Whatever hatred saves the number.

If it's happy, then you know I'm faking, but...

Someone, and by someone, I mean the entity that is Wikipedia, once told me that Aristotle said, “Friendship is one soul in two bodies.”  I’m sure that when he said it, it came out Greek, but the English quote gives the basic idea he was conveying.

I don’t think people went to college in ancient Greece, but if they had, Aristotle probably would have been a college student with long blonde hair and sideburns, closely resembling my friend Nathanael.  If they had pipes in ancient Greece, I’m sure Aristotle smoked one too.  But I’m getting off topic.

When I moved away from home, I realized how dumb high school was, and when I realized how dumb high school was, I realized how dumb home was.  I have friends and family there and I love them, but I hated the town.  When I moved to Boone, it was like something out of an Aristotle quote.  It was like I found another bunch of bodies with pieces of my soul in them and it just worked.  I don’t mean dead bodies; I mean a bunch of different people that I clicked with.  It was like a puzzle that had been solved.

And then I kept twisting it around in my gray matter.  Maybe that’s what life is.  Maybe it is just this big journey where you find all those little scattered pieces of your soul, and you love them.

Okay, life is more than just that, but I think that Aristotle described a nice chunk of life in such a little sentence.

Dangers of Daydreaming

When you're a kid, or at least when I was a kid, everything I heard and everything I watched had a theme.  And those themes weren't the kind that you had to write a five page paper about before 4:30.  Barney taught us how to share and hug people, and it was that simple.

There was also this big thing about imagination, and how the world can be awesome if you believe it is or if you use your imagination.  It was everywhere.  Pretend it's a cake.  Pretend you're married to him.  Imagine that this box is really robot pirate island.

I guess for most people there's nothing wrong with it.  It's normal, and when you grow up and have real pirate friends and real cake, you don't need your imagination anymore.  But we still see movies, right?  We still dive into something totally fictional, something that is a complete product of the imagination.  And it's good for two hours and then it's back to the real world.

Sometimes I think that I have a dysfunctional brain, and yes a lot of people think they have something shorting in their head, and you can tell me I'm a hypochondriac, and I'll ask you if you know what a jerk is.

I had this theatre teacher once tell me that if you have your imagination, you'll never be bored, because when you are bored, you can just play a little movie in your head and sit back and enjoy.  If I had a dollar for every time I did that in church, I guess I'd have twenty bucks.  We all do it.  I just feel like I do it too much.  It was a great coping strategy when I was 4, but I'm older now, and I need to stop.  It's also good for acting and writing and all that stuff, but again, it doesn't work in college.

Broke

Everything starts out vague.  Birth.  Your vision is blurry.  It’s cold.  And after all that stress of getting pushed out of your mother’s love canal, your memory forgets the whole 6 hours of labor (which in hindsight is probably the a good amnesia to have.)

So there was once a girl that liked technology.  She liked it ever since she remembered - ever since her vision was clear and she had memories.

She thought it started in the fourth grade.  That’s when her parents caved and bought a computer – and when she heard the shrill of the dial-up modem, a chill went down her spine.  It was like it was talking to her.

Then she got her first boom box.

Her parents didn’t like the modern radio stations.  Radio stations sung about sex and drugs, and they didn’t want that to invade her mind, so they told her she couldn’t listen to the radio, she could only listen to the approved list of tapes and compact discs – the ones that came from the Christian bookstore down the street that sold the lame records.  You know those boy bands that substituted the words “baby” and “sexy” with “Lord” and “Jesus” and “You.”

But every day after school, she would go into her bedroom, lock the door, and do homework in the corner farthest from her door.  There she would turn her little stereo to her favorite FM station, and she would listen to the quiet buzz of the DJ and the bubble gum pop, and she would pray that her mother wouldn’t hear that stereo playing.  She would even set up simulations.  She would turn her radio on, leave her room and close the door just to make sure the music wasn’t audible to outsiders.

She would concentrate so intently on that music that she wouldn’t do her homework.  Her grades started to fail.  Her relationships with her peers began to suffer.  Her parents sent her to a different school the next year. 

Things would change, people would move away, but that stereo was always sitting on her bookshelf.

In the fifth grade, she wrote poetry about her secret love affair with the radio.  The teacher approved.  Her mother thought she was crazy.

And then, one day, it stopped singing for her.  It was no longer functioning.  It broke.  She didn’t know what to do.  The bottom of her little, low decibel world had fallen out.  The obsessed was clueless concerning her obsession.  She cried.  She never cried, but on this particular, she cried for her stereo.  She thought that maybe if she cried, her sadness would go away – she would have some kind of catharsis, but that never happened.

It was almost like someone quitting cigarettes.  She had to learn to eat and dance and enjoy things again.  The music didn’t even do it for her anymore.  She had to recondition.  She had to fake it till she made it.  She couldn’t love anymore – she had to teach herself how to feel again – to feel like she did about that radio.

To this day, she’s still trying to recover.

Untitled

I'm coming back down now.  The air is starting to get sharp, and I hate it and love it.  When I go home, maybe I'll try to get a tan.  I don't like looking like a ghost.  Maybe the warmer my skin is, the warmer I'll feel.

This one time, I considered becoming a drug dealer.  Don't worry, I'm not, but I thought about it.  And I didn't just think, "Hey, maybe I'll become a drug dealer."  I considered the logistics.  Where would I get wholesale?  How could I avoid getting caught?  What would my street name be?  If I went to jail, what would that mean for me?

I chose not to become a drug dealer.  I guess there are better things to do, but I wasn't doing it because I was lazy.  It was a long time ago, but I think I wanted to become a drug dealer because I could get some money.  I told my friends about my plan, and the sad thing was that they were totally digging it.  I think it was entertaining, not just for them, but for me.  I mean, imagine telling your kids that when you're all old and wrinkled at the nursing home, "Yeah, I was a drug dealer."  Imagine all the adventure that would go along with it.  The knives and the fights and running from the cops.

I guess this kind of explains why I can't come to any kind of career choice, because my first choice was drug dealer.  There isn't a lot that lives up to that.  Maybe a hitman could brag to a drug dealer.

Oh.

Something about this makes my mind work - like it did when I was young and normal.  I can't explain it, but it's freeing - like new shoes and the bottom of my salad bowl.  I love it.

Sometimes I realize how lonely I am.  There's something not right about me - not right about all of us eighth graders that went out together.  They screwed us over.  It makes me hate private schools.  Maybe we should have been taught to think for ourselves.  We're all cursed, don't you think?  Maybe not.  I'm sure some of you are happy.  Some of you feel good.

I have Latin tomorrow at 11.  Every time I walk into the class it reminds me of the pattern that I'm stuck in.  I'm stuck in the ninth grade looking for true love and looking for somewhere to fit in.  I want a resolution, and even if I don't have that, I could go for some conflict, some real-life conflict that makes me feel like there's something I'm working towards.  Sure, we have our eternity mapped out for us, but I need some goals.  I've never made goals.  No one ever told me to.  I don't have a post-graduation plan.  I don't have a plan at all.  I've never had plans.  Plans are for people who are scared the future won't go their way.  I don't even need the future to go my way - I just need it to go.

Okay, so you're reading this and realizing how depressing I am.  Psychologists say that depressed people have the better grasp on reality.  But I guess if you have a better grasp on your reality, you slowly begin to realize how bad reality sucks.  Fine, tell me to grow up.  Reality is a fine wine, but I don't see the bittersweetness in my reality, and I suppose that means I either need to find it or I need to put on the rose-colored glasses of the happy people.  Reality isn't a lightheaded buzz - it's sobering.

Don't bother me with your solutions though, because chances are, you're wearing the glasses and I'm not, and I won't be able to understand what you're talking about because my world is blue and your world is pink.

Gorillaz - Superfast Jellyfish (HD)

Bring It Back ya bleep.

Let me be honest - and normally I am, but sometimes - and actually a majority of the time, I'm not.  Ya dig?

I would curse like a sailor in this shin-dig I call my blog.  I would shout profanities.  I would make satellite radio look like your local cable channel.  But I can't because I'd feel bad.  If my future in laws read my lovely string of bleeps and bloops, they might disown me.

If you ever want to become educated and feel like a malicious donkey at the same time, Google a curse word and read the Wikipedia article on it, and you'll soon learn that there's no reason to give a, uh, you know a poop.  It's all Germanic stuff.

Speaking of Germany - everything evil comes from Germany.  The beer, the pop music, those terrible suspenders with the fedora hats.  Why do you think the German people came up with all those expletives?  They had to describe all the horrific things they were seeing and tasting.  I mean, imagine back in the middle ages the guy down the street in Berlin is trying to sell beer made from pine bark - you would be calling it something too.


Okay, I'll admit, you can take it a little overboard.  I mean we all like sprinkles on our ice cream, but not the other way around.  In the show Spongebob Squarepants, they called them "sentence enhancers."  So of course, they shouldn't overpower the sentence - use sparingly.


If you have an accent - especially a very thick southern accent, you should NOT use sentence enhancers.  They actually tend to have the opposite effect - it's like giving Ritalin to a kid that doesn't have ADD.


If you are a man with an exceptionally deep voice, don't curse.  You'll lose the trust of your employers and the women in your life.  You will also sound like a 'roid ragin' animal.  No one wants to be around that.


Since there are a lot of dimensions to these rules, let me demonstrate with a brief illustration:

East Side versus West Side versus Broadside

To those who aren't reading this - you are a double negative.  Get out of here.

And to my faithful readers - to people like Natalie and my stalkers - I love you.

Nothing has occurred in my life.  I'm trying to get money, but then I end up spending it (it's good for the economy).  I'm still doing stuff I shouldn't be doing, like sleeping in and vandalizing government property.  I still own a set of ginormous speakers.  If anyone's interested in purchasing them (they'd be quite the steal), let me know, otherwise Puja is going to wake up to the sound of booming electro every morning.

I babysit everyday, and I wouldn't really call it babysitting - I'd call it chaperoning and refereeing - but it's sitting nonetheless.

I don't have much of a social life.  It died when I got diagnosed with all these mental illnesses, but I can't complain - there's much worse out there in Kenya.

Peace

Hey

Go away.  I'm tired and it's still Wednesday.

I'm actually going to type something today - on the real (whatever the hell that means).

Today I went shopping and bought clothes for the first time since I purchased "canoeing appropriate" attire.  I like shoes more than I like clothes, so I just skipped the clothing section.  Sometimes I like to go to the clearance section, not just because it's cheaper, but because it's nice to see why the reject shoes were marked down.  For instance, I found a pair of shoes with little zipping pockets on the sides - and I guess the little pockets are for storing extra Chuck E. Cheese tokens because that's all that could fit in there.  And now I kind of wish I had shoes like that when I was a kid.  I would be much cooler.

But back at home in my closet under a pile of reject shoes (similar to the shoes mentioned above), I have my cool shoes.   My Chacos, Rainbows, Ronaldhino's, and my Fivefingers.  It's like a little cult.  I guess shopping is a stress relief for me, and nothing really kicks my troubles to the curb like a good pair of shoes.  I buy them in times of crisis.  If Evan and I get in a fight, I buy shoes.  If I can't go downtown tonight, I buy shoes.  It just works like that.

So parents, before you fight among yourselves or yell at your children, let the little ones go unto the shoe store and buy their own shoes - let them fill their emotional voids with meaningless laces or Velcro straps.  Let them find their happiness on their feet.

I Was A Teenage Embryo

Well, folks, it's been a while. If you're reading - good for you Glenn Coco, and if you're not, you can go now. This ain't the blog for you kiddo.

Today I decided I wanted to write a screenplay, and by today, I mean about an hour ago. In college, I'm supposed to study for history tests and read books about the rise and fall of the Roman Republic, but that's dumb. I want to write a screenplay. My friend Jonni suggested a horror, and I wanted to do a comedy, so we met in the middle - a horror-comedy.

Now the horror-comedy genre, or the spoof genre in general generally sucks, mostly because it is a play on work that's been done, so the room for originality just isn't there like it would be for a made from scratch biscuit of freshness. And I prefer to keep it fresh.

I only like certain aspects of horror, like the fantasy. There's lots of room there. Invented little narratives about ghosts and old buildings, although a repeated element in good scary stuff, can be reinvented again and again - renewed and retrofied and twisted and turned inside out. I saw all the possibilities, but I was still craving something else.

Recently, I changed majors. I switched from "Chemistry" to a big, juicy "Undecided," and even though I hate balancing equations and performing titrations, there will still be a special place in my heart for all the sciences. So combine writing with my proverbial educational booty call, and you get science fiction. I am very tempted to write a science fiction screenplay.

Science fiction does a lot, and not just for me, but for everyone. It lets me explore stuff and read about things that otherwise I would never invest any kind of interest. It tells a great story, usually tying back to some kind of moral dilemma - and it uses or encourages the use of science, which is good for Republicans, GE, and the nuclear arms race.

Now I prefer science fiction stories that are more "what if" stories - or stories that test out hypotheses, because that's exactly what science is. Good 'ol Star Wars asks "What if there was an evil emperor at this time and a place and they could do this?" Avatar asks, "What if there was a planet and earth tried to kill it?" The plots are less of testing a hypothesis and more of introducing a fantasy and fleshing out characters in order to tell both a literal and figurative story. Great soundtracks too.

"What if" stories don't normally turn into Blockbuster hits - and my favorite "What ifs" are movies like Moon, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and a classic guilty pleasure, Forever Young.

Let me give you a brief outline on how my thought process worked when I chose to investigate something science oriented to write about:

Science Fiction

Hmmm? What are some good sciency things?
I. Time Travel
1. Time Travel in General
2. Paradoxes within Time Travel
3. Parallel Universes
4. Suspended Animation
a. What's suspended animation?
b. Embryos?
c. Who the heck is Laina Beasley?

II. I was so entranced I didn't get any further.

Now, if you're a normal human being, you go through these kinds of thought processes on the internet. Maybe you don't spend hours reading BBC articles, but you do it. That's the magic of Google and Wiki-freakin-pedia.

Let me bounce a few ideas around the room. Suspended Animation.

Suspended Animation is hitting pause on life. Not time, but on life in general. I guess you could say that bears do it when they hibernate, but they're still "going." Scientists have claimed to be able to basically kill a dog for a couple of hours, draining it of all it's blood and circulating a cold preserving solution in it's blood vessels, and then bringing the dog back to life by recirculating the blood once again and shocking it's heart to get it beating.

While I was on Wikipedia, an article mentioned the case of a person named Laina Beasley. She's interesting. Long story short, she was an embryo for 13 years. Most people stay embryos for 8 weeks, but most people aren't conceived in a test tube and frozen.

So there you go, a bizarre, but not hard to conceive subject (no pun intended). Now all I need to do is make a story and a script.

For the night owls and people who don't read things the second they are posted...

Hey, I'm bored and I feel like blogging. Deal with it. I plan on writing my entire life story, and it's going to finish right here, on this blog. So yeah.