I'm Alive!

There are a number of things that constantly remind me that I exist. I understand that the great philosopher Descartes would say that the fact that I can think well enough to present this blog is an example of my being. Inner beauty or putressence aside, though, there exists many outside experiences that for me are a constant reminder of my being alive. It's great to be reminded your alive, and it's even better if the experience is a pleasant one. For example, a really good hug can remind me how very alive I am. Dancing has the same sort of affect, and I admit that dancing is a more enjoyable reminder of my existence. If you see me being euphoric, most likely I've just danced with or been hugged by a beautiful girl. Does saying that make me shallow? I don't believe so, but you never know now a-days.

Temperature is a great reminder of being. I can imagine no other experience quite so exhilarating as early in the morning waking up, going to the bathroom, and having to come to grips about your life on a freezing toilet. There is nothing that will ensure your being sure of your own existence like an early morning meeting with a cold toilet seat. Trust me, I know. Actually, it has that affect no matter what time of the day. I always know that I'm living after those types of encounters.

Another signature of life is the feeling right after a particular challenging workout. That feeling where you can't do anything without every muscle in your body screaming in pain, wanting to commit suicide in a million different ways. Cremation being one of them. That feeling is exhilarating, and when I have it there is no philosophical doubt in my mind that my body really does exist. I know that I'm alive. It's comforting to know that.

What is it that makes you know that you're alive? There are other things that I've heard that I don't completely agree with. I heard once that a bleeding, broken heart is a good way of knowing that you're alive, but I'm not sure if I agree with that. The feeling of deadness (complete relaxation) in arms and legs right before you fall asleep lets me know that I'm alive, as does certain types of music.

I love life! I'm so glad that I know that I exist, and that I really am alive.

Snighted

Is it possible to have a whole day make you angry? Is it really possible to be made angry? Doubtful, it is truly doubtful that anyone or anything can make you angry, anger being an emotional state and not a physical reaction. That being said, I was mad this last week. I had a very old fashioned perturbance, and I couldn't help but express it in both my facial and verbal expressions. I apologize to all who might have felt it's blunt.

I feel the need to explain, though. For me, getting into a snit (does anyone even use that phrase any more?) requires a chain of events to take place, because there are few issues that I feel strongly enough about that will incite any sort of dormant aggressive or agitated tendencies that I might have. The beauty of that is my personality is practically anti-drama. All dramatics that aren't of my own making bow before my commanding presence and ability to blow off almost anything. I hope the emotional tricksters aren't listening, I'm afraid they might just put me to the test. It truly does take a string of slightly unrelated occurrences for me to become truly agitated. To gloss over the first of the particular day that I have in mind, I was (and currently am) still getting over a slight disease that has the annoying quality of staying in both throat and nose, even though the rest of the body has long since healed. It's too bad, really, that the nose and throat should be the slowest of the all the appendages I deal with. After all, I use them a lot, and it's very evident to me when they are not running at one hundred percent. For the story's sake, that's point number one.

Point number two. I'm a nice guy. I admit it, though there is some bad feeling associated with the positive statement. Often the term 'nice guy' is used to refer to someone who is nothing more than a black hole filler, a person that is there and is a good friend, but not all that interesting romantically. In the day of my snit, I had a feeling that is not uncommon to me but is easily combated when my defense mechanisms are not compromised, that my entire existence might be termed as nothing more than the filler in people's gaps, and I as a person was not really valuable as much more to anyone. It was (and is) a selfish thought, the type that is created by an adversary only to make it so that all humor is sucked out of a situation, and normally I would shrug it off with a laugh, but this day I was all ready low, and it was like being punched while on the ground. Not a pleasant feeling, and a little harder to shake off. Especially because I felt like I was carrying around an aura of death, and should anyone enter my bubble, they would die. That's an interesting mental image to be sure (and I might have cackled evilly when I thought about the possibilities with some less favored friends of the day). Point two-I felt like I was useless.

Up till this point I was mostly just unhappy. Not really angry, as anger is a secondary emotion and I have a fear of commitment so I don't normally move to the next level. But no, every once and awhile I am spurred to action, and just like a horse will brake into a gallop if spurred correctly, I mentally broke (into a gallop-it was a beautiful experience, really. You should all mentally get onto a high horse sometime. It's liberating) when my coworker said something. While unable to recall the words completely (it took me a moment to realise what comment had upset me, and when I finally did my short term memory loss had already kicked in) I am still capable of recalling the gist of the words.

In a random thought, never try to use thin toilet paper when violently blowing your nose. It's a messy experience.

The idea of what my coworker said was basically this: I asked about the necessity of calling after a date (evidently this is done by normal people), and among the reply came this idea; girls KNOW (emphasis added because I tried to correct this word and was put down in my attempt) that if a guy doesn't call in the first week he's not interested. Because girls KNOW (yes, I did that on purpose again) that guys have short attention spans.

When I finally realised what that statement meant, I made myself upset by dwelling on the idea. In my twisted brain I made this interpretation: guys will lose interest in anyone or anything in the span of a week. Why should I find this so much of a bugger (the official word used when something it perturbing)? WHY? Oh, that's a pretty simple explanation. Basically, what you're saying is that guys are not faithful, nor are they true to their own feelings, and even they don't really have more than a physical interest. By throwing this idea out there, and that guys are so simple as to lose an attraction in the short space of a week, my coworker inadvertently awoke a silent bull. Silent because I wasn't physically exuberant in my frustrations until I was alone. I understand that others around me noted the unhappiness, but I doubt many people knew how upset I really was. Maybe I didn't even know.

I here must pause and ask the question, do girls really think that? It might explain my lack of ability in the love arena, but do they really think that guys lose interest that quickly? I think it would be a very damning trait of my sex if such were the case. Perhaps it most frustrated me because for me it isn't true. It's about the furthest thing from the truth, actually. I can form crushes in seconds, but the reversal is not such an easy prospect. Enough soul-bearing and baring. In an honest request for information, do girls really think so little of guys?

Following this mental outburst, I went to a meeting where once again I could not shake the feeling of un-importancy. Childish and foolish it may be, but it is still the truth of what I felt.

Then I came home to a piano that understands me, and who let me beat on it soundly until a rescue came in the form of vigilant friends. I will refrain from speaking of what happened then, because honesty is goodness as well as our my friends, and I'm afraid that any attempt on my part to explain my feelings during that evening would not be a correct representation of them or their kindness.

Whatever my feelings were, though, I was helped out of a trying circumstance. I remained with lingering doubts of importability (and no, I'm not talking about going to another country and seeing if the United States will import me) to just about anyone (including my friends) but I am grateful for them taking the time to notice my snit-i-tood and be kind enough to do something about it. Maybe I should reach out to someone in a snit a little more often, just to say thanks to those who've done it for me.

I have now officially been snighted.

Why I Look Like a Bum

Blood-shot eyes, a three day beard, ill-fitting clothes, lying around doing nothing, scraggly hair, and the overall appearance of death.

No matter what any of you think, I’m not really a homeless person.

There’s a reason for my present state of unpresentableness. It’s not because I have succumbed to the now fading fashion of looking completely disgusting, but rather because I now have an excuse for it. Maybe every male character at one time or another just needs an excuse not to worry about shaving and making himself look handsomish. Of course, the same might be true for girls (most of the time I shun away from using the word ‘female.’ Apparently it makes people feel like I’m comparing them to cattle. Definitely not my intention.) The point is that this week I actually have had a good reason not to shave or care much for my appearance. Or at least an acceptable excuse, maybe I haven’t really had a good reason at all. However, none of you have seen me, and most likely by the time you do see me I will have resumed my reasonably tolerable level of attractiveness, so do not be dismayed.

A random thought just crossed my mind, and I must digress enough to share it. Handsome is an odd word. Where did it come from? It would seem almost a joining of two very common words: ‘hand’ and ‘some.’ I’m not sure that I like being described as a man who has some serious hand going on. Maybe the word really is quite risky, and we use it out of complete ignorance. Not that my supposition will change much. I just thought it was a random thought.

This actually brings up another random thought. Is the measure of how much someone loves you is if they still want to be around you when you stop taking care of your appearance? I would imagine that would be a great trial to go through, being used to see someone looking like a queen or like a king and then seeing them as a bum. Like me! Would you still love me?

Enough digressions and random statements. Now must come the reason for why I currently look like a bum. There are not many reasons that are considered adequate in our society for a goatee, let alone a full beard, and heaven forbid you should look like a mountain man. One could be just as sure to have as many comments about the sanctity of shaving as they would the importance of marriage. It’s kind of a silly society that places as much emphasis on the state of your facial hair as on your marital status. I love exaggeration.

Perhaps the one thing that is considered a slightly adequate excuse for facial hair and hobo appearance is that of illness. Yes, this past weekend has been a time of serious sickness. My personal symptoms were tiredness and vague annoyance at having my temperature taken ten times in one day. Apart from the humor of seeing my parents much more alarmed than I was about the high temperature of my disease, I also enjoyed (in my moments of clear thinking) the irony of instead of being stuck with cupid’s arrows on Valentine’s day, I was being attacked by a thermometer. It was at the time vaguely annoying, but after the laughs that are normal for when sickness starts doing odd things with your body functions (such as sight), I realized that it was quite humorous, and in the odd chance that out of the someones that I know, if any of them were to result in a more serious relationship, it would make an interesting story for later valentine days. Of course, maybe girls don’t find sickness stories as interesting as guys do. Maybe they find guys interesting, though, so I might have a chance.

It’s been an interesting weekend, though. My whole house-family (those still living at home) I’ve learned more about how each of my parents respond to sickness than I ever thought I’d know. For instance, my mom believes in getting better, and then as soon as is possible returning to the various tasks of motherhood. She was the one who nursed my father and I during the more intense parts of our flu tragedies, and still continues to nurse us as we go through the final stages of recovery. My mother is the most amazing nurse in the world, the most kind, hard working, and charitable one any infirm could wish for. My father is the undefeatable sort, not stopping unless the illness is of such a character that anyone else would lie on a couch, covered in blankets, only making himself known through groans and requests for aid. My father, however, is the sort as to keep moving and working (sometimes even on construction projects) until his body will simply not allow him to move. Then he spends his time studying.

People’s reaction to sickness is varied. Really, though, this has become a long blog just to explain the fact that I look horrible. It seems that rambling is my way of life. Well, if you didn’t enjoy it, it’s your own stinkin’ fault. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Though, that might be because I now have brain damage due to a prolonged fever. (Not seriously, please don’t ask) Maybe that’s why I’m having such random thoughts.

Six Months

The bright sun reflected of the cool white snow, the rays warming the color and feeling of all they touched. “What a yellow beginning to the day,” breathed Major Bubbles, the frigid air freezing his breath before him. He felt the cold air burn his lungs as he inhaled deeply, treasuring the sensation of cleansing that always comes with cold weather. A last long intake of both scenery and atmosphere, and then he slid into his car, started it off, drove toward school. While on his way he passed a business that proudly displayed the sign “We hire class C-Workers!”

“What a tragedy,” he thought. “The economy is so bad that an honest business is driven to seek after the employ of sub-standard employees.” With this depressing thought plaguing him, he arrived at school.

The college campus was as always a mixing pot of experiences and exposures. As he passed a philosophy class he heard words floating out “we see, then, that the sin of smiling is much greater than that of stealing, or even frowning. It is bad philosophy to smile. . .” Major couldn’t help but partake in that particular sin as he contemplated how reflective those words were of his college experience. He wondered who, if anyone, would ever really thank those who dared to smile, and pondered on the prospect of writing a short report titled “A Salute to the Brave: A Salute to those who Smile.” Or maybe he would call it “Dare to be Different: Smile.”

As he meandered on towards his class, thoughts lost in awards won and prestige gained by amazing writing, he heard a voice coming from behind him.

“Major Bubbles! Don’t you walk away from me without saying hi!

It was Pelirojo, his red-headed and beautiful eyed friend. She had always seemed to him the depiction of a character of out of some Disney love story, the type that gets hopelessly lost only to find the man of her dreams. Such was her naivety and her optimism. After the usual exchanges of what’s ups and how you doings, Pelirojo asked

“How’s your botany class?”
“It’s great!” He replied. “We just learned about how if there weren’t any botanists, we would all starve in four days time.”
“Those geeks, they’re taking over the world.”
“Yeah, all they need is to form a geek attack. Maybe that would be better than having everything run by politicians.”
“Whatever, you know you love your politics.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Everything seems too cold and calculated in the political scene. Much like my love life.”
“Oh, you poor baby. Do you need a date?”
“I’ve never begged for one, but I’m about too.”

At which point Pelirojo laughed, and began walking down the hall to her class, chanting along the way “Major Bubbles needs a date! Major Bubbles needs a date!”

“What a weird woman” he thought, walking along the way to class. This thought fresh in his mind, Major Bubbles saw his friend, the Awkward Politic, coming toward him, a smile on his face.

“Politicians really are a different kind of geeks,” He thought, seeing the lopsided, endearing smile of his friend. “I still love them, though. Maybe if the geeks attack they form a counter attack of their own. It would be the geek attack II, like some sort of horror movie.”

“Ugh, I’m so tired!” said the Awkward Politic, mirroring in words what the picture of his face said. “I’ve been exposed to so many dating eccentricities lately that I just don’t know what to do. Between keeping one relationship light and friendly and trying to make another into a more serious engagement,” (he winked on that word) “I’m exhausted!”
“I wish I could sympathize.”
“Oh, don’t give me any of that. I know you’ve been dappling in your own yellow love.”
“Red is probably a better word to describe my relationships. They all have big warning signs. That or open, bleeding wounds.”
“Give me a break, Major. Your heart gets plenty of nutrition.”
“True, but even yellows need some serious flirting every now and again.”

Excusing himself, the Awkward Politic raced off to class, and left Major Bubbles to meander into his philosophy class. A few moments later, the professor cleared his throat, a clear message that class was about to begin.

“Today we will be discussing the morality of subliminal messages.” He said, starting his slide presentation. What then followed was an interesting discussion which was unfortunately lost on Major Bubbles, who found himself engaged sending his own messages across time and space to WM-Star, who was in dire straights for amusement.

“I’m so bored today, no one’s in my office,” the message displayed itself across the screen of Major’s laptop.
“You could try entertaining yourself. Maybe you should do a one man play.”
“Okay, that was random.”
“Sure was! What’s up with your schedule today?”
“I’m going to water aerobics later.”
“Isn’t that only for old people?”
“Like you could do it.”
“You’re probably right, I couldn’t do it.”
“What are you going to do tonight?”
“Uum and I are going to Salt Lake.”
“Whatever, you never go anywhere.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll show you, WM-Star.”
“I was joking!”
"Thanks for saying so. I’d better go. My teacher is saying something about how subliminal messages cause insanity. It sounds like something that I’d better learn.”
“Okay.”

Major stopped messaging just in time to hear the professor say “and that will be the question asked on this week’s quiz. Make sure that you each of you include ‘a question answered’ in the preamble of your report.”

“I sure hope that Fwidipan was listening” thought Major, trying to catch his friend’s eye near the front row. Fwidipan was always engaged in the moment, and didn’t mind sharing with her more rambling friend the moments he missed while wandering through the vacant spaces in his brain. She was the intelligent type, quick to notice and to help. She smiled as Major approached her.

“That professor, he always talks to fast,” said Major, “I didn’t even catch the question that’s going to be asked on the quiz.”
“Were you off wandering the vacuii of your mind again?” Fwidipan said sarcastically.
“Well, you know me and my amor vacuii. I can’t stand having my mind in one place, at any time.”
“One of your more admirable traits, I’m sure.”
“It’s not my fault that my mind works faster than the professor teaches.”
Bantering back and forth, they headed toward the institute building. As was usual for that time of year, banners were hung everywhere, announcing an upcoming Christmas dance, second only to Valentine’s dance as the most awkward date in history.

“’Christmas Power’ is the theme this year? The people in charge of planning these things seriously need to work on their one liners” said Major.
“Well, why don’t you come up with one in your Christmas blog?” Fwidipan sensibly suggested. “That’d be best, and then we wouldn’t have to listen to you complain.”
“Ouch. Maybe I could say something like ‘Christmas: a true black hole filler. It fills the emptiness of your heart.’”
“Oh, shut up.”

On that pleasant note the two parted ways, Fwidipan off to one class and Major to another. As he walked down the stairs of the institute, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of those headed to class on the other side of the street, the secular one. “The institute building is weird,” he thought. “Where else can you hear about soul suckers and Ford trucks all at the same time?”

Having descended the steps and entered his class, Major Bubbles heard his instructor talking about the various improvements that had been added to each classroom, including new projectors and screens. “Ah, newness” breathed the instructor, happy with the new toys that littered his room. The class, rowdy at the prospect of the upcoming dance, settled down to enjoy a session of spiritual delights. “Now we all know that a dance is coming up,” said the institute instructor in the usual obvious manner of all such teachers. “Just remember: dating can decide your divine potential.”

“That’s a horrible social alliteration,” said Musical G furtively to Major. “I would never use that, ever, not even in a rhymet.”
“What’s a rhymet?” asked Major.
“I’m not really sure.” Replied Musical.. It’s somewhere between a rhyme and a little girl.”
“A little girl?”
“Hence the ‘et.’”
“You are so strange.”
“What can I say? I’m a jigsaw puzzle.”

Wondering at how Musical’s last statement had anything to do with what was said before, Major turned his attention once again to his institute teacher, who was discussing the ills of smoking. “You all know it’s bad.” He said. “It’s like walking through perfumed pockets of the plague, and it will kill you. There is definite death involved.”

“What a macabre teacher,” thought Major as he left the class. “Maybe he’s just trying to get attention. Maybe he’s screaming in silence for some attention.” Being drawn up in these thoughts, and what should be done about them (do you report a need of attention to an institute instructor’s superiors?), Major didn’t notice his brother Basserpurcusionist until he was almost on top of him.

“Major!” shouted his brother as loud as he could, laughing within himself to see Major jump.
“Basserpurcusionist!” shouted Major back.
“How are you? Do you have any plans for the weekend yet?”
“You mean the dance? No, it’s going to be just another Saturday night for me.”
“Well, I’m going to start a blogathon,” said basserpurcusionist.
“You have fun with that.”
“Oh, I will. I think I’ll title the first one ‘And He’s Off!’”
“How very original.”
“Oh, be quiet you. Just because you don’t have any plans doesn’t mean that you should be bitter towards those of us that do.”
“I’m sure your date with the computer will be very rewarding.”
“Mleh on you and your family!”
“You are my family.”
“Good point. Mleh on you and your posterity!”

Chuckling to himself, Major bid his brother adieu and set off towards his car. “This world has too many slighting influences” he thought as he saw a young girl and a young guy kissing. “There seems to be a frantic dash on the part of just about everyone to conform to the normal, to the picture of what’s wanted.” The couple then separated their faces, and the guy gave the girl one white rose. That one rose was enough to result in yet another kiss.

“Now there’s an example of flower power,” thought Major. “If I were that guy I’d buy a dozen roses and give them one at a time, just to see how long I could draw out the experience.” Smiling at his private joke, Major got into his car and drove home.

At home, Major did the first thing any red-blooded American of this generation would do when he finds himself in an empty house. He turned on the computer and got on the internet to see who else was on. His elder brother Tolkien Boy was connected, and so they struck up a silent long distance conversation.

“How are you?” Major Bubbles messaged
“Pretty good. And you?”
“Oh, can’t complain. What are you up to?”
“Nothing much, I was just reading a book called ‘The Hugging Art.’” said Tolkien Boy
“Looking for suggestions?”
“Eh, who needs them?”
“Your mom needs them” said Major, in the customary brotherly bonding manner.
“Your mom is my mom,” Tolkien Boy retorted.
“It doesn’t work if you take it literal like that.”
“Oh, well then. I heard you had a late night last night.”
“I did indeed.”
“What were you up to?”
“Nothing much,” said Major. “I did lots of little things, wasting away my time on the computer. I saw a teaser for the new video ‘The Yellow Factor.’”
“Really? What did you think?”
“Only one word: Fan-fricking-tabulous”
“You only thought one word? That’s kind of depressing.”
“Quiet you. Hey, I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”
“;) Bye!”

Signing off the internet, Major Bubbles wandered over to the kitchen table on which was laying the daily newspaper. Across the paper’s front page was boldly printed “Voting: Democracy or Bureaucracy?”

“The quality of the news nowadays is pretty sad” thought Major. “They’re worse than basserpercusionist’s blogging woes.” Thinking on his brother’s amazing writing talents, Major then returned to his computer to look at the latest edition of his brother’s compositions. “Two Apologies: Two Blogs” ran the title. As Major was reading this blog, the phone rang.

“Bubbles residence.”
“Hi. Is Basserpurcutionist in?”
“I’m sorry, he’s still at school.”
“Oh, well, when he gets in, could you tell him that Annie called?”
“Oh, Annie! I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Major. What are you up to?”
“Not much, just trying to get a hold of your brother.”
“Looking for a little flirtaunting?”
“You always think things that aren’t true. I need to get an assignment from him.”
“Oh, so he’s your boss now.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s for a music class.”
“I see. Well, I’ll let him know you called.”
“Thanks Major. Bye!”
“Bye, Annie.”

After he hung up the phone, the bubbling up in his stomach along with some very unique noises alerted Major to the fact that he was in need of nourishment. As he went to the fridge in search of food, he noticed a little magnet, hung so carelessly there, that said “I’ll never see a poem as lovely as a tree.” While pulling out a frigid container of orange juice, Major thought “I wonder if poem writing is like singing in silence?” Pouring a glass of juice, he took a long, cool drink.

Major Bubbles heaved a sigh and leaned back from his computer, glad that after three days he had finally finished his anniversary blog.

“Do you have any closing remarks?” asked Tolkien Boy.
“Only this: never write a blog while under the influence of the flu."

Closing Remarks

And so it is that another chapter of Yellow Lives draws to a close.

Today is the final day of the two week blogathon. Thanks to all of you who participated, and I hoped that you enjoyed writing as much as I enjoyed reading. Though this be a short blog, I promised that I would state the reason as to why I announced a blogathon in the first place.

Simply put, there is an anniversary on the horizon. I wished to find a significant way to celebrate that anniversary, and also to provide self satisfaction and pleasure to myself and maybe to others. That's right, I was selfish. But, I wanted to celebrate.

Because Valentines Day is Yellow Lives six month anniversary!

Yay to all who participated! You have celebrated in the freedom of speech and writing! Remember that there is such freedom, though it comes at a cost. I'd like to thank all of those who have participated (Thanks Annie and Janel), and wish you all a happy blog day!

Singing In Silence

I needed to make up for the blogday that I missed. So it is that I present to you my parady on my own writing.


Sh. Be quiet and listen
What is that?
A softer than sound soliloquy,
coming in sweet harmony.

Be still a moment and hear;
the mountains are ringing
with laughter, they welcome the day
through nothing they actually say.

In silence the world sings today;
the colors shout cool melody,
the blues are soothing harmony
that create lasting memory.

The soft glow of a loving place
Where friends and lovers meet
a gentle lullaby it croons
and leaving will always be too soon.

The faintest brush of divine paint
and a herald trumpet sounds
to accompany the voices clear
that are so silently near.

Even within, a quiet whisper
a strain so soft and sweet
swells in silent reverie
a soothing balm in its beat.

Shh. Stand still and listen
The silence is singing tonight.

Flirtaunting

Today The Padres splurged and took my brother and his wife and me to Texas Road House. The food was excellent, and I was very satisfied with just about everything. There was only one thing I was a little disappointed with: my waiter was a guy.

When you have a girl waitress (at least, in my case) there is a perfect non-committal flirting situation. Sometimes flirting can have adverse affects, such as someone believing that you feel differently than you really do, or even the person flirting believing they feel more than they really do. Flirting is a strange beast, an irregular but regularly practiced art. It comes in many shapes and forms, and can manifest itself in some of the oddest situations. Restaurants are the best place for non-committal flirtation because you can be pretty sure that nothing will come of it. Plus, flirting seems to be part of the job description for waiters and waitresses (which is about the only reason I can think of to work in a restaurant), and normally has the affect of acquiring a larger tip for the waiter person.

Flirting really is pretty strange. When kids are small, anything from a snowball in the face or a tug on hair can be flirting. When we get older, it would seem that there isn't much change, really. Guys make fun of the girls they like. They make fun of other people as well, but invariably there is some sort of teasing that must go on to ensure that flirtation is successful. That might be because teasing is something that only occurs when the participants feel comfortable with each other. I couldn't consider myself truly someone's friend until I had made fun of them at least twice. It's a screwy world that we live in

There's touching flirting. I've already written about the shoulder tap, and that is just one exhibit of flirting by touching. There is the hand holding (a subject which becomes increasingly confused in my head. Just how many girls' hands are you allowed to hold at the same time? I don't mean simultaneously, but you get my drift), the hand on the bicep, there's the carrying of the girl in true princess style, there is the gentle touch on the cheek, a soft removal of a hair, there's even kissing (gasp!). There's lots of ways to flirt with someone by touching them. I understand that these methods are more important to girls than to guys, but I cannot be sure about that. It might make a good book, though; "Flirting Techniques Best Suited for Each Sex." I would write it myself and make lots of money, but the truth is that I'm just as lost as any other guy in that aspect.

There's word flirting. Normally this type is broken up into two groups. There is the teasing type that has already been talked of, and then there is the group of compliments. Some compliments are designed to be non flirtatious, such as calling a girl lovely. Actually, any compliment can become a flirtation if said in the correct way, time, and to the right type of person. Mainly, someone that you find attractive. I really enjoy this type of flirtation, because you can get really creative with how you compliment someone. As a warning, I would suggest being careful with how you use this particular type of flirting. It's like supercalifradulitiousexpealidocious; it might just change your life, or back you into a corner you weren't expecting. It can happen. Or so they've told me. Complimenting people feels good, though. Go ahead, try it. I'm doing it.

My personal favorite is singing. It's hard to find the right time for singing, because this type of flirting is so seldom used and such a powerful medium that you have to be careful when you use it. Mostly because the outcome is going to be one of three: the person being serenaded will enjoy it immensely (that makes singing a wonderful flirting technique), the person won't notice or won't care (the balm of the singer's life and my most common outcome. This happens a lot, especially if you don't let them know that you're singing specifically to them), or the person will become uncomfortable. Anyway it turns out, singing is an awful lot of fun to flirt along with, especially if you're pretty sure that she already likes you, because there are sure to be lots of compliments that follow. My head still hasn't deflated from the compliments that I received after a horrible performance for someone I liked once. Go on, sing to your woman (or man), it's so beautiful!

Whatever your flirting technique, you can take refuge in the fact that flirting is not bad. This is something that I have to grapple with every once and awhile, because my personal beliefs about what is proper for a gentleman were for a long time the strictest and most ridiculous. I remember when I would flat out refuse to hold a girl's hand, even though we'd gone on a couple of dates and both liked each other quite a bit. If I reveal any more than that, I'm afraid that you will all mock me, and though some of it might me flirtaunting, it's hard to distinguish that over the internet, and even my ego can take only so much. I have recently been shown, though, that thinking that flirting is a bad thing is a flawed idea.

Flirting has many merits. I have no doubt that if I had had a waitress instead of a waiter, and if I had been of a flirtatious mood tonight, I would've received my dinner in a more prompt and serviceable manner. Not to say they weren't so at the Texas Roadhouse, just that they may have been faster. I had one friend who quite unwittingly ended up with three hot chocolates for the price of one, just because our waiter thought she was pretty. People well practiced in the art of flirting have more dates, more girls/guys interested in them (and therefore more choice), and obviously more flirting. Is it right to be so? Well, I guess that's a personal decision, but I'm changing my mind about it. So if I flirt with you, don't be alarmed, I'm just trying out my new philosophy.

Disclaimer: this blog was written under the influence of love songs.