I was a young boy at the time. No more than nine or ten, I believe. I lived a few blocks from an abandoned school, McCulloch Middle School, if I remember correctly.
I spent copious amounts of time playing inside there after-hours, messing around and whatnot.
One of the door locks was busted, you see. It was like my own fortress.
Now, it never struck me at the time, but for having been abandoned for such a long time, there was still a lot of junk lying around. Junk without any dust on it. And there were a lot of other little signs that people were in fact still using the school, although I'd never actually seen anyone going in or out, except myself.
I used to doodle on the blackboards, stack textbooks into little piles to sit on, rearrange the school desks into circles and pretend two of them were were boxers in a ring. Normal things that children do when left unattended, I suppose.
But there was one night that was different- one snowy night which I haven't told a single soul about until telling you now.
I was playing army, I believe- marching through one of the hallways on the first floor and giving commands to troops inside my head, when I heard an angry voice around the corner.
“Where's the boy?!”
I froze up, knowing that I had finally gotten caught messing around in this building where I had no business being.
Instead of someone charging determinedly around the corner to arrest me, as my imagination was predicting, I heard a different angry voice pipe up.
“Get out here and give us the boy!”
Then a voice that was too muffled to hear replied. It took me a moment, but I realized I might not be in any trouble at all. However, I was smart enough to know that if I kept standing in the middle of the hallway like a bullfrog in a flashlight beam, I would indeed be in trouble very soon. So, I pulled up against the wall, and cautiously peeked around the corner.
I wasn't prepared for what I saw, let me tell you.
In a building where I'd never seen so much as my own reflection before, now almost a dozen men and women were angrily buzzing outside an office door, shoving on it occasionally and trying to bust it open. To make things even more surreal, most of the men held guns.
Now, even if I hadn't been playing army and imagining people being shot left and right, the sight of those real guns would have turned my blood just as quickly to ice.
I pulled my head back instinctively, imagining they were already shooting at me. It was immediately apparent to me that if this angry mob was out looking for little boys, I needed to find a safer place to listen from.
Having played in this building for countless months, I knew some of the classrooms had doors to both hallways, so I started checking for one that was open in the safe hallway on the opposite side of the building.
I found an unlocked door door on my third or fourth try, and as I shut it quietly behind me and made my way nearer to the commotion, it sounded like things were escalating quickly. I put my ear on the closed door connecting to the dangerous hallway and listened.
“If you don't come out here this instant, so help me, I'm gonna shoot this damn door right off its hinges!”
Now I could finally make out the voice from inside the teacher's office. The door I was listening at was right opposite the door where all the action was taking place, you understand.
“It won't do you any good. The door's been sealed.”
The voice in the classroom sounded afraid. It wasn't angry like the voices of the mob, which suddenly erupted in a chorus of hatred.
“How could you put a monster like that in the same classroom with my little girl?!”
“Yeah! He oughta be locked away where he can't do anyone any harm.”
“Or destroyed! For his own good! For the safety of everyone!”
This last line was met with several cheers.
The voice in the office wavered a bit in his reply.
“You don't understand. There's nothing I can do. I have to help the boy try to live a normal life. I have to.”
“You had your chance. I'm comin' in there.”
With these words, a shot rang out, followed immediately by screams and another eruption from the crowd.
“What happened?!”
“The bullet bounced right off the damn wood!”
“Is everyone ok?!”
“How could that happen?”
The voice from inside the office wavered a bit now.
“I told you, the door's been sealed. It won't open unless I break the seal first. There's nothing you can do.”
“Well, we'll see how good that seal is when the whole damn school is burning down around it!”
“Yeah, open up!”
“The boy is very sad. He says no one needs to get hurt.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my son. He got chunks of his arm torn out the last time that kid in there had himself a tantrum!”
There was a brief silence, and the man in the office said something that to this day, still wakes me up ringing in my ears.
“If you don't leave now, the boy's going to kill you.”
There was a tense silence, then he finished.
“All of you.”
This seemed to have quite an effect on the crowd for a moment, but one of the braver, or stupider, men finally spoke up and re-envigorated their efforts.
“What's he gonna do? Make us all explode? Shoot us with our own guns? Poison us?!”
At this sentence, the mob and I parted ways.
As they re-doubled their efforts to get into that office, I turned on my heels and took off.
I'd heard enough horror stories from my father about the poison gases in the war trenches, and even though I had no idea what was going to happen, I wasn't going to stick around to see firsthand.
I headed straight for the end of the hallway and almost flew up the three flights of stairs, imagining poison gas and bullets coming up behind me; imagining death itself chasing me.
I went all the way to the top of the stairs, and out onto the roof, where it was still snowing, softly. Then, I shut the heavy door behind me and kicked a nearby wedge underneath it to keep back whatever was coming. Not turning away, I backed up as far from the door as possible, and found myself at the edge of the roof, overlooking the street. I think it was right then that I realized I was crying.
I wiped my tears away and stared unblinkingly forward, but nothing came out of that door. Instead, down behind me, the front doors of the school opened up and everyone in the mob walked calmly out one after another in a single-file line.
Then one by one, they collapsed out into the fresh snow. Some sat down first and fell over, some lay down on their backs gently, and some completely slumped down mid-walk into a crumpled heap.
From the few that were looking up towards the snowing sky, towards me, I could tell they were dead.
And I knew in my stomach that that boy had killed them, somehow.
It was like he just... put sleep into them, and never took it back out.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Ring Culture of Nanah'd
Proof is a strange concept. Evidence can be lost. The senses can be deceiving and unreliable, even among groups of dissimilar individuals, each witnessing the same event. Ultimately, proof is individualistic. It requires nothing of the individual who experiences it, and provides nothing in return.
Aside from hypothetical conjecture, every human has experienced an intimate knowledge of something that is very real for them, that they in turn are being challenged to explain to others, to convince them or convert them, of that something's reality. Why is this important? Because I intend to relay my own personal experience- something very real for me, because it occurred to me. But, I will begin at the beginning, before I entered the picture.
There once was a key that opened a box. This key and this box may still currently exist, but if so, they are lost so far as tangible proof is concerned. I am of the opinion that they must have at least existed at one point in time, because of the story and it's relation to my experience. The story involves a ring. I saw the ring. Therefore, I believe in the ring. Subsequently, I also now believe in the story of the ring.
The story of the ring is, in my mind, more comparable to the Greek myths than the fables of the Brothers Grimm, in that there is only one variation of the story. Whether other variations have been lost throughout time is still a matter of contention and conjecture for both Greek mythology and the story of the ring. The importance lies in there being but a sole surviving variation which, in itself, lends a certain credence to the story, improbable as it may seem. There is also an honesty imparted from the tale's simplicity. Although to be fair, much can be said about the veracity of any story with an abundance of detail, the minutiae locking itself more firmly in the land of reality than in the simplistic dimension of fairy tales. But that debate is for another time.
The story is very short and goes exactly this way:
There once was a key that opened a box. Inside the box, there was a ring. The ring was no ordinary ring.
That is the entirety. The story itself is beautiful in that it follows no successful structure. It has no beginning, no middle, and no end. No protagonist, no climax, no struggle. One may make the argument that it is entirely symbolic or metaphorical in nature, and yet having nothing in the story for juxtaposition, and no historical insight into context, this is a rather weak argument. Upon analyzing for a deeper meaning than mere structure, one discovers that the mystery of the story lies not in the existence or nonexistence of the ring, but in what makes the ring “no ordinary ring”. It is my firm opinion that, despite what scholars may posit, this mystery is the true reason the story has been passed through the generations, and not the beautiful simplicity of the story's structure.
Hypothetical debates aside, there are also tales of those who have experienced the ring's physical presence and tangible effects. However, there has been no conclusive, public proof so as to belie the true characteristics or powers of the ring. I am among the quantum of living men who have experienced the effects of the ring firsthand, but I must say, I am more concerned with, indeed fascinated by, the cultural history that once surrounded the ring than I am the actual ring itself.
The ring grants its wearer immortality. Gaining this knowledge and power is typically where most contemporary men who wear the ring stop their investigation. But I must contend that, being a wonderful distraction, this power (or the means of its function) is not nearly as intriguing to me as the effects of this power, and its properties of everlasting life as the center of the culture of Nanah'd.
Having access to everlasting life, I have been able to gather, if I may say so, an impressive amount of data. But even with my extensive knowledge, and the combined efforts of my colleagues, it was never ascertained as to whether Nanah'd was the actual “birthplace” of the ring itself, or merely the one time in history the ring and its power were centerpiece to an entire culture; spawning traditions, rituals, and other such common cultural phenomena.
This dearth of knowledge is mostly due to the inception of Nanah'd's record-keeping roughly two hundred and forty-three years after the public announcement/discovery of the ring, which was subsequently labeled the “Ring of Nanah'd”. No other proper name has ever been bestowed upon the ring, and since the town's destruction, it has simply been referred to as “the ring” or “the ring of the story”. The details of Nanah'd's destruction are also unclear. It appears through most texts to have been a rather quick natural disaster; a flood, volcanic eruption, earthquake, or the like. Pre-ring traditions and post-destruction period aside, the historians of Nanah'd kept very detailed accounts of the several hundred years the ring was at the heart of Nanah'd's culture, many of which, I've been fortunate enough to uncover.
The ring, being an article of jewelry, was obviously limited in its applications. It follows then, that Nanah'd was ruled as a monarchy. Again, whether this was the case before the ring's introduction, or after the ring's presence offered no conceivable alternative, is of course, both pure speculation and irrelevant. In their early accounts, specifically Nanah'd Ahu Guanta (roughly translated as “Nanah'd, The Birth”), historians record only in that there was much bloodshed in the initial struggle to obtain the ring's power. However, it is noted that this violence quickly dissipated, as no harm could come to the ring's wearer. Fighting for the ring, then, was ultimately of no use. With this knowledge, what is truly remarkable is that this ring which granted immortality still passed from one owner to the next, and with it, the leadership of Nanah'd. Learning of this, I conjectured that the ring might have in some instances been removed peacefully, but without the owner's consent; say, during sleep. After all, a single ring cannot change size and shape to fit each owner accordingly, so by simple mathematical probability, it can be stated that the ring must have fit a bit too loosely on a few of the rulers of Nanah'd (easy removal during unconsciousness), and a bit too snugly on a few rulers (particularly difficult removal during sleep). The next work I found however, Bruc Nanah'd Mehai Jedorn (roughly translated as “Nanah'd, Day-to-day Stories”), specifically recounted that the ring was willingly given each and every time from the old ruler to the new ruler. A tradition,which of course would only come to be reinforced and engendered as time went on. This tradition is spectacular for two reasons; one- the reigns of leadership fluctuate wildly in their durations; and two- this tradition was the single most important aspect in shaping the culture of Nanah'd .
The first point is perhaps not as intriguing as the second now that the culture of Nanah'd is dead; however, had the culture survived, it would have surely been the most interesting from a psychologically investigative point of inquiry. The terms of rulership varied wildly in their duration. No tradition was ever put in place as to a minimum or maximum length of a particular monarchy. This again points to the purity of the system and lends itself to a few interesting cases. The first I can recall is a husband and wife who ruled simultaneously (informally, of course), by trading the ring between each other and thus playing to their differing strengths as natural leaders for any given situation. This union was the only time in Nanah'd's recorded history an informal partnership was observed, and though it was seemingly successful, its rarity in success is mirrored in the infancy of the United States of America, when it was highly likely for the president and the vice-president to come from different political parties. There are also a few cases of human weakness, answering questions that would otherwise have remained. For instance, one of the rulers gave the ring to his mother, who he learned had passed away a few hours previously. Controversial as this decision was, it was allowed by the society of Nanah'd. The mother reportedly “ruled” from her bed for less than a week's time before leadership was transferred back to the son. The details of how this transfer took place are unknown. Then there is the case of a man who teased the promise of a few hours with the ring to whomsoever would bed him. This of course famously ended when one of the women, Mi'irst Klobs'b, refused to give the ring back, instead becoming arguably the most wise and successful ruler of the entire history of Nanah'd. Yet, even these inescapable imperfections further prove that the system worked correctly more often than not.
The second point seems on the surface to be obvious, but I will explain precisely why this cultural phenomenon is so remarkable as a unique structure in history. The records show the ring was passed as often to successors unrelated by blood as it was to familial relations. This is but a symptom of something larger and more remarkable: unadulterated positive incentive. Pure incentive to become a model citizen in order that one might obtain a tangible reward, this is in stark contrast to most civilization's intangible utilization of religion as an underlying motivation for good behaviour and social pacification. Another detail of note, in regards to the purity of the system: age was of no consequence, as even the very eldest and physically feeblest could be, and in a few cases were, given the chance to rule, the ring rendering their proximity to death inconsequential. Younger citizens were rarely offered the opportunity, but there is at least one account of one of the more experimental rulers passing his throne to an eight-year old child, for the child's “lack of corruption” and “ineffable curiosity”. Of course, this is not the first time in history a child has ruled. The Dalai Llama and Tutankhamen both come readily to mind as examples, although their success as leaders is still openly debated, whereas the rulership of this child, Brug A'ly'aff by name, was unanimously recorded as a very prosperous time for Nanah'd. It must also be noted that Brug A'ly'aff held one of the longest periods of leadership before he gave up the throne to live modestly on the outskirts of the town so his body could finally catch up to the level of maturity his mind had reached many decades earlier. From birth to death, anyone was eligible to rule over Nanah'd, provided they showed great enough potential. The power of such an idea put into practice! Every citizen modeling themselves to the society's communal ideal of perfection. I feel also that now is the right time to point out that it is surely one thing to debate the pros and cons of immortality, and the appeal or lack of desire for it hypothetically, but it is certainly quite another to avoid the desire and curiosity once it is an actual opportunity in practice with a very real chance to obtain it; a desire most definitely made more enticing when the means were as simple as being an ethical and moral person. It is noted that there were dissenters, as there always are, who considered the rulership an arbitrary and imperfect lottery, dependent on one person's opinion and range of knowledge; but these people were recorded as few and far between. As for the king's network of informants, it reportedly numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and was constantly growing; all on a volunteer basis, as the act of volunteering to report good deeds was seen in and of itself, a good deed. This is but one example of the layering of Nanah'd's pure incentive, and has yet to be found in any culture before or since. At this point, I must also settle a matter of personal contention- over the years, there have been discussions about the definition of “pure incentive” in regards to a tangible reward as opposed to “being good for good's sake”. These discussions, if handled correctly, are very quickly thrown out, as it can be demonstrated soundly and empirically that no one in his/her right mind will choose an intangible reward over a tangible reward, if they are comparable. Indeed, this is arguably the reason the ring supplanted any form of religion in Nanah'd; as the greatest intangible incentive religion has to offer was a tangible opportunity available to every citizen, provided they followed their naturally-inherent morality and code of ethics.
I'm sure that relaying my findings and thoughts to you will in no way provide the verisimilitude of experiencing the ring itself, but perhaps I have increased your understanding or sparked in you some small curiosity; and curiosity is the first step on the path to empirical, individualistic truth.
Aside from hypothetical conjecture, every human has experienced an intimate knowledge of something that is very real for them, that they in turn are being challenged to explain to others, to convince them or convert them, of that something's reality. Why is this important? Because I intend to relay my own personal experience- something very real for me, because it occurred to me. But, I will begin at the beginning, before I entered the picture.
There once was a key that opened a box. This key and this box may still currently exist, but if so, they are lost so far as tangible proof is concerned. I am of the opinion that they must have at least existed at one point in time, because of the story and it's relation to my experience. The story involves a ring. I saw the ring. Therefore, I believe in the ring. Subsequently, I also now believe in the story of the ring.
The story of the ring is, in my mind, more comparable to the Greek myths than the fables of the Brothers Grimm, in that there is only one variation of the story. Whether other variations have been lost throughout time is still a matter of contention and conjecture for both Greek mythology and the story of the ring. The importance lies in there being but a sole surviving variation which, in itself, lends a certain credence to the story, improbable as it may seem. There is also an honesty imparted from the tale's simplicity. Although to be fair, much can be said about the veracity of any story with an abundance of detail, the minutiae locking itself more firmly in the land of reality than in the simplistic dimension of fairy tales. But that debate is for another time.
The story is very short and goes exactly this way:
There once was a key that opened a box. Inside the box, there was a ring. The ring was no ordinary ring.
That is the entirety. The story itself is beautiful in that it follows no successful structure. It has no beginning, no middle, and no end. No protagonist, no climax, no struggle. One may make the argument that it is entirely symbolic or metaphorical in nature, and yet having nothing in the story for juxtaposition, and no historical insight into context, this is a rather weak argument. Upon analyzing for a deeper meaning than mere structure, one discovers that the mystery of the story lies not in the existence or nonexistence of the ring, but in what makes the ring “no ordinary ring”. It is my firm opinion that, despite what scholars may posit, this mystery is the true reason the story has been passed through the generations, and not the beautiful simplicity of the story's structure.
Hypothetical debates aside, there are also tales of those who have experienced the ring's physical presence and tangible effects. However, there has been no conclusive, public proof so as to belie the true characteristics or powers of the ring. I am among the quantum of living men who have experienced the effects of the ring firsthand, but I must say, I am more concerned with, indeed fascinated by, the cultural history that once surrounded the ring than I am the actual ring itself.
The ring grants its wearer immortality. Gaining this knowledge and power is typically where most contemporary men who wear the ring stop their investigation. But I must contend that, being a wonderful distraction, this power (or the means of its function) is not nearly as intriguing to me as the effects of this power, and its properties of everlasting life as the center of the culture of Nanah'd.
Having access to everlasting life, I have been able to gather, if I may say so, an impressive amount of data. But even with my extensive knowledge, and the combined efforts of my colleagues, it was never ascertained as to whether Nanah'd was the actual “birthplace” of the ring itself, or merely the one time in history the ring and its power were centerpiece to an entire culture; spawning traditions, rituals, and other such common cultural phenomena.
This dearth of knowledge is mostly due to the inception of Nanah'd's record-keeping roughly two hundred and forty-three years after the public announcement/discovery of the ring, which was subsequently labeled the “Ring of Nanah'd”. No other proper name has ever been bestowed upon the ring, and since the town's destruction, it has simply been referred to as “the ring” or “the ring of the story”. The details of Nanah'd's destruction are also unclear. It appears through most texts to have been a rather quick natural disaster; a flood, volcanic eruption, earthquake, or the like. Pre-ring traditions and post-destruction period aside, the historians of Nanah'd kept very detailed accounts of the several hundred years the ring was at the heart of Nanah'd's culture, many of which, I've been fortunate enough to uncover.
The ring, being an article of jewelry, was obviously limited in its applications. It follows then, that Nanah'd was ruled as a monarchy. Again, whether this was the case before the ring's introduction, or after the ring's presence offered no conceivable alternative, is of course, both pure speculation and irrelevant. In their early accounts, specifically Nanah'd Ahu Guanta (roughly translated as “Nanah'd, The Birth”), historians record only in that there was much bloodshed in the initial struggle to obtain the ring's power. However, it is noted that this violence quickly dissipated, as no harm could come to the ring's wearer. Fighting for the ring, then, was ultimately of no use. With this knowledge, what is truly remarkable is that this ring which granted immortality still passed from one owner to the next, and with it, the leadership of Nanah'd. Learning of this, I conjectured that the ring might have in some instances been removed peacefully, but without the owner's consent; say, during sleep. After all, a single ring cannot change size and shape to fit each owner accordingly, so by simple mathematical probability, it can be stated that the ring must have fit a bit too loosely on a few of the rulers of Nanah'd (easy removal during unconsciousness), and a bit too snugly on a few rulers (particularly difficult removal during sleep). The next work I found however, Bruc Nanah'd Mehai Jedorn (roughly translated as “Nanah'd, Day-to-day Stories”), specifically recounted that the ring was willingly given each and every time from the old ruler to the new ruler. A tradition,which of course would only come to be reinforced and engendered as time went on. This tradition is spectacular for two reasons; one- the reigns of leadership fluctuate wildly in their durations; and two- this tradition was the single most important aspect in shaping the culture of Nanah'd .
The first point is perhaps not as intriguing as the second now that the culture of Nanah'd is dead; however, had the culture survived, it would have surely been the most interesting from a psychologically investigative point of inquiry. The terms of rulership varied wildly in their duration. No tradition was ever put in place as to a minimum or maximum length of a particular monarchy. This again points to the purity of the system and lends itself to a few interesting cases. The first I can recall is a husband and wife who ruled simultaneously (informally, of course), by trading the ring between each other and thus playing to their differing strengths as natural leaders for any given situation. This union was the only time in Nanah'd's recorded history an informal partnership was observed, and though it was seemingly successful, its rarity in success is mirrored in the infancy of the United States of America, when it was highly likely for the president and the vice-president to come from different political parties. There are also a few cases of human weakness, answering questions that would otherwise have remained. For instance, one of the rulers gave the ring to his mother, who he learned had passed away a few hours previously. Controversial as this decision was, it was allowed by the society of Nanah'd. The mother reportedly “ruled” from her bed for less than a week's time before leadership was transferred back to the son. The details of how this transfer took place are unknown. Then there is the case of a man who teased the promise of a few hours with the ring to whomsoever would bed him. This of course famously ended when one of the women, Mi'irst Klobs'b, refused to give the ring back, instead becoming arguably the most wise and successful ruler of the entire history of Nanah'd. Yet, even these inescapable imperfections further prove that the system worked correctly more often than not.
The second point seems on the surface to be obvious, but I will explain precisely why this cultural phenomenon is so remarkable as a unique structure in history. The records show the ring was passed as often to successors unrelated by blood as it was to familial relations. This is but a symptom of something larger and more remarkable: unadulterated positive incentive. Pure incentive to become a model citizen in order that one might obtain a tangible reward, this is in stark contrast to most civilization's intangible utilization of religion as an underlying motivation for good behaviour and social pacification. Another detail of note, in regards to the purity of the system: age was of no consequence, as even the very eldest and physically feeblest could be, and in a few cases were, given the chance to rule, the ring rendering their proximity to death inconsequential. Younger citizens were rarely offered the opportunity, but there is at least one account of one of the more experimental rulers passing his throne to an eight-year old child, for the child's “lack of corruption” and “ineffable curiosity”. Of course, this is not the first time in history a child has ruled. The Dalai Llama and Tutankhamen both come readily to mind as examples, although their success as leaders is still openly debated, whereas the rulership of this child, Brug A'ly'aff by name, was unanimously recorded as a very prosperous time for Nanah'd. It must also be noted that Brug A'ly'aff held one of the longest periods of leadership before he gave up the throne to live modestly on the outskirts of the town so his body could finally catch up to the level of maturity his mind had reached many decades earlier. From birth to death, anyone was eligible to rule over Nanah'd, provided they showed great enough potential. The power of such an idea put into practice! Every citizen modeling themselves to the society's communal ideal of perfection. I feel also that now is the right time to point out that it is surely one thing to debate the pros and cons of immortality, and the appeal or lack of desire for it hypothetically, but it is certainly quite another to avoid the desire and curiosity once it is an actual opportunity in practice with a very real chance to obtain it; a desire most definitely made more enticing when the means were as simple as being an ethical and moral person. It is noted that there were dissenters, as there always are, who considered the rulership an arbitrary and imperfect lottery, dependent on one person's opinion and range of knowledge; but these people were recorded as few and far between. As for the king's network of informants, it reportedly numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and was constantly growing; all on a volunteer basis, as the act of volunteering to report good deeds was seen in and of itself, a good deed. This is but one example of the layering of Nanah'd's pure incentive, and has yet to be found in any culture before or since. At this point, I must also settle a matter of personal contention- over the years, there have been discussions about the definition of “pure incentive” in regards to a tangible reward as opposed to “being good for good's sake”. These discussions, if handled correctly, are very quickly thrown out, as it can be demonstrated soundly and empirically that no one in his/her right mind will choose an intangible reward over a tangible reward, if they are comparable. Indeed, this is arguably the reason the ring supplanted any form of religion in Nanah'd; as the greatest intangible incentive religion has to offer was a tangible opportunity available to every citizen, provided they followed their naturally-inherent morality and code of ethics.
I'm sure that relaying my findings and thoughts to you will in no way provide the verisimilitude of experiencing the ring itself, but perhaps I have increased your understanding or sparked in you some small curiosity; and curiosity is the first step on the path to empirical, individualistic truth.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Swish
She twirls in front of you.
You catch just enough of her face to see her huge smile.
You want to go up to her. Dance with her. Go on.
Her beautiful blue dress splashes out around her as she moves.
Hair is beautiful waves, rolling as she swishes her head to the rhythm.
You don't have to say anything to her. Just go dance with her. Go on.
She's having such a good time. You can be a part of that. She can remember you.
A man comes up to her. He is taller than you. His suit is better than yours. His hair is nice.
He whispers into her ear. Her smile fades slightly, but won't let go just yet.
He motions away. Outside. Somewhere that is not right here, dancing with friends.
She shakes her head. He leaves her.
She resumes dancing. Almost as enthusiastically as before.
He moves through the crowd of peers. To more sharply-dressed, beautiful men.
He says something to them.
The three of them look bored.
One checks his watch.
You look back at the girl. You're on her side. This is what's important. Right now. Tonight. Here.
The three handsome men leave.
The girl hasn't noticed. She is laughing because her friend is wiggling her butt like a music video.
The girl wiggles her butt too.
She turns red from laughing, expressing herself. Enjoying her life.
You can be a part of her life.
All you have to do is go up to her. Just smile with her. Laugh with her. Be yourself.
If you don't dance with her, you will remember this night, these details, for the rest of your life.
You will always regret this moment if you don't act. There's no reason not to.
Just go.
You catch just enough of her face to see her huge smile.
You want to go up to her. Dance with her. Go on.
Her beautiful blue dress splashes out around her as she moves.
Hair is beautiful waves, rolling as she swishes her head to the rhythm.
You don't have to say anything to her. Just go dance with her. Go on.
She's having such a good time. You can be a part of that. She can remember you.
A man comes up to her. He is taller than you. His suit is better than yours. His hair is nice.
He whispers into her ear. Her smile fades slightly, but won't let go just yet.
He motions away. Outside. Somewhere that is not right here, dancing with friends.
She shakes her head. He leaves her.
She resumes dancing. Almost as enthusiastically as before.
He moves through the crowd of peers. To more sharply-dressed, beautiful men.
He says something to them.
The three of them look bored.
One checks his watch.
You look back at the girl. You're on her side. This is what's important. Right now. Tonight. Here.
The three handsome men leave.
The girl hasn't noticed. She is laughing because her friend is wiggling her butt like a music video.
The girl wiggles her butt too.
She turns red from laughing, expressing herself. Enjoying her life.
You can be a part of her life.
All you have to do is go up to her. Just smile with her. Laugh with her. Be yourself.
If you don't dance with her, you will remember this night, these details, for the rest of your life.
You will always regret this moment if you don't act. There's no reason not to.
Just go.
Monday, August 2, 2010
I Didn't Like Coffee Until It Gave Me Superpowers
Once upon a time, I didn't like coffee. I liked the smell ok, and even the texture. The taste wasn't very good, however, and the caffeine made me ill.
Recently I have discovered that the illness my body experienced was not normal nausea caused by everyday stomach wear and tear; it was my body adjusting to a metamorphosis.
The first time I sipped coffee, something was set in motion.
A metaphorical graduated cylinder was created inside me, with a range of numbers from “No Coffee” at the bottom to “Superpowers” at the top.
I did not know this at the time.
In fact, it took several years for this graduated cylinder to fill up, and each time I added to it, I was sicker. Sicker from the changes coming closer and closer to overtaking my body.
ENTER: July 29th, 2010. I was at a little coffee shop reading a book and not buying coffee, as usual.
Then.
I started falling asleep.
But it gets even better!
BECAUSE I was falling asleep, I decided to order a coffee.
And not a large coffee, either.
A single shot of espresso, the smallest amount of coffee you can legally buy.
I had a sip. Bitter.
My body began to wake back up. I was satisfied. BUT NO. That was not all!
My mind started racing!
After so many years, I had finally filled this metaphorical inner graduated cylinder all the way to the top, and like the “applause” light in a live studio, the “Superpowers” light blinked on.
Oh, people.
I put down my book for a second to think all the thoughts I was thinking, when I realized time had stopped. No one moved. I stared at a fly, not two feet from my head, and I saw that his wings were very very slowly moving. Time HADN'T stopped! I had increased my reactions to superhuman speed. Like one of those superheroes with superhuman speed. The Blast.
I spent at least twenty relative minutes debating whether or not to enjoy the fruits of my new abilities by groping a few women on the premises. I will not tell you my decision, but I will say it was very tough to decide what I finally decided.
I then tested the physics of my new situation, and let me tell you, Force does INDEED equal Mass times Acceleration.
I was able to lift cars as if they were pillows made of dough. French lightweight flaky dough, not Italian heavy chunk dough.
My shoes demolished themselves within a few relative minutes as well. Gooey rubber puddle footprints marked the inside and outside of the small coffee shop, chronicling my travels.
I then noticed that the low bass note I had been hearing was none other than the thoughts of the people around me, playing in extremely extremely slow motion.
Then I went to the restroom and BLAMMO! Everything was back to normal speed. My reactions had slowed back down.
I will continue further testing of the activation and implementation of these new superpowers.
I hope they aren't going to be coffee based forever, because I really don't like coffee that much.
Update:
I have spent several months in testing.
I have discovered that coffee is indeed the impetus for new powers revealing themselves. Also, after every time I use the powers, I throw up a bit and have to drink extra coffee next time to make up for it. Ultimately this is not a good long-term strategy, since I lose more coffee every time and therefore, must drink more for each subsequent episode. This is especially bad news considering how much I don't like coffee in the first place, regardless of the respect I have for the superpowers it has given me.
Update 2:
I am not able to stomach the amount of coffee I need to activate my superpowers. However, I have had a good run of helping people, including myself, to a better life through mostly legal means. I have also had superpowered sex, which is NOT great unless the other person ALSO has superpowers. I don't see how Greatman and Arachnidman do it with their normal girlfriends/wives. Fortunately I have found a few women with superpowers. In those cases, it is very similar to normal sex. I've given up on coffee. It makes me sick with no rewards.
Update 3:
Drugs ALSO give me superpowers!
I found this out after a friend gave me some at a party.
I will execute further testing to see how high my tolerance is, what superpowers they give me, and what sex is like.
Take that, coffee.
Recently I have discovered that the illness my body experienced was not normal nausea caused by everyday stomach wear and tear; it was my body adjusting to a metamorphosis.
The first time I sipped coffee, something was set in motion.
A metaphorical graduated cylinder was created inside me, with a range of numbers from “No Coffee” at the bottom to “Superpowers” at the top.
I did not know this at the time.
In fact, it took several years for this graduated cylinder to fill up, and each time I added to it, I was sicker. Sicker from the changes coming closer and closer to overtaking my body.
ENTER: July 29th, 2010. I was at a little coffee shop reading a book and not buying coffee, as usual.
Then.
I started falling asleep.
But it gets even better!
BECAUSE I was falling asleep, I decided to order a coffee.
And not a large coffee, either.
A single shot of espresso, the smallest amount of coffee you can legally buy.
I had a sip. Bitter.
My body began to wake back up. I was satisfied. BUT NO. That was not all!
My mind started racing!
After so many years, I had finally filled this metaphorical inner graduated cylinder all the way to the top, and like the “applause” light in a live studio, the “Superpowers” light blinked on.
Oh, people.
I put down my book for a second to think all the thoughts I was thinking, when I realized time had stopped. No one moved. I stared at a fly, not two feet from my head, and I saw that his wings were very very slowly moving. Time HADN'T stopped! I had increased my reactions to superhuman speed. Like one of those superheroes with superhuman speed. The Blast.
I spent at least twenty relative minutes debating whether or not to enjoy the fruits of my new abilities by groping a few women on the premises. I will not tell you my decision, but I will say it was very tough to decide what I finally decided.
I then tested the physics of my new situation, and let me tell you, Force does INDEED equal Mass times Acceleration.
I was able to lift cars as if they were pillows made of dough. French lightweight flaky dough, not Italian heavy chunk dough.
My shoes demolished themselves within a few relative minutes as well. Gooey rubber puddle footprints marked the inside and outside of the small coffee shop, chronicling my travels.
I then noticed that the low bass note I had been hearing was none other than the thoughts of the people around me, playing in extremely extremely slow motion.
Then I went to the restroom and BLAMMO! Everything was back to normal speed. My reactions had slowed back down.
I will continue further testing of the activation and implementation of these new superpowers.
I hope they aren't going to be coffee based forever, because I really don't like coffee that much.
Update:
I have spent several months in testing.
I have discovered that coffee is indeed the impetus for new powers revealing themselves. Also, after every time I use the powers, I throw up a bit and have to drink extra coffee next time to make up for it. Ultimately this is not a good long-term strategy, since I lose more coffee every time and therefore, must drink more for each subsequent episode. This is especially bad news considering how much I don't like coffee in the first place, regardless of the respect I have for the superpowers it has given me.
Update 2:
I am not able to stomach the amount of coffee I need to activate my superpowers. However, I have had a good run of helping people, including myself, to a better life through mostly legal means. I have also had superpowered sex, which is NOT great unless the other person ALSO has superpowers. I don't see how Greatman and Arachnidman do it with their normal girlfriends/wives. Fortunately I have found a few women with superpowers. In those cases, it is very similar to normal sex. I've given up on coffee. It makes me sick with no rewards.
Update 3:
Drugs ALSO give me superpowers!
I found this out after a friend gave me some at a party.
I will execute further testing to see how high my tolerance is, what superpowers they give me, and what sex is like.
Take that, coffee.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Wiggle
She wiggles when she walks.
Just a little.
Her beautiful white dress hugs her hips enough to show just a tiny, perfect wiggle when she walks. The white dress is accented with hand-painted flowers, but I hardly notice.
Her sandals wrap tightly around her ankles, hinting at bondage and other things she might enjoy. Good calves, good thighs, good legs. Good god, good legs.
She has bracelets on her left wrist. White, to match her dress. A necklace of some kind. Silver.
Her wavy hair is pulled up, but not tightly. Casually. Beautifully.
She embodies casual. Beautiful. Personifies.
I can't see her face. She's walking away from me. I follow her discretely along the shops to our left. What a beautiful little wiggle. I'm a fan.
I hope she'll turn right to go to her car, or left to enter a shop. She doesn't.
So far, the only thing I can tell from her face is that she doesn't wear those stupid huge sunglasses. I like that about her. She doesn't hide her face. She doesn't hide her wiggle. She's upfront.
She stops walking. She starts turning around. Fuck. Look busy. Keep walking. Just going to my car, which is parked over here. Walk past her. Almost brush her skin. She's throwing something away. I don't see her face. Dammit.
Keep walking. She's walking again. Behind me. Just go to a car somewhere and pretend to own it. She's going to enter one of these strip mall shops.
She doesn't.
We're away from the shops now.
Plan B. walk straight across the lot to the liquor store. She's just going to her car.
Walking. Walking.
She's going to the liquor store.
Perfect. I can go to one part of the store and casually make my way to where she is, so I can see her face.
Enter the liquor store. No I don't want to try the new cinnamon vodka. Thank you.
Make my way to the coolers in the back.
Did she enter the store?
She's still behind me!?!
I'll fix that.
Stop to look at the rum on the left of me. Ah yes. This one has a pirate on it. That one has a parrot. But what kind of a rum man am I?
She passes.
I look casually over at her. Delicious is honestly the only way to describe that wiggle now. I don't know why, but it is.
I grab the bottle of Winking Pirate Rum and slowly walk in her direction.
She slows down.
She turns to her right.
She bends down to look at the bottles on the lowest shelf.
I stay where I am for a while.
This rum I'm pretending to read sure is interesting.
She must not see what she's looking for.
She straightens back up.
She's my height. Slender. Toned.
I grab a bottle of Laughing Parrot Rum.
I'm going to have a rum party.
Makes sense.
She continues walking. Wiggling with every beautiful step.
I can't believe I still haven't seen her face.
This is ridiculous.
She makes her way to the cooler.
Maybe I can see her reflection in the glass.
I look at her reflection.
She is looking me dead in the eyes.
Fuck.
Look away too quickly for details.
Walk to the left of her.
Oh, do they have that beer that I want?
The one that goes well with the rums I have?
Hm?
My neck is hot as I open a cold door and grab a random six-pack.
I look over casually at her.
She is looking me dead in the eyes.
I smile at her.
A too-big smile without showing any teeth.
The smile that makes my lips look like earthworms.
I look back at my spirits.
Yep, they're still the ones I was holding a moment ago.
She is stunning.
Mystery solved.
Great.
I wasn't prepared for that.
Usually things balance out.
Her eyes.
Piercing.
My stupid heart is trying to give me an anxiety attack.
I want to look back over, but I can't.
I don't think she grabbed anything out of the cooler.
I turn to walk to the front of the store.
She's standing in front of me. Eyes piercing mine.
I can't look away.
She walks up to me.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” I rearrange all the items i'm holding.
“Are you going to buy all of that?”
“Yeah?”
“Why?”
I pause for a minute, crinkling up my forehead.
“I'm having a.. rum party.”
It's her turn to make a face.
“Rum party?”
“Yep.”
“What's that?”
Why is she still talking to me?
“It's just a party, except there's a lot of rum.”
She raises her eyebrow.
“And no other liquor?”
“Exactly.”
“So why do you have beer?”
God.
I think I love her.
She's doing exactly what I'd do if I caught someone following me.
Interrogation.
“I don't.”
“You don't have beer?”
“No.”
“Then what is that?”
“Oh this? This is a six-pack of rums.”
She laughs. She's more beautiful when she laughs. My heart twitches.
I decide to press my luck.
“Would you like to come to my rum party? Everyone's gonna be there. It's a very popular party.”
“Who all is going to be there?”
“Patrick Stewart, Jennifer Lopez, George Washington.”
She laughs again. Her blue eyes are so wonderful. Her lips.
“It really brings people together, huh?”
“Yes Ma'am!”
“Even dead people?”
“Especially dead people.”
She smiles.
“That sounds like something I'd be up for.”
“If you're too busy, I understand.”
“I'm not too busy.”
“I mean, it might not be your thing.”
“It sounds like my thing.”
“The rum might not even make it to the party.”
“That's ok.”
“Also...”
She smiles with her whole face.
“Yes?”
“...no one else will probably show up. It might just be the two of us.”
“Hmm.”
“I know... See?”
She smirks at me.
“Why were you following me?”
“Probably the same reason you were following me.”
“Hmm.”
She bites her lip and makes mischievous eyes. Such a pretty blue. I wish I could kiss her. Hug her. Something.
I decide to be upfront.
“I like your wiggle.”
She smiles.
“I like yours too.”
It's my turn to laugh.
“Do you like coffee?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Let's go have coffee.”
“I'd love to.”
I put down the rumbottles and follow her out the door.
Such a beautiful girl.
Such a wonderful dress. Wiggle.
Perfect.
Just a little.
Her beautiful white dress hugs her hips enough to show just a tiny, perfect wiggle when she walks. The white dress is accented with hand-painted flowers, but I hardly notice.
Her sandals wrap tightly around her ankles, hinting at bondage and other things she might enjoy. Good calves, good thighs, good legs. Good god, good legs.
She has bracelets on her left wrist. White, to match her dress. A necklace of some kind. Silver.
Her wavy hair is pulled up, but not tightly. Casually. Beautifully.
She embodies casual. Beautiful. Personifies.
I can't see her face. She's walking away from me. I follow her discretely along the shops to our left. What a beautiful little wiggle. I'm a fan.
I hope she'll turn right to go to her car, or left to enter a shop. She doesn't.
So far, the only thing I can tell from her face is that she doesn't wear those stupid huge sunglasses. I like that about her. She doesn't hide her face. She doesn't hide her wiggle. She's upfront.
She stops walking. She starts turning around. Fuck. Look busy. Keep walking. Just going to my car, which is parked over here. Walk past her. Almost brush her skin. She's throwing something away. I don't see her face. Dammit.
Keep walking. She's walking again. Behind me. Just go to a car somewhere and pretend to own it. She's going to enter one of these strip mall shops.
She doesn't.
We're away from the shops now.
Plan B. walk straight across the lot to the liquor store. She's just going to her car.
Walking. Walking.
She's going to the liquor store.
Perfect. I can go to one part of the store and casually make my way to where she is, so I can see her face.
Enter the liquor store. No I don't want to try the new cinnamon vodka. Thank you.
Make my way to the coolers in the back.
Did she enter the store?
She's still behind me!?!
I'll fix that.
Stop to look at the rum on the left of me. Ah yes. This one has a pirate on it. That one has a parrot. But what kind of a rum man am I?
She passes.
I look casually over at her. Delicious is honestly the only way to describe that wiggle now. I don't know why, but it is.
I grab the bottle of Winking Pirate Rum and slowly walk in her direction.
She slows down.
She turns to her right.
She bends down to look at the bottles on the lowest shelf.
I stay where I am for a while.
This rum I'm pretending to read sure is interesting.
She must not see what she's looking for.
She straightens back up.
She's my height. Slender. Toned.
I grab a bottle of Laughing Parrot Rum.
I'm going to have a rum party.
Makes sense.
She continues walking. Wiggling with every beautiful step.
I can't believe I still haven't seen her face.
This is ridiculous.
She makes her way to the cooler.
Maybe I can see her reflection in the glass.
I look at her reflection.
She is looking me dead in the eyes.
Fuck.
Look away too quickly for details.
Walk to the left of her.
Oh, do they have that beer that I want?
The one that goes well with the rums I have?
Hm?
My neck is hot as I open a cold door and grab a random six-pack.
I look over casually at her.
She is looking me dead in the eyes.
I smile at her.
A too-big smile without showing any teeth.
The smile that makes my lips look like earthworms.
I look back at my spirits.
Yep, they're still the ones I was holding a moment ago.
She is stunning.
Mystery solved.
Great.
I wasn't prepared for that.
Usually things balance out.
Her eyes.
Piercing.
My stupid heart is trying to give me an anxiety attack.
I want to look back over, but I can't.
I don't think she grabbed anything out of the cooler.
I turn to walk to the front of the store.
She's standing in front of me. Eyes piercing mine.
I can't look away.
She walks up to me.
“Hi.”
“Hello.” I rearrange all the items i'm holding.
“Are you going to buy all of that?”
“Yeah?”
“Why?”
I pause for a minute, crinkling up my forehead.
“I'm having a.. rum party.”
It's her turn to make a face.
“Rum party?”
“Yep.”
“What's that?”
Why is she still talking to me?
“It's just a party, except there's a lot of rum.”
She raises her eyebrow.
“And no other liquor?”
“Exactly.”
“So why do you have beer?”
God.
I think I love her.
She's doing exactly what I'd do if I caught someone following me.
Interrogation.
“I don't.”
“You don't have beer?”
“No.”
“Then what is that?”
“Oh this? This is a six-pack of rums.”
She laughs. She's more beautiful when she laughs. My heart twitches.
I decide to press my luck.
“Would you like to come to my rum party? Everyone's gonna be there. It's a very popular party.”
“Who all is going to be there?”
“Patrick Stewart, Jennifer Lopez, George Washington.”
She laughs again. Her blue eyes are so wonderful. Her lips.
“It really brings people together, huh?”
“Yes Ma'am!”
“Even dead people?”
“Especially dead people.”
She smiles.
“That sounds like something I'd be up for.”
“If you're too busy, I understand.”
“I'm not too busy.”
“I mean, it might not be your thing.”
“It sounds like my thing.”
“The rum might not even make it to the party.”
“That's ok.”
“Also...”
She smiles with her whole face.
“Yes?”
“...no one else will probably show up. It might just be the two of us.”
“Hmm.”
“I know... See?”
She smirks at me.
“Why were you following me?”
“Probably the same reason you were following me.”
“Hmm.”
She bites her lip and makes mischievous eyes. Such a pretty blue. I wish I could kiss her. Hug her. Something.
I decide to be upfront.
“I like your wiggle.”
She smiles.
“I like yours too.”
It's my turn to laugh.
“Do you like coffee?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Let's go have coffee.”
“I'd love to.”
I put down the rumbottles and follow her out the door.
Such a beautiful girl.
Such a wonderful dress. Wiggle.
Perfect.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Facts About Alligators
Alligators travel in packs. Not many people know that. Scientists don't know that. Zoologist scientists, even.
It's true. Alligators travel in packs. They're like wolves that way. Why do people say “lone wolf”? A wolf is part of a pack. A wolf is never alone. In my humble opinion, “lone wolf” is a stupid expression that only idiots use. People should say “lone crocodile”. Crocodiles travel alone. Crocodiles are NOT part of any pack. That's the main difference between crocodiles and alligators.
That and pupil diameter.
Did you know that a pack of alligators can strip the meat off a cow in less time than it takes a person to go to college?
It's true. They're hungry beasts. Although calling them “beasts” isn't rightly fair. They have a hierarchy, and in my book, any creature smart enough to recognize and enforce a hierarchy is pretty damn civilized.
They don't use currency, though. That's the main difference between alligators and humans. Humans exchange money for goods and services. And for sex, which should be a bit of both if you're doin' it right.
Instead of “money”, as is the street term for currency, alligators exchange death. When alligators want something they get it. If they want it from something that won't give it up, they kill that something. If an alligator doesn't get what it wants, that's because it's dead.
That or it's just changed its mind. Alligators are very fickle, you see. That's the main difference between alligators and Japanese fighting beetles. A Japanese fighting beetle picks one happiness to pursue, and continues pursuing that happiness to the grave. Sometimes a Japanese fighting beetle will want something easy, like the recognition of its peers. Once it has that, it dies, having lived a short and pleasant life, culminating in a profound public speech, or award of some kind, or something like that. Sometimes a Japanese fighting beetle will want something difficult like a single cranberry from a specific kind of scone that only one family-owned shop in London sells. When Japanese fighting beetles want something this specific and complicated, they can live for up to 400 years, with a few reported, but unverified, cases living even longer.
But i'm not here to talk about Japanese fighting beetles. I'm here to talk about Alligators.
Where was I?
Alligators... Alligators...
Alligators change their mind fairly frequently. The only time a person has survived an alligator attack is when the alligator changed its mind mid-fight. Or mid-murder I should say. An unarmed man stands a snowball's chance in hell against a fully-grown bulligator.
However, that same unarmed man stands an ember's chance in heaven against a fully-grown cowligator, which sounds about the same, but is slightly better.
The trick is to watch the eyes.
An alligator's eyes will fixate on the object of their desire until that object is obtained.
If you see an alligator's eyes stray from any part of your body to any other object, you'll probably survive the confrontation, or attempted murder; again, whichever you prefer to call it.
If you look in an alligator's eyes, and he's lookin’ right back into yours, you're in for it brother. Better convert to the right religion in the next few seconds and shoot off a prayer or two.
If you look in the alligator's eyes and see a dull, void, expression, like that of one Mr. Jeffrey Dahmer, then you're outta luck and I can't help you. Even praying won't help you. What you're actually looking at is a crocodile. Crocodiles’ll kill you for no reason at all, because crocodiles are apathetic. They have no ulterior motivations.
That's the main difference between alligators and crocodiles.
Alligators coordinate with each other with an almost machine-like efficiency, as they work together towards the same goal. Alligators and machines are almost exactly the same, in fact.
To locate a pack with similar interests, an alligator will sift through corkboard postings and social-networking sites, until it finds the right group. Then the pack meets up and exchanges information. Afterwards, they perform a series of team-building exercises to inspire trust and loyalty, while simultaneously judging the strengths and weaknesses of each other. The trouble with all this is that alligators are fickle, so they're constantly changing teams and packs- I've already told you that alligators are fickle?
Well then.
I didn't mean to waste your time. Sorry about that. I don’t consider myself a time-waster. I'm just a simple man who likes to teach people about alligators.
For instance, alligators are hydrophobic. “Hydrophobic” means the queen alligators have snakes where their hair should be. And if you look into the eyes of the alligator queen, you turn to... I don't know, jelly or somethin'. The point is: don't do it.
This is the main difference between alligators queens and regular queens. And you'd better watch out, because unless there's someone making eye contact and NOT getting turned into jelly or somethin’, you'd better just assume ol' snake-hair standin’ over in the corner by herself is really an alligator queen and NOT the queen of England. Because there's no sure way to tell from the back, you understand.
Alligators prefer eating men, statistically. I'm not sure why, but I don't argue with science, and I'll never argue with an alligator. Cross my heart, I won't.
Alligator meat tastes like lizard. That's the main difference between alligators and eagles. Eagles taste like cowardice.
If an alligator finds out that you've been eating alligator (it can smell, you understand), his alligator pack will go into “hunt” mode. They'll locate the other members of that alligator's “weak” pack and murder them in cold-blood. Don't mistake my words; alligator's are all cold-blooded. What i'm meanin' to say that the hunter alligators will wait until the “weak” alligators are enjoying a nice family dinner or a friendly game of poker. Then the hunter alligators burst into the room and brutally murder all the “weak” alligators in a hailstorm of bullets from their tommy guns. It's an extremely bloody, loud, and violent event.
How do I know so much about alligators?
That’s an interesting story. I once heard an alligator say my name. Now I can't die and I think about them all the time. So you tell me what that means.
It's true. Alligators travel in packs. They're like wolves that way. Why do people say “lone wolf”? A wolf is part of a pack. A wolf is never alone. In my humble opinion, “lone wolf” is a stupid expression that only idiots use. People should say “lone crocodile”. Crocodiles travel alone. Crocodiles are NOT part of any pack. That's the main difference between crocodiles and alligators.
That and pupil diameter.
Did you know that a pack of alligators can strip the meat off a cow in less time than it takes a person to go to college?
It's true. They're hungry beasts. Although calling them “beasts” isn't rightly fair. They have a hierarchy, and in my book, any creature smart enough to recognize and enforce a hierarchy is pretty damn civilized.
They don't use currency, though. That's the main difference between alligators and humans. Humans exchange money for goods and services. And for sex, which should be a bit of both if you're doin' it right.
Instead of “money”, as is the street term for currency, alligators exchange death. When alligators want something they get it. If they want it from something that won't give it up, they kill that something. If an alligator doesn't get what it wants, that's because it's dead.
That or it's just changed its mind. Alligators are very fickle, you see. That's the main difference between alligators and Japanese fighting beetles. A Japanese fighting beetle picks one happiness to pursue, and continues pursuing that happiness to the grave. Sometimes a Japanese fighting beetle will want something easy, like the recognition of its peers. Once it has that, it dies, having lived a short and pleasant life, culminating in a profound public speech, or award of some kind, or something like that. Sometimes a Japanese fighting beetle will want something difficult like a single cranberry from a specific kind of scone that only one family-owned shop in London sells. When Japanese fighting beetles want something this specific and complicated, they can live for up to 400 years, with a few reported, but unverified, cases living even longer.
But i'm not here to talk about Japanese fighting beetles. I'm here to talk about Alligators.
Where was I?
Alligators... Alligators...
Alligators change their mind fairly frequently. The only time a person has survived an alligator attack is when the alligator changed its mind mid-fight. Or mid-murder I should say. An unarmed man stands a snowball's chance in hell against a fully-grown bulligator.
However, that same unarmed man stands an ember's chance in heaven against a fully-grown cowligator, which sounds about the same, but is slightly better.
The trick is to watch the eyes.
An alligator's eyes will fixate on the object of their desire until that object is obtained.
If you see an alligator's eyes stray from any part of your body to any other object, you'll probably survive the confrontation, or attempted murder; again, whichever you prefer to call it.
If you look in an alligator's eyes, and he's lookin’ right back into yours, you're in for it brother. Better convert to the right religion in the next few seconds and shoot off a prayer or two.
If you look in the alligator's eyes and see a dull, void, expression, like that of one Mr. Jeffrey Dahmer, then you're outta luck and I can't help you. Even praying won't help you. What you're actually looking at is a crocodile. Crocodiles’ll kill you for no reason at all, because crocodiles are apathetic. They have no ulterior motivations.
That's the main difference between alligators and crocodiles.
Alligators coordinate with each other with an almost machine-like efficiency, as they work together towards the same goal. Alligators and machines are almost exactly the same, in fact.
To locate a pack with similar interests, an alligator will sift through corkboard postings and social-networking sites, until it finds the right group. Then the pack meets up and exchanges information. Afterwards, they perform a series of team-building exercises to inspire trust and loyalty, while simultaneously judging the strengths and weaknesses of each other. The trouble with all this is that alligators are fickle, so they're constantly changing teams and packs- I've already told you that alligators are fickle?
Well then.
I didn't mean to waste your time. Sorry about that. I don’t consider myself a time-waster. I'm just a simple man who likes to teach people about alligators.
For instance, alligators are hydrophobic. “Hydrophobic” means the queen alligators have snakes where their hair should be. And if you look into the eyes of the alligator queen, you turn to... I don't know, jelly or somethin'. The point is: don't do it.
This is the main difference between alligators queens and regular queens. And you'd better watch out, because unless there's someone making eye contact and NOT getting turned into jelly or somethin’, you'd better just assume ol' snake-hair standin’ over in the corner by herself is really an alligator queen and NOT the queen of England. Because there's no sure way to tell from the back, you understand.
Alligators prefer eating men, statistically. I'm not sure why, but I don't argue with science, and I'll never argue with an alligator. Cross my heart, I won't.
Alligator meat tastes like lizard. That's the main difference between alligators and eagles. Eagles taste like cowardice.
If an alligator finds out that you've been eating alligator (it can smell, you understand), his alligator pack will go into “hunt” mode. They'll locate the other members of that alligator's “weak” pack and murder them in cold-blood. Don't mistake my words; alligator's are all cold-blooded. What i'm meanin' to say that the hunter alligators will wait until the “weak” alligators are enjoying a nice family dinner or a friendly game of poker. Then the hunter alligators burst into the room and brutally murder all the “weak” alligators in a hailstorm of bullets from their tommy guns. It's an extremely bloody, loud, and violent event.
How do I know so much about alligators?
That’s an interesting story. I once heard an alligator say my name. Now I can't die and I think about them all the time. So you tell me what that means.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Club
Acid techno thumps.
Lasers race across the floor and over the dancing crowd. Colours in the black.
Sweat. The smell of humans.
Moving, shifting, grinding, undulating. Rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Everyone's clothing is tight, like skin. Your long coat is out of place here.
You make your way through the crowd, parting the sea with your presence.
Scan the large room.
There.
Second floor. Dancing with a girl.
Lasers illuminate their faces in colourful flashes.
She smiles. He smiles.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bodies gyrating, swirling, heating.
She thinks he's human.
Remove your disruptor from its holster.
Move slowly up the stairs. Closer. Behind.
Dancing, smiling, seducing, touching, teasing, flirting, promising.
Sweat flings from other dancers onto your face.
She is enjoying him.
He is enjoying her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three rounds.
Collapse. Sparking.
Her face transitions through emotions.
Few other people notice.
Her eyes stand apart from the crowd.
Spinning limbs and bobbing heads frame her stationary face.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Dancing, thrusting, grasping, shifting, sliding, clutching.
Lasers wash over bodies in shifting patterns.
Move down the stairs. Through the crowd.
Out into the night.
Lasers race across the floor and over the dancing crowd. Colours in the black.
Sweat. The smell of humans.
Moving, shifting, grinding, undulating. Rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Everyone's clothing is tight, like skin. Your long coat is out of place here.
You make your way through the crowd, parting the sea with your presence.
Scan the large room.
There.
Second floor. Dancing with a girl.
Lasers illuminate their faces in colourful flashes.
She smiles. He smiles.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bodies gyrating, swirling, heating.
She thinks he's human.
Remove your disruptor from its holster.
Move slowly up the stairs. Closer. Behind.
Dancing, smiling, seducing, touching, teasing, flirting, promising.
Sweat flings from other dancers onto your face.
She is enjoying him.
He is enjoying her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three rounds.
Collapse. Sparking.
Her face transitions through emotions.
Few other people notice.
Her eyes stand apart from the crowd.
Spinning limbs and bobbing heads frame her stationary face.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Dancing, thrusting, grasping, shifting, sliding, clutching.
Lasers wash over bodies in shifting patterns.
Move down the stairs. Through the crowd.
Out into the night.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Anthony and Kate
Anthony and Kate were married. They weren't married. They lived together. They ate together. They didn't eat together. They ate with other people. They didn't eat with other people. They slept together. They didn't sleep together. They had babies. They loved their babies. They loved each other. They didn't love each other.
Anthony and Kate were divorced. They weren't divorced. They were never married. They couldn't be married. They couldn't be divorced. They lived together. They didn't live together. They slept together. They didn't sleep together. They lived with their children. They loved their children. They went on dates. They didn't go on dates. They loved each other. They didn't love each other.
Anthony and Kate dated other people. They didn't date other people. They were married. They weren't married. They were divorced. They weren't divorced. They didn't live together. They weren't able. They were able-bodied. They slept together. They didn't sleep together. They slept with other people. They didn't sleep with other people. They thought about each other. They didn't think about each other. They loved their teenage children. They loved each other. They didn't love each other.
Anthony and Kate found out. They didn't divorce. They divorced. They didn't speak to each other. They didn't hate each other. They hated each other. They didn't sleep together. They didn't sleep with other people. They slept with other people. They loved their adult children. They didn't think about each other. They thought about each other. They didn't love each other. They loved each other.
Anthony and Kate were divorced. They weren't divorced. They were never married. They couldn't be married. They couldn't be divorced. They lived together. They didn't live together. They slept together. They didn't sleep together. They lived with their children. They loved their children. They went on dates. They didn't go on dates. They loved each other. They didn't love each other.
Anthony and Kate dated other people. They didn't date other people. They were married. They weren't married. They were divorced. They weren't divorced. They didn't live together. They weren't able. They were able-bodied. They slept together. They didn't sleep together. They slept with other people. They didn't sleep with other people. They thought about each other. They didn't think about each other. They loved their teenage children. They loved each other. They didn't love each other.
Anthony and Kate found out. They didn't divorce. They divorced. They didn't speak to each other. They didn't hate each other. They hated each other. They didn't sleep together. They didn't sleep with other people. They slept with other people. They loved their adult children. They didn't think about each other. They thought about each other. They didn't love each other. They loved each other.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Devil's Farewell: Chapter 1
She barged into my office like a bad hurricane and started talking.
Clearly that no-good doorman downstairs wasn’t doing his job.
I told the person I was on the phone with that I would have to call them back and hung up.
Then I asked this dame who she was and what she'd been saying.
She repeated, “I said, 'are you Bulk Johnson, the private investigator?'”
“That depends, sweetheart,” I said coolly, “you still haven't told me your name.” Then I lit a cigarette.
I could tell she was impressed with my cool demeanor and the fact that I was a smoker.
She asked me for a cigarette, so I told her “get your own pack, I ain't carryin' spares.”
She was even more impressed by my attitude now. She clearly thought I was Captain Cool.
I opened my bottom drawer, carefully bending over sideways so I wouldn't get cigarette smoke in my eyes, which I hated. I took out my truth serum- a bootleg bottle of the booziest bourbon Kentucky'd ever birthed.
Slyly, I poured two drinks, implying that she would be drinking one of them.
She smirked at me and finally told me her name, “I'm Henrietta Moldrop. Heiress to the Moldrop fortune.”
I laughed a smokey laugh, being careful not to start coughing and hacking. This cigarette smoke was really starting to get on my nerves.
Then I picked up one of the bourbons, said “cheers,” and downed it like it was medicine and I was a sick baby with a taste for medicine.
She reached out for the other glass, but I snatched it up and guzzled it as quickly as possible, dribbling a lot onto my chin and shirt.
She politely put her hand back down from where it was hanging in the air. Then she closed her mouth, which was stuck open like a busted screen door.
She opened her mouth again as if to say something, but then I opened my mouth like I was going to say something, so she shut her mouth, but I also shut mine, because I'd only opened my mouth to trick her into shutting her mouth.
I was clearly winning this little game of cat and mouse.
“You lose, sweetheart,” I told her cunningly.
“What?” she asked. She clearly hadn't heard me; probably because I'd had my hand over my mouth when I’d spoken.
“Nevermind, doll,” I cleverly countered.
My eyes were getting red and itchy from the smoke, and the cigarette was almost too short to touch without my fingers getting warm. I decided to kill two birds with one coffin nail.
I took my cigarette, being careful not to burn myself, spun it around, and forced it into her mouth.
I didn't have to use much force, or any at all, because she considered it a thoughtful gesture and didn't put up much of a fight. But if she HAD tried to refuse the cigarette, I had been planning to pull my gun on her.
Two birds with one suave stone.
Seduce the girl? Done.
Get rid of the cigarette? Check.
How about the other pair o’ birds?
Find out her name? Yep.
Find out her real name? Still workin’ on it. After all, I get paid by the hour. I don't rush nothin' for nobody who ain't somebody worth rushin' things for.
“Bulk,” she said, “Can I tell you something?”
“Lay it on me and cut it with a knife, baby,” I said, charmingly.
“I want to tell you the details about this case, to see if you're interested,” she said.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, but I wasn't fooled. If I'd kept smoking the cigarette that short, I'd have been crying too. I knew she was milking that smoke for all it was worth, trying to make me feel sorry for her.
It was about this time that the bourbon kicked in, like a mule who'd just woken up from a bad dream.
“It's my sister Awda,” she sobbed, “she's gone missing. You're my last hope.”
I laughed. I mean, I really laughed. Not because she'd said anything funny, but because if this story was all true, I was going to be a rich man, and I was fantasizing about spitting on people less fortunate than me.
“I can find your sister for you, I'm just not sure that I want to. Ya get me?” I said, smartly.
“I don't understand,” she whined.
“Let me spell it out for you, baby bird; by now she’s probably deader than a flattened cat,” I said, slurringly.
“Dead or alive, I just need to know what happened to her,” the big girl-baby boo-hoo'd.
I stood her up out of the chair, took her cigarette, MY cigarette that I had GIVEN to her, and threw the cigarette out an open window, hopefully onto that no-good doorman.
Then I grabbed her thin shoulders in my weather-beaten hands.
“There, there,” I said, shaking her vigorously.
Then I spun her around and pushed her towards the door, giving her caboose a little swat as she stumbled forward, almost tripping.
She regained her poise and turned back around.
“Don't we have to talk about money?” she asked.
“Oh, you'll pay my fee,” I threatened chivalrously, “or else...”
After saying “or else...” I drew my hand across my throat like it was a knife, cutting my throat open, and I made a noise with my mouth that sounded like a knife cutting a throat open.
She clearly got the message. Must be a good charades teammate, I thought to myself.
She left my office, and I noticed that there was a business card lying in the chair.
It had all her contact information on it, which I had mixed feelings about.
On the one hand, I was glad I wouldn't have to look any of her info up, but on the other hand, she clearly didn't think I was good at my job.
Actually, on even another hand, maybe this was her way of leaving me her number so I could call her for a hot date.
I decided that when I found the first bit of evidence about her dead sister, I'd phone her up, tell her the grim news, and work in a date proposal, smooth as fox-butter.
But for now, it was time to get to work.
Clearly that no-good doorman downstairs wasn’t doing his job.
I told the person I was on the phone with that I would have to call them back and hung up.
Then I asked this dame who she was and what she'd been saying.
She repeated, “I said, 'are you Bulk Johnson, the private investigator?'”
“That depends, sweetheart,” I said coolly, “you still haven't told me your name.” Then I lit a cigarette.
I could tell she was impressed with my cool demeanor and the fact that I was a smoker.
She asked me for a cigarette, so I told her “get your own pack, I ain't carryin' spares.”
She was even more impressed by my attitude now. She clearly thought I was Captain Cool.
I opened my bottom drawer, carefully bending over sideways so I wouldn't get cigarette smoke in my eyes, which I hated. I took out my truth serum- a bootleg bottle of the booziest bourbon Kentucky'd ever birthed.
Slyly, I poured two drinks, implying that she would be drinking one of them.
She smirked at me and finally told me her name, “I'm Henrietta Moldrop. Heiress to the Moldrop fortune.”
I laughed a smokey laugh, being careful not to start coughing and hacking. This cigarette smoke was really starting to get on my nerves.
Then I picked up one of the bourbons, said “cheers,” and downed it like it was medicine and I was a sick baby with a taste for medicine.
She reached out for the other glass, but I snatched it up and guzzled it as quickly as possible, dribbling a lot onto my chin and shirt.
She politely put her hand back down from where it was hanging in the air. Then she closed her mouth, which was stuck open like a busted screen door.
She opened her mouth again as if to say something, but then I opened my mouth like I was going to say something, so she shut her mouth, but I also shut mine, because I'd only opened my mouth to trick her into shutting her mouth.
I was clearly winning this little game of cat and mouse.
“You lose, sweetheart,” I told her cunningly.
“What?” she asked. She clearly hadn't heard me; probably because I'd had my hand over my mouth when I’d spoken.
“Nevermind, doll,” I cleverly countered.
My eyes were getting red and itchy from the smoke, and the cigarette was almost too short to touch without my fingers getting warm. I decided to kill two birds with one coffin nail.
I took my cigarette, being careful not to burn myself, spun it around, and forced it into her mouth.
I didn't have to use much force, or any at all, because she considered it a thoughtful gesture and didn't put up much of a fight. But if she HAD tried to refuse the cigarette, I had been planning to pull my gun on her.
Two birds with one suave stone.
Seduce the girl? Done.
Get rid of the cigarette? Check.
How about the other pair o’ birds?
Find out her name? Yep.
Find out her real name? Still workin’ on it. After all, I get paid by the hour. I don't rush nothin' for nobody who ain't somebody worth rushin' things for.
“Bulk,” she said, “Can I tell you something?”
“Lay it on me and cut it with a knife, baby,” I said, charmingly.
“I want to tell you the details about this case, to see if you're interested,” she said.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, but I wasn't fooled. If I'd kept smoking the cigarette that short, I'd have been crying too. I knew she was milking that smoke for all it was worth, trying to make me feel sorry for her.
It was about this time that the bourbon kicked in, like a mule who'd just woken up from a bad dream.
“It's my sister Awda,” she sobbed, “she's gone missing. You're my last hope.”
I laughed. I mean, I really laughed. Not because she'd said anything funny, but because if this story was all true, I was going to be a rich man, and I was fantasizing about spitting on people less fortunate than me.
“I can find your sister for you, I'm just not sure that I want to. Ya get me?” I said, smartly.
“I don't understand,” she whined.
“Let me spell it out for you, baby bird; by now she’s probably deader than a flattened cat,” I said, slurringly.
“Dead or alive, I just need to know what happened to her,” the big girl-baby boo-hoo'd.
I stood her up out of the chair, took her cigarette, MY cigarette that I had GIVEN to her, and threw the cigarette out an open window, hopefully onto that no-good doorman.
Then I grabbed her thin shoulders in my weather-beaten hands.
“There, there,” I said, shaking her vigorously.
Then I spun her around and pushed her towards the door, giving her caboose a little swat as she stumbled forward, almost tripping.
She regained her poise and turned back around.
“Don't we have to talk about money?” she asked.
“Oh, you'll pay my fee,” I threatened chivalrously, “or else...”
After saying “or else...” I drew my hand across my throat like it was a knife, cutting my throat open, and I made a noise with my mouth that sounded like a knife cutting a throat open.
She clearly got the message. Must be a good charades teammate, I thought to myself.
She left my office, and I noticed that there was a business card lying in the chair.
It had all her contact information on it, which I had mixed feelings about.
On the one hand, I was glad I wouldn't have to look any of her info up, but on the other hand, she clearly didn't think I was good at my job.
Actually, on even another hand, maybe this was her way of leaving me her number so I could call her for a hot date.
I decided that when I found the first bit of evidence about her dead sister, I'd phone her up, tell her the grim news, and work in a date proposal, smooth as fox-butter.
But for now, it was time to get to work.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Broken
She won't switch on.
You've engaged her stimulus zones numerous times.
You've been sure to create an Atmosphere of Pleasure.
There is music playing that she likes to hear.
You’ve washed and cleaned your exterior surface and orifices.
She won't switch on.
She says she's switched on.
But her autopilot is engaged.
You can see she is not Actively Involved.
You tell her your desire for her to be Actively Involved.
She says that she is.
She lies that she is.
You tell her to stop lying.
She says she is not feeling it.
Feeling what?
You ask her what she is not feeling.
She says this.
What does she mean by this?
You ask her what she means by this.
She says she doesn't know.
You don't understand.
You tell her that you don't understand.
You tell her about the music and the orifice cleaning.
She says she's aware of your efforts.
You ask what else you can do to switch her on.
She looks at you.
You look at her.
You try to make your face look caring and genuine.
You look at her.
She looks at you.
She wants to take a break.
This is difficult for you to process.
You are unable to comprehend the logic behind this decision.
You tell her you are unable to comprehend the logic behind this decision.
She looks at you.
You inquire as to what is wrong.
You inquire as to what you did wrong.
You inquire as to what you can do better.
You inquire as to what you can do to fix whatever you did wrong.
She looks at you.
She does not love you any more.
She says she does not love you any more.
You don't understand.
You tell her you don't understand.
Your eye fluid level fills to maximum.
Your eyes will leak unless you order them to maintain current levels.
You order them to maintain current levels.
The fluid builds up, but remains in reserve.
The fluid in your eyes leaks internally and rusts your throat.
You speak with a rusty throat.
You tell her you're sorry.
She looks at you.
You search for different phrases.
You search in the file labeled “persuasion.”
You tell her you'll do whatever you can to fix yourself.
She says there is nothing you can do.
You do not understand.
There is always something you can do.
You fix things all the time.
You can fix this.
You just need to know what is broken.
You tell her you can fix this.
She says she does not want to fix this.
You search for different phrases.
You search in the file labeled “desperation.”
You use too much processing power.
You are unable to maintain your eye fluid levels.
Your eyes leak.
You tell her that you need her.
You tell her she is everything.
She gets up.
She switches off your Pleasure Music.
She turns the lights to maximum luminosity.
She acquires clothing.
You register a feeling of nudity.
You register a feeling of shame for your exterior.
You are processing too much at one time.
You are unable to determine the best course of action.
You need more time.
You tell her to give you more time.
She says she is finished talking.
You are not finished talking.
You tell her you are not finished talking.
She is 85% covered in external-venturing garments.
She will be ready to venture from interior to exterior in approximately 143 more seconds.
You activate your energy-enhancement reserves.
You accelerate all movements.
You get up.
You run to her.
You grab her and repeat your previous statement.
She looks at you.
There is a lack of emotions present.
You ask why there is a lack of emotional expression created through her face.
She says she feels nothing towards you.
You are angry.
Your anger is fueled by your energy-enhancements.
Your external vocalizations increase in volume.
You state that YOU FEEL NOTHING FOR HER.
You register an acceleration in blood flow.
Your face absorbs extra blood.
Your face shades to red.
You are processing too much.
You must simplify.
You determine it best to state facts.
You state that YOU HAVE TRIED TO MAKE HER HAPPY!
Your vocal projector is not able to handle the stress created by the increased volume level.
Your vocal projector crackles.
Your vocal projector breaks.
You state that YoU trIED To DO EVerYthiNG SHE EVer askED OF yOU!
You state that YOu FIXed yoURSelF WHEnevER she FOUND a FLAw IN yOU!
Her exterior preparedness level is at 100%.
You are out of time.
She tells you goodbye.
She exits from interior to exterior.
She is gone.
You were unable to switch her on.
She was unable to switch on.
She broke you.
You are broken.
You've engaged her stimulus zones numerous times.
You've been sure to create an Atmosphere of Pleasure.
There is music playing that she likes to hear.
You’ve washed and cleaned your exterior surface and orifices.
She won't switch on.
She says she's switched on.
But her autopilot is engaged.
You can see she is not Actively Involved.
You tell her your desire for her to be Actively Involved.
She says that she is.
She lies that she is.
You tell her to stop lying.
She says she is not feeling it.
Feeling what?
You ask her what she is not feeling.
She says this.
What does she mean by this?
You ask her what she means by this.
She says she doesn't know.
You don't understand.
You tell her that you don't understand.
You tell her about the music and the orifice cleaning.
She says she's aware of your efforts.
You ask what else you can do to switch her on.
She looks at you.
You look at her.
You try to make your face look caring and genuine.
You look at her.
She looks at you.
She wants to take a break.
This is difficult for you to process.
You are unable to comprehend the logic behind this decision.
You tell her you are unable to comprehend the logic behind this decision.
She looks at you.
You inquire as to what is wrong.
You inquire as to what you did wrong.
You inquire as to what you can do better.
You inquire as to what you can do to fix whatever you did wrong.
She looks at you.
She does not love you any more.
She says she does not love you any more.
You don't understand.
You tell her you don't understand.
Your eye fluid level fills to maximum.
Your eyes will leak unless you order them to maintain current levels.
You order them to maintain current levels.
The fluid builds up, but remains in reserve.
The fluid in your eyes leaks internally and rusts your throat.
You speak with a rusty throat.
You tell her you're sorry.
She looks at you.
You search for different phrases.
You search in the file labeled “persuasion.”
You tell her you'll do whatever you can to fix yourself.
She says there is nothing you can do.
You do not understand.
There is always something you can do.
You fix things all the time.
You can fix this.
You just need to know what is broken.
You tell her you can fix this.
She says she does not want to fix this.
You search for different phrases.
You search in the file labeled “desperation.”
You use too much processing power.
You are unable to maintain your eye fluid levels.
Your eyes leak.
You tell her that you need her.
You tell her she is everything.
She gets up.
She switches off your Pleasure Music.
She turns the lights to maximum luminosity.
She acquires clothing.
You register a feeling of nudity.
You register a feeling of shame for your exterior.
You are processing too much at one time.
You are unable to determine the best course of action.
You need more time.
You tell her to give you more time.
She says she is finished talking.
You are not finished talking.
You tell her you are not finished talking.
She is 85% covered in external-venturing garments.
She will be ready to venture from interior to exterior in approximately 143 more seconds.
You activate your energy-enhancement reserves.
You accelerate all movements.
You get up.
You run to her.
You grab her and repeat your previous statement.
She looks at you.
There is a lack of emotions present.
You ask why there is a lack of emotional expression created through her face.
She says she feels nothing towards you.
You are angry.
Your anger is fueled by your energy-enhancements.
Your external vocalizations increase in volume.
You state that YOU FEEL NOTHING FOR HER.
You register an acceleration in blood flow.
Your face absorbs extra blood.
Your face shades to red.
You are processing too much.
You must simplify.
You determine it best to state facts.
You state that YOU HAVE TRIED TO MAKE HER HAPPY!
Your vocal projector is not able to handle the stress created by the increased volume level.
Your vocal projector crackles.
Your vocal projector breaks.
You state that YoU trIED To DO EVerYthiNG SHE EVer askED OF yOU!
You state that YOu FIXed yoURSelF WHEnevER she FOUND a FLAw IN yOU!
Her exterior preparedness level is at 100%.
You are out of time.
She tells you goodbye.
She exits from interior to exterior.
She is gone.
You were unable to switch her on.
She was unable to switch on.
She broke you.
You are broken.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
To Jon Clinkenbeard
My dearest Jon,
I'm writing this to tell you how much I love you. As I sit here in this 4-star restaurant, I wish you were with me. You'd enjoy the food. The chef is amazing, and I know how particular you are about cuisine. That's one of the things I love about you; your taste in all things delectable. You'll have to excuse my flowing language and verbose vocabulary. I've had quite a bit to drink, and I now fancy myself an eloquent writer. I can never hope to imitate you though. Your words speak to me. You make me laugh, you make me cringe, you make me think. I've never read anyone I've enjoyed as much as you. You have the most fantastic and lovely brain.
I know how bashful you become when complimented. Always a polite “thank you”, though. You're no doubt frowning while you read this, in that peculiar, cute way you do, when you love something so much it seems to frustrate you. I know exactly how you feel. When someone shows you such affection, you feel the equation is out of balance; that you can't possibly deserve such wonderful emotions put into actions and words. That you aren't doing enough to make this person feel the way they've made you feel.
You are doing more than enough. You do deserve them. You deserve everything I can give you and more. You've helped me become the person I am today, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. I love you, now and forever.
I must ask you again to please excuse my clumsy words. There is little I can do to convey how deeply my affections run. Scores of love letters, photographs, documents, and gifts to little to capture the essence of the devotion I have for you. For us.
Regardless of what happens, I fully intend to be with you on your deathbed. You are my soulmate. No one will ever know me as well as you do. No one will ever understand my heart and my mind the way you do. To your last breath, I will comfort you to the very best of my ability, and I will always strive to make you as happy as you've made me.
Looking forward to our eternity together, my truest love-
-Jon Clinkenbeard
XOXOXOXO
I'm writing this to tell you how much I love you. As I sit here in this 4-star restaurant, I wish you were with me. You'd enjoy the food. The chef is amazing, and I know how particular you are about cuisine. That's one of the things I love about you; your taste in all things delectable. You'll have to excuse my flowing language and verbose vocabulary. I've had quite a bit to drink, and I now fancy myself an eloquent writer. I can never hope to imitate you though. Your words speak to me. You make me laugh, you make me cringe, you make me think. I've never read anyone I've enjoyed as much as you. You have the most fantastic and lovely brain.
I know how bashful you become when complimented. Always a polite “thank you”, though. You're no doubt frowning while you read this, in that peculiar, cute way you do, when you love something so much it seems to frustrate you. I know exactly how you feel. When someone shows you such affection, you feel the equation is out of balance; that you can't possibly deserve such wonderful emotions put into actions and words. That you aren't doing enough to make this person feel the way they've made you feel.
You are doing more than enough. You do deserve them. You deserve everything I can give you and more. You've helped me become the person I am today, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. I love you, now and forever.
I must ask you again to please excuse my clumsy words. There is little I can do to convey how deeply my affections run. Scores of love letters, photographs, documents, and gifts to little to capture the essence of the devotion I have for you. For us.
Regardless of what happens, I fully intend to be with you on your deathbed. You are my soulmate. No one will ever know me as well as you do. No one will ever understand my heart and my mind the way you do. To your last breath, I will comfort you to the very best of my ability, and I will always strive to make you as happy as you've made me.
Looking forward to our eternity together, my truest love-
-Jon Clinkenbeard
XOXOXOXO
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