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.