We Whistle Or We Work

A tweet. A twat.

The rhythmic hum of a baseball bat.

Tweetily dee. Toodle dum.

lips pressed too tight for words to come.

I hum. I whistle. I sing.

Lost in the tune I travel nowhere,

i am the note a sharp, to notice.

staying still with waiting work,

I am no dwarf, with no snow white.

only pages blank, begging to for the type

So I whistle. I hum. I sing to,

the rythmic hum of a baseball bat.

A Cold Body by the Warm Fire

A dog. A puppy. A soulless being under the cold dark rug. The fire crackles as the body lies limply breathing in the warm smoky air. I sit simply. The fire light licks my face as it stares off into a world that begs to be forgotten. You are seated comfortably in the depths of my gaze. You wish to dissolve, to burn away, soon you will be on unseen. I refuse. You belong to me. You are mine. I tried to hard to get you to stay. You didn't know I loved you. You didn't know that the stones, the flowers, and the thoughts I gave you were birds in cage with no lock. I had to give them. I had to have you. And I did.

But now you are gone and I sit alone by the fire. I have no dog. Not anymore. He was the first friend to say farewell. He cared. He loved me. He knew I was his. He was unlike you. I that you hear my words as you make residence in my head. You are a mere impression. A foot-step 100 hundred miles deep. They is no storm to wash you away. Please leave me. I don't need you to stay.. I only want you to.

The fire collapses due to it's own consumption. The light has faded. But your fluid image has become only sharper. I'm sinking deeper. Falling. Falling into my own thoughts. The fire needs another log. But the woodshed is outside. Out where it's cold. I will stay here. Warm in my thoughts. Your hips. Your lips. Your eyes, and all that lies between. I remember that night. I can feel the warmth of your bed. You got up only moments ago to freshen up. When will you return?

My Goals For Life (Stolen From a Ten Year Old)

My goals for life are to be an inventor, so I can help people. I want to be a multi billion aire. I want to own a mashion and acers of land. I also want to travel the world. I would use my money to help others. I would like to have a wife and no more then three kid. To do this I would go to colage.

The Void Between The Sheets

Progression. Progression. Progression... Never mind my point I should get on with the post. The marker has fallen. Fallen like the trillion-trillion snow flakes that paint a thick white coat on everything not in motion. My surroundings have been white washed. They lay an empty canvas waiting for the first foot-fall to began the masterpiece. I stay still inside my cavern hoping not to be washed away by a cold breeze. There are two white pages waiting for my markings. I refuse. They are my future, my destiny, but for now I will go ignored.

My focus has now become clear. I must back away from the teetering edge that is the unknown I. I have taken this progression thing to far. My plate is full. If I don't take a moment to digest I will gain nothing but a upset stomach. I am becoming the experienced. Not the wise-man. More aligned with the shell-shocked vet. I am only gaining speed. I am crush-collision. Spectators wait only for the crash. You await only the crash.

A beautiful butterfly flaps its wings. On the other side of the world a tree falls in the forest. But my keystrokes make a sound. Chaos is reason. One can always bank on the reliability of it being unreliable. This is not chaos this is a linear path with a determined vector. It is only the perpendicular that can set it astray. It is not like the parallel lines that lie depending on one's perspective. I hope that I have made one point or two or three. I guess it all depends on where you stand. I can not draft a plan to get out javascript:void(0)of this one, the subject remains to sketchy. We must wait to see what projection remain true. This is my final sentence it is the last piece of my perfect composition.

Aestetics Of the Sober Anibriated

The old me has long past. This is the new me, which stands upon the soapbox waiting to fall. It has been long since we last spoke (the past and present I). This will be a conversation quite so awkward. We have not spoke for quite awhile. "How is the weather?" Small talk will not suffice. "It has been quite warm for an Autumn afternoon. How is your family?" I will not recognize my previous face. I am the stranger. "They have been well." (I speak hardly knowing my own truth.) I know not who I have become. I am a figure yet undefined. I must walk away. Must walk away from this small talk that is forced through the shallow opening which is my blog. "It's been nice running into you but I must leave."

He waits. He is confused, but still he responds. "Goodbye". I return "Goodbye".

This emptiness filled with excitement is what I must face. It has never been that so much has been happening in my life. I am at an amazing school. A place I have wanted to be for three years. Yet I am still confused. Still frustrated. Still having troubles. I don't know what to do. But I know who I am? Am I a new person after all? Or just an object in a new setting? This is a big deal. There is beauty in the chaos. I wish not to allude to the fact that I am drunk, but rather to state it blatantly. I am drunk. It is the product of cheap whiskey shared with 1/3 of my roommates. Quad life leads to interesting happenstances. Such as me. Drunk. Alone. Pecking away at my keyboard. One would assume that this is a lonely moment. But what is closer than spending time with one owns thoughts? This is not the appropriate medium for this topic. Others will read this. This is for me. Me Only.

It is I who invited you in. Into the the gray matter between me thew calcium, magnesium, and chaos that my skull consist of. I continue to type. No longer am I alone. I am surrounded by several others yet I continue to type. I should probably stop. Lonely is no longer my adjective. I need to socialize. I need to interact. I need to.. Anyways I need to go. I will speak with you later. May I will not be under the influence. Maybe I Will. be my previous self. Regardless I want you to know I love you. You are my friend. You are my rock. You are me.

For My Father

The Stage

I stand upon the wooded stage,
ranting on my monologue,
that has worn out so long ago.

No one cares to listen,
No one takes notice at all.

Buried deep within the crowd,
float your captivating eyes,
I feel them turn my way,
I feel their attentive embrace.

This is a moment unexpected,
a moment I've been waiting for,
quite some time.

It is now that I shall take my leap,
leaving this stage behind forever,
I should have done it years ago,
but it is frightful with no one watching.

My body will soon leave this suppressive platform,
when I jump I hope only that you'll still be looking.

I am in mid-air towering above the crowd,
as a begin to fall I wonder why I have not done this sooner,
it feels so right, so perfect.

Then I notice you eyes have lost interest,
you brush your hair away from them,
and begin to leave.

With them you take your delicate arms,
that I was o-so hoping would catch me,
the arms that would hold me tightly,
and never let me go.

But you are no longer here,
and I shall eat my mistake/my destiny,
it is to late now to bail,
the concrete floor grows only nearer.

As I hit the ground it is not forgiving,
it knows not who I am or my intentions,
in knows only my skull.

My head cracks open with a loud bang,
but still I have gone unnoticed,
for hours I wounder where you have gone,
what better things you have than to catch me.

As the blood-pool swells with every beat of my heart,
I know that although you have damaged my head,
my heart has grown stronger than before.

The Rejection Letter

For the last week every morning I've sat on the porch.  Drinking my coffee. Waiting for the mail man to come. Waiting for the letter. Hoping to snatch it up. And hide it under the mattress. So that its contents may never harm anyone.

Today I didn't check. Someone else did. Now they hold it before me unaware that the only thing protecting me is the delicate envelope. They ask "Can we watch you, Open it?" Watch me? Does one watch as a H-bomb is dropped? The potential is massive. But is it not better to be handled with care?

I slowly remove it, being careful not to break the seal. It rest on my desk waiting for a few half-lives to pass. It's better to wait until the letter looses it's power. The sun fades away.

I open it. It has words. These words strung together determine my next year. I can't read it. "I'm sorry to inform you.." These words cut deep. The suspense has been terrible. It should never have been opened.  Left under the mattress it would have slowly turned to dust. Years later a breeze would blow it away, never to be seen by anyone. So yeah.. That's not what the letter said. That's what the letters in the small envelopes say. I knew right away. This letter came in the Big Envelope.

New York & New Perpective

Although my last few posts (the past 43) have been a little bleak. The truth is I'm too excited to contain my excitement any longer. I'm going to visit my amazing sister, Jaime, in New York.(Kim is amazing too, just not in NY.) Yeah. I know. Why would anyone want to expose themselves to such a place? Well. I see it like a bar fight. It'll be a struggle at first. But after that punch to the face, I'll find I have a new perspective. Even if it happens to be because I'm lying on the floor.

The Comfort In Not Knowing Who/When

A girl.  It always starts with a girl. A song. A book. A movie.  Always. Always about a girl.  There is a girl of mine.  Well she is not mine.  But she is the begining the, end, and the climax of what would be my song, my movie, my book.  She has ignored me.  I have a adored her.  Finally last night she looked twice when she saw me.  Why?  Why?  She was in no condition for love.  I have not truly loved for a while now.  But the night two days before tomorrow I took notice of the feeling I've been attempting to hide.  For after all if I love someone and they do not love back is it not better to ignore those feelings and keep my sanity?  She was in no condition for love.  But did it seep through her drunken stuper showing how she really felt?  She kissed me.  The kiss I've waited for all my life.  Since before she came into my life.  I truly do not know.  And in fact I'm not sure I should.  This is no the romantic tale of Romeo & his Juliet.  This is a tragic accident between to teenagers.  Where one feels that the other is "sort of, you know, maybe, totally, no kidding, for real, the greatest girl he has ever met"  and the other decided that the taste of alcohol is well complemented by the lips of a friend.  This is no love story.  There is no love, there is only an accident.

That being said it would totally kick some major ass if she did like me.

I must continue to write. Fuck that. I need to talk with someone. 

Licking The Sidewalk

Where am I going? I would like a sense of direction. Is it worth it? Really, is worth it bend down an get a taste of where I currently stand? A sweet taste might come of it. Or it could be the bitter one masochistic self so badly desires. Or will I end up just eating dirt. In reality there is little poetry to my dilemma. I have a week, 7 days, 168 hours, 10080 minutes, or 604800 seconds. To do what? To determine the outcome of the rest of my life. Well it isn't quite that serious. I mean to say that my transfer application is due to Bennington (If you actually read this collection of rants you'll notice they rejected me last year). So here I am trying again. This time I need to write two essays and navigate through the treacherous staffing which is MCTC. "Private College? Transfer out of state? Banana?" Well it's best I don't waste time complaining about not having time. Only 10065 minutes left. Wish me luck.

In Dedication to My Boyfriend

I start this post knowing that you, my audience, are not reading this. I know this because I haven't written in ages and what I have written hasn't been very exciting. If despite my boring topics and my lack of writing you are still reading this I feel a bit awkward. I assumed that this would be a private conversation between my nonexistent audience and myself. If you truly do exist then I'm afraid you're invading my privacy. But who am I kidding, your not reading this. No one is. And "No one" wants to know what I've been up to so I'll get to the point.

Like any punk-kid attending college I've had the past few weeks of school off. During most of this time I have accomplished nothing. But in my spare time I had a minor social-life, a ridiculously part-time job, and I spent time with family. My social life is on the ground bleeding from a hit-and-run that took place months ago. I'm afraid it might be terminal. It doesn't have long. But I cherish every moment we spend together. Right now we are hanging out with my friend Roy, and his girlfriend Stacy. (Yes, I know Roy and girl.) He's a great kid, but I'm afraid my social life might only have a few days left and I don't know if it wants to spend his last moments playing video games. It's been fun, but if my social life is going down I want it to go happily. It needs to spend time with those it loves.

Bus-boy! It sounds a bit like a super heroes side-kick. Half bus, half boy, all crime fighting machine. But atlas it is not so glorious. I clean up peoples tables after they finish eating diner food at The Bad Waitress in some-what uptown Minneapolis. The place is nice, the food is good, and the staff is great. The problem is I don't work much. 17 hours a week. Which means I'm not making near enough money to move out of my prison with no-rent and into an wallet-raping one bedroom apartment with rights. No freedom for me. Yet.. Enough about work.

My family. I have one too. I'm not just some crazy Satan spawn. Although that's not what my sisters would say. It is part of this family that I spent Christmas this year. In fact a vary small part. My sister Jaime and Kim were both in New York over the holidays. My Mom decided to take a shift at work for some guy so that he could see his kids. (Isn't she nice?) So it was just my Dad his brother, sister, mom and me. It was calm and sweet. Eggnog and green-chili. A holiday couldn't be more perfect.

My social life is calling for me and a feel I must leave... Bye.

I Am A Cold and Bitter Cup Of Coffee

I sit in my cramped 3/4 bedroom on my cozy 3/4 bed. The perched roof and my pile of unfinished homework are beginning to cave in on me. No worries though, my room is my sanctuary. From what, I don't know. There is nothing for me to fear outside my bedroom door. I live in a beautiful stucco house in south Minneapolis with The Werners, one of the nicest families I've ever met. They are in fact so nice that they offer to let me live here, eat all of their food, and ask for nothing in return. Yet I hide from them? No. I am not afraid of them. I only fear that I am not becoming myself. I do not live as an individual. I live as part of a family. A family that I do not belong to. This is what terrifies me.

I'm living here so that I can attend college. It is nearly the end of my first semester at MCTC. I am doing fine in all my classes. As far as I'm aware I have only A's in all my classes. I'm not sure how it happened. But it may have something with my complete and utter lack of anything to do. Homework ends up being the few pleasures of my monotonous days. Yet I am sitting here assignment in hand, avoiding completing it, like a diver conserving his last breathes of air. If I finish this assignment I might not have anything to due. And that would be far worse than not having it done. So I sit and think of all the things I could do with all the extra time I have. Then time runs out, and the only thing I have finished is a list of things I should have done before I had no time.

Although I have little to do, I have a schedule. I have school.. Work.. And Bodily functions.

School is a community college.. A good one, but a community college none the less. I like all my teachers, my classes are fun, and it doesn't cost me much. Everything runs so smoothing I often forget I attend school. I thought it'd become my main focus but I'm afraid it has just become a place I go to four out of seven days.

Work is even more of a joke. It's a nice place (The Bad Waitress) and a decent job (Buss Boy). But few hours (10 per week).

Bodily Functions have become a main time passer for me. The decision of what to eat, whether to shower, and the depletion of coffee are serious issues for me on a daily basis.

I have become so bored that my character has began to dissolve as if an ice cube in hot coffee. It will stay afloat for now, but it will not last for ever. If I am not faced with problems how am I to triumph over them. If only I were less fortunate. Poor, scraping by for rent, nearly begging for food. Maybe I would build a sense of who I am (or I might just starve to death). In the future I can only hope I will become the Cold and Bitter Cup of Coffee that I have always inspired to be.

Laying The Foundation the Tower Of Eden (AKA: The Paper)

It's a warm summer day. I'm standing next to Jaime, my eldest sister, atop the seven-story parking complex that provides short-term residence for cars visiting The Mall of America. She stands, smoking a Camel Red, asking me how life is going. I pause for a moment to think. Not much exciting has happened to me this summer. When things become dull and mundane, I spend my time hidden away beneath my skull, mulling over ways to change the the world without. This empty time has been made more plentiful by my decision to spend less time with my friends; it has been weeks since I crossed paths with any of them. But I am not entirely isolated.

Although the world around me slowly ticks away, carrying on with its same routine, inside my head synapses fire to form a thunderstorm of ideas that plead to be united with each-other and molded into something truly amazing. I'm sure as this is taking place internally (between my sister's question and my answer) Jaime is growing impatient. I am undoubtedly staring blankly at an endless void obstructed only by the second largest mall in existence .

The asphalt painted space around me sets loose a train of thought that heads towards all the great things that come to a city. In a city, there is efficient apartment housing, grocery stores, restaurants, and businesses all packed neatly into highrise-skyscrapers. So what is there that a small town has that a city doesn't? A long drive through rural South Dakota gives one the answer. Traveling west on I-90, you will undoubtedly tire from the scenery: when you look out the driver's side window you'll see fields of corn reaching to the southern horizon, when you look out the passenger side window you'll see fields of soybeans reaching to the northern horizon. Farms are everywhere, except in dense metropolitan areas. Food must be shipped cross-country to feed all the hungry little urbanites. It isn't feasible to build farms in the heart of a city. Is it? This question is on my mind as my sister ashes her cigarette and then returns it to her lips. Instead of answering her question, I pose one of my own. "If all other basic necessities have been brought to the Metropolis, why not the most basic: food?" She brings up the same pre-industrial age problem. "There isn't enough space." Using the traditional methods one would not be able to run a farm on a city lot between the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. To make this crazy idea work, farming methods would have to be rethought.

I challenge my imagination to find a solution to this difficult task. To my knowledge, nobody has attempted to do this on a grand scale. People have built community gardens on vacant lots and small greenhouses on rooftops. These are projects that are built as hobbies or in a community building effort. In order to provide a substantial food source a much larger and more efficient project would need to be built. Current food operations don't provide enough space. Thinking two dimensionally, we can only grow plants in the area provided by a plot's width and length. There must be a way to attain more space.

And then I realize the solution is staring me right in the face . Why would one construct a garden between skyscrapers, when they could build it inside one? After all, high-rise buildings were created to provide more space while maintaining a small footprint. I see one critical problem. Skyscrapers are designed for people. Regardless of what the building's purpose is, it is designed to bring people up to a certain floor and then return them to the ground. If a pre-existing building were used, equipment, produce, and workers would need to be transported using elevators. This model would require larger freight elevators that would take up much of the space required for growing. Also if one of these elevators broke down the whole operation would be put on hold.

I tell all this to my sister. She agrees with my argument and is as lost for a solution as I. The floor design of current skyscrapers is not adequate for mass production. We attempt to find the missing puzzle piece to this game of thought, as we both lean against the concrete guard railing, that keeps us from falling to our certain end. I realize how far up I've gotten myself. And then how I got here.

Jaime had no luck finding parking on the floor dubbed New York. So she had continued up the spiraling ramp towards Florida. Still no luck. Then we had past through Tennessee which was also full. Finally continuing up the circling path, we made it to the roof, Hawaii. I find my answer. Parking ramps wouldn't work if their layout was similar to that of a regular building. I can't imagine how cramped it would get if they depended on lifts. But someone had already found a way to make them work. By connecting the levels with coiling ramps it was made possible for one to freely drive to the top and then exit by continuing on their path.

If a skyscraper were to use a similar model, moving equipment and produce would be much easier. The trouble is in connecting the floors. A colossal parking ramp style skyscraper might work. But it's rather chaotic, I am seeking something more elegant. The idea comes to me rather simply. Instead of connecting with ramps, make the whole building one continuous sloping floor. As long as the slope is steep enough there could be head room for the story bellow. There would be no stories just complete rotations. After circling around 360 degrees one would have risen an amount equal to one story. All of this seems to be falling into place. It may be possible to create more usable space for agriculture within a city.

As the gears and cogs, set delicately in my cranium, spin wildly they began to slip (there's a missing part). How will these plants be grown? It's not common for anything more than a potted plant atop the desk of an office worker, to grow closed off from the outside world on the forty-second floor of a high-rise. This model would be taking a similar space and using it for a much greater growth. Traditional farms till, plant, and harvest on soil laden fields using diesel equipment. This method is unfit for a building. A building would collapse under such weight. Not to mention that a soil based operation would not produce enough food within the limitations of space inside a building. It's fortunate that I'm somewhat of a nerd, because I already know of an alternate method of growing produce. The answer here is hydroponics.

Now, what exactly is hydroponics? Well the word itself is Greek. "Hydro" of course means water and the "ponics" part is derived from the word "ponos" which means labor. This would have been an intelligent thing to say to my sister, but instead I find myself muttering something like, "What about growing plants with that hydro-thingy? You know where you can grow anything you want in water without soil or anything. And you can use lamps so they don't even need to be outside." Luckily she doesn't know much about hydroponics either, so she thinks it is a brilliant idea.

We had left some things out. In hydroponics you do grow plants in water, but not just water. First off, plants need support for their roots, some sort of medium (such as rocks, Leca, or perlite) to anchor to. Secondly the "water" they are grown in is full of l chemical nutrients that must be added to actually feed the plants. All of this so far doesn't interfere with my master plan. But there is one critical bit of information that could cripple my whole scheme. You can't grow anything you want using hydroponics. In fact the selection is rather limited. It wouldn't be possible to grow all the food for a city within such a structure. Thankfully I don't know this tid-bit of knowledge yet.

Jaime and I continue with our game of thought. And ignorantly being under the assumption that we had found the last piece to the puzzle we stepped back to see the whole picture. I gaze off into the distance again--but this time with intent. I imagine this theoretical structure is built there. As I point, tracing the outline, it begins to take form for my sister too. We are startled by the height of this figment towering over us. In Illinois the Chicago Spire under construction is going to rise two-thousand feet. My tower could potentially be that tall. That could mean two-hundred floors corkscrewing up. One-hundred acres of plants could easily be coiled inside such a structure. All of the space would be taken up by plants--which I come to later learn would mostly likely be tomatoes, lettuce, herbs, melons, or strawberries. These plant would be grown year round, with numerous harvests . And most likely with a higher yield and density. They could be harvested using machines that run on ceiling mounted rails. After being brought below street level they could be transported around the city using subway trains. All of this would run like clockwork.

The image of the building slowly fades as I ramble on about the benefits this type of infrastructure may give. It will bring food directly to the city guaranteeing freshness. This also cuts back on fossil fuel consumption. I once heard that 19% percent of the United States fossil fuel is used for the food system. The building itself could be constructed for efficiency. Solar panels could be mounted on the outside. A water tower could be place on the top to act as a reservoir for for the plants. Weather such as droughts or floods would not effect growth. There would be few insects or weeds, so pesticides and herbicides wouldn't need to be used. It would provide jobs. Such a model could be used in areas with a low amount of food, such as Dubai. It could be built in an aesthetically pleasing way that would improve the skyline. Such an idea could revolutionize the way we think of food.

My tangent, although valid, has gone on too long. My sister's cigarette had gone out long ago. And as she continues to agree with and rebuke my ideas I detect impatience. The sun has calmly sneaked below the horizon. I was so lost in conversation that I had forgotten why we came here. The third X-Men movie has just come out and we planned to see it at the movie theater packed in between the stores, the restaurants, and the indoor theme park. For some unknown reason she and I always go to see super hero movies together. It has gotten late and the movie is about to start. We walk down the stairs, go across the skyway, pass Hooters, and stop in front of the ticket booth. I pay for my ticket and skip the popcorn. The line for concessions is too long and I don't want to miss the credits. I plop down in front of the silver screen, lean back, and rest my feet atop the vacant chair ahead of me. It is time to put away my cape and thinking cap and let the X-Team have a go at saving the world. After all, redesigning the metropolitan food system can wait another day.

My Acceptance Speech

"I am proud to announce that coming September I will be attending a Bennington College. It is an amazing liberal arts school of no more that eight-hundred undergrad students. Bennington College is located on a quaint little mountain in North Bennington, Vermont. The college opened only seventy-five years ago. The land the school was built on used to be a farm. Many of the buildings still remain from the conversion. All of the literature classes are held in what used to be the main building. The admissions are kept in the old farm house. Many new additions have been added though. There are new student housing complexes, a new student center, and most importantly a new art center. In the art center there are three theaters, the largest spring dance floor in Vermont, and independent studio space for all students taking an art class. It is here that I hope to take architecture and spend my time revolutionizing the way I look at building design.

The student body consist of mostly females--a three to one ratio of girls to guys. This is due to Bennington's long history of being an all girls school. It wasn't until 1969 that they decided to start admitting males. I'm under the assumption that this unfair balance of girls to guys will work in my favor. I visited Bennington last fall. I was witness to many beautiful women in need of companionship. I feel that it is my duty to help them attain it."

-This is the speech I was hoping to give you.

Here is the truth-

Currently I am sitting at my desk (upstairs, on May 29th.) Outside it continues to rain. A chill breeze passes as I attempt to type what I'd rather not. The sad truth is that I was not excepted. It was a long time ago (in mid April) that I received my rejection letter. It was sort and curt. No fluff. Just got to the point. Bennington doesn't want me. It's disappointing not to get in to your first choice, but it's so much worse to not get excepted to your only choice. Yeah.. I sort of made the mistake of only summit my common application to one school. But I have a new plan..

School. Rather important. Although it is far too late to apply to any Private or State School, I can still go to community college. MCTC to be exact. Yes I know it's a bit less glamourous, but it's my only option. Truthfully though, I'm rather thankful that it has come to this. My whole life I've thought of school as something to feud with or as an optical to overcome. It has caused me much unneeded stress. In fact, right now as I write this to you I should be writing an eight page paper. A paper that is required for me to graduate. But once it is done I will be able to graduate. And then I will be free. Well sort of. Which gets me back to what I was trying to say. Being able to take a year off will be relaxing. And the credits I will receive will be far cheaper. Thus leaving me in less debt. My living arrangement makes thing even cheaper. I will be living rent free in Minneapolis with my good friend Zach Werner and his parents. All of this is great. But my hidden goal is to transfer out to Bennington or a different liberal arts school next year. Wish me luck.

I must cut this post short... If any of this is to come true, I will have to get to work on my ever so important paper. The topic of which is Commercial Urban Farming. If you don't know what that is, I guess you'll have to wait until my masterpiece of a paper is finished. I know. I know. Waiting sucks. But sometimes we all must succumb to the passage of time.

My Addiction

If you are planning to read an aimless rant about nothing (mainly me being lame) you will be highly disappointed. The issues brought up in this post will not be about lava lamps, tight pants, or maggots. This post will mean something. Everything. It will reinvent your view on what is important. Orphans, wars, and drowning polar bears are of no concern. These issues are too small; they are hardly worth mention. I'm here to cover what matters to me, and therefore to everyone. Now without delay, I will bring you the body of my ever-so important rant.

The consumption of drugs can be dangerous, even lethal. People die every day, overdosing; after deciding that their short stack of pancakes would taste far better if they sprinkled a little bit of heroin on top. Only to end up downing a whole gram, completely forgetting about the bacon and side of over-easy eggs. Others, while participating in drinking games chose to snack on pills of adderall in attempt to ensure their victory. These "victors" are found the next day dead on the floor, after their heart could not decide if it was supposed to sleep or to dance.

My problem is far more concerning. My addiction will never kill me. It is not stoppable and everyday it grows stronger. Soon it will be it that consumes me. Morning, day, and night I am kept awake wondering if maybe just a little more might make everything all fall into place. Maybe everything will be better. But I know, not so secretly, my life will stay the same.

It got worse no more than a month ago. Nothing big happened in my life. There was no traumatic event that pushed me over the edge. I just started to become a more heavy user. There was I time which I just did it socially. Me and some friends would pool some money together to get a little bit. Then we'd huddle in corner or under bridges, so we could do it in our own way (some preferred to dilute it, but I have always taken it straight.)

After awhile I came to enjoy it more and more. I found myself coming home at night, only to hide in my room to quench my thirsty addiction. The good thing, or maybe the curse, is that I will never run out. I will always be able to score some more. It was a couple weeks ago that I decided to bring some paraphernalia to school so that I could be on the stuff even when I was in class. The piece sits calmly on my desk. Few people even notice, and those who do rarely know what it is.

I have a few friends that join me in this activity. But others are disgusted by it. My habit changed my behavior, stained my teeth, and it's taste still lingers on my tongue. Days that I do not get my fix, I suffer from headaches and sleepiness. Despite this, I'm not sure I want to change. I know that sounds bad. But I think it's true. As long as I keep it up I should never suffer from it's side effects. I've found myself able to accomplish more when I am under the influence (which I am as I write this). I have also become more conversational at social events. In fact I find myself not able to stop talking. Which is what I must do now. For when this chemical is in my body it makes me want to write. I have already said too much. And unless I stop now, I may never stop.

There will come a day that I will find it necessary to go cold turkey. But until then I will continue to consume and to write. Curse this liquid dependence, that I have come to call "coffee".

If Sadness Was a Piece of Hard Candy (Taken From Long Ago)

I have not had a new thought for a while now. Nor has anyone I know. The river which carries thoughts to my small village has long been dried up. We live here on this barren land. Without thought or idea. Exiting on instinked and routine. Living a rather mondain life. We only wait for the rain to come. It will come cascading down from the mountains flooding our patties and rejuvinating our village. Hope has run out a long while ago if only we had hope. We live like zombies. Never thinking, rarely speaking. Carring out our daily task never straying from what we had done the day before. We use to have philosiophers but they have all withered away. Every once in awhile a cloud passes over but no one ever takes notice. Sand covers our streets, our homes and our hearts. I no longer know weather I'm alive. If I were, I'd wish to die, but that isn't part of the routine. So I live.

Writing. Writing. (Written Awhile Back.)

Writing. Writing. Writing. My mind is a blank slate encompassing my body. I sit frozen staring at my computer screen. Every click of the keyboard reverberates in my skull. My thoughts lay dormaint in a crevase not seen for eons. I only wander what it is like for the charecters in my story. Are the dissapointed in me for failing them or have they been the one all alog conspire to freeze this plot so that they will never meet what was meant to be. Think. Think. I have chosen not to attempt to write untill my thoughts flow onto the page peacefully, of their own will, like that of a cascading waterfall. They will not be forced, backed into a corner, through mind maping and charecter analis. Not knowing what the ending leads one to feel that you may destroy what you have already written. I know my ending, its a master peice, but getting there has become a feet unsurmountable to meer mortal.

My story start like this.

.

It's a period. They are used to state the ending of an idea. I have chosen to place it at the begening. What does it mean? Well I have decided to leave that up to you. I know. But does that what I think it mean is the only answer? Yes. But you can still think of something regardless of the fact that it's bound to be wrong. After that artistic concept I chose to take the story to a mind blowing level. I leave the next 42 pages blank. Then I in the center of the 43rd page is the main charecters name. Although it is written in brail. And this is where I've stopped. I have the best story (or close to it) ever written this week. I'm thinking of making it a trilogy. Originally this was not my plan. I thought one long book with a rather large appendisies would be substantal. 3 is after four and before six. (That's depending on the relm in which you concepulize rational figures, such as numbers.)

You might be starting too see how this book of mine has come too a stand still. I could see how it migh be hard to conseptulize my highly sapirior concepts. But bear with me I due not find myself better than the average person, just my ideas. I write this to you hoping that one might become able to reach the same tear on the mountain of creativity. That's enough of my ideas. Back to my writer's block.....

College?

So anyways, I'm not sure how interesting this post will be. The context of the post is going to consist of numerous details on my sucking at applying to college. If thats your sort of thing read on. If not. You might as well read something else. Like me sucking at: parking, shopping, summers, act, life, lava lamps, and plenty of things. Now to continue with the body of the post.

The time is 10:01pm. I am sitting at a booth inside a diner called the Bad Waitress. Located in Minneapolis it is not far from my sisters close friend's , Amy, apartment. Amy is a very pretty girl who with short dark hair, 21, skinny, but most of all pretty. She lives up here with her boyfriend Nathan (tall, dark hair, nice guy, quiet). They are both great people, except for the fact that they have stolen Jaime (my twenty-two year old sister, with curly brown hair, brown eyes and red tights). They have taken her across the street to a bar called Azia. All of this would be fine, but my sister is to be helping me with my Common App essay. The essay in which I am currently at a loss of words. Again this would be fine. If it wasn't that the essay needs to be sent by the third of January. It is to be sent to my college of choice, Bennington...

I know I could continue on this rant, but I just got a surge of motivation for my essay. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it..

Fifty Dollar Parking Spot

Today I woke up the day after our first snowstorm. Slowing arising from my insufficient slumber. I stayed in side delaying the inevitable. Reading. Waiting. I finally got up the courage to go outside to free my car of the snow that must have fallen on it overnight only to fine in snow-locked from the road it was once parked on. It must have been around 4:27, or so the ticket wedged neatly in my driver's side door reads, when a snow plow passed encasing my car in over a foot of compacted snow. Wade through the snow drift and force my car door open and collect the ticket, to whom which my misery is home. I am to be charge $50 to shovel my car onto the road. Starting my beast of a car to turn on the heat and blast the defroster will my my task somewhat less tiresome.

I leave my car and attempt to enter my friend, Max Pascall-Zimble's, new home were I stayed after moving his belongings from Lakeville down to Northfield. I turn the knob but it refuses to give. The door must be locked from the inside separating me from my bag and my warm mittens, the mitten I will need to shovel my way out. I go around to attempt to enter from the garage, but it is also locked. Max and his whole family had already left taking the keys. I return to my Oldsmobile grabbing the shovel on the way out. Receiving help from Allen, who's Blazer is in the same condition as my car, it only takes a few minutes to free the snow around my car. I am left alone to drive myself out. Throwing my car in to first. Then reverse. Back it to first. I inch my way out of my poorly chosen parking spot. Finally being free I have time to notice how much my hands sting from the cold. I wait for Allen to free himself. Then drive away.

Now I am at Blue Monday, writing this pointless post about how I was slightly inconvenienced by a pile of snow. This amount of snow was nothing, more will come. I will be come stuck over, and over again. Maybe going deep into the ditch, where it will take more hands and time to get out. I glad the snow has come. But having spent my last two dollars on a cup of coffee, I am not looking forward for the service charge for being buried by a snow plow.