Pea [RHCP]

I'm a little pea
I love the sky and the trees
I'm a teeny tiny little ant
Checking out this and that
I am nothing
So you have nothing to hide
And I'm a pacifist
So I can fuck your shit up

Oh yea I'm small

Fuck you asshole
You homophobic redneck dick
You're big and tough and macho
You can kick my ass
So fucking what

in line, like the rest

All the words around me bite.  They drip with bitterness.  Everyone is so displeased.  It's a simple enough existence in this place I live, but no one is happy.  And rightfully so.  Simple here means "do what you're told".  Yelling is the language, though I don't speak or understand it.  It grates on my nerves.  Sometimes I can almost feel the discontent and anger dripping from the walls and ceiling.  Heavy on my shoulders, it weighs me down.  Quick, someone pull the plug on the drain before I drown.  I fear floating here forever, lungs filled with that which I spit so easily.  Any of us could do what we could to make it easier for all of us, but I don't want to fix it.  I want to escape it.  So until then, I'll continue to contribute to this horrible fucking feeling.  Hence the self-loathing.
Someday I will escape, and I can start having the kind of life that will inspire incredibly more interesting blogging and writing.  Until then, you get this shit, and for writing...I'll keep making shit up.

Perpetual, Slow-Motion, Car Wreck

I’m a goddamn emotional wreck. I think about the past too much. My emotions are all over the place. I wish I had a disorder so I could have a reason. A “get out of self-pity free” card.

Converting self-pity to self-loathing.
Replacing my emotions with jaded cynicism.

So far it’s not working so well. I need to get the fuck out of here. Disappointment is too deeply stained here. Everything I try to do suffers because of this place.

“Sure blame it on the place, if you really tried to do anything, where you lived wouldn’t mean a thing. You could live there if you stopped complaining.”

Well FUCK YOU. I don’t want your goddamn advice. I know what I need. So go fuck yourself.
I’m going crazy.

I need a new me.

Who Gives a Shit? I'd Like To

Sometimes the people who have decided to no longer be a part of my life come wandering through my mind for whatever reason. I wish I could sit here and reminisce about the past, and wish they would at least speak to me, or that we could be friends, or that I could be there for them.

But...

I’m not allowed to give a shit.
It’s bad for me.
And they won’t ever know the difference.
So I’ve chosen apathy for the time being.
It helps.

But...

I’d like to give a shit.

Naked Bullshit

A man is many things, and in his lifetime he has the opportunity to be many different men. Throughout their lives, people reinvent and rediscover themselves time and time again. This is exceedingly so in those oh so important developmental years known as the teenage years. Or as I prefer to call them, the downward spiral. It is in this time we are introduced to many of life’s less than pleasant qualities. Some fuck, and some get fucked. Often both.

In my own short journey, I have been through many a transformation. You might say I was evolving to be the “man” I am today, but that would imply a constant growth, an ascension. Yes, I have been many different men, and I have grown, but cynicism and experience tell me to never think that I (nor anyone else) have grown beyond our flaws and those parts of us we despise. Surprisingly enough, self-loathing is not my motive for writing on this night. Surprise. Tonight, despite my weariness, I aim to share my mental musings on my attempt at removing that which is unnecessary from my life and simplifying myself.

First on the list of overly complicated things in my life: clothing. Every time I must be seen by eyes other than my own and those of my nuclear family, I tend to dress to the nines as best I can. Being from a small town in South Carolina, one can assume correctly that I am almost always quite overdressed for any occasion. What better way to put less thought into my wardrobe than to emulate another person? So lately it’s been jeans, old converse, dark t-shirt, and leather jacket in honor of Hank Moody. Looking like I just got out of bed and don’t give a shit is liberating and refreshing.

(might I point out that, at this point, I passed out last night and am continuing this the next day...which would be today)

Next to go: my overabundance of texting. I’ve come to realize that these little snippets of thought are generally worthless. The only thing I really ever get from a conversation performed without any oral communication is a pissed off feeling when the other person inevitably stops replying. Some manners would be nice, but it’s too much to expect anyone to be polite. Instead of playing “text message etiquette evangelist” and spreading the good word about common decency, giving up my addiction is not only the more productive solution, but also the one that requires less effort on my part. No offense to those of you I do text, but as I’ve said time and time again, if people want to talk they’ll talk. If you want to text me, then you’ll text me, and I’ll respond. I’m not (always) that much of an asshole.

Last on the list: over-thinking my interactions with others. Trying to make good impressions with everyone you meet makes interaction more of a chore. I’ve never enjoyed chores. I’ll admit to being a little vain, checking myself in the mirror, putting a little too much effort in trying to look how I thought was cool. Saying what I want, no matter how crude or brutally honest, gives me a comfort no amount of bullshitting can supply. Now that I’ve accepted the fact that I’m an asshole and probably a bastard, being myself has felt easier. Not to sound like a typical angry teenager, but if someone doesn’t like me they can fuck off. We all die alone anyway.

Had enough of my bullshit about myself? Good, me too. I’m just another douchebag in the march of the fuckheads. Splitting a post up across time is a bad idea. This one is gonna be short I suppose, but that just means you get to waste less of your time reading my rambling. Not sure why you would read through this in the first place. For those of you who did, congrats your shitty past few minutes (or however long it took you to read this) and on having nothing better to do. Seriously, welcome to the club, Motherfucker.

But really, if you’ve got so much time to blow on the internet why aren’t you looking at porn? Porn doesn’t really do it for me, but at the very least go google naked pics of a celebrity before you attept to do something productive, you know you want to you sick fuck.

Where's the Cream Filling?

It’s so hard to find anyone with substance.  Not saying that I’m loaded with the good stuff, though I will say I can bullshit with the best, or whoever is just below the best.  I find the majority of my conversations lacking in correctly spelled words much longer that my common four letter fare.  It’s not that I’m a spelling nazi (I am), it just says something to me when words are constantly misspelled when the clock hasn’t quite struck 10 o’clock and all involved parties are sober.  Of course, there’s more to substance than proper use of spell check, sadly there’s not much involved in my lackluster social interactions of late.  Even the flirting drags on, even though I love to please a beautiful woman with the gift of words.  I also love to please a beautiful woman with gifts of the more intimate variety, but that’s another rant for another night.  My new found self-loathing, which I embrace, tells me it has something to do with my awful attitude and over-abundant cynicism concerning the opposite sex; however, I have come to the conclusion that it is indeed the fault of my chosen conversational partners.

Whatever happened to intelligent women with opinions and thoughtful insights into the various subjects of life in which I am interested?  I’m not asking a lot, I’d just like to have an interaction with a pretty face that didn’t make me feel like I was trying to masturbate in public on a cold winter day.  As you can imagine, there’s no happy ending there, just that tired feeling that leaves you longing for something more that is also preferably a great deal warmer.

Whatever happened to deep, intimate conversations between strangers?  Why is everyone so scared to talk about sex?  I don’t mean that the only worthwhile conversations are ones about sex, more often than you would think healthy for a 19 year old of the male persuasion, sex is the last thing I want to talk about.  I’m simply referring to the sad state of individuals’ intellectual capacity for anything outside the realm of their cut and pasted opinions, religious beliefs, and methods of reasoning.  I feel like I’m spreading myself thin over so many topics, so let’s focus.  This blog is about a lack of substance, so let’s save the sex talk for another time.

Conversation occurs everyday.  So why do so many people seem to suck at it?  When you strike up a conversation with another person and you realize they don’t have anything to say, I think it would only be polite to let them know they should work on that.  Don’t be rude.  Be honest.  If only men were more interested in conversation, all the women I’ve come across lately might be better at it.  When it comes to relationships with women, men are pretty one-dimensional.  It may be a horrible stereotype to say that everything a man does is decided by the member that hangs between his legs, but the majority of a man’s decisions concerning the fairer sex can be, and often are, decided wholly by what his dick wants.  It is a distressing fact that, even after thousands of years of evolution and civilization, this atrocity has not been discouraged on the level required to make us stop.  Men are more than a sexual organ on legs, but as men, we generally fail to let the women we encounter know that things like intelligence, individuality, and personality are just as important as how much their appearance makes us want to ensure the continued survival of our species (or at least go through the motions while using a prophylactic).  Some would say you can’t fuck a personality or get a blow-job from a college degree; well I would say that you can’t discuss the philosophies of Thich Naht Hahn with a pair of breasts or share your poetry or prose with a pussy (yes, I did that for purposes of alliteration).

What I’m basically trying to say is that, as a majority, man has seemingly done all in his power to discourage women from having substance.  Who needs substance when most guys seem to say that they would rather date a girl who puts out quickly than a woman who is more concerned with having something interesting to say.  Please, I need to make sure my genes proliferate, but if I can’t find a girl who’s beauty is more than skin deep, the world’s gonna be short a few “effeminate male body” and “12 inch genital” genes (I only did it for the alliteration, really).  I think that would just be a travesty, but hopefully it won’t come to that.

(12 might be a bit of an exaggeration, but only by a few inches at the most, I swear)

Of course this all applies to men as well, and ladies in this position…I feel your pain.  But as most know (though won’t admit) interactions between two men border on cavemen level most of the time.  And I doubt this next bit is true for most men, but my interactions with women are far more genuine than those I have with men.  Hence my reaction to the lack of conversational partners.  It’s not for completely shallow reasons.  I may be effeminate, but I am still a man.

I can find some pretty lady to stick my tongue in, but that’s only a temporary distraction (unless she was really good, then it might be a slightly longer temporary distraction).  If I could sit down over coffee and have a halfway decent conversation about the possibilities and implications of quantum physics, or discuss how Jack Kerouac perfectly captured rhythm and beat in his writing, I would be overjoyed and inspired for quite some time.  I’m not against going out and doing things, sharing mutual interests, and discovering the possibilities of our own physicalness, but when everything else grows old, when we’re tired, when we’ve exhausted ourselves and can only lie in bed, we always have our words.  I’ve sped through all the physical possibilities so fast sometimes that I’ve basically smashed my face against that large brick wall that is the lack of conversational compatibility.  After that, I’m not pretty.  Shit doesn’t last long then.

What’s the solution?  Fuck if I know.  Go read some books.  Catch up on your Nietzsche.  Don’t ask me, I just point out how fucked up we all are.

I Am Bitter

I am not Buddhist. The best I can manage is the occasional hypocritical bit of philosophy about how we shouldn’t judge others or their choices or beliefs. Our beliefs are our own. But mind and body do not coincide, word and action are not one and the same. Who I am is my business, and who you are is your business. Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t tell you how fucked up I think you are. You are fucked up, I guarantee it. There is no one righteous, no not one. And negative actions have negative consequences.

Despite my apparent disgust with my own actions, I am not apologizing. Instead I embrace self-loathing. I am an asshole, yet I am intelligent and caring. I am intelligent and caring, yet I am an asshole. This is where I should say something like “take it or leave it, bitches”, but that seems so arrogant. It’s as if I were saying that I am better than you if you don’t accept it, and if you do accept it you’re my punching bag, my bitch.

Prick, Asshole, Douchebag, Fuck, what’s the difference? I haven’t been called a Fuck, that’s really the only real difference, besides the spelling, pronunciation, linguistic origins, social acceptance, etc. I like to try to differentiate them, give them different meanings with slight nuances only a true wordsmith like myself would understand. One more thing to be right about. Another chance to have a discussion where I shout “Fuck” for no real reason other than the fact that I like the way it feels to say it.

If I am not Buddhist, as I tell the world, what am I? I am not angry. I am bitter. How do I know this? No, it’s not because you said so. It’s not because a friend pointed it out to me and their wisdom caused me to realize this about myself. If you have said any of this about me, you’re still an asshole and you’re still wrong. You can still go fuck yourself. I don’t mean to offend, it’s just a figure of speech.

What am I? I am Bitter. It is the subconscious philosophy by which I live my life. I don’t express my opinions and ask others to do the same so I can segue to a series of personal attacks against them based on their possibly opposing viewpoint. Having said that, I tend to spend my days on the edge. Whether it’s due to my current life situation built of a series of failures and disappointments, or just my nature, I’m only words away from hopeless romantic or bitter asshole. If I need to explain how this relates, you should stop reading this now and try participating in something that might please your fellow man, like banging your head against a wall till you pass out, or blowing your fellow man, he tends to enjoy that. And for fuck’s sake remember to rubber up if you engage the opposite sex, we don’t want you reproducing and prolonging the life of the idiocy gene.

Returning to the previous topic, I am Bitter. I don’t hate your god, or your religion, but for some reason I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want him to bless me. I don’t want to sit around and bow my head while you converse with your imaginary friend. If there is a god, he’s even more of a slacker than I am, and I’m not quite sure why you’d want to thank him for fuckin around for eternity. I’m jealous, no one thanks me. At least I provide a sometimes entertaining conversation to various persons. And I’ve also provided a few other services that I guarantee your god can’t provide, but I won’t discuss those. I’m not a fucking animal (yes, I’m looking at you, frat boys).

I am Bitter. Families bother me, not the people in them, but the unit as a whole, the control they seem to exercise, the harm they cause. Let people be fucking individuals. I think that’s basically all I have to say on that subject.

I am Bitter from years of being fucked over by girls, being lied to by friends, and being blown off and ignored by everyone else. I know you probably hate me by now, if you’ve even managed to make it this far into my spiel. But as some other douchebag said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t screw with me, if you have an opinion then fucking express it, unless you like being a bitch.” I don’t know who said something similar to that, maybe it was in a dream, or maybe I said it. The point is, the only reason you all get along so well in your safe little circle of pricks is because you’re all a bunch of liars. You tell each other what you think they want to hear with the occasional bit of honesty thrown in for good measure. Maybe you gossip about someone not around or sling the occasional insult. So when I come along and tell you what’s on my mind, your make believe is threatened and you get offended. So you say I’m an asshole. I don’t know if that means I really am an asshole, but what’s the use in denying it. You can try giving me all kinds of different situations that you think are proof against all this, but keep that shit to yourselves, I don’t have all the answers.

For the record, I am Bitter, but at least I’m honest, and I won’t be apologizing any time soon. These thoughts are to be continued, perhaps in a blog, or maybe in a story. I feel I may soon find my Satori.

You know, I think my writing/blogging would be incredibly more interesting if my life were as well. I need something to write about.

what i wrote in a bar

I visited where I used to work the other night. It was mostly empty, so I sat at the bar next to the only other guy there(at least, he was at first). And this is what I wrote while I was there.

-----

when you sit in
a memory from your past
seeing people and things
that haven’t been
a part of you for
well, quite some time
*insert life lesson here*

-----

he sits next to me
and
asks for things
he doesn’t want
quickly denying them
before his server can
make a
move
“it’s mucho grande’”
“I LIKE mucho grande’!”
what a booming yet
simple voice
i wonder if he has an
accent
can’t tell
must
pay
better
attention

-----

tonight was slow
gotta get out
gotta gotta
getget
the
F-, oh i’ve had enough
cursing for the time
being
being
being is easy
living is easy but
uncommon

-----

even us
underage folk
wander to bars when we’re
lost or
feeling down in ourselves
depressed
bitchy
etc.

-----

the ice in my drink
attacked me!
“Defend the last little bit!!!”
how rude

-----

click-on
light-up
pens
customers oh so
amazed
but confused
it only does it every
other
click
“oh look!
a light!”
laughter ensues
i’ll admit
i chuckled, it was funny
got a weird look though
i had revealed i was eavesdropping!
shit
guilty
“i was on TV once!”
yeah
okay
waving in the background of a commercial
doesn’t count

wait
it does?
damn

i wanna be
on TV
too
hey, can i
have your autograph?

laughter ensues

-----

"The Road is Life"

Kerouac is
like a breath of fresh air
stale to some
life to me
life
should be
a breath of
fresh air

fresh air that feeds the flowers
and speaking of
Flowers
thank you Ms.
Flowers
for the introduction

“There was nowhere to go but everywhere.”
-Jack Kerouac

lovely footprints

love is a flowing thing
is a changing thing
is a slippery fucker

slipping right through my fingers
like your hair did while we lay together
and i whispered to you

whispers are all i hear now
floating through the air, from my past
making sure i am still enslaved

slave-driven by my un-Buddhist tendencies
i always mourn for things that i drop
shattering on the floor and cutting into my feet

“bare feet aren’t for traveling“ is what you said
but the earth feels good...till you step on a thorn
looking back i see i’ve left bloody footprints on the concrete

America-Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?

I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my trophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
His big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

wash me away, make me disappear

death draws ever
closer
while i remain right where
i’ve always been
and it all becomes
clear
i feel as if i see
all that matters

and the ocean
the ocean remains the same
spent life till now
combing the beaches
now i feel it’s time
to turn my path
to the waves

let the tide
wash me away
make me disappear

i descend from grace
in arms of undertow
i will take my place
in the Great Below

all the world has closed her eyes
tired faith all worn and thin
for all we could have done
and all that could have been

ocean pulls me close
and whispers in my ear
the destiny I've chose
all becoming clear
the currents have their say
the time is drawing near
washes me away
makes me disappear

what is it

the more i read my poetry, the less i like it
i think i need a new thing
or maybe 5 line poems are what i do >_<

i want to live in the future


that is all

as per usual

fucking figures, the “open mic” went awful, only the people hosting and participating stayed for the actual open mic...and i don’t do so well in front of small groups...i prefer crowds. but i wouldve done shitty either way, i wasn’t prepared, and this is only the second time i’ve gotten to do this in the 3 years i’ve been interested in and writing poetry.

it’s really fucking frustrating

i think poetry is just some stupid thing i wish i could do
time for a new hobby? :/
not like i’ve been doin it alot anyway

eh, who gives a fuck

and i just want to rant a little bit more about how fucking stupid the teachers are who give extra credit for only going for part of the time, way to reinforce that poetry is a thing older people do to bore the rest of us. (not that whats-her-name was bad, i enjoyed some of her stuff, but it wasn’t exactly engaging to listen to her read...not every poet is a performer, and not every performer is a poet >_< )

and also, just an idea...at a “school hosted” event, it might be a good idea to suggest that people avoid ordering huge fucking margaritas when a large portion of the attendees are underage...though I’d prob be singing a different tune if I weren’t underage XP

also, tuesday is prob a pretty shitty pick of a day for an event, especially one taking place late in the evening.

okay, done venting.
mostly i’m just pissed off about the lack of a crowd, and my idiocy in not preparing better *sigh*

[thisishowiwritethink.shout]

people tell me i write
strangely
so as is usually the common response from a
young not-quite-still-teenager
but
still-not-quite-adult
i feel the need to explain myself

first i start off with a thought
like
"i write poems how i think"
then i expand on that idea
with a
very similar statement
"if you could read my mind it would read like
one of my poems"
see what i do?
i use spacing
(when written)
and
tempo
(when spoken)
to emphasize the
important parts

i also add in
afterthoughts
those little bits in your head
that
most people don't say
well i say 'em
and i
write them
cause that's how i writethink
motherfucker

and then i over use
the word
Fuck!
and
Goddamn!
i like to
fucking
emphasize it
...
goddammit
...
cause thats how i fucking writethink
(andthereyoucansee
anexampleofhowiliketo
combine words into one)

and usually
when i write
i like to repeat myself
cause i like to think
it'll leave an impression
and usually
when i write
i like it to sound a little
angry
and usually
when i write
i'm
speaking it
in
my
head

and there you have it
folks
another thing i do
when i writethink
poems
i like
to
seperate
the
words
kind of
like
it's
a
drumroll
leading up to
something big
and then i let it down easy

sometimes
i get carried away
and i write too much
let me rephrase that
everytime i write
i get carried away
and i write too
much
but that's just how i writethink

and it's a shame if you're
reading
this
that you can't hear it
cause
there's nothin
to all these
goddamn words
the important part
is
in the way i
say it
cause it's been proven
only 10% percent of communication
is
what we say
the other
90%
consists of things
such as
body language
the tone of your voice
your
facial expressions
and sometimes
even
how you smell

but as per usual
i've gotten a bit off subject
so let me
apologize
and now i'm pretty sure you
know
...
this is how i
write
think
shout

[mutant_genius]

look out i warned you all the sky would
be dripping red paint and
kool aid
cause that's what happens you
motherfucker, when we choose to salute
that large man in the black robe with
the
big
shiny
scythe

fire your guns up into the sky
i told you its not safe to
fire your guns up into the sky
and now its
bleeding
precipitating
red rain
big bright blue is slain
and we're all going to
Hell
for it

i warned you
but you
wouldn't listen
to me
and why should you I'm just a
freak of nature
with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three

so please please please
please, you
motherfuckers
listen to me cause I'm the one
who told you what would happen if you
did as you do
and wasn't i
right?
use those cannons to launch
fireworks and
plant flowers in your rifle barrels
lets make this a
great
big
celebration of
life
god dammit

i thought by now we'd all
be done with
bigotry and solving
issues with guns
yea that's right
fucker i got
issues with guns
and i don't wanna hear you
say shit about
my way of thinking
at least i ain't the one compensating with a
great big metal shaft
that erupts
with smoke and light and
more metal, who's only purpose is
to take from others that which you have no right
and
to make your devil's job easier
now he knows which of you to send straight to
Hell
you
i say it's
you

now get that thing
outta my face
don't think i'll submit and
fall to my knees just cause my
hands are open
it don't
mean
surrender, i'm just
tryin to show you a bit of
humility

and i'm the god damn mutant genius
the freak of nature with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three
so i should know
and i know

BURN_madly or An Ode to "On the Road"

i wish life was like
Dean Moriarty said it was
i could just
let
the wheel
go

come on
let’s go
out there
to the west
back
to the east
then back
to the west
rinse and
repeat
until fulfilled
then pump ourselves
full of
caffeine
and get it all down on a big old roll
of teletype paper

me and you
let’s sit
think
talk
share
fall in love

coffee?

the two of us
you and i
we never were
and so we are
perfect

oh but
surprise

we’re mad
you and i
good thing the only people for me
are the mad ones
who never say a common thing

now let’s all go burn
burn bright
crackling loudly
burn fast
crackling loudly
burn long

let’s all
go mad
and
burn out

Random assortment of bits of itty bitty poetry [work in progress]

our speech was like spontaneous combustion
unexpected and words tended to explode
into new ideas, hybrids of old ones
new ones entirely
"have you read On the Road?"
and suddenly we were on about
writing poetry and
drinking coffee
sounds perfect

----------

we go out in jeans and t-shirts
looking and being average
we get buried in no less than our nicest suit
not sure what that means
but it sounded important when i thought it

----------

i'm
tired
if you can't tell
i just slept all night
well that's what happens
when you sleep

----------

it is said
my ancestors danced
to bring rain
whether this is true
i do not know

----------

the two of us
you and i
we were never
and so we are
perfect

----------

i may be a fool
but i’m not your fool
and
you may not be a fool
but that doesn’t mean you’re not a bitch

----------

seduction isn’t love
that’s why i prefer to
woo

do
you
prefer
to
woo
too?

----------

stupid ideas
end up written down
and typed up
with words left out

now it’s poetry

----------

full minds prefer
mostly

empty

pages

----------

pretend this
is
exactly
whatever you need

and you wont have to call me
in the morning

but
tell me
how do you like your eggs?

----------

E-Social

Though my social life has been sucking pretty bad lately, my interactions on internet social media (ie, Twitter and Simler, facebook not so much because i know all those people and that seems to give them the excuse to ignore me online) have been rather interesting and fun. Good interactions on Twitter again after a long dry spell, and Simler gets better everyday. Social media relies on the people involved, and between Facebook and Simler, the people on Simler seem to be genuinely friendlier and more interested in interacting with people. Facebook is just like having a cell phone, something people seem to think they need to have but shouldn’t use unless it’s the end of the world.

Facebook=narcissist heaven
And this is why:
On Facebook we take quizzes, update our profiles, and upload pics of ourselves...and those are the most popular activities on FB...not actually interacting. Sure FB Chat is popular, but it sucks. If people really wanted to interact in a chat environment we’d all upload our AIM SN (or whatever chat client you use) to FB and all talk somewhere more reliable XP So really, FB is more like anti-social media. Even all this sharing of youtube videos and whatnot is just us saying “look! I have good taste in shit! agree with me!”

But I digress

I was gonna go into details of all the great interactions I’ve had on Twitter and Simler lately, but howbout you join up and see for yourself :P It’s been so great on Simler that it makes me want to move out west where alot of people on there are from XP

in a rut

haven’t been posting, or writing, or doing much of anything...i’m in a rut and can’t seem to find a way out

ugh

In honor of one of my favorite holidays...

[before you read this, just know I don't mean to bash anyone, just pointing out some facts of history I think people should be a little more aware of]

First, I just want to point out that Jesus was not born on December 25th. He wasn't even born in 1 BC as is the claim. I'm not going to bother quoting shit to prove this, if you haven't learned this by now then google it, look it up, read about it, do your own research.

Now, I want to show some info on the very first recorded celebration of this thing we all now call Christmas. Yes, this is documented and not made up to bash anyone.

-----                Roman pagans first introduced the holiday of Saturnalia, a week long period of lawlessness celebrated between December 17-25. During this period, Roman courts were closed, and Roman law dictated that no one could be punished for damaging property or injuring people during the weeklong celebration. The festival began when Roman authorities chose “an enemy of the Roman people” to represent the “Lord of Misrule.” Each Roman community selected a victim whom they forced to indulge in food and other physical pleasures throughout the week. At the festival’s conclusion, December 25th, Roman authorities believed they were destroying the forces of darkness by brutally murdering this innocent man or woman.

        The ancient Greek writer poet and historian Lucian (in his dialogue entitled Saturnalia) describes the festival’s observance in his time. In addition to human sacrifice, he mentions these customs: widespread intoxication; going from house to house while singing naked; rape and other sexual license; and consuming human-shaped biscuits (still produced in some English and most German bakeries during the Christmas season).

        In the 4th century CE, Christianity imported the Saturnalia festival hoping to take the pagan masses in with it. Christian leaders succeeded in converting to Christianity large numbers of pagans by promising them that they could continue to celebrate the Saturnalia as Christians.[2]

        The problem was that there was nothing intrinsically Christian about Saturnalia. To remedy this, these Christian leaders named Saturnalia’s concluding day, December 25th, to be Jesus’ birthday.

        Christians had little success, however, refining the practices of Saturnalia. As Stephen Nissenbaum, professor history at the University of Massachussetts, Amherst, writes, “In return for ensuring massive observance of the anniversary of the Savior’s birth by assigning it to this resonant date, the Church for its part tacitly agreed to allow the holiday to be celebrated more or less the way it had always been.” The earliest Christmas holidays were celebrated by drinking, sexual indulgence, singing naked in the streets (a precursor of modern caroling), etc.

        The Reverend Increase Mather of Boston observed in 1687 that “the early Christians who first observed the Nativity on December 25 did not do so thinking that Christ was born in that Month, but because the Heathens’ Saturnalia was at that time kept in Rome, and they were willing to have those Pagan Holidays metamorphosed into Christian ones.”[3] Because of its known pagan origin, Christmas was banned by the Puritans and its observance was illegal in Massachusetts between 1659 and 1681.[4] However, Christmas was and still is celebrated by most Christians.

        Some of the most depraved customs of the Saturnalia carnival were intentionally revived by the Catholic Church in 1466 when Pope Paul II, for the amusement of his Roman citizens, forced Jews to race naked through the streets of the city. An eyewitness account reports, “Before they were to run, the Jews were richly fed, so as to make the race more difficult for them and at the same time more amusing for spectators. They ran… amid Rome’s taunting shrieks and peals of laughter, while the Holy Father stood upon a richly ornamented balcony and laughed heartily.”[5]

        As part of the Saturnalia carnival throughout the 18th and 19th centuries CE, rabbis of the ghetto in Rome were forced to wear clownish outfits and march through the city streets to the jeers of the crowd, pelted by a variety of missiles. When the Jewish community of Rome sent a petition in1836 to Pope Gregory XVI begging him to stop the annual Saturnalia abuse of the Jewish community, he responded, “It is not opportune to make any innovation.”[6] On December 25, 1881, Christian leaders whipped the Polish masses into Antisemitic frenzies that led to riots across the country. In Warsaw 12 Jews were brutally murdered, huge numbers maimed, and many Jewish women were raped. Two million rubles worth of property was destroyed.


Okay, that's Christmas, now let's take a look at this favorite holiday of mine that seems to get such negativity from so many people. Not to say your beliefs are wrong, but I've noticed a lot of people also have no idea what Halloween is (or Christmas for that matter).

-----                The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom, and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.

        To commemorate the event, Druids built huge sacred bonfires, where the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices to the Celtic deities.

        During the celebration, the Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other's fortunes. When the celebration was over, they re-lit their hearth fires, which they had extinguished earlier that evening, from the sacred bonfire to help protect them during the coming winter.

        By A.D. 43, Romans had conquered the majority of Celtic territory. In the course of the four hundred years that they ruled the Celtic lands, two festivals of Roman origin were combined with the traditional Celtic celebration of Samhain.

        The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. The second was a day to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. The symbol of Pomona is the apple and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain probably explains the tradition of "bobbing" for apples that is practiced today on Halloween.

        By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into Celtic lands. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saints' Day, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration was also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween. Even later, in A.D. 1000, the church would make November 2 All Souls' Day, a day to honor the dead. It was celebrated similarly to Samhain, with big bonfires, parades, and dressing up in costumes as saints, angels, and devils. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmas.


So in all honesty, the Celtic celebration doesn't excite me too terribly much (wearing animal skins? That's just disgusting and immoral) but that was a long time ago, and just about every religion was sacrificing animals (or had before). But wait, what's this? The Catholic church performed almost the exact same celebration? (minus the animal killing and such) THEY DRESSED UP AS DEVILS?!? Aren't they EVIL?! Um, NO! So what's the problem? Misinformation, that's the problem, as it often is in these situations.

So what am I doing for Halloween? Dressing up in a completely homemade Star Trek Science Officer Uniform that I am putting a lot of time, effort, and money into.

Only kidding...I'll be sacrificing a goat and drawing a pentagram on my driveway with it's blood, all while reciting spells from the Necronomicon

;)

It’s hard to sit here and pretend like the worst of my problems is loneliness. The music helps, especially Ryan Adams. And I guess I would feel a lot better if I wasn’t alone, but it wouldn’t fix a thing. It’d be like a painkiller just numbing me to what ails me. Too bad I don’t know how to cure my disease, and all the “pills” I’ve choked down haven’t helped a bit. It just feels more futile with each failure.

I’d love to sit here and go on making stupid metaphors about my life, but I’ve already made myself sound like enough of a little bitch. And who gives a shit anyway.

Civilian out
Peacelove

/thought incomplete

I think it’s almost official, basically the only thing I need my internet browser is looking stuff up, which I do pretty frequently, but still. I can now check everything on Facebook from my desktop, new emails show up on my screen as I get the m(not as obnoxious as it sounds), I’m still using Tweetie for all things Twitter (except adding new followers), and I can upload to my blog from my phone and MacJournal (where this post is coming from incase it doesn’t say that somewhere).

Now that I’ve had an overload of technology this morning (shit, it’s 3:30 already?) it’s time to go do some yardwork...ooh boy.

In other news, check this out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgvRfmo8Ock&feature=youtube_gdata, especially if you’re a fan of the show Community...it’ll just be that much funnier.

Man I need some coffee and cigarettes.

Just making a test post to see if posting from MacJournal works

Hope this works, it’ll be totally awesome if it does.

So while attempting to do some writing on my novel (attempt at a novel, but I didn't want to use attempt twice...oh well) I can't help but continuously get distracted by thinking about superheroes, and comics, and the various ideas for superheroes I've had over the years, and (more specifically) writing about them.

I'm trying to be good, though, and keep myself from writing about everything that comes to my mind. I write down the ideas and some things that come to mind, but I need to focus on one thing at a time (or two things at a time, whatever). Having said that, if I only had a friend who could draw rather well, I would enlist their aid in the (attempt at the) creation of a comic book about two original characters I've been working on lately.

I think my ideas are pretty good, but superheroes never really worked for me in books...not for the most part anyhow. Seeing as how I cannot draw, it must be a joint-venture. I only need someone else as bored and interested as I am, and I'll be in business XP

Decided weekends will be my brainstorm days for writing, will continue actual writing on weekdays.
Unless a great idea i need to write down comes to me on a weekend, never restrict your creativity.

On an entirely unrelated note, been using Twitter alot more. Specifically, using Tweetie alot more to do my tweeting as opposed to my BlackBerry (it's been fucking up and pissing me off). For some reason, this makes me want an iPhone very badly...fuck you Verizon and your shit selection of phones and just your shitty....everything.

Done venting.

Eating homemade indian food and it's fantastic...I want some chocolate milk.

Listening to Justin Timberlake, woo. Love that guy.

Now I'm gonna go tweet random shit and make chocolate milk...what an awesome day.

So I didn't write today...dammit

Saw Zombieland though....and it was AWESOME
Nothing absolutely fantastic and groundbreaking, but it was enjoyable all the way through
8/10

[Autopilot]

Chapter 1

Spiders are harmless. Someone told me that once. Then, a few days later, I woke up with a great big infected spider bite on my face. There’s no real moral or life changing metaphor here, I just wanted to say that so people will stop telling me not to freak out when I see a spider. People tell me a lot of things, though I’ve never really been one to pay attention to every word a person says. I’d much rather watch their facial expressions and they way they move when they talk. I was once told that 70% of communication is how you look, 20% is how you sound, and only 10% is what you say. I think those percentages may be a bit off. I couldn’t guarantee their accuracy as I wasn’t really listening to what the guy was saying. The way his eyes darted around and grew wide and narrowed as he spoke was far more interesting to observe, and it was made somewhat easier by his copious amounts of eye shadow.

It’s morning and I am laying on my back in my small bed, staring at my drab ceiling. Pretty typical morning for me. I manage to roll out of bed, literally, and go through the motions of getting ready for work. Luckily, I’m able to set my body on autopilot for the majority of the routine and put my mental faculties to more productive uses, like trying to recount the adventures of Sherlock Holmes as if they were my own. Only flossing manages to distract me from my fabrication. As soon as I’m satisfied my teeth have been thoroughly run through with a bit of string, I return to my previous subject of concentration and begin to contemplate what kind of pipe I should purchase.

People tend to complain about their work, and I do on occasion, but I look damn good in a pair of slacks and that helps. Office work isn’t as bad as people say. I work at one of those large banks, the kind that serve lots of people and who’s CEOs get paid a fairly substantial sum of money. I get to sit in a small cubicle that’s all mine, do work that helps the people, spend most of my day not doing any exhausting physical activity, and allow some guy in a big mansion to make enough to afford only the highest quality hookers.

As I make my way to the bus stop I think to myself, “This is the life.”

I take my seat at the stop on one of the small benches that force strangers to grind each others hips. Today I notice that I share the bench with a stereo, the kind you would’ve seen anyone with street cred carrying around on their shoulder in the early ‘90s. It sat unattended, playing a recognizable symphony composition by Strauss or someone quite like that, and I was somewhat surprised no one had absconded with it yet. We waited there together, enjoying the repetitive classical masterpiece till the bus came and split us up, sending me on my own separate path to my place of work.

The bus was a long ride, it seemed to be taking a new route that went far out of my way, making me wonder if I hadn’t boarded the wrong one. I observed my fellow passengers fiddling with BlackBerrys and iPhones, headphones that wouldn’t stay in, and unruly magazines all made even more difficult to manage thanks to frequent potholes. In so many words, it was a really boring trip and I’m pretty sure I passed out more than a few times. Normally I’m not too exhilarated about catching some shut eye on accident, but wandering the land of Nod while standing up in a large moving vehicle felt like a pretty big accomplishment. I hadn’t even gotten to work and I was already getting things done, this was going to be a good day.

So the bus arrived, I got out, and made my way into the bank and up to the office area. Strangely, I managed to get all the way to the copy machine before I was harangued by one of my fellow coworkers. The walk to the elevator, the ride up to the office floor, and the following journey through the maze of cubicles to the one that was my personal place of work was usually made a long one by the efforts of my co-workers to cram it full of celebrity tidbits, worthless trivia, and comments about the higher-up’s secretaries.

This time, the culprit who committed the crime of filling my head full of useless nonsense was a middle aged man who’s name I didn’t care to remember. He managed to ramble on about some celebrity bullshit the whole way to my cubicle, which was going way out of his way just to waste our time. I could’ve been thinking about how best to pretend to work today, or how to suck up to the suits. I’m not one to kiss ass, but I make an exception for anyone who decides how big my bank account is.

I had something to say...but I can't remember what it was.

In other news, I'm gonna try my hand at writing again tomorrow.
Brainstorming tonight.

I know I'm only 19 and life has yet begun, I've had a fair number of people going in and out of my life. They were all important to me at some time, and I've tried to hold on to the bonds that were eventually broken. But hey, enough with all that sad sounding bullshit.

The point of this is for me to just voice my pleasant surprise that there has at least been one who is still "around" and with whom I still share a bond that feels as if it gets subtly stronger as time goes on. She and I have remained good friends who have continued to be open, honest, and have interesting and unique conversations. Even though we've never actually had the pleasure of meeting, I feel closer to her than I have most.

I thought I said I was done with all the sappy bullshit. Oh well

I am quite certain that someday our paths will cross, and it will be a momentous occurrence in our lives. The world will never be the same ;P

Now I just want to say thank you Grace for being my soulfriend
:)

[The Novel, 101 Mental Notes] 6,203 words down...43,797 left to go [101 Mental Notes]

Chapter 1

The man who lived next door to me practiced scream therapy in his shower.  Every morning like clockwork I would hear the water begin to rain down from the shower head, and a few brief moments later the screaming would start.  I assumed he had just recently moved in and that this was the norm for him.  But what kind of norm could that possibly be?  Perhaps he was insane, or perhaps I was the one who was out of place and should start screaming in my shower as well.  I didn't remember seeing anything in the brochure about this being an apartment complex for people who scream in their showers. However, I  thought that there was still a slight chance that this man was the only one to have read the fine print and seen the "scream in shower" clause.  I wonder if they lowered his rent for his trouble. Maybe I should start practicing scream therapy as well.

Having this odd stranger, who I affectionately referred to as Mr. Scream, as a neighbor was a vastly different experience from having old Mr. Crumble as a neighbor.  He lived just below me and sometimes it got so quiet in his apartment I wondered if he were dead.  I wasn't really sure how old he was, though, as I only saw him occasionally when I happened to cross his path as he went for his daily jog around all the floors of the complex.  Surely a man who could get up and do that every morning must be many years from his end. Although, stranger things have happened than a healthy old man expiring before his time. It was because of thoughts like this I still often worried that he lay dead in his apartment.  And that thought would lead to another about if he had anyone who would notice he were missing from his daily activities.  I would often finish this train of thought by concluding that he was close to death and only performed his athletic jaunt across the floors to speed his impending doom, as he had killed a man and knew that they, whoever they were, were very close to solving whatever mystery surrounded the circumstances.  He must've seen slow suicide by jogging as his only escape.  Maybe he was afraid of knives and owned no gun. Or  maybe he wanted to die in the best shape of his life.  After sitting at my desk for hours contemplating Mr. Crumble's murderous deeds, I would realize I had spent my entire day and that it would soon be time for my scream therapy.  I often felt I lived in a strange parody of a made for TV movie.  Being a writer and drinking gallons of coffee a day does much to affect my perceptions of the world, and often in rather peculiar ways such as this.

Many people have had odd neighbors, especially those of us who lived in small apartments in the middle if the city.  All kinds of people ended up here.  College students, old folks that can still take care of themselves, young couples with little money, bachelors of all ages, and artists and writers who have to cut down on expenses to be able to continue to practice their craft.  I knew which of those categories I belonged to, and I knew which one Mr. Crumble belonged to, but which one best described Mr. Scream?  Then and there I made it my mission to discover all I possibly could about this mysterious figure.  Writing and, consequently, business, had been uncomfortably slow lately so I entertained the idea that this would help me to jump-start my brain and hopefully allow me to continue my writing in a manner that would be beneficial to my bank account. Really I was just a naturally curious person.  I was the kind of curious that, had I been a cat, would've guaranteed I was dead.  Luckily I was not a cat, I was a writer, and a writer cannot survive if he is not curious or very good at plagiarism.  As my conscience would never allow me to plagiarize, I was glad to be so curious.

I had made up my mind to become a temporary detective and get to the bottom of this mystery.  I felt that I needed a deerstalker cap, or a pipe, possibly a fedora, or maybe even a small revolver, but the only thing I was able to find was one of those short somewhat fashionable trench coats.  Too bad it was the middle of summer. Every good writer knows that detectives chose image over comfort, and at this time in history I was a detective, so I put on my coat and slipped out my front door.  As I stood there in the hallway, searching for clues, I heard Mr. Crumble jogging in my direction.  When he came around the corner, I stood, looking rather fashionable in my pajamas and trench coat, in the center of the hallway.  Mr. Crumble stopped a few feet from me and stood and stared while I focused all my attention on the floral wallpaper.
"It's hideous isn't it?"  The old man casually dipped his hands into his pockets, probably searching for a bit of pocket lint.  Maybe that was his murder weapon of choice.  A few minutes on the case and I was already on my way to solving one mystery.
Yes, I thought, it was truly hideous how he could get away with such a despicable crime. "No, I like the flowers, they help me think.  I come out here sometimes to look at them when I can't write."

"They make me dizzy if I look at them while I jog, sometimes I have to make my rounds with my eyes closed."  As he said this he smirked ever so slightly.  Most men of his age look sweet and warm when they perform this action, like a grandpa.  I guess that he must've never married, as he looked almost sinister when he expressed himself with this particular facial expression. "Nice plaid," he added, glancing down at my pajama pants.

"Yea, I like plaid, helps me think." I wondered if it really did help me think. If there are so many things that help me think, I thought that I should be getting a lot more work done. After all, the deadline for my book is coming up. I stared down at my pants and began to think of all the other things that helped improve my cognitive process. "Coffee, coffee helps me think too." I blinked at Mr. Crumble, then returned my gaze to the floral patterned wall.

"If there are so many things that help you think, you'd think you'd get more work done. Aren't you working on a book or something?" Old Man Crumble laughed under his breath as he said this. He should've done a full-bellied hearty laugh, and he should've smiled when he did it instead of flashing that sinister smirk. A murderer with a hearty laugh would be a bit of a twist, and a twist is exactly the sort of thing this story would need. But I guess those usually come later, having the twist at the beginning of the story makes writing the rest a great deal more difficult.

Had he just read my mind? It took me a second to fully comprehend what he had said, his laugh distracted me. Maybe the laugh was meant to distract me so that I would not notice he was reading my mind. An old man who kills people with pocket lint and reads minds, this was an interesting read already and I hadn't even gotten to Mr. Scream yet. "The roses are a strange color red, they don't look real."

"Well that wallpaper has been on that wall far longer than it should be." The first normal observation he had made during our entire conversation. What kind of strange man would remark on my pajamas, I wondered. "I need to finish my morning exercise so I can get to the store at my usual time, good day." I watched Mr. Crumble jog out of sight around the corner and pondered his last words. I bet he's going to buy a Twix, that's the sort of thing a murderer would buy.

I realized that the roses would tell me nothing of Mr. Scream or Mr. Crumble and decided that perhaps a pot of coffee might be more agreeable. I quickly returned to my room to find my coffee pot waiting patiently for my mental questioning. I wasn't entirely sure what mental questioning was, but I liked the way it sounded and thought that it would look good on paper. Frequent readers often excuse nonsense phrases as long as they seem to be interesting or eccentric. I made a mental note to use the phrase in my writing, and at once decided that I was just partial to the word "mental".

Chapter 2

As I poured my coffee I heard a muffled yawn that was ever so slightly reminiscent of the sound small kittens make when yearning to be stroked or just noticed. Making my way into my bedroom, coffee cup in each hand, I made another mental note. This time it was about what a strangely accurate metaphor I had just accidently thought up.

She was beautiful, laying in my bed, all wrapped up in the sheets from her habit of stretching and rolling around just after waking up. I don’t smile much due to being self-conscious about my teeth, but this gorgeous being who lay nestled in my bed always knew, by way of some curious instinct, when I meant to smile, and she expressed this knowledge by lighting up her face and flashing her perfect teeth at me. I was quite sure there were many people who would revolve their lives around the fact that such a wonderful creature not only existed, but took up residence in their bed. In fact, many of my characters were those sorts of people. I, on the other hand, took a more indirect approach to not taking her for granted.

Everyone was something, and at a certain point in my life a few years back, I had established that what I was, was a writer. Writers and other creative types can often be overheard referencing their inspirations or their “muses”. I think I remember something about muses in Greek legend being a group of beautiful women who inspired all in their creative endeavors. While other modern authors identify their muses as anything from coffee to their cat, I leaned more towards the Greek’s way of making up ridiculous reasons for completely explainable occurrences, like using your brain to come up with ideas. By “leaned more towards the Greek way” I mean to say, though I was aided in my writing by lilac wallpaper and plaid pajamas and coffee, my true muse really was a beautiful woman, and for all I know she really could’ve been some sort of Greek goddess. She certainly had the beauty of a goddess, and she most assuredly made love like one. I was a lucky down-on-my-luck writer with what most would refer to as “not a single successful piece of work”. Those who felt comfortable enough in their knowledge of my person commonly referred to me as a slacker, a fuck up, or, more optimistically, a work in progress.

But my muse, who’s name I did not know, believed in me and all my wild ideas. At least, she seemed to. In the two weeks since she showed up at my door, I had hardly heard her speak a handful of sentences. She seemed content, and quite able, to convey whatever she might be thinking in looks and caresses. When she did speak, they were words of passion, the sort of which I had never before had the pleasure of hearing. I often spoke of her to others, or rather, I would have if I often spoke to others. When I did, however, I left out intimate and specific details and only referred to her as “my muse” or simply, Muse. Most seemed to accept this as the kind of eccentric quirk often associated with writers like myself.

Muse sipped the coffee I handed her and flashed that radiant smile again. She finished the coffee in only a couple of minutes, and after setting it down on my nightstand, reached her hand out to me and gave me a pleading look. Unsure what she wanted, my face twisted to become a silent question. Muse responded by trying to push her hand even further towards me, but she succeeded only in wriggling her fingers. I reached out to grab her hand and was rewarded by being jerked towards her and met with a passionate kiss. I managed to not spill any of my coffee by extending my arm and holding it as far away from myself as I could. After a minute of this passionate encouragement she pushed me back and gave me the look that I had come to interpret as, “Time to get back to your writing.”

I finished my coffee at my desk which was quite devoid of any unorganized mess, only the most organized clutter was permitted to partition my valuable desk space. It was inhabited by various writing related objects such as unwashed coffee mugs, various novels and books of poetry from which I drew inspiration, and short stacks of my many failed beginnings to “my next big novel”, next here meaning first.

Sitting at my desk, staring at my reflection in the screen of my Macbook, I realized I wasn’t sure what to write, and that I had neglected my shaving for the past few days. I stood up and took my coffee mug on a quick journey to the coffee pot containing a depressingly dwindling amount of coffee. A mug of coffee, some flavored creamer, a lot of sugar, and a few seconds of stirring later, I had returned to analyzing the growth of hair that now covered a decent amount of the surface area of my face via the reflection in my mirror/screen.

I sat and imagined myself shaving in an effort to help me decide if getting up and making the five-second walk to the bathroom was worth expenditure of energy it would require. Then another imaginary situation entered my brain that quite rapidly returned me to reality. Before I examined this thought, though, I made a mental note of the of my mental alliteration. Because of this short distraction I forgot my previous thought entirely and decided it was probably about time that I began my writing, so I stood up from my chair and made my way to my room.

I stood in my doorway and marveled at the beauty of my muse. She was still in my bed, though Muse was now quite awake and sitting upright with her legs crossed. From the way her body loosened up when she saw me, I knew what was going to come next. It wasn’t hard for her to get me into bed. She was simultaneously the most innocent being I could imagine existing and the most incredibly alluring one. Making love with her always felt as if it were the first time, yet with lifetimes of experience. It was indescribably beautiful.

We concluded our morning foray into romantic bliss with a shower, after which I was finally able to complete an acceptable number of words and pages. Though I often turned to other sources, Muse was certainly the only inspiration I would ever need. She had showed up out of nowhere, and I sometimes wondered if I would awake to find she had returned to that place. I thought on this, trying to grasp the queerness of it all, then I realized I had used queerness in it’s correct and original meaning. My confidence in my skill with the English language rose ever so slightly, and I resolved that I should use the word more often so that the world might be reminded of it’s true meaning. I made a mental note.

Chapter 3

My short trench coat, a fedora, a dress shirt, a pair of dress pants, and a tie comprised my outfit for the day. I hoped it would aid me in my detecting of the truth. As I exited my room, though, I felt as if I had forgotten an essential detail. I entered my room and exited it again, this time with a cigarette hanging from my mouth. It was unlit and purely for appearances as there was no smoking allowed in the hallways. As per usual I stood in the center of the hallway, focused my eyes on the floral wallpaper, and stared intensely for a short time. All manner of ideas and thoughts flew through my head before one lone idea stood out. It was not the typical sort of idea I was prone to have after this ritual, but it was an idea nonetheless. Perhaps it was my manner of dress having some effect on my subconscious. Maybe it was the bountiful quantities of coffee I had consumed this morning, or possibly the ample amount of sex I had partaken in. Since I was unsure as to which of these had allowed me to conjure up this new and unusual idea, I rationalized that I should forgo attempting to deduce which was truly responsible and instead continue with all three of the potentially beneficial activities.

Hands in coat pockets, I began patrolling the hallways, listening and looking for the sorts of clues I imagined a private eye might. In the manner that I suspected a detective might, I examined every inch of the hallway. The carpet and doorknobs resisted my questioning, as did the baseboards and decorative plants. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of the elusive Mr. Scream, but he was exceptionally absent from the area surrounding my apartment. I wondered if perhaps he had been told of my coming, but who could possibly have known what I had intended to do? This revelation prompted the thought that it may be he had an accomplice, a third player in the game whom I had not yet discovered. The more I considered this possibility the more it struck me as particularly plausible.

After what felt like a few more hours of immensely unsuccessful detective work, but was later revealed in spite by my contentious wristwatch to be but forty minutes, I made up my mind that next time I played detective I would replace my cigarette with a pipe. Having had this genius idea before I began my detecting, I now regretted deciding to put it off till after, but it was now “after” and I could make my way to the nearest tobacco store to purchase this seemingly essential element.

Exploring the outside world in my present attire would be foolish, so I left my coat with Muse, who then proceeded to parade around my apartment dressed in nothing else and with a magnifying glass, entertaining herself with fantasies of living out some of my unpublished stories right there in my living room. I entertained the idea of staying to watch this exclusive vignette being performed in my honor, but instead, loosened up my tie and took the stairwell to the lobby. I thought it good exercise for the substantial amount of trekking I assumed to be in my near future. I laughed aloud at my word choice all the way down the stairs and out into the lobby. It humored me so much that as I passed a stranger on the way out the door I flashed him the Vulcan salute and left him to ponder the words “Live long and prosper”. It felt good to embrace the nerd inside me and I made a mental note to do it more often.

Chapter 4

The pipe was a singularly exquisite artifact. Not to say it was old, but it gave the feeling of something that had history, or that people would believe had history. I could go about recounting how my grandfather had purchased it in his days in London and lounged about with members of Scotland Yard while puffing smoke rings from the finest tobaccos in all of Europe, and the standard man would hardly imagine to suspect that the truth might be otherwise. Even as I developed this make believe history and knew that is what it was, I found myself slipping into belief as small clouds of smoke began to fill the living room of my apartment.

Muse sat on the floor in a casual summer dress, she seemed to delight in deeply inhaling my attempts at smoke rings, which basically included every misshapen cloud. In time, my pipe puffing became yet another activity I engaged in because I so adored watching her reveal her innocent side. I also found that I considerably preferred this newfound custom to my previous one of smoking a cigarette when I found myself with nothing else to fill my time. I wondered what other brilliant habits I might acquire from Mr. Holmes.

After finishing with the pipe, I remained seated on the couch and attempted to speculate further on the peculiar moods and activities of my neighbors, and though I knew of only two, I suspected the rest of my neighbors must be equally as queer to share this place with them. I suppose this must mean that I too am a queer kind of neighbor, and after considering this thought I came to realize that I was indeed a queer kind of neighbor.

While I meditated on these thoughts, Muse came to sit on the couch next to me. She pushed her arms around me and attempted to move me into a more comfortable position. Realizing what it is she wanted, I stretched out on the couch, leaving her room to lay beside me. Following a quick peck on my lips, Muse laid her head on my chest and we were promptly in the arms of Morpheus.

I was awakened when my lungs were abruptly emptied of their contents by what I initially believed to be a large jungle cat with human hands. Once slightly more awake, I realized the thing perched on my chest was not some mutated feline predator who wished to feast upon my flesh, but my beautiful Muse who wished for me to feast upon the dinner she had prepared while I had been silently observing the inside of my eyelids. Muse didn’t often cook, but I eagerly anticipated those nights when she did. Seeing as I knew next to nothing about her, I wasn’t sure where she had learned to prepare food and combine ingredients with such aptitude, but Muse fashioned the most memorable meals I had ever had the pleasure of consuming.

The main course this evening was a sort of fried rice with bits of red pepper and kale and eggs, though from the taste I concluded it must have been made of a thousand different spices and flavorings. Till this point I had never tasted anything more exquisite. We dined on the floor, as was our routine. I often had to clean the one area of the carpet that served as our dinner table, but the unusualness of it pleased me so much that I did not mind any slight inconveniences it caused.

As we dined, I thought I might restart my attempts at conversing with my inexplicably mute muse. “What did you do while I was out earlier?” I picked this question from the myriad of inquiries floating around in my head because I sometimes had the absurd idea that Muse might not exist when I am not about.

I busied myself with finishing my third plate of rice while I anticipated her answer, but her answer came in the form of that beautiful smile. I momentarily toyed with the idea of being frustrated, but that smile could bring me back from the point of sheer madness. I had the feeling she was well aware of this fact, but it was difficult to read someone who was as unceasingly mum as she was radiant.

“I would tell you about mine, but you were here for the whole thing, except when I went to buy that pipe, but that wasn’t much of a thing, the store is just across the street,” I paused to take in the expression that spread across her face, which could only be described as adoration, “what about your day? I know you spent it with me, but I’d quite like to hear you tell about it.”

As soon as the words had left my mouth, her face revealed an expression I had never before seen it express and had been convinced her features could not shape. Despite being I writer I could summon no words to describe it, none that would do justice to its intricacies. She made a vain effort to conceal this unfamiliar show of emotion.

“Muse, what is it? Is something wrong?” I was genuinely worried that I might have committed some emotional injustice to this pristine being who had never so much as stared in my direction without looking overjoyed that I happened to be in her field of vision.

Muse laid there on the carpet, propped up on one elbow, looking at me, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing her so fragile and innocent. She often emanated with childlike innocence, but what she unveiled now was more akin to the innocence shown in the face and actions of someone who has sincerely fallen in love for the first time.

We had both polished off our plates long ago. Muse began to collect the dishes, but I stayed her hand by gently taking ahold of it and assuring her I would take care of them. I stacked the plates, perched the silverware and cups atop them, took them into the kitchen, and rinsed them mostly clean of small leftover bits of food. Moving to the dishwasher, plates balanced on one hand, I was extending my other towards the dishwasher with intent to open it when I felt her arms slip around my waste. Muse often expressed herself in such affectionate ways, but for the first time in our lengthy companionship I felt as if it were something other than an excessively friendly gesture of encouragement. I set the plates on the counter and rotated within her arms so that I might face her. No sooner had I completed my rotation than she tenderly embraced me. I wholeheartedly returned her warm gesture, and we remained locked together till our legs began to tire of use and seize up.

Unsure of why I decided on this certain action I led her by her hand to the bed. A substantial assortment of thoughts and emotions concerning Muse had often plagued me, but the ones which invaded my mind at this time were previously unfamiliar to me. They pushed their way through the crowd and to the forefront. I dared not name them for fear that they might be frightened away if they came to realize that I knew them for what they were. It felt as if I were being born again with new eyes and ears with which to experience and understand this world which had lain hidden just underneath the blanket of reality.

Muse and I lay pressed against each other, fingers intertwined, and faces just close enough so that we didn’t appear to each other to only have a single eye placed in the middle of our faces. Muse had let her dress fall to the floor when we entered the room and I had complied with her silent request for me to act in similar fashion. As an effect of these actions, we shared our warmth and heartbeats while we lie together.

Though we often had sex, and I titled it as “making love” in my mind, on this night I realized the error in my word choice, and as an author I was somewhat appalled at my own incompetence with the complexities of English. Until now, Muse and I had only engaged in the physical act of having sex. Be that as it may, in this moment, we made love. Words failed me, as they often had on this auspicious night. I could evoke no other words to describe what took place. Muse and I had made love, and I made a mental note to never forget how simple and complete my existence felt as we fell into each other.

Chapter 5

I found myself in a kind of medical facility, not quite like a hospital but not unlike one either. There were faces familiar to me, though these incarnations of my acquaintances and old friends were all strangers. A few minutes into my exploration of this new environment, one of the familiar strangers, who I distinguished as a patient here, attempted to make conversation with me and, when I did not return the favor, began to follow me around. He spoke of all manner of things that were bizarre to me. Occasionally, words would leave his mouth and enter my ear that were comprehensible and made some sort of sense.

“Even numbers taste better than odd numbers, don’t you agree?”

While I listened to him say this I assured myself I would continue to dismiss him and his ridiculous statements, but even as I thought this I could feel my mouth, tongue, and throat all conspiring against me.

“Yeah, I like the way even numbers taste,” I was forced to pause my speech for a moment as a result of unexpectedly feeling entirely out of breath, “have you ever noticed how ‘bitch’ is half the dialogue on Jerry Springer?”

My dream friend didn’t answer seeing as how he had spontaneously combusted upon hearing the word “bitch”. I was, at first, unaware of this fact since I had to dedicate most of my mental faculties to pushing my body up the acutely steep staircase which I now found myself on, but his internal organs now cluttered the steps, causing me to slip and alerting me to his current situation.

It was at this point that two entirely different sounds penetrated my mind, sending a chill down my spine and imbuing me with the desire to dance in unison. The first was a popular rap song saying something about kissing a phone. The second was a loud, unnerving scream that seemed to shake this whole realm in which I presently inhabited.

I awoke standing rigidly upright in the center of my room. Somewhere in the distance I could hear an alarm clock radio playing that song which was the first sound I had heard in my dream.

“My dreams are weird dreams.”

Unsure why I would voice this thought, I looked around to make sure I was in actuality the source of the rather accurate observation. As it turns out, I was not alone, Muse was asleep in our bed, laying on her back, arms draped across her, but it was quite obvious she was not the source of my spoken thought. That left only myself as the origin, which would be the obvious answer I suppose. Unless there was someone hiding in the room, maybe it was that mysterious “third party” who I had deduced must exist during my hallway detective work the day before. My bedroom was a small one, not an ideal place to avoid detection. I tried to stay perfectly quiet as I turned in place and examined everywhere a mysterious third party could potentially hide themselves.

I spun around for a few minutes before I realized that my room contained only a bed, a dresser, and an antique mirror I’d got at a yard sale, none of which were ideal hiding spots. It was at the point that I heard that same scream that had unnerved me so in my dream. I had the same effect on me in the land of the waking, making me wonder if I wasn’t still in the land of Nod. The scream came again, this time louder, and I recognized it as my neighbor’s daily scream therapy. Mr. Scream performed his namesake a few more times, and as I listened I could tell, even in my sleepy stupor, that this was unlike his usual morning routine.

Not waiting for him to confirm my suspicions with another scream, though he did repeatedly in the length of time it took me to find some pants and pull them on. As I neared the door of my apartment I became conscious of the fact that I had forgotten a shirt or shoes. Nothing could be done about it at the present time, however, and I made do by grabbing my coat from the hook by the door. Once outside I noticed my fedora was perched on my head. I was unsure how it had come to be there, but now was hardly the time for such inconsequential worries.

Approaching Mr. Scream’s door, I saw that it was ajar. By now his screaming had become unbearable and sounded as if it were getting louder and nearer with every shrieking howl. I stretched my arm towards the door, but stopped midway when I heard a loud thumping that gradually accompanied the screaming. Still being somewhat sleepy, my mind took a split second too long to determine the possible meaning of this new knowledge, and I was punished for my inaction.

The door swung towards me with great velocity and met my forehead in an unpleasant manner, knocking me backwards and off balance. I plummeted towards the ground as a small, fully dressed, yet dripping wet, man loped down the hall as if he were some inhuman beast. From the corner of my eye, I saw him fling the stairway door open. The rude awakening I had received from the door had slightly dazed me, but allowed me to regain the kind of proficiency with my senses and thoughts as a conscious man should have. I could tell from the sound that came echoing out of the open doorway, Mr. Scream was on his way down.

Acting on instinct, I gave chase. In my long period of curiousness about Mr. Scream, nothing had shown so much promise as this of shedding light on his queer activity. Due to my inclination to imagine chase scenes I had seen in movies or read in books as I went through my daily proceedings, I was somewhat adept at descending the stairs with an uncommon quickness. I leapt over rails and down as many as six or seven steps at a time, coming to the bottom mere moments after my target.

Mr. Scream made a mad dash for the emergency door that led to an alleyway. He left my field of vision, but I could hear him slam through the door. I often wondered if those warnings about alarms going off were true or if they had gone out of service long ago, apparently the latter was true for this one. I followed the animal of a man through the door, treating it as he had.

Quickly looking around, I spotted him barreling through a group of people on the sidewalk, knocking some over and causing others to lose grip on their belongings. BlackBerrys, fake Gucci purses, and Macy’s bags went flying as he made his way down the sidewalk before attempting to cut across the street. I dogged him down the sidewalk, leaping over scattered belongings and dodging pedestrians as I did my best not to bowl anyone over. My carefulness inhibited my speed somewhat, but I still managed to keep up.

My quarry was able to make it across the street in a split second when it wasn’t congested with moving cars. I was not so lucky. I saw him dart across the street and meant to follow him, but Mr. Scream barely made it across before a torrent of automobiles filled the street. I was left stranded across the asphalt river for a few precious seconds that might as well have been an eternity.

I was able to cross the street once the lights went to red, but by this time he was far ahead of me. Though he left a trail of downed pedestrians and I could see him off in the distance, Mr. Scream seemed to only become more invigorated as he ran. I may have had adrenaline pumping through my blood, but this man seemed to be more animal than human and I could not hope to keep up with him. I did my best to pursue him for a few more blocks, but he inevitably managed to give me the slip. I made a mental note to watch more movies with chase scenes and maybe work some exercise into my schedule, especially if I was going to get to the bottom of this ever evolving mystery.

black and blue and broken bones [you left me here, i'm all alone]

shape it or
become it
is there
really
that much
of a difference

in the end
it's still
the end

now that we've
arrived
at this point
together as we were
yet separate as we are
it's only natural

for the one
to hold on
to what he
tries to pretend
is still there

so
hey pig
no, you
yeah
all of my fears
came true

Martian Child [rethought]

I think someday I'll end up that lonely single guy with nothing but a job and a nice little house.

I think someday I'll end up adopting a kid, probably a boy. I can see that. I want to be a dad, and I think (and have been told) that I would make a good father. So despite my probable life as a bachelor, I will still end up a dad.

What's going on here, eh? I have no fucking idea

"I never know if you're answering me or dismissing me..."
-a friend

Friends are people who...keep secret the little details of their lives? Anti-Trust

i've been walkin down these streets searchin...

and now i sit
and wonder
and wander
i cant help it

so i leave it
up to you
and whether or not
you make your decision

my mind is made up
made up of
minds i've crossed

because what are lives
but chalkboards
made dusty white
[or blue, green, yellow
oh the colors of chalk these days]
by other lives
of those we've crossed
or brushed against
for a moment
for a lifetime

teachers
all of them
or delinquents
perhaps
making marks to confuse
all others who look upon
what i've become

Only Paranoia...Right?

Famous composer Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951) had what is quite uncommonly referred to as triskaidekaphobia, and more commonly known as a fear of the number 13. He did everything in his power to avoid any association with the number, even taking an "a" out of the name Aaron for the title of his opera, Moses and Aron so it would contain less than 13 letters. The strangest, and possibly unnerving part of this short story, is that Arnold Shoenberg died on Friday the 13th, June, 1951 at the age of 76. What's so unnatural about that? Sure he died on Firday the 13th, but look closer...add some of the numbers up.

June=6
1951=1+9+5+1=16=1+6=7
7+6=13

and now, quite obviously, his age

76=7+6=13

13, 13, 13

Is it really possible to dismiss something like that as just sheer coincidence? Perhaps his fear was founded after all. Maybe Arnold Schoenberg was one of the unlucky few who was able to put together that which is commonly dismissed and, with his knowledge, see beyond the veil of our reality into the madness that could lay just beneath. Or maybe he was just crazy, and the circumstance of his death no more than a coincidence.

Late Last Night...

While up late last night, laying in my bed with the lights off and the computer on, I had an unnerving experience. I had been online for a few hours conversing with various individuals. My fan was on all the way up, as it had been rather hot, but nothing in my room was moved or ruffled and there was nothing loose in my room which could've been.

But then quite suddenly I heard a noise, like movement in my room. Simultaneously, I felt as if I were being watched, or as if there were someone standing just outside my door. I quickly looked around my room to see if, by some off chance, I might've missed someone entering my room and moving around in my dark room (which was somewhat illuminated by my computer screen). After my quick look-around, I returned my eyes to the screen of my computer.

It was at this point the feeling washed over me again, and I heard another sound that resembled a whooshing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something float or fly or be blown through the air in my room from near my top bunk to my door, a good distance for something to move. Of course this is where some people would doubt my abilities of perception at such a late time (somewhere around 12ish I think), but as soon as I caught sight of the thing in my peripheral I turned and focused my attention on it. I quite clearly saw what appeared to be a wispy, slow moving, pale-colored, baby blanket-sized sheet like thing moving through my room.

My first reaction was to assume it was my vision, but when it remained visible after I blinked I thought that perhaps some old, mostly deflated balloons that for some reason or another haunt a corner of my room near the end of my bed and often give me such a start when it is dark. But I quite clearly heard and then saw them, still in their usual spot, tied to the ladder on that end of my bed. It was true, the fan was causing them to make a slight noise, but it was very distinctly a different sound then the other one I was also hearing.

The "wispy thing" then faded out of sight as I returned to stare at it. And by faded I quite literally mean faded. It did not simply disappear while out of sight or in the corner of my eye. It did not vanish suddenly, it just faded as it reached my door until I could see it no longer.

Of course my first course of action after its disappearance was to leap up from my bed and move towards my door. As I did so I once again searched my room for any explanation. When I reached my door I opened it and searched the hallway for any sign of, well, anything. When my search was unsuccessful I closed my door an turned on the lights in my fan. I then proceeded to search my top bunk, the floor, underneath my bed, and all four corners of my room for anything that might have been the cause of the thing I had seen.

After a few minutes of search and thought, I returned to communication with those individuals I had previously been chatting with, saying nothing of what I thought I had just experienced. I tried to write it off as a sort of waking dream experience brought about by weariness, but I had recently consumed a rather sugary soda and did not retire until many hours later (around 3:13 am I believe, I remember because I had to plug in my phone due to its being knocked loose from the wall charger).

When I awoke I remembered a dream or two I had, and almost immediately thought to compare the way they felt to my experience earlier in the night. I think everyone can usually tell with certain ease, the difference between the way things feel in dreams and in reality. I know that I often see things from a 3rd person perspective in my own dreams, looking upon myself and others as they play out. But I very assuredly remembered my "experience" from the view of my own two eyes.

I'm not claiming that what happened to me was anything specific, in fact I am at a total loss as to what it could have been other than some dream-like experience. But it seems and feels quite apparent that it was not that. As time goes on it may seem more or less one way or the other, but until then...I would rather not dismiss it so readily.

If any of my readers have any input, ideas, or suggestions they are all welcome, whether cynical or supportive.

Genius Instruction Manual

Bought this great book called *see title*. It's got lots of random information and history to learn that supposedly makes you seem smarter in conversation. At the least, it's "perfect for knowledge junkies", which I happen to be.

The Lake

There will always be those simple things or ideas that fill each of us with dread. To others they seem inconsequential, not menacing in the least. On the surface they may even seem that way to us, but just below the surface lurks something that provokes an ancient and inexplicable terror. The kind that expresses itself in nightmares and quickened heartbeats, waking you up in dark of the night just to remind you that even when in the waking world nothing can shelter you from those primal feelings. Of course, when I speak of this it is quite apparent I make reference to my own experience. Unlike the majority, however, I have discovered my terror to be more than an unexplainable feeling. I have discovered my fears to be founded, and this has increased them tenfold, skewing my perceptions in a darker direction. Since those days in which my horrifying discovery took place, I have been unable to so much as entertain the idea of going near any body of water. The oceans, seas, lakes, and rivers of the world are all forbidden to me now by that survival instinct rooted deep within us all. I often wonder why my dread is not shared by all, but I suppose if the world felt as I do it would cease to exist in its current state. It seems ignorance is for the best, and it is because of this that I have failed to speak of these events prior to the current time. But these dark secrets eat away at what sanity I have left. My survival instinct once again drives my actions, and it now pushes me to divulge, to anyone and everyone who will listen, the history and events of the days leading up to the loss of my ignorance and what occurred that brought about that loss.