Mother

So, I was going through an old garbage bag of clothes that was supposed to be given to charity like four years ago but never got around to it, and came across a few shirts and pants I liked. I wasn't sure whether or not they fit, since I am actually smaller now than I was six years ago when I got them. So I tried on one of these nice Ralph Lauren Polos. Nope, too tight. I check the tag for the size, and I realize it doesn't say "Ralph Lauren" anywhere on the tag. I look and look. No Polo. But I see the Polo pony embroidery is there on the right chest of the shirt. I turn it inside out and see the messy array of knotted threads on the opposite side of the pony. This. Is. A. FAKE. I look at two more shirts and a pair of pants. Abercrombie Moose, Ralph Lauren Pony, Moose, Pony, Moose, Pony...But no mention of Abercrombie or Ralph Lauren on any of these tags! Cond it be? All fakes!? Yes. Messy threads beneath all of these embroideries. THE DECEIT! SANA DID THIS! SEWING ZOO ANIMALS ALL OVER MY CLOTHES MAKING ME THINK THEY DESIGNA!?

And at that moment I loved Sana more than I ever had before.

Red Whale

Well. Since SOME people think my discussion of art and talent is growing threadbare and unoriginal *cough*soulless short ginger wenches*cough* I'll rant about fat kids. Hopefully that will provide some entertainment for the world's biggest undeserving diva.
So this lardo kid who I now hate, (and just happens to have red hair. Hm, interesting,) comes into Froyoz with his mom and sisters, and he grabs a cup and starts filling up with chocolate yogurt. After the machine has been dispensing for approximately eight minutes, which is about 13 pounds of yogurt, and his mother has kindly asked him about four times to stop and told him he has enough--no, way more than enough--she tries to pull the machine lever up, so it will stop dispensing... And this little profanity slapped her hand away! YOU LITTLE COW YOU WOULD BEAT UP YOUR OWN MOTHER FOR ICE CREAM? I WILL JUMP OVER THIS COUNTER AND SLAY YOU AND SELL YOUR BODY TO MACDONALDS TO MAKE BIGMACS!
So, instead of beating the hell out of this demonic walrus, she says, look at all the delicious toppings over there you wanna leave room for those don't you? So lardo finally releases the handle and waddles over to the topping bar and STICKS HIS PUDGY HAND IN THE BROWNIE CONTAINER and grabs like three and stuffs em straight into his mouth. EXCUSE ME FOOL! YOU NEED TO PAY FOR THAT I HAVE A HARPOON RIGHT HERE UNDER THIS COUNTER TAKE ANOTHA BITE! TAKE IT! OOOHHHHHHHHH I SWEEAAR!

Fin.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

Oh wait, never mind, the warden returns
the caged bird sings no more.




My favorite poem by Maya Angelou that is the story of my life. The last two lines were my own addition.
Don't take this too seriously, it's for humor's sake.

Pass

It's been forty days since my last writing. My plans to write throughout the summer to train my mind to overcome writer's block has failed. It's still mid July, but I feel the summer coming to a close. Usually summers are the best time for our personalities and friendships. Summer romances, easy living, and a sense of carefree lightheartedness engulf our souls and make us happier. However I must say, for me, and the people around me, this has not been this case. This summer has been a season of broken relationships, fights, tension, and stress. I've watched each of my friends struggle in relationships with their friends and their families, while trying to maintain a neutral yet compassionate role. I've witnessed best friends break ties and watched so many people I care for get hurt. I've diligently stood by them and helped them fight their battles, often fighting for both sides, but this has only pulled me deeper into my dark mental abyss.

This summer has been, for the most part, gloomy and stressful, apart from the terrible weather that's not summer-like at all: hailstorms, rain, and toxic humidity. I've gotten fat, weak, and worthless, and worst of all, I have lost my inveterate charm. The past few months especially, everyone around me hasn't hesitated to inform me that I'm fading. People tell me I'm not funny anymore. Not exciting. Not fun to be around. How am I supposed to respond to that anyway? "Sorry?" It's depressing, and most of all helpless, I feel like there's nothing I can do about it. Have I run out of jokes? Have I just settled into the same pattern of character so that I've become predictable and threadbare? I was never an optimistic ball of light or anything--definitely not one whose undying kindness penetrated and warmed the hearts of everyone around me; but I'd like to say I was fun. And funny. And exiting and unpredictable. Perhaps my friends have just gotten bored of me? I'd like to say that's the case, but I feel it. I notice how lackluster my conversations have become now; how empty of ideas I am when it comes to making plans; how, even when I'm meeting new people, I can only make small talk. How at parties I just watch the rest of the world enjoy themselves from my solitary spot on the couch. And I've neglected my friends--most of them. I'm too bored with my own muted life to even return texts or calls because I know I can't even keep the conversation going. I'm sorry, friends, I still love you all. Anyway, I'd like to blame all this melancholy on my current living situation. Just before this dark age, I spent a semester on my own with a steady income and unlimited freedom. Returning to the miserable prison from where I escaped, now with no money, is most certainly the main cause of this. Perhaps once I regain my independence this will pass.

However. Although I still have some way to go before my freedom, I must say I am glad to see the people around me rising. Best friends reuniting, broken relationships healing, the drama of the past few months is dwindling as the summer passes. To all my friends: I've tried to support you through all of your trials and tribulations, and I hope you continue to feel like you can count on me and never hesitate to ask for my advice or help or to simply listen to you rant. I'm happy to offer my shoulder, despite these woeful self-pitying soliloquies.

Depression

So, in continuation of my last post, getting fired sucks. It has left me in a horrible state and I feel depressed. I have unlimited free time now. No school and no work. But it doesn't feel like a vacation, I have this unusual feeling that I'm waiting for something, or that I have something to do in the near future, but there's nothing in particular that I'm waiting for. It's probably the sense of obligation one develops with the responsibility of having a job, but now that I have nothing to do, it's just a nagging feeling, pointlessly telling me to make sure I'm not late for work or to check my schedule before I make plans. I have nothing to do with my time, and I'm bored and am losing interest in life. It's summer and I have all the time I want, but I'm not excited. I feel no desire to do summer things, I just lay on my stone tablet in a permanent state of half-sleep, my back eternally sore and my scalp raw from rolling over in my pillow so much. The lack of obligation and time occupation isn't the only troubling aspect of this dilemma. No job means no income, no income means no moving out,  and no moving out means lots of misery.

People think depression is a severe state of sadness or melancholy. Maybe there's more than one kind of depression, but the kind I had suffered for years in the past, and kinda what I'm feeling now, is different. It's not sadness, necessarily, but a permanent sense of unease and worthlessness, like you've lost all interest in the world. You stop wanting to do the things you like doing, like sports or games or whatever. You lose interest in your friends--you still like them of course, but you have no desire to hang out with them or communicate with them, and when they try to talk to you, holding the conversation is a burden. You just wallow in boredom and hate that you're so bored, but then you dread any attempt at fixing it.

Right now I'm definitely not in that severe of a state. And because I've been there before, it's probably a lot easier for me to fight it--to realize it and stop it before it gets to that point. I'm in that direction, but I'm not going any further down that path. I don't ever feel like playing tennis anymore, and I can't even make myself really unpack my things from college, but I'm fighting myself from secluding myself into depression. I make myself play tennis, even when I don't want to. And I make myself go hang out with my friends even when I'm not in the mood, but usually once I'm with them, I feel better--temporarily at least. They've all been supportive and great distractions from my failing life. I don't know if it's possible to simply will oneself out of depression--it should be, since depression is a state of mind--but I'm definitely trying; I refuse to go back to my dark ages.

Anyway I was also going to talk about God a bunch, but I'll get to that another day.

Betrayal

I never intended to stop writing for twenty days. I've been so busy the past few weeks, I've had more than enough to write about, just no time. Since my last entry, I've had final exams, moving out, moving in, and then working forty hours a week at the establishment at which I am, since yesterday, no longer employed. Sunday night I find that my employment at Trio Cafe has been officially terminated. The details as to why and how the whole issue occurred are still undefined and I have not yet had the opportunity to defend myself--an opportunity that, knowing my manager, I doubt will ever arise. However, what I do know is that one of the shift leaders has betrayed me severely and was ultimately the cause of said termination.

This particular shift-leader is not very well-liked at Trio. Growing up as an unattractive social outcast, she found power as a suitable substitute for the respect she could not gain among her peers. However, she could never gain any power without respect, so she constantly assumed power that she was not granted and ended up only further estranging herself from her peers by her ceaseless attempts to control them in everyday situations like during soccer practice, in the classroom, or at work. However, recently, Trio lost three shift leaders within a short period of time and so the manager, out of severe desperation, promoted the employee--who loyally devoted four years of her life to this job without any promotion until this point--to the position of "shift-leader." So as I said, this shift-leader was never popular, and has only very few close friends. Several months ago, I witnessed this shift-leader betray another Trio employee--her best friend and roommate--causing that employee to be fired for no just reason whatsoever. After that debacle I should have been constantly on guard around that disgusting backstabber, however, I was unfortunately cursed with feelings of pity for this friendless shift-leader girl. So while all the other workers humiliated her and said awful things about her behind her back and neglected to invite her to events that the rest of the staff was invited to, I, her only friend, stood up for her. She and I weren't necessarily close, but we definitely had a good work relationship, and I defended her when others made fun of her and said bad things about her and I obediently followed the orders that she didn't even have the power to give, just to make her feel somewhat good about herself. So anyway, after all my kindness and support, she offers me only one thing: betrayal. The word spills off my tongue like acid. This shift-leader, who was terribly mistreated by everyone except me, fed my manager slanderous lies that caused my downfall. And I hate her for it. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. The slut.

Getting fired hurt. Although I definitely wanted to leave, and was practically offering my resignation notice during my argument with my manager, getting kicked out instead of walking out on my own hurt. Badly. It was (or still is, for that matter, I am not quite over the situation yet) a mixture of rejection, unfairness, and the sense of betrayal. I suddenly felt unwanted and unimportant, as if the eight months or so of loyal workmanship I served Trio suddenly accounted for nothing and had no value. This was my first, and only thus far, job. I don't know if this is the case for all first jobs, but this wasn't just a side job for a source of income to cover a college student's alcohol expenditures. I really tried hard every day to do the best I could--not taking shortcuts, and not leaving anything undone. I could have slacked through and half-assed everything like everyone else; I would've saved my energy and made the same wage. But for some reason I felt driven to constantly work to my best potential and fill Trio with the success of my sheer excellence. And for what? All the dedication and hard work I put into that job apparently means nothing to my manager; it was a waste of blood and sweat. Furthermore, the simple unfairness of my termination just infuriates me. I did nothing wrong--or at least certainly nothing worth more than a raised eyebrow--but slander goes so far. I was unjustly fired and there is nothing I can do about it but spectate my own downfall. But the betrayal is the worst, the fact that I fell victim to the heartless hatred of some crazed backstabber who's desperation for power drives her to commit all sorts of evil without a moment of guilt.

It's all infuriating, and quite depressing, but after all the anger and sadness, there's still the looming terror that the termination on my record--especially in the slanderous context in which my manager is likely to word it--will prevent me from attaining another job in the future, at least not until after college.

Further thoughts soon to come. Peace.

I'm a Survivor

So the past few days Knoxville has been under attack of bipolar storms. The initial storm, about two days ago, was unbelievably sudden, more so than the storm in Mary Poppins. I was at Trio, the restaurant at which I am employed, and I was making a salad right beside the window looking out to the square. I put some lettuce in the bowl and looked outside. The sun was shining, I could faintly hear birds chirping through the glass, children were running through the fountains, parents were eating ice cream on the benches. I looked down to add some cranberries to the bowl, and not three seconds later looked back up out the window. The atmosphere was a haunted gray shade; no sunlight, just the cold glow of the bright storm clouds above. Lakefuls of rain were blowing by---horizontally--by the second. Wet leaves flew around, smacking into windows and sticking to every surface, the entire square was covered in hundred of leafy twigs. The power went out, customers panicked. I had to avert my eyes from the monsoon outside to comfort everyone and help them find seats in the restaurant. After a few minutes of bright lightning and cracking thunder, the power returned and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Throughout the evening, storms exploded and drowned the square, then immediately disappeared again several times. By the end of the night, about twenty cars on campus had been damaged by fallen trees, four of them totaled. No lives lost.

...That was two days ago. Yesterday was mostly peaceful, then today happened.

Today, mother nature came back for round two. Unhappy with her lack of homicides, she returned with a vengeance, perhaps a jealous attempt to outshine Katrina. So, again I'm at work, storms attack, blah blah blah, crazy winds, golf-ball sized hailstones, my phone is blowing up with people telling me about their broken cars and windows and flooded houses. Around 9 or 10, whenever I got off work, the storm seemed gone; it was barely drizzling. So I decided to not make my sister drive 10 minutes to come pick me up, and I walked home (just two miles away.) Thankfully, I put all my stuff in a plastic ziplock bag before leaving just in case, because halfway through my walk--right after I crossed Chapman Highway, the storm picked up again. It grew slowly this time, gradually getting stronger and stronger until I had just entered the Fort area (the college neighborhood right outside campus) when the wind and rain were so crazy that I couldn't see anything. I walked into the wind, head down, leaves flying all around me, a gallon of water in each raindrop all smashing into my face. My glasses had fogged up as well, making me even more blind, but I kept struggling forward, darting away from tall trees and poles every time lightning struck, as if I could outrun the lightning should it decide to strike the object near me.

I could hear trees whooshing all around me, branches cracking and sticks breaking, then out of nowhere I hear a significantly louder gust of wind and a feel a sudden bang on the upper side of my forehead, just above my hairline. I am knocked to the ground, and I stay there on my hand and knees, hiding my head face down, and holding the spot where I had been struck. Upon impact, the pain was incredible, but almost immediately subsided to just a sharp burning. So I arose and continued walking, much faster now with my head even lower, and my hands tense and ready to protect my face from any other projectiles. The wound on my head felt warm and unusually tender, as if my hair had disappeared and my raw scalp was exposed. My entire head was dripping from the rain, but the upper right side of my face felt much warmer than the rest of me. I suspected I was bleeding, but I couldn't see enough be sure, and if I touched my head the waterfalls of rain would immediately rinse the blood from my hands before I could even bring them down to eye level. I was almost home and as I started running, the storm eased to just a heavy rain.

I ran through the lobby hiding my head in my hands, receiving a lot of rude looks I'm sure, and didn't check for blood on my hands until I was in the privacy of the stairwell. Yes, there was blood. A lot of it. Just touching my head covered my entire palm and dripped down my wrist. I don't know if I was actually wounded that terribly, or if my running increased my pulse, and combined with the rain, thinned the exposed blood. I ran into my room, luckily not encountering anyone else on the way. I immediately grabbed my roll of toilet paper and squashed three miles of it into a bunch upon my face, wiping as much blood as I could. By this point, my head was throbbing, and I could feel the blood pumping out of the gash in my head. I removed my wet clothes and continued removing as much blood as I could. The bleeding was slowing very quickly, probably a product of my fat-clogged veins, but nevertheless, I was healing already. Pacing around for a few seconds, I decided to check facebook, and in doing so noticed many people posting pictures and complaints of their broken cars. So I decided to join the fun and took a picture of my head. Then I ran to the shower and washed what I could out of my hair, and tied a towel around my head for the night, and returned to my computer to post the picture.

Anyway, nearly four hours later, here I am, tired and sore with a searing headache, appreciating my invincibility. Yes, God could end the life He gave me in an instant if He wanted to; but should He simply provide me with lethally dangerous surroundings, leaving my life to the chance of my own actions, with no intention of interfering Himself... well, let's just say I'm a survivor.

At last

...Or should I say, "Aaaaaaaaaaat Laaaaaaaaast!" After two years of obsessive anticipation, a hint of hope has presented itself. The Queen has returned. Considering today is Easter, Beyonce's return is a beautiful allusion to Jesus's resurrection--no blasphemy intended, I know B isn't X. But anyway, a few days ago a new Beyonce song leaked into the Internet: "Who Run the World (Girls)." At first the song was somewhat disappointing, entertaining of course, but it didn't showcase her incredible voice. Also she bought the music from a preexisting dance song, and I'm not huge on unoriginality or "sampling" (although this is not sampling, she literally took the entire dance song as-is, and sang over it.). I, at this point having no idea or assumption that a new album was on the way, thought to myself "I hope this is just some messing-around-experimenting-with-new-sound kind of thing and not representative of her next album." But it, of course, grew on me anyway and now I like it. This song was released officially some two days later, whether it was already planned to release then or if they had to release it because the song was already running on the internet, I don't know; but it was released as the opening single to Beyonce's NEW UPCOMING ALBUM.

WHAAAAT????! says I.
GoogleGoogleGoogleGoogleGoogle

Yes! So Beyonce--who is for some reason secretive about everything, never even mentioning that she had even begun to plan to think about planning to begin to think about beginning thinking about songs to plan to think about maybe recording--has already finished recording her entire album, which is set to release some time in June, which is aMAAAAAziiinng.
Anyway I have high hopes for this album. I won't hate the radio anymore because it'll be full of B. I can fill the last few megabytes of iPod space. And there had better be lots of songs with those incredible long vibrato "YOOoooOOooOOOoooOOooooOOoooOOOoooOOOoOOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOUUU" notes.
And Grammys. lots and lots of Grammys. By the way erryone, she (by the age of 28) won the 3rd most grammys of any woman in the world ever of all time. Jus saying. Annnywaaays.


And lastly. New album=New tour. Which means I shall be going. BFFs invited.

Nothing much,

So it's been over two weeks since my last blog post. I just haven't been in the writing mood much lately, and whenever I can muster any enthusiasm to write at all, it is directed at one of the thousand essays I have been assigned the past two weeks. I've been really busy with school; all of my instructors are giving a lot of this "end-of-the-term-but-not-quite-finals" work. And on top of all that, I am now back at work, serving ungrateful lawyers and snobby architects and businesspeople who feel the need to complain if I treat them any less than royalty. "Oh I'm sorry, I missed a spot shining your shoes. Yes master, I understand, that's six lashes, I'll go fetch the whip."
Anyway, there's no legitimate blog post today; I'm just affirming the fact that I am not neglecting this. I actually do have a lot to write about, like work, outdoors, tennis, friend drama, sushi, prostitutes...unfortunately I'm just not feelin' it.
But anyway, school ends in about two weeks, so I should be alright after that. Ciao.

Ring the Alarm!

Today a few friends and I were "working" in the little study room around the corner of my dorm's hall, when I decided a bag of popcorn would be the perfect addition to our little group. So I round the corner, go to my room, put a bag in the microwave, and set the timer to four and a half minutes. That seems long for popcorn, but my nine-watt cardboard microwave was assembled with Scotch tape circa 1957, so it's not quite as fast as the technologically advanced microwaves of the past lifetime. I didn't want to sit alone in my room, waiting for each kernel to individually burst into blossom while all my friends were watching hilarious Family Guy clips, so I figured it wouldn't hurt if I left and came back when I thought the popcorn was done--even if I was a few minutes late; what harm is there in cold popcorn?

A few minutes after returning to the study room , I decided the popcorn had more than enough time to finish, so I return to my room. I twist the doorknob, push on the door, and for a split second there was silence...then suddenly the piercing wail of an alarm stabs my eardrums, penetrating into the depths of my cerebellum! No light shone in the room except the small illuminated window of my Precambrian microwave displaying a black bag revolving in a cloud of smoke. I slap on the lightswitch to see the same gray smoke filling every crevice of my room, expanding slowly--too calmly for the panic at hand. In swift motions I open the microwave, almost ripping off its cardstock door, and both windows: giant panes of glass consuming the majority of my wall, yet prison-like restraints prevent them from opening beyond a two-inch crack. Then I grab a handful of ashes from the open microwave and rush out of the room.

Alarm still wailing, everyone in my hall stands on their threshold holding their door open looking left and right in confusion, all wondering whether or not to heed the shrieking warning and follow the fire exits to wait outside in their underwear, enduring the unseasonably cold night till the fire marshal decides the halls are safe to enter. Walking as fast as I can, breaking into small bursts of running, breathless from panic, I'm panting to everyone "It's okay! No fire, just burnt popcorn, relax!" Upon seeing the black fistful of smoke, their confused expressions quickly turn to smirks and relived chuckles, and as they retreat into their rooms, their hesitantly-closing doors allow to be heard the sound of their chuckles increasing to outright laughter.

I continued with my panicked run-walk, all the way to the end of the hall, flying down the stairs, managing to stub every one of my toes separately on each individual stair, and collide into the door blocking the bottom of the staircase with enough force to spring the air-pressure-slowed slab of metal against the opposite wall fast enough for it to bounce back and fracture my left elbow. I continued down the next hall, still motivated by the murderous screams of the alarm to go even faster than the light-speed at which I was already projecting myself. I finally arrived at the lobby where a dozen or so residents of my dorm were hesitantly approaching the exit doors in their sweats and slippers, dreading waiting in the arctic air for a safety approval. I slammed into the front desk, wedging myself between two inquiring students to explain the lack of danger to the dorm's authorities.

The obese deskman made a show of deliberately trudging to the alarm control box, pausing to sway his head around like a concussed owl and ensure he had the undivided attention of every student on campus, then slowly--ever so slowly--fingered each one of the switches, pausing between each one of course, before the alarm finally silenced. Its echo continued to resonate painfully in my ears, slowly transforming into Beyonce's "Ring the Alarm!"

What was once a lump of blackened, flaking popcorn bag was now just a gray stain on my hand and an incriminating trail of charcoal powder, leading all the way through the lobby, down the hall, up the stairs, through the other hall, and turning sharply under the door into my room. The residents in the lobby, whose numbers had multiplied during the fat man's long journey to the control box, all eyed me scornfully. They waited around awkwardly for some official release or announcement, till the manatee behind the desk slowly lifted his blubbery head and waited for all the cellulite in his neck to stop dancing. After that unbearably long period of time, he bellowed to the whole city that everything was in order, the misfit who burned his popcorn has confessed his retardation, and everyone could go back to their rooms and stop disturbing his McDonald's feast. Their scornful looks changed to sneers and sighs of relief. So, with my head down, I followed the masses back up the stairs hearing echoes of whispered profanities at the "dumbass" who can't even microwave popcorn.

I think it would indeed be worthwhile for me to take up the sport of manatee hunting.

Speak

Communication is instinct.

Shakespearean sonnets, battle cries, the Presidential address, an Oscar acceptance speech. All words. All language. Language: an intricate creation of mankind to recreate the creations of God. God created emotions, feelings, small instances in our day evoke countless ideas and emotions that are all God's creation. God also created the desire to speak. The desire to communicate. The desire to express the desires He had already instilled in us. God created our voices: our vocal cords, lungs, lips, tongues. God gave us mind. Intellect. With our intellect, with our voices, with our desire to speak, we created Language.
We turned sounds, syllables, shapes of the lip and flicks of the tongue, into separate words. Each word holds a meaning. Different words together hold different meanings. Words are categorized, given roles: nouns, verbs, adjectives, articles. Patterns of words are formed into sentences with structural laws. With these sentences, which are just words, which are just vibrations of the vocal cords and movements of the mouth, we make symbolism, metaphor, poetry, song. We've made meaning within a meaning of something that was only created to represent preexisting meaning. Anything--Everything can be explained, described. Writing: expressing thought with language in a permanent state, that can be preserved forever, known forever. An eternal thought, living beyond its creator. Reading: taking the thought expressed in writing. Feeling something someone else has felt. Understanding. Learning what someone else has discovered.

With all the basic tools God gave us, including the great desire to express, mankind has created--evolved--language. People often ask what is the greatest and most important invention or discovery to mankind. Some say cars, electricity, the printing press, refrigeration, paper. But really, undoubtedly, the most important invention of mankind for mankind, is language. What if all the electricity in the world suddenly disappeared forever? Well, gosh, that would be terribly inconvenient. Surely many would die. People would be angry, lost, terrified. But we've lived without electricity before. Hundreds of years ago.
Now imagine a world without language. No one could speak, read, or write. Natural, instinctive expressions like crying and smiling would remain. People could see basic emotions: anger, sadness, humor. But we can never say, and never know why. Why are you mad? What can I do to help? What do you want? None of that. We could move. Like punching people. But no sign language, no movements that represent words. No counting with fingers. Simple expressions, simple gestures. But no language. That is an unlivable world.

And so, I could drone on and on expressing my fascination with the simple notion of language. But the fingers of my only functional hand cannot keep up with my thoughts. So, the point... Silent treatment. Refusal to speak. Noncommunication. They all throw away the greatest invention, the greatest blessing, the outcome of God's greatest gift. They throw it away. Silence it. God blessed us with the opportunity--the ability--to work out our differences, to connect out thoughts and minds and understand one another. Refusing God's gift is a slap to His face. A refusal to do what He intended you to do. A terrible sin.

Speak! Listen! Not doing so is like living without a part of God.

Fever

Its 4:30. I should be waking up in two hours for a road trip with les amis to Six Flags. But instead, I'm down with a fever. And not the "Feva!" That Michael Buble and Queen B sing of. No. The freaking can't sleep-skin melts rocks to magma-sweating oceans-mouth is Sahara desert kind of fever. I am a generally hot person, with a metabolic rate of 1 million so I'm quite prone to fevers, but they don't usually try to ruin awesome trips!

I have to always be careful to drink enough water or I burn up, I've been hospitalized twice for fevers--one nearly lethal. I was covered in ice and given like eight gallons of cold saline IV. Bad bad day.

This is nothing like the whopping 106 and counting I suffered a few years ago, but its still freaking ANNOYING SINCE I KNOW I DRANK THREE LAKEFULS OF WATER HOW DA HELL A FEVA GONNA KEEP ME UP WHEN I NEED TA SLEEP!
Now I keep sneaking up in the dead of the night to get more water without waking up the house, and I've already consumed my weight in water the past hour, so I have to pee every five minutes. Miserable! My sweat has transformed this couch into a boiling waterbed, and this laptop is about to explode from water damage just from my fingertips.This is superserious.

TV

Whooo okay so I was imprisoned in tha house aaaan ma lil sista gon be trying ta play ma call a booty wiff me and she already has like a 2 inch TV, there cant be no sharing on dis, hell no. So i was like "you know what ima go buy you a new TV." She said "oh heeelll!" But den i thought to muhself and i thunk "whys im gonna buy YOU a new Tv. Why dont I buy ME a new Tv and gib you da old one!" Damn das i good idea i thought! So i's gone to tha intranet lookting for da screens and den I see some good ones dat is 32 inches and im like oh yeah dis good. but den i was like wait...i hab 32 inches now, why dont i get a bigger one, no point in buyin da sam ting i hab. So i was gon get a 36 inches. Den i saidt no bigger!. So i look for 40. den 42. den 46 and 47. den finally i was even tryin fo da 50s. I hadta check myself I was like oh HELL! Im bout ta spend a fousand dollas apfa da shipting and da taxting. Nuh uh sar! So i dropp down back to da 42 inches and was like Ok dis good. Den apfa hours and hours of searchting I foundt a great 42inch TV that is like hab good rating by awl da cussomas and has good vissions and is thin-not one of dem big fatass TVs that gonna take fo people to curry up awl da damn stairs at da ooo-tee dat give me da heart murmurs no sar. I got me a skinny tv. Its Vizio. And I's exciiiitted, its gon be hurr between Monday and friday dis week. Oh yesh I cant wait, ima beast all dees b*&#es at da call a booty.
Whoop whoop!

Hatred (Viewer Discretion Advised)

My original idea in creating a blog was to document the "spiritual journey" I was prepared to undertake. I have made many enemies and lost many friends in my lifetime--never from my own fault, but it still happened--and I wanted to rekindle these lost friendships. "Building Bridges" is what I planned on titling that blog--a fitting name to describe the opposing "burning bridges" I have been doing previously. I would revive slaughtered ties between myself and my enemies. One by one, gradually growing closer to the one I hate. But before I could rebuild a relationship from its ashes, I had to consider the meaning of "hate"--a word often thrown around in these kinds of situations. What is hate? Simply put, the opposite of love. Love is emotional...mental...physical. And I don't mean sexually. Most of you think you know what love is--whether or not you actually do doesn't concern me. But most importantly, after the emotional descriptions of love, its primary characteristic is that it is unconditional. Unconditional love is the only real love.

And so if hate is the opposite of love, then true hate must be emotional, mental, and physical. But most importantly, it must be unconditional. When one truly hates someone, he feels it deeply.

When in the presence of the object of his hatred, he feels angry and irritated. This person could be in a state of pure benevolence, but he still loathes it. The sound of it's voice, the simple sight of it's image, every one of its movement, gestures, expressions, ideas, words everything... everything makes him angry. Everything makes him irritated, makes his blood boil. Everything about this object of his hatred depresses him and makes him wish he could cut it out of his life forever and wish he could never have known it.

He takes joy in its misery. He senses triumph when it cries--when he makes it cry--or even better, when delivers a blow so harsh, it freezes pitifully, pathetic, fighting with all its might to restrain the expression of its internal torture. It looks down. But its not enough. He gets angry that it isn't retorting. Why would it give up that easily? He can't keep fighting if it doesn't fight back. Everything even its submission to his vicious tongue angers him. Nothing it does, nothing it can do can cure his hatred. Ever...
It crossed that line long ago... This hate is unconditional. It is undying. The object could beg...apologize...die. The hatred never leaves. Perhaps after many many years, after the object has been cut out of his life for a very long time, he will grow numb to the hate. Its not gone, just numbed.

This word, "hate" is tossed around too often in our lives. We use it to describe clothes, vegetables, and ex-girlfriends. But very few people have actually experienced the true gravity of hatred.

Hate is much rarer than love. People look for love. No one wants hate.
Whether the the subject or the object of hatred, it is a disease. An unconditional, undying disease that tortures both ends of the relationship. Cursed forever.

Da Blog

Alas. I have a blog. I have enjoyed the writing of many blogs from friends and such, and I decided it was time for me to give it a try. Readers--all four of you--be warned that I am a very inconsistent writer. I may post once a month sometimes and twice a day on other occasions. It all depends on the amount of free time I have and what dramatic events have recently occurred to inspire an outburst of my literary genius. Also the style and content of my writing will be inconsistent--some days I may write like Dante while other days I may sound like Jay-Z. Basically, just know the person ranting about Beyonce in ebonics and the one dishing out literature of Shakespearean talent are the same author: me.
Ultimately, I hope that by keeping up with a blog, I will be writing frequently enough to never again have to endure writer's block when my professors take steroids and make me write novels. I have no intention of ever pursuing a career in journalism; but I am an English major and I am often assigned essays and lab reports each demanding many thousands of words of my golden thoughts. Furthermore, I wish to possibly improve my quality of writing and experiment with different styles of writing and voices of expression--things you shouldn't ever worry about unless you're an English or journalism major.
And as a final note, I thoroughly enjoy criticism! Yes, my comments are hidden until I approve them, but this is mostly a precaution against the crazies. I have witnessed hatred and unnecessary profanity of extreme levels in blog comments, so I am just making sure I can weed those out before bad things happen.
So hate away, as long as you're not too horrible or embarrassing, feel absolutely free to attack my thoughts, ideas, writing quality, grammar--knock yourself out.

Peace.
-nayzarrrrrrrrrrr (roll the rrrrrrrr)