leaving the rock

For the last few days, I've been wondering why I'm doing so much writing as of late, yet writing nothing of substance. My writing is a reflection of my mind, which should reflect my life. My mind finds nothing here worth reflecting.

I'm living in New York right now. I've traded vacant oceans for seas of people who are buried under whatever struggles they take on. I've traded solace for opportunity.

The ocean touching the beaches of San Diego used to make its way through the sands. The ocean feeds into streams of thought, which seem to go on forever... every inch unpredictable. I thought those streams would go with me wherever I went, but they're fed by different waters here. They're drying up, and I haven't the tears to refill them, I haven't even the strength.

I'd sit on a particular rocky cliff overlooking the waves crashing below. Day after day, I'd find a spot that was more secluded than the others. I'd be in long jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, but no shoes. My hands, feet, and face would burn under the shining sun, as I sat there asking God this question, "If you are, then what am I?" Even though the question was silent, I couldn't ask it unless I was truly alone; this was a question that was only to be shared with the waves, the rock, and the white splash of their meeting. If spectators were near, the question would have to wait until they left. I had the time to wait, for even as the sun vanished beneath the water, I would remain.

There are always spectators here. There is no seclusion or solace. My feet are draped by thick leather to protect them from the snow, and often my hands are covered the same. The sun is hidden by unnaturally tall structures, and the moon hasn't shined in months. I don't think I've seen anything that someone's hands haven't created, and haven't drowned in the question in ages.

This was a decade ago, and I can still feel the ocean's breeze. I'm just a little too cold as the sun's halfway buried, but endure to watch the sky dim, while the clouds above are painted in neon colors of pink and blue. I wonder why I'm sitting here, why I have nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. The stone is cold beneath my feet, but again, it's only a minor inconvenience.... it's just the stone reminding me of its presence; in a way, I'm thankful.

I never write when I sit on this rock. This is the one place where pen and paper aren't the primary focus... they're overpowered by the same waves that captivate me. Thoughts pour through me, but these thoughts are mine... and they're far too numerous to ever reach the page. Pages cannot contain this. Today, I'll ask the question that should have been asked all along, "If I am, then what are you?" And in saying these words in my mind, I finally have an answer to thousands of questions. Traded things are returned, and risk mingles with a sense of security.

I'm careful when rising to my feet. In places, the rock is jagged, and I've been sitting for so long that I'm not sure that my legs will hold me. I give myself a moment to test my balance before stepping closer toward the cliff's edge. Beneath me are protruding stones that are bare and deadly, but when the waves crash in, the water below is deep. In my lifetime, I've spent hundreds of hours trying to calculate the pattern that the waves hold to, but each one manages to surprise me. I'm standing right on the edge of the cliff, and if I were to jump, I'd be greeted below by rocks that would tear at me, or by water that would gently and safely carry me away in its arms; I haven't the mind to time my leap to cause one end over the other. I've never handed myself over to fate this way, but I've also never resigned to the fact that I am that which creates my fate, blind to it as I am. As my feet now trade the sense of cold stone for that of whipping air, I realize that I'm finally doing something in life that seems real; something of substance.

spoils of war

I'm not big on politics or foreign diplomacy issues, but when I first saw this picture, I thought, "Hmm... that chick standing over the dead guy is pretty cute. She has a healthy smile."

Now that I've studdied the picture a little longer, I'm having my doubts about her... what's going on with that stain on the upper thigh of her pants? Please tell me that it's blood or saliva from the corpse... tell me it's not what I think it is.

vacancy

The skies are empty and bleak. I'm inbetween projects, on the bridge of one day passing into the next, and I've lost myself in that question. This new approaching day is a mystery, and I have no sense of what the last was.

There is no 'me' to speak of. I am the sum of thoughts and emotions that react to my life, but my life is changing day to day; I am changing day to day. How can I know who I am when my world keeps changing its mind, when it's calling me by different names. I seem but a passing whim, thrust around by opposing waves, rising and crashing to the bottom.

There is no truth in this. I make my selves to fit the occasion. I tell each what to like and how to act, and so each is born, but these aren't real. My name is whispered by the wind, but I am formless until you ask me to be. Bleak, empty, and without a core, yet able to take on the illusions you seek.

rand the hatchet #3

The Calling

"Randall Gray?" He already knew the answer to the question, but he wanted to make a good first impression on me. He waited for my nod, and extended his hand. "Neil Clark. It's good to meet you in person. Let's grab a room where we can discuss the job; I think you'll be a great fit. Follow me."

I was escorted to a room with a round table and a few chairs. The room was vacant but for the two of us and a copy of my resume. After sitting down and handling all of the cordial smalltalk, we began to discuss my skills and work history.

My resume screamed of instability, with all of the different cities and states that it named off, but I was prepared to put a positive spin on it, and managed to do so brilliantly. Neil was a recruiter, and really, his job was mostly done. He had already found me, and despite my inexperience, I clearly had the potential that my future employer was seeking. This meeting was really just a formality; my interview with the company that I now work for was already scheduled. "I gotta tell you, Randall... I really like what I'm seeing here. My boss wants to meet you; hold tight."

Neil disappeared out the door, and a couple of minutes later, his boss arrived. "Randall, I'm Curtis Solomon. Neil's been telling me good things about you." Curtis was a managing recruiter, who was handling the direct negotiations with my future employer. This second interview was also just a formality.

After having the same conversation with Curtis that I had with Neil, he began to tell me a little about the job. It sounded perfect for me, and I knew that I was perfect for it. My declaration of the fact that I was looking to be molded brought a smile to Curtis's face; I could very well be the one.

After the second interview, Curtis wanted me to meet his boss, yet another recruiter at their company. I was led to the end of the hall, to a single door that was fastened shut with numerous locks. The receptionist, seeing us approaching it, put whoever she was talking to on hold, and rushed over to unlock the door for us. Curtis and the receptionist carefully backed away from the door, making sure to never touch it or the doorknob. "He's in there... in you go," Curtis said. I thought nothing unusual of the situation at the time, and passed through the door confidently.

The room was considerably larger than I had expected, having seen the sizes of the other rooms in the office. There was a very odd, yet familiar feel to the scene - I couldn't quite place it then, and I certainly can't now, but the room somehow seemed peaceful. I remember sounds of running water, though there was no water to be seen, and it smelled vaguely of exotic fruits - I think strawberries, but I can't say for sure.

The white halogen lights seemed to beam from every side, and when I closed my eyes, the warm, white light somehow would pierce my eyelids, rendering them ineffective. Very quickly, I became unable to see anything but the light, as it penetrated all of my senses. It wasn't until I had reached this euphoric state that I first heard his voice.

"Randall, I've reviewed your resume, and I believe that you are the one who I will send. Do you know who I am?"
"I assume that you're the directing recruiter."
"Well... yes, but do you know who I really am?"
"Nope, sorry."
"Not even a guess? Damnit. Well, I'm God."
"Okay."
"Randall, I've chosen you to write programs for the company that we're negotiating with."
"Right, that's what I do."
"Yes, but there's more to it than that. I've chosen you to write programs to automate things... to replace the functions that many people now do manually. I want to cut down the workforce and to do away with overtime... I hate overtime."
"Right...."
"I mean, if you're hired to work a specific set of hours, why should you have the opportunity to work more? That's just poor planning; if you can't get your work done on time, you should either be replaced, or someone should be hired to lighten the load."
"Gotcha."
"I'm sorry to vent on you like that - it's just been building up for a long time."
"It's cool."
"You'll fix all of this anyway, if you choose to take the job, that is..."
"Well, the 'divine messenger' crap is lost on me; you'll have to convince me to take the job through other methods."
"Are you serious? Everyone loves the whole 'sent by God thing'."
"Yeah, but you're not really God."
"Shit! .... Goddamnit, I've been working on this one for a while... how could you tell?"
"For one, God has a Scottish accent..."
"Damn... most people don't know that... "
"But more importantly, the hatred of overtime... I know my shit too well to be duped into that one. Isaiah 28:13 says, 'Tell my people that I hope they fucking rot in their cubicles'."
"Damn, you're good. Yeah, I'm Satan... this shit usually works..."
"It was a nice attempt... you just need to work on the details a little."
"Shit, I really wanted you to be the one to write programs that result in people getting fired. Oh well, I'll try to find someone else."
"Well, how much does the job pay?"
"Wha....?"

It was then that Satan realized that I truly was the one for the job. He cackled in delight, and made love to me gently for hours with his index finger.

art?

The park near the City Hall in New York is world renowned for its amazingly artistic statues. The piece featured here is a two-dimensional cow, which appears to be grazing on the park's beautiful green grass. Various other statues of farm creatures are arrayed throughout the park, causing it to be quite the tourist attraction.

"This is our first time to New York," says Shawna Lane from Kansas City. "We were going to see the Statue of Liberty, but our trip has been cut a day short. We didn't want to miss the park near City Hall... we'll see the Statue of Liberty next time."

Originally built in 1821, City Hall's park has a long standing history, but it wasn't until it was revamped in 1986 that it began to draw outsiders so effectively. It was decided that the art should reflect the city's vast power and wealth, so great expense was put into the statues' creation. The farm animals' colors of white, yellow, and brown are symbolic of the city's vivid cultural diversity.

Farm animal statue sculptor, Michael Ernst, designed and directed the creation of the entire park's showcase. Originally laughed out of European artistic circles, his unique work gained a strong following in the United States. "You still gonna say I aint no artist?!" says Ernst, who now lives on a bench in the park, staying near to his greatest love and accomplishment.

astounded but not speechless: 9:56AM - 9:59AM on 2/22/05

As I approached the elevator at work, I first noticed him. He looked to be in his mid to late forties, of middle-Eastern descent, and he was completely bald on top except for a few long hairs that were combed upward, reaching the crown of his head. He was looking in my direction, looking like a moron.

My first thought was, "Close your mouth, you fucking imbecile," but immediately after, I realized that his mouth wasn't open. He just looked like a jaw-gaping jackass to me for some reason; I could have sworn that his mouth was open, and that there was a touch of drool hanging from the front of his lower lip. His mouth was closed, and no drool was to be found, but there was something about him... perhaps it was the stunned look on his face, perhaps it was the fact that he was facing away from the elevator, toward me, when it's common to impatiently look at the elevator that you're waiting for. He seemed lost, but how the fuck can you be lost when you're just waiting for the elevator?

When I too had walked as far as I could without proceeding into the elevator that we were waiting for, she walked up behind me. She was too old and too tall, so I didn't notice her at first, but this yokel was still staring past me, at her; he was obviously stricken. Now all of the imaginary drool was accounted for. I suppose that she was pretty hot for her age, I'm guessing that she was in her late thirties. She was talking to the woman that she had walked up with... that chick was also too tall. I went back to watching the closed elevator door, waiting for the damn thing to open, trying to ignore the moron that was still staring at the woman, and coincidentally, me.

The four of us piled into the elevator when it arrived. The two women continued talking, seemingly not even noticing me or the guy with the comb-over, which was fine by me. I took my place in the back of the elevator, which was the perfect spot to observe the fruitlessness of lover-boy's affections. He stared at the woman for the entire elevator ride to the fifth floor. I was happy to no longer be intercepting his gaze.

After the first elevator, there's a gigantic empty room that you have to walk through, which has a security station on the other end. This room is very elegant looking, with high ceilings and hardwood floors; it has to be passed through to get to the real elevators. My theory is that they want to impress anyone who walks through this room to be turned away by security, to leave a good first impression that won't be spoiled by seeing our actual working conditions. It was good to be out of the elevator; out in the open, I can walk fast enough to not have to listen to others' mind-numbing conversations, and I don't have to watch middle-aged men stare lustfully at tall chicks. Once you get past this room, there are eight elevators that lead to the actual office spaces; all four of us ended up in the same elevator again. Lucky me.

I was the last to step into the elevator. When I got in, I noticed that the chatty ladies and the drooler were all comfortably positioned (with Casanova facing the tall chick, of course), with only one button lit up... the '12' button. I work on the eleventh floor, so not only did this mean that I'd get to experience Cupid's doings for the entire nine seconds of the elevator ride, but it also shed some light on the situation. All three of these people work on the same floor, and baldy probably stares at this chick all day long. I picture him hanging out by the vending machine, pretending to laboriously choose between the baked and regular potato chips, when he's really just waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, hoping to catch a whiff of that 'bathroom fresh' fragrance. After he smells the slight tinge of perfume and urine as she walks by, he heads into his favorite stall to masturbate the thoughts of her away. He just can't do his all-important 12th floor work with the thought of her lingering in his mind.

After I hit the '11' button, and reclaimed my place in the back of the elevator, he finally worked up his nerve. He looked at the tall chick... well, I should more accurately say that he 'continued' to look at the tall chick, and nervously said, "Hi." She briefly greeted him in return and went back to talking to the other lady, who he didn't say hello to by the way. Seven seconds later, I stepped out of the honeymoon suite, and onto the eleventh floor. I had my inspiration for my daily writing, and that stud had his inspiration for his midday masturbation.

so the good news is...

My landlord had my apartment's front door painted yesterday. You'll notice a darker color of brown toward the left of the door... that's not a shadow.. that's the part that was painted. Most of the door was left unpainted. My door was also painted shut... that bare spot where the paint is removed?... yeah, that happened when I opened my door. Two steps forward, one step back. Well, I'm not sure that this qualifies as a full two steps though.

a moment of hope

Sometimes, I tap into this feeling... rather than sensing the meaninglessness of things, I sense meaning and purpose. I can never fully touch it... it fades when touched, but if I just let it sit there, if I let it just be what it is, it can speak to me. It speaks of hope.

It's not hope for the possibility of what might be, but hope for what is fated to be. Hope for what has to be. Something that will be, regardless of whatever faulty decisions precede its emergence.

I sometimes feel this when I have a chance to just sit around and do nothing. When I happen to pick up my guitar because I want to, not because I should. When I stop thinking about what my life is and what it should be, and instead realize how little I know of what it will be. Every time life slaps you in the face, it changes the way that you'll see the world from that point on... this can be a beautiful thing, as long as you're able to look past the pain. If this life isn't guaranteed to be real, then the pain has even less of a right to draw my attention; sometimes I forget to grant it tangibility.

Moments like these are fleeting and short-lived. I try to dive into them as deeply as I do anything else, but I can only go so far. When you focus on this feeling of nameless hope, you have to wonder what it's representing. What will come to pass that this feeling speaks so highly of. You search your mind for the answer, and you search the feeling for any sort of hidden clue, but by that point, you've stripped it of its essence. And just like that, the moment has already ended.

poetry submission

pour myself into the bottle
    will its compassion to wash over me
      like a blanket of warmth
        -gentle fingers prying their way across my skin
        the soothing touch it brings to a troubled mind
          in dire need of any kind of remedy
    reason and cause settle to the bottom
      and my thoughts are dragged with them
        'why' no longer matters-
          I'm here now, the past has become cloudy, and tomorrow is unforetold
  you see, its kindness makes me kind in return
    it makes me feel something
      which makes me aware of the world around me
        and in this drunken stupor, I'm finally awake
        I can finally breathe in life's suffocation
          I can care, believe, and even pretend that we're not pretending
            and when sensibility returns
              another bottle is waiting to devour me

a sweet little song

I was half-asleep when the woman brushed her hand across my cheek to gently wake me. "Rand, look... a bird's standing on your windowsill, singing to us."

The bird's song was melodious and peaceful. I hadn't yet opened my eyes, but through listening to the bird, it was like I could feel the sunlight pouring into the room. I could tell that the woman felt the same, in the way that her body was gently pressed against mine, sharing the moment with me in tranquility.

"You can understand it, can't you Rand? What is he singing abou..."
"She."
"Ohhh," she said, indicating that the song was now even sweeter to her ears, "what is she singing about?"

"She's telling us that her mate has died, and her young are starving. She wants us to give her some food, so they will survive the night."

The woman pressed her lips against my cheek before laying her head on my chest. "That's beautiful," she said as she squeezed me in her arms. We then let our little visitor sing us back to sleep.

watch out, ladies

I finally joined the gym across the street. My body's going through the initial shock of adjusting to its new workout routine, but that soon will fade, giving way to a very healthy and vibrant feeling. I'm going to bulk up like crazy to compensate for my dick size.

I'm White, and although Caucasians are known for having smaller dicks than some other races, our dicks are still too big. This is why a lot of White guys get into heavy weight lifting, while Asians rarely do - Whites have something to make up for. No girl in her right mind wants a guy with a big dick.

Am I married?... nope. A girlfriend at least?... nope. You see, when I'm naked, chicks say, "Eww, your dick's so... normal." It's a big turnoff. All of these huge guys in the gym get laid all the time, because their large bodies make their dicks look much smaller. It's an optical illusion, but it's very important to women.

My arms are small. I'm guessing that if you took six to eight of my dicks, and bound them up into a nice bouquet, it would equal the thickness of my upper arm... yes, when flexing. Let's be generous, and say that I have a 1/8 arm to dick ratio. I saw a guy today, whose arm was twice as thick as mine... that makes his dick look at least twice as small when he's naked - that lucky bastard. He deserves to get all the ass though... he worked hard to make his dick look that small.

Doing steroids drastically increases the rate of muscle growth. A second reason to do steroids is that they shrink your dick. That's attacking the problem from both sides! The entire steroid-pumping lifestyle revolves around making your dick look smaller and smaller, so that you get more and more chicks.

That's going to be me. I'm going to bang the shit out of teens and housewives that I meet in the grocery store. You won't be able to miss me as my hulking body lumbers down the isle. I'll be so buff that I won't even use a shopping cart - I'll carry a basket.

Your pathetic ass will try to flirt with the chick at the cash register, but she won't even notice you when I'm around. I'll be there every day, buying a gallon of milk, my favorite weight-gainer mix, and a bag of baby carrots. The chicks will fucking love it... they know exactly what that baby carrot shit means.

coming of age

I did my civil duty and stopped off at the police station today. The station is pretty close to Maria's school, so I picked her up before heading over. They just wanted to ask me some questions... I couldn't imagine it taking more than a few minutes.

It was pretty much a routine situation. They asked me where I was on the day of the murder, if I noticed anything unusual in the neighborhood in the days leading up to it, etc. I was helpful and cooperative, and they were friendly in return. It's been a while since it happened, so I'm assuming that they're just trying to do all they can to make it look like they did their best to solve the case. This sort of thing doesn't happen around here often, so they probably need a nice thick folder to file away, before stamping it 'inconclusive'. They wanted to speak to me alone, so Maria waited out in the reception area; I preferred for her to not be in the room anyway... no gory details were discussed, but the fact is that a woman was killed, and Maria knew her. I wanted to keep her as far away from this thing as possible.

After they were done with me, when I went to the reception area to get Maria, I happened upon an unexpected scene. Maria was sitting on the bench by herself, looking at her lap, crying. I scanned the other faces in the room, to gather some information about what had happened, but everyone who I looked at averted their eyes, trying and failing to look natural. My daughter was crying, and nobody was consoling her or indicating to me any sort of reason; what would possibly seem natural about that?

I sat beside her on the bench and put my arm around her, peeking up to see others' reactions, in a final attempt to get a sense of what was going on. "What's the matter, Sweetie?" When I spoke, her body flinched slightly, and her crying paused. She didn't look up at me right away, but stared at her lap for just a moment longer. It seemed that she was gathering her thoughts... she usually reacts spontaneously, like any other little girl; I didn't know what was making her act so strangely.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, either in an attempt to regain her composure or to prepare for something that she was afraid to face. She sucked up another deep breath quickly, and jolted her eyes toward mine. "They're saying you did it."

Her tone scared me a little, but her eyes frightened me even more. She seemed to be speaking from a source of mixed emotions. She was inquisitive and trusting, my little girl, but at the same time, she was dominant, decisive, and belligerent. Her statement wasn't phrased as a question, but it was one... she wanted to catch me off guard, maybe to prove my innocence to all of my accusers, who watched the conversation closely through the corners of their eyes, or perhaps to stand with them, against me. She was relentless in this, I was so taken aback by the situation that I didn't know how to answer her right away, but her tear-filled eyes wouldn't end their pursuit.

"Don't be silly, Honey... of course I didn't hurt anybody," I replied while squeezing her a little with the arm I had draped over her shoulder. These words came so naturally to me; it was strange... I believed them, yet knew them to be false... this struck me then, but it wasn't the time to dwell on that. I had to deal with my daughter - I had to be a father.

She held her gaze, but her eyes softened slightly. She was still trying to read me, trying to discover something. Her eyes started looking left and right across mine, as if she was making some sort of unspoken final plea. A few more tears fell from her face, and her bottom lip started quivering... I thought that she was going to begin sobbing again, but she didn't. She had found whatever she was looking for, and her demeanor suddenly hardened. She took one last breath as a child, and said, "Okay, Dad, let's go home." Every breath thereafter was different somehow.

last supper

Dinner tonight was wonderful; for the first time in a long time, it felt like a real family sitting down to the table. Maybe it was just me.. maybe my perspective has changed, but something felt very different. I hope that Meg and the kids felt it too, but it's just so hard to tell if it's just the way that I'm seeing them, or if they're actually happier.

Megan mentioned to me the other day that I've recently changed. I didn't see it at the time, but she pointed out little things that I've been doing differently. I've been regularly helping Maria with her homework, playing a little more with Marcos and Estrella, and spending just a little less time on the computer. This wasn't a conscious change, and I wasn't making any sort of intentional effort to please my family, but I suppose I have been less distant lately. I really felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of me when I revisited my childhood trauma, but I wasn't aware of any external change that my breakthrough caused. I see it now though... I can see it when the kids' eyes light up when I enter a room, and I can feel it in the way that my wife kisses me just a little bit longer than she used to.

It's funny how these little things can bring all of us closer together. At dinner, even Marcos and Maria seemed to fight less than usual... they still fought, but it was more like playful teasing. Even Estrella seemed happier; she's so young that you wouldn't think that she'd pick up on the subtle differences in others' behavior, but she was just beaming. I haven't been this happy in a long time... everything just felt right for once. Knowing that my family is taken care of and doing well is very important to me, and for the first time in a long time, everything seemed perfect. When I looked across the table at their faces, just watching the interaction, it felt right to me; it always seems right, but I think that sometimes I'm just trying to convince myself that it's okay... tonight, my heart agreed with my mind.

The only thing that I'd change about tonight was the phonecall that I received during dinner. It was the police department - they want me to stop by the station tomorrow. I guess they're still trying to figure out who murdered Charlie's mother, and think that I might have some useful information. After the call, I guess my demeanor changed, because the kids had such looks of concern on their faces; Meg noticed it too. She touched my hand and asked me what was wrong. I tried to smile and assure them that it was nothing... I wanted everything to return to that wonderful feeling that we were sharing before the phonecall, but they could tell that I was hiding something. I couldn't manage to bring things back to that simple feeling of togetherness. I wanted to write this down... I wanted to lock that feeling away somewhere, so that I can look back on it for years to come. I'm worried that my kids will never look at me with such acceptance again; I fear that this may have been the last time that we'll feel like a real family. Joy and innocence are so fleeting... you have to capture them when you have the chance.

Doug's competition

Two and a half weeks ago, my brother and I were in Philadelphia for our cousin's house-warming party. Out of everyone there, we knew the least people, so at times, it was fairly awkward. Because I'm a social prodigy and an arch-wizard of smalltalk, all conversation rotated around me - either that or I stood in less densely populated areas of the house, engaging in conversation, struggling against my instinct to find a lonely corner to write in.

Early in the night, a guy named Doug, my brother, and I were the only males in the house. I'm actually not sure what Doug's real name was - my inability to remember names is protecting the innocent; damnit! Anyway, we were making smalltalk, and since all of our jokes were going over Doug's head, we had to dumb shit down a bit.

Doug: "So, are you guys married?"
My brother: "I am."
Me: "Not me, I'm gay." (This was a joke; don't get your hopes up, boys.)
My brother cracked up, and Doug looked at me oddly. I made a mental note: 'dumb it down even further'.
My brother said something about marriage killing a man's sex life; this may have been in jest, as this is a common, light thing to say in passing between married men.
Doug: "Yeah, my sex life stopped as soon as I put the ring on her finger."
Me: "Fuck that." I fought the urge to mention the fact that any ring that I hand out will have shock-collar capabilities... I didn't want to see Doug's blank stare again.
My brother was being cute, but Doug was being serious. I noticed, but didn't really care.
I guess my casual use of profanity killed the conversation (damned Pennsylvanians), so Doug decided to change the topic with a smooth transition.
Doug: "We don't have much time for sex. I'm too busy fixing up the house, and my wife spends a lot of time with her horse."
My brother and I looked at eachother as if to say, "Ahh, that explains it."

That's right, girls... I know about the horse thing. I know that it's no coincidence that as soon as it became socially acceptable for women to straddle horses when riding them, every woman had to have one. Guys have always been perplexed by the female fascination with those oversized, smelly beasts, but I'm here to now tell the world what I was tempted to tell Doug... that poor, stupid, celibate bastard.

Chicks orgasm when they ride horses. Whether trot or gallop, they're being rocked around from below, and all they have to do is position their clit properly against the saddle. It's a bumpy ride, but it works. My friend's mom owns three horses; what a whore.

My brother and I know a chick who betrayed the sanctity of the horse secret to us. She would ride and ride... nothing could stop her. Her pussy scabbed over, and on she rode. A chick having a slight headache will keep a guy's dick dry, but a horse's saddle gets action no matter what. She later tried to change the story to her getting off because of the power she felt when guiding a large beast with her legs, but orgasming because of that sort of intimacy with an animal borders on zoophilia... let's just stick with the clit stimulation.... it's all my mind can handle.

When a guy sees a horse, he's always intimidated by its massive dick. It takes a trained eye, but if you're able to pry your eyes from the horse's dick (seriously guys, get over it already), and take notice of what chicks are looking at.... you'll find that all they see is some indescript animal wearing a big ol' saddle. It's all about the saddle, folks. If you learn to read minds, you'll probably hear her think, "I'll oil up your saddle, big boy." My friend's mom regularly oils up three saddles; she has goats too, but I don't want to comment on that.

Okay... you look like you're getting upset. I know, I know... you got your innocent little daughter a pony, and she's done such a good job with it. She never did any other chores, but she just loves that pony so much. She makes sure to ride it every morning before school, and then again when she gets home... it's good for the pony, because it keeps it in shape. What a responsible little girl. Do I want to watch your daughter ride her pony?... hell no, you pervert; I don't want to see your kid grinding her clit up against the saddle while Daddy's watching. Did you get her some kind of glow-in-the-dark saddle attachments that I should see as well? At parties, do you impress your friends with how well she gives handjobs? Open your eyes, man... you turned her into a whore... you turned her into my friend's mom!

When Doug mentioned his wife having a horse, the conversation might as well have gone like this:
Doug: "We don't have much time for sex. I'm too busy fixing up the house, and my wife spends a lot of time with a gigantic vibrating dildo shoved up inside of her."
Me: "Yeah, fixing up the house... that can really wear you out."
My brother: "Marriage can be tough."

light reading for the waiting room

Since you're all horribly disappointed in me today, I'll give you a little something to tide you over as you wait for tomorrow's post. This is a little fact that nobody knows about me.

When my brother and I were 9 and 12 respectively, on a vacation, we had our own hotel room, while our parents were in the one next door. I had to take a piss really bad, and didn't have time to lift the toilet seat, so I pissed in the bathtub. To be honest, I didn't really have to go that bad, but he was going to take a bath as soon as I was done peeing, and I was just as loving back then as I am now. As soon as I was done pissing, I told him what I did. He got really upset and refused to bathe that night... what a stinky little bastard.

nothing today.. leave me alone

I was dealing with some real life shit yesterday, and as a result, was totally fucked up mentally. I'm therefore way behind on my homework, and have nothing for you text-greedy whores today. All will be back to normal tomorrow... I just don't want to rush anything out. I wrote some shit yesterday, but it was so horrible, that this lame little note is the better alternative. Why not take this opportunity to catch up on old material so that you don't ask questions that have already been answered? Lazy bastards.

introspection on extroversion

When I'm with others, my mind now stops. I sink into a role, becoming just that, and for that moment, all is well. All is as it should be.

At this moment, I am alone, and my mind is no longer at ease. Is that 'me' that they see even real? It's definitely a part of me, a part worth exploring, but what happens when I've unlocked its secrets? Will I abandon them for myself? Have I done this before?

The people around me right now are talking to eachother. They're discussing the stupidest shit imaginable, throwing in quotes from movies, and discussing the relevance of those quotes. Their words aren't important, and if I were to write out the dialog, all that they're really saying would be lost. I won't write what my ears hear them say, but instead what my mind hears:
"I want to share with you this much truth about myself.
I want you to see me this way.
Being with you here, right now, has meaning to me."

I'm under the impression that most see life as a series of such moments, with gaps in between that aren't worth mentioning. They live lives of community - experiencing, growing, sharing, and dying. All of this in terms of each other; everything happens to a member of a group. When I die, will those who knew me gather around to proclaim what I meant to each of them? Is that what I am, or am I something that's my own? Something real.

When you look at me, do you see me as a friend, acquaintance, relative, lover, or artist, or do you see me? When you hold my hand, are you wondering what kind of father I'll be? When you read these words, are you wondering what effect they'd have on others? Am I being measured by what I have or haven't put my hand to? Can you instead search my eyes, words, and deeds and find me within them - something that has no expression or external relevance, the only image of truth in myself that I've ever known. The only thing I can touch and be sure of.

memory vault: Dave's roommate

Only some of the stories that I post on here are even remotely true; this one's entirely true... not much of a story though. Go figure.


The college that I attended immediately after graduating from high school was in San Diego. I went through the arduous process of choosing this college based on poorly thought out recommendations by others, and by narrowing the list down based on each school's distance from the beach. This school was also of such a caliber that I'd be able to get a solid education without actually attending class or learning anything.

I lived in the 'quiet' dorm... which was good, because even there, I harbored a great deal of anger toward people who made too much noise when I was trying to take my naps. In the two years that I was at this school, I went through five roommates, which had me moving around to different areas of the dorm. My first roommate looked like Uncle Fester, and was a chronic masturbator, who would go to work while I was in the room sleeping... well, wishing I was asleep.

Dave was a blind guy who lived next door. He was blind from birth, an only child, was pretty dumb (a common trait among people who went to this school), and was incredibly spoiled. Dave, like me, was a freshman, and this was his first time really having to live with others. Because Dave was blind, he had no conception of the social aspects of nudity. He also had red hair... his blindness prevented him from understanding this extra layer of freakishness as well... poor bastard.

I was unable to explain to Dave that it's not normal to walk around naked, talking to other guys. He'd take offense every time that I gasped in disgust upon seeing that he was standing next to me, with a big pot belly, and a little dick dangling about. I had little patience for his stupidity and personality, which made me a poor candidate to teach him the basic shit that his parents should probably have mentioned. Everyone else was just too stupid to have any luck.

Here's a question that I thought of at the time, which still plagues me to this day: how does a blind man know when he's done wiping his ass? There are only four physical senses at his disposal, and none of them sound pleasant for the 'checking process'. I look at the toilet paper. Listening to it wouldn't help. Did Dave touch it, taking note of its texture? Did he smell it? Did he taste it? Based on his handicap and his personality, I'm guessing that he didn't check at all; he probably gave it a few wipes and called it a day. Blind people learn to count the steps it takes to get to each different location, and I'm guessing that the wiping process followed the same logic. It took Dave five wipes to be done with the process, clean or not.

Dave, like everyone else in the dorm, had one roommate. They had bunkbeds, but Dave's bed was on top. Because he was blind, and it was a task to get up to his own bed, if he was just hanging in the room, he'd sit on his roommate's bed. His roommate didn't always make his bed.

Let's do the math here. Dave was usually nude, didn't effectively wipe his ass, would sit on his roommate's bed, and his roommate's pillow would often be exposed. I broke this down for Dave's roommate the same way, not out of concern, but to see his expression. This story is about Dave's roommate, who had the pleasure of laying his head on Dave's skidmarks every night... until he finally had the sense to move out.

what if?

This was inspired by an article by Ruksak.


She's all alone. She thought that starting a family would bring him closer to her - it was so long ago, but she's sure that it was his idea. It seemed like everything was so perfect for a while, but was it? Was he ever truly there by her side, or was it just a manifestation of her hope... this frame of a man, whose mind is always somewhere else... this shell of a husband. Countless years spent trying to lure his attention; countless years wasted.

Amy called yesterday. She's doing well in school, and is seeing someone new. "I think he's the one, Mom."
Tears formed in response to conflicting emotions. "That's wonderful, Dear," she replied with a cracking voice.
"Mom, are you crying?"
She contained herself, "No... no, everything's fine. I'm happy for you."
Amy left the conversation with a familiar feeling of loss, a feeling she can't yet name, but associates with home.

She has her friends; he has his books. She enjoys being with them, but there's only one person she ever wanted. She doesn't know why she can only smile so wide, when it used to be so hard not to smile. "Stop laughing, Nikki; this isn't funny," words that echoed through her youth, but now it takes so much energy to laugh. She's just too tired - her friends know this, she's starting to realize it, and he never noticed at all.

this asshole busdriver

I was walking down the sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan, dodging through the crowd of pedestrians. There are no rules on the sidewalk - everyone goes at his own chosen pace, and walks on whichever side he chooses. Street vendors and tourists add to the fun by standing still, in the way of traffic. This is my favorite part of the day.

I was strategizing a maneuver to get past a lady who was walking slowly in front of me. She was holding the hand of her two-year-old son, looking down to talk to him as they went along. Children should be carried or dragged. This dumbass lady didn't seem to notice all the people scowling at her as they darted past.

I was still stuck behind her when a man, who was walking in the other direction, plowed into her. He casually watched her fall to the ground as he continued on his way. The kid wasn't hurt, but this lady fell right onto her ass; she instinctually let go of his hand, so she wouldn't take him down with her. Because she was in heels, it would take a moment to get back on her feet, especially with nobody giving her any room to get up. The kid took it upon himself to make use of the opportunity to walk into the street.

The approaching bus slammed its breaks, falling just a few feet short of killing the toddler. The kid's mother was so distracted with trying to get up, that she didn't even notice that he wasn't standing next to her, until the bus started honking. She cried, "Michael!" and sat there helplessly, in absolute horror.

The bus driver was letting his honks last for seconds at a time, and was inching up toward the kid, in an attempt to threaten him out of the street. As I ran out to snatch the kid up, the bus driver yelled out the window, "Teach that damn kid to use the crosswalk like the rest of us!" Sometimes I'm amazed at what dicks these people can be. I tried to yell back, "He's just a baby, you assfuck!" but my voice was drowned out by his horn.

As I placed the kid back on the sidewalk, I made sure to remain in the street, so that the bus couldn't yet proceed on its course. He was honking and yelling at me as I fiddled through my pocket to retrieve my camera. I wanted to get a good picture of this asshole, to submit to the transportation department. Unfortunately, you can barely see his face in this shot.

ash wednesday

Well, it finally happened. I'm not sure if I'm some sort of prophet or anything, but I saw a great deal of people walking around with strange markings on their foreheads yesterday. Can other people see this? Have my eyes been blessed, or perhaps cursed? Why isn't anyone freaking out but me?

Revelation 13:16 - "(Blah blah blah, end of the world, beast of the earth, beast of the sea, bad things, blah blah....) Also it (one of those beasties) causes all (human sheepies), both small (you) and great (me), both rich (me) and poor (you), both free (Iraqis) and slave (anyone that we haven't nuked yet), to be marked on the right hand or the forehead..."

Never before did I heed these words, but now.... now as I see the mark of the beast on the foreheads of my co-workers, I heed. I'm heeding, damn you! I swear to god, I'm always the last to know... I really need to get a TV... I'm so out of the loop. Why didn't anyone tell me about this ahead of time? All of these people have these cool marks of the beast... where do I get one?

Revelation 13:17 - "...so that no one can buy or sell unless he has the mark..."

I didn't buy any food ahead of time... I didn't pack a damned lunch. I was planning on grabbing some Chicken Lo Mein, but now I'm fucked.
"Do you guys take cash?"
"No, not anymore."
"Credit cards?"
"Nope, just marks of the beast... you don't have one?"
"No... I'm evil as fuck though... I'm sure it was just an oversight... can I just pay you later?"
"Nope, sorry... read the sign, Pal. 'No shirt, no shoes, no mark of the beast, no service'."

I really wanted some Chicken Lo Mein, so I started inquiring as to where to get one of these things. It turns out that only the Catholics had them... I fucking should have known. Centuries of murder, oppression, economic and political corruption, celibacy, and molesting of young boys.... that's a pretty sweet religion of vile evil if you ask me. Of course they're going to be the first ones to get these cool little marks... those 'beast' guys know what's up... the cool kids always get first dibs on the Lo Mein.

There's a DMV right by work... I'll bet that I can get my forehead stamped there, but those long lines... Fuck.

boys' night out

I went out for a few beers with Frank last night. He's the widower of the woman who was murdered a couple weeks ago. I've already referred to him in terms of Charlie, his son, but I never mentioned his name; his name is Frank.

Charlie's doing as well as can be expected, and seems to be handling returning to his old routine. Frank only took one week off work to deal with the funeral, but was forced by his boss to take another; he had some sort of emotional breakdown right at his desk. This has been extremely hard on him... they don't have any family in the area. Meg watched the boys, while Frank and I went out; the guy just needed a chance to let go... he needed a night off.

Everything seemed normal at first. He was lightly sharing how hard it's been, but was holding himself together. When he was halfway through his second beer, everything changed.

He stared at his beer as he began talking about how much he missed her and how scared he was for his son; it's like he was telling it to the beer, rather than to me. His words were empty and rhythmic... he was speaking in some sort of monotone. Tears were pouring down his face, but he didn't seem to notice... I wondered if he even still knew where he was. I felt sorry for him, but I was also a little scared by what I was seeing; I had never seen a man cry like this, and he wasn't himself. I couldn't decipher his emotions, so I backed my seat up slowly in case he started swinging at me.

He didn't look over at me when he reacted. He didn't even blink or interrupt his speech, but just whipped his hand over and grabbed mine. He was squeezing my hand hard, and I couldn't tell if he was expressing his anger, or if he just needed something to hang on to. Upon reflection, I guess he really had nobody else to turn to or to rely on, but I didn't know what to make of it at the time. His state didn't seem natural... he seemed so broken, but yet so strong; I don't know what men are capable of doing with that combination, and I was scared to be too close when it happened.

I was more uncomfortable than I can describe, but I let it go on for a few minutes. He squeezed my hand tighter and tighter as he went on, and to be honest, it didn't take me long to forget to listen to his words. Everyone in the bar was staring over at us, as Frank's speech slowly crept up in volume. It sounds silly... I know that they recognized Frank as a man who was a victim of fate, and they felt nothing but compassion and concern for him, but I couldn't help but feel self-conscious about the situation. Frank's grip kept getting tighter, his words continued to become louder, his eyes were getting darker and darker, and it seemed that everyone else's eyes became more and more piercing and judgmental. It wasn't intentional... it was an instinctual response to the situation, but I ripped my hand from his grasp and quickly backed my chair away, with me still in it.

He still didn't look over, but his words halted. His hand searched the air for another human to hold onto, but I was beyond his reach. He was like a blind man, just franticly throwing his hand around, hoping that it would strike at something to give him some sense of reassurance, but it only found vacant space. His search slowed in pace, and before giving up entirely, he just held his hand out, hoping that someone would take it. When nobody did, his arm slowly fell to his side, and his head fell to the table. As I was walking out of the bar, I glanced back to find that he was still holding that position, sobbing ... alone, broken, and defeated.

Megan screamed at me when I got home, right in front of the kids and Charlie; she knew that Frank should have come home from the bar with me. I didn't have any words to account for the situation, and still didn't know what to make of it. She started slapping me, commanding me to go back to Frank, and I knew she was right, but I couldn't seem to turn back toward the door. All I could do was grab her, and start crying onto her shoulder. She was stiff and defiant at first, but a few seconds later, she held me tightly and whispered to me that everything would be okay. I collapsed into her arms; I don't think I've ever cried like that before. I can't imagine life without her, without someone to depend on.

kids

I was on the subway recently, when a bunch of kids poured on for a field trip. They were all very excited to be on whatever excursion they were on, and they were in their element, because they were all there together. I don't think that I've really seen kids interact without the imposing influence of accompanying adults since I was one myself. Their teachers were there, but they were interacting with eachother, doing their normal thing.

Supposedly, kids love me, and supposedly I'm really good with them. I don't have enough experience to really test out that claim, but everyone who knows me always acts so surprised when children relate to me more strongly than they do with others. I don't know how to dumb myself down enough to speak to a kid like most people do, and they seem to like that.

I was tripping out watching these kids, because I could see that whole 'kid' personality shining through... like I said, I haven't really seen them in their element for a long time. It was very weird to me... they really seemed like such morons. I'm not saying that they were dumb for their age or anything, but that they were dumb because of their age... I don't remember being an idiot when I was young. I don't think that I was exceptional or anything... I was equal to my peers, but I just remember shit being really normal... I don't think I realized at the time how stupid we were.

I think that I was interested in the same things that I am now, but I was entirely more optimistic about everything at the time. Bear in mind, I was a complete extrovert until my senior year in high school, and you wouldn't be able to pick me out of a crowd as the 'weird' one... I was always very popular and very well liked, and I made little effort to be such. That shift from being an extrovert to an introvert was caused by a shift in my optimism about humanity, but that's another topic... it just had to be mentioned so that you realize that I was a 'normal' kid... or I at least appeared to be one. I'm assuming that I was normal, but who's to say.

Like I was saying, I think my interests at the time were similar to what they are now, but my optimism colored things differently. In fact, I think that my perspective was pretty much the same back then too. I was direly interested in preparing for my future... always seeking creative endeavors, honing my skills, focusing on whichever chick I had a crush on at the time (yeah, I was into chicks since I was three), hanging with friends (which became less important as I became more introvertive), and uhh... there may have been something else, but nothing's really coming to mind. I was always quite aware of the limits of my understanding, and was always seeking to steadily overcome those limits.

Now, although I don't remember being a moron, I do remember being confused about way more things. I was unaware of so much, and knew this, but I don't see much difference between then and now. Things that others seemed to have a firm handle on boggled me... I was able to learn to do long division, but I didn't understand its use at the time. Today, I was reading something about politics that others knew like the back of their hand, but it was drawing from other simpler concepts that were foreign to me. There's still so little that I understand in life that I don't feel like I've really learned enough to consider myself grown-up. That could be one of the things that others learned that I never did... that once you reach a certain age, you've probably learned enough to think yourself to know it all... I don't see myself ever reaching that point.

My perspectives have changed greatly throughout my adulthood... my definitions of myself, the meaning of life, etc. have been like night and day, but I've always felt like the same person underneath all that. I just have a different window to peer out of... a different color of idiocy with which to paint the world. I'm well aware of the fact that I'm staring out of one such window right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if everything switched on me again. That's pretty much the way that I see my childhood... I was just 'me' underneath my ever-changing shell of limited understanding. Because the increases in my understanding tend to come in sudden leaps, I just don't understand the whole development process that humans have to undergo. When I talk to a kid, here's what I'm expecting to happen:

The baby points to the ball. "Ba-bah."
"You want the ball?"
The baby nods fiercely, "Bah."
"This ball?"
The baby reaches its hands out toward the ball and smiles. "Bah!"
"You know, a better way to phrase that would be, 'Could you please hand me the ball?'"
The baby's eyes light up. "Oh! Thanks for explaining that. Yeah, I guess that formal English really would communicate my requests better than baby-speak."
"I've always thought so. Here's the ball you wanted."

the making of 'nuts and bolts'

Narrator: "Nuts and Bolts was a great blog post that forever changed the face of American literature. Although it didn't receive the acclaim it deserved until many years later, from the very beginning, it had a strong underground following. In this documentary, we'll explore the many facets of the development process of this major piece in the puzzle of American culture."



The Making of Nuts and Bolts, a behind the scenes documentary
-directed by Rand Gray


Chapter 1: The Concept

Narrator: "We're here with Rand Gray, the revolutionary conceptualist, who is credited by many for having the brilliance that made Nuts and Bolts such a success."
A few seconds pass by.
Rand: "Am I supposed to talk now?"
Narrator: "Yes, please."
Rand: "Okay. The idea behind Nuts and Bolts was simple. Although I write a pretty serious column, many people only come to my site to get off. Some like to look at the pictures, others find my imagination arousing, and others think I'm mysterious and insightful. Everyone has their own reasons, but about ninety-seven percent of the people who come to my site end up masturbating before finishing reading what I've written."
Narrator: "Mmm hmm."
Rand: "I'm a sex symbol... I've come to terms with that. What that means though, is that I have a duty to my readers. Nuts and Bolts was an attempt to make sure that the kinky ones have something to beat off to."
Narrator: "So, once you decided to design something for your more 'odd' readers, how long did it take you to come up with the concept?"
Rand: "I don't know.. maybe ten to twenty seconds."
Narrator: "It took you that long?"
Rand: *squinting and leaning forward to hear the narrator better* "What?"
Narrator: "That long."
Rand: "What is?"
Narrator: "Never mind, I was trying to be cute. Please go on with telling us about your idea."
Rand: "I already told you about my idea." *looking off to the side* "I only committed to ten minutes... how long am I going to have to fucking listen to thi..."


Chapter 2: Fleshing the Idea Out

Rand: "When Rand comes up with an idea, it's my job to make sure that it's presented in a way that the reader can relate to."
Narrator: "So you're really the mastermind behind the whole process."
Rand: "I'd get fired if I admitted to that, but yeah... I am. 'Mr. Brilliant Ideas' gets all the credit and thus all the money though."
Narrator: "Your role as the designer seems to have been much more pertinent to the creation of Nuts and Bolts."
Rand: "Wait... You're not actually filming right now, are you?"
Narrator: "Well, yes."
Rand: "You can't fucking show what I just said.. you're going to get my ass canned!"

Narrator: "Most of the fleshing out of the idea happened on the subway."
An actor is seen seated in a subway car, surrounded by very tired looking people. He's staring off into space, occasionally laughing to himself.
Narrator: "The entire story was worked out during this time, including the pictures. The designer thought it very important that both the text and the pictures appealed to the regular readers, while still giving the kinky readers something to masturbate to."
The actor playing the designer tilts his head to the left, as if deep in thought, then rights his head again and laughs out loud. He gets a couple angry looks from those around him.


Chapter 3: The Visuals

Rand: "The first picture was emailed to Rand that morning, and was actually what spawned this entire project."
Narrator: "He told me that he came up with the idea to give his kinky readers something to masturbate to."
Rand: "That may have been part of the thought process, but he tends to only be inspired by external or internal stimuli. He's full of shit sometimes, so you can't always listen to him."
Narrator: "Does he really have kinky readers to consider?"
Rand: "Oh, fuck yeah... there are some real sick fucks out there, and most of them gravitate to his site for some reason."
Narrator: "I've never been to his site myself, so I'll have to take your word for it."
Rand: "Heh... sure..."

We now see the graphic artist at his work station. He looks back to speak to the camera.
Rand: "The designer initially wanted to see two pictures aside from the drawings that he gave to me. You know those anatomical sex ed. line-drawings that show the penis inside the vagina? The designer wanted me to find one of those. The idea was to put that up as is, and make a second one that had a hook-dick shoved up inside the pussy."
Narrator: "Interesting... those never made it to the site?"
Rand: "After searching the internet for an hour without finding anything, I told him that it wasn't going to happen."
Narrator: "I'm sure he wasn't very pleased with that."
Rand: "He's a pussy... it's his job to roll with the punches. I tried to convince him to just leave shit to the readers' imaginations, but he kept complaining that his readers' imaginations were far too underdeveloped to be of a fucking bit of use. I wouldn't give in, so he came up with the 'formula pictures' idea. Luckily, I had saved some penis and vagina pictures as I was searching for the combo pic."
Narrator: "Where did the faces come from?"
Rand: "That sick fuck said that I had to use old ladies' faces for some reason... he sometimes says that it was for humor, and at other times, he says that it was to fit the theme of pleasing the kinky readers. Who knows... it's not like he had to actually go through the process of downloading granny porn, looking for the right facial expressions... I was the lucky one to have that job."
Narrator: "Could you show us some of those videos?"
Rand: "I deleted them right away. Boy, you really are a fucking pervert, aren't you?"


Chapter 4: Piecing it All Together

Narrator: "We're now with the writer. Could you please tell us about the role that you played in creating Nuts and Bolts?"
Rand: "I wrote it."
Narrator: "Could you expand on that?"
Rand: "I took Rand's idea, followed the designer's notes, used the graphic artist's art, and wrote it up."
Narrator: "How long did that take?"
Rand: "I don't know... ten minutes."
Narrator: "You've often been credited for the eloquence behind the article."
Rand: "Yeah, I guess."
Narrator: "You have nothing else to say then?"
Rand: "Like what?"


Conclusion

Narrator: "Nuts and Bolts is thought by most scholars and theologians to be one of the most pivotal pieces of literature to have emerged from the twenty-first century. Now that we've seen an 'up-close' look at the genius behind its creation, it's easy to have an even deeper appreciation for the piece."



Stay tuned for 'The Making of 'The Making of Nuts and Bolts''. See the review below:
"Wow, Rand really knows how to kill the shit out of an idea, doesn't he?" -Thomas Warner, New York Chronicle.

yay football

I'm just going to try to knock this thing out real fast. I have to head over to a Superbowl party, and it's already started... I just got out of the shower. They'll fill me in on whatever I missed though... "Team blah got x points on Team blah." I'm a big sports fan, so that'll translate into something meaningful.

When I was living in Canada, I went to a similar party for some big hockey game. It was the last game of the Olympics, or if there's some hockey league that pits the best American team against the best Canadian one, it may have been that. Anyway, it was the last game of whatever it was, and it was the U.S. vs. Canada... I was the only American in the room, so I was lectured for hours.

"This is hockey... Canada will crush the U.S."
"Good. I mean you guys play hockey and harvest lumber... I'd hate to see you fail at one of the two things that you're good at."
"We will CRUSH America!"
"I hope so!"

I was reading a book or something, when I was alerted to the fact that America won. They were talking shit until that very last moment, and I really wanted them to win, but when they didn't, I felt like they were looking to me for guidance. "Well, you guys still have lumber harvesting..."

After that experience, I've learned that it's fun to root for the bad guy. It's one thing to see a room full of people cheering and hugging because their team accomplished the impossible, but I've gained a taste for seeing them mope around hopelessly. I don't even know who's playing tonight, but I hope that the good guys lose. Hell, I hope that both teams lose, just so that both camps of people in the room are covered.

nothing really

I just got back from Bed Bath & Beyond, and I have to say that I'd be quite content to kill everyone there.
"Really?"
Well.... no.. I didn't have to tell you that.. I just felt like doing so. Stop taking everything so literally.
"No, I mean do you really want to kill everyone there?"
Oh... that. Yes.

defining this thing

I don't get too much feedback on this site, but it's my sovereign duty to at least guess at what my readers are thinking. Today I'm going to work on some philosophy and do some meditation, and later on, I have a date. You don't get to hear about any of those things... why?... because as much as I share on here, the fact is that I'm still only sharing certain aspects of my life and mind. My guess is that someone who reads my blog would think that I'm laying it all out, because it's clear that everything that I'm saying has been obsessed over... keep in mind, people... I think ALL day long... if this was as much as I was able to come up with in a day, I'd have to switch to a much more external hobby.

I do this with everyone and everything.... you only get to see me through a pre-defined window. Every word that comes out of my mouth passes through the custom designed filter that I built just for you. I don't make mistakes with that shit... if I said too much, it was intentional. I tend to say less, rather than more.

So what exactly am I sharing with you guys? I wanted to give it a chance to develop before I locked it in stone with a definition, but I seem to be sharing some of my purely psychological introspections, and I'm also sharing my little 'twist' on the way that I see the world. To a great extent, one crosses into the other... my most 'light' and humorous articles are usually drawn out expressions of my anxieties and fears. When I'm writing something that shows the perspective of another person or a foreign scene, I'm exploring that situation for myself... allowing myself to experience it directly, so that I can grow from it; I experience very little in life, so I make up for that by forcing my imagination into such experiences. All of these things can be grouped into one single category... I'm expressing my exploration of myself.

This of course, isn't anything new, but it's newly being shared to a degree that it never was before. I'm not being put on the spot... I'm not having to speak in terms of your prior understandings... I'm just sitting alone by myself, writing. I'm not reading your facial expressions, worrying that I've wounded you with something I've said, thus forcing me to drop the topic, and I'm not trying to aim shit into a direction that would most benefit you... I'm just doing this for myself. People have always wondered why I don't share shit with them... they wonder why I'm so selfish as to keep it to myself; if it's anything, it's that I'm too selfless... I don't want to impose this information upon you. Now, you can take it or leave it, and you get to remain anonymous if you so choose. Maybe you'll see something in my words that you do or don't relate to, and maybe because of that, you'll grow... that doesn't matter to me. I mean, I'd love to think that you're growing from every fucking word that I toss out, but I don't have to sit there, judging your progress. I get to write some shit every day, and let you do whatever you want with that information.

Now, when I say that I'm expressing my exploration of myself, I mean that I'm doing so without any true context. For example, when I work on philosophy later today, I'll be exploring my theories on 'what' the universe is... I'll be exploring what it means to be me in terms of that, but that's not really about me. Anything overly spiritual or philosophical tends to be about those things, and my interpretation of myself is just a means to a greater end. Of course, my findings will directly affect my regular introspections, as they'll directly alter the way that I interpret all of existence (and thus my own existence as well), but like I said... it's a whole different area of study.

So, off I now go to take a shower, to begin the day's events that will never reach the page. Will you get to hear about today's events?... hopefully something will inspire me into a new revelation about myself, so sure, but don't expect a direct accounting or anything. You have to pay me to hear that shit.

work haikus

The paragraph novels has the best links to cool, yet useless shit on the web. I'm a lazy web-surfer, so I just leech off of his research. Today, I went to WorkHaiku.com, and spent at least an hour scrolling through the haikus there. I made two submissions of my own:


I'll soon be your boss
even though I am younger
work for me now, bitch!

Well, I like my boss,
but I want to fit in here.
"Die, Jerk!!!" How was that?


I'm useless on Fridays.

faulty memory

I didn't recognize the number that was flashing on my cell phone when the call came, but I decided to answer it anyway.

"Hello?"
"Rand? Oh my god, is it really you?"
"Uhh... yeah."
"It's me, Rosalie! I've been trying to find you for so long!"
"Huh?"
"Where have you been?!"
"Umm... around, I guess."
"You do remember me, don't you?"
"Not really, sorry."
"But we lived together for a whole year!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"How could you have forgotten the year you spent with me, here in Italy?!"
"Erm... I've never been off the North American continent."
"Oh, really. What did you do for the year after graduating from college then?"
"Hmm... Well, I went back to L.A. for a bit, then camped in Montana for six weeks, then did taxidermy in Reno for six weeks, then was in Portland Oregon for four months, then I was back in L.A. again..."
"Camping, taxidermy, OREGON?! Doesn't that sound a little weird?"
"Uhh... yeah... that actually does sound weird!"
"I don't know what's wrong with your memory, but you were here with me, and we were in love."
"You know what? I can't even think of a single thing that I accomplished in that year! Skinning coyotes and deer heads?... what the hell is that about?!"
"That never happened, my Love, you were here with me."
"What the fuck! Are you hot?"
"You always said so, yes."
"And you put out?"
"Honey, we were together for a year..."
"Why the fuck don't I remember this?!"
"You said that Italy felt like home to you, and that no other place ever did..."
"Yeah, that sounds like something I'd say!"
"And that you wanted to stay with me forever, because you were tired of looking for the perfect woman, and I was 'close enough'..."
"That makes sense too!"
"And you said that you loved how quiet it is here, because you could just sit and think all day..."
"All of this sounds wonderful... why can't I remember this?!"
"And I was newly pregnant with our daughter when you just disappeared..."
"Uhh..."
"So I saved up for two and a half years to hire someone to find you... I thought you were kidnapped!"
"Yeah..."
"Our life together was so wonderful. I'm so glad that I've finally found you again!"
"Hey, umm... you don't have DNA proof that I'm the kid's dad or anything, do you?"
"..."
"Rosawhatever... are you still there?"
"Well, uhh... no.. DNA matching costs a lot of money, and I've had to put everything I've earned into feeding our daughter and finding you... You're the only man I've ever been wi..."

I hung up the phone and began an emergency session of auto-hypnosis. I cleared my mind and began chanting...
"I was never on the phone today; I was too busy hunting buffalo in Northern Utah..."

astounded but not speechless: 5:07pm on the 11th floor

This will be short, and probably only moderately sweet. I just witnessed this conversation from the intellectual island that is my desk.

Worker A: "... 'na na na another one bites the dust'. You remember that song?"
Worker B: "Yeah, I remember that."
Worker A: "That's how old I am, I remember all the good music. Aerosmith, baby!"
Worker B: "That was Aerosmith? See, I didn't even know that."
Worker A: "Na.. that wasn't Aerosmith, but that was the same era. ...Mick Jagger, Aerosmith..."
Worker B: "Yeah."
Worker A: "That's how old I am."
Worker B: "So who sang that song?"
Worker A: "You know, it was.... uhh.... "
Worker C: "Queen."
Worker A: "Yeah, it was Queen."
Worker B: "Oh."
Worker A: "Remember that with Queen? The guy announces that he has AIDS, and the next day he's dead."
Worker C: "No, he was sick."
Worker A: "Yeah, he had AIDS, and he announced it, and the next day he died."
Worker C: "No... he died because he was sick..."
Worker A: "Right. He had AIDS. He announced it, and then he died the next day."
Worker C: "Oh."

I need soundproofed cubicle walls.

reflections on insomnia

I had to go to work early today (which is Wednesday, although I'll post this tomorrow), for some standard ethical training. Because I was anxious about getting enough sleep, I ended up being wide-awake for most of the night. I generally sleep pretty well, except when I'm nervous about something. I don't lay there worrying or anything - it's just my normal overly active imagination working, the same as is at play during the day, but I know that my thoughts are spurred on by an emotional root.

I used to barely sleep at all - I'd probably get about two hours out of an attempted ten. Insomnia is horrible; your thoughts never stop, which prevents you from sleeping, but your fatigue prevents you from truly connecting to your thoughts. If you're really tired, you might keep returning to a thought over and over in a cyclic pattern, pecking away at it each time to again realize that you're unable to grasp it. You know when you're trying to remember the name of something, and it's on the tip of your tongue?... it's like that, except the floor feels wobbly, so you have to focus on balancing at the same time.

To sleep is quite literally to release control of your focus, so that it 'slips' into the obscurity of your subconscious. If you attempt right now to release control of your thoughts, you'll notice that you'll 'jerk' the right thoughts back into place - that's consciousness in action. The difference between being conscious and unconscious is whether your participation with your thoughts is active or passive.

For me to release control of my mind like that, I have to feel extremely safe. Having to make mundane decisions is very difficult for me, so I hold to specific patterns. When I enter a restaurant, they don't ask me what I want, they just prepare my regular meal. Pioneering the depths of my mind is easy, but navigating my way through a menu can take hours. I barely slept last night because my daily pattern was to be severely disrupted - not only did I have to get up at a different time, but I had to go to a building that I've only been to a few times... which then brings in the possibility of getting lost in trying to find it. This made me feel unsure of my ability to accomplish what I needed to today, which made me feel unsafe, which made me worry, which made me respond by feeling a need to take control, which prevented me from surrendering my focus. Tomorrow may not be a normal day either - I have to do laundry. I never know ahead of time what will or won't cause anxiety.

nuts and bolts

Chicks like to fondle me. Creepy guys like to stand behind me and look at the camera evilly... probably grinding up against the couch. If you're a chick, you straight up want to fuck me right now. If you're a guy, you may have been secure in your sexuality five minutes ago, but now that you've seen this picture of me, you're a little confused. I'm pretty much the shit.

I'm beautiful on the outside, and unless you know me, you'd think that I'm beautiful on the inside... but we all have our little secrets, don't we? You know... our little unmentioned problems that we're ashamed to talk about. Does anyone here know what I mean?

"I do... I bite my nails." That's simply gross.
"And I sometimes snort when I laugh." Sickening.
"I wash my hands twice after going to the bathroom." Just nasty.

You guys are really making me sick... I'm not sure that I want to talk about this anymore. In fact, I think I won't.


Well... since we're already gathered around the campfire and all.. I guess I could go ahead and tell you what my little physiological 'fault' is; I have testicular dysplasia. Somehow, before I was born, when my private parts were forming, one of my testicles got lodged into the shaft of my penis, just below the head. It never quite grew in properly, but ended up becoming big enough to be a bit of a problem. I'm not sterile or anything... so I can still have illegitimate children, and that's what really matters.

When I was in elementary school, my problem became public knowledge. I was at a slumber party with a bunch of guys, and we all ended up naked for some reason... you know how little kids' games go. Because the penis has what's called a 'head', and my left nut is lodged into what would then be my dick's 'neck', they used to call my left nut a 'goiter'. I must have had Goiter as a nickname for at least four years in school. That hurt me... it really did.

Because my left nut doesn't produce sperm, during puberty, my right nut decided that it had to work overtime to compensate. Because of this, my right nut became very large. Thank god nobody found out about that one... but I make sure to never cross my legs... it's very visible when I do so.

Here... I drew a little diagram for you.. You may want to click on that to see a bigger copy of it... this is important information:


You may have noticed that I included the diamond stud on there from when I recently got my dick pierced. Yeah... they poked that thing right through my left nut. Fun times.

Okay... so I have a testicle lodged into the shaft of my dick... not the end of the world. Here's the big problem though... you know those tubes that transmit the sperm from testicles to the base of the penis? Those aren't intended to stretch too far... so when my penis becomes erect, there's a game of a 'tug of war' going on. Erections are actually fairly painful for me. My dick is pretty much trained to bend toward the left, because of the tension that comes from my left nut's cords. I drew another picture to show you what my dick looks like when it's hard. This one's from a bottom view:


As you'd probably guess, this makes sex a bit difficult. I mean, I can do it, but whoever gets it has to be very understanding. Having sex with me is a bit abnormal... my dick has to be forced in sideways pretty much. Try explaining that one to someone on a date.





So... now you all know my big secret. If I regain the nickname 'Goiter', so be it. I'm not too worried... even if I was walking around with my "pig's tail" of a dick hanging out, you'd still be fondling me. I'm guessing that even as you were reading all this shit, you were fondling yourself, from having seen my picture at the top of this post.

in the wake of a tragedy

Marcos was sent home from school early today. The official word is that he was causing a 'commotion', but the facts seem to vary. Some reports say that he was getting into fights, while others say that he was having some sort of emotional breakdown; I guess that's pretty much the same thing when you're five. I've been watching this build up over the last few days, but I didn't know how to head it off.

About a week ago, the mother of one of Marcos' friends was found dead a few blocks from our house. Her neck was slit open... it happened right in the middle of the day, and her body was placed behind some bushes in someone's driveway. She wasn't found until the next morning. Nobody knows how or why this happened.

As you can imagine, it's been very hard on the entire neighborhood. The schools took too long to figure out how to approach the topic with the kids, which allowed them to hear it from the television news programs first... can you imagine being so young, hearing about the murder of a woman that you knew from an unconcerned news reporter? Most of these kids hadn't even encountered death before, let alone one that seems so senseless.

The six-year-old son of the victim, Charlie, is in Marcos' class. They're very close - hell, we've even had Charlie and his family over to the house on numerous occasions. Charlie had been staying home from school to grieve, but wasn't making any progress, so it was suggested to his father that he be sent back to school, so that he could be around his friends. Rumor has it that he's cried once or twice, but overall, he's had a very distant and stoic demeanor since the funeral.

Megan and I sat both Marcos and Maria down to explain what happened and how hard it was going to be on Charlie, but I don't think that Marcos really understood until he saw Charlie at school today. I think that despite Charlie's repression of emotion, Marcos can tell that something's very wrong. Marcos is extremely protective of his friends; I think he's mad at Charlie's mother for leaving Charlie so wounded, but also feels guilty for putting blame on someone who was just a victim. He wants so much to help his friend, but doesn't know how; that's exactly how I feel toward Marcos right now. It's such a shame that this had to happen to these boys at such a young age.

Marcos is furious, and doesn't know where to place his anger. When I picked him up from school, the second I asked what happened, he started hitting me and trying to rip himself out of his seatbelt; the poor kid's just a wreck. I let him wear himself out on me, until he finally slumped back into his seat and started crying and spilling his guts.

He told me that he had heard that Charlie was supposed to cry, and couldn't understand why he wouldn't. Marcos wanted him to cry so that he would get better, but Charlie refused to; Marcos started yelling at him and hitting him. According to Marcos, he beat the shit out of this poor kid (I'm sure that he's fine, because their teacher didn't mention any bruises or anything), but no matter how much pain Marcos dished out, Charlie wouldn't cry... Charlie just looked at Marcos helplessly, and kept asking why Marcos hated him so much.

heresy

Heresy:

• why the fuck is it so cold?
  
• thanks are in order
  
• ash wednesday
  
• through a child's eyes #5

poetry

Poetry submissions:

• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem
  
• poem

favorites

Favorites:

• a nameless feeling
  
• stealing candy from babies
  
• the FBI now has my fingerprints on file
  
• the tale of the pig
  
• nuts and bolts
  
• the making of 'nuts and bolts'
  
• watch out, ladies
  
• leaving the rock
  
• rand vs. his apartment
  
• empty hallway

storylines

Storylines:

• rand the hatchet
  
• the manuel ortega saga
  
• picturebook
  
• through a child's eyes

table of contents: picturebook

Table of Contents:

• i
  
• ii
  
• iii
  
• iv
  
• v
  
• vi

table of contents: rand the hatchet

Table of Contents:

• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5

table of contents: through a child's eyes

Table of Contents:

• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19

table of contents: the manuel ortega saga

Table of Contents:

• Chapter 1: the story behind the stories
  
• Chapter 2: maria's first story
  
• Chapter 3: coming clean
  
• Chapter 4: the tale of the pig
  
• Chapter 5: in the wake of a tragedy
  
• Chapter 6: boys' night out
  
• Chapter 7: last supper
  
• Chapter 8: coming of age
  
• Chapter 9: daddy's little girl: perspective #1, perspective #2, perspective #3
  
• Chapter 10: homecoming