Short Goober

I’m a short guy; I’m 5’6.

I’m saying that in contrast to the average height of the American (white male) which is 69.7 inches or 5 foot 10 inches. From that (obviously) Google search alone, I found out that the average height for a Filipino male my age is 5 foot 4 inches, so that makes me feel slightly better, but the reality I live in is American (that sounds oddly patriotic and I did not intend that) and with all the numbers in the world here and there, I’m fucking short. I’m actually the shortest of my male friends.

Me with my male friends. My Doggs.

But that has never discouraged me from going on about my daily life. Hell, it could be a lot worse. And it’s really not that big of a deal or a complex to get over because there’s really no problem there. It never has been a problem…till one day.

Let’s add some context:

I fucking love Goober.

Each jar is a lovechild, with its parents proudly displayed on the packaging.

You don’t know what Goober is? It’s that lazy magical deliciousness that comes in a jar with 2/3 peanut butter and 3/2 jelly (those numbers check out) made by Smuckers. Yeah, the shit you had in your PB&J sandwiches when you were a kid? Yeah, that shit. I still buy that as a 27-year-old tax, rent, and bill paying male.

How I feel sometimes. Minus the Doritos, I don’t really care for Doritos.

WELL…

One day as I was grocery shopping, I came upon the beloved aisle that housed the peanut butter and jelly products, and ultimately, some fuckin’ Goober. It was late morning so there was already a bit of a crowd at the grocery store, and choosing the nicer location in the senior living residential area over the slightly more ghetto one closer to me, didn’t help. AARP senior citizens galore crowded the aisles and this aisle was no exception. Along with the AARPABC123DoReMi crowd, there was a grocery staff member stocking some products. Right next to this staff member was ma fuckin’ Goober.

So I skipped to my Lucy Liu with a grocery cart in hand and paused at the sight of severe adversity: There were no more grape jelly Goober, only strawberry. 

Who the hell eats strawberry jelly? You know who? NO ONE. And if you do, you don’t. Because you don’t. And I said so.

But just as I was about to admit defeat, I saw it: one last grape jelly Goober.

I couldn’t reach it.

 

Captured photo of me not reaching the grape jelly Goober.

 

The Goober stood on the second highest shelf and if fully stocked, I could reach the first or second jar after. The last grape jelly Goober was pushed all the way to the back of the shelf aka the depths of the lone survivor aka the no man’s land and that man is me myself and I.

The strawberry jelly Goober side was stocked. Fully stocked. With the lone grape jelly Goober looking like he walked into a Trump rally and he’s a gay (I’m an ally I swear) black man (#BlackLivesMatter) with a doctorate in humanities. The strawberry jelly outnumbered the grape, 23409892638782034 to 1.

I looked to the side and saw the employee stocking. A quick look at his cart and boxes of products, I saw no grape jelly Goober. A quick look at the out of the reach grape jelly Goober and I craved it more. So I walk up to the guy, about to ask for his assistance and then I realized…

I’m a grown ass man asking another grown ass man for some Goober that I can’t reach.

 

Me, Myself, and I asking the stocker for help.

 

If I need a spotter at the gym, that’d be okay. Or even something simple like asking for the time or what aisle the pasta noodles are in. But not ‘hey can you reach the last grape Goober for me?’ I look back and forth at the grape Goober and the stocker. I weigh the pros and cons of it all and ultimately…

I grab the strawberry Goober. I let my pride come between me and grape Goober. And I ate that strawberry Goober…but I wasn’t happy.

Oh, how I remember (the dream is very well alive).

Adventures can be fun.

Like today, for example, we went on an adventure looking for brunch spots to celebrate a best friend’s belated birthday. But thanks to my (lack thereof) phenomenal planning, every place we found had 90876324+ hour wait times. So after three attempts, we settled on a search result from social media claiming a place to be 4.5 stars out of 5 and had appetizing photos of their food. We drove up to what we thought was the location, with closed or run down stores around us; pavement and road cracked to hell, and a majority of beat down cars parked all around us.

“Where is it?”
“Where are we?”
“It says it’s right…”

“…there.”

Naturally, as someone who naturally sees everything through a cinematic lens, I laughed at the site and the situation of our expectation for a millenial/pinterest-chic/Instagram haven/foodie-centric looking restaurant being crushed. But long story short, the food was enjoyable, going with the logic of (rough looking) hole in the wall places having the best food.

I’d say they’re good! If you’re ever in San Antonio, Texas…

But the adventure I’m writing about is the one about my doubts and fears and uncertainties and hopeful wishes and hopeless cries into the night questioning if what I’m doing is what I’m supposed to be doing and if I’m happy or just trying to convince myself I’m happy or just faking it till I make it because that’s one of the most traumatizing memorable lines I took with me after leaving Los Angeles.

Me leaving LA, despite knowing I have to come back and conquer it.

We ended our journey with board games at another best friend’s place. Later on, their family came back home and the young niece started baking. I recalled how for every time I was over she’d bake and I was always charmed at the sight of her passion and happiness. I hoped she would hold onto that youthful passion and possibly pursue it when she grew older, or to at least never fall jaded to the idea of baking.

Then (naturally) I grew selfish/self-centered and thought about myself like I tend to do I recalled how I originally thought my (half-baked) dreams and aspirations originated from high school. I was envious at the romanticized idea of the young baker growing up to be a successful baker, and how she started off as a prodigy and that when she’s interviewed by someone about her success, she could talk about how her dreams started at a very young age.

She could also talk about her ‘alienated’ childhood and her pilgrimage to Hawaii to flee persecution. And how she befriends a little girl named Lilo.

But my dreams came from a very young age, too. I didn’t always think so, or if I did, I completely forgot about it. Sure I made silly home videos when I was in middle school and pursued student broadcasting in high school, but I always felt scatter-brained when it came to pinpointing what I wanted to be. Then I remembered I wrote a story about a cow and an alien when I was seven.

Then I remembered a story from when I was eight about two antagonistic (and sophisticated with their bows and cordial manners) cyborgs hell-bent on destroying the human race through gladiator like fighting.

And an emotional trilogy when I was twelve that saw a group of characters go through the events of a school shooting, living as a homeless teen and running from the law, and the court drama culmination of all the events that had occurred.

And a story when I was thirteen about a military brat/dependent pre-teen bothered by the opinions of students from local public schools (looking back, it was a comedy satire about sub-culture differences).

And a story when I was eleven about…okay, just imagine Jurassic Park, Resident Evil, and Terminator all mashed up into one crazy epic trilogy, yeah I wrote that (and drew attempted concept art of creatures and locations) and presented it for a sixth-grade Reading class project. It was a class favorite. And when we were assigned to act out scenes from each other’s stories, everyone wanted to do scenes from my story! But what was most important of all was how receptive my teacher was. Positively receptive.

I have a vivid memory of a parent/teacher’s open house night or some sort, and how my sixth-grade Reading teacher was telling my mother about my “knack” for storytelling. Hearing those affirmations felt enlightening and after all these years and roller coaster moments of ups and downs and even harder downs, recalling that feeling is a much-needed reaffirmation. Which is why I’m going for my Master’s in Screenwriting.

I remember writing the “school shooting drama” story when I was in eighth grade and I would give my old Reading teacher drafts in between classes. With each draft and brief moments of critique, I was giddy and juvenilely excited to work on the next draft to have her read and repeat the entire process again and again.

For once, the feelings of clarity and certainty are slightly greater than the fog of uncertainty. And with the way life has been, I’ll take slightly.

 

I’M SLIGHTLY CERTAIN I HAVE FUCKING CLARITY.

Adventures can be fun. Even when it feels like you forgot why or where you’re going, it eventually comes back to you. And if not, just keep going. 

…and smile and be happy =)

 

(Mildly) Best Prank

Thank you to Brian A. Klems from Writer’s Digest for this entertaining writing prompt!

This article is based on a true story. Though highly exaggerated for comedic purposes, the story still holds to be true.

Pensacola, Florida. Early Fall 2010.

The sweltering Swahili heat beamed unforgivingly from the sky down on the citizens of the U Won’t Fail university (also known as the University of West Florida, local competitor to the formerly known establishment People Just Chillin’/Pensacola Junior College now known as People Still Chillin’/Pensacola State College). Our antagonist of this story and his friends take shelter from the Haitian sun in their apartment and are greeted with a Jean Claude Van Fuckin’Damn It kick to the entrance door.

“Peter here?” asked the booku-fro clad gentleman named Sylvio Duval the third and three-quarters.

“SHIEEEEEEEEEEEET, nah son,” said the coconut bikini clad chief Lonex Louisdormama.

Our antagonist, Jerico “no H goddamn it” Magalagalahnes, sat next to chief Louisdormamasaymamasahkumahkusa giggling like an Asian school girl, in which him being Asian didn’t help.

“He good?” Duval asked chief LouisCKdor about the giggling school girl.

“SHIEEEEEEET, yah son,” replied the chief.

Duval the third and three-quarters then marched in as if he were a sheriff in a lawless town, surveying the scene for any flaws or possibilities for a crime to be committed. Little did he know, a crime would be to be committed in the future the crime to be but has not been but will be have been and will be when it is committed.

But for the meantime, the future crime scene had an XBox and a budget flatscreen TV across a budget couch with generations of gluteus maximus’ having shared the gift of sitting upon; a bare kitchen with an even barer fridge except for the ingredients for a breakfast of champions: milk and cinnamon toast crunch because the dwellers felt chilled cereal was better to its typical counterpart; and in that bare kitchen was an island table that served as a throne to the jewels of sir Peter “Jackson” Roehl: his doughnuts.

“Aw shiet, doughnuts!” exclaimed Duval as he opened up the box and took the last one. “He’d be cool with this right?”

“SHIEEEEEEET, yah son,” replied chief Louisandclarkador.

For continued approval, Duval turned to Jerico, who attempted to speak in between his effervescent giggling, but was futile as told by the confused look on Duval’s face.

Duval then left, not before making another Jean Claude GoddamnIt kick to the entrance door that did absolutely nothing since he had to pull to open the door because it made sense kicking the door from outside but he’s really just breaking their door kicking it from inside.

Minutes passed while the chief read up on his coconut stocks. Jerico continued to giggle, this time at the headlines of the chief’s paper. The air was then broken with the entrance of Peter Jackson (Roel). PJ greeted the two with a simple nod and walked over to his family jewels throne and opened the box.

“Hey, who ate my last doughnut?” he mildly shouted.

“SHIEEEEEEEET, Sylvio son,” said chief Julia Louisdreyfusdor. And on cue, Jerico giggled.

“Damn it Sylvio!” PJ mildly shouted.

This moment; this is something I could exploit for future use, thought Jerico. He continued to giggle while PJ pulled the entrance door in a mildly angry manner and mildly shouted Sylvio’s name into the outdoor hallway, making his way to his enemy’s quarters.

A week later.

Another box lays on PJ’s throne and again there’s one doughnut left. So our genius giggling antagonist boxed the doughnut in a tupperware and hid it in the pantry. He didn’t eat it nor did he throw it away; he’s no monster. After setting the crime scene, he needed one last puzzle piece.

“Just write ‘thank you’ and sign it?” Duval sat in his chair with a sticky note and pen on hand.

Our little giggler giggled at his face and nodded his head, incapable of making any attempts at spoken communication. Duval shrugged, did as he was asked, and handed the sticky note to Jerico. He giggled and giggled, where Duval was pretty sure Jerico said thanks somewhere in his giggle fit.

 

A couple minutes later.

“Damn it, Sylvio!” PJ mildly yelled as he burst through the quarters of Duval. Duval scurried to his feet from his chair, confused and afraid at the mildly angry PJ. And before Duval could scream in defense, he saw the empty box in PJ’s hands with a note reading “thank you,” signed by himself.

And our giggler giggled and giggled and giggled.

“Remember that one time I had to piss into a bottle in your car while we were listening to Louis Armstrong?”

“YOU SLY DEVIL YOU! WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

This past Labor Day weekend my friends and I went up to Austin for a day trip. Many laughs were had, many jokes were made, many songs were sung, and again, many laughs were had. Just a couple weeks ago, I went out with a different dynamic of our group of friends and had an equally amount of fun.

This was from when the different dynamic group hung out at a new rooftop bar downtown. Paramour. The best.

Cheese. Cheese. Shy.

THEY HAVE MY GODFATHER DRINK ON THE MENU! ON THE FREAKIN’ MENU!

I love my friends. I constantly talk about them, I put them on a pedestal, and I deeply cherish them. They’re simply irreplaceable.

Please get the reference.

But I don’t say that in unison with everyone else stating the same sentiment, no. Consider this a cocky, “my friends are better than yours,” sort of statement, because they are. And it’s okay for you to feel that way about your friends too.

“I’m not the hero this city needs.”

“But the hero this city deserves.”

The company I keep and hold dearly are the types who could easily share a personal comedic story, reciprocate the openness of everyone in the group, appreciate AND partake in comedic timing,  contribute to the moment or the story or the joke of the overall situation, and those who have true depth and embrace it.

When I’m with my friends, the biggest thing I strive for is to create memorable moments that’ll be stories to share in the future. I’m a sucker for stories, whether it’s telling mine or hearing others. Because of that passion, I can’t help but make every moment spent with others to be memorable. And it’s not forced either, it’s a natural ability that I’ve been complimented on. So I take pride in that.

So if there’s anything to take away from this, it’s to create your own moments so you’ll have stories to share later on.

“Hey guys, I picked up reading now!”

This apartment showcase in Ikea was my all time favorite. I should have got more pictures but this was clearly my favorite part of the apartment.

I’ll take all three, thank you.

Reiky in his natural habitat.

Oh and the titular quote for this article? That actually happened on our drive back from Austin. Yup. We were listening to the song below. Listen to it and imagine four twenty something’s inside a car giggling uncontrollably with the driver screaming “you better not miss” and this song on full blast with the windows down. At about 9 pm.

…and don’t forget to smile and be happy =)

“You are going to be a very powerful man.”

“What does that building say?”

“I don’t know…”

“Can you not see it or are you too busy texting?”

“I can’t see it, and I’m kind of tipsy-“

“-and you’re texting. Can you STOP texting for once?! You’re the one who set this up!”

“DAMN IT, JERICO! I’M GETTING TIRED OF YOUR SHIT!”

The three of us, our glorified tripod of friendship, drove cautiously (Angelica was the sober driver) around a dimly lit neighborhood we’ve never visited before with one objective in mind: have our fortunes read by this psychic we found online for Angelica’s birthday. After a couple of minutes of aimless wandering, we find the psychic’s house. Oh yeah, we went to HER place for the fortune reading appointment.

It first started off with tarot card reading. Prior to graduating high school awhile back, a good friend of mine gave me a tarot card reading. It wasn’t a good reading.  After my freshman year of college passed I came back home for the summer, I met back up with my tarot card reading friend to tell her just how the reading was true. It was one hell of an emotional year.

All the times I’ve mentioned being emotional in some sort.

Years pass and I pick up card reading on my own, using traditional playing cards to read fortunes for myself and others. Then this past birthday came and I received a set of travel sized tarot cards from another good friend (Angelica). That’s when tarot reading became a norm for our tripod, reading each others’ fortunes whenever we hung out on the weekends. Then Angelica had her birthday and I had the idea of booking an appointment with an actual psychic.

We’re welcomed into the psychic’s house and individually have our readings done in private. Angelica goes first, so Reiki and I stay back in the living room and watch reruns of Law and Order: Criminal Intent (apparently Jeff Goldblum was the lead actor for awhile). After Angelica’s reading, I go into the backroom for mine.

I bet you didn’t know he was on television…no, you’re lying.

I take a seat and the psychic (Sonia) starts shuffling her cards, asking me to cut the pile and to make separate piles accordingly. She starts drawing the cards and the illustrations illicit curiosity within me; illustrations of colors in varying patterns. That’s when she states that I’m not from San Antonio.

“No, I’m not from here.”

“They’re telling me you traveled here and…you’re not happy here.”

Oh shit.

“You’re not happy here…and you’ve been pushed, or contemplated leaving.”

Uh huh.

“But they’re saying…to stay. You have to stay because…you’re learning; you’re going through a growing process and it involves the emotional stress and pain you’re going through.”

Hah…well then.

The reading continues and she touches on how it’s been an emotional roller coaster ride for me since coming to San Antonio. After explaining how the “emotional journey” has been necessary, that’s when she says,

You are going to be a very powerful man.

Wow. Really? Really? That’s what the guides, the spirits? That’s what they’re saying?

Really? The hipster vest wearing idiot spilling the wine in this picture? He’s gonna be powerful?!

I was speechless. I was in awe. She had me hooked. She considered herself to be a rather powerful person, but in comparison to what I was going to become, she was a “small fry.”

I’ve never been the best at believing in myself, but I’ve always been damn sure of what I want to do with my life. It’s a pipe dream; a long stretch; crazy but it’s what I want to do. Ever since realizing the dream, I’ve been so hell bent on leaving behind a legacy. Others say they believe in me; only a few actually do, and I feel it.

The next big thing (two conjoined) that she touched on was loving myself and others. She mentioned how I needed to put myself on a pedestal. Throughout my life, I’ve always put others before me just for the sake of doing good to others. But as soon as she finished that reading, a confused look grew upon her face.

“Despite that…they’re also saying to continue loving. Don’t stop loving the way you love.”

She explained how, despite how I needed to put myself on a pedestal, I had to continue loving the way I do because that is what makes me who I am; that is what keeps me sane. It’s how I’m programmed to function. I couldn’t help but tear up a little because I’ve always felt conflicted on the subject. Conflicted because I didn’t think I was capable of loving myself as consistently as I love others and act upon that love.

“And now that has to go both ways. Meaning, don’t deny whatever love comes your way. You don’t get to decide where that love comes from. Just accept love wherever it may find you.”

“FOUND YOU! NOW DEAL WITH IT!”

…heh. We don’t get to decide where love comes from…that’s true, attested by the past years. After spending so much time fighting with myself on where love should come from, who it should come from… It made life feel a little simpler hearing how we don’t get to decide where love comes from. It just mattered that we accepted it or not, and for my own sake, I should always accept it, especially as one that constantly gives.

I don’t know if it correlates or not, but in some weird abstract way, it makes sense to me that I’m selfish about where love comes from. Maybe because, to make up for the lack of love for one’s self, we work more to love others and to show that love, like a textbook display of insecurity. And through that we seek validation in the way we give of ourselves to others. But as soon as loves comes our way – especially from a source we don’t want – we shut down. We romanticize this scenario of where love should come from when we should just be happy with the love that we already have and receive.

Sonia mentioned numerous informative things during the reading, but it was the last reading that tied it all together.

“They’re saying…that you’re going through a catalytic moment right now. That this whole experience has been an extreme awakening of the mind and soul.

Hell yeah I was going through a catalytic moment. Everything that’s been on my mind and kept me up at night, all the feelings that I’ve been feeling up to that very point, it’s all been touched on and mentioned by this complete stranger…and somehow I found comfort in that. Somehow, because all of this came from a complete stranger, it made me believe it even more. The funny thing was that everything she mentioned to me, I already knew to some extent. They were already things that I believed in or preached or strive to live by…yet it made an even deeper impact all because it came from a psychic I found online just the day before.

This is Sonia’s website. I highly recommend anyone interested in psychic readings to get in contact with her for a truly enlightening experience!

I find myself wanting to continue writing, but I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’ve exhausted all that I could with the whole experience. If there’s anything I could leave you with, it’s to love yourself and to accept love wherever it finds you.