21-12-2010
It’s been sometime since I did this, wrote a blog. I dislike that word. Blog. It isn’t attractive and the things it makes me think of tend to be those things I don’t much like about the internet. People that don’t get it, as it were. Get what? Get a lot of things.
I think of myself more a citizen of the web than I do of what, many call, the “real world.” Play any online game much and you’ll hear someone say that you need to get a life. I find that a truly moronic statement. If I didn’t have a life I’d be dead. Of course that’s taking something to a literal extreme and obviously what they really mean is, “Go outside. Make some friends. Get some sun.” Thing is… I don’t like doing those things all that much.
I very much enjoy holing up in my room and having control over what’s going on. In a bar I have to actually walk away from a conversation I don’t like and doing that is pretty damn rude. “And that’s when I decided that Bill Clinton… blah-blah-blah I’m so fucking Liberal, blah-blah-blah, if you mention Fox News I’m going to yell at you for being intolerant, blah-blah-blah—” and I walk off. Right? No. Like I said, that’s rude. So I sit there, listen to it, try my best not to rage, and then go home unsure why I subjected myself to such bullshit in the first place. Listening to people of opposing views doesn’t remove me from my box, it tosses chains around it, shrinks it a bit, and straps automated rail-gun turrets to the top. In other words, listening to people I disagree with only makes me believe and think and I do all the more strongly.
But online that’s different. Online if I don’t like something I press two things: Control (CTRL) and ‘W’. Done. That tab is closed. The conversation may continue, but I’m not privy to it. Does anyone care I left? I don’t know. I’m gone. Closing that tab switched me to something else I was looking at or doing. Not to mention I was listening to someone in Ventrillo or TeamSpeak, or checking my email, looking up random things on eBay, Amazon, looking at updates on Facebook, and all the while playing EvE and working on editing my book. Can I do half that in a bar? Not without being a total dick and checking a smart phone every second, even then I couldn’t do most of what I just listed on any phone on today’s market.
You know me, you’re reading this, and chances are you’re a little like me. You go online at least once a week. The internet can’t disappoint me. Hasn’t yet. Sure some, one, thing can, but like I mentioned above that’s a simple keystroke or two away from a cure. Don’t like the news I’m seeing? Closed.
I can get along with people in the “real world” just fine, they just tend to annoy me. People say I’m abrasive in the “real world.” I don’t think so. I think I’m just so used to how I communicate on the web that it doesn’t translate to the “real world” too well. I can say, and do say, whatever I feel like on here. And like me if you don’t like it you just… close the window. Problem solved.
You might say I’m lazy. That I don’t want to put any real effort into making lasting friendships, and I counter with, “Why would I want to make those friendships that I don’t see lasting?” Nothing lasts. Nothing. I’ll die before some I know and some I know will die before me. I have five siblings. Seven members make my immediate family. Who of us will die first? Why is that a bad question to ask? I don’t think it is, but I bet a lot of people would. Oh no, that’s sad, that’s depressing, don’t talk about people dying. Why? People talking about people being born all the time like it’s a reason to celebrate. I’m not emo, I just think people aren’t very logical. They don’t think. A lack of actual thought ends up in emotions getting stepped on. I’m not cold hearted, I just think things out. If death is a part of life and life is to be celebrated then why is death so shunned? Hm?
And this is why I enjoy living online. I say say, think, and express anything I like.
15-3-10 1129pm
In his book On Writing Stephen King said that to be a good writer you should two things—amoung many more but there were the two I took as the very core of it all. Read. And write. He said to try and write 1,000 words and then take at least one day off. For myself I’ve wanted to best that in all ways. 2,000 words a day or I can’t call myself a writer. And NO days off if I want to feel good about thinking that of myself.
So even though I’d have good days now and then, and yeah I did very well on the last two thirds of more of Thunderstruck. I managed to stick to a 2,000 word a day limit. I even gave myself a bare, bare minimum of one thousand words. I managed at least that one making the 2,000 limit much more often than falling back on the single thousand. But even during that I didn’t think of myself as a writer. Maybe I won’t until I’m published, even if that ever happens. It very well might not. Probably won’t if you want what I really think.
But I guess I need to finish a full novel and have it read. That’s what I want to do now. Once I do that and get some kind of feedback I might think I’ve earned that title. I doubt it though.
24-2-10 224pm
I just realized that I have not one of my past entries, but I don’t really mind. I suppose if I hadn’t posted any of them on this site I’d care more (where this will end up I imagine.) I’m typing this up in Open Office’s Writer, not on Tumblr.
My computer wouldn’t start about a week ago. It just refused to boot up. I’d get these beeps and then a screen telling me things I didn’t understand, bios this, port numbers, and a bunch of numbers. I had to go Google this junk on my PS3 to figure out if my laptop was totally dead. That’s where I found out about Alt+F10 in the boot-up which would allow me to format my laptop’s C drive and, maybe, save it. It worked, but it came with a bit of a cost. I lost a fair bit of writing, things I hadn’t backed up, all my pictures, of myself and others, and random other things. Part of what I lost was the story I’d… damn. Sorry, mid sentence there I wondered, Did I back up my story about the girl, the demons, and Chogon? I didn’t. Well, ok, I did a little, but not all of it. I’d written over 50 thousand words on that guy and I only have 27k saved. That made my insides flop, drop, and sink a bit. You know, that going up a roller coaster feeling, that girlfriend saying, “I never want to see you again” rotten moths tipsy-turvy gut thwacker feeling. I digress. Besides that large loss I also don’t have my original “I Was Death” story.
I guess it’s ok though. In both cases I think it’ll end up being ok. With the Death tale I rewrote it, made it a short story, and actually submitted it to a Christian writing contest. I don’t know how well the idea that we chose our deaths will be though. Death is a very, very touchy subject (more on that in a bit.) With the story of the girl and Chogon I had been wanting to go back through it, clean it up, take out a lot of needless crap and then continue it. But being that it was already over 50 thousand words I’d been somewhat dreading that. No longer. Being almost half the size I can now do that in, well, half the time!
So, death, yeah, fun subject huh? People sure get worked up about this. Just yesterday a couple things happened: A man that worked for Capcom (video game publisher) died and I saw this news on a gaming blog I frequent, Kotaku.com; second a non-Christian at my community group asked for us to pray for his dead father.
What happened in each of these cases? Considering I’ve related the tale of the latter a couple times and already done much thinking and yammering on the subject I’ll skip that one, but the first one, Mr. Capcom guy, I can touch on. Many members of Kotaku were saying, “What a loss,” or “This is so sad,” and “My thoughts are with his family.” Really? Are they? I doubt it. I really do. Sure, maybe, a few of those kids—for kids they mostly are on a video gaming site—will think about this guy, but I don’t think many. Does that bit matter? Nah. What does matter (not really) is when I said something about there being no need to respect the dead or remember them in death any differently than in life people got pissed. “Its like a pact man, we respect the dead so that when we die we’ll be respected and remembered well of,” one guy said. What? Why ever would you do that? I used his screwy logic against him (he’d said more.) “So if a rapist dies in prison we should remember him for those kind eyes or his witty sense of humor? I think not!” I said. Now it depends on the person, don’t think me so cruel and mean that I’d suggest we think poorly of every person that dies, certainly not. I just think that death should not change the way in which we think of someone. Death isn’t some kind of cleanser, it doesn’t erase what we’ve done, it doesn’t change a whole lot. All I’m saying is that we should remember someone in death the same way we thought of them in life. Was he a loving man? Did he treat those around himself with compassion and care? Did he do interesting things? Did he bring joy to others? Well then by all flippin’ means, think well of the guy! But was he a bit of a jerk? Was he kind of an ass? Was he blunt, harsh with words, a bit abrasive (I’m talking about myself) then remember him that way! You know what would really tick me the heck off if I could see it done when I die? People saying a load of B.S. about me, “Oh I remember Del, man, what a kind soul. He always spoke so kindly, he was such a gentle spirit, he was such a kind man, he never got upset, and was always so calm.” I’d be LIVID hearing that if I was able to care or be concerned with human affairs once I die—but I won’t be. That isn’t me! I’m not those things. Well, I try to be kind, but “calm?” Give me a break! I get very worked up, I flip out, I’m an emotional guy and I show them and do not mind.
Last night after our group ended I was getting a bit heated talking about how Christians have no spine these days, or that so many seem to lack one. My voice rose, I was showing emotion, and this guy there goes, “Are you being Christ-like Del?” Well, I don’t know, that’s hard to say. Did God, Jesus, get worked up? You know what? I bet he did. I can not see Jesus preaching and doing all that talking in a near monotone voice. That idea is just, it’s downright freakin’ laughable to me. How on earth could God’s own son show little emotion about His Father? He was teaching, was spreading His word, and am I supposed to think He never got a bit worked up about that? Please.
Now I fully realize that different people learn in different ways, but I dare say the best teachers anyone has had, those that we remember, were not of the dull sort. Those are the professors, teachers, and mentors we joke about falling asleep on, “Oh man, Mr. Larsky? That guy is so boring, he just drones on and on and on, I swear I fall asleep every time I go to his class. I might have just downed a whole can of Monster, a tripple espresso, and he’ll just knock me right out every dang time.” Mr. Larsky could certainly, in this case, be called kind, or soft spoken, but a good teacher? Doubtful.
Now dull doesn’t mean kind and gentle doesn’t mean boring. You can be those things and get worked up. Yet I just don’t think Jesus was a boring guy…
11-2-10 107pm
Seems I’ve gotten a couple followers on here, that’s interesting. I wonder how they found me or if they even really read these things I say. It doesn’t much matter to me either way, but it has prompted me to post today.
It seems some of my writing might soon be read as I went and printed out all three of my books. I guess they’re all books, one most certainly is (at just shy of 250,000 words,) one might be at only 47,000~ words, and I guess the other at 112,000~ would be book size too.
The one I really want to hear back on is the big one, the one I still have no title for but have been referring to as Thunderstruck. That title really has nothing at all to do with the story, it was just my idea of a funky code-name (as if someone would be trying to find out about it.) I have another work-in-progress called Lighteningclap, oh how clever I am! Ha, hilarity.
I called a local senior center today to try and set up some sort of weekly, or even bi-weekly, sort of round-table discussion group with people of all ages. I want it to be sort of a modern version of sitting around a camp fire sharing stories. No real reason other than a passing on of information. It could be stories, lessons learned, adventures being shared, or just anything at all. Something I’d like to bring to the group would be helping elderly better understand this world that has kind of popped up around them. A world of iPods, Facebook (I can imagine being asked, “Why is it even called that?”) DVDs, Xbox, Playstions, and gigabytes. I’d like them—the elderly—to better be able to talk to their grandchildren and understand what the heck little Johnny is saying when he mentions his Xbox 360 needing a hard drive.
I just want to span that gap between generations. A gap I see being wider than ever before in history. I’m always getting ideas and maybe here in Seattle, a thriving city, I’ll be able to do some of them.
24-01-10 509pm
I wrapped up I Was Death in brutally fast fashion, I wasn’t liking it. Yeah, yeah I know I said I was in love with it and I was until I realized it was beginning to feel seriously preachy. I couldn’t help it though, I have some extremely strong beliefs in life, death, and where we’ll end up when our bodies die.
You see I loathe preachy stories. I read the His Dark Materials series, The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and whatever the other one was—the something spyglass maybe?—and hated how I felt when I read them. The ideas and stories were all ok, but there was this underlying vibe that pulsed through all three and it honestly made me feel ill, physically disgruntled. I think there was some kind of atheistic theme or something, I don’t know, but it did not sit well with me. Why did I read all three then? I guess I wanted to see how it would end, I forget why.
Anyways I don’t like that, getting a weird vibe, when I read something and I don’t want to do that to others. That and I was dealing with some pretty wild stuff, things I think people would take extreme offence to. I flat out said that the soul of someone with Down’s Syndrome is worthless. You think I’m bad for that don’t you? ‘Oh Del! How COULD YOU!’ You don’t get it though, I’m not talking about the person, the man, the girl, the Human being. I was talking about their soul and don’t you even try to tell me you know more about souls than I do. Nor do I know more than you. What is a soul? Does anyone even know? What does it look like? What does it do? No one knows so I have as much right to be creative as you and my interpretation led to what I said, someone like a child has a near worthless soul, in most cases—it can vary.
So who has a valuable soul? “Yeah Del, since you’re the ‘Soul Master’ tell us.” The President has an extremely valuable soul. You roll your eyes, yeah, well again you probably don’t know why I think this. You see my idea is that a soul is worth more if the Human that owns it has power over others. See Heaven and Hell want our souls, the more they have the stronger they are (of course Heaven is always undefeatable, but Lucifer likes to think that could change.) So how much influence over lives, over souls, does a child have? In most cases that’d be next to none. Now what about the President of the United States? Well obviously he has all kinds of sway over all kinds of people in this country and others. Demons, and Angels too, want his soul and thus they bid for the right to fight for it. The more souls an Angel or Demon brings to their respective home the better they are rewarded.
I guess I was starting to feel like I wasn’t able to properly do my own idea justice, I don’t think people would have been able to really grasp the idea I was trying to get across and if that was the truth then I’d already failed. No one should take on a project they knowingly can’t finish. Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t take a challenge, that’s fine, but if you’re deathly allergic to wheat you shouldn’t be saying, “Well this is just one of life’s little challenges, I’ll overcome! Mmm bread. Ack, urghk, oooo… I am dead now.” Yeah, brilliant.
I might go back to that story, I don’t know, but right now I’m not ready for it.
I’ve been playing Darksiders on the PS3 and I think I’d like to write something a bit more fun and I think I’ll go back to a story I’d already started. I think it’s what I’d like to write right now.
Oh, I went dumpster diving for food again last night and made out like a flippin’ bandit. Steaks, chicken wraps, marinated chicken breasts, fruit, walnuts, peanut butter filled pretzels, and on and on. I left with probably $200+ in food. It’s pretty incredible what you can find.
1-12-10 1227am
Ever heard of freegans? Well it’s what you might have assumed from the name, people that eat free food. How do you find free food? All kinds of ways, but I partook in this ‘movement’ (if you want to call it that) tonight. I went to a local Trader Joes and found some real goodies. I walked down, about five blocks, and with two other random dudes went looking for good stuff. I ended up with a brand new jar of peanut butter, some pre-made salad mix, sausage (that I know from my money paying trip to the same Trader Joes was over $5 per package, mine was $0,) mango slices, an apple, and some orange juice concentrate.
Tonight was rainy and dark so I couldn’t see, but the guys I ran into had clearly done this before. As I walked up to the dumpster cage I saw a light flashing around, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ I thought as I looped around the gate and saw Grizzly Adams knee deep in the dumpsters. I didn’t even hesitate and jumped right in, I was soon wishing I had water proof shoes. But not five minutes of dredging plastic bags up and rolling them over in my hands looking for unbroken containers I found some mango slices! Brand new, never opened, who knows why they were thrown out? Maybe they fell on the floor, a customer saw, and an employee figured he couldn’t put it back on the shelf. After not ten minutes of looking I could tell tonight was one of slim pickings. Having worked at Trader Joes, Safeway, Starbucks, and many other places, I know how much food gets thrown out. The man I was with, Grizzly (what a beard!) told me he likes to go during the afternoons. It’s light out then, no hands free head lamp needed (I told you he knew what he was doing) and there’s more food.
Another guy came up after I’d been rooting around for a min and Grizzly found some, uh, something. Rice maybe? Grizzly lifts this new find up and goes, “Rice? Anyone want some rice?” Being new at this I didn’t want to seem greedy and said I was alright (I’d take what I could find tonight) and the other guy goes, “Nah, I’m good.” I mean this is free food being turned down. I didn’t take it, I think Grizzly ended up tossing it in his pack, but I found that immensely mirthful. Here I am in a dumpster and free food is being picked up, looked over, and in more than the above instance being turned away!
This country has so much. So much of everything and this just proved it to me. If I can find food like this then I don’t see myself buying very much of it ever again aside for outings to restaurants. I’ve found I’ve become less and less wasteful as time goes on. It isn’t because I love Mother Earth or am any tree hugging idiot, I just hate waste. Not long ago I started using the plastic bags I get at stores over. Not the handles ones you leave with, I hate those, but the actual bags my food comes in. A bread bag? That’s a makeshift ziplock to me now. What’s a ziplock bag besides a plastic sack with an easy way to get to the contents? Instead of putting my leftover chicken fried rice in some container or bag I left it in my bowl and tossed that into a bag I’d gotten when I bought some apples at Saturday’s farmers market. And why not? Why is that weird to some? It was to me at first too. It didn’t seem… ‘right.’
We’re so conditioned to believe things need to be done a certain way. That we need to buy food in a store, that we need to put leftovers in ziplock bags, Tupperware, or in a dish covered with plastic wrap. Why is it that if I put my left over chicken in a bread bag it feels weird? Because everything in my life up till now has told me, ‘You take bread OUT of a bread bag and when the bread is gone you throw that bag away! Reuse it? Are you kidding? That’s what the Gladware is for you fool, that TV says so.’
I’m not anti The Man. I’m not a tree hugger. I’m not a hippie. I don’t think we humans are doing much damage to the Earth (I know we do some, but I don’t think it is to the extant we’d be led to believe.) So what am I if I reuse the bags my cheese comes in, have never owned a car and don’t want one, enjoy touching nature, and recently have become fond of free food? What does that make me?
A fucking realist. That’s all. I’d like to think I have my head on straight, I can think, I have a mind of my own, and I’m no fool. Only a fool believes what he’s told without questioning it and if you know me I question EVERYTHING.
On that “I’m no fool” note. I was at a bar my first night in town, or, wait, no, it was my second night. Yes, Saturday. I was having a few drinks and talking to a lady named Mary-Beth (she, her boyfriend Sean and their buddy Pete were all quite nice.) She asked me what skills I had after learning I was looking for work. I paused for just a moment and said, “Well, I’m not a fucking idiot.” She and Sean laughed at this. Her response after the chuckles dimmed was, “That’s so freakin’ cool that was what you said. That that was the first thing out of your mouth is just,” more laughs, “just so cool.” And it’s true! I’m not and so many people these days are. So few people THINK these days.
I don’t care how many years of school you have, you can’t learn common sense, it isn’t taught, it’s instilled. I have my childhood and parents to thank for mine. Mary-Beth is a librarian and I mentioned Neil Gaiman, I asked if she knew who that was. “I’m a librarian,” she told me.
“Yeah, so? That doesn’t mean you read.” Again she laughed and thought my response was, “so cool.”
“People hear I’m a librarian and they just assume I know every author or book.”
No, I know better honey. That you work with books mean, well, that’s all it means. It doesn’t mean you know jack about them. Knowing a darn thing about what you do certainly doesn’t seem to be a requirement to hold a job these days.
1-09-10 805pm
Wow wa wee wah! Seen Borat? Oh man… life is, haha, what… the… fuck? I mean really.
I get into Seattle yesterday and I’m flipping out. Oh whoa is me, no job, oh me oh my, I don’t know anything. Ok, so I still don’t have a job and that is certainly a concern, but my mood hasn’t been this high is so very long.
Alright, I’m buzzed, there’s no avoiding that. How did this happen you wonder? Or do you? I think you do. I would. Well a little past 430pm (it’s now a bit past 8pm Seattle time) I decided to go to a local bar. An ‘Irish Bar.’ This is a place I had seen during my noon till a-bit-past-2pm walk. They have an happy hour (which I do not believe I took a part of) and thus I decided to go there. I was thinking Vegas happy hour. In other words… DEALS DEALS DEALS! $1 off select items was this place’s Happy Hour. I ate no food, but drinks… Drinks I had.
I paid $6 for two beers. $3 a pop. But in my sitting and talking I met Mary-Beth, her boyfriend Sean, and their friend Pete. Mary-Beth and I talked a ton and she said I’m her “new best friend.” I think she was a bit drunk though and thus spouting off things she’ll have most certainly forgotten come tomorrow morning. She is a medical librarian, what that is exactly is not something I know.
Anyways she, or her friends (hell if I know) ended up buying me a few rounds. I had two (or was it three?) more beers and at least one shot. I recall this and think, ‘What the fuck did I do to earn this?’ And all I did was say, “I just moved here.” Maybe I should just go to a new bar each night and say, “Yeah, man, wow, I just got here yesterday!” Haha! I wonder if Seattle would soon catch on? I do not plan on doing this.
Did I mention how amazing people look out here? No, I did not. I went on a long walk today and I have never seen so many attractive people in my life. The young females are gorgeous, the men are stunning, the elderly look incredible, and even the few homeless I saw were attractive! I saw a homeless man wearing a BRAND NEW North Face jacket! How does this happen?! I know not.
So yeah, I’m a bit worried about a job, but considering how well things have been that’s a very minor worry. If I know anything it’s this: Put your mind to it, put some effort in, and you’ll get it.
What it ‘it?’ Whatever you want man (or lady) whatever you like. Go get it.
1-08-10 1017pm
I live in Seattle and am pretty much terrified of this fact—right now, as I write these words. It’ll lessen as I continue.
I only know one person in this state better than, “Hi, my name is…” The two of five (yes, five) roommates I’ve met are nice so that much has gone well in the first eight hours I’ve been here. Aside from that one good thing everything else here has me wanting to crawl into a hole with my blanket to sleep for a very long time.
I’m going to be 26 years old come April and I have, in my opinion, nothing to show for this. Forgetting that I’ve lived in a few places, have had a pile of jobs, that I moved to NYC at 17, that I’ve been across the country, and I’m left with nothing.
I put ‘some college’ on applications I fill out because, technically, I did go to some college. Applications, how pathetic (I had sad there, it didn’t look sad enough.) I don’t even have a resume and if I were to put one together it’d be a joke to read. I have tattoos. I have self inflicted scars covering my left arm. I do not look professional.
I know that much of this stems from my lack of food today, I had some shredded wheat for breakfast and a bowl of potato soup a few hours ago. No protein. Maybe if I’d just downed a huge burger I’d feel better, I know I would. But when I get like this the last thing I want to do is eat, and considering how tight money is for me I’m thinking, ‘Food ooor homeless?’ A terrible pair of thoughts, eh?
There is so much on my mind right now and that’s exactly why I’m writing a blog post. When I let my mind go it kills me. No, that isn’t very Del like now is it? No. My mind doesn’t kill me. It rapes me. My mind becomes a pretty virgin at a frat party and after a few too many drinks passes out in front of the whole house. Maybe it wasn’t even too many drinks. Maybe she was slipped the Date Rape Drug, a ruffie, and now those young males, all intoxicated with cheap booze, are eyeing her with greedy eyes. After she passes out they no longer are eyeing her. I’m not going into detail, I’m not in the mood. Whoa Del, showing some reserve huh? What’s that all about?
So what is on my mind? Let’s see. Let’s start with where I live. The location is brilliant and could be a little better, but I’m very happy with it. My two roommates, Rob (32, bio college student,) and Ashley, (mid twenties, 24 or 25 is my guess, applying for grad school, I’m not sure what subject,) are both good people. Ashley is very friendly and well traveled, I’m sure she and I will have some decent talks sooner or later. The others, Kathy, Aaron, and one other, I’ve not met yet. I spoke to those last two, but there’s that sixth I’ve neither spoken to or even know anything about. Guy? Girl? Age? No clue. Not that it matters but Ashley and Rob are both white, Ashley mentioned living in a mostly Dutch town.
So that’s the good news, good roommates (of what I know,) and a good location. So why am I stressing? Well a lot has left me as I write this, a whole big load.
It’s the job mostly. I need one and very fast. Also I kind of downgraded in terms of my living conditions. I do have a room now, that I like. This is an older home and it certainly has some character. The main floor bathroom lock is a spoon that you run through the eye of a loop with a clasp closed over it. Rob told me that spoon has been there as long as anyone knows. I love little things like that. I just hope our heating bill isn’t a nightmare in this place that I know must have terrible insulation.
I guess, really, now that I have a mess of emotion all out of my head I have a whole lot to be thankful for and very little to be concerned about. What do I have? I have good people here with me, I have a roof over my head (three actually!) and I’m in the U.S. Things could be oh, so much worse. Hey I could be a journalist with four, six, or more years of schooling and a hostage in Iraq right now. I bet those in such a position are thinking they’d rather be homeless, broke, and without a minute of higher education if it meant they were free. At least I’m free, right? Free to look for a job, free to do whatever I want, free to not look for a job if I felt like it. Haha, when I think about it like that it’s kind of hard to remain upset. I’m borderline laughing right now. Oh writing, words, how I adore you.
Speaking of writing, I need to finish up editing my book. I need to do that. NEED to. Then I’m going to send that book off to be read and begin another. I know the title already, not a placeholder either. I Was Death. Coming soon to a store near you! Pffft, I can dream right?
10-11-09 1128am
I’ve obviously gone back to failing to update this daily. Fail intentionally and uncaringly though, I don’t mind any more. As the title of this blog says it was a work out, a warm up, something so that I would write each day. It worked, then it didn’t, then I was writing Thunderstuck and the blog fell by the way side. That was the whole goal though. I don’t really care about this blog. Maybe one day I’ll come back and read it only to shake my head and say, “Wow.”
Since I am writing now I don’t feel much like I need to do this part, the blog. The goal was never to have a blog for the sake of having a blog. The goal was to have a place to release, to vent, to rant, and if someone—anyone—wanted to read it I didn’t, and don’t, care. As long as I’m writing stories the blog won’t get too much attention, but then when I hit a slump and can’t seem to make myself write anything in a story I’ll come back here. This way I’ll always be writing something, at least that is the whole idea behind having A Writing Work Out.
My goal for this current story is to hit 50,000 words by the end of this month because come October 31st at 11pm I’ll be getting ready to start something new for NaNoWriMo. I didn’t do it last year and I really want to change that this time around.
I miss my hat. The one I’d had for almost four years. I had pins on it from many places I’ve been and I wore it more times than not. Someone at the Kings of Leon show either didn’t like me, didn’t like my hat, or was just feeling particularly toolish and decided tearing it off my head and throwing it would be fun. I hope he enjoyed that momentary burst of glee, because I certainly did not. I turned to my right just in time to see my hat go sailing across the crowd never to be seen again. I suppose I could try contacting a lost and found at the Place at Auburn Hills, but I’d be amazed if they had it and even if they did how would I get it back? I’m not about to bike forty miles to get my hat back. Forty both ways that is. I’ll find a new hat sooner or later I guess. I own about five, but I don’t like any of them enough to wear daily. The hat that was taken from me was my buddy, we’d been through a lot together. Oh well.
I guess I should stop wasting time writing this and get back to my story, still untitled, if I’m going to have any shot at hitting 50,000 by the month’s end. I’m already at 23,000 words though and that means I need to average a little less than 1,600 a day. Considering I’ve been doing over 3,000 a day I don’t see this being a problem.
10-07-09 214pm
Disclaimer: The following will be littered with obscenities and foul words and verbal bashing of the most serious kind. And with that said…
My ‘friend’ Andrew is a fucking idiot. A moron of colossal size, a fool that no King would hire for being so stupid, a mountain of stupid piled higher than the eye can see. Now there’s stupid and there’s really stupid, and there’s so-fucking-stupid-you-should-be-shot-in-the-face-with-a-cannon.
“Who am I to say that’s wrong?” Who am I to say what he should do or shouldn’t? Oh I’m no one, really, I’m not. But if anyone, friend or not, was to tell me what he just has I’d look at that person and ask, “Did you just escape the mental ward?”
Let’s look at some facts, solid facts. Andrew has never, ever, lived outside of his parents house. That’s something you need to know from the get go. As far as I know he has lived in he exact same room for the past twenty-two years. That’s a long time to have lived in the same place, the same city even. Most families I know have moved at least once in such a span of time. Andrew has never once lived with a roommate, he has never paid so much a dollar of rent, hasn’t paid a bill in his life that wasn’t cash to his parents to my knowledge. I might be wrong on that part though.
So Andrew hasn’t had a roommate, has no idea what that entails. Has never gone grocery shopping…
You know… I don’t even want to be writing this fucking stupid entry right now. I want to be working on my new story and I can’t. I’m too pissed off, too confused, and no where near the mood of writing in that story because of this retarded shit Andrew laid on me. Actually he didn’t ‘lay’ it on me at all, Jade did. She forwarded me a message that Andrew had sent her about looking at rings and homes. So until I rant I can’t fucking do what I want to, bullshit. Let’s get back to it though, the sooner I get this out the sooner I can get to the fun stuff, my new story. Ok, there’s the sigh. See when I’m pent up like this I don’t breathe enough. I’ll hold breathes longer than I should, my mind is so fucking busy it’s not remembering to breathe I guess. So there comes a point once I’ve gotten enough rage and emotion out that I deeply sigh and begin to breathe once again. That happened when I said, “Ok, there’s the sigh.” I feel better, mostly, still need to get though out though.
Right, so Andrew is bat blind clueless about life to say the absolute least and, whazam, he wants to buy a house and move in with his fiancé! Nooow just whole them there horses! A house you say? A fiancé? Wait, whoa, huh? People don’t just move from mom and dad’s to their own place, not a house. Maybe in with some friends. Maybe to an apartment even, but a full on house? Well, gee, heck, fine. I guess it could be done. But then there’s the whole fiancé matter and that’s just a fucking disaster. He’s known this girl for a few months, three or so I think. Maybe four. He met her through his sister. Samantha told Dana, Andrew’s sister, that she—Samantha—wouldn’t mind sleeping with Andrew. Well hot dog! That’s a beautiful start to a very promising relationship right there! Heck, that’s basically what Jade said about me and look what happened with that, haha!
Guh, whatever… you know what. Fucking screw it. I could go on and on about how stupid I think this whole thing is and I do believe that, but it isn’t my life to neither ruin nor mine to try and make better. I can just feel, almost taste, how badly this whole thing will end and it taste like bitter almonds, pleh, pleh, you want to spit that crap out.
