3.31a

(3.27, I think) Just found this on an old profile page from Steam. I didn't know I was that clever.

Sarcasm: the way I tell the world that it looks good in that dress.

She backed up and spun a little. "Honey, be honest with me . . ."

Nothing preceded by that phrase has ever not been a trap.

". . . does this dress look good on me?"

"Sure!"

"Be positive."

"I'm positive. It's great and your friends will be jealous."

She feels fine because she believes me. I feel like crap because I'm afraid I screwed up.

3.30

Upon losing inspiration:

When it doesn't hit you the first time, it seems okay. It comes back after a few minutes. You'll remember everything in due time. Don't worry.

When it hits you the second time, it lingers. Maybe you can't even write that whole day.

When it hits you the third time, you get nervous. Maybe you've lost your spark. Maybe you've run out of things you care to write about.

When it doesn't hit the fourth time, you know why. You don't even edge up to the chasm to see whether or not it will appear; you just assume that it's gone for good.

What you don't know can't help you.

3.29c

He pinned the medal to my shoulder.

My mother was crying because her little boy was everything she wanted him to be. My father was crying because he was so proud of his son. My brother was smiling because he knew I was happy. My sergeant was crying because I had saved his life.

I was crying

because

I didn't feel different

and

I didn't want to live under the shadow of my past accomplishments

and

I didn't want people to think differently of me

and

I didn't want to remember the war

anymore.

3.29b

Curtis is watching me write this post. I wonder, if I write about it for long enough, will he become embarrassed and look away, or just watch because he's committed to it now? Oh, he's coming over to be all up in my grill. I guess that answers that question. I should write something intensely personal to try to make him blush (but I dotrnr'ytut think that Curtis has ever blushed except by heat) and now he's touching my keyboard, which sounds dirtier the more times you say it.

He left.

3.29a

Properly 3.23. I have two days to write 6 things. Concision.

"Feathers have always fascinated me. I don't like them when they're on birds, by all means no. I like feathers when I find them on the ground. I like feathers when they have been taken from a bird by force, cunning, or gravity. Finding a feather all by itself is a great pleasure because it means that some bird has failed to keep track of all of his fluff and is now running around with less of it. I think it helps alleviate my jealousy and helps me remember that no matter how far some people climb, they still make mistakes. Every time I see a man better off than myself, I remember his feathers fall." He spun an eagle pinion in his fingers, watching it circle lazily.

She nodded sagely, wrapping his wife's bathrobe tighter around her waist. She wasn't being paid to point out his irony.

3.24c

The dancing monkey was getting on his nerves. Sometimes, he wondered why he had to work with it. Then someone dropped a coin into the hat in front of him and he remembered.

The monkey was good for something.

3.24b

This is properly 3.21, but I'm very slow and nonapologetic, so I'll catch up sometime, except I'm leaving, so I won't even catch up, but whatever, you get the drift, I'll catch up sometime.

He concentrated on the ball whizzing past him. THOP it went and disappeared into the soft cow of the catcher's mitt. STEEEEEEEE(the umpire took too much pleasure in this)RIIIIIIKE. He touched the bat to the corner of the plate, took a deep breath, and waited. THOMP a bit different this time, disappearing into the glove and a yell of STEEEEEEEEEEEEEERIIIIIIIIIKE from the ump and all was again right with the world.

He didn't know what the score was. His coach had told him to strike out on purpose, to put the team in a better position for Big Dave to clean three more team mates off the bases and make his RBI 3 higher and his batting average .004% higher, to make his chances of getting into state .6% better, to make his chances of getting into MLB 5% better, to make his chances of getting busted for steroids 27% better, to make his chances of losing a wife, a child, a career, a lot of money and his life 3% better.

The ball floated toward him. He swung and got a home run, but nobody felt good about it.

Big Dave eventually went to work at the factory and died in his sleep after telling his fourth great-grandchild about how his bid for MLB was sunk by Bobby McKensie and his stupid home run.

He died the next year in a car accident. He hit a tree. No one else was injured.

3.24a

I keep marking these "a" and then never doing any "b"s. So here's an idea for a story I had.

People don't fall in love. Teenagers fall in love. Thus my statement: teenagers aren't people. You may disagree if you wish, but watch any seventy year-old man wooing his sixty seven year-old mistress and you'll see. What they call love is more like a campfire, slowly burning in the obscurity of the blackness around it, fueled by a single cowboy in worn leather and flannel, trying to ward off the coyotes. People don't fall in love. That's a dabbling, a mere pittance of the fire and the passion and wild abandon that a human can muster. That's not falling.

Falling in love is more like the fire that lightning started in the forest which now threatens to consume the village where a teenager sits, reveling in the heat, glad that the winter is gone and completely vacant to the idea that his home is burning to the ground. It's like jumping off of something high up, into water, and realizing that the fall is longer than expected and having a moment of panic as the water never seems to arrive. Falling is not knowing what the heck you're doing but doing it anyway.

And to God I wish I weren't a teenager, but I am. So here goes nothing.

My name is Percy, and I'm a loveaholic.

3.22

I'm getting sick. I got advice from people. Sleep, vitamin C, nyquil. Finally, someone gave me the best advice in the world: blend two cloves of garlic into hot water, add honey, and enjoy.

I'm excited because I love garlic. I go to the store and buy garlic. I bring it home and eagerly peel it out and begin chopping. I crush the garlic and spoon it into my hot water. The smell of garlic is invigorating. I lick my fingers and . . . oooh. Yummy.

I drink half of the water and reach the point where it has saturated through my skin. Every breath melts the things it touches. I'm nauseated.

I set the bottle down. Garlic seeps into the plastic.

I can't drink any more, or I'll throw up.

3.21a

[This isn't literary. It's an exploration of a phenomenon that Curtis is wholly confused by.]

So Curtis and I watched the Office last night. If you love the Office and don't love spoilers, then don't read unless you're also good at guessing. Because I won't outline the plot specifically, but it will still make you go "AH WHY DID HE TELL ME THAT?" So I guess what I'm saying is read at your own risk.

Erin and Andy have been caught in the spiraling whirlpoolofdeath that is a new-forming relationship. I'm pretty sure that Andy is about to be sucked all the way down in, never to return. So, when Erin did something nice, he said "Rit-dit-dit-dow," all soft-like. Curtis didn't get it at all, but seeing as how I identify with Andy perhaps a little more heavily than I should, I got it immediately. That's the sound he makes when he's happy. Remember when he made a sales call with Jim? "RIT-DIT-DIT-DOW anda give me the people gonna free my soul, wanna get lost in the rockandroll and drift away . . . DOOT un DOOT un DOOOO! Rit-undoo-doo-doo!" It's his happy sound.

And I don't think that Curtis will ever get it.

3.18

I tried to describe it. I wrote it seventeen different times in my head, but it never came out right. Adjectives are too tame. Adverbs don't encompass the scope. Verbs aren't explosive enough. Words don't have enough pop.

I erased it all and started over.

I suddenly realized I can't describe it. Words are my power and they have failed.

What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

3.17

His cereal crunched in his mouth, sharp and crisp. It wasn't sogged down by the milk yet, but it was at that perfect mixture of moist and crunch. He bit his lip, so hard he could hear a crunch and he doubled over in pain and cried out. He dropped the bowl on his foot and stared at the just-right cereal layering his toes and the cold milk soaking into the carpet.

He could taste her perfume every time he breathed in. It tasted like one too many flowers in a bouquet. It fit: she looked like one strand too many on a Christmas tree. His hand slid into hers. He gasped at the ice of her fingers, and the perfume stuck to his tongue and the back of his throat. It tasted like a cup of extra sugar in a cake. He didn't care.

He yelled at the sky for an hour or so about all the problems in his life. God could hear him, of that he was sure. Of what he was not convinced: that God cared. He could feel his voice box vibrate with each guttural sob. Soon, his voice was so ragged that his wordless yells became more air than voice. He finally stopped when he couldn't continue, forced to early completion by his inability to make angry noise. Nothing had changed. He felt better.

3.16c

(3.15, and I'm not doing a "d" edition)

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was ranting, like always.

"Literature is ruined! I've formed my opinion, and I'm sticking to it. The two people who have done the most to destroy the state of literature today are ONE Walt Whitman and his vague attempt at poetry, and TWO James Joyce and the popularity of Ulysses. Everyone tries to emulate it and . . . dare I say that they improve upon the originals by failing?"

He was weird.

"She pulled through the stopsign like it was so much Yield sauce spread on a biscuit and then given to the dog--and I don't even know what that means. Really, lady? A rolling stop? Does the safety of yourself and your children mean nothing?"

He had an opinion about everything.

"No, really? You think we could live on mars within this lifetime? Consider that the sun is weaker there, there are few-to-no natural resources, and your precious terraforming could take centuries. The likelihood that humans could even set foot on mars within our lifetime is so low that it makes it a virtual impossibility that we could ever stay there!"

Some days, she wished that she could be like him. Mostly, though, she was sane.

Mostly.

3.16b

When he was five, he had been bitten by his neighbor's horse. On-the-fly, full-mouth, shirt-tearing bit by a horse. It scarred him. Cows? Fine. Alpacas? They smell, but whatever.

Horses?

No.

He finally decided to face his fears. He hopped the fence into his neighbor's yard and walked slowly to where he knew the horses would be. He stood near the edge of the enclosure so he could run if he had to. He raised his hands in an open gesture and waited. The three horses perked up as they noticed him. The younger horses approached and snuffled his fingers, looking for apples or candy or whatever he believed horses ate. They soon lost interest in food-less hands and started eating near him.

The third horse was the oldest. It was the horse that bit him. They stared at each other for too long. Why was he afraid of this horse anymore? It was old. He was tall. The horse was probably worried that he would come and take its food. So he just nodded at the horse. He turned around and walked away.

3.16a

She held it as the life soaked into her pants leg. Maybe if she kept it warm and still, it would survive. It was either calming down or getting weaker, because the kicks came less frequently. So she bit her lip and prayed. It blinked and shivered.

"It stopped moving," she announced to the empty room. She didn't want to hold it any more, so she put it in a shoe box, and carried the shoe box to the kitchen. She looked at the box for a long time, and then walked back to the living room.

She didn't cry.

3.13b

(3.12)

He slapped the jam down on the counter. "OH YEAH?"

"May I help you, sir?"

"YEAH, I'D LIKE TO BUY THIS JAM AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS!"

She slowly picked up the jam and rotated it so the bar code was showing. "Will that be all, sir?"

"ONLY IF YOU'RE AVERSE TO DINNER AND A MOVIE!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't hear you. Did you say you wanted paper, or plastic?"

"WHICH ANSWER MAKES YOU MORE LIKELY TO GO OUT WITH ME?"

"Then you'll just carry it? Okay. Your change is $4.30."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I INTENDED, BUT I'M SURE IT WILL BE FINE. DO YOU SELL TOAST HERE?"

3.13a

(3.11)

Overhead, there were holes of blue that sun ripped through, but it was a facade. Clouds rolled off into the distance. The sun just made the contrast of blue to gray more depressing.

"I don't like that. The sky should be one thing all over!"

Bipolar sky. Pick something and stick to it.

3.12

(3.10) I just keep falling behind. I'll figure this ordering thing and catch up tonight.

The pencil point made a dull crunching sound as the lead broke and skittered off the page.

The gash of graphite on the paper shows the place of the dirty deed. The wood of the point is splintered and askew. The lead is rolling, slowly, off the desk.

Oh, Dixon Ticonderoga. You are such a harsh mistress. Why do I still love you so?

3.10c

(3.9) This WILL be where I stop. I haven't had a d edition yet and I don't plan to.

What happened to the days when we used to hate each other? We used to never get along. Now we're confidants. I remember when I stole something precious to her and hid it. She retaliated by disabling my computer. I retaliated by stealing something else. She locked me out of the bathroom. I bit her.

Now what happened?
I know why she tells me everything. Mom and Dad are insufferable. She has nowhere else to turn.

So what's up with me?

3.10b

(3.8) Now that I'm two away again, I want to stop. Let me be brief.

He reached down quickly and carefully and pulled his underpants out of his uncomfort region. He glanced back and forth. Good, no one saw. He looked up again.

The incredibly hot chick across the room was staring at him with wide eyes and a horrified grimace.

Butt horace monkey doodles. Why does this always happen to him?

3.10a

(3.7) One of these days I'm gonna actually catch up and I won't know what to do with myself.

I wrote a list of questions. It's only fair that I answer those questions.

I would spit.

Yes. Not nearly as well as I ought, but at least I have knives and have considered how to get out of this gorram valley if one end gets blocked.

Run, run, cower, cower, run, shotgun. That about covers it.

I have candy. I need to get party poppers or tiny firecrackers.

Song: Let it Rain, by OK Go. Book: Shut up, son. Can't you see that poppa's readin'? Moment: The moment I knew I loved your mother. Now stop puking and help me with this chore.

I'm going to expose them to WHITE TRASH. I'ma leave them in a white trash community for a few hours. When I come back, they'll never want to have intercourse again.

Wizard. It's crappy at the beginning (OH, TO BE A SORCERER/WIZARD) but when you hit level 20, the power levels aren't even comparable. Be a wizard if you have patience.

I would write them on scraps of paper and burn them.

The Brickinator. Okay, I lied. I'll probably come up with an equally amazing name on the spur of the moment and never regret it. I don't plan for this one, only plan on having the ability to name it.

My parents, God, my inferiority complex, and "the academy with the single omittance of that guy who didn't vote for me. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE."

Your turn.

3.8b

(3.6) I'm catching up.

Most people don't have plans. "WHATEVER" you may say, but I disagree. People plan for things like pregnancy and college and dentistry. People don't plan for the things that matter.

If you ever found the edge of the earth, what would you do?

What are you doing to prepare for the apocalypse?

Apocalypse: zombies, meteors, nuclear winter, rebirth of dinosaurs, or Miley Cyrus. Have you planned for them all?

Do you store the party supplies in your car for when it turns over 100,000 miles? Will you have learned from the first time and prepare for 123,456?

Do you know what you're going to tell your kids when they ask about your favorite song? Your favorite book? Your favorite moment?

When your kid is old enough to appreciate the opposite sex, do you have a plan for how to scare them out of intercourse? Stories about spikes/poison won't be enough.

If you discovered that magic existed, would you become a wizard or a sorcerer? OR A MAGE?

If the internet was made illegal, what would you do with your bookmarks?

What are you going to name the thing that makes you famous?

Who are you going to thank for your Oscar/Grammy/Nobel?

I know my answers. Your turn.

3.8a

3.5, for those of you with a keen eye.

He was constantly in the grass.
Whenever he walked with anyone, they would start on the sidewalk. Eventually, he always toed the grass on one side or the other. Sudden turns would push him completely off the concrete. Whenever he was with two friends, he would walk behind.
It wasn't on purpose. He was a follower, that's all.

3.6

3.4, for those of you at home. I'm only writing one tonight. I'll catch up later.

I run a lot.
Whenever I do, my metabolism kicks down and starts making energy to match my pace. My cells' respiration triples and my breathing deepens. Everything slams into high gear. I'm like a well-oiled machine. But there's one cog that kicks.
Right in that space before sweat and after heat there is a moment of uncontrollable breakdown. Everything in my body is producing and burning energy at a ludicrous rate, but there's no cooling. There is no evaporation of water, just radiation of heat. It is at that moment that I am at my most uncomfortable: heat with no recourse.

Heat with no recourse: I feel like people are slowly filling my back with needles.

When I was small, I believed that I was having an allergic reaction. I tried rubbing my back on the ground. I tried running into the house. I tried scratching on trees. I tried hyperventilating. I used to believe that the sun was the cure: I would take off my shirt and expose my back and everything would be O.K. in a few.

3.3a

last post should have properly taken the place of 3.1, and this will take the place of 3.2. I'm almost caught up, and it's almost mah b-day! HOORAY!

What fresh hell is this, Sanford?
I don't know, sir, I
WELL GET ON IT, SANFORD! Or do I have to do everything myself?
Sir, I can
I'll put it in your sniveling hands and expect a shoddy job. Are we agreed?
Yessir.

Good. Oh, Hi! I didn't see you standing there, possibly because you didn't address me because you were cowering in awe. It's understandable. AND EXPECTED. Next time, work on your manners before you approach honest JOHN JENKINS, scourge of the Benson Evening Blade.

3.2c

Listen to her.
Ask her what she thinks and what she feels and listen to her.
Remember what she says, because they're likely to be important. If you reference them in the future, it will remind her that you care about her enough to remember--that you value her.
Don't keep track. Don't count things, 'cuz little stuff doesn't matter. What matters is the big picture: what's true and what's in your heart.
Tell her what you think: share what you think, 'cuz she can't read your mind any more than she can read hers.
AND REMIND HER that you can't read hers. Girls and women tend to forget that they're giving out all these signs but that you can't read them and that you don't read her like she thinks you are.
Sometimes, we communicate in different ways and maybe you won't know that it's showing love. The way that I show love is by doing things, and not everybody recognizing that as being love. Learn each other's way of giving love and form yourself to receive it and to give in the way that they want to receive. Orient yourself to give in the way that others want to receive love. She may have to go play golf with you and you may have to help around the house.

You'll make mistakes, and she'll make mistakes. Ask her for forgiveness and be ready to provide it and mean it and make it disappear: when you forgive, it's gone.
Gone.
Pray for God to help you. Always, and forever. Because just because you've been with someone a long time doesn't mean that you understand what they need. You're still gonna need to work at it.

If you treat her like your dad treats me, she'll know she's loved. He also needs to listen sometimes, but . . .
Nobody's perfect.

3.2b

Or 2.28c - I'm playing makeup and it ain't fun. I'll write more tomorrow. It's this and then BED!

He licked the blood off his finger. Bagelblood - that which is bought by bread. He didn't mind cutting himself. He was usually very patient. What he did mind was dripping on his shirt. So he stuck his finger in his mouth and kept it there.
He used to lick batteries when he was younger. Nine volts were the best, because you could just lay the battery on your tongue and thrill in the acrid shock of the battery's polarization. When he couldn't get a nine volt battery, he would settle for triple As or watch batteries. Anything, really.
He had once had a bully problem. Lunch money, day after day. He tried to get his mother to send him a bag lunch, but it was just as easy to steal, so she stopped. "Hide it, dear." They search everywhere, mom. "Well, try anyway." The bully walked up. He had hair on his upper lip - unthinkable for an eighth grader. "Where's your money, salada**?" He shoved it in his mouth. Quarters. The bully just stared. "My mom says people touch money, so you shouldn't put it in your mouth." He tried not to breathe. The bully punched him in the stomach and quarters rolled lazily through the air.

It all tasted the same to him.

3.2a

or 2.28b (my computer died)

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger !
"Frost at Midnight"
-Sammy T. Coleridge

The embers of the fire guttered and flashed. Carbon chains severed and released heat and light and flame. The ranch hand sat, engrossed with the destroyer of his own making. The fire was dying. He saw a bit of ash lift free from the log and wave in the updraft. The spent wood hung on, hoping to be of some use still, but its power was gone. It lifted free and floated away.
Cows lowed in the near distance. He shifted off of his gun, settling to a more comfortable position.
He watched for more ash, fascinated.
Then he saw it: a pinpoint of fire which instantly widened into a circle and just as quickly closed back up again. From that spot lightly lifted up a layer of ash: fine and papery. It floated away, and again, the circle of fire, severing the dead from the dying.

The fire grew cold, and he sat watching.