I was looking through my archives today and a stunning realization hit me, as they are often prone to do, especially as the night wears on. The realization was that I used to write! I used to write every other day or so. That’s a crazy thought. What’s also interesting is that my writing took a serious nose dive in February. Hmm. Perhaps I found something much more worthwhile.

Tonight I am supremely happy, for reasons which cannot all be explained at this time. Working out always puts me in a good mood, and I once again identified myself as a bachelor at Wal-Mart. I went to the checkout counter with only a weight set and a bottle of shaving cream. Both of these items make me extremely happy however, with some underlying expectations. I am hoping to use the weight set on the weekends, since as of now I only work upper body two days a week and lower body two days a week, and I’ve been told that’s not very effective for building. The shaving cream is for extra sensitive skin, and due to either sensitive skin or the shaving skills of a six year old, my neck ends up bleeding far too much. I’m eager to see how both of these items improve my life. I just realized how boring this paragraph is, and I apologize.

I’m eagerly working away at a new website which I’m setting up. I’ve finally grasped the basics, and I now realize I need to learn more about CSS, JavaScript, and CGI before I can do much of anything with it. You can watch the progress, painfully slow as it will be, at www.themisfiringneuron.com.

I’m now a little nervous about the situation at work that I left today. I was given a job by my boss’s boss’s boss, and I completed it and left for the day, right on schedule. Isn’t it funny how innocuous things can seem right before they blow up in your face? The complicating details include the fact that the VP who gave me this assignment thought that when I had completed it, I would have given her the necessary details to explain something regarding the budget. As it turns out, completing this task only exposed the fact that nobody understands the software we’re working with fully, except for the one man who built it.

This software we’re working with is the software I’m hoping to help replace in the next couple of months, it’s a budget model that tries to help predict the budget for the next year. There’s some doubt as to whether or not it should be replaced, and incidents like today will hopefully clarify the situation in the right people’s minds. We need to replace this software, and quick. So in order to get the information the VP needs, I have to meet with this one person who built the old software, and I can’t meet with him until tomorrow. Anyway, hopefully I’m not in trouble for not sitting around worrying with the crew today. Maybe I’ll write about any drama caused by it tomorrow.

Well, I had big plans for this evening, and I was in a stellar mood. I was, 30 minutes ago. I had just returned from the gym, a plus. I had only smoked one cigarette today, not bad. I was alone in the house, nobody to yell at or be yelled at by, not that this happens often, but it’s still a plus. I was investigating web space providers to start up a new website and blog, to write more, and to develop some website designing skills, a big plus. Then I got curious as to where my family was, and called a few cell phones. Left some voice mails, smoked a cigarette.

I soon got a call back from my mother. That was thirty minutes ago. Now I love my mom, and she loves me, so I listen to what she says, and trust her judgment in many things. That being said, she felt tonight on the phone was a good time to bring up some issues, some concerns she has with my life. Things I’ve done in the past, things I’m now doing, and things she fears I will do, or may have done. It was rather exhausting, actually. How do you respond to this? What do you say or feel? It seems a very telling thing, the way you respond to criticism, and I’m still not sure how my response reflects on me.

As to what I’ve done, I confess, I've done many things to be ashamed of. I’ve repented. I for the most part agree with her that I've done alot wrong. I still hate to stare my past in the face, and it’s humbling, which I guess was never meant to be fun. I’ve been selfish, deceitful, and I’m not that intent on hiding it. I just wish it’d go away, that it'd never happened. I wish memory along with condemnation would be wiped away when I ask forgiveness.

As to what I’m now doing, well, I already touched on smoking, and I drink. She’s only concerned, not judgmental, yet I do indeed feel a bit convicted on the smoking. I have asthma, so I’m another brilliant individual inhaling tar, knowing full well what it's doing to me. Apparently I’ve also been receiving mail from Marlboro recently. Great for family relations. I used to look at porn too, and somehow got on some mailing list for that as well, so a few things have been sent to the house courtesy of Playboy. Great again.

As to what I’m going to do in the future, I don’t know, to be honest. It’s a really sad thought to realize that I’m going to screw up in one way or another. With a fallen body, it’s pretty much inevitable, and it will end up hurting me and others close to me. So how do I explain my desire to get closer to God, to live a righteous life, with all this evidence against me? Am I full of shit? Am I the two-faced asshole I feel like right now? Is this just a self-thrown pity party to quell my feelings of inadequacy, with no view to a change in lifestyle?

I don’t even know why I’m posting this, to tell the truth, it’s about as open as I get. I just hate pretenses; I hate not being known for who I am, even if I’m liked for who I’m not. I hate being found out even more than I hate being known for doing wrong. And now, in the pit of my gut lies a lead ball, call it shame or guilt or despair, and I feel like I’m in an ocean here. I’m on the verge of not caring enough to even keep from sinking.

But see here’s the thing that keeps nagging me in the back of my mind: I can’t keep from sinking. I guess throughout my life, I have this continuously resurfacing thought that I’m capable of making it on my own. Even at times, and this saddens me the most, I turn to God, and yet still think that somehow I’m really helping out quite a bit in my own redemption. If I’m being humbled now, then I must have been prideful, and I guess I was building that image of myself as a pretty good guy by nature back up in my head. As C.S. Lewis might say, “Damned nonsense.” Nonesense truly fit for Hell, and if lived by, will lead inevitably down into it. I don't need to be a good guy by my own nature, and I don't need to feel any more valued than I have been shown by Christ's payment offered for me.

So, after getting a bit of weight off my chest, I feel better, which is what writing has always meant to me. I write to release. I feel purged. Jesus was the one who purged me of guilt before God, but bad feelings tend to accumulate pretty quickly when I stop and look at my life. Is it wrong to feel that way? Is it wrong to need to tell others?

I guess what I’m trying to say, to myself and anyone who reads this, is that without God, no good thing could ever come of me, or from me. If positive change has happened in my life, it’s been Him doing it in me. If I do anything right, it’s to His credit, not mine. It always will be, too. Whether I am always aware of these facts, or feel them at the time, I know they are indeed facts. It’s when I start pretending that I can do even a small part of it on my own that I set myself up for these depressions. And it again is Him who lifts me from them, and He has, and I love Him for it. Thanks for reading.