I'm not crying

In my younger years, I hoped for an adulthood with better food, a clean bathroom at every intersection, and yes, to be free of crying. Ah those frightful moments that cause us to leak brain lubricant from our eyes. My first painful memory was lunging for fruit snakcs and receiving a foot in the crotch. Later tears flowed because an older bully brother threatened to mince my body, and eat my innards. 

My maturity yard stick used to be measurements of sobbing. If you drop one tear, then you are an adult. If you have a 15 min episode, you might be a teen. If you are known more for your crying than for your words, you might be a baby. So naturally, by the age of 30 I hope to abolish all weeping, sniffling, and sobbing.  Looking around at society, those are pipe dreams.

Sure, go into your average office building or unionized workforce and you will be hard pressed to find sorrow. People will instead find other avenues to cry. Gunnish video games are the avenues for the angry mourners, food a welcome friend, running a mobile refuge. I had hoped with advances in genetics, surgery, and drug treatments, that there might be an end to sorrow. 

Guess not.

Writing Frustration

Again my writing leaves me speechless. My brain watches as my fingers patter away. My eyes read the words that worm their way on the screen. Often times I find myself chuckling as I set up and deliver my own jokes. My writing sounds great.

Sometime later, I open the same entry to find strange writing on my blog. I can't understand it. It is as if a toddler took random words from the thesaurus and tried to make a word picture. Again, it is MY writing. Is there any reason why I shouldn't understand it? Do i have a magic encoder but not the matching decoder?

My initial guess is that it's television. I'm not sure why or how, but TV has served as a good scapegoat so far, so lets keep blaming it. I was probably good at reading and writing when it was black and white, and when TV switched to color, it was all game over, time to write cryptic hieroglyphs.

On a related note : I hope this isn't blasphemous, but I now can understand how the writers of the bible might have had divine inspiration. Perhaps they too, sat down one day, wrote all that they could, and in the following years, looked back and wondered, "I sure use 'like' a lot" or " man, i'm terrible with run on sentences".

Resolve: I am going to keep writing till I get this down. BLargh

Relating to Family

Nephews and nieces are like alien clones. They act similar to you, they have similar features, yet as my friend puts it "they look all funky". The weirdest part about clones is not the science, or
the 90% chance they are made from frog DNA; the weirdest part is that they act like, well, you.

How do they act like you? It's either the yelling, or saying "boofay" instead of "buffay" (buffet). It's the evil eye scowl that you saved for demolishing egos. It's the sweet charm of a smile and happy eyes to get ice cream. Yes, all your best weapons have been stolen. They are now wielded indescriminately by tiny big headed people whose sole desire is ice cream and pooping. Ah, the chaos that is children.

I suppose it is God's curse against man to watch his own mini clone reflect all his worst strategies. I watched one of my nephews do one of these numbers-

"I want ice cream"
"But you didn't eat your dinner"
"I did, I did, I did," *strong nods*
"No I remember, you didn't"
*Cry* "I hate you"

This brilliant ploy in adult terms would be something like:

"I want a raise"
"But you don't show up to work; you don't do your work; and ...you smell like a walrus in heat."
"I did to show up. Remember in 1994? I came for a whole week!"
"Your time card says otherwise"
*Cry* "I'm going to kill you"

So the apple falls right next to the tree. Nephew used the "yelling to make it true" strategy, as well as the "threaten the peace" strategy. No wonder the bible says "do unto others as you would be done to". I'm going to give everyone lots of money. LOTS OF MONEY.

Summary: Joy fills my heart at the thought of children, but fear floods my mind at the thought of the evil I would bring to the world.

Sidenote: Why is it that the people you seem to get along with the least are your family? Isn't that just strange? How the same pool of DNA can make incompatible people? I mean really, how does that work?

What's in my Pockets?

If i had 25 dollars, i would buy...

Everyone has their 2% of them that should be locked up in the looney bin. My 2% craves office products. For my high, I need a pencil cup full of nice Pilot G2 7mm pens. Black. Not stirred. ooooooo! 

Awesome Afternoons

At 4pm I like to sproul out on the grass looking waiting for serenity. Today's method is a mid-afternoon nap, which is the closest ill approach to getting high on grass. I have three books and a mild breeze to keep me company.

Light lover's chatter drifts from far away, friends descend brick steps, and it smells like fall. It makes me laugh. Why? Because I have discovered what technology has long tried to emulate. The majority of my time spent indoors is devoted to staring at new amazing technology or gadgets that are *drum roll* trying to be pretty. Pixels, features, functions; they are all just fancy dresses on different flavors of distraction. One day I imagine they will make a HD-HD TV that will be completely "life-like". I imagine the conversations between the lead engineer and the manager to be like this:

Eng: We have successfully replicated sunlight, the colors of trees, grass, and landscape. The pixels are so small that the naked eye can't see the pixelation.

Mgr: What about smell?

Eng: Excuse me?

Mgr: I want it to SMELL like outside!

Eng: if you want smell outside, why don't you go out?

Mgr: Don't you get it? I want to be inside, and I want it to feel completely like I am outside, but I don't want to actually be outside. Duh.

traffic on the freeway

Morning arises. The sun breaks. Alarms warm me to a new morning. My stomache instead feels like I'm pregnant with rocks. This is the smallest of my pains. I am actually aware of my intestines. Normally my path of digestion remains covert to my conscious brain, but I feel like someone stuffed a 50in garden hose into my abdomen, turned on the hose and capped the other end. Its not pleasant.

Ah constipation.

Was it the cream pasta? Was it the sausage rigatoni? Was it the baker dozen of garlic bread? Perhaps my dietary sin lies somewhere among my many indulges of chips and salsa, ranch ruffle chips, and of course, Snapple. No matter the riches, no matter the stature, all men are brought low by the two terrors, diahrrea and constipation. Nice to know that all men will never get alway from the basics.

How do I free my self of my self-impass? Squatting over the pot with a bottle of water and a lot of time.

Ahhhhhhh mondays...