It’s always great to catch up with people–friends and/or colleagues–the positive ones, the individuals who you would like to see yourself associating with or being in years to come.  Mark, who is the brains behind the cooking and eating (and writing) what’s compiled in The Proof is in the Eating, a food blog, is one of my fellow CNY Bloggers and an overall great guy.  It’s been a while since I got to clink glasses with him, and we just missed each other (by simply blocks) when we happened to be in New Orleans at the same time.  We caught up, and educated each other on our lives.  I am proud to admit that he is doing much better than I am, and this is especially true with the job/career/intake aspect.  He’s got me beat on many other things:  wife, kids, the family thing, and holding down the fort that is life.  His wife, Kerrie, also writes and blogs, and her wonderful writings can be found at Inane Prattle.

I felt bad to be around him, subjecting him to the awkward nonsense phase that is my life.  Granted, this is probably the worst he will ever see me at, and by worst I am talking about the symptoms of:

• A.D.D.-like topic changes
• Venturing into tangents
• Dazed and confused appearance
• Ramblings about life and my future
• Ramblings about reading too much into my life and future
• And my dismissing of the conventional “it will be okay, so shut up and sip your 12-year-old scotch” suggestion

Why scotch and Bourbon?  Per Mark:  “Because you can get the beer on draught everywhere else.”

We talked about music and the art of good drink.  We considered tattoos (not matching tattoos, you weirdos) and the inevitable age gap (this isn’t one of my more finer writings, but what the hell–I’ll post a link to it anyway), misunderstanding their awkward arrogance and hubris.  Just because they feel something is the best in whatever category, it may not necessarily be the best.

We closed out the night, and Mark departed as I went to close my tab, and was confronted by some guy at the bar.  He asked me my name, I only gave him the condensed version of my first name, which he pronounced wrong; he barely even got it right when I gave him the full-blown Christopher.  We will return to him in a moment.  This interaction was taken at a sign, which ultimately caused me to roar toward the heavens about it.  This outburst was in my car, and the rant contained several NO!‘s (yes, the exclamation point is necessarily part of it), but only a couple are-you-fucking-kidding-me‘s.  I kept the cursing to a minimum.

I went to my now appropriately-designated spiritual advisor on Wednesday to get a reading done.  Feeling as if my life is falling apart, there wasn’t much that science could or can fix, so I went to see Elizabeth.  What she told me was very interesting:  most of the information was what I didn’t expect, and the majority of that information I did not personally agree with.  Still, I keep listening to the recording, hoping that I misinterpreted what she told me.

To go against the grain of what my career is to be: while watching Woody Allen’s latest film, Blue Jasmine, with the ever beautiful, Cate Blanchett, realizing there were two other elderly couples in the theater with me, I raised my hand and shook my head.  I want to be writing for the rest of my life.  I want to work in the film/television industry, and I would like to write.  I would like to write novels, short stories, and poems.

Lately, I am feeling the anxiety and delusion of depression that Blanchett’s character is feeling minus the excessive drinking and pill popping.

No.  I according to The Angels I will be a professor, teaching communication.  Writing will be  done effectively and on the side, but it will not be my money maker and will not make me millions.  Teaching is my forte.  Now, I have sworn off teaching.  Elizabeth told mentioned to me that The Angels showed her Lake Ontario, which means I will be attending school through SUNY Oswego.  Now, a handful of years ago, my buddy, Erick, and I went to SUNY Oswego for more information to further our education.  That fell through, and (for the second time in my life) gave the finger to the reconsideration for becoming a teacher.

The Angels told me that I will be in a transition for the next 18 to 20 months, which is something the previous psychic told me.  It would be almost two years before my life really got on track.  The difference between the first reading and the second reading is the location.  Elizabeth says I have to stay home, and the first reading said that I will have to move in order to become successful.  Elizabeth and The Angels told me that I would be moving, but that won’t be after the two years; this move would not be south, but westward (Go West, young man!!!) to an area where there is less temperature/weather fluctuation than that of Syracuse, New York.

The Angels told Elizabeth to tell me that I second guess myself quite often, and that I should have stuck with my gut feeling from the beginning.  Sure, I would love to educate, but I do not want to put myself in the occupation as educator.

While becoming a teacher/professor, my occupation would be a temporary-feeling or part-time feeling occupation, which pertains to writing.  The specificity of possibly grant writing was mentioned.  This writing would be done for a not-for-profit organization.  I’m absolutely fine with this, because my resume has gone out to not-for-profits.  Not-For-Profits are great causes, and why not gain more experience working for something greater.

My bud, Joe, just sent out a tweet about the next Syracuse Social Media Breakfast.  Remembering that I had forgotten to sign up, I immediately accessed the page, and threw my name in on the roster.  According to Joe, I may have been the last (or one of the very last) seat takers.  No matter the specified area/theme of the meetup, I was bound to sign up due to their being interesting. As I hit the webpage to sign up, I noticed the topic.

The Social Media Breakfast is specified as:  Social Media and Not-For-Profits.

Huh…

In the first dream sequence, we see the writer move his laptop and belongings out of the way before repeatedly slamming his face into the tabletop in front of him.

In the second dream sequence, we see the writer stand up and clench his fists.  A vein pops in his forehead and his eyes blacken.  He rips his shirt open, scattering the buttons every which way, and he flips the table; his belongings fly everywhere.  He runs out the door, screaming, and he’s never expected to return.

In the third dream sequence, he pulls out a pack of smokes and puts on his sunglasses.  He lights up the a cigarette in the coffee shop, as he kicks his feet up onto the table.  He head nods to the attractive woman across from him.

The third sequence is actually true.

Just kidding.

So upon this realization, I have calmed down.  Michelle, a The Post-Standard photographer and Syracuse University student, who I have been helping her and her team with a silent short film, brought up my going back to school. She kept inquiring about my reading, because she thought it was fascinating. I appreciated her interest, and so we got the rest of the shooting completed today.

Back to last night…

The guy at the bar, after asking my name, insisted we hang out.  He asked if I was looking for women tonight as he motioned his hand, flicking his wrist as smoothly as an intoxicated person could, over to a pair of women.  He kept slapping me on the back, which made me want to break his wrist, but that’s not my way of going about things–violence, that is.  I told him that This town wasn’t big enough for me anymore, and that I was considering moving.  He asked where, and I said New York or Chicago.  He slapped me on the shoulder, and before more drunken thoughts could trip over his teeth, the bouncer told the guy to knock it off.  I signed my bill, and scurried off.

On my route home, I turned the radio off and went on my spiel. Let’s just say I asked for it, and now I’m getting what I asked for.  The guy at the bar, he may have been referenced as a crony, the heavenly taunter to piss me off and keep me on track at the same time.  I hope it doesn’t stop, these signs.

The question, as cliché as it is:  Should I stay or should I go?

The masses tell me I would be stupid to stay in Syracuse; however, the opposition of my staying put is just as strong.

However, according to my reading, another bit of information told to me, which supports my reason for staying:  my father is going to need my support.

To be continued…