Do you remember this post? Well, to add to PPP’s writing repetoir, R.T. of The World Explodes! has commissioned me to write a novel. At first, he was thinking something along the lines of a fantasy series with multiple books, but I explained that such material is not my forte, hence leading to really shitty writing, to put it simply. The idea mentioned in the post has grown (albeit not fully), and after threats of death inquiries of why I hadn’t submitted any writing in a long time, I wrote up a synopsis of said idea for Mr. Barnham. The thing is long and heavy-handed, since it was done at four in the morning, so I won’t post it here. I will be typing up little snippets here and there, and I would definitely love for you guys and gals to give me any tips, constructive criticism, and the like. And yes, this is a badly-veiled attempt of me asking for comments, but this could turn into a full-fledged series one day; I need all the help I can get!

In other news, I will be taking a two-week hiatus of posting. For one, this whole week will be taken up by college orientation (oh six hour drive, how I love thee…) and then an anime convention (Metrocon, to be specific). I will be getting back from all this next week, and I will fall into bed and A) die or B) sleep that Monday into oblivion. Also, since I want to get the novel started, I’ll be focusing my attention on writing the outline for each chapter and churning out a rough draft. Lastly, there are those pesky college preparations along with the chores I’ve neglected to do around the house (the abyss, the abyss, my mother’s closet is an abyss!), so my days will be dedicated to them. So, the next update will most likely be on the 28th of July.

Ciao ’til then!

Warning: Disturbing content. Please read at your own discretion. 

As you have all noticed, I enjoy writing. Actually, I enjoy it a lot, and hope that one day it will take up a large part of whatever occupation I enter. In combination with that, I enjoy reading other people’s works and, if they ask, editing them. I try to give constructive criticism on the works I come across, but if I cannot (be it my mood, lack of sleep, or another variable), I, at the least, leave the author a short message stating that I liked the piece. If I didn’t like it, I usually don’t say anything, unless the person is open for concrit. I’m not very harsh of a critic because I find those who tear down a decent work to be pretty tasteless, unless the work is utterly, despicably horrible and just needs to be wiped off the face of the earth (which is rare, might I add). Even for my few years on Earth (which come up to less than a decade), I think I’m somewhat proficient in critiquing, and that I’m not a shabby writer. The lack of comments on my entries might point to another conclusion, but I digress. (Just kidding.)

 To continue, from time to time in this blog I will post entries pertaining to writing and writers, especially if I come across some work or aspect of a work that sticks in my mind and nags me to elaborate on it. I do not plan to discuss fanfiction as a whole, because 1) it’s been done a million times before, and I’m just non-conformist like that and 2) it can lead to somewhat heated discussions, and I’d prefer to not have a flame war going on in my comments section. Still, the topic of this entry (and later topics) may pertain to (and mention) fanfiction as well. Sometimes, I do find something so glaringly bad (or good) in fanfiction, as well as original works, so I feel I should spread it to the world via this blog. So, on to the topic: rape. Surprising, yes?

Actually, I would like to deal with rape and its effects, and how they are portrayed in fiction. In online jargon, the term “noncon” is used for any situation involving nonconsensual sex (as you most likely grasped); I’ll be peppering it in this post now and then for variety, but I wanted to clarify. Anyway, rape is a horrible violation of a person’s rights. It is a such a terrible act because it immediately snatches away the victim’s control of their body and their actions. For that period of time when the crime occurs, the attacked person is enslaved by the assailant; one loses privacy, personal space, and mental and physical ability when raped, for that control has been taken. Afterwards, the emotional scars are extremely severe and never fully heal.

I was taking all of that information into account when reading a friend’s story involving her main character in a dangerous situation. Said friend is into guro (gory pornography, in which there are usually many bloody injuries and/or a person being injured in various ways while having intercourse); she also likes BDSM. Now, this is her choice, and even though that type of thing isn’t my cup of tea, I find the ideas and mindsets behind them intriguing. For some reason, my friend was wary of me reading the story, since she thought it might scar my brain. Mind you, she’s younger than me by a few years and has not yet been informed that daily news programs and the Internet have desensitized me to a lot of things. So, because I was interested in her character and her writing style, I read the story. It was a rough draft, and needed some edits, but otherwise, stylistically, it was good.

What irked me was my friend’s utter disregard for the definition of rape. Her character, a female, ends up getting knocked out, and wakes up on a metal table tied up; the main male character procedes to torture her with sharp objects. It is made clear, through dialogue and description, that the female character is a “sub” who is in a dominant/submissive relationship with another man. The male character in this story is not her “dom,” and is doing these things without her consent. As the story continued, because the female character is a masochist, she begins to enjoy the pain inflicted, and the male character continues to mutilate her, and then has sex with her. The girl does enjoy the sex to some extent, since she is aroused by pain, but the scene changed from one of a rape to a hardcore BDSM (bondage discipline sadomasochism) plus gore sexual encounter. At first, the girl did fight; then, she gave into her “desires,” followed this man’s orders, and technically allowed him to have sex with her, even though it was against her true wishes.

I also read my friend’s boyfriend’s companion piece to the story, and he didn’t understand the defintion of rape either. His character, the afore-mentioned “dom,” saves her from her attacker, but he states that it “started out as a rape.” His character comforts hers but also chastizes her for enjoying the latter part.

This made me go, “Um, what?!”

To me, even if the character likes BDSM, the fact that another man is hurting her without her consent still makes it rape. This man was not her lover and forced her into that situation by knocking her out and then tying her to a laboratory table. What goes on between her and her partner is consensual, because the woman says it’s okay and that she would enjoy it and the man 1) knows her comfort levels and what she can take, 2) makes sure that it’s okay in the first place and 3) would enjoy it himself. The two care for each other, and what they do in their bedroom is their business. Yet, by the end of the story and within the companion piece, the characters seem to forget that what happened was not the woman’s doing. She did not want to have sex with the male antagonist. There are court cases which document that some raped woman did orgasm. This fact does not negate the rape because the man penetrated her without her permission; one can only fight physical urges for so long. I’m thinking that a woman who orgasmed during a rape might feel even worse because she “enjoyed” what the rapist did to her, even though it was only a physical reaction and not wanted by the mind.

This diluted defintion of rape is not an isolated incident. I am part of a Livejournal community that allows posters to rant about fanfiction. Many posts have been about younger writers’ use of rape as a plot device without any idea of how the character would be emotionally traumatized and physically injured by the act. Because of the many posts that pop up about this subject on a very large community, I’m a bit perturbed by the fact that, rape is not taken seriously by younger writers (mainly teens).

To conclude, if it’s noncon in the beginning, it’s noncon at the end. No exceptions. Your thoughts?

I remembered that in my first entry, one of the topics I wanted to discuss was the environmental movement. I’m thinking that most of you have been bombarded with advertisements and news reports on humankind’s impact on the environment and how, eventually, we’ll make the earth a very barren place if we don’t stop harming it.

Let me get one thing straight before I begin this “rant,” so to speak: ever since I was little, I’ve loved animals, and I’ve loved nature. I find the flora and fauna on this planet to be mesmerizing in numerous ways, whether it be the beauty of a butterfly wing or the grotesque features of an angler fish. Earth is a fascinating place that does need tender loving care; as a whole, we humans need to work together in order to preserve nature. Before we acquired knowledge, we horrendously hurt this planet. We can reverse this, though. It is entirely possible to keep the earth healthy and functioning, to save many endangered species, to have ecosystems thriving, and to find more economical and safer ways of harvesting energy. As we speak, scientists are conducting experiments to discover a way to reduce the amount of oil the world uses. There is one thing we must remember, though: We are part of the ecosystem. We contribute or detract from it, and it does the same to us. Environmentalism has been around a long time, since the late 19th/early 20th century, when Teddy Roosevelt was president (he established the national forest reserves). This idea is not new, but has been ignored for decades now, and has seemingly become a fun fad to endorse.

For example, I saw the movie “The Happening” a few weeks ago, and its main message was to treat the earth better. Although I agree with that message whole-heartedly, I was annoyed by the repeated hammering of that idea into my head. Yes, plants could “determine” us to be a threat, and try to eradicate us in order to survive; I totally got that. The continued implication did not cause me to ponder our relation to plants, but to want to step on the nearest dandelion. “You won’t mess with my brain, motherfucker!”

The movie, and what alleged modern ”experts” seem to forget, is that humans are more concered about themselves than the areas they inhabit. When we look back at history, even in the prehistoric ages, we see that humans work well in groups. These groups then form societies, which then create, as a whole, technological, cultural, economical, and political advances. The pessimists say that humans have not evolved much since early days, but, to use a contrite example, Neanderthals did not walk on the moon, did they? Their life spans were much shorter than ours; one of our finest achievements is developements in medical science. We can cure so many diseases that killed hundreds (and sometimes thousands) just decades before. Not only do we benefit ourselves, but with medicine, we help animals and plants as well; we know what harms them and what helps them, and can avoid the poisonous activities.

The vibe, so to speak, that I get from environmentalists (I suppose it’s better to say implication) is that the world would be better off without humans. Animals could roam freely and plants would grow over and eat up our offices and homes. They seem to forget that there were millions of years during which animals did rule the earth. Even then, by studying dinosaurs, we find that there was a hierarchy, a.k.a. the food chain. The Triceratops had to defend against Velasoraptors. When mammals entered the equation, the ancestors of rodents had to run away from the dinosaurs in order to not get trampled on or fed to hatchling dinos. Then, without explanation, the dinosaurs died or were wiped out, and mammals ascended up the food chain as they evolved. At the moment, humans are at the top right now; nature may conjure up a creature that could outstride us and cause our extinction. That is the normal course of things, according to scientific history. Environmentalists, at least those I’ve read about or encountered, don’t seem to comprehend that one day, humans will no longer exist. If technology keeps on growing at its current rate, we may end abandoning planet Earth all together in order to explore space further.

Environmentalism has an undertone of doom and gloom that really undermines its positive message. On the other side of the coin, its ideas can be utterly idealistic. The average American cannot afford a Prius nor energy-saving light bulbs. “Plastic” is the automatic answer at the grocery store for bags because the parent in line is more concered with paying for dinner than what happens if they don’t recycle or use paper. Many people must live in the here and now because that is their only option. Even for those who have some ability to make a change, there are other problems to consider: one person’s recycling is negated by a lack of recycling on another’s part. Some of those who could buy Hybrids instead purchase Escalades. Right now, what bothers the majority of people most is the cost of gas and oil, the economy, and the elections; for those living paycheck to paycheck, it’s whether they can pay rent for next month.

I may be a cynical yet naive blogger, but it seems to me that humans are inherently selfish. Once a tenant leaves his apartment, he no longer thinks about it and goes forth to enjoy his new one (or his new house). The environment that people live in is not the main concern; it’s what occurs in the environment that takes up all thought. People do not want to live somewhere that has a high murder rate; home owners’ associations violently oppose factory building near their developments; renters take their landlords to court if the heat is turned off. For people who do not have the time or money to care for their home, just having a roof to live under and the basic necessities is enough. Unfortunately, a large part of the American population fits into that category. They are not going to care about the panda or the overpopulation of deer or some rare plants’ existence if they are unhappy and unhealthy. As the creatures at the top of the food chain, there is a certain responsibility implicitly given to us to take care of the earth. We should not abuse it, but use what we can in specific quantities. We should not be greedy or stingy; everyone has to share. This is not reality, though. The U.S. consumes the most oil (98%). Some may cry for humanitarianism and aid for other countries, but then the apathetic or those lacking knowledge continue to waste. Selfishness (or those driven by pure need) negates selflessness (as in those with the ability to help others) and the indecisive continue to feed this cycle.

I am one of the indecisive, I’ll admit that. I vacilate between giving up on environmentalism all together or pitching in whole-heartedly. The problem’s root lies not in which people control which companies, or who’s rich or who’s poor and what their goals and desires are, but in the lack of communication among societal classes and an inherent inability to truly think of humans as a full unit, as a race. There are still too many division lines, whether they be religious, economic, political, or racial for people to come together and help the earth. For now, if we remain hierarchical, scientists and experts must provide various options for those of all status. In the future, maybe a catastrophic natural event will kick us into high gear.

Or maybe we’ll just get devoured by aliens. Who knows?

Let me be honest with you, readers. There are more than a handful of things wrong with me, and most of them I’ve accepted with open arms as character flaws that I can use to actually benefit myself. There is one, though, that I am in utter denial about, and refuse to face.

We all have certain idiosyncrasies that we absolutely abhor. For some, it may be the need to depend on other people; for others, it may be the inability to fully connect. We may be part of parasitic relationships, either as the parasite or the host. At times, we are both, for we battle ourselves. Our goals, aspirations, and hopes may act as the host, and said host is constantly drained by our self-destructive attitudes. Our desires may transmogrify, and turn into the parasite, eating away at any progress we want to gain, mentally, emotionally, even physically. There are those symbiotic relationships, which can be either healthy or not; a symbiotic relationship in which the two participants cannot live without the other is considered bad for both. The pair assign each other and themselves to specific roles in the relationship, and never deviate from these roles. They may also have no individualism outside the other, that is, if set apart from the other half of the relationship, (s)he will not possess one distinguishing feature. The unhealthy symbiotic relationship involves two partners who fit together like puzzle pieces, but are held together by glue, and cannot be taken apart. If those puzzle pieces are snapped, then the two pieces will cease to function normally, for their sole purpose was to feed the other.

A healthy symbiotic relationship possesses two people who can stand away from each other and not see a reflection of all their traits. That is, when staring at each other, there is not a mirror there, bringing forth all their faults and positive aspects, but a different entity with its own issues and personality. A working marriage is a healthy symbiotic relationship: the man and woman can unclasp hands and go down their own paths. Still, the paths are connected by the threads of their common goals. Marriages that are dying or already deceased have two people who hang onto each other for hollow reasons: loneliness, a need to keep the “family” together (even though it’s already broken), or the idealistic belief that just because one party wants to fix the relationship, the other will pitch into the effort.

Although not all of my readers are married (I’m thinking that only a select few of you are), I believe that each us of, in one way or another, has been part of a parasitic or symbiotic relationship. My previous entry discussed a symbiotic relationship, as En-V poignantly noted in his comment; I continued to attempt to fix my friend while she continued to wreck herself. At some point, we all reach our limits, and dissolve the unhealthy relationships. Sometimes, though, the common threads remain, and we are stuck in a bind. A prime example is marriage. Both partners must be committed, and, if the relationship comes upon an obstacle, both partners must attack it head-on. Otherwise, the relationship becomes ill and eventually dies, dragging both partners down with it.

As for parasitic relationships, we fight ourselves constantly. Constant examples affirm this position of mine; I sincerely believe it is human nature to question our motives. I interrogate myself all the time. Why would you ask that? What is your true intention? Second-guessing myself all the time causes my vision to become clouded; when my real, raw intention was to do something out of the kindness of my heart, I think that maybe I’m doing it for the personal attention or the praise. The little voice in the back of my head nags me, eats away at me; I see it as a nasty bug of some sort sitting on my head, whispering in my ear and constantly telling me I’m wrong. As humans, we all must counter the insect (or whatever you imagine it to be) to fully go through with a decision. If I want to help out a charity, I’m not doing it for myself, but for the people who need it. If I want to speak my mind, I’m doing it for the defenseless who cannot brave the sting of others’ opinions. Even now, as I type this, I am second-guessing myself. The bug is bothering me. We must always reaffirm what our intentions are, and then act. As we age, this process becomes easier. For some, the process never occurs, due to a lack of impulse control or maturity. Those who are weighed down by that stagnant state end up developing a fatal type of narcissism, which eventually causes them to be utterly alienated from the world emotionally and mentally.

Parasitic relationships of the unhealthy kind usually involve some kind of narcissist. The parasite cares not for its host; all it wants is constant praise, constant love, some constant variable that it cannot fulfill on its own. The host, in an attempt to cure the parasite of its narcissism, feeds its ego and gives it what it craves. The host is not only participating in the parasite’s selfishness, but its own; it cannot realize what the ill effects of a parasitic relationship on those not involved. A parasitic marriage screws up children; it skews their way of thinking and teaches them that the only two options in life are to be the host or the parasite. Both parties in parasitic relationships lose their individual will and strength, for the parasite needs the host to stay alive, and the host is too drained to run away. Children of such marriages end up becoming spineless, and will either use or be used.

Relationships with others are fixable at times, until that crescendo is reached, and then those involved are irreparably snapped. The relationship with the self, though, can be utterly damaged to the point of no return. This can not only happen when other people influence the self; the self, or components of the self, can influence this destructive aspect. No matter what, we view ourselves in the light (or darkness) of others, and set standards for ourselves based on morals we comprehend from life around us. Humans are all connected by the common threads that married couples share as well: empathy and apathy, love and hate, tolerance and bigotry. The relationship with the self, then, has a foundation of our position concerning the world. It boils down to easy concepts: some may find certain material disgusting while others laugh. Some are sensitive, some possess a bit of thicker skin, while others disregard most insults. In people, there are always three main points: the two extremes, and the gray area. The gray area is extremely expansive, and may turn “darker” or “lighter” depending on that individual’s moral code (or lack thereof).

Still, the individual is a sole entity, even if it is intrinsically attached to others. The individual works in a specific, unique way, and interprets situations differently; the single person also has thought processes that no one else does. No matter what your religious beliefs, there is a certain “part” of each of us that no one else possesses. In unhealthy relationships, that part eventually disappears. The opposite occurs in healthy ones, of course. As for the individual to itself, a “good” symbiotic relationship should exist among the three points (the two extremes and the gray area). For example, the unsavory thoughts should be balanced by overly-pious and respectful (gray) ones as well. For every nasty thing, there should be its polar opposite (unrealistic it may be, and even if it cannot be enacted in real life) and a certain negating factor, the gray, realistic action that cut down some of that “nastiness.” Hence, the self has a set of checks and balances with roots in both individualist tendencies, its own moral code, and societal standards.

As a person raised with a strong sense of individuality, I try to view things with an clear lens; I’ve formed my own opinions by whether my mind tells me that this option is wrong and this option is right. Then, I take these opinions, albeit influenced by reactions to worldly experiences, and create my own moral code to abide by as well as possible. Trying to organize some abstract philosophies or ideals into the three points can be frustrating, and so they float in the gray area. Only the things that I think will be useful in life are strictly categorized as such. For example, I will not murder someone in cold blood. Yes, there are those fantasies that grip everyone once in awhile. At the other end is the need to go to a convent to cleanse myself. In the middle is the rational, the idea that if I kill someone just for the fun or the thrill, then others who I don’t know and who didn’t deserve it will suffer. Also, the selfish aspect surfaces; if I murder someone, I’ll be punished. This is then counteracted by copious amounts of self-guilt, which is then lessened by how I would be defying my own nature by committing such a crime. It all comes full circle.

My entry began with my statement that I am in utter denial about my facet of myself, and this is a negative attribute that I hope to be rid of at some point. I feel uncomfortable revealing exactly what this attribute is, but it gives me grief and I am ashamed of it. A few days ago, the full scope of how bad this aspect was affecting me physically was brought to my attention; my mother told me I looked different, and was trying to alert me of my “relapse,” as we call it. At first, I was angry at her; I pitied myself. Then, I stared at myself in the mirror, and saw what was she speaking of. I was horrified, but felt the need to relapse again in order to alleviate the guilt, to keep my mind off of it.

Here is my parasitic relationship with myself: others have self-destructive and/or self-defacing habits. With mine, I act, feel ashamed of said act, then act again. The bug tells me I’m a bad person for acting in such a way, admonishes me, and pressures me to the point of acting that way again, for that is the only action. The bug, though, is still me, albeit the acidic part of me that wants to eat itself into oblivion. The bug is all my fears and insecurities rolled into an imagined creature that orders me around when I’m in a vulnerable state (depressed, anxious, etc.). When I try to counter the bug’s words, I end up bringing up all the other arguments: Are you really doing this to help yourself? Do you really care that much about yourself? Do you care about what your family thinks? Do you truly mind if you hurt them? These thoughts in themselves are self-destructive, for they inhibit progress. I cannot stop the acts if I’m fighting myself all along the way.

I spoke to my mother later about what she had brought up, and we ended up arguing. Then, I broke down, crying, and told her that it was out of my control. I was the disease, not a person with something negative attached, but a disease with a person as a host. As I sat there, comforted by my mother, I realized something: I always told people not to label themselves. They are not their problems; the problems are just aspects that they can learn to control and use for something beneficial. I was being a hypocrite.

If I let the disease win, then I am the disease. The parasite has won, and I’ve effectively destroyed myself. Yet, if I fight all the negativity I press upon myself, then I can regain what I’ve lost and even grow in the process. Don’t let everything you hate about yourself take over; don’t let everything you want to remove to become your only focus. Battle yourself if you have to, because that self-destructive part of you is not the only part of you. You are made of various components; convert the parasite into a symbiotic partner in order to enhance the best of these components. Everyone who has ever suffered due to anything, disease or otherwise, must understand that in the wake of a battle among the numerous shards of the self, the ones we care about most, the core parts that truly make us what we are, those need to be saved. Self-preservation, true self-preservation, is the only option.

When we realize what those best shards are, then we can take the next step into sheltering, saving, and bringing them into full bloom. If we remain in denial, and turn the other cheek, and say that the pieces we dislike aren’t there, then we’re failing ourselves.

This is even true in relationships with others. We cannot be ignorant when it comes to what bothers us, what hurts us. Attacking it and eradicating it with the help of the other half of the relationship is what gives the relationship purpose and strength to carry on.

So, I’ve been honest. I haven’t been all-revealing, but I hope this does help someone out there, someone who struggles, someone who finds his/her problem to be so overwhelming, so all-encompassing, that (s)he is forced to submit. Although I dislike most militaristic slogans, this one fits the occasion: Failure is not an option. By failing, we destroy ourselves. The world loses one more individual, one more strand that others can view in order to more fully round out themselves. Balance the three points: narcissism (I’m only doing this for myself), selflessness (I’m only doing it for them), and that gray matter (I’m doing it for both). That is truly functioning.

Like most adolescents, at times, I have trouble with my friends. Sometimes, I’m annoyed by their antics; sometimes, I’m unhappy about how they’ve changed since we first met and became close, so I distance myself; other times, I just want to throttle them. The third option was begging to be chosen at my party this past weekend.

 I know what you’re thinking. Deviation leaves the house?! Well, yes, I do, and sometimes I actually plan events that my friends and I attend. Since the end of the school year, I was planning a big bash (big as in the number of people being in the double-digits, even if that meant only ten) for my friends. You see, I usually associate with those younger than me, for two main reasons. One, since I’m older, I have a bit more experience and authority, so not only can I order them to do my bidding give them advice without getting my throat cut, but they take me seriously. Two, I can act like a complete jackass (i.e. hyper as a hummingbird on crack), and everyone will just think I’m younger, and it’s excusable. So, because the past year was a lot of fun mostly because I hung out with them more (and decided to not give a shit about people I didn’t like), I threw a party. I planned it via Facebook (which I don’t recommend), and invited ten people.

Unfortunately, one problem with having younger friends is that plans almost always go awry. One boy never showed up, one girl was very late (although that was forgiveable), and two girls couldn’t make it but told me the day before or of the party. I’m used to this kind of mess-up, and enough people attended, so I was fine. So, my mom and her friend stayed with us in the adult version of Chuck E. Cheese; we ate, chatted, and ended up deciding to go the movies afterward. Both of the girls who were unable to attend were supposed to stay over for the night, and I thought it’d be cool if one of my other friends would be able to stay instead. While there, we talked it over and were able to get rides scheduled and such, so she was able to come over. Overall, the night was great, even if “You Don’t Mess with the Zohan” kinda sorta just plain sucked.

The one downer was a friend of mine who I’ve known since middle school. Back in the day, she was sweet, a bit eccentric, and had a messed-up family. As I got to know her, I found that she was pretty damn narcissistic, and took her anger concerning her family out on us, her friends. After I got severely burned by trying to “fix” her (i.e. help her with her problems, hence becoming too involved in her drama, issues, etc.), I distanced myself. She was one of those friends who I had to keep at an arm’s length because her self-destructive tendencies usually put us in bad spots; she also has a penchant for verbally ripping out your intestines when she’s in a bad mood (and that’s no fun!). Still, because I had known her for so long, we were still friends through it all, and she was fun to hang out with when kept at a distance, I invited her to my party.

I also invited her ex-girlfriend. Said ex-girlfriend is a nice girl, a sophomore who is, in a lot of positive ways, older than her years, and is a person I grew to really like and care for over the year. The two had dated for a total of four months on and off, and the relationship, as always with afore-mentioned friend, was rocky and full of drama. Luckily, through experience and maturity, I kept my nose out of the whole affair, and just listened if either one of them wanted to rant to me. (I’ve found I’m a great sound-board.) The relationship ended badly (as usual), and the two couldn’t even be cordial. I warned my friend to be polite to her, because this was my party, and she had to follow my rules (see: Stalin!Deviation, a story for later), and she had a tendency to be snippy and snobby towards people she didn’t like, even if it hurt the hostess’s feelings. and caused the hostess to go fucking batshit!

The party was fine until we headed to the movies. My friend’s new boyfriend drove her over and came to the movie with us, which I was fine with, and I checked with her ex to see if that was fine (which it was). Unfortuantely, as the night progressed, I became increasingly annoyed with my friend. For one, she was late to the movie, and I had to purchase tickets for her. Even though she paid me back, there was no need for her to stop at her house along the way. We waited for her outside for about ten minutes, and she still wasn’t there, so ex-girlfriend volunteered to hold onto the couple’s tickets and hand to them once they arrived. Finally, they got there, but my friend came up to me and asked, “Why did you let her stay out there and wait for us? She was pissy!”

Well, hon, you were late, and you know, it’s kind of annoying when you inconvenience other people.

When we were heading to the actual movie room, the ex-girlfriend went in a different direction by accident. What did my friend say? “Where is the little blonde bitch going?”

Throughout the movie, the couple was canoodling, which is fine if a bit over-the-top. Three-quarters through the movie, my friend leans over and says, “We have to stop and stay at my house.”

And your lovely Deviation replied, “Why?”

“It’ll be really quick, okay?”

Her boyfriend had generously volunteered to take ex-girlfriend, our friend, and I back to my house, since he lived nearby and it wasn’t out of his way. Still, my mother gets a little crazed if I’m home later than I first said (even if I call to let her know), and most likely thinks I’ve been abducted by octopus-esque aliens. Tentacle rape! So, because I didn’t want to be a bitch at my own party and her boyfriend had already been nice enough to take us home, I decided to just say “okay” and imply that we had to leave a few minutes after we arrived.

After the movie was over, we all headed over to her house, and, unfortunately, the ex-girlfriend felt uncomfortable upon arrival. (Also, it didn’t help that the boyfriend drove a bit crazily, but that’s beside the point.) I had not known this and would’ve just asked to be taken straight home, but it was already too late. We hung at her house for twenty minutes, watched Metalapocalypse (or however the fuck it’s spelled, the Adult Swim show with the band Dethklok),  and waited for my friend and her boyfriend to stop being gross cute. The ex-girlfriend, though, refused to sit down or go up to my friend’s room because she really did feel fucking weird at her ex’s house. She explained later that she liked to distance herself from exes, which I wish I had known in the first place (argh!), but my friend’s behavior didn’t help.

 ”Hey, X, sit down!” While we were all watching the show-whose-name-I-can’t-spell, she was pressuring her visibly-uncomfrotable ex to sit on the couch with all of us. Mind you, my extremely tall, lanky male friend was stretched out and taking up about half of it, another friend was in the middle, and the couple was on the other end. Exacerbate the awkward, why don’t ya?

Then, my friend came up to me and whispered, “Why won’t she sit down?”

I gave her a “You’re kidding, right?” look and said, “She’s just feeling a bit uncomfortable. Let her be. We’re leaving in a little bit, aren’t we?”

“Well, she can at least sit down,” she replied tartly, and went back to nuzzling her boyfriend.

When we finally got around to leaving her house, my friend made absolutely sure to act like she and her boyfriend were in a symbiotic relationship; that is, she hung onto him and kissed him and hugged him until I seriously wanted to gut her for just being plain obnoxious. She’s gone through many a relationship, so I’m kind of armored against her usual shenanigans, but she was totally not getting that, you know, it’s kind of mean to do that to your visibly-uncomfortable ex, who is also your long-time friend’s (as in me) friend. Hey, at least make the effort…?

Once we left, everything was normal, and the ex-girlfriend no longer had to deal with my friend being insensitive as fuck.

Earlier that week, my friend was in a terrible mood accompanied by some emo moaning, and we (unfortunately) had a long conversation on AIM. She blamed her ex-girlfriend for turning all her friends against her, which implied that, of course, nothing was her fault and she never fucked up things with her friends by acting bitchy, mean, utterly narcissistic, etc. Because the girl’s on suicide watch half the time in my mind, I typed, as tactfully as possible, that her afore-mentioned assertion was utter bupkus and she had to start evaluating her actions. She also had to stop treating people badly.

Guess what happened? Everything I typed, all those lengthy paragraphs of pseudo-therapeutical analysis, they went over her head! I nearly busted a vein as she continued to groan about her shitty life. 

My problem with this girl is that I still have this weird sophomoric view of her, in that I still feel this need to help her and fix her, even though she’s utterly broken and so self-absorbed that she can’t see beyond her own nose or viewpoints. I could’ve wrote in the IM, “You’re a selfish whore who needs a lot of therapy, so go get it and stop emoting at me!” She refuses any aid, and being honest with her is difficult because of her past self-destructive actions. In retrospect, the party was enjoyable and she was on good behavior for a good part of it, but it was difficult for me to hold my tongue and be a helpful hostess because of her. This is partially my fault for inviting her, but I told her, in plain words, that she must be polite to her ex. Of course, the opposite ended up happening. Because she’s so fucked up, I usually overlook her “stupidity,” especially because most of me is emotionally detached. It just annoys the living HELL out of me when people are so stuck on themselves that they don’t realize that they can hurt those they care for by going by their own rules, even if these rules are only a tiny bit skewed.

Now that I have a Narcissist Radar, I’m planning to avoid these types in college. Also, I’ve purged most of that “Oh, I gotta fix you, poor thing!” out of my body, and I plan on voicing my opinion a lot more. So, if you’re an asshat, you’ll be told so; I’ll be grinning.

This weekend, my mother and I went to see the Sex and the City movie. We both thoroughly enjoyed it, although we didn’t go drink Cosmopolitans and party later that evening. Instead, we attempted to avoid the downpour that is expected during Southern summers, and made it home to take naps. We both had been excited to the movie, and had read and heard reviews; to my recollection, either one loved it or hated it.

One review from the television show Sunday Morning came back to my mind as I lay in bed, wrapped up in comfy blankets with a kitten slumbering next to me. The critic had liked the movie, but his opening statements were what struck me as I straddled consciousness and sleep: some people thought that the four women were materialistic and the show completely objectified men. I had not thought of the review until now, when I needed a topic for a blog entry; also, Seraphine made a comment on R.T.’s latest post, chastising him for subjugating women.

As I sat here thinking about the movie, about The World Explodes!, and the varying views of women around the world, I began to focus on women in American media. Since the feminist movement of the late 60s, women have gained more acclaim and power in society; they have the option of getting better jobs and climbing higher up the corporate ladder. One can turn on the Today Show and hear at least one report a week about how women are handling both work and family. It seems that the feminists did not realize that once women were allowed to work more (and then were expected to keep up with what used to be men’s schedules), their role in the family, or at least the time spent with the family, would be limited. I have no problem with having more opportunities; I’m glad that the movement occurred. Still, even though women have made so much progress here, it appears that mainstream fictional media has not caught up with this reality.

Working women are usually portrayed as ball-breakers with hardened hearts. Housewives, on the other hand, are seen as incompetent in the occupational field and the emotions that were taken from the working women are lauded upon stay-at-home-mom characters. Those in the middle are extremely stressed, one aspect of reality that is followed, but instead of exhibiting strong females who take their problems by the horns, these women worry and nitpick, creating distances between their children and husbands. I have not yet seen a working mom who acts like Superwoman in front of her children but who feels comfortable showing her vulnearability to her husband. I have not yet seen a stay-at-home mom who takes good care of her children and exceeds her duties. I have not yet seen a businesswoman with more than a shred of a heart left intact.

I must admit that, yes, the archetypes (or stereotypes, pick your poison) of women are sometimes true. In my personal experience, all media norms have been demolished (the exceptions to the rule), but then we arrive at Sex and the City. It was truly an enjoyable, funny show, but in showcasing ”true” (real) women, it failed in some parts. Carrie is a successful journalist, but her love life is a mess; although she uses her experiences to her advantage, at times, she comes across as an emotional masochist. She is level-headed except when it comes to men, something I couldn’t really understand. Charlotte is also successful in her career but not in love, yet she stays in an unhappy marriage for quite some time before finally deciding to take charge of herself. Miranda is a lawyer doing very well, but she is the businesswoman archetype: acerbic and too blunt for her own good. Seeing Miranda break down makes her much more human, but it’s a rare event. The last of the four is Samantha, personally my favorite character, but she is utterly fictional. She works as PR manager for various industry bigwigs; she also fucks most of them. Her attitude towards sex is that of a man’s, allegedly: she can sleep with whom she wants, and she does not feel at all bad.

Samantha is nothing but an ideal that women can aspire to, because women generally do not think like her. There are females with more testosterone in their bodies, thus causing their sex drives to be higher. So, they have more of a sexual appetite than the average. Through societal conditioning though, women continue to follow the double standard. Men can have sex with whom they want, while women must remain “pure” and remain monogamous. Some claim that is the nature of the beast for men to have multiple partners, but then again, the earth is overpopulated as it is and we seriously don’t need any more babies. That nature was needed when humankind’s survival was based on how many babies could be brought into the world and remain healthy (and alive, for that matter). Because of this double standard, women have been more prone to objectification, to be viewed as weaker and to be ruled by emotions. The stereotypical woman is manipulative, catty, and prone to crying spells. Luckily, the Sex and the City women were not like this; for the most part, they reacted to situations realistically. Sex and the City, as a whole, did portray women as they would be in real life, and it acknowledged the double standard. Yet, the show turned tables by having men be sexual objects there for the taking.

This aspect was a double-edged sword. It presented a relatively new idea (male objectification), but this also stymied progress. How so? Sex is not the end all and be all of a relationship. In a society obsessed with sex, this truth may be hard to swallow, but there is more to interacting with the opposite (or the same, depending on orientation) sex. Sometimes people are really just friends (really); sometimes the love is unrequited; sometimes men open up and discuss their problems with their significant others. Relationships are centered around emotion and communication. Feelings can lead to certain situations (like sex, or lack thereof), and can seriously impact the communication between a couple. The problem with Sex and the City (not only the show but the movie) was that the core of the relationships had to do with sex, or, at the least, were related to sex. Carrie’s relationship with Mr. Big was one of emotion, but he does treat her badly at many points (even in the movie), and she keeps giving him another chance. Miranda and Steve break up because he sleeps with someone else. Sex leads to procreation, and Charlotte and Harry’s relationship was slightly hampered by their inability to conceive. As for Samantha, her relationships are never very deep and almost always sex-centered. She dissolves her relationship with Smith because she cannot control her urges for other men.

The four friends of Sex and the City live in a different world than this real one. They are simultaneously very confident and vulnearable, a combination not usually shown in mainstream media characters. I know the focus of the show was sex, but, unfortunately, relationships do not work like those in the show. Also, although I like the idea of women not having to follow the double standard, that just doesn’t happen. Women who don’t are labeled as sluts and thought of in a lesser light. Subjugating men, as done in the show and not in reality, does not solve the problem; instead, it underscores the double standard and stereotypes of both sexes.

Today, I officially exited high school. I am no longer a high school student; I am one of those in-between unemployed adolescents, straddling the line between my old life and my new one. The future is so close, since in just a matter of months, I will no longer be a child under the law, I will no longer live with my parents, and I will have to adjust to nearly unlimited freedom. When I look back at the past four years, I think not in ages but in grade levels, and I measure my accomplishments by awards and averages.

The valedictorian of my class made a lovely speech about all of our futures and how we will all succeed in one way or another. She did mention a specific fact that ruled the lives of many of us in the audience: we judged ourselves by numbers and letters. Instead of searching within and forming deep, moral characters, we focused on studying, doing well, competing with our classmates, and achieving the most. I was struck that the valedictorian undermined her own status and called upon us to strive for more than superficial accolades. She wanted us to develop our personalities and our ethics code; she wanted us to realize that the paths ahead of us were not fully predetermined by how we did in high school. Although those of that worked hard were accepted into good colleges, we needed to understand that the rest of our lives will not be dictated by As and Bs, 5.0s and 89s.

I was extremely pleased by the valedictorian’s speech, and it struck a cord with me. When I remember my ninth grade self, I see a stressful, neurotic teen wondering how well she did on her science tests. For tenth grade, I am a hunched-over, sad-faced kid hoping to find the light at the end of the tunnel. In eleventh, my anxiety disorder kicked in; that year was a pure blur. This past year was my most enjoyable, least stressful, and overall a nice end for a difficult experience. I notice such a difference in myself, such a gain of maturity, that I am quite astonished. The valedictorian’s speech helped solidify the thought in my mind that I will do well in life, even with all my self-doubt and the tiny voices whispering I won’t do well.

 Sometimes adults do not realize that high school is tough for teenagers. With raging hormones, racing thoughts, switching moods, and a focus on academia and/or sports, teens carry tons upon their shoulders. It doesn’t exactly help that parents possess deep-seeded expectations planted at birth, and hope and pray that their children exceed. Although I was lucky enough to not have that problem, many of my friends dealt with parents who pushed them into unpleasant activities, or loaded their schedules with social events, sports, and studying. What I hope for those friends is that their newfound freedom will open up opportunities for creating their own lives.

As I look back more, and analyze my old selves, all just fragments now in my memory, I see a trend: extreme perfectionism. I mentally beat myself up for not getting an A; when I upset a friend, I told myself how awful I was. I had to be the perfect child, the perfect student, and the perfect friend. Especially in ninth grade, I was acutely sensitive, and was offended easily. Luckily, as I grew up, this soft aspect slowly hardened; I became more vocal, I no longer feared my own opinions, and I took down some of my barriers. The perfectionist streak, however, expanded in eleventh grade, since my GPA was not at the level I strived for and I was having trouble adjusting socially. After finally finishing school that year, I relaxed during the summer. I thought about myself and what aspects I wanted to change.

With maturity came the ability to funnel that perfectionism into positive areas: writing and critiquing. I edited my work much more often and became more confident; I wrote more and expanded my genres. I found what I loved to do and associated with people who enjoyed what I did as well. How I transformed in twelfth grade, not only from outside forces but from my own will, helped mold me into a much better person. I no longer allow my perfectionism to rule me; I have control of it, I take the reigns, and I use it well.

Along with the valedictorian’s advice, I have some for students, and people of all ages: take any of your negative characteristics that bothered you in times passed, take all of that self-doubt and worry, and change it into energy. Then, that energy can turn beneficial, and help you achieve your goals.

–

On a side note, I will return to my regular weekly updates. Due to my need for exam exemption, I’ve been working really hard the past few weeks. Also, family came to visit and I had to prepare for the graduation ceremony. Hence, I ran out of time, and I apologize.

On a second note, I would like to know which day is best for me to update. Please let me know in a comment.

Wanted is a graphic novel written by Mark Millar, penciled and inked by J.G. Jones, and colored by Paul Mounts. And it is fucking awesome.

Okay, okay, I know I’m lauding praise upon it quite early on, but it really is that good. As Mediasharx.com put it, “…Mark Millar has managed to pull off the impossible: a new take on supervillains.” If you think about it, how could someone add an entirely new perspective to super-villains? We comic-readers have seen them all: the tortured soul, the maniac, the avenger, the megalomaniac, the sadist. What Millar does with his story is take these characters and many more and has them together has a cohesive group controlling the world. Before, super villains fought super heroes one-on-one, and were almost always defeated. What Millar’s characters decided was to become a “meta-human criminal network.” In 1986, banded together, they killed every super-hero, and manipulated reality so that normal humans would never remember. The only way that people could recall was through comic books, or they were considered crazy. I considered this as brilliant. Who would’ve thunk it?

The plot revolves around Wesley Gibson, a miserable wretch with a shitty job, a slutty girlfriend, and a bad case of hypochondria. This boring, inconsequential life is interrupted by the Fox, who informs him that his father, the Killer, was assassinated and now it’s Wesley’s time to step into his dad’s shoes. The story follows Wesley acquiring knowledge about his father, the criminal network, and himself. At a glance, the story may come across as pure wham-bam action with tons of gore and some shots of breasts thrown in here and there. Truly, the reader sees Wesley transform from a wimpy little caterpillar feeding on the mediocrity of life to a maniacal butterfly with guns blazing. (Oh, how Dev loves her metaphors.)

I’m one of those writers who sometimes finds herself rooting for the villain. When I saw Spiderman 3, I was thrilled to see Venom kick some Spidey ass. Toper Grace, the actor who played Eddie Brock, made Venom deliciously crazy and twisted. At the end, when the bell drives Venom insane and breaks him apart, inwardly, I screamed, “NO!” I basically enjoyed that movie because of Venom and emo Peter Parker (did you see that haircut?).

So, when a comic appears that has villains ruling the world, the dark side of me squeals in glee. That squealing reveals how dark that part of me really is. Not very dark, hint hint. Some may not find substance in this, but Millar makes this event actually seem plausible.

Aside from the great storyline, the art is crisp, colorful, and wonderfully detailed. Jones and Mounts did an awesome job, and brought the characters into glowing, blood-splattered glory. If you buy the graphic novel collecting the six comics and the dossier, you get some bonus material of other people’s renderings of the characters. I recommend buying the collection instead, since the extra material really does illuminate the process of creating the comic and the many ideas involved. This will especially help any aspiring comickers (I’m lookin’ at you, web-comickers of PPP!  There are so many of you!)

I do ask of you that, if you read the comic, do not see the movie! The characters’ names have been changed, and the Fox is black in the comic; they casted Angelina Jolie to play her. Oh, the failure is apparent, and the movie’s not even out yet!

Why yes, I tagged this entry as both serious and as an annoyance because the race for the White House has, once again, transformed into a mud-slinging contest through commercials, ads, interviews, and speeches. Not only have the Democrats and Republicans attacked each other, but internal battles ravage both parties. The Democrats refuse to unite (as usual), and uber-conservatives such as Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh voice their dislike of McCain to their huge audiences. The race has dissolved into a cesspool of nonsensical nit-picking, and as someone who will be voting in the 2008 election, I am sure sick of it.

Now, I expected that the two parties would fight each other to the death, since that is the common practice and a necessary evil; there is no way, at this time in the United States’ existence, that the pair could unite as one cohesive force. Attempting to do so could lead to the collapse of the government (at the darkest end of the spectrum), or, at the least, dig an even deeper divide between the two. I firmly believe that the party system will not be dismantled until humans move into the next stage of our evolution. By that time, we’ll hopefully have realized that diplomacy is a great little invention.

Yet, no compromise pops up among members of the same party. With the Democrats, Hillary Clinton said, “Shame on you, Mr. Obama, shame on you,” while Obama counters with sickly-sweet commercials exhibiting how great of a president he would be. As for the Republicans, the problem isn’t as glaring, but he cannot seem to get the religious right on his side completely, even with an endorsement by Pat Robertson. Allegedly, all three candidates (even Warhawk McCain) want to inspire hope in the American people and get the country back up on its feet. People will not feel hopeful if people who allegedly share the same views are nipping at each other like Chihuahuas. Take a group of like-minded teenage friends and compare them to the party members; do you see any parallels? The back-stabbing, the gossip, the distrust? Has no one realized yet that these intelligent people are bickering like school children? If you declare yourself a member of a political party, you should share most of the opinions with those around you. Instead, all the important issues boil down to a person’s minor past discretions and defining characteristics.

Oh, defining characteristics! Barack Obama is black. He is not Muslim (and he would not try to run for president as a Muslim man anyway, because some idiot would have assassinated him months ago), but he is black. Hillary Clinton is a woman, hence, she has a vagina. (I know, you can’t believe it!) John McCain is a white man with scars from melanoma and being a POW. Yet if you take these three people, kidnap them, tie them together, hide them in an abandoned warehose, cover their eyes and mouths so they don’t know who they are tied to (nor who kidnapped them), turn on one of those creepy warehouse lights you see in Law & Order episodes, and make small incisions on each of their arms, guess what you would see? Blood! Red blood! That oh-so-wonderful mixture of plasma, platelets, and red blood cells! Let us not forget that all we’re all human here.

This brings me to the main point of my hate-filled rant. (See guys, I actually typed up one!) As I mentioned a few lines up, Barack Obama is black, and not a Muslim. (I’m reiterating this because it seems to not get through some people’s skulls.) He went to a prodimantly-black church in Chicago with a now-infamous pastor, Jeremiah Wright. I believe everyone has seen or heard the pastor’s speech in which he shouted “God damn America!” and related every plight of the world to the mistreatment of Africans and African-Americans. The man popped up again and once again proved himself to be a bigoted loud-mouth. As my mother put it, he wants to secure his legacy, even at the cost of the candidate he supposedly supports. I read through that article, and everyone agrees that he’s damaging Obama’s campaign up the wazoo by making such inflammatory comments. So, he is a class-A idiot.

What irks me the most is not the anti-Semitism and the sheer volume of Wright’s speeches (he speaks very, very loudly. We understand your point, seriously, we do), but how hypocritical he is. He does not really care about racism if he’s throwing fuel on the fire. He does not really care about his congregation if he makes himself appear ignorant and prejudiced, which in turn has his congregation labeled the same way, since he’s their leader. There is a notion that most black people are racist themselves and deserve better because of their horrible history; there is a sense of entitlement along with a deep-seeded hatred of the other “races.” Most black people are NOT like this. I have proof; I’ve met some. Believing in stereotypes full-heartedly amounts to wallowing in a sea of ignorance. Taking Reverend Wright and the head of the KKK and cutting them both will result in the same blood. Until aliens reach this planet, we’re all part of the human race. Get over it.

Smart people should be immune to this nonsense, but Clinton’s campaign is benefiting from it by showing that Obama cannot step up to the plate and put out Wright’s fire once and for all. Hence, he is a not a strong leader. I would like to ask Mrs. Clinton what she actually thinks of Wright, and I’d prefer to get a straight answer, and…there it is, the root of the issue! No one will say what they truly believe. If you oppose abortion, go ahead and shout it from the rooftops. If you are against the War on Terror, go ahead and stand with the pro-lifers and shout with them. It would just be nice every once in awhile to hear a forward, uncompromising opinion on something from any of the candidates. If they would all stop beating around the bush and zig-zagging through issues, the U.S. would be a lot better off.

In closing, I would like to change Reverend Wright’s wording. Instead of “God damn America!” why don’t we shake our fists mightly and say “God damn American politics!” instead. It might do us some good, you know.

Post script: The fact that this is coming from an American senior in high school (not college, not grad school, high school) should give you a clue as to the present state of the U.S. I’m not an idealist, and I know that all we can’t get along, but a person who basically amounts to a displaced Yankee in the Bible Belt yelling at you through her computer screen should not be the one telling you this. The people with the brains, brawn, experience, and power should. Fin.

The premise: No one writes about aliens anymore. No scary extraterrestrial invasions detailing the earth and wreaking havoc. No, everyone’s too busy with politics, memoirs of mediocre childhoods, murder mysteries, and diseases. Also, have you looked around the book store and seen any classics mentioning aliens besides War of the Worlds? I thought not. So, I, the feeble young writer that I am, have decided to write the next American classic. About aliens. The next American classic about aliens.

The idea sprang forth last night, actually, when I could not sleep. Usually, when unconsciousness evades me and I must force my brain into submission (which translates into mental imagery of pleasant meadows and prancing ponies, which mutates into horrible nightmares featuring Madagascar hissing cockroaches. Go figure.), I lie in bed, twist and turn in hatred towards my mattress, remove blankets, take back blankets, yell, see Guitar Hero buttons floating in my vision (redredredredred orange GREEN), and, finally, with peace upon me, I sleep. Last night was a bit different though; I was actually sitting up, scratching my scalp, and trying to desperately break my writer’s block. As a good friend of mine once stated, “I write well only when sufficiently depressed.” Well, I suppose experiencing the monthly punctuation mark, along with the appropriate amount of sad music, could add up to satisfactory melancholy, but this did not occur. I just stared at my floor and wondered about my future. That is the definitely not the best way (or good way, or any way) to fall asleep.

So, while sitting at the edge of my bed like The Thinker, I began to spin a tale. In this tale, a teenage girl narrated, and described her three male friends. Each of them were different in various ways, but they all followed the direction of Elijah, who was one of the boys, but of course the most “powerful.” The girl had a strange relationship with Elijah in that she tolerated him even though he was always trying to convert her. Mind you, I live in the South, so I’ve experienced the following feelings after an attempted conversion (side effects include irritation, nausea, pity for rattle snakes, the urge to kill someone), but Elijah had no religion. Instead of praising our Lord Jesus, he instead hoped to instill a dutiful fear of something else beyond human comprehension: aliens.

The other two boys were Ralphie and Jeffrey, both under Elijah’s control, but for different reasons. Ralphie is secretly in love with Elijah (see the Russian from Heart of Darkness), while Jeffrey smokes the chronic all the time and, in reality, doesn’t really give a shit. The girl’s name is unspecified, although I’ve settled for Carolyn at the moment. She’s quite observant, intelligent, but a bit arrogant due to her superior thought processes; she also cannot fathom why she still socializes with Elijah, even though she hints at the pervasive loneliness in her life without them. This also known as being emotionally stupid, a trait usually attributed to teenage boys (and some men). Elijah seems to be in tune with everything about himself, internally and externally, and understands that he just might be headed for the loony bin.

,o:p>

That was as far as I got. I suddenly felt sleepiness hit me like a sack of potatoes, and I cuddled with my Vegeta pillow and went to sleep. You may be asking yourself, “How the hell will such a small, underdeveloped plot and such one-sided characters culminate into an American classic?!” Well, it will, by God! (And R.T., who I quote, “You’re gonna make us rich.” And who is this “us,” Barnham?)

At some point, I will make a little side-bar just like FackGerbil and post bits and pieces of the story until it becomes a true, nitty-gritty novel. Wish me luck (or don’t. Your choice.)