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Clint Clifford Haugen

Age: 31

Occupation: Fighter turned writer

Marital status: Very single

Hobbies: sleeping, writing, eating, sex, weed, exercise, music, reading, drinking, trying to feel alive.

Hometown: Madras, Oregon; Population: 7,777

31 years ago today I was born in Beaverton, Oregon, to Randy and Dorian Haugen. I was their second child, after my sister, Hannah. My first word was ‘ball’. I had bright blonde hair back then. It’s faded to brown as the seconds have passed me by. I wanted to be an NFL quarterback. And then a professional cage fighter. But now I am trying to be a writer. I don’t really know what 31 years is, even though I’ve lived it. Time changes as we experience it. The more of it we experience, the more our perspective on time change’s. 31 years alive, and this year, I am strangely at peace. Life is going good. What I keep telling people is that I have nothing interesting to complain about these days, and it’s true, I don’t. Life is good. I have some money now, and that’s a first. I have great friends around me. And I have a good family. I have my dog, Stanley Nelson Haugen. He’s a good boy (most of the time). I am handsome and intelligent. I don’t lack confidence mostly because I feel like life is too short not to take action, and in order to take action, we have to be confident; or, maybe in order to take action we have to be willing to fail, and not fearing failure looks like confidence. Yeah . . . maybe.

I used to suffer from imposter syndrome, and I still do. But the more work that I do, the more deserving I feel of the praise that I get sometimes. I remember when all I had were dreams, without any work. Now I have dreams and some work invested into manifesting those dreams. A fighter who turned into a writer? Sounds like there is a good story in there somewhere. I wonder where, though?

I sleep a lot, always have. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s too much, but how could I ever know that? My consciousness must be pretty clean because I sleep soundly most nights. But, unfortunately, I sleep so soundly that I can’t remember my dreams in the morning, and I miss dreaming. I am pretty sure that it is the weed that prevents me from remembering them, but the weed, and the supposed clean conscious, are why I sleep so well. Sometimes, I wonder if I am just severely introverted, but then I remember that I love people. I love being around them and partying with them. I love hearing their stories, and learning from their perspectives. I wonder how many people could honestly say that they love people?

There is one woman that I wish I could see today, but I won’t. She likes to stay hidden from me, maintaining my idea of her, rather than showing me who she really is. And maybe the idea is better . . . but I don’t think so, and I’d rather just get to know her. I am embarrassed to say that we haven’t even met. And I am embarrassed to say that she doesn’t give a shit about me. But that’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Falling for the people who could never fall for us . . . I wonder why we do that? I wonder what our choices in partners reveal about our subconscious? She doesn’t give a shit, and it stings. I asked her what she was doing today and she read it, and then, she left it. Left it all alone. And that’s enough of a reason for a man to have the blues for a few hours on his birthday.

I notice how bad my hands are shaking as a type, and then I notice how fast my heart is beating. It could be because of the mushrooms, and it could be because of caffeine and nicotine. Or it could be the act of writing about yourself on your birthday that makes my hands shake like this.

It’s a nice day today, which I am grateful for. The sun is out and the clouds are staying on the other side of the mountain. I think I’ll go see my dog and get lunch with my brother now. This year will be a year to remember. This year will be alchemy. This year will be a miracle.

Jesus Christ, the man that walks around town carrying a cross just walked by. The timing of these things is still eerie. That's the second time that I’ve seen him this week. 11/17, my birthdate - that I see every day, on my watch and all of the clocks - is relentless today. It's everywhere. They say that seeing your birthdate is a symbol that you are going through a 'spiritual awakening'. Damnit. Well, I guess I’ll ride the ride, and see where I go. Maybe I’ll go ask him why he carries the cross, only, I think I already know his answer. But, if I didn’t ask him that, I’d ask him if he has felt a change in himself since starting to carry a big ass cross on his shoulders. But I think I know what he would say . . .

I just want to make it clear here that I really have seen a man in his twenties or thirties, with long dirty-blonde hair, carrying a giant cross around Bend. It is not a product of my imagination or a metaphor, it is real. And I have no idea what he is about.

CH 11/18/23

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