Haley and I have been apart long enough for our feelings, experiences, and lessons from our relationship to be put into perspective. We're now comfortable to talk to each other about exactly that: what we gave each other, what we learned, and how we became more mature, loving people. We've recently shared deep thought with each other to discover we essentially value the same things from our long-distance relationship. One of the blessings Haley touched upon me when we first dated--- and what made me realize how special she would become in my life--- was that she filled me with so much joy that I not only wanted to be a better person to her, but I wanted to be a better person to everybody. She held me up to a higher cloud of happiness than where I had started, and I never wanted to settle for anything less. My life is at a more polished, more blissful level than ever before this year. She willed me to fight more vigorously during any struggle; to persevere even when failure seems to doom every effort; to love my friends, my family, and my God in more meaningful ways. I thank her not only for what she gave me, but for her thanking me as well. To touch someone like that is to serve a fulfilling purpose. Haley has given me feelings, experiences, and lessons I will eventually share with my true love, the woman I'm supposed to love for all time. At that point, everything should be in place. The future seems like a bright, astonishing skyline. Two words we've shared with each other, two words that sum up our sentiment for our relationship: Thank you.

Whew, can someone explain this dream to me?

First, I must warn that my dreams are very choppy, almost as though they are merely snippets of various scenarios. Rarely do they have a conclusion. Rather, each theme is swiftly thrown in place of another.

I'm waiting for the #12 bus, but I'm not in Gainesville, but rather Atlanta. I know it was Atlanta because I recognized a mall that I had been to when my family and I stayed for a weekend in Georgia ten years ago. This short pudgy guy tells me that today in order for me to get to my apartment, I'll have to take the #30 at this stop, then the #2, the #7, and finally the #12. I get on the #30, and the bus driver looks and sounds like Otto from the Simpsons. He zooms me straight to the #7 stop. I say thanks, leave him a tip, and get off the bus, but now I'm in South Africa. My South African buddy Mike is there, and he's telling me about this concert I should go to; I think the band was called The Flaming Cherries or something. I run across the street, and now I'm in Atlanta again. I have to crawl through a sewer to get to the bus stop for the #12. I get out, and I need to cross the street again---

Bam, I'm in a big house that looks like a sports bar. Florida is playing Florida State in the BCS championship game. FSU returns the kickoff for a touchdown. Someone jumps straight on top of the big screen and yells, "What the hell?!?" It's some kid I kind of recognize. I think he went to my high school, but I have never talked to him. At the end of the first quarter, it's the Seminoles 28, the Gators 24. I'm sitting on some inflatable furniture, and now I'm decked out in a tuxedo and top hat. Joe Pantoliano, the guy who plays Ralphie on The Sopranos, is fighting with my mom and my aunt. They're yelling about something, and then he threatens to kill himself. He goes to the kitchen, takes out a steak knife, and thrusts it in his chest. When he takes it out, there's a huge steak on the knife. He starts laughing, and my aunt's boyfriend does a cartwheel. Suddenly, it's midway through the third quarter, and it's the Seminoles 93, the Gators 80. My roommate Dave yells, "Coach Zook sucks!" I turn around---

Bam, I'm in some sort of heavily wallpapered room. Professor Fondacaro recommends that I take Psychology for Italians, but before I do, I should make sure that my throat feels better.

And that's when I wake up.

On my eighteenth birthday, my dad gave me a card, and in it he wrote something so simple yet so poignant: "Not only do I love you, but I like you too." Today my dad hit the half-century mark, celebrating his fiftieth birthday. On his special day I could bond with him from across the phone line (Actually there is no phone line for a cell phone, is there?), but I could tell he was genuinely happy and enjoying September 24th with the small group of people he loves on this Earth. My dad is a wonderful guy. I hope I can live up to the last name. He's a man I not only love, but I like.

On the latest episode of The Sopranos, Meadow attacks her mom for not understanding the stress her life is filled with. While listing her pressures she mentioned, "Try taking 12 credits for two semesters! I deserved a summer!" Meadow has complained about the hardships of being a young student many times before, and each time my friends and I ridicule her for complaining about overblown quandries we handle every day. The thing is, though, I sometimes whine like Meadow.

I'm about to go to bed because I need some sleep after a busy half-week. I was going to come on here and type in my blooger about how busy I've been with school, how much time it took to do all this studying, how much energy I used to write my papers, how much I loathed sitting in my bed reading and writing when I could have been sleeping trying to get rid of this cold, how I should get a cookie for my efforts. I asked myself who I would be complaining to: myself? my college friends who do as much work as I do, many with even busier schedules? My friends face many tough tasks these next few weeks. They can relate, but they don't complain. I'll try to refrain from bickering about my schedule. I don't want to be like Meadow. After all, I was well aware of what I had in store this semester. Student: the job description is in the title.

No longer sick of studying...
just sick AND studying...

At the risk of revealing myself as an ignorant, lazy youth... studying sucks. When did I develop this dread for opening the school book? In high school I went through the motions because I didn't know what I wanted. I was a smart kid, my teachers gave me good grades, I enjoyed earning the highest grade in the class, so I continued to study without question. I only needed two weeks of college to see that with a world of opportunities ahead of me, I should discover my passion, what I could generate a rush from when I studied. Psychology I loved. Criminology I loved. Chemistry I loathed. And with a new purpose for studying--- to digest the tools I would need to excel in my beloved fields--- I dedicated study time to Psychology and Criminology (as well as Philosophy) and abandoned Chemistry. When an exam in Chemistry would near, I would cram enough facts in my brain to remember the best answers come test time, but I could not concentrate during that study time. For the first time since my elementary school days, my transcript showed a class in which I had received less than an A on. Instead, a big C+ stood beside the code CHM2045, a C+ I earned.

Ever since I turned my back on Chemistry, I struggle to focus in classes that don't elicit any excitement for me. Tomorrow I have my first exam of the semester, in Research Methods of Criminology. Our class time thus far has concentrated on tools for conducting research and statistical analysis, two concepts that don't exactly tickle my excitement bone (whew, that's bad!). The material should be simple enough for me to master between now and tomorrow afternoon, but here I am, writing in my blooger rather than studying. I've done many things this evening to distract myself from reading that dull textbook. I've checked the mail, balanced my checkbook, stared at the wall and thought about girls (the good and bad), read other bloogers, and created new away messages, among other trivial activities. The most recent away message I wrote, the one that's active on AIM as I write, depicts my confusion at what I saw in my kitchen. Here's what I wrote (notice that my going to the kitchen, my writing the away message, and my redistributing the message here all help me abstain from studying):

"Ok, so in another effort to avoid studying for tomorrow's exam, I went into the kitchen to get a caffeine drink. When I get there, I see my roommate Mason standing there with a cup with ice and an open bottle of lemon juice. I stare at him, at the cup, at the lemon juice hoping to find a rational reason for this scene. I can't find one, so I keep staring at Mason, desparate for an answer. He gives me one:
"That's the way I like it."
Now I'm more puzzled than ever."

On a side note, Mason later gave me another explanation, which puzzled me even further: "I don't like the way the water tastes from our tap." To quote Lewis Black, "Don't think about that statement for more than three minutes, or blood will shoot out your ears." I won't because I need to study. I would like to overcome this rut I'm in for only studying when the subject interests me. Right now I'm a student, and I want to fill the role as I'm supposed to.

I could say, "I wanted to write, but I just couldn't think of what to say." I'd rather say, "I couldn't think of what to say, but I just wanted to write."

Woo-hoo! The Sopranos are back!

As the frail kicker thrusted his foot through the football, the crowd hushed in a frozen moment. The pigskin sailed in the air. It glided, and glided, and continued to soar until it pierced through the uprights. The Ohio University Bobcats had accumulated a 3-0 lead over the University of Florida Gators, and suddenly a massive cloud of despair beared over Ben Hill Griffin Stadium. Thunder and lightning cursed the field, the rain poured unrelentlessly, the Earth cracked along its axes, pigs flew through the gray skies ever so majestically, and Satan himself penetrated through the soggy mud and pelted the shocked specators with snowballs from his recently frozen-over hell. The witnesses fled in fear and misery for protection under the outer barracades of the stadium ramps. Some maintained their loyalties and eventually faced the aftermath at the Swamp, while others surrendered to the fear and escaped from the grasps of the stadium and abandoned their beloved Gator football.

So there I sat, in the passenger seat of Ben's car as he drove me home after our three minutes at the football game. Tropical storm Hanna added to the already dreary conditions of this evening's game: facing a team we were expected to dominate in a boring manner, coming from a blowout loss early in the year, then actually falling behind a team that up to that point had failed to score a single point the entire season! I saw a tree uprooted and crash-landed into my apartment complex. The tree now rested in the apartment directly above mine. I rushed into Dave's room to see if he had any damage, and although it appeared conditions were safe at the time, we are discovering slight moisture to the ceiling. But not even a tropical storm and a tree in the roof could subside the eccentric activities of a social in the house of Dave, Mason, and Anthony...

Yes, even with the rain, the wind, and the debris floating around, Mason flipped the generic-brand beef patties that were flaming on the grill. Dave and Mason buy these cheap frozen meat discs for burgers because they like to grill often and these are dirt cheap. Flanders brand frozen beef patties cost $3.99 for a pack of 20 quarter-pound slabs that consist of beef, water, and beef hearts (yeah, I just read the ingredients tonight, and that beef heart thing hit me from out of nowhere). The living room was filled with a well-balanced dude-to-lady ratio. All the attendants were invitees of Dave and Mason. For some reason, I could not get myself to pick up the phone and persuade someone I call a friend to come barbeque in a thunder storm. The evening ended with Dave, Mason, Maria, and I playing this card game Dave calls, "Oh Hell." Oh Hell is essentially spades, except every man works solo, and the trump card is randomly determined by whichever suit appears on the top card. After twenty rounds points are accumulated to determine a winner. I'm not going to lie: at the beginning of the game, I was majorly sucking. Everyone had at least twice as many points as I did, and I could never correctly guess how many tricks I would win. To give you an idea of how pathetically I started, here were the scores as of Round Seven:

Maria: 58, Mason: 46, Dave: 39, Anthony: 16

Nevertheless, something inside me (probably my ego) compelled me to boast aloud, "I'm not going to come in last when this is all over. I hope you all know that. I'm just stating fact here. Someone will come in last, and I guarantee it will not be me." My playing backed my snobby mouth, as I grabbed my shovel and did what most people would have claimed to be impossible: I dug myself out of a hole. My ego forbid me to admit defeat, and after twenty rounds were dealt and played, here were the final tallies:

Maria: 154, Mason: 141, Dave: 133, Anthony: 142

The ancestor of the game had ended at the bottom, while my Joe Namath-esque bantering propelled me to runner-up spot. Hey, I didn't finish atop the entire crowd, but my hat goes off to Maria; she is a true competitor.

A mere glance out any Gainesville window today could have told you that today would be one of those days where nothing productive would develop, one of those days where the clock has barely touched evening and you're ready to call it a day. And yeah, I could have done more productive things during my Saturday: I could have completed reading assignements for my classes; I could have practiced my saxophone; I could have worked out and toned my gut abs; I could have balanced my checkbook; I could have finished those e-mails that should have been long sent; I could have fixed my car...

but I look at what I would have deprived myself from, and I know I chose the best path for this partiular Saturday.

A little boy, all too excited and confused at the world around him. Wants to tackle everything at once, but at the same time focus on one thing at hand. Question is: does he really want what could be inside that chest, or should he just continue to reacquaint himself with these old surroundings until he knows what is best for him? Either way, the boy plays and smiles. And others can see him. And they smile as well.

The first anniversary. We all share together, we all remember together, we all live together. We stayed strong then, we stay strong now, we stay strong always. In God we trust as He blesses our incredible nation. Great love blossoms from great hate. We'll keep the event forever, as well as the disguised blessings from which we profit.
United forever,
America

A sample from tonight's reading for my Criminal Law seminar:

"... Imagine that after committing a brutal rape but before sentencing the defendant has gotten into an accident so that his sexual desires are dampened to such an extent that he presents no further danger of rape; if money is also one of his problems, suppose further that he has inherited a great deal of money, so that he no longer needs to rob. Suppose, because of both facts, we are reasonably certain that he does not present a danger of either forcible assault, rape, robbery, or related crimes in the future. Since the rapist is (by hypothesis) not dangerous, he does not need to be incapacitated, specially deterred, or reformed. Suppose further that we could successfully pretend to punish him, instead of actually punishing him, and that no one is at all likely to find out. Our pretending to punish him will thus serve the needs of general deterrence and maintain social cohesion, and the cost to the state will be less than if it actually did punish him. Is there anything... that would urge that the rapist nonetheless should really be punished? ... if one's conclusion is that people like him nonetheless should be punished, one will have to give up the mixed theory of punishment..."

The mixed theory of punishment beautifully incorporated a utilitarian belief I had in punishing offenders while taking care of the faults that come from simply aiming to help the greatest good (For example, punishing an innocent man would be acceptable if the public demanded it, for more people would be happy with the man punished than not.). The mixed theory concludes that punishment is justified if and only if it achieves a positive social gain while only geared toward an offender who deserves punishment. Under this theory I've newly discovered and appreciate, I would choose the mirage of punishment and not actually punish the rapist; I am no longer worried about what happened in the past as I am in making a better future for society. If you believe the man should be punished regardless, for the reasons that he committed the rape and every act should be consequenced, then you would follow a theory based on retribution, which focus more on amending past actions rather than promoting the strongest future. Neither view is necessarily right or wrong, with stronger or weaker arguments. The alternatives simply provide more background as to how you believe we should run our society when an evil threatens the well good of man.

Ok, the Gators lost today. Big. Really big. Here's the away message I displayed on AIM following the game: "In times like this, some people cry in their beds, others go get drunk, and others watch a guy from their hometown smack the crap out of a little English boy!" Thanks to Roy Jones, Jr. and my fifteen peers who barbequed and watched Pensacola's master boxer display his greatness with vicious punches to a British boy's head, I'm recovered from portal to human misery that was today's Florida-Miami game.

This summer my Corrections professor brought in a few people in our field of study to talk to us about their personal encounters with the dangers and troubles of alcohol. This guy named Dana pointed to our desks and said he once sat in the very room we were currently in as a student. He had dreams of law school, a respectable profession, and a firm future. His hopes cracked the instant his windshield cracked, as he stayed slumped in the car he just smashed into a brick wall while driving in a drunken stupor. A DUI conviction quickly interfered with his life's plans, and he struggled with the detours followed to redeem his life. I forget what he does now--- something with the county concerning police work--- but he told us that he learned so much from the incident, and that at a time when we feel invincible we must look deeply within and realize we must make wise decisions, for in a flash dreams worked for can crash into a brick wall. His words were striking, powerful, and convincing. They began an entire class of self-evaluation, and I could see those in the class who often drank carried slumped heads. Dana was no longer ashamed of his mistakes, he said, because that experience led him to a cleaner, stronger life.

Jason picked me up after work at Chi-O this evening, and we drove toward our inevitable destination: the Alehouse. A hug from Chasity, a Big Red we didn't have to verbally order, and some stale french fries that were eventually replaced by our accomodating lady. The crowd at Alehouse was growing by the minute. Apparently, people enjoy standing around tables at sports bars when the NFL season rolls around (I was gonna use a pun like "when the NFL season kicks off... literally!"--- but I decided against it.) I looked over at the group of four guys across from our table. They got loud occasionally, but I guess that's what happens after a few beers. I recognized the guy in the green shirt with the beer in his hand. That guy loved to drink beers a few years ago until he wrecked his car and his college career with a DUI. He had told me that even when we feel invincible, we must reflect on what our actions may lead to, that acting carelessly after a few drinks with the guys is not worth the potential dangers that follow.

I hope he didn't drive. I would like to think he didn't drive. Even if he didn't, those four guys seemed to feel high and mighty, almost invincible. To me, one of them looked weaker than ever.

Just a stupid, vain, wasteful obsession. End this madness!

Stranded on campus. Pleas for a charitable ride home after a 10:00 pm seminar fall upon the robotic ears of an aswering machine. So I walk toward the library. Several students trekking the opposite direction in efforts for public transportation to deliver them to their doorsteps and away from their daily schooling. A girl, face unnoticed, whisks by me. Suddenly, her aroma sends signals through my nose and brain and heart. Thousands of micro-memories flush back into my head. I recognize the scent. That smell is bottled in many department stores. Some girls sample and decline. Others purchase and spray the scent onto their skin each morning. Others rub the scent onto me, onto my face, onto my lips, when they kiss me.

My heart didn't cry this time like it would have weeks ago. Instead I smiled, recalled a few magic moments, felt fortunate that I could store them in such a benficial way, one that won't plague me to yearn for the past, but one that will allow me to appreciate the past as it guides me toward a prosperous future.

So I kept walking. Up the stairs into the isolation chambers of the library. Rushing to read the excerpts from the book I only purchased this afternoon, still possessing that new book smell. Clock speeds up, robs me of time. Class in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes away from three hours of discussion, lecture, and debate. Unprepared, not in the most ignorant sense, but in an unconfident manner. Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt. Tonight I will probably absorb information rather than disperse. By the end, hopefully I'll have a means to snatch me from my intellectual surroundings and release me back to my peaceful comfort of home.

Excerpt from an e-mail to a friend afar:

...I went over Ben's so we could leave to go to the Ox (that coffeehouse) to study. So we drive down there and I'm noticing there's plenty of parking. Of course, that meant it was closed for Labor Day. So we went to Java Lounge instead. Closed too. So we went down to Starbucks b/c there's no way they're closed. They're not closed... far from it; they're packed mad crazy. No empty tables, no empty seats, and a bunch of people standing up. So we cut our losses and decided to go to Ben's place to study. By this time, he wants a drink but not coffee, so we stop by Checker's and get milkshakes: his vanilla, mine strawberry. We go back to his place and see There's Something About Mary on the television screen. You know about my little thing for Cameron Diaz, so we sit and watch "for a little bit." Basically, we watched the movie, and by the time I finally left we had gotten absolutely nothing done. It kind of reminded me of when you and I drove around for Space Camp and ended up eating ice cream sundaes at a McDonald's 20 minutes from home! You know, I really did enjoy that night. Some people hate when things don't go as planned, and while sometimes the times you'd most like to forget are ones that don't go as planned, I think times when things don't go as planned can also be the most unforgettable highlights of your life. That'll be a night I'll store in memory from this summer, among others...

Enjoy this little test on the consistency of your internal religious beliefs.

My strained voice burned whenever I attempted to yell, screaming as though I could personally distract the opposing quarterback while handling the snap. Gator football under Ron Zook looked quite similar to that of the Steve Spurrier era. Granted, many teams could look invincible after playing the University of Alabama-Birmingham, but our display of power prepares us for next week's showdown against the defending champion Miami Hurricanes. A victory for the orange and blue in that game would call for a night even more crazy and loud than tonight!

By now I'm tired and dehydrated from the craziness of the Gator game and Big Red fun. We'll close tonight the way the Florida Gator fans close the third quarter: singing, "We are the Boys from Old Florida." Sing after me:

We are the boys from old Florida
F-L-O-R-I-D-A
Where the girls are the fairest,
the boys are the squarest
of any old state down our way. (Hey!)
We are all strong for old Florida,
down where the old Gators play. (Go Gators!)
In all kinds of weather,
we'll all stick togetherrrrrrrrrrrr,
for F-L-O-R-I-D-A!!!!!!!!!!!