I Blame My Age

Currently very confused about the future. Mr Marquez says I'll realize how stupid I'm being about five years from now, but I can't help feeling trapped. I mean, knowing it will get better in a few years is almost no help.

Current Possible After Graduation Plans:

a) Go to grad school
b) Join Peace Corps or random useful NGO, then go to grad school
c) Join Peace Corps or random useful NGO, stay there, help out
d) Teach in Japan
e) Get some sort of "real job"
g) Travel, run out of money, try one of options a through e
f) Go to Europe, wing it, end up with one of options a through e

Lost my cellphone.

Torn up inside.

Writing, Magazines, Fame!

This whole piece could use some spring cleaning. Also, Hannah and I are starting a new lit mag. It is called Hell Dome. Let us know if you have something awesome to put in't.

I dreamed that I was sitting with a woman of indeterminate age. She had short hair, stark white and muddy purple. Her face was a woman's face, I remember no details; neither of us had bodies, we were concepts like many things in my dreams.

She posed a question, "If science exists, what place does god have?"

This may not have been the question she asked. As I try to remember, details sway, and I wonder if she in fact asked what place science has in a world of belief. Even this question is merely a permutation of a possibly false remembrance; I feel now that the act of writing the question betrays and cheapens its basic nature.

It was a space, a dream, and I was being questioned about something which mattered.

I don't know how I answered, but there was a pause, and we watched each other and she had dark black hair now. It flowed into the dream night around us and I woke myself asking

"Was I correct?"

Now, I finish writing, and realize the correct response which may have lengthened the dream or eclipsed the reality I woke to this morning. Before this too fades; I should have asked

"Was I true?"

I finished reading Of Mice and Men last night, then was sort of to' up. I covered a few sheets of paper with some related scriblings, but left them all at home, so I won't be able to post them for a bit.

Lydia like my dream story.

Mohawk FAQ

Q: How long does it take you to get your hair in a spike?
A: About three minutes.

Q: What do you use in your hair?
A: Elmer's glue. I've tried a few other things, including a solution made of rubber cement, honey, water, and flour, but they don't work very well, or work alltogether too well.

Q: May I touch it?
A: Yes, please.

Q: How long have you had the mohawk?
A: About 3 months, though I had a mohawk for most of spring semester last year as well.

Check this game out:

Flow!

You want a song, you son of a bitch? This is our first single:

Title: I Fucked Your Mom Especially for Talk Like a Pirate Day

She's the dingiest mother - fucker you ever did see
blind in one eye, shouldna been watchin me pee
Got a limp you can screw and a hole for yodlin'
[chorus]I'm coming you dirty whore!
Batten the hatches and drink yer whiskey
Blink twice and you might'a missed me![/chorus]
Met her on a stormy night
blame the rum might
fuck me in the brain hole
Drink that shit! skole!
[chorus]
The gal can't shut her yap
blame it on the clap
don't matter to me I use bleach anyway!
[chorus]
And this is me shouting into a rusty vagina!
[chorus, yodelling]

To Be Continued

When I was young, at least five years ago, I almost died on a mountain in Colorado. I'm sure that I've been close to death before and since that moment, but this was the only time I've been actually conscious of death, in this case, able to see my death as I walked away legs still shaking.
We were on one of our last family vacations, visiting my Aunt and Uncle in Boulder. I don't remember if they had climbed the mountain with us. Thinking back now, I'm sure that my parents had wanted to visit the Rocky Mountains, the presence of family was only an excuse and a place to stay. They wouldn't have phrased it as coldly as I do, but I'm trying to view this from my parents' eyes, and I find parts of my own calculations intruding on what should be their thoughts.

My Big Toe and Writing

I accidentally opened that cut on my big toe again while doing something or other between removing the boots and installing the glasses. Couldn't find the rubbing alcohol I thought I left under the sink, ended up using mouthwash as aniseptic. Hurts like peppermint, so I think it's working.

I can feel more writing working its way to the surface. Ideas like writing a whole story as the impression you get if you were watching it from a passing car. I mean ideas too, if I can think of some way to represent them with blur and speed lines.

This is going to be a night of much delayed sleep, and I don't think I'll be able to actually write something until tomorrow, when I'll actually in a more studious world be working on the paper due for core by midnight.

I'm still not sure if I ever surprise myself.

Typical

See what drug you are.

I'm at Least as Surprised as You

Study abroad's looking like a good idea. I probably should have thought about this a few months ago, but it sort of crept up on me. Also, I think I may be graduating this spring, which is another thing I really have to learn about.

According to OU's list, Monday is "Step 1: Review and Select a Study Abroad Destination"

Either France or England. Maybe somewhere in the Great European North, assuming they teach anything up there besides business.

If you ordered a boxcar full of sons-of-bitches and opened the door and only found me inside, you could consider the order filled.

Haven't been able to update in ages, login problems.

Every time I look out the window to my right I see first, starting left, the tips of my bush which are small green on one side greener on the other elongated and oval, then a white kids size soccer goal which appears to lean slightly away from my seat and what I feel is the anchor point of my body, there is a squashed looking yellow ball huddled in the bottom back of the net, and closer now a section of tree which two squirrels occasionally use as a race track, lots of fence which actually has been visible for the entirety of the view but I didn't want to confuse you, from above the fence flowering branches and vines from an old woman's garden where once I saw a pair of thieves set up a ladder to climb into her second story window, and most importantly and contrastingly to the well tended garden past the fence I mentioned earlier I see a stump sprinkled with woodchips as if the tree had been cremated and its ashes were magnified and returned to its home. I miss the tree.

I really want to write an entire story like this. Would you call it Faulkner-esque? I mean, Faulkner-esque like The Sound and the Fury, which I finished reading a few weeks ago. I'm hoping for something different. Thoughts?

Not Drunk, Just Sleepy

Water dripping through my future widow's peak onto the hand scratching my nose, looking for a route past the chin, edging around mouth and staying as I write just below my head's shadow. Minutes ago I washed my face in the sink, the same one I've been meaning to clean for weeks, it's becoming pitted-stained, the steel sink in my kitchen/dining room/antechamber/vestibule long fell into disuse - I don't trust brown metal near my water. In the same way that I don't trust my left arm, the one I may have fractured a few years ago, that's the the one I watch first, after my face I mean, the face and more specifically the eyes always gets my first glance. Your pardon if I fall in love a bit more every time those crazy bastard not quite cro-magnum browed wonders.

Too many adjectives? I've never been clear on the proper ratio. In my world every word has a million adjectives but only one correct way to be named, a way I only find in the minutes before sleep. I learned early that it is possible to lie after the lights are quiet, doors closed, blinds drawn (does that mean up or down?), pillow shaped into a slight slope with no pressure placed on the arm that sometimes stretches away from my shoulder and under the pillow. It is possible to lie like that and be ready for sleep, realize that being ready for sleep means being ready for the next day, realize then that sleep doesn't matter because won't I just think it's night time and then understand it's daytime, be rested without knowing how? And if that doesn't exist, what of the transition point? What happens when water sinks below 1 degree celcius but above 0 degrees? You could watch it happen I think, and then sleep doesn't happen for hours as it waits for me to give up.

Sleep is like Santa Claus.

In this analogy, each drop of writing is hidden in a present, and I'm waiting for sleep, imagining writing in the future, so easy to imagine when I'm exiled from keyboard.

Or the night in general, the streets, the people I see halo'd by daygrown flaws in the contacts I've worn for the last hours. Doesn't matter how many hours, strangely, the flaws exist when the people do, characters ariving like road signs along Appalachian roads.

Blech

At DragonCon paying outrageous amount for internet.

Going to put my costume together in a few minutes - I'll be covered entirely in tin foil (except my hair).

Friday night was good. Legendary amounts of drinking, Maz was grabbed by security, Zack feel asleep on the escalator, Stu and I stayed danced with all the goth kids and drum circle hippies. Also, I tried teaching people how to do stupid bar tricks like smoke cigarette backwards or put cigarette out on tongue or swallow lit match. Much fun, and my throat doesn't thank me.

Apparently all the assorted scum from Frolicon decided to be at DragonCon this year. This couple, at least 10 years older than me, was hitting on me. At the same time. People are really strange.

I think I'm over other people.