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.