3.31

The answer is no.

No, no. A thousand times now. I reject. I turn down. I refuse. I stand in opposition to. Je deteste.

And yet, I keep asking myself to make a move, to take a stand, to put myself forward, to slip up, to make a mistake, to regret.

So the answer is no. Until, of course, the answer is yes.

3.30b

On Friday, God woke up and rolled out of bed and saw his alarm clock said 7:40. He saw the darkening sky and knew the worst had happened: he had slept through the bulk of the day and had to cook it. He threw out some animals he had been drawing the day before and set to work on Man. He ran out back to find the first building supplies he could and fell upon the mud left by the heavy dew. He shaped and he sculpted as quickly as he could until a Man, fully formed, lay before him. He blew life into the form and it sat up. Oh, man. I almost missed today. I am so glad that--waiiiiiit. Wait a minute is it bright outside? Awwww shucks. God, distracted by his epic task of creating the crown of creation and declaring it good, had not noticed his alarm clock said 7:40 am. But what was he to do? Man was sitting there all alive and ready and God had done a hack job, and rushed the really important bits. He was rough and scraggly and jaggedy and lanky. Man was not pleasant to look at. I mean, I suppose, yes. He does represent us but it's not quite right. It's like if I looked at myself in a rippling pond. It's there, but ugh is it just uncanny valley all over.

Man looked up at God and beamed. God sighed. "Well, um. . . " God began. I have to distract him so I can take time to do it right. "You just . . . nothing around here has names. Go name things. Take your time. Be thorough." That should do it for a few hours at least. Man, not being quite accustomed to being born, left to name things.

God went back and started drawing again. This time, I'll get it right.

Man came back a few hours later with a troubled look on his face. "Hey, God. I know that you're amazing and all powerful and all that, but there's only one of me, and there are two of everything else. What gives?"

God was ready. "Oh, that! Ho ho ho, you figured me out. Come here."

Man walked a little closer. God ripped out his rib. Man was a little perturbed.

God turned around and hunched over while Man passed out from blood loss. Three hours later, God was done with his crowning jewel. He set her down next to Man. Alright. Hopefully he doesn't notice the disparity between my works here. I mean, there is something to drafting and revision and all. And practice makes perfect. Just the same, I hope he doesn't notice.

Well, we noticed, God. The jig is up. On the one hand, ugh. Why do we men look like highly evolved baboons? On the other hand . . .

You know what? Forget all of it. You're forgiven. She's the best birthday present a man ever got.

3.31a

His timing was all wrong. "No. No, no no no no why now?" That was all he said for about thirty seconds after he heard the news. Thirty full seconds of "No no no no" because the situation deserved it. Three months before, he had been in dire straits. He had no job, no hope, no money, and no chance of getting one. He had interviewed at every business he could find.

"I'm sorry, we're just not hiring right now. We'll call you if anything changes."

It was like these jobs were calling each other. They had agreed on a specific line that they would deliver each time.

At BestBuy, Target, and Outback Steakhouse: "I'm sorry, we're just not hiring right now. We'll call you if anything changes."

At Nordstrom's, P.F. Chang's, and Banana Republic: "I'm sorry, we're just not hiring right now. We'll call you if anything changes."

He was destitute and depressed.

Right before the phone company shut off his line, he got a call from Little Snippy's, a flea market. He went to work with his head high and his step light. He had a job. He did well, laughed with customers, and encouraged repeat business. His boss thought he was thoughtful and charming. He was given more shifts by the end of the day. Things were looking up.

When he got home, he had forty seven messages on his machine.

"We're sorry for the delay, but we would be delighted to hire you now."

"We're sorry for the delay, but we would be delighted to hire you now."

"We're sorry for the delay, but we would be delighted to hire you now."

"We're sorry for the delay, but we would be delighted to hire you now."

He stopped listening. Pasta Barn, J.C. Penny's, Barnes and Noble, Craft Cutlery, Rue 21, Macy's, Radio Shack, and Pet Supply. The Post Office, Repp Big and Tall, the museum, and Toys'R'Us.

Every

single

one.

3.28

[I technically wrote this yesterday, so it counts.]

Role: David

Audience: Mikal

Format: Letter

Topic: The Future

My Dad told me I should write you a letter before I leave home, because you would need it. My mom told me to write you because you would appreciate it. My brother told me to write you because it would make for a spicy wedding night. I don't know if any of them are right.

Here's th thing: a giant is dead. But it was not me. God moved me to it. He powered my limbs. He gave me the willpower. And now I find myself a national hero and a groom to a princess.

So I don't know what you're expecting, but if it's not a scrawny seventeen-year old whose entire experience with women is zero, then you'll be sorely disappointed.

I hope God is with us.

I hope we're happy forever.

I hope I love you.

3.26

It's like climbing a mountain (not hating someone). It's arduous, and the mountain itself seems to fight me. The climbing gets harder and harder the closer I come to the summit. Finally, when I think I'm about to fall down from lack of oxygen, I'm there.

I reached the peak. But it's tenuous. It's not easy to stand in the biting wind and not hate someone. It's not easy to persevere without oxygen, food, and water.

3.25

When faced with an impossible situation, I usually look at it first. That is my first step. Appraise. Determine. Reconnoiter. And after I have sufficient information to make a reasonable decision, I realize there is no decision at all; I have decided during the process of learning. This makes my life more difficult.

Now that I have a situation that I really should be thinking about, I cannot. Now that I have a decision to make, I cannot. But I feel as though I have, already at some point, made the decision. It's like an empty ice cream cone. Once you see it, you remember at some point there must have been more ice cream than there is now. But it wasn't enough. Why isn't there more ice cream? So it is with my decision. I know that there must have been a point at which I was thinking really seriously of my choices, but I just can't remember it. There wasn't enough decision.

So when people ask me for my final say, I don't feel like I can trust my words. Really, Robby? That's your answer? You didn't even DECIDE ever, you just . . . thought you knew the answer. Really? You're going to make a major life decision based on your GUT? It continues in this vein until I am thoroughly depressed about my general ability to make decisions. Eventually, I know that I won't be able to keep putting it off, and I will have to air my decision. But I know that all the intervening time in the world won't change my mind.

I have chosen to climb the mountain. I have chosen to live my life as a hermit. I have chosen to wear high heels. I have chosen to write a book. I have chosen to hold back the tide.

I have chosen yes before I knew there was a no. I don't think that's very fair, do you?

3.24

[I taught again today. I almost wrote that I taut.]

I really didn't want to, but I guess choice has nothing to do with happiness. I'll feel the same if I do what I want or not. I stood up and scraped the blood from my chin. I mean, nobody ever wants to, do they? I mean, if they're mentally stable, anyway. I reached down and picked up my bag to throw it back over my shoulder. At least, I hope not.

I walked away from the other man who lay sprawled on the ground. Apparently after he headbutted me, we both passed out. I came to before he did. I guess that makes me the winner, but I wouldn't have put money on the outcome. But if I'm being completely honest with myself, I did want to. So, if choice has nothing to do with happiness, what is the probability that I will feel happy about this?

My head ached like it was tearing a bit just around the edges. I tried to feel unlucky, but I couldn't. I had gotten myself into this situation on purpose, just to see if I could possibly get myself in a chancy situation. I guess Luck is affected by intent, just like happiness. If you're trying too hard, you can't be happy or lucky.

I walked down the street and headed for the next bar. I stuck my head in and yelled. Two men stood up when I yelled and walked toward me.

I smiled and ducked back into the street and waited for them. Maybe this time. Maybe this time.

3.23

[I taught today. I have to teach tomorrow. Other than that, I have no homework. I'm going to get started on some anyway because I'm a good student. GERMAN HERE I COME.]

I'm never in the right place. Though I suppose I'm never in the wrong place, either. Best of both worlds? I found myself, yet again, on the edge of empty city. I was staring at the settled area in front of me, and I found a sense of fear creeping up the edge of my spine. Uncommon.

I decided on a whim to walk down to the settlement. The closer I got, the stronger was the fear. I found myself walking backwards twice before I caught myself. Finally, after an hour and a half of agonized travel, I stood at the center of the town. The whole place had the air of life about it. It smelled like bread and laundry, looked like chores and pride, and felt like emptiness and fear.

I stood still for a long time, feeling the freshness and the deadness of the place against my skin, stomach, and heart. My guts screamed leave but my mind yelled stay.

I think, I said to myself, I feel unlucky. For having found this place, and the people from it, and the smell of it. I feel unlucky, for not having been here to stop it, and the sorrow that I missed out on, and the happiness I couldn't save. I haven't felt lucky or unlucky for a very, very long time. The longer I sat, though, the less unlucky I felt, so the longer I tried to stay. I was relishing in the new feeling until it was so faint that I couldn't feel anything anymore.

It was about then that I realized that my arm was burning at my side with a fierce blue light and an intense pain. When I finally noticed the pain, it rocketed through me straight through my legs to my feet. I crumpled to the ground in a bright blue heap.

I shook my arm.

I slammed it against the ground.

I tensed it, released it, and cried.

Nothing happened, until finally the pain grew so great that I started blacking out. Right as my vision closed down, I saw blue so bright that it was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up, I did so in the middle of a crater.

It smelled like rubble.

It looked like rubble.

It felt like hell, or loneliness. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

3.22

[I learned today that I might not be able to be in choir because of student teaching. *angry face*]

Once, I fell from a too-tall building. I can't say I jumped, even though I did it on purpose, because there's a certain proportion to a jump that a fall just can't have. If the upward motion is less than a tenth of the downward motion, I don't care how much purpose you had. You fell.

On this occasion, I fell.

I think it was a Tuesday? It was a good day for falling. I was on the roof because of extenuating circumstances involving running and from and the police. Now, this isn't to say I'm a bad person, but I'm certainly not a saint. So the police were chasing me. Keep that between us, okay? So anyway, roof, me, police, standoff. I knew I had two options at that point. I could jump and possibly save the lives of every man on that roof at the risk of my own, or I could stay, engage, and then casually stroll back down the stairs. I knew this. It was a definite choice in my mind.

So I stepped leisurely to the edge, despite their vociferous complaints, and lightly tossed myself over the edge. It worked like a charm. They didn't come after me, so I guess 100% success rate? In any case, once I finish repairing my servos and am finally able to stand, I'll go. Say, you don't think you could hand me that sprocket, do you?

Thanks.

3.21

I awoke this morning in a startled funk. I was dreaming that I was finally having a conversation I have wanted for ages. It has been my major emotional turmoil for months. I have wanted to finalize, finish, and end my state, but I couldn't. Because I couldn't have this conversation, I have been angry, sad, lonely, confused, and conflicted.

I was finally getting to talk about everything that happened. I was getting an explanation and closure. I was able to forgive and ask for forgiveness. I knew that at the end of this conversation, I would walk away okay again. I would finally have what I was looking for.

Three sentences in, my phone went off.

I had been sleeping so lightly my eyes were practically open, so I just flicked them and punched my phone. It shut up. Sometimes, I can go back to dreams, so I tried furiously for several seconds and then gave up. I mean, it wouldn't have been the actual conversation, true. But it would have felt like it. I could have learned at least what my brain was wanting.

I almost cried.

3.20b

[I changed the format for commenting so you don't have to enter a very annoying captcha each time if you have a google account. Hopefully that eases y'alls lives.]

Allow me

to introduce myself,

throw you into

infinite hell,

beat you down

in record time,

and take your happiness;

make it mine.

I kick butt.

I take names.

I play with fire.

I don't play games.

I am awesome,

pure, and clean.

I am angst;

I'm seventeen.

3.20

[I missed a day. Bad Robby. This is my obligatory twenty minute break from doing actual work.]

I was living life too fast, and never taking time for myself. It seemed to be a habitual habit of humans, this onward rush into oblivion. A drink would be nice right about now, I thought. Though I'm not likely to get one in this stupid desert. Surrounded by condominiums and fantastically expensive houses, and not one kind, stupid, rich wife to give me a glass of water. Rich people know how to live. Seriously, just kick back and let life pass you by. I seem to have the opposite problem. I live life too fast because I try to hold onto all of it and keep every bit that I can. However, after the economy collapse, all the expansion of the planned city shut down faster than a dissident in a loyalist gin joint. There were no more rich people to speak of, but all the poor people weren't allowed to live in rich people homes. It was the perfect system: continual squalor, perpetuated by people with no money. Poor people keeping poor people down.

I stopped, stooped, and stirred myself from my reverie. Real-life problems were bearing down on me. I had been walking to another district based on my innate sense of direction. Sadly, my innate sense of direction had never led me to the place where I wanted to go before, and this seemed a bad time to start blindly trusting it. Surely, these condominiums mean I'm out of the slums. But do they build condos closer to the citycenter or farther away? Do rich people prefer quiet or convenience? Or do they just go whole hog and put it directly in citycenter but erect multi-million dollar sound barriers? I had to come to terms with myself. I was lost.

I pulled out a coin and wiped the grime of my well-soiled pocket from its face. I smiled. It wouldn't help me, but it would be interesting to see if my Luck had grown back yet. I flipped the coin as high above my head as I could toss. It floated lazily in the air, rotating as slowly as falling asleep in the rain. It hit, bounced twice, and landed directly on its edge.

I left the coin to fate and jogged off in a direction I felt was dead wrong. Hopefully, I wouldn't die before I got there.

3.18

Brandon was a mix of extremes. He was very thin-looking and extremely wiry, but his doctor said he ate too much. He talked loudly, but people hardly ever heard him. He wore glasses, but he had 20/20 vision and the only real reason was to correct a lazy eye. He had long, thin fingers and short, fat fingernails. He was as calm as a rock, but had a dozen nervous tics.
Brandon loved hating things. His favorite pastime was forming hatred for his friends. Susan had been his friend for twelve years, and he hated the way her hair curled over her ear, the way she always scraped plates with her forks, and the way that she forgot to laugh sometimes and laughed after everyone was done. David had been his friend for five years, and he hated the way Daniel's left hand was never still and it always tapped out the beat in his head. Lulu had been his friend for seven years, and hated the corners of her eyes and the shape of her teeth. He loved hating things, so he loved his friends more for the things he hated about them. He reveled in it, and he loved being in their presence.

Then, he met her. She was despicable. Her hair and her toes and the clothes that she wore and the occasional smell of her skin and her inordinate love for birds. Everything was just too much, or not enough, or wrong.
He loved her.

When he asked her to marry him, she ran away.

[There was a crapload more of this in my head. I can keep going. I could write about him following her, and her reactions to that, and how she eventually came to love him, and he hated her for it, and he loved hating her, and he was bitter and caustic and she dealt with it. Finally, a guy approached her and said he liked her and she became friends with him and realized that Brandon was not the real thing, so she ran from him, and he thought that she was right to do so, and he finally respected her and loved her genuinely without loving what he hated about her and finally imploded in hate/love layers because he hated that he finally loved something about her and found something so positive to love about her and that he's so screwed up that he could do that . . .

Some stories are better left unwritten.
This is too sad.
It has nothing good to say.
I am done.
I hope in the future to figure out why I do this.]

3.17

[Yesterday was my sister's birthday. Today is my cousin's birthday.]

I slung the bag over my shoulder and ducked out of the doorway. Cold drops fell and splattered down the back of my neck and into my coat. I didn't mind. The long brown duster hung loose over my shoulders and swayed as I jogged along the road. The cloth scraped against the back of my pants legs with the rhythm of my gait. I'm annoyed, I concluded. Stupid plans lead to stupid results, Maynard. Cause and effect, Maynard. Always wear a belt, Maynard, or your pants will end up around your knees. The words rattled around in my head as I rushed through the rain.

Just around the corner from my hovel, I pulled up short. Something felt too right about the place. I reached into my loose right coat sleeve and adjusted the elbow-length glove. Yep, I said to myself. Something feels just right. I was worried that somehow the ROV had found me again, or maybe the police, or maybe Metzerschmidt had finally decided to try his luck. The air was decidedly perfect, so I knew that something had to be wrong. I lived in a little hole down near the airlocks and bars, where I knew that ROV would be conspicuous and police would be afraid. I called it Anemone, and I was the clownfish. Normally, some rancid concoction of Jethro would be wafting down the street from the front of the Scum Lily bar. It had a bad name and a worse cook. But today, the smell felt like every day and every new slop rolled into one. I knew it to be impossible and I was positive it was an expectation zone. Setting one up was work that took an ROV specialist a week at least, and cost the government two poor bastards' annual salaries just to initialize. Either I had suddenly become big game again, or I was barging in on someone else's party.

I crossed the street and didn't look back. It would be easier to find a new place to live than to go back and root out that rat's nest. Having lost my purpose for urgency when I arrived at home, I no longer ran. The rain fell steadily onto my head and shoulders, but I paid it no mind. It rolled down the back of my coat and sweater and dissolved into the fabric. Pretty soon, I was soaked and I lost all sense of time as I trudged to the deserted sections of the city. This city needs to be forgotten, I said to myself. It's right on the edge of the realization of its misplaced self-importance. Then I spat, because the words sounded pretentious coming out of my mouth.

"Citizen!" came the voice from behind me. "Citizen, be aware that you are violating city code 22a17 subsection alpha kappa muu, regarding the transportation of citizens through the planned city!"

I frowned. What is a police enforcer doing out in the empty spaces between towns? I slowed and turned. He was all alone.

"Citizen!"

"I'm not a citizen of your stupid city," I yelled. "More like the antithesis."

"Identify yourself!"

"No thanks!"

He pulled a weapon and drew a bead on me.

"Identify yourself or be neutralized!"

It's time for games, then. Alright. I pulled off the glove on my right hand, and the air around me cooled. My arm and face began to pulse with a vague blueness that emanated from somewhere not quite inside but not quite on my skin.

The enforcer fired, but I caught the shot and whipped it back at him. It caught him in the shoulder and he spun to the ground, firing haphazardly at the pavement below him. I threw myself forward and slammed my hand to his com before he could reach it first.

"There's a protocol . . ." he whispered.

"I suppose there is," I replied. "Did they type it up just for me, all special? Do I get a copy signed by the deputy sheriff? Will he dot his "I"s with hearts for me? Pretty please?" I smiled down at the wounded enforcer.

He took a deep breath and yelled as loudly as he could. "Arbiter! Arbiter! Arbiter!"

I pulled my fist back and threw it into his throat as hard as I could. His yells stopped and he just coughed instead.

"You all should know by now I hate to kill a man. But if you keep doing stupid stunts like that, you leave me no choice." I stomped his com under my heel and turned.

The rain hissed as it hit my hand. It felt good, so I left my glove off and walked down the street into the empty, pointless city.

3.16

Ich kann nicht Deutche sprechen. Ich habe kein . . . facility . . . mit dem Sprache.

Hello, what's this? I said to myself. Surely not an Arbiter. And yet, there it was, shined to a perfect polish from constant use. Who would leave this laying around?

The Arbiter pulsed with a vague blue light that was just on the lower end of annoying. I looked deep into its processing core to find the usual owner's label. There was none. Holy credenza, an off-market Arbiter just laying around. This was a bigger find than Benji's Three-Quarter last week, which was the last piece we needed for the truck. This Arbiter was worth two trucks, at least. Its elegant curves meant it was a newer model, and its power pack would last for weeks on a single charge, barring heavy use. Oh, yes. This was worth a lot. I threw glances in every direction. Nothing. I scanned the ground for traps. Nothing. Slowly, I pivoted my head and looked up. Disintegrating in the air above me was a body, slowly revolving in an energy field and quickly being torn to pieces by sub-atomic forces.

I paused in horror.
I prayed for the soul of the body above.

I ran, never looking back. If Luck maintains a continuum like Father Jerrick teaches, such a huge disparity between that body and I would have to be quickly rectified. I ran from Luck like a beast pursued by hounds. I weaved through empty city blocks until I finally found the market. Tying the Arbiter around my midsection, I waited for a break in the foot traffic. Finding one, I plunged onward.

Three minutes and twenty feet later, I was on the other side of the market. I checked my stomach for the cold plasticine of the Arbiter. Thankfully, it was still there. I ran the rest of the way to the old Abbey. Father Jerrick was inside, his cloak full of holes and his boots laced high. He turned a hard face toward me.

"Maynard, what are you doing back so early?"

"Father, I found something."

"Show it to me, then, boy. And be quick about it."
"Inside, father?"

The old man flicked his eyes at me and sighed. "No, Maynard. It isn't safe in there. Show it to me or forever lose your chance."

I pulled the Arbiter out and handed it to Father Jerrick. His eyes lit up and he laughed so loudly my ears hurt.

The doors to the old abbey opened and men in mechsuits poured out. The government operatives stopped when they saw what was in the old man's hands. Jerrick laughed even more loudly. "You think you can stop me?" he screamed. "Stop the hand of God!" With that, he released the Arbiter at the men. A single blade of blue light flashed from the Arbiter and it exploded in his hands, fragmenting into a hundred thousand shards of biting waspish pain. Jerrick perforated. The mechsuits melted. I screamed.

To this day, I carry a horrific disfiguration: down one side of my body, I pulse with a vague blue light that is just on the lower end of annoying, and I have the ability to kill Luck--whenever, wherever I see it.

3.15

I am so tired that I can feel the inside of my chest cavity collapsing. I have so much more homework to do. It is not just "Do the problems on page 25" or "Complete the worksheet." I can do that. I hate that. But it's not that.

I have to write a lesson plan. It has to be good. I have no idea what I'm doing.

I don't even want to do this anymore. Perhaps twenty days ago or so, I was hype about this assignment. But now that it's late and I'm screwed, I have no interest whatsoever.

I sludged through anyway because hey, I'm a good student. Might as well do the homework anyway, right?

I'm about 3/4 of the way through, and I just found out I'm doing it wrong.

Don't ever find out that you're stupider than you wanted to be. It's a bad feeling.

3.14

[I guess I should write something]

In Kubla Khan did Xanadu a dome-shaped Pleasure State decree. That Pleasure State was a direct rip-off of someone else's intellectual property, and so they sued. After that, Xanadu (also a theft) was more careful to be wise with his theft, and only steal from unpopular people.

I sing a song of yourself . . .

[Kubla Khan by Coleridge and Song of Myself by Whitman. Burn, Whitman. Burn.]

3.13

I am so angry.

I can't write well.

I can't speak.

I can't see or touch anything without wanting it to burst into flames.

I can't walk straight.

I can't hold myself back or control my hate.

I can't stop my bile.

Get out of my way, world. I want to punch you in the heart and tear out your kidneys and eat them. I want to rip my eyes out so I don't have to look at you anymore. I want to go to every person I hate and say the most horrible thing I can think of and ruin their life because that phrase will haunt them until they day they die, shriveled and alone and all-too-aware of their own inadequacy because of what Robby Van Arsdale said to them. I want to make someone suffer.

And there Olivia sits, happier than sun on daisies, wind through rainy woods, fresh-cut grass, baskets of puppies, the sound of plates on an empty table, the creak of your grandmother's front door, the smell of brownies, and the first star in the sky on the night you fall in love.

I am a bad person, because even the happiest person in the world only makes me angrier.

3.12a

He climbed out of the submarine and reveled in the surface. He and the others had been under for two days, and the air was growing stale, like an empty room filled with ancient furniture. It was good to smell the salt and fish again. It was good to hear the lapping of the waves on the boat. It was good to see more than twenty feet in front of himself.

Even though their sub was captured and he was a POW, he was having the time of his life.

3.11

I'm trapped, I suppose, in my body. I walk around in it all day, and it causes me innumerable problems. I could solve all of this by having an out-of-body experience. But apparently I'm incapable.

Allow me to try really hard: UUUUUUURGH BAAAAAAAAGHLLLL

Whelp, there's nothing for it. I guess I'm here to stay.

3.10

[I'm really getting used to blogging every day. It gives me a glow whenever I look at the posts that have spawned debate (and 30+ comments), like I'm a part of something larger, a part of change, maybe.]

[p.s. I still want to read you guys' "this is how I process stuff" posts.]

I deal with sadness. I make fair commerce with it. Isolated, it's just an emotion, the same as any other. Jealousy, anger, happiness, lust, and fear--they're all just emotions when you look at them. So I acknowledge sadness. I tip my hat at it in the street, address it by name, and invite Mr. Sadness home for dinner. As soon as I have him in my house, I crowbar him in the back of the head and shove him into the closet.

Of course, you can't do this when you have his whole family over. So you have to smile politely and bow and scrape and be generally kind until all you have is one Sadness at a time and you can bring your crowbar to bear.

3.9

[I met Lyssa today. So not a creeper anymore. Also, I should be doing homework or something else productive. Instead, you guys get this.]

[Second side note: I got a clock from the education department to remind me to be a good student, and now I can hear time passing. I hate it, so I play music. Practical upshot of the whole debacle: more music in the room.].

There is something about high schoolers that is altogether invigorating. The guys haven't yet learned to be timid around girls. The girls haven't yet learned how to talk to boys. The social machinations are incredibly disturbing, and yet so new and foreign as to almost be pleasing. They don't say "How was your day?" "Oh, fine, you know." "Oh, yes. Have a great day!" "Thanks, you too!" They talk about the things they enjoy, and they shun topics and people they don't like. Life in high school is entirely too short to waste being polite.

American society has lost a lot of momentum due to our educational system. In the Little House on the Prairie series, Laura grows up quickly to be a pillar in the blowing grass. The same goes for Antonia in My Antonia. Other books like these and Call of the Wild and Huck Finn tell of young people making adult decisions in their teens, if not earlier. Back then, people didn't have years to slowly evolve and grow and decide who they are. In grade school, all the students get to act like kids. In high school, the students get to try out their new adult bodies with kid minds. In college, they have to try their new adult minds to go with their bodies. And finally, when they graduate, they get to decide whether or not they're done germinating, or if they should go to grad school.

This is a moratorium.

This is a pause.

This is a hesitation.

This is a sacrilege.

And yet it is so interesting to watch.

3.8

I have a confession to make: I don't make puns. I have not once within memory sat down in my brain and gone "Hm. Now, a pun would be a thing to include in this sentence." So I haven't. I don't make puns. Can't. Physically impossible.

And yet I do it all the time.

Puns make me feel stupid because I don't see them immediately. Maybe it's because I don't think about the sounds of words, or maybe because I know words well enough that I always think the word and not the other word, or maybe because I don't know words well enough (but that seems like a far stretch--haha said the girl in gymnastics oho aren't I clever). In any case, I usually sit there for a good three seconds before I get a pun. It's not like I'm thinking about it and then BAM I get it. It's more like I just don't get it for three seconds. Literally no sentient thought for three seconds, mind you. None.

And yet:

"Haha, this guy sued for peas. Get it?"

"Ugh, that's pungent."

"Haha! ROBBY YOU MADE A PUN."

"What? No I--crap. Pungent." *hangs head*

3.7b

I feel less and less like a man, the longer this goes on. I don't want to be nice anymore. I don't want to respect her wishes anymore. I don't want to bend over backward to make her feel good anymore. I don't want her. Ever.

I want to take what I need. I want to tell someone how things will be. I want to be respected. Needed. Listened to. I want to feel okay and safe with being myself and the things I do and want and am. I want vindication. I want to rage at the winds and storm and draw strength from and give strength to a Woman and face the world as a team.

I want these things. I want to be a Man. But I don't see any Women. All I see is men and women and none of them deserve the title they claim.

So I'll keep looking.

3.7

Before.
The sound of the gun crashed into him like being slapped by a wave--the sort of impact that shudders through the entire body but doesn't do anything more than shake feet and limbs. He clenched his eyes tighter and vomited between his feet.

"Sick." The voice sounded like a hissing snake and felt in his soul like the smell of a dog two days dead.

"What do we do with this one?"

"Leave him. He can look at her corpse until he starves for all I care."

His eyes were still shut to all light, to all possibility of a world outside his head. If he didn't open them, it was possible that the outside was all an illusion, that his ears were playing a trick on him. He wouldn't open his eyes until his ears told him the truth he wanted.

The lie of his ears told him that the thugs were packing up their things and opening doors and slamming them. The lie of his ears told him that they were driving away, leaving him here with Deception. He shuddered as well as he could under the ropes. The room felt cold and full. The van peeled out and silence settled on the house, Deception continuing its perilous course in his brain.

The silence was full. It stuffed his ears and pressed on him and took all the air. He found that he was taking short, fast, raspy breaths, so he tried to calm down. Slowly, he gained mastery of his breathing. After a long time full of the Lie of silence, he dared to hold his breath. The space that his breath used to take was filled with Nothing, and Nothing met his ears.

Until

plink

plick

splick

Slow drops, like the heartbeat of a dying star. He gasped and drove the Silence back. When he got his breath back he held and

splack

plack

plick

slow. He gasped again. The Lie was becoming more real every second. He felt like vomiting again, but he didn't close his eyes. He thought of the happy times they had: swimming in the creek near her house and finding a cowskull and how she had shrieked when he tossed it to her. Running through traffic in the pouring rain to get to their restaurant for their reservation, and stopping to catch her as she fell, pulling her up, and kissing her as taxis honked. The lists of baby names that she forbode: Cyril. Agnes. Mathilda. Louis. Byron. Penelope. Tracy. Asking her to marry him by writing it on her bedroom roof in glow-in-the-dark stars. Their honeymoon trapped in Arizona by bad weather at their destination, pretending instead that they were the first humans on Mars while running around in the desert like idiots. Learning to paint and dance and live with her. Supporting her when she ran for mayor. Smiling like an idiot when she came in from the storm on election night and being the first to tell her that she won.

He tried to remember the good times, the Truth, and he could almost hear her breathing next to him--the light, shallow breathing of early morning right before the alarm goes off. He tried to remember the Truth to block out the Lie. And Right and Wrong did battle in his head.

plick

plack

"I will never, ever name my child Marabel. Why? Because I knew a Marabel in college, and I never liked her!"

splack

plack

"I put in my name to the committee this afternoon. Ugh, you know that's not how it works. Besides, I have to win before you can be first lady. Haha, no."

plickter

plac

"It's me. I saw the stars. I do. I will. Yes, a million times."

And he waited.

And waited.

The pause was so great that the Silence died and greyed and shuddered and turned into dust and spread over him and the floor and everything and time shook and the earth slowed and everything stopped for him as he waited to hear the next drop.

3.4

It is my birthday. It rained, which is like God's present to me. The only times I like it outside are when it's raining, snowing, or about to do one of either. I went for a walk and wished I could take the dog with me like I used to when he wasn't blind and old and lived in the house.
While I walked in the rain, I thought for a long time. I thought about what I could have had, and what I have had. I thought about my regrets (they form a beautiful list that I can run through at my leisure). There are regrets that are safe to share online, and those that aren't safe to share with anyone but God.

1. When I was about 9, our family visited some other Adventists for lunch. Philip kept playing with the guys' toys after they said not to, so I tackled him. Dad yelled up the stairs to us, so we stopped. As I got up, I saw the look on those brothers' faces. All I could see was "Holy crap." It was like I had introduced them to sibling rivalry. I felt like dirt.
2. When I was about 11, there was a new kid at school. A friend of mine told me that we should play with him. He towered over us, but we played some stupid game which ended up (as I realized after) with us bullying him and kicking us. This memory always has centripetal force attached with it (swinging a bucket with water in it) because I bullied him and learned about waterbuckets in the exact same spot in front of the school. The guy we bullied is married and has two kids now. The guy I bullied with is married and has a kid.
3. Somewhere between those incidences, I played rough with another kid behind the church. I never thought I was a bully until years after these. Now I hold them close so I don't do it again, like sheathing a sword in your own flesh so it won't cut anyone else.
4. I chased cats with Rodhouse.
5. I hurt my brother just so he would go away.
6. I didn't read To Kill a Mockingbird until I was 16.
7. I never had sleepovers or parties as a kid.
8. When I was at camp, I said something funny at just the wrong time and made light of a serious thing someone said, and it crushed them.
9. The entirety of grade school, I was mean to Rachelle. She would count the fact that I admit it as a small triumph. Rachelle's cool, though. So I don't think I broke her (whew).

But especially, because I was walking in the rain, I thought about this from years back:
It was raining, and I was talking to the girl I liked about how I love walking in the rain (apropos, no?). She looked at me like I was a little bit mental and said "I don't like walking in the rain." So I finished what I was doing and left to go put my things away and walk in the rain. I was halfway back to the dorm when I thought: "Don't be a mouse. Be a man." So I turned around and ran back to where she was. It was like a movie, with me running, soaking wet and rounding the corner to where I knew she was and wouldn't you know it?
She was gone.

I have always regretted not pulling out my phone and calling her right that moment.
I have always regretted not tracking her down and showing her something new.
I have always regretted not leading her to my favorite spot on the wellness trail and asking her out in the rain.
Because she might have gone.
Because she might have enjoyed it.
Because she might have said yes.
And because my life definitely would have been different.

So I walked in the rain. When I got back, the dog was happy to see me, and the cat was aloof, and the house smelled stale after the freshness of the rain, and I went upstairs and took off my wet socks and tried to cry. I ended up listening to the patter on the windows instead.
So my birthday was perfect. I got rain and introspection.
Thank you, God.

3.3

This is the day before my birthday and also I will try to write a post about how guys process information. Sorry about this. It's wicked long (thanks, Janelle, for the adjective).

If I took a bunch of pencils out of my bag I wonder how high I could stack them. I will do that right now. Hm.

Okay. Wow, this is harder than I thought. Hm. Okay, I have two now, but they are wobbly. I wonder . . . could I get three? Maybe if I hold my breath okay here goes. Okay got it on there if I take my hands away nope. Fell. Oh, and the other two fell. Alright, I've got two again and nope. Fell. Okay, two is pretty easy now, but I just have to get three, and I've got it on there again, but I have to release just right and oh yeah it's staying it's staying I hope nobody bumps the table for like, at least five minutes. I want to show this to Gary OH I can take a picture I'm doing that.

[click]

Hm. That wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I wonder if there are other things I haven't tried which would be as difficult but more awesome. Or more difficult AND more awesome. I think using a dogsled to do a jump would be pretty legit. Or maybe a snowmobile over a parked car? That would require a lot of work. Maybe if I hit the jump just right I could get a wicked backspin on the treads and do a flip in the air, but I would have to be going really really fast.

Oh, man.

That would rock.

Hey! There's Samantha.

I wonder if she's walking over here. I kind of hope she is.

Oh, yup.

Cool.

I kind of think she's pretty in a way but not like a pornstar slut kind of way, more like a if-you-kiss-me-I-would-giggle kind of way, more like she's above all that crap that other girls do and she's more like . . . she's not like Veronique, I'll tell you that.

"Hello, Bobby!"

"Hey, Sam. I totally stacked my pencils so if you don't bump the table or anything maybe they'll stay there."

"Cool?"

"It's awesome."

I wonder if Veronique ever giggled when anybody kissed her. She just seems like she's been there, you know? Like she knows what a kiss is so why would she giggle? But I'm sure there was a point whenever when she hadn't ever kissed anybody. I wonder did she giggle then? She wears her high heels and her tight shirts and she is totally hot and I bet she never giggled when anybody kissed her. But I don't know, it's not like it's a bad thing to giggle. And if I made Sam giggle I would rock that. I bet she blushes because all redheads blush like mad and I love it when girls blush. Oh, man. I would take a giggle from Sam before anything from that frickin' harlot. Man, harlot is such a good word. I bet I could get a high five from Jason if he were here right now. That's a high five that I missed from Gary AND Jason. I wonder if I could get a high five from Samantha.

"You know, you're nothing like Veronique, because she's a total harlot."

aww yeah up top

"What is wrong with you? You should never compare girls! It makes them feel like crap!"

"Oh, my gosh."

Somebody can't take a compliment. I hate when girls take honest compliments all wrong. Jeebus it's not like I meant anything by it. You know, I bet I could get a fourth pencil on top of that other one.

Oh, if Gary could see this he would wet his pants.

So close.

Aww, suckbandits.

"Bobby, you're so intense all of a sudden. What are you thinking about? I swear if you're thinking about me versus Veronique, keep it to yourself."

Aw crap I hate when girls ask this. I always feel like I have to invent something just to make the conversation interesting. Whenever I say nothing they always get this weird look on their faces like they're disappointed. But seriously, all I was thinking was "pencilpencilpencilpencilpencilpencil" and it wasn't even like that, it was more like "pppppppeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnccccccccccccciiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllll" like a slow motion of an action hero jumping through plate glass. Dangit, what do I say to her? I don't want to seem like a moron and I think I already do, after that comment before. Ugh. I guess I have to rely on the old

"Nothing."

"Oh."

Dangit dangit dangit.

Why can't I just say it? Samwillyougotothedancewithme? Too fast. Sam, will you I sound like a retard. Oh well. Dangit, there's Gary and all the pencils are fallen down.

"Well, I should go, Bobby. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Oh! Yeah, totally."

This is totally your chance.

"Um, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, bye!"

Man, I suck.

3.2b

38 seconds left.
Is it right? Would God approve?
37
It's important to note that God never makes exceptions. Not for Moses when he struck the rock, or David with Bathsheba, or Adam with the apple, or anyone else for that matter. Never. His word is iron. It is law.
33
But in those cases, the sinner was able to find forgiveness for his sin. He was able to seek God and be saved again. Moses is even in heaven. So what does that say? In sin, "even there does grace much more abound." We're able to sin and be saved. Right? So this sin can be saved. I can be redeemed for what I am thinking about doing, right?
27
But God is not there to be used like an old rag, to clean up my mess and be thrown away. The unpardonable sin is rejecting his grace. But I should think that tantamount to that would be throwing myself away and expecting him to understand.
25
When do two wrongs make a right?
24
Dilemma: the presentation of two impossible choices.
23
Saint Augustine had a good point: I can't control anyone else's actions. So if I were to put myself on the line, I could only claim that I killed myself. I haven't saved anyone. I haven't changed anything. I have only committed suicide, as surely as if I put the gun against my head with my own hand.
20
So do I obey God's rigid laws and the unthinkable consequences? Or do I follow the spirit, not the letter, and risk a life to save a life? Is it alright to do the wrong thing for the right reasons?
18
It isn't right to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. If I were to go on a mission trip just so I could see Guatemala, I wouldn't be commended, even though I work on a church. The good is incidental. And the fact that I know all of these things, these horrible, horrible truths, makes the decision I have before me harder, not easier. If I were ignorant of all this, I would choose to throw myself in a heartbeat. It's not fair.
15
Fair? Really? I'm choosing to think of fairness right now? Should I not just instead choose to think of other impossibilities, such as Superman swooping in to save us? Or perhaps that their guns are in fact water pistols? Fair. Fairness evaporated at about the time the serpent first spotted Eve. I should be thinking of something
13
anything
12
else
11
10
except that my love
9
wife
8
soul
7
is about to be shot
6
because I can't tell the man to shoot me instead.
5
I should just close my eyes.
4
3
2

3.2

Open letter to me, from me.

Dear Robby,

You are the Hindenburg disaster of internet nobodies. Which is not to say that you don't have potential. I mean, the Hindenburg was a great idea, but it was filled with hydrogen, instead of helium, which was idiotic. So the next time you're thinking of having flammable gas be the only thing holding you a mile from the earth, try fewer cigarettes.

Love, me.

3.1

Chapter 3 [because quality authors use cliffhangers between chapters] [side note, I am now tagging these for efficiency's sake as sherlock posts]

Watson's claws scrabbled on the cold, smooth walls of the strange shell, his only protection now. He could see warped images of the edges of the universe rotating lazily by. Before he knew it, he had reentered habitable spaces and quickly squirted out of the shell.

"Well, what did you see? Are you alive? How many fingers am I holding up?" Sherlock questioned.

In response, Watson viciously attacked, trying to claw Sherlock's eyes off. "I could have died, or been vaporized, or worse, Sherlock!"
"Not dead," said Sherlock. "Check. Now it's time for an unshielded test."

Watson paused, unsure of if he should sink or swim or nip, so he just sucked his eyestalks into his shell. Sherlock lifted his long arm towards the meeting seam between worlds.

Chapter 4

Sherlock's eyes grew to the size of watermelons.

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

For Watson, time seemed to slow indefinitely. Nothing happened for far too long a time, until suddenly, from out of nowhere, deep below, a voice called out "You idiots!"

Sherlock laughed a big, booming laugh. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?"

"You let that stupid shell thing fall and it crushed the front reef! What will the neighbors think?"

This was all very unceremonious for Watson, who was in a dreadful fright over whether or not Sherlock's hand had shriveled and fallen off for good, and was in no mood to wait for an answer.

"I'm sure they'll think 'My what an oddity! Mrs. Hudson has chosen to decorate art neuveau this season."

"STOP STALLING AND TELL ME IF YOUR HAND FEELS FUNNY," yelled Watson.

"Well there's not all that fuss to be made about it. It feels fine!" said Sherlock, drawing his arm back under the edge. "If I had known you would make a row, I would have done the arm first! I'll explain. That large thing? The thing we found? It's much like a man-bubble, yeah?"

"I suppose so."

"Except flat on top."

"Decidedly."

Sherlock sighed. "Still aren't following? Man-bubbles are never flat on top, but round all the way over. So if it's flat, it must not go where man-bubbles go, but rather above them, in a different kind of water. And the men we see in the man-bubbles or in their masked state are not built for swimming."

"That much is obvious from their speed. I can move faster and I'm built like an anemone."

"Precisely. Haven't I always said they must be from a different place? Well, in their place, they don't need to move quickly, because the water is much thinner. And thus they can have flat surfaces. So, we can quickly assume that an object that is round on one side and flat on the other is made for traversing the 'edge between worlds' as you call it."

"So they live outside the bounds of the universe."

"I suppose, if you want it that way."

Watson sank another three feet while he thought about it. Finally, he answered. "So you mean to tell me that you have deduced an entirely new race simply from the existence of a flat surface?"
"Fantastic, isn't it?"

"Fantastical, I would say. But, barring the impossibility of such a notion, how did the flat surface come to be in our world?"

"Well, Watson! You are now asking the right sort of questions. That precisely is the next phase of our investigation."

Watson sighed. "Oh, goody."

Sherlock sped away, leaving a disgusted and tired crab behind him.