat voice and acted as if it was far to much effort to actually tell me what she wanted, that I should be extricating it all from her mind somehow. In short, she was a bitch.

Anyway, I bit my tongue and stopped myself from pointing and drawling, "Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat," and eventually managed to take the orders for their appetizers and dinners. Apps came out fine, it was Chubs's dinner that was the problem. Her baked potato didn't have enough -- are you ready for this? -- didn't have enough butter. The two huge scoopfuls buried under the mounds of cheese and bacon weren't enough! Are you fucking serious, lady? You're going to die at the ripe old age of 28 from cardiac arrest when one of those chunks of butter gets lodged in your artery. And no, I won't feel bad.

Long story short, I gave the cow her extra butter, and everything else, including the giant brownie dessert, came out fine. I was courteous, I was quick with refills, I was on the ball. Still, at this point, I wasn't expecting more than a twelve percent tip, max, regardless of the forty dollar bill the two had racked up. So finally, I brought the check and to-go boxes over, thanked them as usual, and tended to my other three tables. Some time later, I picked up the plate they had placed over their money and...

Three dollars. Wow. Didn't even break ten percent. That hurts.

Another thing many people don't know (or just don't care) is that waitresses literally live off their tips. No joke. We get paid $2.63 an hour, usually just enough to cover the taxes the government takes out of our paychecks, and sometimes we still owe money at the end of the year. Because of this, people who tip like shit are essentially letting their waitresses go hungry (of course I'm exaggerating here, but really now).

Conclusion
To all you people who have ever tipped below twenty percent to a good waitress: eat me.

Introduction

I'll keep it short.

Everything you ever wanted to know about me is on my profile. I'll have a degree in psychology at the end of this month.

I don't yet know what this blog will focus on.

Have a good night.