Red Coals

Thanks, but I Don't Need a Bigger Penis

2011-05-26T10:00:00.001-07:00

This is what I was greeted with upon checking my e-mail this morning:

"Small member? Order male enhancement meds today"

"Women want you to have a bigger tool"

And finally, the one that made me cringe slightly:

"Add 4-6 inches to your pen1s in 6 weeks!"

4-6 inches? ...In 6 weeks? What?!

So I asked myself: "Self? Do you really want to be toting around a 10-12 inch man-handle everywhere you go, in addition to having to explain to potential lovers that you are a freak of nature and that you might actually rupture their spleen during lovemaking?"

I considered the question. Long and hard.

And um...no. I don't feel like having to roll my penis into a coil just so I can fit into my pants. I really don't feel like dealing with the stares from awestruck onlookers in the locker room, and I *really* don't feel like enduring the inevitable pain of my poor boy branch banging against my knees when I go for a run.

In an ideal world, my penis would magically appear when it's time to be used. At all other times maybe it would hide in a secret sheath somewhere, so I don't have to awkwardly adjust myself on airplane seats or when crossing my legs. But...that's just not reality.

Far from it.

Women won't ever know the joys of having to constantly port around their externally mounted reproductive bits. In fact, they get to wear things like yoga pants and 'boy shorts' without ever having to worry about their 'twig and berries' getting CRUSHED.

Count your blessings, ladies.

And don't give me this BS about having to deal with boobs. Those things are made mostly of fat. They don't contain hypersensitive nodules thick with nerves that run into your gut. In fact, they secrete milk sometimes. It's like you have a fucking SNACK BAR on your chest.

In summary, no, spam e-mail senders. I'm quite happy with my modestly apportioned package and I don't wish to become even more miserable than whatever merciless god created me to be.

Hey infant - thanks for VOMITING on me

2011-05-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

There I was, sitting on the tarmac at the Phoenix airport, happily reading my issue of Sexy Cyborgs Weekly when a young mother and her VERY small child approach me.

"That's my seat," she said (the mother, not the baby) "24A."

I acknowledged her and stood up to accommodate her passage into the window seat that she and her tiny human-ling were assigned. The two of them smelled a bit like baby powder (understandable) and synthetic motor oil (not very understandable) but I thought nothing of it.

The child was a boy from what I could gather. I am not very good at discerning the gender of babies, but the creature was wearing a blue baby-suit-thing so I suppose it was an educated guess. He only had two teeth - the lower, central two.

I have to admit, he was kind of cute in that "I'm-a-baby-it's-impossible-to-not-love-me-because-I-have-not-been-calloused-by-the-evils-of-the-world" way.

So I asked, "What's his name?"

"Jacob," she replied, "he's 4 months tomorrow." And with that comment, the young mother promptly whipped out her left breast and introduced it to the child's yawning little mouth. I was like whoah.

Boobs on a plane.

BAWWWWW how adorable. 4 months. I wish I could remember what life was like at 4 months, considering the simple pleasures of eating pureed peaches all the time and occasionally getting to work a nipple with my gums in a public place. But no such luck. My first memory is of going to the emergency room with a life-threatening case of chickenpox. FML.

Anyway, as the tiny carbon-based bundle of joy was snacking on his mother's mammary glands I thought briefly about Lamborghinis. Just because, well, Lamborghinis are awesome. That thought quickly turned to one of me dieing in a blazing inferno as the airplane's engines roared to life and we lifted off from Phoenix.

I always have visions of agonizing death when flying. It's part of the charm of air travel for me.

About half an hour into the flight I was awoken by little Jacob pulling at my hair. His mother was asleep and Jacob was feeling froggy, apparently. So, I humored him. I let his tiny fingers wrap around my thumb and we played tug-of-war for a bit until something absolutely traumatic happened.

Jacob looked me dead in the eyes, threw back his head, and projectile vomited all over my freshly-pressed dress shirt.

I now had a yellow-white streak of breast-milk-and-stomach-acid solution slowly coursing down my chest, seeping into my undershirt and creating a generally unpleasant scenario for not just me, but for all passengers within a 20 foot radius. The smell was dry heave inducing.

I was now faced with a difficult decision. Do I wake the mother up and let her know that her demon-child assaulted me with an eruption of her breast milk? Or do I not bother, and retreat into the rear lavatory to 'freshen up' a bit?

I opted for the latter. The mother looked quite exhausted and after all - Mother's Day was in 2 days.

So, I got up out of my seat and trudged back to the lavatory, through no less than 20 aisles of passengers...almost ALL of whom were looking at me like I was a homeless mutant with an incurable, contagious disease. I just smiled politely and tried in vain to cover with my hands the disgusting scar of baby yak criss-crossing my chest.

Eventually I made it back to my seat to find that the mother was now awake, and the baby was soundly asleep. They had swapped out. *I*, on the other hand, was wearing a shirt half-soaked in water, with a look of defeat on my face.

The mother looked at me quizzically, as if to say, "WTF is wrong with you stay away from me" and I guess that's understandable.

She had no clue that her son barfed all over my work clothes.

The rest of the flight went well enough. I made it through my trip without much incident, and on my return flight I remember thinking, "That baby is going to grow into a boy and then into a man...he is going to go to college and make a bunch of friends, and he'll likely live a generally good life."

"But there's no way in hell he's going to remember losing his lunch all over a stranger on a goddamned plane flight from Phoenix to Denver."

What is it with Indian people and the 'W' sound?

2011-04-20T07:23:00.000-07:00

By 'Indian' of course I mean dot not feather.

I work with an Indian guy who has a noticeably thick accent. For some reason (and this is common throughout Indians I have found) he substitutes a 'vee' consonant with what should be a 'w' consonant.

I promise that you will notice this now if you haven't already, the next time you hear and Indian say 'whatever', or 'worldwide'.

It'll invariably by 'VATEVER' or 'VORLDVIDE'. It's like their mouths are missing the component bits required for puckering the lips and getting that 'wuh' sound out.

I am waiting for my Indian coworker to say the word 'wow'. Just once. I want to see if the way he says it is in line with how I imagine he'd say it. I suppose it would be 'VOV!' but would it really?

And would it be awkward if I went up to him and asked him to just say the word wow, so I can put my mind at ease?

This is troubling me and I need closure.

A forced recognition of beauty in life, however fleeting

2011-01-18T07:29:00.000-08:00

Beaten to a pulp with my own dark, confined world views, I go boldly out of this grey box and push my senses to acknowledge what everyone says is around me. Beauty, and the 'simple life pleasures' that, I'm told, need so little effort to enjoy.

But that's where they're WRONG - see, for me there is much effort to expend to enjoy the simplest of life's pleasures. It takes a corralling of my will and such focus to appreciate...say...a funny joke on a bathroom wall, or a puppy rolling around in the tall grass.

But god fucking dammit, I will do this and I will do it like a BOSS, without bitching and whining about how invasive thoughts are pulling me in every direction BUT the one I want to be going in. Discipline of the mind is arguably the last frontier in obliterating the hurdles in this life. I will be sucking molten brimstone from the soles of Lucifer's loafers before I submit to the wanton, chaotic forces that have shackled my ability to feel pleasure for so long.

I don't care if these thoughts are disparate and seemingly unconnected. That's YOUR problem. What moves my fingers as I type this is a need to SAY SOMETHING - LOUDLY - that communicates my frustrations enough to actuate the valve releasing steam from my soul...steam that courses upwards and ends up dissipating in the atmosphere.

How I wish to dissipate in the atmosphere sometimes. To be erased from sight like water vapor in the Mojave desert...molecules of me floating in every direction like some freshly blown dandelion bloom.

I can certainly see the beauty in that. And you know, it's not that difficult now, because it has to do with my own release. Maybe that's my strategy for becoming able to appreciate beauty...see it in terms of myself.

But isn't that a tad egotistical?

OH FUCK IT, really? Egotistical? That's my poisonous, leech-like emotional cyst speaking. It's not egotistical to view beauty in terms of myself. Who am I harming in doing so? No one. And it lets me enjoy the god damn dandelions so shut the fuck up already.

Now then.

Where was I.

Ah yes, dissipation.

I think I will let this post dissipate, itself, to help illustrate my point. Namely, that there is beauty in the natural explosion of order to disorder.

And

so...

it...

...goes.

Today, I blog about depression.

2011-01-11T09:43:00.000-08:00

This is a post about depression.

By 'depression' I don't mean the feeling you get after seeing ET return to his mothership at the end of the movie, or the fleeting moments of sadness you might experience when you think about your late mother/father/grandparent/ex-spouse/etc.

What I mean when I refer to depression is the persistent, deep, intense and undeniably black disposition that just takes over regardless of whatever life circumstances you might be dealing with. The depression I am referring to isn't fleeting; it isn't easily manageable, and it can't just be 'shrugged off'. It's an unyielding darkness that shrouds every single thought I have in a grey, painful aura that only lets up when IT wants to.

Depression makes it nearly impossible for me to be comfortable around other people. For, when my thoughts are so rife with dejection, despair and emotional weight, how could I expect to be friendly and conversational with ANYONE? It requires a herculean effort just to look at myself in the mirror, let alone someone else in the eyes.

And what of doing things that are healthy and good for me? Like working out, reading a book, having sex or eating a nice plate of healthy food? These activities lose their appeal almost outright. There's no compelling smell anymore, for instance, when I lift a large spoonful of garlic mashed potatoes to my mouth. The allure of the female body is quickly converted into contempt for my life as a lonely bachelor...and as for things like music and the arts...I find I am only attracted to the most deadening, vile and vapid instances of self-expression.

Depression comes and goes like a disrespectful and uncaring pet owner comes and goes. In that case, I am the neglected animal, often times caged in my domain, left to wonder what outside the confines of my metal house could there be in the world that might make this life worth living.

For today, I don't see it. It doesn't find me, and all I can do is blog surreptitiously about it for the one or two people who will actually read it.

Someone said somewhere on the internet that with the same hand depression uses to pin us down, it provides us with some 'gifts': sensitivity, depth, empathy, emotional knowledge, and whatever other host of ill-defined 'benefits'. While I don't doubt that being depressed helps me to relate with people who are themselves depressed, I don't consider this a square deal. That I should have to suffer so needlessly within my own mind...this is not a fair trade for knowing what that feels like in other people.

Call me egotistical, but how can I care for the plight of others when I cannot get outside of the misery consuming my own self?

...this is nothing new. I have been a victim of this insipid disease most my life. Dealing with it has involved a myriad of little tricks and tinctures. Sometimes I can go for a 2 hour jog and afterwards I feel a little relieved. Other times I have no option but to simply find a quiet corner to sit in, and cry until my throat and eye sockets are parched and spent. Still yet, I might simply need to lay down and sleep for 12 hours before I am able to function normally again.

What the remedy might be for today's affliction isn't known yet. I really don't know what is going to lift this fog. Make no mistake, when the fog IS lifted, I will likely forget how bad I felt and the entire experience will fall away, into the bottomless chasm through which the rest of my dire days have been descending.

Yesterday I went around picking up trash...

2010-05-13T07:47:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, there was a large renovation project taking place at my apartment complex. They were replacing the roofs of the units and doing some painting.

After this renovation was complete, I noticed that the workers had left a few things of value behind. One of these things was a roll of industrial garbage bags, each probably 50 gallons large. There might have been 10 or so bags in the roll.

Upon finding it during a morning walk with my dog, I grabbed the roll and took it home with me. Who can't find a use for some heavy duty garbage bags?

Yesterday, I decided to put one of these bags to use. It was a bit cold and damp after work but I decided to spend some time picking up trash on the block that I live on. It's not that there's a trash problem in Westminster...it's quite the opposite in fact. This place is remarkably clean.

So I started off on my quest for errant trash - big ass trash bag in hand. What I found along the way didn't really surprise me but I did smile after coming across a woman's discarded shopping list, which I found soaked and crumpled in the roots of a roadside bush. The list went something like this:

- 1 bra
- 2 panties
- razor
- toilet paper (fluffy kind)
- hand lotion
- food

A few of the items on this list were scratched off, presumably, because the woman had managed to buy the items. I'm also presuming she is in fact a woman, barring the possibility that it could have been a man shopping for ladies undergarments either for his partner or for himself, were he to have a fetish for such dress.

Anyway, as I was standing there on the side of the road with cars zooming by and me growing increasingly wetter due to the falling drizzle, I smiled. It was more of a knowing grin actually, because I realized I was holding a piece of paper that at some point meant something to someone. It, at a time, had real value, because it was a way of helping someone accomplish what most would consider a pretty banal task, namely shopping for underwear and toiletries.

And it just happened that I ended up being the one to find this list, assist it on it's journey into the trash bin, and enjoy a brief moment of involvement in someone else's life without their knowing.

I ended up gathering about 15 pounds of trash yesterday over the course of an hour and a half.

When I returned home I greeted my dog with a hug and concluded the evening with some reading and a few pieces of pizza.

To any Christians or Muslims reading this:

2010-05-07T15:10:00.001-07:00

Everything you have been taught about homosexuals by your religious leaders and your doctrines is wrong. Period. End of story.

Lyman Ward Military Academy Hazing, Beatings article

2010-04-28T09:34:00.001-07:00

http://www.insidehazing.com/letters_view.php?id=8

The above link describes the atrocities at LWMA (Lyman Ward Military Academy) as they're told by the parents of cadets attending the academy.

In 2005 at least 8 lawsuits were filed against Lyman Ward Military School, and to this day at least a dozen are still unresolved.

http://www.insidehazing.com/letters_view.php?id=8

It's stuff like this that gets swept UNDER THE RUG and removed from internet search engines in a pathetic (yet effective) attempt by the academy to keep these awful incidents under wraps.

Patchwork Peace

2009-10-14T06:45:00.001-07:00

I began my day today with a certain peace that I haven't felt in a while.

I can remember ending my day yesterday with a long meditation session just before bed, and I can't help but think that the early retiring and focused relaxation contributed to this morning's levity.

But it's more than that.

I'm tripping through memories of when I was a boy, remembering the very specific calm I experienced when I sat in a stream with only my shorts on, letting the flow of the water course over my shoulders. Laying down on the rocks in that stream was sort of a respite from the confusing, awkward time I was having as a teenager. Now that I am older, I appreciate more the value of completely forgetting the worries of the world and retreating into the mind for solace.

The true, undeniable peace I can reach through meditation and focused relaxation puts any artificial means of euphoria to shame. 20 minutes of deadening my thoughts and completely isolating my consciousness from external stimulus is equal to or better than any drug I've tried.

5-6 years ago, this kind of disciplined rest would have been impossible. I was far too concerned with ego and projected image to really be able to cut off the world and reside in my own mind.

Many things since my childhood have contributed to my current level of peace, not the least of which is music. Then there's my attention to physical health and nutrition. Also, the intentional simplicity in my life attained by not constantly adding material things to my domain and always opting for the less complex lifestyle.

I'm excited to see where else I can go with this kind of living. I'm curious about which patch will be added that elevates me to yet a higher, more transcendent way of living.

"Hurricane Season"

2009-09-10T07:24:00.000-07:00

Hajar walked along the arid and litter-strewn beach as he always had, at about 6am in the morning, killing time before his father picked him and his two brothers up to go work in the factory in town.

Life in Hajar's tiny town in Mauritania, north Africa, was simple. There was never any prospect of becoming rich or going anywhere beyond the 10 square miles they called 'home', and yet somehow everyone managed to stay happy.

Hajar had been carrying with him a small stick - he was using it to prod at objects of interest. There was no shortage of unique things here and there, that washed up on the beach from who knows where. One day, with his brothers, Hajar found a golden necklace that he traded for a new pair of shoes at the market.

As he was just about to head back for work, an object caught Hajar's eye, about 20 feet out from the shore, gently bobbing in the morning wake.

ما هو هذا؟
"What is that?"

It was a square piece of leather about 10 inches from corner-to-corner. It had a very strange, fluorescent orange coating to it, as if whoever discarded this had intended for it to be found again.

The underside of the object had a 1-inch thick piece of Styrofoam glued to it, presumably to ensure its buoyancy.

هناك رسال& #1577; هنا... في الوس& .
"There is a message here...in the center."

Hajar peeled back a thin piece of coating to reveal a very detailed, handwritten note. He took special care to unfold it and attempt to decipher it.

It was written in French.

La saison des ouragans est d'origine humaine. Des quantités massives de produits chimiques sont déversés dans l'Atlantique par les cargos intercontinentaux, de stimuler les conditions météorologiques catastrophiques. Les preuves peuvent être trouvés à 14.09433 latitude, longitude 31.31965. S'il vous plaît aider. Les gouvernements du monde derrière tout cela.

Hajar heard his brothers calling for him - it was time to head to the factory. Not knowing French and thus considering the message useless, he threw the object into a trash heap on his way to work.

It would never be seen again.

________________________

Hurricane season is man-made. Massive amounts of chemicals are dumped into the Atlantic by intercontinental freighters, to spur catastrophic weather patterns. Proof can be found at 14.09433 latitude, 31.31965 longitude. Please help. World governments behind this.
________________________

"Not Enough Gasoline"

2009-08-28T09:15:00.001-07:00

>>>>>>> WELCOME TO THE X9-MARAUDER NAVIGATION MENU <<<<<<<

...

VERIFYING IDENTITY

...

HELLO MAJOR THOMAS JENSON D'ARCHOUS - USN #69148830XQ - DOB 04/22/2231 - SPECIES: HUMAN MALE - PLANETARY ORIGIN: EARTH - COMMAND POSITION: POINT COMMAND

...

CURRENT POSITION OF X9-MARAUDER: X = 0924429, Y = 9611049, Z = 5934440, PLANETARY PLANE 211B12 - WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA COMMUNICATION ZONE. NO COMMUNICATION TO TETHRA AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME. WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION ZONE. NO EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.

...

WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?

...

...

Thomas' sweat accumulates on his pale face as his weak fingers type commands into his Marauder's control panel. The systems controlling the Marauder's cabin environment are failing. Oxygen levels in the control pod are borderline sustainable. Carbon dioxide and nitrogen gas levels inch up by the second. The nearest Galactic Aid Station is 23,901,811 miles away.

Thomas punches in the request for an update on the rest of the starship's crew.

...

SCANNING HABITABLE ZONES...PLEASE WAIT.

...

...

...

...

...

46 ENTITIES DETECTED. SCAN FOR VITAL STATISTICS, MAJOR?

...

Thomas, his vision blurred by the enlarging veins in his eyes and his voice obfuscated by the build up of blood and mucous, manages to speak.

"Yes," he says.

...

PROCESSING

...

...

42 ENTITIES DECEASED. 4 ENTITIES ACTIVE.

"We still have survivors..." Thomas mutters to himself. "Must...reach aid station..."

With the little energy he had left, Thomas keys in the coordinates for the aid station, then sits back in his chair and waits.

...

NEW COORDINATES RECEIVED. PROCESSING...

...

...

Thomas feels his consciousness slipping from him as he looks over his shoulder, through the cabin window, out at space...solitary, black, cold space.

There are no sounds and no light. There is no life at all.

An empty ration packet floats by his face as Thomas begins convulsing, his bloodshot eyes rolling back into his head.

...

PROCESSING

...

COORDINATES CONFIRMED. GALACTIC AID STATION #T-11EWA-TETHRA.

...

...

ATTENTION MAJOR THOMAS - INSUFFICIENT PROPULSION RESOURCES. DESTINATION UNREACHABLE.

...

Thomas' body stills. Froth from his mouth begins drifting forward into the cabin. His eyes still open, Thomas' corpse remains buckled into the cold, grey, metal command station.

...there is complete silence.

...

...

...

WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?

Comprehending the ultra-large

2009-08-14T06:26:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been conducting little brain exercises.

"What, you mean like doing crosswords and stuff?" you might ask.

No, I mean exercises in comprehension of large numbers and space. I have been trying to truly understand how big our galaxy and universe is, and inversely, how small I am and the rest of the world is in comparison.

NASA and the operators of the Hubble space telescope now tell us that our 'universe' contains over 100 billion galaxies, each of them themselves containing billions of stars.

What's more, the distances between the 'ends' of our universe easily breach the 10 billion light year mark - a measure of distance that is truly incomprehensible.

...but still I try.

I sit here at work at times when I have a few minutes in between phone calls or meetings, and I try to really grasp the idea of even one million. That figure - one million - is tossed around so frivolously these days; there are so many millionaires and so many people talking about the 'millions of people' who are affected by things, and the 'millions of small businesses' that are thriving/dying.

But really - do I truly understand the gravity of one million? If I do, does that mean I can just mentally multiply that by 1,000 and instantly comprehend one billion?

I don't think it's that simple.

For me at least, my mind starts to wander after about a thousand. I do believe I understand literally what a thousand means...that it is composed of 100 tens and, as far as images in my mind go, that it's a number I can work with. It's easy.

But put the number at 10,000 or more...and before long it just becomes a number. There no longer is a mental representation of tiny dots, or apples, or flowers, or whatever it is I'm trying to count in my head. The sheer volume of 10,000 becomes way too much for my feeble brain to keep track of.

Trying, however...really trying to keep track of the additions of yet more - and more still - to whatever number I'm 'comfortable' with, is a fun challenge.

The exercise goes on and on, and before long I throw my hands up and just give in to what is essentially infinity. To me, one billion might as well be infinity, for I couldn't count that high even if I dedicated my life to doing so. But still it is humbling, challenging and fun to really try and understand just how grand time and space are.

Think about it - our solar system is roughly 4.6 billion years old. Modern humans have been around on Earth for about 200,000 years. 200,000 into 4.6 billion is 23,000. So we've been 'around' for 1/23,000th of the time that our solar system has been alive.

To further bend the mind - current theory and observations suggest that the universe in sum is between 13.5 and 14 billion years old, roughly 3 times as old as our solar system is.

Do these numbers even MEAN anything to the modern layperson? CAN they mean anything? Or are we destined to be forever ignorant of the true magnitude of volumes?

We are human and inherently limited in our abilities to think. But, pushing the boundaries and trying to really understand huge numbers is time well spent. :)

What ever became of William Ward?

2009-06-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

While most other teenagers were attending prom, going on dates, getting high after school and being, in general, average 'teenagers', I was suffering through 5 years at an Army-based military academy in rural Alabama.

It's not that I was a bad kid - I needed no reform and had no criminal intent beyond perhaps finding ways to get an extra credit on the pinball machine using a slug and some thread. No, it's not that I belonged at military school, but the memories that place gave me, I would discover later in life, would prove to be the most unique and resourceful of any others from my childhood.

There is one memory in particular that I have, which has stayed with me throughout the years since graduation in the summer of 1997. This memory constantly reminds me of the importance of compassion and respect; as well it reminds me that the people in this world who appear to be the most cruel, uncaring and soulless of us are just as human as anyone else who has ever walked the earth. They simply suffer more than most.

This memory is of a young man by the name of William Ward.

When I entered the academy, I was in the 8th grade. I was an awkward, chubby little redheaded kid and I didn't know a thing about drilling with a rifle, shining shoes or taking orders barked at me by someone my age. Needless to say, I was in great need of some sort of guidance - some sort of beacon to help ease my transition from a life of video games and fishing to one of regimented days, sleep deprived nights and egregious amounts of violence.

I found that guidance from many of the other cadets, many of whom had been at the academy for years prior to my arrival. They knew the ropes and they knew what to tell a new cadet (also called a 'scrub') in order to have the new recruit 'on their side'. It was very akin to prison in the way that social hierarchies sprouted.

Atop one such social hierarchy stood William Ward. He was a boy of average height and build, and he was quite ugly. His mouth was much larger, proportionately, than the other features of his face. He had large, clumsy feet and goofy ears. When I first met him I thought I was looking at Alfred E. Neuman from the MAD magazines I had so loved.

The very first thing William Ward said to me when I met him was, "I bet my dick is bigger than yours."

I am dead serious. That was the first sentence that came out of his (large) mouth, and he was being very sincere. This wasn't a joke, and at the academy penis size meant a LOT. I didn't know this at the time. His comment sort of threw me off, and I'm not sure exactly how I responded. I just remember him saying that firstly.

William Ward apparently came from a family with a lot of money. Incidentally, the Ward family had VERY tight connections to the administration of the school, and so this ugly, foul-mouthed young man was lauded by his peers for really only two reasons: he had a very large penis, and he was favored by those in command of the school thanks to generous financial contributions from his family.

This made for a perfect storm.

William Ward became a ruler of us. It didn't matter that he was ugly, stupid or, as I would find out later, completely illiterate. He had connections, money, and a big dick. He could do whatever he wanted. And so he did.

William Ward became a platoon sergeant in Charlie company, where he was basically given free reign to control a group of about 15 cadets, bending them to do as he wished and using them as pawns to further his after-school exploits often times involving hazing, drug use and other debauchery. He could do no wrong - the amount of power that William Ward had was unreal, especially considering his young age and puny amount of life experience.

When it is said that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, it rings truest with me, because I have seen it. I saw it in William Ward.

For 3 years I endured the constant berating of this young man. At every opportunity, William Ward would seek to prove his superiority by either whipping out his penis or punching someone bigger than he was, because he knew there would be no ramifications. He wouldn't have to answer to anyone. It didn't matter that he was an ugly runt who couldn't read and failed just about all his classes. He had street cred at the academy.

When William Ward graduated, I watched as this young man left the school and entered the real world, failing out of college and resorting to a life of blue collar servitude in a completely foreign and, I'm sure for him, scary environment. I can only imaging the shock when he realized that he actually had to be able to read in order to get a job...in order to go shopping, balance his checkbook or really just function as a human being in civilized society.

Looking back on it all, I can only feel compassion and sorrow for that guy. William Ward was probably the most callous, mean and disrespectful young man to ever exist in 1995, but it wasn't his fault. The corruptions of a military system instilled into the life of someone who had been born ugly and who never learned to read - these things would create a monster who would eventually be tamed into becoming, I'm sure, an insufferable, miserable peon with infinite regrets and no love in his life.

Wherever you are, William Ward, I hope things turned around for you. I hope you look back on your life at Lyman Ward Military Academy and I hope you see it as a period of serious confusion for you - and I hope by now you have learned that penis size and money mean absolutely nothing compared to respect, dignity and love for one another.

Life a Million Miles Away (Part 2)

2009-05-27T15:06:00.000-07:00

Nerboo has his hands in his lap and is sitting indian-style in the pagoda, discussing the unfolding development involving two of the villages children: Eleran and Amaryu.

Seated around him are the other elders, each of them listening intently to Nerboo's voice.

"It is written that this day would come. It should not be a surprise to any one of you - our village's destiny has been outlined well in the scrolls of Kharthlan," he said. A few of the elders nod in agreement.

Then, reciting from memory, Nerboo calls out the parts of the scroll that foretell the events that took place earlier that day. The volume of his voice increases and his words carry the authority of his 89 years as a member of his village:

"Before the turn of the 300th year, warriors will be selected from the youth by chance. You will know these warriors for the findings they will bring you: 5 stones of the Ancients, bound by the sigils of the Gods, each stone part of the Wheel of Souls."

The elders knew the scrolls well. They documented the origins of their village and contained immaculate prophecies each of which had come to pass exactly as described. Some involved famine; some involved warring with opposing village-tribes. In any event, the scrolls of Kharthlan were the source of all wisdom passed down by Nerboo's ancestors who were the founders of his village and of Pfan'Khet, the practice of traveling to heaven while still on earth.

Pfan'Khet is the villages sacred, closely held treasure. If the practice of heaven-travel were to be released to the rest of the world, total chaos would ensue. The scrolls warned of this.

Nerboo continues.

"These warriors must be escorted to the marshes of the east within 7 nights of their selection by chance. On the 8th night they are to be left at the base of the Yeurng Temple with provisions for 20 days. Do not provide anything but your wishes of hope for them both. Though they are young, they will survive. This is decreed by Kharthlan and so it shall be."

Nerboo glances around the group of elders.

"Who will take these warriors to the marshes?" he asks, "If not one of you, decide amongst yourselves who will escort them. Be sure he is able-bodied and reliable. I will arrange for mule and pack-horse to leave by the 7th day. Are there questions?"

Cervins speaks.

"Nerboo, we are sacrificing two of our young boys to the land, to become warriors as foretold by the Kharthlanic. The scrolls tell us they will heaven-travel on their own, without our help. Should we leave the stones with them, then?"

Nerboo ponders the question and finishes the stale remainder of his tea.

"No. It is written. 20 days of provisions," he replies.

Cervins immediately responds, "That's murder! They'll surely DIE out there! The Yeurng will hang them by their entrails and feed their hearts to the wolves!"

Nerboo patiently waits for Cervins to finish speaking. His eyes stare deeply into Cervins' as he responds.

"Cervins, do you doubt the prophecies of the Kharthlanic?" Nerboo asks.

"Exalted Nerboo, I do not. I merely mean to suggest that..."

"THEN SILENCE," commands Nerboo.

"The fate of our people hangs on these two young men. They are but children now - when they return to us from the east they will be warriors. They will be our saviors, and for us to meddle in this destiny is to seal our own fates."

Silence befalls everyone.

Nerboo clears his throat.

"Meet back here with the designated escort in 6 days. I will take care of explaining to the boys families what will be happening to them. Kharthlanic blessings be with you," Nerboo finishes.

Mumbling softly amongst themselves, the elders meander off and return to their duties.

Nerboo sequesters the stones in his hand and retreats to his quarters, where he begins to pray.

A Life a Million Miles Away (part 1)

2009-05-18T06:42:00.000-07:00

This morning a young child awakens from his slumber and blinks his eyes into a powerful yet kind sun, greeting the world with a yawn and eager ambition.

The hovel from which the boy arises isn't anything to speak of. Nothing about it distinguishes it from the other hundreds of poorly constructed homes stuffed into the commune.

The air is dry and filled with the smells of hot tea and vegetables frying on an old skillet a few yards down from the child's home. A wisp of dust greets the boy's sandaled feet as he steps into the day.

"Amaryu! Are you ready!?" comes a voice from afar.

Amaryu starts walking briskly towards Eleran, who is anxiously waiting for him.

"Today's the day! Do you have the stones?" Eleran asks.

Amaryu reaches into his pocket and confirms that they are still there - the 5 small, rust-colored stones that the two boys had found last week in a pouch sitting inconspicuously on the shore of a nearby river.

Eleran was the one who first spotted the pouch. It seemed a bit out of place, and upon investigating it's contents further, the two young boys discovered these strange stones, each of them with a small engraving which neither of them could make sense of.

Amaryu agreed to bring the stones to the village elders who would certainly know what to do with them. Eleran suggested waiting until today, the day of the month when the elders convened, to present them with their find.

"Yup, got them right here," replies Amaryu, "Can I give them to the elders?"

"No I wanna! I saw them first!" contends Eleran.

"Too bad!" replied Amaryu, and the two of them run off into the direction of the Temple, where the elders are just sitting down to tea, ready to begin their proceedings for the day.

There is much to discuss this day, at the meeting of the 10 most tenured and knowledgeable members of the village. As they take their seats in a large circle, they greet each other with kind salutations.

Eleran and Amaryu rush to the side of Nerboo, the exalted chief elder who is responsible for archiving the collected discoveries and intellectual works of the village.

"Nerboo! We have something to show you!" the boys say, almost in unison.

Nerboo looks down at the boys standing near the pagoda. He strokes his beard and sets aside his tea to give them his attention.

"We begin our meetings in short order. What have you that warrants our focus?" inquires Nerboo.

Amaryu reaches into his pocket and fishes out the 5 stones. He walks up to Nerboo and raises his cupped hands to him, smiling broadly.

Nerboo's eyes widen with immediate interest.

"Amaryu, where did you get these?" Nerboo asks.

"Eleran and I found them near the river. He saw them first but I picked them up. Are they worth anything?" inquires Amaryu.

"Hand them to me, boy," commands Nerboo, "you know not what you hold."

And with that, Nerboo takes the 5 stones from the small hands of Amaryu and immediately stands to summon the others. A small circle forms around Nerboo as the elders take stock of this new discovery.

Mumbling and whispered discussion emanates from the small gathering.

Amaryu and Eleran watch intently as Nerboo stoops to his haunches and arranges the stones in a circle. He raises a hand and motions for one of the elders.

Cervins, another high-ranking member amongst them, brings Nerboo a small handful of gold shavings, their source unknown to the boys.

Nerboo places the gold shavings in the center of the circle of stones.

What happens then confirms what Nerboo suspected about the stones.

A column of purple light immediately forms where the gold sits. This column reaches up through each level of the pagoda and straight through to the sky, with no end. It appears to rise completely up to the heavens, and it slowly turns as it radiates a very warm, pleasing light.

Each stone in the circle vibrates softly.

Nerboo immediately breaks the ritual by removing one of the stones. He has seen what he needed to see. The stones are in fact what he suspected they are.

"Boys, return to your homes. In one week's time I will call for you to leave with me. We will not be returning to our village and your lives will soon be changed forever. Say your goodbyes, and be prepared to venture in 7 days."

Amaryu and Eleran are dumbfounded.

As instructed, they each walk back to their hovels and explain to their families what had just happened.

From that day forth the two boys would be inseparable - bound by a common cause, their destinies foretold for decades by the lore of their ancestors.

I'm torn...

2009-04-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

Are we to toil day in and day out to progress our species?
Or, ought we focus our efforts on enjoying life now, as it is, without the complexities of innovation?

I have the utmost faith in human work to develop everything from communication to exploration. We will eventually invent everything invent-able, and then we'll sit around and look at each other, questioning: "What now?"

I just wonder. Should we be enjoying, or toiling?

Or maybe, we do both.

But the bipolar nature of that...the binging and purging of sweat versus recreation - is enervating. But then, maybe humans were created to merely be sapped by their lives, so that in the end, the inevitable sigh of death will be all that much more satisfying.

Those who never really live life, who remain nestled in tightly-knit microcosms of routine and prediction, their endings must be the most painful for the soul. For to reflect on a life of stagnation and mediocrity...versus one of effort, wins and losses, love and grief, would be miserable.

I am confident however that this life is not the be-all, end-all of us as souls. There is no 'lights off' scenario after we leave here, I believe. There can't be...too much has transpired here while inhabiting earth. Too many discoveries have taken place, and too much emotion has been spewed forth into this vast expanse of human experience. This life has to be some kind of epilogue.

But what epilogue live the suffering?

There are those few, nameless people for whom life is a constant struggle, from cradle to grave. They are born into depravity and they remain there for their entire lives. It would be impossible for me to think that each one of those people doesn't have some kind of cosmic role to play for the rest of us. There must be some purpose for such cases. For, if there weren't, the sheer meaningless of ALL life would be made immediately obvious, and who among caring souls wouldn't mourn eternally for that!?

I mourn already for the mere chance that human suffering may not mean something. However, my heart swells so much in the hope that to suffer, is to do something that matters, in some way.

Perhaps that 'hope' I have can eventually evolve into 'faith'.

[Is that possible, without some kind of God being involved?]

I wish to have FAITH that human suffering means more than just the tears cried or the pain endured. It's not enough to hope, anymore. Hope got me through my teens and twenties. Faith must come to me now. For sure, KNOWLEDGE of the meaning of suffering is impossible. It's like asking why we're here at all. There is no obvious answer. Ask yourself, "Why do people suffer, so?" ...and refer to any country whose babies are dying of hunger and whose young people are being stricken from the earth by AIDS or violence.

Why do they suffer?

I want faith that what they are doing is noble and that it matters.

http://www.pulsehead.com

2009-04-16T08:42:00.001-07:00

There's a new website out there that is a great place for amateur writers to collaborate.

It's called pulsehead: http://www.pulsehead.com

You don't even have to be a writer. Just create an account and contribute whatever you like - videos, pictures, blog entries, whatever.

A letter to Mom

2009-04-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom,

Life is really tough for me right now and I wish I had you here to give me guidance and support.

I can remember seeing you go through some very difficult times in your own life while you were still alive, and though you're not here anymore, I still draw on those experiences for strength when I need it.

Mom, I turn 30 in a few weeks and it looks like my job is on the rocks. Also, the woman I was in love with has now moved on to someone else, and I am left to deal with all of these things alone, with only my internal resources as assistance.

Sure, there have been times in the past where I've had to 'man up' and dig deep for the motivation I needed to press on, to get out of bed and to face another day. But for some reason it just gets harder and harder as the time passes and the anxiety in my life mounts.

There are very few things surrounding me that I can look to and appreciate. I have difficulty in seeing the positive in things when most of what my eyes take in is gray and shadowy. It's as if all I perceive is painted in malaise; even the most beautiful rose would not please my eyes like it once did.

Anyway, I hope you're well wherever you are. Know that I am thinking of you, and that I love you, and that I will continue to live on through this regardless of how heavy my heart feels or how much my soul weeps.

Give Buster a kiss on the nose for me. :)

Forever Your Son,

Bret

'Hot redheaded man' is NOT an oxymoron!

2009-03-25T16:30:00.000-07:00

Prepare for 29 years of ginger RAGE to all spill out onto one post. You have been warned.

________________________________________

I HAVE HAD IT.

For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.

You name it, I have heard it:

- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.

I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.

I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.

Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?

That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.

Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:

- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me

I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.

You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).

I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.

ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.

He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.

However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.

I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.

Monica Fell

2009-03-23T09:59:00.001-07:00

A brown styrofoam cup time has chipped at the rim
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark

Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing

Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears

So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page

"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black

The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly

She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack

"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down

Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can

"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"

And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town

Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten

"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is

"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears

Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.

Road to Home

2009-01-07T10:00:00.000-08:00

Now 35 in dog years, Luger's adventures had only begun.

He trotted along the side of the road not noticing much as he went, aside from the occasional dead squirrel or spent food container that happened to pass. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon in Tennessee and the 5 year-old black Labrador Retriever hadn't a care in the world.

At times the wind would bring a peculiar scent to his nose that would spark some curiosity, but Luger's focus was on the road. He had left that strange, confining place where he was picked at by young children and deprived of food for sometimes days at a time. Back home, the rain fell hard through the chicken wire 'roof' and happiness amongst the litter was rare. Finally, Luger had had enough of the sleepless nights spent along side his brethren and took to breaking out, via a chain link vulnerability near his sleeping pad. It had been 10 days or so since his emancipation.

So now...there was nothing to do but venture forth. It was sort of like Luger's coming of age, since he hadn't ever seen land outside of the 10 acres his prior masters owned in Chattanooga. Even as dusk fell and he felt his tender paws ache for rest, as the setting country sun shone pink and orange down on his snout, thinking back to the family he left behind evoked no remorse - Luger was a free dog.

Cresting a long, slow hill in anticipation of a night's sleep perhaps in a tree hollow somewhere, Luger spotted something interesting off in the distance. It appeared to be a rustling of sorts, in a thicket of brush that bordered the dirt road. From his position about 100 yards away, Luger could make out two human figures; one of them was much, much larger than the other and the two were engaged in some sort of struggle. Luger decided to investigate.

"yell yell yell yell yell yell yell!!" heard Luger, as he broached the scene.

"Yell? YELL YELL!! Yell yell yell yell!," came the reply from the other human.

The larger human wrestled the smaller one to the ground and knelt atop him. Luger kept his distance, though his presence was noticed by both of the humans.

"Yell? Yell!! YELL YELL!!," came more cacophony from the humans.

Soon the larger human began hitting the smaller one, bringing his arms and hands down with such force that the sounds of impact made Luger cringe. Soon his instincts got the best of him and Luger felt the hair on his back rise like it did when the boys back home got too rough with him. Setting his sights on the larger human, Luger sprang forth and launched himself at the attacker, barreling towards the two of them at full speed.

Teeth bared and eyes wide, Luger leaped at the taller man and caught his left arm between his jaws, clamping down hard and mashing his eyelids shut. The feeling of flesh being pierced by his teeth and the resulting cry from the man only fueled Luger's rage. Soon the two humans were separated, with the larger one now trying his best to fend off this wild, attacking animal.

Luger shook his head violently while still gripping at the man's upper arm. His tooth hold was lost when the man shook him off, sending Luger to the ground with a mouthful of flannel from the human's shirt, and a good amount of blood on his teeth. The coppery taste was familiar.

For a moment there was silence.

The two humans looked at each other, the smaller of them still on the ground, about 10 feet away from the larger one.

"Yell! Yell yell yell, yell yell yell yell yell. Yell, yell yell. YELL!!" screamed the larger human to the smaller one.

Then, the larger human pushed a hand against his injured arm, turned and began jogging briskly away.

Luger turned and glanced over at the small human laying in the dirt. It was a young boy...blond hair, dirty face, wearing overalls and a backpack.

"Say there, buddy...what's your name?" the boy inquired.

Luger sat and wagged his tail. For a moment the boy was at a loss for words.

He looked into the dogs eyes; Luger looked back.

"Come on. Let's go," he said, "We're late for supper."

And with that, Luger and his new master trotted off to begin their lives together.

To the Woman Who Threw Hot Coffee in my Face Yesterday

2009-01-06T06:33:00.000-08:00

I am equal parts confused and frustrated.

You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!

My day started simply enough; I wasn't expecting to be following you into work on I-25, obliviously sipping on my grande Chai latte (2%) and listening to some program on NPR about gays in the military. In case you were wondering I am not gay.

Anyway, why did you have to have a bumper sticker on your '99 Honda Civic that read: "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair"? I mean, is that not an invitation for a guy like me, brimming with testosterone and foolishly acting on my instincts, to want to drive up beside you, just to see if you're hot or not?

I mean, COME ON! Can you say 'INVITATION'?

Well, once I did manage to get a look at you, I realized you were pretty smokin'. I guess I didn't think you worked in the same building I did. You had both hands on the wheel, at 10 and 2 exactly, with your gorgeous eyes focused keenly on the road. God...safe drivers are SO sexy.

When we both showed up to work at the same time, I wasn't sure if you knew who I was. I mean, I work in sales and you're probably an HR person or something (though that would certainly be interesting considering your taste in bumper stickers).

I thought that when I caught up to you and said "Hey!" that I'd then be able to come up with some witty comment about the traffic that morning but NOOOOO. I had to totally fuck up and say what I did: "If I was riding your ass, I know *I'd* pull your hair!!"

My big, toothy grin following that comment was, I thought, sure to win you over. Plus, wasn't what I said at least somewhat funny?

Apparently NOT as you proceeded to dump your 20 ounces of piping hot hazelnut coffee right on my face! I mean, OW!!

After dealing with the indescribable pain I experienced as your boiling brown beverage coursed down my face and all over my pressed outfit, I found myself feeling sorry for you because now, you didn't have any coffee to drink. Not one drop.

You didn't even look back as you made your way up the stairs and into the building.

Now, aside from being busy nursing my second degree burns, I'm sad.

The people in the ER were very nice to me. And, as tempted as I was to comment on the nurses excellent choice of perfume, I did realize that she had a tray of syringes next to her, and I didn't want THOSE thrown in my face, too.

Oh well.

I hope you got a refill and had a good day.

:)

Raid on the Sentry

2008-12-30T11:30:00.000-08:00

A mountain of dead bodies and spent artillery casings separates the squad of footmen from their attackers, positioned about 2-3 miles from the squad's position near the eastern river embankment.

It's impossible to hear anything being said by anyone in the foxhole - hand gestures and chickenscratch on dirty, tiny notepads are the only effective means of communication.

Incoming mortar blasts and small rounds fire pepper the area. The half-dozen or so soldiers nesting in their earthen keep wait for the blasts to die down before attempting to communicate a plan for the next maneuver.

A small ridge about 300 yards north from their position affords the only semblance of protection for any advancement towards the enemy. The men in the foxhole decide to uproot their makeshift base and relocate to within sniping distance, along the foothills.

There is now 30 seconds or so between mortar rounds. The air is less riddled with flying bullets than it was earlier that morning, giving the soldiers an all-too-tempting window of opportunity to act.

The move is on. The bags are packed, the boots begin a quick march up a steep grade.

Soggy, sticky dirt-mud flies with each footstep. Somewhere close by a soldier gets his right leg ripped completely off by a land mine explosion. His cries die quickly as he does.

The men from the foxhole are about half-way to their new position. Their fear of death withstanding, they see the ridge fast approaching and quicken their pace with optimism.

A prime position amongst the foothills is obtained by the squad. The lead sniper unpacks his weapon and begins assembling it, still waiting on orders for where to point his death dealer.

For now, things are safer. The enemy doesn't know of the squad's whereabouts and the team has the slight advantage of surprise on their side.

Soon the wind dies down. Sun is setting in the west and time to point and pull is growing thin.

Sniper receives instructions, takes aim. He takes a deep breath and begins exhaling slowly. Target is in the crosshairs. The soldiers anticipate the sharp crack made by the discharged sniper round.

It comes. The bullet flies. The target has been disposed.

***

"I think you're making the right decision," Gail said as Henry finished signing his name on the document.

"They'll take excellent care of you here. I just know it."

Gail handed the signed agreement back across the desk and stood up to leave.

"Henry will be ready to move in sometime next month...I'll let you know exactly when."

The admissions clerk for the Huntington Beach Assisted Living Community smiled softly and nodded as the two left her office.

The Most Delicious Apple Ever

2008-12-10T07:16:00.000-08:00

Imagine if you will, the perfect field.

It is spanning, green, fertile and full of life. There are crickets, rabbits, wheat, life-giving soil and...most notably...there is a lone apple tree right in the middle.

This apple tree has been around for years, however it is not until just this morning that this tree has borne an apple that is the most delicious, most perfect apple ever.

It hangs delicately from it's branch, glistening in the morning sun and almost ethereal in it's flawlessness. The shape is geometrically perfect. The texture of it's skin is smooth and moist, and its color is so remarkable that any person walking by would be immediately drawn to it whether they were famished or not.

Yes, this is the most delicious apple ever created, and here it dangles, innocently and almost mockingly - as if to boast it's superiority among all other apples. A perfect apple on a perfect tree in a perfect field on a perfect morning; if only there were any humans around to appreciate it.

In 1 weeks time, this apple will fall from it's branch, smack the earth with a thud, become bruised by the impact and slowly start rotting away to eventually become a brownish black heap of organic slurry. It's seeds will be ensconced by the earth and it's skin will be consumed by whatever insects are lucky enough to stumble upon it's corpse.

In a month - this, the most perfect of all apples to have ever sprouted from their trees, will die.

And no one will know.
And life will go on.
And futures traders in their high-rise corner offices in Manhattan will proceed with their monetarily-fueled lives.
And wars will continue to rage.
And economies will continue to dictate the happiness of citizens.
And lions in Africa will continue to seek out the weakest of the gazelles, in order to themselves live another day.

...and all reality will be ignorant to the rise and fall of the most delicious apple ever.

More Lyman Ward Military Academy (LWMA) abuse videos

2008-10-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

More links:

http://s481.photobucket.com/albums/rr180/entrophize/?action=view¤t=video3.flv

http://s481.photobucket.com/albums/rr180/entrophize/?action=view¤t=video4.flv

That makes 4.

Lyman Ward Military Acadamy (LWMA) attempted cover up

2008-10-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

Hello!

I am responding to some action taken by Lyman Ward Military Academy.

Apparently they didn't like the videos I had posted on YouTube, depicting cadets being beaten and hazed at their academy.

So, I am going to publish the videos here.

Folks, this destruction of our youth is REAL. LWMA (Lyman Ward Military Academy) is a haven for drug use, cadet beatings, awful living conditions, and a host of other atrocities.

I have more proof than would ever be needed in a court of law...I just wish the school would acknowledge these awful acts instead of being childish and ripping evidence of them off the internet.

HERE ARE THE LINKS:

http://s481.photobucket.com/albums/rr180/entrophize/?action=view¤t=video.flv

http://s481.photobucket.com/albums/rr180/entrophize/?action=view¤t=video2.flv

I'll add another few when I get done uploading them.

THIS INFORMATION WILL NOT BE SUPPRESSED.

Lyman Ward Military Acadamy (LWMA)

2008-09-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

A few things should be said about Lyman Ward Military Academy.

I attended the school for 5 years, beginning in 1992 and ending in 1997. I spent my entire high school career at Lyman Ward Military Academy and I feel it's time I share with the public just what goes on there.

The school itself is very, very, very steeped in 'southern tradition', meaning it's views of 'proper young men' run deep and are very traditional, almost to the point of going back to civil war times.

Cadets are loosely thrown together in 'barracks' consisting of 3 floors of jail-like cells in large, isolated buildings on the campus. The living accommodations for cadets at Lyman Ward Military Academy are absolutely atrocious: there is no air conditioning; the living area per cadet is roughly 20 square feet and the power given to individual cadets is enough to make the 'inferior' cadets' lives a living hell.

I know. I've been there. I've seen all sides of Lyman Ward Military Academy and it's not pretty.

Any 'officer' cadet at Lyman Ward Military Academy has the power to subjugate any 'NCO' cadet at will.

Hazing, organized fighting, drug use, extortion and sexual assault are all commonplace. I have proof. Lyman Ward Military Academy is a haven for the breeding of violent, maladjusted young men.

Ask anyone who has spent more than a few weeks at the school and they will tell you: if you don't get beaten, humiliated, broken down and completely destroyed psychologically during your first few weeks there, then the faculty and cadre are NOT doing their jobs.

Lyman Ward Military Academy is hell. Again, I have proof. Just contact me.

bretd9@gmail.com

I will never stop being a voice for those whose lives have been destroyed by this deplorable institution.

Bourke's Box

2008-08-29T09:06:00.000-07:00

"In all of my 64 years, I've never been treated like this," the man barked at me, "what kind of establishment is this?"

I was in the middle of a conversation with Mickey, the warehouse guy, trying to locate this man's shipment. I could have easily hung up with Mickey, told the guest his package never made it, and that would have been the end of it.

Well...maybe it wouldn't have been the end, but at least his problem would no longer be my problem. However I wasn't being paid to pass the buck and I kind of felt sorry for the guest. His demeanor reeked of disappointment with life and everything in it, and for someone like that I could only feel pity.

"Sir, again, I apologize and I assure you we're doing all we can. If you'd like to go ahead up to your room I'll be sure to notify you if we find it," I attempted.

"I don't think you understand, boy," the staunch, graying man said to me through narrowing eyes, "what's in that box is more important than anything you've ever dreamed of. I've got sixty-three of the most important people in physics waiting for me right now and I've got NOTHING to show them. Do YOU want to go tell them they've travelled all the way here for nothing?"

Without answering I returned to my phone conversation.

Mickey apologized for me having to endure this guy's attitude and assured me that there was not, in fact, any parcel in the warehouse 'shaped like a 3-foot wide doughnut'. I thanked him, hung up the phone and watched as the angry guest turned his back and marched towards the hotel elevators with his single piece of luggage in tow.

A final, disgusted look over his shoulder reminded me why I fucking hated that job so much. The guests there were almost always complete assholes. What could possibly be so important about that package?

"ROOM 334 IN CASE YOU FORGOT, MORON!" the man screamed from across the hotel foyer.

"Got it!" I yelled back, "I'll keep you posted!"

Those within earshot cast a collective stare towards me almost as if to say in unison, "Are you gonna take that shit?"

Of course I was. I was a happy, rule-following Hilton Hotels employee without a soul, any self-respect or care for the fact that I was being paid nine dollars an hour to take shit from rude pricks all day.

I needed a cigarette.

"Hey John, it's three o'clock. Can I go on break?" I asked.

John looked over from his station at the concierge desk. He glanced at his watch then gave me a nod.

***

"So what was that guy's problem?" Mickey asked me.

We normally met during our breaks to bullshit over a smoke or two. Mickey was one of the few guys I worked with who was almost as jaded as I was and it felt good to vent to him about the crap I had to wade through during my shift.

I finished my drag and explained that whatever this guy was expecting must have been ultra-important, and that it had something to do with psychics. Or physics, or some shit like that.

"Maybe he's with NASA or something," Mickey said, "Next time he comes down to check on his package ask him if he'll give us a couple of vouchers for a free tour or something!"

I laughed; Mickey did too but only ended up coughing.

Just then a delivery truck pulled into the loading bay of the hotel where we were sitting and parked about twenty feet away. A short, stocky red-headed man hopped out of the driver's side and made his way to the rear of the vehicle where he proceeded to open the sliding door and pull out, yes, a circular, doughnut-shaped box with red and white-striped packing tape all over it.

"Ha! Well, there's his flying saucer," Mickey said.

"Jesus fucking Christ, finally I can shut this dude up," I said as I mashed my lit cigarette into a corner of the stairs. "Maybe I'll deliver it with a hearty 'fuck you, asshole' just because, you know, we're all about service here."

"Hahaha...yea. That'd be dope," Mickey replied, "But seriously...what do you think is in there?"
The delivery driver brought the package to Mickey and had him sign for it. I remember seeing the driver pick the strangely-shaped object up with only one hand and give it to Mickey with barely any effort.

"Ha! There ain't shit in here!" he joked.

As the truck driver sped off, Mickey brought the package up the stairs and set it next to the wall where he and I both had a look at the markings on it. There were three affixed shipping labels, two of which had the to and from addresses scratched out to eliminate confusion by the postal service. We could still make out the lettering below the scratch lines, however.

"Looks like it came from Alaska at first, then went to San Diego, then here. Huh." Mickey commented.
I picked up the package and slid my forearm through the hole in the center.

"Needs icing!" I joked.

"Seriously though...this thing is light as hell. It's like there's literally not a damn thing in there," I said.

"Dude, let's open it...maybe someone stole what was in there and we need to let the guest know that, right? I mean, we have an obligation here," Mickey said, only half kidding.

"I got no problem with that," I said, "If we fuck up what's inside, if there IS anything inside, he'll actually have a reason for calling me a moron. Let's just be sure we're able to close it back up without any signs of tampering."

With that, Mickey and I wheeled the package through the warehouse doors, into the freight elevator lobby and back through to the janitorial area. We set it against the wall and I retrieved my keys from my pocket.

"Apartment key should do the trick," I said, slicing at the packing tape and making a hole large enough for my thumb to fit into.

I have to admit, I was pretty damn curious myself about what could be so important about a big, bike tire-shaped box weighing close to nothing. If the guest, whose name was "Richard Bourke" by the way, wanted to be such an a-hole, perhaps having a glimpse at his Ark of the Covenant wasn't so unethical after all.

As I eased my thumb into the hole I created with my key, I noticed something incredibly peculiar. It was as if there was a current of air running through the box, yet I couldn't hear any noises necessarily and there certainly weren't any machines or electrical devices attached to the thing that would account for such a strange breeze.

"What the fuck?" I remarked, "Mickey, put your finger in there."

"Why? What is it?" he inquired, peering at the hole I made.

"Just do it. It's like...there's wind in there. But, there's nothing blowing it. Fucking bizarre!" I exclaimed.

Mickey pushed the pointer and middle fingers of his right hand into the hole, a bit deeper than I had gone with my thumb.

"Whoah!! What the hell? Damn! It's...it's cold, too! It's like this box is like, I dunno...self-air conditioned or something," he said, "Dude, we gotta open it. This is waaaay fucking cool..."

"Nah, come on man. We've seen enough. This is too strange and what if this is some like, high-tech science experiment worth a bunch of money? We could get sued or something," I cautioned, "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be sued by asshole scientists for letting the wind out of their box."

"Haha, good point. Fair enough...hey, grab that tape over there on that counter, would ya? I'll mend this hole and you can go give this thing to..."

Just then the hole I made in the box started to grow without us being anywhere near it. Compressed air coming from inside was gushing out of the hole at an increasing rate, and as Mickey and I stepped back away from the box, which was now on the floor, what we saw next is something we'd never forget.

From the hole in the box a bluish-white beam of light was emanating along with the air, and within a few seconds the 'doughnut' was split in half and what we saw before us was what I can only describe as a swirling, cold halo of blue light.

It...was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

The coldness coming from it was enough to drop the temperature in the janitor's room by at least a few degrees. But before I could take time to shiver, the 'halo' began to rise out of the box halve that it was in and there it hovered, about 3 feet off the ground.

"Oh...my...fucking...god..." Mickey whispered through quivering lips, "Derrick, what the hell is this thing..."

"I don't know man but I think, we need to get out of here," I said.

Just as I had finished saying that, the halo of cold, blue wind started to increase in size, thinning out a bit so as to resemble a flat disc of sorts. The light coming from it had begun to decrease in intensity, and right before our eyes, Mickey and I watched as the 'object' rose to the ceiling, entered an air duct and left our sight.

Mickey and I looked at each other.

Without saying a word, I grabbed the tape and began winding it around the two box halves.

"Ok listen, nothing happened here. We never opened this fucking box and you didn't see anything, got it?" I said.

"Yea, right...nothing." Mickey replied, his face ghost-white.

I grabbed the box, returned to the hotel lobby and told John I was back on the clock. I then took the package to the elevator, pushed the call button and waited.

Soon, the doors opened for one of the elevators and out walked Richard Bourke.

"AHA! You found it!" He said.

"Yessir. Here's your package. Just showed up." I said.

"So, apparently you're good for something after all, boy. I was just coming down to complain to management about you, so I guess you've averted that crisis." he said, taking the box from my hands and walking back into the elevator.

"Yessir," I said, as the elevator door closed.

"Crisis averted."

She, Me and the Wii

2008-05-05T08:03:00.000-07:00

I remember the sweaty palms
The racing pulse before unlocking the door

I then remember the calm
The resting peace I felt was sudden and sure

She walked in and smiled wide
We enjoyed a hug and I drank in her form

I was curious of her mind
And couldn't remember being this thrown before

Conversation started, wine poured
She commented on my cleanliness and my words back stumbled

Such beautiful eyes, my word!
I think I forgot what she just said; I tried to keep humble

My nervousness became obvious
"Come sit, be calm," she said...I oblige and we touch

Now there's no tension between us
The nerves and anxiety I felt seemed not to matter as much

I see her lips move as she speaks
The words they utter are as soft and sincere as I can remember

Can it be this nice? The way we meet?
I stop caring about everything when we kiss...igniting embers

Soon we embrace and the world melts
All that's there now is a union of two on a night set in time

The passion and pulling, buttons and belts...
The intensity of love expressed when her eyes met with mine

I kiss her goodnight on my meager twin bed
"I can't believe you sleep on this" she said and I conceded

Welcome, dear, to your own place in my head
It seems that for all I thirst, your company is all I've needed.

<3

Tired of dating losers? Follow these 5 easy steps!!

2008-04-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

It's time again for another "Getting better dates in Boulder" post!

Today we're going to be discussing the perils of (and lessons learned from) dating idiots, losers, bums, neer-do-wells, miscreants and other sub-standard men.

You know they're out there...these men. Why, with the sheer concentration of males with such low intelligence yet such high sex drives, it makes things nearly impossible for a sophisticated and classy woman such as yourself to expect success in your love life.

Right?!

Right.

So here are 5 easy steps that YOU (yes, YOU) can follow to ensure that your odds of staying clear of spineless, broke, intellectually bereft morons are high:

1. Do not entertain e-mail offers for 'just coffee' that also include attached pictures of male genitalia.

Ladies, this should go without saying, but it seems I have to lay some ground rules in order to make sure my advice doesn't fall on deaf ears. If a guy sends you an e-mail just wanting 'coffee sometime', yet has also went to the effort of attaching a snapshot of his man bits, just...click...delete. Trust me. The kind of 'coffee' he's referring to probably isn't a variety you'd like. Just a hunch.

2. Learn to identify the patterns of the man who just wants sex.

This is actually a very easy thing to do. When you receive correspondence from a potential date, and if you're interested in finding out if this guy just wants to get his rocks off or not, simply count the number of times the following words are used in his e-mails to you:

sex
sexy
sex kitten
sex doll
sex toys
sex starved
sex change
sex crazed
sexytime (imagine this being said in a Borat accent)
sexify
sexcapade (immediate red flag)
sexual

etc.

If any of the above are used more than once in any given paragraph, click delete. This should solve the problem and narrow down your prospects well.

3. Never, ever, ever, ever, assume that the guy who uses big words actually knows their meanings.

If there's one thing that I hear all the time from the thousands of beautiful women who call me daily with their dating woes, it's their disappointment in meeting men who initially seem well-spoken and intellectual only to find that they're really mouth-breathing heathens who can't string an sentence in English together to save their lives.

Example: when a man types, "I really like existentialism. It's implications really enthuse my mental capacities," click delete.

4. Stop thinking there are men out there who actually WON'T try to kiss you by the third date.

This is a reality check, girls. Guys...want...1st...base...by...date...3. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but by at LEAST the third date you will be subjected to the potentially uncomfortable experience of having to make a decision as to whether or not to kiss the man standing before you, perhaps slightly buzzed from beer and hopeful.

Know your end game before you start playing. The cocktail of male hormones that course through a man's veins while he is in the company of an attractive woman is a very dangerous thing.

5. Use the 1-in-10 ratio when forming expectations about the men you meet on the internet.

This is simple math. Because of the sheer density of lowlife, degenerate men who play on the internet, you must expect that only 1 out of every 10 men you 'meet' this way will end up being even worth considering as a potential mate.

So...when you get 150 responses to your 'innocent' craigslist posting, know that only 15 of them are probably worth even opening.

That's it! I tell you now, if you put these simple steps to good use TODAY, you can start relishing in your dating success TOMORROW.

Thanks for reading and do let me know what sort of experiences you have. Being a hot, single Boulder guy gets old and I need your accounts of dating folly to keep things fresh.

Toodles!

Preparing to face 30

2008-03-11T12:14:00.000-07:00

Wow.

29.

I turn that age in one month.

It's the official, last year of my twenties and it begins in less than 5 weeks. When I think about the kind of person I was when I turned 20, I realize just how radically I've changed. At 20, I had long hair, a high school diploma, a very unstable mind, no clue about where I wanted to go in life and was just kind of coasting along until I figured myself out.

The bad news is that I still haven't figured myself out. And, by 29, that IS in fact bad news.

The good news is that there has been substantial growth. Since 20 I have gotten a college degree, come to terms with my mother's death, learned an incredible amount about business and money, built up a decent credit score, paid off a lot of debt, traveled to some pretty amazing places, dated some pretty amazing women and in general have enjoyed life more than I haven't.

I've also worked in half a dozen different industries and learned more about each of them than I ever would have just reading or talking to people about them.

However...I truly think I've lived for myself and no one else these past 8 years. I've always thought of the world in terms of my place in it. I guess I never thought that things would ever matter to me if they involved the welfare of others...because, I thought, that's THEM and I'm ME.

I'm beginning to realize that this sort of egotistical thinking is horribly immature. It also causes a lot of anxiety because it doesn't leave room for the inclusion of others -- I end up feeling very alone and alienated because I only think about myself, pushing others away. Hopefully turning 29 and 30 will offer change in that regard.

Alas, I can't stop what's coming. All I can do is make light of change and find reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning.

C'est la vie.

7 Essential Mental Functions

2008-02-04T07:25:00.000-08:00

Temperance
Self-reliance
Resolve
Empathy
Faith
Wisdom
Compassion

I wanted to put together a little list for you to print out, keep in your purse/wallet, put on sticky notes at work and just in general start to believe in.

These are, I believe, the 7 key traits of a sound mind. These 7 functions of the human mind, when developed equally, contribute to a higher sense of being. They abolish pain, doubt, fear and apprehension. I know this from both personal experience and from seeing others endure unspeakable hardships yet persevere because they somehow draw on one or more of these 7 keys.

First you must understand what each key means.

Temperance - This is moderation or self-restraint in action, statement, etc.; self-control. When one is 'temperate', they are in control of how they react to situations. They have a good handle on their emotions and can identify when they're feeling impatient, angry or unsettled.

Self-reliance - this should seem obvious. Being self-reliant means looking within for assistance with life - there are way more than enough resources in your own spirit to help you through any problem you might be going through.

Resolve - This is essentially the same thing as will power. Resolve is critical in dealing with adversity and knowing that ALL pain is temporary.

Empathy - Empathy is seeing/feeling/acting in the world through someone else's eyes/body/mind. Someone who is empathic gains perspective in life from understanding the plight of the homeless, dejected, etc. They literally take the time to try and imagine life as someone less fortunate. This results in constant appreciation for life.

Faith - This shouldn't need so much explanation, but suffice to say that faith is the unwavering belief that there is something bigger than yourself which is worth living for.

Wisdom - Wisdom is tricky to define. Try doing a bit of research on this one...my personal statement about wisdom is that it is a thorough understanding of cause and effect outside of human emotion. Wisdom is pure thinking without the complications of toxic emotions like anger and frustration.

Compassion - This one is simple. Love all living things for what they are, period. Express that love through action and meditate on loving yourself. You too are a living being deserving of love.

Print this list out and keep it with you. Take some time each day to appreciate being alive at all, and if you can't find a reason to appreciate life, refer to this list and apply the 7 keys. You will see change I assure you.

The Phantom Goal of Monetary Pur$uit

2008-02-01T08:03:00.000-08:00

This morning I sat as 'fly on the wall' overhearing a heated phone conversation being had between a real estate investor and a mortgage banker.

To sum up the situation, someone was being sued by someone else because of foreclosure issues involved with a series of about 11 rental properties all being managed by a millionaire couple living in my city.

The level of stress and obvious trepidation in the voice of the person on the phone was palpable. The bottom line and root cause of all the unrest and conflict had to do with one thing and one thing only: the rabid and myopic pursuit of accumulation of wealth.

...as I make my way diligently through my late twenties, I am being more and more often reaffirmed of my belief that this disease of addiction to money is of the most toxic and alienating phenomena to ever inhabit our interactions with other human beings. The race for more and more and more and even ever more completely clouds the minds of otherwise intelligent and productive individuals.

It's gotten to the point where I have almost stopped caring entirely about financial security. And that's too bad considering we all need money to survive, right?

But..

Can you really justify 'needing' to distance yourself from the 50% of the world that lives on less than $2 a day, by blindly scratching and clawing for every last red cent of profit, even at the expense of lost time with family, health risks, stress, lost sleep and missing out on the so many other things in life which make existence pleasurable?

Do millionaire investor types really know the pleasures of minimalism and existential simplicity?

Can a 'high net worth' individual ever really see the forest for the trees if his goal in life is to always accumulate more, and never enjoy what he has?

How close to God can one possibly be when the REAL fuels for his life are higher profit margins and more expensive belongings?

Right now I own nothing more than a vehicle and a 1 bedroom apartment's worth of cheap furniture and 2 bicycles. Honestly, I don't aspire to have more...not in money, not in prestige and certainly not in perceived affluence.

Because for me, the immeasurable glory of a newborn sunset - the cold kiss of the mountain wind - the calming effects of beautiful music - the incalculable bliss of displaying compassion and sympathy for others - the daily reinforcement of my insignificance in this universe - these things bring me so much joy that to waste my time trying to win another $1,000 for my bottomless checking account makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

So today I think I am going to take an extra few minutes out of my routine to appreciate being alive at all. For, if I am to die tomorrow, I will know that at least today I didn't waste my energy chasing the phantom of monetary gain.

Life as a collection of perceived extremes

2008-01-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

I challenge you, reader, to think about ultimate extremes.

I challenge you to imagine being at your basest, your lowest, your most painful and most dejected. I want you to create for yourself an ultimate image of depravity, lifelessness and misery. Try to make it such that you can NOT imagine a scenario more despicable or callous. In other words, try to think of how incalculably BAD life could be.

Now hold that thought. Quarantine it, and put it somewhere in your mind for future reference. It might be painful to even approach with thought, but just humor me for this exercise.

Next I challenge you to imagine a circumstance in which life could not be any better for you. Think about being the paragon of happiness...seeing everything for what it is and being listlessly happy to the point of harnessing infinite good. Let your mind conjure up a setting in which you as a living human have no worries, no sins, no anxieties and only the purest of positive feelings. This, for you, should be the extreme GOOD life.

Take this second extreme and place it next to the first. Notice the clear disparity between the two...notice the huge chasm of well-being that exists between being ultimately, extremely miserable and being ultimately, extremely happy.

Now consider this: life on earth has been, for you, nothing more than a collection of experiences that fall somewhere between these two extremes. You have never felt worse than your definition of extreme misery and you've never really known happiness beyond your definition of extreme contentment.

Do you really wish to know reality and to see everything as it is, independent of your flawed faculties of perception? Is this even possible?

I say yes, yes it is.

The first step to doing this is to take the two extremes that I had you imagine...take them and crush them. Destroy them. Watch them, in your mind, burn away like smoldering cinder. Blow away the remaining ash and believe that there is no such thing as an objective extreme. No one knows exactly to what extent we can feel good or bad - those extents are only shaped by what we've been shown or experienced so far in life.

Understand that your life, my life, your ancestors' and progeny's lives, have all been lived between two extremes that could have been completely rejected and redefined at any time with enough will and wisdom.

I think it's critical to gain wisdom in order to learn more about why we're here, alive, sentient and tasked with the burden of being encapsulated inside a body that can be both ultimately miserable or ultimately happy at any given point in the course of it's tenure on earth.

For, to understand our respective purposes in life is to live with an ongoing thirst for answers that can't be obtained. This understanding is never fully gained, however it is lived and exercised through actions and communication. If anyone tells you they understand exactly what human life was created for is living in a fantasy land. No one knows exactly why we're here.

What those on higher planes of wisdom understand is that the seeking of meaning in life is what propels us and in some way pacifies our yearning for answers that are never really realized. It's enough 'to live the quest'.

Pretending to have all the answers is tantamount to saying you have none.

The answers we seek won't ever reveal themselves to us as the answers, rather we are destined to make sense of our realities as we traverse them, always between our two extremes, and always hoping to be closer to ultimate happiness.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 9, final)

2007-10-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

The time had come. Escape was imminent.

Oiden gripped the Fluff Crystal Gun with trepidation. He had positioned the Zalhfarian pouch of piss just above the crystal and had the blade of the femalien hand weapon at the ready for puncturing.

Hinze began howling in fake pain.

Astron's heart rate escalated as a team of guards approached their cell.

---------------------------------------------------------------

The first of the guards peered quizzically into the cell as if to surmise the situation before gaining entry. Hinze tried his best to seem as agonized as possible; it was in fact enough to prompt the guards to eventually slide open the cell door. There were 4 of them.

The first (and consequently the largest and most heavily-armed) of the guards approached Hinze. It looked him up and down not unlike an AT Paramedic would at training quarter. The other three guards were positioned in a kind of triangle-like formation behind the first.

All 4 guards were now in the cell. Oiden knew the time was now.

Oiden sliced into the Zalhfarian pouch with a steadied movement of his right hand. The femalian hand-blade was remarkably sharp and had no problem creating a 3-inch long incision in the pouch holding the piss. After he removed the blade, the purplish, oozing mass of congealed human urine began seeping into the makeshift tube housing the fluff crystal. Once it hit the crystal, the telltale vapors immediately began billowing.

The guards immediately picked up on the scent. Two of them had already made their way towards Oiden, each at the ready with their barbed batons, fast on the approach. Oiden brought the fluff crystal gun to his lips and, with a huge push of his diaphragm, blew the crystal-smoke right through the pea-sized hole he had bored into the end of the tube.

The effect on the guards was not immediate. One of them managed to land a hit onto Oiden's right side, just below his ribcage. It wasn't a pretty sight - the guards' weapons were engineered to do as much damage with one blow as is possible with a hand weapon. Within seconds, Oiden was doubled over in pain and the guards were exhibiting determined signs of confusion.

"FUCKING GO, NOW! NOW! NOW!" Came the command from Astron.

The team of soldiers bolted like a pack of scared mice right through the open cell door, arms flailing and full of the screams of newly freed prisoners. Oiden, though injured, picked up the weapon that was used to assault him and carried it with him as he left, the last of the 48 men. In their wake was a dissipating cloud of purple-black smoke and 4 guards, all shaking and seething with rapturous pleasure on the floor of that cell.

The femaliens were all on the floor, motionless. Apparently the fluff crystal gas had completely incapacitated them.

"Holy shit..." Hinze remarked at the spectacle, before joining the others in their harried run through the doors of their cell.

The men held together well as they traversed the first 200 yards of their exit route. They had plotted a beeline through the first holding branch through a series of annexes to where they believed their Denstrolle fighters were docked.

"Fuck, Czissin, what are our ST's telling us?" Hinze asked, between breaths.

Astron was running with two status tokens in his hands.

"We're on track. I'm picking up dense signals coming from our 2 o'clock. Looks like we've got about another six thousand or so feet. Is anyone down?" Astron replied. Sweat was forming on his brow yet his composure was well kept, considering the fervor.

"Oiden's been hit. He's keeping up ok but he's not in good shape." Hinze said.

"Good. Let's keep going."

Oiden was trailing blood; it was pouring from his bowels as he ran. Each step sent a fresh wave of the sticky red stuff through his clenched fingers as he tried to keep his garment pressured over the wound.

"Fuck...you bastards won't get us all..." he said under his breath as his run reduced to a jog.

"HERE!" Astron yelled out. He pointed to his right at a door with a series of strange glyphs above it. "Our fighters are in here. Get going on the energy lock release and I'll start manning the control stations."

The soldiers assigned to their duties scattered to begin their respective tasks.

The remainder of the team stood captivated and worried - interestingly, there wasn't a sound to be heard from anywhere else. It's as if those 4 guards were the only ones in the compound at the time of the escape.

"Where the fuck is Oiden? OIDEN! GET YOUR ASS UP HERE!" Astron demanded.

There wasn't a sound to be heard from Oiden or anyone else. Then, suddenly, in the far distance a strange, oscillating sound could be heard. It's volume increased steadily and it was then that Astron knew that backup was on the way. If the team didn't make a move now, they'd be committing suicide.

Astron clamored up the entry hatch inside the first fighter and began activating the launch systems. After preparing the lift engines and prepping all SS9 checks, he bolted back down and assisted the others with the other fighters.

About a thousand feet away, Oiden was down. His hands were at his side, both drenched in blood. His gaze at the ceiling of the annex in which he fell was one indicative of death. As the backup team of guards approached him, he closed his eyes and let his held tilt forward as life escaped his body.

"READY!! ACTIVATE LAUNCH SEQUENCES NOW! LET'S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!" Astron bellowed through the intercom system shared by the team of Denstrolle fighters.

The energy lock had been disarmed and the propulsion cells roared to life. The bay doors eased open and the massive ships rolled smoothly out into the salty Ibitus 412N air.

Soon all 8 of their vessels were airborne and en route back home.

After a few minutes of panicked caution, Astron set his team's ships on autosequence and called a meeting of his peers through the virtulcomm.

"Folks, Oiden didn't make it. The rest of us, however, did. We've got about a day's worth of traveling ahead of us. I suggest you each relax and prepare yourselves for quite a welcome back at training quarter. You all did a fantastic job."

After fielding a few questions from the men pertaining to re-entry protocol, Astron clicked off the virtulcomm.

As he sat back in his chair, Astron pulled his journal from his satchel and began writing.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 8)

2007-10-20T12:26:00.002-07:00

Astron Czissin closed his journal and went over to where his cohorts were plotting their escape route through the compound. They were using a rusted nail on a piece of trunk casing to draw out a rough map of what they knew of the layout, but it wasn't something they all were confident in.

"Are you sure this is right?" Astron asked L3 Ensign Hinze, one of the three other prisoners who matched Astron in both rank and battle experience.

"I'm not sure of shit, Czis'. I can tell you though that when we were brought in here I remember counting three rights, a left, another right and then two more lefts before we reached this holding cell" he finished.

"You remember all that?" Astron asked.

"I do. Some of us are more situationally aware than others, Czis'" came Hinze's reply.

Astron narrowed his eyes at his fellow soldier and smiled.

"You're lucky I like you" he said.

After Gladlock, Oiden, Hinze and Astron finished plotting their route, they all decided it was time to get some rest before they would make their break in about 6 hours. The timing was such that, ideally, the team of them would be en route to their Denstrolle fighters under the cover of Ibitus' only night-like phase in 4 days. The planet had a very peculiar solar cycle and that 'night', it was sure, would provide them the cover they'd likely need to get back to their ships safely.

A good few hours rest would do his team well. Astron looked on as his compatriots slept in their respective cots. He however, could do nothing but sit and wait. His mind was racing as he played out how the escape might go. At about the t-30 minute mark, Astron summoned his soldiers together for a debriefing.

"Alright guys, listen up," Astron said loudly to everyone in earshot, "We're getting the fuck out of here tonight and I need absolutely everyone's cooperation."

The femaliens were on their haunches in another corner, wolfing down fluff as they curiously looked on.

"Gladlock, Oiden, Hinze and Vereng are going to assist me in the actual override of the guard force here. Although not everyone is going to get to maul one of these guards, we all need to be prepared to defend ourselves."

The crowd was silent. 47 soldiers, all anxious and aware, hung on every one of Astron's words.

"We have devised this," Astron said, as he held in front of him the Fluff Crystal Vapor Gun that he and the others had devised the day prior.

"According to the limited intelligence we've gathered, this is going to serve as our ticket out of here. We don't know exactly how these beings respond to the smoke that comes off this crystal when our piss is poured onto it, but whatever happens, it completely incapacitates them. Hinze is going to feign injury and scream for a guard and Oiden is going to initiate the assault. When I give the signal, I need teams of 10 to follow Oiden, Hinze, Gladlock and Vereng on my six."

Not a noise was heard aside from Astron's voice. This was all critical information and each soldier needed to process every single word.

"After we've breached this holding cell we're counting on our status tokens to reveal the location of our fighters. Once we reach them, Vereng is going to disarm the bay door locks using the on-board material diffuser on Denstrolle 1117. Destrolles 1120, 22, 30 and 38 will standby until I receive the go signal from Vereng."

Astron looked around the room to ensure there were no questions.

"Now folks, this is very important. What I'm about to tell you goes contra to what you might have been taught in training quarter."

Astron's audience sat tranfixed.

"Should any of us fall to the hands of our captors, or should anyone become too injured to proceed with our mission here, we are to not offer assistance of any kind."

A few confused glances were exchanged amongst the team and some concerned chatter could be heard.

"Listen. We're getting out of here. If one of us becomes a burden on the rest, that could mean a recapturing for all of us. I repeat, do NOT offer assistance to the wounded and do NOT, under any circumstances, attempt to portage a dead body. I cannot emphasize this enough."

Silence returned to the group.

"Now. We have about 20 minutes to execution. Please take this time to gather only what you need from now until we reach our vessels. Am I 100% understood by everyone in this room?"

A booming "YES SIR!" caught the glance of a passing guard. Thankfully the species that inhabited Ibitus 412N didn't understand a word of English, otherwise the team's captors might have caught on to their plan.

The next few minutes passed quite quickly for everyone in that holding cell on Ibitus 412N. As the time drew nearer, the silence in their living space became almost painful. Finally, about three minutes prior to their planned time of escape, Astron brought his leading team of four close to the front of the cell.

The time had come. Escape was imminent.

Oiden gripped the Fluff Crystal Gun with trepidation. He had positioned the Zalhfarian pouch of piss just above the crystal and had the blade of the femalien hand weapon at the ready for puncturing.

Hinze began howling in fake pain.

Astron's heart rate escalated as a team of guards approached their cell.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 7)

2007-10-20T12:26:00.001-07:00

The time is nearly upon us. Myself, Oiden, Gladlock and the three other L3's here with us have developed a plan that we intend to execute this evening. Right now it's 03:40 and the attitude in our cell has certainly shifted from one of monotony and growing hopelessness to one of intrepid excitement and for good damn reason.

This is what we have now:

1. Fluff crystal
2. A rolled urethanic tube with the end folded closed and a hole punched in it
3. About 3 ounces of Gladlock's piss contained in a Zalhfaran pouch, ready for rupturing
4. One set of hand weapons that were smuggled in by the leader of the femaliens. As of current she has not noticed it missing.
5. A lot of fucking balls

This is what we need:

1. More weapons, preferably ones that discharge energy rounds
2. A map of this compound
3. The location of our 6 Denstrolle fighters (this should be pretty easy to attain once we get out of this cell and use our status tokens to track the vessels' power signatures)
4. A miracle

The plan is to encase the fluff crystal inside the urethanic tube, so that the crystal rests at the base of the rolled cylinder. At the bottom, Oiden has punched a hole that he will blow through once Gladlock's piss has been introduced into the contraption. The end result is going to be a Fluff Crystal Gas Gun of sorts that will allow us to direct the current of whatever neuro-affective vapor starts burning off that crystal when we break the Zalhfaran pouch of piss onto it. The rupture will be initiated by a piercing using one of the hand blades I confiscated from the femalien leader. With some luck this should work. Again, there are many variables, including just what the effect of this gas will be on us humans should we allow any of it to get into our lungs. I guess we'll have to take that risk.

As I write this, Gladlock, Oiden and L3 Hinze are drawing a makeshift map on a piece of casing near their cots. I'm going to finish writing what I need to here and go see what they're working on. Maybe we can plot a route out that is consistent with what we remember about the layout of this place from the day we were all admitted here.

Oh, to be free again...after these long months in the chamber being kept as lab rats of a sort. It's been a long, long while and I do feel entitled to my own freedom as well as the freedom of my men. I've already promised them all Ya'ul Commendations should we make it back safe. All except for Klausen of course, who will be forever remembered as having played a key role in getting us the fuck out of here. If he hadn't been escorted out of our cell, we would never had the fortune of coming upon a piece of this crystal.

Time to wrap this up. My next entry will either be one written from back at training quarter, or these words you are now reading shall be my last.

Astron Czissin, Out.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 6)

2007-10-20T12:25:00.001-07:00

A few developments have made our escape much, much more of a pressing imperative than ever before. First I will tell you of something that is beginning to happen to us, physiologically, and then, more importantly, an event that occurred which will most likely benefit us more than anything has yet.

The vast majority of us are experiencing a slight shift in the coloring of our vision. We're all noticing it. Our peripheral views are becoming tinted with blackish purple - the same color as the urine we've been providing for our captors these past months. L2 Ensign Oiden was the first to report it and after actually paying attention to the outskirts of my field of view, I notice it too. It's very subtle yet certainly present. This fluffy, sand like crap their feeding us...appears to be changing the way that our eyes are taking in light. There is no other explanation except perhaps that the new additions to our cell (the femaliens) have something to do with it. We doubt that, however, as they are in no contact with us and pretty much keep to themselves.

I did uncover the satchel I've been hiding for presentment to our cell-mate femaliens. The leader - as I guess you could caller her that, judging from the size and hue of her blue skin markings - looked at it quizzically at first but then, after taking it from me, opened it with the most peculiar means I've ever seen. She placed the satchel on one of the beds we use and laid both her wrists on it, forming an 'x'. A 'click' was heard and the satchel was opened. I have never seen anything like this in my life. It's as if the key to the 'lock' on the satchel were not a key at all. Rather, these femaliens have a way of modifying energy fields at will, and as this container was secured by such an energy field, it was an easy task for them to complete. After 'she' had opened the satchel for me, she turned around and went back to being with those of her race. Apparently she had no interest in what was in the satchel. We however, certainly did.

I lifted the triangular, metal-like flap from over the energy lock and as I did so, could hear a certain whirring noise grow markedly louder. From inside the container I pulled a fist-sized piece of exactly what it was we needed. That goddamned crystal. Sure enough, a piece of 'fluff crystal' was inside that satchel. It makes a machine-ish sort of sound all on it's own and since we've been studying it, we still cannot determine just where this noise is coming from. Frankly, I don't care what it looks, sounds, or smells like.

This crystal is going to be our ticket out of here.

Our next step is to set a date and time to attempt to get the hell out of here. We now have the means.

A few of us are wondering if the femaliens will join us. Personally I don't give a shit. They can stick around if they like or they can join us. It matters not. Me and my men will be gone in less than a week and I am 100% committed to this.

Once I firm up our plans I'll write again. After that, my next entry will be, hopefully, written from our bunker back at training quarter.

Astron Czissin, out.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 5)

2007-10-20T12:24:00.001-07:00

Just when I think things couldn't get any more bizarre around here, another incident happens that totally shifts my thoughts about this alien race keeping us hostage.

It's not enough that we're being trapped here on this dry, cracked planet for the purposes of urine collection. Now we have found ourselves in the company of an entirely other slew of humanoid creatures, all of them being female. Earlier today, just after our 5th serving of 'fluff', our cell doors slid open to reveal a group of decidedly human-like female beings. They all seemed just as shocked and dismayed as we were the day of our processing, and they were quite orderly and contained as they were led into their new home: here, next to us, in this goddamned prison on Ibitus 412N. They're quite tall for 'women' (I can't really consider them 100% human because their legs have 4 pivoted joint locations unlike our 3 and their skin is pockmarked with large, bluish brandings) but they certainly resemble us far more than our captors do.

Of course we all tried making conversation but as could be expected, they don't speak English. They do speak, but it's a kind of tinny, high pitched oscillation of tones more so than any language we would recognize. One of them looks a lot like a woman I knew back at training quarter. Her name was Clista Fawe and I remember receiving news of her death not long ago.

This development has somewhat moralized my men. A few of them have already tried to physically touch our new cell mates and their come-ons have been met with sharp rejection. L2 Ensign Listah received a kick-like attack to his side after trying to grab the rear end of one of them. I guess I can't blame them for trying...they haven't been in the company of women for over a year. Alas, since we're not able to communicate with these creatures and since they don't really show any kind of value to us or our cause of leaving this place, it's safe to say their arrival is more of marginal benefit than anything else.

I have been growing increasingly curious as to the contents of the satchel that was left behind by the guards the other day, when Klausen was removed. By the way, he still hasn't returned and just yesterday we held a brief memorial for him, complete with eulogy given by his Denstrolle co-pilot, L2 Ensign Oiden. Speaking of our Denstrolle fighters...we know they're near us and in good working order. The status tokens we all keep with us provide us with constant diagnostic updates as to their conditioning systems and functionality. As of recent, this sign of hope is really what's been keeping us faithful in our eventual escape. According to our tokens, our ships are less than 3 kilometers away and are all in fantastic shape.

Unfortunately I don't have much else to report. These 'femaliens' (as they're now affectionately termed by us) are keeping to themselves and their cryptic chatter can be heard even now.

I think tomorrow I'm going to present the satchel to our new company, in hopes that they might instinctively know what to do with it. I know it's a long shot but I exhausting all possibilities of advancing toward a break out of here.

Astron Czissin, out.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 4)

2007-10-20T12:23:00.002-07:00

Well, another one of us has made his way out of our cell. It looks like a few more might do the same, but not for good reason.

Before I finished writing last, L1 Ensign Klausen started complaining of feeling ill. At first he was coughing up thick wads of blood, phlegm and fluff mixture but soon it became tinged with bile, something I immediately identified - having had a bout with my gall bladder myself a long time ago. He was complaining of cramps and weakness while growing increasingly pale. Before too long he was passing in and out of consciousness and this is when I decided to flag down the guards.

It's interesting how this all happened when it did. When the guards came in to take Klausen away, the rest of us had a long, hard look at what they were carrying. This time there was no gurney sort of contraption used to take away the afflicted, no. It was a bag...a transparent one, with a kind of magnetic closure on it and a vent at the top to allow for breathing. We were motioned to stand clear of his body which was, at this point, lying lifeless on the metal floor of our room. We watched diligently as the ET's carefully placed Klausen into the bag, closed it, and together hoisted him up and out of sight.

It's been about 2 days since we last saw him and we're pretty sure he's not coming back. We can't think of a good reason why they'd keep a living one of us anywhere else but here, unless Klausen provided some sort of utility to them that the rest of us did not. Were they going to kill him? Is he already dead? Don't we fucking deserve to know what's happening to us? What if his sickness is a result of this substance we're being fed? I guess it doesn't make much sense to ask questions as we're not understood here anyway.

The count now is 47, excluding me. A few of the men are complaining of symptoms similar to what Klausen experienced but so far they haven't become a real threat. I'm quickly losing patience and am starting to wonder if we're going to ever get out of here.

On a positive note, one of the guards left a small satchel behind it after coming to take Klausen away. Since the guard hasn't returned to reclaim it, we're going to hide it from sight for now, until we can figure out how to get it open. It's sealed tightly by a kind of powered lock - there is a slight humming that can be heard inside it. We must find a way to break it open.

I'm going to get some sleep. Once things change, I'll write more.

Astron Czissin, out

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 3)

2007-10-20T12:23:00.001-07:00

It's been a few days since I've written anything down. Today marks day number 89 since our capture. Because the cycle of 'daylight' on this planet is so screwy (they see about 3 days of light for every one of dark) we're using one of the L1 Ensign's timepieces to keep tabs. Since we were taken captive during a recon patrol on Colandron (part of the Saiin Cluster), we've been locked in this containment cell for the purpose of piss harvesting.

But, as I've written before, it's not really even piss that comes out anymore. It's like a mix cough syrup and cake batter and it's color and smell are both stomach-turning. Everything else about our bodies seems to be functioning perfectly. One on my team here even remarked that he feels better physically than he has in all his days growing up back on Earth.

Anyway. We're stuck here now and after a few discussions with some of the L3's I believe we have a sort of plan of exit. I don't want to get into too much detail because we still have yet to decide how we're going to get a few of the things we need to get out of here. The general idea is this: because of what Gladlock saw in his trip outside of our cell, we can safely assume that the vapor released by the combination of our piss and that strange crystal totally incapacitates these aliens, putting them in some state of seizure-like revelry. They lose cognizant control of their motor functions and just start flailing around, groping and spitting.

The thought is, if we can get a piece of that crystal somehow, and then lure a team of guards or two into our cell, drop some piss on the rock...booyah! Instant win over the enemy. Assuming this works, how we'll make our way out of this complex and back to our fighters is another concern altogether. A few of my men seem to think they have a general idea as to where our vessels are docked.

The other thing we haven't considered is what that vapor might do to us. Will it cause a similar reaction? Gladlock didn't report any sort of change in his equilibrium or senses and the vaporizing he saw was going on just a few yards away. Still, there are just too many variables to act on anything just yet. Another concern I have is procurement of some sort of weapon - all ours were confiscated upon processing. We do know every guard carries a baton-looking thing with barbs on the end.

Shit. One of my men is throwing up all over the place. This isn't pretty. I have to go.

Astron Czissin, out.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 2)

2007-10-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

It seems that boredom has gotten the best of us. Or at least, one of us.

L2 Group Ensign Gladlock decided he wanted to know just what this alien race wanted with our fluid waste (they've been harvesting our piss for weeks now, and all the while we've been kept quite healthy). He talked one of his buddies from training quarter into breaking one of his fingers, so that he might be transported to another part of the containment complex for medical assistance.

This of course, was assuming that our captors knew anything of human anatomy or for that matter true medical care.

Apparently it worked. After Gladlock convinced his one of his subordinates to snap his pinky finger 'like a graphite stick', the ensuing cry of pain (yes, it was quite authentic, I'd say) brought one of the guards straight to our holding cell. Gladlock was given the once over by the ET guard and was set on a long-ish gurney sort of mechanism on which he was rolled out of our view.

About 20 minutes went by before we saw him again. Amazingly, he had returned to us with his finger in perfect shape, bone healed and everything. There weren't even any calcium deposits that we could feel through his skin, indicating some sort of synthetic healing of his human bone.

After he was returned to us, we sat him down to hear his story about what the other annexes of this prison were like.

"I can't believe what I just saw," were his first words to us.

"First I was brought to a sort of elevator that was shaped like a Tarlan fighter but ultra-thin. It was like, powered by light or something. Very strange. Anyway, after a trip on that thing I was rolled through a a few partitions where I saw exactly what these things...these...creatures...are doing with our shit."

Of course, by shit he meant the purplish, sludgy, stinky piss our captors have been clamoring for during our stay here.

"At one point I was able to see through a glass-net sort of wall into a chamber where there must have been at least 50 of these ET's all huddled around a huge kind of crystal. It must have been at least 8 feet tall with rounded edges jutting out in all directions. Very bizarre, man."

Gladlock was flexing his hand while he spoke, still in amazement of how quickly they had repaired his finger.

"Anyway - one of them approached the crystal with a container of our shit and started pouring it on top. Then they all just stood there, completely still just like statues. Like they were waiting for something."

I knew everything he was saying was genuine. The size of his eyes as he talked was testament to this.

"As our piss came down on the crystal it started melting it. The fumes coming from it began to fill that room and it was then that the ET's just started going fucking BONKERS! I mean, they were shaking, flailing, smacking each other, I think I even saw a few fucking each other."

We were all transfixed on his story at this point.

"I didn't get to see anything else. The put my hand under this sort of lamp device which instantly reset and healed everything. I swear guys, the technology in this place is un-fucking-real."

Someone in the back announced, "Fuck man, I'm breaking my wrist. I wanna see that shit."

I told him he wasn't breaking anything and that we're going to find a way out of here. Exactly how that's to be done is my job to come up with but something has to give. I'll not have 48 of my best soldiers kept here just to piss in cups for some fucked up alien race.

Until my next entry.

Astron, out.

Here on Ibitus 412N (Part 1)

2007-10-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

The urine comes out of us now like a thick, syrupy concoction one might find at the PX for the purpose of alleviating a bad cough or something.

When we piss it's not even like it used to be. It's more forced and it actually takes a lot of stomach muscle to get our fluid waste to leave our bodies. But that's how they want it. Evidently, and for reasons beyond us, this...solution...coming out of our dicks is like gold to them. Interestingly, it doesn't even resemble gold or even yellow as it once did. It's a purplish, tarry kind of color and my god does it smell. I'd liken the smell to a cross between rubber cement and menthol cigarettes. It's very strange.

They feed us 'the powder' every hour on the hour. The stuff actually tastes kind of good, like the meal substitute pastes you can get on Zalhfar (though not exactly). Perhaps they engineered it so it would be easy for us to like? Who knows. What's most interesting about what they're feeding us is that it doubles as hydration. The moment the powder (also called 'fluff' by some of the others) hits the tongue, it kind of multiplies itself into about four times its volume in fluid. For instance, it only takes about a teaspoon of fluff to get a whole mouthful of watery sustenance. And it goes down easy.

We don't feel hungry. It's the most bizarre situation I could have ever expected to find myself and my men in. Here we are, isolated and contained on Ibitus 412N and we're basically being used as catalysts for some kind of chemical conversion of fluff to, what we would call, piss.
And boy, do they cherish every drop. They monitor us so closely that if even a drop of our urine gets on our hands or on a wall of this cell, it's instantly contained and somehow added to the accumulated stash. We imagine they've got hundreds of gallons of it by now, the bastards. I mean, what kind of alien race kidnaps humans and contains them for the sole purpose of collecting their pee?

It's a good thing we were able to keep our personal effects during our processing. Though we're undoubtedly prisoners, we're at least being granted some of the comforts of home like this tablet I'm writing on and the keepsakes my team likes to have around. One of them even managed to smuggle in a few vials of High Serum. We've been having a good time with that, but only occasionally. We don't know how long we're going to be here and my distress beacons aren't being returned.
I'm feeling the urge to pass some of this shit through again so I'm going to have to wrap this up.

I'll write more when I can.

Astron, out.

Ode to Loki

2007-08-19T16:34:00.000-07:00

As I type this, I am crying uncontrollably.

I have just given my dog away to a good friend of mine. Her name, my dog that is, is Loki. She is now owned by a good friend of mine, Catie.

Every day for the past 3 years I have come home to the most beautiful and eager face I've ever known. I have had many dogs in my life but Loki will go down in the record books as the kindest and most loving. That says a lot.

She is a black lab mix, afraid of thunder and lightening and always ready to bolt after a stray cat. I found her in the middle of a rainstorm while I was living in Brookhaven and since taking her in so long ago, I fell in love with her and am now dealing with the pain of having to let go.

I make no bones about not having many friends. I'm just kind of a loner I suppose. But I did let myself get attached to that dog and now my heart is aching like it never has in my life. The tears are falling and moistening my shirt's neckline. I am a hopeless case and it's all because of a 50 pound dog who, I know, is missing me right now just as much as I am missing her.

I know this is for the best. It has to happen if I am to make my move out west. I am giving up everything, AGAIN, to finally move to and make a life in Denver, Colorado.

The clock is ticking now. I have roughly three months to save up as much money as I can, load my car with clothes and head out with the wind in my hair and hope for a better life in my heart.

Goodbye, Loki. I love you and will cherish you always. Be a good dog.

12:38 AM, Sunday, August 8

2007-08-04T21:38:00.000-07:00

I love my dog and Icehouse beer.

The people upstairs keep doing one of two things:

1. Having sex
2. Moving furniture

...in either case, they disturb me. It pisses me off. I want to sleep, yet can't. I want to go upstairs and reprimand them for their obnoxious lovemaking/furniture moving but I fear it would create too much unrest and...speaking of unrest, I need sleep.

What the fuck.

Shameless weblink whoring

2007-07-31T07:25:00.001-07:00

http://www.atlantaguitarist.com

Bret Dianich has a website!

This is...

2007-07-29T13:48:00.000-07:00

The Blog of Bret Dianich

For Avalon

2007-07-27T12:51:00.000-07:00

In the depths of thought where I often roam
I search for comfort, like that of home
Every so often I encounter such bliss
Like the sweetest memory; my very first kiss

Like the solace granted by sun and stone
Her likeness makes me feel less alone
In so crowded a world like the one this is
It's good to know such a woman exists

And so I'm complex like some cryptic old tome
A mind riddled with angst, a whirring cyclone
But after the fight I unclench my fists
And give thanks never ending for people like this

Alone

2007-07-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

The blog of Bret Dianich

It's meant now to feed iron oxide and look unsightly

2007-07-22T19:57:00.000-07:00

Right now it's just a pile of cromoly steel and rubber. It sits under a flight of stairs in this apartment complex, providing a new home for wandering insects and rust.

When I see it as I walk past, say, in the mornings on my way to my car to go to work, I don't think much of it. It's just a boy's bicycle. Or at least, it was.

Right?

...well, yea. Right. It was just that. And if you've ever seen an old, ruined and rusty childrens bicycle folded up in some out-of-the-way corner somewhere you know the kind of mess I'm talking about. It's not pretty; it's had its day and someone really needs to just throw it out.

You might think that there's absolutely nothing compelling to say or observe about a used and worthless bicycle with training wheels on it. You couldn't even toss it on Craigslist in hopes for a quick $10. It's that bad.

But just consider something.

The kid who rode this bike will never, ever ride another bicycle again. This isn't out of choice but necessity. The 'kid' is 16 now and smoking pot with his friends under the bleachers during lunch. He's onto bigger and more dangerous vehicles, too, those with internal combustion engines and lethal capabilities.

Rarely if ever do people kill others via bicycle collision.

His family kept the bike around for far too long and now it's been relegated to sit under that damned staircase, becoming an eyesore for every neighbor here. But I see more than that. I see a teenager who is so blinded by the novelty of pussy, fireworks, cool sunglasses and Abercrombie and Fitch that the glory and freedom offered by his bicycle is less than even a fading memory.

He doesn't even bother himself to think back to the times when he was riding that bike with his sister in tow, each holding in their small hands a popsicle gotten from one of those Mexican street vendor dudes. He forgets completely the feeling of the wind pouring through his toes and hair, cleaning his soul of any worry. Any worry that a 5 year old could have.

Long forgotten are those days. He's on to other things: STD's, trip-hop, jacking off and algebra.

But I see that bike for what it was.

I see the bolts, seat collars and cantilevers as components not just of the bike, but of that boy's youth.

A youth that is now a victim of neglect and rust, dying softly with no ones notice but my own.

2007-07-17T13:29:00.000-07:00

The Proclamation of Trent

2007-07-16T08:02:00.001-07:00

"Holy fuck dude. Holy ... fuck" Trent said, choking down waves of nausea.

Trents words were met with nothing more than a scared, panicked stare from his accomplice.

Everything was executed exactly according to plan until someone decided to become a fucking hero. It seemed that the only thing you could count on in this business was the unexpected, but now wasn't the time to stew on what went wrong.

"Dit, go get the car. I'll stay here. Forget the second batch; this first one will have to do. Now fucking GO!" Trent ordered.

Dit sprinted towards the door, nimbly dodging the growing mess of blood spreading across the linoleum floor. The car, a blue 1978 Mercury Grand Marquis, was parked 50 feet from the entrance of the Monarch Plastics Company's largest production facility.

The contract required that Trent come in possession of two full batches of prototype plastic terminal bezels. Trent's client, a faceless proprietor named "Dr. I", had paid 50% of the $25,000 bounty up front. The remainder was to be paid upon delivery of both batches by noon the next day.

Trent wasn't stupid. Dr. I needed these prototypes so he could further his study of ATM and cash-dispensing machine manufacturing technology. He'd be performing ballistics tests and other diagnostics on these bezels to gain invaluable insight into the chinks in the armor of cash machines. What he chose to do with that insight was none of Trent's business.

Dit brought the car around to the loading dock and waited for Trent. A hurried fumbling of garbage bags and plastic bezels ensued inside.

"This is bullshit. No one is supposed to FUCKING be here ... no factory maintenance schedule my ASS!" Trent lamented.

Some broom-pushing zealot janitor had caught sight of Trent and Dit's theivery and decided to take matters into his own hands. This had resulted in the janitor's midsection being blasted out of his torso by Dit's shotgun.

"Come the fuck ON Trent let's GO!" Dit screamed from outside the dock.

Trent finished bagging the first batch and grimaced as he dragged the booty to the car. Not only did he now have to take a pay cut for only delivering on half of his promise, but he was now an accomplice to murder.

"Fuck. I didn't sign up for this shit." Trent said under his breath.

They drove away from the plant and headed back to the motel to regroup.

****

Dit stayed in the car. The clock on the dashboard read 11:59am. Time to close the deal.

"Let's see it," Dr. I said "There had better be 80 of each."

Trent inserted the key into the car's trunk where the single batch of freshly made bezels sat. Dr. I stood with arms akimbo, eyeing Trent's every move.

"I was only able to get half." Trent said. He hoped it would be enough to whet Dr. I's appetite for trade secrets.

"What? Hold the phone, asshole. Half?" Dr. I said.

"Yea. Some fucker with a mop tried to shut us down. Unexpected. Listen, do you want it or not?" Trent replied, swinging the trunk door up, revealing the transparent garbage bag full of plastic parts.

"You ... mother ... fucker. I risked EVERYTHING in working with you on this. And you only get HALF?" Dr. I pressed on.

"Fuck that. Where's my twelve five." he finished. Dr. I wanted his fronted money back.

"What? No, sorry. Things don't work that way. The 50% was to do the job. We did the job." Trent said.

"THE FUCK YOU DID! I'm looking at 80 pieces of LNL-57. If I don't have any LNL-60's, this shit is WORTHLESS to me. Now give me my twelve fucking five or you'll be dead in 8 seconds. Get me?" the threat came.

Hesitation was evil. Trent knew.

Trent reached behind his back and surreptitiously yanked forward his .38 snubnose from between his jeans and lower back, aiming precisely between Dr. I's eyes.

A pull on the trigger yielded a barrage of skull fragments, grey matter and blood, all thrown yards away from where Trent stood, angry and intent.

The bang drew Dit from the passenger seat.

"WHAT THE FUCK TRENT!? HOLY SHIT MAN WHAT THE FUCK!?" was all Dit could offer.

Trent brought the gun forward again and took aim at Dit's chest. Two quick shots brought him swiftly to the ground.

Trent looted Dr. I for the money he considered his own and got back in the car.

The gas gauge read full.

Trent had a lot of driving ahead of him.

2007-07-16T07:58:00.001-07:00

Spinning and Whirring, Whirring and Spinning

2007-07-16T07:48:00.001-07:00

... inside a tiny yet massive existential container.

Infinity can be contained and even represented if we just stop thinking about 'things'. Assigning labels like 'it' or 'that' or 'something' or even 'nothing' creates false thought boundaries.

Surely, words are needed to communicate. But let's be real: infinity doesn't exist in communication because communication is only a transfer of labels of finite things ('that', 'something', 'you', 'life', 'yesterday', 'sex', etc).

It's been often said by many a philosopher that no one idea can be purely represented such that the exact same idea is created in the mind of the person to whom the idea is being explained.

Succinctly, language is dead. However, it always has been and it always will be a necessity of human existence. Linguicists and English professors alike will lament the inherent fallibility of human communication 'till their death (see Noam Chomsky) but they'll also concede to the fact that regardless of how inaccurate our speech is, it's required to progress at all, anywhere, doing anything.

This is of course unless you live in your own universe, like I do.

See, I've decided to create my own language, for use in my own universe, in conversations between my own sentient beings, using not words but mental vibrations that are 100% spot-on representations of the things they 'label'.

Think of it this way: in *my* world, I wouldn't say to you "I have a blue car". No. In *my* world, I would simply SEND you a mental vibration exactly representing the exact car, that is blue, and that I own, hence eliminating the need for any clarification (what shade of blue? how large? 2 door or 4 door? tinted windows?).

See, I've got this "reality" shit figured out.

You people think I don't, but really I do.

A Toast

2007-07-16T07:46:00.001-07:00

Here's to coffee that tastes kind of like turkey but not enough to warrant a complaint to whoever made it. Here's to single mothers with joint custody and 50 hour work weeks still making payments on the credit cards they abused in college. Here's to the rise above racism and bigotry even though recently it seems like they're en vogue, like it's fashionable to hate for the sake of hating.

Here's to joining the fucking Marines out of sheer boredom of a world of cubicles, fluorescent lighting and conference calls.

Here's to never quite getting the revenge you wanted and to having to die defeated. Here's to living the next life with infinitely more purpose and clarity because of prior adversities.

Here's to the hope that somewhere along the line the injustices of this world will be realized for what they are - devoid of reason and chock full of pointlessness. Here's to finally realizing that no matter how powerful, rich or famous you become, you'll never ever be more than mortal and there will always be someone out there who can bring you down with one phone call.

Here's to living for 2 weeks off a handful of quarters. Here's to appreciating the roles that pain and discomfort play in our lives as indicators of anomalies and injury.

... to hearing your stomach grumble in request for anything other than another saltine cracker.

... to bashing your head against the wall until either your blood blinds you or you become unconscious, whichever comes first.

... to defying common understanding of why we're here at all so that others might see the error in their beliefs.

... to finally being at peace with the emptiness shared by all living things - the detachment from concrete knowledge of the nature of existence and our true progenitor.

3 Doors

2007-07-16T07:45:00.001-07:00

One is labelled 'Future', one labelled 'Past' and then one of course is labelled 'Present'.

They don't have equal allure. The door leading to the present, though always open, is sandwiched by the other two doors which have themselves a very certain mystery to them. There's little mystery in the present for it's what we see, hear, touch, smell, taste and feel now. If I need clarity about something concerning the present, I can will that and so shall it be shown to me. This is not the case with the other two doors.

The obscurity of what the future holds is an evil addiction, friends. The amoeba-like form of our selves as they exist in the future is a drug that has been doping up and consequently asphyxiating humanity since it's inception. We want to alter the present by shifting everything around NOW such that we can meet the standard we've created for our selves in the future. Once that snapshot of the future becomes what we find behind the 'Present' door, we look to the right and see that, yes, the door to the future is still open and just as inviting as ever.

It's never, never, ever to be closed. I liken it to the dangling of a carrot for the never-appeased donkey.

So sad.

And yet, our third door is equally as dangerous. It's that of the past. If it's favorable the experiences we remember in our past, perhaps what we do is wonder why we don't experience those things now. We long for when things were better - when we had more, when we could do more, when more people loved us (or appeared to). The door to the present sits idly by unchanged and complacent while we dart in an out of that of the past, glancing wistfully at images of our selves when we were supposedly happier.

If it's unfavorable experiences we remember in our past ... this is when things get especially chaotic. There is nothing that drains focus and energy more than the constant tethering of our souls to the adversities that created character in us. Rape, injustice, being broke, being abused, having dumped your breakfast on a mirror, murder, self destruction, infidelity, blatant disregard for health, subjugation, theft, general immorality. We grab these instruments of pain and thrust them into our sides so we can be reminded of the lessons they taught us, and as we stand there bleeding and grasping our wounds we look to the door to the present and wish to be there. There, definitely instead of here, where the cobwebs of our mind retard our growth and poison our self images.

So, 3 doors.

Each with their own offerings.

What's that you say?

"What about the present?"?

Great question. Here. Have a look. It's all right in front of you. The beauty of this door is that nothing is subject to the flawed interpretations our only human minds construct, and everything simply ... is.

Nothing will be, and nothing was. It all is. Surely, there isn't the allure of pain and reminiscence as with Past, and there isn't the mystery and formlessness of the future - but here, friend.

Here you can be.

Jack and Jill

2007-07-16T07:41:00.001-07:00

"Heya, mister. Whatcha readin'?" 7 year-old Jill asked the grayed, leathery old man.

The man looked up from his book and made eye contact with the little girl through the tops of his reading glasses. A smile quickly came.

"Voltaire. Have you ever ready any Voltaire?" he asked.

"Who? No, but I've read some Dr. Seuss!" she replied, and with this began swinging her legs back and forth excitedly from her seat in the booth.

The old man marked his page with a fold and put his book down before folding his hands, sitting back and thinking about his own experiences reading as a child. For him there was no Dr. Seuss – the closest thing he had to that was the pamphlet they handed out for all the kids at the Ringling Brothers Circus performances.

"Do you like reading, miss … what's your name?" he asked.

"Jill," she said, "Jill Werther. That's my mom over there."

The little girl motioned to a heavyset woman helping herself to the collard greens at the buffet bar.

"I love to read! I can read anything" she continued.

"Anything?" the man challenged.

"Anything!" she said.

"Well I bet your mother is proud of you. You seem like a very smart little girl." The man said.

Jill didn't know how to respond to compliments at that age so in lieu of a 'thank you' or even a silent blushing, she resorted to playing with her napkin and looking quizzically at the scar across the old man's right hand.

"Hey mister what happened to your hand?" she asked.

"Call me Jack. I hurt it defending this country, you know. A long, long time ago." He said.

The truth is he nearly lost that hand. One of the first on the ground on D-day, Jack spilled more blood from his wounds than even some of the dead did during their exit from life. The shrapnel he took in his left hand and just below his neck left him with permanent reminders of the value of his, and for that matter Jill's, freedom.

"Ooo so you were in the Army?" Jill asked.
"No, not the Army. The Marines. Say, can you spell Marines?" Jack said in an attempt to change the subject.

"M … A … R … " Jill paused then looked up and to the right for a moment, as if the next letter was floating around the ceiling fan above her.

"E?" she said with obvious reservation.

Jack laughed heartily and finished the spelling for her. His past with the corps left him with vivid memories of times well spent with his brothers-in-arms both during and after World War II, and it was in this little diner and because of Jill that he began reminiscing.

"Your country is the greatest one in the world, Jill. You be sure to remember that. Many, many good men and women have died so that you can be free." Jack reassured.

"Excuse me, but I'd appreciate if you wouldn't say those things to my child," came a voice from their left. It was Jill's mother returning with a plate full of everything from cornbread muffins to glazed ham.

"We don't believe in war. Nothing good has ever come from it. You might do well to keep your thoughts to yourself; not everyone thinks killing is the answer to everything," the woman finished.

She left her plate full of food on the table, scooped up Jill and her belongings and headed for the door. After paying for her food she looked over her shoulder back at Jack and scowled.

Jack watched them as they walked across the parking lot and out of sight. He then pulled up his right shirt sleeve to just below his elbow, revealing the USMC insignia he had tattooed on his forearm many decades ago.

"Semper Fi," Jack said under his breath.

A lump grew in his throat. He swallowed hard, pulled his sleeve back down and picked his book back up.

He located the page he was on and continued reading.

GMTO Memo

2007-07-16T07:36:00.001-07:00

MEMO - October 8th, 2090

Attn: All Galactic Message Transfer Organization Employees

Re: This is a Message Authenticity Breach Alert

The following message was intercepted on October 2nd, 2090. It was being sent from Earth to an unknown destination in an outer-lying galaxy of the Colandron System.

It's been determined that this is a scam and we need to be on watch for more of these. If you identify any similar transmissions in your assigned communicational territories, please notify your supervisor immediately.

Onwards,

Management

Enclosure: 1

==========(Enclosure)==========

Tribunal,

In 2088 a 'Congressional Overhaul' took place in Washington, D.C., United States, Earth.

68 politicians were left dead and another 40 or so were kept hostage for 2 days before finally being released when terms were reached. Among the 68 dead was the US President at the time, Hugh Hampton Bassett. The group responsible for the massacre calls themselves the VNR.

Victory's New Recruits.

VNR had been organizing what they called the 'overhaul' for 30 or so years, going to such lengths as raising children in such a way as to prime them for perfect roles in the master plan to reformat the White House. I was one of those children.

My name is Ansen Jerg. I'm 36 years old, a father of two, a successful businessman and now, a contracted killer. My loyalty to the VNR has been steadfast until now and as 2091 reaches us in less than 3 months, I'm finalizing my plans to secede from VNR and make a new life for myself. I know this won't be easy, but I'm prepared to sacrifice a life of senseless murder to the possibility of one with some semblance of peace of mind.

See, it's not easy being sent to eliminate political or economical figureheads every other weekend or so, and the excitement of killing, after a while, shrinks to a mere fear of being exposed. Don't get me wrong. I do my job and do it well.

I just hate doing it.

Sure there's the 6 figure payout for each hit and sure my family enjoys the lifestyle I've provided for them, but this can't go on. It just can't. I've had enough.

I'm sitting here now in the 2nd basement of our house in on Enerven Island. Oh, that's right ... you wouldn't know this, would you: Enerven Island is a man-made island about 200 miles off the coast of Canada (Vancouver, British Columbia). It was engineered and constructed all in less than 10 years largely with funding from sources directly related to the VNR. This is a place where we can act near independently from the umbrella of surveillance and control of mainland United States. Further, the island is portable and can travel up to half a mile in a 24-hour period.

Anyway, what you need to know about my situation is that I need your help. I understand that your people have teleportational technology that can send me and whomever I choose to wherever we ask. I also understand that your planet is, while barely inhabitable by humans, in dire need of certain resources only available here, on Earth.

I'd like for you to consider the following offer -

1. Take me and my family from Enerven Island and provide for me solace from my life of delegated murder.

2. Provide for me a life of comfort on your planet, with means with which to survive on my/our own.

In turn, I will provide you with -

1. Access to interstellar trade line information and lesser-known bartering routes. This data alone could be the breath of fresh air your kind needs.

2. Blueprints and supplies for construction of UEE units. Unlimited Energy Emination units as you probably know are self-replicable means of self-contained energy; you can divide a UEE unit in two and still have the same free energy in each unit as you did with the original. Basically what I'm offering you is free energy for your entire populace to use.

Don't ask me how I know these things or from where they will come. I have lived the past 8 years of my life in complete secrecy and I must retain some part of that for my own security. I hope you understand.

I'll be relaying a follow-up message in a few days after you and your Tribunal review my proposal.

Thank you, and here's to a fruitful 2091.

Yours,

Ansen Jerg

It’s 4am and I am a Ninja

2007-07-16T07:33:00.001-07:00

*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*

*...*

*eek eek eek*

Yup. The folks upstairs are fucking again. It's 3:30 in the morning for Christ's sake and instead of resting their eyelids they're making babies. I'd like to hear of a WD-40 salesman going door-to-door around here so that perhaps my 'fucking' neighbors would get some of the stuff to silence that obnoxious bed.

*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*

I rub my eyes. 3:31.

*eek ... eek*

GODDAMNIT!!!

I throw the covers away from my body in a slighted fit of disgust. I've had it. The night is cool and damp outside and there are certainly other places I could be than inside this apartment enduring the sounds of zealous lovemaking NOT being had by me.

*eek eek eek*

My dog's ears perk up before she takes time for a quick stretch.

'What the hell are we doing up so early?' she seems to say to me.

"We're going for a walk. Come on." I say.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a longsleeve shirt in anticipation of the frigid November air. The high today is supposed to be around 40. I grab Loki's leash and collar and dress her up. Let's go.

*eek eek eek eek eek eek eek*

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" I belt out, before stepping outside. Fat chance of them hearing me though, through all the grunting and slapping noises.

I am rarely ever up before 7am and being alone in the cold morning darkness is very much a change of pace. I take stock of what's around me: 3 rows of packed parking lot spaces all filled with SUV's, sedans and the occasional Jeep; a long, thin puddle of rainwater saddling the roadway; a few dimly lit streetlights and not a soul to be seen.

And wow ... the quiet. The quiet is nice.

I take a few steps from my doorstep and welcome the few drops of moisture that land on my face. Loki certainly doesn't mind this jaunt - she's already found a nice patch of sod to violate.

"Good girl" I say.

It's at this point when it hits me. I'm alone. No, like, REALLY alone. There is not one single person out here nor is anyone even within earshot (that I can see). I could do ANYTHING I wanted to, here in the parking lot of my apartment complex.

I could run around naked swinging nunchucks.
I could roll around in a huge pile of my pressed work clothes.
I could dropkick a midget and laugh at his demise (if such a midget could be found here).

It's 3:58 now, and I'm slowly losing any inhibitions I had when I woke up. I am the epitome of stealth; no one even knows I'm out here. I could go key one of those nice SUV's out of spite for the fuel and money they waste.

I am in-fucking-vincible and probably will be for the next hour or so.

What's this? There's a long stick sitting over there by that tree. I believe I will take that stick, and it will become my samurai sword. AHA!! And what's this I see? Someone has haphazardly left a few D batteries here on the sidewalk. How wasteful!! Everyone knows D batteries double as throwing stars.

This is excellent. I am equipping myself with everything I need to usurp those in power here at the complex.

OMG LOOK!! There!! Some fool has left the rag they were using to check their oil RIGHT there next to that car!

Hellooooooo martial arts headband. Sweet.

Loki looks at me quizzically. I nod as if to grant her the status of assailant's assistant.

I look at my watch.

It's 4:00am, and I'm a ninja.

Inappropriate Worldview

2007-07-16T05:18:00.001-07:00

I want to open a time window to around 1200 A.D. and witness what life was like without aspirin, internal combustion, cold-rolled steel or nice watches.

I want to see all the drug czars who have ever lived hung by the roofs of their mouths from a zip line spanning the Gulf of Mexico.

I want Jesus Christ to take a nice, long walk down any road in East St. Louis and I want him to take in the putrid, pungent smell of spent prophylactics and alcohol, fermenting in the gutters.

I want to see a gun built that fires planets. That's right, planets. I want two of these guns to be cocked and loaded at opposite ends of the solar system, aiming directly at eachother. Then, I want my hand on the button that pulls both the triggers.

I want to see a resurgence of the pet rock fad. Except this time, I want it to be a pet cotton ball fad.

I want a mosquito-specific disease to infiltrate and then eradicate the entire existence of this most wretched of insects. No one needs mosquitos and I want them all to choke on their own regurgitated blood.

Heh. Mosquito asphyxiation. That's pretty inappropriate, but kind of ironic for some reason. Why?

I want, just for one day ... one sweet fucking day ... for 2+2 to equal 1.618. I want this so badly it actually hurts. Then, I want to see all the mathematicians in the world gathered, perplexed and perhaps even gleeful, around a huge table at the Pentagon.

These mathematicians' heads - I want them all to explode in unison. Wait, no. Make that one by one. And make it happen not because *I* want it to, but because of the sheer cerebral pressure involved in mentally digesting the fact that yes, 2+2 does now equal 1.618.

This all I want because I ...

... have an inappropriate worldview.

The Taste of Time

2007-07-16T05:17:00.003-07:00

Ignorance, Laziness, Hate and Despair were sitting around the dinner table waiting for their meal of Time. The day was like any other, except Existentialism wasn't around to bring them their temporal foodstuffs.

He was probably taking a sick day or something.

"GODDAMNIT!" Hate exclaimed, "I CAN'T STAND EXISTENTIALISM. MOTHER FUCKER IS PATHETIC AND I CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR OF HIS DEATH. IDIOT."

"...AND I'M FUCKING HUNGRY." he finished.

"Calm down, Hate. If we just sit here and wait long enough I'm sure he'll be back to serve us." Laziness offered, before emitting a long yawn.

"FUCK YOU. YOU SUCK." Hate responded.

"We're never going to get fed. We've been coming to the same table every evening for who knows how long, and now there's no one to feed us. We're doomed, I tell you. All of us. Doomed." came Despair's comment.

"WHY ARE YOU SUCH A DOWNER YOU ASSHOLE? CHRIST YOU ARE SO MOROSE. FUCK YOU." Hate said.

"What's going on? Where's Existentialism? We need our Time." Ignorance chimed.

"OF ALL OF US YOU HAVE GOT TO BE THE DUMBEST. SHUT IT AND ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING TO HELP US YOU WORTHLESS ASS." Hate erupted.

A brief moment of silence ensued as the four of them pontificated a bit about how to handle the situation. Without their daily ingestion of Time, they were worthless. If deprived of Time for too long, Hate couldn't hate anymore, Ignorance would cease to be uninformed, Despair would lighten up and laziness would develop a work ethic.

This was all simply unacceptable. These 4 had jobs to do. Jobs that were critical to the operation of reality.

"FINE. YOU FUCKS ARE SO GODDAMNED CO-DEPENDENT I GUESS I'LL HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS. CHRIST YOU ALL ARE FUCKING MORONS." Hate finally said, before rising from his seat at the table and walking over to where the Time was stored, in the pantry.

Laziness nodded off, ignorance frowned in frustration and Despair put his head in his hands anticipating only the worst outcome of all of this.

Hate opened the door to the pantry.

"WHAT ... THE ... FUCK ..." Hate said, his voice slowly losing the magnitude it normally carried.

"What? What is it?" Ignorance asked, eager for some clue as to what was happening.

Laziness remained asleep.

Loooking up from his fit of crying, Despair began to grow anxious.

"We seem to be ..." Hate began, his voice now slow and soft, "No wonder Existentialism isn't here today. We are ... out."

"What?" Ignorance asked in disbelief.

"Out." Hate replied. "We're out. Of time."

This is...

2007-07-16T05:17:00.001-07:00

The Blog of Bret Dianich

Reluctantly Crouched at the Starting Line

2007-07-16T05:16:00.001-07:00

I ride mountain bikes. It's kinda my thing. If you find this sport at all boring, please move along ...

======================================================

There comes a time in every novice rider's life when he questions his aptitude, really, on a mountain bike.

For someone who is really curious about where they stand in the whole scheme of the sport, the race looms. It's like a huge hammer of justice, just waiting to either humble you to your knees, or glorify your efforts as a cyclist. For me the former took place, and this is my account of it.

A stuffy, humid day in Athens, Georgia…nothing to look forward waking up to unless, of course, you had a race that morning. I did what I could the night before to prepare my bike for the certain beating that was going to take place at 12:35pm the next day. Applying plenty of chain lube, front to back cable adjustments and even the slightest brake pad tweaks; I was stoked to the point of meticulously worshipping the functioning capacity of my bike. A healthy breakfast was had, as was a stretching workout that even a contortionist could appreciate. I wanted to DOMINATE. In fact, it was the only thing on my mind that morning as I drove to the race, with the joyous sounds of punk rock permeating my brain. I reached the site:

It was immediate intimidation...

- $4,000 bikes
- Huge, shaved legs rippling with endurance-proven striations
- Pro-class riders zooming by, their tires spitting gravel as if it were water
- Laughter and conversations being had by whole teams of pro riders

There was a LOT to be afraid of. VERY afraid of.

But I did not let any of this get to me, too much. I got out of my car, swapped my cut-off khakis for lycra and stussy hat for helmet and proceeded to the starting line. What I then took in really got my heart racing. I decided to race sport class, thinking that surely I was no pro, but that beginner-level races were, how should we say, below me. Those around me were emotionless, their faces taught with intent. These men were teeming with aggression as they jockeyed for the ideal start position.

A shot was heard, followed by the sound of 35 rear tires spinning on loose gravel, and we were off. It had begun…

I launched myself from stationary with an explosion of power on my left foot. I soon found myself coasting down the first descent amidst 5 or 6 of the most tuned riders I have ever seen. I remember thinking to myself, I am of the best…look at me! Racing with these guys! This thought changed as soon as the first climb came.

I was swallowed by a 5-wide pack of riders careening by me, left and right, faster than I had ever thought possible on a climb like this one. Someone said, "You're an hour late! The beginner race ended 20 minutes ago! HAHAHAHA!!"

I was enraged.

3 miles later, I felt my heart tugging at it's abilities. Sweat began to pool under my eyes and my sight became blurred by huge clouds of dust enveloping me as I drifted slowly back to accompany the slower riders. This was all too much. I hadn't given ANY thought to the possibility that I should be pacing myself.

5 miles later, I began to cramp. My hydrapack was exhausted; coincidentally so was I. With every crank I felt a knot swell near my knees. The cramps were irreconcilable. The moment I would try to stand and stretch one calve, the other would cry in pain as it underwent yet another torturing cramp. There was NO escape. Thoughts of my dominating this race quickly turned to thoughts of my merely finishing this race. I pressed on, knowing that the next day would bring certain agony accompanied by muscle recovery. I didn't care. It became to me a game of survival. Either I played my cards right in the field of energy conservation, or I lost the hand to others with even more determination than I.

Countless miles later, the finish line was in sight. By this time, I was bleeding at both knees, my head had become a swollen grenade of aching, pulsating annoyance, and my forearms were wrought with lactic distress. I crossed the finish line placing 32nd of 35 riders, beating only those 3 participants who, for one reason or another, simply dropped out of the race. It was humiliating.

The next day I spent all morning in bed, unable to stand. The usual hangover remedies (hot coffee, aspirin, and a nice cold shower) seemed to only insult my condition. I felt like a hospice patient…and I didn't care. I raced my heart out and won the game of survival. At the same time, I learned an awfully valuable lesson: Sometimes bridling your ego can prove to be the best move you can make in an effort to better yourself.

NO race would ever be as beneficial to me as that first race was. I still have my number sheet…#2501, Sport Class, placing: DEAD LAST.

A Beautiful Mistake Downstairs

2007-07-16T05:15:00.001-07:00

"There's something I think you should see" I told him.

He had barely walked in the door and was making his way to the coat rack when I said this.

"It's just ... well, Frank just go look. Please?" I continued.

If it weren't for the sincere look on my face he would have thought this was a joke, and as much as Frank enjoys a good joke this would turn out to be quite the opposite.

"It's downstairs. I have no idea how it got here or what it is exactly but you need to do something about it." I finished.

"Whatever 'it' is, honey, I'm sure we'll all be just fine." he said as he made his way through the foyer and into the hall. He opened the door to the basement and flipped on the light.

No dice.

"Bulb must be out. Honey could you get me a new one?" he asked, continuing down the stairs.

"Sure thing, hon. Just a sec" I replied, then offered, "It's just to your right. Do you see it yet?"

"No, Martha, I can't see shit. Grab me that flashlight in the pantry, would you?" he said.

I walked into the pantry as instructed and fished the 2 foot-long Mag lite from the utility drawer. I flipped it on and then off again to ensure that it worked before making my way down to where Frank was.

When I approached him with the flashlight he was standing with his back to me and mumbling something unintelligable.

I grinned slightly.

For a 38 year-old woman I swung that flashlight with amazing force. It made contact right where I had intended, across Frank's right temple. I thought I might have to swing again but soon realized that one hit was all that was needed. He immediately fell to the floor and remained motionless.

It all took place beautifully; Frank was out cold and appropriately so, considering where his home for the next few days would be.

His dead weight was a lot to work with but I did what I could to stuff him into the meat freezer we used to keep our venison fresh. I'd worry about his disposal later.

I remember there being no blood. I remember the adrenalin causing involuntary shaking of my hands and knees.

I also remember looking down to the floor at my weapon, thinking:

Wow.

These Mag lite things are very well made.

You’re a Friendless, Irresponsible Waste and You Always Will Be

2007-07-16T05:13:00.001-07:00

... conversations with myself in the mirror don't normally go like this, but as of current they seem to be taking on a consistent thread of dark, pessimistic similarity.

The year is 1998 and I've just started my first year in college matriculating at Valdosta State University here in the flat, sunny region of south Georgia. 'VSU' as it's termed is often also referred to as 'VDU' because of the disproportionately high incidence of venereal disease in the student body here. Evidently one in three are affected with some sort of STD. Since student orientation I've been instructed at least twice to 'double bag it' or to 'opt for a hummer' if ever I find myself in a situation that might be ripe for inebriated copulation.

But you know, when I feel as shitty as I do now there's not much chance that any females here are going to want to spend time with me. Christ, I'm a 220 pound redheaded cage fighter fresh out of a 5 year stint at a military boarding school. Nothing quite spells 'time bomb' like a profile like that.

Add to that the fact that my past times involve barreling through traffic on a mountain bike, smoking heaps of pot, sucking down more espresso than is healthy for any sane human being and basically being an off-kilter madman as a direct response to the stoicism and hard-lined regimens I've been used to for the past 5 years.

Imagine your high school experience being confined to a 10x10 foot concrete cell of sorts. We were allowed two personal affects - one could've been a picture of your family, the other perhaps a boom box or something similar. That was it. No trinkets, no love letters, no CD/cassette collection, no autographed photos of Kelly McGillis, no stockpiled issues of Guitar World magazine.

Hell ... we weren't even allowed to store our toiletries where we wanted to. Everything had it's place and everyone operated in line with the Cadet Codes.

There were 7 of them. I still remember the first one:

"To revere God, love my country and be loyal to my school."

Being the 'Provost Marshall' for the military school, I was in charge of carrying out the punishment that was assigned to those cadets who, for one reason or another, accrued too many demerits throughout the course of any given week. For every demerit over the allocated limit, the cadet had to march an hour on what was called 'The Quad'.

I was in charge of 'The Quad'.

Think of it as kind of an arena, though without walls or spectators. True battle took place on the quad, but it wasn't battle between two people necessarily. It was battle in the minds of the cadets that were stupid enough to have acted up and found themselves at my mercy.

"You're a friendless, irresponsible waste and always will be" I would sometimes say. Of course, just to keep things interesting I would offer a deluge of varied insults all executed with spot-on timing between sets of 20 or 30 push-ups, pack marches or other tiring physical exercise.

My job was to teach these cadets to not engage in disruptive behavior or be late with their homework, or get caught smoking or whatever it was that got them on 'The Quad' in the first place. My goal in life, at least then, was to mar them bad enough so that they wouldn't ever allow their demerits to accrue like they had, again.

And it worked. I was good at what I did.

For 2 or 3 years there, every day for at least 2 hours I insulted, chastised, berated and demoralized every cadet that was put in front of me.

It was my assignment.

Now, here in the throes of social activity, dealing with real people who don't answer to a demerit system or even superiors in most cases ... here I am finding myself at a total loss of knowledge about how to act.

Wait ... dates? Friends? Real clothes? Bikinis? No rank to consider? No saluting? No mess hall, 5:30am formations, marching drills or BDU's/fatigues (camouflage clothing)?

The shock and awe of normal, carefree youth has stricken me with a very certain sense of confusion and anxiety. So, because I don't fit in and don't know how to conduct myself, here I stand in front of this mirror with only deduction I can seem to make.

I look at myself and it's to myself that I say:

"You're a friendless, irresponsible waste and always will be."

Untitled

2007-07-16T05:11:00.001-07:00

Hi there.

Lately you haven't been yourself and you've been coming across a bit jaded and sort of...you know...down. Am I right? Hmm? Am I?

I am, aren't I?

Of course I am. Nothing seems to be going right - your job is wearing you down, you don't feel like you're making the headway you expected by this point in your life and you just don't believe things are panning out according to how you planned them. I mean, when you look around you and size up others who are in situations similar to yours, you immediately discover that you're very certainly on the 'far left' of the bell curve of success.

Everyone else is making more money, having more sex, getting better benefits, driving nicer cars, buying bigger homes, taking more luxurious vacations and simply leading better lives. You're stuck behind a phone or keyboard for 9 hours a day only to come home to a pathetic excuse of an apartment where you'll hide from the day by escaping into some off-brand sci-fi novel or the latest issue of Harper's Magazine.

But maybe that's only to convince yourself that you're SO intellectual and above all the Rolling Stone-esque politico-socio-Americo-bullshit that sells like hotcakes out there for some reason. Oh and forget about getting laid. You have the confidence level of an earthworm and the only women who'd be stupid enough to fuck you would have to be expecting some sort of monetary compensation in return.

BUT YOU WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING?? YOU ARE THE ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. YOUR EARTHWORMNESS IS ONLY A RESULT OF YOUR OWN SELF-SUSTAINING AUTODEPRICATION.

HERE'S HOW TO STOP THIS:

Step 1 - Stop giving a fuck about whether or not you become anything or anyone, go anywhere, live to be any age, fuck any woman, drive any car, own any home, wear any brand of suit, shoe or cologne, take any trip to anywhere, have any kind of relationships with anyone or basically be alive for any reason other than to just be alive at all. The purpose of life is to live it and not to ornament it with superficial trinkets and worthless, corporeal pleasures that will all be for naught the day you die.

Step 2 - Start giving a fuck about the plight of others around you and the immeasurable shit that so many others have gone through that you will most likely not go through. Start being thankful that you don't have pancreatic cancer or scabies. Start taking notice of paraplegics, psychotics, those on death row (even wrongly so), infants hooked on crack and farmers who go to bed with aching, bloody hands just so they have a roof over their heads.

Step 3 - Laugh. Often. Not at anything in particular. Now that you don't give a fuck, just about EVERYTHING will seem funny or at least, funnier.

Step 4 - Understand that you can't change the general direction in which the world is going. There are things you can control and there are things you cannot. Know that things like escalating intra-national strife are going to happen or not, independent of what you do or how much or little you care about it.

Finally - Step 5.

Know that when you die nothing will matter for you going forward, even if you did have 10 million dollars to leave your 4 kids.

You won't be around to see them spend it. When you're gone, you're gone and nothing you've 'acquired' will amount to a hill of beans.

What WILL matter will reside only in your soul.

It's there where you'll draw on things like metaphysical knowledge, human empathy, understanding and life experience.

Don't be so ignorant as to think that you'll be sharing a cloud with your ancestors, eating ambrosia and viewing those you left behind from afar.

Your soul is yours. Not your wife's, not your father's, not your boss's and certainly not your children's.

Start living as if you believed in even 50% of what is written here and I assure you that you will grow into a happier person in a matter of days.

Life Lessons Learned in a Death Metal Mosh Pit

2007-07-16T05:06:00.001-07:00

Thankfully I never needed any bone marrow.
Aaaaand I never knew anyone named Rett, either.

I have however been on the receiving end of a drop kick executed by a shirtless 6'4" neo-nazi skinhead.

-------------------------------------------------------

The lineup included a few lesser-known metal bands like 69 Eyes, God Forbid and Burn Season but everyone was there to see Napalm Death. The venue: The Roxy in Atlanta, Georgia. Stardate - May, 2004.

I had always been a huge fan of hard rock. I thought I was especially cool when I could spout off a dozen or so names of underground grindcore or 'brutal' death metal groups (yes, there is a 'brutal' subgenre). I usually did so with my typical air of confidence and signature holier-than-thou tone of voice.

That night however my perceptions of just how hardcore I was would be checked. I don't mean checked as in how one might check his or her bank account balance or check on their kids. I mean checked as in how a hockey player might check. A hockey player on meth. And PCP. And steroids (hold your tongue, Method).

Yea, Burn Season got a rise from the crowd and sure, 69 Eyes dealt the pain but nothing would prepare me for what ridiculous level of chaos Napalm Death would bring to the table. If you've ever been to The Roxy you know that it's a smaller venue ... standing room for only about 200 or so people. That night I'd say about 250-300 showed up and that's probably a conservative figure.

The first song Napalm Death played was pretty true to their style; it was more than enough to cause that necessary stir in the crowd precipitating the quintessential, amorphous mosh pit. Shortly after the first song was over I heard a bottle break just to my left. This was something I should have paid far closer attention to.

The second song started and almost immediately the mosh pit began. Like most pits that form at rock shows it grew from the inside out, and before long the better half of everyone there was, willingly or not, a part of it. The smoke from lit cigarettes and joints floated above the sea of flailing arms and before long I realized that I had a fight or flight decision to make.

I took to fighting. Hard.

It kind of becomes a game of survival when you're in one of these. There is surely no mercy as everyone is too doped up on anger and rage to give a fuck if you suffer a fractured femur. At first I found myself faring pretty well - I had delivered a pretty well-placed elbow to the temple of someone obviously too emo to even be there and soon I realized that I was definitely among those better equipped to fend for themselves amidst the cacophony and blind brutality. Soon I upped the ante and started swinging closed fists. Wow ... this felt pretty good.

It was like getting revenge on every schoolyard bully who ever raped me for my lunch money (what, that never happened to you?).

By the 4th song I was pleased with my progress. I had effectively eluded the 'linchpins' of the pit, those few people who you just knew to stay away from. Why? Well for me the warning sign on one of them was the swastika tattoo placed just below his right ear. While he may well have been an ignorant supremacist asshole he probably had enough refined hatred for everything to send me to a whole other plane of anguish.

But about halfway through the headliner's set, things got terribly out of hand. This happened as the most tumultuous section of the pit migrated my way and enveloped me in knees, belts wrapped around fists and faces red with adrenalin.

Out of nowhere he came flying right at me. That guy with the swastika.

Perhaps it was the 'give peace a chance' shirt I was wearing or the gay pride-themed face paint I had on.

No really, whatever it was that spurred him, I was dropkicked squarely in the chest by a man out for nothing less than the procurement of my very soul. The soles of his boots bashed me so hard I was launched to the inside part of the human ring surrounding the pit. A few onlookers were quick to try to pick me up, but it was no use. I was unconscious.

Being unconscious on the floor in a death metal mosh pit is no fun, I assure you. Not for you, not for your nervous system, not for anyone but those who would take immediate advantage of your prone position. And that's just what happened.

I won't get into the exact details about what happened next because frankly, I don't remember. What I do remember is coming to next to a wall, surrounded by people standing around me with eerily curious looks on their faces.

"Dude, you ok?" one of them asked me.

I didn't respond. I tried to stand up but couldn't due to the shooting pain running down my right leg. I kind of had to situate myself on my side and then use the wall to assist me to a standing position. After looking around and locating the exit I made my way outside and into the night air.

2 blocks down was my car. I hobbled to it and got inside.

I angled my rear view mirror so I could see myself. I immediately panicked. My right eye was swollen to the point of being comical and I was bleeding from the left side of my mouth. The bridge of my nose led me to think it was broken. Thankfully it wasn't.

Sitting in the driver's seat made me very aware of a sharp pain in my backside. I reached back and down to just above my butt to find a shard of glass no less than 3 inches long, lodged into my skin. I got out of the car, removed the shard and waited for the pain to subside.

After asking myself over and over why the fuck I went to the show to begin with I drove myself home and got a few hours of much needed rest.

... so what life lesson did I learn in all this?

The Aryan Nation is still alive and well and will skullfuck you if you don't watch your faggot ass.

Mr. Toll Operator, I Loathe You

2007-07-16T04:59:00.000-07:00

The following events took place between 8:00 AM and 9:00 AM on Tuesday, February 6th, 2007.

----------------

"No she didn't" I said to myself under my breath as I felt my pulse rate quicken.

That goddamned tramp in her white Mercedes had cut me off twice in 10 seconds.

I've killed the hopes and dreams of small children for less than that.

I was working on the second half of my coffee when the rage I felt towards this disrespectful whore overcame my very being and sent me into a fit of bloodthirsty insanity. You might not think humans are capable of sprouting massive canines akin to that of a walrus but I swear to god, when the right combination of self-rightous real estate agent and 80 miles per hour meets just the right mixture of Tuesday commute and a partial hangover, it's possible.

My trapezius muscles grew to the size of regulation footballs. She was now weaving through the 4 or 5 cars ahead of me with the same kind of blatant disregard I would expect from a 2 year old pissing in the kiddie pool. Except in this case the 2 year old was behind the wheel of a $90,000 luxury sedan while yapping away to the client who's been waiting on her for 35 minutes.

My fingers grew by at least 50%. Maybe 55%, I don't recall exactly. My field of view became tinted with red - I was going to fucking eat this woman's pancreas right from out of her cracked-open ribcage in front of anyone unfortunate enough to slow down and view the roadside spectacle when it happened.

Fuck.

Toll booth.

My thighs exploded in size and threw the driver side door right off it's hinges. I needed the breeze, too. This beast-like state I was entering was causing some unwanted heat. Soon the wind was coarsing through my thick, bear-like body hair and I began my approach to the line of cars all waiting to pay their $.50 at the toll booth. Mrs. Mercedes was only 6 cars ahead of me.

Thank god I wasn't wearing my seatbelt for surely by then I would have choked on it. My chest must have grown 40-50 inches and it was then that I became too big for my car. It's a good thing the cars were moving slowly at that point, because seeing the car in front of you pop it's fucking top like a can of sardines can raise some eyebrows.

After bursting through the roof of my car I ripped the curling steel from around my body and took survey of my beeline to that mindless hag just waiting for me to bring sweet death to her not 40 yards away. Someone honked their horn and I sent my foot through their windshield, promptly ending the existence of the annoying distraction.

I leapt straight over the first 2 cars in one bound. As I came crashing down onto the back end of the SUV in my flight path I caught sight of a serious problem.

I was at the toll booth. Up ahead was the toll operator. You can't get past the toll operator without paying your $.50.

I didn't have the $.50 required to pass so I couldn't reach where the white Mercedes had made it.

*sigh*

50 Things to Appreciate

2007-07-14T16:47:00.000-07:00

1. Hard Work

2. Sex

3. Hard Rock

4. Chili Dogs

5. Dogs

6. Strong Coffee

7. Adrenalin

8. The Ocean

9. The Sand

10. Learning from Mistakes

11. Accidentally Getting It Right

12. Good Health

13. The Wisdom of Others

14. Intellect

15. Medium-Rare Filet Mignon Basted in Butter

16. Clouds

17. Poetry

18. Ubersite

19. Neodynium Speakers

20. Gravity

21. Love

22. Forests

23. Endorphins

24. Having the Unique Opportunity to Help Someone

25. Vitamin D Milk

26. Linux

27. Serendipity

28. Mathematics

29. The Redeeming Quality of Pain

30. Snow

31. Orgasms

32. RPG's, Writing, House, CSI: Miami and Anything Else that Provides Escapism

33. Options

34. Employment

35. Youth

36. Chinese Food

37. Snapdragons

39. Led Zeppelin

40. Bamboo

41. Strength

42. Humanity

43. Comfy flip-flops

44. A Nice, Long Fart

45. Walkabouts

46. Thinking Back on Past Relationships and Knowing That However Trying the Times Were, You Are a Stronger and More Developed Person for Having Had the Experience

47. The Smell of Freshly Cut Grass

48. Literature

49. Perserverance

50. Faith

BMT with Double Japs

2007-07-14T16:42:00.000-07:00

"... now get the FUCK outta my office!" Paul screamed at me.

It wasn't even 9:00am on a Monday and I was being screamed at by my boss for something I didn't even do. I don't even make the coffee around here. Why would I be responsible for it not being strong enough?

"Hello? Yes, sorry about that Brenda. About that CRM decision ..." he said at lower volume as he returned to his phone conversation.

It always seemed to get this way when the 25th of the month rolls around and the team hasn't hit its quota. I mean, we only have what, 7 salespeople? Working a lot of 250 cars? How the hell can I be expected to ... nevermind. It's not worth getting into.

The fact is, I'm done with this place. The A-type personalities, the bipolar ebb and flow of business, the namby-pamby 'light steppers' as we affectionately call them (people who show up to the East Calhoun Auto Mall only acting like they're ready to purchase a vehicle but never really do) ... it's all too much to take.

I have a wife of 8 years, 2 little girls and a Rottweiler with a ravenous appetite for coffee table legs and running shoes. If I didn't need this job to support our pithy, suburban existence I might not have such a hard time quitting this crap gig.

"Doug, I just got off the phone with Brenda at corporate. I need you to help me with something." As if on queue, Paul was right back in my ear.

"Sure, boss. What is it?" I asked. God. What a horrible selection for a necktie. I bet his tramp of a wife got that for him. Pink trees? Who the fuck wears anything with pink trees on it?

"We're implementing a new CRM and it's costing us a lot of money. I need to know that I can count on you to sell more cars next month. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, I just need your best effort. Can I count on that?" Paul implored.

"Hey listen Paul. Have I ever let you down before? Have I? I don't think so. We'll sell the pants off these cars; don't you worry. Am I going to have access to this new program?" I asked.

Gosh, if they're spending all this money on some new tool to help us sell more cars then hey. Perhaps I should stick around?

"Well not exactly. See, between Northside Kia, East Calhoun and Town Center Auto, we have 24 salespeople and 6 sales managers. Right now the only people who really need access are the managers. Besides ... there's really nothing of benefit to you in gaining access anyway." He offered.

So let me get this straight. You want me to stick around past closing to move more product ... you want me to stress and worry about hitting a corporately defined target when I'm not even going to see the benefit of the revenue increase?

"Eh, you're probably right. Hey I'm going to head out to lunch; I'll see you around 3." I finished.
I grabbed my coat from the rack next to the double doors and walked briskly to my car.

--------------------

The dip at the bottom of the entrance into East Calhoun Auto Mall was in dire need of repair. I suppose that rainwater washouts and heavy vehicle traffic were to blame and perhaps that day, just perhaps, that little dip caused me to snap.
I'm writing from inside cell 25L in the Morris County Penitentiary. How I got here is what this story is all about.

--------------------

WRRREEEEEECK - CHK - CHK!

"Mary mother of God, if they don't fix this FUCKING pothole I'm going to off everyone at this goddamned place. Mother fuckers. They can drop 50 grand on some hoity-toity software package but they can't find a dead body or something to fill in this goddamned hole?" I vented.

My voice was competing with Cory's. Slipknot was being mainlined right into my brain from 3 factory car speakers (the 4th one was ruined when Jessica, my youngest, found out how to use a popsicle stick as a weapon. I just wish she wouldn't have picked a fight with one of my car speakers).

Whatever. I needed a sandwich.

"Welcome to Subway, I'm Carol. What can I get started for you today?" The 'Sandwich Artist' chimed.

"Yea, um lemme get a footlong BMT with extra bacon. Oh and double up on the japs?" I asked.

"Japs?" She inquired.

"Yea, japs. You see? Japs. Those little green things." I pointed out. Was this chick MR or something?

"Oh, you mean jalapenos. No problem." She clarified.

"No, I mean japs. I want double japs on my fucking sandwich, ok? They're not jalapenos, they're JAPS. Got it?" I immediately became aware of my irritability when the store manager came from behind his roost and made his fat presence well known.

And fat would be a compliment for this guy.

"Carol, can I see you for a second?" The manager said. His eyes remained strictly on mine and as he ushered Carol away from the counter he might as well have been saying to me through his stare: "who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'll tell you who I think I am! I'm your goddamned father, whore! Now get your trashy ass back here and make me my FUCKING SANDWICH!!" I had lost control. There was nothing left in me capable of restraining my now incorrigible self.

Carol started sobbing and Ralph (I learned his name by scanning the mustard-stained purple and yellow polo shirt he was wearing) had become a human shield between her and me.

"Hey look buddy I need you to leave. Now. We don't want any trouble, ok?" He pleaded.

"And I don't want any trouble either, you fat fuck! I just ... want ... my fucking ... sandwich. Ok? Please? Is that too much to ask?" I was getting desperate.

Beads of sweat were beginning to form on Ralph's pasty forehead. His eyes darted from left to right as if something in his flabby arms reach would help convince me to just leave.
That's when I saw the knife.

"Look ... Ralph" I motioned with my hand to his nametag as I moved closer to the glass partition separating me from the plastic-handled bread knife.

"You're going to make me a sandwich, and you're going to add extra bacon and double japs. You're going to do that now, and you're going to do so with a big smile across that fat fucking face of yours. Get me?" I said as my right hand, almost inadvertently, slid from over the bar to around the base of the knife.

"Oh shit. Carol, go to the back. I'll handle this." Ralph said. His nervousness was almost palpable.
"You're right. You ARE going to handle this. Now, I would like wheat bread, please. And make it fast, ok? I have to be back on the lot in 40 minutes." I said.

Without really even knowing it, the bread knife was now being squeezed with a force I thought myself incapable of producing. My knuckles grew white.

"Um, well it looks like we're out of wheat. I'm going to have to go to the back and get some more. Just a moment ..." He said.

"Fine. Hurry the fuck up, ok?" I returned.

"WAIT! Get back here!" I realized. There was a phone back there and I'm sure he intended to use it.

He didn't stop. His swift waddle turned into a hurried quick-step as he rounded the corner of the food prep counter.

"GET BACK HERE!!" I screamed.

I resorted to leaping over the counter and grabbing Ralph by the collar of his shirt. As he was His momentum kept his lower body moving forward yet my yank brought his torso falling behind him, crashing hard on the linoleum floor.

Without thinking I thrust my bread knife deep into Ralph's left eye socket. His eyeball made a very audible 'pop' sound as it ruptured. An agonizing scream quickly erupted from Ralph's mouth.

"AAAHHH oh my GOD! You ... AHHHHH JESUS!!!" He attempted, bringing both his hands to his bloody face.

Carol had left after she saw me leap over the service counter. For all I knew she was locating the nearest cop. I had to get out of there.

What I could not do though was let Ralphie here live.

I used my left hand to secure his head by wrapping his long, greasy hair around my palm. With him still screaming, I muscled the knife through his flailing arms and straight to the base of his left ear.

Suddenly Ralph stopped moving.

"Why are you doing this man? I'm sorry!! Please don't kill me!!" Ralph appealed.

I saw Paul in his face. I saw Terry, the top-ranking salesperson for our location, in his face. I saw my ex-wife in his face. I saw Cory from Slipknot in his face. I saw everyone who has ever wronged me, right there in his face, looking back at me now (albeit with only one eye) with terror and confusion.

"I just ... wanted ... my sandwich. I'm sorry you didn't listen." I said.

With that the bread knife dug into Ralph's skin and slowly created a long, rough tear across his neck. Blood began pouring out and pooling beneath Ralph's body. Combined with his blood and sweat, a few tears were now being added. And not just his.

After spending 30 seconds sawing at Ralph's fat neck I stood up and walked to the counter.

I didn't care that there were now an easy half-dozen squad cars right outside, each coupled with a team of armed cops and attack dogs.

"Now." I sighed.

"BMT ... extra bacon ... double ... fucking ... japs."

Sidewalk Reminiscence

2007-07-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Sunday, April 16, 2006

----------------------

I hate how life is sometimes just like a country song - a long, slow, sad one that stays in your head for days.

As I sit here typing this I do believe that I'm as sad as I've been in months. Just yesterday I was riding my bike innocently enough down the street when there just ahead of me was walking a couple of young people.

A man and a woman strided carelessly down the sidewalk, hands held, both with beaming smiles on their faces taking in the midday sun. On the right was Tara, my ex-girlfriend. On the left was a tall, broad, handsome man of probably 30 years or so.

Tara and I were together for about a year. I will say that the year we spent as a pair was one of the most blissful and memorable years of my life. I remember making love to her with the french doors open ... watching her sleep early in the morning well before either of us had to get up for work. I remember how her dog had an insatiable appetite for belly rubs.

I really don't think there is an evil or ill-willed bone in Tara's body. She always was ultimately compassionate and respectful with only the highest regard for matters of the spirit. Though deaf in her left ear, Tara could pick up on any vibe, anywhere.
She was amazing.

She broke up with me for the last time by sending me a package of all the personal effects I had left at her house the last time I stayed with her. A belt, some shirts, my old Specialized biking hat ... all carefully folded and shipped with care along with a 5-page letter explaining her decision.

Tara was 38. I was 26. This 'relationship' didn't stand a chance and we both knew it. It was she however who had the wherewithal and courage to up and sever ties with both our interests in mind.

But none of this makes it any easier today.

As Tara and her beau passed me on the street I tried to get a solid look at her. I couldn't, because the glasses she was wearing were very mirrored. What I could determine though was that she was very, very happy. Walking hand-in-hand with a healthy, smart (I'm sure) and kind man who I hope takes excellent care of her, she was smiling broadly right at him, looking up with an expression of care and perhaps even love on her face.

I had to stop pedalling about 30 yards after I passed them. I put both feet down on the concrete, straddling my bike, and silently wept for a few seconds. Though she may be off to a new relationship with someone fantastic, she's still inadvertently yanking the strings sewn into my heart.

But as much as it hurts to miss her, I know there's no sense in stewing. Nor is there any sense in hoping for a rekindling of any sort as I'm sure she's learned better than to date men so much younger than herself.

I think I've only felt this low about a relationship-gone-sour when my heart was first broken about 10 years ago. I wish it got easier to stomach with age. Unfortunately it doesn't.

Through my few tears I made it the rest of the way home and parked my bike against the wall of my apartment. I took my helmet off and pet my dog Loki, who was, as ever, happy to see me. I shook off my gloves and plopped on the couch, sighing heavily.

There I sat feeling sad and rejected, thinking to myself:

"Well, at least she's happy."

And I guess I can be glad about that.

Stress Relief (another short story)

2007-07-14T16:38:00.000-07:00

We all love feeling like we're in shape and healthy.

Sometimes the desire to please ourselves with a toned body crosses over into the desire to please others with it.

And of course in some cases, we simply exercise to reduce stress.

***

Bruce threw his single bag of groceries into the passenger seat and plopped into the driver's in the same motion. An overzealous yank on the car door produced a loud WHAM as it closed, drawing the annoyed eye of another shopper in the supermarket parking lot.

"Fucking BULLSHIT", Bruce yelled to himself, now alone in his car.

Today hadn't been good to Bruce. Work sucks, ex-wife's attorney won't stop calling, dog shits everywhere ... perhaps 'fucking bullshit' described it all pretty well.

He threw the car into gear and sped away from Cub Foods, en route back home with one fist clenched in his lap and the other wrapped around the steering wheel. Bruce lived alone in a 2-story condo on the southwest side of Marietta, Georgia and was he ever ready for a session of heavy lifting in his home gym.

A massive man, Bruce stood 6'5" with a broad, sculpted back that resembled an upside-down triangle. No one fucked with Bruce and he liked it that way; religiously spending 2 hours at least 4 times a week lifting weights had a lot to do with it.

Bruce turned into his driveway, got out of his car wielding his purchases and made his way inside, first through the small foyer and then directly into the kitchen. After almost throwing the milk and mustard into the refrigerator door Bruce headed downstairs to his gym, bypassing his dog Zoink who seemed quite insulted.

He slammed his closed hand against the bottom wall as he rounded the corner into his weight room.

Today was in fact, 'back' day. First exercise: shrugs.

Bruce's adrenalin surged while cinching on his lifting straps. The shrug machine he sat down to required the user to load the appropriate amount of weight and then unlock the lifting bar, bringing all the loaded weight into motion.

Because of his brazen nature, Bruce had removed the safety feature added by the machine's manufacturer to prevent overextension and injury. Who the fuck needed that anyway?
His last use of this machine saw a final lift of about 750 pounds. After this last workout, he hadn't bothered to remove any of that weight.

"Screw it! FUCKING SCREW IT!" Bruce yelled.

He grabbed the handles and brought his lifting straps securely around the bar, creating an almost locked grip on the long, cold piece of iron. Bruce closed his eyes and threw his shoulders up in a monstrous burst of energy, unlocking the weight catch and putting 750 pounds into his two, white-knuckled hands.

This was too much weight to be starting with. He knew it. He just didn't care.

He squeezed his shoulder blades together and performed his first repetition. The second came shortly thereafter, with a little less effort than the first. Reps 3 and 4 were slowly executed with surprisingly good range.

Seething with hatred for the causes of the day's stress, Bruce bellowed out a painful roar as he brought the weight up ... again ... and held it with animal-like effort. It was enough to momentarily blur his vision.

Suddenly Bruce's left trapezius muscle ripped at its connection with his vertebrae.

The pain was excruciating and sent the weight he was holding straight down. This force was distributed equally in two places: directly on each of Bruce's wrists. The thick, leather lifting straps immediately dug deep into Bruce's skin and produced a slow flow of well-oxygenated blood; it began dripping from his knuckles.

Instinctively Bruce loosened his grip but to no avail. The 750 pounds of iron combined with a noose-like attachment of him to his weight machine rendered him completely incapacitated. He was trapped.

He began screaming, at first from the pain and then from the fear. Unfortunately no one but Zoink was within earshot. The lactic acid and blood seeping into his system from his torn muscle began pooling in his shoulder. The ache was unbearable and was being multiplied by the immovable weight holding him in place.

Then, the numbness came.

Bruce soon realized that he couldn't feel his hands. A quick look down revealed a serious problem: his hands had turned blue and were slowly being pulled further down by the force of the loaded weight.

Panic set in and Bruce began to wail like a baby. His hands were being ripped from his arms. Had the safety catch of his shrugging machine not been removed, it was at about this point in the movement where he'd have been relieved of the 750 pounds.

He knew what had to happen. Bruce clenched his teeth as hard as he could and with all his might moved his torso forward from the weight machine. The move was enough to send an obscene amount of pain through his body as his wrists were ripped in half at the carpals, releasing him from the machine's hold.

Blood covered the area and Bruce's hands lay near-white and detached from his body, gushing, on the hard surface. Each one was still wrapped tight as could be with the leather straps.
Crying and disoriented, Bruce brought his bloody stumps to his chest and ran back upstairs. He bolted outside and to the house of The Sundenbergs, his neighbors, who thankfully were home.

Back inside the house, Zoink had made his way downstairs. Blood ... the familiar smell of the sticky red substance greeted the dog's nostrils.

Bombs, Fuses, You and Me

2007-07-14T16:36:00.000-07:00

The below is a true story. _____________________________________________________

Self-destruction is strangely captivating.

Consider this: a bomb by any other name wouldn't be a bomb. It has a fuse, long or short, and it's combustible. Some bombs are deadly; some are just for fun. The Black Cat firecrackers you enjoyed setting off as a kid (and perhaps even still enjoy) would be great examples of those bombs that are not deadly.

What happens when humans become bombs?

No, I don't mean "What happens when radical middle easterners stitch sticks of dynamite into their jackets and walk into federal buildings", no. I mean simply this: even as bombs have fuses and varying levels of explosive magnitude, so do humans.

I have a fuse. You have a fuse. Mine might be shorter than yours. Yours might be the shortest fuse on the block. In the city. In the nation. But then, even as short as your fuse is, your 'explosive magnitude' may be nil. So then what's the worry in pissing off someone like that? That is, someone with so short a fuse but so little to offer in their 'explosion'? Seems it'd be just like another day in the life of a 10 year-old, running 'round in the driveway happy as can be, with his fists full of Black Cat firecrackers.

Nothing to worry about, right?

Right.

I remember a young boy I encountered in military school. His name was Daryl Lynn Waters ... I remember his full name so well because of the 'magnitude' of his 'explosion'.

Daryl served as an iconic example of someone with a very long fuse but also as someone with an unparalleled explosive caliber. Daryl was short, pale, redheaded and not particularly bright but the potential was there. I saw this in him because I *was* him not 5 years prior. Daryl caught a lot of shit in those barracks ... a lot of hazing, 'blanket parties', forced ingestion of the foulest substances you could imagine, etc.

It was all part of graduating from 'Scrub' status there at Lyman Ward Military Academy (www.lwma.org). Once you proved yourself worthy of rank, most the subjugation stopped.
Emphasis on the word 'most'.

Daryl was awarded Private First-Class within about a month. Shortly thereafter, the Corporal insignia graced his lapels. Finally, and much to the shigrin of his classmen, Daryl Lynn Waters became Sergeant. You could almost hear the teeth grinding in resentment as Daryl's tactical officer pinned the 3 chevrons on him for the first time.

That same night, Daryl would be beaten severely and left an aching mass huddled beneath his sheets, bleeding.

Daryl saw me just about every other day. Though he was an 8th grader and I was graduating that year, we passed each other in the corridors of Tallapoosa Hall, the academy's 'academic' building, quite often. He always seemed kind of detached, sort of like a part of him was elsewhere. But because of the sheer volume of kids his age and with his disposition, I thought little of it.

Again ... long fuse, unprecedented explosion.

Daryl Waters walked out to the Ranger Trail one evening (the Ranger Trail was where the LWMA 'Rangers' did their field exercises) and removed his boots. Daryl then pulled the laces from his boots and fashioned a makeshift noose. He climbed one of the pine trees lining the Ranger Trail and proceeded to hang himself. His body was found the next morning swaying lazily in the moist Alabama air.

I remember talking to Daryl's dad during homecoming when parents were allowed to visit their sons. Daryl's dad sat and played guitar with me, for Christ's sake. At Daryl's memorial, held at the LWMA Chapel and acting as the school's Religious Officer, I gave his eulogy. I tried to bring up all the good in him I saw but I think I fell a bit short in the end, because I fear I didn't know him well enough. Maybe I didn't know *myself* well enough at his age.

As long as his fuse was, his explosion was certainly one of immeasurable force.

RIP, Daryl.

Ring of the White Dragon

2007-07-14T16:35:00.001-07:00

Ring of the White Dragon

"God grant me solace in heaven ... let the blood of my enemies be atonement enough for the countless sins of which I am guilty", the befelled swordsman gasped.

Arondrake's large, calloused hand clutched his gaping abdominal wound, sending warm streams of blood through his fingers. The cold Swiss rain pouring on and around him offered no comfort.
Strangely, the reality of his own death felt like home. Arondrake had taken the lives of so many over so long a period of time that death, for him, had become something of sustenance. He had found the source of his soul's energy through the annihilation of others.

"Montathea be with me in my final hour! Make me one with the Eternity of the Everlong!" He cried.

Slowly his field of vision became shrouded by a dark, shrinking circumfrence. Before long, his pain began to subside and Arondrake felt life slowly leave his body. Finally his clenched fist let go of the hold it had on his fatal wound and the knight's corporeal shell went limp.

The falling rain carried his blood into the waiting soil beneath his armored body.

Arondrake the Vicious of the House of Montathum had died. With him died a legacy responsible for countless thousands of murdered innocents, innumerable, mercilessly ravaged villages and the introduction of a regime of uncontested control.

Around his corpse there lay a Norse-forged, steel broadsword crafted by the metalsmiths of his homeland. The blade was filthy and encrusted with the dried remnants of his killing. On the hand wielding the sword were two rings: one from Arondrake's late mistress Xaya and the other from a thief he had executed on contract from the Kingdom. He was told he could retain whatever valuables he procured from his kills.

As Arondrake died and the area surrounding him grew wetter with the falling precipitation, the thief's ring on his sword hand began to glow. The emerald set in the center of the iron piece of jewelry wasn't in fact an emerald at all. Rather, it was a treasure that, unbeknownst to Arondrake, whole armies of men would die to obtain.

It was the imbued eye of a White Dragon, and now the ring was slowly burning it's way through Arondrake's dead, left middle finger. The burning flesh melted away from the ring with remarkable ease, and the resulting smoke disipated in the moist air.

Then, somewhere in a deep chasm lined with sandstone and eons of sediment, a White Dragon was easing out of it's millenia-long slumber ... it's only eye opening for the first time in over two thousand years.

Privy (a short story)

2007-07-14T16:32:00.000-07:00

The first indication I had that things weren't quite right on that plane was when I looked down at my watch and saw the minute hand ticking away as if it were the second hand.

The second hand on my watch wasn't moving. Neither was the hour hand.

My confusion about my watch however was quickly replaced with terror. Something I cannot say I've ever experienced nor would hope to again happened that evening, and I'm thankful for being able to be here to tell you about it.

I was on flight 1408, Northwest Airlines service from Tampa to Minneapolis. The passengers numbered very, very few, almost abnormally so. The date was December 1st, 2004 and the time was about 10:10 pm. I was reclined using all my allowable 4 inches in seat 16F, having randomly been assigned a window seat. Seating in this aircraft was 3-4-3 wide, with nice, big isles. I like those. As I said, my watch fouling up strangely was the first sign of any anomaly.

Just as I had time to furl my brow and tap at my watch every semblance of light in the cabin of that plane disappeared. Nothing. No iPod backlights blinking, not even those little isle lights. All elecritity on that plane had at once been extinguished.

There was no bang, no sudden 'POP' or a sound of something shorting out. No noise accompanied this event. That is, outside of the normal chitchat you might expect to hear on a 3 hour plane flight.

The first thing I remember hearing after the lights went out was a slow, steady uprising of concerned then near violent voices. Of the 60 or so people on that plane each one of them was making an increasingly pessimistic comment. These became shouts.

Then, the engines stopped.

All 4.

The experience of being in a 757 while gliding along at near 600 miles per hour at 32,000 feet in the air, without the engines running, is an absolutely petrifying one. Yet, the plane remained steady. There was no sudden change in course or a dive down of any sort.

The passengers grew motley with fear. Hysteria took the form of hurried, frightened prayers and uncontrollable bawling. It was at that time when these people thought they were going to die.

I too began praying.

Suddenly a huge, booming voice broke through the wall of frantic screams. It was the captian.
"I am the captain of this aircraft! EVERYONE PLEASE SIT DOWN AND LISTEN TO ME ... PLEASE!" he pleaded.

Amazingly everyone quieted. It was a wave of silence that shattered the air.

Certainly the captain was concerned about what was happening here but after all, he was the captain. Of all the crew aboard that plane he was the one most expected of all of them to maintain composure and control in emergency sitations.

"Please listen to me. We no longer have control. We don't know what is going on but we have lost total command of this aircraft. It seems we are keeping at good speed however. Let's just all calm down and wait this out. I'll be right back. PLEASE try to remain calm", he finished.

And with that the captain returned to the cockpit, I assumed, to bang out some plan for reviving this plane. I felt the sweat pooling in every crevice of my body as the heat in the cabin grew.

For some reason, I had the inkling to look out the window for some clue as to what was going on here. I blinked my eyes hard once or twice but saw nothing. I then, upon bringing my head down to the bottom of the window and looking up, saw something spectacular; there above this plane was a soft, ambient glow of gold.

There was no real border or edge to this light necessarily, it was just this peculiar, disk-like emination. And it's location was very, very latent. It was almost impossible to see if you weren't looking almost directly up as I was. It was actually very pretty.

Suddenly the 757 I was in dropped what was determined to be 50 to 75 feet.

The standing stewardesses flew. Those unfortunate enough to not have their seatbelts fastened rocketed to the ceiling of the plane. I remember hearing a thick, dull "CRACK" as a bone snapped. Because there was nothing to see, all of us with our seatbelts on were groping for the backs of the chairs in front of us, simply trying to hold on to something stationary.

But just as quickly as the plane fell, it steadied. No engines, no sound, nothing existed then but the whirring of the passing wind and the screams of those inside this beseiged airliner. The screams were desperate and ridden with agony and I could tell some just wanted it to end. Now that we weren't falling, we were licking our wounds and wailing with dread.

I somehow managed to take another upward look outside. The golden glow I described had sort of morphed into a red sort of color and began to take a more distinct shape. As this was happening I was becoming more and more aware of the fact that this airplane was being remotely controlled by a UFO. We were being hijacked by aliens.

Then, the lights.

Right back on came the lights.

The sight was a most amazing and macabre one ... there were people thrown everywhere. Some knocked unconscious, some bleeding, all crying. Luggage was strewn about as it was ripped from it's keep beneath the seats during the drop. Purses and laptops were gutted and lay disembowelled in the isles.

The engines returned. The familiar, roaring noise of them was instantaneously alive and well. Soon after this occured the attitude in the cabin shifted dramatically. Suddenly there were shouts of joy and thanks to God for such a graceful pardon. I wept softly in my chair and hoped this was going to end with me on the ground and alive, not incinerated in the woods somewhere.

Who knew if this return to normalcy was permanent?

The overhead speaker cackled:

"Ladies and gentlemen I am dreadfully sorry. We ... something ... terrible ...", his voice was uneven and exhausted.

"We have no idea what just happened but our systems seem to be up and running fine now. We'll be establishing contact with traffic control and hope to be landing immediately."

A triumphant cheer erupted from the 60 passengers and after this knee-jerk celebration we took survey of the scene before us. The lights were back on, the plane was under control and we were going to land, safe.

We made it to Minneapolis safe enough. After touching down we filed out of the plane alongside a convoy of ambulances and fire engines. Words cannot express how happy I was to touch ground after that disaster in the sky.

I came to find out later after doing some of my own research that the flightpath of our 757 that night was dead-set to meet that of flight 9904, a smaller, 80-seat passenger aircraft assigned to the exact, same altitude. Yup, that's right. Service from Minneapolis to Tampa. We were on a crash course and would have died if what happened that night, that huge drop, hadn't transpired.

I'm pretty sure I was the only one who saw what was above our plane when this all happened. No one else made a comment about it and I surely didn't want to draw extra attention to myself. I just wanted the whole thing to be done with. I was questioned up and down by investigators wanting explanations for what had happened. Still, nothing.

I guess I'll always keep this secret.

Autoasphyxiational Substation 7

2007-07-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

Hired with no rank to cast lots of lines of clean, disgruntled obscurity. Check out these soccer moms' delayed gratification hurrying.

Slow. Down. Now.

Avon lady won't come around.

Dice pirhanas smacked twice cross the curb; stop FUCKING worrying because it's indistinct.
Oh, yea. I saw the same movie. Pretty in Pink.

Redhead chicks are ugly. Molly Ringwald however sure she could compost treason antfarm fuck me.

You gust lazily drowning yesterday in yarn. AMASS FORTUNES BY SETTING OFF FALSE ALARMS.

FUCK YOU.

Heh.

You hear that?

... didn't think so ...

HOLY SHIT DID YOU HEAR THAT?

... who let the frogs out ...

GET ME OUT OF BEER!!!!!!!!

... less thrilling ...

I'd like to fade to the minute hand if you'll let me. I once read a story of how boring reading can get then times times times times times semit semit semit semit semit got hard and, well ...

We Had To Laugh At The Nazis.

The details remain tucked away in my electric blanket of sorts. You won't find pastels in finer grades than the ones crinkled deep in this planet's bones. Christ I thought you knew all that already.

Christ I'm tackling you.

Christ you're going to fall.

Christ is going to fuck Satan with his +43 Holy Fleshrod of Eternal Petrification and Then You'll Know Who Stole Your Pony, BITCH.

The word of the year is:

dog

Breathless

2007-07-14T16:22:00.000-07:00

Now easing out of my mid-twenties I'm beginning to appreciate good, old-fashioned cynicism moreso than I ever have. As I walk down the dingy, cracked streets of this putrid city and take note of the signs of dilapidation everywhere, clarity comes easy.

Life is long, agonizing and uncomfortable ... but at the end of it and when all is said and done, dying is like removing a shoe tied too tightly.

Pull the strings, welcome sweet relief and take in the entire experience of life's end. Sorry it's been such a long and arduous haul, but it's over now and you can rest.

The blood you spilled both yours and others ...
The headaches and long nights spent at the office and those spent arguing with your 'bitch' ...
The times your Dad blamed himself for your financial ineptitude ...
The taste of bad Mexican food ...
The sensation of running over a squirrel for the first time (thump, thump) ...
The strange color on your tongue resulting from a feast of Mike-and-Ike's and other fun-sized candy on Halloween ...
The last breath you take hoping that in some way your life was worth living ...
The decision to take the road less travelled (and henceforth to grimace at any reference anyone ever makes to a Robert Frost poem) ...
The 6:00am smell of ass, Mr. Boston's vodka, bad pot and B.O., all at once ...
The paradigm-shifting account of a crimson sunset over the front range of the Colorado Rockies ...

Make no bones about it:

Life leaves you breathless.

Simple Vindication Part 2

2007-07-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

But all the events leading up to this moment weren't worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.

---

Driving south through Illinois was probably the most uneventful and boring stretch Keith would encounter on his jaunt to Mexico. This gave him the opportunity to gather his thoughts and put a plan of action together about just how he was going to carry out the execution of Rita's co-conspirator, Johan. Furthermore, locating someone in southern Italy when all you have to go by is a first and last name would surely prove to be a daunting task.

The wind whistled annoyingly near Keith's left ear. Apparently some worn weatherstripping around the door frame was to blame. A quarter turn clockwise on the radio knob allowed the music to drown the wind.

That's when, to use Keith's words, the shit hit the fan.

"WKLN radio brings you this developing news bulletin: police in Minocqua, Wisconsin have issued an APB for 38 year-old Keith Ibbotson, currently wanted for questioning in a newly-opened murder case ..."

Keith's eyes narrowed as he listened intently.

"Keith Ibbotson is assumed to be driving a black, older model Corvette with license plate 8586AME. Keith is thought to be armed and dangerous. Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Keith Ibbotson should contact their local authorities immediately."

The urge to piss his pants was an unrelenting one but Keith maintained his composure. He knew that panicking or over-thinking his situation couldn't help so he drew in a few deep breaths and let this new information sink in. Keith was now a wanted man and the clock was ticking.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck ... " he said softly. His fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.

Just ahead was exit 211 to Springfield. Keith flipped up his turn indicator. After making his way from the off-ramp Keith headed east on a small, 2-lane road.

"6 AM and there isn't a damn place open for breakfast. Great." Keith observed. About a quarter-mile down the road a flickering neon sign caught his eye.

"Lynn's Diner - Open 24 hours"

The 'r' in 'hours' had burned out.

"Just as good as any", he thought.

Under the cover of early morning the black 2-door Corvette Keith was driving pulled slowly into the parking lot of Lynn's Diner and parked 4 spaces away from a large, older Chevy pick-up truck being exited by a short, staunch man wearing construction boots and a raincoat.

Keith waited a few seconds, got out, locked his car and then drew back and heaved his car keys far off into the distance. He looked at his baby Corvette, the machine he'd put so many hours of loving labor into ... and grimaced.

He followed the driver of the pick-up into the diner and had a seat at the bar.

"Coffee?" Keith asked.

"On the way, hun. Take sugar?" the waitress asked. She was 30-ish, a bit pasty but not altogether unattractive.

"Sure" came Keith's response. He got a solid look at her ass as she spun around to fill his order.
"Seen better ... ", he thought.

Keith's focus turned to the man he had followed into the diner. The man had taken his seat about 7 feet from Keith and had put his Harley Davidson wallet and car keys next to the newspaper he brought with him.

"Hey, you gonna read the sports section, pal?" Keith asked.

"What? Oh, yea. Probably. But here, it's yours for now."

With that, the man removed the sports section from his paper and plopped it down on the counter half-way between him and Keith before returning his attention to the conversation he had started with the fellow next to him.

"Too easy" Keith remarked under his breath.

"Here's your coffee, darlin'. 'Thin else?" the waitress asked, popping her chewing gum in wait for Keith's answer.

"Nah, that'll do it. Thanks." He said.

"Eighty cents."

Keith reached in his pocket and pulled his roll of twenties from its keep. He peeled off a bill and handed it over.

The waitress didn't say anything about the blood she saw on his hand. After all, she saw a lot of rough characters come through these doors. Whatever. Was it 9 yet? She had a screaming 10-month old waiting for her back home.

The waitress handed Keith his change, of which he left a buck for her on the counter. He then casually reached over and grabbed the sports section along with the keys, and Harley-Davidson wallet, of Hank Darby, farmer and buck hunter extraordinaire.

Keith then stood up, walked outside, jumped into Hank's truck, took one last look at his Corvette and peeled off into the now-rising sun.

"FUCK yea!!" Keith exclaimed. "Jesus, thank you. Payback is hell. I'm gonna off this sonuvabitch like nobody's business."

Adrenalin was pumping madly through his veins. Keith Ibbotson had just added GTA to his rap sheet.

"You've got to be KIDDING me!! Oh, god yes. This is perfect. Perrrrrrrfect ..." Keith expressed, upon finding a loaded 20-gauge shotgun nestled neatly behind the driver's seat.

"Gotta be a hunter. No other explanation" he thought aloud.

The gas tank read full. Things just kept on getting better. Mexico would be here in no time.

Simple Vindiation Part 1

2007-07-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

Lumped in a bloody mass in the corner of their living room, Rita looked up through her cracked reading glasses.

"Keith ..." She attempted.

But that would be the last word she would ever utter. Keiths axe came down with force practically splitting her shoulder in two, creating a wound as deep as the head of the axe itself.
Keith had to plant his foot against Ritas stomach just to remove his weapon. It left her limp body creating a sucking noise that brought a strange smile to Keith's face. For a moment he stood there, breathing heavily, watching the last semblance of life leave Rita's body.

After 12 long years, it was finally over.

Keith reached forward and gently removed Rita's glasses. For a moment he felt a sliver of remorse, but it was short lived. After what she had done to him and his life, her demise was a fitting end to a life lived, it seemed to Keith, only to bring him pain. With a slow, concentrated squeeze Keith crushed Rita's glasses and winced softly when the shards of glass dug into his callous hand.

"You will never wrong me again." He whispered.

And with that, Keith left the house he and Rita spent over a decade occupying. With him he took only a briefcase of clothes and personal effects, what seemed like a lifetime of memories, and a wedding ring now demoted to a mere key chain, dangling from a ring holding the key to his '87 Corvette Stingray.

"The guys at the office are not going to believe this one." He muttered to himself, chortling heartily.

The air was thick with rain. A swift, cold breeze kissed his cheeks as Keith rounded the front of his car. He didnt have time to appreciate the night, however. There was much to do. He located his car key and unlocked the door. After heaving his luggage into the passenger seat, Keith started the car and backed out of the driveway.

He would never see 1664 Carlington Way ever again.

"God! Why is there never anything good on the radio?" Keith said in an attempt to shift gears from murderer to level-headed driver.

He continued to peruse the few stations that came through to where he was, deep in the woods of northern Wisconsin. Finally George Thorogood's voice leapt out from the speakers.
"One whiskey, one shot, and one beer ... "

"Thats what the fuck I'm talking about!" Keith reveled. The sound of good, classic rock 'n' roll seemed to sedate him from the pain that was creeping up his left arm. He picked what he hoped was the last piece of glass from his palm.

"Bitch." He said. A drop of spittle made its way from his mouth to the dashboard.

Although he hadn't really thought about what he would do if he ever got the balls to kill Rita, his plan was coming together quite nicely. First he would have to leave the country. He estimated a full days worth of driving before he could make it to Mexico.

"Shit ..." Keith said as he looked at the fuel indicator. Half a tank of gas with only a credit card in his possession to use to buy more.

Although he wasn't the head of his class at West Point, Keith wasn't stupid. He knew that from this moment forward he had to leave as little a trace as possible if he wanted to get out of the U.S. undetected. A quick dive into the glove box revealed a cache of bills he and Rita kept for emergencies.

"Emergencies just like this one" he said to himself, chuckling.

$180 would take him pretty far. He hoped far enough.

---

Just 6 months ago, Keith would tell you he had it all. A paid-for house, a loving wife, a great job and a lot to show for a life lived well for a 38 year-old homebuilder. He was young, strong, established and without a worry in the world. Rita would probably agree with him.

One thing Rita wouldnt tell you however, is that every month for the prior 10 years, $2,000 was being pulled from Keith and Ritas joint savings account and placed into an Italy-based trust fund being managed by a man named Johan Fendler. A quarter-million dollars that should belong in Keith's pocket was being used to fabricate a life Rita planned on living once she found a way to get away from him. Since he found out about this, the question haunting Keith has been how she planned on severing ties with him and starting anew, with Johan presumably, in some coastal cottage in Venice or something, for all he knew.

But all the events leading up to this moment werent worth pondering. Keith had 3 tasks ahead of him: get out of the U.S., find Johan Fendler, and kill him. Nothing else mattered.

A Tale of Dental Destruction

2007-07-14T16:07:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I had an accident that involved my mouth, my teeth and a snapping turtle.

You do know what a snapping turtle is, don't you? Otherwise known as an Alligator Snapping Turtle, they have beaks on them that are capable of snapping little boys' fingers in half.

Anyway, I was fishing at the lake with my brothers when one of them announced that an afore-described turtle was sitting near the base of the concrete causeway we were sitting atop. I think I was 10 or 11 at the time and my fascination with anything dangerous was a pretty potent one. I took this announcement as truth and decided to go investigate.

I left my roost at the top of the causeway and proceeded down to where the concrete slab met the waters edge. As you probably know, when lake or river water runs over anything for some time, moss forms and makes for a pretty slippery surface. The particular concrete slab in question was angled at about 45 degrees, I'd say.

Upon reaching the base of the causeway I was disappointed to find that my brother had in fact been lying and that there was no snapping turtle to be found. I had pulled off my shoes and had hiked my pant legs to up around my knees for nothing and I grew quite pissed about all of it. So, I balled my fists and began walking back up the slippery slope with the intention of pommelling a sibling or two upon my return.

About half way through my walk back up the slab, I lost my footing and came crashing down to earth. The first part of my body to hit the mossy concrete was my chin.

A few things happened here that are worth noting:

1. I sheared 6 of my molars. 3 in half, 3 only partially.

2. I bit off 1/3 of the tip of my tongue. I imagine the piece I spit out made for a good meal for one of the fish we were trying to catch. Irony, anyone?

3. A massive gash was created just under my chin, such that a clear view of my jawbone was immediately available for anyone who could get me to look up.

4. Tucked into the newly created laceration were pockets of gravel and moss that were not going to just come out with some vigorous head shaking. 5. Of the teeth that were cracked or broken, one was a baby tooth that had no permanent tooth underneath it. This tooth would require extraction later in life.

The moment I stood up and started spitting out tongue and tooth fragments, my brothers were on their feet. The weren't running, they weren't calling for help and they certainly weren't rushing down to assist me.

They just stood there. Eyes like saucers. Jaws dropped (pun intended).

Eventually my brother Jared flagged down a passing car and enlisted the help of a total stranger. I was escorted to a hospital where I promptly received 29 stitches and later, over $2,000 worth of dental work (I know that figure because it was reminded to me by my father over the next few years).

I tell you this story people because today I have a dentist appointment. In fact, I have this appointment in 1 hour. In fact, it's been over 2 years since I've seen a dentist because of the sheer complication involved in 'just getting a cleaning'.

It's always a huge fucking discussion about the state of my enamel's affairs and how long each flawed tooth is going to last before bridgework or implant surgery will have to be considered. It's never fun and I NEVER GET THE FUCKING BALLOONS OR FAKE RINGS THAT I DID WHEN I WAS A KID.

A Piece of my own Heaven

2007-07-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

I find myself in the middle of a step forward.

I don't think about how I got here because it feels too good, and I don't want to wake up from this if it's a dream. All I see around me is sand. Although the sun is bearing down hard and everything should be scorching hot, nothing is. My bare feet move forward with ease and I feel the sand comfortably squirt through my toes as I walk. There is a slight breeze and my linen pants play with it.

I don't know if I'm wearing a shirt or not. I don't care.

Aside from the yellow-white of the sand there are dashes of green nearby, where lush shrubs with flowers are growing. The smell is oddly pleasing and reminds me of release.
I'd say I'm about 22 years of age. My hair is dirty blonde, I have a few days worth of beard growth on my face and for whatever reason, I am alone here in this beautiful, ethereal desert. Judging from the position of the sun I'd guess that it's about 2pm.

I look to my right and a long, thin pool of crystal clear water is stretched out before me. The surface of the water barely pulses with the passing winds and I make my way to the shore. The sand feels moist as I approach this oasis. The quiet is so calming that I barely notice the soothing greeting my feet get from the waiting water.

I kneel.

My hands meet each other just beneath the waters surface and I make a cup with them. I bring my hands up and douse my warm, tanned face, letting each vein of water trickle wherever it may along my neck and shoulders. With my eyes closed, I lean my head back and offer my face to the sun. I take the time to appreciate the coolness of my newly wet hair.

There are no sounds but those being made by the last few drops of water as they fall back down to earth. I stand up and survey this landscape once again.

Where am I?

It doesn't bother me, strangely, that I am lost. I am not thirsty and I do not hunger for anything, food or otherwise. I am not sweating and my body is fit and limber. All I can think about is the unending glory of this awesome surrounding. I also notice that time isn't progressing as normal. My movements are slowed and it's as if I am being given even more opportunity to truly enjoy every passing moment.

I long for nothing and feel relieved of all pain. I am not worried by work, women, death, responsibility, self, or anything else. It's like I don't have the faculty to worry.

A compelling urge to sit down moves over me. I crouch to my haunches and lay back, and a perfectly formed cradle of dry, grainy earth welcomes me. I relax completely and let the sand blow freely over my exposed skin. My feet sway left to right in the standing water and I recline into a perfect position.

I smile.

I am where I've always dreamed I'd be and I will be here forever, happily.

Waiting for the next trip

2007-07-09T19:23:00.001-07:00

I figure life on earth is kind of a trip. Not a psychadelic one, but moreso a jaunt through uncharted territory. Like a walkabout.

We're not given any kind of direction and are left to our own devices, to develop new and better ways to adapt.

When we're presented with challenges and difficulties, it seems to me that at the time we are presented with them, if we do not have the right tools with which to handle the difficulties, we are branded with a painful mark that teaches us the importance of said tools.

Patience, for example - not being patient enough before eating one's piping hot noodles is a great way to be introduced to burns of the lips and tongue. That shit hurts. After this incident, one is more likely to exercise more patience the next time piping hot noodles that are too hot to eat just yet are presented.

So, on this trip we gather wisdom. The rate at which we gather this wisdom is determined by our level of deductive intelligence. Deductive intelligence is a skill that allows one to determine cause and effect from phenomena.

Eating piping hot noodles before they are cool enough to consume is bad because it causes painful burns on the lips and tongue.

Those low in deductive intelligence take longer to learn life's little lessons. Lessons like patience.

During their trip, these people have it harder than others.

I don't know what dictates levels of deductive intelligence in people.

I don't even know if, academically, deductive intelligence is the phrase to use to describe this human faculty. Frankly, I don't care. I want to write about it and academia can fuck off.

I believe blogging shouldn't be about day-to-day life. Blogging should be a therapeutic and cathartic way of communicating with people who you might just be able to reach. Maybe even able to change.

...for the better, I'd hope.

It should be about your perspectives on life and it should be a way to share your problems with the world so that they don't seem so much like your problems. This isn't to escape any kind of responsibility but it is to not feel so alone in dealing with, often seemingly insurmountable, struggles.

I struggle every day. To remain positive, to give praise to others, to maintain professionalism, to love myself.

For some reason I find it very, very hard to love myself and that's unfortunate. I do believe however that it's not as bad as I've seen it in the past. I can remember a time when I completely despised myself.

Self-hatred is not productive and simply breeds hatred for all things, not just one's self.

On my 'trip' through life I want to have as little self-hatred in my life as possible. I think though, that I would like a tool with which to handle self-hatred when it becomes rampant in my life as it is so prone to do.

I want anti-self-hatred spray.

They don't sell any at Wal-Mart.

Maybe on my next trip through life I'll be better equipped with such preventative products.

The Lasting Effect of an Education in Philosophy

2007-07-06T05:36:00.000-07:00

After graduating from military school in 1997, I went on to attend college at Valdosta State University. After a few run-ins with the law (I had just discovered alcohol and enjoyed it a bit too much for a 19 year-old), I skipped town and transferred to the University of Georgia where I eventually attained my B.A. in Philosophy.

That's right, Philosophy.

What I'm going to discuss today is the effect that a formal education in this stigmatized field of study had on me and how I'm working to change the mind frame it created in me.

First thing's first - In Philosophy, there are no *real* answers.

When you're seeking to understand the argument and not really trying to formulate the correct answer, you are trained to evaluate possible solutions or answers on the grounds of their logical and/or fundamental truth. That said, your thirst for the correct answer is never satiated and you're left to defend what MIGHT be the right answer.

Example: The coat I'm wearing is blue. Is this true or false?

Possible answer 1 with supporting argument: True. Blue being a recognized section of the color spectrum representing a certain range of frequency of light, it can be safely said that the coat is blue if in fact the perceived color of the coat corresponds perceptibly with said range of light frequencies.

Possible answer 2 with supporting argument: False. The faculty of human perception is an inherently subjective function and any single instance of blue is only blue to the person perceiving what is being called blue. No two persons view or perceive the same object in exactly the same way so it cannot be said with absolute certainty that what one perceives as blue is precisely what another sees as blue.

...the reason why so many Philosophy graduates continue on to law school is because Philosophy teaches you how to SPIN. You do know what that means, right? I don't mean spin as in what the Gravitron does or what breakdancers do. I mean spin as in reframe, add gloss, redefine, or otherwise manipulate the way in which a position or argument is presented.

A woman was found dead in the backyard swimming pool of a suburban home. Though there is no evidence of a struggle and there is no evidence to disprove that the man did not commit the murder.

Did the man murder his estranged ex-lover?

Yes - says the prosecution. If by murder you mean he willfully allowed her to die.

No - says the defense. If by murder you mean he strangled her and forced her to drown.

...it's all about the spin.

New wrinkles, an aching back and preparation for 30

2007-07-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

For my first blog I thought I'd out some concerns I have about aging and my current position in life.

I'm 28. I turn 29 next April and while I am proud that I've even made it this far in life, I am woefully disappointed with the progress I've made since graduating college. I suppose, like most wet-behind-the-ears twenty somethings, I thought I'd enter the real world with an unparalleled work ethic, a foundation of self-discipline and enough vigor to take on whatever life on my own had to throw at me.

Not only was I wrong about what to expect but I made a concerted effort to NOT accept support from ANYONE unless it was an absolutely dire situation (homelessness, being on the cusp of an eviction, bankruptcy, etc.). I was hell bent on making it on my own and independent of anyone else's contributions. I did just that - and now, as 30 rears it's head and threatens to end my decade of frivolous sales jobs, equally inconsequential sexual exploits and vocational indecision, I'm finding that my resolve has left me alone and emotionally isolated.

I am, in the truest sense of the phrase, a lost soul.

Where am I going?
What do I want to do with myself?
How will I achieve piece of mind?
What should I invest in and for how long?
Who should I date?
What job should I be doing?
Where can I find solace from the never ending pressures of daily life?
WHY THE FUCK DON'T ATLANTA RADIO STATIONS PLAY DECENT MUSIC?

The answer to all the above is 'I don't know'.

What's worse, I don't feel any closer to 'knowing' than I did when I was 22 and TOTALLY ignorant, not just kind of ignorant like I am now.

I realize that 30 isn't that old, comparitively. I also realize that I have, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, another 46 years or so to try and enjoy this enigmatic whirlwind of a phenomena called life. What I DON'T have is any direction as to how.

I suppose I'll continue on with my despicable and nauseating occupation of calling people who don't want to talk to me and getting them to spend money they don't want to spend. I suppose I'll blog about it, too, when they slam the phone down in my ear and I'm left to explain to my boss why my activity quotas for the week aren't where they should be.

I guess I'll trudge along doing this yet savoring those few hours out of the day where I am allowed time to myself. Time to play guitar, frolic with my dog, work out, ride my mountain bike, read a book, hell...WRITE a book. I'm at the point where I'm rationalizing enduring my Iron Maiden of a job for the sake of preserving that fraction of the day I have all to myself.

But I know it can get better than this. I know it can. I know there's something else out there for me that isn't degrading, callous and thankless like another life-sucking sales job. I know there are people out there I can lead - people I can motivate and inspire. It's GOT to be out there! If it isn't, what the hell am I even doing trying?

If it is out there and if it is just a matter of time before I find it (or it finds me), then dammit I want to know how long I have to wait for change to bring a better life.

These are the Chronicles Of A Lost Soul.

'COALS', for short. Because I happen to be a redhead, I figured I'd make them red coals.

Thanks for stopping by.