Cursing in Disguise

I'm wondering if, deep down, there is something in every person that they hate. Like, on fundamental levels. Something that makes a person who they are, yet they wish it wasn't part of them. 

I really want the answer to be yes, but the truth is that I have no idea. I don't even know if that is true about myself, which makes me extremely unqualified to determine if it's in other people. But I'm going to write this under the statement of: I have no clue whether I'm right or wrong or if this is even something worth wondering about, so don't look too much into this. I'm just writing what comes to mind about this, and it's really just more of a checkpoint to see where I am as of 4:45 AM on 12/29/13. 

As of right now, it's all I can wonder about. Even though I might be completely wrong, I think I could see it within myself to hate something so fundamentally, but I'm not sure if that's right or not. I also think I can see it in other people- some a lot more obvious than others. But I don't think I see it in everyone, although I might just not be looking closely enough. I really would like someone to say something as a comment to this because I'm so curious. Is there something that you, deep down, that you hate on the most basic level? 

I think I might, but it constantly goes back and forth. Sometimes I can see it being the root of all of my problems, but other times I think I'm just being dramatic about it and it's not actually that big of a deal. 

There is a big but often overlooked difference between being pleased and satisfied. I'm not exactly sure of how to describe it, but they're two different words for a reason. Maybe you can look at is as "pleased" is more superficial and "satisfied" is more fundamental (this word might pop up a lot). I think I see it as more of the length of time that each feeling lasts, with "pleased" being more glancing or fleeting than "satisfied." 

I think that people don't really take that difference into account and just lump the two together. I know I did until I started writing this post. But it's understandable; both emotions elicit the same basic responses: laughs, smiles, etc. But again, there is an important difference between the two, and I think this is where my problem comes in.

The problem with being extremely easy to please is that I feel like it draws people in under false pretenses. (This applies to more than relationships with people, but it's just most noticeable in these cases). It's no secret that I laugh at pretty much anything- joke or not- or that I smile pretty much any time I interact with someone. I do this because I am genuinely getting enjoyment out of it; I am pleased. The feelings of happy and content are really there. But am I satisfied?

I don't think so. And the fact that I don't know for sure leads me to believe that I "no" is probably the correct answer.

But, I don't think that neither I nor the other person sees this. It's a fundamental miscommunication with everyone involved- them with me, and me with myself. Since we both unintentionally lump "pleased" and "satisfied" together, no one really catches on. And the closer the relationship gets, the more pronounced this miscommunication becomes; they assume I'm satisfied because I'm pleased, as do I. (This is where it's getting into the realm of girlfriends and the like)

And then I begin to notice the difference- subconsciously, I think. I slowly begin to realize what's happened, and it feels like I've tricked them. It feels like a relationship of lies and misdirection. I begin to feel like an ass who manipulates people, but I'm not.

I think a good test to see whether or not you're pleased vs. satisfied is this:
Just ask yourself- am I happy with this person? 

Do I enjoy playing this instrument?

Am I satisfied with my job?

I think that is what I started doing at those points when I slowly began to realize the gap between what I thought I had and reality. I would subconsciously ask myself these questions and answer them with "yes, but..." And that's how I began to realize that while I was pleased, I wasn't satisfied. I believe that unless you can unequivocally answer "Yes" without the ", but.." then you are truly satisfied. 

Because I also believe that ", but..." is just shorthand for a question you don't want to ask yourself: ", but will I always be?" It's a tough question because I've gotten to the point where I want the answer to be yes, but the fact that I don't know for sure leads me to believe that "no" is probably the correct answer. The "Yes" indicates that you are pleased, the lack of ", but..." indicates satisfaction. 

And that is what I think I would hate about myself if my opening paragraph is correct. There is nothing I hate more than hurting other people, and the irony is that a basic, fundamental part of me can draw people in so closely and under such false pretenses- even to myself- that I end up hurting them on such a deep, emotional level. 

But, like I said, my thoughts on this are constantly going back and forth. This post ended up like this because I picked one train of thought and just followed it all the way through; I'm sure the next time I think this through, I'll come up with a conclusion entirely different than this one. It also doesn't mean that I'm unhappy or that I hate myself, I'm just sorting through possibilities. 

Teachers Hate Him! Local Schoolboy Finds Easy Way to Write Essays with this One Weird Trick!

The trick to writing an essay in which you only have one point to make is to write the same thing multiple times, creating the illusion of content while saying nothing at all. To do this, all you need to do is take the content that you wrote earlier in the essay, re-word it, and then just type it in. This convinces the reader that they are taking in much more information than they actually are. Sometimes I take a couple of lines to translate the same idea, even though I have nothing to add. After that, all it takes is some clever rephrasing in words or style- you can even include a change in style of punctuation. Changing the tone of voice can also work!

What this does is it makes the reader feel like you've really covered your point, like you really know what you're talking about. They've just read your point so many times-each time from a different angle- that it seems like everything you are saying is leading somewhere. However, this is misdirection; what's really happening is usually only seen by the writer, who knows that while it may seem like they have a lot to say, it could really just be boiled down into a few sentences. But each point seems unique because of the new, fresh syntax of each sentence, so the reader just goes along with it.

Doing this really fills out your paper. You've only spent just a couple of minutes rehashing an idea, and suddenly you've got half a page! Okay, maybe it is just filler, but you must ask yourself: Is there anything more I can say? The answer is usually "no," so you continue on, hoping that your readers don't notice. You try everything: changing syntax, studiously delving into your thesaurus in anticipation of commencing an inquisition of a myriad of dissimilar synonyms, and changing your tone of voice. Maybe you can try a narrative section. You still write down your point over and over, but this time you use your voice to change the reader's perspective. You think, you write, you communicate, but you're giving a different point of view now, giving the false sense of new points to the reader.

The passive voice can be used to make it sound like you are saying something new. The reader is tricked by many things, including how actively or passively the paper was written. Ideas are presented, but it is not realized that they have been used before. Suddenly, the essay is perceived as having many points, rather than one. Quotes by other people are often used to fortify your point. "The illusion of content" is created, even if none has been added.

It's all about pacing. Sometimes you just need to start small. Don't reveal what you're about to say right away. Make the reader wait. Spend some time building up to your point. Pretend that the presentation of your idea affects its reception. Let the reader feel some kind of payoff. This is where it becomes a game. A string of short sentences works pretty well, but eventually you will need to combine two separate (but similar!) thoughts. As you get closer to the reveal, your sentences get longer- more "ideas" get strung together. The reader feels a sense of building energy as clauses are added and more words appear throughout the sentence. Throw in more adjectives, add in more flowery verbs, or make a convincing list
that seems to flow with your writing; it makes it seem more dramatic. As the drama and energy build, the reader can feel the growing sense of urgency. It is less about the content and more about the payoff now. They feel the strong desire for resolution, and it moves them to keep reading; there is kinetic energy in the static writing.


And then you present the point again.


It seems different, but it is just separate from the buildup, making it stand out. It's not always about making it stand out, though. Sometimes, if you throw enough words at a reader to dull their awareness to the fact that they are just reading a ton of words and useless verbiage that don't really mean much other than the fact that they are just taking up space in a paper in which you don't have enough to say convincingly, it becomes possible to in some way to casually slip the same thing by them because their eyes are just tired of the seemingly endless wash of words and are just looking for an end to the sentence- hoping for a break, losing track of where they are in the sentence, wondering if they should go back and try to read it again because there's this vague feeling that something important was said somewhere along the way.

The easiest place to say the same thing again is in the conclusion paragraph, because it is basically a summary of the paper. Here, you can just fill up space by paraphrasing what you've been saying the entire time. Usually, you start small by just stating your idea. Then, you make the same point, but in more general terms. Finally, after stumbling through an entire essay with endless rephrasing, repetition, and stalling, you can state your conclusion in its broadest terms: that you've been saying the same thing for 897 words now, just in many different ways.

Crash Test Dummy

Drive. Go fast.

There's something in my head telling me to go fast; I do.

Faster!

"Faster," it says; I go faster.

C'mon, just a little bit more!

It wants more speed; I hesitate, but I push faster.

Faster, Faster! Go!

There's something in me telling me to go way too fast; I begin to move faster.

Then I panic. I see something ahead in front of me, looming in the distance. I am approaching it too fast to think, so I slam on my brakes and the car skids to a halt. I open my eyes and see that I was just a few inches away from hitting a wall. I take a couple breaths, calming myself before I turn around to drive away.

Time passes, and I avoid my car- I want to figure out what happened before I get back in. But time keeps passing, and a car is very convenient. Besides, the urge has subsided. So I get back in.

I drive for a little bit without any problem. Then, something tells me to drive a little faster- and I do. I can't help but to submit to whatever is inside of me, commanding me to speed faster and faster. The scene outside of my windows has become a blur. My foot presses harder on the gas. I begin to see the wall in front of me again, peeking over the horizon. This time, however, I resist the urge to slam on my brakes. I feel a rush of exhilaration as I let go. The wall grows ever larger as I close in on it.

Then I panic. I see something in front of me, rushing towards me. I am approaching it too fast to think, so I yank the wheel and the car swerves past the wall. I open my eyes and see the wall in the rear-view mirror; I must have missed it by inches. I slow to a stop and take a couple of breaths, calming myself before I drive away.

What was that rush of exhilaration? Why am I so insistent on speeding towards the wall? Why am I acting so reckless, even though I know that it will only hurt me in the end?

The excitement was from doing something new- something I had never done before. My whole life to this point had been about self-preservation: put my well-being over danger. Safety over irresponsibility. No regrets.

 But there is a certain excitement in letting go.

I get back in my car.

Now, I am driving faster than ever before. I hear calls of "Faster! Go! Faster!" echoing through my head. I can no longer look any direction but forward; everything else is just blurs. I step harder on the gas until it can't go down any farther. "Faster!" The wall has appeared over the horizon; I move my foot away from the brake. Tunnel vision is setting in, and I can only see the wall. I am rushing toward it- I see it growing larger. "Go, Go! Just a little bit faster!" There is so much excitement rushing through me. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I think about how dumb this is and how this will hurt, but it is too late for that now. "Keep going!" I let go of the steering wheel. I am inches away from the wall. I regret nothing.

And I don't panic. At this point, driving myself towards the wall isn't so much an urge as it is instinct. My actions have become careless, reckless. I know what is in front of me, but how can I know for sure what will happen if I keep going forward unless I do it? I know this is stupid, but I am dumb. I am tired of choosing to avoid the wall. I want to know what happens next.

Because there is a difference between not having any regrets and regretting nothing, yet I want neither; I want my irresponsible, careless behavior to end in ruins. I want the regret.



After all, a Crash Test Dummy can only stay wreckless for so long.

Well,

My biggest fear may be that I don't know or understand myself as much as I think I do..




..And my uncertainty is unsettling.

Pain and Struggle

I try to keep a straight face as I walk through campus. No one can know the pain that I am suffering on the inside. Sure, I might seem fine on the outside- even talking and laughing with people- but beneath the surface lies nothing but difficulty, discomfort.

Distant-.. everything  seems    so        ...distant.


Everything has slowed down, not in time, but in pace. I seem to crawl through life as it drags along behind me. Stagnation sets in as I slowly lose the desire to even move.


 The farther I go, the further it seems; the farther I go, the further my body screams.


Inner conflict rages. My emotions want to keep going forward, but my mind and body might not be able to go on. The battle continues, silently, almost unnoticeably from the outside, but you can see it in my eyes- the windows to my soul. Look into them and I cannot hide anything. Look into my eyes and see the pain I have felt, the struggle I am going through; look into my soul and tell me you understand.


You won't.

You can't.


I want to reach out; I want someone to understand. But how can they?

How can they know the pain of every step I take?
How can they understand what it's like to barely be able to get out of bed in the morning?
How can they see the grimace, the tears, or the true me under the mask I display?

How can they?


How?


This is something I've done to myself, and I must deal with it-.. by myself. I will not burden others with my suffering. This is not the first time I've put myself through this, but I can make it the last. I am willing to work to make this better. It just takes change, but it needs time. When I heal, I will be stronger. I will be tougher. I was weak before, but now I am a changed man. I will no longer have to hide my true feelings; no longer will I feel this pain.



No longer will I do six sets of deep-squats during my leg workout because my legs are so damn sore right now.

Music Critic: Ass Up

Baracuda- Ass Up

In an age of meaningless lyrics and pop songs, it takes a truly exceptional piece of art to remind us that the words put into song should mean something; far too often, they are looked upon as just an accessory to the melody. "Ass Up" reminds us of a bolder time, where lyrics had meaning and function, simultaneously interacting with both the listener and the music. A time when art didn't just imply or suggest emotions, it demanded them. 

Baracuda's control over the listener's emotions is established before the song even begins. The band manifests feelings of discomfort, confusion, and slight annoyance at the purposeful misspelling of their name. Baracuda uses these feelings to grab the listener's attention and lead them on an emotional journey. They know what they want their audience to feel and how to get them to feel it.

On the surface, "Ass Up" seems to be a simple song- but much power comes from its simplicity. It grabs the listener's attention, commanding them of what to do even before the beat comes in. There is no confusion, as the song tells the listener to "put your ass in the air," and even going as far as to tell them how to put it in the air- like "you don't care." It's a sharp juxtaposition of the age we live in today, where people soften everything they say by adding 'like' before saying anything- turning it into a simile instead of a concrete statement; a startling contrast of a world where people no longer 'know' or 'think' things, instead, they 'feel like' things. The song's power over the listener derives from the assertion that they WILL put their ass in the air, and they'll do it like they don't care.

Not only are the lyrics commanding the listener to move, but the music behind them is a heavy influence as well. At the 1:15 mark in the song, all of the high and mid frequencies of the beat are filtered out for a few bars. Then, as the song builds back up, the frequencies are filtered back in, accompanied by a very simple, hard-to-miss riser. As the frequencies and the riser rise, so too will the ass of the listener, as the music- "The Universal Language"- tells it to.

Following the bold, aggressive, and assertive nature of the band's name, lyrics, and music, the structure of the song also bucks the modern conventions of today's popular songs. There are no verses in "Ass Up." Baracuda correctly concluded that they had said all they needed to say with their few simple lines, and the message certainly gets across to the audience. There are only a few moments where the song deviates from its repetitive, almost-hypnotic chorus, but otherwise there isn't much more to its structure. It's simple; it's effective.

But with it's simplicity comes just a touch of subtlety. If the audience happens to listen from a distance mentally, maybe as some background music, they might notice something strange with the lyrics. The vocalist, Suny, sings the lyrics "Put your ass in the air. Put your ass up in the air" in such a way as to make it sound very similar to "Put giraffes in the air. Put giraffes up in the air," showing two different sides to this song and giving it a much deeper meaning upon a closer look. It is at this point we must look back.

The very nature of the band- from the name, to their music, to their control- simultaneously shows us their aggression, assertiveness, and will-power while also putting a mirror to society, allowing us to see our reserved, reticent, passive side. In conjunction with this Duality of Man, they throw in a duality of lyrics, bringing up a new, tertiary level of duality: the Duality of Dualities. The mind bends as it now sees that nothing about this song is as simple as it seemed before. Is this song trying to take control, if only for a few minutes? Or is it meant as a commentary on society today? If it is a commentary, what is it trying to say?

So few works of art have raised so many questions so deeply and effectively. It is through the power of the lyrics and its dualities that I nominate Baracuda's "Ass Up" for Best Lyrics of 2013.

-Billy Hentenaar





*Billy Hentenaar is a local sound technician-turned-music critic. More of his writing can be found at his blog, skinsnacks.blogspot.com

Counting to 100

One
Tweast
Threast
Feast
Feast-tweast
Seast
Seast-tweast
East
Neast
Ten
Eleasteen
Tweasteen
Theasteen
Feasteen
Feastweasteen
Seasteen
Seastweasteen
Easteen
Neasteen
Twenteast
Twenteast-one
Twenteast tweast
Twenteast threast
Twenteast feast
Twenteast feast-tweast
Twenteast seast
Twenteast seast-tweast
Twenteast east
Twenteast neast
Thirtweast
Thirtweast one
Thirtweast tweast
Thirtweast threast
Thirtweast feast
Thirtweast feast-tweast
Thirtweast seast
Thirtweast seast-tweast
Thirtweast east
Thirtweast neast
Fourtweast
Fourtweast one
Fourtweast tweast
Fourtweast threast
Fourtweast feast
Fourtweast feast tweast
Fourtweast seast
Fourtweast seast tweast
Fourwteast east
Fourtweast neast
Fiftweast
Fiftweast one
Fiftweast tweast
Fiftweast threast
Fiftweast feast
Fiftweast feast-tweast
Fiftweast seast
Fiftweast seast-tweast
Fiftweast east
Fiftweast neast
Sixtweast
Sixtweast one
Sixtweast tweast
Sixtweast threast
Sixtweast feast
Sixtweast feast-tweast
Sixtweast seast
Sixtweast seast-tweast
Sixtweast east
Sixtweast neast
Seventweast
Seventweast one
Seventweast tweast
Seventweast threast
Seventweast feast
Seventweast feast-tweast
Seventweast seast
Seventweast seast-tweast
Seventweast east
Seventweast neast
Eightweast
Eightweast one
Eightweast tweast
Eightweast threast
Eightweast feast
Eightweast feast-tweast
Eightweast seast
Eightweast seast-tweast
Eightweast east
Eightweast neast
Ninetweast
Ninetweast one
Ninetweast tweast
Ninetweast threast
Ninetweast feast
Ninetweast feast-tweast
Ninetweast seast
Ninetweast seast-tweast
Ninetweast east
Ninetweast neast
One Hundreast

New Words

This is just a quick addition of words to Webster's Dictionary.

Retrorespect- n. a quality given when you look back on an event and realize that someone was right/did the right thing/earned your respect

Not to be confused with:

Retro-respect- n. a type of respect earned from 80's and 90's rappers

Although, retrorespect can lead to retro-respect in some cases.

A Lie

We've got forever
Just take your time
Closer and closer
It's all a lie

I'll do what it takes
And judge the tide
Push until you wake
It's all a lie

I'll tell you what you want to hear
And leave you hypnotized
One day I'll just disappear
Before you realize
I lied

The shortest distance between two points is a lie
From me to you
All I want you to do is put your hand in mine
And believe it's true (from me to you)

Look into my eyes
Tell me you love me
Put on my disguise
And say we're meant to be

Feel nothing at all
It's just a lie
It doesn't matter what I say
It's just a lie

I can feel you falling
I say all I want is you
You're all I need darling
But that's only partly true

The shortest distance between two points is a lie
From me to you
All I want you to do is put your hand in mine
And believe it's true (from me to you)

True Story: Part 5

It had been about a week since Haggins had been to the therapist, and he hadn't heard a thing about any other appointments yet. There were no calls from an overly-friendly secretary, no overly-friendly postcards with suggested appointment times, and certainly no overly-friendly visits from the therapist. This, of course, caused his mother to become overly-motherly.

"Dear," she started, taking a break from sweeping the oven, "Are you sure he said he'll continue the sessions? I'm just so worried..." She moved on to dusting the phone that she held between her head and her shoulder. "Just wait until your father hears about this..." She was now licking her hand and wiping his face with it, even though there was no dirt. "Maybe you should go to your room..." she drifted off as she wiped a tear from her eye. "But I don't want you hanging out with those kids from down the street!" she called to him as he walked into his room. She ran up to the door as he closed it, trying to fit in, "I love you!"

"Mom, I'm trying to take a nap!" he shouted.

"Do you need me to tuck you in? Fix your collars?" she offered from behind the door.

"No!"

"Okay honey, be safe!" He heard her walk down the hallway and fretfully titter about in the living room.

He wished that the therapy sessions would start soon, not just for his mother's sake, but also for the house and the people around him. So far, he had managed to turn the a/c unit into an angry bear, a cooking pan into thunder, and- through a very convoluted and dubious train of thought- the kitchen table into an old pair of slacks. There were two bits of good news, however. Despite the occurrence of these episodes, they were beginning to take less out of him mentally- as though he was getting used to it. His brain no longer collapsed after he altered reality; instead, he only felt a strong urge to take a nap. So not much was different from normal. The other good news was that the slacks fit him quite nicely.

He got in his bed, reached over to his dresser, and turned his lamp off. It was still early afternoon, and light poured in through his curtains. Slightly annoyed, he buried his head under his pillow in search for darkness. He quickly entered a restless sleep. Maybe it was the brightness of the room or the casual asphyxiation he was suffering from the pillow, but he had several unsettling dreams.

There was a sensation of his room shaking. Something was beating on the outside of all four of his walls. "Let me in.." a voice droned. Suddenly, his mother was in his room, beside him. She had baked an apple pie and was trying to force it on him. A slow tapping sound began getting louder. The more he tried to get away from it all, the louder and faster it got. It sounded like something tapping on his window. His room spun and flipped. It was chaos. He could still hear the tapping. It sounded like fingernails. More specifically, it sounded like long and dirty fingernails tapping on his window. By this point, it had climaxed to resemble a drum roll. Everything was getting louder, spinning and flipping faster. He started screaming.

He was still screaming as he woke up. Luckily, his head was still under the pillow so his mother couldn't hear him. He ripped the pillow off of his head, gasping for air. He noticed it was considerably darker now; the nap must have lasted a couple hours longer than intended.

In a very slick movement, he slipped the covers off of his body. He squirmed around in his bed for some seconds, searching for a satisfactory stretch. As he did so, he realized that his skin was very sweaty. Incredibly sweaty. It was almost unbelievable how sweaty he was. Every square centimeter of his supple skin was secreting a thick, cold, mucusy sweat. Using rhythmic waves of muscular contraction, Haggins slid out of the warm and now-moist environment of his bed and slopped on the floor with a squelch, leaving a damp and soggy trail behind him. He laid on the floor for a moment, wondering how, even after such a long nap, he could feel so sluggish.

And in the next moment, things had changed dramatically for Haggins. He didn't know how his power worked because no one had told him. And with no knowledge, he had no control over what happened next. Hardwired by nature and driven by society, Haggins' inevitable reaction was to observe his condition, make a connection, and take that abstract material to make it concrete through language- even if only to himself. He could only lie there hopelessly as he looked around and saw the slime. He helplessly realized that he felt slippery. He submitted to the squelching. He resigned to the now-familiar sensation. This was an incredibly literal life-changing moment for Haggins, and sadly, unfortunately, tragically, his last conscious thought as a human was, "Slugs. I feel like slugs."

And Cleatus Haggins became slugs. Three slugs, to be exact.

He looked around the room, immediately feeling sick. This was not, in fact, because he was suddenly slugs, but because he was suddenly three slugs with only one consciousness. He found himself looking straight up at the ceiling, back behind him, and towards his bed all at the same time. This new flood of visual stimuli froze his brain for a minute, leaving him nauseated. Eventually, he was able to get all of himselves facing one way, which helped cut back on having three totally different perspectives of his room.

He tried to move forward, but instead moved inward, collapsing in on his middle slug-self. Luckily while doing so, two sets of his slug eyes bumped into each other and reflexively withdrew into his heads. This left him with only one set of eyes and a lot closer to what he was used to as a single-bodied and single-perspectived boy. A few minutes later, Haggins was able to work himselves into a line of slugs. He found it much easier to move his bodies if he kept the back slugs' eyes closed, and finally he was off in search of a solution.

He left the room to tell his mother, hoping she could help. He could hear her still scurrying around in the kitchen, doing motherly things. At the moment, she was watching Dirty Dancing on tv while talking on the phone to one of her girlfriends about the groceries. "..I thought that dough I bought ought to be rough enough. Thoroughly tough, though Louise.." she was worrying as the universe ran out of o's and u's. She saw her son enter the living room. "h my Gd, I'll have t' call y' back," she rushed, hanging up mid-sentence.

She slowly stalked over towards him, eyeing him suspiciously. "Mom," he tried to say, "You have to help. I accidentally turned into slugs." But no sound came out of his mouth, because slugs can't talk. All he could do was try to move away from his mother, who was closing in.

She swooped in closely, confirming her fears. "Eeeewww!" she cried out. She called out to her son, begging him to come get rid of the pests that sat before her. When she didn't hear a response, she signed and turned around. Haggins sighed in relief and tried to find something to hide under, but his mother returned quickly with a paper plate. Tentatively, she placed it on the floor in front of him. "Come on, just crawl on. I'm not going to hurt you," she coaxed.

Hearing his mother's voice in that tone always calmed Haggins, and he instinctively did as he was told. He managed to get his bodies onto the plate, expecting his mother to take a closer look and finally recognize him. Instead he found himselves being taken towards the front door. He tried to scream out, but couldn't. All he could do was brace himself as his own mother threw him out of the house and into the yard.

The world was not like he remembered it. The grass towered over him, casting him in long shadows. Dirt now looked like rocks, and there was a lot more company in terms of other insects than he remembered. A beetle rudely scurried over one of him. Another of Haggins' bodies was being closely watched by an ant.The third happened to be positioned facing the sky, able to see every hungry bird above them. Panicked and nauseated, he tried to regroup.

He heard heavy thuds approaching him; tiny shock waves shook his bodies. He felt a sharp pinch followed by a brief sensation of flying before landing on something very high up. He felt it again. And during the third time he looked up. He saw something brownish-black. He looked a little closer. It was semi-solid and chunky, encased in a long, hard, and clear coating. It smelled awful. His last slug-body was dropped onto something fleshy.

It was flesh.

All three of him looked up and saw something vaguely humanoid.

It was a human.

He looked back to the gunky brownish-black dirt-like substance.

It was dirt.

Under long fingernails.

"I'm glad I found you," breathed the therapist. "Don't worry, I saw everything. I'm here to help." He was now cooing softly. "It was me tapping on your window. I think I woke you, and I'm sorry for that."

"Put me down! Go inside and explain this to my mom!" Cleatus tried to yell.

"Don't worry," the therapist continued, "I can help fix this."

Haggins struggled and tried to escape as the therapist closed his hands, concealing him in a hot, clammy darkness. The panic, nausea, and constricting conditions were too much for Haggins' overworked mind to handle. He felt sensory information disappear as, one by one, his slug bodies fainted. "This feels odd," he thought to himself just before he blacked out.

Jake and Amir: Restaurant Ideas

Intro

Amir: 

[Shot of Jake sitting on an office couch alone]
[Amir drops in from above and lands on the couch]

Amir: Hey, just thought I'd drop by to see you.

Jake: That's a really bad joke, man.

Amir: Well if you think that was bad, you're gonna love my restaurant ideas.

Jake: Wait, does that mean they're good ideas, or just worse than that joke was? Also, how are you going to open a restaurant? You can't even afford your rent.

Amir: ...probably..?

Jake: That doesn't answer anything I just asked. Look, I don't have time for this. My lunch break is almost over. I don't care if you lie, just please at least try to make sense.

Cut Scene 1.

Amir: So this restaurant would only sell scoops of vanilla ice cream and banana Popsicles.

Jake: That just sounds like an ice cream truck.

Amir: Well it's going to be different! We won't have any bowls and the Popsicles won't have sticks. So you just kind of have to hold everything in your hands.

Jake: That just sounds like a very sad ice cream truck.

2.

Amir: Okay, this will be like a take-out restaurant so customers can just grab their food and go.

Jake: Alright, sounds good so far. What kind of food will you sell?

Amir: Any kind they want. Whatever we can find.

Jake: What does that mean?

Amir: See, our customers will come up and order whatever they want, and then we'll call the real restaurant and have them deliver it to our store. Then they can just go up to the delivery, pay, get their food, and go.

Jake: So no real transactions actually happen in your restaurant?

3.

Amir: This restaurant will combine food and fun.

Jake: Okay..that's a solid start..

Amir: Each table will have one of those claw machines, and the customers will have to keep playing until they're able to grab whatever meal they want out of the machine!

Jake: Stop. Terrible idea. St-

Amir: Also, the meals will only be soup or jell-o. So, sorry if if spills or gets squished, but...no refunds.

4.

(I'm losing inspiration to write dialogue that would mostly be improvised anyway.)

A restaurant whose target market is early-rising meat-heads. It serves cereal with muscle milk from 4 to 6 am.

5.

A soup kitchen. To maximize the amount of food, there will be not only bread bowls, but bread spoons too. Better eat it quickly, though, or else the bread spoons will get soggy.

6.

A normal sandwich shop, but the sandwich special  is two scoops of chocolate ice cream on sourdough bread topped with mustard, pickles, pepperjack cheese, tomatoes, and toasted. Cut with the vegetarian knife as well. 

7.

Have Amir vaguely describe an already-popular food chain. Gets called out.

In My Apartment

In my apartment. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Out in the rain. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Head in my hands. Anger. Out in the rain. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Focus on distractions. Head in my hands. Shallow breathing. Anger. Out in the rain. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Focus on distractions. Losing control. Head in my hands. Shallow breathing. Feel my pulse. Anger. Stand up. Out in the rain. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Focus on distractions. Losing control. Head in my hands. Shallow breathing. Feel my pulse. In my head, fingers, throughout my body. Anger. Stand up. Pull my hair. Hit the wall. Numb. Out in the rain. Everything is fine.

On the sidewalk. Relive the moment. Pulse receding. Breathing deepens. Head out of hands. Regaining my control. Dry off. In bed. Back to normal. In my apartment. Everything is fine.

On the sidewalk. Relive the moment. Breathing deepens. Regaining my control. Back to normal. In my apartment. Everything is fine.

On the sidewalk. Pulse receding. Regaining my control. Back to normal. In my apartment. Everything is fine.

On the sidewalk. Regaining my control. In my apartment. Everything is fine.

In my apartment. Everything is fine.

I'm in my apartment, trying to focus on distractions. But I'm losing control. My head falls into my hands, and I notice my shallow breathing. I can feel my pulse; It's in my head, fingers- all throughout my body. Is this anger?

I stand up. My hands have developed a mind of their own, clenching into fists as they pull my hair. I try to remember the last time I was angry. I can't. I only remember why I am angry now as I feel heat spread from the pit of my stomach to the rest of my body. It won't be long until the white-hot anger completely consumes me.

I turn away and face the wall. Every vein in my body expands and contracts in time with my heart. My body is pounding. I take in a breath and completely lose myself. I reach my arm back and swing it forward as hard as I can. My fist connects with the wall. The sickening thud rings throughout the room, and my hand instantly goes numb. I can't feel it grasp the knob as I slam my door. I storm out in the rain and lie down.

As I lie there on the sidewalk, I relive the moment. It felt so good as my fist was going towards the wall- the power of being able to unleash and act. I was truly satisfied and felt truly alive in that moment. I stay out in the rain for a few more minutes before making my way back. I stand up as I feel my pulse receding from my extremities back to my chest. My breathing deepens and returns to its normal rate. I take my head out of my hands, finally regaining my control.

I walk to my room and dry off. I change into clean clothes before I get in my bed. I am back to my normal self before I fall asleep. In my apartment.

Where everything is fine.

Bookmarks

Unable to finish the chapter. Unable to close my book. All I can do is blankly stare at the page before me. I have read it many times through by this point; I know it by heart. I no longer need the book to tell me how the story goes. But I can't set it down in fear of losing my place.

I sit here with this book, reading and re-reading a story I hate. I can hear the life outside calling me, and I want to join it. But I am stuck. Unable to finish the chapter. Unable to close my book.

I know what happens next, but I can't bring myself to read it. Because reading means realizing- Bringing it to life. Making it unavoidable.

Finally, the world outside becomes too much to ignore. I've felt the days passing by as I sat with this book in my lap. I've felt myself wasting away. As always, I rush back into life. But- as always- I also unconsciously reach for the corner of the page. Before I run off, I fold the corner down and mark my place. Unable to finish the chapter. Unable to really close my book.

I come back in, refreshed and revitalized until I look at my book. I can see the unevenness in the pages where the corner is folded. I had thought that going back out into the world would continue my story, but in reality I have just picked up another book.

My stomach sinks as I remember the book. The story has become stale; the outcome remains just as obvious. My thoughts dwell on the book as the days pass by. I still go outside, but I am haunted. I can still see the folded corner, even as the book lies closed. In this state, time will not help because the bookmark is permanent. In a moment of desperation, I decide to unfold the corner. I may be unable to finish the chapter, but now I can close my book.

I will go out and join the rest of the world. I will make connections and grow; I will finally be living again. And as time passes, I will first feel the distance between me and the book deepen. But those feelings will fade as my memories of the book fade, and I will have moved on. I will be reading a new book.

But unfortunately, I also know how this story goes.

Because I know that I will stumble upon the old book one day.

And I know that I will pick it up and open it out of curiosity.

And my heart will drop as I discover that although I may have unfolded the corner, there is still a crease in the page.

And I will be right back where I left off.

The chapter still unfinished. The book still unclosed.

Perfectly Preserved

Everything has become wrapped in plastic, separated from me. 

I touch things, but I can't feel them.

I look at things, but I can't see them.

I eat things, but I can't taste them.

All I feel is plastic; all I see is plastic; all I taste is plastic.

Everything is staying as it once was, preserved by my memories. But I only artificially interact with it; there is no connection- no way to really sense the world around me. 

I reach out, but the world has become senseless.

.

.

.

.

.

I have become wrapped in plastic, separated from the world. 

I touch things, but I don't feel them.

I look at things, but I don't see them.

I eat things, but I don't taste them.

All I feel is plastic; all I see is plastic; all I taste is plastic.

I am trying to keep everything as it once was, preserved by my memories. But things change with my interaction, so I retreat into my wrapping- afraid to make connection. Afraid to really sense the world around me.

The world reaches out, but I have become senseless.

How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

I read a post recently that has inspired me to start my own cooking/meal preparing blog. But, I think I'll try it out on this one first.

I think I'm going to name the new blog "Skin Snacks," because I'd like to keep it tied to this one, and I'd like to widen my readership from "Nobody" to "Nobody plus cannibals."

How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

• Step 1: Find your ingredients. 

Preparation is key in making your sandwich. Make sure you know where your basic ingredients are. For this meal, the ingredients are:

     -A slice of bread (at room temperature)

     -Another slice of bread (at room temperature)

     -A peanut butter (at room temperature)

     -Some jellies (also at room temperature because you didn't actually have the jellies before you wanted to make a PB&J, so you went to the store and bought some)

• Step 2: Find your utensils.

This is another important part in your preparation. The more prepared you are to create your sandwich, the easier and less painful your experience will be. The utensils you will be using are:

     -A knife

• Step 3: Take the bread slice and the other bread slice out of the bread bag.

Do this by holding onto the top of the bread bag while it spins loose. You will then have easy access to the bread.

• Step 4: Find a place to put the bread slice and the other bread slice.

Sometimes a plate will be around, but in reality any solid, mostly dry surface will do. I like to use the counter, as the abundance of old crumbs adds a little crunch to the sandwich.

• Step 5: Put the bread there.

Take your time and don't force the bread anywhere it doesn't want to go; that will only end up with a squished/soggy/violated sandwich.

• Step 6: With your utensil, pick an ingredient and put it on one of the bread slices.

This can be done in a variety of ways, but I like to put the jellies on the left bread slice first. This way, the knife is easier to lick clean because jelly isn't as hard to clean off as peanut butter. It's also less gross to find residual jellies in your peanut butter than vise versa.

Note: They are called jellies because of the way they are applied to the left bread slice. During application, they are scooped out with the knife and placed onto the bread. They are then left undisturbed and unspread, leaving lots of little jelly lumps, or jellies.

• Step 7: After licking your utensil clean, pick the other ingredient and put it on the other bread slice.

Note: Make sure to spread the peanut butter. Do not treat it like the jellies.

• Step 8: CAREFULLY pick up the bread slice with the jellies on it and SWIFTLY flip it over onto the bread slice with peanut butter on it.

It is essential to do it this way. Because they are not spread and pushed into the bread, the jellies tend to roll off the bread and on to the counter. If this happens, don't panic. Take a deep breath, pick the jelly up with your fingers, and blow all visible dirt off of it.

Or you could just pick up the side with peanut butter and place it- carefully, recklessly, emotionally (really any way you want to)- onto the jelly bread slice.

• Step 9: Pick the sandwich up and eat it

Whether it was on the counter, floor, table, or in the sink, just pick it up and eat it. Enjoy all the tastes- expected and unexpected. And if you used a plate, you won't be needing it anymore. Honestly, you can hold it in one hand and finish it just in time to start thinking about making another. 

But you won't. 

Because by following these instructions, your sandwich looks like this:

Step 10: Pray for forgiveness.

• ***Optional Step 10: Take a slice of human skin and wrap it around the sandwich.***

This is just to pander to my new readership. 

Warm Up

I can't remember the last time I wrote more than, like, 25 words in a row.

Prompt:

Ask your friend, Abel, who just time-traveled from the biblical ages to come work out with you.

Can it be said that we agree that both of us shan't be unwilling to decide that neither should waste or become insubstantial, and upon such an agreement have it be determined on which hour of this day we shall both venture onward to the Greatest of YMCAs , where we shall both mutually, honorably, and truthfully lift the weights that weigh us down- and that as the weights rise, so too shall our spirits, lest we wither away? I pray for you to hear me, friend, as I ask you: Come and join me, so that together we can face our doubts, our fears, and be free. Come with me, and it shan't be unspoken that no demon- not even Satan himself- won't hear the children singing as we dequest from the Lord's house, side-by-side, arm-in-arm, Brothers-in-Christ. But- Oh! It shan't be unknown that children won't be the only ones witnessing our triumph and singing with heavenly joy. The angels will watch from above and bestow upon us their song of grace. It shall be sung from the mountain tops with such divine harmony as to inspire the Holy Spirit to fill the hearts and minds of not just mankind, but everything on His Earth. Bards shall dance as satyrs flute and cherubs hasten to spread the tale of how two men, neither of whom shan't go unforgotten, set aside alternate affairs, conquered conflict, and became better- strengthening their spirits- through Christ. And as the tale spreads, the people shall rejoice, giving all glory to God. For it was in His grace that they could once again revel in the art of weighty lifting. Amen.