Laughing

I couldn't help but laugh. At you. At me. At every beautifully ugly thing in this world. I laughed with snot dripping out of my nose and pain running down my face. I laughed from somewhere deeper than my lungs, from my soul. I laughed from beyond the selfish, cynical, down-trodden, whiney, pseudo-intellectual organs in the center of me, from below my aching diaphram, from between my wheezing liver and churning stomach, from without my knotted intestines. The laughter grew like a tumor, and I could see the pain from this unfamiliar feeling in me reflecting in your confused eyes.

You weren't alone in not understanding this experience. Maybe it was a moment of clarity. Or maybe it was a moment of absolute insanity. But I laughed like I finally got the joke that I've been mulling over for the past twenty-two years. Of course, I probably didn't get it, or all of it. And even if I did, I've forgotten the punchline.

But that doesn't matter now. I still have the memory of holding when you said, "Let me go; I hate you." I still remember tackling you in the grass, cars passing by. I remember laughing and laughing and laughing and crying and not knowing why and not caring, and only caring about you for that moment, and not even caring if you didn't care about me, and just being thankful that I got laugh insanely with / at / next to / for / because of you.

Dear Tom C. Hunley,

I just stole and read your book of poems My Life as a Minor Character which I have been eyeing for two days now. Someone carelessly abandoned a copy in the faculty workroom next to the copy machine and I have no qualms with stealing things that don't belong to me. The reason it caught my eye is because I've been trying to write a poem about being a minor character in my own autobiography, but now I don't want to write it because I'd feel unoriginal, like I was stealing your idea. So, I guess I lied about not having any problems with stealing. Anyway, while I was reading, I found that I had already written all your poems. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they were my poems because they were all my ideas in the first place. You had apparently been taking dictation for me without my knowledge. I appreciate your enthusiasm; I'm sure you were just trying to help, but next time let me know before publishing a book of my poems under your name.

Recipe for Dying Lungs and Liver

Take the excitement of finally having friends back in town, peal off the responsibility of classes, and stir in the nuisance of several bills and two minimum-wage jobs that never seem to pay enough. Sprinkle in feelings of awkwardness and discomfort from living with a girlfriend and her roommate for a few weeks. Then slowly pour cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. Blend ingredients until the mixture turns into a blurry haze. Let cool before serving. Serves one.

Potato

"I like potatoes because they look like boobies."
--Mr. McBastard to The Magster

Is Josh There?

Someone just called my cell phone (wrong number) and asked for Josh. I almost said, "Speaking."

Boy on a Stick and Slither

True Love

Suggestion

| Superhero | Part 6 |

"So, you can disappear and turn things invisible and stuff?" Miranda walked alongside Thomas, nearly trotting to keep up with Thomas' long, quick gate. She looked up at him, and he watched the ground as he walked. She didn't know where they were going, but Thomas seemed to. Actually, she wasn't sure if they were going anywhere. She had a feeling that if she slowed down or stopped Thomas would not wait up for her. He seemed uncomfortable to say the least. "I mean if you don't mind me asking." She shot him her best smile, but he didn't notice.

"Uh, I don't mind, I guess," he replied shyly. Thomas was still unsure of this girl's motives. Why does she want to know about me? Is she just curious, or is it something else? "It's not as cool as turning invisible, though," he said.

"How do you do it?" Miranda pressed.

Thomas had never talked about his ability with anyone before, not even his friends. He had always imagined telling someone, not anyone in particular, just someone. But he'd never really gotten the opportunity, until now. "Well, I kinda just suggest an idea to a person."

Miranda was confused. "What do mean?"

Thomas had had this conversation one thousand times in his head. He was always eloquent as he explained in detail the minutiae of his ability to some eager listener. They would listened wide-eyed and laugh as he told anecdotes about his experiences with his ability: The time he had scared a bully so much that the bully had pissed his pants on the playground; the time he used his ability to hide in his sister's room when she was having a slumber party and watched the girls change; the time he stole an entire couch from a furniture store. The listener would marvel at his power and be in awe of Thomas, and Thomas would smile and shrug. "It's just something I can do," he would say in humble summary. But now Thomas was hardly eloquent. "I kinda just put an idea into someone's mind, and they, like, make up the rest." This sounded much better in my head, he thought.

"I don't follow."

"It's like this," he began before pulling his head off his neck. He held is detached head out in front of the two of them, facing back, looking at Miranda.

She was stupefied. "That's awesome!"

"See, all I did was suggest to you that you see me pull my head off and hold it in my hand. It's up to you if you see blood dripping from my neck, or if my eyes glaze over, or if you hear the voice coming from my head's mouth or the stump of my neck."

She looked up at his neck. She knew his head was on top of it. It had to be. But she just couldn't see it. "Even though I know this is just a trick, I still can't see your head where it really is. Why?"

"I don't know," Thomas said as he replaced his head. "Your mind had already taken my suggestion and decided on what it was seeing. Even if it's wrong, why would your mind want change it's mind now?" He chuckled at what he had just said, and looked at Miranda. She was still staring at him.

"What happens if someone doesn't take the suggestion?"

"It happens every so often. People are easy to manipulate when they're distracted or emotional, but when they're calm or centered or zen or whatever you want to call it, they're harder to convince. Also, the more detailed one of my suggestions is, the less likely it is that they'll believe it. And the simpler my suggestion, the more the person can use their own imagination to expound upon it." Miranda was smiling and nodding her head. She was indeed a wide-eyed listener. "So, why do you want to know about this?" Thomas slowed his pace and looked into Miranda face. who is this girl? What does she want?

Miranda leaned in to tell a secret. Her face was serious, but somehow still smiling. She spoke in a hushed voice, "I have a super power, too."

Disappear

| Superhero | Part 5 |

Plaid Shirt was fifty paces ahead of Miranda, walking lazily with long strides. He was tapping his pack of cigarettes against the butt of his hand. He ripped off the packaging and threw it into an alley as he passed. Miranda shook her head in disappointment. Without warning Plaid Shirt stopped and began to turn. Caught off guard and suddenly ashamed for stalking this man, Miranda conspicuously turned and inspected the stoop of the building next to her. Miranda's indiscreet action caught the eye of Plaid Shirt, and he inspected her for a few seconds before lifting a lighter to the cigarette dangling out of his mouth, shielding the flame from the breeze. His gaze stayed on Miranda for a few more seconds as he took the first drag off his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He turned back and continued on his way. Miranda sighed and shook her head again. What am I doing? she thought. Nevertheless, she continued her pursuit.

Over the next block, Miranda slowly closed the gap, all the time trying to come up with a rational reason for following this guy. She kept thinking about what Alex had told her about their kind of people and the energy that bound them all together. It had sounded a little crazy to her then, but it she thought that it might be starting to make sense. Miranda was so close behind the man in the plaid shirt now that she could smell his cigarette smoke.

Plaid Shirt flicked his cigarette butt into the street and gave a sly look over his shoulder. As he expected, Miranda was still following him, only closer than expected. Miranda noticed his backward glance and thought, I'd better come up with something to say before he gets anxious about be following him. But what do you say to in a situation like this? 'Hey, I know you've got powers; I saw you use them on people. That's pretty cool.'

Miranda blinked and he was gone. She stopped. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. The man in the plaid shirt, who had been not more than five feet in front of her, had vanished. Miranda looked around to see if she had just missed him duck into a doorway or cross the street. But that's impossible, she thought, I was staring at his back one second, and the next second he just wasn't there. What's going on?

A voice from behind her spoke, “Quit following me.” Miranda spun around but no one was there except for an elderly man twenty feet away, inching his way up the sidewalk.

Miranda knew the voice belonged to the man in the plaid shirt. She wanted to see him, to talk to him. She wanted to tell him that she knew had a secret, that she did, too, and that he shouldn't be ashamed of it or scared of other people. She wanted to tell him something reassuring and eloquent. All she managed to squeeze out was a frightened “Hello?”

“Quit following me,” repeated the disembodied voice, a little more stern this time, and from the other direction. Miranda spun again. There was no one near her.

“I . . . I . . . saw what you did,” stuttered Miranda. There was no response. “Hello?” Still nothing. Miranda stood for a while listening while people walked by. Miranda sighed. I messed this one up. I should have just said something. “Sorry I creeped you out,” she said mostly to herself. She turned to walk back. Where was I even going before all this? she wondered.

“What do you want?” asked the man in the plaid shirt, suddenly standng next to Miranda. His face was serious, and his eyes were fixed on hers.

She yelped, stumbled sideways, and fell on her backside. “Holy shit! You scared me.” Even this reaction was somehow fairly nonchalant, given the circumstances.

A charmingly devilish grin spread across Plaid Shirt's face at Miranda's startled but calm composure, then it disappeared as quickly as he had. He returned to wearing a scowl. “No one will believe you if you told them. I didn't rob him anyway,” he stated.

“What?” Miranda tried to calm her fluttering heart.

“I didn't rob that guy in the store, he gave me the money. I didn't use a gun or even threaten him.”

“I didn't mean that.” Miranda looked up. “Can you help me up?” she asked, still shaken by the disappearing/reappearing act.

Plaid Shirt cautiously offered his hand to Miranda. She grabbed it, and he began to hoist her up. She weighed a lot more than he had expected. She held on to his hand even after she was up and the began to shake it, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”

“My name's, uh, Thomas,” he said suddenly looking much less angry and much more nervous. Thomas couldn't tell whether this girl was a threat or not. Her politeness and amazingly relative calm about his invisibilty stunt made him want ot lower his defences. But doubtful thoughts entered his mind, Why was she folling me? What does she want? He looked at her face and suddenly realized how pretty she was. His eyes couldn't hold her gaze, and he looked down at her shoes. She has cute shoes. Miranda smiled in her eyes and let go of his hand.

I Haven't Forgotten

I thought that I would just let my faithful readers (if there are any) know that I haven't been completely neglecting to post, I've been working on a couple posts, but they are still in draft form. I'll try getting one, if not both, of them polished and ready to post by tonight.

Rainbow Basin

I held you as close as the heavens hold
the earth, but I was envious
of the sky,
blushing with anticipation,
as it caressed the hills
with cloud-soft strokes,
until finally sliding the sun slowly
down into the waiting ground.
Beauty imbued the horizon in hues
of darkened orange and reddened blues,
unseen before, but somehow so familiar.
The earth whispered
through the wind and gasped,
while the sun delved deeper still
into crimsons and purples
until it pushed, finally, far
beyond our view.
And there was in the atmosphere
an incredible energy
growing with panting breezes,
the leaves shivering with
excitement on the trees.
Unable to sustain itself,
the sky collapsed into black.
We were left with wonder on our faces
as the view was made more beautiful
by it's passing.  We got up to
pass the time
until another evening faded.

Stay Together for the Kids (A Sob Story)

I guess I had it pretty easy. Not quite as easy as my baby sister, but easier than my older brother at least. He was old enough to know what was going on. I was only three years old when my parents divorced and four when my mom got remarried. I wasn't too conscience of what was going on; the only thing I can recall about it is a fleeting memory of standing in the bed of what I assume was my step-dad's truck "helping" to move our stuff out of my father's condo.

In our new house I remember playing in the dirt with my dog Boober and getting up early in the morning to watch "Gilligan's Island" reruns with my brother, completely unaffected by the radical change that was just made in my family. I knew that we didn't live with our father anymore, and that a new guy with a funny mustache had moved in, but I never really gave it a second thought. For the most part, this new guy didn't bother me, so I didn't bother him (or so I thought). For all I knew, this was how all families worked. All kids spent the week with their moms and the weekends with their dads, didn't they? I continued on, naive, not knowing that anything was amiss. I never really had any complaints, until she came along.

I can recall one weekend visit, riding in the back seat with my brother and sister. My father said that we were going to pick someone up. I'm sure my eight-year-old mind wished that we were going to pick up Donatello the Ninja Turtle, or maybe Teddy Ruxpin. We didn't.

"Guys," my father said, "this is Deborah," talking about the woman who had just gotten in the car. She turned to look at the three of us. At that instant I saw beyond her large glasses and saccharine smile, and I knew that for some reason I was not going to like her. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but soon she would give me several very tangible reasons not to like her. Where I was used to being trusted and smiled upon, she was used to skepticism and a raised eyebrow. And where I was used to patience and positive reinforcement, she was used to reproach and invective. My father married her a year or two later. I cried at the wedding, because I was pissed. How could my father marry someone like her?

She had three daughters who I tried to like, but ultimately grew to loathe. They were simply extensions of Deborah, slimy tentacles reaching places that they didn't belong. Their omnipresence and periodic reports to their mother about the actions and whereabouts of my brother, sister, and I made us all feel uncomfortable visiting my father. It was like living in the novel 1984, constantly being watched and fearing the wrath of Big Brother. Our only safe haven was our father. No one dare fuck with us when he was in the room, not even his wife. Unfortunately, he was rarely home, and when he was, he was usually resting in his bedroom or holed up in his den organizing his card collection. He was seldom there to save us, and I slowly began to resent him.

About the time my father remarried, my mom and step-dad moved us hours away. Weekend visits to my father's became holidays and summer stays with his new family. This is when the strain of divorce began to affect me. As time passed I watched my father change from a goofy, smiling superhero into a bitter, petty man. I watched my step-mother turn as fat and ugly as she was on the inside. I watched my mother hate those two, and I was confused as I tried to emulate her while staying loyal to both parents. I watched my step-dad's seemingly infinite patience with me, and I was annoyed at him for being a better dad than my biological one.

My step-sisters and -mother I tolerated, but my faith in my father was waning. When we did visit, we saw less and less of my father, and visiting step-relatives that you don't care for, isn't a very pleasant way to spend a summer. Over the years the summer stays got shorter, and we visited my father fewer holidays. I'm not sure why. And the child support checks arrived later and later, and sometimes not at all. Again, I'm not sure why.

His wife openly complained about how expensive we were, but I didn't realize how much they viewed us as a financial burden, a monetary nuisance, until my freshman year of high school. My brother, a senior, was looking to go to college, and my mom asked my father if he would help pay. He didn't want to. She hired a lawyer to make him pay the state-set "minimum" of child support. He hired a better lawyer that said he didn't have to. At his lawyer's request, his interest in us kids was suddenly renewed. He wanted to see us for every available holiday and all through the summer -- I'm assuming so it wouldn't look so bad that he had thusfar financed very little of our lives. I don't think my brother and sister were, but for a while I was fooled into actually believing that he cared. Then I went to visit him for one last summer, and nothing had changed. None of us went back to him again after that.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think my sister saw him once when she went to visit our grandparents. My brother visited him once or twice, maybe because he felt sorry for our father. But I think for the most part, none of us really cared for him too much anymore. I haven't been back at all. The realization that this / we / family was all just a matter of dollar signs to him hit me pretty hard. Someone putting a pricetag on their love for you makes you feel pretty worthless.

I haven't seen my father in a long time, about seven years, almost a third of my life. And except for a few hastily written emails that I received on my 19th birthday, I haven't heard from him either. Sometimes I feel bad that I miss that asshole. But then again, maybe I shouldn't feel bad. After all, he wasn't a bad man, just bad at loving me.

More than Meets the Eye

Who would win in a fight between Optimus Prime and Voltron? I guess we'll find out in a couple years when they both hit theaters. It'll be "Robots in Disguise" versus "The Defenders of the Universe." Personally, my money's on the Transformers!

Saving Light One Day at a Time

I'm all for making Daylight Savings Time longer. How 'bout you?

Nerd Alert!

I got a new project to keep me busy at work yesterday afternoon. I'm supposed to revamp part of the Language & Literature website (the Language Learning Center pages). For me, this is exciting. Not just because I actually have something to do, but because I love tinkering with websites. I'm not so good with the graphics and design, but I love all the inner-workings.

Luckily, I get to recycle most of the old graphics, so I don't have to worry about that. Tomorrow I'll have to work on updating the content, which will be kinda boring. But today I redesigned the whole back end of the website -- cleaning up the HTML and JavaScript, and adding a splash of PHP (I *heart* PHP!). I just wish that the server the website was on had MySQL. I want to fiddle around with a database using PHP so that I can become better acquainted with how to do all that stuff.

On a side note, Microsoft FrontPage kinda sucks. I'm using it to help with editing the site. It adds a LOT of unnecessary and dirty HTML. I'd rather do it all by hand and have it look nice than use the stupid WYSIWYG editor. The only good thing FrontPage does is help to keep all the files organized.

For the Internet-Savvy Adulterer

This appalled me, both the fact that the website exists, and that it has enough demand to keep it in business.

Chicago

I'm leaving today for Chicago. I'm going to be visiting Stellar and Nic-O for the weekend. I think we might be going to a Renaissance Fair and then some big party that Stellar told me about. It should be a fun vacation.

Wrong Place

This article from Slashdot sounds like it belongs in The Onion.

Imaginary

| Superhero | Part 4 |

She saw him in crowd. She didn't know why her eye was drawn to him. In his plaid button-down shirt and worn blue jeans, he did not stick out of the crowd. He wasn't attractive. Not to say that he was ugly, but his long nose and mouth slacking open didn't exactly rev Miranda's engine. Nevertheless, she stood on the street corner among the crowd, waiting to follow the rest of the flock into the crosswalk. She noticed his poor posture and awkward gait as he walked toward her in the adjacent crosswalk. He seemed like a thousand other people she had seen in this city, but there was still something about him that made her continue to stare.

A burly man in a brown business suit walking the opposite direction smashed into a long-haired twenty-something hippie-looking chick in front of the long-nosed man in the plaid shirt. The burly man bowled right over the long-haired girl, spinning only slightly from the impact, and shouted something angrily at the young woman, who was knocked to her knees by the much larger man. The guy in the plaid shirt stopped behind her and looked over his shoulder at the man in the brown business suit. Without an explanation the man in the brown business suit dropped his suitcase and began screaming. He batted at some invisible attacker on his shirt and pulled at his tie which only served to choke him. The man flailed wildly and pulled at the tightening tie on his neck. The others in the crosswalk tried their best to avoid him; irritated faces began to appear in the crowd. The burly man continued his hysterics until he stumbled into an even burlier man who grabbed him by the collar and threw him down onto the ground. The man in the brown business suit immediately stopped his screaming. He lay on the ground wide-eyed and bewildered, breathing heavily.

Miranda looked back to the man in the plaid shirt. He had apparently been watching the man in the brown suit as well. He turned back to the young woman in front of him, who was collecting the contents of her hemp tote bag that had been spilled onto the street. He reached down, picking up a small box of some sort. As he was about to offer it to its owner, she snatched it out of his hands and quickly shoved her possession back into her bag. She stood up, gripped her bag tightly, and quickly resumed crossing the street. The man in the plaid shirt stood still for a second watching the long-haired girl walk away, until he was nudged from behind by another pedestrian. He continued through the crosswalk.

The crowd waiting with Miranda on her corner began to cross the street, but Miranda followed the man in the plaid shirt with her eyes. Closer up, he looked much younger than she had first thought, and Miranda saw sadness in his eyes. As he passed only a few feet from him, she had the urge to follow him. She gave in to her urge.

She followed him into a corner store, watching him from the magazine rack. He lazily walked to the cooler, picked up a quart of milk and a shrink-wrapped sandwich. On his way up to the counter, he picked up a can of Li'l Smokies. I hope that's not his dinner. Her stomach felt empathetic for his.

At the counter, Plaid Shirt asked the clerk for a pack of cigarettes. The clerk rang up the total. Plaid Shirt opened his wallet, dug around, and pulled out nothing and set it on the counter. Plaid Shirt shrugged with embarrassment. Miranda moved over to the candy rack to get a better view.

The clerk gave Plaid Shirt a brief look of disdain, picked up the imaginary tender and punched some buttons on his register. The drawer sprung open and the clerk counted out nearly eighty-five dollars in change and handed it to Plaid Shirt.

Miranda was confused. She grabbed a pack of Skittles and stepped up next to Plaid Shirt at the counter. She looked back and forth from the man in the plaid shirt to the clerk. As he finished organizing his money in his wallet, he noticed Miranda's sideways glances. He quickly shoved his items into his pockets and walked out of the store.

Miranda was staring after Plaid shirt, when the man behind the counter asked, "Hey, you gonna buy something or what?" Miranda looked up at him, put her candy on the counter, reached into her purse, pulled out nothing and set in onto the counter. The clerk looked at her with disbelief. Miranda stood her ground, looking from where she had set her money back up to the clerk. Finally, with a sigh the clerk said, "Sorry, lady, we don't take imaginary money here, only real cash."

She squinted her eyes and looked at him. "Nevermind, I don't want it." Miranda quickly walked out the door.

The clerk shook his head, "I hate working here."

Pissed Off

I guess you can only piss on your friends so long before they tell you to piss off.

Getting a Good Education, Duh!

As I was walking into the building about half-an-hour ago, getting back from my lunch break, a fairly good-sized rodent (I'm guessing about 10 lbs. or so) ran by me and into the bushes. I think it was a woodchuck. What the fuck is a woodchuck doing on campus?