Happiness is a Warm Gun?

Nightmares.

They're bad, right?

I mean, like, by definition, they're bad.

So bad that when something really, really bad happens, it's often described as a nightmare.

Like, for instance, say you're with your very new kind-of boyfriend who we'll call James after a particularly bad breakup with a significant other we'll call Louie who you dated for a significant period of time and let's say you and your very new kind-of boyfriend who we're calling James and his friends want to get something to eat and let's say it's pretty late and you're only eighteen so you don't know any better and end up at Denny's where it's really crowded and they go to sit you and your very new kind-of boyfriend who we're calling James and his friends at one of those big oval booths with two tables that can be connected by a leaf and usually are reserved for big parties but could be used for two separate ones in a pinch, like if it's really busy, and when you get to that table that's pretty much connected to another table, which no matter what, makes for an uncomfortable meal if you're sitting with people who aren't in your party, you see that not only are you going to be sitting with people who aren't in your party, but you're going to be sitting with the significant other who we're calling Louie, the one you just had the really bad breakup with and--wait for it--the girl he cheated on you with. If something like that were to happen to you, it would be so bad that when describing it later to everyone you'd ever met, you just might call it a nightmare.

Unless, of course, you don't think nightmares are bad.

Wait.
What?

There are people who don't think nightmares are bad?

That's what I thought, too, because, as we've just been through with my crazy convoluted, highly unlikely--yet totally true--story,
nightmares = bad.

But listen to this:

A few days ago when Griffin, his friend, N, and I were talking, the subject of nightmares came up. Griffin talked about the worst nightmare he'd ever had and how scary it was, and N, in a totally unprecedented reply, said that he loves nightmares.

Yes, you read that right. N loves nightmares.

Being scared is awesome, N said, and you get to be terrified and have that scared feeling, but nothing bad is going to happen you. I hope I have a nightmare tonight, he said as the nightmare talk concluded.

Okay, so let me just repeat--
Wait.
What?

It's crazy, yes?

Except don't we hear things like The glass could either be half empty or half full; it doesn't matter what you're looking at, it matters what you see; and perception is everything* all the time?

*All aphorisms are paraphrased due to laziness

We do, or at least I do, but despite hearing them, it's never really occurred to me how much of a difference the way someone looks at something could make on his or her life, but then here's this kid taking something that most people think is horrific and traumatizing and acting like it's awesome. Actually, no, that's wrong. He's not acting like it's awesome; he really thinks it is awesome. To him, nightmares--nightmares!--are good.

How fucking inspirational and amazing is that?

(The answer is pretty fucking inspirational and amazing, in case you didn't know.)

When It Starts to Thunder, They All Stare

I've never been a fan of the outro.

I still remember, to this day, lying on my bed late one night when I was a teenager, trying to go to sleep but being unable to because something stupid I had done was keeping me awake, when "Hey Jude" came on the radio. It started out innocuously enough, with Paul telling Jude not to make it bad, to take a sad song and make it better, but before I knew it, I was enmeshed in a quagmire of na na na's and hey Jude's that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape. You think I'm exaggerating, I know, but it's the truth. I'm talking, I changed the radio station and listened to entire songs, I went to the bathroom, I read War and Peace. No matter what I did, every time I went back to what was most likely BIG 105.9 but may have been 103 SHE, Paul was still going on and on to Jude.

I wanted to blow my brains out.

To this day, I can't listen to that fucking song without being traumatized, and maybe as a result of that night or maybe because I was just built to not like the outro, I can't stand songs that take a long time to end.

Take Angels and Airwaves, even. My love for AVA can't be denied, but some of their songs are like Hey Jude Juniors, and sometimes, I have no choice but to cut them short. I listen until Tom says what he has to say, and then I skip to the next song, only to do the same thing when the end of the next song starts prattling on.

Actually, though--

Movies don't have outros in the same way that a song does (except maybe that one Lord of the Rings movie that ended over and over and over), but they do have endings, and some of them are entirely misguided and twelve hours too long (Goodfellas, Boogie Nights, and Titanic, I'm talking to you). Some movie endings, like long outros, I just can't stand.

(Conversely, some movie endings I like so much, I watch them and nothing else from the movie. Can't Hardly Wait? An Officer and a Gentleman? Love, Actually? Never Been Kissed? Do better things exist?)

It's funny. I never saw the connection before, but I always kid around with Griffin and Keifer that there's a finite number of X and once someone has reached that point, there's just no more of X that can be done. Example:

My longstanding favorite is There's a finite number of essays that someone could grade throughout life, and once that number has been graded, there's just no more grading that could be done.

And my new one is There's a finite number of miles that someone could run, and once those miles have been reached, that person is physically unable to run any more.

Those are jokes, of course, but they do reinforce the same idea, the same notion, the same value, that my inability to stick around for long outros does.

When things are meant to

end--

(STOP)