They’re highly advanced hunters who utilizes lethal strategies involving camouflage. They’re incredibly intelligent, quick learners, and even have a sense of humor. I could very well be describing the Predator. You know, that human-hunting alien from the movie franchise with cloaking capabilities? But alas, I am describing the magnificent octopus.

The differences between these two species should be obvious, right? I mean, one is literally an alien…

Creation vs. Evolution: The Debate Isn’t Quite Dead

I have had the displeasure of discussing theories of how life emerged on Earth with some creationists (I myself being a firm believer of evolution), but as you could guess, the conversation only…

I tend to write about (and attempt to write like) Ernest Hemingway and Jack Kerouac a LOT. You might say they’re my writing idols. Every time I sit down to write, I hope prose as elegant as The Old Man and the Sea spring forth from my fingertips. Every time I travel, I hope to acquire stories as raw and captivating as those found in On the Road.

With this admiration, though, creeps something a bit more sinister: Alcoholism.

Hemingway and Kerouac are both well-known alcoholics, but the list of famous writers/alcoholics doesn’t end there. …

I recently took a part-time job as a bartender. While the main factor in this decision was the money (gotta pay rent somehow, am I right?), I’ve always believed that a job should challenge you to better yourself in one way or another.

That’s how it is for me at least. I need some reason besides a paycheck to get out of bed earlier than I want, and I need something that’ll stick around a little longer than money in my pocket.

When I got into bartending, I thought it would be the perfect part-time work to give me both…

I remember times during my childhood when I would play outside with my friends (crazy I know). We would pretend we were secret agents and hideout near the electrical boxes between our houses, or ride skateboards along the curbs of our driveways as if they were entire skate parks. Looking back on those times, I remember myself as being immensely happy.

Now that I’m older, I see the electrical box as an electrical box. I see the street curb as a curb. The sidewalk is a sidewalk, and I treat it as a sidewalk. …

I recently finished reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau, and let me just say, for someone who wanted to live in solitude in the woods, the guy LOVES to talk. I mean, he legitimately dedicated pages upon pages about how much he loves to talk. He loves to talk so much that the first chapter of his most famous book is 60 pages long, and most of it is just him rambling about things like the cost of flour or his clothing preferences.

I once heard the first chapter called one of the biggest deterrents in the American canon, and…

I find myself deep in the woods once again.

So, I’m sitting on a fallen tree leaning against a branch only 50 feet from a marked trail. Even though I’m in a state park and should expect there to be plenty of humans outside enjoying this oddly warm day in winter just like I’m doing, I’m still baffled every time I hear leaves crunching to the beat of human footsteps behind me. I turn around to watch the person (who either hasn’t noticed me or has but doesn’t bother to say hi, trotting along the woodland trail as happy as…

“Mr. Squire!” The pretty blonde girl calls out.

I stand from the uncomfortable waiting room chair and walk through the door being held open for me.

“How are you today?” She recites.

“Oh, you know. Pretty good. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

There’s never much to say during these things, but there isn’t much else you can do. Our time together is just long enough that to not say anything would go against the rules of avoiding awkward situations. You just have to make polite conversation. You’ve put yourself in this situation, now you’ve got to play by the rules…

The freezing wind forces our necks deeper into our coats, but our feet never stop scurrying along the thin layer of ice sprinkling the sidewalk.

“I’m cutting through the courtyard,” Scott announces through chattering teeth.

I say nothing, my lips too cold to form words, and follow behind him. Anything to get home quicker.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.

The church bells sound out like four descending snowflakes, each smaller and more elegant than the last. My eyes stay glued to the slick sidewalk, carefully shuffling —

I slam into Scott. My arms instinctively wrap around him as my feet slip…