Have mercy on my soul.

Dear venus flytrap and sundew seedlings,

I am so, so sorry I knocked over the terrarium today.

The images keep tumbling through my mind - your plastic dome split, its chocolately dirt innards falling to helplessness. I was in a hurry. I was upset. I didn't mean to do it. Oh, little seedlings, you must know how hard I worked to make you grow up strong! I misted you when you were dry, I sang to you, I kept your florescent light burning until all hours to annoy the neighbors - you needed your white light. And oh, little seedlings, you heard me snap at the cat for daring to set paw on the ledge, your little ledge on a box by the windowsill. Who could have foreseen it would be me - me, Majin Plantmurderer - to strike the deadly blow.

I still remember the day I got you in the mail, little ones. Your bright little package of nondescript DNA. Such innocence, now gone to that great Georgian bayou in the sky, never to taste the wriggling thrill of live prey.

To you, single green seedling who had begun to put down roots - you I placed carefully back into your plastic haven, now shattered by an irreparable impact. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, elder seedling. I will never forgive myself. I only apologize with all of my heart for tearing you from your womb of cool and damp, and for your hundreds of microscopic brothers and sisters I had to tearfully vacuum from the carpet.

Sucessful conversion

"What's that?"

"That's a Methodist church, I think."

"Do you go to that church?"

"No."

"Is God in there?"

"... no, little one. God is not in there."

"Oh. Can I play Xbox when we get home?"

"You totally can."

Good thing I'm so adorable.

I think most people hate me.

My mom has been talking to this guy, who's some cousin of mine or related to me in some way. She gave him my number and has been pestering me to talk to him, and so has he, now, texting me and being all friendly and shit. It is probably a bad, horrible thing of me that I can only respond with ill-tempered confusion.

I don't like this guy. I don't dislike him. I don't know him, and I don't really want to. My brief exposure to him indicates that he is not the type of person I want as a friend, so why should I take the time? I am probably never even going to meet him.

Every now and the I feel like I should make an effort, so I'd give him a chance to prove to me he didn't suck. So I told him that, trying to be as direct as I could while not outright cruel.

He said okay and told me to have a nice life.

For a few minutes I was genuinely bewildered.

Did I hurt his feelings? Why? All I did was tell the truth. It occurs to me, as it has many times in the past, that that is not what people do and I should really stop. Moreover, he doesn't know me, so why why why does my opinion matter enough to hurt him? Can he not see the illogic in that?

I'm a dick. I know I am. I know, also, that other people are just as dick as I am. That's true. It has to be. Right? I just lack the tact to hide it.

Right?

Don't give these fuckers your money.

Reblogged from Godless.

Many people see the people out soliciting donations for the SalvationArmy as a good thing. Yes charity is good, but you may be curious as to what you are supporting. I find it best to let them tell you. Here is there Position Statement on some key things:

Abortion:

The Salvation Army deplores society’s ready acceptance of abortion, which reflects insufficient concern for vulnerable persons, including the unborn. (Psalms 82:3-4)

They make it seem like abortion is an easy choice. I highly doubt it is a decision made lightly and easily. That does not change my belief that people should have the right to have one. If you are opposed to abortions, you do not have to have one. It’s that simple.

Euthanasia:

Assisted suicide is defined as directly helping or encouraging someone to end his/her own life. Therefore, The Salvation Army believes that euthanasia and assisted suicide undermine human dignity and are morally wrong regardless of age or disability.

God would rather you suffer here than pass on into His Kingdom I guess.

Homosexuality:

Scripture forbids sexual intimacy between members of the same sex. The Salvation Army believes, therefore, that Christians whose sexual orientation is primarily or exclusively same-sex are called upon to embrace celibacy as a way of life. There is no scriptural support for same-sex unions as equal to, or as an alternative to, heterosexual marriage.

Likewise, there is no scriptural support for demeaning or mistreating anyone for reason of his or her sexual orientation. The Salvation Army opposes any such abuse.

At least they don’t condone abuse, but they still are not totally accepting…

Suicide:

Taking one’s own life is a denial of life’s value, a denial of hope and of the power of God to sustain and bring people through difficult and trying times (2 Corinthians 12:8-10). Suicide is never an acceptable option; we deplore those messages in secular culture that glamorize and promote self-destruction.

Ah it’s the secularist’s fault. Sounds about right…

The Salvation Army is a private organization, so they can do whatever the hell they want. That is 100% a OK with me. I just think people should know what their money is supporting. It has that image of taking people in and helping them, but I could not in good conscience give them any money knowing their stance on some of these things. Why not seek out some secular charities in your area?

I am failing Philosopy 101

Re: Aristotle and the Ongoing Soul
by Dr. David Ashem 9:45 a.m.

Good post, but as per instructions you need to post the url you are citing these quotes from. You haven't done that once yet this semester.

---

Re: Aristotle and the Ongoing Soul
by You 6:21 p.m.

That is because I am transcribing them from a book.

Do you remember books, professor?

---

Re: Aristotle and the Ongoing Soul
by Dr. David Ashem 7:45 p.m.

Don't be a smartass.

---

Re: Aristotle and the Ongoing Soul
by You 3:21 a.m.

Yes, sir.

And another thing!

I've just realized today why I am so bad with people, and why it is so hard for me to make friends.

It is because upon meeting new people, around eighty percent of the time, I have to spend twenty minutes explaining how to pronounce my goddamn name. It is not that cocksuckingly hard, you guys. Majin! Ma, like your mother if you're southern, and jin, like the way you say Gin when you've already had a few glasses.

Yes! It's strange! It's Asian! It's got a J in it! It's new and different and you've never heard it before! Suck it up, stupid!

Christ on toast.

Crumbled

Sitting at the library, breaking the rules and sucking on cheap coffee, thinking about how much work I'm probably not going to do today.

One table away from me is a kid doing his homework. He looks maybe eleven or thirteen, and I'm wondering why he's not in school... is it a holiday? Is he here with one of the academics in the conference room on the far wall? Is he just one of those kids who prefers a library to school because he can actually learn something here? If that's true, that boy's in for a hard life.

One table away from him and appearing to make him quite nervous indeed is a homeless guy, all his stuff on the floor by his feet, muttering and reading the paper. He's eating from a can of nuts and a jug of water. A baby is screaming in some other part of the building, and he audibly sneers. The paper's distracting him now, but when I first got here he was just looking around, making observations to himself in a low, grumbling voice. Every few minutes he looked at me and laughed, not cruelly but like we were both in on some joke that I've forgotten.

But that's not true. I remember this guy. I thought he died a long time ago. He was downtown about five years ago, when I was younger and braver. He looked so scared of the world, just trying to stay out of sight until it all passed by. I shared my lunch with him once, and the voice he thanked me in was so tiny and frightened that it scared me, too. I don't think he remembers me. What's he laughing about?

I wonder what he's doing in public, now, looking unafraid.

The kid has looked at me a few times like he's asking for help. Does he want me to make the crazy guy go away? Ah. Yes, his mother just poked her head out of the conference room and asked if he'd like to take a break, and he's packing his stuff up lightning-fast. As he walks past me I can see him better. He's an adorable boy. He will be astonishingly beautiful someday.

He'll be clever and attractive and provided-for, like me, and we'll never know what it's like to carry our lives on our backs and speak our thoughts aloud and have to wait patiently while the world goes on without us.

Put it on a bun

Hypothesis: Americans will eat any-fuckin'-thing.

Time taken: 5.6 minutes

Control: Starved Pseudo-American

Conclusion: true

I once went on an expedition to find the greasiest, fattest, ugliest and in short most disgusting piece of food in the small area I could cover on my lunch break. Findings: Southern-Style Chicken Sandwich from (surprise) McDonald's. If I wasn't considering boycotting digestion before, I am now. I took two bites of this monstrosity (and the second was a mercy act, thinking that perhaps I'd just got a bad piece) and the rest went neatly into the bin. This was a truly humbling experience.

I encountered two deformed, watery slices of pickle. A soggy bun that had literally adhered to the inside of the box. A slab of meat that I've no doubt WAS chicken, and actually looked edible enough, but that's where the similarities to real food plumeted to their deaths. This thing was gritty, gristly, and ghastly. I'd like to forget about it now, if you don't mind.

Here's the real issue, though: I did not order a Southern-Style Chicken Sandwich. I ordered a number 10 combo (not a "combination" no no. Never that.), complete with despicable fries (which, I know now, are named not for their method of preparation but for what they will do to your SOUL.) That means this unholy homunculus was not only ON the menu, but it is considered acceptable enough to me one of the prepackaged meals the purchase of which the entire marketing strategy is geared to induce. They are willing to let this tortured corpse of a sandwich be a representation of the entire parade of crap they serve. It is as if they tell me "come, customer, this is how much we care about you: we will slay a defenseless animal by staring at it wickedly until it melts into a patty-shaped lump of feathers and fear, do unspeakable things to it and cover it in salt, and we will follow up by charging you $7.29 and you will NEVER GET IT BACK."

In the spirit of scientific impartiality, I must be fair. McDonald's does not promise gourmet, it promises a selling point of crappy food for cheap. The coffee is... palatable, and by that I mean I can imagine that it could probably be worse. Still, even with the spirit of science on my side, I'm embarrassed to have bought that sandwich.

Beat poetry

YES, Association for the Center for Male Enhancement, I would like to have a larger penis.

Bring it on, you scientific masterminds! I want a huge, gigantic monster cock, the likes of which will mute the horror of others through its sheer presence. Women will shrink away in fear! Other men will fall to their knees in despair that their minds and bodies combined will never reach the level of perfection that I frequently display. Also, a small river of masculine seed should drip from my member at all times, so that within time my surroundings will be as manly as I am.

Yes! I'm ready for a willy the size of a river barge. I want to have a battering ram and blunt weapon available at all times. I want a storage place to keep my beer cold. Gentlemen, I want to fuck a TRAIN and have that bitch be impressed. I've noted down the numbers of some respectable filming institutions, as I intend to be a pornographic superstar within minutes of receiving your treatment. I did not forget to ensure that the video equipment is sufficient to film from several miles away, as that may be where they will need to be placed in order to capture my penis entirely.

I want a trouser snake capable of devouring small children, I want a bratwurst that could feed a nation. I have an outdoor swimming pool that should be a sufficient receptacle for the buckets of cum that I will sometimes spontaneously spray. Give me your loudest organ, your most prominent pecker, your wickedest wiener, baby, I'm ready for it all. I want this thing to do my math homework. I will never have a friend so caring, so available, or such an efficient replacement for a pillow.

Boys, you know me, you get me, you understand. My bacon ain't crackling, my pocket rocket lacks thrust, my baby maker can summon only the feeblest babies. Your correspondence is correct, you astutely perceive that I am a man of exceptional daring; I'm a commander, a rebel, the edge is lived on by me. It is, as you mentioned, high time that my belly blade match my swordfighting skills, my scepter be customized for my leadership potential. I intend, for a bit of harmless fun, to be frequently mistaken for a nuclear weapon, a heat-seeking missile aimed at large crowds, or, at the beach, an enemy submarine. Acceptable alternatives include a waterbed mattress or the Holy Smiting Rod of the One True God.

But I'll tell you what I'm really looking forward to, the number one way my hottest nights will be improved by the miracle cure you provide: I want to fall asleep on long road trips, and allow my pulsing erection to drive the SUV for me as I relax in the backseat.

So send me your pills, your tonics, your syrups and pumps, I'll pay you whatever you ask. Put the magic back in my flesh wand. Sharpen my pendulum, and I will finally be able to locate a willing pit. Enhance me, gentlemen. I eagerly await your next e-mail.

Quiet

Today I let go of my past.

Do you have that attic or basement or cardboard box with mementos from your childhood? Messy finger paints, the sheet with gold stars you earned in preschool? I didn't, really. For all effects, my life began at eleven. But after that, it seems, I kept everything I did.

So I cleaned out the corner of the attic today with all my preteen junk in it, and a few minutes in after attempting to sort into piles of what to keep and noticing that the "not to keep" pile was feeble, sighing at my sentiment, I decided to throw it all away. Everything.

Stories, fragments of chapters on notebook paper in sloppy ink. Doodles on the back of homework. School reports in which I was as much as a snarky writer I am now. Report cards that steadily declined. Torn off sketches from people I met, gifts, who promised that I'd be as good as they were when I was their age (they lied).

Dozens of sketchbooks, the time when I actually pored over a drawing, trying hard. Journals and journals and journals and journals, messy spiral notebooks with all my lonely, childish mourning, anger, crushes, dreams for the future. A book in which I detailed my dreams, which came regularly then. Poems. Photographs. Love letters, the ones that made me smile and the ones I wept over. Things I'd forgotten, and things I wish I could forget.

All of it's gone. If I could have burned it, I would have.

I don't know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It probably wasn't; a few years from now I'll probably regret it.

But that's life.

Beat that.

I am in love with this man.

Patterns

At five minutes and six seconds, four a.m., July eighth of this year, the time and date will read as follows:

04:05:06 07/08/09.

No time will ever be that consecutive again for the duration of the human race.

Enjoy.

Hard-on Collider lol

I should absolutely not be a scientist.

There comes a point, during one's personal study of quantum physics, where suddenly it all makes sense. Well, no. That's a lie. There comes a point where it suddenly makes sense that it doesn't make sense, and apparently that's kind of fulfilling somehow. This is all hearsay.

Because when you stare deep into the eyes of the cold, bitter facts - when you remember that all matter possesses just an insignificant amount of mass and the rest is pure vacuum, not to mention that what mass is there isn't there all the time, zapping in and out of existence with no visible pattern, phasing around for no possible reason, in a thousand physical places at once, behaving in a manner that just makes no goddamn sense, it's easy to get a wee bit frustrated.

Matter isn't just the tangible, by the way. Gravity, space, air, your flesh, your brain, is, atomically, not even there. They're just thoughts, implications, potentials, ideas, the shadow of an idea, so insubstantial that the simple energy emitted by your mind when you think thoughts should be powerful enough to blast them all away.

So why doesn't it?

But a true-to-heart physicist, once they reach that point, crest the hill of OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT THE SHIT HAPPENED THERE, transcend the headache, and learn to let go... when the chaos of the world starts to mean more to you than the order, there's real happiness to be had there. That's why most physicists are such awesome people.

I have not come to that point. And it doesn't seem to be anywhere on my horizon.

I mean seriously. What the shit?

Thought for the day

When doing something that would be embarrassing if it got out it was you doing it, take precautions. Leaving someone threatening notes on their windshield for parking in your spot a hundred times? Fingerprints off the glass, holmes. Writing a blackmail letter? Get your dog to lick the envelope, and don't touch those negatives! All in good fun, yes, I know. But you never want to run the risk that the person you're fucking with is even crazier than you, and that their cousin is like the cheif of forensics at the local PD. People get murdered over petty squables for two reasons: because they deserved it, and because they were stupid. You already deserve it. Don't be stupid.

Yeah, you know who you are.

OMG boobs.

I got to talk gender today, which is a surefire way to put me in a smug mood, so here's some vignetting (hi, blog! I didn't miss you).

In my perfect world, gender as a matter of attraction would be worth around the same mating potential as hair color. That is to say that there are all types, some distinctly less natural than others, and for the most part they are considered just a nice way of expressing yourself outwardly depending on how you find yourself more attractive. A lot of people have a preference for one over the others, and there are some who will only go in for one specific type, but they're kind of weird and probably aren't going to get a date any time soon.

Very few people I know of are afraid to bring their brunette home to meet the family, after all. And the important part is that everybody knows that the color of your plumage says a bit about who you are, but not every damn thing. The other important part is that you can dye your hair whenever you damn well feel like it, and don't run (much) risk of being ostracized by everyone you've ever met for going against your nature.

I'm an androgyne. Most people I know are aware of this, and if they're not okay with it then I simply don't know them for very long. Gender quite simply means nothing to me, in myself or in others-- it could be argued that I'm not bisexual, I'm simply sexual. I'm not really one of those people who gets all uptight over being improperly labeled, though, so I'm also a lesbian, a gay man, a transsexual, a cross-dresser, androsexual, genderqueer, genderfluid, genderless, and whole shitton of other terms I've probably never even heard of, depending on who you're talking to (including "creep". I like that one). I use "androgyne" because it sounds cooler, and is probably a bit more scientifically accurate. The only things I'm not are male or female. I'm both, or neither if you prefer, and I am forever glad of it.

Obviously I am not in the majority here. For everyone who responds to my sextalk with "oh, that's cool" there are a hundred *cough*himom*cough* who will perplexedly wonder why I won't just be a damn girl already, it looks so good on me! And that's fair. I do look pretty sizzling in a dress. The above does not and will never mean that I abandon all things feminine-- I will always giggle coquettishly and paint my nails and show some cleavage to the proper club bouncers and gossip and have a weakness for vanilla body lotion. But I look equally sizzling in a suit-n-tie, and I do things like forget to clean the bathroom for a year and become flustered and horrified when faced with the prospect of holding a baby and lift weights that are way too heavy for me and lust after motorcycles and start impromptu wrestling matches in the middle of a crowded store. I do not actually like Godiva chocolates, and there is absolutely nothing about lace that appeals to me.

I'm drawn to the women's locker room at the gym by biology, a mild inconvenience, and an appreciation for making zero eye contact in direct opposition to my desire for some soap that doesn't smell like fucking flowers. (I'm okay with flowers on a general level, except roses. Roses are beautiful and symbolic but the scent of them has been known to make me violently ill-- buy me some and expect me to punch you, and them, across the room on instinct, no matter how romantic.)

Fact is, outside of simple-mindedness, there is nothing about the above that smacks of necessarily masculine or feminine. Except the cleavage, I guess. Spend some time thinking about it, and you begin to realize how much generally accepted sex-linked behavior crosses over to the other. We live in an enlightened age (I've always wanted to say that) and it kinda feels like the world is just hovering over the major realization that holy shit women and men are both people, and do the same damn stuff.

Men PMS. Don't listen to anybody who tries to tell you they don't.

Lost the tangent, there, I suppose. I, personally, am okay with however you'd like to think of me. Pronouns are precious units of the English language, but they are flexible. "He" and "she" and "it" or whatever else you can think of all apply to me, because I hardly see the point in picking one. And neither, if you watch me long enough, will you.

Very few people have gotten my point in its entirety, but that's okay too. There are as many acceptable opinions on my sexual state as there are people to opinion them. The well-meaning "you're looking very boyish today" will never please me quite as much as the rare but precious "thank you, sir-... ma'a-.... s-.... um. Have a nice day."

You win this time, Career Mentoring Application.

1. An event in my life that showed great strength was...
when I was eight I was the only kid in the class strong enough to lift a manhole cover.

2. My being here today shows that I am...
desperate.

3. One of the many things I have learned with age is...
it's probably not a good idea to go around picking up manhole covers.

4. A positive belief I hold to be true is...
I will be ready when the zombie apocalypse comes.

5. People will like having me as a coworker because I...
don't resort to blackmail until it's absolutely necessary.

6. My greatest accomplishment has been...
staying alive. I'm pretty proud of that.

7. The skill that I am most proud to have is...
aloof charm.

8. One of the greatest lessons life has taught me is...
nothing is too serious to crack a joke about.

9. An employer would be lucky to have me as an employee because I am...
adorable. What do you want??

10. A difficult situation that I handled very well was...
not writing these answers on the real form.

11. I am willing to take a strong stand on...
legalizing murder.

12. I believe that I am here on this earth to...
make the world's most astonishing snarky comment ever.

13. I am motivited by...
liquor, mostly.

Srs

I'm not a skinny kid. Fact of life.

I'm not fat, by my estimate, though I'm sure a lot of people'd disagree. It is kind of a black-and-white thing nowadays, innit? Pretty or plain. I'm not pretty, and I'd honestly prefer it that way given the particulars of my sexual alignment. My mother, who I pretty strongly resemble, isn't skinny either, but then again she's a billion years old and can't be held to it. I think she's beautiful, but that's probably because she's my mom and I know what a phenominal person she is, and I can see it in her face.

So maybe it's genetics, but I'm also a nerd. Nerds, as you know, don't get out much. Another fact of life. I lift weights, sometimes, and yoga and I have a bittersweet relationship, but since I stopped obeying my doctor's other orders I figured I'd take the whole package.

I'm an off-and-on vegetarian. I genuinely enjoy tofu. I don't exactly calorie-count, but it'd be a lie of omission to say that certain health habits haven't been drilled from various sources (not the least being my mother) or that I'm any stranger to food guilt. I remember comments, growing up, mostly from teachers, that stung a little (I never said I wasn't fat then). Out of character indeed-- it's a damn waste of time to worry about how I look, since the ideal image for me is several hundred thousand dollars of expensive surgery away-- but hell, I'm nineteen. Who doesn't wanna be hot?

So it'll probably always be annoying, one little detail that I ocassionally beat myself over. However, the following fact remains true:

I taught myself how to make bacon today, and borrowed a trick involving frying eggs, tomatoes and toast in the ensuing grease. Cholesterol sang a ballad to me as I devoured it. I can feel Atlas and gravity gleefully latch on to the whatever new pounds.

Totally, fucking, worth it. Bacon, dude.

Look and learn.

New Product Announcement:

Announcing the new Built-in Orderly Organized Knowledge device, otherwise known as the BOOK.

It’s a revolutionary breakthrough in technology: no wires, no electric circuits, no batteries, nothing to be connected or switched on. It’s so easy to use even a child can operate it. Just lift its cover. Compact and portable, it can be used anywhere -- even sitting in an armchair by the fire -- yet it is powerful enough to hold as much information as a CD-ROM disk.

Here’s how it works: each BOOK is constructed of sequentially numbered sheets of paper (recyclable), each capable of holding thousands of bits of information. These pages are locked together with a custom-fit device called a binder which keeps the sheets in their correct sequence. By using both sides of each sheet, manufacturers are able to cut costs in half.

Each sheet is scanned optically, registering information directly into your brain. A flick of the finger takes you to the next sheet. The BOOK may be taken up at any time and used by merely opening it. The "Browse" feature allows you to move instantly to any sheet, and move forward or backward as you wish. Most come with an "index" feature, which pinpoints the exact location of any selected information for instant retrieval.

An optional "BOOKmark" accessory allows you to open the BOOK to the exact place you left it in a previous session -- even if the BOOK has been closed. BOOKmarks fit universal design standards; thus a single BOOKmark can be used in BOOKs by various manufacturers.

Portable, durable and affordable, the BOOK is the entertainment wave of the future, and many new titles are expected soon, due to the surge in popularity of its programming tool, the Portable Erasable-Nib Cryptic Intercommunication Language stylus [PENCIL].

Play with my kitten.

You heard me.

Virtual Pet by FooPets.com   

Here's to the crazy ones.
The misfits. The rebels.
The troublemakers. The round
pegs in the square holes - the
ones who see things differently.
They're not fond of rules and
they have no respect for
the status quo. You can praise
them, disagree with them,
quote them, disbelieve them,
glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing that you
can't do is ignore them.
Because they change things.

- Jack Kerouac

Too far

Boundaries. Why do they exist?

Why are lands separated by oceans, planets by the vast vacuum of space, and humans by distance and by figurative walls we build, often by choice? People choose to stay safely within the boundaries established for them. Bodies, armor, a car, a house; we are safe within things, rabbits in holes...children hiding under our blankets.

Then again, pushing at the edges of your containment is something you do every moment of every day. Sex is a connecting of bodies, words are a connecting of minds. To connect with someone, there has to be an opening in your barrier, a crack; wide enough to allow only what you've invited, and you've enough control to make sure that nothing else gets in instead, don't you?

If a star collides with another, no amount of preparation will be able to maintain the structure, the surface tension, that has until now kept them whole. Both will be destroyed.

But stars still gravitate toward one another. Why is that?

Those special moments

Today, at the age of nineteen, I had my first conversation with my mother about sex.

She seemed just as stumped by it as I am, which was nice.

HIPPO STACKING APPARATUS

Bitch.

Let me count the ways...

Love. Love is goddamn stupid.

Oh, you know what I'm talking about. You've said the same thing to yourself while slapping yourself in the face trying to make the thoughts go away. The difference, perhaps, is that you later took it back and decided that nooooo, Majin, love is magical and sparkly and there's never ANYTHING better than looooove. If that's the case, you're lying and you're going to go to hell.

I am consistently baffled by the misrepresentation of “love” as a culture. Figure out, kids, that it isn't any more concrete or reliable than anything else has ever been in your life. There is no such thing as “I can't live without you.” Love is, at best, a vague implication of “I guess I can learn to tolerate you.” Yes, I'm bitter, but I have a very limited supply of sympathy for the people whose search for love has made them miserable. You can't define yourself by other people any more than they can find their own worth in you. People are not what is going to make your loneliness go away. Loving someone for no other reason than that they are there to love is a mistake.

I know someone who has told me point blank that they have no higher goal than to find someone to love. To this day, it baffles me, and I know that this isn't an uncommon goal for people. I don't understand it. I don't see how finding someone with which to fight over curtains and eat the last Oreo and erase all your shows on the DVR is something that people can spend their whole lives trying to attain. I see the appeal of being with someone that you love, but I don't see the point of actively looking for it. Dating sites do not work and everybody knows it. It gets to a point when people can't function without a mate, and that is both dangerous and sad. The overhype of love in society makes being “single” sound like a fate worse than death; it is basically telling you to your face that you, as an individual, are worth less than you would be as part of a pair. I see no problem with marriage, of course, but I also see no problem with dying single.

“Oh, he's lying,” coos the audience, exchanging knowing looks. “Everyone who says that just doesn't know what it feels like to be in love.” Well, fine. Maybe that's true. I've never had a lover, no, but I've also never been skydiving and that sounds pretty cool, too. I don't hate love, I hate what it does to people. It infuriates me when people do incredibly stupid things “because they were lonely.” Arrogant little fucks, everyone in the world is lonely. You're not special, no more pitiful than any other human being. I'm lonely. That friend you've got with a new boyfriend every two weeks is lonely. The couple that's been together for ten years is lonely, within themselves. One person, regardless of the power of love, can never enter another one; people are one, individual, and untouchable. Loving someone doesn't make you any closer to them, not really. So they tell you everything about themselves-- you don't understand them, not really, because you aren't them. Period.

If you can't operate on your own strength, and find your own meaning on your own, even the love of your life won't be able to give it to you. Indeed, you're hurting them by being so dependent on their love that they need to support both your weaknesses and their own.

Well, damn. Now I don't have a rant for Valentine's Day. Ahhh, well. I'll think of something.

If I were a developer

Imagine if you will a paragon of virtual reality.

The graphics are cutting-edge and the text-to-speech is unprecedented; they have to be, because scenery makes up the game and there are no prerecorded lines. Your character speaks what you type, and the AI is trained not to try and pronounce things like "ASDFSGSDGJSGLGLG:::::::" or the word "noobs."

The setting is... life, more or less, if a little 1984. Like in all games, you start out as a no-name bum with nothing to do with your time, and you've got to go and do menial things just to survive. If you don't pay your rent you get evicted, and if you try and sleep in the subway you get arrested. And almost all of the gameplay is in realtime, which means you'll be sitting in a cell for the rest of your paid subscription unless you're clever about it.

The point, however, is that through time and gameplay, any and all NPCs are replaced by players, everyone to the bored man sweeping the steps to the temple to the cold-fisted leader of the feircely regulatory government. Your position, and the way you are able to interact with others to make things happen, depends on how you play the game.

And while you've little choice but to do things like look for a job and put in your time, theoretically if you can get your hands on a shotgun you have every ability to take off from your position Burger Wing and shoot up your local government faction, and obviously this is what everybody's going to want to do. The point is to bring order to a potentially lawless society.

Those who've made it into the government do it their way, and those who didn't will rebel, and the course of the game depends on the state of the world based on player actions. Because the moment a peace arrangement is reached and the world stabilizes (or, potentially, the entire world becomes an apocalyptic waste), the game is over. All servers shut down. The rest of your subscription is refunded. The programming team goes on to make smaller, less awesome games which everyone will buy out of sheer reverence, plotless offshoots will be made just so you can hang out with your old virtual friends again.

When it's over, you can know that you did your part, as one of a whole, to make things turn out the way they did. You weren't the "chosen one" and there was nothing special about you, but you made an effort. Or, if you'd managed to spend the whole game dicking around (or in jail) the message is that you may not have ended up happy, and are probably furious to have spent that much money on server fees, but that's how life is. Aren't you glad you bought a life simulator?

And a happy new year, though I'd have preferred one recycled.

Insomnia and cynicism are the cardinal sins of any intellectual. Cynicism because it makes you unpopular, and insomnia because it makes you cynical.

I, for a passing example, frequently do not sleep. Not sleeping is a bit of an art, you see, meant to be perfected and honed. When I do not sleep, the effects are noteworthy. Pay attention, science nads.

First, I experience a pleasant come-and-go sensation of delirium, with the major imbalance being that it comes for about ten minutes and then goes for several hours. This is a bit inconvienient because (and here is the reason:) I only do not sleep on nights when I have important things to do the following day. Period. Conclusive evidence. No determinable cause. I have tried to trace it back to some deeply-rooted genetic imbalance; perhaps a small easily-killed strain of my sheep-herder ancestors found that sleeping for a few hours was a far more cumbersome use of time than simply jumping up and down screaming at the top of their tinny little lungs and occasionally whacking one another with metal pails. Nothing yet, but I've only got to early Serbia.

Following this (or ten minutes later) I suddenly fall to staring intently into space for about half an hour or so. This, almost always, occurs when I'm driving. Proof, I say, that god never meant us to be mobile creatures at all; I still say we should have been plants. Going places is hard damn work, especially when you've got to keep track of all kinds of obnoxious things like curbs and the dickhole in front of you that insists on going two miles under the speed limit and whose break pedal is apparently linked vicariously to his heartbeat.

As an aside, let's talk about my car. I've spoken before about the strange, quasinatural habit of all of my posessions to take on personalities alarmingly akin to my own, and my '02 Land Rover is no exception whatsoever. Generally, the trait it's leeched from me is that it likes to scare the crap out of me, presumably because it thinks it's funny. It will shift gears for no reason, slide ostensibly to the left, lock the power steering for a few terrifying seconds, and then cheerfully go about its business as I wheeze and try to get the Catholic funeral hymn out of my head. Consider this happening on the occasions where I'm not only so dazed I'd fail a drug test on principle alone, but perhaps when there's ice on the road or I'm on the phone undergoing a routine check-up from, say, my mother. Almost dying is a pretty routine thing for me, but there's a certain dreamlike surreality to feel as if the very tools meant to make your life easier have all conspired to fuck with your sleep-deprived head.

I also tend to not sleep when I drink, which is a little unfair, I think. The result is that I often end up blearily wandering around in the morning totally unsure whether I'm still drunk or already hungover. Coffee is not my best friend, but I keep crawling back anyway.

Anyway, none of that has anything to do with the whole New Year thing, but its not like you bastards are paying me for this.

Sneaky love

In other news, I'm a kleptomaniac.

It's always seemed like a good financial strategy to me. I don't have a job and I'm surviving entirely on a diet of protein bars and energy drinks, both conveniently pocket-sized and available at the local drug store. The only jacket I've got that allows survival in this damn arctic tundra comes standard equipped with inside pockets to hell and back, and one can always stand to brush up on one's ninja tr1cks.

I'm not having a moral crisis or anything. If anything, it bothers me that it doesn't bother me more. Especially now, as the hibernation stage of the Christmas bell-ringers comes to an end and they come out to stare at you with their cold dead eyes. Season of giving and selflessness and whatnot, but when it comes down to the choice of whether to feed myself or my cat I call human generosity to a standstill and do what I can to soften the monetary sting.

No real punchline here. However, if you'd truly like to convince me that humanity is not by nature a selfish beast, I will be happy to direct you to my PayPal account and invite you to make a generous donation toward the cause of hopeless mysanthropic youth everywhere.

Yes we did.

I'd be lying if I said this election hasn't affected me.

I'm going through what we'll prudently call "a rough spot" in my otherwise unremarkable low-class nineteen years of life. Things are changing for me, personally, internally and otherwise, on a thousand different levels, for better or worse. I'm nervous, exhausted, confounded by worry and terrified of the future. I've screwed a lot of things up.

But I'm also young, and jaded, and so unreasonably deviant that I am arguably removed from society to the point of bitter absolution. Small-mindedness is not something to which I'd ordinarily admit, so let us say that it is normal human tunnel-vision that alienates me from the rest of the world. I'm selfish, like you, and if it seems like I care about something that does not directly affect me in either a negative or positive way, it is a lie. Fortunately, I'm still at a point where that can be emphatically attributed to my age, although to be fair I've never met anyone who doesn't think that way. We are all human, with our big bulky simian brains geared for survival and comfort that can't be achieved by focusing on anything other than ourselves.

Last night, for an hour or so, I saw the bigger picture. And, even more astonishingly, I wasn't alone.

So we have a black president. That's pretty cool, I guess, kinda like a new space station going up-- you know it's gonna end up good, because those scientist people know what they're doing, but it's hard to get excited about it because the discovery of a new light signature implying that a brand new star is being molded together just inside our spectrum of sight has absolutely zero influence on the fact that we can never find a parking spot or the salad at the diner is always a little wilted. I'm certifiably not black, so I can't speak with any authority, but I observe that this is the common feeling among, at least, people my age. It's neat-- awesome, actually-- but we all have other things to think about. And that's okay.

It's not that we do have a black president. It's that we can.

It's not even, incidentally, that we have this particular black president-- an almost overpoweringly competent and courageous man who has already earned my total devotion and respect by sheer strength of character, something that has never happened before. This day, this election, these four years, this new America... all of this is so much more than another turning of the proverbial page in the book of our history. This represents a mindset, a sense of wonder (and, yes... hope) that we as people, not as citizens, so often overlook. This is a revolution of the human heart. This is, at the risk of romanticizing an already saccharine rant, the dawning of a new era. The entire world is going to change. And that is more than a slogan, more than a cliche or an ideal. We are no longer capable of staying stagnant.

So let us live our lives as we always do. I'm not a political person by any means, and by way of everyday bullshit, life will go on. I still have to fix the vacuum leaks in my car and empty my wallet at Starbucks just to make it home. For me, personally, at least in the immediate future, there's only one real difference in the details of my day.

And that is the fact that I am now, for the first time in my life, both proud and fond of this flag.

A real national crisis:

I hate ballpoint pens.

Always have. Always will. Call it an instinctive rivalry. But I can't be the only one who's noticed their vast inferiority to gel ink. I'd write with a squid if it worked at least as well as a ballpoint, and not only because squids are cute. (Fun fact: the word "octopuses" is apparently correct. They are National Geographic, and they have decreed it so.) I was one of those kids who collected gel pens, metallic and glittery and whatnot, and then I got into graphics and comics and developed a healthy appreciation for the things a good pen can do.

Why do we, as a society, put up with thse industrialist machines of supply-room terrorism? Nobody likes the damn things. We use them in exactly one situation: when we've a mighty need to write something down, and a ballpoint is the only thing handy. We carry them around as a matter of efficiency, not preference. Banks chain them to the desk so that, in the event of some anarchist making off with the thing in order to destroy it, there isn't a thirty-minute delay as everyone in the building frantically searches for another one beause they're only around when you don't need them. They are unsightly, painful to use over time, and, from a marketing standpoint, they scream "this company is unoriginal and cheap."

Cheap! That's why these office-staple vermin are so overpopulated. You spend ten cents and get a great bag-o-loot filled with a zillion pens, one ready to take the place of another as they disappear into the lounge sofa one by one. Only not so much, because each requires a christening of a violent scribble or three, ruining the paper upon which one so desperately needed to write, and then another scribbling session every thirteen seconds intermittently.

I propose that these evil things serve another far more powerful purpose, and that is to give compulsive chewers like me somthing to gnaw on. But even that is a fleeting joy, as they will eventually shatter and break. You do not want to be stuck in an office situation and have to talk through it while discretely picking shards of plastic off your tongue and wondering if the ink reservoir broke and spilled all over your lips and you didn't notice. Trust me on this.

Debates tonight.

Whiny, oh-please-don't-hate-me McCain, and cocky must-look-like-I'm-not-scared-shitless Obama. And right after Bush did that whole "Hey, by the way... did anybody notice we might have, like, one or two money problems on the radar there? Ahh, well. No big deal. I'm sure you kids can handle it!"

This is going to be GREAT.

Life

A story, for those of you who fly on aereo-planes.

I'm coming to realize just how fundamental a human experience the aviation industry is. Families are reunited and seperated. Business is conducted. The act of landing in one's destined area is always, I observe, an emotional event, whether there are families there waiting with hugs and souveniers, or sometimes with solemn nods and soft words just before a funeral. The impact is not lost, even, if a tired businessman walks off the terminal towards a rental car, with no one at all there to greet them.

But, like all foundations of human society, this one is dangerous and dark.

A few days ago, as I was loading bags onto a belt loader to pack them tightly into a compressed cargo bin, one began, subtly, to emit a noise. After staring at it breifly for a few moments, I halted the industrialist machines and went off to find someone of superiority, because it's regulation to have a security expert examine any bit of luggage that buzzes, ticks, vibrates or beeps, for obvious reasons. I hung back as several uniformed men carefully moved the suitcase to another area, prodding it cautiously, all kinds of sensitive equipment being wheeled into the room.

My thoughts were varied. I could probably have left it to the experts, gone off and continued my duties uninterrupted. It was probably a DVD player, or somebody's vibrating sex toy going off, or what the hell ever. People ship weird things. But then again, the chances that it was an exposive? Slim, but still startling. What if it was? What if a wrong touch, or even a few seconds lack of urgency, caused the thing to go? Hundreds of lives would end, billions of dollars would slowly flutter away on smoke. What if it did? What if I, back in the mechanics of an airport, simply doing my job, died here today?

I've said before that death frightens me. Not nececcesarially death itself, rather, but the chance that I will die before I have a chance to truly live. There's so much I need, so many longings out of the world that are slowly growing deeper. I want to experience the world in every possible way. The people that I love are going to get a good deal of exposure to me over the years, because it is they, not myself or anything I could create, that makes my life fundamentally worth living.

This is a reminder to those people, and to myself, that life is short. It's perilious. I love much deeper than I will allow to show, but never imagine for an instant that it is not you that keeps me here. It is.

The package? It was some lady's vibrator going off, yeah. But that doesn't make it any less true. Here's to you guys.

“Okay. What I’m trying to say is I don’t want mysteries.”
"Mysteries,” agreed the raven, helpfully…
“Hey,” said Shadow…
The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.
“Say ‘Nevermore,’” said Shadow.
“Fuck you,” said the raven.

-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods

We are Legion

This morning, my brother sent my mom a text message concerning my nephew. This is what it said.

"Earlier today Jesse looked up and said after thinking quietly to himself for a while, "dad, I am a girl now." I sent him into his mom and didn't say anything, but I can't even tell you the beating he will get if... I can't even say it!"

Jesse is four years old. I think that I am going to cry. I thought that the kid would grow up a little lost, because his home life is so shitty, but able to take care of himself. And of course you can't take everything a kid says at face value. But god... what if he is trans? His parents just might be even less accepting than mine are... his dad is so hard on him already, just for doing regular kid stuff. Breaking dishes, wetting the bed. And it's harder, I think, for a young MTF than for an FTM. And he's so young. He doesn't have a clue how hard it is to grow up with no one around to understand.

What if I am the only person in his whole life that doesn't think he's a freak? This is not right. He's a good kid. Sweet, happy, but hungry for love. His parents are such fuckheads, they don't realize how much he needs their approval and their love... he already feels alone sometimes. I cannot even think about the pain that his being trans... or even gay, for that matter, but probably to a lesser degree... would cause him.

It's not like I wouldn't understand. What do I say?

My parents told me about Mr. Common Sense early in my life and told me I would do well to call on him when making decisions. It seems he was always around in my early years but less and less as time passed by. Today I read his obituary. Please join me in a moment of silence in remembrance, for Common Sense had served us all so well for so many generations.

Obituary:

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they themselves failed to do in disciplining their spoiled and self-important children. It declined even further when schools were required to get written parental consent to administer Aspirin, sun lotion or a Band-Aid to students, but were restricted from informing parents when their child became pregnant and skipped class to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, schools were forbidden to fail students who couldn't read and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a severe beating when home owners were forbidden from using force against an attacker in their own home but the burglar was legally allowed to sue a home owner if he was injured on their property during the commission of the crime

Common Sense finally died after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was actually hot and, when spilled in her lap while she was trying to drink and drive at the same time, was burned and promptly awarded a huge financial settlement in court.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by three stepbrothers; I Know my Rights, Someone Else is to Blame, and I'm a Victim.

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

So say it's time to elect a new world leader and your vote actually counts for once. Candidate A associates with crooked politicians, has two mistresses, chain smokes and drinks 8-10 martinis a day. Candidate B was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of whiskey every evening. C, a decorated war hero who's vegetarian, doesn't smoke, only drinks an occasional beer and has never cheated on his wife.

A = Franklin D. Roosevelt

B = Winston Churchill

C = Adolf Hitler

To be a critic.

Horton Hears a Who is quite possibly the most hilarious kids' movie in the world.... but, the villain in Meet the Robinsons is a psychotic hat.

HOW CAN I DECIDE?

Fo'reals.

I have decided what I want to do with my life.

I am going to convert to Catholicism, following the teachings of Cathol and His mighty servants. I am going to study for years, imbue myself with the papal powers, and attain the status of high priest.

And then I am going to open a drive-thru Confessional.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last drive-thru. I have embezzled money from a dying woman and used it for personal gain."

"Would you like Salvation, my child?"

"Well yeah..."

"One Confession with a side of Salvation? That'll be six Hail Marys at the second window, please pull forward. Have a nice day!"

One hundred and forty years ago today, on May 6, 1868, the word homosexuality was invented.

Before then, there were very few value-neutral words to describe people who experienced romantic or sexual attractions toward others of the same sex. Pejoratives such as “bugger,” “molly,” “sodomite,” or “pederast” were common, words loaded with condemnation and shame. But as the budding science of sexology began to grow, and as same-sex loving defenders began to speak out about what same-sex love was all about, their first problem was with how to name it. “Abominable vice” wouldn’t do. A new word was desperately needed to describe their lives and feelings.

The love that dared not speak its name couldn’t. It didn’t have one.

- Box Turtle

Sephiroth

... makes the world worth living in.

NEVER BECOME A MEMORY.
















<3

Look at me not going with the flow.

I really dislike Gay USA on Free Speech TV. I'll watch it on occasion for the news side, and FSTV is really just cool in general-- lots of minority, sidestream views that don't get publicized often.

But Gay USA is what I am starting to realize as too left-wing. There are two anchors, a man and a woman whose names I will look up in a second. They more or less pitch GLBT news stories followed by a short discussion; your garden variety low-budget news show. But the additude they display is a little disturbing. They remind me strongly of a couple of holier-than-thou Christians condescending upon everything unclean; it's as if they find anyone outside of the GLBT ring to be below-par and rediculous. It's borderline heterophobia. They rarely show any respect for the beliefs of other denominations that differ from theirs; and yet they speak for the gay community of the nation in demanding respect and consideration of gay rights.

And just in case you're new to the world of Majin, allow me to remind you: I am GLBTQWTFBBQ. A bottle-opener, if you will. In other words, the GLBT world is my world. Their rights are my rights. However, I don't find backwards discrimination to be for our benefit, or productive in any way. I'd like the whole world to get along, the fruitcake hand-in-hand with the fireman, and not in that way. But this isn't the way to do it.

Remember, kids, straights are people too.

Wikipedia says this;

Typically, Gay USA begins with a quick introduction by hosts Andy Humm and Ann Northrop then moves into news segments as viewed from the gay perspective. Regular segments include gay news, AIDS news, and entertainment news. The anchors refer to notes kept in front of them on the table during this portion of the show. Hosts Humm and Northrop often interject their news delivery with accounts of personal experiences and "...light, snappy repartee and good-natured verbal sparring and banter." Following the news topics of the week, guests are interviewed and/or videos clips are presented for the second half of the show.

I can't put my finger on exactly what about the "good-natured banter" bothers me. I think they remind me a little of my parents; that very targeted "our way is right and your way is wrong" mentality. It's quite weird to see it reversed. If there was any group of people that would practically define tolerance, multiunism, diversity and the like, you'd think it would be the gays. I might be reading a little too much into this. I'm sure they're very nice people. Snappy dressers.

But if I were trying to get a straight guy, for example, to be a little more open to the unstraight conundrum, this is probably the last show I would tell him to watch. I, for one, don't want them to envision us as jaded, sarcastic and unaccepting of outsiders. That's just going to drive the rift between philosophies ever deeper.

Sorry, Gay USA. But it's fags like you that give fags like us a bad name.

Round and round the morality meter.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/article3628860.ece

"People need to wake up. This is sick. She will never be a man. Start looking to GOD more often and things like this will go away."

Believe that when I see it, lady.

A million years ago, all the monkeys died.

It started with chemistry, as things often do. Two ketones and a polymer, the by-products of unrelated and more-or-less innocent manufacturing processes, wafted their way into the upper atmosphere where they drifted for decades.

It took a long time for the chemical reaction to happen. It was incredibly improbable. Ultraviolet light scattered the compounds before they could interact, so it had to happen at night, on the side of the planet facing away from the sun. The right molecules, a gamma ray passing by at just the right moment, and presto.

Still, nothing interesting happened at first. Atoms moved around into new shapes, but the new shapes didn’t particularly do anything. Until hours later, that is, when the sun rose over the horizon and catalyzed them with radiation.

That’s all it took.

The potent and ludicrously specific organic poison made its way around the planet, following the sun. Wherever it went, there were monkeys, and wherever the monkeys met the poison, the monkeys died. Suddenly, instantly and quite painlessly.

Okay, actually it was probably very painful. But I’m trying to soften the blow here.

It took twenty-four hours for all the monkeys to die. They might have held out longer if not for a coincidence in the weather; it was summer in the northern hemisphere then, and on that day there were no monkeys in the perpetual darkness of the Antarctic winter. Wherever monkeys saw then sun, monkeys died.

In a day, they were all gone.

They left all their stuff behind, of course. All their cities and roads and monuments. All their artifacts. The lights stayed on until the power ran out, and then one by one, the monkeys’ achievements grew dark and cold and began to disappear.

Then we came along.

We knew all about the monkeys, of course. How could you not? They’d been everywhere. There were precious few places on the planet — apart from the middle of the open sea — where you could stand and see no sign that the monkeys had ever been there.

So of course we studied the monkeys. There wasn’t much else to do. The world was a placid place. We dug into the monkeys’ cities. We learned to read some of what they called writing. We learned what we could of them, and when we couldn’t learn any more, we speculated and we dreamed. What could have brought down such a globe-spanning culture? Was it war?

The monkeys had a thing they called war; it was sort of a sport. They liked to kill each other — nobody knows why; they never wrote down their reasons, apparently — and war was killing for entertainment. Was it war that brought down the monkeys? Did they all kill each other until none were left? We had a hard time working that one out. Besides, it was a depressing theory.

Maybe it was a famine, some of us thought. There were so many monkeys. How could they possibly feed each other? Surely they’d far outstripped their food sources. But then we looked deeper, and discovered that the monkeys ate everything. Grass, weeds, animals, fish, birds — yes, even birds. When the monkeys ran out of interesting things to eat they ate dull things, and when they ran out of wholesome things they put their big monkey brains on the problem and figured out how to eat vile things. Food wasn’t a problem for the monkeys.

Eventually we discovered the two ketones and the polymer, and what they do when they react in darkness in the presence of gamma rays, and what then happens when the product of that reaction is exposed to sunlight, and finally what happens when the product of that reaction gets into monkey blood and monkey brain.

So that cleared that up. The monkeys didn’t kill each other, and they didn’t die out. They were murdered by plain old bad luck.

But we still studied them. Can you blame us? We needed a way to pass the time. We learned about things called skyscrapers, which were hollow artificial trees of mammoth proportions. We learned about monuments, which the monkeys built as tall as possible. We learned about airplanes, which were actually a fairly ingenious way of dealing with the monkeys’ natural handicap with respect to wings.

The more we looked, the more examples we found of monkeys trying to get higher.

That’s when we started to figure the monkeys out. They were arboreal creatures. They lived in trees. And they were brachiators; they used their long, gangly, leg-like arms to swing from branch to branch … and to climb.

Suddenly all of monkey history made sense. It was chaotic and bizarre, but when viewed through the right lens, it made a sort of sense. The monkeys spent all their time — three million years of history, best guess — trying to reach the top of the highest tree.

Our theories were confirmed when we discovered, after decades of intense research, that monkeys actually walked on the moon.

I know! The moon! What a completely bizarre and ridiculous idea. It’s far away, it’s tiny, it’s cold and it’s barren. There’s nothing interesting there. There’s no water, no reeds. No fish. No air to support your wings, not to mention to breathe. Why go to the moon? There are plenty of ugly, dull, boring places that are a lot closer.

But the monkeys did it. They sealed their wiggly little bodies inside metal boxes and blasted those boxes into space on top of huge explosives. How they survived the trip is anybody’s guess. But then they zipped themselves into little suits and stepped out of their boxes and walked on the surface of the moon.

Because it’s high.

If the monkeys hadn’t died from a plague of bad luck, they surely would be climbing still. The moon’s not high enough. The planets would have been next. And then the stars. And then the galaxies.

There’s always a higher branch.

Which, of course, brings me to my point.

If you flew to the nearest aerie and asked around, you’d find that everybody knows all about the monkeys. But if you took a quick poll, a show of beaks, you’d also find that pretty much everybody agrees that the world is better off without them.

Oh, sure. They were cute, especially the little ones. And they had some interesting things to say about the dynamics of laminar flow and turbulence. And some of their music was okay, as best we’ve been able to guess from reconstructions.

But they were noisy. And they were numerous. And they had this annoying habit of trying to pave everywhere they went.

Ask around, and you’ll find little pity for the monkeys. History can have them.

But what the pelican-on-the-street doesn’t know is that there’s an asteroid coming.

There, I said it. I let the trout out of the net. There’s an asteroid coming, and it’s headed right down our bills. Six months, maybe six and a half at the outside, and then we’ll all be gone. Gone the way of the monkeys.

And tonight I find myself wishing there were still a few monkeys left.

Heights hold no mystery for us. We fly, we soar. We look to the skies with indifference.

But the monkeys … the monkeys were climbers. They always reached for that next branch, their eyes always on the top of the tallest tree.

If there were any monkeys left today, they’d still be climbing, still be reaching for that next branch. Maybe we’d be able to convince them to take us along. Up to the tops of the trees and beyond, to the top of the highest mountain, to the moon, to the stars.

But they’re gone. The monkeys are all long gone, killed off by a coincidence. And so we sit here, circling and preening like there’s no tomorrow, waiting for the world to burn. Just waiting for it to end, because we don’t know how to climb.

How’s that for bad luck?



-Fiction by Jeff Harrell

Spreading the cancer

I spent about an hour and a half moving heavy objects yesterday. Then I walked about... oh, two miles or so.

Doesn't feel like I should be this sore, though.


Fatass.

WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN WIN

Yeah.

Learn something, why don't you.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Majin!

1. There is actually no danger in swimming right after you eat Majin, though it may feel uncomfortable.
2. Humans have 46 chromosomes, peas have 14, and Majin has 7.
3. Baskin Robbins once made Majin flavoured ice cream.
4. Majin can't drink - he absorbs water from his surroundings by osmosis.
5. There is no lead in a lead pencil - it is simply a stick of graphite mixed with Majin and water.
6. A lump of Majin the size of a matchbox can be flattened into a sheet the size of a tennis court.
7. Some hotels in Las Vegas have Majin floating in their swimming pools!
8. Majin has four stomachs.
9. In Vermont, the ratio of cows to Majin is 10:1.
10. Scientists believe that Majin began billions of years ago as an enormous ball of dust and gas.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

Three-minute rant #2

I believe that what I found most fascinating about the character of Dorian Gray was his name. Because it is not unthinkable to imagine any man placed in his situation to react in the same way... I, god help me, think I would have made the same choice without delay. To surrender one's youth... that is a heavy price extracted unwillingly from all but those who die tragically and young. I am one of the weaker ones, for I long for immortality.

But the book would not have had the impact on me that it did if the man had been named Dorian Black or Dorian White.

Paradox: there is never an absolute. Hate and love are extentions of the same emotion, tainting each other like twin ribbons eternally entertwined. To lust after someone is to love them. To kill someone is to love them a little as well.

I'm convinced that the paradoxal name was intentional: Oscar Wilde was a man of heavy-handed intellect, with a mind of wit and reason and a huge capacity for love in all the forms with which he could receive it. And though, as the story nears its end, the character of Dorian Gray is revealed as more polluted than any could have realized, the madness within him only makes us love him more. Our disgust mates with our admiration and gives birth to the nameless, faceless feeling that bears no distinct borders, and it is that feeling, more than any other, which causes the story to linger in our hearts long after the book has been closed.

Children outgrow superheroes. They outgrow cleanly-defined senses of right and wrong at the same pace that they outgrow the bright primary colors and the illogical abilities; we as humans naturally wander from that which doesn't connect to our minds and force us to look at ourselves. We can accept nothing less than paradox. We ache for dichotomy in futile hope of someday understanding it, and thereby our own unstable morality.

Life is painful so that no one will grow up without seeing the bleak ugly stains on the things that they love. Teenagers gravitate toward evil and darkness because the truth within it makes the purity they knew as children seem that much more beautiful. I cast myself as villain, because it forces you to see the good in me.

Boom Flash Streamers

Yaaaaaay for 2008.

This is my 107th post in this blog. o7????? IT MUST BE A COINCIDENCE.

I thought about revamping the layout of the page for the brandie new yeeeah, but then I decided not to.

Yep.

I really like my new pajama pants. Now, this observation may seem a little flaccid in comparison to some of the others I sometimes make, but hark: they're very thin, not at all warm, some sort of polyester I think. The print is from "Mutts," one of the few comics that makes "American Cartoonist" worthy to be a profession instead of a hunting target. Earl is standing on a crescent moon, holding Mooch on his shoulders as together they try to catch a shooting star. The text sporadically intermingled with this decal is, of course, "reach for the stars." It's almost stomach-turningly cute. I rather wish I'd gotten the shirt to go with them.

But nevermind all that. Here's a joke from Kez:

What do you get when you cross an insomniac, an agnostic, and a dislexic?

Give up?

A person who stays up all night wondering if there really is a dog.

Yeah, I got it. Thanks. $29.99






Happy Birthday, Solo.

An Onion-flavored Christmas

Season's greetings from your old friend Santa! My, oh, my, only 12 nights left until Christmas Eve! Things are getting so close now, we can hardly contain ourselves here at the North Pole. And from the looks of it, my young friend, we're not the only ones set to burst! Why, Jolly Old Saint Nick hasn't seen a Yule log this lit in ages!

Now, don't be shy. You know what Santa's talking about. You just couldn't wait to open your present this year, could you? Ho, ho, ho! Dear child, I saw you masturbating!

And it hasn't been just once either! Oh, no! Santa's seen you at least twice splashing away in the bathtub, three times in the attic with one of your mother's old art-history books, and more times than even he can count spread out like a stunned partridge on that beanbag chair of yours!

Why, old Santa might just have a heart attack if he popped out your chimney on that cold winter's night and, instead of milk and cookies, found his dear little pen pal shamefully hunched over the family computer.

Oh, what a naughty, prolific rascal you've been!

You see, dear lad, Santa's been keeping a list. Just like the one you keep in your head of all your favorite classmates. The one you've checked so much more than twice. Except when Santa thinks about his list, he doesn't rub his crotch feverishly against the smooth contours of his writing desk. Ho, ho, ho!

I see you when you're sleeping, child, and I know when you're awake. And, believe it or not, I even know when you're just pretending to sleep, but really have your rosy palms down the front of your britches.

Yes, I suppose you could say old Kris Kringle knows everything there is to know. Well, not everything. You did teach me a thing or two about scented body wash! Ho, ho, ho!

Tell me now, what do you want Santa to bring you this year? A bright red bicycle? Some fun new board games? Or should I just have the elves wrap up a fresh batch of those satin pillows you enjoy straddling so much? Or maybe St. Nick shouldn't bring you anything at all this Christmas. After all, Mrs. Claus knitted you a special pair of socks last year, and just look what became of those!

Oh, what ever happened to that sweet, freckle-faced angel we all loved so much? Such a bright little youngster, so good to your mommy and daddy, and quick to make friends. Now all you seem to want to do is play by yourself for hours on end. It makes everyone here at my workshop very, very sad. Why the reindeer haven't been able to keep down their feed since hearing about how you slap yourself around. And Mrs. Claus, do you know what she did when she found out? She cried. She cried for the first time in almost 700 years.

Where before we enjoyed visions of gumdrops and candy canes, now we see you, once so dear to us all, kneeling against a plastic chair, spitting on two fingers, and putting them lordy knows where.

I must say, the sights you conjure up while you lie in your bed have even Santa Claus scratching his head. I doubt any of the high-school cheerleaders have ever even set foot inside a boiler room before, never mind done anything like that!

And other things—other terrible, frightful things. If your outlandish fantasies didn't make me quake with disgust, I'd say you were the most creative child in the world.

Is it Clara? Is that who you think about when you rub yourself raw? Ho, ho, ho! Why she doesn't even know your name, dear child! You didn't really think you had a chance with her, did you? A pretty girl like that? But your face—it's covered in pockmarks, for goodness sake!

Don't cry now, little one. I'm sure some of the Barbie dolls you steal from your sister's room find you very attractive. I bet they hardly even notice your embarrassing stutter, or that pungent and sickly body odor of yours. Or even how pathetic you really are, my child. What a sad, lonely, feeble little shit you are, and how your life—your wretched little life—will be filled with failure after failure, both personal and professional, until the stench of disappointment and heartbreak grows so strong that you'll barely be able to breathe.

Well, it looks old Santa has to get back to work! Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night—except you, you sick little fuck!