I don't normally update the setup of this whole shebang, so I figured I'd notify you: You can now post comments directly from the main page. This is not a huge deal aesthetically, but in terms of function, I'd like to think it's a substantial improvement.

Please utilize this new feature that advances in technology have allowed us! Also, it would be prudent to have something to say about the post in question before commenting on it.

God, I hope I spelled shebang right.

If I've got this right, things work like this (though I admit, I'm no economist):

We live in a universe that is almost entirely empty space. The emphasis here goes to, "Almost." The universe is an eternity of nothing, punctuated by a very (relatively speaking) small, yet still infinite number of somethings.

That's the macro end of everything. On the other end, things work like this:

Inside everything, way, way down, there are molecules. Air, water, mescaline, brown shag carpet, everything. Molecules attach to each other (one way or another) and make (capital S) Stuff.

Creepy? Yeah! Then even deeper than that, way way way down, there are atoms that make molecules. Now, these atoms have little electrons and gizmracks and other words that don't really mean anything. All these little words are charged one way or another, and they buzz around. What do they buzz around? Well, it's strange, but they buzz around a lot of nothing. The majority of space in atoms is empty.

SO! We're made of mostly nothing (except some buzzing somethings and smaller somethings that are surrounded by nothing), living on a something in a sea of almost entirely nothing.

I guess that's why I find it funny when people say:

"There has to be a reason for all of *This*!"

This what? There isn't much of this. Maybe the this that is was an accident.

So, the planets of our solar system revolve around the sun in a similar pattern to electrons around the protons and neutrons of an atom. Some day, and some day soon, we're going to really *need* to face the fact that this solar system is an atom in a candy bar that's been on the shelf for WAY too long.

Nate

I just overheard this conversation in a New Line Cinema boardroom.

"Now, about Blade 7..."
"Whoa, aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Roland?"
"It's gonna take money."
"What?"
"A whole lotta spending money."
"What are you--"
"It's gonna take plenty of money, to do it right, child."
"You've been snorting peyote again."

Why I hate almost everyone.

This is me being a jackass. Interested? Read on.

That's right, I hate just about everyone, because virtually everyone is a greedy, ignorantly malicious, selfish, halfwit. I really feel like a jackass saying this, but it's got to be said. In fact, I feel like such a jackass that I'm going to outline (purely for my own use) how to not be a greedy, ignorantly malicious, selfish, halfwit.

1. Listen when people speak.

This is somewhat important. Of course, nobody has anything interesting to say anyway, but let's just look past that for now. The problem is that nobody thinks anybody says anything interesting, so nobody listens to what anyone says and reflects on it, perhaps (now this is extremely unlikely) allowing what has been said to fuel their own thinking (much more unlikely).

2. Share.

Don't be a dick. You have a sandwich, and someone doesn't. Give them half of your fucking sandwich. This extends to many things. Perhaps even beyond sandwiches. It's not that anyone is entitled to what you have, but the majority of the time, you're not really entitled to it either. Of course, you know, if you don't have parents, and raised yourself by eating bark and nuts and shit, then maybe this doesn't apply to you. On the other end, if you're reading this, you have a computer, and somewhere along the line, I'd wager someone helped you with something.

3. Keep your promises.

Hey, you know, is it really that hard? Fuck.

4. Don't vote for Republicans.

I don't feel obligated to defend this statement, and if you disagree, do us all a favor and die (That's right, us, not me, I'm speaking collectively because more people exist than just me. Novel concept, I know).

5. Take a very small amount of time every day, and do nothing.

This can be much more rewarding than it sounds. Use your imagination with it, sit on a chair, sit on the grass, sit on a bed. Fuck, lay down if you want. Let your mind pick up where the lackluster stimulation of your surroundings lets off.

6. Pursue something.

Anything.

7. Give a nigger a break.

Empathy is a key word here.

I need to go to fucking sleep.

You have the impression that what you're experiencing is a dream. The room around you is small and squarish. Disturbingly indistinct, with a table and a chair and a window without a pane. There is a door, but it seems so far away, as if it isn't really an option anyway. Why would you leave? You want to be here, don't you?

Besides, it's dark outside. Nobody goes outside at night. Of course, your memories disagree, bombarding you with one midnight excursion after another. After a few moments, the memories fade into darkness and mist, and you're left with the grim certainty that nobody goes outside at night.

The door is closer now, and who would've noticed? Either you walked to it, or it just snuck up on you. In the way that dreams confirm their own logic, you hear a deep, apocalyptic snarling from the door.

An apocalyptic sound can only happen in a dream, but you hear it and understand the implications. You back away from the door, just as it explodes in a shower of door-parts.

And there, right there is the biggest wolf never imagined. It can't fit in the room, but the wooden walls seem to swell and breathe, accommodating it. Welcoming it. You're on your back, on the floor, and you don't know what to do.

That's only natural. The orange eyes aren't natural, though. They're huge, the size of softballs, and they flicker with the light of a sacrificial pyre. Hungry.

Just as the massive teeth close around your head and neck, you think about everything that wasn't a dream. You think about how you should've done something, how everything you had was a waste, and how this shouldn't be the end. But it is.

I am a roleplayer. You might be wondering what this means. This means that I pretend to be something other than myself in every avenue of my life. Sure, I play dungeons and dragons, but that's really not what this is about. I'm so dissatisfied with everything about me that i believe a little escapism is in order almost all the time.

For instance:

When I play first person shooters, I don't just try to win, I get into the characters.

In counterstrike, I have buttons mapped to say things like:

"Yes, and we have destroyed your world commerce structure as well!"
"We will force you to use your heavy ordinance on unsuspecting countries, and you will be obligated to remanufacture them."

Yeah, I guess it's really not funny. It's not just my text speech though, it goes much deeper. Depending on my random team assignment, my play style varies widely.

As a Terrorist (capital 'T' please), I rush blindly into likely ambush areas firing blindly. I do not use the exceptional accuracy of the AK-47 in short bursts to my advantage, but rather, I attempt to shoot as many bullets as possible in the short 5 minute rounds.

Planting the bomb is paramount, if we merely kill the infidels sent to stop us, what good have we really done? The will of Allah is the dismantling of their oppressive machine, not merely the deaths of a few soldiers.

On the other end, as a Counter-Terrorist, I use my surroundings to my advantage. I take great care to keep my hostages alive, as my mission is their safe return to loving families and democratic, freedom-enriched lives.

Sure. Call me a "camper." What you don't realize is that I must protect the bombsite. Deviating from my mission objective is a folly my superiors would not take kindly to. You fucking ragheads.

Noob.

So.

I can't sleep.
At the same time, I really can't think of anything to say that's worth reading. It's a problem that permeates society, though. We've all got the ability to get published (I've got a button for it under this text input box), but we lack the skill to articulate anything meaningful.

Yeah, the internet is a wonderful thing, much like the invention of cordless and cellular phones. It's good that people are more reachable. I think. Cellular phones and the internet seem to be obtusely congruent. What we have is a massive amount of people who want to be the minority. I'm not the first person to say that it's impossible for that to happen.

Why then, upon realizing the sheer impossibility us all acheiving their hopes and dreams, do we try?

Well, because we BELIEVE in ourselves.

"I know I can do it."
"Everyone I know thinks I'm the best at *whatever*"
"I'm the next American Idol!"

Right now, I feel obligated to inform my reader (thanks mom!) that perhaps this rant has been brought on by American Idol. Yeah, I've been watching it. My girlfriend has a huge hardon for the damn show, and there have been a few specific moments that stuck out at me.

Specifically, watching people calling everyone they know on their cell phones to tell these people that they know that they've made it through another round.

I need to parse it myself, to try and find the meaning there, but it really struck me.

It could be that these fucking wastes of DNA have cellphones as a disillusion that they would ever NEED to be reached.

"What if my producer needs to get in touch with me? What about my lawyer?"

I say without restraint and with full confidence of my own correctitude that nobody auditioning for American Idol needs a cellphone until they win the useless competition and discover how hollow their lifelong dream has always been.

I hate everything. Especially when I see myself in these utterly pathetic misanthrope fuckers.

Here is a very short piece of fiction I wrote just after the last presidential election. It's called, "Let Them Have Pudding".


He surveyed the empty street with paranoid, glazed eyes. Clear. He ran across. An air of readiness surrounded him, yet it carried with it the smell of incompetence. His boots on the broken glass and soggy newspaper made his passage across loud, nerve-racking even. When he arrived at the next alley, breath left his lungs, and relief crept in.

A voice behind him said, “You shouldn’t have come here, George.”

At first, George was scared, terrified, but slowly recognition seeped through his simian brain.

“Ken, I think they’re on to us.” he said, eyes wandering, he pulled a cube-ish package from his coat pocket.

“It’s not safe for you here. Are you insane, man?” Kenneth said.

George drew a spoon from his front pocket. Kenneth gasped. After George applied the spoon to the package, there was a popping noise, followed by the familiar noise of someone opening a single-serving pudding snack.

“Great scott!” Ken said, “Think of your career. Your career! Sweet Christ, you’re throwing it all away.”

As George ate the pudding snack, a look of ecstasy spread through his body. He had lost the prejudice to distinguish between flavors. He could only describe them as “good.” Ken was still whispering in a fierce voice.

“I’m telling you, what if you’re seen? All hell, that’s what. We can’t be seen together, it’s not safe for you to keep coming to see me.”

Kenneth Lay finally pierced through George W. Bush’s defensive, pudding shell.

“But… I love you, Ken.” George said, turning to face the man.

“Don’t start on me again,” Ken said, “you know how I feel. You have a country to lead. You won this time. Good God, you won, man.”

George ate the pudding like a prisoner at an Iraqi prison camp. He ate it fast, but savored every mouthful, with every taste bud enraptured.

He said, “Do you want some of my pudding?”

Ken sighed, “Yes, of course I want pudding. That doesn’t change—“

He was silenced as the sticky, sweet gelatin was forced into his mouth. The spoon even tasted good, and Ken couldn’t resist. He could feel the “W” engraved on it with his tongue, he could taste the oxidizing silver, but mostly the pudding. He sucked on it eagerly, until he was sure there was none left.

George said, “Okay, now you do me.” He handed Ken the pudding cup and his silvered spoon, opening his mouth and closing his eyes.

Ken cleared his head, once he had a spoon in one hand and pudding in the other. He said, “George, you know this can’t work. I love you, but I won’t let you ruin yourself for me.”

At that he dropped the pudding cup on the ground and fled into the night. It spilled, in slow motion, catapulted across the wet pavement. George screamed a screamy, pain scream.

“NOOOO!! MY PUDDING!”
Then he ran back to his big, White House