Fetch

Why do we continue this practice in futility? Do you get some sort of existential joy from running after the bone, and returning it? I'm only going to throw it again. You obviously know more about happiness than I do. You can entertain yourself so simply. It's as easy as, say, tearing apart something that doesn't belong to you, or chasing down someone who is older and smarter than you. You're hopelessly dependent, though; you can't even go outside and take a piss without someone to tell you how good at it you are. Stupid animal, jumping all over things. As evinced by the game with the bone, you never learn anything. Sure, you're cute, but you make a mess of everything and you don't know when to stick your nose somewhere else. It's no wonder bitch became a curse word.

procrastination

I've officially given up on 50,000 words, but I'm still writing. In the mean time I'm procrastinating with a funny thing that hit me while watching Whose Line is it Anyway? For certain games, Drew grabs a random audience member and has Wayne sing a song about their job.

DREW: You, what's your name? (motions to a dirty old man)

MAN: I'm.... jeff

DREW: and what do you do for a living?

MAN: I live in a dumpster

awkward silence. Drew motions toward a large-ish bearded man

DREW: Who are you?

MAN2: I'm George Lucas

DREW: And what do you do for a living?

hush falls over crowd. some people laugh

GEORGE:I invented Star Wars

DREW:I'm sure. (motions toward another man) Whats your name?

MAN3: My name is George W. Bush

Drew:What do you do?

BUSH: Um.... uh.... I, um....

the old man next to him whispers a few things in his ear

BUSH: I am responsible for the Hurricane Katrina!

okay, not that funny, but it worked in my head.

Peter goes to work.

Crazy woman thought Peter, as he fumbled with his keys. Crazy, stupid waitress, stupid keys, stupid job, stupid car, stupid everything! After finding the right key, Peter slumped into his white Oldsmobile Achiva and slouched for awhile as he built up the motivation to actually start the car and drive to work. Once he did, he reached for the ignition, and realized that he was no longer holding his keys. Crap, he thought, I'm the only one I know that loses his keys between unlocking the door and starting the car. After an annoyed search, Peter grumbled and headed for TW&Q insurance.
His job was a simple one which involved explaining to people why his company could not pay for any of their car repair bills, despite the fact that they give his company large sums of money every couple of months. It was not a very satisfying job; Peter spent a lot of time getting yelled at by his boss, and the rest of the time being alternately yelled at, sobbed at, pleaded with, and threatened with various torture methods by unhappy customers. The only real advantage of all this was free car insurance: depending on a customer's plan, a portion of their cash will be set aside to pay for insurance for TW&Q employees. This was made possible by complicated economic terms and lots and lots of paper work, and is probably the reason Peter got yelled at, sobbed at, pleaded with, and threatened so often.
Peter walked in just as his boss was walking out. "You're late!" he shouted, as Peter clocked in with the secretary. Peter was actually ten minutes early, but he didn't bother to reply. His manager would only tell him not to get smart, and, in a job like this, it was probably the best way to handle things. To get smart would be to get another job, and Peter was too apathetic to apply anywhere new, but his personal excuse was the free insurance.
The secretary, whose name is not important at the current time, eyed Peter and told him not to mind the manager; he'd just been having a bad day.
"You're obviously new here," replied Peter. "For him, every day is a bad day. And it's contagious. God, I hate this job."
The secretary frowned."Then why don't you quit, if you hate it so much?" she asked, as Peter walked toward the elevator that would take him to the 5th floor, where he would find cubicle 12a and begin to die a little more inside.
Peter paused and said, "free car insurance."
Quit, ha, thought Peter, as the elevater carried him up the metaphysical heavens and a metaphorical hell. And where would I go then? Back to school? Study for another few years, hopefully landing a life changing job, and ending up in another dead end? No, I'm not going down that trail again. Peter suddenly realised he had began a peculiar and specific inner monologue. Sheesh, this is pretty pathetic. I'm talking to myself in my head because of something no one important said. I must be losing it. After some careful thought, Peter deduced: No, I've already lost it. I don't think I've ever had it. I don't even know what it was. Oh well. Time for work. So ended Peter's introspection, and he sat down at his cubicle and began politely replying to the hundreds of e-mails recieved from hundreds of unhappy clients.

first Coffee shop scene. not necessarily the beginning, 427

"Why do I even bother to do anything?" Peter asked this question often; many of his friends gave up and begun to wonder why, in fact, Peter did anything. Sometimes complete strangers would give him advice from time to time, but usually they just gave him annoyed looks. Today, however, the waitress pouring Peter's coffee was in an interesting mood and decided to give him an answer.
"Why don't you bother doing anything?" she asked, with a somewhat ironic tone.
"What?" Peter replied. He was quite a bit startled, for after a year of going to this particular coffee shop every morning, Peter had become accustomed to being ignored by the employees and usual clientele.
"You never do anything," continued the waitress. Her voice had all the implications of a rant about to begin. "You've been coming in here for about a year, now, I think, and all you do is sit here for about an hour and drink your coffee with sugar and non-dairy creamer. You never talk to anyone, you never come in with anyone, you don't even read a paper! You just walk in and order a coffee and stare into space, and every once in a while you'll ask why you bother to do anything to no one in particular. What do you do when you aren't here that you shouldn't bother doing anymore?"
A stunned silence gripped Peter, then let go slowly. "Um... er... uh, well, what I do. Um" explained Peter, "I work. I have a job. And that's none of your business!" Silence let go and the usual annoyance and irritability took over. "What kind of a place is this, anyway?" As Peter regained his composure, he angrily began to pack his affects. After a moment or so, he realised he had nothing to pack angrily, flailed with something that was a bit too pathetic to be rage but definately stronger than mere annoyance, and spilled the remainder of his coffee. The waitress merely watched with a combination of sympathy and amusement. This did nothing for his mood. "Do all the employees here go around criticising the customers? Did I ask for an analysis of my personal life?"
The waitress blinked. "Well, actually, yes, you did," she replied, then laughed.
"I don't have to put up with this. You've just lost a customer!" Peter tried to storm out, but it just wasn't his thing. The waitress simply shook her head. Not much of a loss, she thought, One cup of coffee a every morning isn't putting anyone out of business.

Alright, november is coming up. I'm going to use this blog for it's original intention: writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I'm going to die next month.

On perception durring drug use. Don't expect it to make too much sense

I had my wisdom teeth taken out yesterday, and it hurts right now way more than it did durring the procedure. I opted out of the IV sedation, because I wanted to experience the other wacky stuff they put in me. The nitrous oxide is probably the closest I'll get to using recreational drugs of any kind, and it's probably not nearly as strong as stuff people use on the street, but the effects were interesting. The entire time I was on my nitrous high, I was completely aware of it. I knew the stuff was supposed to make me silly, and I knew what I was saying was an effect of the drug. I had some interesting conversations with the nurse, who obviously knew that I would be incoherent and rather silly, but held an interesting discussion with me until it was time to do the actual removal. I knew exactly who I was and where I was, and the drug just made me a little dizzy. It got stronger after a while, and I tried to fight it. It was like little bits of me were being turned off and on. I don't mean in the sense that suddenly my arm wouldn't move when I told it to, I mean that peices of my personality started talking to and about each other and began to separate themselves (myselves?) in a manner not disimilar to a friend of mine who has created a sort of alter ego. Any part of me could retain coherency at any given time, but the aggressive part of me kept trying to fight the drug while the part of me that knew why I was there had to restrain him. It was like trying to roll a will save against myself. All the while, I was completely aware that the drug was making me think like this, and if I tried hard enough, I could simply ignore its effects. As for the rest of my body, its connection with my brain was slightly weakened. I'd probably have to concentrate a bit more on things that would normally be muscle memory, but I do that when I'm really tired anyway, so I've had practice. It seemed like my body was far from my brain; my proprioception was really weird. It was as if my body were a giant machine, and I controlled everything from my brain, sending commands to different bits of me. I guess that's what actually happens, but you can't usually feel it happening, because it's so fast. The whole experience was very interesting, but I don't think I could do it again; there's too much for one part of my mind to take control of at one time.

Rain is only soothing if you're inside

Underclassmen suck. They are ignorant, annoying, disrespectful and stupid, with few exceptions. Phillip won't shut the fuck up about batman and how begging for his life won't save him, the dumbass girls who sit behind me in studyhall wont stop giggling and making mundane comments about people and events they know nothing about while I'm trying to write a fucking essay and half of Central Sound just can't SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SING YOU FUCKING IMBECILES! I took the class to sing and dance, not have my time wasted by lectures everytime anyone wants to do shit their own fucking way.
Work sucks. Theres always some tiny goddamn mistake that doubles the amount of time I take to do anything. Either the wood is upside down, or I forget the fucking hinges and I just realized I haven't labeled a single damn wall Ive constructed since being shown how to do it. If he didn't suddenly have lots of work for me, Ken'd probably fire me for my incompetence.
Old people suck. I'm quite obviously having a long, bad day, and someone I haven't seen in years and will doubtlessly not remember asks me how I am. I reply with a flat, don't-bug-me-toned "tired," and she has the nerve to say "well, welcome to the world." Yeah, great, I've lived in the world for eighteen years now, and I have a fairly good idea on how it works. I know everyone has their hard days, but I also know how not to be a smart-ass bitch to them. I don't care how many fucking years of life experience you have right now, I just want to go home and write my fucking essay and eat some fucking food. I don't need you're sage-like condescension to make me stop and think about how much of an ass I am. Now I'm home, and it took me a fucking hour to get this machine working, and I'm so fucking pissed about everything I can't concentrate on my fucking essay that currently has no fucking focus of anykind. That, and I hate hate fucking rainstorms.

Fedora, Phedora, c'mon, just say it.

I'm back! Well, I've been back, but I've been lazy. eventually I'll read everyone's stuff and update on everywhere I post, but its weird to get back into the habit of being able to use the internet. For my first trick, I shall post a thing I turned into english. I'd give info about the assignment, but that isn't important. What I wrote was an essay written by my eight-year-old daughter for fathers day. No making fun of the name.

Fedora A. Dollinger

What I think about my Dad

June 15, 2024

My Daddy is wierd, but I like him, most of the time. Daddy teaches philosophy at a college, but Mommy says he just uses big words to make the people he teaches think funny. I think thats okay, because sometimes its fun to think funny, and if he gets money for it its like getting paid for playing games. But I think that maybe my Daddy plays too many games, because sometimes it makes him really annoying. Like his Star Wars thing he made me watch. I like it, but Daddy likes it too much sometimes. He wrote an entire book about it, Mom says I'll understand it better when I'm older. I don't really understand it at all right now, but I like the robots. Daddy also bothers me because he is always right. I didn't want to show him my paper, because he would point out all the little mistakes in it. I know he only wants to make it better, and he does stuff like that at work, but I want to be able to fix stuff on my own. Mommy says I get that from him, and Daddy used to always have to do stuff on his own. He still doesn't always let Mommy help him cook. I don't mind that so much, because Daddy is better at cooking than Mommy. Sometimes I get mad that he named me “fedora” because people make fun of me because its a kind of hat, but later I feel better because it makes me feel special. My Daddy always tries to make me feel special, and tells me to just act the way I want to because he says “there are so many people in this world and its hard enough to be seen without acting like everyone else.”

Wreckage Cannot be created or destroyed, only repaired.

I should have a new machine sometime next week, at which point I shall begin the long and arduous task of updating everything I said I would from the last post. Arduous is such a cool word. I wonder if I spelled it right. Anyway, to tide you over, here's an amusing theory I developed based on my driving experience. In the past four months, my 62' Greenbriar has suffered a rear-end assault, a side-swipe, and two flat tires. None of it has caused irreparable damage or prevented me from driving for long, and neither of the collisions were my fault, but all three incidents (both flats happened at the same time) have caused undue stress and financial annoyance. This has lead me to believe in a law of conservation of wreckage. This law states that every individual who owns or will ever own an automobile will suffer a given amount of wreckage. Because of the short life-spans of the vehicles I can afford, it is safe to say that I will probably own several different automobiles. Thus, the damage done to my modes of transportation must be split thin to cover all my vehicles evenly. It is probably safe to say that I will not be any more wrecks until I start driving something else.

Darth Sidious: People Person

A combination of personal curiousity and reflections from The Darth Side has inspired me to write a sort of fan-fic. I don't know if it's been done yet, but I really want to get the Palpatine story. I have been intrigued with his character for quite some time, and I would like to research his character. I'll do my research, see what stuff has been written for him thus far, but hopefully I can put more of my own ideas into his rise to Sith Lord.

Inadvertedly Submitted by Jenna Smith

In an online correspondence with the Valedictorian of Tech's class of 2005, a few amusing stories came into being. I have posted them here, because I think they're funny. If you don't, you probably stopped reading my posts a while ago, so I'm not too worried about it.

Jenna Wrote:
So... once upon a time, there was this guy. His name was Marten. And last Wednesdsay, he flew (yes, like a bird, with his own wings) to a distant island where they are currently filming the next Survivor episode. After suggesting a contest idea to Jeff Probst (lightsaber tree battles) he continued his trip and visited the continent of Antarctica. There, he became a foreign exchange student with a family of unable-to-fly-but-still-noble-birds (they think penguin is discrimnatory). He learned how to fish and found the bad-Santa's workshop located on the South Pole (for everything there must be balance). He then took his plane and flew around the world so fast that he went forward in time. There, he bought a pocket watch that made him invisible. Then, he flew backward a long, long time so that he went back to the beginning of Episode three filming. His pocket watch let him watch all of the filming of Episode Three without anyone being the wiser, but! during the last take, he accidentally dropped it and appeared right between Padme and Anakin. George Lucas found out what happened, kicked him off the set, then started filming all over again, completely changing the plot line. Afraid of what else might happen, he finally went back to his own time and place. He thought everyone would ask him where he got his "I was kicked off the Episode Three set and all I got was this lousy, yet cool, T-Shirt" shirt, but everyone else only saw the official No-Pants Day shirt. "Why are you wearing that shirt, Marten?" they asked, "No Pants Day was yesterday. Where were you?" Ahh... if only they knew.

I Wrote:

I only wish last Wednesday were that interesting, but sadly it was slightly less exciting than that. I sort of robbed a bank. Don't tell my mother, she still doesn't know. I discovered my super powers earlier last week, and decided to test them by braking into a bank safe. I didn't actually plan to steal anything; I can only use my powers for good. However, it is possible that others may develop similar abilities, and I figured that the traditional targets of super villains would save quite a bit of money revamping their security systems if the first attack came from some one who wasn't going to take any of their money.

She Wrote:

Can you imagine the life of a pair of sunglasses? It must be weird. First, you start off in a factory where you're born. Then, you are boxed up with all your brothers and sisters. After a long time in the dark, a humanoid lets light in, then sets you on a rack where there are fluoresent lights all around. A weird guy picks you up and puts you on his ugly big nose. Look, there's a wart! He puts you back on the rack, then a girl comes over and trys you on. She takes you off and pays for you. You have a new home. The girl wears you in the car and outside. You spend many, many hours perched atop her head. You get tossed aside sometimes, but she keeps track of you even as you travel overseas and through the country. It's a good life.

More coming later, unless she gets mad that I posted these and stops writing. Hopefully she won't mind.

I had this really awesome thought process through intentions and levels of morality, but the school computer froze up before I could publish it. But trust me, it was awesome. Bow down to my profound inner-vision.

Man and His Machine

So I discovered that my car only stopped working because something knocked the killswitch in the trunk, and it's not broken or anything. Still, I'm not going back to that thing. I've moved on. I'm driving the corvair van, now, for better or for worse. I've taken all my trash out of the sable, and I have removed Geoffrey, my dashboard buddy. He's a dragon that blinks. Lina says he looks more like a Charlie, but that's beside the point. I've left my car for another. I had some good times with the it, and we've had our differences. It's going to be tough; they say the first car is always hard to leave behind, but I will have to be strong. I've already started something with the corvair, it's taken me places. We've had our first fight, and we've worked it out. I think this is the start of something good.

Jonah inspired me. check out his stuff here

It got bigger

We had a sort of a script writing clinic thingy in drama, and we were charged with writing ten lines of a script for a show that clearly took place in the future, and something seemingly impossible had to happen, but it had to be possible to stage.

One and Two are holed up in a moderately small space. It is clear that they are hiding from something

ONE: You think it's gone?
TWO: I don't know. I don't hear anything
ONE: Take a look outside.
TWO: Why do I have to look? Why don't you do it?
ONE: I'm One. You're Two. You have to do what I say.
TWO: What if it gets me?
ONE: It would be worse if it got me.
Two seems to accept this logic. Two slides th door open slightly, looks out, suppresses a scream & quickly shuts the door
ONE: What? What did you see?
TWO: (Panting)It... got... Bigger... I think it saw me...
ONE: What do you mean? How much bigger?
A loud banging is heard off stage. Possibly a roar.
TWO: A LOT Bigger

So that's my crappy handfull of lines. feel free to make fun of it, though I think I've got an idea for an entire show based on the relationship between One and Two. Probably something to do with seniority=/=superiority.

Adventures in Keyboarding: Continued

An essay, the rubric of which only defined the number of words and the topic "Spring Break":

You have exactly one week to do what ever you want. What do you do with it? You certainly can’t waste it; a whole week is valuable time. Yet, while this time is too valuable to waste, it is a whole lot more time than one has been accustomed to since winter. Without careful planning, the entire week could go by and no one would ever know it was there to begin with. So what does one do with a free week? I have compiled several possible plans to make your spring break more manageable. These plans will be listed in order of level of detail. Some of these plans are more complicated than others, and it is recommended that you try the more traditional plans first. If you find these too simple, feel free to move on to more elaborate arrangements.

Level 1: Simple vacation

The most common spring break plans are small excursions to a beach, park, or other kind of resort. The simple vacation may last through the entirety of the week, or just a couple days of it, depending on funding. When planning a simple vacation, the following must be taken into consideration: where it is you are going, how long you’re going to stay there, and means of transportation. Depending on these three factors, other questions of packing and how much money to carry will arise, but those details will vary from situation to situation. The simple vacation is not for everyone; if you are uncomfortable with simple relaxation, please try one of the other plans.

Level 2: Party

Some would argue that a party is simpler than a vacation, but this is a common misconception. Preparation for a party is much more demanding than it seems. Unlike a family vacation or short excursion with a close friend or loved one, a party involves a high level of political intrigue. When preparing for a party, the most important detail, aside from food, is who is coming to the party. With limited resources, one has a limited number of possible guests, and one must choose carefully who to leave out. Even when party resources are abundant, tough decisions are replaced with possible miscalculations, and someone can be left out by accident. This situation is even worse than the former, as one left out of a party at which a large number of people attended is likely to be more sour than one left out of a small, exclusive group. When entertaining a large number of people, one must also maintain a level of etiquette unknown by many who have attempted the position of host or hostess. A host must be sure of the comfort of all guests, aware of how much food or drink is available, and must be ready repair any damages that are commonly made by large concentrations of people having a good time. The efficiency of parties is debatable, depending on the level of planning and the after-math. If you spend half your break preparing for a party, one night actually throwing it, and the rest of break cleaning up after it, then the party was not very efficient.

Level 3: Wacky adventure

This is a quite complicated venture that requires luck, timing, and almost no experience at all. In fact, the less experience one has with wacky adventures, the better. The actual events that constitute a wacky adventure will vary considerable, but they must be zany, absurd, silly, or unimaginable in some way for it to be considered as “wacky.” No possible adventures will be listed here, as that would ruin the wackiness of any adventure you may have. If you really want to learn more about wacky adventures, check out Madcap Hijinks for Idiots at your local library. If you are uncomfortable with making things up as you go along, please consider any of the other plans before attempting a wacky adventure.

Level 4: Organized Crime

Caution: For Experts Only! Illegal operations of any kind require a high level of organization and pre-planning, and to be able to pull off any sort of heist in one week is a challenge for only the greatest of minds. Possible crimes include, but are not limited to: casino robbery, jewelry heist, mass-burglary, safecracking, bank robbery (a classic favorite) and museum heists. Most thefts will involve the manipulation of some form of security, be it laser motion detectors, automated or live guards, or heavy containment units. More complicated jobs will have more than one kind of security system combined, adding to the danger level, as well as the pay-off. For the protection of the author, no successful plans may be listed in this volume. Good Luck!

Boredom lies crushed and defeated by my mighty hand!

Adventures in Keyboarding

In such a stifling class as keyboarding/documenting, one must make every attempt at silliness as possible. Here is an example of my escape from typing tedium. More will come as a feel like posting them.

A rare open-ended question in a typing exercise:

A student sees a designer jacket hanging over the door of a locker. No one seems to be around. The student tries it on; it looks great. He likes it and wants it. He reasons that if the owner can afford an expensive jacket, he can afford another one. So quickly the student puts it in his gym bag and walks away.

The student is absolutely within his rights for taking the jacket. One’s immediate reaction to this is one of disdain, but what is an expensive jacket to a rich owner? Clearly, it was unimportant enough to leave it lying around in a locker room where anyone of loose morals may pick it up. Suppose it didn’t belong to the one who left it there? Suppose it was borrowed, and now some poor guy has to pay for a brand new jacket that he was only borrowing for one reason or another? Well, that’s tough. He should have taken more responsibility with something that did not belong to him. Aside from the responsibility issues of the previous owner, one must also look at the moral vanity of ownership of the jacket. The student-gone-thief has actually done the owner a favor in taking away something so unimportant as a designer jacket. What is the significance of a jacket, anyway? Must one wear expensive clothing to be respected? In the loss of this utterly insignificant symbol of our materialistic culture, perhaps the previous owner learns that designer or name-brand clothing is not important, a valuable moral lesson.

short trip

Unable to focus on my book report, I was hit by a small particle of inspiration. It turned into a short story about a guy who gets his head cut off and thinks about it.

The crowd jeered and taunted as a dejected looking fellow was marched up to a platform by an intimidating figure wearing a black mask. Towards the front of the platform was a basket. Directly behind the basket was the guillotine; the one way door to eternity that had seen the end of many lives, innocent and guilty alike. Incidentally, its next victim was, in fact, guilty. He understood perfectly well the possible consequences of his actions before he took them. This did nothing, however, to keep his mind off the fact that he was about to die a gruesome death in front of thousands of people who hated him.
The executioner slowly lowered his head to the cutting block, and locked him into place. the crowds taunts became louder and some of them began to hurl fresh produce at the condemned man. Were he not about to die, he may have appreciated the irony that these fools were throwing away the very thing that they begged for everyday. The executioner stepped back, pulled a lever, and with a sickening thud, the man's head dropped into the basket.
'Strange,' thought the man, 'That wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Hardly felt a thing. A quick snap and it's off with my head. Or is it off with my body, I wonder? I'm sure that the rest of me must be more confused than I am, not knowing what my brain wants it to do, and all. And yet, without my body, I can't very well get anything done, myself. Which part is missing which? Perhaps--'
At that point, the oxygen in his brain expired, rendering him incapable of thought, incoherent or otherwise.

Sticking it to the Man

In an odd conversation with some random old guy about my bathrobe, I came to the realization that authority and leadership are completely different things, and that authority truely exists to be challenged. If no one challenged authority, it need not exist.

Authority is somewhat of a place holder for leadership. If you don't have certain leadership skills, you are given authority to make up for it. If one were a perfect leader, authority would not be necessary, because one would be compelled to follow or respect that leader. The best leaders do not actually make you do anything, they make you want to do things. A good leader will clarify situations that require leadership in such a way that the leader's desired action is the same as the desired action of those being lead. This can be construed as manipulation, but it does not require the leader to have any level of authority bestowed upon him or her by an outside power.

An authority figure will dictate what must be done in the situation. The reasons why this must be done are irrelevant, for the figure of authority has been granted power by some real or percieved source. At the same time, those subordinate must have the power to challenge the authority for the authority to have purpose. Without the power of authority, those subordinate to the person who holds it would have no reason to obey. And yet, without the possibility of insubordination, the power of authority is pointless. Power over something unable to challenge is not power at all; one might as well boast of one's ability to turn a machine on and off. Authority does not exist for those who would submit to it, but for those who would challenge it.

More on this later, as I develop my point.

I've lost my silly. I don't feel random at all. I had it for a little while, but it's gone now. there's a hole.

The title of this post will become obvious, but I didn't really want it at the top of my page in bold letters.

The guide to being awesome shall be put on hiatus because I don't really feel awesome right now. I feel like an ass. I can't get a fucking job, I'm failing weichert's class because I'm fucking lazy, my parents are mad because I can't get a fucking job and I've got a fucking headache. I can't say what else is bothering me because it would probably make it worse. I'm tired of saying fucking obsenities, because fuck is probably one of the stupidest words in existence. It doesn't even make you feel any better for getting your fucking anger out, it just makes you sound like a fucking pile of white trash. It even looks fucking ugly, I mean look at the fucking word! Is it pleasant to read? doesn't it make you want to write some fucking complaint to whoever the fuck wrote this fucking word? I mean, god, it's like duck without the cool. Ducks are awesome, why should they have to bear a name that rhymes with the worst fucking word in our fucking language? I pity anyone named Charles, as well. They don't have it as bad as the ducks, though, atleast they don't have to take the nickname. Ducks are stuck the way they are. Which is kind of the way I feel, I can't do anything about anything. Every fucking problem I have has a way of perpetuating itself so I can't do any better. Every report card it's some average or lower GPA, and it gets on my nerves, but I don't do a fucking thing about it. I don't know why, I just don't. Maybe I don't really want to go to fucking college or have a fucking possibility of a future. Maybe I secretly want to be a fucking bum and live off garbage that people throw at me. Maybe I'll apprentice to some janitor before I have a chance to not graduate, and I'll live at LC for the rest of my fucking life. Maybe I'll turn to a life of crime and be a fucking pirate until I get caught and sent to jail, where people who actually had the sort of circumstancial upbringing to lead to that end will fuck me up the ass.

Gesundheit! ~ An original poem

Until I can conduct my next interview, you shall have to content yourself with some impromptu poetry skillz. In English last week, Weichert had every student put five of their favorite words on the board. Then, she had everyone write a poem using atleast ten of those words once everyone was finished. This is what I came up with. (most of these are not my words, and I was feeling very silly.)

Gesundheit!
Thomas released a phenominal ooze
Gesundheit!
Mucus, play-doh of omnipotence, began to coagulate
Gesundheit!
Lungs, through the depths of esophogus, had to elucidate
Gesundheit!
Death of a nostril
Gesundheit!
Breathing now oral
Gesundheit!
Kleenex is gone, bacteria's loose
Gesudnheit!

Self-Centered Guide to Being Awesome ~Chapter One: Feed Your Cat

After making the decision to begin this posterity-driven undertaking, my first interview choice was clear: my loving cat, Kcub. When asked why I was awesome, the cat simply purred. If you know Kcub, the meaning is clear. Kcub purrs quite often, and the sound has various meanings, such as "pet me," "pick me up," "put me down," or "throw that mouse toy." Most often, it means "feed me." Most cats meow when they are hungry, but Kcub simply rubs up against the cabinet where his food is kept and purrs. It did not take me long to realize what this meant, as he purrs while eating his food as well. While food is important, I doubt that feeding kcub is the only reason he appreciates my awesomeness. I also respond to his other purrs, and play with my cat as often as time permits. Sometimes, I even let him win. My cat is a very happy cat. You can tell by the way he purrs so often. If you want to be awesome, then you will be attentive to your pets. Your pets will appreciate this, and respond with gratitude, and recognize you for the awesome pet owner that you are. If you don't believe me, just ask Kcub how awesome I am.

Self-Centered Guide to Being Awesome ~Introduction

It has been established by several sources that I am awesome. This is certainly fine by me, but it begs the question "Why am I awesome?" Personally, I don't much care about the answer to that question, but what if some kid comes up to me and asks "Marten, how did your get to be so awesome?" I couldnt just tell him that I don't know and walk off. What if he wanted to be awesome like me? So, for that purpose, I have decided to research my awesomeness. This research shall be conducted as follows: I shall interview various people, asking them why I am awesome, as well as why I am not awesome, so as to get a well rounded and unbiased set of data. The information gained in this fashion shall be compiled and interpreted to form a guide, so that anyone aspiring to be awesome may make use of it.

Sophia

This isn't usually the place to put dramatic personal posts, but something incredible happened yesterday. Nights of feeling depressed, overthinking about it, feeling stupid, and general confusion have been, um, somethinged. She loves me. She Loves Me! I'm not some pathetic guy thats obsessed over this girl who has made me want to sing, yell, kiss and kill. I'd told Sophia how I felt before, but, I don't know, she was afraid, or something, but yesterday, she figured it out, and she told me she loved me, in front of the entire drama class! Teacher and all! This is funny, sad, silly, and beautiful all at the same time! It's impossible to say how much that meant to me, for her to say that, knowing full well that the class would never let us hear the end of it. I look back and think about it, still knowing that I'm a highschool kid that has no idea what love is, but right now it doesn't matter. Even if it ends sometime into the future, it doesn't matter, because it will always have happened. We'll figure it out. I know I sound silly, but I don't care, I have Sophia, and she has me.

If you can break it, you can build something better

I had this random rant in english. I am very tired and hungry.

People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. This is a well known metaphor, usually to denote the precarious position of the person to whom the metaphor is directed. This person, who, for the purpose of this rant, we shall name Jerry, is currently protected by the fragile logic represented by a "glass house." Unfortunately, Jerry has begun to throw metaphorical stones, or ideas that are not compatible with his current logical foundation. These stones shatter the glass of Jerry's weak logicand he finds himself completely unprotected in a metaphorical world that represents his intellectual position. Of course, one rarely takes into consideration that Jerry, while out of a logical resting place, now possesses several logical rocks, with which Jerry can take a number of different actions. Possibility one: Jerry, frustrated with his lack of shelter, takes his rocks and begins throwing them at other glass houses. Unfortunately, this action will lead to resentment by the home owners who were happy with their transparent logical structures. These victims of frustrated logic will retaliate, pelting poor Jerry with their shards of ignorance. The broken pieces of their glass houses, while not as heavy or as solid as Jerry's rocks, are sharp and very dangerous. Hopefully, Jerry will learn from from this mistake. Then, he can take his rocks and build a new house of logic. It may not be perfect, but it would be better than his old glass house. If he should discover a substance that could break his new walls, he will only have something sturdier with which to build a new structure.

The Fuzz

I would like to dedicate a post to the Indianapolis Police Department, and extend that dedication to Police officers in general, except for the corrupt ones. With that last thought, it should be understood that any other dedications I make to large organizations is nullified in the case of corruption unless otherwise noted. Back to the police, I appreciate their willingness to do the most menial tasks, like traffic control. There is a very large church near my neighborhood, and if not for the tedious work of these dedicated individuals, I would not be able to get out of my neighborhood on sundays or religious holidays. Tasks like these go sadly unrecognized because of other things that sort of overshadow such important work, like car chases, drug busts, murders, and the like. While these are significant and duly noted, it should be equally noted that without the seemingly meaningless task of traffic direction, our society would cease to function, or atleast everyone would be late to everything. Here's to the Watch! Fabricati Diem, Punc

Tomatoes

For any of this to make any sense at all, it must first be understood that I really don't like tomatoes. I hate it when fast food places forget to take the tomato off of my sandwhich, and it drives me nuts when the tomatoes are diced and mixed in with salads so I can't possibly pick them out. With that understood, I can attempt to make a point by telling you that I ate a tomato once, not too long ago. It was on a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwhich. I saw it, I almost took it off, but for some reason I didn't. I ate the sandwhich, tomato and all. It wasn't terrible, I didn't nearly choke on it like usual, and I kind of enjoyed it. That isn't to say that I no longer dislike tomatoes, or that I won't take the tomato off of the next spicy chicken sandwhich I eat, it's just that I did something I usually wouldn't do, and I feel better for it. I'm not entirely sure what this random tomato inspired epiphany means, but it has something to do with doing things we don't like to do. Not all the time, just occasionally. We can't be made to do it, we just have to do it because, despite previous feelings against it, it's probably a good idea. Perhaps the world would be a better place if people did something that they normally hated doing every once in a while.