What Goes Around, Comes Around

So with in the past few months of my life I made what I conceived to be a very stupid and poor choice. My brother fired me through text messages due to a silly quarrel that he initiated. In turn when I filed for unemployment, he decided to tell them that I quit. This lead to my unemployment being denied, going into a two and a half month long bloody appeal status, and loosing my apartment. And now, for no other reason than corporate greed he was fired.
I don't feel bad for him. I'm sure at this point in time he has painted himself as a victim but it's his own damn fault. If he didn't lie to the unemployment office this wouldn't of happened. He may have written a letter passing it off as a "simple misunderstanding," but the text messages suggest otherwise.

The Great Beer War of 0-11

After a night of frivolous merriment the guest of this humble house departed and returned to their own happy homes. That is minus the few who had drank themselves into a state of slobbering yet blissful unconsciousness. The next morning my roommate opened the door to our refrigeration unit and with a chuckles rhetorically asked "Look at all this extra beer. What are we going to do with it?"
My response which I would come to regret was. "We'll just have to drink it."

And thus was the trap that led to The Great Beer War of 0-11

A week or two later after having enjoyed many a frothy nights of German ale. I decided it was time to head to the market to replenish my supply of food for the winter. Knowing that I had consumed much of the ale I felt it only polite to ask my roommate what type of ale she would prefer from the market. Low and behold, it was then that I was made aware that I had committed a great offence. That the beer which I had consumed was not of the land but of her, and her friends. Apparently I had stumbled upon a strange land where one keeps and protects the beer of ones comrades after having left the party.


Joking aside, this brings me to the current update in my life. I've concluded that my roommate is either
A: impossible to read
or
B: Loathes me for some reason that I lack the insight to.

I thought that after I brought home a ton of beer (which I can in no way afford at the moment) she would finally seem... well... happy. Yes, happy. However, if anything I think she may actually dislike me even more.

Swing Rhythm

Tonight I hit the swing club for the first time in around a year. I have to say i'm no king of the hop, but feeling that quick paced rhythm was just the kick step my soul needed. I had an absolute blast, i'm talking lung burning face hurting blast.
Now on a shallow note it really picked my spirits up. You know what fella's kick those dames to the curb. You don't need a cheap skirt whose gonna kick ya when your down or take a good old fashioned gent for granite. Let them dames run off with Johnny Knuckles down on 4th and 7th. He can knock em down the stairs a few times and maybe they'll get some sense into those thick skulls of theirs. I'm a tall glass of water damn it and ain't no dame going to tug my chain anymore.

Coping with reality... or not.

So, about five days have passed since my last entry. And to whom do I owe the blame for the recent disappearance from the world of writing and literature? Star Wars: The Old Republic Online. The Complex story telling mixed with beautiful craftsmanship, character interaction, and epic battles has left me completely addicted to the digital saga. This new found guilty pleasure has triggered a chain of emotional reactions.

After the obvious reaction of enjoyment the first was guilt. I was dealing with the classic dilemma of wasting to much time on a video game. Then it hit me. Who cares? Because the paradigm of society says that long hours of video games is "bad" I should feel guilty? I have no family nor love interest to talk to. No arrangements nor meetings to attend. If I want to spend my weekend playing video games for an ungodly amount of time then I should.

In fact I pity my fellow man because I can promise you I find more enjoyment in epic space battles with the tyrannous Imperials than I do a quick game of ten dollar beer pong in a overcrowded building with loud music. I say to hell with that. I'll take my responsibility then dive right into the front grounds of the galactic republic!

Chapter 1: A Day in The Life of A Roommate

For the past two years I've lived on my own. Before that, I lived with family. But now I live with a roommate. Currently I'm experiencing week one in this adventurous happenstance that I've been thrust into due to the self preserving nature of less than amiable human beings.

Thus far, I would say this whole ordeal has been different from what I expected. Here is my dilemma: When I went into this new house I had the most fantastic delusion that I was entering a whimsical TV sitcom. I'd come home and find my roomie's ferret stuck in the pool table while after a series of desperate shenanigans we would save said ferret and laugh about it over ice cream. I was under the impression that roommates have a magical relationship and that's why there are so many fantastic sitcoms based on those types of living situations!

I may have made and error in my expectations.

Having a roommate is much different. It's sort of awkward. You have two people living in the same space while coexisting in completely separate realities. True, at times these alternate dimensions cross, but they tend to be strange and rare phenomenons met with brief greetings and subtle laughs.

I wonder if marriage is like that, two separate realities. Perhaps marriage is exactly the same, only in that situation people have to force the dimensions together. The wife and husband have to spend time together and since they are forcing spacial physics they rip holes in their small universe causing it to implode 50% of the time!!!

Prelude

Hello, my name is Brent and I'm a writer.

Well I'd like to think of myself as a writer. After all, as far as throwing around pretentious titles go, 'writer' is a sublime label that can be achieved by the simplest of simpletons. Now a doctor, lawyer, or secret agent, those titles require a degree or some sort of employment. But a writer is simply one who writes or has written. Writers are the vagabonds in the world of interesting titles. Now that I've said that, I feel I should rephrase the introduction into: "Hello, my name is Brent and I'm a vagabond."

So what is a vagabond doing writing among the infinite rants that fester on today's social network? I'd like to think of it as charity work. I'm providing a valuable service for people who enjoy a bit more than regurgitated updates about YouTube's famous "Ninja cat," or some little girl doing something cute at Disneyland.

Yup, I'm writing for the masses, all for my adoring public... ok, maybe it's not entirely charity work. Maybe I have a lot of free time and I want to make sure that if I'm not writing one thing, I'm at least writing another. However, since I do so enjoy feeding my gluttonous ego, let's just pretend it's charity work.