I�ve figured out something. My old home, where I was when I wrote this, is my refueling station. It seems my creative energy is completely gone there. All I can do is take in the world around me. Instead of creating literature, I read it. I go driving by myself and blast music until it hurts my ears and take in the rushing air that seems to be angry at me for plowing through it with my car. I go to church and roll my eyes at the blatant ignorance and realize that I�m just as ignorant as they are. I hang out with my father sometimes and become annoyed too quickly with his bad jokes and strict fundamental lifestyle.

I wish I had a normal closeness to my family. It�s there when I�m at home, but it still seems distant. Like I�m an old friend visiting and will soon return to California for another 10 years before the next visit comes along, and the only reason I�m visiting is because I ran out of food in L.A. and decided, what the heck? When I�m here at school I barely think of them at all. My sister even lives up here a few miles from me and I only see her about once a week. Short conversations that are strictly business. Messages relayed from my Mom and Dad. They call her instead of me because the office she works in has an 800 number. I only call them for business reasons, so it works both ways I suppose. I fear that once I graduate and really get out on my own that I�ll forget them. We�re just so different. Yet, in every single way that matters, we are the same. I am my father, only with different religious and moral views. I am my mother, only with a different sense of humor and, of course, different body parts. It�s not as if they haven�t had an impact on my life. Quite the opposite is true. The impact they made simply sent me soaring in a direction they had not intended. I�m not sure, but I think that worries them. I�m so young and immature. Narcissistic. Selfish. Scared. Yet all I want to do is get out there on my own and make it. Does this make me foolish? I don�t know. It�s been my experience that I have a tendency to learn things the hard way. Maybe that�s how I�ll learn how to be an adult. The hard way. Although, adult hard ways and child hard ways are worlds apart. That�s a little disconcerting.

I want to be close to my father. We have nothing in common except we are the same person. That�s hardly enough to build a friendship on. He was my father for so long and now I can�t seem to make friends with the guy. He doesn�t really care for any of the things I�m passionate about. He can�t watch half the movies I love because of moral conviction. He only listens to southern gospel or other music close to that genre. He doesn�t like C.S. Lewis. He doesn�t know anything about computers, nor does he care to learn. He tucks in his shirt no matter what he�s doing. He wears his pants high (very high). I have to be careful to pull my boxers up so as not to expose my crack when I bend over. His jokes are unsalvageable. Mine are at least salvageable if not funny. (I can, however, see how my sense of humor could take a turn for the worst and head down the same unfunny road that his has. I shudder to think.) His hair is neatly parted on the side and doesn�t move. Ever. Yet, as I�m making this list of things. It�s all on the surface. It�s all shallow. Vanity. Yet vanity is usually what helps us become friends with someone in the first place. �Oh, he likes the same kind of music that I do. We should hang out.� When crunch time comes, you remain friends with this person only if you like what you see on the inside. Nobody�s going to hang out with a jerk just because they both like mxpx. What purpose would that serve? If only there were someway to take the initial steps of friendship without that vanity stepping stone to guide me. If only I could sit down with him and just talk to him like he�s a real person. A real guy. Not my father. Just a guy.

Oh, how I wish�