Just keep busy

One can always depend on a best friend to help put shit in perspective.
Last night, Kelley's response to what's going on with this mourning issue:

Ignore it. Honestly, you gave them support.. and it's apparent they don't care. They probably have much greater issues than the passing of a loved one.. like you said.. those kids no longer have a father.. why wouldn't they concentrate on that.

When my mom died I didn't expect anyone to stop what they were doing, just because. The one truth in life is.. everything dies sometime. Hell.. my dad didn't want my brother or me to do that because.. life goes on for the living. Tragedies and sad times happen.
As a relative or friend you give your condolences.. and it's up to the primary mourner to move forward.

Whatever you do, do not feel bad.
if you ever need to talk anytime or hangout (late at night.. or in the morning.. silly work) I am ALWAYS here. You do not need this. DO NOT feel bad.

That, my friends, is why she's my bestie.
Back when her mom passed away, we were high school seniors.
I had turned 18 two days before, Kelley was 17.

When I called Kelley HOURS after her mom had passed away, I was being a cunt, totally concerned with calculus homework (I was unaware of what had happened, since I had just spent my weekend at Disneyland).
Well, I wasn't TOO much of a cunt, I was just exasperated with the homework and I turn into a hardheaded mean bitch when I'm exasperated.
However, I noticed her voice was different, and I asked what was wrong.
Her response is something I'll never forget:
My mom died...
I asked what I could do. What I should do.
Just keep me busy. I need to keep busy.
And so, there we were... on the phone... crying (I was sobbing more than she was, because I'm a weakass)... but beasting our calculus homework (I still remember it was a project where you had to calculate interest rates on your home's mortgage, among other things. My house has no mortgage rate... so this was being the worst pain in my fucking ass. It still makes me angry to think about it).
She was trying to keep ME from crying.

I can't imagine living my life without my mom. While my mom was more militant than maternal in the way she raised me, thinking of ever not having her here drives me crazy.

A girl needs her mom, I don't care what anyone says in regards to that.

I doubt anything can be as painful as the loss of your mother... (not considering the loss of a child, but for a 17 year old high school girl? There can't be a pain worse than having your mom pass away) and here my best friend was going through it... AND she was trying to keep everyone else from feeling bad about it.
Her mom. Ok. Not her grandmother. Not her sister-in-law. Not her cousin. Her mother.
She continued living and encouraged others to do so.

Goes to show why I love the people I CHOOSE to interact with, as opposed to those whose circle I was BORN INTO.

However, how Kelley advised, I'm not going to feel bad (about pissing these people off OR about them talking shit about me).
I'm not even going to hold a grudge against these people. I understand a loss makes people's judgement a little... clouded. Grief fucks with people in different ways... I suppose this time around, I just have to deal with being vilified.


Thanks for the words, Kelley. You rock :) 

Rulers

It's no secret that I've been miserable for a very prolonged time.

I try, very, VERY hard to find a reason to smile every single day... to appear normal every single day.

There will be days where I'll find myself laughing until tears stream down my face... and I'll have days when getting out of bed will be a struggle.

While I can be miserable and contemplating death for days on end, I will be working my hardest to keep my friends and family from feeling the same way.

I will always try to make them smile.

Nothing makes me happier than seeing my loved ones smile.

***

This problem has been killing me since Saturday.

Remember the friend/cousin whose husband died Saturday morning? Well, the guy was also my distant cousin.

I visited his widow after church that same day. I stayed at her house for two hours.

I wanted to let her know, as well as the rest of her family, that I was with them in such a difficult time.

I left because I had promised MGH I was going to be home... and because the sorrow in that house was killing me.

He left behind three kids. A 13 year old, a four year old, and a two year old.

The 13 year old was trying his best to put on a brave face... even cracking a few jokes... but all you had to do was stare at his swollen red eyes to tell that he had been crying for hours.

The four year old was missing. She had been taken to her cousin's house, to keep her from witnessing the depressing scene that would be her home.

The two year old... that one... he was breaking my heart. He would walk around the living room, clearly confused and somewhat horrified over all the strangers in the house. Once he'd forget about the strangers, he'd continue with his search. He was looking for his dad... since he was the one responsible for giving him his nightly bath, giving him his nite-nite bottle, and putting him to bed. Each time I'd see the little boy rub at his eyes... a new crack would form in my heart.

I left the house and continued with my day by doing the whole Strip thing with MGH and J.

OF COURSE this later came to bite me in the ass:
Yesterday I had an altercation with the mourning family... why? Because I went out Saturday night with the boys... you know, right after having dropped by the mourner's house.

Look, there's NO DOUBT my heart is broken for you guys. The fact that a 40 year old man died in his sleep... was discovered by his horrified wife... and left behind three young children, is devastating.
HOWEVER, people die. EVERY DAY. We've all had to deal with it.
To think I should hold mourning... by not going out... or dressing in solid black all day... or not listen to music... is fucking selfish and delusional.
Did I ever expect that out of you, when each and every one of my grandparents died on me?
No.
Never.
Did I criticize you because you continued with your fucking life after hearing some family member of mine passed away?
No. Never.
You're not the first person to lose a loved one, and you're definitely not going to be the last.
The ruler with which you measure others will be the same one with which YOU will be measured. Remember THAT.

I don't understand why people are so fucking hell-bent in having others be miserable.
Honest to God, I feel terrible for the family. I can't get the tragedy out of my head.
I DID show empathy by visiting the family the day of the tragedy... that's FAR MORE than they ever did for me. I was one hundred percent sincere in my sentiment of sorrow for the family... I don't understand how that shit can be misconstrued into me being a morbid hypocrite.

Needless to say, I'm very frazzled... downright pissed off, because of the mourners' outrage and shit-talk.
You'd think they'd be more concerned with how these poor kids are going to deal with the death of their father, instead of being obsessed with what the fuck I do on my weekends (AS IF I DO anything in the first place. I go out once in a blue moon).

I just can't win... ever.

Cinco escenas con mi abuela

I. 
It was 1991, I was in first grade.
My elementary school had a day dedicated to grandparents, and students were encouraged to bring their grandparents to class to celebrate. The day would always land very close to Thanksgiving.
My grandparents were always in Mexico... and they were unusually old when compared to the grandparents of the other kids.
But this year... this year my mom's mom was in town. Mi abuelita Herminia had been in town for months, and this time, she agreed to accompany me to school.
I remember holding her hand and walking her to the cafeteria in the morning. We had breakfast-- scrambled eggs with ketchup.
I then took her to class with me... and we traced each other's hands onto a blank sheet of paper... and then decorated the doodles with glitter and feathers. Our outlined hands turned into colorful turkeys that looked more like peacocks.
For that day, my little cotton-haired grandma was my best friend.

II.
It was 1994. My third grade year was coming to an end.
Mi abuelita Herminia had been in town for many, MANY months.
D and I had to share our sofa bed with grandma... and we were quite frustrated with the sleeping arrangement by now.
We would bitch whenever we had to go shopping with grandma, because she was such an incredibly slow walker.
By now, I was her height, about 4'8".
Mom loved going to the outdoor swap meet. I HATED it, but this day, she had sworn she was going to buy me a bicycle.
I picked out a hot pink bicycle, but Mom wasn't happy with the price. I stomped away, throwing one of the few public fits I ever threw in my life, and made my way to the exit doors of the stupid swap meet.
I remember Mom chasing after me, then stopping to wait for her mom who was slowly making her way to us.
SHE'S ALWAYS SO FUCKING SLOW!!
A second time I turned back to see if I was still being followed, I saw my very angry Mom still trying to catch up to me. I looked past her, to look for my freaking slow grandma. Just as my eye caught the sight of my small, sluggish grandmother, I saw as another shopper rammed his shopping cart into her left hip. I turned around... and laughed out loud.
Once I found Mom's Jeep in the parking lot, I waited... still laughing at the thought of my grandmother getting hit by a shopping cart. I'd stop laughing once I'd think of Mom's assbeating she was going to hand me once we'd got home.
I waited for a long time, and just as I was going to walk back to see where the hell these women had gotten lost, I saw Mom walking towards me with my pink bike. Grandma still walking slow.
While Mom was loading the bike into the back of the Jeep, I was jumping up and down with glee.
Mom: Don't look at me, brat, thank your grandmother.
Me: ???
Me: If it were up to me, I wouldn't have gotten you shit. It was your grandma who felt sorry for you and spent her money on this damn bike.
The whole ride home, I sat quietly in my seat... fighting the urge to cry my eyes out.

III.
It was summer time, 1999. I was freshly out of eighth grade.
Puberty was being CRUEL to me. I was also learning how to deal with PMS mood swings.
Everyone in Hometown had taken to calling me a fatass. The boys who had been crazy about me the previous year, where suddenly making fun of me every chance they'd get... publicly ridiculing me turned into their favorite sport.
Instead of going out with the rest of the girls and endure the verbal abuse from my peers, I'd opt for staying at grandma's house... listening to music as I'd sit on the porch, staring at the horses in the backyard.
I wouldn't talk... and when I did, it would be in English.
I wouldn't eat... and if I did, it'd be at my house, no one else's.
Grandma would watch me, alone and quiet, and she was convinced I was like that because of her.
Grandma: This little girl doesn't speak Spanish... she's ashamed of being Mexican... she's ashamed of me.
Mom: Nah, she's just... shy and quiet.
Grandma: And she doesn't eat my food... because she's repulsed by my food. I gross her out.

I'd just act deaf... lost in my own world of pain, not caring to put her out of her mistake... as much as I knew it was hurting her.

IV.
Winter Break, 2006.
I was nearly done with college, so my spirits were relatively high.
Mom, Dad, Rafa, and I went to Mexico for Christmas break, and we dropped by Grandma's house to say hello.
As we sat in the porch, talking to Grandpa about the happenings since the summer, I looked over to Grandma and caught her grimacing as she grabbed her left thigh.
Me: Are you ok, Abuelita?
Grandma just nodded and left to the bathroom.
She's lying...
In those two weeks, I caught her a few times, quietly dealing with pains.
I also once caught her glaring at her pet cat. The cat was sitting by her feet, and I watched as grandma stared down the cat with a scowl on her face, and proceeded to step on the cat's tail. I saw as she increased the pressure... and as the cat writhed on the floor, in pain, clawing at her foot, and Grandma just increased the pressure to the maximum. The cat began to howl, and Grandma finally released the cat after Mom asked what was going on.
Grandma looked up at me... and I did not say a word as we maintained eye-contact.

When it was time to leave back to Vegas, we dropped by Grandma's house to say our goodbyes. Grandpa opened the door, told us Grandma had already gone to bed.
We walked into her room, and saw her frail little body under her covers.
Mom: Mom? We're leaving...
Grandma: Oh... you are?
Mom: Can you give us your blessing?
As Grandma blessed Mom, Grandpa spoke to Dad, Rafa and me.
Grandpa: She's not doing ok...
Dad: Take care of her for us, will you?
Grandpa: I will. She took care of me all these years... it's my turn now.
I remember looking into the dark room, seeing Grandma propped in her bed, holding her black rosary in one hand, and Mom's hand in the other. Her eyes glistening with tears.
I swore that was going to be the last time I was going to see my grandma... but four month later, it was actually my grandfather who would say goodbye to this world.

V.
Summer, 2007. The first summer without my grandpa.
Rafa was driving Mom, D, and me to Hometown.
Mom dropped a bomb as we drove the long stretch between Chihuahua and Parral.
Tu abuelita se va a quedar con nosotros. (Your grandma is staying with us)
WHAT?! FUCK THAT!!
I threw a terrible cussing tantrum as I sat in the co-pilot seat of the truck.
I bitched. And bitched. AND BITCHED.
THIS IS A VACATION! I'm not going to take care of a SENILE OLD WOMAN!!
I spent the months ignoring my grandma, trying my best not to be in the same room as she.
I remember my ex's mom invited us to dinner at her place... she invited all of us.
When we told Grandma, she refused to join us.
It wasn't until Mom pried that she finally told us why.
Grandma: Es que... me da "gue-guenza"
She was embarrassed.
My stomach dropped.
We reassured her everything would be ok, and that she had to join us. After a little gentle nudging, Grandma agreed.
The day of the dinner party, we were all sitting at the my ex's mom's dinner table... and mid-meal, we heard a noise.
Grandma had wet herself.
Her head was bowed... and she stopped eating.
My ex's mom cleaned up, and tried making my grandma feel less embarrassed... but Grandma just walked out the front door.
Grandma didn't visit a single person after that.

***

I cherish all the good memories I shared with my wonderfully patient grandmother... yet somehow, it's still the moments I was SO mean to her that adhere to my mind the strongest.
Today marks two years since that awful Sunday morning where we received the phone call telling us her heart had finally stopped beating... and in my heart I still feel like it was just yesterday.
Two years later, I still think I'll find her humming "Cruz de Olvido" in her garden. That I'll be able to walk outside and see her grabbing apricots from her favorite tree, as she does (what I can best describe as) acrobatics on her wooden ladder.
She's still on that never-ending trip... where I'll someday, hopefully, join her.
Descanse en paz, mi viejita.

Meth

I was in complete awe and disbelief while sitting next to the beer pong tables on Saturday night.

No, the game doesn't intrigue me that much... the players do.

As MGH and Jose punished their opponents, I was busy staring at the kids in the next table.

talking strategy while racking shit up

To be exact, the kid in profile-- behind MGH and Jose-- was the person of interest. The kid in black.

I've known that guy since he was about eight years old. I think he's around four years my junior.

He used to be a model, as well as an accomplished baseball player (with a scholarship to USC and Stanford), back when he was in high school.

He CHOSE UNLV.

???

I had a class with him my final semester of college, which was his first, and I'd talk to him once in a while.

When I saw him at O'Shea's on Saturday, I didn't recognize him. D was the one who pointed him out, and my jaw dropped.

My heart broke when I saw his current physique... as well as his group of friends-- clear meth users.

Way to fuck up a future.

For hours, I just sat there watching the kid... unable to look away... sometimes fighting back tears. That shit isn't cool.

What would get me out of the sad-stare-trance would be MGH or J walking over and doing some horny drunk-dude shit... like trying to straddle me or squeezing my quads.

***

MGH was too trashed to go home. J was also pretty drunk, so they had to stay with us, sleeping in Rafa's room.

MGH was the unruly, emotional drunk, while J was the chill, narcoleptic drunk.

MGH didn't want to be taken home... and took a piss next to our mailbox once we took him out of the vehicle... and we spent five minutes trying to convince him to put his dick back in his pants. He momentarily walked around all over my driveway with his pants down at his ankles.

Classy.

J was leaned up against my car, where he'd go in and out of consciousness. When awake, he'd compliment the lights... professing his love for Vegas and its beauty.

J: Las Vegas is soooo beautiful ::pleased smile:: (times this by twenty)

The boys woke up at two in the afternoon, having no recollection of the night's adventures.

D had to hang out with her friend, so I was left on my own to entertain the two young men. However, since I'm not very girly, I handled my business like a champ, enjoying the day for the vast part of it. I also took great joy in recounting the previous night's antics... which the boys weren't too stoked about.

The price of getting shitfaced, homie.

Hanging out with the guys for so long, I realized they were BOTH suffering from broken hearts.

J was flirting heavily... even asking me how I felt about dating long distance.

WHOA, bro! Slow down. I met you yesterday.

While I DID find him squeeze-ably adorable (the kid's jawline is KILLER:

 THAT isn't "adorable," it's straight up HOT... he also had some gorgeous pouty lips...), I just couldn't reciprocate. 

One day, one day I'll be ok with it.

Not so sweet revenge

Ok, now that the dust has settled and I've had over four hours of sleep, I get to elaborate on the happenings of last night.

MGH is Fucked. Up.

Well, WAS... I'm sure he's doing better now. 

After coming home from visiting the newly-widowed friend/cousin, I came home and let MGH know I was home and he could drop by whenever he wanted.

He showed up with his friend who brought him to town (a really cute kid, btw. Who is actually really smart. Even when intoxicated, his vocabulary does not take a beating. "I personally hated Tao... very presumptuous" Wait... did he just say "presumptuous?" Holy shit, son, I think I love you!).

They had no plan as to what they were going to do, so we just suggested we take it to the strip and go from there.

The friend, whose name is--surprise, surprise-- Jose (yet I found myself calling him "Pedro" the whole night... and I was sober) remembered O'Sheas and the beer pong... so we went.

Of course, we couldn't hit up the place without getting some yardlongs, so we did that first.

The boys played fours games, four games they won. By the fourth, however, MGH was fucked. up. He couldn't even stand straight.

Getting him back to the car was a fucking hassle. He kept approaching EVERY SINGLE GIRL on the strip... kept trying to hook up.

God, I'd hate to be Heather.

He'd also call black people "Nigger" each time we'd walk past one. I was fearing for my life on that one.

It took us about an hour to get him from O'Sheas and in the damn car. 

I was FURIOUS. 

Extremely uncooperative, annoying drunks are the fucking bane of my existence... especially when they start digging into MY time.

Once IN the car, I kept fighting with him over the seatbelt. I'd try to keep it on him, and once that annoyed HIM, he went ahead and kept undoing MINE.

GOD DAMN IT! I HAAAAATE DRUNK PEOPLE!

After the seatbelt struggle, he passed out on the car door, with the window down.

He was sweating profusely.

When he'd wake up from his blackouts, he'd cry.

What. The. Fuck?

***

MGH spent his more-lucid beer-pong moments walking over to me and squeezing my biceps... or sitting on my lap.

His line of the night was:

I don't want to sound disrespectful... or like... offend you... but... you look... you look so... fit... like, really, REALLY fit... like... you used to be like this (puts his arms on the side of me as if he's hugging a larger person) and now you're... (squeezes my arms together). I don't want to offend you... but you look... really, really good. You've changed a lot. A LOT!

I had to assure him repeatedly that he wasn't offending me. I also had to thank him, because that seemed to shut him up for longer periods of time.

In the parking lot, he apologized for pissing me off.

Me: What would Heather think of you flirting and touching such fucking ugly girls?

MGH: I'm single.

Me: Right now you are, because she's back home and you're here.

MGH: NO. I'm. Single. Right Jose? Tell them!

Jose: Yeah. He's single.

Me: When did this happen?

Jose: Like... four days ago?

Me: What? Why?

MGH: She's just... it's girl stuff. She left me. She dumped me.

Jose: I don't understand why you were with that girl. I fucking HATE Heather. She's so fucking mean to you. I'm glad it's over.

MGH: Yeah. Fucking girl stuff. Her excuses were fucking girl stuff. And she left me. I'm single. I've been single for days.

The cat was out of the bag.

Everything was making sense-- his flirting with every fucking girl in our path, his constant hugging of me... the physical contact he insisted on having with me. His Vegas trip.

It was... pathetically sad.

I felt terrible for him... but there's no way in hell I'd ever... "help" cheer him up.

Our time is gone.

Instead of feeling nothing for him, as has been the case the last few times I've seen him, this time I was feeling repulsed. Not that he was making me feel sick... but I just didn't want to be in contact. I didn't want that type of attention from him.

This will never work, son. Let it go. 

I also felt... well... a little angry. It's that damn resentful trait of mine.

I say we're cool... and we are, for the most part. But the back of my mind will NEVER forgive a person who was so... vain... and didn't give me a chance based solely on my appearance. 

They didn't care how kind I was, how cool I was, or how funny I was... how willing to do anything for them I might have been... how I damn near worshipped them. They threw it all aside because I didn't match their mold for physical attractiveness... and that is something I NEVER forget. It'll eat away at me for life.

Ah, yes, So-and-So... wasted three years of my life trying to convince him I was a good catch... that he wouldn't regret choosing me... but he kicked me to the curb because I was fat. Screw my good deeds, my kindness... how awesome I made him feel... he thought that was useless and went for the shallow bullshit in a girl. Ah. What a shame. Bummer dude. Good luck with that, 'cause I'm sure you'll be hot for life.

I promise you, no matter how much I ever liked you, or how desperate I may have been for your attention... the moment you discard me, is the moment you discard me FOR GOOD. I'll be your friend... but I will NEVER, EVER... EVER take you back in the "romantic" sense. EVER. I won't even let you know what my hand in yours feels like. 

My tears are that valuable to me. Your disdain is that meaningful to me.

Lick my ass all you want, but my resentment and anger will never allow me to let you back into my heart. 

That, and I'm vindictive. If anything drives me in this life, it's spite. I want to see you hurt. I want to prove you wrong. Call it cruel... call it vicious... I don't care. Life made me that way... and I'm down to give anyone a dose of that medicine the moment they hurt me.

***

As I sat in the backseat next to MGH, watching him drool and wipe away giant tears from his eyes... I didn't feel like "justice" had been served. A year and a half ago, I would cry myself to sleep, swearing this new bitch of his would hurt him... and that I'd enjoy every single fucking minute of his pain.

But I sat next to him, making sure he was safe and comfortable... rubbing his back like you do a newborn, constantly reassuring him life would be ok. 

And that he was a great guy.

My heart would drop that much deeper into my stomach the moment I'd see another one of his giant tear drops fall into the palm of his opened hand.
This isn't fun anymore.

Action

I hate "action" dreams. I've stated this before.

My brain seems to be particularly fond of giving me these "action-packed" dreams... that I'd consider more like nightmares.

Last night, I woke up a little past 11PM after freaking myself out of sleep. I dreamt I had to collect a bunch of rare gems from my old high school (bastard Durango... purple and gold every-fucking-where), which was now an abandoned, old building.

Sounds like fun, but there was a catch: the building was going to implode.

WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY?!

And I was locked inside until I collected ALL of the fucking rubies/emeralds/etc.

Things only got worse once I realized the school was ten stories tall... and that my siblings were also scattered within the building... enjoying cocktails, unaware of the situation.

Bro: Heyyyy! Free drinks ALL night!!

Me: ... uh... oh... hmm.. well... gotta go.

No matter how desperately I asked them to help me find the gems, they were zombies... drinking away.

I woke up swearing to never play a fucking video game before going to bed.

Once I was able to go to sleep and enjoy less intense dreams, I was once again startled the fuck awake by a phone call at 6:30AM.

MGH.

I don't know about you, but when someone calls me so fucking early in the day, I suspect someone's dead... someone BETTER be dead.

The call was just MGH, letting me know he was driving to Vegas at that exact instant.

You fucking retard! You scared me!

He wants to hang out all weekend.

After cussing him out for a second, I agreed... because I participate in fucked up relationships like that.

After hanging up, I saw I had two texts from my mom's sister.

Turns out the husband of one of my friends had passed away in his sleep.

Any hopes of falling back to sleep evaporated after that newsflash.

See Mom, See

While in Chicago, I hung out with my goddaughter/godsister practically 24/7. My godbrother Diego, while he was home the majority of the time, I only saw on my first and last days there (well, there were some brief moments where we'd bump into each other in the kitchen, but our exchange would usually be this: Diego: Eaten a peach yet? Me: No. Diego: Good. Know what I found in mine (X) days ago? A MAGGOT! Me: Nice).
Diego would sleep until about three in the afternoon. For the most part, I wouldn't be home by three... there'd be some sunlight to take advantage of. When I'd come home, he'd be out playing golf with his friends (such typical, rich suburb kids) or out drinking with the same friends (a more normal pass-time for 22 year olds, I'd say).
When I finally had my turn to sit down and chat with him, I realized he was... well, depressed.
He graduated in May with a Biology degree... and he too took the MCAT... and he applied to various Medical Schools.
Goes to show how much I knew about him... last time I checked, he was majoring in Chemistry and looking into pharmacy school.
Anyway, I guess he was rejected by all of them.

Initially, he didn't tell me all that. He just told me he was "taking a semester off."
It wasn't until I mentioned one of my friends, currently in her second year of medical school at UCSF, that he spoke up.
Diego: How old is she?
Me: 28.
Diego: SEE, MOM! SEE! Her friend is TWENTY-EIGHT, and barely on her second year of medical school!
Me: Yeah, she tried for years to get into school. She took her MCAT about three times. I remember I scored higher on my first time than she did on her first or second time.
Diego: SEE, MOM! SEE! I HAVE LOTS OF TIME!
What the fuck? What's with the commotion?
Diego: What did she do to get in? Like, lots of volunteer work, I imagine.
Me: Yeah. She volunteered in hospitals a lot... and did a lot of research work for one of her coolest professors. Upped her MCAT score on her third try. She just kept trying.

And that's where he came clean about the med school rejections. He doesn't admit it, but he's pretty fucking depressed.
While I wasn't devastated about not going to med school, since it was a decision I took WAY before even taking the damn MCAT, it was still a VERY difficult decision. It DID depress me. I've never been married, much less divorced, but I imagine the feeling is quite similar. Spend your entire fucking life prepping for medical school, taking class after class, killing it--as well as killing YOURSELF... and then, once it's go-time... you come to realize you never loved that subject from the get go. It's just something you could never commit to... the love isn't there.
However, with him... he seems pretty tore up about it... since his pops is a physician. I'm sure he has it much more difficult than I do. Constantly getting nagged about not getting into the science field. Who can blame him for wanting to sleep his life away? I was doing that up until a few months ago (and I still have days like that).

It upset me to see him so sad. I tried cheering him up... almost forcing him to join us at Six Flags... but after he raised his voice at me, I decided not to push the subject. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.
I just tried giving him advice. I told him not to wait too long... and not to sleep until two in the fucking afternoon. Find something you love, and stick to it. Fuck what anyone will say about you... or what they think of your choice. And if you're still stuck on going to med school... well, try, try again.
Then I sided with him when telling his dad how difficult finding a science-related job really is... though I don't know how hard the job market in Chicago might be... but I'm sure it's not as difficult as down here in Nevada. But still... I'll say the sky's green in order to make someone smile, if I have to... because I wish someone would try that hard to get a smile out of me.