I've read all there is to be known about Anorexia and Bulimia. What has been written about overeating as an eating disorder? My father falls into that category. I cower in a different room thinking of pending heart attacks and getting nauseous at the smells and the slurping.

My cat licks the Christmas tree and then looks at me like I'm the weird one.

Today's not a new day, it's yesterday in a new suit.

Tis the season to wonder why your mother is spending your college fund on stupid things and telling people you've never even heard of that you got accepted to college. Ya know, mumsie dearest, I won't be even going to college if you keep spending all the FREAKIN' MONEY!
*cough* *cough*
I'm good, I swear.

*mutters*

I've been accepted to college. Time to do my own artistic experimentation.
Psychology is interesting. What is visually appealing?

Fractals- symmetry- repetition

Dear Diary,

Nevermind.

Wandering, intrusive, meaningless

my story - dedicated to nick kelly.

Help. That's what people seem to want to give you when you tell them a sad story, your sad story. But sometimes you don't want help. You simply want someone else to hear your story.

My uncle was molested in the first grade. By his principal. Skeletons in the closet.

And now he's dead.

I think everyone has a back story. They have to have one. I guess it's whether or not you're real, if you've toyed with life and it's bitten you back. Sometimes I think people haven't experienced the pain I have but maybe I'm just being selfish.

Sometimes you just want physical pain, because your emotion is long gone. Or maybe it was never there to start.

The best stories told are the true ones.

Pain. Sometimes people turn it into hatred. Hatred on others. Hatred on themselves. It all depends on strength of character. Sometimes they don't even know the pain is there, all the worse.

I have this very vivid memory. I’m 8 years old standing in the hallway of a hospital. There is a nurses station of some sort with all these life monitors. The kind with the green line that goes up and down. Sharp lines, piercing the screen. And I’m there, watching, captivated. And the monitors, a few of them, the lines are barely moving, some of them stop completely. And I'm just standing there, standing, feeling like, I dunno, powerless. People are dying and I’m standing there, just a kid.

Maybe I do more good than I think. Maybe I don't. I often wonder if other people are worth the time. Then again, I'm usually so lonely I bother with them anyway. If you can get a person to laugh, it kind of disarms them. Then you get to see they are as fragile as you. Maybe.

I seem surer of things than I am. Some people think I'm smart. It's possible but I don't see it because of all the other people out there smarter than me.

My grandmother used to press her ring finger into the base of my spine to get me to stand up straight. I was always hunched over, muddling over the idea of making a mistake. Apparently, mistakes aren't allowed. Without mistakes, how does one learn?



I sat in the corner of my graduation party, listening to my family talk about things that didn't concern me. The wine list. The work load. The mundaneness of adulthood. And I glowered at the the grim prospects of their definition of my future. I was 18, successful at unsuccess. Art school bound. Not a teacher. Or engineer. Or speech pathologist. Or veterinarian. I listened to the drone of their combined voices. Finally they addressed me, the supposed star of this disarray.
Apparently, they decided I, the one that refused to be what they wanted anyways, have a defined pattern.

Something about how all teenagers, because they know so many, hate and disrespect their parents once college starts. "You think you're so smart and know everything. You're parents are going to look like geniuses once they stop paying for you to go to college." I, the destined to be failure with goals and a dream, was apparently going to fuck it up for myself. This is after getting into college for something they didn't want me to pursue. I like the logic here.

I found out recently that i have the inability to show emotion and very badly developed emotions in general, due to the neglect from my childhood which had left me with the attachment disorder and is why im in trauma therapy.

Help. That's what people seem to want to give you when you tell them a sad story, your sad story. But sometimes you don't want help. You simply want someone else to hear your story.

My uncle was molested in the first grade. By his principal. Skeletons in the closet.

And now he's dead.

I think everyone has a backstory. They have too. I guess it's whether or not you're real, if you've toyed with life and it's bitten you back. Sometimes I think people haven't experienced the pain I have. Maybe I'm just being selfish.

Sometimes you just want physical pain, beaucse your emotion is long gone. Or maybe it was never there to start.

The best stories told are the true ones.

Pain. Sometimes people turn it into hatred. Hatred on others. Hatred on themselves. It all depends on strength of character. Sometimes they don't even know the pain is there, all the worse.

I have this very vivid memory. I’m 8 years old standing in the hallway of a hospital. There is a nurses station of some sort with all these life monitors. The kind with the green line that goes up and down. Sharp lines, piercing the screen. And I’m there, watching, captivated. And the monitors, a few of them, the lines are barely moving, some of them stop completely. And I'm just standing there, standing, feeling like, I dunno, powerless. People are dying and I’m standing there, just a kid.

So much for nanowrimo. What do I have to show for my time? Three incomplete still lives and the ability to spend a lot of time doing nothing.

Disinhibited reactive attachment disorder is quite a long title.

affect versus effect.

This is my hate anthem. Hear my roar.

It's about obsessing over the definition of beauty.
It's about worshiping what we can never be. Hollywood.
It's about brand names, spending money to feel validated.
It's about what you have, not the company you keep.
It's about being a hypocrite, wanting to stay ignorant, to hide from accountability.
It's about the white picket fence, the 2.3 children, the tire swing in the backyard.
It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

It's about losing who you are to be someone else.
It's about not knowing who you are.
It's about needing others to feign self confidence.
It's about money.

b.s
m.s
ph.d

bull shit
more shit
pile it high and deep

a day late and a dollar shirt. nanowrimo has begun. things to do in support.

senior year/ my future ahead of me and a book to try and write in a month. crap. well here I am, trying ot write a book and get my art done. if i do this, i am my own here. devoid of proper grammer and capitialization.
and now, the story begins.

It's been six years now.
I have a aqua sweater. it looks good against the wood paneling in my basement. I'd rather sit against the wall than the chair.
The world has ended in a sense, at least the old world. The new community has formed. All of us, the anarchists and the dreaemrs, we have united. We formed a new place, trying to get rid of the things in us that destroyed the world.
we are the surviiors.
we are the ones destined to make the world what it was b3efgore we came
I am in the aritsts pueblo.
the mechanics base is 6 miles away.
We are all doing what we do best, our talent. and we fix the world in the process.
I do art, like I said. and I'm a medic, and a healer.
It's a lot to do.
I wouldn't change it for anything.
So you want to know how we operate, what we do. Well, it goes something like this.
there is no religion, you can marry who you want, and we all all communist. I know it's a lot to wrap your head around. Sorry. Even i have a hard time here and there. So, we all live together. and we go around with these random mystical powers that people have. you know what, let me stop myself. this is too confusing for even me right now. i had a late night.
oh, pardon me, i forgot to introduce myself. i'm Mia. The art freak. I live in a huge house with 13 other people.
It;s pretty amazing. Life is'nt perfect here. This morning I managed to dump a bag of my favorite trail mix all over the floor. Karma sucks. People were cool about it though. If I were a kid, I would have gotten called a klutz or something.
I had a weird family. My grandmother would ram her ring finger in the base of my spine to get me to stand up straight.
But anyways, that was the past I can;t change. It did leave me seclusive and bitter. The past effects us in ways we might not realize. I try to be self aware. Well, I;m here in the artists house, with the yoga and tranquility and hippies and musicians. We have a lot of pets. Lizards and dogs and such. I know I sound like I'm a pit head. i'm not. I'm just okay with life right now. People don;t hurt me here and it's something I'm not used to yet.
I sound so emo right now. I guess it;s me healing. I hope its me healing. it;s gotta be the worst thing in toe world to be nowhere, to just simply exist. yeck.
Well, here I am, Mia the girl who;s not as confident as she seems. Not that doesn;t men I;m a fake. i don;t think itdoes. i think it just makes me human.

so there;s this guy i like. i don;t know if he even sees me. i'm so screwed up from past relationships i don;t know how to get his attention. His name is Josh, he lives in the mechanics base. he wakes up and thorws clothes on. I admire that, I wish I could be that carefree. Girls care a lot about how they look so boys will notice them, but boys don;t seem to care at all about how they look sometimes. So why do the girls try so hard?
I don't know where I'm getting at with all this. I just think up random things. DId you ever notice that from July to November it spell out Jason? Or did you ever stop and wonder where homeless people get the cardboard and sharpies for their signs. and if they are outside so much, how come the signs stay in so good of condition.
I complain too much to. Complain to Josh. Everytime I see people i like I complian. I don;t get it. Saw him earlier, walking around, enjoying the air, I like that about him. He doesn't survive, he lives.
I think he's smart. He doesn't. he thinks I'm smart, I don't think i am.
Sometimes I;m lonely after the day ends. When I'm in my room listening to people laughing downstairs.They wouldn;t care if I joined them but something is hold me back.

I think I need to post my art here.



Not art, but good.

Opera is also for Mac.

I am within the 6 percent of Mac users and 2 percent of Opera users.

Art continues. as does procrastination.

But Safari does indeed include..... spell check.

The path whence she came grew thick with vines, as she watched, eyes cloaked with anguish. The woods caved towards her as fear gripped her by the shirt and held her there. Alone, though it midday, was terrifying.

She walked until her feet were numb. She was still lost, lost in the forest forbidden to her as a child. Her newly found adulthood left her void of precaution. Who could tell her not to go now?

She sank down onto the weeds and stared at the pond before her. It was odd, she thought to stumble upon a pond in the midst of a forest. The sky told her dusk was lurking on the horizon. She must find her way out soon, for the thought of what lurked after dark was far too terrifying to entertain.


Running was the natural response. If there is a noise, no matter how small, run. It was a survival skill that still clung to humanity, despite their civilized attempts to remove natural instinct.

She had been at the pond for far too long when noises in her tracks revealed themselves. She sat, frigid, hoping they were an aspect of an ever wild imagination. But no, the noises continued, getting louder by the second. She stood, gazing hesitantly behind her, louder still the noises became. Feet barely touching the ground, she was off. Cracking branches as she went and making far to much noise for wanting to remain unnoticed.

add more cicero.

This story is about virtue because each character is living up to the best of their ability. This is nature perfected in a certain form. Cicero describes virtue as “nature developed to its highest point.” Mr. Shiftlet describes himself as having a “moral intelligence.” This moral intelligence, his virtue, is tested throughout the passage. Several decisions he either faces or makes; it all begins when he notices the car. “You ladies drive?” After he dumps Lucynell, his conscience is affected. His moral intelligence becomes moral responsibility when he decides to pick up a hitchhiker. “People with cars have a responsibility”. The sequence of his life, his “moral strength, manliness, valor” are all tested or called upon. His life coincides with Cicero’s description of virtue.
He also goes with the flow of things, these are examples of the stoic philosophy put into practice. With Lucynell, the irony is she is doing all she can but doesn’t have any control of it. All three characters in the story are living simple lives, not striving for materialistic life or wealth. They see that they have their basic needs met and act in accordance to reason. All of this adds up to the virtue presented in the natural laws.

I'm going to give nanowrimo another go and see how it works out. I really do want to write a novel but I have the attention span and perserverance of a goldfish. They truly are lovely creatures, goldfish that is. I hold nothing against their choice of lifestyle. I simply am a human, not a goldfish.

His hair, the texture in her fingers, coarse black unruly locks. She didn't know what they would say, what the next step would be. But as for now, she was content watching him sleep.

The click alerted her that the hour had changed. Sunday morning was melting by. Slowly, Natalie rose out of bed, careful not to disturb him. The sheet fell lower, revealing more of his toned figure. She smiled to herself, hoping luck would find its way to her.

Her mother wouldn't approve of this, but the two of them never did get along.

The smell of a cooking omlett was enough to rouse him from sleep. He streched, yawned and gazed at her room. It was a soft blue, serene. Slipping his boxers back on, he then ventured towards her kitchen.

They kissed hello. He slumped into a chair, still groggy.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"So what now? Were do we go from here Paul?"

"I'm not sure. I really..."

She kissed him again, hoping to persuade him. It was quiet for awhile, the birds were trying to ease the tension, trying to get the two to make their own sounds.

"Good omlette."

"Thanks. I love to cook...." Her voice trailed off. Never before had she been so apprehensive. She wanted answers and conversation, by from the look of his face, neither was bound to happen soon.

What could he say to her? She was beautiful but he was a disaster. Should they try it again? Damn it! Say something!

http://www.huntfor.com/arthistory/prehistoric/mesolithic.htm







cool art

http://www.camilladerrico.com/paintings/year/2009/

veitshöchheim

http://media.photobucket.com/image/monaco/muschopan/monaco.jpg

Using Book 11 as evidence, what is the poem's definition of justice?

The poem’s definition of justice is based upon divinity. When a person is punished, it is not the wrong they committed that is weighted so much as to what extent they tried to act like a god. Tityos is lain in a field, having vultures tear at his innards; it is not the committed act of rape, it is his stab at divinity, having raped the mistress of Zeus (590). Odysseus also observes Tantalos as he relives the joke he tried to play on the Gods; now he is to spend eternity being taunted with ripened fruit and fresh water (605), unattainable perfection supplied by the divine. The gods mock him through punishment. The experience Odysseus has in Hades along with his own life concurs. He lives in a realm monopolized by the gods. They are both power hungry and demand submission. A staggering hierarchy exists in the realm of humans. No aspirations of anything better are tolerated by the gods.

“Into his mind came a recollection of flies struggling away from the flypaper till their little legs were torn off. . . the important thing was he suddenly realized the futility of resistance.”

“The Trail” is a case testing the strength of a man, Joseph K. At first he denies the severity of the accusations, brushing them off as insignificant. Soon he realizes that the case will not disappear, despite his dissmissive attitude. As the book progress, one theme remains in plain sight, the path to enlightenment. One passage in particular stands out “ Into his mind came a recollection of flies struggling away from the flypaper till their little legs were torn off. . . the important thing was he suddenly realized the futility of resistance.” This is the full transistion, K. suddenly realizing that he cannot defeat the court, his accusations, or control his future.

Natalie saw Paul again. It was at the small family-owned restaurant. The owner, Mrs.White, has been a friend of Natalie's since she moved here. Mrs.White was widowed, her son lived with her because she was far too strong minded to enter assisted living. Plus he got free room and board.

Paul was at a corner table, making use of the free wifi. Natalie couldn't sleep at night, she had constant thoughts of Paul. She wanted to know why here was here, and more importantly, she wanted him back. They broke up and she knew the risks of trying anything else again. Still, she was bored and did indeed long for companionship, despite what she told her mother.

Paul still didn't know what he wanted. He still wasn't happy, but he wasn't depressed either. He was simply, numb. A woman was watching him. She was the same woman from the cafe. He still couldn't remember her.

I feel old. Senioritis.

Whilst listening to Bjork

It was him. She was definite on this. Seven years had passed since she had last seen him. It took several moments, searching for mannerisms to recognize him. He had lost some weight and time took a toll on him. His eyes no longer glistened as they used to.

She made no move, remaining unseen in the corner. He had not seen her as he came in, or if he did he made no motion of it.
He glanced back, feeling the invisible beam of someone's stare.

A girl in the corner had taken a sudden interest in her tea cup. She looked familiar but he could not place who she was.
He couldn't know her, he had only moved to this town two weeks ago.

Adjusting his shirt, he stood and left.

She watched him leave, tempted to pursue him. Logic told her otherwise.

They had met by chance her freshman year of college. He needed directions to the library. He was a slim and bookish student, she was a bit wild. His eyes told stories the words could not describe. They dated for 16 months.

The breakup broke her. She transferred out. Junior year began in a new town with fresh faces. A place near the sea. People smiled and life was simple. She graduated top of her class and had a half a dozen job offers waiting for her. A week later she was interning.

Now, looking back, she wondered how her life would have been had she stayed. Her parents never understood the transfer, she was so young and smart. Now, as she sat staring at her surroundings, she suddenly missed home.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mom. What's up?"

"Natalie! So good to hear from you, I was just about to give you a call. I'm doing fine. The new neighbors are lovely. I was just saying hello. Sheila has a son around your age. Graduated from Yale. He really is a sweet boy from the sounds of it. Attractive too. Your father and I are having dinner with them all this Friday, if you don't have plans you should join us. I don't know why you insist on living in that town, it's so much nicer out here. You always know I never liked the smell of fish, it is a fishing village isn't it? I mean, it's so murky and gray...."

"Mom."

"I mean really, your sister only lives a few minutes away..."

"Mom!"

"Yes dear?"

"Remember, I own my own bookstore. I'm quite happy here."

"Yes, and I'd be happy if you settled down and found a husband."

"I'm happy being single."

"Okay dear, if you decide to join us at dinner on friday, just give me a call."

"Alright mom. Oh, forgot to tell you, Lily gave birth to six kittens last Tuesday. When they get old enough I'm going to spilt up the litter. As much as I don't want to. But I can't have seven cats. Anyways, if you want a kitten or two let me know."

"Well okay dear. Oh! Silly me, look at the time. I have to be over at the Johnsons for tea right now. I'll talk to you soon. Bye bye."

"Bye."

As she hung up she thought of her last relationship. Nothing had been as long term as it had with Paul. What on earth was he doing in Farthington?

What was he doing in Farthington? He couldn't answer himself. He had graduated, gotten a job, an apartment, and an fiancee. He wasn't happy. What was he searching for?

He had used the last of his savings on the apartment. The wedding had been cancelled and his future was freed up. He had gotten a job, yet another one. At least his CPA degree let him find a job with relative ease. This time he was working with the fish sales. Fish sales. A 3.9 GPA and a full scholarship to college and this is where he ended up?

He saw a bookstore, Maine was the wrong place for chained owned stores and decided to stop in. Growing up, he had loved to spend away the afternoons reading.

ADD HE RETURNS TO HIS APARTMENT, SHE THINKS ABOUT MARRIAGE. HE RETURNS HOME. THROWS HIS BAG ON THE SOFA. READS HIS MAIL. she has a quaint house on a quiet road. its blue with worn wood. he has a studio apartment

Natalie went to check her messages. The usual ignored call from her mother and another reminder about the bridesmaid dresses. Her best friend was getting married in just under two weeks. They needed a final fitting.

Fitting, it didn't fit right. He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. The sewing was off. that's what happens when you out source all the jobs to foreign countries, tailors were just to damned expensive.

"I love you" The words flowed from her lips like a prayer. She wasn't sure who they were meant for, maybe herself. Maybe to keep hope alive.

I do art because I try to express things that words don't seem right for. I work with emotions I can't grasp and try and create things profound, when I myself am merely nothing.

A new morning on the brink and a new soundtrack to her life.

show me compassion in a dark alley

find me the light that has gone from my life

show me wisdom in the setting sun

find me good that still exists in the world.

Vanished

I kidnapped an elephant from a traveling circus train crash. At least I think I did. I know I found myself in those hills.
It all started in October, the leaves were dying their vivid colors. I had no reason to leave my town, but I left anyway. There was no end destination in mind. I took my car and just drove away. Scenery flew by and my foot remained fixed to the gas pedal. I didn’t tell anyone I was going, nor did I take anything with me. I wanted to travel without burden.
My car broke down near the mountains. I left it there and kept going. Everything is worse at night because that’s when the paranoia kicks in. I walked until sunrise. I had no identity, no location; I was no one.
There was a town that one only dreams about, homey and free of chain stores. It was a destination among many. They knew I didn’t live there; that I was a stranger, yet someone took me in.
She was widowed. I liked her. Despite my repeated protests, she would insist on cooking me massive breakfasts every morning. She told me she missed cooking for someone. I already miss the stories of her childhood. Her home hadn't changed over the years; it was frozen in her memories. Wallpaper contaminated with mildew clung to the walls. Nearly everything but the heavy furniture had yellowed. I stayed for a week and left with a renewed faith in humankind. It was rejuvenating that some people were still pure of society’s ills.
I moved along on my way, knowing winter would be soon be biting at my heels. Things were better on foot. Nature mattered.
The trampled grass was the only proof of my existence.
That night I slept by the river and prayed for safety from nature’s beautiful destruction. Days continued to melt by and still nothing mattered to me. I was free from life’s responsibilities, all of them seemingly unnecessary. My family probably thought I was dead.
November snuck in and things continued to die. My shoes snapped dehydrated branches and startled unseen wildlife. I continued trekking across the unknown land.
I found another town and received unexpected stares. What had happened in the world while I was gone? Everything clicked when I caught my reflection in the counter top. I had become an unkempt vagabond. It was time for new clothing, some warmth.
I stayed in this town. I met the single serving friends that you open up too, knowing full well you will never see them again and that all you say won’t matter if you give it time.
There was a faded banner in the distance, one that bore the harshness of weather for many years. The sun-damaged banner boasted that the circus was coming to town. Memories of my childhood flooded back to me. I used to think of joining a circus, despite being clumsy and having no visible talent. Acrobats and other circus performers always amazed me. They always seemed so free. I wanted that sort of weightlessness and more importantly, I now longed for some sense of worth to my existence.
The banner was abandoned but my renewed sense of passion was not. It was at that moment I decided to join a circus. It was an odd and childish desire but I was already on a path to absurdity.
The biggest problem was finding my location and finding a circus to join.
Not wanting any possessions, I continued to walk.
The time that progressed became hazy. Eventually, like a mirage, I saw caravans on the horizon.
As if by fate, I had indeed found my circus. I felt happy, something that was a rare sensation for me. I met and spoke to the right people and soon was given a place. As it turns out, the animal keeper was looking for a replacement and somehow I got the job.
They told me they were going to head south, to avoid the weather. We moved out the following day and I began to learn what it took to care for an elephant and the appetite this enormous animal dictated. Not to mention the other four cages of animals. Exhaustion gained a new definition.
I didn’t like socializing with the others. They were all kind to me, but my time of solitude had left me a recluse. So I spent my days with the animals. I watched them watch me and we learned each other’s behavior.
It took me a bit to learn who to feed first. The former animal keeper didn’t alert me the tricks of his trade. The lion, that muscular beast, would be very vocal in his complaints. The first time I experienced this I was scared out of my mind. Basically all I did is chuck a huge piece meat in his cage, I didn't know what he did with it, it smelled to bad for me to stick around.
As for the elephant, Lily, I knew I would stay with her, her eyes showed me warmth that I could not find in another human. It was one of thanks and acceptance. She did not care who I was or where I came from. She was content with the fact that I was there to care for her. She told me so, in a manner of speaking. Elephants use every method they can to communicate with others. She liked to prod me with her trunk.
She was the only animal that tried to communicate with me, unless I was missing something. The ponies seemed content with each other.
The rain came and the dirt became mud. The groan of the caravans became a melodic part of the trip south. I felt as if I had traveled backwards, I had been away from home for an eternity it seemed and all the convenience was gone. This traveling was legitimate work.
When we arrived near the mountains, the rain turned to snow and the progression slowed even further. Things became slippery and we could only move during daylight, it was the least treacherous time.
Tragedy struck the following week. Some of the caravans lost control on the ice and crashed. In the chaos of broken items, I wanted to flee. The past months had been filled with disillusion, and this was far too much to take in. My charge, the elephant, was obviously distressed and freezing cold. In the confusion, I quickly unlocked her cage, gently tugging at her collar. We headed down the path and it was then I saw the blue and red light bars.

http://susanaraab.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/picture-2.png

It’s just after 12 and we are going to go get some lunch. But first we sneak off to our usual spot. I like him. He has a rebellious streak. Everyone tells me he is trouble and I know it. But I love him. His friends call him Lucky because he always gets the girl he wants.
I don’t like that he smokes and I don’t like how much he drinks, but he makes me happy and I like it when he shows me off to his friends. My best friend Tess thinks it’s stupid that he waves me around like a trophy but she is always a bit dramatic with what she says. I still keep what she says in the back of my mind though because she has been my best friend since the day we met in fourth grade. I remember my teacher, Ms. Jacobs, had us work together on something and we hit it off right away.
My parents think I should date someone else, but what do they know. My dad is always at work and my mom is always on the phone and neither of them seems to be happy. My sister couldn’t care less as to what I do, as long as I don’t touch her stuff.
Anyways, as for Lucky, he’s my first real boyfriend and I don’t care who complains about it. We’ve been together for five months and he just gave me his class ring to celebrate it. He graduated high school. I’m a senior. I’m going to college in the fall and he’s finding himself. Whatever that means. His family just cares about family, they’re all really protective of each other. I don’t think they tell him what to do with his life like my parents tell me. I’ve been to his house for dinner a few times and everybody seems so close. His two brothers beat each other and him up but he doesn’t seem to care.
Lucky wants me to go out with him more than I can. As much as I am crazy about him, I want to keep my grades up. I already got my acceptance letter, but I’m afraid if I slack off now, I might loose my scholarship. Money isn’t a problem in my house; my dad is a very successful lawyer. My mom stays at home and does all the things housewives do. Most of this involves shopping, gossiping, and book clubs. I hope I don’t end up like her. She’s smart but never went to college; it wasn’t as popular to do in the sixties. But it seems she kind of gave up after that. I want more than that. But life gets boring and Lucky makes me feel free. He drives up to my house with his leather jacket and his hair tousled from the wind. When I see him, something inside me longs to be as free as he seems. I wish I could go without a care in the world sometimes. But I know I was raised without that kind of thought process. My parents would probably throw me out of the house if I acted like that.
Tess told me about a guy who has a crush on me. I know he was a year ahead of me in school, but I never got to know him. Scott was shy and studious. I know he’s smart; he got into Princeton. But besides that, that’s all I know about him. I haven’t seen him since he graduated. I always hate finding out someone likes me because I act different around them, but at the same time I want to know if a person likes me. It sounds hypocritical but I think everybody has moments like that.




Sara is pretty great I guess. All the guys are jealous so I show her off. I always like to be the cool one. I keep my motorcycle in top shape and show it off too. The best part is bragging to them about when she and I do it in the back of the convertible. I steal it from my dad when he is at the restaurant late, working. I drive out by the lake and we go at it. She isn’t that kind of girl but she is really into me. I’m not supposed to be that type of boy. Catholics get hung up about a lot of that stuff, at least my family does. My grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she knew what I was up to. Whatever. I wear my cross and go to church and all, but what’s good about life if you can’t get with girls?
So I’ve been with Sara five months know and I gave her my class ring because of it. Girls go crazy over that stuff. Trust me, I’ve been with a lot of girls. I met her when she came into my dad’s restaurant with a couple of friends. I work there sometimes as a waiter/busboy. So anyways, she comes in in this dress and I can’t keep my eyes off her. By the time they finished eating, I went up and asked her for her number and she gave it to me! I told everyone the next day about it.
She still goes to Central High, but she’s only ten months younger than me. I don’t feel like going to college but she’s all bookworm. My dad will just let me work for him, and my uncle is a mechanic. Everything I know how to do is right in the family so I don’t have to worry about it. So anyways, I find this great spot behind the closed car factory. It’s our regular make out spot now. I don’t think anybody knows were it is, except a few of the guys. Some nights we go back there and drink. I think I accidentally left a few bottles back there from this weekend. Oh well, I don’t really care. So the other day we go back there and she sits up my lap, and I got to hold my beer in place cause I think she’s gonna knock it off or something like that. For being so prissy and proper, she sure knows how to kiss a guy.
But I’m getting kinda tired of her always studying. I want to go out and party. She wants to care about school. I don’t get what’s so great about school. She always plans things out, plans ahead. I tell her to live in the moment. It’s more fun that way. She won’t do it though. She says her parents tell her it’s irresponsible and that they expect more out of her. I only met her parents once and her dad grilled me for ten frickin minutes about my plans for the future. He was pretty pissed when I kinda shrugged and said I didn’t know. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I probably should though because I am dating his daughter. I’m with her cause of the sex and show her off. I don’t really care who Henry the VIII was, or how many times he was married. She does, and she tells me about this crap all the time.






I saw them kissing again today. The first time I found them it was an accident. I was on my way home from class and I was trying to find new shortcuts. I don’t think they heard me but I’m not sure. Sara is so pretty and smart. I knew who she was in high school. I was a year ahead so I never got a chance to talk to her. She was always in the hall, talking to her friends, laughing and smiling.
When I found out she was with someone, it hurt even more. I never had much luck with girls but I guess I earned that. When I first say her my sophomore year, she was the one and only one I wanted ever since. It sounds strange but unless you know her, you can’t get what I am describing. She walks into a room and suddenly it glows. She has this ability to get people to smile and she brings warmth with her wherever she goes.
Growing up like I did, with a dad in the military, we moved around a lot. Going to new places all the time, I never had many friends. That’s why I never approached her, I didn’t know how too. I hate myself for it because know she’s with Lucky and he is using her. She is so smart and all he cares about is sex. I hope she doesn’t stay with him. I know she is smarter than that. The worst is that I don’t want him to hurt her like he did will the other girls. He just used them and cast them aside like they were trash. She’s more than that and he doesn’t see it. God, it makes me so angry!
Today I saw the two of them again. I don’t know why I went that way again. She was sitting on his lap with her arm wrapped around his neck. Her hair had a wave in it because she always wears her hair in a ponytail. I wonder why it was down today. She has such nice hair; I wish she did wear it down more. I have curls that I can’t manage so I usually keep my hair pretty short. I never did care much about my appearance. I do what’s the easiest. Lucky is so very different than me. He actually bothers doing things with the mass of hair he has. She was running her fingers through I the first time I saw the two of them together. Every time I see her, I want to be with her even more. And when I don’t see her, all I want to do is see her. I am driving myself insane over a girl I have never even talked too. But my mind won’t free her from its grasp. I hope this all works into something good because I can’t take much more of this.
I don’t understand why they have to go and do the things they do in public. Someone told me that factory closed a good ten years ago and it’s a pretty grungy location. The weeds are growing up the walls and the grass hasn’t been cut. Some kids went back there and broke in and sprayed graffiti the walls, b0oth inside and outside the factory. I guess they think it’s pretty private. I might be the only other one that goes that way.

a plotline

She thinks it’s love, he thinks it’s good sex.
He is the bad boy she craves. The one who loves her lies forgotten in the shadows.
He parties hard and drinks, despite being only 19. She is 18. He never cared for school. The catholic Italian boy who fights for his family. Her name is Sara. It’s the summer. It lasts eight months, then his heart is broken. She leaves him. She wants better than a rebel. She grows up, becoming of age. He continues on the downward spiral.

At first she didn’t mind his repeated punishments, she ignored her parents when they begged and pleaded for her to leave him and do better. Eventually she heard him brag about how slutty she was and she realized the error of her ways. She broke up with him, gave him back his class ring and sought out the quiet boy. His name was ( ) and her best friend told he liker her. She ignored him them did something about it her senior year.

Very cliché.

They are spotted by the boy that loves her. She ends up with him. She feels fuller. They care about each other, not the sex. He feels helpless loving her and seeing the boy use her for her brains and beauty.

another revision

Every time I bend down, the blood rushes to my head and the room spins. Every fish is harder to cut and I can’t keep this damn knife steady. I had a great time at that party. The stripper was late, but the wait was worth it. The beer supply never ended. Eric is getting hitched in a week. Time really has gone by. I’m amazed. It seems like just a short time ago Eric and I met freshman year of high school. I wish I hadn’t drank so much and I really wish I was still at that party. It was great to see the guys again after all this time.
This stupid monkfish is a nightmare to cut. You get used to it after awhile but last night I had to be stupid and drink that much lager. I lost count of how much I drank but I remember stumbling out of the cab at 1 a.m. Then I kind of blacked out.
Every time someone hits a bone my head pulses. These fluorescent lights definitely aren’t helping, bouncing off the bloodstained metal table into my face.
This job really isn’t for me. I actually hate it but I’m too scared to leave. Maybe I’m not scared but something is keeping me here. Fishmongers are becoming less common. Technology is more efficient and cheaper.
This economy is affecting everything. People are buying less fish. Some of the local specialties are being put on hold until things get back to normal. The calamari usually sells. Most of the local restaurants have it on their menu.

“Joe, hurry up! We need to get those fish out front fast.”

"I'm working on it!"

That would be my father, George. I secretly admire his drive, something I never seemed to have, but I wish he would give me some slack. I wish I wasn’t the oldest. This business has been in the family for six generations and I’ve been working here for as long as I can remember. Even as a teenager I worked here in my free time. Why didn’t I go elsewhere? Because of my father?
Despite the cold temperatures for the fish, I’m sweating. The apron is especially irritating today, never settling in the right position. What's the point of wearing a white apron if its only going to turn red?
I have gotten used to the sight of blood and fish guts everywhere. I used to pity the fish as a kid but I don’t care anymore.
Finally, with my arm nearly numb from the extra exertion, I’m done gutting all the fish. I call my father over so we can hurry and keep these fish fresh. Timing is very important around here. If the fish are old, you can feel it, let alone smell it. Those damn things reek if you aren’t careful. I don’t notice it, but the people out front do and we catch hell for it. The people in this area are very obsessed with hygiene so we butcher in the back before we bring the fish out.
The owner of this place, Susan, she can be a menace. She cares more about keeping up the looks of the place than the actual workers. One time she and I got into this fight because some rich person complained to her about the quality of the fish. The fish were fine, even my dad said so. That wasn’t good enough for her. I guess she is just trying to stay out of a lawsuit. It’s all based on money. Everything seems to be controlled by money these days. If you have enough money, you are invincible and people will nearly worship you. Organic food always costs more so we attract a lot of nut jobs here.
I’m really looking forward to this weekend, driving down to the beach. I really need to get out of this place. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper vacation. These weekend trips are nice but I really want something longer. A lot of my friends think it’s funny that I am a fishmonger in love with the ocean. It is pretty strange. They also hate how sand gets into everything. I love to bury my feet in it but it does get annoying spending five minutes dumping the grains out. I always seem to miss a few and my toes complain until I do something about it.
Picking up the fish, I am reminded of the slimy texture. I put the halibut into the ice of the cart and shove the metal of the price sign in. Hopefully the fish sell better today, yesterday was pretty slow. I hate having to stand there and watch the people look at the fish, then walk away. You have to be polite about it though. We take shifts to break up the workday. I have another hour before I am free to take my lunch break. I need to go on a walk; I need to get away from this putrid stench. Some people say they would love to be around food all day. It gets old fast. You always hear a buzzing fly and hope he stays away from what you are trying to sell. Flies tend to upset people. A lot of things tend to upset people. I notice the little petty arguments and complaints meant for only their ears. You notice a lot when you have to stand with nothing to occupy you.
My feet really hurt. And my headache is still here. The scuffs in the tiles are enough to stir up my already bad mood. Why didn’t I go to college? I could have had more opportunities than dealing with a truck that won’t turn over.
My two cousins also work here with us, but usually don’t do the pick up from the fisherman. My family is pretty close knit. I’m pretty happy about that. I work in a father and son team. I never decided to work like this but it just sort of happened and has been this way for the past nine years.
Lunch yields a limp sandwich and a diet coke. I was never that good of a cook, and being out on my own really proves it. I want a new car but all my extra money goes towards the mortgage. This job really doesn’t pay well but not many jobs seem too.
The road we have to drive on to get the fish is hellish. There are potholes everywhere. Not too many people come out this way, unless they are headed out fishing. This means nothing gets fixed until someone gets injured, as long as that someone is not me.
Loading the crates into the truck, I am reminded of how my father is aging. He always seems so strong to me, working as hard as he does. Now I notice how he and to stop and rest every so often. Ever since my mom died, he has been pushing himself to work as hard as he can. I can’t believe she’s been gone for six years. That really was a blow to the family. Luke was only 17 at the time. I guess Dad afraid of something too. We don’t really talk to each other, that wastes to much time.
The rest of the day is a repeat of this morning. Check the crates to make sure it matches the label on the side, it’s routine. Throw the crates out back near the dumpster. Eventually a truck driver who didn’t even finish high school will come and pick them up and take them to who knows where. I think they get reused. I don’t really care. You always see the people who want you to care about the environment, but all they care about is money it seems. One nearly leapt in front of me the other day. Don’t they have real jobs? I wonder how much it pays to annoy people and wave a clipboard.
After I cut the fish I stick them in the walk in fridge. One time, as a prank, I locked my cousin in there. I think I did it out of boredom. He put salt in my coffee that day, now I have a thermos.
It’s 6 pm and the market is getting ready to close. Thankfully people wanted fish today, so not too much is left. Limp, trodden, lettuce is on the ground. Water from a nearby hose mixed with the rubber mats makes the ground all the more disgusting to walk on.
I’m glad the day is over but I have to do it all again tomorrow. I guess I’ll stay for my dad, and I guess I always wanted to impress him. Maybe I do. Maybe I’ll stick it out and stay. Whatever, this is too much to think about. It’s late and the game is on tonight.

Every time I bend down, the blood rushes to my head and the room spins. Every fish is harder to cut and I can’t keep this damn knife steady. I had a great time at that party. The stripper was late, but the wait was worth it. The beer supply never ended. Eric is getting hitched in a week. Time really has gone by. I’m amazed. It seems like just a short time ago Eric and I met freshman year of high school. I wish I hadn’t drank so much and I really wish I was still at that party. It was great to see the guys again after all this time.

This stupid monkfish is a nightmare to cut. You get used to it after awhile but last night I had to be stupid and drink that much lager. I lost count of how much I drank but I remember stumbling out of the cab at 1 a.m. Then I kind of blacked out.
Every time someone hits a bone my head pulses. These fluorescent lights definitely aren’t helping, bouncing off the bloodstained metal table into my face.

Scrod $8.99 a pound. Raw shrimp (Jumbo) $15.99 a pound. Basa fillet $7.99 a pound. Prices run through my head. Will the people agree with the price or complain about it?

This job really isn’t for me. I actually hate it but I’m too scared to leave. Maybe I’m not scared but something is keeping me here. Fishmongers are becoming less common. Technology is more efficient and cheaper.

This economy is affecting everything. People are buying less fish. Some of the local specialties are being put on hold until things get back to normal. The calamari usually sells. Most of the local restaurants have it on their menu.

“Joe, hurry up! We need to get those fish out front fast.”

"I'm working on it!"

That would be my father, George. I secretly admire his drive, something I never seemed to have, but I wish he would give me some slack. I wish I wasn’t the oldest. This business has been in the family for six generations and I’ve been working here for as long as I can remember. Even as a teenager I worked here in my free time. Why didn’t I go elsewhere? Am I that afraid of my father?

Despite the cold temperatures for the fish, I’m sweating. The apron is especially irritating today, never settling in the right position. What's the point of wearing a white apron if its only going to turn red?

I have gotten used to the sight of blood and fish guts everywhere. I used to pity the fish as a kid but I don’t care anymore.

Finally, with my arm nearly numb from the extra exertion, I’m done gutting all the fish. I call my father over so we can hurry and keep these fish fresh. Timing is very important around here. If the fish are old, you can feel it, let alone smell it. Those damn things reek if you aren’t careful.
We pay rent in the back of an organic market. It’s the kind that seems to have popped up within the past ten years, with all the vegans and nutritionists. The people in this area are very obsessed with hygiene so we butcher in the back before we bring the fish out. No one wants to have morals about what they eat.

I work in a father and son team. My two cousins also work here with us, but usually don’t do the pick up from the fisherman. I never decided to work like this but it just sort of happened and has been this way for the past nine years.

I’m really looking forward to this weekend, driving down to the beach. I really need to get out of this place. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper vacation. These weekend trips are nice but I really want something longer. A lot of my friends think it’s funny that I am a fishmonger in love with the ocean. It is pretty strange. They also hate how sand gets into everything. I love to bury my feet in it but it does get annoying spending five minutes dumping the grains out. I always seem to miss a few and my toes complain until I do something about it.

Picking up the fish, I am reminded of the slimy texture. I put the halibut into the ice of the cart and shove the metal of the price sign in. Hopefully the fish sell better today, yesterday was pretty slow. Today yields a sale. Bay scallops $6.99 lb.I hate having to stand there and watch the people look at the fish, then walk away. You have to be polite about it though. We take shifts to break up the workday. I have another hour before I am free to take my lunch break. I need to go on a walk; I need to get away from this putrid stench. Some people say they would love to be around food all day. It gets old fast. You always hear a buzzing fly and hope he stays away from what you are trying to sell. Flies tend to upset people. A lot of things tend to upset people. I notice the little petty arguments and complaints meant for only their ears. You notice a lot when you have to stand with nothing to occupy you.

My feet really hurt. And my headache is still here. The scuffs in the tiles are enough to stir up my already bad mood. Why didn’t I go to college? I could have had more opportunities than dealing with a truck that won’t turn over.

Lunch yields a limp sandwich and a diet coke. I was never that good of a cook, and being out on my own really proves it. I want a new car but all my extra money goes towards the mortgage. This job really doesn’t pay well but not many jobs seem too.

The road we have to drive on to get the fish is hellish. There are potholes everywhere. Not too many people come out this way, unless they are headed out fishing. This means that no other bothers to fix the road.

Loading the crates into the truck, I am reminded of how my father is aging. He always seems so strong to me, working as hard as he does. Now I notice how he and to stop and rest every so often. Ever since my mom died, he has been pushing himself to work as hard as he can. I can’t believe she’s been gone for six years. That really was a blow to the family. Luke was only 17 at the time. I guess Dad afraid of something too. We don’t really talk to each other, that wastes to much time.

The rest of the day is a repeat of this morning. Check the crates to make sure it matches the label on the side, it’s routine. Throw the crates out back near the dumpster. Eventually a truck driver who didn’t even finish high school will come and pick them up and take them to who knows where. I think they get reused. I don’t really care. You always see the people who want you to care about the environment, but all they care about is money it seems. One nearly leapt in front of me the other day. Don’t they have real jobs? I wonder how much it pays to annoy people and wave a clipboard.

After I cut the fish I stick them in the walk in fridge. One time, as a prank, I locked my cousin in there. I think I did it out of boredom. He put salt in my coffee that day, now I have a thermos.

It’s 6 pm and the market is getting ready to close. Thankfully people wanted fish today, so not too much is left. Limp, trodden, lettuce is on the ground. Water from a nearby hose mixed with the rubber mats makes the ground all the more disgusting to walk on.

I’m glad the day is over but I have to do it all again tomorrow. I guess I’ll stay for my dad, and I guess I always wanted to impress him. Maybe I do. Maybe I’ll stick it out and stay. Whatever, this is too much to think about. It’s late and the game is on tonight.

fishmonger revised

Carolyn Mueller

Every time I bend down, the blood rushes to my head and the room spins. Every fish is harder to cut and I can’t keep this damn knife steady. I had a great time at that party. The stripper was late, but the wait was worth it. The beer supply never ended. Eric is getting hitched in a week. Time really has gone by. I’m amazed. It seems like just a short time ago Eric and I met freshman year of high school. I wish I hadn’t drank so much and I really wish I was still at that party. It was great to see the guys again after all this time.

This stupid monkfish is a nightmare to cut. Every time someone hits a bone my head pulses. These fluorescent lights definitely aren’t helping, bouncing off the bloodstained metal table into my face.

This job really isn’t for me. I actually hate it but I’m too scared to leave. Maybe I’m not scared but something is keeping me here. Fishmongers are becoming less common. Technology is more efficient and cheaper. But this job is so underrated, a butcher can make a mistake and still get a good cut of meat. If we make a mistake then we're kind of screwed. Fish are really hard to cut. No one stops to think what went into cutting a fillet.

This economy is affecting everything. People are buying less fish. Some of the local specialties are being put on hold until things get back to normal. The calamari usually sells. Most of the local restaurants have it on their menu.

“Joe, hurry up! We need to get those fish out front fast.”

"I'm working on it!"

That would be my father, George. I secretly admire his drive, something I never seemed to have, but I wish he would give me some slack. I wish I wasn’t the oldest. This business has been in the family for six generations and I’ve been working here for as long as I can remember. Even as a teenager I worked here in my free time. Why didn’t I go elsewhere? Am I that afraid of my father?

Despite the cold temperatures for the fish, I’m sweating. The apron is especially irritating today, never settling in the right position.

I have gotten used to the sight of blood and fish guts everywhere. I used to pity the fish as a kid. I don’t care anymore.

Finally, with my arm nearly numb from the extra exertion, I’m done gutting all the fish. I call my father over so we can hurry and keep these fish fresh. Timing is very important around here. If the fish are old, you can feel it, let alone smell it. Those damn things reek if you aren’t careful.
We pay rent in the back of an organic market. It’s the kind that seems to have popped up within the past ten years, with all the vegans and nutritionists. The people in this area are very obsessed with hygiene so we butcher in the back before we bring the fish out. No one wants to have morals about what they eat.

I work in a father and son team. My two cousins also work here with us, but usually don’t do the pick up from the fisherman. I never decided to work like this but it just sort of happened and has been this way for the past nine years.

I’m really looking forward to this weekend, driving down to the beach. I really need to get out of this place. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper vacation. These weekend trips are nice but I really want something longer. A lot of my friends think it’s funny that I am a fishmonger in love with the ocean. It is pretty strange. They also hate how sand gets into everything. I love to bury my feet in it but it does get annoying spending five minutes dumping the grains out. I always seem to miss a few and my toes complain until I do something about it.

Picking up the fish, I am reminded of the slimy texture. I put the halibut into the ice of the cart and shove the metal of the price sign in. Hopefully the fish sell better today, yesterday was pretty slow. I hate having to stand there and watch the people look at the fish, then walk away. You have to be polite about it though. We take shifts to break up the workday. I have another hour before I am free to take my lunch break. I need to go on a walk; I need to get away from this putrid stench. Some people say they would love to be around food all day. It gets old fast. You always hear a buzzing fly and hope he stays away from what you are trying to sell. Flies tend to upset people. A lot of things tend to upset people. I notice the little petty arguments and complaints meant for only their ears. You notice a lot when you have to stand with nothing to occupy you.

My feet really hurt. And my headache is still here. The scuffs in the tiles are enough to stir up my already bad mood. Why didn’t I go to college? I could have had more opportunities than dealing with a truck that won’t turn over.

Lunch yields a limp sandwich and a diet coke. I was never that good of a cook, and being out on my own really proves it. I want a new car but all my extra money goes towards the mortgage. This job really doesn’t pay well but not many jobs seem too.

Driving up to the get the fresh fish, I wonder when the road was last paved. Not too many people come out this way, unless they are headed out fishing.

Loading the crates into the truck, I am reminded of how my father is aging. He always seems so strong to me, working as hard as he does. Now I notice how he and to stop and rest every so often. Ever since my mom died, he has been pushing himself to work as hard as he can. I can’t believe she’s been gone for six years. That really was a blow to the family. Luke was only 17 at the time. I guess Dad afraid of something too. We don’t really talk to each other, that wastes to much time.

The rest of the day is a repeat of this morning. Check the crates to make sure it matches the label on the side, it’s routine. Throw the crates out back near the dumpster. Eventually a truck driver who didn’t even finish high school will come and pick them up and take them to who knows where. I think they get reused. I don’t really care. You always see the people who want you to care about the environment, but all they care about is money it seems. One nearly leapt in front of me the other day. Don’t they have real jobs? I wonder how much it pays to annoy people and wave a clipboard.

After I cut the fish I stick them in the walk in fridge. One time, as a prank, I locked my cousin in there. He put salt in my coffee that day, now I have a thermos.

It’s 6 pm and the market is getting ready to close. Thankfully people wanted fish today, so not too much is left. Limp, trodden, lettuce is on the ground. Water from a nearby hose mixed with the rubber mats makes the ground all the more disgusting to walk on.

I’m glad the day is over but I have to do it all again tomorrow. I guess I’ll stay for my dad, and I guess I always wanted to impress him. Maybe I do. Maybe I’ll stick it out and stay. Whatever, this is too much to think about. It’s late and the game is on tonight.

Carolyn Mueller

It's 10 a.m. and Joe is slowly working at a job he does not like. He, like so many others, is quite unhappy. Joe didn’t want to be a fishmonger, but every man in his family became one. It has been a family tradition for six generations. As Joe cuts up a monkfish, his mind drifts back to the party he attended the previous night.

I had a great time at that party. My best friend, Eric, is getting hitched in a week. Last night was his bachelor’s party. I can’t believe he is going to get married. Time really has gone by. I’m amazed. It seems like just recently Eric and I met freshman year of high school.
I wish I hadn’t drank so much, my head is killing me. I really wish I was still at that party. It was great to see the guys again after all this time.

As Joe washes his hands, he thinks about how his job is being replaced by technology. He didn’t really mind as long as he could stay employed. Who knew with this economy on top of everything else?
His father was still working at the same place as Joe and Joe sped up his work pace as his father came to check on him.
“We need to get those fish over to the market fast, so hurry up boy.”
Joe’s father, Ed, had always been tough on him. Joe was the oldest of the three boys and gained the most scrutiny from it. He admired his father’s drive but wished for some slack.

I’m really looking forward to this weekend, driving down to the beach. I really need to get out of this place. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper vacation. These weekend trips are nice but I really want something longer.

As Joe finished cutting the halibut then pricing it, he called his father over so they could begin to load everything into the truck. Being father and son, they worked as a father and son team. Joe didn’t really decide this, but it just sort of happened and had been this way for the past nine years.

This truck is getting pretty beat up. I really could use a new one but I’m still using my extra money for my mortgage. This job doesn’t pay much at all.

The market was a four-mile drive up the road. It was one of those new organic places, the ones that seemed to pop up within the past ten years. They parked in the back as usual and began to unload the merchandise.
Ed went in to tell them to get the carts out. Timing is always important, as is refrigeration. If it isn’t done right, the fish reek. After twenty minutes of hard work, the two men head back to work. By now it is lunchtime and Joe takes a walk. He wants somewhere that is not fish scented.

I know I always think that I hate it here, and I do. I guess I am too scared of what my father will think if I tell him I want to leave. He seems to be content with his job. I want more to my day then washing the guts out of a flounder. I want to breathe in air that doesn’t smell this awful. I don’t know what job I want, but I definitely don’t want anymore of this. I really wish I had gone to college, instead of going directly here. I wish I cared a bit more about school. I know I can’t keep thinking like this. It isn’t getting me anywhere. I also know there are a ton of other people out there that also hate their job but they don’t really affect me. I really wish I could figure something out. The worst is that I don’t know what I want so I am stuck here.

Joe slumps back to his station in obvious despair. A nearby worker sees this and asks him what has happened. Not wanting to divulge his personal turmoil, he simply shrugs and gets back to work. A new load of fish come in, needing to be completely slaughtered. He didn't even pity the fish anymore, but he did once, long ago.

Disappear

I kidnapped an elephant from a traveling circus train crash. At least I think I did. I know I found myself in those hills.
It all started in October, the leaves were dying their vivid colors. I had no reason to leave my town, but I left anyway. There was no end destination in mind. I took my car that was as ragged as my jeans and just drove away. I didn’t tell anyone I was going, nor did I take anything with me. Surprises are always fun.
I drove for hours, days even. Time passed without notice.
My car broke down near the mountains. I left it there and kept going. Everything is worse at night because that’s when the paranoia kicks in. I walked until sunrise. I had no identity, no location; I was no one, free.
There was a town that one only dreams about, homey and free of chain stores. It was a destination among many. They knew I didn’t live there; I was a stranger, yet someone took me in.
She was widowed. I liked her. Her home was stuck in time. Nothing had changed; it was frozen in her memories. I stayed for a week and left with a renewed faith in humankind. It was rejuvenating that some people were still pure of society’s ills.
I moved along on my way, knowing winter would be biting at my heels before I knew it. Things were better on foot. Nature mattered.
The grass was the only proof of my existence. It left behind my mark, my footprint.
That night I slept by the river and prayed for safety from nature’s beautiful destruction. Days continued to melt by and still nothing mattered to me. I was free from life’s responsibilities, all of them seemingly unnecessary. My family probably thought I was dead.
November snuck in and things continued to die. My shoes snapped dehydrated wood and startled unseen wildlife. I continued trekking across the unknown land.
I found another town and received unexpected stares. What had happened in the world while I was gone? Everything clicked when I caught my reflection in the counter top. I had become an unkempt vagabond. It was time for new clothing, some warmth.
I stayed again in this town. I met the single serving friends that you open up too, knowing full well you will never see them again and that all you say won’t matter if you give it time.
There was a faded banner in the distance, one that bore the harshness of weather for many years. The sun-damaged banner boasted that the circus was coming to town. Memories of my childhood flooded back to me. I used to think of joining a circus, despite being clumsy and having no visible talent. I longed for some sense of unity to my existence.
The banner was abandoned but my renewed sense of passion was not. It was at that moment I decided to join a circus. It was an odd and childish desire but it was something I felt I should do.
The biggest problem was finding my location and finding a circus to join.
Logic told me to head south. Not wanting any possessions, I continued to walk.
The time that progressed became hazy. Eventually, as if a mirage, I saw caravans on the horizon.
As if by fate, I had indeed found my circus. I felt my happiness begin to return, something that was a bit of a shock to me. I met and spoke to the right people and soon was given a place. As it turns out, the animal keeper was looking for a replacement and somehow I got the job.
They told me they were going to head south, to avoid the weather. We moved out the following day and I began to learn what it took to care for an elephant and the appetite this enormous animal dictated.
It was soon I developed an unspoken bond with the mammal and I felt my compassion returned.
The rain came the dirt became mud. The groan of the caravans became a melodic part of the trip south. I felt as if I had traveled backwards, I had been away from home for an eternity it seemed and all the convenience was gone. This traveling was legitimate work.
When we arrived near the mountains, the rain turned to snow and the progression slowed even further. Things became slippery and we could only move during daylight, it was the least treacherous time.
Tragedy struck the following week. Some of the caravans lost control on the ice and crashed. In the chaos of broken items, I wanted to flea. The past months had been filled with solitude and disillusion, and this was far too much to take in. My charge, the elephant was obviously distressed and freezing cold. In the confusion, I grabbed some blankets and led my friend away from the mess, toward more unknown places.
We walked, looking for shelter from the frigid temperatures. There were no towns, no people. We just traveled and seemed to grasp each other.

alternate personalities

A sense of sadism mixed with insecurity. Fueled by a life of predetermination, not one of choice. A driving force of independence to break free from whatever reality was spawned by imagination.

Spending my time needing to try and say the things that have meaning. But words cannot be used for that. So my time is wasted in part. Doubting myself and purging my beliefs to try and remain natural, so it goes. Unless what goes on in my mind is far from reality, how would I know?

Necessary confusion and unnecessary worry, my true desires seeming impossible.
Such is life.






Calm. Letting life’s river take me where it needs to for all things in life one cannot control. Accidents give us identity. Forget.

No one is free from error. Forgive.
Do not judge yourself for you are like all others and share the common links you hate yourself for.

Relax with the knowledge that idolization often occurs unnoticed.

Life will continue with or without you so just go along with all that is and all that will be. Throw in existentialism. Give me indifference.

Nothing will matter. Only the great heroes will be remembered. Fell free to fumble and fall like all others have before you. Remember you are one in eternity. There is no perfection.

The tears that cleared her makeup.
A pathway to her imperfection.
The walls she bulit around her heart.
To keep it from breaking anymore.

The pain she hid renewed itself.
The terror took another swing.
And all that was left was hope.

I watch you as you drag your feet and sing the songs you stole from the river.

As you twirl your hair without thought and smile with the afternoon breeze.

Tell me a story of pain. Of loss.
Of miles traveled.
And hopes destroyed.

Juniour year is over. I can breathe. And travel.

What is the difference between art and porn?

Arousal?

Love fiercely
Keep an open mind
Make music and art from the soul
Wander

Class.

She had heard of the city of sharp edges.
But she stayed where she was.

She was stuck to where she was. A union of her thighs to the chair. A marriage of heat and a rash decision to wear shorts that morning.

The chair.
The chair that bore her weigh yet offered no comfort. The chair that bore the weight of many others and still retained its force of will never to bend to anyone’s will.
…And there was a boy. And once there was laughter.
Now there was occasional amusement. But it was enough. Some laugher is better than total silence.

The chair offered nothing.

There was noise.
Noise she learns to drown out and noise that stands out more than it ought to.
Because it came with the constant factor of annoyance, of ignorance.

Education is deemed necessary I’m told.

Shifting for the unreachable comfort. The metal reflecting her agony, mocking her all the while.

The poke in her spine because the student behind her pays her no attention. Her presence is ignored unless something is wanted of her. Unless she is hit with a binder. Just enough to snap her out of her miserable reverie.

She sees the boy again, absently drumming the desk with his fingers. She hears a noise. Not in reality, but imagined, for it has become ingrained in her. Ingrained like everything else she witnesses.
The monotonous drone of her teacher. She looks towards him, not hearing a word he spews. Boredom has gradually tuned him out and now she only catches snatches of the conversation. Always hearing the amusing parts and perking up when someone starts to laugh.

Dropping her pen for she is too lazy to grip it properly. Telling her teacher to shut up inside her head. The safety in her thoughts. One minute remains.

Buckling under the weight of her backpack. With friends once again. The bell rings its impossible sound. Freedom.

Passion is good but in the wrong areas, not so much. I had 11 hours (seriously) of art homework Thursday night.

Humans are born, educated with things they don't care about (because they don't know how bad it can really be) fall in love, fall out of love, have kids they view as problematic and try to control with punishments and medication. work to buy things that look good, that they care about for 5 minutes, that they wasted their money on because you can't use it when your dead.

So it turns out that beauty is based on math. How odd. Does that make beauty just then?

Yesterday a friend asked me if the world would be a better place if no one wore shoes.

I think it would.

"How can I find you?"
"Hunt me down by smoke signals and interpretive dance."
And so he began his journey.

It was a rainy night. The dampness adding to the already grimy city. A bar light cast a nauseating shadow on the pavement in a section of town that was forgotten by society. A society that fit into a certain class, already categorized for life. But it didn't matter, he was waiting for her.
It had been months of searching, through heartache on the verge of giving up. But every time he was on the brink, he got closer.

She arrived, sunken and broken. He wanted to run to her but fear kept his feet firmly planted to the ground. She made the first move.

Many teachers appear to be sadists. I suposse it is a fitting profession for a sadist.

Wanting to leave and not being able to is the worst thing in the world.
I fear if I stay, it will overpower me.

We take so much for granted and don't even realize.

It was a warm spring day in a town who's name is unimportant, at least for the moment. It was a Sunday afternoon and the local church that centered the town was having a "jump rope for Jesus" fundraiser. The church, white with a big bell tower, shone in the blazing sun. Mothers in lawn dresses secretly boasted as they shared cake recipes and scorned their children about getting grass stains on their Sunday best.

She stood a bit off to the side, leaning against a white picket fence. The pleasant commotion that surrounded her bore her no interest. Her current worry was trying to master the one lock of hair that refused to be in unison with the others. Her hair, a color deemed strawberry blonde, was something she never took to mind. Until this very moment due to the extreme boredom that was often common in this region. But only she seemed to notice it.

Put emotion in it

As much as you can

Let it eat away at you and taunt you

and wake you up at night

That is what art is for me.

The scuff marks on the floor
Constant shifting
An awkward place to sit /with no comfort to offer
The constant crack of nearby knuckles
A throat to be cleared
Again
And again
The buzz of the lights
Necessary
But taunting
Agony
Boredom
Anger coaxed by boredom
For all these noises
Add to the constant tick of one's own mind

The artists curse goes as follows.

You create a work and work on it till you despise it, and thus, you only see its flaws while others see its beauty.

The wind was taunting the leaves as they shivered in their designated positions. The sky peered through the treetops in strewn segments, never showing its full self.
I walked down the path that was filled with invisible stories, my head seeking warmth in a scarf from my grandmother.
Despite the fact that it was noon, only a paltry amount of light reached my surrondings.
That is my attempt at poet's prose, how did I do? I guess that stuff isn't expected from a stick thin girl in skinny jeans and high tops.

Screw writers block and screw the hectic life I currently have.

It was a Sunday morning. The leaves were still wet from the midnight shower that I slept through with ease. I'm so tired. I know studies show you need eight hours. Studies don't show the average stress level of the population. Useless studies.

I know it's bad to rub at the bags under your eyes, but it's a habit I am too occupied to break.
News headlines only have the same drone as usual.

Wonders why life plays out in the fashion it does. How human of me.

Summary of Poetics

Artists and poets deal in the possible. History is only the past, philosophy is only the logical approach to things. Art covers all areas.

We learn universal truth about human nature through art.

There is danger in everything.

Art: Ignored in this country. Deemed entertainment or something even lower. No passion for the creativity. Artists are weirdos, insane. A simple dismissal.
A man collects something for his love of it. This is unheard of in these regions.

They see art as having no point. Nearly.

Thanks to Urbandictionary

1. Carolyn

The feminine version of the name Charles meaning "the woman." Basically never printed on magnets, mugs or other souvenir paraphernalia. Often mistaken for Caroline, Carolina, Carol, Karen or Katherine.

Ex: My name is Carolyn, not Caroline, dammit.

The Power of No

For some reason, I was reminded of the man in Tiananmen Square, stopping the tank so fed up with the world and it's inherient cruelty. Then I thought of Sir Thomas More and his refusal to support King Henry VII in his request for divorce. This refusal led to his demise. Lying to find evidence, for there was none.

It's the click, the no I won't do this or agree to this, that makes me curious. Toddlers learning words seem to have no problem in addressing thier desires. So what makes older generations submit but disagree?

your sex life is like the berlin wall, you can get it up but no one is going to climb on it

Tired eyes gazing out at the lamp post, standing rigid beside the worn picket fence. White, but chipping. It needed to repainted but it fell on the list of things to accomplish that most likely will never be accomplished. It's all relative. Marriage. Kids to raise. Divorce. And the mounting list of things that needed to be done. And the ever growing pile of things to be mended. And the always decreasing amount of spare time.

A bird, innocent, and happy in its ignorant glory, perched on the fence. The fence that had bore the strain of many animals and many storms. Rotten wood adorned with chipping paint. So scenic in its disrepair.

Wind, a soft progression of chimes in the distance. Enough to snap one out of a reverie.

new finland dog
harlequin great dane
tibetan mastiff

black eyed leucistic snake

ragdoll cat
maine coon
russian blue
Oriental

2:00 am

Waking to the company of the moon. A tired life.
The leaves had long since shed themselves to grow anew again, when the cold moved on.
Streching angerly, for sleep was no friend.
Bare feet on the oak floor. Creaking under the weight it was asked to bear.
The closing of the refrigerator door and the always calming cup of chai.
Sinking wearlily into a chair.
Perhaps it was a predictable life, but it was the one of choosing.
The feel of fur against one's bare leg was often a sensation that went unnoticed.
Hunger, as usual. Spoiling the only company you have, but for what purpose?
Sitting, staring at the moon, as it hangs boldly, by unseen threads.
Life in all its unseen mystery.
A letter. From a lover. According to inner fantasy. Unopened on the table. Waiting for the invariable escape of sleep. A welcome break from the usual bills.
A tale of kindred spirits or a deeper meaning to something ordinary.
Or simply, nothing at all.

Jesus Christ walks into a hotel. He hands the inkeeper three nails and asks...

"Can you put me up for the night?"


I am going to Hell for laughing at that.

I need a good hook. Something about a lust for money and the banality of human nature.

And I knew that my biology grade would falter. Memorization for cell structure I do not deem necessary, and it may be within my denial that I cannot master the subject.

Unlearning Truth

Socrates argues that perfection only exists as an idea and that truth is also an idea. If truth is only perception, since it only exists as an idea, does it exist in our realm?

Throughout history, many dictators and other powerful leaders have imposed genocide on certain groups of people. Most recently, we have discussed good and evil. The concept of good and evil can also be looked at from a perspective of truth.

They view their destruction as following orders or finding a solution to a problem. That is their belief, shared, often, with others. Each person possess a different philosophy on a situation, a different viewpoint. Each differs enough that there is no unity, no common truth.

When a person does a task that is deemed evil, the explanation they provide is a simple one. One that does not account for their actions usually, and one that does not demonstrate their knowledge of the horrors they have committed. For each group, even for each individual, their view on “truth” differs. If you were to interview witnesses of an accident, each would have a different account. The accident itself was one solid event, certain things occurred certain ways, but those details are lost in the explanations.

The definititon of truth has twelve definitions.

truth   /truθ/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [trooth] Show IPA ,
–noun, plural truths  /truðz, truθs/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [troothz, trooths] Show IPA . 1. the true or actual state of a matter: He tried to find out the truth.
2. conformity with fact or reality; verity: the truth of a statement.
3. a verified or indisputable fact, proposition, principle, or the like: mathematical truths.
4. the state or character of being true.
5. actuality or actual existence.
6. an obvious or accepted fact; truism; platitude.
7. honesty; integrity; truthfulness.
8. (often initial capital letter) ideal or fundamental reality apart from and transcending perceived experience: the basic truths of life.
9. agreement with a standard or original.
10. accuracy, as of position or adjustment.
11. Archaic. fidelity or constancy.

—Idiom. in truth, in reality; in fact; actually: In truth, moral decay hastened the decline of the Roman Empire.

None of these really clairfy and it is never helpful to have the word itself in the definition.

27/1
Socrates states no truth exists in the realm of change and decay. That is our world. He says there is only perception. That makes sense to be, seeing as “truth” or what we call truth varies per person. That means we all have perception but then would we have to change out definition of perception to truth? But it’s not truth. But our eyes intake things that we do not see. So even that works with theory. Our mind interprets our visual blind spots. So everything is inaccurate. Woah. Truth requires goodness. Does that mean there is no goodness at all? So are all humans inherently evil? This is getting off topic, but I am curious. So does it mean that since there is no truth, nothing is as it seems?
29/1
Today was the continued debate of truth and reality. We began a story about truth. More or less, the plot was that of an execution in a penal colony. I still, as 2
Today we discussed Sisyphus and his obvious snide behavior towards the gods. In an almost mockery, he continues to push the rock, knowing he will fail. The gods are angered that they cannot defeat his spirit. They can punish him, but are unable to change his mentality. I agree this story is still applicable to modern times. Many people resist authority, or whatever. Blatant disregard, you can punish but you can’t defeat a person’s will. It is human nature at its simplest form.
6/2
Today was a debate of Disney’s princesses, heroism, and punk music. Let alone black and thrash metal. Oh, and somewhere in between we talked about Socrates and his belief that knowledge is born with us. We know tings already and only need to remember them. Sounds plausible. Maybe. Well, what I want to know is if that happens, how does one account for learning disabilities? Our brain refuses to be at its best, to know all it can know? One of these days I am determined to take this up with Socrates. It is proven that as a general rule, girls are better at English and boys are better at math. Do some genders only know certain things? Are we all born with the same knowledge? Or the same capacity to remember? What happens with Alzheimer’s, where our brain looses memory? Is this a case of the slate being wiped clean again? Humans are against an unstoppable force. We will never remember fully. Due to this, we will never being as knowledgeable as we can be. I wonder if this is the case. It all sounds rather unfortunate, just enough for it to be true.
11/2
Today was a discussion of characters acting as catalysts in a story. We thought of works such as “The Great Gastby”. We also discussed how when we are born, we loose our knowledge. We all come from a place full of all knowing and forget it when we come into the world. It’s all rather thought provoking. The poem itself is by Wordsworth. Irionic last name. It’s an excerpt from "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" I summarized the basic point to the piece already. The line “Heaven lies about us in our infancy!” really stands out to me. I think it is simply a great line. He states that life is similar to a prision. I am taking this as heaven is only availble to the dead, having nothing to do with good actions or positive lifestyles. This is an interesting point, along with the apparent fact that children are all knowing. I am taking it that innocence and knowledge are relative. Ahh, so many points to think about.
12/2
Today was the discussion that art is the only true form of knowledge and truth. This is a bvit warped, does that mean artists are all knowing? That would be pretty nice. It’s rare, ecspecially in this country that anoyone thoinks of the artists. Art is looked at as a form of entertainment. I never did agree with that. In any case, how would one go about intrepreting the truth or knowledge in a work of art? A lot of artists are a bit wack in the head. I don’t even mean cutting off your ear or painting with your mustache. I mean we are all a bit nuts. In any case, I think it is a point to consider, with or without the melting clocks. It is all so cryptic though. Perhaps humans are doomed to search for the truth. Have I mentioned this before? It seems déjà vu to me.

……….
23/2/09
Can good come from evil? What good happened after the Holocaust? I mean, history is bound to repeat itself. I don’t think any good came from it. Genocides only exterminate, they cause no good. Khmer Rouge, Final Solution, Darfur, Apartheid in South Africa. What good came of these horrific events? Nothing I can think of. People suffered. Everyone complains about what they have. It seems to me that there is evil and enough good to prevent us from all going insane. If you contend with too much evil, you most likely will go insane. It all seems so pessimistic. Is death the good for our suffering and contending with evil? Is death the answer to our problems? That leads to wondering if the only point to life is to contend with evil. Wow.

25/2/09
All of my files have been deleted. Awesome. I hate technology. Bravo on my part for at least backing this all up. Well, here I am thinking about a poem I read.
It is called "Spring and Fall:to a Young Child" This title, at first glance, bore no meaning to me. Then it was brought to my attention of looking at it as spring and fall, the actions, not the seasons. Today was my first glance at a second meaning in writing. I don't mean this as I haven't looked for meaning behind words, I mean it as words a as group. If that makes any sense. I also haven't had time to give poetry much thought. As for the poem, an adult speaks to a young child about leaves falling off trees. One day the child won't care about the leaves, understanding without the emotional display. The poem tied to man's loss of innocence and the cycles of behavior.

............
9/3/09

"From The Republic of Conscience" by Seamus Heaney
I read this poem today and immediately thought of going on a trip to Ireland. The poem seemed filled with superstition. I like it though. I am taking it literally for the moment, but not for long. I like the display of human nature that I often don't seem to find in poetry. The old man in the homespun coat. Good visuals. People, their daily lives. Their beliefs. It is all displayed in this poem.

11/3/09

Today we read a speech by Martin Luther King. It was his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize. Alfred Nobel, who was he? You hear names of something you know nothing about. Conscience and what it means. Will the world be a better place if people followed it more? I wish I knew. My thoughts are all twisted up. And King wanted equality between races, do we even have it now? I cannot tell. I know there is racism still.

12/3/09

"The More Loving One" by WH Auden was today's reading. We talked about what is worse than indifference in man. Is there anything? Can indifference be the root to the majority of our problems? No care for anything, thus no morals for any act done under this mindset? It seems feasible, or is it plausible? For me, the last stanza is a bit like accepting evil in the world, if used in a different context. The darkness of despair, of knowing no hope exists in the world. How awful of a concept. Then again, what if things are like that now and we are blind to it? It may be best to admire that which will change steadily, but slowly.

20/3/09

Art. We looked at Manet's painting. It was of a famous prostitute, which is the only reason people wanted the work taken down. What categorizes it as art instead of porn? Its intention? It seems so. It is interesting thinking about people's mindsets on a topic. I am an artist, so I guess my point on it is jaded. Then again, if you have no knowledge, do you have a write to discuss art? Do artists have to train to be considered artists? Or is anyone with a message deemed worthy? I agree the artwork's background influences us, but should it? Should only certain things influence us and others we ought to ignore?

23/3/09

Does art invoke a sense of irresponsibility in its viewers? Can it bring out the wrong reactions in its viewers. I personally think everyone should be educated as much as possible before being subjected to something new. That might control poor reactions. Not that I am a fan of control but I guess some of it necessary. I do think people need education because I think a lot of problems are caused by ignorance. If you look at society, it does seem to be that way. With art, it is easy to dismiss, and I think it is not as much of a danger as some other facets of society. I do think things have improved since I learned about art. It has a new meaning for me.

24/3/09

Summary of Poetics
Artists and poets deal in the possible. History is only the past, philosophy is only the logical approach to things. Art covers all areas.
We learn universal truth about human nature through art. Finally, an explanation I can cope with. Thank you Aristotle, you have improved my day. Now I do art for a purpose, though art is still my rock. I can envision things.

High School (full version)

High school: all the things you hate about your life spawned into reality. It's a bit like an acid trip, but only some of the people are on drugs. The noise can get deafening, time seems to freeze, and, of course all the equally annoying things you learn to ignore. They kind of become the melody of daily life; buzzing, slamming, people talking at, instead of to each other. That reminds me, have you noticed the temperature is never comfortable? It's like a real version of Goldilocks without the talking bears.
This education, deemed necessary, becomes a place to practice your survival tactics, in a manner of ways. You rush through it half-heartedly, oblivious at times, often intentionally.

It becomes a way to numb yourself through.

If you do stop for a moment, say, as a way to take as long as possible to get to your next class, you begin to notice the things you tune out. Graffiti, unidentifiable substances, and mysterious odors, suddenly spring out at you, as if waiting in the shadows for you to notice them. Then you spy the sickening glare of the fluorescent lights on the tile. You question why they bothered to use tile in the first place. Cost effective, or as a way to enhance the dungeon-esqe feel?
You suddenly snap out of your reverie because some oaf with an over-active pituitary gland slams into you and, without hesitation, continues on his way.

The joys of daily life.

So you advance to class, with your newly bruised shoulder. You couldn't care any less about this class, but you care about school so you attend it. So you sit slouched and listen to a man as old as the history you're learning about, talk about something you don't need to know. Shifting a bit, the seat won't give. Oh, right! No freedom to move in those horrid desk-chair offspring. Something guaranteed to drive you mad.

Or has it already happened?

pt.2

Cynical. That’s how I’d describe myself in three words or less. I observe though. I sit and I watch. Or I crack jokes that get the nerdy kids to break a smile.
I don’t look forward to anything, and no, I’m not suicidal, abused, or anything else for that matter. I’m sorry I don’t fit your teenage stereotype. I’m just who I decide to be that morning. Keeps things fresh. I shock, I amaze, I just plain freak the hell out of people at times. It gives me my kicks.
Yes, I’m still stuck under the fluorescent lights that could make Heidi Klum seem ugly. Or whomever you want, you get my point.
That oaf who crashed into me the other day, I saw him again, near knocked over one of the freshman. Poor kid. And of course he kept on going, like nothing happened. I hope karma bites him in the ass.
Yea, I sound harsh, whatever. I can’t be bothered to spend all my time self reflecting. There are too many tests for that to happen. Ha! Standardized tests are to blame for society’s inability to give a shit. Sorry. I’m in a weird mood. A weirder mood than usual that is, not that you can tell.
I gotta admit, I’m jealous of the people who complain they are normal and boring. Ain’t nothing like my friends. The art freaks. I have a love-hate relationship with this bunch. Lately, they have just made me queasy. It’s nice being able to have an innuendo free conversation. Then again, art and insanity seem to go hand in hand. I wonder if it’s possible to be creative and not cut your ear off. Okay, so maybe not that drastic, but all the famous artists were either blind or insane. And most of them got famous after they died. How bleary.
So I guess my plan is to act like a nut, paint melting clocks with my mustache, if I can grow one being a girl, then die poor. Or something like that. That’s what I’ve got to work with so far. Yeck!
You’re wondering why I talk this way about art? Well I already told you I’m cynical. And there are only so many times you can watch people stroke jars of applesauce or have knife fights in the middle of the art room. Sounds fun to you doesn’t it? Madness is amusing.
Gahh! I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I’m getting pressure from every source because I don’t know where to go to college. And then there are the ACTs and the SATs. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast.
You’re not listening are you?

I fall in love with the wrong people.

"You know want I want to do? I want to join a monastery. I want to join a monastery and bake bread."

"You'll have a red light moment. You'll be at a red light on County Line road, at one in the morning, coming home from a wedding. And you'll have a moment of insight. Email me. But you have to be in your twenties, mid to late twenties. Just say 'Mullen I get it.'"

Does knowing the truth really matter?

Implications of an existence with no meaning?
Purpose. Value.
Objective order of purpose and value. An existence without value.

No fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.

Camus says life is absurd. We must create the meaning.