December 10, 2010



I want it.

Perhaps you misheard me, didn't get the full effect, or any number of other possible mishaps. Let me say that more clearly.

I want it.

I want to be known, loved, and respected. But you are, you might say. Why else would you read this utterly depressing blog? Respect, knowledge, or love...they do seem like the biggest possible reasons you'd be here. But how many people do I know who actually checked this blog and asked for more even when nothing had come for months and months? Perhaps two.

Maybe I only crave the petty and worthless respect of princes and men, but I still feel alone. And, in many ways, that seems the only way I can be really respected. My words and actions when I do decide to act are such that I only regret them when they've happened, and fear them when they might. I realize that, most likely, the problem is solely between God and I, but the less I am known, let alone loved, the less I have any inclination to know or love anyone. However little I am trusted, so little do I trust.

My desires sabotage any attempt I make to become less alone. Further still, when I my plight reveal, I always fear I am but seeking pity, that when I look for comfort, it is unearned.

And where have I put God, that I could be where I am? Have my passions and the greatest desires of my heart put God on a barely sufficient back burner?

The worst? I don't trust myself enough to believe half of this when I most need to...and forget about ever hearing about it unless I know you well.

Ultimately, I know the root of my trouble must be sin, and doubtless mostly mine. Still, I am truly alone enough that no counsel is welcomed when found.

I have no happy ending for this post, no passage to suave my, nor anyone else's woes. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this. Honestly, I don't know what purpose this post will ultimately serve. What end is accomplished by it is beyond me.


August 18, 2010

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 5)

Ratchet Loses her Head and Finds her Hat

Ratchet returned to her neighborhood, in rather deep thought concerning most everything that'd just happened to her. The whole thing made no sense. Why the heck would she have survived? It wasn't like she was imbibed with...well, maybe she was.

She didn't like to imagine what abnormal occurrences might be caused by her recent strangeness and its source. She was just wondering what could have done whatever had been done to her when she walked head-on into the stench she'd only briefly encountered before. At the least convenient moment possible, she saw her hat.

It was sitting basically where she'd been standing, a good hundred feet off, in the middle of a crater that had created foot-wide cracks in the street and smashed a half a dozen houses completely flat. Trees were now collections of flimsy, twig-like shaves of charred wood, separated forcefully along their grains. The feeble breeze made the fragile arrangement sway and rock. It also blew Ratchet's hair behind her, causing it to rise and fall with the wind. Ratchet spent roughly a tenth of a second rolling her eyes before she was bodily carried away by it.

If it hadn't been that she had brothers well capable of tearing out a hair a day from her less than perfect scalp, this painful new force would have made Ratchet scream aloud. As it was, she merely winced and watched the ground disappear beneath her. Ratchet vaguely wondered if she'd survive such a rapid ascension, being that air pressure would be changing so quickly. As she looked down on her thoroughly blasted neighborhood, she noticed that the crater was square-shaped, and thoroughly unattended by the fire department or police.

Ratchet was sometimes slow to realize things, and thus, slowly did she realize she was no longer breathing air. On the other hand, she was breathing. Ratchet assumed her intermittent superpowers were kicking in, and looked around. Earth was already could easily fit into her field of vision with no trouble. The moon was slightly to her right as she rose. In a rather depressed and annoyed tone of voice, she thought, "Now I'm never going to finish my Algebra."

To her surprise, her comment went entirely heard. She raised an eyebrow and thought, "If hats were toast." Not surprisingly, this time, she heard herself aloud, though her lips didn't move. At this moment, she both noticed her hat was missing, and found it. For her, it wasn't important how abnormally things were starting to happen, now. It was important, however, that her hat was somehow racing toward earth, slowly beginning to glow a slight pink color. Ratchet didn't notice this until it hit her head on. The battered fedora had stopped dead in mid-space right ahead of her. As she'd been chasing it (she didn't bother spending brainpower wondering how), it was with rather a crunch that she hit it. Her wince of pain quickly translated into a perplexed and suspicious look.

"Have you been eating liquid metal?"

The hat looked doleful and unused.

"Well, I'm glad. I've heard nasty stuff about that kind of thing. Anyway, how'd you gain so much weight?"

The hat continued looking doleful and began twitching its brim.

"Come on. Out with it."

The hat paused its twitching and spun on the spot. Whatever Ratchet had expected, she had been entirely wrong. Despite this, she accepted what she saw without pause.

The fedora had a face. Undeniably, a face isn't something that can conveniently exist on a hat, when, originally, it existed on humans, but the resemblance was stunning.

By intricate sewing and the strangest selection of threads, the hat had a face to end all non-human faces. Its eyes were made from a combination of large and small buttons, combined with eyebrows and lashes made from seemingly stiff thread.

The mouth was even harder to describe. The tear in it that had occasionally provided Ratchet some physical reason to confide in such a thing as a hat was now embroidered and sewn with carelessness and abandon. It looked like someone had threaded thread again and again around a hem to give the strangest appearance of lips. Ratchet was sure she'd be the talk of the town after Halloween if she used it this year.

To top it off, it talked.

"Well, do you think I'd just leave myself flattened like that on the ground? Did you think I'd let you leave me in the middle of blood, guts, and that abominable stench? I thought you loved me!"

Ratchet would have been taken off guard, had she not been kidnapped, imbibed with intermittent superpowers, and robbed by a who knows what of her best and only hat.

"You think I abandoned you!? Was it MY fault that I was completely knocked unconscious by God knows who?! Was it my fault that..."

"Yes," it said.

Ratchet paused.

"HOW!?" she bellowed, noticing only briefly that the rim of the fedora was now bristling and quivering.

The fedora gave her a withering look, and pointed out frankly, "You're dreaming, you complete moron."

Ratchet snorted.

"Dreaming, am I? How do you know you're not dreaming?"

The fedora rolled its eyes and laughed aloud.

"Me, dreaming?! I'm beyond such nonsense. What do you think being on your head all these years has done to me? Dream--what nonsense," it snorted.

Ratchet looked back at earth, possibly ten thousand miles would she know, she'd never actually put her head into math...

She turned back. The hat had its lips pursed, and was trying hard to glare at her. For a split second, she realized the hat was having a very hard time being angry at her. She sighed.

"Well? Are you going to help me? I haven't the slightest idea what's wrong or what I can do about it."

The fedora's eyebrows raised, and it floated over to her head.

"So far, the only resolution necessary is me to be once again, on you. We can work on your silly neighborhood after that."

Ratchet sighed and put the hat on. It seemed as if she'd just eaten something comfortably warm when she was inches from hypothermia. Warmth coursed through her body and she noticed she was breathing air again. She shook her head in a perplexed way and walked off through space. She'd always wanted to see if the Great Red Spot was more or less turbulent than it looked.


For Some Odd Reason (pt. 4)

The Hat's the Thing

Ratchet wasn't your average girl. This wasn't solely because there is no such thing, though. It was also because she was both thoroughly atypical and positively typical. That is to say, she was human.

Ratchet's hair was a slightly reddish brown and varied in length wildly, some of it reaching below her chest, and some of it incapable of making contact with her shoulder. Her eyes were an unimportant color, but seemed to dazzle the fairer sex more than any insanely expensive pebble mounted on 24-caret gold.

She generally wore overlarge camo jeans, a rather disgustingly overused T-shirt (which was, nonetheless, spotless), and a fedora that could have been made decades ago and mistakenly left in a thoroughly not abandoned alley, only to be used, misused, and unused for the next couple decades. In truth, the story wasn't much different.

Still, she loved the hat, and, though its brim drooped sadly more than often, Ratchet continued to wear it. Secretly, she felt much too sorry for it to ever let it out of her sight. The thought of throwing it away, at this point, was tantamount to bombing her own house during her own birthday. Thus, Ratchet had kept the hat for more than eight years, never letting it out of her sight.

As she walked back toward home (she didn't know why she was going that way), she was completely hatless.

Unbelievably, she didn't notice.


August 15, 2010

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 3)

Wherein Ratchet Found Herself Quick, Tired, and Clean

Ratchet mentally scratched her head. She was sure it had just itched. In a similar manner, she scratched her nose, when it presented the discomfort afforded by itching, also mentally. This wouldn't have surprised her, had she been merely free from inhumane restraint, as she most obviously was not.

Ratchet mentally scratched her head again. It perplexed her, but she seemed to have gained some intermittent superhuman abilities. Whether or not these would prove useful, she couldn't say.

Her nearest, and least pleasant captor continued to glower at her, clearly expecting her to say something.

"I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque," Ratchet said hopefully.

Suddenly, the man with the green facial hair grabbed her by the neck and lifted her, bonds and chair, off the ground. Ratchet immediately tried to retch, but her efforts were hampered by the simple fact that she wasn't in the slightest pain. She shot a perplexed look at her irate captor and crashed noisily to the floor.

Ratchet was suddenly aware that, instead of being in a sitting position, she was spread-eagled on the floor, fragments of rope, chains, chair, and duct tape attached to her legs and arms at unpleasantly random intervals. She jumped to her feet clumsily, and wobbled on her half-asleep legs. Her arms were oddly more capable.

Ratchet's arms flailed crazily. In any martial arts tournament, it might end up lauded as a fantastic tactic, provided your nails were well-clipped, but Ratchet had only the meager goal of regaining her long-lost balance. She would have failed miserably, had her captors removed themselves from the immediate area. Unfortunately for them, instead, Ratchet's long and razor-sharp fingernails sliced cloth and flesh like they'd been made for the job, and Ratchet did, in fact, regain balance.

Her assailants fell to the floor, several of them unconscious, for whatever reason. Others clutched possibly fatal wounds and moaned in an annoying way. Ratchet's first instinct was to bolt from the room and find a bathroom. She'd never used nail-polish before, and so wouldn't know that her fingernails would pass off nicely now as some of the best red fingernails in town.

Instinctively, Ratchet didn't lick the blood off her nails. Later she'd suspect she just didn't think of it, but, in reality, instinct distinctly took control, if only passively.

By this time, Ratchet really was the fastest runner in the neighborhood, for the simple fact that she was no longer in her neighborhood. Ratchet thought smugly, "I'm probably not in any neighborhood."

She found it very difficult to run, now that she so thoroughly could. Eventually, Ratchet became indifferent, and then annoyed that she could run so fast. It didn't help much to try to walk, either. She seemed to have replaced walking and running, respectively, with hopping and, well, it was probably something along the lines of scramming. All she knew, though, was that her shoes had burned right off somewhere between Tokyo and Vermont.

It was roughly an hour later when she sat on a park bench, tired, confused, annoyed, but definitely clean. It was raining.


For Some Odd Reason (pt. 2)

Part 2

If Only Dreams Were Real

Ratchet didn't immediately remove herself from her dreams when she felt water splashed, and then dripping all over her face. Her dreams immediately reflected the reality, though, and she found herself in a raft on a river, water undeniably spraying with uncalled-for violence in her direction. Ratchet reflected, nonsensically, that it was good sense for her to have her eyes closed in real life, just in case this dream flitted over the boundaries of fantasy and entered the possibly nightmarish reality she would soon have to deal with in some way. Her captors noticed a displeased and annoyed expression pass over her face. Of course, they wouldn't have made anything of it if it hadn't also landed and placed itself nicely over her still unconscious face. Thus, it did so. The effect would have been alarming, had said captors not already cleverly agreed that Ratchet was no more asleep than a llama can trample an elephant.

Ratchet visibly sighed. At this point, she had come awake, and was slowly coming to grips with the ropes, chains, and duct tape, well, gripping her arms and legs at more places than were necessary, even if she was stronger than a chinchilla on steroids, growth hormones and coffee. As it was, Ratchet hadn't put much effort into muscular development, and was unable to resist the clumsily devised grasp of the quantity of restraints imprisoning her.

Ratchet paused. Being awake, now, she pondered what she'd just thought. "The quantity of restraints imprisoning her." At the moment, she didn't think it, but later she'd realize it gave some comfort to consider these restraints her captors, instead of human beings, well capable of torturing her, killing her, or, by golly, nuking her neighborhood.

Though she hadn't had great relations with anyone in the neighborhood, she quickly became irate that her birthplace, current residence, and probably even deathplace, had been overrun by fire, hot air, and radiation.

Thinking of nothing else to prolong her improbable sleep, she pondered again her survival. If, in fact, her neighborhood had been nuked, then perhaps she'd either gained immunity to nuclear radiation, or, and she audibly gasped at the thought, it'd made her into some sort of superhuman, well capable of...of, well, who knows what!

To her surprise, her eyes opened. It'd be cruelly unjust, untrue, and wrong to say that she opened her eyes, simply because she didn't open them. Her dream, which had long degraded into her falling off the edge of the world in a barrel unkindly marked, "THIS WAY UP," ended immediately. Despite the unpleasantness of such a dream (some might even call it a nightmare, whatever that is), Ratchet's blood pressure continued to escalate, and her teeth, which were usually pleasantly, and not violently acquainted with each other, met in a dark, narrow alley and ground each other to dust.

That is to say, Ratchet ground her teeth.

Until this point, she hadn't bothered to use her eyes. By whatever miracle, she had simply stopped using them by power of will, and thought herself staring at blackness. However, she suddenly decided she'd like to use her eyes. Like a nurse in a well-maintained hospital, she took mere seconds to open her eyes, and, subsequently, observe her unpleasant surroundings.

At an unpleasant distance, there was a face, obviously belonging to a man completely unaware of the other sex. His facial hair, which might have been at least normally colored, on a bad day, was a deep shade of green that Ratchet reflected, later, might have been the exact color of her barf in her dream.

On the nasal facet of things, her glowering partner in, Ratchet firmly decided, her personal space had possibly the worst smelling visage she had ever acquainted herself with. Given, she hadn't acquainted herself with many visages this intimately in her lifetime, but this probably still easily took place over her dear Aunt Josephine, who, for whatever reason, wore such a rare combination of both ladies' and mens' scented toiletries that merely entering the same room frequented the unbearably strong need to cough, sneeze, or, if need be, sputter. Being so closely related to her Aunt, Ratchet had taken to the regrettable but necessary habit of carrying around nose-plugs with her. Usually undetectable, she had stolen these helpful artifacts into her nasal cavities when such emergencies presented themselves, smug to the extreme, to her unsuspecting consciousness.

To cut a long description short, the man stunk, looked like a bear who'd neglected to shave only the least attractive section of his body, and generally made Ratchet's head spin. It would be difficult to explain how Ratchet's head spun, but one would be well-informed to know that Ratchet's head did, indeed, rotate a good 482 degrees. This phenomenon may never be explained, but it was momentarily sufficient to send the partially shaved and deeply disgusting bear several paces backward. He, however, seemed to have expected this, and advanced back into her thoroughly violated personal space. It occurred to her to try rotating her head like that again, but she found it difficult, now, to go beyond the usual two hundred or so degrees of rotation.

Ratchet snorted. Cruel fate.


August 14, 2010

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 1)

Nothing that follows is a coincidence. Everything that follows should either stop following, or become a coincidence. The world would be better for it.

Part 1

In Which Things Stop Happening, and Other Things Follow in Their Stead

Ratchet looked around. For all she knew, a nuke had just gone off. For all she knew, everyone was dead.

Ratched paused.

No, not quite everyone, she thought. But why the heck was she alive?

These thoughts caused Ratchet great pause. Whether she continued to pause, as in "stop temporarily," is yet to be seen.

Ratchet assumed a fittingly bemused expression and looked at her surroundings. Around her, in largely random array, were a large assortment of bodies, in varying states of disembowelment, dismemberment, or disintegration. Ratchet nodded firmly. Yeah, that guy over there did really look like he had mold on his nose. All of a sudden, Ratchet also gripped her nose with rather unwomanly ferocity.

Although it was hard to see (for she did practically break her nose in the process, what with the speed she moved her hand), Ratchet momentarily had to prevent herself from choking, coughing, or sneezing. The smell was attacking just about every dimension of sensory perception she could remember possessing, and it was slowly scrambling her brains.

No, she thought. My brains would take a lot of heat to scramble. On a later day, she'd wonder why she thought this, but at the moment, all she could think of to do was run.

Ratchet was good at running. No, to be precise, Ratchet thought she was good at running. In reality, she was only the second-best runner in her neighborhood. On the other hand, she wasn't sure she had a neighborhood anymore, so she might be number one. This thought somehow slowed her down, and, just downwind from the whole massive mess, she slowed to a begrudging walk. It occurred to her, as she slowed, that she probably had been breathing such foul air as she'd just recently properly acquainted herself with for a good few minutes.

Ratchet was just wondering if she'd see the unfinished products of her digestive system today when she went unconscious.

For reasons not privy to either the author or Ratchet, her dreams flew immediately to such uncannily happy domains that she did, at least in her dream, acquaint herself with some undigested elements of her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In reality, she was taken off to an abandoned warehouse and tied to a chair.


July 31, 2010


Our investigators this morning entered CSAM headquarters, expecting the familiar air of well-informed bias and badly-informed impartiality (thanks, Gabriel)...what greeted their horror-struck faces, though, was not unlike an unused broom closet in an arachnid research facility.

Cobwebs spread from the floor to the ceiling in well-contructed...webs.

Mr. Bertilson offered his usually enlightening comments on the matter.

"Look, CSAM is just over two years old. You can't expect the poor ametures that run that run-down excuse for electronic reporting to keep running it as if it were easy. There are limits to the length a blog can last, and, who knows...CSAM's days may be numbered."

A patent troubled look on all our faces, we left Mr. Bertilson's residence (if it could be so called), and resumed our walk to work.


July 08, 2010


The insidious John Ahern was found this day in Mr. Bertilson's hospital room, manhandling a pillow and occasionally looking over his shoulders for nurses. He was using a Occupational Therapy reacher to raise the pillow in the air, shake it dangerously high above the bed, and uncovering it by means of nearly removing its pillow case! Stunning.


June 24, 2010


It started, a crazy day, this Thursday, in the land of ISLAS.  A certain Greek Obsessed Chick may have been the first to notice the inconveniencing change, overnight, to the forum. She found that logging in was made impossible somewhere around 4 AM this very day. If it hadn't been for Mr. Bertilson's helpful advice to log in as our detestable Porky-Obsessed Chap, she would have been stranded outside the happy grips of ISLAS' weak grip on reality for the rest of the day.

Mr. Bertilson offered his usual spew of unrelated comments: "This really is going to far. To be honest, bearing the name of Miss Hunter would be no shame whatsoever to me...except I happen to be, sad though some may think it, male."

Stunningly, our sources told us, later that day, that it wasn't merely Mr. Bertilson and the GOC that had problems like these...many, perhaps almost all Islasers' names were changed! The one exception, said Mr. Bertilson, seemed to be Miss Dage, frequent flamethrower and constant companion of the illustrious and scarce Mr. Rufus A. Byrd.

What can this mean? Is Our Dearly Beloved Administrator merely not quite done with his task, or are his seemingly unfinished efforts merely an effort to show us something we would otherwise never see?

Who knows.

For now, though, this is your faithful and blockheaded reporter,


June 03, 2010

The Human Spirit

To be honest, I'm just sad this person beat me to it.

The human spirit is an amazing thing. Take John McCain, for example. I wouldn't be the first person to look to for specific anecdotes (especially from him), but he survived intense torture and permanent injury despite the fact that he was offered a chance out, given his family's fame. Why would he do this? Why would any human sustain themselves through such torture?

The human spirit is made in the image of God's spirit, and, if you think about it, God's endured a lot on our behalf. There's the torture Jesus endured as a human, but there's also the fact that we still simply exist. If God hadn't planned from the beginning of the world to reconcile some of the human race to himself, there would simply be no purpose in our continued existence.

To put it another way, God is enduring torture right now.

That said, I think it's obvious where I'm going, and such. God's spirit is the source of the human spirit. The enduring love for us has let us live, and our enduring love to live has let most of us survive to this day. I think there's a direct connection.


June 01, 2010

A Couple of Flickr Updates

It's sad, really, but I've been putting a lot more effort into my other joy/hobby/ Why? Because that means I hardly put anything on here! This is where I write, Flickr is where my photos go. If you want some sort of slice of my life on a regular basis, for now, that's where to go.

However. I just sent my camera in for repairs and it should be back within ten days. Hopefully, in those ten days, I'll have written a few of the things I want to write in here...specifically a how-to on simple factoring, and the simple concept of impossibility.

For now, though, here are my two latest sets of photos on Flickr. If you haven't seen even earlier ones (how about my extended collection of lolcats? They seem to be the most attractive, for some reason), feel free to pop over to and take a look.

As for my two most recent sets...



May 28, 2010

I am Lost

What have I gained?
What wisdom reaped?

This problem great,
no light shone upon.

What am I, coward, deaf, or just cruel?
No words I know to match these.

No Jesus am I,
but a Satan neither.

Interspersed would I understand,
respond, maybe, as well.

But for the whole,
my Lord,
I am lost.

Pray if you will.


May 17, 2010


(FYI, I'm not going to post the rest of the great speeches, but, if you ask, I'll add the list of them in the comments.)


Two steady shoulders, never far
White cannot uglify these strands

On the Word standing always
At your peril try to shake her

Only I could leave you;
keep me close

No sin could she notice;
her Lord his attention spends

Shall I fly? Shall I speak?
I know not, but alone, never

With great joy shall I greet her,
for her love smells of my Lord

Put her not between us;
you know I may need the greatest

Show me the way, O my Lord
too long have I made myself traps

My folly, perhaps, will serve,
to liven me through this mire

No comforter besides thee?
I can be too alone even with you

This walk is made for two;
in your place can none fit

With joy the morning would be greeted,
a new day with the happiest of shouts

For trials a shoulder prepare,
a heart after your own in two forge

Let her remind me of you always!


May 07, 2010

Great Speeches 1 of 10

I'm just stealing the list of great speeches in the Art of Manliness and shoving them in here. First off...

"I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.

At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation.

The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.

Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France,
we shall fight on the seas and oceans,
we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be,
we shall fight on the beaches,
we shall fight on the landing grounds,
we shall fight in the fields and in the streets,
we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."


May 02, 2010

April 28, 2010


Well, I've gone and done it. Oh, my.

I have Flickr Pro. Just wait. I won't have the money to renew it in another year, just watch. HAH!

Anywho. These are some of the best high-exposure pictures I took a couple nights a while ago. I hope the slideshow thing works well!


April 23, 2010

The Fool

Fool alone
under a cone

did try sometimes
to live without

too far he kept himself
too distanced he was

and yet so close he became
'twas folly, perchance,
but folly his alone.

No friend distinguished
did he keep
but one

Asked he his friend,
"Wilt thou likewise abandon?"
though he the answer knew.

Fool the few did crowd,
and did hold too close
but the closest left behind.

Wanting, he lost,
dreaming, he awoke,
wishing, he did not receive.

Fool slept at ten,
rose at one,
Father Time no notice took.

With no hook,
fool went fishing,
caught a pearl
and they danced.

A car the fool
near overran
he knew his trouble was too great.

The greatest winds,
the pearl said,
must be told!

Agreed, the fool did,
and spake to the winds!
Hard task he had,
but took it he did.

The happy fool
still loved the pearl,
but fool he was,
heart asunder.

The fool later
found another
brighter maybe?
He would not judge.

What good would he do?
None knew, surely not him.

Did he do none?
He still knows not.



So many posts. This is, so far, the second most posted-on month of CSAM's history...and, being that I'm only about two thirds through this month, I think I might set a new record.

205. Sorry I missed the round one, but I'm honestly not really impressed or anything. I can't think of anything but to write more. SO.

Lord, let me not forget,
you were there!
I could see you!

Let me never forget!
Should I forget
horror of near nigh a decade past,
let me not forget this!

Lord, I am alive!
What more proof should I need?
Ha! but fool am I...
I will always need more.

Show me every day!
I cannot live without you!
Prove to me daily yourself!
I could not hope besides!


April 22, 2010


'Twas fool on the nuts,
did cool and tut

waiting for old,
ending with bold;

did hope afar,
and despair aclose

Fool on the nuts,
hitting none but putts,
ending with lemons,
without spicy smellin'

Blockhead did
and then he hid
under an hour
without a power

Was new
but few,
the joy of the morning;

as lard
the trouble afore him.

Did wish
to fish,
the fool did.

A loss
not hoped
he sought to ignore.

A fool!
He spake,
and none responded.

Weakling he were
companion he found
dragon he slayed
horror he stayed

A microscope in hand,
advanced he on friend.
"Bring me closer!"
cried the fool.

Fool he was;
wise, though
he became

On nuts did fools their folly contrive
of none happiness deprived

Nay, generous were they!
Father Time did 'low them more,
for fewer idols do they attract.

Believe it or not, after the fifth verse, that actually had a purpose. *shrug*



Dear Lord, must you walk so close?
Your steps so close to mine?

But why do I complain!
What fool must I be,
to think this a bad thing;
you are too kind

I once thought,
that prayer no obvious result elicited;
fool am I!
Remember this day I must!
No surer proof have I had yet.

But Lord! Will I not miss the uncertainty?
Is the wonder not sometimes pleasant?
Nay, more likely fodder against thee,

Stay with me, Lord,
stay with me!
Out yet I am not,
and your support I will always need.

Help me to love you more,
I could not without you.



A friend I have,
a wonderful one.

only fools would think,
to offer me gold;

t'would sway me none,
shine though it might.

A friend I have,
a kind one.

Jewels nor diamonds
could compare

Rubies nor emeralds
would tempt me

offer me anything
I will not take it

No, my friend will be mine,
for nothing sublime
would change my mind.


April 21, 2010

I Love This Thing

Totally. (This Thing)


He Really Had It Coming

Oh, yes he did.

If you can't figure out what that on the bottom says...I'll tell!


Dear Reader,

Were I the type to use expletives, I'd utilize a couple here. Please understand that it is only on rather infrequent occasions that this happens. Perhaps once a week. But to the point.

Cogitans se ad Mortem is now MORE THAN TWO YEARS OLD!

Important? No. I FORGOT IT?! Yes.

Aye, it appears that, 17 days more than two years ago, I began a slow and inconsistent journey with no set destination...and I still don't know where I'm going with this!

Anywho. I've got a new idea for a story, I think I might continue After the Tree Falls, but, for reasons unrevealed, the continued production of Ketchup has become mind-bogglingly difficult. Ok, to be honest, I'm just gonna tell you.

Ketchup is a story meant to mirror the events of my life, mainly on the romantic side of things. Just about everything else is imaginative and barely-inspired fiction. The main problem with this? Jack doesn't have any parents! This seems, to me, to be the biggest problem right now. His parents were killed somehow a few years ago...and so he doesn't have any!

Why, you might ask, do I need him to have parents?

Well, somehow or other, my parents have played some role in my romantic dealings throughout my life. Dealing with the difference between Jack and I on that level seems something too big to overcome.

So, I seem to have two choices: to continue Ketchup like I started, ignoring the fact that my parents played such a huge role there... (also might introduce parent-esque characters...unlikely, though), OR I'll continue Ketchup, placing much less emphasis on making it true to my life.

I'm open to suggestions, but on to the rest of things.

First, my idea for the new story. There is this guy...I think I named him Neville, at some point (after the chap in Harry Potter), who ends up, by means not important, in a coma (definition of coma being, for this instance, he's able to hear, but not react, in any way, to his surroundings. Can't see...I think I'll let him feel). He's got a girlfriend who literally doesn't leave his side (most of the time). Also, there'd be a nurse, who I've decided will be a right crazy nut. I think I'll leave you to wonder what happens in the end, but, now that I think about it, I wonder whether it's too predictable. Try predicting, I guess. I'd be glad to find out if it is.

Oooook. So, Ketchup may be dead, AttF might live, and a story might be begun whose title I think I might have thought of. Anywho.

Thoughts? Slaps? Worried looks?


April 11, 2010


Pining is a strange word. Take, for instance, its root, pinen, a Middle English word meaning to torture, torment, or inflict pain. In its origin, this word had little to do with longing, let alone love of any sort. However, today, the word aptly describes a feeling that can be because of separation, loss, or, being that human emotions are immensely complicated, a number of other things.

Opposites to pining would probably include anything that would also seem the polar opposite of love. Hate, distaste, or, perhaps, rejection would all fit as opposites. Synonyms, however, are fewer, I think. Yearning and longing seem the closest to pining, but even love and admiration are synonyms, if a tad distant.

This word aptly describes relationships in history and fiction; for instance, Antony pined after Cleopatra to the point where he abandoned his own army in order to stay with her. Anakin in the Star Wars saga pines, at first, after Padme, a well-positioned queen and then senator. His yearning for her eventually leads to the downfall of the old Republic, and eventually his own death.

"To pine," in fact, would well describe even most friendships over even short (but definitely long) distances. A friend might long strongly for a friend who is even mere blocks away. Pining, I think, is created by two things, first, a love that can be either romantic or friendly, accompanied by boundaries, varying from distance to parental command. These two factors allow for an immensely strong feeling of yearning that, like most other emotions, has the capability to overcome a person and make them make bad decisions.

Pining is, like any emotion, a powerful thing. One merely has to leave a good friend far away for even a month or so to realize this. However, few of us realize the full power of this (or any) emotion, as it could be, because we have fewer boundaries and circumstances that allow emotions to grow and prosper. The adversity that nearly any other country besides the United States would afford would doubtless provide a breeding ground much more fertile for the most potent of emotions, because the value of the life not only of oneself, but the life of any other, is so much more magnified. We cannot even take for granted our relatively impotent emotions in the comparison between the New World and the third world.


April 10, 2010


Now I never meant,
To do you wrong,
That's what I came here to say.

But if I was wrong,
Then I'm sorry,
I don't let it stand in our way.

As my head just aches,
When I think of,
The things that I shouldn't have done.

But, life is for living,
We all know,
And I don't wanna live it alone.

Why must I seek what I already have?
Why must I want what I do not need?
Why must I dream of wonders too great for my current existence?
Help me, Lord!



Lord, shall you leave me alone in this wasteland?
Shall I wake each morning to no new joys?
You know, Lord, what I was made for;
shall this sadness last so long?

Did I live for the wrong reason?
Was my purpose diverted from praising you?
Did I fail to love you more?

In what did I fail, my Lord,
to deserve this torture?
I know one or two;
give me all my faults!
I cannot learn from so few.

My God, my God, show me again your face!


April 09, 2010


The wilderness have I searched,
and the wastes of mankind have I wandered,
yet have I found one equal, one similar?
No, the wastes have I searched,
and few waste were not, that I found.

What then? Did I do this?
Did I make such uniqueness?
Fool! How could you have?
You pride yourself too much in yourself.

But how, O Lord?
How can I search anything BUT the dump?
Or how may I scour the gold I know?
Shall I look for you where only you can be found?

Lord, three have desired, and one have I dreamed of,
is this dream a foolishness?
Do I count myself more influential and persuasive than I am?
Could this dream, this horror, become a true and real wonder?

So hard would it be, Lord...
why do I look for difficulty,
when I have nothing else?

Let me learn from my faults, Lord;
show me where I erred, so I may correct.
You know why arithmetic so troubles me.
Reveal my fault!


April 08, 2010


And what of these memories?
Have I lived in vain thus far?
Should I forget the wonders,
the joys and kindness?

No, I tell myself...
admiration does not necessitate love.



Where did I go wrong?
What fault do I have?
Lord, I take the blame,
but, if asked, I could not answer.

Will I ever return?
Euphoria may slow it,
but how can I ever return,
happiness bringing?

Will the fire not rekindle with a kindly breeze?
And the blaze supressed be refreshed by the wind?

Three days have I waited, Lord, but how long must I?



I just had the best conversation ever. EVER. EVERRRRR!

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Duuuudde!
You: You don't seem like a dim bulb!
You: Like most people!
You: XD
Stranger: RIGHT
Stranger: IN
Stranger: THE
Stranger: FACE
You: SIR!
Stranger: -pew pew pew pew pew-
You: NO!
Your conversational partner has disconnected.



How, God, can I be so joyous at such a time as this?
Show me the way, Lord...the moon nor the sun lights my way today.

Foxtrot romeo echo echo mike echo, Lima oscar romeo delta.


April 07, 2010


The course of history is changed forever. I didn't take off my socks. I'm greaattt!



Replacement, hah! Are you too destined for failure?
Can I find no solid companion?
Will my walk, these days, have to be alone?

Much pride I might take,
should that be the case,
but I am not strong enough.

Most have not the time,
some do, in fact, some agree,
some gather for similar reasons,
but am I like them?

No, my grief is greater, my torment harder.


April 06, 2010

The Dump

Oh, my heart, why can you not be shallow?
But would even that aid my trouble?
Would life still not grind me as it does now?

I have searched through the refuse,
(some call it dumpster diving),
and two have I found;
but no comfort have they rendered.

Shall I only have shallow, short pleasures,
and my toils and troubles be endless and mauling?

An ocean is between us,
and foolishness it would be to advance,
but who is my friend?
God, what lesson will I learn from this solitude?
What moral will this escalation bring me?
Can I never learn the ways I should walk without such pain?

Lord, so I wait.


April 05, 2010

No Parking

GAH! NO! I'm not going to go on about how looonnngggg I haven't posted, but, really, if you were going to paint my mailbox puke green, you really should have done it before now. Really.

Shall I never have another sister?
One too few have I, and unwilling I have become
to take another, to love as loving siblings do

Have I wrought this destruction? 
Is this sadness from my own hand?

Long did I wish for a brother or sister, I cared not
to leap and laugh with, through the golden fields of life
shall I never know this pleasure, my Lord?
Shall I romp alone, and run freely, but without accompaniment?

Lord, am I ungrateful? 
Do my tears only reflect my weakness and folly?

Will my arms never welcome a sister,
will my hands never comfort as only a brother can?

Lord, have you shaped me this way?
Was your hand the one to give me these weaknesses?
Why must I struggle? Why must this life resist me?

Will I never laugh as only friends can?
Must I restrain myself from interaction for the sake of others?
Will my foolish weakness never leave me?

Lord, can you not afford me this companionship?
Can I find a lesser friend on this earth only?
So wise I thought myself, and so godly;
is this torture only to show the reverse?

I have no such faith.


March 25, 2010


It's for Google Chrome, but such brilliance could be made for any browser. Do not underestimate it.


March 22, 2010


No, this isn't a news bulletin, sadly. Everything happening now is classified.

However, lolcats do, indeed, prove the Lord God exists. Let me show you.

Ok, so I wanted to clear up my main page, but, nope, I can't keep that up for long. I hope you enjoyed it.

Lolcats prove God exists.