Fifty Shades of Green(span)

It's been a weird couple of weeks for me; between music history papers, econ papers, Italian papers, and probably about fifty things that I just completely missed, I haven't had any time to do any fun writing. But that changes now. I'm going to share excerpts from my new book (which- like the past thousand papers I've had to write- I will also probably finish the morning of the scheduled publishing date).


Instead of trying to come up with something completely revolutionary like so many authors try to do, I thought it'd be best if I just took two ideas that I am heavily familiar with and combined them. So here is my economics/romance novel, Fifty Shades of Green(span); I dedicate it to all of the Alan Greenspans and Ms. Neufeldts out there. Try not to get too sweaty while reading these.

1.

"...and as he looked into her eyes, he knew what he needed to say. After so many months overseas, it was the only thing he could say. He took her head in his hands, drawing her in tightly. Their bodies pressed together firmly as his hot breath whispered in her ear: 'Turnover brings in fresh workers with new ideas and lets the company adapt more readily to changing consumer landscapes.'


She drew back, biting her lip. '...Baby' he added.


'But-' she started, but he interrupted her, putting his finger over her lips. He needed to get this out.


'But too much turnover can create chaos and leave the firm without workers that have firm-specific capital, such as networking knowledge or an understanding of specific idiosyncrasies in each job.'



She gasped, trying to hold back tears..."

2.

"...with her, as it was time to meet her parents.


They all sat at the dinner table desperately trying to think of a way to fill the throbbing silence. Her parents spoke first, asking 'Well, what do you do for a living?' It was a lame question, but at least it was noise.


'I'm glad you asked,' he started in reply, "I currently work at KPMG, which is an international network of professional firms offering audit, tax, and advisory services. KPMG operates in 152 countries and has 145,000 employees. The company focuses most of its efforts on providing these auditing and advising services to businesses rather than individuals, as it claims to audit eighteen of the Fortune 100 companies (while providing tax and advisory services of $100,000 or more to sixty-two more) and nearly sixty percent of the Fortune 1000 companies (while providing tax and advisory services of $100,000 or more to 391 more).'


Her mother shifted in her chair as her father cleared his throat. He couldn't tell if his answer had bothered them or gotten them bothered. Either way, there was a lot of tension in the dining room now, whether it was sexual or not..."

3.

"...and as she took it in her hands, it began to resemble less of a demand curve and resemble more of an aggregate supply curve....an aggregate supply curve with a relatively high elasticity."






I'm sorry to leave it now that you're hooked, but that's all I can give you at the moment. Look for it to hit shelves in about a decade or so.

If You're Not Dancing, You're Not Having Fun...Obviously

A narrow mind is not a very complex thing. On a basic level, it does two things; it wants, and it gets- and it doesn't get much more complicated than that. It can be broken down one more level if you ask: Well, what does it get?

When a mind is so narrow that it only does two things (wanting and getting), it only gets two things: it either gets what it wants, or it gets angry. As I said, a narrow mind is not a very complex thing. But, it can be further broken down if you ask: Well, what does it want?

Fortunately, a narrow mind has an equally narrow scope of desires. All a narrow mind wants is for everything and everyone else to be just like it- to have the same views, same ideas, and same goals. A narrow mind is only satisfied once this has been achieved. As I said, a narrow mind is not a very complex thing. However, it can be broken down again if you ask: Well, what happens when it gets angry?

When a narrow mind gets angry, it immediately passes judgement. It crucifies those that oppose it and vilifies those it cannot understand.



If you go against a narrow mind, there is no patience.

There is no understanding.

There is no compromise.


There is only judgement.

There is only anger.

There is only hate.



And that's it. Once you understand this, you understand narrow minds and the people that posses them. There's nothing more to it.



Simply put, a narrow mind is not a very complex thing.

Maybe I Should Learn How to Study..

What do you get when you study music history at 1:00 a.m with the tv on, playing Trojan commercials in the background?




You get this picture, with this caption.

O Magnum Mysterium...

Finding Motivation

I have a paper to finish writing by ten tomorrow morning, but I have run out of the willpower to finish it. Every time I try to continue, I blink and another hour has gone by. This is a list of anything I'd rather do than this paper. I will continue until I come across something I wouldn't rather do. And that is when I will go write some more. I'll start easy so it'll take longer.

• Not write a paper.
• Shop for food.
• Eat food.
• Become food.
• Clean my room. 
• Take out the trash.
• Wash my clothes.
• My homework for other classes.
• Wake up in the morning after I drank milk and forgot to brush my teeth before falling asleep.
• Rub sandpaper all over my body for two minutes straight.
• Stomp on my own foot as hard as I can.
• Pluck out my chest hairs one by one.
• Accidentally kick a chair with my bare pinky toe while walking.
• Do twenty handshakes with people who let their wrists go limp.
• Read literally anything else besides the music history readings I'm supposed to be using for this paper.
• Let a roach crawl up one leg and down the other.
• Eat a hot banana.
• Get my hands sticky and not wash them afterwards.
• Twist my finger until it has turned 180 degrees.
• Twist my foot until it's turned 180 degrees.
• Twist my head until it's turned 180 degrees. Assuming it would just hurt, not break it.
• Eat spicy ice cream.
• Stand on my head for fifteen minutes with no break.
• Roll down a hill with lots of pine cones.
• Be pantsed in front of people.
• Get salt on my palms and rub my nipples for 20 seconds.
• Be tickled for 10 minutes straight.
• Take cold showers for the rest of my life.
• Never take a shower again for the rest of my life.
• Skin both of my knees and my elbows.
• Have to pick something up that I dropped in a used toilet.
• Puke.
• Be the only person in the world who couldn't walk on his hands.
• Get silly-puddy stuck in my armpit hairs.
• Pet a kitten.
• Learn how to be responsible.
• Puke with my mouth closed so it has to come out of my nose.
• Walk barefoot across a hot parking lot.
• Not wear deodorant for a week.
• Get splinters on the bottom of my feet.

I honestly can't think of anything other than the typical dying, breaking something, being poor, etc. things. The only thing I can think of is at least it's not the 10-12 page paper that we have to write later in the year. But that's the worst consolation prize ever. Now I'm even less motivated to write this paper. Great.

Paranoidal Activity Pt. 2: "Lady" "Bugs"

It is currently 2:38 am, September 12th 2012. This means my window has been shut for at least a week and a half, if not longer. The only other way in my room is through the door, which is only open when I am going through it. Other than that, there are no more ways to get in my room; there aren't any cracks in the walls, no holes in the floor, and only a negligible amount of space between the door and its frame. These are facts.

A lady bug cannot go more than a few days without eating food. Ladybugs eat aphids. Aphids live on leaves. There are no leaves in my room. These are more facts.

According to the facts, the most recently a ladybug could have gotten in my room was a week and a half ago. Given the facts, any ladybug that happened to get in my room should have died from starvation by now. It all seems fairly straightforward.

So what business does the fattest ladybug in the past decade have flying into my bed, landing on my pillow, and allowing me to accidentally crush it with my cheek as I lie down?

And why does it always end in catastrophe when a lady gets in bed with me?

None. No business at all. And yet, here I find myself, covered in about a gallon of ladybug insides and picking up dead ladybug chunks off my pillow. If you're wondering, no the guts aren't running down my cheek; they're just a little too sticky to do that.

Something doesn't seen right about this situation. I've never really trusted ladybugs before (not that I'm very susceptible to placing any faith in insects), but they've always come across as the most suspicious insect. Now I have proof that something is up.

The reality doesn't line up with the facts. How could have one survived and-judging by its unbelievable girth- even thrived on literally nothing to eat for so long? This, coupled with the fact that I've never actually seen a ladybug doing what it's supposed to be doing in real life, worries me. Something doesn't add up. Sure, I've seen plenty of pictures with ladybugs prowling around on leaves, looking for aphids to eat. But I'm beginning to think that those are just ladybug propaganda pictures. In real life, I've seen ladybugs on peoples' various body parts (like their arms or hands or head, pervert), in cars, in houses (always next to windows, never on plants), on slides, and now even all over a pillow. I have never seen a ladybug on any kind of vegetation.

What's going on? Why would they work so hard to perpetuate a lie as stupid as "I like leaves a lot"? I Google Image searched specifically for "ladybugs NOT on leaves" and got six pages of nothing but ladybugs on leaves. What are they actually hiding? Why are they always facing me when I see them, and why do they never blink around me? What do they want?

What's worse is that now, even if I see a ladybug on a plant, I won't be able to believe that it didn't read this post and spread the word around for all ladybugs to start acting more "natural." These ladybugs are watching me, waiting for some sign of weakness. Hopefully, I can catch them in the act and show the world the true face of their sweet, beloved ladybugs.

That's more like it.

Jake and Amir: Chamber Pot

Intro

Amir: You're Jake and Amir. No wait. You're watching and Amir- Wou're yatching Jake and- No-
Jake: You gotta learn how to speak, man.

Main

[Begin with a shot of Jake and Amir sitting at their desks. They are sharing a laugh and seem to have been getting along.]

Jake: You know, I don't think I've ever seen you being so normal. Can I ask you something?

Amir: [Laughing dies down] Yeah sure, just hold on a second.

[A shot of Amir from Jake's point of view. You can hear a zip and then the sound of Amir peeing into a pot under his desk as his face expresses relief. There is a lengthy pause as the shot alternates between Jake and Amir.]

Jake: (Trying to believe what is happening.) ....That better not be a chamber pot..

Amir: Uh, not a question. [Laughs] I'm sorry but I'm gonna have to call you out on that one. It's just too good to pass up. [Attempts to give a high five.]

Jake: (in a low voice) Don't you dare touch me.
Amir: Alright then, air-five!

[Amir thrusts his arm forward to give and air-five. You can hear the stream change timbre as it gets on the carpet/floor.]


Jake: Listen to me: You can't be doing this in the office. Stop right now.
Amir: I can't just stop it right now man. There's not exactly any kind of shut off valve.
Jake: Just squeeze it.
Amir: I can't do that either. Do you want it to burst? I'm running at about 200 PSI right now, man, and if I just tried to clamp it shut...[makes an explosion noise]
Jake: I don't care. Just clamp it and then run to the bathroom. It's literally fifteen feet away. We're right next to it.
Amir: Exactly!
Jake: ..What?
Amir: Since we're so close, we're practically in the bathroom, so people shouldn't mind if I just pee right here because it's in the general area of the bathroom.
Jake: That doesn't count. People can smell it out here now, and -ugh- it smells like pure chicken McNuggets. You've gotta fix your diet, man.
Amir: What defines a "bathroom" anyway if not the possession of toilets? [He holds up the pot to emphasize his point, getting more pee on the floor.]
Jake: This is not the time to get philosophical. Get to the bathroom now.
Amir: Hold on. It's almost over.

[A shot of them both waiting. There is a long silence. The pee doesn't stop.]

Jake: How is this still happening?
Amir: Alright, you want to know my secret?
Jake: No, please don't tell me. I still might be able to force myself to forget this ev- [Amir cuts him off.]
Amir: Every night before I go to bed, I just start taking as many shots as I can before I pass out for the night. I mean shots of apple juice, tea, asparagus, coffee, alcohol - [Jake interrupts.]
Jake: So basically everything that makes you have to pee a lot.
Amir: Yeah pretty much anything I can get my hands on. Then I just save it up little by little over the course of about a month or so.
Jake: You don't pee for a month?
Amir: "Or so" I said!..And no, I still pee every day.
Jake: (Looking utterly lost.) What are you saying? Do you even know what "every day" means?
Amir: ..Isn't it when you become int- [Jake cuts him off.]
Jake: So obviously not. How can you hold it that long?
Amir: I didn't say I hold it. I said I save it little by little.
Jake: I'm so confused right now.
Amir: Let me finish then! Okay so every day I wake up and I really have to pee.
Jake: Understandably.
Amir: But I'm also usually like seven hours late for work as well.
Jake: [Nods. Confused]
Amir: Oh, look. It stopped. [The peeing has subsided.] Anyway, I don't have enough time to go to the bathroom, so I just pee in this at my house.
Jake: So why bring the chamber pot here to work?
Amir: I'm not talking about the chamber pot, I'm talking about this! [He holds up a balloon.]

[Jake recoils. He takes another look and recoils again.]

Jake: You pee in a balloon?! You're a freak...Why do you pee in a balloon?!
Amir: So I don't have to walk all the way to the bathroom.
Jake: Then why even have the chamber pot?!
Amir: So I don't have to walk all the way to the bathroom to empty the balloon! I swear, sometimes it's like you don't even think things through!

End Credit

After End Credit

Jake: ..Do I smell shit?

Amir: I don't know jack-squat about this wack tot putting his crack rot in this crock pot.

Jake: Wait..is it a crock pot or a chamber pot?

Amir: ....

Paranoidal Activity

I am part of a small subculture of what we commonly refer to as "humans." I use quotes around that word because "humans" as most know it are just one small step away from being "animals," and I'll explain why in just a second. But first, you need to open your mind. 

Literally.

In your brain, right in the center of the primary auditory cortex, will be a chip. Take that out (carefully) and destroy it (quickly). 

Congratulations. If you could do it, you now qualify to be part of our subculture; we call ourselves the Freed Thinkers. I have been assigned the task of filling you in on what you've been missing your whole life. 

Earlier, I mentioned that humans are just one small step away from being animals. That chip is the reason why. As you may know, animals cannot think for themselves. They can only respond to their environment- sometimes with simple, automatic reflexes and other times with a slightly more complex set of actions. There's a reason you never saw a fox writing a book or a snake carving a sculpture, and it's because they can only react. The organic material that makes up the brain just isn't efficient enough to support independent thought. Animals can't think.

A picture, just in case I haven't gotten my point across.

And, thousands of years ago, humans used to be animals too. The only difference between us and birds, reptiles, and other mammals was general body shape. So how did we become so different?

The answer lies in the chip. Just before our miraculous divergence from the rest of the animal kingdom, we were visited. Some call these visitors aliens, others call them God. We haven't had enough time to determine exactly who visited us, but we now know that they are our current Government. This isn't the government that you're used to. It's a new, other-worldly Government.

For whatever reason, the Government chose us to use the chips on. They would knock us unconscious, open our skulls, and insert the chips. Today, they train doctors to do it shortly after a baby is born, explaining why newborns are held in hospitals for a few extra days. The chips are designed to receive long-distance radio transmissions, which allows the Government to send signals from far enough away so we don't accidentally discover them. The chips all have a specific frequency that only they respond to, as well as a general frequency that the Government can use to send out mass information quickly. You know that voice in your head that tells you what to do and distinguishes right from wrong? That's just one of the things that the Government had been controlling. They could also send music, thoughts, dialog, and commands.

In other words, the chip is what made us human. It wasn't our own "inspiration" that compelled us to create or do something. It was a command sent by the Government to a lucky human.

I know it's hard to believe right now. I had a hard time accepting it too. But think about so many human traits that can be easily explained through the chip.

• Mob mentality: 
• The chip's general frequency allows for mass reception of a signal. This unifies a crowd with the same ideas and thoughts, allowing them to come together as one to achieve a goal.
• The constant chatter in your head:
• The chip's specific frequency allows for individual reception of a signal. This is commonly thought of as "the voice in your head" or your "conscience." 
• How music gets stuck in your head:
• This goes along with the above point. It's just filling space until the Government needs to send another thought.
• The ability to create and take control of your surroundings:
• Before now, without our chip we could only react because we were animals. The Government sends the command, or "inspiration," to us through our chip.

Those are just a few examples of the chip's importance in human life. But things are different now; humans are evolving. 

Our subculture started with a man originally named "Eric Blair." You probably know him better as George Orwell, the author of the novel 1984. He is the first recorded human to have original thoughts, and 1984 is considered the first truly human creation on Earth. Born in 1903, it took him roughly 40 years to fully realize what was happening in his head. The Freed Thinkers don't just see 1984 as a work of art; we see it as a warning, a guide, and a cry for help.

Symbols in the novel, like Big Brother and telescreens, are fairly obvious- Big Brother represents the Government, and telescreens are the book's version of our chips. But the real value in 1984 comes from Orwell's analysis of doublethink, which is basically the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in your mind and accepting both of them.

In the late 1940s, Orwell began thinking about what was going on inside his head. He had the constant stimulus of the chip in his primary auditory cortex, but there was another source of ideas- thoughts- coming from inside him. It was like he had two people inside his head, each with contradicting personalities. He looked deeper into this and discovered that no one else around him shared this experience. As his human brain developed throughout the 40s, he became aware of what was (and still is) happening. He realized that he was gaining a new mind, providing him with contrary beliefs, thoughts, and ideas from his older mind (the chip). But he only had enough physical room in his head for one mind, so one of them must be coming from outside of his body. And if one of his minds was coming from outside him, it was also coming from outside his control. He had just enough time to sort his ideas and write 1984 before his two minds crowded each other and drove him mad, killing him in early 1950.

The number of people who experience doublethink grows with each generation, and by now you must have realized that you were experiencing it too. Luckily, we now know to remove the chip before our minds drive us insane. But recognizing that we experience doublethink is only the beginning. As the definition states, doublethink is the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in your mind and accepting both of them. You must accept that you have two minds, one of which is removable. Ironically, we remove it for safety, but in doing so, we put ourselves at risk of being discovered by the Government.

Now that we have removed our chip, we must continue acting like the other "humans." We must interact with others "normally:" we must get a job and a house, and we must raise a family. We must go to school. And we must show appropriate feelings of happiness and fulfillment while doing so. We must continue doing what the "human" society expects of us in order to remain hidden. Going against that would result in detection and correction by the Government officials themselves (often mistaken as alien abductions).

Slowly, our numbers will grow. With each passing generation, we will get stronger, and eventually the Freed Thinkers will be powerful enough to save our human race. Without us, they are doomed to living a life as a puppet of our Government. With us, there is enduring hope for a day where all humans can think their own thoughts and posses their own creations. We are the next step, we are progress. Together, we can remove the stunt that the Government has placed on our species and continue along to the next point in our natural evolution: Freed Thinking.


Will you join us?

Jake and Amir Script

Intro

Jake: Hi, you're watching Jake and a meerkat... There I said it. Happy?

Amir: [meows]

End Intro

Main Part

[Jake and Amir are sitting at their desks. Amir has a beanie, coat, gloves, and other cold-weather-clothes while Jake is just wearing a tank top and shorts. Amir suddenly looks up from his computer.]

Amir: Jake

[Jake tries to ignore]

Amir: Jake... Jake...

[Jake continues ignoring]

Amir: Jakejakejakejakejake

[Still ignoring. Amir throws a paper ball at Jake. It hits him, but he doesn't react]

Amir: Jake..I need you to look at me

[Ignores]

Amir: Jake, I need you to look

[Ignores]

Amir: Jake I need you

[Winces slightly, but keeps ignoring]

Amir: Jake..

[Amir blows on Jake's face. Nothing happens (except you can see Jake's hair moving with Amir's breath)]

[Amir takes out a snack (packet of M&Ms or something like that) and throws one at Jake. He catches it in his mouth without looking. Still ignores Amir.]

[Out of things on his desk to throw at Jake, Amir takes his beanie off and throws it at him. It lands perfectly on Jake's head and he doesn't even flinch.]

[Next, Amir takes off his glasses and throws them at Jake. They land perfectly on his face, and Jake still pretends not to notice.]

[Jake yawns and stretches at his desk. As he is doing so, Amir takes off his coat (or hoodie) and throws it at Jake. The coat/hoodie lands over Jake's raised arms and he puts it on without looking at Amir. We now see that Amir had nothing on underneath the coat/hoodie.]

Amir: Jake..uh, Jake [Amir does weird things in an attempt to get Jake to look at him. It doesn't work]

[Amir takes his sweatpants off and tosses them at Jake, who is getting up from his desk. The pants land on his chair. When Jake gets back with a drink, he puts them on over his shorts before sitting down, still ignoring Amir.]

[A shot of Amir shows that he is completely naked, except for his gloves and socks and shoes.]

Amir: Uh, Jake..I'm gonna need those back. So if you could, just throw 'em back over here.

[Still ignored.]

Amir: Just throw 'em back ova here

[Ignored]

Amir: Just throw 'em..throw'em

[Nothing]

Amir: Jake, c'mon....JAKE

[Cut to 4 hours later, the end of work.]

[Jake finally looks at Amir.]

Jake: Hey man, I'm gonna head out.

Amir: Wait, what about-

[Jake (still wearing Amir's clothes) interrupts, extending his fist for a fistbump]

Jake: Alright, dude. See ya.

[Amir returns the fistbump.]

Amir: Peace brotha...wait though.

[Jake has already turned around]

Jake: I'm out. 

Amir: [laughs] Alright, peace. Later. (continues saying bye as Jake leaves)

[End with a shot of Amir in his chair, still naked except for his gloves and socks and shoes.]

Skeptic, Or Scared?

It's four in the morning and my brain is begging me for sleep. I go to get ready for bed; I brush my teeth, wash my face, and take my contacts out. The next step is easy: walk out of the bathroom. But I can't do it. I've already taken a look in the mirror.

It's at times like this- with your brain already ticked at you for making it stay up so late, your thoughts barely coherent, eyes unable to focus- that some people would say that you're vulnerable to your own thoughts, but it's more than that. You're vulnerable to your own truths. In this state of mind, at this time of night, you're able to see past the image that you've created for yourself and into what you really are. I lean on the sink, getting closer to the mirror. I see my reflection, but I don't recognize myself. I have separated from my body and am now an outside observer.

There is no longer a mirror, just a boy leaning up against the sink. I look at him as he stares at me, emotionless. I can see inside of him, into all of his thoughts and memories. I can feel what he's felt and remember what he's done. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that this boy was me. But I know he's not, because I am outside of him, able to see from more than just his perspective. This boy needs me. He needs me to tell him what I see, so I do:

You want to know why you're skeptical. You never believe anything all the way. I look at you and I can see only one, maybe two, things you completely believe. How does that feel? It feels empty, doesn't it? Your skepticism is going to be your downfall. Look at how it affects all aspects of your life.


For starters, your relationships. And not just romantic relationships, but with anyone. It shows a lack of trust. You can't believe them 100% and figure that it's probably the same for them. "But that's okay," you think. You manage to justify it to yourself.

It won't just affect relationships, either. Being skeptical also affects your religion. It's not that you're just skeptical about the Bible and things that are taught in the church, but also that you can't fully believe that none of it happened. You can't even fully believe in other, more scientific possibilities. "But that's okay," you think, and you justify that to yourself as well.


You can't even decide on a career for yourself. You're filled with doubt. Doubt in your own abilities, doubt in your own choices, and doubt in your own passion. The only reason you're doing what you're doing now is because it's working towards the only job you can picture yourself having. "But that's okay. Isn't that a perfectly good reason to do what I'm doing?" you think, and you justify that to yourself. 


With everything you do and everything you have, you have that little seed of skepticism in the back of your mind. And every time, you justify it to yourself. It's never going to go away like that. You know it needs to go away, though. You wonder to yourself why you're so skeptical about everything.

It's because being skeptical is safe. It's your automatic response with everything you encounter. You never go for anything with everything you have, because if you fail then you know for a fact that you weren't good enough. And that's your biggest fear, that you won't be enough. Well, you'll never be enough unless you can completely commit to something. 


Look at all the people you admire. All of them have one thing in common: their passion for what they do has led them to be able to commit their entire lives to what they do. They have no doubt that the are doing what they love, and they're able to pursue it without any skepticism. 

You only want to do that. That is the reason you admire them instead of existing with them as a peer. Until you actually do that, they will all be better than you- and you will only be able to continue admiring them.


You don't dare pursue anything like they have, because you're too scared that you won't be good enough at what you do. So you remain skeptical of everything for safety. It's so you can at least say, "Well, I knew in the back of my mind that it wouldn't happen," to yourself. "Maybe if I had tried harder," you'll think in retrospect. You know, though, that as long as you remain skeptical you'll never be able to say, "I couldn't have tried any harder," and that is why you won't succeed if you stay like this.


But you still think that it's safer to stay skeptical. If you never fully believe in something, you can't ever fully have something. And if you never fully have something, then it can never be fully taken away. That's your reasoning because having something you completely believe in taken away hurts more than almost anything. You know this; it's happened to you before, and you don't want it to happen again. But you need to realize that you're sacrificing something much greater than the pain from loss: the joy from having and believing. You will always be living in some boring average of pain and joy, and that is why you won't be completely happy if you stay like this.


You don't want to risk being not good enough, so you play it safe by being skeptical. But in doing this, you are forcing yourself to become average- the one thing you don't want to be. If you stay like this, the only outcome is that you become your only fear.



The boy looks away from me; it is time to go to sleep. I don't feel anything. I watch him as he turns and walks out of the bathroom. I turn off the light and he shuts the door behind me. He looks uneasy. He continues down the hall as I yawn. He turns the corner and rubs my eyes tiredly. He is upset. I walk into his room and lay down on my bed. He pulls the blanket over me and rests my head on his pillow. I close his eyes as he lays on my side. I feel his pain. In one last conscious moment, I turn over and open our eyes, realizing that I am that boy.

A Quick Story

> Be 19
> Hungry after working out
> Get to dining hall and grab tray
> Get grapes and applesauce in a bowl and a glass of a smoothie
> It's called "Strawberry Landslide"
> Don't notice the foreshadowing
> Go to dinner line
> Set tray on ledge and wait for line to move
> Hungry, eat a grape
> Tastes good
> Go for another grape
> Grape falls out of mouth
> Attempt to catch it
> Punch tray off ledge accidentally
> Everything goes flying
> "Strawberry Landslide" hits my shorts
> Like a landslide down my entire leg
> Smoothie glass hits ground, glass shatters
> Managed to catch the grape though
> Clean up while everyone looks
> Bend down to wipe my leg
> Spaghetti falls out of my pocket
> Everything's cleaned up, go get another smoothie
> Almost drop this one as the server hands it to me
> Mumble apology
> She says "Wat?"
> "Sorry, I think my feet smell like strawberries now."
> Walk away

I've already written the sequel:

> Never go to ECV again

Luxurious Feet

How luxurious is the life that you are living right now?

There is a pretty simple way to determine just how well off you are in life, and I'll lead you there. But first I'm going to be annoying and answer the question above before you get a chance to answer it yourself. I'll make it even more annoying and point out that the above question was actually rhetorical, so there's not really any need for me to be answering it. And to top it all off, I'll do the most annoying thing and answer that question with a question.

"Yo dawg, I heard you like questions so I questioned your question with a question."

Instead of asking how luxurious you think your life is, what you should really be asking yourself is this: How comfortable are my feet right now?

Foot comfort is the most underrated indicator of how well off someone is. Now, I don't know your feet personally (although they seem very nice..maybe you can introduce us next time we see each other? ..nofootfetish), but I can confidently guess that they are at least pretty comfortable right now. 

There is a huge market for making peoples' feet more comfortable. Think about the warm, fuzzy socks, the shoes with gel in the soles, or even the foot vibrators at places like the mall. What about the hot showers that warm your feet up, or slippers to keep them cozy while walking around the house? I've seen people have tubs of water to dip their feet in when they get too hot outside.

There is also the negative connotation with the phrase, "He's got cold/itchy feet." This implies that the person is not satisfied with their life and decides to make a change. Either that or they actually have athlete's foot, but neither interpretation seems to indicate a particularly luxurious lifestyle.

It's different than treating other parts of your body nicely. In most cases, you're required by society to give your torso a shirt (maybe you'll even throw a jacket or hoodie on top of that shirt) and your legs some pants/shorts. You can slip your shoes off while sitting in church, but if you decide to slip off your pants it's suddenly some kind of offense. Maybe blasphemy. Some people choose to spoil their ears, bellybuttons, and fingers with jewelry. Hands are washed several times during the day, and sometimes the hair on your head is brushed just as often. Even armpits are treated like kings compared to feet; at least they get deodorant to keep them from smelling bad.

So what do feet get? They get sweaty from the suffocating socks and sneakers we shove them in. And then we stand on them all day.

The internet's saddest foot.

Feet are supposed to be tough, though. They have to support your entire body weight while you stand and take an even worse pounding if you start running. Over the course of a day, your feet have to tolerate nearly 1,000 tons of force. Tell that to your lousy back when it starts getting sore after you sit down for too long. 

This is what makes feet such a good indicator of how well off someone is. Society demands that the other parts of your body be taken care of first, so that is where most of the attention goes. Imagine how successful a person would have to be in life to pamper their feet. How much money, free time, and resources it would take to treat feet like they deserve. How much money would have to be available for you to go get daily pedicures? Think about how wealthy would you have to be before you could buy servants and force them to give you foot massages (This is the only way to get someone to give you a foot massage). It would take a lot of time away from work to wash your feet several times a day; it's not the most convenient thing in the world to do. Could you afford to do that? It would cost so much just to have comfortable feet. Now when you look at someone and see that his feet are wrapped with silk and he has people employed to fan, massage, and offer complements to them you will know that that man is living the dream.

I don't know how to end this post about feet, so here are feet at the end of a post.

True Story: Pt. 4

He awoke again. He was still in the uncomfortable leather couch, and the sun was no longer shining through the window. It was fairly dark outside.

"Uhh..how long have I been here?" he asked, looking at the therapist. He was a shady man- tall and lanky, like someone had taken a regular-sized man and stretched him out just a little too much. His eyes were set too far back in his head, causing them to be perpetually cast in shadows. They also never seemed to be at ease, and his often-furrowed eyebrows did nothing to make him seemed more relaxed. He was a man who sat still for too long, as if he was constantly planning. But when he did move, he was a man who moved too quickly, like he didn't want to be caught. It was uncomfortable to be around him, and if any description could completely sum him up, it was that his fingernails were long and dirty.

He pressed his hands together and paused, clicking his nails together for effect. The pause had lasted about three seconds too long before he took in a slow breath to answer. "About three hours," he said. He felt his bangs brush on his forehead and quickly slicked them back over his head. It was an action that he repeated many times during the day, and it was also an action that gave his thin, black hair a greasy shine.

"Where's my mom?" the lifeguard asked, assuming that that was how he got to the therapist's office.

"She's outside," the therapist answered, and after a little pause he added, "Waiting."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

No response came from the lifeguard, giving that thread of conversation a fairly bad ending. If he was going to have any kind of success, the therapist was going to have to try harder.

"Here. Why don't you sit up?" he offered. "Sometimes that couch can get a little..." there was a pause.. "Uncomfortable." The therapist liked the idea of his speech carrying some weight, but he never realized that he often landed too hard on his adjectives, making them seem unnecessarily sinister.

The lifeguard liked that idea, and he tried to sit up. This is when he encountered the most baffling event known to mankind: The Process of Getting Skin Off of Leather Furniture.

For several thousand years, humans have sat down on leather furniture only to remember in fear that they would have to get up at some point in the future. They knew that they would have to experience the pain of ripping their skin from the leather, and regret would sink in immediately. As a result, we as a species have been looking for an explanation of why this happens for only a day less than leather furniture has existed.

The most recent study, which was conducted during the most dangerous time to sit on leather (last summer), has been considered one of the most successful and in-depth studies on this subject. A few furniture companies gathered funds for three researchers: a chemist, a physicist, and a philosopher. Together, they spent six weeks in isolation, sitting on leather couches, making observations, getting off the couches, and making more observations. When the company presidents arrived at the end of the summer, they found the couches ripped to shreds and the physicist huddled in the corner, muttering softly. The chemist and philosopher had had a falling-out over conflicting ideas, and odd substances were covering the walls. Concerned but determined, the presidents escorted the researchers to a highly publicized meeting to announce the results.

"So," the presidents asked, "Why does skin stick so firmly to leather?" The attending crowd held its breath. The chemist answered first.

"Well, its obvious that some chemical reaction occurs to bond the skin to the leather," he stated, glaring at the philosopher. The crowd cheered, finally in possession of an answer. The philosopher spoke up.

"Actually, I think it's pretty obvious that the skin and leather fall in love and never want to separate from each other." The women in the crowd gave a collective "Aww.." Everyone looked at the physicist, expectantly. Up until this point, he had been shaking and whimpering to himself. He froze as the crowd turned to him. After a few moments, the presidents asked him again, "Why does skin stick to leather?"

His eyes grew wide, as if remembering a repressed memory. He began vibrating vigorously and his breaths came in very shallow bursts. They pressed him again for an answer, eager to hear his response. He put his hands over his ears, shaking his head from side to side. "Quarks!" he quacked, and collapsed back into his seat. The crowd gave a collective "Hmm.."

The meeting pressed on and the presidents opened up the floor for questions from the audience. A woman stepped forward and asked, "It doesn't make sense though. Our skin gets slightly wet from being on leather too long. Why do we still stick to leather even if there's a liquid- I'm pretty sure it's sweat- on our bodies?" The crowd cheered, having wondered the same thing.

The philosopher jumped to answer first. He fired a nasty glance at the chemist before answering, "It's clearly a by-product of the skin/leather romance, not sweat. And that just helps it become stickier while the skin and leather cling to each other, not wanting to lose their love." The women in the audience began fanning themselves.

"No, no, no!" The chemist stamped his feet. "That's not it at all! It's just a liquid that's formed during the chemical reaction that bonds the skin to the leather!" Out of politeness, the crowd offered the physicist a chance to answer. He pulled at the skin underneath his eyes, screaming. As more and more eyes fell on him, he popped out of his chair and began running around the meeting room. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the crowd. They gave a collective "Well...?" and he lost it. He ran up to the audience, pulled out his hair, and threw it into the crowd. He laughed a maniac's laugh and sprinted out of the room. A riot ensued.

Of course, none of this mattered to the lifeguard at this moment. The only thing he could concentrate on was trying to slowly lift himself and keep his skin on his body at the same time. By some miracle, he managed to succeed and turned to face the therapist.

"So, tell me," the man began, "What is your name?"

"I don't want to say."

"Why not?"

"Because I just don't like telling people my name, that's why."

"But," began the therapist, "What if someone had to write a story about you? Don't you think that it would get rather difficult for the author to distinguish you from other males in the story?"

"I don't care!"

He sighed. Then he stood up. He did cartwheels around the office and proclaimed his love for the Backstreet Boys, happy that no one could ever really know which one of them was actually doing this. Then, after getting dizzy, he decided he needed a breath of fresh air and went outside. While out there, he mugged an old woman, killed a man, and shot a gun into the air. Having had his fun, he decided to go back into the office to let the therapy session continue. (A few weeks later, both the lifeguard and the therapist would be tried in court, facing an eye witness testimony. The trial broke down, however, as the witness cried, "I honestly can't tell which of them did it! I was hoping that all the other suspects would be women so I could just say 'He did it!' I'm so sorry!" They were both set free.)

"Well, let's continue then," the therapist said. "Can you tell me why you don't like telling others your name?"

"It's an ugly name and I hate it."

"Can you just write it down for me, please?" he begged.

"Fine, hand me that paper." The lifeguard took a pencil, grabbed the paper, and begrudgingly began to scribble his name. It was very messy, as he avoided writing his name for anyone. He handed it to the therapist, looking down at the floor in defeat.

Anxiously, he took the paper and read what was written. It was tough to understand, but he managed to read out, "Cleatus..." His brows furrowed farther than normal. "....Haggits...Cleatus Haggis...Haggins? Cleatus Haggins?" The therapist could barely hold back his airy chuckles.

"YES! YOU CAN STOP NOW!"

"I'm sorry, but that's just.." a pause for unnecessary and sinister emphasis, "..ridiculous."

"I know."

"What was your mother thinking?"

"I don't know."

"You know you can change it... right?"

"I know."

"Or are you not old enough yet? I can't remember.."

"I don't know."

For a guy who was paid to ask questions, the therapist was asking the least helpful ones possible. He noticed this and took a break to try to get the session back on track. He paused long enough to click his nails together and brush back his bangs again.

"Okay, can you tell me anything about what happened today?"

Haggins told him everything he knew, which wasn't much. But it was more than the therapist knew. He talked about the girls from the pool, he summarized what he knew about the man that had driven in front of him, and- holding back the tears of lost love- admitted what had happened in the classroom earlier that day.

The therapist was shocked, but managed to keep an open mind. He calmly reflected on what he had just heard, trying to use it and dive inside the boy's mind. An idea abruptly forced its way into his head. "You said you hate English? And that you never paid attention during any English class ever?" he asked Haggins.

"Yeah."

"I'm going to have you take a little test," he began, "and then we can see if my theory is....correct." The hesitation was intended for dramatic effect, but just made the whole situation feel more dangerous to Haggins than it should have been.

He gulped. "Oh..o..o-okay."

The test mainly consisted of questions about English terms along with basic intelligence questions. Of course, Cleatus Haggins missed every single question, which is what the therapist was hoping for. Now he could tie it all together. He just needed to be completely sure before revealing what he had discovered.

"You swear that you answered each question as best as you could?" he asked. Haggins told him that he tried his best on each question, and that he was expecting to get a passing grade. "Well, I've got some shocking news for you," the therapist stated. "You're as dumb as a sack of rocks."

"That test was stupid anyway! Why did you even ask me any of those questions? They didn't help me at all, and that is what therapy is for!" Haggins shouted, slightly offended.

"They did help, Cleatus," the therapist insisted.

"DON'T SAY MY NAME!"

"I'm sorry. But they helped. I know what's happening with you."

This caught his attention. He cocked his head in interest at the therapist. "Well...?"

"Your problem is this: You are so incredibly dumb that you don't know the difference between a simile and a metaphor!" the therapist exclaimed.

"What does that have to do with anything?!" Cleatus lowered his head into his hands. He was hoping for a more concrete problem to be fixed. Something that would require shots or pills, not this.

"Don't you see? You're so dumb that whenever you create a simile, it becomes a metaphor because, to you, the two are interchangeable! This is astounding!" The therapist was on the verge of jumping around his office in excitement.

"No, I don't see."

"Oh, that's right. Well, basically, you can alter reality. It's..." The therapist knew which word came next, he was just waiting for the right time to say it, which at this point had been about four seconds ago. "..Incredible."

"Not credible?"

The therapist buried his face in his hands and sighed. "You're worse off than I thought."

"But other peoples' metaphors don't come to life, right?" Haggins noted.

"You're also so stupid that you don't know what 'literal' means," the therapist explained.

"Ah. How can I fix this?"

The therapist started to answer, but something held him back. He furrowed his brows again. An idea drifted across his mind. Plans began to form. He tapped his dirty nails on the desk as he thought to himself. He had almost just defined the terms for Cleatus Haggins, but then he thought better of it. He could use this.

"I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do at the moment to solve this." The therapist feigned regret. Then he faked a spark of hopefulness on his face. "But, maybe if you continue your sessions I can find a solution. And don't worry, I won't be charging for them. We also won't spend every session in the office; we'll need to get outside some."

Haggins paused, unsure of whether he trusted this man or not. "Why?" he asked.

"To do research, of course!" the therapist lied.

Cleatus Haggins was still skeptical. He thought it over many times. On one hand, this man was incredibly off-putting, but on the other hand, he just wanted to be normal again. He reluctantly agreed to the extra therapy sessions. The therapist let a smirk creep across his face.

"Don't worry," he assured, clicking his long, dirty fingernails together. "This will be..."

A pause.

 "...Fun."

True Story: Pt. 3

He awoke with a thump. This confused him because normally his kitchen table didn't go "thump," and neither did his bed. These were the two places he expected to be after fainting, but it wasn't where he seemed to be at the moment. He opened his eyes to look around, which didn't help much. He was still dazed and his vision was blurry. He tried to get up, only to discover that he was strapped down tightly. His heart dropped down to his feet. He had been slightly worried before this point, but now he found himself panicking. His breaths were short and shallow as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. Thankfully, he discovered that whoever had tied him up left him the use of his arms. He wiped the sweat off his brow.

"Oh, you're awake," said a wispy voice. It sounded very distant and echoed thinly as his head spun with the effort to focus on it. "Listen, I know you probably won't be happy about this, but it's just something we had to do." The more he listened to the voice, the more it became vaguely familiar.

"Mom?" he asked.

"Yes dear?" she asked in reply.

He tried to take another look around. Doing so, he found himself tightly strapped with a seat belt in his mother's car.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"To school, dear. Your father and I talked and we agreed that it was best for you to still go even though you fainted. I know it might seem unfair, but we just don't want you to struggle if you get behind in school work. I hope you understand."

He sighed, partly out of exasperation and partly out of relief that he wasn't being kidnapped.

As they arrived at the school, his mother was doing what all mothers do best: worrying.

"Are you okay? I just feel so bad about making you do this. The more I think about it, the more I think that we should have just let you stay home."

"Mom, I'm fine," he lied.

"It's just that I don't want you walking around feeling sick all day. Did you have enough to eat this weekend? I worried about that while you were lugging around all day Saturday. You barely seemed to eat anything. Maybe that's what's wrong. Did you eat enough for breakfast?"

"Yes," he lied again. He had only managed about three bites of cereal before seeing the newspaper. The thought of it still made him woozy.

"Well if you start feeling faint again, go lie down. I don't want you to hit your head. But promise to call me if you don't feel good, okay?"

"Okay," he lied yet again.

He got out of the car, promising various things to his mother that he likely would not remember within a couple minutes. As she drove off she shouted, "Goodbye honey, I love you!" out of the window for the whole school to hear.

To his relief, the day had passed by normally so far, and it was now lunch. He made it to his classes, listened to the teacher for about ten minutes, and promptly fell asleep. At the beginning of the school year he had felt guilty for sleeping, but he eventually justified it to himself. "I didn't understand the earlier stuff, so why waste my time trying to understand the stuff now and waste the teacher's time with questions?" he would wonder. "Besides, it's worked out so far. I'm a senior, so why change a winning formula?"

He was exactly right, but for the wrong reasons. He failed every single test he had ever taken in high school. He never did his homework, and didn't even know quizzes existed because he slept right through them. His average grade would have only been a ten, due to attendance. Each teacher, though, gave him his own special curve. This was in order to get him our of their class. Now, they knew that this was wrong morally, but this issue wasn't about ethics anymore. It was simply a matter of economics.

"Listen," the superintendent began at a meeting after the boy's freshman year, "I know that everything you've ever been taught is telling you that we have to help this boy. But we simply cannot. He sleeps in every class period, during lunch, and even in detention. And when he sleeps, he drools. A lot. The boy's like a broken faucet. This year alone, he's destroyed two-thousand dollars in textbooks. Remember how we made the mistake of letting him use the computer lab during the first couple weeks? He drooled all over the keyboards of three computers and- only God knows how- directly into the CPU tower of another one of them. All four computers were destroyed. This summer we'll have to get the carpet replaced in every single room he's had for a class because there's mold settling in. Actually, the biology teacher said that it's flourishing. We've wasted too much money calling plumbers on false toilet-flooding alarms because he fell asleep in the bathroom. And I won't even mention the lawsuits we could end up facing if another student slips on one of his drool-puddles in the gym. Do whatever you need to do to get him out of this high school in four years. Our budget can't keep up with the damage he causes."

There were only two classes left. He trudged his way into his English teacher's room and took his seat at the desk with the towels underneath. Ever since he could remember, he had hated English classes. Things like plot, symbolism, and characters bored him to tears, the papers made him frustrated, and the reading put him to sleep. He couldn't remember ever paying attention for more than thirty seconds in any English class he'd ever had. He was actually a little proud of how quickly he could fall asleep in English classes, and tried to beat his time every day. At this point, he was down to about a minute and a half.

He was very determined to beat his record today. As he had entered the room, he was pumping himself up to sleep, which consists of doing things that are the exact opposite of what normally pumps people up. And now, after doing this, he was very enthusiastic about his upcoming sleep. He almost couldn't handle the hype. He could hear the cheers of thousands of imaginary fans egging him on. His classroom had dissolved away and had now become a giant stadium with his desk in the middle. He could hear the PA system announcing his name, but it was barely audible over the screams of all his fans. A spotlight shined down on his desk, and he could picture a squad of cheerleaders by it beaming at him. They shook their pom-poms; they wanted this. He wanted this. The fans wanted this. He envisioned himself raising his arms and looking up, basking in the warm glory. He could do this. He knew he could. He grabbed a microphone, addressing the crowd.

"I'd just like to take a second and thank all my fans out here tonight," he began. "You know, people ask me what it takes to be great at what I do, and at first it was hard to answer them. I could never decide between my dedication, my God-given talent for falling asleep, or anything else like that. But then I realized what it was. All this time, I've never needed any of that; all I've needed was amazing fans like you. You guys are the ones that make this possible, and so today, this record is for you!" He imagined the crowd's cheers to be unbearably loud at this point, with some of the weaker-hearted females even swooning. Roses showered over him as confetti rained down from above. He took a pause, lowering himself to one knee and closing his eyes in concentration. He rose and walked over to his desk. "This is it," he thought as he sat down. He was going to break his record of "Fastest Time to Fall Asleep in Class" in the "Standard Four Legged High School Desks with the Seat Attached and the Book-Cradle Underneath" division (This would be an even bigger accomplishment than getting the record in the "Beanbag Chair in Elementary School Library" division).

Eager to begin sleeping as soon as possible, he put his head down as swiftly as he could.

A loud "thud" rang through the room, followed shortly by an "O...oo-oow." The stadium suddenly disappeared, and the school's classroom rushed back in its place. The entire class turned to look as he cradled his head in his hands. A welt was already starting to form. He quietly moaned for about two minutes- the first minute due to the physical pain, and the second due to the emotional pain he suffered from being ripped away from his adoring fans by reality. Even more unfortunately, he found that it was impossible to fall asleep, as his forehead was bruised and his skull was throbbing. For the first time ever, he was forced to stay awake during an English class.

"Oh my God, this is boring" he thought to himself about halfway through the class. The teacher was droning on about some author. Apparently the guy had written some books and stuff. "Big deal," he thought, "It's not like he's the only one that's ever written a book. There are millions of those." He rolled his eyes and looked around. His eyes drifted forward and slightly to the right, and he was immediately pleased by what they landed on.

She was, in two words, incredibly pretty. If given a few more words, he would have described her as the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life- past, present, and future included. She was slender, but not skinny; feminine, but not girly; her skin was light, but not pale. She had achieved a mesmerizing medium of every desirable trait. Everything about her was perfect, and yet he still sensed modesty- as if she hadn't realized her own beauty. He had realized it, though. It was an innocent beauty, miraculously unspoiled by her time on Earth, and as he gazed at her, it seemed like the world stopped and gazed at her too. He also realized that he had just fallen in love- and he hadn't even seen her face yet.

It was beginning to get warmer in the room. He couldn't tell if it was just him, or if it was actually the room.

As if on cue, she turned around. His heart boiled. He thought he was going to melt as she made eye contact with him. Her eyes seemed to twinkle even in the fluorescent school lighting. A moment later, he felt dripping on his arm. "I...m-..melt," he thought. It was all he could manage at the moment. He sneaked a glance down to double check and realized that he was just drooling. He couldn't stop, but he also couldn't care. He looked back up at her with his mouth gaping open.

"Can someone turn the air conditioning on?" a student asked. "It's really getting hot in here."

He had to win her over, or die trying. He was a man in love. "Mom always says that love makes a man do crazy things," he remembered, "so I have to do something crazy for her. But what should I do?" He was still looking at her, and while she was no longer looking directly at him, he could still see her face. He watched her rub her eyes with the most graceful gesture, and after she was done he was left staring at them.

"I've got to tell her how beautiful she is," he thought, "but how?" The teacher's voice drifted into his conscience. She was still going on about that author, but now she was covering his collection of poems. He knew what he had to do: he was going to write her a poem.

She rubbed her eyes again, less delicately this time. They were watering over and reddening from irritation. The air conditioning problem still hadn't been fixed, and the heat was soaring. Students wiped sweat off of their foreheads and struggled to concentrate on the lesson. If it got any hotter, they might have to leave the room.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil, preparing to write the purest love poem in the world. He kept drooling on the paper, though, and soon gave up on the idea of writing it down. He would just have to memorize it and recite it to her. He wondered what his opening line should be. He wanted the poem to be about her and her beauty. His favorite part of her seemed to be her eyes. He was fixated on them, unable to break his gaze. He could slowly begin to feel something familiar. The first line of the poem was coming to him.

She seemed clearly bothered by her eyes now. They were glazed over and becoming bloodshot. "Ow!" she cried. Even while irritated, she had the voice of an angel. "My eyes are burning!" A classmate across the room replied, shouting, "This whole classroom is burning! Can someone open a window?"

As his classmates began panting and shifting around uneasily, he stayed focused on his poem. He stirred his brain for ideas and could feel the first line of his poem arising from the murky depths of his mind. He knew that the first line had to be about her eyes; it was the foundation for a perfect poem.

By now, the classroom was becoming unreasonably hot, and her eyes were bloodshot- although they still twinkled. A group of students had gotten up and were working on opening a window which had rusted shut.

He could feel the line bubbling up. His brain was beginning to boil. It was only a matter of time before he had the poem memorized and the love of his life by his side. He felt an abrupt click in his mind, as if the words he was searching for had forced themselves in. It was decided; his poem would begin with: "Your eyes are like-" His thoughts were interrupted by a scream.

Her eyes were no longer watering, and he was no longer drooling. Her eyes were burning too intensely and evaporating all of the tears her eyes produced. His drool was being evaporated by the room's exponentially rising temperature.

He couldn't hold it in any longer. His brain was seizing with the effort of creating this poem. He jumped up from his desk and bellowed, "Your eyes are like stars!" And with that exclamation, her eyes began the process of nuclear fusion. The room began to incinerate, and the force of the newly born stars- although just the size of human eyeballs- blew him back through the rusty window. He blacked out for a second while laying on the grass outside.

When he regained consciousness, he was could hear the screams of the doomed students stuck inside the room. It was a horrifying experience, and he fainted again.

When he awoke this time, the fire department had arrived and had begun hosing down the classroom. The smell was sickening, and it made him faint.

He came-to a third time. Now, police investigators were surrounding him, asking for details of the incident. He tried to remember, but found that his brain was completely inert. His body decided to follow suit and became inert as well, causing another fainting episode

This time, when he woke up, he was in a therapist's office, laying on an uncomfortable leather couch. He summoned enough energy to claim, "I'm not going crazy" before drifting off again.

True Story: Pt. 2

An hour later, his shift finally ended. Luckily, it had been a very boring hour- the most excitement came when a little boy slipped out of his tube-float and thrashed around. It lasted long enough to catch his attention, and just before he decided he had to jump in to assist, the boy had sunk down to the bottom of the pool- a very dangerous place to be if you didn't plan to be there. The little boy took in a breath to scream for help, did so, and then realized what he had just done and why he was able to do it: it was true that he had sunk to the bottom of the pool, but his head was still above the water. Embarrassed, the boy sulked over to the other corner of the shallow end and tried to disappear, the ear-splitting screech still echoing through his head.

He put up his equipment and went to the office to sign out and leave. He breathed a sigh of relief as he chose the option "Sign out: Day" on the computer. What didn't offer him any relief, though, was the drive home he would have to endure. After five straight hours of working, it had gotten dark outside. It would be an hour of back-road driving, and he never looked forward to it even after good days at work.

"Goodnight!" called out one of the janitors as she walked by. "Nnngh," he grunted in reply. It wasn't that he was a mean person, it was just that his brain was still reeling from earlier and he couldn't quite think well enough to carry on such an extended conversation.

The drive home was able to help clear his head, if only minimally. About twenty minutes and fifteen stop signs into his trip, he was able to think about what had happened earlier- about four hours into his shift. He recalled that they had definitely been girls at one point. That part was undeniable; why else would parents have complained about a pair of young girls' suits found in the pool? They had also definitely been cats at one point. That was the only way to explain his missing whistle, the cuts on his arms and legs and neck and back and stomach and chest, and the strange announcement he heard over the intercom. It said "Attention pool members: We strongly discourage you from shaving, cutting, ripping out, or puking up hair in the showers. It clogs up our drains and, frankly, it's disgusting. Thank you." So what happened to make one become the other?

"Hmmmm..." he thought. He was not the brightest person in the world, and most people noticed that very quickly after talking to him. He fished around for another thought on the matter. He searched for any ideas he might have. "...Hmmmmmmmm..." he thought. He found the pause to be more dramatic and decided that that, combined with the longer "mmm," made his second thought more profound than the first. After a couple more minutes of pondering he came to a conclusion: "I dunno." It suited him for now and he returned his focus to driving.

A certain car happened to catch his attention immediately. It caught his attention for many reasons. One was that it was an oddly colored car. It was clear that the car was ancient; the body of the car was a dull burgundy color with spots of rust, and the top of the trunk was a sickly yellow with slightly fewer rust spots. This car had many parts of its body replaced, and the owner apparently never cared enough to get them all painted the same color. It also caught his attention that it was the same model car as his grandparents, although they took much better care of their car. Also catching his attention was the fact that the car was in the same lane, ahead of him. But there was something else that caught his eye even more than all of the other things mentioned, something that really stood out to him. What grabbed his attention the most was that this car was coming towards him at about forty miles per hour.

He screamed and slammed on his breaks.

The other driver screamed and slammed on his gas.

Together, they screamed, each holding his respective pedal. They were getting closer and closer to each other, approaching a climatic crash inch by inch. They were about to collide, and both shut his eyes. In a moment, the air would suddenly be filled with the gut-wrenching sound of two tons of metal crunching together. And then, suddenly, nothing happened. The wreck was avoided.

It would be helpful to mention here the importance of perspective. The man in the other car wasn't doing anything wrong at all. In fact, he was being a good citizen and stopping at one of the many stop signs on these back-roads. So while our lifeguard saw the driver hurtling towards him at forty miles per hour, our driver saw the lifeguard hurtling towards him at forty miles per hour. Had the driver not slammed on his gas, both would have surely died in a fiery, blood-soaked wreck.

There was a pause as they both sat in their cars, thanking anything they could. "Whew, thank God," the driver thought.

"Thank God for brakes," thought the lifeguard.

"I would like to thank the makers of this road for not putting the stop sign any further back, for we surely would have crashed."

"Thank goodness for gas too. He wouldn't have been able to get out of the way."

"I'd also like to thank the rain and wind and any other erosive action that gave this road more friction and helped him stop more easily. If he had gone just three more inches..."

"Actually, thank God for cars. If he hadn't had one, he wouldn't have been able to get out of the way."

"...and how could I forget the slight cushion of air that must have been between our two cars, helping create a small, if very weak, barrier between us? It surely must have pushed me forward at least a little bit!"

It continued like this for almost a minute. Every possible thing to thank had been gratefully acknowledged and they both decided that they'd rather start driving again than speak to each other. The driver pulled away first, slowly and cautiously. Our lifeguard pulled away next, annoyed and trying to make up for lost time.

He tailgated the driver like no one had ever tailgated before. He was swaying side-to-side and flashing his lights, but the driver refused to respond. "Oh my God," he thought, "That guy is driving so slowly." He was progressively getting more and more frustrated. He honked. He slowed down briefly, and then sped up in an attempt to pressure the driver in front of him to go a little bit faster. "Come on!" he pleaded, but the driver still didn't change speed.

He felt thoughts beginning to rise in his head. Nasty, mean thoughts began to surface. Just what they were, he didn't know yet. But he would soon enough.

The driver shifted uncomfortably in his car. His forehead felt wet. He reached up to wipe it with his sleeve, but the dampness returned within seconds. Was he nervous about the crazed driver behind him? He didn't think so; he was a pretty tough man who could hold and had held his own in many fights. Still though, he was getting very damp.

"There's something really bugging me about this driver," thought our lifeguard. "What could it be?" He was searching for a way to express his thoughts to himself. This seemed vaguely familiar.

The driver coughed. An unattractive amount of liquid had built up in his mouth and was now spewed all over his steering wheel. He was disgusted and a little bit intrigued. How had he produced so much and not noticed it? He felt something roll down his face and wiped at it. It was wet. "Am I crying?" he asked himself, astonished. He nervously wiped his nose, which had quickly become runny.

Back in our lifeguard's car, the steering wheel was getting beaten. He was trying very hard to think of what it was he wanted to think and was running out of patience. "This guy is moving so slowly!" he thought again. He hoped it would lead him down the right path towards the answer. It did.

The driver looked down. He noticed puddles around his feet. "Wow, I am really worked up over that almost-wreck," he noted.

"This guy is moving so slowly...He is like-" began our lifeguard.

The driver's ear itched. He reached in with his index finger and scratched it. A tadpole flopped out and landed on the seat next to him. He was speechless. So was the driver.

It finally dawned on the lifeguard. His brain lit up as his synapses exploded with energy. "This guy is so slow, he's like pond water!" He paused a moment, adding, "Without any wind blowing on him!"

Ahead, the driver's car slowed to a halt, as they tend to do when there is no one there to press the gas or the brake. Nothing was pressing the gas or brake because tiny zooplankton, algae, and tadpoles tend to shy away from driving cars. The reason there was nothing pressing on anything in the car was that the exact moment our lifeguard thought "He's like pond water!" also happened to be the exact moment the driver turned into pond water, leaving his car filled with tiny zooplankton, algae, and a single, speechless tadpole. And as soon as he added, "Without any wind blowing on him!" the A/C unit shut off and the windows locked. No wind would ever blow on this pond water.

Our lifeguard waited a few seconds behind the stopped car before deciding to pass. As he drove by, he noticed some water dripping through the door. With his brain freshly fried again, he could only state the obvious before it short-circuited. "That's odd," he thought faintly, and his brain shut down. Luckily, he didn't need much brainpower for the rest of the drive home. It was otherwise a very boring trip.

As soon as he arrived at his house, he went straight to his bed. There was no teeth-brushing or face-washing. He was thankful for the weekend, because he was going to need a lot of rest to recover from today. He might even sleep the whole weekend and wake up Monday morning fresh and ready for school.

He didn't do that. He didn't even come close. He woke up Saturday morning, still dazed from the previous day. He lugged about until breakfast, then he trudged a little before lunch, which he followed up with some slinking around until dinner. He did, however, wake up fresh on Monday morning, which had been in his plan. He woke up ready to face the world and his school, but he did not wake up ready to face the front page of the news paper.

It read: Man Missing for Days. Car Found on Side of Road Filled with Pond Water.

He gawked at the news paper. He gaped at the headline. He goggled at the picture of the car. He groaned at his realization. He grunted when his mother asked if he was okay.

He recognized the car as the one he followed Friday night. He remembered saying he was like pond water. He realized he must have been connected somehow. He retched at the whole situation. He replied with a faint as his mother asked him for a second time if he was okay.