Decisions.

"Jump," said the pale man, standing at the edge of a nearby building, "don't even think about it, just jump."

"But... what if I don't make it?" Enquired a young man, average in build with short, ruffled black hair. The air about him exuded both determination and reluctance, with a strong desire to prove himself but a sense of fear pertaining to the task at hand. "It's a long way down..."

"If you don't make it, then you are a coward." Came a quick retort from the pale man, who stood with his back to the sunlight, outlining his figure with a golden glow that shielded the younger man from the sun's blinding rays. This didn't help the pale man's argument; the younger man had a clearer view of the rooftops and the impending danger that they proposed.

The younger man held his breath and slowly paced back towards the dark stairwell from whence he came. Slowly, he made his way to the stairs and then he slowly turned to feast his eyes upon the sunset for the last time that night. However, the pale man was still standing on the adjacent rooftop, staring at him intently. At a second glance, the young man could have sworn that the gap between the buildings seemed shorter, and at a second glance, the stairwell looked more menacing and ominous than it had seconds earlier. Reluctantly, the young man shut the stairwell door and locked it, then slowly walked towards the edge of the roof.

"Good. Excellent."

"Why do you want me to jump? What meaning does it hold?" The young man asked defiantly., his voice increasing in volume with each word, finally escalating into a yell. "What the hell are you staring at me for?"

"I'm telling you to jump because you fear it," replied the pale man calmly, "your fear holds you back on so many levels Jason. You fear death, yet try to live a risque and exciting lifestyle. You fear commitment, yet you complain incessantly about the impermanancy of one night stands and meaningless flirtation sessions. You live a trite and meaningless life, Jason, and I am here to stop that, one way or the other."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a potential outcome based on the rammifications of the choices you will make before this sun sets."

"And what if I'm standing up here by sunset?"

"You'll die. The security systems in the building I am standing on arm at 8:30, which is the expected time of sunset this evening."

"And my building?"

"You just locked it." Said the pale man with a maniacal grin on his face and a gleam of sadistic pleasure in his eye.

"Sh*t!" Shouted the young man, realizing the situation that he put himself in.

"Do you see it now Jason? That is your first decision and you have already blocked off several possible escape routes for yourself. What do you intend to do?"

Backing up and preparing himself for his leap, Jason clapped his hands and attempted to focus himself. He stared at the ground a few feet in front of him and began to observe the situation from a physical sense. "Gravity... 9.8 meters per second per second," he thought to himself, "velocity, distance, AH forget it! That's too complicated." Then he broke out into a stride and held his breath.

"Don't mind the pipes on the ground." Said the pale man, causing Jason to panic and lose balance. Then he laughed as he watched Jason pick himself up, scowling at him.

"Don't do that." Jason said, glaring at the pale man before observing the ground more carefully.

"But that's the entire purpose of this exercise, to teach you t-"

"Exercise!?" Screamed Jason in a fit of rage. "Exercise?! This is life and death!?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to never interrupt a man when he's talking?" Enquired the pale man, feigning a sense of rejection and offense.

"Don't feed me that bullsh*t," retorted Jason defiantly, "you're trying to kill me."

"If I were trying to kill you, Jason, you'd already be dead." The pale man said, pulling his pant leg up to reveal a handgun, custom from the looks of it, that glistened gold from the sinking sun. "Now, if you don't act soon I won't need to kill you."

Jason started his process over again, closing his eyes and saying a prayer to his God before he made a mad dash for the edge. When Jason neared the midpoint of the rooftop, the pale man shouted his last words of wisdom before departing down the open stairwell. "You need to want the jump. You can't make a decision halfway through, just bite the bullet and go for it."

Then Jason jumped.

The Saving Idiom.

The hero is in love, the coward is obsessed.

That's it, that's all there is to it.

Do the world a favor, kill a coward.

This is less important. Read the last one.

Now that that necessary piece is done, something that is more my style:

I give to you... The Reference Point.

---

"What do you think you're doing with your life?" Michelle screamed, quickly zippering up those tight jeans that, when combined with her astounding body, could really drive you crazy. "All you do is get up and go to work every day! Not even that, but you don't seem to be going anywhere! You'd rather get an overtime shift than spend time with me! Where do your priorities lie!?"

"Oh Jesus..." Thought the man, half-covered with a ruffled blanket, fresh with sweat from the night's festivities. "Here it comes, we must have been over this fifty times by now..."

Getting up and chasing Michelle to the door of their apartment, the man spoke, his head throbbing from the inhuman amount of alcohol that he had consumed merely hours ago. "Come on now Michelle, what are you saying all this for?" He kicked aside the clothes that they had left on the floor in their eager lust for one another, not stopping to separate them for her weekly threat of moving out. "I know it's not an anatomical change because I have-"

"F*ck you!" She screamed, cutting him off before his sarcastic remark could escape from his mouth. "You never take me seriously! You always try to blame it on my period, or on some seemingly traumatic event or whatever, but you never stop to consider my feelings!"

"Michelle, I take you seriously. I need to take you seriously, I love you. And the reason that I take all the overtime hours that I can get is so that we can get a nicer apartment on the east side, or maybe even a house upstate!"

"I don't want that!" Michelle shouted, her voice dropping off at the end as tears formed in her eyes. "Do you remember the days when we used to go up on the rooftop and just watch the stars together? Those days when we could just take up a couple of lawn chairs, light up, and talk for hours, and we'd both be really listening, do you remember those?"

"Baby, I'm trying. I'm trying to get us our own rooftop, I want to get out of here! We've been living here for ten months now; and we started off of a one month schedule. Every morning I look at what's happened to us and I feel like going to our window and falling fifteen stories until my body hits the pavement, but I don't because it happened to us, not to me. We're here together, we'll always be together."

"So wh-why do you want the money? Why isn't it en-enough to just be tog-together?" Michelle cried out, interrupted by frequent sobs, her eyes darting around the apartment as if looking for some distant noise.

"Because I don't want us to be brought together by sadness, I want us to be brought together by love and by happiness. Don't you want to have kids someday Michelle? Don't you want to open that restaurant that you're always talking about? Well I have dreams too, and once we get some more money, we'll be able to do everything that we've ever wanted!" Then, as if on cue, Michelle jumped into his arms and stopped crying.

There was a knock at the door, one that intruded into his dream. Stirring slowly and moving towards the knocks, which were becoming more and more rapid, the man threw on whatever clothes were conveniently stacked on the floor and answered the door. He was met by Michelle, who jumped into his arms and gave him that all-too-familiar feeling.

"I'm getting lucky tonight." He thought with a grin, before moving into the living room and pouring them each a glass of liquor.

This is the warning.

Boy of Tongue-In-Cheek Bullsh*t: Behold! This is the truth, I shall write to absolve you of your wrongdoings! I shall lead you upon the path towards righteousness! Read, and be amazed!

The Masses: We are so very amazed!

Tongue: Behold! For I am in his cheek! Be amazed!

The Masses: We are amazed!

Boy of Tongue-In-Cheek Bullsh*t: Behold, for I am the bringer of justice! I am the rock. I am the foundation. I am infallible.

Man of Resilience: [Swings onto the stage] Hold your tongue!

The Masses: We are shocked! The entry of a new villain! Which evil is greater?

Man of Resilience: The evil that fails to recognize itself as so. The evil that recognizes the balance between good and evil is less evil than the one that seeks to destroy. The lesser of two evils seeks balance, and does not seek conflict.

The Masses: He is right!

Boy of Tongue-In-Cheek Bullsh*t: But they know the truth. [Points off-stage]

Man of Resilience: You are cheating! The fourth wall exists to separate the drama of the stage from the drama that these people face each and every day! Why try to unite them? What is created? What remains? Why do you seek to destroy?

The Masses: It is over!

Man of Resilience: You have heard them, now leave it be. Let the play go on, but discontinue this attempt to reawaken conflict. Your problem lies not with the audience, but with the audience members. Seek them out on your own time.

[Enter Harlequin]

Harlequin: We cook your food, we pump your gas, we balance your checks, we keep your machine oiled. We are the smooth transition that exists to keep you comfortable. Do not f*** with us.

[Exeunt All].

---

High Noon Club.

"I'll be back before midnight." Chase shouted to his mother, who was sewing in the room next door.

"Where are you going?" She enquired, "Is there going to be a number that I can call?"

"Not unless you buy me a cell phone." Chase responded, pulling his leather jacket over his arms and zippering it up before taking his keys off of their hook.

"Stay out of trouble!" His mother yelled to him before he left.

"I won't." Were the only words she heard before the start of an engine and the rev that followed.

Take a right, fast forward two miles, bear right, then take a left. Another right, another right, go straight for a while, take that turn, forward and up the hill. Then take a right, hit the accelerator and you're free.

Chase began his journey to nowhere, and wasted no time in the process. Every straight bit of road might as well have been a little boosting strip. Soon, Chase found his friends, the ones that he had never met before. There was his friend in the red Mercedes, and his other friend in the dark blue Mitsubishi. They were joined by his friends in the black Ford and the silver Kia. They were drifters, or at least they were to Chase. Y982, AZ433, COMBS, 66327 and WR45: the drifters. It didn't matter where they were going, nor did it matter where they came from, they had one thing in common: they were all breaking the law.

60 turned to 70, then to 80, then into 95 and finally breaking the triple-digits. They continued on, the five of them, until they merged with another route. Chase turned around, and seconds later the group had scattered. But that didn't matter any more, the bond was already established. There was something magical about it, five strangers risking the thought of a policeman in ambush for no reason other than to drive. For those 15 minutes, the radios in their cars, and the wheels on their cars, and their headlights and their drivers were no longer separate: they were one. It didn't matter if they were playing Jimi Hendrix or Green Day or Garth Brooks, or if they used halogen headlights or sodium-based lights, or if they were old or new, empty or full, they were united.

And that was all that mattered.

Standards.

You will never see anything in this blog that will make you clap in glee. There will be no inside jokes that are required to get the full meaning of the post, if there are any at all.

Never shall you read about a day in the life of a generally boring teenager, nor shall you read about mundane drama or overinflated problems.

Your eyes shall never lay their gaze upon a quote from a conversation, whether it be face-to-face or instant messanger, there will be no quoted conversations.

This blog will protect you from the travesties that are trite essays and entries that are written because they are required.

May this entry serve as everlasting proof that writing is not to be trifled with, and that some hold the writer as a sacred being, much like a cow in Hinduism, but without a religious context.

Because there are lines that must be drawn, and there are rules that must be set. This is my solemn promise to you, and any cooperation is appreciated.

Help stop the plague that is bad writing. Create standards for your own works, and your growth with evolve at an exponential speed.

Flame.

There were eight of them, eight souls bound together by the ties of trial and error. Eight individuals whose lives had been interwoven by the tests of high school and the instability that resulted. Each was a crucial part of an intricate formula, perfectly balanced and priceless in value.

There were seven of them, one was gone. Their leader had thrown himself away. Troubled by the pressure of leading a group and taking responsibility all the time, he took his own life. It wasn't the group that killed him, but the group was his last bastion; it saw his demise. The pressures that associated themselves with the senior year of high school weighed deep on his shoulders, and the thought of losing his group pushed him over the edge. So, in a way, the group did kill him.

There were six of them. The first to leave after the event did so wholly because of the event. She was the diplomat. She had loved him, and his death showed her that he felt no such thing. Desperate for attention, she began doing drugs in large amounts and tried to drink in a social environment, all to recreate that feeling of togetherness. Before long, she found herself completely dissociated with her former friends. They were dead to her, even more than he was.

There were six of them. The depart of the group's internal therapist saw the return of its diplomat. The two of them had never gotten along very well, as the therapist dated the leader for a while, and never let the diplomat forget it. And with their therapist gone, the circle needed all of the internal support that it could get.

There were four of them. The diplomat had driven away the comedian. No longer would the nights be filled with tears of laughter, the rest of them stayed together on negative emotion alone. Truth be told, there were five of them. Twice. Shortly after the departure of the comedian, the diplomat died of alcohol poisoning or an overdose, they never bothered to get the coroner's official report. The demise of the diplomat saw the return of the comedian, who tried his best to cheer up his friends. But the comedian's own agenda came first, and his contempt of the diplomat caused the group to shun him.

There were three of them. The artist abandoned the sinking ship before it was too late. She saw the tragic ending from miles away and tried her best to rescue her comrades from the fate that was in store for them. Acting upon self-interest, the artist tried to help as an outside affiliate. It was there that the group saw its end. It was over, they were just too oblivious to notice it.

There were two of them. The guardian said nothing. He stopped communicating with them entirely, and simply sought to rekindle old friendships. They never heard from him again.

There was only one remaining. She was faithful. Every year she sent cards and tried to reconcile the group, and every year she failed. The communicator left her because everyone else had, and he felt no guilt doing so. But she was the peacemaker, she was the forgiving one, and she was the angel. Every now and then, she would visit her leader's grave, just to make sure that it was tended to. She remained out of guilt: the leader had swallowed all of her pills.

Perfection. Ultimate style.

It was the summer. No, that wasn't the setting, it was the subject. Leave your assumptions at the fourth wall, then we'll talk.

Decisions occur when two or more choices are present as a solution to a problem. Hell, there doesn't even need to be a problem, as leaving a situation alone as just as much a decision as some precise course of action. But we never really see the full effects of our decisions because there are usually too many variables. But this time, his decisions were defined, precise, and completely static. Two roads, two paths, two beginnings. He could have been someone else.

But he was not someone else, he was himself... kind of. He had lost the emotional strength that comes with turmoil, but had gained the mental and physical strength that comes with deep strategizing and hard training, respectively. He had lost that relaxation and the arrogance that accompanied successful social manipulation, but had gained a new sense of awareness and ability-based confidence that no external force could harm. He had re-routed his monetary tendencies for the summer and had learned one way of succeeding instead of many ways of failing. He was more relaxed, and he was clearer, looser, in a way. Lastly and, strangely enough, probably most importantly, he got along better with people. No longer did he leave awkward social cues or forget names or things of the like; he had risen above that. That grew into bigger and better things, and he was no longer nervous, he was indifferent.

Physically, his features were hardened. Life became more about lifting weights than about pushing buttons, less about thinking or planning and more about acting. Mentally, he was sharper, but found it difficult to plot or view the bigger picture. Spiritually, he remained unchanged: God was not enough. He still had his flaws, but those were to be expected. He took up smoking in late July, and never really learned to obey the law. But he had no fear, and he was perfect.

He threw his cigarette onto the pavement and extinguished it with his foot. This was it, another path. This interview was another determinant as to what he would become. And so the boy walked, knowing full well that the effects of this interview would extrapolate into his life story. This interview either gave him the nice house on the west coast and two more in the east, or killed him at age 29 in his ratty apartment.

He took a deep breath, then he walked in.

---(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the end for tonight. If you're confused at all, "Ultimates" is the answer.)---

Oil.

We were given a task, to work into our verse’n,
For the subject of our prose could not be the first person,
And after much thought and a little thesaurus,
Came a plethora of words that would work for us,
First came the obvious or not so suggestions: me,
Us, mein, regarding myself, whatever your variation shall be,
Or address a topic, one that is fresh and new,
To avoid using the word recently deemed taboo,
And so, after much thought and improvisation of sorts,
My prose is now yours to read, the fruit of my efforts.

Today was a day of light to moderate realization, centering around me of course. Why, you may ask? Because my world centers around me, that doesn't make me self-centered though. There are others that would confuse self-interest with selfishness, and the key difference is moderation. For instance, this blog is about me, because that's a subject that is easy for me to write about. Does that make me self-centered? Methinks not.

There are people in this world, and they know who they are, who work wonders and go unrecognized. They are the oil that keeps the machines smooth, they are the ones we go to with our problems, they are Jack's smooth transition (500 points to anyone who catches that reference). Today, while sitting in Psychology, a memory presented itself to me, triggered by some unknown stimulus.

It must have been in fourth grade, or somewhere thereabouts. Maybe it was fifth grade, my memory around that time is really hazy. Anyway, it was a fairly normal day at school, and my lunch had been stolen when everyone was out playing at recess. It was a pizza Lunchables, that's for sure. That used to be a big staple in my diet, Lunchables, because my mother was always busy with school or anything and those were convenient because they were relatively cheap and easy to prepare.

It was fifth grade, because Mr. McDonald worked at the Pier School and not at the elementary school. Repeating the process that typified previous days, the office attendant went into the teacher's room to get me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the fridge. They kept those in there for kids who had forgotten their lunch or something like that. But today, Mr. McDonald came out of the room and told me to wait until lunch had started before asking for a sandwich, which my fifth grade mind took as a scolding. It was still recess, probably about halfway through it actually, so there was still time to work up an appetite for the lunch that wasn't there for me.

About ten minutes later, the useless aids herded all of us into the cafeteria and tried to organize the lines. On my trip back to the office, Mr. McDonald intercepted me and handed me an Italian grinder from the D'Angelos that was just down the street. Later that week, when my lunch went missing again, he brought me another sub. Gym class got a lot better after that too, because he started passing me the ball more often and encouraged other kids to let me on their teams and things of the like. It's good to see teachers that care about their students.

They are Jack's driving force. They are the MacGuffins of society. They save your neck, your face and every other colloquialism that is associated with saving a body part.

Danger Zone.

I won't waste your time, I've got nothing to say.

Well, that's a lie, I've got nothing that I'd like to say that you'd like to read. And I'm sure you'd like to read something that I wouldn't like to write.

So, here it is. Filler. I can't write music, so I can't talk about my feelings, and my thoughts are cluttered and are generally uninteresting. I've got big problems on my mind and I'm seeing people around me come to conclusions that I made years ago. Boy, I bet that sounds cocky, huh? But the fact still stands and here's what you get.

Filler.

Mission.

A near-empty building lay on the outskirts of an old town. It resembled a church, but a quick glance would certainly suggest otherwise. That would be going to far; the place was formerly a church. Of course it was remodeled, the design on churches was really inconvenient for anything other than a service. Since the days when it was used for worship, the space had been bought and subsequently abandoned by the Viceroy theatrical group. They were legendary, that was for sure. Out of the ten-thousand seats, only two remained occupied. There was a man wearing a strange fatigue of some foreign land on the ground floor, while another lurked in the shadows located on the balcony.

It was hard to see the hidden man's face, save for the rough stubble that could be seen on his chin and cheeks, illuminated by his lit cigarette. The silence that encompassed the once clamorous room was entrancing, as the slightest sound would echo for what seemed to be an eternity. A small piece of the now corroded and brittle ceiling struck the ground after gravity brought it down, and the room was filled with the crackle of shattering plaster.

---

It was a fortunate event, that noise, for both of them. The man in the shadows took it as an oppurtunity to relax, and the man in the uniform became more alert. Strangely enough, that was exactly what both of them needed. The man on the ground held his breath and drew his assault rifle to his shoulder, taking aim at the balcony that was a good thirty meters from him. While keeping his weapon ready, the man pressed a device on his chest and began to speak into a radio that fit conveniently into his hand.

"This is Sergeant Keller," the man said into the radio, "I've searched the area and it seems to be secure. I'm staying in this room for the moment in order to fortify the position. I should be ready for extraction after an hour or so. Over."

"Good work Sergeant," came a grainy voice from the radio, "we'll be sending a helicopter to your position momentarily. You are hereby relieved of your mission duties. Call us if anything comes up. Over."

With that, Keller began to sidestep towards the wall, his gun still intent on the balcony. After he reached the wall, he slumped down and took cover by a rack of chairs.

---

"Extraction?" Thought the man in the shadows, "He's leaving?" A mix of anxiety and relief overcame him, as his mission was almost complete. The only remaining question was this: was he discovered? If he was discovered, then the man had no choice but to kill the Sergeant and take cover in a nearby building. That was the worst-case scenario by far; if he killed the Sergeant then there would undoubtably be more forces combing the area. On the other hand, if he was discovered, it would take no more than a tactical precision weapon to end his life and his mission.

Another chunk of plaster fell, and the man in the shadows made a dash for the stairs that connected the balcony with the ground floor amidst the noise. After the third echo of the crash had reverberated through the room, he froze. A small patch of sunlight hit his chest, reflecting light off of the golden nameplate that read "Jackhammer".

---

Keller had returned to his alert state after the second scrap of ceiling hit the floor. He became nervous; his heart rate quickened, he breathing became heavier, his eyes became moving faster. Keller was ready for anything. He was tense, he was active, he was ready. He made a mad dash for the exit, and made it to the base of the balcony before slamming parallel to the wall with his pistol at the ready. That clapping noise echoed throughout the hall like a clap of thunder, shaking all that stood in the way of the shockwaves.

Thoughts of thunder ran through Keller's mind, and on impulse, he took aim at the lights that hung over the balcony. Three shots sounded it fairly quick succession before catching the chains that held the stagelights up. The metal boxes that once irradiated the stage with light came crashing down and splintered the wooden apron on impact. Clouds of dust arose and shot through the hall like a sandstorm. Keller saw his chance and made a break for the door, ramming it open and fleeing into the sunset.

---

Jackhammer was taken aback, but was not stunned by these actions. Surprised but cool-headed, he descended down the stairs with relative silence, adjusting the scope on his rifle with every step like a perfectly-oiled machine. At the moment that he reached the last stair, he was taken aback by a cloud of dust and debris from the recent explosion. Keeping his balance, but remaining disoriented, Jackhammer threw his weight forward, striking the spot where Keller had been resting not ten seconds before. After re-evaluating his bearings, Jackhammer dashed out of the former cathedral and began his search for higher ground.

A nearby alleyway was Jackhammer's saving grace, as it housed many abandoned apartments and fire exits. After some quick acrobatics, he was maneuvering the many steps that led to the top of the building. Every second was critical, every step was a potential mistake, but Jackhammer remained flawless. Leaps and bounds later, his feet met the familiar gravel that was a rooftop, and Jackhammer began scanning the ground for his target.

---

Keller had caught a glimpse of his assailant in the reflection of a broken window. He weaved amongst the debris the cluttured the streets in a desperate attempt to escape his impending doom. Keller could hear the clanging and the ringing of the metal that Jackhammer ran along, and it was closing in on him. Every step made Keller more and more anxious, each pace was one towards doom. Facing fatigue with an adrenaline overdose, so to speak, Keller collapsed in an alley and began to observe himself in a shard of broken glass. Where had his life led him? Where did he go wrong.

After looking into his own eye, Keller looked at the mess he had become. It was then that he noticed a red dot painted over his heart. It was over.

Click. Snipe. Thump.

Runnin' through my head.

Life throws lots of minor inconveniences at us, we all know that, right? Well, I'm dealing with one of those things right now; although it may be a major setback, I'm not sure.

Today I picked up the mail after coming home from tennis practice, and I was pretty mad. It also didn't help that I had a college letter from an admissions office that was paper-thin. I opened it, only to find that I wasn't rejected from college, it was just some problem with my FAFSA or CSS forms. At first I was confused, because I had filled out everything that I was instructed to. Then I read more closely, and found my problem.

"The Noncustodial Parent's Statement you submitted to the Financial Aid Office needs further clarification."


I guess growing up with, or without, something, you just sort of become accustomed to it; you can realize that it's abnormal, but you still can't help the fact that it feels natural. I had forgotten about that error, as most domestic forms that I fill out don't really touch on the subject. The fact that I don't know my biological father is really overlooked, but people seem to get edgy or uncomfortable when it comes up. It's not even that I don't know him because of artificial insemination or because my mother left him or something like that, because she doesn't know either.

When I was a child I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child. And as a child, I didn't know what that meant. My mother always tried to protect me, and that meant that the subject became tabboo. There was no discussion, and I was discouraged from having friends over the house or interacting with other families, for fear that I might "discover" what a "real" family is like. If anything in my environment had an adverse effect on who I am, that was it.

After I entered the fifth grade and saw the basic sex video and learned all of that, I realized what had happened. It was at this point that whatever mental or emotional disorder that I eventually contracted hit me. I learned about protection, and I learned about STDs, and I learned about abortion, and I learned about adoption, and I learned about different types of sex, and I learned where babies come from, and I learned what parents did to have children and I realized what it meant to be a bastard. It all clicked one day, because according to my aunt, my mother was quite the party girl at one time.

Party girl... that means lots of sex, right? And she hadn't had a child before, had she? Well she was obviously being safe, what with multiple partners and all. She had to have multiple partners, because she doesn't know who my father is. But she suddenly stopped, like something unexpected happened. Contraceptive measures don't have a 100% success rate.

Click.

She didn't need to say it. She did, although not at the time. During a fight over this past summer I heard the words that, as far as I can recall, are the only ones that drove me into a near-murderous rage. I'm not going to say it, take a guess. I dare you.

I'll joke about it. "I was too strong for the condom", "I shifted the diaphragm" and various possibilities of my ethnicity are among my favorites. But just because you joke about something doesn't mean you don't care about it. Dave Chappelle jokes about racism, but I bet he would still get really pissed if I went up to his face and called him a n*gg*r.

So I care about it. That doesn't mean I'm ashamed of it, because it's not my fault that I exist (Rene, I know you must be laughing at this one), nor is it my fault that I wasn't put up for adoption. The fact of the matter is that I'm here; nothing can change that.

And even though I've had my problems with it, I'll act otherwise. I plan on selling sperm to research in college. Once sex becomes a routine thing I'll probably care less about protection. I'm pro-choice and I'd like to see further research into stem cell research.

But it's still there. And I still need to deal with it. And I'll always have to deal with it. And I never had anyone to play catch with, or anyone to look up to as a father, or anyone to teach me how to shave or how to tie a tie, or anyone to fight with if I wanted to stir up some conflict, or anyone to tell my mother the nuances of raising a boy instead of a girl, or anyone to teach me how to drive. And I won't have anyone to go to for that father-specific advice, and I won't have anyone to take me to Vegas, or anyone to reference as a father at my wedding, or anyone to look after my kids and be the cool grandfather, or anyone to have a barbecue with after the kids get a little older, or anyone to share in the loss of a relative with, in that father-son way. And I won't have anyone to show me that affection that you know you've truly earned, nor will I have the knowledge of how to father a child of my own, and I don't know how that makes me feel.

Connect the dots. Two pieces.

"I think, therefore I am", it's a Catch-22, a self-referencial philosophy, a lie. It ties together all the thoughts that I've expressed in this blog to date. This isn't intentional by any means, but I might as well address it.

In order to think, one must be real. In order to be real, one must think he is real. In order to think that one is real, the individual must be capable of thought.

Right?

Where is the line drawn? The line between reality and whatever lies beyond it; the same line that limits our capabilities and enforces the laws of physics and time. Psychosomatic care and things of the like exist, and confidence is a one-way ticket in the general direction of victory. That being said, it's clear that the mind is present in all that we do. Thus, those of a stronger mind should be more physically apt and those of weaker minds should be powerless. But there's a balancer, or a series of balancers, that are present. This is reality, not what is tangible, or what we percieve as real, but the balancers that accompany each decision. But the truth of the matter is that reality is unfair and doesn't give itself up to such manipulation. A paradox.

So: I write, therefore I am. Wrong.

Call me an elitist ***hole, but standards need to be put in place. I doodled on a napkin today, does that make me an artist? So... what qualifies existing? You can't exist or be called a thinker just because you think. Where's the substance?

---

You know me already. I shouldn't say that, let me rephrase that. If you're reading this and you're in my Creative Writing class, then you know me already. It doesn't matter if we've ever talked, if we talk every night, what subject matter we discuss or how long we've known each other's names; you know me.

That's the biggest flaw that I see in Prout. It's not the uniforms, it's not the mandatory religion courses, it's not the disciplinary procedures or administration: it's us.

There can be no small talk at Prout, ever. Why? Because you don't need to ask who I hang around with or what kind of stuff interests me, because it's already there. Whether you found my myspace and gave it a quick look or you saw me talking with someone in the hallways, you know me. You only get one first impression, they say. The only problem is that Prout seems to deny you that. You don't get a first impression, you get an instant on-sight evaluation.

So you know me. Or you "know me". Or you fully and legitimately know me, it doesn't matter. Most of us are adults or close enough to them, so why not start to act our age. There's more to us all than meets the eye, and I'd like to see it. You're free to know me as well, if you so choose; the point is that as adults, total strangers can meet and treat each other with respect and maybe even have an intelligent conversation. We all have unique and valuable experiences that we can all benefit from, so why not be symbiotic?

Peace.

In the words of a famous dishwasher.

I guess I'm looking for my "game" lately. I know that at least one of you is getting this reference, which makes it worthwhile.

A blank screen is a difficult thing to turn into words. I wish that something exciting or thought-provoking had happened so I could reflect on it, but for now I'm fresh out. Why is it so important to write every night? Is forced writing better than no writing at all? I mean, there are things I could say, but this is hardly the place. I could pretend that my day-to-day life holds some significance and piss and moan about how I had too much homework or I had to work, but who wants to read that? This is a writing journal, not a damn autobiography. Too many things in life are referencial anyways.

Bingo! He's found something to say!

Life is too referencial to begin with. What do I mean by that? I mean that too many conversations begin with or revolve around a reference to something that has already happened. Not even discussion involving said event, just a reference. A movie quote, an old story, an inside joke; they're all trite and meaningless self-references that prevent thought from occurring. Think about that every time you make reference to something.

Remember that old saying "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all"? I believe the exact opposite, if one exists. The nice things are the meaningless things in life. That isn't to say that they aren't necessary, only that they don't produce anything. Positive reinforcement doesn't directly promote ingenuity. Criticism is the way to go. Fix your errors to make the product as perfect as it can be. Work from the ground up.

Finally:

You can't ask for help to carry your load,
When you complain without halt,
Claiming another's fault,
All the while, playing life on easy mode.

Pay your dues and face the tune,
You'll seek the retribution you feel you deserve,
But for true revenge you've not the hate nor the nerve,
Another ghost town when you pace at the high noon.

But you can spell, so I need not assist you,
Connect the dots,
Mark your own spots,
Then realize why we all can resist you.

But in ten years or so, when we reunite,
I'll laugh and smile,
Knowing you could never walk a mile,
In my shoes and still take flight.

So this is for you, your ridicule,
That rejection, injection and seduction,
Image shearing and ego reduction,
Because now you're thrice the fool.

This is me telling you what to think.

I can't help but be amused whenever I think about the chat that took place during our last class together. Dr. Hillman told us all that we were being told what to think, and we all believed him. Is anyone else connecting the dots yet? Don't get me wrong, this isn't an act of insubordination, merely casual and comedic observation. We are being told to think for ourselves. And you know what the most tragic part of that is? We're doing it; we're thinking for ourselves at the request of another. In the infamous words of the internet: "lol".

Well, that's it. What more is there to say? Insert another one of those awkward silences here, right? Well that's what I'm worried about in the future. If you watch Everybody Loves Raymond or some other sitcom you'll see the parents chatting incessantly, as there's always some curveball that life's thrown. Then I look at my own life, and how it's different in that respect. When I come home, I don't exchange twenty words with my mother throughout the course of a night. Weekends might have a conversation in them, but most of the time is plagued by silence. Okay, I need to stop here, because I'm turning the blog into a damn shrink's office.

Is there anything more frustrating than a Catch-22? What's worse than being stuck inside of a cycle that you can't escape because of circumstance. In any other position, you would have the ability to leave as you please, but you're stuck there because of circumstance. And there's just too much to write about that feeling: the snowball effect that it produces, the intense emotion that it drives, the twisted situations that it can result in and the various scenarios that occur when catch-22s are there.

I'm stopping before I go off on a tangent and start talking too much. That never results in anything good.

By request.

And by request, you'll get the first page of my work in the works, which is easily the safest part of the piece.

I awoke to the all too familiar sound of a blaring alarm. Twelve high pitched squeals in quick succession and then a two second break. I can’t count the times that I had just let it ring, becoming more and more frustrated with the machine for wanting me to shut it off. Every morning it was the same struggle, a cage match between me and my alarm. Eventually, I’d become frustrated with the alarm and hit the snooze button before turning over again. This battle would continue until one of us gave up, and that alarm clock had nerves of steel. It had a truly ingenious design. It took a fair amount of dexterity to finally turn the damn thing off, which insured that the user was awake. I can imagine the sadist who designed it. He probably wore a white lab coat while he worked, just to be a jerk. Nobody likes guys who wear white lab coats unnecessarily. And he probably didn’t need to sleep either, so he could make his clock as annoying as possible. I can see him now, giggling madly as he watches some poor test subject at work through one of those two-way mirrors.

“Well,” I mumbled to myself, “I guess I’ve got no choice.” I began work on my project for the morning, which was to give myself some much needed peace and quiet. Unfortunately, the clock had other plans. Every morning was the same; I’d awaken from a dream that didn’t exist, pretending I was annoyed that I couldn’t see the ending, but I knew the truth: I hadn’t dreamed in months. The brain needs dreams to function, and without them it starts to tell you that things are wrong. First you start sleeping more, I’ve noticed that. Then there are drastic changes in your mood, followed by the hallucinations. They start out small enough, an extra bird in a group, glare from somebody’s nonexistent watch, a leaf that blows in the wind. But you’d be amazed how quickly those things add up. Soon, there are drastic changes: cars suddenly disappear from your rearview mirror and the phone will ring when it’s turned off. Fortunately, my hallucinations were very mild in contrast to what they could have been. I don’t think I’ve lost enough REM to induce seriously threatening hallucinations, but my point still stands, dreaming keeps you stable and keeps you sane. What I wouldn’t give to dream again.

Slowly, I pushed off the sheets that kept my body at a comfortable temperature and rolled myself over into an awkward position. It’s the way I wake up. Slowly, I felt around my nightstand in an attempt to find my glasses. Every now and then, my dear feline would knock them onto the floor, which throws off my precise morning routine. I usually give myself about twenty minutes to shower, ten minutes to eat, five minutes to get dressed and five minutes to deal with other assorted morning duties and hygiene. It takes me about eight minutes to get to school, but I drive faster than I should, so I don’t know if that counts for anything. I cherish those forty-eight minutes every morning, so much that I like nothing better in the morning to than to stand in the shower and let the water cascade along my back and chest. I can’t describe it; it’s just such a soothing feeling. I often spend more time in the shower than I allot for in my schedule; it adds some much needed chaos to my morning routine.

It was a very unremarkable morning; I don’t believe it could have been more average. That isn’t, to say, that the morning itself was just like all other mornings because it was the same, but because it was different. My mother had left for work by the time I got out of the shower, so I was free to do whatever I ---

There's the cutoff. That's what you get. I can't be working for hours and hours on a project if I'm just going to give it away. The full version will run you at least $15.99 if I can hook a producer.

Much Deliberation.

After deleting about six semi-posts, I've decided that I don't want to write tonight. If you want my thoughts, or even some class discussion, go back an entry or two. Like it, hate it, indifferent to it, I don't care; just acknowledge it. Writing is useless without an audience, and if I'm not being read then what incentive is there for me to write? I can't reveal any of my real inner thoughts in here, because I've seen outhouses with more privacy than Prout. Not to mention, who really wants to deal with the day-to-day life of a teenager? Please, that's boring as hell. This isn't a journal; too many blogs are written as journals. "I got up today and made a sandwich, then I went to the mall and bought two books on knitting." Whoop dee damn doo. It's for this reason that writing is really dying, because every jackass who can punch the keys (for God's sake!) on a computer is getting a book published.

And yet, I write. I write every night in a novel that I'll probably never publish. Why? Because it's nonfictional fiction. Because the book is another "coming of age" novel with the cliche bullshit that life throws at us in there. Because I don't want to be another bargain bin author who writes like he's getting paid by the word. Because I want to end this age of useless literature and put out something meaningful into the world. That impossible though, because the theoretical haystack is bigger now. Every time some thoughtless, forced, meaningless science-fiction or fantasy novel is released to try and ride out the wave that other books of the genre have created, it makes it harder to be noticed. If fifteen books were written in one year, each one would get special notice. If fifteen thousand books were written in one year, then you've got three pages to hook a reader. Maybe five, but the point still stands.

It's a damn shame.

...With a blue moon in my eyes.

Why does writing bad things get you attention? A well-written, thought out letter is tossed aside too much, usually in favor of some mindless clutter of words on a page that could loosely be called an idea. While they will usually take the organized essay more seriously, the foolish letter leaves a larger impact. Obviously, there are exceptions, but for the most part, idiots rule society. Twice I have been indirectly involved with Audrey Laganis, and both times the claims placed forth were unintelligent and foolish.

I won't go into detail about the situations, because quite frankly it's boring and long and you really don't care. Both times, the controversy was riddled with ignorance and sheer stupidity. This further reinforces the thing that I believe above all others, that the Greeks were right for drowning their mentally disabled. Well, not exactly, because there are mentally handicapped people who live comfortable lives and can be attended for properly, but there are people who should simply be put out of their misery. It must hurt to be as stupid as some people out there, and they are the people who gain media attention. There should be a point in society where a person is deemed "To stupid to live" and should be killed. In public. Graphically.

There should also be tests for other important parts of life. For example, I think you should have to pass a general intelligence test in order to have sex, because you may very well be parenting a child. Who knows when a condom will break or a diaphragm will shift? I'm the direct result of faulty birth control; I am living proof that the 99.97% safety rating on condoms still leaves 0.03% for shit to hit the fan. Thus, I propose that sex should come with a test. You have three chances, and if you fail three times then you're shipped off. Not only that, I'm also just sick of watching kids with IQs lower than their shoe sizes getting more action than I do. That's infuriating, knowing that you're superior to someone and being forced onto a lower rung of society than them.

But I digress, if I can still use that phrase. Fools always get attention, simply put. Think about how many sources of media are used to focus on people who are considered borderline retarded? Cops, Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, World's Most (Adjective) (Noun), Jackass (which I love, to set the record straight), Beavis and Butthead, almost any sitcom you can think of, all of it appeals to the bottom rung of the food chain, because they make up entirely too much of the population.

Crime.

I found myself watching the first season of The Sopranos today, and I actually considered organized crime. The main problem with this is that I'm not fully Italian, I'm most likely 7/8 Italian and 1/8 Irish, but with a name like "Dylan Murphy" that gets magnified. Maybe I could take up an alias, use my grandmother's maiden name, that could work. "Tony Colucci", "Vincent Colucci", "Timothy Colucci", anything that isn't Dylan, Ryan, Brian, Sean or Seamus.

But then again, it's crime. Crime is so glorified by the media, if you stop to look at it. All that the news talks about it murders and robberies, and then there are shows like CSI, Law and Order, The Sopranos and older shows like Miami Vice. Grand Theft Auto, 25 to Life, State of Emergency and Marc Ecko's Getting Up are just a few interactive crime video games. Pulp Fiction, Narc, Scarface, or anything with Al Pacino in general, The Godfather, Goodfellas, and even mild shit like Half Baked, it's all about crime. It's a dangerous lifestyle, and dangerous means exciting, and exciting means entertaining! Such a short-sighted society we live in, if I may say so myself. Hell, I'm not saying that I'm any better, I was considering changing my name and faking my own death to pursue a life in organized crime. I wasn't considering it for very long, but the thought was still there.

It looks to be a boring month ahead, that awkward transition between winter and spring. Personally, I can't wait until summer comes, and I'm sick of people saying that summer sucks and winter is all fun and sunshine and all that crap. It's cold out, and the roads get icy, and I almost hit a telephone pole at 40 miles per hour, and I need to warm up my car and waste gas. Screw winter, give me summer. Granted, it would be nice to have some extra time to go snowboarding or get another snow day or two, but I can't wait until I can pick up my racket and play pick-up tennis again. I'm also looking forward to chilling out on my roof at 9 PM, when the sun sets, and just reading or killing time.

I also find it ironic that I keep this blog for a creative writing class, but I haven't written any poetry or prose in it, only observations.

Winning isn't everything, but dammit it's something.

So yeah, high school. Cliques, class, detention, interaction, homework, uniform violations, tests, teachers, peers, exams, friends, clubs, tryouts, reading, writing, frustration, falling out, ANGST!, emotion, anxiety, drama, theatre, announcements, tag days, yearbooks, wins, losses, work, uniforms, drama, music, dances, parties, sex, hangovers, drinking, games, drinking games, smoking, cheating, class rank, inside jokes, honor roll, honors track, sped classes, social events, sports games, drama, fidelity, infidelity, fornication, masturbation, application, exacerbation, vacation, relation, experimentation, conversation, organization, observation, complications, realizations, temptation, rest and relaxation, popularity, social standings, drama, midterms, awkward situations, competition, backstabbing, deceit, drama, GPA, AP, SATs, IB, ACTs, TMI, LOL, PDAs, AIM, iTunes, iPod, iRaq, notes, drama, pranks, hanging out, out sick, "out sick", rejection, acceptance, killing time, complaining, late nights, coffee, Applebees, Brewed, sushi, pizza, buffallo wings, chicken, soda, art, concerts, sleep, car troubles, driving, speeding, cops, tickets, fear, drama, TV, reality TV, reality, 40 winks, late pass, compromise, socialize, realize, sympathize, finalize, tears, fears, beers, fights, lights, endless nights, ideal, worst-case, identity, confusion, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, maturity, advice, attitude, tone, rebellion, conformity, non-conformity, anti-non-conformity, establishmentarianism, long words, thesauruses, theses, theories, formulas, patterns, predictions, agendas, schedules, long period, liturgy day, "what time is this class over?", pessimism, optimism, realism, peer pressure, pressure, drama, final exams.

Yep... high school.

Write a fake, inappropriate article for me.

I was just watching Pulp Fiction, the scene were Mia and Vincent are in Jack Rabbit Slims for those of you who are familiar with the film, and I really started to analyze the film more closely. There's tons of wisdom hidden between the swears and the panic that the movie provides, if you know where to look. In this particular scene, Mia says one line that really made me think: "You know you've found someone special; when you can just shut the f*ck up and enjoy the silence."

It's true, it really is. We always feel so compelled to create conversation, to create the same situations over and over again, and I don't know why. What is it about silence that is so repulsive? Even after realizing this, silence is still awkward between people. I can drive in silence, but I always put on music. I could be sitting here right now typing this, but I insist on watching this part of Pulp Fiction, one that I must have seen at least thirty times. I can recite this speech verbatum at will, but I want to hear Christopher Walken deliver it. It's a part of out nature, I guess, but why? Is that cultural or natural? Horror movies are always silent because it creates a suspense. When bad things happen, you block out a lot of your peripheral hearing. Silence also makes all the smaller sounds seem that much bigger, meaning that the tree falling four miles away is more sudden, louder, more shocking.

But there are a few people who I can enjoy silence with. My cousin Aaron is one of those people. During a trip to my aunt's house, I checked out UMD and went to some of his classes. While we were eating, we just ate. We didn't make small talk, we didn't joke around, we just ate and sat in silence. It was really nice actually, and it's probably one of the best lunches I've ever had. Because that's hard to do, stay silent when in someone's presence. There's always that desire to strike up conversation about something or to just try and impress them and be funny. I think that silence should be observed more often, that it would be cool to just be with someone for fifteen minute and to not speak, but to appreciate things about them and about what you have.

Like that'll ever happen.