Not My Post Of The Week #2 More People Need To Dance In Their Underwear

It’s been about two months since I’ve last done this even though when I started it my intentions were to do it every week because I read some great blogs every week and not only do they bring up great things I have opinions on, but also, and more importantly, I like to link to them so other people will read their great writing. Unfortunately like always I got lazy and didn’t keep up with it. I often try to think of blog posts I could do this for, but for some reason nothing ever seems like the right choice – probably because finding the right choice means I would have to start working on it and that means I wouldn’t be able to be lazy, and that’s no fun.

Tonight, however, when I thought about it one blog post came straight to mind. I love reading funny stuff, and interesting stuff, and learning and all that great crap, but the reason I started reading blogs was for emotion. I like reading about people’s life’s, and there’s nothing better then when they convey the emotions they’re going through onto me. And this post did exactly that.

Mylifeaselana.wordpress.com is filled with lots of emotional and funny posts, the one that I’m speaking of at this moment is entitled Lonely Friday Night. I’ve linked to it so go read it. You have no excuse not to. Plus it’s not very long, which seems appealing, but when you’re done reading it you’ll be thinking, “damn, I wish that was longer.” And then you’ll go and read the rest of her posts, and you’ll be overcome with joy, and sorrow, and laughter, and wondering why you’re still reading her blog when you should be in bed getting some sleep for work or school tomorrow, but then you’ll say, “fuck it, I can go on just three hours of sleep,” and then you’ll continue to read some more. And then you’ll subscribe to her blog and you’ll continue to read and love all her new posts. And then four months from now you’ll wonder how you even stumbled across her blog. And then you’ll say, “oh yeah, it was when I was reading that loser kids post.” And then you’ll remember you never finished it. And then you’ll come back here and you’ll start reading this post again right about…

Now this post from her seems simple at its core, right? Wrong. The repetitiveness of “I will” is really what I think makes this piece great and puts extra emotion into the reader. She doesn’t just list what she will do like, “I will drink green tea and then cuddle with my cat and then watch south park and then dance in my undergarments.” It’s “I will drink green tea. I will be cuddly wuddly with my kitty witty. I will laugh my finely tuned butt off at southpark. I will dance like a crazy hobo in my undergarments,” only her words were much better than mine. The point is that the constant use of ‘I will’ keeps putting the reader in the moment and sets them up to feel the emotions she’s describing that she’ll go through.

That may be complete and utter bullshit. I was trying to take a didactic approach to why reading her blog gave me such emotion, when perhaps it may just be some supernatural thing. Perhaps some kind of energy is transferred from her fingers onto the keyboard and into the text and then from the text it makes its way into my eyeballs and then into my brain where it’s converted into emotion in some kind of unexplainable process that defies all science? Either way I loved her post. But enough about her, let’s talk about me…wait, did anybody else hear that? (that was the sound of every single reader turning away from this internet page because they wanted to hear more about her).

I guess my nights are always lonely. I think about it a lot. I try not to. It’s hard not to. I’ve spent my entire childhood not being able to wait until I had a girl in my life, and of course I jinxed myself into spending almost every single night of my life alone, at least physically. I’m often accompanied by TV shows, or music, or the people on my yahoo messenger list, or about three times a month Eva on the phone, or my kitties wreck havoc on my room and annoy me to death, but they know that I really love it because it keeps me from focusing on other things.

I write to ward off loneliness. Isn’t that funny? Not like funny ‘haha,’ but more like funny as in not really funny. The fact that writing which is quite possibly the loneliest process is what I do to not be lonely. Even funnier, again not funny haha but funny sad, most of the time I write I’m writing about being lonely. What the hell kind of logic is that? “I’m feeling lonely tonight. I know what will cure me, I’ll write about feeling lonely, then I won’t feel so lonely.” Somehow it works for me.

But enough about me (no one was paying attention anyway) as is appropriate. They should all be off at mylifeaselana.wordpress.com reading Lonely Friday Night and her other posts, for those are far superior to this writing and that’s a guarantee, and if you don’t agree then I’ll give you back the four minutes you spent reading this. That’s an impossible guarantee you say? Well makes perfect sense since it would be impossible for you not to like her writing.

Bedtime Thoughts #13

Should I date these? Sometimes I don’t post them in order. I haven’t posted Bedtimes Thoughts number 5, and I probably never will because I’m not very proud of it (and the other posts are pride worthy writing?) not necessarily, but they aren’t completely devoid of minor ounces of goodness.

I do desperately want to be a better writer. I want to have a better writing work ethic, and write more meaningful things. Things with emotion, and humor, and knowledge, and all that good crap wrapped into them. I haven’t entirely learned how to. I don’t think more writing classes can help because I don’t think it’s a ‘knowing what to do’ thing. I think it’s more a ‘getting off my lazy ass and doing it’ thing, metaphorically speaking though. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but after a short while it becomes burdensome to write unless you’re on your ass while doing it.

I think if I had to I could compose some writing with substance. Wait, no I couldn’t. What I meant to say is that I know what writing that has substance is. I know what it’s made of. But much like a car I know the main components that it’s made of but if I had to I couldn’t put them together and make a working vehicle (complete bullshit) it’s true, I have very little idea what the main components of a automobile are, I just know that they aren’t the same components that make up autoerotic asphyxiation, but the point is still valid.

I haven’t learned how to write with substance but still have the writing reflect me. Right now my writing is crap, but at least it reflects who I am, which is sad because I guess that means I’m depression over girls and masturbation jokes – I like to think every time a word is used or written it’s born out of nothing and has its own conscious and every word aspires towards greatness, and hopes to be part of a Shakespeare poem, or hit movie quote, and afterwards in word Heaven, or Hell, they get together and talk about it and a Liberty is like, “I got to be part of the Declaration of Independence,” and a Don’t is like, “I was the Don’t in ‘frankly my dear I don’t give a damn’,” and then there’s like an It or something hiding in the corner filled with shame because it was used in one of my masturbation jokes.

#63 Stay Away/Everything I Once Had by The Honorary Title

I’m so God damn tired – and yes, the God damn was necessarily – but I can’t figure out why. I wanted to take a nap, but I don’t want it to throw me off schedule because the previous two days, today being one of them, I woke up relatively early and had a decent work out, which usually puts me in a better mood for the day. Plus I tend to be more depressed when I’m on a schedule that has me up during the night. I’m not sure why that is, but I’ll blame it on the Moon.

I’ve been spending the last few hours listening to Manchester Orchestra and Kid Cudi turned up really loud on my headphones (be sure to keep that in mind as causes of needing a hearing aid at 40) while reading blogs. I found a couple new good ones that I’ll stop by again. One of which is the reason I’m even writing this right now when not too long ago I was resigned to lying here for the rest of the night without writing another word. The blog was novelideaslifeofateenwriter.wordpress.com, and in case you’re bad at reading words when they’re squished together it says novel ideas life of a teen writer, and it’s about writing.

For some reason whenever I read about writing it always gets me in the mood for writing. Kind of like how whenever I watch porn it always gets me in the mood for knitting. Or like how whenever I’m masturbating I’m always wishing I were watching porn instead of knitting (this thing will be filled with lots of horrible jokes just like that people). Even when I read it makes me want to write. It’s because I’m constantly thinking about how I would have wrote some thing as opposed to the way they wrote it. Or I’m thinking about what they wrote and it gets my mind thinking about it and then I want to write about it. I should always read before I write. Why do I never remember to do things that help me out? Oh yeah, because I’d rather be a failure.

That’s a genuine concern of mine. I think some people want to be unhappy and constantly fail at things. I don’t think they know it. I think it’s a deep subconscious thing, an unknowing self sabotage. If this is true for me then it’s of course a giant concern. Luckily I know it’s happening, so I can combat it, by consciously trying to be sad and fail, that way my subconscious won’t have the chance to ruin things for me because I will have already ruined things (genius!).

I want to talk about the songs at least a tiny bit. This Stay Away song I really like. I like it in a happy way. I wish I had the strength to tell someone to stay away from me. I don’t though. I constantly want to be surrounded by bad people. I of course don’t see them as bad, I love them and want to be with them and can’t see that they’re the cause of so much of my sadness. But at the same time they make me so happy, and I think if given the option I’d rather live in polarities than spend my whole live in the middle with little difference in highs and lows emotion-wise. I’ve talked about it before, but what is happiness if there’s no sadness? The two can only exist with each other. Without one the other is nothing.

I get fucking sad, and I get fucking sad a lot, but when I get happy it’s magical. I’ve convinced myself that very few people can get happier than I can. Everybody should have on their bucket list ‘be around Quentin when he’s truly happy’ because it’s quite pleasant. Girls should never try to have sex with me. They should just get me really happy and hang out with me and it will be a million times more enjoyable than sex. Of course this is just a ruse because the only way to truly make me happy is if a girl has sex with me. I kid of course. You ever notice how often I say of course? Of course you don’t, you’re not paying attention, and neither am…hey, there are boobies on the internet. Why did no one tell me?

The other song, Everything I Once Had, is more sad to me, although I particularly enjoy the line, “Anyone is suitable for you…for you I guess tonight,” because everything this girl I loved alludes to having had another sexual encounter with a male I think of that line and it makes me crack up in the most bizarre way – I do not enjoy the things that make me laugh, but I do enjoy the laughing. Such a powerful ending to this song. I really enjoy powerful endings. Lasting images are important to me, which is way I work on my orgasm face constantly.

Think about it, the last impression a girl has during sex with a guy is that horrible face he makes during his orgasm. By the way, why does something so magically wonderful look so ugly? It’s how I know men are evil and women are angels – excluding the ones who are whores of course, which are few I’m sure – when men orgasm it’s so ugly, but when girls orgasm, which granted I still believe is a myth, it a masterful art even Da Vinci couldn’t hope to improve on. The point is that maybe guys would have more return costumers in the sack if the lasting image the girl received wasn’t so hideous. Also this works with my theory of why so many guys enjoy jizzing on a girl’s face. Besides the obvious reasons of shaming her, they hope it will get in her eyes and block out the vision of the horrible orgasm face they’re making.

For a guy whose biggest sexual experience is kissing, not making out but kissing, a drunk girl I sure end up talking about sex a lot. You have to believe me when I say I don’t intend at the start of any of my blogs to talk about sex as much as I do. I just have a really fucked up mind and it tends towards sex, probably because it’s so pissed off at me for never having had sex. I have this theory that my mind, body and soul are constantly rebelling against me for keeping them from the mass pleasure that sexual intercourse must be.

Bedtime Thoughts

How forgetful so fast I am. I already forgot one of the best qualities of owning this tiny little netbook upon which I am writing this right now at two thirty in the morning. It’s so small I can crawl comfortably into bed with it and write until I am ready to shut my eyes and then place it aside as I hopefully fall asleep shortly. Also I can now watch porn from bed, although for odd reasons I refuse to watch porn on this. I basically use it as a two hundred dollar digital typewriter.

I have trouble sleeping, and that’s the reason I’m writing now. I waste so much time being tired. I’ll be on the cusp of sleeping so I’ll be too tired to do anything productive, but at the same time I won’t be able to fall asleep because my mind will be zooming thoughts of negativity a hundred miles an hour through the highway that is my brain. I wish I could put up a “slow, children at play” sign in there to slow my thoughts down – although it’s not like anyone pays attention to those signs anyway. But I can’t, so usually the last two to three hours of my nights are spent doing nothing but thinking about things I’ve already thought far too much about.

My mantra recently has been ‘don’t think about girls, don’t think about girls, don’t think about girls,’ because when I think about girls nothing good can come of it. I wish it was just a sex thing. I feel like then I could just masturbate and get the thoughts out of my head for a few moments. Although to be honest, and I find this funny, I think I masturbate so often because (aside from having too much time, and therefore penis, on my hands) it sexualizes women, and makes me look at them, in that moment, in a way that I’m less depressed I don’t have them in. Give me the choice of a life without sex or a life without love and I choose a life without sex, even if that doesn’t mean love is guaranteed. Of course that’s being said from a man who has never had sex. As every person must assume once I do have sex my thoughts on which is better, love or sex, will change.

So as hard as it might be to believe masturbating for me has been less about needing to please myself sexually and more about killing time and distracting me from thinking. Lately I haven’t been masturbating as much because I’ve been trying to force myself into doing some things to better myself in ways I’d like to be better, mostly writing. I started a sports blog because I love sports, and what the hell, I might as well write about sports if it might help out my writing. I think the main reason I haven’t done that up until now, with the exception of writing about sports every once a week a while ago when I was trying to write everyday, is because every one I know who has ever read anything I’ve ever wrote couldn’t give a crap about sports. But then again if I keep with the mentally that this is less about people reading my writing and more about writing to get better it doesn’t really matter. Writing is writing no matter what it’s about. Anything helps.

Also I was hesitant to ever really write about sports because when I tried writing about it once a week in the past it just turned into another springboard for me to make jokes. Part of that was knowing that no one reading it really cared about who I thought would win the Super Bowl. But also that’s the biggest problem with my writing in general. I don’t really take it that seriously. I just end up joking, because it’s more enjoyable that way. Comes more natural. Yeah I could have a smooth ass, but that means I’d have to wax it every so often, and frankly I don’t have the effort, plus I enjoy my hairy butt. I enjoy having some hair on my body. So as much as I would enjoy stripping I can’t do it because I refuse to be hairless. Also my penis isn’t big enough (I thought this was about writing?) Not anymore.

To Be Continued in bedtime thoughts #2

#93: A Boston Peace by Say Anything

For a good five and a half weeks of my life I was completely obsessed with this song. That’s not unique at all to most of the songs on this list. In fact most of the songs towards the top of the list I’ve had multiple times where I’ve been obsessed with the song and had to listen to it many times a day for consecutive weeks.

Man, I’m like totally not in the writing mood. (Don’t force it Quentin, don’t force it.) Add a visual of me lying on my bed and a sarcastic tone to my inner monologue in parenthesis and you have exactly what occurred in my life some time between 11:05 and 11:07 am on October 2, 2010.

I think writing should be forced, and that’s part of the reason I even continued writing this right now as opposed to lying on my ass listening to music and watching golf on mute waiting for football to come on. ‘Should’ was the wrong word. If you can write without forcing it that’s fantastic. What I meant was that if a person forces their self to write it shouldn’t be frowned upon and thought as false art. I don’t know if anyone views it that way, but I, myself, who is me, believe that forced writing is a natural part of the writing art form. I know that some people believe that if a person can’t think of anything to write or isn’t feeling the flow they should stop. I proclaim they should push on.

This is undoubtedly the most common rule when writing, but it bears repeating, but before I repeat something I haven’t even mentioned yet, is it ‘bears repeating’ or ‘bares repeating’? I initially had ‘bares repeating’ but that was apparently wrong and when I used google to find the answer I got distracted by one of the sites that popped up that said “IT BARES REPEATING: CINDY IS NUDE AGAIN”, and now I’m off track in both my quest for the answer for the correct usage and whatever the hell I’m talking about in this blog. Anyway, just to be safe, it either lacks appropriate coverings or Ursus Arctos Horrriblis’s repeating that in order to write you must of course write, even if you must force it, and work through bad writing.

A writer should never think that everything they write is going to end up in the final product. That’s what editing is for. You can always write and write and then weed out the crap later. It’s much more efficient than not writing at all and instead watching a Scrubs marathon and taking a shot every time The Todd high fives someone and then waking up the next morning with no idea where your pants are and five phone numbers written on your arm from guys named Todd but one of them is only with one d. I employ the force yourself to write tactic all the time, but does that mean that everything I force myself to write ends up in the final product? Yes, yes it does, to a disturbing degree. In fact everything you’re reading right now I forced myself to write. I’m terribly lazy when it comes to editing. But that doesn’t mean you have to be. You can write all the crap you want and then take it out later. But the best thing about it is that it gets the brain flowing, and you’ll find ideas that you can expand on that you didn’t know were there before. By the way, this is why my writing is so random and never on topic. Most of the time I start writing with a general idea in mind, but then I find something I apparently can’t wait to say something about and start writing about that, maybe to come back to the first topic at some point, but maybe not, and then when it’s all said and done I rarely edit it down, which I admit is my biggest downfall as a writer. Well you know, other than the part where I don’t know how to spell (that joke doesn’t work when you’re actually writing) wait, this is what writing is?

Yet again I have not spoken of the song in the blog. Turns out I’m pretty terrible at writing about songs, but I really like this song, so I’m going to try and write a couple thoughts and perhaps even a feeling on it.

I like the bird metaphor in the beginning lyrics. Or is it a simile? See, this is exactly why I suck at writing. Every time I try to sound smart and talk about metaphors I get confused if they’re really similes and instead of looking up the differences between metaphors and similes for the a millionth time I instead let the reader know that I’m an idiot (also you finally decided to write about the song, and surprise, surprise, you got off track again). Anyway I like the bird stuff at the beginning. Especially when it continues into what is lyrically my favorite section of the song.

“I wish I could shed all your feathers from my head. ‘Cause all they do is keep me stifled when I only want to tell you right now. Tear your clothes off with my teeth like some unruly uncaged beast. From your forehead to your feet. I need to feel that Boston peace I felt that night with you. Drug-like release, the sheets engulfing you.”

Now I’ve never made love on a woman (or ‘to’ a woman) but I’ve always imagined that I would do so in a passionate sense. And apparently to me that means ripping the girl’s clothes off with my teeth. I think I’ve made mention of this before, but this is one of the reasons I can’t just be with anyone. I need someone who will let me release all my passion onto them, specifically their face (whoa) I mean with lots of kisses. I’ve already mentioned not long ago that I’m not into jizzing on faces. I like showing a woman that I love her, and that means passionately amazing sex she shall as often as she wants, and if that means hiring a well endowed South American then so be it. Also it means that it’s hard not for me to tell a girl I love just how beautiful and wonderful and special she is in a cheesy Shakespeare-esque way multiple times a day. I’m sure every girl reading this is thinking, ‘sure, you’ll probably keep it up for a week or two but then you’ll be just like every other guy and go on for days without complimenting the girl and just went sex and even when doing that you’ll be imagining she’s Beyonce.’ Not true at all. I don’t like Beyonce. It’s not a race thing. If we’re dipping into the dark chocolate fantasies I’m a Meagan Good fan. But more importantly I can’t tone down my desire to constantly be over romantic. Just ask girl who shall not be mentioned. She’s told me on multiple occasions that I was being too romantic and it made her uncomfortable, or something like that. I wasn’t really paying attention because I was watching the game and jerking off. But seriously, there was almost nothing worse than trying to make a girl feel like she was the most wonderful thing in the world and then being told that it was kind of creepy. Oh well. It was a distance thing. Hard to explain, so I shall not. But in retrospect I guess it wasn’t a good idea to tell her constantly that she was so beautiful it made me want to passionately fuck her on top of the Statue of Liberty with all of America watching (for all those who aren’t aware, that was never really said) that doesn’t mean it wasn’t thought.

I’m even passionate when I jerk off. I light a couple of candles. Burn some incense to disguise the smell of those disgusting candles. Bust out the high quality lotion, followed by the high quality porn (nothing like seeing anal in HD) and then proceed to give my gigantic penis (whose size has been grossly exaggerated for the purpose of this completely false story) the best massage of its life. And then I repeat the process six more times, or until I have reached a sufficient amount of shame for the day.

I Almost Wrote About Writing, But Then I Guess I Didn’t Really

So I was thinking that I really want to write. Not this usual bullshit that I crap out in an hour, read over once, then post on the interweb for no one to see. But instead delve into a topic, research it, take my time on sentences and paragraphs, and get a feel for a flow, and write something meaningful and thought provoking. Then while pissing five minutes ago I realized that’s a lot of work, and I said, ‘fuck it, how am I supposed to give that much of an effort when I’m halfway through this piss and already want to quit?’

I’ve been reading lately – most recently Bill Simmons’s The Book of Basketball, which is great so far – and when I read I always do one thing: masturbate. Okay, not really, or at least not often – those damn romance novels are so sexually intense. When I read I always think about writing. I by far think about writing more when reading then when actually writing. Sometimes when reading I’ll stop and diagnose a sentence to determine how it could be improved to sound better, or how the author went about making it sound so fucking magnificent. I never do any of that while I write though. My editing sounds something like this,

“Hmm, this sentence about the fox sounds a little odd. I better read over it again. The quick brown fox…oh fuck this, I can’t read this shit. I’ll just post this and pray to Allah that I made as few mistakes as possible.”

As you may have noticed I write about foxes a lot. Okay, that’s a blatant lie. The insider scoop behind that sentence is that I stole the ‘quick brown fox’ line from an episode of Stella where the three guys try to become writers. I don’t know why but that line has always stuck with me. What’s even worse is that even though that line has always stuck with me, if I had to bet if that line actually appeared in that episode, or any episode of Stella for that matter, I wouldn’t make that bet – I have a bad habit of misquoting TV shows. But either way I recite that line in my head multiple times a week for no good reason at all.

I’ve always been poor at editing my own work. Possibly because it’s such crap that it pains me to read over it and try to figure out the impossible way of how to make it appealing to the senses, not just one sense, but multiple senses – I want my writing to smell good. I often wonder – no I don’t, I’ve only wondered this once, and it was just now – if some writers read over their work and marvel at the masterpiece that is their syntax. Like Stephen King sits with an early manuscript of his new novel rereading over a part where he describes how a girl gets her head chopped off with a katana by an Australian zombie and he has his hands in his pants just vigorously jerking it with the thought that that sentence alone will bring him more millions of dollars. I don’t think that’s too farfetched of a thought.

I realized I do the same thing with comedy. As I once contemplated the idea of stand up comedy, I’ve always been obsessed with jokes. The combined hours I’ve spent trying to figure out how other people’s jokes could be better, or why they’re good, are numerous. Yet the combined hours I’ve spent working on my own jokes is the same as the amount of time I’ve spent laughing at Dane Cook’s jokes, i.e. zero hours and zero minutes (I thought you liked Dane Cook now?) As a person sure, but I still don’t think his stand up is funny. The point is I think this is why my life is a failure (you mean up to this point it’s a failure) no, I like to think positive; I think I can be the youngest person to ever have officially failed life. Even Hitler made it to 25 before God declared him a failure. I spend so much of my time thinking about other people’s work and never think about how to improve my own stuff. This is why I think I should be a critic. Actually I don’t think I should be a critic, but I’ve been told multiple times before that I should be one. I would not like to be one though. Critiquing a person’s work, especially when they’ve poured their heart and soul into it, can be very unfun at times. I mean I’m a mean person and I hate everything and everyone, but I would never tell them how much I hate them and their stupid face, because I’m nice like that (insert smiley face here).

I want to give more of an effort into my writing. I know it’s too much to ask for my writing to have any meaning (way too much to ask) but it’d be nice if a few people could get some enjoyment out of it (that’s like when a girl form the inner city asks Santa Claus for a pony; not gonna happen) or at least maybe some people will get some laughs while reading (keep lowering those hopes) one person gets one laugh (still too high) a chuckle (keep going) one person at one point almost cracks an ironic smile (there we go).

I want to enact the Bill Simmons writing rule that I heard Teresa Strasser speak of. Just write as much as possible knowing that most of it won’t end up in the final draft anyway. Just get all the ideas out there and then when done sift through it keeping the good and turning the bad into a shitty blog about how my writing sucks.

….

Chris and I discuss things like teen sex and sibling differences after Chris makes some inappropriate (but still funny) jokes.

….

The Diary Of Cleaning My Room part one (there will be no part two)

I decided to sprouse up my room a little and while doing so I thought it’d be nice to write. That way instead of just focusing all my energy on either cleaning my room or writing I can do both, and instead of getting one thing completed with relative competency I can get two things done in a half assed manner, which I feel is ¼ as efficient as normal, and since I’m bad with fractions I have no idea if that’s good or bad, but I’m in an optimistic mood so I’ll assume its good.

Minute one: There’s too much crap to clean up and organize. I quit.

Minute two: After further evaluation I’ve decided that quitting is not an option. After all did Japan quit after we bombed Hiroshima? No, which is why we bombed Nagasaki too. So what convoluted point am I trying to get across? That’s a real question for you folks. I’m done trying to figure out what the fuck my brain is doing. Please do it for me.

Minute 19: I just realized the great baby kitties pissing of 2010 ran deeper than I expected. My pocket dictionary (which by the way is far too big to fit comfortably in any pocket, it’s bigger than any phone or wallet ever would be, which the exception of cell phones in the 80s and George Costanza’s wallet) is covered pretty good in dry baby kitty  piss. Shows what kitties think of Webster, I guess next time I’ll get the Oxford English dictionary.

Minute 36: I found a little piece of paper with a bunch of my writing on it including a Nietzche quote I copied out of the Viktor Frankl book Man’s Search For Meaning. The quote is ‘He who has a why to live for can bear with any how.’ And written directly under that are the words ‘a scene with two porn stars.’ I don’t think the two things are connected, although I think now I’ll find a way to connect them in an upcoming short story I work out half the plot for but never begin to write.

Minute 40: Had to kill a spider that I had been letting live in the corner of my room for the past few days. He got bigger, which led to all the more womanly scream when I worked up the courage to squish him with a couple napkins that are apparently made with 100% recycled material.

Minute 57: What is all this crap!?

Hour 1 Minute 30: Stuck my hand in a plastic bag to retrieve a plastic fork and three things of some kind of green sauce and my hand got all wet and now I’m scared.

Hour 1 Minute 40: Found my address book. It’s been pretty useless recently but brings back the nostalgia before I had a cell phone. Yep, what a pathetically nostalgic time.

Hour 2: Found what I think is the first version of the Closer To Clarity movie script and with each year that goes by it seems to be worse and worse. Also it’s surprisingly lacking in masturbation humor.

Day 3 Hour 8 Minute 48: I pretty much stopped cleaning my room after I found some of my old writing and started looking through it all. I don’t know when I’ll start cleaning my room again, but probably not for a while. I’m just glad I can see my floor now.

A podcast of me and some dude named Chris talking about 6 common misused words

My Newest Little Buddy

I haven’t written in a while. Well I write pretty much every day, but I haven’t written anything for a while with the intent of having other people read it. This is of course only being written with a half hearted attempt of having people read it, for it will only be posted on the vast wasteland which myspace has become, and wordpress which is very populated I believe, but I have no idea how anyone is going to see this other than that crazy Callan dude, who I think is Australian, or that Liana chick, who is quite the excellent writer and my favorite writer on wordpress. That was an unnecessarily long and most likely error filled sentence. My teacher has been telling me to shorten my sentences because often they become too wordy, and actually I find that I like the wordiness and for some reason I like it even more since finding out he doesn’t like it. Another common trait of mine, that I am absolutely sure people must hate, is that by the end of many paragraphs I seem to have lost any idea of what it was I was talking about when I started the paragraph.

I’m writing this on my tiny new netbook which I purchased for the sole purpose of having no other purpose than being a third computer in my room. I now realize that this was a product of fate, and the netbook will be useful in many endeavors, none of which will actually be of any use in my life of course, and also I don’t believe in fate. The most recent useless endeavor I’ve discovered for my tiny little netbook is writing. Ed Begley Jr. be damned, I’m using two computers at once and wasting massive amounts of energy. The idea is that now I don’t have to constantly flip back and forth between things while writing. I can keep this word document open on this little guy while I do all my other stuff on the bigger screen. One might ask why not just use one computer and only focus on that one thing at a time? And it’d probably even make your writing better since you’d be focusing on it more. Well I would respond to one with, “shut the hell up, One.” I can’t work like that. I have to constantly be multitasking, unless I’m lying on my ass watching reruns of Arrested Development – that I can do without having to do anything else. But this way I can do my other crap on that larger computer and when I go back to writing I just turn slightly to the left and type on this little fellow.

Also this tiny little screen comes with a huge advantage when watching porn. Sure all the huge plastic fake boobies, that God knows I love so much, are smaller, but also the penises are much smaller, which is the biggest ego boost I could ever ask for. Also, I think being on the cover of the Wheaties box, which is a coveted spot given to only champions, would boost my ego since I am widely considered one of this world’s biggest failures at life (and being deemed a champion by a cereal would make you feel better how?) I like the idea of people staring at my face when they eat breakfast. Sometimes I spend my entire day purposely sitting across from random people at IHOP and I don’t move until they at least make eye contact. Sure it’s creepy, but that’s the life of someone who gets self conscious when he sees penises on screens bigger than 12 inches. How’s that for wrapping up a paragraph with the same topic as how I started it? It will be the last time I ever do that. And in the future I probably won’t point it out. Except of course I will.

Chris and I talk about some things on our Closer To Clarity podcast

Thing for Writing Class.

I didn’t know I love the rain. The dripping of a single drop down my nose gives me the only enjoyment I’ve ever gotten from having an above average sized nose because it allows me to not only get the sensation of the feel of the drop’s slow decline down my nose, but it also allows me to view it’s slow decline which makes walking home in the rain all the more enjoyable, and a million times more light hearted.

I never knew how much I loved socks. The home to my toes, socks protect them from the constant detrimental forces of nature, such as the cold that seeps in from the crack in my window that has been unrepaired for the past two years. Socks provide me what bare feet can not and enable me the ability to slide across my hardwood floor in my underwear to the song Old Time Rock and Roll a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business. I don’t know if it’s in the washer or dryer or perhaps some mystical wormhole in between, but socks manage to make their escape never to return, and that makes my love for socks only grow so much fonder.

I never knew how much I loved the moon. It is the reminder that I am not truly alone, for it keeps its gaze upon the earth and upon me forcing me to remember that I could never hope to be as lonely as it. In the moon I can take solace and be unafraid of going insane, although crazy people are called lunatics, so perhaps I should be wary of that, but alas I am not.

I never knew how much I loved underwear. It keeps my tushy warm, but more than that one summer day at summer camp it provided a shield for my sword, in keeping with the metaphor, and protected me from the glaring, quite possibly piercing, eyes of the many girls and boys who watched as I was pantsed by a boy a few years my senior. Underwear kept my shame from going public that day. Thank you underwear.

I never knew how much I loved gum. There is no better cure for the oral complex I developed most certainly while I was a baby as a result of not being weaned off my mother’s breast milk until I was far too old to admit here than chewing gum. God the sound of gum being chewed is annoying though. I never knew how much I hated other people chewing gum.

I never knew how much I loved water. Aside from my original gross underestimation of its importance in keeping me alive I have learned that it is great in the removal of hot chocolate stains that have, in a feat of magnificence, managed to place themselves on the bridge of my nose. If water is not available spit makes a more than suitable substitute.

I never knew how much I loved spit. In a moment of disgust, of a disreputable, unabashed display of a cosmic creation and visage so vile it makes Hitler in a tutu seem like a dog chasing its tail in a Youtube video there is no more apt response than turning one’s head in revulsion, crossing one’s arms with the might of Hercules, and spitting to the ground with the force of a diving Peregrine Falcon and the abhorrence that Keith Olbermann holds for Bill O’Reilly, and vice versa. That, good sir, is how much I love spit.

I didn’t know how much I love, how much I fucking love, taking almost nothing with any semblance of seriousness. It is of my opinion that it might be the only thing that currently keeps this life anywhere near enjoyable for me.

…

Poem the teacher made us base our writing on

A bunch of crappy podcasts I made with my friends

I AM GOING TO CRUSH THE MOON

If you want to hear me read the story or hear me talk about the story click on the link and you shall be taken to a magical world filled with nasally drones.

link to nasally drones

The Story begins now… (p.s. that was not part of the story)

“So did you hear the news today, Karl?” Murphy said

“Yep, that’s why I’m here.”

“Thought so,” Murphy said taking a seat on a rock facing towards the lake. “You always come here to think.”

“I’m not thinking today.”

“Just staring?”

“Just staring.”

“Well staring is good too.”

“Ignorance is bliss they say.”

“They don’t say that anymore,” Murphy said. “Remember they outlawed it two years ago because it gave being dumb a better image. All those kids dropped out of school citing knowledge as the leading cause of depression. Remember all those college professors who got sued? Philosophy courses were banned across the nation for almost a decade. During Richard Dawkins visit to South Carolina he was hijacked and burned at the stake. Then they burned his corpse again for good measure. But I guess that’s what you get in return for disproving God. To be honest I would have been a lot happier if I still believed in God.”

“I bet Newton couldn’t sleep at night.”

“I blame him for this.”

“Why? He didn’t invent gravity. He just discovered it.”

“What, you didn’t hear?” Murphy said. “As of last week it’s now official that Isaac Newton invented gravity. There are some who say he did it for the sole purpose of getting his name etched in history and forever being known as the man who made the moon fall to the Earth.”

“What if we’re falling towards it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t make any sense. The Earth is perfectly happy. It doesn’t need, nor want, the moon. The moon is the one who’s lonely.” Murphy skipped a rock into the lake. “The Earth is filled with animals, plants, oxygen, dirt, hell even people. The moon has nothing.”

“It’s got rocks.”

“Rocks are nothing. They don’t keep good company. They’re almost as bad as Antarctican’s.”

“That’s racist.”

“Well fuck them, they need to keep their damn mouths shut and mind their own business.” He threw another rock into the lake. He sent a good dose of anger to keep it company. “I liked it better before we found out they existed.”

“Arabelia has Antarctic roots.”

“With a name like that I’m not surprised. She was never good for you. She can fuck off.”

“The trees are blowing pretty hard today.”

“Nah, fuck the trees, the lake is where it’s at,” Murphy said getting up. “Bye Karl.”

“Bye Murphy,” I said still looking towards the trees.

Two weeks later I sat on my rock staring at my trees as they blew in the wind when Murphy arrived. I didn’t see what he was wearing or if he had finally cut his hair like he had been promising to do for the past two months, but based on the sound of his chewing throughout our conversation and the crinkling of a thin foil-like bag I’m pretty sure he was eating chips.

“So did you here the news today, Karl?” Murphy said.

“Yep, that’s why I’m here.”

“Thought so,” Murphy said taking a seat on his rock looking towards his lake. “You always come here to think.”

“I’m not thinking today.”

“Just staring?”

“Just staring.”

“Well you can stare all you want, but we’ve only got about a year until they say it lands on us, just enough time for everyone to go crazy again.”

“Give a sane man a minute and he’ll go crazy with 45 seconds to spare.”

“Amen to that,” Murphy said. “They still aren’t sure where it’s going to land.”

“Crazy, they can put a man on the moon but they can’t figure out where it’s going to land.”

“Didn’t they teach you in school that all the moon landings were a hoax?”

“I was making a joke. People used to complain about us being able to put people on the moon but not being able to do what seems like much simpler stuff. Like perfectly toasting bread without it burning.”

“I know the origin of the saying. I didn’t find your joke funny. Remember in 2012 when Sarah Palin was running for president and to gain publicity Fox broadcasted her going to the moon and while walking on the moon she tripped on a chord and knocked down the back drop.”

“I can’t believe she still won.”

“I think it was her Playboy spread that gained her the independents. They’re all perverts.” Murphy took a bite of what I firmly believe was a chip. “Barack’s Playgirl spread was much more impressive than his presidency but boobs will always hold more power than a penis no matter what size.”

“At least he didn’t blow up Antarctica.”

“They had it coming.”

“Arabelia cried for weeks.”

“Her tears alone were worth it.”

“Hawaii is under water now.”

“Makes for a great snorkeling trip,” Murphy said.

“Half of Australia’s population was wiped out.”

“Small scientific miscalculation,” Murphy said. “They weren’t supposed to be harmed.”

Murphy pretends not to care about people dying but I know he does. If I were ever to die he’d cry for a century. He loves me. That’s why he hates Arabelia. She hurt me. He wants to be the only one that hurts me. That’s what love is now. They changed the definition when Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt overthrew the British government and become the King and Queen of New America 2, the second New America since New America 1, formerly known as the Middle East. I’m not sure what relevance this has to do with love but the government tells me it’s pertinent, and nowadays the people listen to the government. I don’t listen to the government. According to the Government Arabelia loves me but I don’t love her. That’s total bullshit.

“You’re quiet,” Murphy begun, “what are you thinking about?”

“The trees are blowing pretty hard today.”

“Nah, fuck the trees, the lake is where it’s at,” Murphy said getting up. “Bye Karl.”

“Bye Murphy,” I said still looking at the trees, and thinking.

It was two weeks later and I was staring at a hawk perched upon one of my favorite trees way off in the distance, further than many closer trees that I had denied the privilege of being one of my favorite trees. There isn’t anything special about the tree. In fact for the first three weeks I got it confused with the other trees around it. There’s a high probability it’s not even the same tree I originally designated as one of my favorites. I started the paragraph with the intentions of talking about the hawk and ended up talking about the tree. On second thought I don’t even think it was a hawk.

“So did you hear the news today?” Murphy said.

“Yep, that’s why I’m here.”

“Thought so,” Murphy said already sitting on his rock with his lake in view. “You always come here to think.”

“I haven’t thought in years.”

“Just staring?”

“I haven’t seen her in years.”

“You’re going to go see her aren’t you?”

He knew I was going to see her. In eleven months the moon was going to land on me. Well I can’t be so arrogant to think it specifically picked out me. But I can’t be so naïve to think it’s not possible. They determined the Moon was going to land exactly over this lake and crush the nearby city, but I’m not worried about that. I’m more worried about my trees.

“Yes, I’m probably going to see her.”

“Don’t,” Murphy begun, “come with me? I have a cousin who lives up in Canada. I’m going to stay with her. You should come too.”

“You know I can’t.” I don’t know if he was looking at me but I damn sure wasn’t looking at him. “I love Arabelia, not you.” I could hear a rock go flying into the lake.

“What do I have to do to make you love me? Tell me. I’ll do it. I’m bringing the God damn moon to the Earth for you.”

“I’m still not convinced it isn’t the Earth falling on the moon.”

“Don’t be crazy. You can’t tell me I’m not pulling the moon to the Earth.”

“No, conventional wisdom tells me I can’t. But you know me well enough to know I don’t always follow conventional wisdom.”

“Why don’t you love me?” Murphy said.

“The trees are blowing pretty hard today.”

“Nah, fuck the trees, the lake is where it’s at,” Murphy said with sadness in his voice and perhaps a tear running down his face. “Bye Karl.”

“Probably,” I said.

“What the fuck are you doing, Karl?” Murphy said ten months later.

“I’m sitting, staring at the lake, thinking about everything and much more. I’ve never really looked at the lake before. It’s actually beautiful. I think I could have learned to love it more than even the trees. Right here behind me the whole time yet I never acknowledged it. What a fool I am.”

“I hope that’s not a metaphor?”

“It was an accidental metaphor.”

“Things didn’t work out with Arabelia?”

“Things certainly did not. She’s married with a kid. Beautiful little girl named Addelyn, got her father’s smile. I met the man. More of a man than I’ll ever be. Works for the Government, so of course he’s got a sense of humor. Treats her real nice, big house, nice car, and all that good stuff. She’s really happy. I’m happy for her. But I hate it too. I don’t know how to feel.”

“I met someone in Canada.” Murphy was looking me in the eyes for the first time in what conventional wisdom tells me is forever. “Her name is Andreane. She’s German Canadian. She was part of Hitler the third’s guerilla force that overthrew the corrupted French Canadian government. I live with her in Quebec, Montreal to be specific. It’s wonderful there. I’m really happy. It doesn’t smell great but at least the moon isn’t falling on it. ”

He was lying at this point. I didn’t care. I would let him get away with the lie. If I wanted him to he would stay here with me and be crushed by the moon. He’d find it romantic. I wouldn’t. I still don’t love him.

“I don’t love you.”

“I finally realize why,” he said, I suspect lying. “There’s pain in those eyes of yours. There’s love too but I can see it’s not for me. You’re still welcome to come with me back to Canada.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I know,” Murphy said, “but I can always ask.”

“Not in a month. In a month all the questions will be gone, or as close to it as possible.”

“So you’re going to die, and forever be nothing.”

“Forever includes the past, so I won’t be forever nothing,” I said it louder than I expected. “Arabelia told me you should believe in God again. And that there’s a reason ignorance is so pleasing. And that it was wrong for the Antarcticans to unleash the truth upon the world.”

It’s true that she told me all this. I’m not sure if she meant it though. She lied to me a lot. She was always so much smarter than me so she always knew it was better to lie. I always told the truth. It was stupid of me.

“She’s a liar,” Murphy said.

“Yeah, we both know that. But it still doesn’t change anything.”

“Yep,” Murphy sighed. “The trees are blowing pretty hard today.”

“Yeah, I know, but I think I should spend some times staring at the lake.”

Murphy slowly walked away not looking back once. I don’t know what happened to him. I assume I’m never going to see him again. If there’s no heaven, which has been proven, and if there’s no hell, which is still heavily contested, then I can only assume if all goes as planned that I’m never going to see him again. But conventional wisdom tells us that the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. Or was that Robert Burns? Either way he was an Antarctican.

Today is the day of the historic moon landing, but this one is not a hoax. The sky has been pitch black for days now. There are not many people left in the city or anywhere around it. My neighbor is an old lady. She will not leave. She’s lived in her house for 84 years and by golly she’ll die in that house. There is a homeless man who has made a home of the supermarket down the street from me where I go to get my food. He is a nice man. He pretends to be the cashier when I am there and I give him money and he rips it up and we laugh because we both know money is no longer good to us, just like it was a few years back when the 46^th president declared the new currency to be seashells, because after all a sand dollar is prettier than a paper dollar. California finally bought themselves out of debt, but immediately returned to it after Caligula Jr., as we called him because he looked just like Caligula and not at all because he was crazy, was impeached on the grounds of being crazy and a detriment to our government. He was replaced by who we call Abraham Lincoln Jr., whose nickname was given with the same theory behind it as to why so many fat men are called tiny. Those few years sent the Civil Rights movement back a long way.

But look at me going on and on about nothing. It’s funny how one can find so many things to talk about when death is upon him.

I’m going to lie under the moon now. I don’t know why but I’m at ease. I often thought the moon was the loneliest place in the universe. There are galaxies without beings for many light years.  But they are ignorant. They do not know what they are missing. The moon had to spend its whole existence staring at life develop on Earth but could never partake in the fun. The moon has been taunted for almost ever, but no longer. I shall save it from loneliness and it shall save me.