So.

Once upon a time there was a kid who wrote an article about legalizing marijuana. It was not about to be accepted by the high school newspaper, so he gave it to a friend who put in on the front page of an underground newspaper at the school. The kid became at least a moderate sensation for a while as the author of the article. The kid was me, some twenty years ago. The underground paper was called, "The Lobotomy".

That was one of the last times I felt like I was doing something important. I was passionate about things after that, interested in things, in love with one person or another... but I never felt like I was doing something important the way I did then. I did not continue to write for the underground paper. I do not follow through with plans well, hence "The Incomplete". Even the name sounds incomplete, eh? Terribly witty.

So I've stumbled through life, as so many of us do. I hung on to an identity I had not really even defined, and refused to settle even though I had no idea what that meant. There were just things I could not do. Like settling down with the Mormon girl who wanted to marry me. I thought she was adorable. I thought she was hot. I liked walking by a lake with her and feeding geese, and I still smile thinking about the goose attack that changed the romantic mood a bit. But I couldn't be a Mormon.

And then there's the young co-worker, all of nineteen to my twenty-seven years at the time. Bright, wide eyes. Caramel skin. Loved wigs. Wanted to leave her husband and run off with me to Paris even though she had an infant at home. I couldn't be that guy.

But it's not just incomplete relationships. While I've had more girlfriends than I can easily recall (a friend calls me a "serial monogamist",) I've also had more jobs than I easily recall. Sales rep, real estate agent, cashier, camp program coordinator, Resident Assistant, government clerk for INS. Dishwasher. Pager salesman. Office temp. Storyteller. Custom paper products estimator. And so forth. No job ever quite enough. No girl ever quite enough.

Now I watch movies late at night and wonder at all the dynamics in the lives of others. In-between relationships I don't even expect to last longer than a few months anymore, my life has dwindled to occasionally going out with a friend to see a film and shooting the breeze over a couple glasses of wine afterward. That's not all bad. It's just all there is.

Oh, that, and staring at this screen for endless hours. A game, a social network, email, YouTube, anything. And now a blog. Maybe as an attempt to save myself. Maybe as yet another escape. Maybe just another ego-stroking crap blog by a disillusioned failure with a bent for self deprecation. In the end, I figure this is slightly less apathetic than the way I spend the rest of my hours. And as I feel almost completely detached, it's something to hold on to.

But I rarely follow through with anything. So if there are any readers, don't expect many entries. I ain't promisin' anything. I rarely do. Promises don't get broken when you don't make them. But I still manage to disappoint most everyone. And I disappoint myself, yes. Of course. Always. My ability to disappoint is far more reliable than, well, me.

Until next time?

The Incomplete