Are you who you think you are?

Think about it. Are you sure that you truly understand who you are deep down? Is your perspective accurate? And if so, where did it come from? I am convinced that most people do not know who they are, because most people take what others say about them, and assimilate to their ideal. We become their puppets. We are but puppets to society, succumbing to the norms that have been set in place. Not that this is a bad thing. We must obey societies rules in order for peace, organization, and justice to ensue. Cut all of that out, who are we really? Are you really kind? Am I really polite? Do we even care? What is mankind's true nature?

I recently just had my birthday. Birthdays in my family have a special tradition. Everyone says one thing they like about the birthdayee. As my brothers and sisters told me what they admired about me, I began to think to myself, "Really? Is that me?" This got me thinking, how well do I really know myself. I have been socially constructed, through life's experiences, to become the individual I am today. I know that if tomorrow I woke up with no memory, I would be a completely different individual. But what would create this new person? Mostly outer sources. Sure we can choose what we want, but we are highly influenced by the external. We have been trained to act in a certain way in ever special circumstances we are thrust into.That is why parenting is so crucial.

I think we see what people are really like when they are put in a situation in which they have never thought about, prepared for, or have been trained to handle. Like a natural disaster, awkward moments, or intense quick situations. In those moments true human nature appears.
Let me give you an example. I was playing in a softball game the other night. It was coming down to the wire. It was obvious that we needed to make some big plays in order to win the game in the extra innings. We had two outs and needed a third to get out of the inning. I was playing catcher. They were nearing the end of their batting order. They had runners on second and first. The batter stepped up and hit a blooper to left field. The runner on second was waved on to home plate. Our out fielder made a tremendously accurate throw to home plate where I was at. I caught the ball and tagged the runner clearly before home plate. The ump called him safe. I reacted in the most embarrassing way. I thought the game was over. Time had expired, and I figured all hope was lost. I threw the ball down in disgust and cursed the ump over and over. A second runner saw my error and advanced to home as well. I went nuts. I couldn't believe what had taken place. Little did I know that we had a chance to match. We ended up winning, but it didn't even taste good. I felt like an idiot. But in those short moments, I saw who I was underneath the euro hawk and v-neck shirt.

So who are you? What really defines a person?

Estabon Gondolfo Kid

My little brother has returned home. I haven't seen him in almost four years. I thought it would be weird, seeing him for the fist time. Maybe I was expecting it to be awkward. To be honest, it was as if it was just another day. We had just been away for a few days. We picked up right where we left off.. at each others throats.

I don't really know when this brotherly rivalry started. Maybe it was when we had to not only share the same room, but the same bed. Every morning would end up with a fight of some sort. I would win, due to my size and innate cruelty. He eventually conceded the bed to me and slept on the floor. That was a fateful day, when I realized that if I pushed my weight around, I could get him to do what I wanted.

Perhaps because of the differences in likes and interests, it provided more fuel to the fire. Then again, maybe it was my pride. Here is the thing, he has returned home, a man. He can stick up for himself, be his own man, and decide things for himself. I gotta respect that. Ya know? Yeah... you know. 

Since seeing him I have fought the desire to be the big brother, I guess I still have my own pride to deal with. Anyhow, I have walked a mile in his shoes, and tried to see things from his perspective. I love the guy. He doesn't care what people think, or say about him. Esta bon, welcome home brother. 

A.I.

He was dubbed the answer. To what? No one really knows. His intelligence is obvious. Just watch...

Outta my League.

Its a Monday night, it is dark outside. I drive alone home, only the fog lights are on, just thinking. I ask myself, did you really just get back from the Eden?

Monday morning. No work, the steer skid is still out of commission. I wrestle out of bed wondering what I am going to do to entertain myself until the evening's plans. The People and I go to get a hair cut, cause I need to look sharp for tonight. My salon specialist suggests a Euro Faux Hawk. She promises that I will have "more play with the ladies than I have ever had." I of course call her bluff, and get the hawk (come to find out she is a total liar).

The day passes uneventfully. No car accidents, no littering fines, no bums calling out for help. Nothing. Suddenly, just like a heart attack, the night arrives. I need to get ready, because tonight I journey to Eden with Jasmine.

Jasmine is what I would like to call Ms. Independent. Ne-Yo was singing about her. She has her own things, she does her own things. She doesn't need a man to provide for her. It is sufficient to say that she intimidates me. The combination of beauty and intelligence in one woman is just stupid crazy good, but throw in fun, genuine, and kind... shoot, better call up the President cause we have a national security situation up on over here! And what do I have to offer her? Cosmetically and materially? Nothing. That is why I can't lose... or win.

Eden is a splendid little spot north of Utah. It is relatively secluded. We are attending a wedding reception tonight, which makes things a little awkward as is. People are asking if we are a couple, dating, and such. But I handle cool like a ice cube, cause nothing is really cooler than that. However, I am completely surrounded by ball flexors. I mean the real deal. These fools embody the definition of flexing nuts.

I was feeling pretty confident, then all of the sudden I realized that I have really nothing to offer this woman. I need to get with the program. I am usually pretty calm and collected, but when I think about calling her, or going over to her place, I get rattled. I don't know what it is. Maybe I just know that I am a minor league hitter swinging in the big leagues (as said by McD). No, I know I have a lot to offer.... like.... fun? We'll roll with that. Anyways, she flat out scares me. I do not know what to do. Making a move seems more difficult then reciting the alphabet backwards in Swahili.

Yes, you did just back from Eden bro; and yes, you are a fool. However, it is not about how many home runs you have, it is about how many times you go up to swing. Right? Just a confident booster for myself. Swing for the fences, aim for the moon, hitch a wagon to a star......

A Q&A with your author.

Interviewer: David, you have been blogging for awhile. Tell us a little about your experience?
David H: I have been blogging for over a year now, maybe even longer. It has really flown by. I started blogging on bullvselephant, but my niche wasn't quite fitting in, so I split off and created fiveten. The journey has been rewarding. I have been able to post as often as I would like. There isn't too much pressure, due to the lack of my blog's popularity. Nonetheless, it is a way for me to get things off my chest or just be silly.

Interviewer: Why is it called 'In the corner with five ten?'
David H: I am five foot ten inches, which my older brothers would remind me of constantly a few years ago. Even though it is considered short, I like my height...
INT: I think your lying.
DH: Maybe I am. Anyways, I have always admired boxers. Their talent, finesse, ferocity, and toughness. If I could be pro in any sport and be the greatest ever it would be boxing. Sorry Ali, move over.
INT: What does that have to do with what I am asking?

INT: What suggestions would you give to new bloggers?
DH: I am a little surprised that you asked me that. I mean, I am not the guru, but in my limited experience, I would say being original is the best. People need to be themselves. I have looked at a lot of blogs. A lot are just pictures and captions, yet they have tons of people following them. Then there are those who have very serious posts that tackle political, social, and economic issues. It seems to me that the biggest failures arise when someone tries to copy anther's work.

INT: What is your biggest fear? If you have any...
DH: (Long pause, he exhales air) Wow, my biggest fear. Uh, failing. That is pretty broad, so let me narrow it down.
INT: Yeah, that would be special if you did so.
DH: Failing within the home. Ultimately I want to be a family man. I want to be able to provide for a family. I want to be the best Dad and Father. Failing at that would be the worst. I don't think it would matter what I accomplish if I fail my family.

INT: (sarcastically) Real Original. I know that you love music. Which artist were you listening to right before you came into this interview?
DH: Taio Cruz.
INT: You like Canadians huh?
DH: I really like his music, it is catchy, fun to dance to; if that is what you mean.
INT: His lyrics are a little crude, wouldn't you agree?
DH: I guess some are laced with sexual overtones.
INT: So, that makes it OK, if just 'some' have those bad messages? Would you eat a cupcake if it had a cockroach in it? Huh?
DH: Is this some kind of interrogation? Or a Sunday school lesson? (Turns around to his manager) Who is this guy?
INT: (In a snooty voice) Just answer the questions. Don't side step them.
DMGRH: No, music with inappropriate lyrics are not acceptable. Sorry.

INT: How is your dating life? You write about that 20% of the time, so it must be going good right? (Scough).
DH: Decent. I am working a lot, which doesn't allow much time to hunt for chicas. I have a few that I am currenty seeing. Nothing spectacular.
INT: Sounds like you are striking out a lot.
DH: I never said that.
INT: Don't get defensive. Take it easy. I just think you should be honest with yourself, me and all of your readers.

INT: Where do you see yourself in ten years?
DH: What is that, 33? Shoot, you just brought out the big guns. I am not too sure. At the very least in love.
INT: Gross, just threw up. You have been listening to Taylor Swift way too much. Lets be real.
DH: Flying choppers for hospitials. This will obviously be after my military stint. I'll have a few kids. Probably be living on the west coast. California? That sounds nice.

INT: If you could fight any historical person who would it be and why?
DH: Napolean. Just watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure and you'll see where I am coming from. He is a total jerk. Plus I know I would win.
INT: Seems like the easy way out. Personally I would fight Peter the Apostle.
DH: Seriously? Why?
INT: He would give me a run for my money. The man had passion. I connect with that. But I'll ask the questions. Just relax.

INT: Would you change the age to vote?
DH: I thought you would never ask. Yes. I would change it to 22. The percentage of young adults really astute with political issues is really small.
INT: What about the age to wear skinny jeans?
DH: Yes, 55.
INT: Age to smoke?
DMGRH: No. Seems fair that they have to wait that long to start killing themselves.

INT: Given the perfect circumstances, would you run for President?
DH: Is that really even a question? Cause in my mind the perfect conditions is world peace, prosperity, and sure victory for me. Yes. I would.
INT: HA, little did you know that after you won everything collapses! The world literally collapses on itself!
DH: Can we not play the what if game.

What I write about

One man told me that I write too much about women and dating. Well, here are the FREAKING numbers. Enjoy payaso. Click on picture for a larger picture.

30 total posts.
Sports 3 10%
Girls/Dating 6 20%
Hommies 2 7%
College Life 3 10%
Work 4 13%
ME! Posts 5 17%
Fun Bag 7 23%
30 100%

Pearl

My older brother dubbed her 'Pearl'. I am sure when he first bought her she had a glossy shine. She must've been beautiful. He babied that car. He would speak to her before getting it, patting her hood, letting her know that he would fill her up again with premium gasoline. As time went on my brother's family grew and Pearl became obsolete, in a sense. She still remained close to his heart, and not wanting to part ways with her completely, he gave her to me. Poor Pearl.

Since that fateful day, I have done my best in destroying her; unintentionally I might add. After two accidents, she has a wonderful looking grill. Only the fog lights remain. Both of the doors on the drivers side do not work. It is quite the adventure every time I step in. I wonder what will happen next, not that there is any fault on her behalf. I mostly wonder what looks better as I get in the car; going around the car, opening the passenger door and reaching across to open the drivers side door, OR climbing across the seat. Did I fail to mention that she shakes when you reach high speeds? The hood also is a good reminder of my fantastic stewardship, as it bounces up and down whenever I am driving. She definitely gets noticed a lot more than before.

I love her though. I do. She is like me. Faithful, not the best looking, First On Race Day or Found On Roadside Dead, and loads of fun. At least that I what I like to think.

One of the funnest games Pearl and I play is "Escape and Elude." Fairly complicated, you try to escape and elude potential police officers who want to pull us over because of our headlights. At night everyone must be considered a cop. When driving we are on the constant watch for potential FUZZ. We look for empty driveways to pull into and turn off the lights. We hold our breath if we pass one. More often than not we ghostride through red lights. We have had some close calls, but with every successful escape we gain more confidence.

I have vowed to baby her a little more than I have in the past. I promise Pearl that I will change your oil personally and on time. I promise that very soon I will vacuum out your insides. I promise that I will come up with some kind of improvisational head lights. I promise that I will no longer get in any more accidents. I promise Pearl that I will always love and defend you.

Yogging

I haven't ran in a long time, I mean, I haven't ran more than a mile in a long time. There was this point in my life when I went to the gym everyday because I was "preparing" for "marriage", which obviously didn't work out. So, I gave it up. Running. The gym. Trying to look really good. That whole none sense. Now, I let the wolverine hair bloom on my upper arms. Very soon it will become a cape. I will transform from man to mutant to superhero. Pretty sweet...It is a liberating feeling though, running. Its like that feeling when you dump a girl, or when you buy some sweet new sneakers, or when you punch a person in the face. The problem with all of those feelings is that you immediately regret them after you have made the choice. You end up missing the girl. You realize that high tops are extremely annoying. And when you hit someone hard, it hurts your hand. What I am trying to say, in a weird way, is that some things need to stay in place. Stay with me...

The hardest part about running is the beginning. It doesn't matter how much I've stretched, or hydrated myself, I almost die one minute into it. I feel like my sides are going to rip open. My lungs feel like gerbils are in them, scratching their way out. My legs become like bags of sand. Painful, those first few steps, but soon happy will you be (Yoda said that). I just keep telling myself, "you'll catch your wind." Then a bunch of saliva gremlins decide to free themselves from the catacombs of my throat. I hate it. I would rather audition to be on a children show. In the end though, I feel like a winner. I feel like NIKE should be filming me right then because I am dripping with sweat. It is that real and intense. Puddles people. YOU MUST PROTECT THIS HOUSE!!! I just wonder how Adam felt when he ran first. UTTERLY CONFUSED. I still am.

Hello My Name Is__________

Names are important. All rappers want you to know there names. "My name is.. wha.. my name is... chica chica..". Professional athletes let you know their names quickly after they make a sweet play. In ancient times, they believed if you had the name of another you had power of them. They protected their names. Your name was more important than your life. Take for instance Odyssous in the Odyssey, he only gave out his name when it was absolutely necessary. In medieval times your name meant everything. Names are extremely symbolic and important in the scriptures. Our very salvation relies upon names.

David means beloved, coming from the Hebrew language. It is a very common name. I love it though. It is strong and gives me a sense of belonging. I think I look like a David, then again, why wouldn't I?

My beef is when someone instantly calls me Dave or Hyde (I realize that by posting this could lead to some serious hazing, but so what, its a blog). I hate that name. No, what I mean to say is that I hate when acquaintances or people that aren't really friends call me Dave. It is such a familiar term. I don't mind people close to me calling me Dave. I love it. Here is what really gets me going; someone asks my name, I say 'David', and they instantly call me Dave. Just like that, they jumped through the friendship fire and trust octagon. I sometimes correct them, I have even had people ask me which I prefer, but at the end of it all I am still stuck with Dave. Dave. HA!

Dave sounds like a grease monkey. A dude who would crush cans on his head like they were made of styrofoam. Dave sounds like he is a bartender, ready to eat his liver on que. He is gruff, cusses like a sailor, and is too crazy for anyone to be around over the weekend. On the other side of the coin, Dave is the type of guy who finishes last, he is the nice guy. And nice guys always finish last. Oh, Dave. There is no in between with Dave, he is either a meat head or a sissy. Just add an i after the v and you have a first class pansy. Dave is the friend who is always there, mainly cause he has no where else to go.

My mother named me David for a reason. It could be worse, one of my math tutors called me Sam. Eww. Sam? Me? Never. David. Call me Vook in the pants, hands in the pants, 5'10", whatever. Just do not assume you and I are close enough that you can call me Dave. You'll know when. Trust me. It will feel right. The hair on my neck won't bristle and your spleen won't feel like it is about to burst.

D.M.G.R.H

The People

He stands about five inches taller than me, or at least it feels like it. His dark hair is often covered by a brown hat. His skills are often displayed on waters surface and the baseball diamond. Never a harsh or unkind word escapes his lips. I don't think I have ever heard him talk bad about a single soul. In a nut shell, he is a solid man. I don't think there is any better complement than that. I wish it was his birthday so I could tell him all the things I love about him, and it wouldn't seem gay.

Better known on the streets of C-City as, "The People," Kaclynn has forged a bond of friendship with me that will withstand the sands of time. He has taught me important principles that are keys to life like, good language, honesty, kindness, humility, but most of all, how to throw a baseball. We play catch quite often. I used to short arm the ball and couldn't quite get it to him, now I look at mountains and laugh. Uncle Rico has nothing on me. I love extending my arm behind my head and launching that white sphere at another human being, just to see them catch it and hear the THUMP of the mitt. Ah! Art in its true form.

He is a good friend and has made me a better one. The People, you are an inspiration to thousands of Taiwanese people and to me.

THE PHATOM POST

My friend told me that I wrote some post about why guys do not really want to be friends with girls. I have never written such a post. I have talked with him about it, maybe in passing, or a short text at four in the morning, but I have not tackled this straight on. Here it is. Thrilling, I know, like the seventh Rocky that is coming out soon... The Expendables. Good ol' Sly.
Take what I say with a grain of salt.

FACT: Boys, over the age of eight, do not want to be friends with girls.
1. When boys turn eight they can choose right from wrong. Therefore, they gain a knowledge and understanding that being friends with a girl sucks. Unless they have homosexual tendencies. Wait that is wrong. So, it is a double negative and shouldn't exist. Glad we cleared that up.
a. Girls cannot belch, throw, fart, eat, pee, run, talk, or do any other daily activity like a boy. Sexiest? Yes. Because there are two sexes. One is more prone to other skills than the other. Pretty obvious.
b. Girls do not like to be silly and stupid as much a boys do. Meaning, girls silly is painting toe nails and giggling about Bobby's cute mole on his face. Guys silliness is throwing pennies at cars and making fun other of each other. Girls mature much faster.
2. Men were designed to be attracted to girls, and visa versa. IE Scarlet Johansen. Brad Pitt.
a. I have had a crush on a girl since I can remember. When I was in the "special school", I crushed mad on my teacher. Then it was Jess, then Crystal, then Cindy, then Rachel, then Cindy again, then Ashley and Kiley... this can go on till right now. Boys have the hots for ladies all the time. HARDWIRED INTO US. Take a physiology or human sexuality class.
3. Would you rather watch how to lose a guy in ten days or you've got mail. Neither? Oh, sorry, that is what she wants to watch tonight for the hang out, while your man friends are tipping back on dew and watching Walker Texas Ranger. OUCH. Have fun. Maybe you should put some moisturizer on your hands too.
4. Watch Just Friends. He hated being her friend. He loved that blonde like I love raspberry jam. And I LOVE raspberry jam, especially on toast. What happens in the end. Seals the deal.

If you are still not convinced, then I have not done my job. Ask a man. Ask Jeeves. Ask your mother. I bet she married her best friend. Yeah, cause he was never her friend. She thought that... but he didn't, now you exist. Thank your dad next time you see him. Say, "Father, thank you for not allowing yourself to stay in the friends zone. You have done society a great service. I owe my life to you and will now dedicate it to you. I will make myself a successful person in this world and contribute to the community in which I live. I will be a an outstanding citizen. I will make a difference in more ways than you can now imagine or dream. You are my hero."

I sure hope Bud Light makes a Real Men of Genius commercial about the saps that believe being friends with girls is cool. Ok. Said that wrong. Guys just don't want to be friends. They want more than swapping stories about... whatever girls like to share with boys... and not cuddling while watching a movie. Boys want love; aka coodies.