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!)

5.6

Bad Soliloquy in a Bad Play I will never write: (and have never written)

What's so compelling about men, anyway? I read it in a book. We're compelling. The book said "A man really has to love a woman to spend as much time with her as she wants." Which is strange, because I don't spend as much time in my own head as she'd like to.

I know why I'm interested in me. I'm egotistical. I know why other men are interested in me. We like comparing ourselves to others: where do we exceed, where do we fail, in comparison to the other? I know why my daughter is interested in me. She listens to what I have to say or I make her go to timeout. But why my wife is interested in me is something I'll never know.

I give her no cause:

I take her love and give none back

I leave her with excess responsibilities

I poke fun at her accomplishments

I leave unexpectedly

I find anger much too soon

I don't laugh at her jokes

I belittle her friends

I fail as a father

I halt as a husband

I miscarry as a man

I start most of my sentences with "I." And yet she still says that she loves me when she rolls over in the night.

5.4

I will try to update periodically/every day. I have been burnt out for the last . . . a long time. Now, I'm getting back into the rhythm of things. 11.5 hours of sleep help, except:

I just had a dream.

Hang with me now, this one was weird.

Usually, I have dreams where the geography is weird. Either it's unpractical, or it's a place I know, but my head has changed great portions of it. Well, I was at my grade school, and the geography was exquisite. Nothing was out of place. The creek was even proportional, though there were people getting washed away in it. So, what I remember of the dream was that Autumn (a girl with whom I went to high school [interesting fact, I always want to capitalize high school. When I don't do that, I either conjoin it or hyphenate it]) and the nice guy from American Pie (which I watched pieces of on the telly, so I can't tell you which are the naughty bits, sorry) were getting married. To condense that sentence, Autumn and the nice guy from American pie were getting married. Sorry. I love ellipticals. CARRY ON. My uncle John was performing the ceremony for God knows what reason, because I'm not sure he's ever A: been to Missouri, or B: been in one of my dreams. BUT I just saw him, so it makes sense that he is my dreampreacher of choice.

They were getting married and the creek, without picking up, began to drown everyone but the guy from American Pie (because in my dream he was apparently expandable, and was able to keep his head above water when his bride and the preacher were drowning.) Someone was concerned, but I waived them off, because Stephanie was there, and she had a lifeguarding licence.

The Nazis showed up (I couldn't actually see them, but it's not like I was looking at them) and ordered us all back to our side of the creek (because we were trying to escape by standing in the middle and marrying ourselves? It made more sense in the dream.) Then I became a little girl (Candace Tyler, actually) and lost my neck transponder and saw some of the stupidest escape attempts I have ever seen in my life (such as a swing off of a kite? I don't know). I wanted to bury my neck transponder, but since Moberly is the only place in my entire dream world with accurate geography, the soybean field was gone, so I had to do fancy magical things to bury it. This is about the time when I saw a naruto headband and said to myself "OH I shall take this to Philip. He will enjoy it immensely!" And went back to my dream. I didn't quite realize the stupidity of that (Philip wasn't in my dream. He's rarely in my dreams), so I went blithely on, until I said to myself, and I quote, "I should check real-world time!" and I found out that I was 5 hours late to Haluska's class from the last dream.

META DREAM

I had a dream, in which I knew I was dreaming, but my reality had reset to be THE CLASS FROM THE LAST DREAM (which I was also late to, so double whammy.)