This letter from Samuel Adams to his friend John Smith is to me, almost like an editorial column in the Philadelphia Inquire. It takes the perspective of, the colonist are still trying to continue to be loyal British subjects. But, if England keeps treating the colonist as second-class citizens, then what is the point of even putting on a fake smile? Apart from this ridiculous tax, there was the fact that none of the colonist could have any say in political matters for england. The colonist were being pushed and pulled around by England, and Samuel Adams was getting sick and tired of it. I can slightly relate. Although I don't see a need for an extremely bloody revolution, the reasoning for charging college students for books of information, that for the most part is free online, seems ludicrous. Obviously publishers need to make a profit, but how is any book's actual value over $100? This is simply abuse by book publishers to keep their pockets over flooding with income, when we are currently in the middle of a national financial crisis. When the colonist were
starting to be treated as a countryside of mere merchants for the British Empire's financial gain, the colonist were at least willing to fight for their oppressed rights as British Citizens, if not human beings. Today, I find it hard to find any other student apart from myself as adamant about free education. But, perhaps mere annoyance of book and class fees are not enough to try and change an entire system, that has been in place since right around the time Samuel Adams wrote this letter. Perhaps part of the problem is, the only type of
job one could actually get hired for, that would pay for an actual living standard, is one that requires a college degree of any sort.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
English Homework March Thirtieth Two Thousand Eleven
Why post my English homework on here? Because this actually has spell check. So I'm probably going to do assignments on here anyway. Might as well publish these assignments. So here I go.
All assignments must be done in MLA guidelines. If you don't know what that is, you should look it up. You're going to need to know soon enough.
Always Living in Spanish by the author Marjorie Agosin is a story about the author holding on to her culture throughout difficulties in life. Trying to hold on to where I come from has been very difficult for me, from moving three times in a year to not having a roof over my head sometimes. Holding on to a part of my past is one of the most difficult things I've dealt with, while moving. Of course, the author talking more of tradition and values, the experience that is shared between her and I, is one of fighting to keep the past alive. The past for the author being, her upbring in Chile. The past for me would be, sentimental items collected over the years. Each of our past has value to ourselves. But from an outsiders point of view, "poor English" is more easily made fun of, then the constant feeling of incompleteness I felt from not having physical possessions.
Though the hardships experienced by the author are extremely more awful than anything I have ever had to deal with, my family and I moved multiple times due to hardships as well. The idea that I assumed my parents had, when finally deciding to move, was one of seeking a better situation. I have to confess. I do assume everyone in the entire world holds this very same optimistic idea. The idea of trying to find a better situation for myself became so strong for me once, that I had moved out of my parents house before graduating High School. And just as, "that other America that looked with suspicion at those who did not speak English," I had experienced many people's questioning about why I chose to move out of my house. Of course, I could understand the simple curiosity at my predicament, the accusations of my parent's house being a "shit hole" still bothered me. I felt guilt I could not deal with my family like the rest of my peers. I felt out of place living with another family from a different ethnicity. I felt lost in my situation. I felt as though I was learning how to live out in the real world without any kind of real guidance. I can understand how it must have felt for author when she wrote, "not even the sky has the same constellations."
I think that as humans, we try to cope with our situations the best we can. Oddly enough, the author and I share one way of coping with hard times, writing. And though the author used writing, as a tool to keep her language and culture alive, I used it to keep my psychological wellbeing alive.While staying with an entirely new set of characters than what I ever have been used to before, I had found that writing could be a release of everything that was inside my soul. Writing had become my Christ. I had gone to writing not because I enjoyed reading. But, because no one I knew would read and question my thoughts. It was almost as if text was an entirely separate language from what my peers spoke. I could access any part of my mind and freely work it into a storm of words. This is a feeling that I have from that point until quite recently, have long forgotten. But I have recently started to write again and those old feelings of freedom are starting to come back. Because, sometimes you have to fight, to keep the past alive.
All assignments must be done in MLA guidelines. If you don't know what that is, you should look it up. You're going to need to know soon enough.
Always Living in Spanish by the author Marjorie Agosin is a story about the author holding on to her culture throughout difficulties in life. Trying to hold on to where I come from has been very difficult for me, from moving three times in a year to not having a roof over my head sometimes. Holding on to a part of my past is one of the most difficult things I've dealt with, while moving. Of course, the author talking more of tradition and values, the experience that is shared between her and I, is one of fighting to keep the past alive. The past for the author being, her upbring in Chile. The past for me would be, sentimental items collected over the years. Each of our past has value to ourselves. But from an outsiders point of view, "poor English" is more easily made fun of, then the constant feeling of incompleteness I felt from not having physical possessions.
Though the hardships experienced by the author are extremely more awful than anything I have ever had to deal with, my family and I moved multiple times due to hardships as well. The idea that I assumed my parents had, when finally deciding to move, was one of seeking a better situation. I have to confess. I do assume everyone in the entire world holds this very same optimistic idea. The idea of trying to find a better situation for myself became so strong for me once, that I had moved out of my parents house before graduating High School. And just as, "that other America that looked with suspicion at those who did not speak English," I had experienced many people's questioning about why I chose to move out of my house. Of course, I could understand the simple curiosity at my predicament, the accusations of my parent's house being a "shit hole" still bothered me. I felt guilt I could not deal with my family like the rest of my peers. I felt out of place living with another family from a different ethnicity. I felt lost in my situation. I felt as though I was learning how to live out in the real world without any kind of real guidance. I can understand how it must have felt for author when she wrote, "not even the sky has the same constellations."
I think that as humans, we try to cope with our situations the best we can. Oddly enough, the author and I share one way of coping with hard times, writing. And though the author used writing, as a tool to keep her language and culture alive, I used it to keep my psychological wellbeing alive.While staying with an entirely new set of characters than what I ever have been used to before, I had found that writing could be a release of everything that was inside my soul. Writing had become my Christ. I had gone to writing not because I enjoyed reading. But, because no one I knew would read and question my thoughts. It was almost as if text was an entirely separate language from what my peers spoke. I could access any part of my mind and freely work it into a storm of words. This is a feeling that I have from that point until quite recently, have long forgotten. But I have recently started to write again and those old feelings of freedom are starting to come back. Because, sometimes you have to fight, to keep the past alive.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Love
Does it exist? I don’t know. I know that I really like: being around you, hearing your voice, receiving your text, kissing your lips, hearing what’s on your mind, drinking coffee with you, smoking cigarettes with you, holding you close, driving around with you, creating art with you and experiencing every single new day that comes with the sun, after staying up all night with you.
Person
So there's this person who I can't remember their name. I miss the shit out of her randomly for some reason. Yet, I haven't seen her in like five years. Jesus Christ I feel old, when I haven't seen someone in five fucking years. I think I remember the name now. Why is it that we think of random bullshit at the oddest of times? I just can't stop my mind from wondering for some reason. Kind of like this blog. So people killing themselves is on my mind right now for some reason. I think I should write something about that. Suicide is kind of serious. It's not like you have any proof you're going to be OK after it happens. Why do it? Depression. Some people think that life is really just not worth dealing with anymore. No hope is obvious. Well fuck, if we just die and don't go anywhere after life, I'd rather deal with pain. With life comes suffering. It builds your fucking character. So is there ever a point where you would be better off killing yourself? I suppose when the pain will outlast your life. That kind of situation does happen. But, how good of a judge are you going to be, when that time comes? I probably am the worst person to talk to about all of this. I only have my opinion, just like everybody else.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Am I a business?
So I just talked to this girl about writing for me. She seemed pretty interested. So, here's my question. If I actually publish her work, and she continues working for me, does that mean I'm like officially a business. Or, Was I always a publishing business? Hmmm.... There's a question for the strong hearted.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
hey ya
so theres this girl. She's pretty cute. I'd hit. but here's the situation. I take her around the county. Still no head, no nothing. Maybe this is just me, but I think I should be getting some kind of action out of this. Am I alone on this one? Oh! She's on drugs. That's why. Bleh...
Well, here's another one. I got this friend getting with everyone except me. Am I just one of those people that girls just do not want to fuck? I mean, how much money do I give her before I get even a hand job?
Fucking Girls.
'Nuf said.
Well, here's another one. I got this friend getting with everyone except me. Am I just one of those people that girls just do not want to fuck? I mean, how much money do I give her before I get even a hand job?
Fucking Girls.
'Nuf said.
Hey Webook Friends
So this is my blog. I know it's not a story book. I know it's not writing site. But here's the thing I really stopped writing stories cause of school and work and stuff. Give me a break I have a life. But this is going to be my thoughts. stories and whatever.
There's no rules on what this is supposed to be.
So love it or hate it
keep it or leave it
This is what I'm doing now for my writing.
But either way,
WELCOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There's no rules on what this is supposed to be.
So love it or hate it
keep it or leave it
This is what I'm doing now for my writing.
But either way,
WELCOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A Silent Scream
The woman paced down the aisle of the grassy hill lined by the graves of her loved ones. As she looked at the engravings on the stones, she remembered the days that each tomb was chiseled with it's eternal name. She continued walking along and paused at one particular head stone. It seemed familiar to her for some odd reason. She couldn't recall the name in any person she might have known though her long life. But somewhere in her frail and worn bones, the name echoed with some sort of power that seemed to almost overcome her.
Maybe it was the way the words were carved into the granite. Maybe it was the size and shape of the whole thing that seemed almost too plain for a grave site. Or maybe, just maybe it seemed to be beckoning her to the bones which peacefully lay beneath her feet as she stood there. But either way there was something. Something, she thought about it for quite sometime, repeating the haunting name over and over. As if it had some deeper meaning than when simply glanced at.
Dusk was coming, and a breeze blew. And as an awakening to the woman, she realized the meaning behind the name. She began to realize why it had been calling her. She began to turn white, the sun creeping behind the hill casting shadows on the weather worn stones. Which gave such a feeling of loneliness cast upon the woman's mind. Her eyes widened and she gave a shriek. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing.
The name! It was him. The man who had so often stalked the woman in her youth, that even the fear of his spirit seemed to be crawling up to the woman. As a hand being reached out to grab this woman to posses her soul. Yet she could not move. Only her screams would be admitted to come out of this woman. She tried to step back and stumbled over a grave stone behind her.She fell six feet down into the cold dirt of the soil inside the hill. Trapped inside a newly dug grave.
She tried to move, but her bones were broken. She tried to scream, but her ribs had punctured her lungs. With the large hole in her lungs consuming her air supply, the grave seemed to be consuming her soul. The walls were enclosing around her. The sun's light was fading. And maybe because of her eminent passing soul into her unpredicted end, she could see the eyes of a man. That same man from the same grave.
"Don't scream. I knew I would have you from the first day I laid eyes on you... I knew you would be the victim who wouldn't scream."
Maybe it was the way the words were carved into the granite. Maybe it was the size and shape of the whole thing that seemed almost too plain for a grave site. Or maybe, just maybe it seemed to be beckoning her to the bones which peacefully lay beneath her feet as she stood there. But either way there was something. Something, she thought about it for quite sometime, repeating the haunting name over and over. As if it had some deeper meaning than when simply glanced at.
Dusk was coming, and a breeze blew. And as an awakening to the woman, she realized the meaning behind the name. She began to realize why it had been calling her. She began to turn white, the sun creeping behind the hill casting shadows on the weather worn stones. Which gave such a feeling of loneliness cast upon the woman's mind. Her eyes widened and she gave a shriek. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing.
The name! It was him. The man who had so often stalked the woman in her youth, that even the fear of his spirit seemed to be crawling up to the woman. As a hand being reached out to grab this woman to posses her soul. Yet she could not move. Only her screams would be admitted to come out of this woman. She tried to step back and stumbled over a grave stone behind her.She fell six feet down into the cold dirt of the soil inside the hill. Trapped inside a newly dug grave.
She tried to move, but her bones were broken. She tried to scream, but her ribs had punctured her lungs. With the large hole in her lungs consuming her air supply, the grave seemed to be consuming her soul. The walls were enclosing around her. The sun's light was fading. And maybe because of her eminent passing soul into her unpredicted end, she could see the eyes of a man. That same man from the same grave.
"Don't scream. I knew I would have you from the first day I laid eyes on you... I knew you would be the victim who wouldn't scream."
Clocks
The sounds of clocks far off ticking away in my ear, match the beat of my heart. As I lay in my chambers along with my partner, a flash of light comes through a pair of eyes that i have sighted on the headboard mirror. the faint light grew and surrounded more and more of the room, and it soon blinded me so all that i could see was the purest white light.
And then as I focused, I could still hear the ticking of a distant clock. But it sounded distorted as if there were twenty clocks all ticking away at their own paces. And I could feel a pain at my heart, as if someone thought of it as a broken clock, had heard it and got so annoyed that it needed to be broken to keep the peace at a tolerable level.
The sounds of more clocks coming. But now the sound is heavier, deeper. And i see a pale face. Yet, it is a fair one. it looked as a frightened mouse, and sad as a dying deer. The eyes of this looked deep as an ocean. But at the very bottom, there was nothing. No life, cold as ice, and slowly i could see it's eye lids close round the globes of abyss.
More ticking, and I saw myself kneeling upon an open womb of a great size, with blood pouring out like a fountain. And I saw a naked women lying in front of me on a wooden floor, raped of all her beauty. Red hand marks all over her body, and as I stand up from the corpse, Three words come from my mouth.
"Goodbye, my love."
tick. tick. tock. tock. tock. Tock.
Heavier and heavier the sound starts to pump in my ear. And then there were lights flashing so brightly, I could feel my arm being raised over my eyes.
"Oh No!"
tock. Tock. TOCK. TOCK!
There were noises of the police cars. And I could hear the sirens catching the beat of the clock. And i felt something In my hand.
TOCK. TOCK. THUMP. THUMP.
Such an unbearable sound. Pounding. Pounding. And I could feel a liquid trickling from the sides of my lips ever so slowly. Almost ticklish. Then I see a man behind me. A tall man, who had a wet raincoat on. And a hat over his bald head. Underneath his coat I see what looks like a black pinstripe suite. And in his hand by his side, there was a piece of metal. A...A...A...
Thump. Thump. THUMP. tap. tap. tap. tap. tap. tap. THUMP.
Rain.
tap. tap. tap.
Pouring rain.
tap. tap. tap.
Hitting the windows.
THUMP. tap. tap. tap. CRACK.
Thunder breaking the window. And I feel a million pieces of glass cutting into my body.
THUMP. THUMP.
A GUN. He held a gun in his hand. And the look on his face was full of fear. Though not the same type of fear as was on the woman's face. The woman. The dead woman. The light.
Crack!
The lightning had shed enough light on the man's face. The man was surrounded by some wooden frame.
Tick. TOCK. TICK. TOCK.
Suddenly my hand had a burning sensation. And I could feel myself holding a piece of metal.
TI. TI. TI. TI.
The rain being poured on to my skin, as blood was pouring out of my wounds. And then I saw the man in the mirror. And as I pointed the gun to my head, I could see myself in that torn raincoat covering the pinstripe suite.
"Now, let's fix that clock."
BAM!
The End
And then as I focused, I could still hear the ticking of a distant clock. But it sounded distorted as if there were twenty clocks all ticking away at their own paces. And I could feel a pain at my heart, as if someone thought of it as a broken clock, had heard it and got so annoyed that it needed to be broken to keep the peace at a tolerable level.
The sounds of more clocks coming. But now the sound is heavier, deeper. And i see a pale face. Yet, it is a fair one. it looked as a frightened mouse, and sad as a dying deer. The eyes of this looked deep as an ocean. But at the very bottom, there was nothing. No life, cold as ice, and slowly i could see it's eye lids close round the globes of abyss.
More ticking, and I saw myself kneeling upon an open womb of a great size, with blood pouring out like a fountain. And I saw a naked women lying in front of me on a wooden floor, raped of all her beauty. Red hand marks all over her body, and as I stand up from the corpse, Three words come from my mouth.
"Goodbye, my love."
tick. tick. tock. tock. tock. Tock.
Heavier and heavier the sound starts to pump in my ear. And then there were lights flashing so brightly, I could feel my arm being raised over my eyes.
"Oh No!"
tock. Tock. TOCK. TOCK!
There were noises of the police cars. And I could hear the sirens catching the beat of the clock. And i felt something In my hand.
TOCK. TOCK. THUMP. THUMP.
Such an unbearable sound. Pounding. Pounding. And I could feel a liquid trickling from the sides of my lips ever so slowly. Almost ticklish. Then I see a man behind me. A tall man, who had a wet raincoat on. And a hat over his bald head. Underneath his coat I see what looks like a black pinstripe suite. And in his hand by his side, there was a piece of metal. A...A...A...
Thump. Thump. THUMP. tap. tap. tap. tap. tap. tap. THUMP.
Rain.
tap. tap. tap.
Pouring rain.
tap. tap. tap.
Hitting the windows.
THUMP. tap. tap. tap. CRACK.
Thunder breaking the window. And I feel a million pieces of glass cutting into my body.
THUMP. THUMP.
A GUN. He held a gun in his hand. And the look on his face was full of fear. Though not the same type of fear as was on the woman's face. The woman. The dead woman. The light.
Crack!
The lightning had shed enough light on the man's face. The man was surrounded by some wooden frame.
Tick. TOCK. TICK. TOCK.
Suddenly my hand had a burning sensation. And I could feel myself holding a piece of metal.
TI. TI. TI. TI.
The rain being poured on to my skin, as blood was pouring out of my wounds. And then I saw the man in the mirror. And as I pointed the gun to my head, I could see myself in that torn raincoat covering the pinstripe suite.
"Now, let's fix that clock."
BAM!
The End
The Field
Somewhere in the middle of a very large grassy field, in which flowers of every kind imaginable lay and grow, there is a small boy lying asleep under a clear dark sky. this boy's name is not quite so unimportant that is isn't worth mentioning. But rather that it is hard to say at the moment due to certain circumstances that are fully reliant on how well you, as the listener knows this story. On one hand you may not care for his name or his story. But are more worried of the one which is in you your ears. On the other hand, you may be knowledgeable enough that, you could pick and choose a name for this boy despite what I may say it is. And for those of you who also see a third option in these choices which i have supplied you with, you may already know his name and his story quite well. Of course as the one telling this story for you, it is up to me to decide whether or not I should tell you his name. Which i am not quite sure whether it is important enough to you as the listener to mention it yet. But I'm assuming we will find out soon enough.
So as i was saying, before I rudely interrupted your listen with important facts. This boy lay asleep under the sky. He slowly opened his eyes from a dream he was having. The dream was one of which I don't quite know at this time. Seeing that I am not sure who this boy is just yet. Because that still depends on how well you as the listener knows this story. On the one hand, you may be very familiar with premonitions and de'ja'vu and not believe any of that kind of thing has any value. leaving you with the most likely idea that whatever this boy dreams is very unimportant. Despite whether he has a name in yours or my mind. And on the other hand, you may believe that this boy's dream has some importance to his story. Due to the fact that I mentioned it. Much like the fact that I mentioned the boy's name. But have not said what the name is exactly. Seeing that I don't know yet how well you know this story. And therefore have no idea at the present moment if it is quite important to your current listening status at this point in the story. Which I seem to keep you from finishing. Due to my commentary, which is about a boy. And a small one at that.
So as I saying. The boy with no current name which I have supplied you with. Has slowly awaken from his dream, which I may or may not tell you about. And as he tried to look around with his half opened eyes, he spotted some object of some shape. Of which I am not quite sure whether I know of or not. Due to the fact that I don't quite know how well you know this story. On the one hand, you may be thinking of all kinds of objects from your knowledge of objects. Which you may have seen or imagined at some point in your life. And start placing some of your own objects in this story so far. And on the other hand, you may still be waiting on me to give you some description of this object. Which this boy, who still has not been given a name by me, has seen after waking up from his dream. Which i haven't told you about yet, due to the fact that i don't quite know how well you know this story. Which I don't quite know how prominent all these details may mean to you as the listener. Which I am assuming that I, as the story teller, am constantly getting in the way of you and this story. Which you may or may not know already.
So as I was saying, This boy who seems to have woken from a dream he was having, And has seen an object through his half open eyes looking across the very large field. And thought it seemed very familiar to him. And so he got up and went towards this object that seemed to be calling him in a voice. Which I'm not quite too sure what it sounded like. Due to the fact that I am not quite sure what a voice sounds like. Let alone what a name is. And whether or not it really has any importance. And I haven't quite had any real explanation of what a dream is, except by definition. And I haven't quite been able to pinpoint exactly what object this boy saw. Due to the fact that I hadn't any real eyes to see this object. But rather the feel of it on the grass of myself. Seeing that I am only a field, And could really only tell you a story about me, a boy, a dream, an object, and a voice. Which I'm sure I could let you know the details of . But on the other hand, I am sure that I have taken so much of your time as a weed takes life, that you have most likely filled out the details yourselves. And don't have any real need of a field's details for stories. When most the time I am being used for other thins. Such as for little boys to lay down and dream.
The End
So as i was saying, before I rudely interrupted your listen with important facts. This boy lay asleep under the sky. He slowly opened his eyes from a dream he was having. The dream was one of which I don't quite know at this time. Seeing that I am not sure who this boy is just yet. Because that still depends on how well you as the listener knows this story. On the one hand, you may be very familiar with premonitions and de'ja'vu and not believe any of that kind of thing has any value. leaving you with the most likely idea that whatever this boy dreams is very unimportant. Despite whether he has a name in yours or my mind. And on the other hand, you may believe that this boy's dream has some importance to his story. Due to the fact that I mentioned it. Much like the fact that I mentioned the boy's name. But have not said what the name is exactly. Seeing that I don't know yet how well you know this story. And therefore have no idea at the present moment if it is quite important to your current listening status at this point in the story. Which I seem to keep you from finishing. Due to my commentary, which is about a boy. And a small one at that.
So as I saying. The boy with no current name which I have supplied you with. Has slowly awaken from his dream, which I may or may not tell you about. And as he tried to look around with his half opened eyes, he spotted some object of some shape. Of which I am not quite sure whether I know of or not. Due to the fact that I don't quite know how well you know this story. On the one hand, you may be thinking of all kinds of objects from your knowledge of objects. Which you may have seen or imagined at some point in your life. And start placing some of your own objects in this story so far. And on the other hand, you may still be waiting on me to give you some description of this object. Which this boy, who still has not been given a name by me, has seen after waking up from his dream. Which i haven't told you about yet, due to the fact that i don't quite know how well you know this story. Which I don't quite know how prominent all these details may mean to you as the listener. Which I am assuming that I, as the story teller, am constantly getting in the way of you and this story. Which you may or may not know already.
So as I was saying, This boy who seems to have woken from a dream he was having, And has seen an object through his half open eyes looking across the very large field. And thought it seemed very familiar to him. And so he got up and went towards this object that seemed to be calling him in a voice. Which I'm not quite too sure what it sounded like. Due to the fact that I am not quite sure what a voice sounds like. Let alone what a name is. And whether or not it really has any importance. And I haven't quite had any real explanation of what a dream is, except by definition. And I haven't quite been able to pinpoint exactly what object this boy saw. Due to the fact that I hadn't any real eyes to see this object. But rather the feel of it on the grass of myself. Seeing that I am only a field, And could really only tell you a story about me, a boy, a dream, an object, and a voice. Which I'm sure I could let you know the details of . But on the other hand, I am sure that I have taken so much of your time as a weed takes life, that you have most likely filled out the details yourselves. And don't have any real need of a field's details for stories. When most the time I am being used for other thins. Such as for little boys to lay down and dream.
The End
Angel Number Five
They don’t make room in heaven for people like me, not for murderers. I’m not going to stand here and say, (sarcastically) "I never meant him any harm." He got what he had coming, a bullet right through his head. I can still see his veins bursting out blood all over my costume.
I was supposed to be "Mary" in my church’s Christmas play, and what does the director do? What does he do? He makes me "Angel Number Five." "Angel Number Five!" Who does he think I am? Some washed up talent who only performed once in my life? Well now who’s the one washed up? (Snort) "Angel Number Five." You know just for even thinking of giving me that part, I should of kicked him in the balls, then shot him in the head.
When the director gave us our roles I should have slapped him and said, "Give me another part." But no, I just smiled and accepted the role. I smiled and said, "Thank you, sir."
I can’t believe what a suck up I can be sometimes. It’s like kissing my father’s ass after beating me for doing the dishes. Like, here you go since I already know I’m a stupid bum, why don’t you just rub it in my face so everyone else can point and laugh. And I say, thank you, sir.
But, you know what, that’s not even what really set me off. That’s not even what set me off. What really got to me was that the director had the nerve to cut me from the production the rehearsal before performing night. After three months straight of working my ass off, being paid half my usual salary, barely being able to pay to eat or sleep since we worked at all hours of the night. On no schedule what so ever. And he thinks he can boot me off the cast right before the performance. Who does he think he is? Jesus Christ?
Well if I was "Angel Number Five", you might as well forget about me going to heaven. Because some bozo with a chair that got his name on the back of it, broke my wings and sent me to hell. Well like I said they don’t make places in heaven for people like me anyway. Not for people who murder their director on opening night, in front of a church congregation.
The End
I was supposed to be "Mary" in my church’s Christmas play, and what does the director do? What does he do? He makes me "Angel Number Five." "Angel Number Five!" Who does he think I am? Some washed up talent who only performed once in my life? Well now who’s the one washed up? (Snort) "Angel Number Five." You know just for even thinking of giving me that part, I should of kicked him in the balls, then shot him in the head.
When the director gave us our roles I should have slapped him and said, "Give me another part." But no, I just smiled and accepted the role. I smiled and said, "Thank you, sir."
I can’t believe what a suck up I can be sometimes. It’s like kissing my father’s ass after beating me for doing the dishes. Like, here you go since I already know I’m a stupid bum, why don’t you just rub it in my face so everyone else can point and laugh. And I say, thank you, sir.
But, you know what, that’s not even what really set me off. That’s not even what set me off. What really got to me was that the director had the nerve to cut me from the production the rehearsal before performing night. After three months straight of working my ass off, being paid half my usual salary, barely being able to pay to eat or sleep since we worked at all hours of the night. On no schedule what so ever. And he thinks he can boot me off the cast right before the performance. Who does he think he is? Jesus Christ?
Well if I was "Angel Number Five", you might as well forget about me going to heaven. Because some bozo with a chair that got his name on the back of it, broke my wings and sent me to hell. Well like I said they don’t make places in heaven for people like me anyway. Not for people who murder their director on opening night, in front of a church congregation.
The End
Take Your Time
"Take your time......................................
You. There. Yes, you. Take your time."
The voice came out of nowhere and fell onto the ears of the unsuspecting lover. As well he should be unsuspecting. Yet he is expecting a very important phone call. A call that should be prominent to his busy schedule. He has no idea that this phone call is a prominent one, but rather is an average everyday call that he receives from the stranger he has known from on-line chats.
"Take your time."
The voice spoke again. This time the man was sure that he heard it and looked up from his vast wasteland of cyberspace. There hadn't seemed to be anybody in his blue office which was full of large open windows with a summer breeze coming through.
"Anthony, your hearing things."
The man said this to himself in a queer voice. Not queer in the sense of homosexuality. But queer in the sense, that he sounded a bit more horse than usual, at least for Anthony. He felt odd. Anthony felt he never had much luck with communicating to anyone before. And then only last week,he created an account on one of the many social web sites his Internet service supplied him with. And today, there was a message for him. An intriguing one at that, one which could be only sent by someone who has such a way with words, that person could persuade a shaker. So there was some deep longing for Anthony to meet this mysterious stranger. Although he had some warning in him, his anxiousness overpowered in the end.
"Take your time."
The phone rang giving Anthony no time to calculate where the voice he kept hearing was coming from. But instead he ignored this seemingly unimportant thought, or voice, or whatever it was, and picked up the receiver which was beckoning him from his glass covered wooden desk. A strong deep voice answered.
"Hello, suga'."
"Is this Bubbles?" Replied Anthony.
"Sure is. How you doin' sweety?" Said the voice on the other end.
"I don't believe you have the correct number." Stated Anthony, with a strong urge to hang up on this intrusion. "I was waiting on a more, excuse my rudeness, feminine sounding bubbles. You seem to be led on to something that was not meant to be implied. I am sorry for your time waisted. And I wish you the best of luck finding another "suga'."
"Oh no, no, no! Sweety. I have the right number." Replied the heavily breathing voice. I see you right now.
Anthony looked around and on the balcony of the window behind him stood a heavy set man with a riffle in his hands.
"I definitely got the right number." Said Bubbles, dropping the cellular phone into the sky below the 50,000 feet above the ground. And let bullet out of the barrel strait into Anthony's head. "Freak! Thinking I'm a ten year old girl."
The End
You. There. Yes, you. Take your time."
The voice came out of nowhere and fell onto the ears of the unsuspecting lover. As well he should be unsuspecting. Yet he is expecting a very important phone call. A call that should be prominent to his busy schedule. He has no idea that this phone call is a prominent one, but rather is an average everyday call that he receives from the stranger he has known from on-line chats.
"Take your time."
The voice spoke again. This time the man was sure that he heard it and looked up from his vast wasteland of cyberspace. There hadn't seemed to be anybody in his blue office which was full of large open windows with a summer breeze coming through.
"Anthony, your hearing things."
The man said this to himself in a queer voice. Not queer in the sense of homosexuality. But queer in the sense, that he sounded a bit more horse than usual, at least for Anthony. He felt odd. Anthony felt he never had much luck with communicating to anyone before. And then only last week,he created an account on one of the many social web sites his Internet service supplied him with. And today, there was a message for him. An intriguing one at that, one which could be only sent by someone who has such a way with words, that person could persuade a shaker. So there was some deep longing for Anthony to meet this mysterious stranger. Although he had some warning in him, his anxiousness overpowered in the end.
"Take your time."
The phone rang giving Anthony no time to calculate where the voice he kept hearing was coming from. But instead he ignored this seemingly unimportant thought, or voice, or whatever it was, and picked up the receiver which was beckoning him from his glass covered wooden desk. A strong deep voice answered.
"Hello, suga'."
"Is this Bubbles?" Replied Anthony.
"Sure is. How you doin' sweety?" Said the voice on the other end.
"I don't believe you have the correct number." Stated Anthony, with a strong urge to hang up on this intrusion. "I was waiting on a more, excuse my rudeness, feminine sounding bubbles. You seem to be led on to something that was not meant to be implied. I am sorry for your time waisted. And I wish you the best of luck finding another "suga'."
"Oh no, no, no! Sweety. I have the right number." Replied the heavily breathing voice. I see you right now.
Anthony looked around and on the balcony of the window behind him stood a heavy set man with a riffle in his hands.
"I definitely got the right number." Said Bubbles, dropping the cellular phone into the sky below the 50,000 feet above the ground. And let bullet out of the barrel strait into Anthony's head. "Freak! Thinking I'm a ten year old girl."
The End
Open Your Eyes
Can't you see you in the mirror?
Can't you see what your addictions are doing to your health?
What can I possibly do to make this clearer?
Have another cigarette while taking an x-ray of yourself?
What am I supposed to act like?
Another pawn on the board?
Fuck that! What do I look like?
Just another pawn on the board?
Free yourself. Take everything you can grasp.
Run with it until youe out of breath and you can't gasp.
My life starts today with this breath that I take.
This path that I walk, This world that I make.
WAKE UP! OPEN YOUR EYES!
Can't you see what your addictions are doing to your health?
What can I possibly do to make this clearer?
Have another cigarette while taking an x-ray of yourself?
What am I supposed to act like?
Another pawn on the board?
Fuck that! What do I look like?
Just another pawn on the board?
Free yourself. Take everything you can grasp.
Run with it until youe out of breath and you can't gasp.
My life starts today with this breath that I take.
This path that I walk, This world that I make.
WAKE UP! OPEN YOUR EYES!
Sunday Morning Present
Sunday morning came quickly for the man lying down to sleep. Of course sleep had been creeping over his aching body for quite some time now. The work which required his assistance seemed almost painless now in the breaking light dawning onto the bed where his sweetest desire lie in peaceful dreams of golden slumbers. The soft skin seemed to perfectly cover her loving soul. her lips curling into a smile made his bones ache with a longing that might have been unbearable when all of a sudden a soft voice came into the back of his mind. He avoided what the voice was saying which could only obliterate the emotions fogging his reason.
"She loves me." He tried to convince himself.
He turned away and began to rise up out of the bed. The blanket which caught his naked body, tickled his leg hairs. He stretched off the ache of his body from the wild ride of the night and began to look for a bath towel. Mid-search he heard a muffled sweet morning groan. The kind that makes you think of such delightful thoughts of someone wanting you and not having to say it. The man felt a smile creep upon him. A rare gift for this man. A sweet sincere sadness followed.
He knew deep down that what happened last night was an empty promise. something that would haunt him for years to come. He turned on the hot water. Empty. He turned on cold water. Empty. He stepped into the chamber of pouring warm water and his tears were joined.
"How could I not know she never wanted anything more than just some short lived company."
He stood there in all his pain and false hope. Naked and alone. He took up the bar of soap and began to wash. He began to wash off his grief. Began to wash off his misery. Began to wash off his pain. And washed away all sense of wanting. And within that moment of time, he was more free than ever before.
He stepped out of the shower and was drying himself when the pain came back and fear flooded his whole being. he walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at the unopened package and he looked at the woman. She was smiling and opened her eyes, Saw the man's expression.
"No! Don't tell me I'm infected."
The End
"She loves me." He tried to convince himself.
He turned away and began to rise up out of the bed. The blanket which caught his naked body, tickled his leg hairs. He stretched off the ache of his body from the wild ride of the night and began to look for a bath towel. Mid-search he heard a muffled sweet morning groan. The kind that makes you think of such delightful thoughts of someone wanting you and not having to say it. The man felt a smile creep upon him. A rare gift for this man. A sweet sincere sadness followed.
He knew deep down that what happened last night was an empty promise. something that would haunt him for years to come. He turned on the hot water. Empty. He turned on cold water. Empty. He stepped into the chamber of pouring warm water and his tears were joined.
"How could I not know she never wanted anything more than just some short lived company."
He stood there in all his pain and false hope. Naked and alone. He took up the bar of soap and began to wash. He began to wash off his grief. Began to wash off his misery. Began to wash off his pain. And washed away all sense of wanting. And within that moment of time, he was more free than ever before.
He stepped out of the shower and was drying himself when the pain came back and fear flooded his whole being. he walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at the unopened package and he looked at the woman. She was smiling and opened her eyes, Saw the man's expression.
"No! Don't tell me I'm infected."
The End
Mute Dreams
"Hurry!" Said a cold dark voice "Before it's too late."
The two companions had been climbing up a steep hill in the windy night where there seemed to be a prize at the top where there destination lie.
"I thought you said no one would follow us." said the voice which seemed to grow darker by the second. The companion could not say anything due to the fact the companion had no tongue. As they ran up the slope they heard a noise coming from behind them which sounded like a rustle of leaves followed by what sounded like a very large door which creaked as it opened.
The companions of course knew better. They knew that which followed them. they knew they could not outrun it forever. Eventually it would outlast and overpower them. But they had no other choice but to pursue the goal which lie waiting for them.The only hope they ever had. Which they had known about but up until now had never went after.
"Why hadn't we figured out where it was before?" Asked the voice. "It's been right in front of us for years." Another ubiquitous voice came and asked,
"What is the voice? And who is the companion?"
The companion and the voice stood still. When more creaking came along. This time the creaking seemed to be shaking the ground. The two continued on-wards, with each step falling closer to the end. The voice came again, this time louder than before.
"What is the voice? And who is the companion? Why are they running away from something which is in front of them?"
There was a small light which could now be seen in front of them. And the companion's eyes widened. The voice came again.
"Doctor he's not responding."
The light grew and eventually lit up a white room where a man in a strait jacket lay on top of a table. The dream had gone from the man along with his voice.
"Damn it! How come he can only speak when he's in one of his daydreams!" Screamed the one doctor.
The man looked around the room of doctors and accepted the fact that he was trapped forever. His mind would play tricks on him for the rest of his life. No escape, none. Suddenly a nurse bursted in through the door.
"Doctor we have a major problem. Number 52 has gotten out." Everybody in the room turned around.
"How?" Asked the doctor.
"He overpowered his guard." Replied the nurse.
"Go get the tranquilizer!" Shouted the doctor, as he and the other nurses ran out of the room.
The man saw they forgot to close the door. Through the doorway he could see it. The hill in his dreams. The cure! He knew the cure for his illness was at the top of that hill. He got off the table and started to walk toward the door.
"Almost there." He thought.
He was two feet away from the door when a nurse came by and saw the man, and grabbed him.
"Don't worry the doctors can take care of it. But it's nap time now. Nighty night."
She took his arm and pulled the man back to the table, where she injected the man with a medical needle. The last thing the man saw through his tear filled eyes was the door closing on the view of the hill in his dreams.
The End
The two companions had been climbing up a steep hill in the windy night where there seemed to be a prize at the top where there destination lie.
"I thought you said no one would follow us." said the voice which seemed to grow darker by the second. The companion could not say anything due to the fact the companion had no tongue. As they ran up the slope they heard a noise coming from behind them which sounded like a rustle of leaves followed by what sounded like a very large door which creaked as it opened.
The companions of course knew better. They knew that which followed them. they knew they could not outrun it forever. Eventually it would outlast and overpower them. But they had no other choice but to pursue the goal which lie waiting for them.The only hope they ever had. Which they had known about but up until now had never went after.
"Why hadn't we figured out where it was before?" Asked the voice. "It's been right in front of us for years." Another ubiquitous voice came and asked,
"What is the voice? And who is the companion?"
The companion and the voice stood still. When more creaking came along. This time the creaking seemed to be shaking the ground. The two continued on-wards, with each step falling closer to the end. The voice came again, this time louder than before.
"What is the voice? And who is the companion? Why are they running away from something which is in front of them?"
There was a small light which could now be seen in front of them. And the companion's eyes widened. The voice came again.
"Doctor he's not responding."
The light grew and eventually lit up a white room where a man in a strait jacket lay on top of a table. The dream had gone from the man along with his voice.
"Damn it! How come he can only speak when he's in one of his daydreams!" Screamed the one doctor.
The man looked around the room of doctors and accepted the fact that he was trapped forever. His mind would play tricks on him for the rest of his life. No escape, none. Suddenly a nurse bursted in through the door.
"Doctor we have a major problem. Number 52 has gotten out." Everybody in the room turned around.
"How?" Asked the doctor.
"He overpowered his guard." Replied the nurse.
"Go get the tranquilizer!" Shouted the doctor, as he and the other nurses ran out of the room.
The man saw they forgot to close the door. Through the doorway he could see it. The hill in his dreams. The cure! He knew the cure for his illness was at the top of that hill. He got off the table and started to walk toward the door.
"Almost there." He thought.
He was two feet away from the door when a nurse came by and saw the man, and grabbed him.
"Don't worry the doctors can take care of it. But it's nap time now. Nighty night."
She took his arm and pulled the man back to the table, where she injected the man with a medical needle. The last thing the man saw through his tear filled eyes was the door closing on the view of the hill in his dreams.
The End
Grave Meetings
His pale face had an anxious expression to wear. His moonlit meeting by the old oak started to seem tainted from his original intentions. Of course no one gave him a reason to feel this way. But there was something about that beggar he passed along the way that seemed queer. The way his crippled hands were held, touched something inside the young man. So as the young man's Victorian tuxedo neck tie seemed to tighten around his throat, just as the darkness from the forest seemed to be closing in on him and his oak tree, He started to pace around the old oak.
Taking his third round, he stopped at the sight of a woman proceeding into the secluded clearing.
"Vincent." She whispered.
"Elizabeth." He Responded.
"Why did you ask me to meet you here?" Elizabeth asked.
"For this," said Vincent as he began to kneel and held out a dagger. "To ask you to join me and have death depart us from the trials and tribulations of this world, and descend together into an eternal peace of our love."
Eyes widened, Elizabeth replied.
"Of course I will follow you wherever our lives may lead us. But this is madness! Vincent we must think of our friends, our families."
"But Elizabeth," countered Vincent, "none of them will let us be together any other way. Your father strongly disagrees with with every decision I make. And he will not let us marry even if I owned the world and all of it's possessions. But I do love you more than all the world. And whatever I can do that will make you a happy woman, I am willing to comply. Even if that means I can never see or speak of you again."
"Why would I want that?" Asked Elizabeth.
"I hear the way in which you speak of me. I know you don't always consider my emotions, but must you confide in my mother in secrecy? Elizabeth, I wish you to love life. And I would love to enjoy life with you. So this is my ultimatum. Die with me, or leave me."
"And where will you go? Please Vincent, I wish only the best for you. That's why I did not come alone." As she said this, a man stepped forward out of the thicket.
"You came with the police? Elizabeth, don't you realize They'll imprison me?" And with tears in her eyes she replied.
"Yes." She turned back toward the woods, and began to walk away.
"Elizabeth." Vincent whispered. Turning around, Elizabeth caught sight of the last words uttered from his lips.
"You killed me. But if that's what you want, I'll accept." Elizabeth screamed out at the sight of her fiance bury the dagger into his chest.
The End
Taking his third round, he stopped at the sight of a woman proceeding into the secluded clearing.
"Vincent." She whispered.
"Elizabeth." He Responded.
"Why did you ask me to meet you here?" Elizabeth asked.
"For this," said Vincent as he began to kneel and held out a dagger. "To ask you to join me and have death depart us from the trials and tribulations of this world, and descend together into an eternal peace of our love."
Eyes widened, Elizabeth replied.
"Of course I will follow you wherever our lives may lead us. But this is madness! Vincent we must think of our friends, our families."
"But Elizabeth," countered Vincent, "none of them will let us be together any other way. Your father strongly disagrees with with every decision I make. And he will not let us marry even if I owned the world and all of it's possessions. But I do love you more than all the world. And whatever I can do that will make you a happy woman, I am willing to comply. Even if that means I can never see or speak of you again."
"Why would I want that?" Asked Elizabeth.
"I hear the way in which you speak of me. I know you don't always consider my emotions, but must you confide in my mother in secrecy? Elizabeth, I wish you to love life. And I would love to enjoy life with you. So this is my ultimatum. Die with me, or leave me."
"And where will you go? Please Vincent, I wish only the best for you. That's why I did not come alone." As she said this, a man stepped forward out of the thicket.
"You came with the police? Elizabeth, don't you realize They'll imprison me?" And with tears in her eyes she replied.
"Yes." She turned back toward the woods, and began to walk away.
"Elizabeth." Vincent whispered. Turning around, Elizabeth caught sight of the last words uttered from his lips.
"You killed me. But if that's what you want, I'll accept." Elizabeth screamed out at the sight of her fiance bury the dagger into his chest.
The End
Coffee on Pavement
It was a cold, and rainy night. I had just stepped out of the brightly lit local theater, when I received a text message from the lady who I had been previously conversing with that day.
"Hey. are you busy?" Was the text.
"Not really. Why, what's up?" I replied as I lit up a cigarette.
"Can we meet?" Asked the text from the woman.
I thought about it for a couple minutes. What could this woman want from someone who she had never met before in her life? Especially the first time talking to each other in years. See, she was a friend of my ex. Around two years ago, when I was talking to my ex over the phone, I was introduced to Sylvia. So to speak. We instantly clicked, Sylvia and I. Personally I think I preferred her voice to my ex's company. But a couple months later, Sylvia and my ex had gotten into an argument with each other. Then about a year later my ex and I split up, due to another one of our countless arguments.
"Where?" I replied. A couple minutes passed when Sylvia returned a text saying,
"Coffee house. Five Minutes." Something seemed wrong. Sylvia never drank coffee before. Then again, seeing that we just started talking again a week ago, she's probably picked up the habit.much like how I started smoking again about a week ago. Just around the same time Sylvia moved into this small town. Which is why we started talking again. It's a little odd. I moved here to get away from some problems I was having in the city as a detective about a year ago. That's when I moved out here.
A fine little town, with everything someone could ever really need. Except it was dead. Unless you worked in one of the local shops, there wasn't anything going on. Just day in, day out of the monotonous nothing. The first day I waked into the department there was one officer in the building. And the other on patrol. I should have forgotten about my transfer, and just picked another job. At least it pays enough though. Probably more reason why I was glad Sylvia moved into town. Although I had an abnormally busy week. Due to a bunch of drug bust that came from an investigation the county started back in the early nineties. A bunch of dealers moved up here from Tennessee with a new type of crop. And apparently they were farming it in this town the whole time. Makes sense. Not much competition. Not a good chance of getting caught.
When I got to the shop, it seemed to be slow for business. But was still packed enough to make it hard to see if Sylvia was inside or not. From the second I stepped in the door, the smell of nicotine and coffee hit my nostrils like a cannon blast. My kind of place. I went up to the clerk, who was luxuriously sitting behind the counter destroying some customer in a game of chess.
"Can I get a refill?" The voice behind me was shaky. The second I turned around, she threw her arms around me. Then she whispered in my ears.
"Help me. I'm being followed."
"Why don't we sit down and talk about it." I whispered back.
"No time. We have to leave now, before they notice."
"Who?" I asked, as we walked out of the door. But before she could answer back, there was gunfire.
Sylvia fell to the pavement. There was no sign of a shooter. And as I looked down at the body, Which was quickly losing heat. I noticed something in her hand. It was a card with the name of the drug dealers we just put behind bars. Sad thing seeing a beautiful girl, getting mixed up with scum.
The End.
"Hey. are you busy?" Was the text.
"Not really. Why, what's up?" I replied as I lit up a cigarette.
"Can we meet?" Asked the text from the woman.
I thought about it for a couple minutes. What could this woman want from someone who she had never met before in her life? Especially the first time talking to each other in years. See, she was a friend of my ex. Around two years ago, when I was talking to my ex over the phone, I was introduced to Sylvia. So to speak. We instantly clicked, Sylvia and I. Personally I think I preferred her voice to my ex's company. But a couple months later, Sylvia and my ex had gotten into an argument with each other. Then about a year later my ex and I split up, due to another one of our countless arguments.
"Where?" I replied. A couple minutes passed when Sylvia returned a text saying,
"Coffee house. Five Minutes." Something seemed wrong. Sylvia never drank coffee before. Then again, seeing that we just started talking again a week ago, she's probably picked up the habit.much like how I started smoking again about a week ago. Just around the same time Sylvia moved into this small town. Which is why we started talking again. It's a little odd. I moved here to get away from some problems I was having in the city as a detective about a year ago. That's when I moved out here.
A fine little town, with everything someone could ever really need. Except it was dead. Unless you worked in one of the local shops, there wasn't anything going on. Just day in, day out of the monotonous nothing. The first day I waked into the department there was one officer in the building. And the other on patrol. I should have forgotten about my transfer, and just picked another job. At least it pays enough though. Probably more reason why I was glad Sylvia moved into town. Although I had an abnormally busy week. Due to a bunch of drug bust that came from an investigation the county started back in the early nineties. A bunch of dealers moved up here from Tennessee with a new type of crop. And apparently they were farming it in this town the whole time. Makes sense. Not much competition. Not a good chance of getting caught.
When I got to the shop, it seemed to be slow for business. But was still packed enough to make it hard to see if Sylvia was inside or not. From the second I stepped in the door, the smell of nicotine and coffee hit my nostrils like a cannon blast. My kind of place. I went up to the clerk, who was luxuriously sitting behind the counter destroying some customer in a game of chess.
"Can I get a refill?" The voice behind me was shaky. The second I turned around, she threw her arms around me. Then she whispered in my ears.
"Help me. I'm being followed."
"Why don't we sit down and talk about it." I whispered back.
"No time. We have to leave now, before they notice."
"Who?" I asked, as we walked out of the door. But before she could answer back, there was gunfire.
Sylvia fell to the pavement. There was no sign of a shooter. And as I looked down at the body, Which was quickly losing heat. I noticed something in her hand. It was a card with the name of the drug dealers we just put behind bars. Sad thing seeing a beautiful girl, getting mixed up with scum.
The End.
Diner At Midnight
Somebody once told me, "The world and everything in it, is not worth claiming for yourself. That everything you see right now, will be changed by tomorrow." I'm remembering this now as I'm sitting by myself in a diner sipping non-decaf at midnight. The snow outside is coming down like it's trying out the situation before it makes its final decision. I had left my hotel room due to the neighbors who had felt the Friday night love bug. I was trying to simply get away from any form of communication, even if only for a short while. So here I am sitting in a diner on a Friday night by myself, thinking about how everything I've been doing so far with my life feels pointless. I don't even know why I rented out the hotel room in the first place. I should have stayed home. I guess I'm searching for something. Like the meaning of life or whatever. I don't even know anymore.
What am I here for? It's not like I'm getting anything to eat. But I don't feel like going back yet. At least not for another hour to be safe on the leaky noise. Part of me hopes I get snowed in, And I can't leave the diner for some ridiculous amount of time. I guess I better get going or something like that. I don't even know why. I guess it's for the same reason I'm still in this booth. God! Sometimes I wish people would just learn the value of silence. Of course the host had to seat the loud group of teenagers right behind me. Whatever, I'm leaving.
What am I here for? It's not like I'm getting anything to eat. But I don't feel like going back yet. At least not for another hour to be safe on the leaky noise. Part of me hopes I get snowed in, And I can't leave the diner for some ridiculous amount of time. I guess I better get going or something like that. I don't even know why. I guess it's for the same reason I'm still in this booth. God! Sometimes I wish people would just learn the value of silence. Of course the host had to seat the loud group of teenagers right behind me. Whatever, I'm leaving.
So, This Is Life?
So this is life. right here. right in front of you. what your seeing right now, what your feeling as your finger tips are touching your mouse and key pad, what your hearing in the back of the room your in, the taste of air on your tounge right now, yeah thats it. that is your life.
so im wondering what any of this has to do with a heaven or a hell or who ill vote for in the election or what i think about the current president, or what i think about the way that that one girl took my heart and threw it in a wood chipper, or what i thought about what that one guy said about his doctors appoinment to make sure he didn't get crabs from that stripper. and i dont understand what my life has to do with the way those two who are completely in love to the point that it makes me wish i had a person who could make me feel like im pricless every second of my concisness. and i dont understand what my life has to do with him who betrayed me by being himself and i dont understand what any of my life has to do with a God or Godess or higher being who may or may not have holy text written about him or her.
I don't understand what my life has to do with anything in my life when my life is being consumed by an object that seems to know exactly how to controll me using this tool called ADD.
so im wondering what any of this has to do with a heaven or a hell or who ill vote for in the election or what i think about the current president, or what i think about the way that that one girl took my heart and threw it in a wood chipper, or what i thought about what that one guy said about his doctors appoinment to make sure he didn't get crabs from that stripper. and i dont understand what my life has to do with the way those two who are completely in love to the point that it makes me wish i had a person who could make me feel like im pricless every second of my concisness. and i dont understand what my life has to do with him who betrayed me by being himself and i dont understand what any of my life has to do with a God or Godess or higher being who may or may not have holy text written about him or her.
I don't understand what my life has to do with anything in my life when my life is being consumed by an object that seems to know exactly how to controll me using this tool called ADD.
5% Right
A.S.S.W.I.P.E.: Arnold Schwarzenegger signed with idiotic politicians enthusiastically
D.D.R.O.O.C.F.C.: Dunkin Donuts Ran Out Of Coffee Flavored Coffee
Wi Love: Webook.com is lately the only vital energy.
B.R.A.I.N.: Boneheads running around in Niger.
C.O.O.P.: Coming On Out Pleasantly.
D.D.R.O.O.C.F.C.: Dunkin Donuts Ran Out Of Coffee Flavored Coffee
Wi Love: Webook.com is lately the only vital energy.
B.R.A.I.N.: Boneheads running around in Niger.
C.O.O.P.: Coming On Out Pleasantly.
I have too many titles with fuck in the fucking title
I want to get the fuck out of here. I want to move to a place where I can make fucking money. I'm tired of everything. I'm tired of living with other fucking people. I need my own place. I need my own fucking breathing space. I need a fucking living. Why the fuck can't I get one? Because of a lack of a fucking degree. Because It's impossible to make a fucking living out of music. I'm a fucking person who needs a real fucking job. I wish I could just write a fucking blog all day. But the fucking truth of the matter is, no one fucking reads blogs anymore. No body will fucking make it so my blog actually gets off the ground. What the fuck? OK so I guess try to blog something fucking interesting. I don't know! How about the word fuck? FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. Is that interesting? This is the reason why I never used profanity in my other shit.
Is this shit even entertaining to anyone?
Is this shit even entertaining to anyone?
Fuck Stephen Vincent Zimnoch
I need to be able to express myself for some reason. I fucking hate Stephen Vincent Zimnoch. I hate that I have to make sure I don't fucking curse. I hate how I have to make sure I don't offend. I fucking hate how I can't have a fucking opinion about anything without feeling like I'm going to lose my fucking job. I hate how I can't talk to any fucking girl without getting asked 5 billion fucking questions by their friend who thinks I'm an asshole when no one has any fucking proof, and in fact there is more fucking proof to me treating my previous girlfriends very decently. I fucking hate actions I have made in the past. I hate fucking things I can never take back. This is my fucking release. This is my voice. Because people cant get the fucking association of the fucking person out of the fucking idea. Apparentfuckingly I am known for what I think, and not what I've fucking done, or the fucking way around. I can't just be a fucking person.The ideas and actions can't be separate from who you think I am.I don't fucking understand humanity. I guess I can see why things are the way they are. I'm just kinda fucking sick of it.
Give Me A Fucking Reason
I have so many more days until I start school. I have no idea what the hell is going on with my mind. I cant think strait. I cant play music. I can't write. I can't talk to girls without thinking I'm a fucking creep. I don't fucking get it. I don't get stupidity. I can't get why people think of me as someone who is full of themselves. I never think I am any better than a fucking crack whore. I don't think of homeless people as and worse than I am. I think I have mental issues just like the fucking rest of this country. This goddamn weird guy that people think I am makes no sense to me. And I don't understand why. I would really wish that someone would just tell me what my fucking problem is so I could fucking fix it already. I really want to be a fucking normal person. I don't want fucking problems. I don't think I'm better than these people who talk about me behind my back. I try and point out my flaws. Yet for some idiotic asshole reason, there are these people who just say apparently the most fucked up shit about me. There are fucking snobs who refuse to talk to me, when I have never done any of them any fucking harm, or was mean, or fucking rude once to any of these people. I don't understand why people label me as a creep. That's one thing that really fucking bothers me. I get called a fucking creep. I DON'T DO FUCKING ANYTHING TO FUCKING DESERVE THIS! Please someone tell me what the hell to think about this. I mean really. I know that I could let this go, or just talk to the people directly. But they're fucking fake people I used to know, and they're fucking up my good name and talking shit on me with no basis because they fucking think they're better than me, cause they fucking over exaggerate a single fucking text message, and are fucking dishonest about it my fucking face. It's fucking immature. It's retarded. I'm fucking sick of illogical bastards that act like they're hot shit. Or fucking retards that get more attention, than someone who is somewhat intelligent, tries to be humble and is trying to make something of themselves.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Fuck You.
I'm taking a look at the world from a very small window. And I can only see a very small space of sky. But the sun is still beaming the same on me as the rest of the world. And honestly I can say that I fucking hate everyone everything. Just because I can only see a small portion of the world, what the hell is the difference between me and the rest of humanity? Tell me what the fuck makes you so much more goddamn special than any of the other 7 fucking billion people on this fucking planet. Really? Get the fuck over yourself. Seriously. I cannot fucking stand you, and how you think you are so much better than me. Just get the fuck off your high horse, and open your fucking eyes. I have the same fucking blood as you do. I breathe in the same fucking air. I eat, shit, piss, talk, and am fucking human just like the fucking rest of humanity. And you have the fucking nerves and audacity to act like you are fucking better than me? Fuck You! Fuck you, you fucking bitch, prick, asshole, and any other retarded obscenity you want to use your fucking piss of a brain to think of. I'm fucking tired of your shit. I'm fucking tired of how you walk around and fucking two face your fucking self into a bitch.
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