IF I could live however I wan-ted, I think I'd stop giving presents altogether, and stop responding to all these emails, and stop hanging out with all these people, and just do what I wanted (notice the capital "i"), and I'd take a moped and I'd travel all around the country, and I'd spend money on a whim, buying the coolest and most useless stuff for the laughs, and I'd perform with Holy Band of God at all sorts of clubs and revel in the attention, the spotlight, my own genius, and I'd do whatever I wanted at the moment, screw all these social customs, and I'd do the wildest things, pick my nose, eat stuff off the floor, have crazy sex, do drugs, hurt people (yeah, the thought's nice, but maybe not), and nobody would care, nobody!, and nobody would really care even what the hell I did, because I'm me, and they're them, and you know how I'd spend my time?, I'd play visual novels and hentai games and MMOs and I'd have a million musical instruments to mess around with and a new great movie every day to watch and books and manga and pretty much every other form of entertainment media and I'd immerse myself, and then I'd come out to break into places and sharpie stuff and travel, travel, travel some more, and it'd be all about what I felt like doing, and oh, presents?, well, if I happened to WANT to give a present, I'd just give it, none of this berthdae-chrissmass-boulshitte!, and really, I swear, it's stressing me out, all these rules and customs and schedules and tasks and friends and presents and moms and dads and sisters and sisters and schoolwork and homework and God and Satan and Radiohead, and my long nails, and how short to cut them, and all the other, the !s, the things, the stuff, the plans, the, and Waking up is a chore. Clipping my nails is a chore. Writing my blog is a chore, homework, everything. Life is a chore. and I WISH I could just be a New York ghost with a backpack and some 500 bucks (for food and gas and souvenirs), and headed towards Cali forever. All my friends and girlfriends, I'd meet them on the way, and I'd leave them as I pleased, and the music and the art, I'd draw them on the spot, on the street, on the walls, and when the cops came, I'd be like "I'm invisible, motherfuckers!" and then I'd turn invisible, and I'd run!, run!, run!, and the whole world and every one of my current friends would laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh at it all, and I'd laugh!, and that's how I'd live!, forever!,
Me!,
Myself!,
I!


(F
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[the title goes here]

"I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life."

It's quite cold today.
The sun is sleeping under several feet of cloud blankets, and you can finally see your breath in the air when you go outside. It's raining today, and if it's quiet enough, you can sort of hear each car swishing by, and then some people laughing these sort of muffled laughs.
We don't have indoor-hot-air-machines, so my feet are cold again, but I don't quite mind that. I'd much rather have cold feet than sweaty feet. It kind of reminds me of those nights back in the states when I would stay up all alone to type my blog, anyways.

I haven't typed up any serious posts in a while, stories, stuff, but I came up with a few ideas over at my grandparents' house as I mused over the whole idea of video games. I'm thinking perhaps I could write a short story sometime about a video game creator who creates such a beautiful world in his games, with these amazing people that you would just fall in love with at first sight. And people are concerned, because so many people love his games so much they don't ever want to come out into this horrible reality. In the end, he figures he'd make the game even more realistic, because our reality is whatever stimuli we perceive through our senses, and it wouldn't be any different from reality if it was as real as reality, would it? Our brains could be fed memories and hooked up to a machine without our knowing, but what difference would it make if this were the case?

It was a stupid idea, though, so I figured I'd give the programmer a sort of obsession with an object, which he plays with at the end, symbolizing something, but I couldn't quite figure out what. I thought perhaps I could give him a robot arm, his favorite thing in the world, something his parents hated, and....

Perhaps the story could be about a boy who had a sort of disease, a schizophrenic boy who wanted a sort of device attached to his brain to control his dopamine flow. His parents would be Christian Scientists who adamantly opposed that operation. At 18, he decided to get the operation anyway, but upon waking up, his personality had completely changed because of his change in brain chemistry, and his parents were convinced he had been possessed by some sort of ghost in the machine. For the rest of his life, he works on encoding his personality into a computer, until he finally creates a program that thinks it's him, with all his memories. Upon his death, the program finds its way into a robot who walks to his parents' house. There, he asks his parents what consciousness was. If the program thought it was conscious and thought it had feelings and behaved as if it did, did they have any right to say it wasn't conscious? If it was conscious, what need did anyone have for the concept of a "soul"? And then I would have the boy kill his parents in a manner somehow related to his childhood schizophrenia, involving some object he was obsessed with that could somehow symbolize the mechanical nature of life.
But at this point, the whole story reeked of the second episode of Stand Alone Complex.

So then, perhaps a story about time...

Perhaps I could have a story about a yokai who falls in love with a girl, and each chapter could be a day in his immortal life as the world and the girl grow older and older and older......

I like the Stand Alone Complex one, actually.

Thoughts on Ecclesiastes

Ah, I don't think I can put everything down on here...

I wrote a few pages worth of notes on this wonderful book,
which I read every day, literally!,
but....

Perhaps...


Hmm...

Oh, and then...


And...

Alright,
I guesssssss....
what I really wanted to say was:


I'm always hearing people say "the point of the book is to show how our sole purpose is to live for God."

Oh. Em. Eff. Gee.

Let's see...

"The wise man has eyes in his head, while the fool walks in the darkness;
but I came to realize that the same fate overtakes them both."

"No one can comprehend what goes on under the sun. Despite all his efforts
to search it out, man cannot discover its meaning."

"What is twisted cannot be straightened; what is lacking cannot be
counted."

"As for men, God tests them so that they may see that they are like the
animals."

"He has set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God
has done from beginning to end."

"Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him
to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work--this is the gift of
God. He seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied
with gladness of heart."

"Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart,
for it is now that God favors what you do. Always be clothed in white, and
always anoint your head with oil. Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all
the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun--all your
meaningless days. For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labor under
the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the
grave where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knwoledge
nor wisdom."

"For who knows what is good for a man in life, during the few and
meaningless days he passes through like a shadow?"

"There is something else meaningless that occurs on earth: righteous men
who get what the wicked deserve, and wicked men who get what the righteous
deserve."

"The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food
come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time
and chance happen to them all."

"Give your portions to seven, yes to eight, for you do not know what
disaster may come upon the land... Whoever watches the wind will not plant;
whoever looks at the clouds will not reap."

"Since a king's word is supreme, who can say to him, "What are you doing?"
Whoever obeys his commands will come to no harm, and the wise heart will know
the proper time and procedure."

"Who knows if the spirit of man rises upward and if the spirit of the
animal goes down into the earth?"

See what it's saying?
It's saying we obey God because we have no idea what's gonna happen to us after we die, nor will we ever know.
It's saying we can't even know if everything he's saying is good and right and true.
It's saying we have no say in what happens to us. We obey a king because it would be stupid not to, and we obey God for the very same reason.
And aside from that,
It's saying there's not much to life, and we might as well do everything we can to make our lives amazing and not think about our meaninglessness.

"Living out our purpose as servants of God"?
Oh my god.
Get this: he never even uses the word "God" in the Hebrew manuscripts. He uses "ha-elohim." That's "the god."

If there was a single purpose the book serves, it's to make all these non-Christians realize how utterly pointless their lives all are, to give them a desire for transcendence above it all.
In fact, if I could rearrange the Bible, it would be the first book.
"Welcome! to the word of God! & Here's what God has to say about your life!"

Wonderful, right?

Angst is jizz in the pants of life.

It's funny how big of a dick I am. I'm not an ordinary dick, either. I'm an erect one, with the semen of my angst spewing out in a million directions.
I don't know.
Ah, I wish...
I wish I could mean something. I sound angsty and stupid, but I don't know how I could say it in any other way: I wish people could really like me for a good reason. I wish the whole world would pay attention to me. I wish I was something significant. But until then, I wish people would stop liking me and get out of my life.
And then I really wish I could express this in some way or another without sounding like an angsty teen blogger.
Really. I mean it. I really piss myself off.

War on Drugs, again

I think I'll have the old man live, by the way. The robot will just leave at the end to buy ice cream, but they're out, so he goes to McDonald's to get some.

An anniversary and a train ride back

Eight mosquito bites on your hand are quite painful, and sleep leaks out the holes by night. By tomorrow afternoon, it all becomes quite odd, and a small spider walking alone on a table could make you cry, and the trees so high above look so funny, and you forget the spider and begin laughing...
Twas my grandparents' anniversary yesterday, and I kept tearing up as they talked about growing up so long ago, and military service, and crushing crackers under your feet in rebellion...
I returned to my dorm that afternoon on a train, and it got darker and darker outside, and by night, the small towns our train passed by and the stops full of empty train cabins were all so grand! And a robotic arm, and a chip that could stop pain--grand! We people, we're all so very weak, but we're so very grand, and so we build these grand, grand, grand, grand, grand citiesm and these grand, grand, grand little towns, and these grand little trains between the cities and towns... what a nice word that is! Grand!
But by the time we arrived, it was all dark, and all the restaurants near the station were full, regardless of the yuckness of them all....
and then...

I'm still tired, and quite upset at all the homework they're making us do and all the expectations we're required to fulfill... Parents need to be accepting, by the way... and so much homework, and I wish everyone could see sex as the amazingly beautiful act it is, or I think it is... and I need a white tee to tie-dye.
Maybe I'll stop by after dinner to get those pictures of the boat burning festival I never got...

I wish I could just fall asleep right about now and wake up two years later...

Talking Heads,


Yeah Yeah Yeahs,

Man Man,
Shiny Toy Guns,
Butthole Surfers,
Neu,
Phish,
Craftwerk,
Jesus and Mary Chain,
Christian Death,
Franz Ferdinand,
Gogol Bordello,
experimental rock,

Another dream...

It was night, and they said something about a meteor that night, and so I went out, and a meteor was hurtling through the atmosphere... no, an asteroid, said Rayure...
and when it exploded on the ground, the lava singed me, but I was invincible, of course... I punched back. And we all began to laugh and celebrate, and the night fled away...
The next morning, I discovered my flash drive with my Journalism articles destroyed by the space-rock...
I was horribly mad.

But the story!, the story!
The story mustn't suffer!

A little more of the War on Drugs...

It'll begin on a winter day.

The old man enters a vegetative state soon after a failed operation on a brain tumor.
A robot stands by his side every morning of the winter of that year,
telling him the stories of their travels, conquests together,
and the boy had been so intent on fighting the world,
had wanted to die fighting, kicking, screaming,
in tears, was sure there was a meaning,
even in the search itself,
but now,

the IQ of a one-month-old infant, immobilized, catatonic...

So the robot hopes to wake him up, and near the end of their travels, the robot tells of this concert where the boy screamed, to the world, to everyone, and he was laughing for almost 3 minutes, nonstop afterwards, and the robot himself starts to scream, and he begins to scream-cry, because he didn't see any meaning in life, because all his emotions were built from the programmed simulation of neurochemicals, and they were every bit as real, or perhaps more real, than the boy's, and the boy was more of a machine than he, and the boy would die not-fighting, and he would be right in saying there was nothing at all in the end, and...!

Oh, I need an ending!
What should happen to the robot? I'd like something ironic, like the robot entering a vegetative state after an operation going wrong, or... in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the main character turns into a vegetable, but I wouldn't like to copy them, see...

How about fireworks? It's night, and the man's fallen asleep, and the robot realizes he'll die eventually anyway, and the robot pulls the plug on him, and it rains and it rains as he does so, and the lightnings light a million shadows around the boy, and his arms look like the arms of Shiva, spread around the robot, and the boy-god is staring at the robot intently now, peacefully, and the robot falls asleep at the foot of the dead god. The next day, it keeps raining, and the robot realizes he's lost the argument, and the boy fought in the end, and so he decides to leave for Seattle to work at a bookstore. As he leaves,

See, I suppose I'm pretty skilled at coming up with stories on the spot... What should come next?

As he leaves, he stops by a robot repair shop, because he never wants to die, and being human really sucks. The music playing there is some crazy punk band singing about killing people and themselves, and he laughs, because merely existing was amazing, and suicide was stupid, and he would never die, and he suddenly feels horribly guilty listening to the song, so he leaves for lunch.

The scene switches back to the band so long ago, and the boy is screaming wildly and cursing onstage and laughing himself silly with a childish grin, and everyone else is jumping up and around because they're pretty much high on E...

I think...
Tis almost as corny as PSKT,
and a whole lot worse than Ken...
and so I really must revise the story sometime....

I'm beginning to doubt my own writing skills, as are many, many teachers,
though I mustn't quit! I really do want to become a sort of text-heavy comic book writer...

ENFP again, naturally.