Resolutions

1. My goals? Reaching them.

2. My hopes? Being happy and being loved.
3. My dreams? Animating them to move and dance, making them three dimensional so I can at least hold the notion that someday; they'll happen.
4. My inspirations? They inspire me to inspire myself, while inspiring others.
5. My desires? Pure happiness, pure love, pure life.
6. My fears? Nothing.

!

How pathetic can I feel? Lets stretch and find out...
1,2,3,4

AHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why do I always stop and start, stop and start, I"M SO ANGRY AT MYSELF! I poured hot emotion into this thing and I just stopped dead in the rain, letting my self SOAK! ARG, what's wrong with me?! I swear I'm having a mental block. Bull to the shit this SUCKS

it's not that I don't like writing on this, but the old memories have just been painted black in my mind. That's why I was left scrambled in the dark, not knowing where to go or what was behind or in front of me, but that only concerns this blog. You know what I'm talking about, don't you? It's when something gets stopped so abruptly that you don't really know how to pick up the pieces and start over, or even continue. It's hilarious how much brain power it took me to figure out what the hell I was gonna write. I was thinking to myself "Just write fo' chrissake!". My dear apologies, I just threw a curve ball to the Catcher in The Rye. Well, a quarter goes into the lame joke for that one.... Funny days, man, funny days. The more and more I see days go by without laughs, jesus christ what has this world gotten too. It's like a chicken hangin' on a wire bein' dragged towards those blades, not knowing what the hell is gonna happen and where they're gonna go next. That's kinda what I think this world is like...

I can't stop tapping my fingers......... Tap tap tap tippidy tap..... It's a sickness of EPIC proportions. But is there an antidote? I think not! early in the morning i stepped into the pleasant and calm computer lab at school. The first thing I ask? How do i become a photogrpaher for the school newspaper??? THE NEXT ANSWER? YES!!!! Yes, yes, yes! WOOOOO HOOOO! Tap tap tap tippidy tap tap tap! YES!







sorry, I'm just a little EXCITED! :P

random pictures

mmmmm yummy
Bonjour, bonsoir, slut, allô, ça va!
Lalalalalalalala land...
Chores... Like the burnt toast to my breakfast...
GIVE ME MY BANANAS!!!!!

Something We Can ALL Agree On...

I've realized now that there is an epidemic going on all around the world... This goes of for all the kids suffering and being punished with a relentless iron fist. There is nothing to look forward to as we walk through our front doors. Just sheet after sheet of pure hatred! What does this show? That we are slaves and were always slaves before we even knew it! The sky has turned bald with the dark forces! Our only ounce of trade is homework and schoolwork! We have nothing to do except for work work work. And I'M TIRED OF IT. We are the junior scribes. Running across a minefield in our bare feet. We won't stop, we CAN'T stop. Even if we feel our lungs drying and dusting... And when we DO get a break it's as simple as the half-eaten loaf on the bare sidewalk! I feel like there's NOTHING LEFT INSIDE ME! It's do this and do that, fix this and fix that. Right now life SUCKS. And my work tainted fingernails are pointed STRAIGHT AT THE SCHOOL SYSTEM!

fantasies....

it's the classic tale of Greek titan vs. Greek God... Cronus versus Zeus... Del Po versus Darth Fed... Del Potro versus Federer! Their straitjacket-tight strings smash those bitty green balls. baapwoo! boopwaa! baapwoo! boopwaa! streeeep! streep! the sounds of the court are never really the same on TV... Zeus zaps with his mighty lightning, Cronus mailing it back with his Dark Sickle... But Cronus's strike rocks Zeus from the ground under him.

Cronus splinters a boulder through the air, crack!, but it is split and cracked into dust by a wall of lightning. One more throw for Cronus, a miss, but no rock was harmed. Civilians of Crete look up in awe as the Gods battle for the role of King. Zeus cracks his lightning again, and Cronus's response lacks power. The bald sky shoots down with claps of fire. A rolling river of sweat streams out of the thousands of resavours on both of their faces. Cronus's strike; a blistering strike with his Sickle, and another boulder is sent flying. Things in Zeus's head were going twice as slow, he grasps more time to concentrate. A swing up with a saber of lightning and the boulder is sent to the ground.

"You do not know the power of the dark side" Darth Fed croaked in a monumental tone. Sparks flew as their sabers cracked.
" No!!" Del Po released an array of attacks. Shoom! Shoom! Both sabers were engulfed into a collage of burning colors. Back and forth the slashes and stabs go. A quick slash up and down, Darth Fed was immediately engulfed in pain. He is slowly being defeated by someone he thought to be younger, and weaker... Darth Fed knows now that he will never win... Slowly raises his one hand and surrenders...

Just some fantasies I have about the US Open Championship.......

silent mornings.......

deserted mornings..... doesn't it happen all the time? to you??? not that I have anything against it... But I'd much rather be with my companions and friends. the morning; the the calm of fall. but it gives me things to do. one day, we'll be able to make the days longer, and the mornings larger. and maybe, just maybe, when the moon drifts away, we'll only have summer... the moon is like the kid who follows the popular kids, they slowly, slowly drift away... the mornings are so calm, they give me many many many trances... that's why in the mornings I talk like this...... and artwork in the morning is nice and quite solitude...





there are other pictures on my Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=144493&id=143830819950&saved#/pages/cromequaz/143830819950

Still horrified...
still speechless
Still confused...


still paying tribute...

still trying to change with the tides...STILL REMEMBERING

Do They Mean Anything?????`

do they mean anything? or are they completely RANDOM? a picture keeps flashing in my mind: a wild mushroom with large, red grotesque eyes beams and roars down at a pack on wild Native Americans...I only see it through the dry and slightly browning grass. I can't see the wooden spears and arrows stuck in the wild mushroom because they are shaded in by his oak-brown skin. Just another random picture stuck in my mind...

and last night, while the strict part of my mind was at rest, my wild side roamed. But in my dream, I walked under the highway in the middle of the night. Rats scurried to the carcass of a fellow dirt rodent. For some reason I imagine myself in a long brown trench coat, the seams are weaved in leather. and a thickly rimmed hat covers part of my face. But I'm looking at myself from somewhere else, while my body roams in the shadows. With a flash of light-crack!- I'm back, seeing through my own eyes again. I tall skinny figure looms in the single ray of the street light ahead of me. Water tickles my toes, running through the fabric of my sneakers. The constant splish splash of puddle water annoys me. A warning signal went off in my brain. My head snapped to the right, the last I saw of that tall, looming figure, was him melting into mush and sliding down a sewage drain...

"Hello, 911" yawned the opperator. it sounded like he wanted to have better things to do, but didn't.
"Hello? Yes," the words quickly sputtered from my mouth, " someone has melted again," I couldn't grasp for words. I was weary now.
" Ahem, sir? Did you just say that someone melted?" the opperater tried to sound fearless, but he failed.
"ye-ye," deep breaths, I told myself..." yes. Into the drains," -more weariness- " I know his name..."
" can you tell me his name?"
" yes, yes I can..."
"well then sir won't you tell me his name?!"
"yes, yes of course..." The last words were studdered. The next thing I knew, I was reforming from a liquid paste in the dark drains of London...

boom, there goes the summer...

This summer my brain felt like a car with it's back wheels stuck in a crater. Every day I would run the tires as fast as they went, and for a couple of minutes there was a hope of getting out of the crater. But the fact that it was summer degraded my persistence. a lazy day in the pool and a lalala...dancing like a fool and a hahaha...eating all the things i want...one last sliver?...no no i really can't!...... boom, there goes the summer... one last day, i gotta make it good or else that one last sliver won't count. there's a returning favorite, but a mistake by me probably ruined it... boom, there goes the summer...

people aren't just like grapes. They are grapes. Starting off small, supported by stems of life. Growing sweet and delicious. But if they are left to dry up, they will lose everything that was dear to them... And if they are squashed and pressed to much they will become to strong, to unforgiving... But the wine usually only tastes good if it's vintage, left to think in the cellar...
What am I talking about? I don't understand what I'm saying, I'm just too droopy and tired. It's like an epidemic, me and books. I hope you agree. One day I'm going to walk into a book store and see a novel with my name on it...

it was like a fresh and flaky pie. Looking up at me with it's cinnamon apple eyes. I knew what was on the outside, but was the inside worth the wait? hmmm, that sounds good... I picked up up, and gave it to the cashier. yes, i can't wait! Well, I have to say that that was a weird simile for a video game...

i was consumed and digested into the world of Lego people, jumping and propelling Lego light-sabers at each other.... That was why I didn't write much at all, and why I have a new found obsession with Legos...

summers closing up, it's gonna wait another ten months. rusting again through the falling leaves, the snow and rain and thunder. then when summer comes again, it's gonna take me another week to open it for myself...

Music is blasting my brain, making me forget how slow I'm moving in real life. But in my mind I move with the wind on a spring day. Whistling like Apollo, almost silent; beautiful. But different people can see it as a howling storm or the calm before and after (with out intermission...). The next thing I know I'm signing my Will, it goes that fast. But I'm really only moving as fast as everyone else is. But, some think 'to fast!' and some; 'to slow'. How can I stress this more? Life is random, time is all the same on the outside; it just depends on what your doing inside.

OK, I'm coming clean. I have a couple new ideas for this thing, so if there are changes, just roll with the tides. I want it to be an array of different things!

Dreaming- 8/29/09

I stood in the rain looking up at the face of a massive castle. The sun was shining, no clouds but thunderous rain. I'm shadowed so deeply the live Bulldog Gargoyles cannot see or smell me.

Yes, I've been running down the hot asphalt street of summer in my socks. oh, it's bad. once I'm done running, there will be something taken off of me,a thin layer of sock. you see, with out your shoes to talk to and laugh with and be friends with through out the whole summer, it's obviously different. Personally I always end up running with socks. I guess next year I'm gonna tie my shoes extra tight.

quickly it ran,
rusted like the past laps by the rain,
slip and fall,
a burnt scab gets freshly cut,
burn,
groan,
just the tar like grains,
they keep it down until it's pulled out,

but small blood still taints the tar,
until it's picked up again,

ahhh summer...

it's the toy that barely get taken out,

when it does;

it can haunt you,

and make you as lonely as the sun,

no stars,

just the sun...

ahh summer...

The last golden scratch on the wall of sacrament. You could also call it the last knot in a perfect shoelace. But lets just stick with the last day. Last days come in 2 forms; a. Holy crap that was fun, oh no now I'm crying; and b. Damn this place sucked! Scoring is the easiest part; A.

calling all ice cream lovers, stay away from most DQ's! Today my stomach was killed by the new Blizzard of the Month; the MALICE BLIZZARD! A solein and sulen server awaited our order as my finger nails got literally glued to the skin by layers of wax. Scratched off as I made the final golden scratch decision; thin mint- the flawless dictator- or Heat Bar- you know, the one I've never really tasted- finally, I gave in to the minty dictatorship... But it sucked at the end due to two kids working there listening to their crappy pop music. So, if you're expecting a good Blizzard, make it yourself, it's not that hard. Just take some ice cream, an egg beater, and some MnM's and your all good!

That's not the final grain picked up on the golden scratch though; I found this guy on Youtube. He is awesome! Amazing short films, and awesome stop-motion. Seriously, SUbscribe to this guy!
http://www.youtube.com/user/patrickboivin?blend=2&ob=4

that's a link to his channel on youtube, check it out, IT"S AWESOME!

i'll have a blue christmas with out youuuuu,
i'll have a blue christmas with out youuuuu,
decorations are great, on a green christmas tree,
but mean nothing, when you're not hear with me,
i'll have a blue christmas, that's certain,
and when that blue heatache starts hurtin,
you'll be due in our life, with your christmas so bright,
but i'll have a blue, blue christmas....


it's hard, because ever since i was born, christmas has been family sacrament. well, almost like that... and it's an oddity that i'm writting about christmas in the middle of august. but ever since i was four, a chasm has trapped me in between two sides of one broken heart. -you would know who you are-. my tears are the only things to keep me alive, and yet i can never die. I don't think i ever will die. so, come on, give me a ladder, give me a bridge, let me climb and let me cross this christmas. because i can't have a good christmas with our ms. claus or santa claus -you know who you are, mom, dad-

certain complications shadow my chances of putting up pictures. Lies and misenturpritations spring up in my head. where did i put that damn disk!? today i'm getting to the art museum in philly, can't wait to walk through the 4 titan like pillars and into it. i don't want, I need to see some art. some insparation please?! for the last 3 day's i haven't painted, drawn, or even sculpted anything... I feel like a lamp post with flickering lights.

the first artists didn't have any inspiration, just imagination. maybe I don't need insparation? just my hands and my slimy brain... but it's almost impossible to get out of, imagination is sparked from insparation. what can be made out of a bunch of soda bottles and guitar strings? what about an old piece of underwear and a sharpie? the world is always here, right in front of you, now don't waste your time idling.

what if

Why am I slowly dripping away, I, melting butter. Of all the things to do, this one lap in the writers' gym wears me out. Even before I start, I fade like dying memories. But maybe they'll resurface from the black tar? ( Not even water. Can't see ANYTHING)...

everyone's grown from a sapling, a minescule seed. Some grow to flourish, while others die in the sun. But that's not important; what my question is, is why can't we remember being toddlers? Yea, the guys down the hall figured that out in a lab. But really, from an emotional perspective...

I remember almost everyday of my life since 6th grade. Yet the fertalized sapling I used to be is another person. It's just depressing how the best time of your life gets washed away by the rage of life. Maybe if it would stop, we could actually catch it. What if the sun drank to much Red-Bull??? What if... what if............................

Random Thoughts...

1. YOU CAN'T LIVE LIFE LOOKING UP AND DOWN AT THE FUTURE AND PAST, YOU'VE GOTTA THINK OF THE PRESENT, OR YOU'LL GET KNOCKED ON YOUR ASS
2. IF YOU REALLY THINK ABOUT IT, SOME RICH PEOPLE DON'T HAVE BETTER LIVES. THEY CAN BE LIKE HOLINDAYS SAUCE, IT'S RICH BUT CAN MAKE PEOPLE SICK!
3. PEOPLE WHO DON'T RESPECT THEMSELFS' WON'T GET ANYWHERE
4. Everyone's a little messed up in the head, but only some people know how to use that part of their brain correctly: artists. ( Don't get me wrong, i'm an artist, and i REALLY am messedup in the head...)
5. Sometimes life is like a straight jacket, you go insane trying to get out.
   
6. There's always a group of people you can be with and be happy and be friends.
   
7. If you're not getting every ounce of milk from the cow, you can't make butter.
   

Blood

the blood,
pure blood of the orchestra:
indentical to mine

like the heart being buried inside,
there is...a tape player....
on...
and off,
PROJECTING,
to myself

I could be the driver,
seated in the first non-drive driver's seat
foggy insperation only comes when the blood runs clean
but for others??? may-bee...

DARK ORCHESTRA,
set me freeeeee
the heart finds it...well, comferting...
but the mind,
the ikel,
thickly bound mind...
it speaks for itself: odd...
massively odd

the tape player of the gods,
runs and runs in my head...

it's like the fart of an ogre,
silent, but can kill!

when I'm the one projecting,
nothing, not even nature is contemplated,
but when the music is fed to my soul,
I feel like life itself

...

The stories all around me, relinquished by imagination of the scribe. Questionable reason. Told from recent events? Or past, present, and future of the state of mind. Walls are plastered with the oracles. Propelled in black and white. All but one scribe, and all but all this work. Must be pleasureful, but, only sometimes.

Right now the clock's dusted, ounces of time dried and shriveled.

I

I:
hate,
love,
hug,
shove,

I:
listen,
speak,
strong,
weak

I:
my own,
myself,
my me,
my democracy

I:
lie,
cry,
truthfull,
questioning (why?...)

I:
burp,
fart,
no mercy,
heart

I:
my own,
my self,
my me,
my republic

I:
only I,
possibilities,
failure,
comedies,

I:
calm,
restless,
tranquil,
wreakless

I:
I,
I
I,
I

Babu

silent sihlouette of a summer day: the overpowering clouds


Hands boroughed,
the golden fleet of strands,
radiating; heat.
the love of a dog!

warming,
cautious of reaction,
fear of Zeus's power...

but Zeus's power;
it's daily
I
Him
Both
Man and friend
Concure the lighting with a belly rub and a doggy treat!

Black: The Paradox of Absence-ianitess

The light: its crusade,
the absence: its greed

the absence swallowed it all,

the dark: the absence,
the deep: the absence,
the absence: ...

when there is no crusade,
then comes the absence of search; for absence?

the cycle: the absence
the question: cycle of absence?

the conclusion?
state of confusion...

leave it to the absence...

Fail

Masterfull anthem,
loops through my ears
the dying complexity,
it screeches at my fears

the trees dance to merry tunes
but the question of reality must be asked

a breathless rant,
through the universal bullhorn
the music; the cavalry
me; the command

swaying forth and proceeds,
capturing the right of passage
yet only a day dream

reality hands the music only a small attempt

a fail to the masses

Savior

Some days... I can hear myself screaming inside. Even when I turn to run, my guiding angel twists me around at the waste, to face my fear. My enemy... Like Typhon; it towers over me as it trudges among scattered corpses of prior attempts, and failures... a haunting. It presents me with a task and with a risk, but conceals the punishment behind bars, waiting for the perfect moment to caress my fleash with it's mighty fangs.

I can hear it. Imploding. The cries for aid sink my heart, for I know that the aid might not come. Whines... Un-deserving to be left astray to fend for itself, when once before it fended for others. IN some minds, the loyalty of the warrior goes unfavored. It makes me want to explode...

Sometimes I want to scream out the sickness... But I question the logic, is it the correct way - for me at least- to explore my emotions? Maybe the answer lies inside. At times I have to dig to find. That one tiny clue...

Today comes a rush of labor, tomorrow comes nothing but more. A pit stop from hell, kept me waiting for my return, but my savior - my guiding angel- knows where to direct me. But I question one thing: who is my guiding angel? I think I might have to dig to find out...

Remnants and Remins of Apocolypse

Remains of apocolypse, scattered across the aspholt walk ways of my physical being. A fun place; time; ride. One word to describe: sarcasm. Great days! A week and a half just compounded into pills and vomit-pills. Parks and recreation has not even bothered to clean and fix my long lasting remains. If parks and recreations was medicine, and blankets, and pillows, and television, and naps, and water. Wait, one more word. This time; to describe my need, my want, my yearning. The word? Salvation.

If you had a line chart that measured my level of sickness for the last couple of days, and thought about those machines in the hospital that measure heart rate; I would be dead if I was measured with that thing... Not sunken completely to the bottom of the screen in a straight line. But almost at the bottom in a straight line...

It makes me question myself and the level of "positivity" I can accumulate. I estimate that at this moment I can rack up as much "positivity" as an old 90 year old can grow. I call it "it", so when ever I refer to being sick i say "Oh no I have 'it' ". It just makes me shiver in grief that my pleading and whining for assistance didn't assist me very well...

The pesky media! Oh they make me really...really... ("angry" sounds a bit fierce for my mood so I have reached the decision that I am going to say "irate") irate! It is a mouthful and loads of rubbish. Stop and think... I don't believe that I have ever mentioned the word "rubbish". Although it would be nice to hear someone read this in a British accent... Totally over exaggerated and payed for by the government so it can make the government so it can look "great and heroic because that is what America is all about". Now what did the media actually do? Oh, nothing much... Just that they blew a certain sickness out of proportion so certain people were afraid they might catch it from a certain someone and it almost ruined a certain someones day and I (ahem, I mean a certain someone...) was enraged and had daydreams of hurting a certain group of people through wires of my rage. It's an abyss, honestly. I won't tell you anymore because a) it's a long story b) you really won't care.

Well, that is in the past! Something someone else would say. The most vexatious thing I have ever come across. It reminds me of how stupid people can be with the way they handle life. Literally, this could be the conversation.

Guy 1: Hey man!
Guy 2: What's up
Guy 1: Nothing, you?
Guy 2: Dad just died, lost a friend to a racoon...
Guy 1: Aw dude! Leave it be! Bury your emotions deep in your sould for all eternity so you can relish in your rage when you brun in hell!
Guy 2 walks away and ends friendship... FOREVER

Now my point is stated! How would you feel if someone said that to you?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

A Lot of Italic

Past. Present. Future. Time isn't relavint to me, ever. What seemed to be this turned to be that. I'm not enclosed as usual, out their for everyone to see, now. An unknown presence; sometimes I just hate compliments. Wow? The part of my writing that makes sense died yesterday... 'Cause I killed him... yes I did. But my brethren Hades can bring his soul back to me. I'm making a guess that this is just a system of vents that are filled with the aroma of random and silly and serious and well...complex, thoughts.

1.That song, that song that song that song! It won't leave me alone now matter how hard I try to push it away and out of my head... Out of my head you, you, you, you ugly butt-face!
2. I hate this headache I want to punch the wall really really hard!
3. I'm screaming inside...
4. You can never look at a glass half full, it is always both half full and half empty...
5. The media can exagerate my life in ways but I don't watch the news much...
6. Just one more thought....
7. Next post: from my notebook, every thing after this is from my notebook...
7.

Seven Day Circle Woo-hoo...

A full circle would be the description of my journey the past week... Seven days of sick. I slowly walk along the boundaries of this slim crater, one time around and I'm back at the bottom of the pit. I'm a normal casualty to the sickness, but it really likes me this time around... Who put sandpaper in my throat? Who shoved the sharpie up my nostrils? Who hung me upside down like a dead piece of meat? Oh wait sorry, that was me who let the sickness through my doors. Hm... I need better security. I don't know... Ha! Honey and tea will aid me in this damn "journey".

Really. I'm getting tired of formal foes breaking down the doors on my healthy body. It's healthy for a reason! Go make some other sucker sick! $#!† ∑˙å† †˙´ ƒ¨ç˚ ∂ˆ∂ ˆ ∂ø ∑®ø˜© †ø ∂´ß´®√´ †ø ∫´ ߈ç˚¡¡¡÷÷÷... Yeah go try to decipher that, then you can tell me I'm stupid. Then them or they or what ever it is can blabber on about their lives and act like people actually give-a-hoot about who their new brethren or mortal enemy is. Hey I've said that many times before, but I'm to lazy right now to go back and count. Hey maybe you could do my work for me, because I'm sick and you don't want to get sick-dude-spit all over you. Eh?

We appologize for our dilusional hobo-talk but we are behind in buisness at the moment.
Closed.
Opening time will be when we open.

Liberation of the Free

The probability of a psycho quake is to quadrillion to one. Oh no here comes the break down... Time escaped my grasp twice before and it is liberated from my hands yet again. A circus life bringing my city streets to the ground. A final stand as I reach home, but the explosives go off. No time, haha no time anymore. Work ahead on a dusty road that is un prevailed to the end. A put off task, what more should I ask. Please, give me more.
The battery sinks to the lowest point of Tatarus and is forever mourned by me. A chance of a split crack of writing time might come my way... Might...

Red Matter

To aptly describe the moment, I would have to have an outbreak of anger and rage, leaving remnants of wire and glass shattered on the floor. Decibles, estimated and rounded to one hundred, they pumble my ear drums and split through the skin and into the hollow vessel. It rips through my senses, and commits a profound arson. My, my, options shrink as the red matter is injected to my inner core. A petrifying black hole emerges from my heart and buries me alive, comparing and contrasting the right and wrong in me. Before I am split into oblivion and cast out to a 9th dimension, I am stricken by an invisible force that binds me to a tree a stitched scar. Two things seperated, and bound back together by that... red matter.

A dense colony of dead memories and undecided prophecies. No words, haha it's gone. I'm gone, for the moment.

Hm... What to Put as the Title... Hm...

A guilt for the non proceeded attempt to flex my emotions. A retorical question; where have I been all this time? Stuck in the middle while time slides beneath it's self, tetonic plates of seconds and hours crashing and structuring valleys of mountains I must over come to type a small paragraph again. If time had a simple definition it would be wasted.

time: noun/enemy (tie- m´)
1.a simple measurement that gives you the idea that your life is slowly turning to dust
2. something that you can't evade and can not make it go slower

Valleys bring small parcels of guilt and pleasure, the pleasure proceeds to guilt and so on. A journey denied but so often accepted. Yet there is no chance for another decision due to the labyrinth I roam. A long past, an evolution of character. My spine spins but my head stays still. Others' notions flood my self awareness and guilt rides among my soul again. I'm forced against a fence and played like a puppet, being controlled by sinister popes of plastic culture and "propitious" religion. Apparently, souls are flooded with ridiculous claims that an invisible man that created man kind, controls who you are and your life. Hm, that sounds interesting. OK, so our president is a unicorn! They are wrong. My evidence? The mirror in your bathroom, look in your mirror, and you have found your prophet. I am not stating that the "Almighty" or the "Creator" isn't real. He is not real, but he is real. No one knows. My opinion: there is no such thing as god. See? I didn't capitalize his name.

I have one statement and that is all, no wait, I have 2 statements.
1. I am only voicing my opinion, if you don't like it, don't read the rest of this sentence. I'm not trying to change your religious views. I don't care if you are religious, you are who you are and I shouldn't judge your personality by your religion.
2. If Adam and Eve were the first two people then all of the human race on the earth today would be mentally disabled and only one race. Are we like that? I think not

Storm

A hunger, hungry. An itch for dialects, to mist my ambitions. Set to mist, set to concentrate. I can't let the world hear or sense my ambitions, by default, it gets in the way. A jackhammer to crush and destroy that roadblock. The fences must fall.

Spiraling barbed wire, perched atop weaved steel. Climb the fence! Climb, climb, climb! Let the wire sink deep if it needs to. For it is the scars that will aid you through the raging waves that we call; life. Escape it, escape everything else except for yourself. Just a beep on the radar, it comes and goes. Just get that feeling, everything else is recycled and reproduced for the ride of the next wave. Come, borrow the easy, the mellow, the calm of the storm, borrow it and use it well. Wisely, strength comes from knowledge. Knowledge to control this storm and knowledge to exercise this gift you borrowed. Comes running down the hill, I collide with my ambitions. I. Am. Full. I wait for my next meal.

Love Your Mom, That's A Command! Time. Runs. Short.

Mom; when I rushed into this world,
I was bloody, you were dry,
but you supported me when I cried,
you lifted me off the concrete as it burned my flesh and wound
you took me to the bathroom to clean it out, not too late, not too soon,
you give me talks of choleric words and love,
you give me talks of anguish and all of the above
a cry for help,
plea for mercy
soon the fighting will subside
you came to games, washed my clothes, how much longer will I go?
again
mom; when I rushed into this world,
I was bloody, you were dry,
but you supported me when I cried,
love for eternity, or at least until I die ;)

Living Canvas

Paint black as tar stretches across my skin. Moist, scattered across the living canvas by thin finery. Spherical, a tessellation of inverse color. An army, one with no color, something that got life sucked out of it to make nothing. But it is still a something... Opposing force, all colors united, to one blank statement. Opponents base camps, settled in their heart of their foes cavalry. The battlefield still ran moist and muddy. Until the star above greedily snatched it away.

Then all was left but a crust of dry battlefields, and thirsty armies. Minuscule re-enforcements sprint down that living canvas and charge through the cavalry with brawn. They send remnants of paint (or should I say cavalry) dewy and afraid.

Bombs rain from the sky and pick apart pieces of the cavalry, now the bombs and tinted a tar black. Those tar-black living bombs that move like fingers, uh, yeah fingers... Soon the crust dies away and leaves the canvas open again to more thin finery...

All In A Days Work

Water fountains down from the heavens. Free fall speed. A demolition goes off in the troposphere. Level after level of clouds, erupts into syncronised pat-pat-pat. As for me, stuck, trapped, only a hood and a tennis racket to guide me through the steel jungle. A call of ergence, implode for help. A bag, droplets seep through and consume the ink on my paper. Glases fogged by boisterous rain. A smudged picture of a smudged world.

Sucked in and it began, making my way to the steel horse, or cow. Cow is better. Cow is tasty... yum. Ancestral to ranches of steel cattle, tied to rails and feed through circits and pure electricity. I ride it home, but I must ride another steed. Another trusty steed.

This steed, runs on fuel and plastic circles. Etched to grip flat concrete. A slip, dip, and rip. In goes the card, out comes the card, out goes the hand, in goes the hand, in the card goes to it's toasty leather home. Again, the windows are smudged. Smudged pictures of a smudged world.

Aiding my guardian, a crack as the door creaks open. Clambering, up up up.

We all know what it is like, no need for explanation... Homework... Ugh, grrr, arg, damn!

Still stories are fed onto screens through wire. An array of color and movement. A flickering motion, a stop motion, with a click click click as it steadily and evenly moves along.

Comes a sense of empowerment. The music feeds me. I am always hungry. Through wires and speakers, comes empowered excitement, like, like, like, almost like steroids! But I don't do steroids, hahaha imagine if I did! I'd end up like this!

Throes

I stand alone in a bitter world, scattered across wooden floors and blanketed by exigent dust. From a zero pair to infinite doubts and choleric words. No one lends a hand, no one will. You have two, I have two. Most of the time, forbidden to plea for three. Problems can arrise from abyss, and take fractions of hearts and love, and thoughtfullness.

An opposite attraction, denied to be brethren. At will, a dazed few of one's experiences (note the "one's", yes, not "ones' ", but "one's"). Burying all respect for compassion and digging up egoistical terms and literary fatuity. Egoistical terms and literary fatuity, it makes me think. Maybe, a previously dug grave for whom who snatches those egoistical terms and literary fatuity...

Blind gossip (for the writer), and shocking throes for readers and by standers. Who, who who who who who. Who, really needs to know updates on your scorn to another? Well, my prediction: soon, that grave will get deeper, you will write more scorn notes, about people who let you go because; of those very scorn notes of others.

Plastic Culture

Doused in oil and preached before burned. This weekend lit sparks and structured the blaze. Alone, I sit alone. I don't walk alone. I sit alone in a room, masked by profundity. It's white walls and maps sink in me. They stick under my skin to forever rest. Once the next house comes those maps and those walls will jump out at me.

A road ahead, a road of plastic culture. Plastic culture, it's completely see through. People douse their own fires with hypocritical waste, and cleanse in the days work. They mark their opinions on my face for the scars, they forever last. Lay atop of ice and cool stone, just that extra mile. Going that extra mile.

Now, if you look at a half-full or half-empty glass of milk, and compare that to a full glass of water, which one is see through? Can you, emotionally, really, ever be completed? No, because your opinions may change, your life may change. So, if you have that half-full glass of milk, it is better than a full glass of water right? If you are looking at a glass that is half-full and you say it is half-empty, you are right! It is both half-full, and half-empty. Get my flow?

Okay, let me demonstrate. The full glass of water, is full of itself. It is completely see through, and people automatically know what kind of person they are. A see through person who is full of egoistical crap.

Now, for the half-full glass of milk. It is not see through, so people have to go through it to see what is at the bottom. And it is not full, not selfish, so there is always half a cup left for someone else.

Back to the plastic culture thing. So, it is see through, and not broken easily. Stubborn should I say? But glass... Yes glass. My favorite part about glass. YOU CAN SEE YOUR OWN REFLECTION. So, you know what your problems are in life, and you fix them. And of course plastic is see through, so plastic has problems. Glass, is frail, so if you are glass, you are cautious about yourself and how you treat other people, so you are most likely a better person, right?

Hahahaha, I love glass!

Confucius and the Guardian Raining From The Storms

Time is cut short from it's un-controlled life span. The day grew roots at minor degree, it didn't come to me that it was day until about 3 hours ago. A whine, a plead. Implode, implode, implode; goes the vexatious kin. Confucius, in my terms, a master. Treat others the way you want to be treated. Did he structure that? Does that kin underestamate it, or does the kin carelessly scrape away at it's very meaning. Implode, implode, scream, implode. Then, a beg for mercy and forgiveness. Confucius young one, Confucius.

Then, the battle comes to a still halt, as remnants groan and slowly fade away with their life and will. Down comes the guardian from troposphere storms, and calls a retreat call with her bone carved horn. The guardian burrows in a small hole she calls her own. But comes a heavy dose of aftermath. Yet again, the guardian slowly re-furnishes herself and fights another battle.

Mothers Day, has not arrived. But an interval, interval, INTERVAL.

I love you mom! :)

At Bay Lying Alone With Trepedation

Sitting, staring,
in a metal room,
it's solid doors conceal my doom

enrage from grief, beyond belief
comes dents and scrapes and scares (sinking deep in my burning heart)
I pound and pound onto the ground but it doesn't get me far
the only source of sane,
is beyond two metal bars

torn
and trapped,
I never adapt...
to taking ones' side

rolling,
from left to right,
swaying,
tired
tired
don't want to fight,

I'd rather leave,
and escape this confining tomb

the writing on the walls,
speak back to me every day,
they scream and whisper,
go that way! No, that way!

pulled from left to right,
the walls! they grasp me hard,
my hands throb and burn,
but never turn to char ("Let the pain end!" I implode)
they are wrapped in barbed wire,
and those,
tiny
metal
bars

being almost crucified,
my mind can not bare
I plead and beg for mercy
can someone fix this tear?

the writing on the wall screams again,
You! It's you! Now go!
I grudge and whine
it's never fine

the only source of light is a bantam crack
I try to crawl to it
but taking ones' side only gets me torn back

by cromequaz

Happy Poem-In-A-Pocket Day

FEAR

Fear. A flame in my throat, a mine in my head. Fear. A traveling foe. Country by country, life by life, loss by loss. A catch at hand, micro-madness. The foe gets large, the schools shut up. Shut down, locked in from the outside. A longing for sanitary. It has been searched, and scanned, and the opposition has been planned. But why is the micro-madness still here? An Invisible force, there are no boundaries for it at the moment...

People fall quick at it's speed of capturing cells and blood. Coughs, laughs, this may be my last. I don't know, I do want to know, I need to know. Do I have the swine flu? I do feel something, it is fluky. My throat is scratchy, sandpaper. Sandpapered flesh, a burn. A blender, devours. It devours me, in my head. It feels like a blender. But, my question is, do I have it or not? I know someone who does, I have encountered them face to face. I was unknowing, but do I really?

Mordant

A scratch, a cut, a wound lays rest to my flesh. Invisible until now. A forest fire in my pores as blood slowly dries to a scarlet crust. I fold blankets of water then soap, and then water, to cleanse the sting, to cleanse the crust, to fight the fire. It was, until now, like a mosquito pricking away at my skin. It stayed, it rested, until it itched. I looked down among my wrist, two streaks of red on my skin. Two streaks of paint on a messy canvas.

Medical! Medical! I called his name! Until I was home, medical never came. Were did this, this, stamp of violence come from? This, mark left over... I had no clue what so ever. Who had done this? Why had I not felt it? Do I really care, do I really?

All I know, is that these streaks of paint on my messy canvas are barriers. I move my hand, mordant! I put down my arm onto the table, mordant! Hurt, hurt, hurt, how?

Burried With...

One word: cornered. I am giving in, they show no remorse. Everything I do, everything I say. It makes them feel hatred. But that question is unanswered. Do they have hate? Do they loath? Event, after event. You can not answer that. You will not answer that. I have to answer that. I will answer that.

One word: scrambled. All my thoughts, in ominous places. Lows up high, highs down low. I'm... crestfallen. Crummy. Downhearted. All these false statements, should I say red herrings, they elude me and I am dumbfounded.

One word: interrogatory. Do they really, really?

One word: covered. If feels as if the past was a lie, and that my conscience made me believe my dreams were reality. My thoughts have been double crossed. I thought they were comrades. They, them... They left me at one little mistake, and left me again with regret. It wasn't their fault. I should not of. But I had no choice, the decision was not interrogated. Not solved. Now it is at the highest extent: them, their, our, friendship. What does it mean anyway? Can the dictionary solve it? Can other people help? NO, it's all you. It's all them, it's all...me. Does this help? Or does it depend on who is true to your feelings and...and... your beliefs and doesn't care who you are and forgives you on all mistakes and understands when you apologize, and doesn't scare away at your first word, your first stitch trying to make it's way into the wound. And to let that stitch go in and they take a listen to what you are saying, and the stitches bind and heal the wound! All of them did those things, I'm just confused by the situation...

One word: chance. No chance.

One word: confusion. Confusion, confusion, I am confuzzled.

From My Notebook...

Saturday April 25 2009, 4:47 PM:

Forest and light devour my cameleon windows. When it snows, the windows turn to moist stone. A cold, moist stone. A white, cold, and moist stone. When it pours, the cameleon turns to a depressing gray. Why must gray, and rain make such a depressing duo? Blue and rain go together quite well but compared to rain and gray, rain and gray is rubbish! And on days like this, elaborite shades of green and blue. Occasionaly the rainbow cameleon turnes from abounding colors to blinding shades of yellow and orange. It's all in a days work!

What to write next... That question is like a green light. It automatically makes you go. You ask that question, then you write it! Then the ball starts rolling, it nevr stops. Frictionless. No force on the ball. The ball is it's own force.

My head feels heavy. Like 2 tons of melting steel. The heat here is somewhat like the inside of an oven. My head feels hurt. My head feels like it is abbused by our enormous star. The juice is being sucked out of my head. Ounce by ounce. Minute by minute. Sicker and sicker. The juicer tampers with my mind...

I hear record players in my head. Broken, stratching. Stratch, write, stratch, write.

The eyelids, they race... Away, to to each other every second.

An interval for my friend, dearest friend. A passion for CLUE. I salute you, dearest friend. But, I must tell you that my juice supply is running low. My condolences to your ever less fun...fun. To bad I won't be there...

I have hit a brick wall, I must play. Excuse me while I go solve a mystery!

Dead End, New Road

As weeks turn to dust, the interval climbs. It climbs a little staircase, as it moves up, previous interventions are cast away. My interventions, your interventions, their interventions. Single weeks write short stories, but knowledgeable lessons. The toddler interval, baby step after baby step. Stuck in the middle. One step up! The previous disappears, but only infinite space ahead. The step is fading! You have to jump to reach the upcoming stair, to continue for climax. To put it in lamest terms, the weeks go at the speed of sound. People come and go, lessons stay. To learn is to survive. To survive is to learn. A world so vast, emotionally you might not be able to handle it. I get so consumed by one thing, the next thing leaves without a chance. My lesson right there. Handle things well, handle them quick.

The interval, the summer greed. A greed for summer. A release, or more like parole, from the hell house: school. Back, and forth. It is school every. Single. Day. Controversy, every. Single. Day. No names, just regret and denial. Twists and turns. But it all comes to an epic halt. A buissness call put on hold, never returned.

Watch yourself, people can hurt, people can be hurt, but you can stop it. You stop and they stop. They stop and you stop. What am I specifically talking about?

Controversy, fights, this happens to the world. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. What I'm saying is, why can't we just throw our hate and sickness in the trash, and start over with a fresh canvas and brush? And paint pictures we dare to hate, but love to love. We reach dead ends. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. But yet at the same time, we build new roads. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

LOVE TO LOVE SOMEONE. HATE TO HATE SOMEONE.

Lets go build some roads.

Untitled Post 2

Traffic, brain traffic, thought traffic, emotion traffic. Everything is bundled up in my "storage" room, so it is a pity that I don't really try to think about things. Except the fact that I'm thinking about this blog. I'm contemplative, about tons. Why is it that it is hard to write at my house yet, but I write like a maniac in my apartment? Maybe the atmosphere, instead of air, there are clouds. Everything here is fuzzy, not physically, mentally. What will I write next? That was the question I asked myself before I wrote that question, so I answered myself with a question, two more "question" or "questions" until I question the meaning of the word... What does it mean again? How did we think of that word? If you say "guacamole" five times, you will most likely question the origin, or the meaning, or the pronounciation, or anything else you make up... Guacamole, guacamole, guacamole, guacamole, guacamole. Now read that. Again. You think, what the hell were we thinking? Then you think; gua-ca-molly... Wait, what? What does that mean? It's all Greek too me. What about you?

I think it is fun to just use non-big words in my house. In my apartment? Well, completely different novel. Speaking of which, I am intrigued by The Time Travelers, a book by Linda Buckley-Archer. It is actually a kids book, but interesting no matter what. I'm tired, but have a greed to just jot down my thoughts real quick, but this very post has taken about ten minutes, not very quick... I'm watching hockey, more intrigued in that than this at the moment.

Grip Gripe, Tomatoe Tomatto, Potatto Potatto, Bush Osama, they all sound the same, right?

Griping, is that even a word? Matters, does it really? I don't think so, don't care, never will. So...Griping is today's...headline should I say? Gasping at lists, of chores...Bore... Why do I have to be so meloncholy today? Why does the world spin, not sink? Why do I feel like a hypocrite? Why am I so tired? What makes this house uninspiring while other places do?

My mind is spiraling, downward. There I go again! Meloncholly this, meloncholy that! I feel like not using big words today, is that OK with you? Has to be because I'm the writer... I'm just writing because I am bored... This post isn't that well done so I'm going to stop because I'm so annoyed by the TV on high volume and homework sucks and I just want to chill out and watch Bones and I feel guilty because I'm not living up to the expectations I created, the standerds I created for this very blog and it is so inconvenient because no inspiration has hit me yet, though at the same time I am slowly inspiring myself with my own confussion! Maybe the only way out is just to vent in poetic yet stupid ways!

I'm leaving. I appologize but I can't write today, I'd rather read. Ta-ta!

Studious

Searching for lenses, to capture and tame. A mechanism, to pull art out of thin gas and flame. Still moments, captured, tamed, and relinquished to the wild yet again through steel wire. Caged in flat panels, processed and stocked up on the internet. Photographed folklore. Myths of piercing and burning light. Consuming darkness, above but below. On the roof, staring up at the star. That one star, rays on crusades, embarking until they collide with the atmosphere and stretch across our pebble planet. Stop and go. Stop and go, the still frame never lies. Meshed together into beautiful film, dates back, 1930s... Robot like, twitching. Twitch and move, twitch and move, twitch and move. Trapped in by oak. Oak perimeters, at the final point. Held on by steel rods. Centimeters. Dangling above surface, centimeters, inches, feet, yards... Assembly line process... Begining; four words... I want a camera.

Kooky................

I been rappin' all day with my ways
you better burn in the rays of my 3-point plays
I got diamonds in my toe-cheese,
gold in my socks,
psh, don't know 'bout yours but my life rocks

No fake gold medallions
just straight off the black market
water bed with so many fish they can't park it!
feedin' through a plastic tube,
their crunchy little snacks,
but on all of my happy days they get Big Macs!(ah)

Got tubes of lard in my polka-dot camaro
livin' life large like my home-dog,
wasn't he a pharaoh?
don't really know his name
butt?tut?king toot?
I'm reawy reawy smart from me dinosaur roots yo!
fo shizzle in the hizzle bizzle fizzle on the crizzle grizzle ya'll

The Qualm

Conflict. It burrows in my concrete heart, aching, fighting. It is daily, the daily conflict, I am ten-fold to my opponent. I might as well not fight back... And let the calamity dissolve. But most of the time I am the engineer. My opponent strikes, then it is my decision. Retaliate? Or not? Retaliate? Or not? Retaliate? Or Not? I take pride in the latter... But sometimes the conflict digs to deep, and I fight.

A terrible trade off, no more rage for me, but a hurt soul for another. Physicaly, mentaly, all of the above. It hurts, hurts like a b*tch. Hurts them, and makes it's way to me...

"Why did I do that?"

"Would you like it if someone did that to you?"

"Why would you do that to someone smaller than you? To someone who is defenseless...Why?"

They can hit you all they want. It is best not to fight, let them do the job. It hurts me to see others hurt. It really does. Now excuse me while I go cop a plea.

Contrast, Acrimony, Chagrin, Despondent, You Might As Well Call This Emo

A deep resevour of rage, of anger, of sadness, of differences, of life. I feel I can't write well anymore, I don't know why. It is a mystery. Just one day off and there it goes. Maybe I just can't think straight, because of everything that is going on. Brimful with friends, foes, and aquantances. Maybe I ran out of gas, my motor is chugging along. Where was the rage before? Inside me, dying to come out. Yes it is rage, yes it hurts, yes I want to break something... I know I shouldn't. I just feel so down on myself today, it's really terrible. Maybe tonight can lighten things up a bit, key lime pie for dessert, probably nachos for dinner. Yay, the thing is that I'm writting much faster and thinkin less about what I'm going to write than usual... Is that good or bad? Maybe if I make a list... Posabilities are endless you know...

Things That Got Me Mad:

1. Messing up the pancakes
2. TV while I'm trying to write
3. Getting annoyed by siblings
4. Homework
5. Tired
6. Lots of stuff to do
7. Want to break something then break something else but I know that I shouldn't
8. Can't find a way to get this burden off of my back
9. Can't get this headache away
10. I feel bad because I'm not writting as well as before
11. I'm not as enthusiastic today
12. I have to make a key lime pie with absolutely no time
13. I don't have my computer
14. I know I need to do homework but I am putting it off
15. Everyone is so annoying
16. I want to hide but I know I can't
17. I have absolutely no idea what to do to make myself less mad
18. Grrrrrrr....
19. Arg....
20. Is that 20?
    

Bane

Silent vexation in my temples. Hammers swing and strike my senses. My pupils paint blurred re-enactments of light and colour. Closed eyes, clenched to halt the affliction. The pixels, they scatter across the screen. Fingers tap against the keyboard, no where to go. Nothing to want, nothing to say, nothing to do... Consumed by the daylight. Is that why my eyes are abruptly, well, lets just say abruptly bizarre? Two sides, can't pick one. Too...consumed. Do I lay atop cotton weaved cloth? Or close my eyes and imagine?

Can't anything come true without first imagining it? Walt Disney didn't look up ideas on the internet, Steven Spielberg didn't find ET in the studio, Neal Armstrong wouldn't of wanted to go to the moon if he had not looked up into infinite space. So, no.

It's ominous, that I have taken so long to write this, it feels like a novel to me. Yet at the same time, you are reading this in about a minute if you are slow. But I'm also writing about you reading this, and I'm writting about writting about writting about writting about you reading this. Very complex this is (Hehehe Yoda)...

And if the name of this post is "Bane", it couldn't really be "Bane" because I only talked about pain in the first paragraph. But I'm going to stick with the name because it sounds quite interesting...

The thing is, I kind of had to dig deep to write this post. And I have started to not use as many big words as I normally do, but I'm just gonna stick to that today because I can't accumulate so many diverse phrases or words, etc. I honestly have no clue why I put "etc." at the end of the sentence... I think I hit a dirt track because I am not really discussing the reason it was hard to write this post... I have that song stuck in my head, yes, that song. Before I wrote that sentence, I didn't have it stuck in my head, once I reminded myself of it (in that last sentence) it is still in my head...

My question is why did I even name this post "Bane" when I only wrote about pain in the first paragraph? Did I ask that before, I am quite sure I did. Oh, I understand now, I named it that because I knew that it would be this long, and that you would have a pain reading it. Well, let me relieve you!

Biscuits, Bunnies, A Blackberry, and Brotherly Love

Indigenous to NY but yearning for Philadelphia, I find cramped clock space to roam Philly. Normally, I find it hard to locate something I find interesting. Not in Philadelphia. The absolute picture perfect place for peaceful photography emprise. South Philly is nice enough for me. Pats and Ginos, they are the chiefs of the fast food market in my direction of notion. The boats near Target tease and taunt me until I capture them in a still frame. The silent hydrants come in abounding colours. I couldn't gather up many photographs of hydrants so I won't make an attempt to bother about it...It's obvious that it is a ship... I saw it when I went to Target, near the docks. Couldn't get really close because of the stupid fence...

Look super close and you will see that it says "United States" duh
Silk City in Phila.

5th and Spring Garden
Amazing food, but there is a 15 minute wait to get in. Food comes fast, about 5-10 minutes.
Best buttermilk biscuits ever!
All of the pictures were taken from my Blackberry

Have a great Easter!

Fluky Inquest(s)

Does every blog have to have a point?

Why can't we help in Darfur?

Is the Easter bunny a boy, a girl, or a he-she?

Why does Easter have to be capitalized?

Why do all holidays have to be capitalized?

What should be my next question?

If 1/2=0.5 then what does 0/1=____ ?

If there was no beginning of time, how did it start?

Is God really out there?

What's your religion?

Do you like this totally random but pleasureful post?

If Catholics and Christians believe that God created everything, did he create other gods and godesses for other religions? Did he create the Trimurti?

We know we came from apes, but did apes evolve from lizards? And did lizards evolve from fish?

How do we know if George Washington was really alive?

What is E and S watching? Because it sounds like Lewis Black...

Are we living our lives to the fullest, or are we just wasting away while we slowly die?

Why does that last question make me feel like a hypocrite?

Are you reading this?

Well, if your not, why?

Do you think I should stop asking questions?

Can you repeat that? I don't speak low-life.

Did you know that I was only joking on that last question?

Are you getting mad?

Should I leave and let you calm down?

OK

So, talk to you later?

Okay, bye!

Unholy Word Unholy Word Unholy Word Unholy Word Unholy Word Unholy Word

There are no fancy words in this specific post. No thesaurus, no dictionary. Pure natural emotion. Personally, I'm a sore loser. I can't take a loss easily, I take everything seriously. People say I'm too deep, they don't realize that there is nothing wrong with being deep. I don't know if they think it makes someone less of a person. Do they think that? I want to know if they think it is a flaw. To late, that has already been inferred: Positive.

Stupid eater basket hunt, no candy. No candy? Did the Pope die or something?! I got these little clues; "Look under where you expect him to give god respect", a good clue, diverse in answers. Under G's rocking chair? Under G's TV? I finally figured it out (with the help of the hunt maker), it was under the table. Not on the floor, underneath the top of the table, tapped to the surface. The next clue; "Look inside and you will find the next clue", what?! How are you supposed to figure that out? I wasn't going to look inside every book, I wasn't going to look in the fridge, I wasn't going to scale the whole house for another putrid clue!

Finally, E and M found the stupid basket. I was fighting, pissed off. Rage. I said to S, "How do you do that? Oh, 'Look inside and you will find the next clue' yeah good one!" S finally found the clue for me, but still it didn't help. At least give a hint of what your looking inside. S finally went and said, "Well, you were supposed to look in the cabinets,". Gravity was the only existing force, my jaw was pulled down to the center of the earth.

At first I wanted to go cry in a corner, then I wanted to punch someone in the face and crater their forehead, then I just wanted to write. Write. Writing. Still writing. Starting to stop writing. Almost done writing. Done writing.

Possums, Rabbits, Snakes, and...Goats?

Many are misconcepted when it comes to "Suicidal" animals. On average, you think a possum is the only animal that pretends to be dead and actually makes a good attempt (my notion only). Although many others are in the "Suicidal" range of run-of-the-mills. Again, the "Suicidal" part is my notion only. Where did I get the suicidal? To answer my own inquiry, they just, play suicide! They pretend to be dead without anything touching them, maybe they died from the inside...Tumor!

Now that I wasted a whole paragraph on the introduction, lets get down to the good part. Suicidal goats. Yes, goats. Myotonic goats, indigenous to North America (for those of you who would like to know I get my vocabulary from eating brain food, otherwise known as the wires in my super computer...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... sorry). Yeah, these goats have a genetic condition that makes their muscles lock up when they are startled. They remain consciousness when "Dead".Hm...I wonder, if we eat one for dindin, would we get tetanus... Quite interesting considering people bring their CHILDREN to watch these goats play dead.

Wouldn't that be jolly!
The link to the video is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_3Utmj4RPU

"Hey kids! Lets go to the petting zoo!" Says the enthusiastic father.
"Yay!!" cry the toddlers. The whole happy family climbs in the four row SUV. They finally make it to the petting zoo.
"Oh daddy look at the goat! Lets pet it!" Yell the kids.
"OK, lets head over!" Says the now over enthusiastic father...

Now stop the story, there are two options. Pick your path.
1. Kids pet goats and feed them and get slobber all over their clothes
2. Kids pet goats and scream and then scream again in fear as it plays dead

Since I can't think of a conclusion I'm going to go eat more super computer wires and observe my stomach growl...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... I appologize again...

Untitled Post

I'm too tired to really do anything, but yet at the same time I am slowly grasping for more mental power. So if I am doing both things at the same time, how am I really doing anything at all?

If you say "Oh, that dude/dudess or dude-dudess is doing something" it won't be plural. So he/she or he-she is only doing one thing. But if someone says "Oh, that dude/dudess or dude-dudess is doing somethings" it would be plural. And doing "Anything" is only really doing one thing, to do two things it would have to be "Anythings". So if I am tired, but still doing lots of stuff, I could not be tired, because I am doing things. And I clearly stated in the beginning of this entry that "I'm to tired to really do anything" yet at the same time I am writing this blog entry. Paradox eh? And if the title of this blog is "Untitled Post" it couldn't be named "Untitled Post" because "Untitled Post" is already its name! Ah, mind games...

Is it just me being tired and not understanding what I just wrote at all or is it all Greek to you too? Is it really a paradox or does it just feel like a five year old wrote this? Is it hot in here or is it just me? Should I stop asking questions? Why are you not answering me >:( !? Can I leave now? Is that a yes? Thank you.