Harry Potter in 100 words or less.

Snape's deafening entrance silenced the entire classroom. He scanned over everyone, and immediately focused his glare on Harry.

"Open your books to page 426," he announced to the class.

"Blimey, Harry!" cried Ron in disgust, staring at his book. "We're going to learn how to grind hippogriff testicles! They've got pictures and everything!"

"Oh shut it, Ron!" squealed Hermione. "You are so immature!"

Harry paid no attention to the argument that ensued. He sat staring at the bleak cellar walls. Truth was he hadn't been able to focus on his wizardly studies lately. Reason? Voldemort.

I haven't posted on here in months. Interesting.

Maybe I'll do a one-a-day thing. Just over the break, and purely for entertainment value.

It's been almost over 12 hours, and I still feel weird. Not good.

And I just imagined myself sitting on the floor, with Tracy Chapman's Fast Car blaring, while the room spins out of control. Hahaha

You're not nearly as pretty as you think you are.

God gave me light and warmth,

and then left me in it.

yopertsf

Back to the titles that never fail me.

Little Miss Sunshine for the fear-filled soul.

Atlanta, Georgia is gorgeous, but when'll I have time to even go visit?

I haven't written in here in a long, long time. 

Today I tried to accomplish lots, and *should* have accomplished lots, but I didn't look at things right before setting out. Therein lies my errors. 

Ahwell. I bought a bucket of Cold Stone and ate the shit out of it. How girly can I get?

I fuuuuucked up! I fucked up big time. 

To be continued. 

He saw a boy walking on the road.

"Some dumbfuck is out there walkin' on the road again. I think it's the same kid as last time."

"Oh. Well, th-"

He turned around and looked at her, "Hurry the fuck up and get dressed. We're going to be late for church." Turning back to the window, he proclaimed loudly, "I wish today's youth would have better things to do than to fuck around on a closed off road!"

- - -

The road mesmerized him, and he didn't really want to admit it (it was one of those things you'd get a weird look or two from "regular" people). He now understood why American culture had such a fascination with it. It was so much more frightening after you'd actually planted two feet on it.

The music stopped. Without even looking down, he knew the battery had died. He pulled out the ear pieces and listened to the not-so-far-away cars driving past on the interstate. 

That all went away with the shattering of what sounded like glass. He turned around and looked at the nearby twin home. He saw one person, a man, yelling. At who or what, he had no idea. The O'Reilly Factor must have been taken off the air, he thought. 

- - -

He was driving back from a hunting trip, cruising the gravel roads, sipping on a Bud Light with three fallen soldiers riding shotgun. He saw someone ahead, on the side of the road. He wasn't going fast to begin with, but decided to slow down to a snail's pace just to get a good look at the kid. It was the same one that he always saw on the road. The obscurity of seeing him in the middle of nowhere never settled in before the image of the blood leaking out of the boy's right calf did. A broken skateboard sat a couple feet away from.

"That's what you get for riding one of those queer planks," he said, all the while pointing his bottle at him. He hit the gas and drove off. Fucking kids, he thought. 

He got a couple yards and then looked into his rear-view mirror. Whether or not the boy was still there, he didn't care to know, because the image of a man's coffee-stained grin filled the mirror. 

"That was a pretty mean thing you did back there, Harold."

Harold felt something in his chest rip apart. 

"Looks like you've slimmed down a bit, eh, Lard'Oh?"

Harold groaned. He couldn't speak. His foot sat like a brick upon the pedal. 

"Don't kids say the darndest things? Who ever thought elementary minds could anagram."

His vision started going fuzzy. 

"It's a pity that cardiac arrest causes one to suffer extreme confusion throughout the experience. Ah well. Where you're going, you won't need a recollection of these events."

Everything went black.

"And don't worry about the wifey, pal. The one and only thing she'll ever suck on is the butt-end of your huntin' rifle." And then he laughed.

- - -

The construction had been completed weeks ago, but he still ran past it every day. He smiled to himself. Not that many people actually experience something that simple, he thought. He took out the earphones and shut his eyes, listening to the road. It had become a sort of ritual. 

The soft hum ended with a gunshot. 

"Hopefully, you are enjoying the summer months and beginning to make plans for the upcoming school year."

God, how's that for a slap in the face. 

l<3ft

I'm watching Orange County right now. It's making me lol.

- - -

There are a million birds in the sky right now. I know a million is a lot and it's illogical and incorrect but I look up and they are all I see, and there are a million of them. 

I can't hear the ocean right now, or the sound of the birds, or the blowing wind. But I remember what they sound like. Or at least what I think it sounds like, as far as the ocean goes. To be honest, this is my first time even being close to the water. I never reached the shore before I lost it. But that's okay. I remember walking my dog through my neighborhood, and hearing the wind rustle the branches and leaves. I remember thinking, If there's anything that sounds like the ocean, it's this. 

That was years ago. God, I don't even know if my dog is still alive. I know this is a silly thought, but I'm going to write it down anyway: I hope he doesn't hold a grudge against me. My parents were never really keen on the idea of a dog in the first place, but . . . I don't know. Maybe they'll like him more now that I'm gone. 

- - -

It's late, and I'm growing tired. This is the first time I've written something down. Maybe it won't be the last.

M-O-O-N, that spells lie.

For as long as I can remember-- probably even before people really started to notice the economic crisis-- they'd been telling us that everything is okay. That the store is doing well. I'm privileged enough to deal with the store's earnings, and therefore know what they make on a day-to-day basis. And to be honest, they're probably are doing pretty well. But things aren't all bright in Hollywood.

There's another problem with my job: I get to supervise the grunts, and talk bullshit with them daily. And they're not all that happy. Some are pretty scared, actually. We've got people in college who aren't even getting enough hours to pay the rent. People who are pregnant and need to be working as much as they can now, before it gets to the point where they cannot. 

Fuck, where is this coming from.

Can you blame me? I'm bored on a Sunday (morning). I don't feel like finishing Person to Person just quiet yet, because I'm in love with Richard Matheson as a writer, and I Am Legend is the only book I currently own. And fuck Pokemón. Whoever decided that adding the message "It continues to rain" between every turn is a fucking MORON. No one cares about the rain, besides when my Ponyta is getting the shit kicked out of him. 

- - -

Um.

7/9/09

Sorry, hun, but you just aren't human. 

- - -

Ev'rything is going wrong, but we're so ha-ppy. 

- - -

Work is enjoyable. Stressful, but it's insane at how quickly I've learned to manage it. Should be interesting if I notice a difference while at school.

- - -

Mmm. I'm so fucking lazy.

Okay. Get up.

There you go. Twenty steps were no challenge. 

All right, let's take a look:

Intro to Biology/Lab

Speech

Intro to English Studies

Applied Calculus

Psychological Aspects of Drug Use and Abuse

Not bad, I'd say.

What about you guys? Do you know yet?

- - -

Bored out of my mind. Text me something incredibly random when you read this, so I get extremely confused. 

Should I play Pokemon? Or should I read some more of the short stories within I Am Legend?

Hmm.

Or maybe I should throw my clothes in the wash. Ooooo.

- - -

"With the changing times comes a change in principles."

"But this goes against everything your family has ever stood for . . ."

- - -

Help me, Suzanne, Help Help me Suzzane. 

- - -

7/10/09

It's amazing how insanely quick one's mood can be turned to shit, just by looking at some digits on a slip of paper. It's also amazing at how badly fucked someone's life can become just by stupid fucking numbers. 

Hours later and I'm still somewhat pissed, and apparently unable to type/spell. Most of the emotion is gone, though. The most painful thing now is that my dad just tried to make me feel better, and I totally shot him down. And the thought of him being sad makes me sad, and God, I cannot be dealing with this right now. I know things are going to end up okay and all, but why the fuck can't things go the way I want them to? Just once? That's all I'm asking, you asshole. Just once. I fucking hate you, and I hate this entire fucking system you've developed. And it's all beyond me, because one person cannot change the world and the world will never be changed. I've already accepted that fact.

Why do we have to pay for a fucking education? Why? There is absolutely no reasoning behind this. I'm going to be spending six thousand dollars (and that's a relatively low amount for college, mind you) a semester just so some assholes can do a half-assed job of teaching me. What? Fucking Biology? I don't mind being forced to take generals, and fuck it, most of them actually sound interesting, but why does it cost me a 60+ hours of hard earned money just to take it? Why? This system is so fucking flawed. 

Fuck it.

I'm going to, GET THIS, play Pokemon or read. And probably cut my wrists to Counting Crows (not really). I'm loling at the idea of it, though.

It was ironic, like a thirsty man drowning. His knuckles bled as they pounded against the thick glass. He would end up breaking them in his attempt to escape, but it's not like that would matter. 

He was waist-deep now, the water sloshing noisily as he paced from corner to corner after the pain had become too much. Its bitter chill reminded himself of the consequence of giving up now.

The ocean had been so blue when he'd first set out, like the pretty walls of Noah's (he found this painfully ironic as well) first room. Shannon had done such a beautiful job. He hated himself for taking this long to appreciate it. With the lack of sunlight, it now looked black, like the eyes of Wilson Proy in the 3rd grade. God, what he would give to be back in that schoolyard scuffle, terrified, yet dry and alive, with many years of life left. . . . Even if the sun had been out, he thought, the water still would have probably appeared black.

His bloody hand grasped the handle as he yanked with all his might. It still wouldn't budge. He pulled his hand from the water and slammed it against the glass one final time. The pain answered the question Is it broken? He half swam over to a desk and climbed on top, crying and shivering. 

He was on the floor again. The water sat on level with his pecs. Across the room there was a small digital clock hanging on the wall. He took it with the unbroken hand and went back to the desk. Daybreak was so close. He didn't want to die alone, in the night. 

Hurry up, he prayed. By now he had given up. There was no escape, there was no future. He stood and waited, and waited, until he had to keep his face parallel with the ceiling to breathe. This is it, he thought. I'm dying blind and alone. He took his final breath and became submerged. 

Part Two, Silver Screen

Adam walked in on him staring, in close to no clothing, at a TV monitor. His first thought He's unknowingly growing a beard. The unmoving eyes told him that he hadn't slept in a night or two. The apartment room stunk.

"Jesus Chr-"

"Sh," he said while getting closer to the screen. A man's face appeared on the screen. His mouth moved but no sound came out, one of the many problems with coronary neurosubmersion. You could hardly make out his face. The pill had fucked up the imagery, and bad. His eyes lit up, "I know him."

Adam shook his head. "No. No, no, no. Please don't tell me that this is what you've been doing with your vacation days."

He looked up at him and made a face, one that Adam always found so condescending. 

"You can't do this, you know. You can't go after someone simply because they made a cameo in your old partner's coronary N.S. chip."

He grabbed Adam, lifting him off the ground for a brief second and shoved him into the wall. His head made contact, and hard. "Someday," he pointed a finger at his face, "you'll understand what it means to lose someone."

Adam struggled. "Is this all worth it? What if you lose your job?"

He smiled. "Who's got to say anything about all of this?"

"If you take this too far . . ."

"You don't have to worry about that," he let Adam down and straightened his tie, smiling. "I already have."

Adam was afraid.

- - -

Part Three, Cover-Up and Corduroys

A Bomb, Death, and Suicide

I don't remember where it came from, but if I had to guess I'd say it probably fell from the sky. What I do remember, though, is that disconcerting feeling when it impacted. I immediately knew what it was, what was going to happen, and what was going to become of me. I turned away and my body became tense. I tried to run, but only made a fraction of a step. I heard the explosion, I felt a brief moment of discomfort as my whole being was set on fire, and then everything went black.

What happened next can be likened to that of experiencing a power-surge while doing business on a computer. My mind flickered back on. I opened my eyes and looked around me. I was standing in the exact same spot I had been when the bomb (presumably) killed me. So this is where you go was my first thought. A brief look around allowed me to discover that this, however, was not the exact same place I had been. The sky was an imperfect blackness that gave the impression of nighttime, although there were no clouds, no moon or stars, no actual sky. Just the idea of it. The horizon mirrored this. 

There were others with me, and they looked equally as confused. We gathered together in an opening. What's going on seemed to be the dominant question on everyone's mind, with Where is God in close second. No one knew the answer. 

I noticed that people's emotions were still intact. Anger, fear, sorrow-- nothing had changed. People were still people.

I saw friends of mine. We ran to each other and embraced, comforted by the fact that we were not stuck in a strange land, forced to create companionship with strangers. We talked.

By then the crowd had started to disperse. People were going their own ways, searching for the answer to their questions and the solution to escaping what many now thought of as Purgatory. Aimlessly we walked through our town, the buildings and vegetation unscathed. The absence of light left everything in a macabre state. 

And then we walked into the Border. We had discovered an invisible wall, marked only a strange line on the ground and reasonably more darkness on the inaccessible side. We followed it. Others had discovered it as well. Later, when we rejoined the collective of dead, we would reason that this must be the radius of the blast. Confusion continued. We could discover no answers.

One our strangest discoveries was that our cell phones still worked. We could call and text one another, but not those who were still living. Other bodily discoveries: We could still feel. We were never hungry, nor were we full. We still grew tired. (Falling asleep when you're already dead is a terrifying experience.)

But this was all irrelevant, because soon we would no longer be there. After the first suicide, everything changed.

One of my friends was the first to discover that suicide brought you back to life, or at least what he considered life. He disappeared one day, and the next we received a phone call from him. I'm back. Dear God, I have no idea how it happened, but I'm back. It feels like a dream and a half.

For reasons unknown, we were unable to call him back. Nor would we discover why he was able to contact us in the first place.

People joined together once more in the square. Most didn't believe us. Always the courageous one, he decided to prove them wrong. He jumped from the building and as his body crashed into the ground, he vanished-- as if falling through the Earth. We built our ladders into the sky, checked the knot twice, and let whatever crude form of gravity existed here take over. Lovers went hand-in-hand into their fate.

The line shortened as everyone took their turn, and then the unexpected happened. We hit the limit. The world sped up and God let there be light. 

- - -

The landscape had been upturned. Slabs of desecrated concrete littered the floor, creating my living space. It was a reflection of the present, ruled-by-the-living world. It was both inhabited by the dead and the living-- or some form of the living, at least. The dead told me that there was a clear distinction between those living and those dead, that I would be able to notice immediately. These living were simply placeholder minds and bodies, they said, waiting until the day the soul died.

These "living" could still talk to you as if they were the real thing. I made it my mission to find those that I knew still lived. I boarded my plane and left.

- - -

And then I woke up.

This is not part of my story.

Have you ever felt dead? Chances are, you haven't. You just haven't.

Yesterday, while working, I did. It was either when I was helping that one customer with a gift receipt from 12/08, or else when I was helping someone with a no-receipter. Anyways, that's irrelevant. The matter of the fact is that while doing this, there was a split second when every aspect of my being focused on one, simple fact: While standing there, checking the small boxes of whether or not it was a refund or an exchange, or whether or it was paid for with cash, a check, or a gift card, I realized that I had zero freedom. I was a slave in that moment. I was mindless; I was alone. 

This was both scary and slightly empowering, for the moments afterwards were filled with my brain thinking This is all pointless, worthless, insane. You gain nothing from all this. Run. Just drop your pen and run away and be free and never write up another goddamn slip for some prick who thinks he rules the world without a receipt. 

I talked to Joe and Cody about it. Cody said there was freedom within understanding, even if you are a slave, but I can't see it. If you're stuck or covered, if you're, as the great Joe Bell would say, drowning in it, how can you still be free? 

Part One, The Corpse Reader

The receptionist smiled as we walked in. "I guess there's no need to ask if you two are the Officers with the two o'clock appointment," she said while eyeing our uniforms. 

My partner smiled, "You've got that right, ma'am."

"Take a seat. I'll let Dr. Burres know you're here."

Time passed awkwardly as we sat. The sound of glossy magazine pages being perused mindlessly. I kept my eye on the vase. The design reminded me of something my mother used to own. "He's ready," the receptionist called.

Dr. Anthony Burres, C.R.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Please," he gestured, "make yourselves at home."

We nodded and sat down on his black leather couch. Everything was expensive-- probably even the awards. His suit and the way he carried himself mocked our profession. I already hated him.

"Now," he cleared his throat, "I'm going to be upfront with you two. Someone fed him the pill."

Fuck.

The pill in question is another "advancement" in neurosubmersion. After Harold Krims discovered that through N.S. you could obtain the last minutes, hours, or even days of a human's life, people went apeshit. They wanted the freedom of death and an unplundered mind.

Enter the pill.

"What kind of dosage are we talking about here?"

"Well, in that we may consider ourselves somewhat lucky. Whomever fed it to him-- whether it was another person or himself-- had something cheap. Definitely from the streets. Wouldn't be surprised if a kid had sold it to him."

"Wait a second. Are you doubting that this was a suici-"

"Adam," I stopped him there. He's young, and still doesn't realize that there is a time to talk and the time to keep quiet. I looked back at the C.R., "Keep going."

"I extracted as much as I could," he started, "but there isn't much. With his," he held up a chip, "you'll be able to get a decent look at the last four days. I ran a test on his memories from a year ago. There are times when black or white splotches cloud the picture, and there are times when things go blank for countless minutes, seconds, and hours. I'm assuming the final four will be no different." 

"Thank you." I took the chip, and the two of us exited.

- - -

Part Two, Silver Screen

Prologue

It took us a while to fully understand. It took even longer to develop the technology needed to extract what we desired.

From our favored childhood memories to our final waking moments, we can delve ourselves into the past as deep as we'd like. The sky was the limit when N.S. came about, and boy how our imaginations run wild.

With Amendment Thirty-Three established in 2038, N.S. was deemed illegal beyond that of medical and coronary use. Recreational use of N.S. still prevails, despite the combined efforts of both state and federal agencies. 

I've been working cases like these my whole life, ever since becoming an Officer. They hit home. They hit home hard.

But that's not what I'm on tonight. 

No, tonight we require neurosubmersion for one of its original purposes.

Tonight I'm investigating a murder.

- - -

Part One, The Corpse Reader

xD

I love it when people comment. It makes me so happy. <3>

D'AWHCUTE

Anyways, I know I've linked this before, but,

it is so pretty.

10:20

Currently waiting for Chris to show up to take me out bowling with a couple other friends. Not in a good mood. Mixed feelings. Here we go.

It's hard to know the appropriate way to act and feel in certain situations. Today was no different and no less confusing than other experiences, which I'm sure I'll address in this blog.

Today I woke up early (6:20ish) so my dad didn't have to take care of our dog Copper in the morning. I got ready for work, spent eight hours there until four, went and grabbed food, came home and ate, and then passed out on the couch. I must have been asleep for an hour or two because when I woke up my whole family had returned home. I don't remember what woke me up; it could have been my dad calling me up. The food they had been preparing for supper (my dad had made burgers, the exact same thing I had ate after four) must have been ready. My stomach was still full from eating earlier, and I wanted nothing to do with food. I was still tired as well, so I crashed on the couch up there and tried to fall back asleep. My memory tells me that I'm getting yelled at next to get up and help prepare for a meal that I would not even be attending, but I suppose I could be wrong; he could have been asking nicely at first. But it elevated to yelling eventually. I told him that I wasn't hungry, and that I wasn't going to be eating, but I still got to hear the backlash of his voice calling me "damn lazy." My dad never swears. 99% of the time they (my parents) set the table themselves, and never ask for help from us kids. I'm going to assume today was an awful day for my dad.

But here are where the mixed feelings are. I don't know how to feel.

I think it's clear that my father was upset about something else, thus taking it out on the first thing he saw (me sleeping on the couch) that wasn't ideal in setting up a good rest of the night. Should I have helped him? Should I hate him for being a prick about something so little? Was in fact I being the asshole here? Who is in the right and who is in the wrong?

- - -

A couple blogs back one of my characters was given an epiphany from someone he hardly knew: That no one wins when it comes to love. We are all struggling for the same thing, and in a "perfect relationship," there is only one victor, and the rest are left to go scavenge for someone else. 

There is another epiphany I've developed over the years:

No one is special. You see a girl (or boy) and you think "Damn, there is something special about that person. They're the most beautiful girl (or boy) I've ever seen. Their personality is exactly what I'm looking for." And chances are it doesn't work out. And you're hurt, and your immature mind briefly thinks you'll never be able to find love again. And then you get over it, by way of finding someone else.

I've experienced this often. I've found myself attracted to the beauty and personality of many girls, and I've found that it doesn't matter if you chase it with all your heart or if you hardly give it a glance. There will always be someone else to take your mind off them. No one's stay contains permanence. 

- - -

God. I go from thinking about how much I love my dad, to how much his temper can ruin every experience with him. 

- - -

My mind wanders. 

"This is for you.

And you'll never know it.

You'll never see it."

I made a mistake.

I made a very big mistake. 

*breathe

lol

wut

I don't like you.

No one fucking likes you, don't you understand?

People only like themselves, and that's all there is to it. We're a pointless existence, waiting to evaporate into the summer air. You just wish it wasn't true. You wish to get kissed and fucked and graduated and the best job and it's all pointless. Useless. You are pointless.

I hate your face, I hate your eyes, I hate the air you breathe. 

I wish you'd kill yourself and dissolve. Dissolve for me.

I want to go into the wild, to go inside my own head, to go with the select few. And even they are not. Even I am not. I will sit and I will pretend that I am, but I am not. I will fill my head with your voice and your sweet touch and your mindset, but I am not.

You're high.

You're drunk.

You're stupid.

You're too afraid to make the correct decision first. To map out the language before the storm. 

I don't want to have to deal with you, because I've already dealt with you. In my head. You are my biggest disappointment, and the next will be just as bad. I'll sit and I'll dream and I'll make those same silly mistakes but it'll all be worthless. I am not.

I don't want your invitation. Don't fucking speak it. Forget it. Forget each simple fact, but I won't. I won't forget. I am not.

I'm over this. I've given up. That bullshit story everyone makes up and wishes for and prays for doesn't exist. It is, in fact, bullshit.

Let's just say I am over this.

I am not.

I sat down and placed my head down and kept my eyes open and saw nothing, and I thought Wow, this is what it's like. This isn't too bad. This is what everyone is afraid of? Total black? Nothing? Bring it on. Let me conquer your fear. I am not afraid. I am not.

Show me the way, Alice. Show me with your pretty blonde hair. Show me the void. Let me fall with you-- let me fall alone-- into nothingness. Remember: Keep your hands and feet inside the moving vehicle at all times. You wouldn't like to get hurt on your journey, right? Of course not. The seat belts are all fastened. Have a good trip. And he returns to the chair and waits for the next forty people to move ahead in line.

Watch me be disappointed. Watch me "try it again," only to be given the backhand slap of the mind's cruelest practical joke. But hey. I can take a joke. I'm laughing. I'm existing. I'm happy. I'm still laughing after the second time! And the third. And the forth. And now this is getting old, so I scream FUCK YOU, but you can't hear me because we're in a crowd and you're having fun and I'm suffocating. I'm suffocating so hard. Wait. Please. Please come back. With you here, at least I could breathe. At least when they saw me in pain people took a step back and let me breathe, but I can't now, please come back. Please. 

They revive me later. I'm bruised and hurt and no one cares but they're in a crowd so they like to pretend that they care-- that gains them invisible points. Hey, single man #5 thinks to himself, if I get on my knees and try to help this guy up maybe that girl #42 will come back to my place after the ambulance arrives and takes this guy away. Maybe I'll score, he thinks to himself. That's all he cares about. He doesn't care about me. Fuck him. I'm still bruised and hurt, but I get better. And then I'm happy and boring and no one cares. Maybe I should hurt myself again, I think. Maybe I should help someone else, I think. Either way I win. It's all about the I. I, I, I. If I don't win, it all doesn't matter.

God, fuck you, I say to the mirror. I'm drugged and drunk and stupid and my mind says to say this but I say that and my mind says Good job, idiot. Sorry, I'll say later, while I snort my next line of cocaine. Sorry.

Get me out of here. I am tired. I am not. But I want to hear the last bit of this song. It's pretty and mesmerizing and the female voice talks about protecting herself and protecting me, but it isn't me she really cares about. It's herself. 

Even the prettiest music comes from selfish, ugly people. I like to think that it comes from these moral beings-- but they're mortal, not moral. They're selfish and ugly and the veil hides them and there is nothing moral about any of us. It was all in my head. I am not.

Alice, you're so pretty. Why won't you fuck me? What's wrong? I can put on some makeup, if you'd like. I can try to look pretty. I know you yell at me and hurt me and pull on my hair if I don't but I swear I'll change. I swear I'll try and look pretty. Just don't go dying on me, because if the one thing that keeps me scared and alone and ugly and sad dies, I'll go crazy. I won't be able to take it. I'll end up killing someone and then they'll kill me.

I am not.

Marry me, darling.

Because we are so very pretty.

Man, that post was boring.

I'm sorry for that. Honest.

Have any of you read Shirley Jackson? I find her short stories so fascinating. They're so short and simple and sweet and strange in the loveliest of ways. This makes me sound ignorant, but I'll say it anyways: I find it fascinating that a woman from her time wrote about the things she writes about. I'm going to have to read more of her.

Nostalgia. Terminus. Le sigh.

I miss everyone.

Posts like these must be so annoying to read. I'm sorry.

This has been open for hours. I don't really feel like writing.

Sorry.

Thank you, Sir.

Every time I think it's fun and joyful to be hanging out with you and spending time together, you have to go and prove how much I should hate you. How much I should hate every fucking fiber in your body. You mother fuck.

Fuck you. I fucking hate you.

It's whatever-you-call-it-week in Fargo (ya know, where you put out "trash" and people come and pick it up if they want it/find it interesting). Because of this, there is now a chair sitting right in front of my door with a bowling ball bag (with the bowling ball still inside of it) sitting on top of it.

I hope my parents get a laugh out of it. They're discussing something serious right now.

I spent all eleven hours today keeping busy. And now I'm going to go to bed.

Tin House

Black Warrior Review (Submissions)

Just for future reference. 

I'm making cinnamon-roasted almonds right now. God I hope they turn out okay.

- - -

We got our food and sat down.

Man, I'm tired as hell.

Yeah, me too.

Where did you go last night? We-- well, I-- didn't see you after you got up from the table and left. 

Sorry. I just couldn't . . . be around that anymore. Made me feel a little sick.

He looked uncomfortable at the mention of "sick," Heh. I'm sure you heard about that?

From about a million different people. 

Mmm. Yeah. God, I felt bad for her. I tried to calm her down, but . . .

It didn't work? No matter what you said?

. . . Exactly. 

Yup. I've experienced that before.

He laughed, God we must sound pathetic. I bet she just dreams these conversations up.

Probably. But in her version of it, we're talking about how absolutely amazing she is. About how much she deserves praise. 

So do you still have feelings for her?

No, I don't. I just hate the attention, and the flailing. It's like she's still trying to settle a score that I'd given up keeping track of a long time ago.

Yeah, I can understand that.

Can I be honest with you?

We'd kept talking long after our food was gone. I was liking Alex more by the minute, Yeah, go ahead.

In a purely selfish way, I'm happy you two broke up.

I was surprised, Really?

Yeah. I don't know. I've been interested in her since middle school, to be honest. And once you guys started dating . . . I secretly hated you.

I laughed, I'm sorry, but that's hilarious. My reaction seemed to relax him a bit, but not as much as I'd hoped.

I don't know, he said, it's weird. You spend your whole life trying to make a person love you, thus making you happy and comfortable and accepted, and you never realize that there are other people who are looking for that same thing, and possibly with the exact same person you are. Only one person can win; someone has to get hurt.

The Eye

A woman sat down on the bench facing his. 

Her name is Tammy, he thought, or Carol or Susan. 

She wore modest jeans and a t-shirt with three patriotic puppies on the front. 

I bet she could help me, he thought.

She shifted her purse when he sat down next to her. He took no offense. 

"Hi," he said, offering his hand. "My name's Fay."

She looked up at him. He stuttered throughout his introduction. She'd had a nephew that suffered from a stutter. "Hello," she said kindly, receiving his hand. "I'm Carol."

"Do you mind if I sit here? I'm kind of nervous and company always makes me feel better."

"Go right ahead." She watched him place his backpack and a paper bag next to his feet. His eyes wandered among the other passengers in the terminal. Every so often his body would make an awkward, jerky spasm. "So where are you headed to?"

"Um, Memphis. My aunt lives up there. We're going to be staying there."

"'We?'"

"Yes. My mother and father and I."

"Ah. Well that sounds lovely. I've never been there." She paused and looked at the lettering on his shirt.  "I pray you're just leaving until it passes?"

"No, our home's gone," he said while twiddling his thumbs and looking at his feet. 

"Oh . . . I really sorry to hear that."

"Thanks! But don't be. We'll get through." He looked up, smiling. "Do you live here?"

"No, we live in New Orleans as well."

"Cool! Is your home safe?" 

"Oh, yes. We live on the northern side. High and dry, I guess you could say."

"Then why are you leaving?"

"Well, my mother's been feeling tired and ill lately, so I'm going up to see her. I think now is as good a time as any."

"Ooo. Okay. I haven't seen my mother since the storm got close."

"Your dad must be with you, then."

"Nope."

"Are you traveling by yourself?"

"Yup. They're both up there waiting for me."

"Well be safe. I know how scary traveling by yourself can feel. This is my first time too."

"Really?"

"Unfortunately, yes." 

"Well, I guess you really aren't all by yourself. I'm here."

Carol laughed. "I guess you're right, Fay."

"Would you like some sandwiches my grandmother made? Here," he bent down and grabbed the paper bag and stuck it out towards her face, "smell them! They always smell so good."

She got her nose close to the opening of the bag and took a big, dramatic whiff. Her nose tingled and she felt light headed. "Why, I . . ." The lights got brighter and then everything went black.

- - -

When she woke up, she was dead.

I've got an hour.

One

I should do something craaazy. Like posting something new every 10 minutes. Wouldn't that just be craaazy? I think it would be craaazy.

Okay, that's over with. 

How creeped out would you be if you casually checked someone's Facebook page, and they had removed everyone on their friends list except for you? Especially if it was someone you didn't really talk to/know? 

Lol.

Also, that one paragraph on my last post was AWFUL. I really should l2edit before posting. 

- - -

Thank you Ms. Karlten, I said as she let us in. 

No problem. I wish I knew what you kids were going through . . .

Maria went over and took his hand. She started to cry.

I took a seat. My eyes were heavy. 

Why'd this have to happen to him?

Haven't you heard the good news? Bad things happen to everyone. 

I wonder if he can hear us. If it somehow effects whatever it is that they go through. 

To put it in a childish way, emotions are a lot like food. They don't sit well if you mix everything together.

That's how I was feeling.

We left early.

I kept feeling the vibrations of my phone as new text messages and voicemails were received. I had no doubt that they were about whatever other awful things were going on at the prom. 

- - -

Two

I felt guilty for the second time of the night. Maria and I had run off, together, during a social event that almost everyone was at. No doubt the rumors were spreading like a wildfire. Again, mixed emotions. I hated them. All of them. From every "social outcast" and pompous prick that I'd never spoken to to every asshole I had the privilege of being somewhat friends with. 

We parked at Twin Point. 

Three

We parked at Twin Point. And . . . nothing happened. We sat on the hood and watched the stars. We didn't kiss, we didn't have sex, we didn't say a word. We just sat and kept our heads looking up to the sky.

I hope you believe me. 

Four

Wake up.

Mm?

Please wake up.

Guuh. Fine. 

Mom cooked me breakfast. She made sure I took one of my pills. I didn't want to. I never want to. I can slip past without taking them unless she's there. And she counts. If I get lucky, I can fake taking one and then throw it away once I get to school. 

Five

Today wasn't one of those days. You know, since it was a Sunday. Please don't tell her I'm not taking my pills. I can trust you with this, can't I? I figure I can. You're a good teacher. A good person, I should say. Sorry.

It's just one of those things you don't get over.

- - -

I went and got a burrito to smother my overdramatic, teenage pain in. 

He was there. Awkward. Without her, though, thank God. 

I gave him one of those angle-faced grins and he greeted me back. He invited me to stay and eat with me. So I accepted. It couldn't hurt.

eoiurwfs

How'd the assignment go for you?

I don't know. The reading was a bit . . . esoteric. 

Mr. Whitney laughed.

I don't think you'll find my paper very good.

He shrugged, Well at least you tried. 

Silence.

So the prom's about a week away. Are you going?

I don't know. Maria Clairite asked if I'd like to go. She's sweet, but it still feels like a pity invite.

I think you should. It'll be good for you.

She said the same thing. Yeah, maybe I will.

- - -

I felt bad for Maria. She didn't seem to be having as much fun as I'd hope she would. But then again, I wasn't really here to have fun.

And then I saw her. She was with her new boyfriend, whose name I now know. He's a nice guy. I feel bad for him getting mixed up in all of this. 

They sat down at our table. She was all over him. I didn't want to be there, so I got up and left to the bathroom. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. He should be here right now. With all of us. Having a good time. Even if I wanted to have a good time, I couldn't. I'd feel too guilty. I stood in the bathroom looking at myself until Tony ran in, laughing his ass off.

Oh my God, karma is a bitch!

Tony, I don't really feel like talking.

She just got sick! In the middle of the entire fucking dance floor! He gave me a pat on the back and went off, still laughing.

I felt bad for her. Even now, she didn't deserve this. 

I decided to leave. Maria was already waiting by one of the doors with our coats, I figured you'd want to go, she said. Before we got in my car I hugged her. She kissed me on the cheek.

Thanks for trying, I said.

Do you want to go visit him? I bet they'd make an exception and let us in this late.

Yeah. I'd like that.

- - -

And the award for World's Most Annoying Pistachio goes to . . .

THIS LITTLE FUCKER.

At first I thought I wouldn't eat him. I thought I'd let him sit and rot in a Fargo landfill until, as if by fate, a certain bird would probably choke on him and die, thus giving him at least some potential. But alas, I was hungry so I ate it.

I eat too much:

Breakfast

- Two bowls of cereal, each with whole milk.

Lunch

- Fries and a small Ron Johnson (chicken, ham, onions, mushrooms, pineapple, lettuce tomato, teriyaki, mayo, honey mustard) at Grand Junction

5 PM Snack

- Cup of Green Tea with Citrus, large bowl of this stuff (which happens to be THE most amazing frosted cereal in the world) along with whole milk, a peanut butter cookie, and a cup of pistachios.

I will still be having supper, which will probably end up being half a frozen pizza, a green apple, and water (and/or green tea), and I will also end up having popcorn while at the movie theatre tonight.

Holy fuck.

That made you hungry, didn't it? I know it did. It's making me hungry too.

- - -

Go ahead. Eat.

"There is a long way to love, but I have trouble."

- - -

Annabella Sciorra has a pretty voice. So does mememolly.

- - -

"Thank you for every kindness. Thank you for our children. For the first time I saw them. Thank you for being someone I was always proud to be with. For your guts, for your sweetness. For how you always looked, for how I always wanted to touch you. God, you were my life. I apologize for everytime I ever failed you. Especially this one..."

That line's from What Dreams May Come, the movie. I don't know if it's in the book or not-- I've never read it-- but I really liked it. The movie was meh. 

I keep listening to this. It's awesome. I've never read Alice, and I've never seen the movie, but the concept of it that I hold in my brain makes it sound lovely. However, I'd have to read the book before watching the movie. And I've got far too many books that are waiting to be read, at this moment.

Why does my blog post suddenly look really strange? What did I mess up now?

- - -

I made a list of things I "needed" to do today (needed in quotations because there's nothing I need to do, seeing as how I don't work for two days).

Okay, this is going to annoy me. I'm going to publish so hopefully it fixes it.

Kay, that didn't fix anything. Anyways. I made a list, and I did none of that stuff. I got home from the gym around noon, and literally stayed right next to and/or on my couch for 8+ hours. I need something to spend my time on. Fuuuck.

I'm going to go upload a video and read. Kbye.

Lol.

Man, today was hilarious.

I felt as if I was in that 30 Days show they used to have on FX, where they throw people into certain situations and see how they do.

For those who don't know,

my nose looks FUCKED UP right now. And hilariously so.

I went out to get food. The guy sounded extremely nice when he took my order at the drive through (or drive thru, I guess?). When I pulled up to get my food, he never looked me in the eye, nor did he sound as joyful as he did before he saw my face. Lol.

I got a ton of comments on it at work. It's funny how some people just give you weird looks, and others come right out and ask you questions about why you look so messed up. I had to keep myself from laughing most of the time.

Man, and I finally met Joe. Twas about fucking time. Man, it's weird some of the shit he remembers from my YT videos. Fuckin' Fresca, man. 

I thought it was awesome. I had a great time filming Darkside play in the tournament, and also when we were fucking around outside of it. The team is insanely fun to watch. I now have a whole new respect/special place in my heart for Ultimate. It would be cool to film them next year when they make it to nationals again.

It wasn't nearly as awkward being around his whole team as I had thought it might be. Joe, your friends are fucking awesome. Like, some of the coolest, most interesting people I now know. They're also extremely welcoming. I wish I could say the same about some of my friends. You're one lucky guy.

Fuck. I just realized I turned the oven off while my mother was baking something. Lololol shit.

Um. What else is there to randomly blog about this late at night? Not much, I guess. 

Time to go import a bunch of music.

By the way, Joe, The Crane Wife is a great album. You need to push this stuff on me sooner. Goddamn! 

I've got a new YouTube "stalker." Great. Grand.

She just messaged me asking what my name is.

Oh.

My.

God.

Fail.

- - -

I did end up running that day. Ran until my legs fucking burned. Pump up music blasting through the earpieces of my iPod. I love running. I'm not quick and I don't have Olympic stamina, but all of that doesn't matter. It's about conquering yourself. Telling yourself that you can run that extra minute, or five minutes, or ten minutes, because you know that no matter how long you run, and no matter how much it hurts, your body will be just fine at the end. In fact, it will be better than how it was before.

Just don't, ya know, go too far and die. Kids do that every once in a while. Heart conditions are a real motherfucker.

When I got back to my house I sat around, did abs, and ended up staring at the ceiling blankly while listening to relaxing music at a reasonable volume. 

I realized that I wasn't as mad as I thought I was. Hell, I'm not even upset about it now. 

See, our problem is obvious. Just look at the times we choose to communicate. How we're structured then isn't proper. If it were the way it is now, at this exact moment, we'd be better off. Friendship could work. But we have to watch our structure. Because when all else, it doesn't work. Not with our history. 

- - -

Fuck I am so excited for tomorrow. Really fucking exited.

Suburban seventh graders have more sexual experience than you do.

yoitwlk

http://www.writersdigest.com/article/a-boot-camp-for-creative-writing/

I wish, I wish I wish I wish.

- - -

You wrote your name in the sand?

Yeah.

When she didn't say anything else, he started to as well.

They were existing in Paradise, in a Paradise-No-More. 

We have to go back, he said.

I don't really want to.

Why not?

It's comfortable here. It's like I can pretend that I was the one that vanished, and not the other way around. 

Can we talk about this inside? I'm getting cold.

Okay.

In the morning, she agreed to go with.

She requested that they stop at the beach one last time. The tide had swallowed her name, but spared his. 

He watched her from the road and loved her.

He thought things might turn out all right.

- - -

That's impossible, he thought. There's no way.

Not wishing to sit and ponder the possible all day, he got to work.

A ladder would be too short. A scissors wouldn't do justice. He needed a sheer and a fire truck. He had to bury him. It was the least he could do.

He backed up and extended the ladder to just the right height. Up, up, up he went.

He looked the corpse right in the eyes.

Down, down, down you must go!

Kay, he said simply, and went on his way.

He peered over and looked at his work,

turned quickly and stumbled with a halfwitted jerk,

he fell to the ground and bumped his head.

No more monkeys jumpin' on the bed!

- - -

oiuoyem,

For some reason, in my dream last night, I imagined that Nebraska was a good thirty minutes away from Ohio.

For some reason it was also acceptable to justify attempting to kill some small child in the dream.

Seashells, the letter(s) and the lake. Imaginary things that I knew weren't real, so I told you they weren't. I think that upset you dearly, but ahwell, pard. You deserve it. 

Something about NaNo too. And to think that I actually sat and waited before responding. What a joke.

- - -

I'm an augur, you know.

I'm sorry-- a what?

"I see things you only wish you could see," he took his necklace and started to shake it at me. The last twinkle of a sapphire caught my eye. "I knew about this way before Casper or Tulsa. Before we were even able to comprehend that such a thing could ever happen to us." A coughing spasm followed.

Leave us alone.

Where are you going? You won't be able to hide. They'll find you. That, or they won't have to. If you have any food I could tell you your future.

We kept walking.

- - -

What was it? 

A necklace.

Oh. Isn't that a girly thing?

I guess so. Never saw him wear it, but he cherished it. His mother-- your great grandmother-- gave it to him before she passed. 

We . . . We could go back and get it. 

I don't think that's a good idea. If they haven't moved on yet, we'll be killed.

- - -

Why the fuck do these fuckers (how is fuckers not a word?) keep calling my house? Do telemarketers not learn? I know it's you, you little rat bastard. We don't want to listen to you promote some product or service. 

- - -

Time to go get pissed from the one and only infallible source so I can go on an hour-long run.

You are so stupid.

weoijort031

Aren't my titles just lovely? You could almost expect them to be used by Nine Inch Nails.

- - -

How did Pop-pop die? 

Eh . . .

I know what you're going to say. You're going to say something grownup, aren't you? 

Do you really want to know?

Yes.

Fine. He went into cardiac arrest. Do you know what that is?

No.

His, um . . . heart stopped working. While he was driving. And then his car hit another car. And he died.

I'm sorry. I should've been grownup and not told you.

It's okay. . . . He was lucky, wasn't he?

"What do you mean?" I looked at the scorched earth and the crimson rain in the horizon. "Yeah, he was."

Do you miss him?

Would you miss me if I was gone?

Yes.

Then there's your answer.

- - -

You've probably never heard of them before, have you?

No, I haven't.

Heh. They were way before your time. Let's see if this thing works.

Music started coming out of the boom box. For a few minutes, my spirits were uplifted. I wanted to sit back and smoke and drink; something casual way back when.

Did they die when They came here?

No, a few of them had died before then. The rest are probably gone now too.

He looked up to the sky and asked, "Do you think they're making music up there?"

He still wanted me to be honest with him, so I was. 

"I don't believe in up there."

weoijfs

They've been great friends forever, it can't possibly work out.

Why not?

I 'unno. It's just breaking some kind of invisible barrier that's always there. 

- - -

I shook my finger at her and felt old inside. "I told you it was a mistake. I told you. But you don't listen, do you? Not even to the simplest little shit. Goddamn. I . . ." I couldn't think of anything else to rant about. I was spent.

- - -

I saw her with her new boyfriend. Surprisingly, I still don't know his name. Maybe you do. I felt rage then, but cried when I was at his hospital bed. His silence is so sympathetic. I am empathetic towards everyone else, except for her. They're vapid.

- - -

Sigh.

- - -

I pardon.

So for Mother's Day, instead of buying an expensive gift and flowers and a card and all that great grand wonderful stuff I decided to make breakfast for the family instead. I woke up at 7:30, got all of my stuff ready, and set out to try a new recipe that I'd seen in the Fargo Forum for "Chocolate Banana Strudel." Or maybe it's "Banana Chocolate Strudel." Does it even matter?

It was pretty good-- or at least that's what my mother and sister (the only people in my family currently at home today) said. I thought it was okay. Nothing orgasmic, though. Making it was a bitch. Filo (or fillo or phyllo or however else it's spelled) dough is the most godawful annoying thing to deal with in the world. I want to murder it all kinds of dead. 

n e waiz. Now I get to go to work for seven hours and hope that I don't wish a happy Mother's Day to someone who has never been able to conceive. That would be classy. And awkward. 

I was going to write out a thoughtful, deep piece about my mother and Mother's Day, but PostSecret summed it all up for me:

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5htBdfB8iFncKvsbRYlqGyDoOmKYjEmOWRmUCDx91PDFa4npqYIhDUfySShNC_wEmy6m-R0SDsiP9Fd-3lMzSsZeUoOGhhja5LG5GluJ_x8qhytO0iSc_D33pHRYfLQMfzpWlLQro3uD/s1600-h/happymothersdaytoallmoms.jpg

Also: Guilty Pleasures

Gabby wrote about guilty pleasures. And when I think about it, I honestly don't believe I have any. But when I really thing about it, I guess there are some guilty pleasures. Time to try and list them off the top of my head:

1) Bad Reality TV Shows - You know all those awful shows on VH1 and MTV about 40-year-old rappers trying to find love? Yeah. I sometimes watch them. And when I say "sometimes" I don't really mean "I secretly don't want the world to know that I watch every new episode on the night they come out." It's mostly just a boredom thing. And a time to turn off my brain and become mindless.

2) Um. - That's really all I can think of. It's not like I listen to the Jonas Brothers, or 50 Cent, or Enya on a regular basis, making sure to always hide their CDs whenever my friends come over. My favorite movie is not Muppets in Space. I don't follow any TV shows besides The Office and 30 Rock-- and even for those I sometimes go weeks without watching. 

Maybe I don't have them? Or maybe I'm just in denial. 

Only in Ohio.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090508/ap_on_re_us/us_school_dance_flap

HORROR STORY!!!1!

Kay, so, tonight we celebrated my brother's birthday. After the cake was lit, and we were sitting around chatting, my mother came over and decided to be motherly (by playing with my hair and massaging my head). I knew she liked getting her head scratched/massaged as well, so I decided to return the favor. (This whole thing sounds so weird.) Anyways, I did it for a minute or so, and then took my hands out of her hair. I looked at my right hand, and saw the tip of my ring finger covered in blood. The small cut, which had been caused earlier in the day by (of all things) a rebate slip at Fleet Farm, had reopened. I broke out in my signature "nervous" laughter and waved my hand around like a magic wand until everyone realized what had happened.

There wasn't nearly as much blood in her hair as I thought there would be. 

Take THAT, Stephen King. And this muthafucka is REAL.

- - -

Lol.

tqerwr

I like my titles.

 

- - -

I ate Qdoba last night, and it was probably for the first time since trying Chipotle. I found it distasteful (and yes, I kept it in mind that it was a night burrito, and that night burritos are never as good as non-night burritos). Qdoba sucks. *gives up*

- - -

YOU . . . YOU GOT WHAT I NEEEEEED! BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND! BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND!

- - -

Biz Markie. That song is so good. Ya'll should go listen to it nao.

- - -

iowjefklm

In Pineapple Express, James Franco looks so much like Kristen Stewart when he jumps into the trash bin. It just made me lol really fucking hard.

- - -

"Did Sean seriously just leave his phone sitting there?"

"Uh . . . I guess, yeah." I picked it up. "Yup, that's his."

"Oh my God hand it to me!" He took the phone and started going to town. "How much time do you think I have?"

"I dunno. I guess if he heats up the cook' it'll be a couple minutes. The fuck are you doing?"

"I'm switching around all of the names on his contacts. Oh God, this is going to be hilarious!"

Samantha sat down with us. I saw the look in his eye, even though he kept focused on screwing around with Sean's phone.

"Hey guys! What're you up to?"

"Screwing around with Seansy's phone," he said with a smile. 

Sean figured it out after he got a text from his father asking if they could "fool around" at his house after class. He found it just as hilarious as we all did.

- - -

He noticed that his little ladybug had died. Body stiff, cold, awkwardly contorted. The colors on its back were faded.

He started crying.

We have to go.

NO, He was throwing a fit now.

God dammit, listen to me for once!

This made him cry harder. 

I'd realized that I'd been harsh. Too harsh. He was all I had. I was all he had. I wish we had more.

The four of us are dying: Two of us are already dead. The third is on his way. He'll be following his ladybug as if it were a clear summer's day on his back porch. Don't worry, reader. The fourth won't go until the end.

- - -

I went to a wedding this weekend. It was fun. Apparently the bride's sister happened to be a girl I had a class with in college. I didn't recognize her until she gave a speech at the reception. Twas fun to talk with her during. 

Two more of those to deal with during this summer. I are excited.

- - -

This is the episode where the mother has too much cleavage showing, so they blur it out. I find it hilarious. As if the still of her ass isn't enough. Oh, Disney! 

- - -

Give yourself this week to let it all fold out. If you've got nothing by Friday night, take charge. Look up emails 'n shit. Kay? Kay.

- - -

I'm slightly disappointed with finding out where you're going. I wish it were closer. Aaaand that's all I really want to say. Meeeh.

I could tell her, but that would be wrong. And cruel, if she felt the same way. And just awkward. Fuck.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/12609/arrested-development-burning-love#x-0,vepisode,1

Kenneth from 30 Rock AND Kevin from The Office. It's like a joining of awesome.

Excuse me for being rude, but . . .

How the hell are all you new people finding my blog? o.O

Just out of curiosity. 

Vanishing Excerpt . . . Two?

The man hoisted himself up against the trunk of an oak. Red trail clashing with green grass. Kirk figured he had mortally wounded him. He hobbled towards the shade.

A forced laugh carried blood. You know, the man started, when I s-

Kirk jabbed the sword into his chest, Fuck you.

- - -

Speech.

Applied Calculus. 

Intro to English Studies.

Intro to Biology.

Bio Lab.

The Psychology of Drug Use. (Lol)

Those are my classes. While taking a break from school was the worst idea I could have ever come up with, it actually did some good:

A) I'm looking forward to going back to school, and eventually transferring out of NDSU. 

B) I actually want to challenge myself now. I could take the easy classes in order to receive a lot of my credits for the required generals (i.e. some strange computer science course instead of calculus), but I've decided against that. I want to take hard classes. And in every way possible. I am smarter than I think I am. Guess we all are.

- - -

Hm.

How taste aversions come to be:

First you win two free meals (along with two free scoops of frozen custard) at a decent restaurant, through a raffle that you never once signed up for and/or purchased into. 

Then you decide to share this meal with your brother, who has just informed you that the TKE house that he lived in during his stay at NDSU receives free cases of Monster (16 or so a week, in fact), and that he was given a handful of cans for free. 

You eat the meal (the meal in question happens to be a Double Mushroom & Swiss Butterburger, fries, a glass of water, and a scoop of chocolate frozen custard), and then decide to try some of the infamous energy drink (all while finishing your brother's fries, I might add). 

A couple hours later, it begins to not sit so well.

I'll never drink that shit again.

. . . Or maybe it was all those Skittles I ate off the ground at my sister's softball game. Who knows!

- - -

My birthday was a true joy. I ate a bunch of food, received a lot of clothing I didn't need, received some money I didn't need, and also received a movie I didn't need. I was lazy the whole day. (I figure I took maybe a total of 250 steps. Tops. Honest to God.)

I still hate birthdays. They're awful. I hate cards. I hate that kind of attention. If anyone wants to make me feel absolutely awful, here's how you do it: Buy me a bland card filled with platitude after platitude, act as happy as people will the day they cure all types of cancer, be like my sister and keep telling me "Look happy! It's your birthday! Stop being a grouch!" and also sing the birthday song over and over again. I hate that song. a;slkjdoejf

But it was fun. I had a good time. It reminded me how much I love my family (And I do. A lot. Even my mother.), and how much they love me.

- - -

"WHAAAAAAAT?"

ojgiowejf

Lol. I'd love to write about the swine flu, but we all know it would just be another "The Stand." Without the magic and the nuke, though. That's all King.

- - - - ~ - - - -

._._._._._._.

!@!@!@!@!

#$#$#$#$#

I got really bored there.

Like really.

A blank stare. That was all she deserved.

"Your turn," he said against a backdrop of ten collapsed pins.

"God, you're good."

"Thaaat's what she said."

I shook my head, yawned, and prepared myself for another pair of gutter balls. "We need to stop doing this so late. Eventually it'll just catch up to us and fuck over our grades. Or something else equally unimportant." I set up to bowl.

Will mocked-- and poorly, I might add-- our algebra teacher's voice, "Ya'll begettin' ya homework done now, ya hur meh?"

I was laughing so hard that it fucked up my bowling. The release sent my ball flying into the next lane (one that was currently being used, too). It sunk into the gutter and reset the guy's current round. He looked over at me as if I were the biggest douche bag. Will was on the floor, laughing just as loud. "Kay," I said, "I think we should probably get out of here." 

"Sorry, dude," I called back to the man as we left. 

That's one of the things I love about him. He laughs just as loud as I do at all the same things. I hope he still can after all this. Somehow. 

God fuck this so much. 

---

Please, no. Please no. Please no.

---

She loves him.

Are you fucking JOKING right now?

Whoa, fuck off. What right do you think you have to decide if someone still does or doesn't love somebody? 

I have every fucking right to assume. Don't hate me for trying to use my intelligence to predetermine an answer to a general thought. She "loved" him, and we all know how thin teenage love stretches. He's hurt now. He's hurt. And she's not going to fucking stick around with him forever. Is she going to feed him? Is she going to lift his toothbrush up and brush his teeth every night for the rest of their lives? Are they that much in love? FUCK no. . . . Fuck no. 

I hope you die.

Don't you mean "I hope I die"? (I sat there looking at her and I could feel how mean I'd just sounded.)

Then she threw something at me (I forget what it was) and ran away. I'd struck a nerve. She'd probably end up crying. Good. That makes me happy.

Made me happy, at least.

---

People are people, so why should it be? that you and I don't get along . . .

lksfdoef

It's over. You can get up now.

God, I hate it when you do this.

Mm.

Seriously. It's uncomfortable and just . . . yeah. Uncomfortable. 

Get over it.

That shit'll kill you, ya know.

Fuck off. You're not me.

Right. And I've never lived before either, right?

They closed up.

Really? I'd only been there once.

Case and point, I guess.

That's kind of sad, if you think about it . . . Like, I know it's business and all, but that shit must sucks. Someone's hopes and dreams were kicked in the face after it closed shop.

You're the kind of guy that feels bad for the family members of a fictional cop that gets gunned down in a story, aren't you?

You're just a fucking . . . for lack of a more mature word, copycat. That's what you are. You're not your own fucking person. You try so hard to be great that you just end up being someone else for two minutes.

Hey fuck you. At least I'm humble about it. I know I am.

That doesn't help your case at all.

Just give me a break . . . I'm trying. And I'm new to this. I don't know what or how to be.

----

Sorry. I know I'm annoying. And it sucks. Kind of just feel like I should leave everyone alone.

Yell.

Yelling doesn't sound nearly as cool coming from others as it does when it's coming from yourself. 

Oh, to be young and vague.

Just so you know, each and every one of them is right. Each and every one. But chances are you won't see it--you won't see it until it's all over. That's the case with everyone in this world. We never see what's right in front of our faces. Or on our faces, in some cases.

When do you think it'll all become clear?

Probably never, Lily Allen. Actually, let me change that. Never. The answer is Never. 

Never is a long time, though. Don't you think it'll occur eventually?

Newp. Not. At. All, spoke the high marijuana patient. Not. At. All,

I apologize to both of you. It's a syndrome, I swear. I've wronged you, and I should know better. Just forget about our mothers and our friends. We're fated to pretend, anyways,

God. The rage I feel again. You've never once truly experienced it. I just want to yell, and scream, and accuse, 

here. I want to do it all here, but I won't. Not today. Not tonight. I'm better than that tonight,

I'm better than you tonight. 

And I'm also not. I've sunk to the same level--my feet are frozen. There is no getting out in this game. I'll beg for forgiveness when you're sad and refuse to talk to me, because I realize how insecure and idiotic and stupid I've been, but I'll be mad again. Be certain of that. I will always be angry. We can't change things--and this is one of them. You will not change, and neither will I. But within this lack of change for the bad, there will always be the lack of change in the good.

So. In a nutshell:

We're fucked.

The good and the bad just pile on and on, like fall leaves after descent. It'll always be there. There will never be a medium. And that sucks. All of it does,

I can be mad when my own heart and the heart of others are wounded, but when it's the other way--when it's you--I'm so sorry.

RAGE. Disappointment. Such disappointment. 

Don't be mad or jealous. And I swear to the stars I'll burn this whole city down, oa-ah-ah-ow.

While looking for a new song to write to, I found the perfect one. And I know how much you hate this band, which makes it even. better. Fuck you for never appreciating. I try so hard to appreciate all of your shit, and yet you cannot even do the same for me. And it's so important to me. So, SO important. God. Fuck you. You don't understand at all. At all. I've never once said that of yours.

Don't be mad. Don't be jealous. 

Life was only made to watch children hoppípolla.

It's all so important to me. My music drives me. The lyrics and instruments bond with each awful, sad-attempt-at-a-writer word I write, and within them you can find my story, laid out on a path of gold for only the willing to follow, but no. You have to be an asshole. So fuck you. 

WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAAAAAAH

WE'RE THE RENEGADES OF FUNK

That sounds so much better in the actual song than it does written out. Lol.

The deformities on my face are asking to beg even more for forgiveness. But nah. I'll wait on doing that again for a while. 

I think you'll end up marrying one of those lonely people, Eleanor Rigby. Although, I am no different. 

Koo-koo kachu.

BAHA

Oh God, that's rich. How am I not surprised.

One-track mind this past/current week: Hockey.

Fuckin' love it.

Also, I've got a good idea for a YT video. But only two kinds of people in this world would get it:

A) Those who have seen Pineapple Express

and B) Those who actually--ya know--follow YouTube.

So far my population is only one man. I think.

Adam Colas. Or is it Colás? Colás is more badass, imo.

Fear.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

In Response:

"And you'll forget it again."

LOL

Have you ever read the title to people's blogs? The ones that are supposed to be serious are hilariously awful. And all have a statement under the title along the likes of this: "A lonely teenager trying to find his/her voice in this wretched, twisted world."

Was about to post a link to Super Size Me, but then I remembered that Blogger sucks koala cock.

That movie's so good, if you haven't seen it before. Made me never want to eat McDonalds ever again. And I don't believe I have since watching it. Never did like the place, anyways. Burger King was always my fav. Lolololol.

Unrealistic : Feeling great and awesome while starving yourself or eating very little to lose weight.

Realistic : Being able to eat almost anything you want, while looking good. The kicker? All you have to do is get up and exercise for 30 minutes a day! WHOA!

For some reason, whenever I'm on my blog, if I go into my edit tab or try to paste something, it creates this fake box below my actual fucking post, and posts whatever I wanted to post in there. It's fucking retarded. YOU HEAR ME, BLOGGER? FUCKING RETARDED. RETARDED LIKE THE SECRET LIFE OF THE AMERICAN TEENAGER RETARDED.

I'm not really that mad. Although I could be, if you wanted me to be. I could be anything you'd like, darlin'. Anything. 

Now let's try this again:

Nope. Didn't work. Idiotic. 

Time to type out this link all by myself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8SfL1qXa_A

I'm so cool. I'm good at math. If I had the algorithm length and the full list of characters YouTube uses in their link, along with any rules (such as not having _ after the =), I could calculate the number of possible link combinations in their website. I bet it's pretty damn large.

But where I was going with this: I'm linking that here, because I love that song. And because if you look at my status updates in Facebook for the past week or so, they're almost ALL links to something on YouTube.

I like how our conversations never feel like they end in closure. They just sort of set sail dead East on an older Earth, and drop into space once they've reached the edge. That, or one of those green sea monsters grabs hold and sinks us to the bottom. 

Despite everything I say about my mother, I love her dearly. And always will. 

I like how Priceline requires you to mash your button while clicking on the "Search" tab or whatever it's called. It's like they think you're about to fuck up your family's vacation, so they require two soft clicks. Just to make sure you're positive on the dates and location. I wonder how many elderly people click it once and then sit there watching the screen. Oh, joy.

Late July, please come sooner.

And now I know 

what it's all about.

Scooters. Vacation. Fall.

Edit:

Maybe I should add something cool to the end of each blog. Like this:

Unrealistic : A god that cares more about intervening with your Math grade, random Christian boy from the United States, than he does with the millions of people suffering elsewhere. 

Realistic : A god that simply doesn't care at all. (Which is not a negative quality, in my eyes.)

Should I waste time blogging every day for the month of April? Yes/No?

For all those interested:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090327/ap_on_re_us/midwest_flooding

I was there, with those people you see sandbagging. I wish I knew Josh's last name. I'd tell him he was on Yahoo! news.

Also, another interesting video to watch: 

http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2009/03/25/video_fargodome/

That place is packed with much more sandbags now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b0fdETmRng

I'm confused.

Where have I shown that I believe that I'm the "center" of everyone else's life?

Or that I believe that something in another's life *always* has to do with me--because that's what you're assuming. "Something in someone else's life may have ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with you." No shit it may have nothing to do with me.

Everything in one's life is always about one's self. To think otherwise is to deny the obvious.

1:42

I don't know what's going on right now, but I don't like it.
And this is the easiest way to get in touch with you.
So say hello to me sometime. I miss talking with you.
We kindasorta haven't in a while.

The Strokes

I'd never heard one of their songs before. Randomly looked them up. They're really, really good imo.

Am I lame for liking them?

What the fuck do I care.

Fuck you. 

Don't judge me.

O Fridur - Finally, some names.

I knew I wanted it to be a plane crash. I like using "modern events" to twist into my story. I know each and every kid, and what they're like (although they're still allowed to surprise me) but I don't know their names. But I want to honor Flight 3407 in this. So I will. 

Here's what I've got to work with:

Allison

"Ellie"

Susan

Marvin

Rebecca

Doug

Carl

Beverly (Sean)

Gerry

Coleman

Matilda

Maddy

Don

David

Lorin

Jean

Zhaofang

Donna

Kevin

John

Jerome

Ron

Mary

Bethany

I'm bad with names for stories, so I normally just make them up. Names are unimportant. I don't even really remember the names of those in my earlier stories . . . which is somewhat depressing. And pathetic.  We'll see how this works out. I have to write more tomorrow. Have to.

Don't worry.

You'll find that inspiration somewhere. Somewhere.

I hear crying that isn't mine.

I don't know what to say.

I had a three-line "poem" in my head before this, but now it's gone. Apparently it wasn't good enough.

Someone talk to me.

Untitled

It's already past, and passed.

burn.

Six days.

It took his body six days to sink to the bottom. When it softly landed on the ocean floor, and he stirred from his meditative state, he knew what he wanted.

What he needed.

Life. 

Stretching the arms, cracking joints, he began to construct his vision. For an eternity, the dance had always been the same. 

Unparalleled focus. 

A vibrant, grand mass of light. A sun to call their own.

Planets of every color and size, ripe for the discovering. Stars to mystify his children for when they gaze into a midnight sky. 

Satellites to place feet upon.

And finally a home. A home much like his own.

But it all felt different.

Except he had hope for them. These people soon to be. His creation. He hoped that they would break away from his design; it would surely not differ greatly from that of his kin. He hoped that they would be better in some way. Any way.

His voice soothed the black water surrounding him, lulling it to rest.

Focus.

Unparalleled focus. 

He created their ocean. Their green grass. Their trees. The animals, and people.

And he knew them each by name. 

Two turned into three, and three became four. And soon they inhabited his whole world. They lived full lives--each and every one. 

He was invisible to them. And yet they named him. In various tongues, in various symbols, they named him. Some believed strongly. That he would save, that he would punish. Some didn't believe in him at all.

The speed of time quickened. Decades passed by in milliseconds. His tired eyes would blink, and those he had grown to know and love had passed away. 

A muscle would twitch, a finger would move, and hundreds would perish. Thousands. Millions. 

His world was sensitive. Vulnerable. Weak. 

Beautiful. Through the suffering and the joy, through the triumphs and the failures, his creation was absolutely beautiful. 

Their chests would heave as breath--life--filled their small lungs. Eyes looked up into the night, right into his, without even realizing it.

They were selfless. They were honest.

They lied. They stole. They murdered.

But above all else, they were beautiful.

They were no different than he was.

No different.

And it was through all of this that he understood what he had to do.

He had to go back.

To the surface.

To civilization.

He had to look into the midnight sky one last time. 

He had to look into the invisible eyes of his creator and let him know that he understood.

I feel like writing.

I feel like writing a fucking novel. Not an actual novel, but a novel nonetheless. 

"It was her wrists. They were beautiful." I never really understood that line until now.

Why the FUCK will blogger not let me paste things while on a Mac? Why the fuck not, you goddamn asshole?

I could be mean. I could be angry. I could be just like you. 

Sometimes I wish we lived right next to each other. You have no idea how much I need you right now. It's so lonely here, and yet it isn't any different from what I'm used to. I don't know if I could explain it and make it fully comprehensible.

You thought you'd sit inside me. You were only in my way . . .

Starálfur. That's the song. And you know exactly at which part we would, too. Everyone does. I'm sure it's something everyone thinks of. 

Wrist feeling. It's a weird sensation. And sort of doesn't make sense, given my previous explanation. The fuck is wrong with me?

That was the dumbest question I've ever been asked. Ever. Not really, but this is what everyone says whenever they get asked a stupid question. And yes, there are such things as stupid questions. How can you not know off the top of your head? Do I not tell you enough about my life? Do you not have enough insight? For God's sake, you're right here. with me. every day. We're always talking. How can you not know? Do you know how much it hurts that you honestly don't know? Do you ever care? Do you even pay attention? I know you do, I just don't know to what extent . . .

I don't even know how to answer that question. (The question you asked.)

Hello?

Is anyone out there?

. . . No?

Okay . . .

O Fridur - The Effect

What these three decide (or allow, I guess) for these kids probably isn't even feasible in today's world. Or maybe it is. I dunno either way--but I think it makes for a damn good story. Oh, and expect me to expand on this scene later on. (And yeah, the last line is pretty cheesy.)

____

Mark stared through the one-way mirror while occasionally sipping at his black as pitch coffee. 

Larry glared up at him from his chair. "Late as usual, eh?"

Mark sighed. "Yeah," he said while looking at the clock in the room before him. "I know he'll show up, just a little worried about the kids. You know how impatient they can get. And given the situa--."

Stan walked in, cutting Mark off. "Sorry for being late," he said while taking off his coat. He started to brew up a cup of coffee. "Hurry up and tell it to me in a nutshell so I can get in there and talk with 'em."

"You've been watching the news, right?" asked Larry.

Stan flinched, burning his tongue on the first sip, and then nodded.

"Right," followed Mark. "Well . . . their parents were on Flight 728."

Stan shut his eyes. "Fuck," he stated softly. After a pause, "And all the reports are still holding strong? No one has been found?"

Mark shook his head. "Not alive, no."

"Do they even know?"

"Doesn't seem like it, no," said Larry. "They were as confused as could be when we brought them in here."

Stan shook his head. "They have to know . . . I mean, wouldn't their parents give them the flight number?"

"Probably not for this," said Mark. "Think about it. They knew the kids probably wouldn't care which flight number took them from Atlantic City to O'Hare. Would you tell your kids each and every number?"

"Jesus fucking Christ . . ." Stan put down his coffee. "I'm guessing you guys already did a background check on this?"

Larry sighed--for the first time sounding distressed. "Yup . . . and it isn't looking good. At all. Their father was an only child; the mother had one sister--she died back in '03 from breast cancer. All the grandparents are deceased. They . . . really have no one."

"But themselves," Stan whispered.