12.30

[I stink at this "daily" thing. I have done pretty good for the first 20 odd days of each month but then I completely lose momentum. Ah, well.]

I want to yell at someone. Not just because I'm angry, because though I am angry, it would lose its potency. No, I want to yell at someone because it would work. Convincing them logically doesn't. Coaxing them sweetly doesn't. Bribing, whining, and coercing are all out. My last recourse is violence.

I just wish they would shut up and work on the project, or the boss will fire us all.

12.27

Eggs make very depressing side dishes.

Eating an egg always makes me think of the future--what happened? Where did that particular egg go wrong?

At what point is a chicken not a chick--when does it become breakfast?

12.20

Chapter 2 (arbitrarily decided by the author)

Holmes schwooped to look at the big, shiny thing. It was ridiculous-looking, like a starfish which had been flattened. Watson trundled about, stirring up more silt. Holmes sighed.

"Watson! Hypothesis: this object was used as a means of moving through the water."

"Sherri! Conclusion: ridiculous. How do you figure?"

"Based on well-known principles, anything large and flat can move a large amount of water. This is both large and flat, and, owing to its rigidity (here Sherlock rapped the surface and the whole object rang dully) it could move water quite well."

"But Sherri, it has flat surfaces all the way around. No mater how you wave it, the other side will just counteract your movement."

"Ah, yes Watson, quite astute. But you see, if the object is twirled around its center, each surface would push on the water in quite a different way than you would expect."

"How might it do that, Sherri?"

"Well, do you remember when we had to chase the octopus for the Case of the Running Octopus?"

"Like it was yesterday."

"Well, yesterday when it was happening, you noted that the octopus took sharp corners by spinning. This is what has given me the idea for this object."

"But it still doesn't make any sense. It looks more like bone than like a flipper."
"It has to make sense, Watson. Eliminate every other possibility (plant, rock, clam) and the only remaining option has to be what it is, no matter how preposterous."

12.19c

Driving off a cliff is never as easy as it sounds. There are guard-rails. Those are designed to not admit cars. There's a shoulder, to give an extra second of reaction time. There's an angle to be overcome; the car can't just slide along and hope to burst through. Once conditions are perfect, the car might not even go sailing over the edge. Once the speed and angle are perfect and the brake is forgotten in favor of the gas, the shards of metal railing might slow your descent enough that your car merely scrapes slowly over the edge so that it can roll violently down the cliff, instead of sailing through the air--perfect, weightless, slow-motion--until it crushes itself against the bottom with extra-violent force.

Once you've driven over, though, you just have to enjoy that you've done something fairly difficult and you've done it so well. Sit back and enjoy the spectacle. Hope that nothing particularly painful happens at the bottom. Hope that perhaps, if you're very lucky, your car will survive and you can race up the mountain and through the hole you just punched in the guard-rail.

12.19b

October 16, 2005

Today, Molly turned 14.

That leaves me. I have to wait until March 4 to be normal, to be accepted, to be considered a part of the group. Until then, I am a freak and an outcast, too young for my grade.

I guess I'll deal with it by ignoring it.

12.19

I lent him my camera three months ago. He just gave it back; I hadn't noticed it was missing. I turn it on and flip idly through the pictures.

Her smile jars me out of my complacency.

I am against the burning of books, the shredding of poems, the destruction of memories. I believe that everything anyone makes should be preserved as well as possible, to contribute to the collective identity of our race. When society ends and the world burns, we will at least have memories.

And yet--the desire to delete her sweeps over me. I didn't know I had taken her picture. I didn't know I hadn't moved her to my hard drive. I didn't know I still had memories to unearth.

I remember when I took the picture. We were sitting on a bench, happy, avoiding mosquitoes. But it was strained happiness. She was thinking about classwork. I was thinking about her. When two people try to have a conversation about different things, the words usually tend to end. So we smiled a bit more and she said that she had better get to class, and I said I had better let her go, and I took a picture and kissed her goodbye.

And now her bittersweet smile rips through my pretenses and leaves me angry at my dichotomy:

destroy the memory

or

remember the pain?

in der Nacht 1

So dreams aren't really "creative" writing because my brain does them while I'm asleep, but I think it's worth it to just go ahead and blog them anyway so here is one but I am not putting it with the normal stuff.

I am in a skyscraper with Niel Huffaker and others. Every floor is ground level. On top, there is an African hovel/mansion. All I ever saw of it were the kitchen and living room where Phil and I were staying. There was a group of researchers, including dad, who were studying flies. We trapped a fly the size of a housecat inside and "studied" it. Not sure. I had to drive away the housecat fly from the inside of the house with a stick. I then had to block an overalls-wearing turkey-buzzard combo with no feathers from coming inside. (Africa is weird.) It was then, standing at the door, that I saw Africa for the first time. It looked like Oklahoma.

The kitchen was filthy but was nice under the grime (it looked like painters worked there), and the living room was amazing (in the style of old people who started poor and got rich--poorness with a layer of sumptuousness right over top. It was lush and extravagant, but simple and honest. I hated the dichotomy of the living room right next to the kitchen, so I decided to clean. I had on my nice sweater though, so we discussed movies while I tried to think of a solution. People randomly entered and talked about . . . Sandra Bullock? The Blind Side was mentioned. I tapered off and woke up.

Most interesting fact: I woke up multiple times. Whenever I was waking up, my dream-self walked out a door of the building. Whenever I fell asleep, the first thing I could remember was an atrium or entry-way or the door to my back.

12.15c

I will finish Sherlock, I promise. You have my word. I just want to process today. I'm finally out of the woods and into some sunlight and I can sit, shaking on the grass and feel the dirt between my fingers. I can turn to the someone next to me and say "Yes, I was afraid in the woods. Every tree seemed a hiding place for a myriad manias. Every root sought to trip me up. The water called 'drink' but held poison. The only animal was a constant crow, floating overhead." I can dig my toes down into the loam and feel the richness of the soil soak up into me as if I were a tree.

I can close my eyes for the first time since I fell asleep.

12.15b

She stopped, the highlighter hovering lightly over the page. The she covered slowly, liquid spilling out of the felt and into the paper. Pause and indecision slowed her hand: cov- and stop. Certainly her career was important, for which she needed her studies, for which she needed this information. She started again -er should be taught, and tied down with something stopped her catgut from continuing to Unwind herself from a spool a three-quarters inch length of soul. The cover over her true intentions will function as a wall between her and the world, a barrier from hurt and pain, to stop seepage of emotions and blood from her hurt, broken past and her uncertain future.

She blinked twice.

The cover should be taught, and tied down with catgut.

Unwind from a spool a three-quarters inch length.

The cover will function as a barrier to stop seepage of blood.

She had to decide what was truly important. Only important things get highlighted. Only necessary things turn florescent yellow. Only things she needs to remember.

Slowly, her hand reached up and drew a long, thin line across her cheek in unstoppable, inconceivable brightness.

12.15

I torture myself. My eyes do, I mean.

If your right hand causes you to sin, chop it off.

If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.

I look up into the points of the pins hovering above my pupils and see only selfishness and pain as motivation. If Oedipus isn't my example, who is?

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. But a "yoke" is difficult, and a "burden" is heavy. Cast your cares upon the Lord, for he will deliver you in the time of bondage. But my arms are tied to my side; I can't throw anything anywhere.

I'm supposed to trust in God and he'll deus ex machina me to safety, right after I chop it out or pluck it off.

If you love me, you will obey my commandments, for by grace you are saved by faith, not works, lest any man should boast.

Sola fide.

Sola scriptura.

Sola difficult decisions and contradictions.

It's harder to have faith than to sin, because nobody's tempting you to believe.

12.10

brainblocked, i mourn my words as i sit and a vast nothing flows out in torrents of verbiage, spewing senslessness to the page

crushing defeat

stupidity or fear might be holding me back but I i aye can't tell which

perhaps my problem is that i am writing about ME me mi and not something more worthwile

but

i don't wanna

12.8

I reach out my hand but find nothing to hold. The realization strikes me then, as a brick settling to the dirt from a great height. The brick doesn't bounce but has a solid, thumping impact that will never move.

I reach for my phone to write a message about the funny thing I saw, but can't find the contact to add. The realization strikes me then, as subzero water freezing when shaken. The water is clear and liquid until a single crystal forms, and the whole is transformed into ice.

I take breath to share my inmost thoughts but the room is empty. The realization strikes me then, as being crushed. The body's first instinct is to hold its breath, but as the ribs bend around the lungs, everything is bruised.

I despair.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as an icicle drip down the back of my coat, which rolls down my spine. It tingles and freezes and then I forget. I keep walking, unhappy and warm.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as a cramp in the arch of my foot. I stretch it out and it goes away.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as a train bearing down on me, which terrifies me, but is sidestepped and forgotten.

God is with me. The realization strikes me, but it doesn't do anything.

thanks (issue number 10)

1. time alone

2. time with friends

3. time being productive

4. time doing nothing

5. time to hate

6. time to forgive

7. time in happiness

8. time in sorrow

9. time

10. 
    

thanks (issue number 9)

1. Stephen Barry

2. Ok Go

3. Hush Sound

4. A Fine Frenzy

5. Daft Punk

6. Muse

7. Gnarls Barkley

8. the Beatles

9. Vienna Teng

10. Music

12.7

"This is my first, and greatest case." Sherlock drew himself up to his fullest extension and gesticulated grandly with his bubble pipe. "This," Sherlock paused a bit too long for dramatic effect "is my finest hour."

"My, Sherri, that's grand. Did you make that up on your own?"

"I'm afraid so, Watson. I don't have the time to come up with witticisms right now. The case is afoot!"

"Sherri . . ."

"Name, Watson."

". . . you always say that. But I have literally no idea what it means."

"Watson, I didn't take you for an uneducated fool. How can you not know what it means?"

"Well it doesn't make much sense if you think about it. "Afoot?" What's afoot? Are there afoots?"

"Such is the case with most idioms, Watson. Try to not think about it too much, ok?" Sherlock lowered himself by taking on more water in his swim bladder. He floated mere inches above the now looming bulk of the shiny lump. The lump had four limbs. Each limb was large and flat and perfectly identical to the last. One limb was reaching up towards the sky, but each of the others lay flat. It looked like a four-legged starfish which had been flattened by a rock and was reaching up to placate the be-rocked attacker.
Watson scuttled up to Sherlock. "You've been silent for four hours now, Sherri."

"Twelve minutes, forty two seconds and perhaps . . . " Sherlock straightened and inhaled. "a half. But you couldn't be expected to know."

A long, pregnant pause passed between the two of them.

"WATSON!" Sherlock shouted, quite loudly.

"SHERRI!" Watson returned.

"Well, it was worth a shot. I thought perhaps if you were frightened, you might return to using my real name."

"If you were so lucky."

thanks (issue number 8)

1. collarbones

2. noses

3. fingers

4. glasses

5. curls

6. calves

7. ears through hair

8. ripples

9. eyebrows

10. striate cortex

thanks (issue number 7)

1. Khepri

2. Ulysses

3. And the Eyebrow Twitched

4. All He Wanted was for Her to Hurt Less

5. The Definition of Love

6. imagination

7. creativity

8. concision

9. words

10. audience

thanks (issue number 6)

1. waterfalls

2. valleys

3. treehouses

4. forts

5. creeks

6. brambles

7. tree swings

8. swimming holes

9. imagination

10. childhood

thanks (issue number 5)

1. John Mark

2. John the Apostle

3. Paul (re:Saul)

4. CSLewis

5. JRRTolkien

6. Frank Herbert

7. Orson Scott Card

8. Jonathan Safran Foer

9. Robert Heinlein

10. William Golding

12.2

It was then that Sherlock said the three most frightening words that Watson had ever heard.

"I don't know."

"But Sherri . . ."

"Again, my name . . ."

". . . you always know. I have never come across a case in which you did not immediately know the answer. Remember a Study in Scarlet? It turned out to be blood. Remember the Case of the Five Pips? Turned out to be five pips. Remember the Sign of the Four? Turned out to be a four-legged starfish."

"Watson, there's something I have to tell you." Sherlock sighed a bit and the bubbles ruffled his hair wildly. "All those cases . . ."

"All those wonderful cases . . ."

"Yes those. Those were not mysteries. Those were you, running to me, trying to figure out something you couldn't understand."

"But the evidence? The deduction? The wonderful mystery of it all?"
"Is fine. But it is all for you, not for me. This is my first, and greatest case." Sherlock drew himself up to his fullest extension and gesticulated grandly with his bubble pipe. "This," Sherlock paused a bit too long for dramatic effect "is my finest hour."

"My, Sherri, that's grand. Did you make that up on your own?"

thanks (issue number 4)

1. my video games

2. my t-shirts

3. my ties

4. my cslewis books

5. my sci-fi books

6. my pennies

7. my car

8. my music

9. my ipod

10. mr grunderson

thanks (issue number 3)

1. my mind

2. my health

3. my education

4. my religion

5. my upbringing

6. my identity

7. my singing

8. my teaching

9. my writing

10. my readers

11.30b

continued:

Watson clamped his limbs to his shell and settled slowly to the ground.

"And if we're not alone, we certainly have to ask the obvious question: who?"

"Who, Sherri?"

"No, who is out there?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to ask."
"No, that's what I'm trying to ask."

Sherlock whirled and saw Watson crouched in the silt, eyestalks working feverishly. "Not here, Watson. Well, here, but not here. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Well, this is a monumental find." Sherlock slowly rotated over the giant hulk. Black as the deepest night, the giant, rock-like mound stretched into the distance. It was easily three to twenty times the length of his own body, and possibly larger. It was hard to tell, as a large portion of it was submerged in the silt. The substance was hard and smooth and cold. It was, in short, inexplicable. Sherlock had seen things that were black, and things that were smooth, and things that were cold. But never had he seen such a large combination of the three. He wiped off the flank of the thing near the edge and exposed the part that Watson's scuttling obscured. The sharp, clean contrast between black and white played with his fingers. There were six large shapes that stood out bright from the blackness. His only conclusion was that the shapes had to have a creator. He had no idea what they were, or why the maker of the shape had decided to put them so far from center.

Sherlock swooped Watson up and swam away at speed. "If I'm correct about the trajectory of this evidence, there should be more over . . . Aha!" His tail flashed and he slowed over a shining lump.

Watson peered over Sherlock's hand. What is it?

It was then that Sherlock said the three most frightening words that Watson had ever heard.

"I don't know."

11.30a

Sherlock Holmes, merman, with his trusty Watson (a crab). WITH a pipe (and sweaters), they solve the dastardliest (this should become a word) crime ever committed between sky and sand.

Sherlock slowly rotated in his private eddy. It was never his intent to discover an alternate truth, but here he was, doing it anyway.

Watson waddled over the evidence.

Sherlock sighed, and the bubbles swirled up through his eyelashes. "Watson."

"Yes, Sherri?"

"First, I told you never to call me that. Second, you're standing on evidence."
"Aww, sorry Sherri. I had no idea. Shall I . . ."

"Move? Yes. Luckily, I have committed the evidence to memory already, so it will hardly make a difference." The crab slowly waddled exactly the wrong way, stirring up yet more silt and detritus. It didn't matter. Sherlock was already swacing back and forth with his bubble pipe champed firmly in his teeth. "If my understanding of these words are correct, and they must be, then we are not alone."

Watson's eyestalks swiveled in a full circle.

thanks (issue number 2)

1. my mother

2. my father

3. my sister

4. my brother

5. my grandmother

6. my roommate

7. my coworkers

8. my friends

9. my pets

10. my God

11.29

I'm trying to not write things right now because my writing seems to mirror my mood at least a little. When I was happy in my relationship with Kayla, my stories became bucolic and optimistic. When I was unhappy, they became focused entirely on breakup. Now that I'm miserable, I'm not sure I want to see how it is.

So I'll write what Janelle suggested. The first three sentences:

Sherlock slowly rotated in his private eddy. It was never his intent to discover an alternate truth, but here he was, doing it anyway.

Watson waddled over the evidence.

thanks (issue number 1)

1. I am alive

2. I am male

3. I am tall

4. I pulled out of a nosedive

5. My shoes fit

6. I'm not bald yet

7. All my parts still work

8. I have too much money

9. I have a support network

10. I am sane and self-aware

11.28a

I have weird wants.

I have always wanted to meet a woman fighting a man (physically fighting, now) and I have to save her by marching up to this unchivalrous lout and . . . not fighting him. As a matter of fact, in my retarded dreams, I turn his aggression from her, to me. Upon which happenstance I do not fight back, but rather kinda . . . take the abuse.
This (ravishing) woman will then see both my bravery and gentleness and be drawn to me like iron to a magnet, like a bee to a flower, like rain to the ground, or more poetically, a fly to poop.

I don't know why I wish this, but I guess I can surmise a few things.
I want a woman who is physically vulnerable, but values things other than physical strength. In other words, she
1. needs protection
2. doesn't want protection

Perhaps that is why my relationships to date have not quite worked.
Perhaps it is saying something about the mixed influences of my mother and father.
Perhaps it is perfect. This last possibility I highly doubt.

I have had this exact sequence play out in my head with . . . at least five women. Probably plural times with each. This has taken place over the course of . . . seven or eight years.

I have only once had the opportunity. Sans woman. When I was 11 or 12. Nothing came of it. <-- this is probably because men don't solve their problems with violence as often as my subconscious would like

11.18b

JELLYBEAN ATTACK!

AAAAAA

Just for you. I've found that when I'm emotionally content, I can write more things, more often, and I'm happier with the results. I'm fine. When I'm emotionally drained, I can't write a thing.

People have said that all great writing comes from an emotional trauma. Damaged people write more chilling, more engaging, more intelligent things. But my damage rips my inspiration out of my head.

I'm thinking about writing another short story, and actually a short story. Right now I have to finish writing a paper for Haluska, but I might as well start looking for inspiration now.

Suggestions? I'm open.

11.18

"Well, I just thought I would handle it with you, you know. Teameffortstyle."

"I've got this, okay? I'm just stressed."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No, I'm fine. I just need more sleep."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm just stressed. I've got a lot on my plate."

"And is there anything I can do?"

"No, not really."

"But if there is, you'll tell me, right?"

"Of course."

"I really care about you, you know that, right?"

Why is he so clingy?

11.15

in eile

Ich bin in eile. Ich kann nicht da gehen. Ich werde spät sein.

11.12

Her shirt is perplexing. It has lace over her shoulders, right where her bra strap runs. Literally exactly where the bra strap runs. Why? So that she can show off that she doesn't need one? I see no strap.

The lace is intricately worked, and yet so sheer. The rest of her shirt: entirely normal.

Curse you, imagination: you are more provocative than nakedness.

11.11b

I've ripped my Medulla Oblongata. It happened inside my Farcical, of course. I never could Recumbent that it would happen, though. No, sometimes you've gotta place your Pericles when the Atonal are down.

11.11

Today is a palindrome, you just have to forget what year it is.

He banked hard, pulling on the flaps. He always thought it was funny that gravity pulled his hands away from where he wanted to go.

The jet flattened out and scorched its way across the sky. He pounded his foot against a pedal and the earth went rolling away underneath him. Sky traded places with earth and back again. A twitch and a slow, constant pressure and he leveled the plane again.

Someday he would crash. He spent enough time in the air that it was a statistical certainty. But not today.

11.10

Three sentences, every day. Why is that so hard?

He hovered in the air right before he started to fall. His arms floated lightly from his sides, his back slowly arched in a gentle curve. He hit the ground like a sack of meat.

Cadavers.

11.8a

Danny hated his toes. Whenever he wore flip-flops, he would curl his toes down under his foot so people couldn't see them. When took went swimming, he wore socks.

Nobody knew until he cut off his toes.

11.5b

Subject is in good health, working reproductive capacity, concurrent with incredible genetic mutagen. Genetic anomaly is primarily beneficial, with few adverse effects.

Due to eyes on back of head, almost perfect peripheral vision.

Sleeps on side.

--Professor H. Jorgenson

11.5a

"I've never seen anything like it before in the whole history of humankind." The professor swiveled sharply, the heel of his shoe making a circular indentation in the carpet. He paced, and every step seemed to puff up more dust than the one before, giving the whole room a grainy taste. He didn't seem to care. "I'm going to have to examine it in a laboratory setting, but I'm sure Dr. Stroyavitch will corroborate my preliminary findings." He paused, and the dust that was following him swirled around him instead. "What I'm saying is that you could be very important. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly, but I still wasn't following what he was saying.

He quickly strode past me to the cracked window and stared out of it into the gloom. "I'm not sure how to make this more clear. Your particular mutation has been very beneficial to your abilities. You say you've fathered a child, so you still have a reproductive capacity . . . you may be the future of the human race. Do you understand?" He gestured wildly, face sweaty, dust collecting on his perspiration and running tracks through the dust on his face.

I nodded again, more reluctantly this time. "Замолио бих вас да оставите сада, док ја мислим о томе."

"Yes, yes," he said, irritated. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Dust puffed out as the room shook. The dust settled, and I was alone with my thoughts.

11.3

I'm going to rip off my eyebrows now. Hold up a second--there, got a good, firm hold. Wait. I have to count the pulses and time it just right.

BAM! Take that, skeptics! I DID IT.

Ow.

11.2

I suppose I am one of the worst writers ever.

I open my eyes and try to peer through murk. It's like my corneas are terribly scratched and now I can't see anything. Worse, even having my eyes open stings like bees are trying to migrate to iris-ville but failed vocab in bee-grade school.

Chlorine in pools: fact or horror? Both.

10.29a

I'm going to start from the end.

I felt happy.

I left her.

Then she yelled at me.

I yelled at her.

I caught her arm and spun her around.

She said she hated me.

We talked about what was wrong.

After that, I felt wrong inside.

Then she tried to avoid me.

I asked her if she really did like me.

She frowned when I said I liked her.

I felt happy.

10.27c

I throw myself into the air and about as I reach the crest of my jump I have to stop and consider what I'm doing here. Throwing my body willy-nilly isn't the clearest path to health I've ever heard. Especially dangerous is the fact that I don't actually know what is beneath me. A pit of spiders? A cauldron of flame? A marshmallow forest? The only people who know are dead, and besides, I don't have enough time to ask them.

I suppose my only option is to fall.

10.27b

I'm waaaay waaaay (10 posts) behind. I suck at this.

Why do some words (monkey sausage) make no sense together?

Why do some words (darling lover) sound so sweet to human ears?

Why do words like (darkest night) and (rainy weather) consume our minds without an other

option for the words to use? Why not (ink)(deep)(damp) or (blue)?

Cliche, what did I ever do to you?

10.27a

My eyes shudder to a close. Still, the force of curiosity throws them open cracks at a time. Revulsion shoves them shut again and again until

raw

untempered

short-sighted

lust throws the doors of my mind open and pulls in as much filth as it can. It's like doing lines of crack or burning through vials of heroin by blowing it into the last good vein behind my eyeball.

Until my wife walks in, of course, when I, crying out for help, only do bad things where she can catch me and know my pain (never in a dark corner hidden) because all I want is for her to reach out.

2.23

I think it's the 23rd. I have no idea. Oh! Yeah, it is. My post earlier was ignorance-spawn because it was the 22nd. No joke! Real story.

The worst part of being depressed is knowing that you're depressed. I had a good friend describe depression as a warm blanket of sad that he wrapped around himself. Feeling like a victim made all the bad things explainable, made all of the hurt make sense. Everything felt a little safer when he knew what to expect (more pain) and knew it wouldn't change anything (still sad).

But since I know about it, all the imbecilic, asinine, comforting things that everyone does don't work. I can see right through my ploy. I can moan and cry and slap my head and say "stoppit idiot, you don't deserve to be sad. This is a phase, it will pass, and your life is still better than a lot of people's" and it still doesn't make any of the pain go away. So then I get depressed about the fact that I'm depressed and nothing makes sense any longer.

Basically, I preclude my own ability to feel good, heartwarming sorrow. Idiot.

10.22a

He is done. Finished. Kaputt. So, he collapses onto a surface-it doesn't matter which-and just kind of seeps into the carpet. He hasn't taken off his tie or even let go of his briefcase. Done.

If he looks closer to his nose, the carpet fibers fall out of focus at a very specific point. He wonders: do other people lose focus at a different point? What if there were some people who could focus on their nose, even? Are there people who can focus on a point inside their head? Anyway, the fiber two inches away that juts up too high is right within range. He contemplates reaching up and squashing it but it would take too much effort. He's done. So he just blows at it instead. It doesn't move.

He lets his eyes wander farther and farther from his head until they sweep over the walls and the cabinets. He imagines his eyes as guns that shoot out sight. He pockmarks the wall for a while until the room looks like imaginary Stalingrad. He contemplates flopping over to pockmark the ceiling but he has no energy. He's done.

She walks in. "What are you doing lying there?" He contemplates answering but he's done. "Hello? I know you're tired but I'm tired too and I've been working this whole time you've been lying there. Get in here and help me!" He's done. "Fred, you are so lazy. Get up off your fat butt and come in here and help me!" Done, finished, kaputt.

"Fine!" She throws up her hands and storms out.

He's done, but he would have gotten up, stormed the gates of hell itself, and dismantled a jet with his teeth to hear a "please."

10.17a

He always demands things from me. Who does he think I am, anyway? I'm not some all-powerful God giving him his every wish. The worst part is that he makes me want to give to him anyway.

Him and his

silly cheeky smile

shuffling gait

sophisticated jargon

well-ironed shirts

pleated pants

fancy champagne

pleas for approval

scuffy torn up shoes

10.16b

The chill always rolls down my spine and spreads out through my ribcage. I shudder a little, and my breath juts and sputters. Eventually a single sob breaks through as glistening sadness blurs my vision. I always try to fight the tears. Tonight they come freely. My power is not enough to stop the barrage of emotion.

I have to sob silently though, or someone might try to comfort me.

And that would be the worst of all.

10.16a

I never catch a break. Just when life is going well, little pieces fall off the edges. Something important breaks. Someone yells at me. Nothing works.

But its never major enough that it merits real complaint. I'm still alive, well-fed, and sheltered. I don't see any real suffering anywhere.

I think it is in this environment that it is easiest to sin.

Hebrews 11:25

10_13b

Everything is kind of crashing in around me lately, so I'm going to just keep trying to keep up.
Today I will not write something creative, but discuss creativity.

I lose all of my gusto/chutzpah/power to do anything when I am tired/stressed/angry. Mostly stressed. I have to have down time to equal out and cancel my stress. I have juuuuuust enough work this semester that I have been able to keep up day-to-day without doing anything excessive. Now, however, I have two two-page papers due within a week and the idea of that is making me want to play a video game.
Am I running away? Or am I actually acting normally and just blowing off steam? I think it's the second one, but part of me is afraid it's the first.
I need to let my wife/long-term employers know this tidbit about me. With sufficient downtime, I perform admirably and am happy a majority of the time. Without sufficient downtime, I perform fine for a week and crash for a month. I am like a car running along the edge of a cliff. I need to put my hands on the wheel and feel like I am in control often enough or else I will eventually run off a cliff and never come back.

Bad news.

10_13a

I don't love myself anymore. I just hate the way my legs jiggle when I walk up the stairs. I hate the way my smile rolls up on one side. I hate the way my eyebrows peak in the middle. I hate the way my arms flop on down to my hands. I hate my knees and my eyes and my tiny, tiny feet.

It doesn't matter, though. Because she's blind.

10.11b

He forgot to say he loved her.

It wasn't particularly important at the time. It seemed obvious to him. She understood. It wasn't worth saying. Haha.

It's important to know.

10.11a

I actually need to write several today because I stink at writing these hooray.

My life is like a rickshaw.
(I don't yet know why, but I just feel like it is. Let me explain on the fly, because I haven't heard of it before.)

I'm on a trip. I feel like I'm in a different country, and I need to get from here to there and I'm doing it as fast as I can. I am going somewhere, but I don't feel like I'm changing on the way. I can smell and see and hear things but I can't stop to savor them. I have to run past. I'm going to have to pay for my trip, and I don't know the person I'm paying, so I begrudge it.

The road is bumpy. I'm going to wake up bruised and the worse for wear. I don't feel like the person pulling the rickshaw really cares what I'm feeling or how I'm suffering, and all of my cries of pain have no effect on the back of their unfeeling head. I can see other people walking, jostling through a crowd, or being pulled in their rickshaws. Each ignores the others' cries. I can't help, so I ignore as well. It causes less pain for me. It doesn't change my desire for them to notice me.

The one thing I am sure of is that someone is pulling my cart. But I don't pay attention to the rickshaw driver. I can't tell if he's talking to me anyway, so I don't think I'm missing anything. I've told him my destination, but I realize that he might take me his own path, off the main road, because he knows the town. He might even take me to the wrong place, because we aren't speaking the same language. I'm not even sure I got the name of the place right.

But God knows where I'm going and I'm glad he's pulling me.

10.8a

See? Superfluous a.

I feel it like a sliver of bone that somehow got between my lungs. It moves when I feel sad and digs right into my sternum and the pain flies up to my neck and wraps around my jaw. My hands twitch. My legs lose strength. I collapse.

Sorrow.

10.7a

I'm just getting into the habit of putting "a" on all my first posts of the day even if I don't have a second one.

I lift my eyebrows a twitch. She notices, of course. She sees all the things I do wrong.

She clears her throat. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely."

I tap my fingers on the table in a pitter-pat rhythm, faster than fast. I'm bored. Bored out of my skull. Her hands slowly close over my fingers, but they keep twitching down toward the table. I had to finish my rhythm sequence and she interrupted at the ta-ta-ta BA BA BA section (which is of course the best part) but wouldn't let me finish with a TA-ta-ta-ta-ta.

"You know why we're doing this, right?"

"Sure."

"Then stop, please."

I can hear the tree on the window. I can hear the cat in the next room. I can hear the clock on the wall. I can smell the lilacs in the kitchen. I can smell the soap on her hands. I can smell the sweat on my neck. I can feel my watch and my pants and the muscles in my legs. My whole body moves with my pulse.

My eyes dart over everything in the whole room and I feel like my eyelids are going to burst. My hand twitches toward them to check if they're really open all the way but her hand is still on mine so I can't move. I shake my head and close my eyes.

"Good" she says. "Thirty seconds. Now, sit up and you can try again."

10.6a

MODULUS stood atop the pile of burning wreckage, his cape flapping freely in the breeze. He had made sure to get a very lightweight cloak just for this very purpose, but when it wasn't windy it was merely depressing and not very warm. But his narrator digresses.

MODULUS cleared his throat, a bit daintily for a man of his size. He never was a very gruff man, which is why it confused his mother and friend Tonya when he decided on his line of work. Tonya is a fair-haired, black girl--which is to say that she dyed her hair sometimes (usually on Tuesdays because that was when Morgan, her favorite hairstylist worked). Anyway, Tonya and Morgan usually get talking and that was when Morgan found out about how Tonya didn't like the way MODULUS' life was going. Morgan's a nice guy anyway, so he didn't try to stick in his own opinion, but if you ask him, it's too soon for anyone to do what MODULUS decided to do. But I digress again.

MODULUS came strolling down the wreck and stopped in front of the president. "I need the power, or in twelve hours' time, I will be in your office, calling every world leader and telling them all your secrets." (It should be here noted that the president was only the president of the local By-Mor, and the world leaders wouldn't be interested. This fact had not escaped MODULUS, as it was only an empty threat. But that's all I have to say for now.)

MODULUS twitched and then decided his narrator was doing a hack job and that he could do better. Wait I think he's comin-yes he definitely isokayyouhavetotellmymotherthat Ididn'teatthemarshmallows itwasjohnyouhavetobelievemeMum Ilvioall;jfiaaaaasssssssssssssdf;; huuuurk blaaaaaaagh

MODULUS, DISCOURAGER OF THE HORDE IS HERE, IN YOUR ROOM, BEHIND YOU, BUT DON'T LOOK BECAUSE HE WILL JUST DEMATERIALIZE AND THEN YOU WILL BREATHE HIM AND HE WILL SLOWLY KILL EVERY CELL IN YOUR LUNGS

[be afraid]

10.5a

I was so far ahead! How did I fall this far behind?

I throw my head back and laugh. It sounds dry and raspy, but it is mine. Really, "laugh" is not quite right. I bray. It is long and loud and it comes from my gut and it rasps along in great gasping wheezes of breath that scrape the ceiling.

10.2

thy party rebels froggin upstairs bytes jyp quip twiced. sheep dream in chaps. yokes grow lugs farting your pants un-done. with whom then we wow rigs or jets of heathens. lone apples especially lava-word young babby. tupperware stick together when i wed methane gods. rod etc. always prays without witnesses or friends. bye-bye.

10.1b

I'm hungry enough that I want to puke. I haven't eaten anything for 12 hours and the worst part is that I knew what I was doing but I didn't do it on purpose. My torso swings from too warm to too chilly as my stomach works itself into a tiny, angry, acidic knot in my gut.

10.1

I'm gonna be better this month. . . . ?

My fingers quiver lightly over my chin. I prickle myself. The best part of a haircut is the sea of short hair at the nape of my neck. Now, the best part of hair has migrated to my face. I look weird because I rub my cheeks a little too much.

9.30a

http://likelippincott.blogspot.com/2010/09/920.html

I found it on my clothes today. I killed it. I was justified; it was invading my space after I clearly told it that I didn't like it, and I would only tolerate it if I didn't have to think of it if it stayed in its own space and I stayed in mine.

My opinion was clearly outlined. Why do I feel like a murderer?

When you write about something as having an identity, do you make it more of a thing? Are we defined by our definition?

9.29b

I slip down a slope of sex. I don't desist drug use. I roll right past the road for righteousness. I slide past a stop sign and stay in sin. All I am is alliteration and any affectations to asking assistance are axed.

Or at least that's the way I write my poems.

-the ghost of e. e. cummings

9.29a

I am 10 posts behind or something. For a week I just looked at my blog and went "whaaaaat? no." So here I am.

"Lip flipped the trip stick. Frog slogged through dog bogs. Rocket stocked the pocket locket."
Lorraine abstained from sane.

9.28b

I'm still three steps away from the edge of the cliff but my heart feels like it's about to beat out of my chest. Two. I'm slowly reconsidering the life choices that led to this point. Processing how in the name of all that is holy did I end up here, now, doing this? One. My knees lock, and a cold tremble rips through my arms and legs. All of my bad decisions and ridiculous habits have led me to this one terrible moment in time.

Well, there's nothing for it--

Swan dive.

9.28

Sorry, I kinda dropped off the edge of the earth there. I really didn't want to write for some time. So I didn't. But that's not the point of this exercise, is it?

He licked the outside edge of the cone and swirled away all of the juicy bits. Good. Maybe he should take a bite from the center? No, not yet. Just wait and maybe he won't have to. Oops and a lick again faster now. Good. If this cone wasn't so troublesome, the icecream would stay in it better. It has this v-shaped slot and lick again or it will come pouring out the slot directs the icrecreammelt to a single spot and basically says "This is your one chance for deliverance. Run as fast as you can." Lick. Pause.

He looks at his brother's cone which is 3/4 gone already. He shouldn't have.

His cone drips onto his shirt. Mom won't be pleased.

Fudge ripple.

9.22

On 9.23. Oh, well.

I scrape the inside of the pot and hold it over my head to let the last bits slowly roll down the inside edge and hover on the lip, waiting to fall. My tongue reaches up, slowly, to lick the soup off. I set the pot down to stare at it, my stomach still scraping a hole in itself.

I turn to the next item on the menu: an old, shriveled apple that I found a month ago and have been saving for a special occasion. I crunch into it, savoring the tang and the chew of it. It is the worst thing I have ever tasted. I laugh and take another bite.

Today is my birthday.

9.21

I'm not in a creative mood. I won't, therefore, write more than one. Sorries.

I never look at myself the same way again. Too many saggy areas, too few jagged peaks, too slim, fat, hairless, or hairy. Too tall, short, thin, and wide.

Screw you, gang showers. Screw you.

9.20

I'm terribly far behind. ALSO I want sleep tonight.

We have an intruder. Unwanted, unwelcomed, uncaring, he just keeps coming back. Slowly, I've come to hate him. I would hit him, squash him against a wall and crush him under my foot if I could. He is singularly annoying because he always runs away right before I blow up and end him.

He usually comes in and just stares at me with unblinking eyes, as if to say: "I've got eight legs and 180 degrees of peripheral vision. I dare you to sneak up on me."

I wonder if he is alone.

9.15

I technically started this before midnight.

haiku are valid

expressions of poetry

and three sentences

Thank you and goodnight.

9.14

A shock to all the women of the world: men see that. That thing that you do with your hair? That little toss to the side over your shoulder? We saw that. The drumming of your fingers on your arm? Caught that too. The extra sashay in your step today? We can't stop looking.

The problem is that we don't understand what we see and it all gets filtered out as irrelevant.

Congratulations: you confuse us.

9.13

I'm afraid I had some reading to do today so I didn't finish that until AFTER midnight so I'm pulling my "day ends when I desire" trick.

I love to explore empty spaces where no one is.

Basements

Churches

Houses

Barns

Emptiness is coated with a thin layer of alone that swishes up around me and sucks at my shoes. It slows me down.

The further I get into a lonely place the slower I go. Doorknobs are a reverent thought: is it locked? Or can I proceed? I have to stifle a sneeze to preserve the still. I have to walk softly to prevent my clumsy footfall's ruin of pristine silence.

When at last I am surrounded by locked doors, dead ends, knick-knacks and forgotten boxes, I stop and smile.

When you have found the place that no one will go, somehow, you become Conquistador.

9.12c

I feel selfish when I ask for things but I know I won't get them otherwise.

And sometimes people want me to ask because they want to know some way to show that they care.

So if I ask for things you aren't willing to give, am I being a bad person?

I'm still trying to figure it out. In the meantime:

I tried to stab her but I just couldn't. She was right there and I hated her so much and she wasn't even looking and I was wearing gloves and I had somebody else's knife and nobody knew where we were and it's not like anyone would even suspect me for killing her but for some reason I couldn't.

Maybe subconsciously, owning a poodle wasn't proper justification for murder.

9.12b

I feel like an idiot most of the time

I fall down

and break things

hurt

scare

insult people

I can't find

the right way

to make you love me

9.12a

I am 4 posts behind, and due to my inability to write a "d" post, I will not catch up today.

I'm chewing my food but I can't really taste it anymore. People apparently have the ability to focus completely on one single object, but I never put much thought into that until just now when I found myself doing it. So I dragged myself away from my mind and into my subconscious and started me some meta-cognition. I had been focused on food and I remember thinking about how the little crunchy bits were the best and then all of a sudden I know I wasn't focusing on my food anymore. So I think that was about when she walked into the room all slow-like and gauzy and not with a little sway in her self like a snake or a hunting cat but not quite like either and a little more of both so she became more than herself and drew my eye and held it and it was not like I could look away. I kept staring at her, mouth still moving I guess because by the time she walked past me I don't remember having any more food in my mouth but that could be because my jaw dropped and all the food slid out crunchy or no. So I guess I do remember what happened but it was like it happened to somebody else, that's all I'm saying. That focus was powerful strange though. I think I have heard people use the term single-minded but that ain't quite it, it's more like you have your whole mind all the time but just now you're using it all to focus on this one thing.

Well I know for me I was focused on that gentle curve up from down below to up above, like if you see a tree that gets all bent over in some wind or maybe the path a cat takes as its jumping or maybe a snake as it speeds after its prey or maybe when a hawk falls out of the sky after something else and then somehow pulls out and it makes such a graceful careening arc and you just wish you could fly so that then she would notice me here with my crunchy bits and my sadness that she's gone.

9.8

Why do we constantly re-imagine old stories? Is it our urge to create something from our past that speaks to us now? Or are we just trying to breathe new life into aged relics?

Or are we just being pretentious little cusses, taking something that has stood the test of time and "fixing" it?

Gilgamesh spun and faced the attackers. "COME FACE ME, COWARDS!" he roared. "I AM HALF GOD AND ALL FURY, COME TO REIGN OVER YOUR LAND." The cowardly Phonecian general rounded his troops around the outcrop to flank the master fighter. "I AM ZERO PERCENT FEAR, BY THE WAY. I WILL SLICE THROUGH YOUR TROOPS LIKE A BUTCHER SLICES THROUGH MEAT!"

Christ turned to his disciples. "Rock on, man. Keep the spirit with you at all times, and you will make it to the other side of Galilee. Keep your pick hand strong."

Richard rounded quickly, charging at John. "You have destroyed any honor this family may have had. You have squandered our respect and wealth, and left me to rot in a German prison."

John backed up rapidly, tripping over a rug and sprawling on the ground.

"You will pay for your treachery. Lock him in the tower!"

"Aragorn, why are you turning your back to me?"

"I . . . I have something to tell you. I'm pregnant."

"You're a . . ."

"Say it."

"Vampire!"

p.s.

fan fiction should die,

except for My Immortal, which is unintentionally hilarious, and also surprisingly nsfw.

p.p.s

I selectively took the caramel from my pocket. And then….. I began frenching Draco sexily.

9.7b

At what point do you cross over from being enemies to being friends?

Where's the line between joy and sorrow?

How do you know when you love somebody?

9.7

Snap Judgements

The Japanese are better than toy cars,

but I liked cars better as a kid.

North Dakota is better than (most of) Texas.

Lumberjacks are better than business meetings.

Snowboarding is better than MTV.

Waterfalls are better than nachos.

NASA is better than prairies.

ComicCon is better than a spelling bee.

Velociraptors are better than a bestselling novel.

Bill Gates is better than electric shavers.

Towels are better than silicone.

Bungalow is better than relative,

but diphtheria is better than both.

"It's wrong!" says she.

"It's an opinion. It literally CANNOT be wrong," say I.

She still hasn't responded.

9.5a

I missed the fourth. I opened the website, commented on things, and then left.

I never could understand her. She never jumped on things randomly. She never rolled down hills. She never tore long strips out of her napkins. She never threw her food on the floor. She never beat her head with sticks. She always listened to the voices and never screamed back.

She was crazy, which is why it surprised him that she took him to the hospital.

9.3b

I like hair. I like when it's flyaway and wild, when it's silky and tamed, when it's dark and sleek, when it's bright and sassy, and when it's right in between. I like hair that curves down in cascades, that streaks past the shoulders, that bobs at the ear, that frizzes, that puffs, that isn't afraid of what it is.

I don't like lies.

I don't like blondes with dark eyebrows

or highlights

or dyes

or straight-headed curls

or curled up straights

or hairs pushed and prodded that

pull and that yearn

or beg of their head

to

"Let me be me."

Phoney Nickle

9.3a

I meant to write another yesterday but never got around to it.

I woke up this morning with a heat headache. I rolled out of bed and checked the air conditioner. It was off. I got so angry I wanted to throw up.

I think I'll call in sick today.

9.2a

The Wizard slowly stepped out of his limousine, chocolate sprinkles tinkling silently on the lush carpet. "I am here to collect your princess," said he to the empty room. "The foremost warrior in your realm, mighty and impervious to moral befuddlement, Gerald, did implore me to take her in exchange for a declaration of peace."

A servant streaked through carrying a rump roast.

"AHEM" the Wizard announced. He slammed the door so hard that the chauffeur jumped in his seat, grinding more sprinkles into his slacks. "I SAID I AM HERE FOR THE PRINCESS BUT OBVIOUSLY YOU PEOPLE DON'T HAVE ANY RESPECT FOR OLD AGE."

A servant wheeled a vat of chicken grease across the antechamber.

"I say, you there!"

The servant slowed, turned, shivered, and threw himself into the vat.

I poked my head around the corner where I was hiding. Francis skittered across the floor.

"THERE YOU ARE" the Wizard screamyelled.

"You're missing your nupitals" I said, hair blowing back from the force of the Wizard's halitosis.

"YOU MUST GIVE ME THE PRINCESS OR say what again?"

"You are eleven hours late for your own wedding."

"I MUST HAVE why am I yelling FORGOTTEN TO ACCOUNT FOR THE FACT THAT DWARVES DO NOT KEEP ACCURATE TIME."

I ushered the wizard into the cathedral. He nodded gravely to the right side but coldly rebuffed the left. He dragged the princess off the podium and outside.

"Where are we going?" she squealed.

"TO THE CANDYCANE FOREST wow my voice gets loud SO THAT I CAN THEN TEACH YOU THE MEANING OF 'HIGH FRUCTOSE!'" yelled he.

That day was the last time I ever saw the Wizard.

Francis grew up and became the prime minister.

I grew up and became something that sounds far less impressive.

8.29

My room mate rambles, throughly dampening the walls with words. They splash onto every surface, coating it with slick, impenetrable goo. Everything I touch now slowly slimes me and I can't get it off my hands. I can't escape. I sit down to study and his words prick the skin on my back. I try to escape to the internet but his words bind my hands to the keyboard.

He talks too much.

(also: whatever, I don't care)

I didn't write this but it is brilliant.

NSFW 302-8a3

Hereby designated Specimen 8a3, it is a small example of an object classified as NSFW-302 under the █████████ Multi Level Catalog. Specimen 8a3 is a small 102x232 image retrieved from the browser cache of support personnel 821311 during the investigation that ensued after 821311's desiccated body was found in sub level B32.

Specimen 8a3 is known to induce violent bleeding in most test subjects from several orifices, most notably the eye sockets. In addition, some individuals may be compelled to perform acts of ████████, wherein pieces of clothing are ███████ and other bodily fluids forcibly ██████ █████. In all cases where the viewing time was enough for cognitive registration, subjects are either killed instantly due to trauma and/or excessive blood loss or otherwise reduced to a permanent vegetative state.

The nature of psychological hazard posed by Specimen 8a3 makes analysis difficult. Copies of the image exhibit the same properties. Color shifting and other image distortion methods prove ineffective in mitigating its effects. Based on data acquired from fragments of the image, Specimen 8a3 is known to be mostly flesh toned although some, generally from the central region of 8a3 have more reddish hues. There is also what appears to be a human ██████ in one of the fragments, awaiting the results of further analysis for confirmation. Histogram data from multiple instances indicate the image may be polymorphic as well.

Specimen 8a3 is currently protected by multi-factor encryption and stored in a ███████ thumb drive physically secured in Facility ████. Based on the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the specimen, it is highly likely that copies are still floating around the internet, although there have been no further reports of cases matching the effects of Specimen 8a3. The Foundation has enacted Protocol ███ in an effort to catch a copy in the wild, and proxy servers have been installed in major office buildings around the world that will attempt to recognize 8a3, but success is limited by the polymorphic nature of the subject.

8.28

I wrapped the gerbil tighter into my coat. Even if I wouldn't make it, Francis would still have a fighting chance.

I struggled through the waist-deep cotton candy until I made it to the wall. Sweat slowly crawled down my back, wetting the cotton candy already stuck there, weighing me down. I thought of the raisins in my pocket, and decided to wait until the opportune time.

I slowly snowplowed my way up the stairs, struggling to gain purchase with my novelty clown shoes. After 37 steps and an eternity of effort, I reached the top of the stairs, and a fairly clear area at the top where he stood.

"Oh, mighty wizard of enchantments and abjurations!" I cried. "I beseech thee, stop this plague and take the princess instead!" I beseeched. "You lay waste to our lands in the name of love, and we can scarce find the resources to fight you! Besides, the princess isn't that hot anyway!"
"ARE YOU SAYING YOU GIVE UP?" came the booming reply.

"Essentially, yes."

"HAHAHAHAHAHA HAHA HA. I wiiiin I wiiiiin! You lose, I win NANANANANANA NA."

The fact that he was a sore winner wasn't making this any easier. Slowly, I drew the raisins from my pocket. "Well, if you're going to be like that . . ."

I flung them at him and yelled "DRIED FRUIT!"

He stared in shock for a split second, caught inbetween two "HAs" and a triple "NA" stream. Then the raisins hit him in the face, and he shrieked in terror.

"YOU KNOW I HATE DRIED FRUIT! NOW IT'S STUCK IN MY COLLAR YOU STUPID IDIOT! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET IT OUT? GAH THIS IS WHY MY MOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME TO NOT WEAR LACE."

I turned with Francis and ran down the stairs as the wizard slowly picked raisins out of his clothing.

I think I won.

8.27

New School Year

He walked down the long [stupid] hallway to his first [insufferable] class. He [wearily] took a seat near the front of the classroom [because teachers always watch the back]. He arranged four [boring][black] pens on his desk and shuffled [useless] papers around in his [undersized] backpack. He felt like [cursing] using the restroom, but he thought that [he would be kicked out] he could hold it.

The [Ponce] professor [slouched] walked in and [horrified] addressed the [menial mind slaves] class.
"My name is Professor [Prickworthy Pooppants] Lane, and if you [want to leave] have any questions, address them to [my rump] me. If any of you are [more intelligent than me] in the wrong [hellhole] class, now would be a good time to [hit me in the face with a brick] leave. I [eat babies] hope you all [shrink up and die] have [two guns to do the job] a [minor migrane] good [psychiatrist] year."

He [smacked the desk in frustration, stood and chewed out the teacher for arriving late, stormed around the front of the room, declaiming the school, professor, and program for instituting such a useless, idiotic class, with absolutely no viable positive effect on his skills or knowledge] smiled.

He was ready for class.

[Hardly.]

7.26

I dreamt that I was getting a room at southern. I had this dream two years ago, when I was going into the dorm. Now I'm switching rooms and I had the dream again.

I walked into a massive room that was all neutral space (you know, the greyish, not-there space that fills so much space in dreams) except for a staircase up the middle of the room. I walked up the staircase and started looking at the rooms. There is a balcony that runs around the middle of an open space above the staircase, and rooms line the balcony. The first time I had the dream, I went straight into a corner room (the last room availible) which was . . . okayish. This time, I was early, so I just tossed my stuff into a large, empty room with a single bed and decided to go exploring (to see if there was a better room). Try to remember, my dreams are never normal, so all the rooms were different. There was a lounge area with a dude in it. I was surprised to see anyone there before me, so I talked to him about which room he was in. He said he was thinking about putting his bed in the lounge. I wished him all the best and went on my merry way. I peeked my head into my old room, shook my head and laughed. I kept walking. At about this point, a bajillion people swept into the dorm and took . . . every room. I was perturbed, because I had gotten there way before to scout all the rooms to decide which one I wanted. BUT I had a good room, so why should I complain? I kept walking. Then I remembered that the building had rooms all the way around the balcony. I stuck my head into the bathroom, then a giant room with lines of bunks (the only room with multiple beds, for some reason) and then a small, dark room with a heart-shaped bed. I suddenly remembered the overweight black guy that had lived in that room two years ago. I laughed and hoped he would come back to be my friend again. Then I walked into the room in the back corner and I beat my knees in frustration. I suddenly remembered the room and I realized that it was the room I wanted. It was the largest, most comfortable room, with two levels and a bed (just perfectly placed) on equal footing with the upper level and sitting on the lower level. It had a large window, and a desk/shelf combo that ran the length of the room. I wanted it so badly. Michael Hadley was in the room already. He smiled and said "what's up man" and stuff, but I didn't reply because I was so angry at myself for forgetting/blocking out the memory of that room. Hadley talked about how he was so lucky to get the room and so I left to avoid being sick to my stomach. I walked the rest of the way to the front of the building and my room. It was then that I discovered that my room had shrunk and gained beds. I was now living in a teensy room with five other guys.

My dream ended.

I never, ever, win in dreams. I struggle to think of a single time when I actually got what I wanted or accomplished what I was working towards without something wrong happening/spoiling it. I don't know why my subconscious does this to me, but it's a cruel game.

7.22

I dreamt that I was in an apartment complex where I've dreamt before. In the complex before, I was outwitted by a pretty realtor that I was hitting on. (Outwitted by my own subconcious). This time, I was again wandering aimlessly through people's unlocked apartments. Just now, I realize that I always wander through the same side, and never across the hall.

I came to the last room I ever get to, and I opened a closet just for kicks. There were hundreds upon hundreds of books in the closet. But there was no variety; there were five books and hundreds of copies of each. I had seen the books for sale in Barnes and Noble before in reality. I figured that the person who owned the house just bought the book that was on sale once a day (sadly the book on sale doesn't change once a day, and he ended up with hundreds of copies of Charlotte's Web and a few others).

The worst part of this whole dream (and really the reason why I'm writing about it) is that I couldn't turn my head. At all. Not to the right, or to the left, not up nor down. In order to look at the books in the closet, I was laying on the floor, craning against the pain and fear of looking up.

This has happened to me many times. I can't turn my head for no reason at all. I usually wake up with a stiff neck. But during the dream, it is the most terrifying thing imaginable. I've run from monsters and drowned and jumped off of too-high objects and been late and unable to run and lost my pants for hours at a stretch, but being unable to look around is the worst feeling of them all. Terror I can deal with because I know where it's coming from. Terror I can deal with because other people have been chased/naked/dead in dreams before. But being unable to look means that I have no idea what's going on around me. It's nothing that I've ever heard about before. It's my own body rebelling against me. I don't even want to write about it anymore because words are inadequate to express how terrified I was, lying there, looking at five hundred/five books on shelves in a closet in someone else's closet.

7.19c

He dropped his feet to the gravel and they bounced away. He dropped just one, but he was ready this time and he bounced into the recoil. His feet pounded into the ground too-fast. Slowly, he let go of the truck and ground to a halt.

He smiled, the dirt from the truck settling into a fine mud on his teeth. He walked back and picked up the bag he had thrown in the ditch. The ditchwater that was sopping the bottom didn't bother him at all.

He spat once, gathered his air, and set out on his new life.

Little did he know that he would soon be king of Bulgaria.

Little did he know that in a month's time he would be in love.

Little did he know that in a nearby city, his killers were waiting.

Little did he know that he would never see his mother's face again.

Little did he know that his bag would soon explode.

Little did he know.

Little did he know.

[this comes from reading a book with the LEAST SUBTLE FORESHADOWING EVER] (It's The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss)

7.19b

I'm thirsty. My throat is begging for liquid. My mind keeps telling me that a glass of kool-aid would be perfect.

My stomach is full. If I pour anything down my throat, I'm going to throw it back up into my mouth.

Homeostasis

7.19

Alison directed me to Tyler's dreamblog and I think that's a great, awesome idea. His dreams seem to have a bit more coherency than mine, but from now on I'll be writing about my dreams. I like mine and I think that (some of them) are worth sharing.

7.13

I fixed the computers in the lounge. Now I'm taking a well-deserved respite.

The fanatic preacher has us trapped in the crumbling architectural tableau. We gathered in the last room with a roof.
"Thank you for bringing her to me!" He shouts. "Please, stay and watch. This will be a fitting place for her baptism--the water in which humanity's last baptism took place will be the place where their first baptism takes place." He moves behind the girl and she walks forward unthinkingly. They exit out the hole in the wall into the holding area of the reservoir. The too-blue sky sits heavily overhead. The waters (absolutely still) ripple out from the motion of her feet. The crumbling building all around slopes down to the water's edge, making a giant basin.
I stand up, motioning to the rest of my crew. "She's gonna blow, and when she does, we don't want to be anywhere near here."
"What's happening?"
"As soon as her mouth hits that water, anything in that lake is as good as dead. Let's go."
The preacher drones as he holds the girl in the chest-deep water. "I now baptize you in the name . . ."
I walk around the corner and open the door to the outside. My crew files out the door. I turn around for one last look. The water washes over the girl's head, and instantly blows away. A too-large, half-translucent green snake whips out of the girl. Its striated body coils in the air above the shaking preacher. The snake's tail finally whips out of the girl's mouth and into the air, hundreds of feet behind the head. The Pure Elemental swallows the preacher and its host body whole. They dissolve completely before they pass a hundred feet through the serpent.
I shake my head.
The Pure Elemental sees my movement and turns one glassy yellow eye at me. I smile, and fire a single, green flare high into the air. I slide around the corner and out the door. I break into an easy trot.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be dead, but not today. Today, I live.

7.6

My first post in a while, and my last post today, I'm afraid.

I'm watching them. I called it six weeks ago, but I never thought it would take this long. Two weeks, I said. Two weeks. I was off by at least four, maybe more.

I told him that I expected it and he said that it would never happen. I scoffed. She started staring at him three days after they met. He's too weak to hold out on such a golden opportunity, especially opportunity with hips like hers. I placed my money on two weeks. Two weeks.

Now it's been four more and he comes up to her and tells me that she's pretty. She smiles like she just won a prize. Six weeks.

Should I be happy that I called it or sad that I was so wrong?

6.23

I slip the bird out of his hood and release him. He rubs his wings against the air, getting a feel for the friction of the thing. He ripped the air down past him and fired into the air.

I cried.

6.10b

http://likelippincott.blogspot.com/2010/05/514.html

I re-read this post again today. I love it. It sums up completely every reason why I don't want to go to war. AND YET Lord of the Rings and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe came from experiences in a war. All the way back to the Iliad, the Odyssey, and Beowulf, men's writing has been spawned by war. It is bigger than the author/narrator/characters, and yet intensely personal. It increases the stakes of any actions, and it makes everything more important somehow.

I almost feel like I'm missing out.

6.10

It's mah day off.

Christen has asked me to write poetry on her shoes. I'm thinking of Percy Shelley's _Mutability_.

Lonliness

I always wake up with a knawing lump in the pit of my stomach. During the day, it moves up to right next to my heart and alerts me every time my heart beats wump wump pain. wump wump pain. On the worst days, it wraps around my spine and I know I will die if it doesn't stop soon. At night, it unmercifully leaves me alive to wonder when I'll see her again.

6.4

This is literally the next time I have gotten on the internet. Get ready for a long haul this summer. I might end up going past "d."

His clothes are sodden with sweat, but the slow evaporation doesn't cool him enough. The air has physical weight from all the water hanging in it. He is thirsty even though the air is as moist as his lungs. He sags even though he is walking downhill. He smiles even though he is angry.

The seven-year old boy in front of him turns and pierces laughter at a captured lizard.

His eyes crinkle in a real smile for the first time in a week.

It was worth it.

5.30a

The phone rings three times, and she picks up. "Hello?"
"Hi!" I'm so excited. I should have called ages ago.
"Hello?"
"Howdy!"
"Oh, hi! Why did you call?"
"I realized I wasn't doing anything important, so I decided to change that by calling you." Surely that will at least engender a wry chuckle. I chuckle myself, amused by my clever joke.
"I'm sorry, I could only hear half of that. What did you say?"
[sigh] "Nothing."

[silence]

[pulls phone away from ear]
[from 3 bars to none in seconds flat]

5.24c

I guess I wrote earlier today. I was gonna write three right now, but now I don't have to!

My toes are cramping. My muscles are frozen in place, holding the shingles lest I fall. It hurts.

5.24b

This is my 123 post. I love sequences of numbers that just happen like that. I've always wanted to go to 1234 in the dorm and tell them how awesome they are for living there. I haven't yet, though.

He swallowed, and he could hear it in the stillness of the room. It was deafening. He wondered if she wondered what's wrong with his throat.

He was happy he was with her, but the space between them was a trip across the river, impassable because of high water. High Water looked at him from under her big Texas bangs. He smiled. High Water did not smile back.

He felt like twitching his hand over to hers, just to feel her skin, to find the electric spark. He dare not, for vengeful retribution would come down on him like a hammer. Vengeful Retribution caught him eying her hand and cleared his throat, twice. He looked at the ceiling. Vengeful Retribution was not deceived.

He was sorry that she was their only daughter, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. It's not like he was going to soil her womanhood, deflower her violently, or break her heart.

He felt like a slime mold about to be sprayed with aerosolized death.

Someone should tell the parents of the world that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

5.24a

This is my 122 post. The next one had better be momentous.

wash

lather

He pulls the razor against his hair and his hair pulls back. Protein is powerless in the face of cold steel. Soon, the losing battle is lost, and he can slide his hands across his face again.

5.21a

Again, literary discussion, rather than literature. BUT I suppose it could be literature someday.

Sure. Maybe racism and feminism are still huge problems in this country. But I'm willing to testify that at least one white male has no aspirations to tyrranical white supremacy. I've not yet been seriously accused of being chauvinist or racist, thank God. But while I still have that rare privilege, allow me to say something very serious to all of the minorities.

Next time you're about to defensively spew out the obvious reason why you got hurt emotionally, please consider the seriousness of what you're about to do. An accusation of racism is extremely serious, and should not be thrown around half-heartedly. I will be a teacher someday, God willing, and I will not subjugate minority students based on race/gender/religion or what have you. This woman seems to think I will. She has classified me and judged me based on my occupation. That hurts, it really does. And the worst part is that she doesn't know it. She doesn't think about it that way. If she's a part of a minority, it's okay for her to attack people who are not in her minority to preserve herself. Well, as a member of a "majority," I'll let her know something. IT HURTS WHEN YOU DO THAT. YOU ARE PERPETUATING THE PROBLEM.

I'm pretty sure nobody like that reads my blog. But if you do (and if you're denying in your heart that you are, then you might very well be) take heed. Next time you decide to say that "[black male's] sense of manhood is continually devalued to prop up the racist White supremacist state" then you have lumped whites into a group and judged us based on color, regardless of individual worth/integrity/racism. Next time you say that "[a socially-aware girl] gets targeted by her classmates for being a weirdo and ends up unhappy," consider the fact that you have lumped this girl's classmates into a group and judged them.

And next time you decide to spread your hurt and accuse people of the most detestable things, consider, for a moment, that maybe they're not, and you've just perpetuated the system of hate. Thank you, and good night.

5.20c

Why don't we pray for things that have passed? Just because we can't change them now doesn't mean you can't change them then.

That sounds like rubbish because it's 2:30 am, but then everything sounds like rubbish at 2:30.

5.20b

DEESCUSSIN

I'm not writing something creative, I'm discussing something creative. It counts, alright?

Here's the thing: I have been reading things/watching things in which technology makes a subtle appearance. For instance, a character uses a cellphone as a plotpoint. Or they're connecting to the internet and going to Myspace or Facebook or Twitter or whatever. Or they're using the GPS in their car. Every time I see something like that, I cringe inside and want to yell "HEY, BUSTER! YOUR STORY IS GOING TO BE DATED IN A MATTER OF YEARS!" As I understand it, Bella gets annoyed at the popups on her computer. What happened to popup blockers? Who knows?

However, as I read old stories, I am completely unannounced at their use of "technology." Carriages? Who cares? Steam locomotives? Completely reasonable. Horse-powered harvesters? Little house on the Prairie (it's actually the book about Alfonso's childhood, which is the best one because he feeds milk to a watermelon.)

So am I being unfair? Should I start including technology in my stories? WHAT?

5.20a

Kat the Cat

She wants something. I can tell. I can feel it in my bones. Sometimes, there's just an instinctual knowledge,

a link

between

cat

and

man

and sometimes, she yowls so loud I can hear her outside.

5.19a

I once heard someone say that "Depression is a warm feeling. You wrap yourself up in it like a blanket, because it feels good to be sad. It's comforting to know that there is nothing you can do to change your situation, because then you can sit and be depressed for fun."

I'm not angry enough to write something brilliant off of this. Maybe you are.

5.18c

The internet isn't fast tonight.

I'm waiting for a video to load because it is the MOST EPIC BATTLE EVER AND I WANT STARCRAFT2 SO BAD I CAN TASTE IT.

Buuuuuuut that is just the way of the world. We shall see what we shall see about all sorts of seeing and whatnot.

If that last sentence doesn't make sense, don't worry. I just read it and it doesn't make sense to me either. ON TO THE BLOG!

I LOVE seeing things from a different perspective. Things like this just make me so very happy. It's like . . . "Oh! I see! I had never thought about it that way, but now I understand!" This is also why I write: to provide other people with those "Oh!" moments. Here is one I have noticed recently.

Guys don't think about brand when we go to procure the radishes from the market.

Imagine HappyMan at the supermarket. He is browsing in the produce section. This is what he sees: Violet Valley radishes are radishes. Offbrand Market Hill radishes are radishes. They look the same and weigh the same and will not taste markedly different. And besides, the Offbrand Market Hill radishes are ever so much cheaper. HappyMan's wife has merely written "Radishes" on the shopping list, so Offbrand Market Hill it is, and a happy 50 cent win for the family!

When HappyMan comes home to HappyWife, HappyWife looks more like the neighbor, CrankyNancy. Which is not good, because I have alienated everyone named Nancy. She assaults (as far as he is concerned, because he is expecting a "JOB WELL DONE, HAPPYMAN!" from her, and possibly a friendly swat on the behind, not this immediate accusment of failure) with the words "WHY WOULD YOU EVER BUY OFFBRAND MARKET HILL RADISHES? (She, of course, manages to make the words sound like a curse). HappyMan is perplexed. WHAT HAPPENED? I can give you a hint, from a male perspective.

Don't kill me, I'm not a bigot.

WOMEN SUCK

Brand is immaterial. Food is important, but only the aspect of food that fills us. MEN FIND LITTLE TO NO DELIGHT IN SUPERIOR COMESTIBLES (except for "How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin). Women are FOOLS for desiring Violet Valley and I make few to no apologies for saying so.

Men love food, yes. Men love good food. Men also love crap. I have previously eaten a freezer pizza while sitting on a floor in a basement with as much gusto as I ate a finely crafted, 15 dollar Napoleon in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Men love food. Men love the fact that it fills their bellies and gives their esophagi a workout. SIDE NOTE I love the spelling of esophagi.

From what I have seen, women (in my family, anyway) love to moan and complain and [pregnatable canine] about food. I hate it.

This came about because Dad bought offbrand Poptarts and Gatorade and the XXs of the house went on a 15 minute tear about the XYs and their horrible attention to detail. MORAL OF THE STORY: I drank the Powerade and ate the Toster Pops like there was no tommorow. You would think that this knowledge would unburden women everywhere who finally realize that their man can't tell if they've made cake from a mix vs. from scratch, but APPARENTLY, WOMEN ARE INCONCEIVABLE.

Play me off, Keyboard Cat.

5.18b

Title of some kind: SCREW POETRY WHY DO YOU KEEP COMING OUT GO AWAY

Where were you when I needed you

when life was full of fire?

Where were you when the consequences

seemed so very dire?

Where were you when the leaping flames

consumed my living soul?

Where were you when my life went

headfirst down rabbit's hole?

I hope that I can be for you

as true as true can be.

I hope that I

your own dear man

can give you what you need.

5.18a

Today I learned that someone I know has a vasectomy.

This is not something I wanted to know.

Query: How does one unlearn something?

5.14b

I'm not going to do a "d," but I will try to catch up somehow. I mean, the lower limit is three sentences. Surely I can do 9 a day.

He had been cast as mouse in the ever popular cat-drama.

He swilled his wine in the bottom of his glass and stopped suddenly. He threw the glass across the room into the wall.

His livery had gone from red and black to yellow and navy blue. His instrument panel had been trimmed back to a touch screen and a single row of white buttons. He had dropped the appellate from his title and went by "Renovitch," rather than "Dr. Renovitch," or "Sir Renovitch," as was his right. He had removed the fires from his sitting room, scaled back security to three men in a surveillance room, and sold his hunting dogs. He now powered his industrial complex with solar panels and windmills. He ate vegetables and grains from the local market.

He gave away his cat.

And yet, every time he tried to launch a satellite or build a laser or run for president or anything, some half-witted superhero would come and try to shut him down.

Villain. It's not such a nasty term until it applies to you.

5.14

The fire licked the edges of the wood. His most recent addition was too large, and it didn't ignite immediately. It sat in the fire, a hulking tree carcass dragging down the larger agenda of warmth.

He rubbed a hand across his knees and leaned closer to the meager flames. The only warmth hit his face, but it came with billows of smoke. He coughed and leaned closer. He didn't care; he already smelled like smoke, and he was going to die before he got a bath.

His face felt like it was glowing from the warmth. His skin felt large and taut and stretched out across too many ridges. If he moved, his skin would split and his skull would pull out and leer at the fire instead. So he didn't move.

In his last moments of leisure, he broke down and thought of his family one last time. It was weak of him, but no one would care. He could hear Lewis sobbing and Franklin's strained laughing behind him. So he gave in.

Weak-man baby-tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving cold tracks on his hot skin, driving home the point that his composure failed and his facade cracked. The tears ended their journey where they ought: the fires of hell.

They hissed as they slowly extinguished his small fire.

5.10

I'm way behind.

He stroked his chin. It crackled at him and dragged back on his fingers. He needed a shave. The dirt on his chin was wiped away by his fingers, which made his cheeks look unnatural. They, and everything else but his chin, were caked with red dirt.

He grunted and stood up, dust slowly shuffling off his shoulders. He picked up his helmet and beat it on a rock to clear the dirt from the inside. Strapping it on, he rubbed his premature beard one last time.

Maybe he'd find a razor tomorrow.

5.7

This is my 112 post. Sorry, the last one was onehundredandelventh.

(This is my eleventy-first birthday! Alas, it is too short a time to spend among such excellent and admirable hobbits. I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.)

I can't think, but it's not because of drugs or nothin'. I wish it was, 'cuz then I'd have an excuse. Naw, my only explanation is lack of dental hygeine. And you don't have to try to puzzle that out; it doesn't make sense. I always think back to that day and wonder: what went so terribly wrong as to bring me to this lowly state? But it never helps, because I can't think, so I can't puzzle out what went wrong to make me unthinkable, and so I don't know what to fix so I can think again, and then my head hurts, and that's the end of that.

Suggestions?

(And Proudfoots.

PROUDFEET!)