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Location: Jacksonville, North Carolina, United States
Interests: Video Games. Intellectual conversations. Awkward looks. MSN Messenger. Military. Music. Lots of Music. Electronics. Cars. Women. Intellectual women. Good looking, intellectual women.
Expertise: Knowing everything about everything you don't need to know.
Occupation: Marine Corps Corporal
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|After a long blindingly bright supernovae exploded in the small window of my space station, I sit wondering what my parents are doing currently... wondering where Sheldon has gone to, and wondering how I got here, traveling many parsecs through the tumult of unknown space as the first journalist in a long line to experience the oppression of Captain Tim Baley, the horrible hording whore of the seven solars, who has taken me and his crew through the space clouds of sector R, the dehydrated salt flats of region 7, and explained his hair cuts with amazing accuracy. |
We're far from home, indeed, but what IS home? Is this our home we hope for? Are we looking for a home, or for somewhere to pin on a cork board marked as home in the stellar blackness and emptiness of outer space. Timo seems to think it's funny that usually our targets are marked by throwing a dead hamster through a series of tubes, flames, and then exploded by rogue microwaves, each droplet of the pending explosion marking the unmade map for where we're going, each a different place, each a different time place and day.
The Russians can't find us here, Toto. There is no place like home when there is no home. But what IS home?
|You wake up in a ebony tub, laying in something that almost has the consistency of semen, and almost the feeling of milk. The heat licks all around you, screams emanating from your own mouth. You feel them through your vocal cords, you feel the hot air exiting, but then you realize you're the one who is melting. Your consciousness is just another phenomena that no one will ever know about.|
A giant ivory hand decends upon you from the limitless air above. Suddenly, a spark of hope fires through your almost vapory brain that you're going to be saved from this skillet of death. Flinging your hands at the hands of this unknown god, you feel yourself picked up, then slammed back down, drowning in your own self.
Flickers of images pass by your eyes (or is it your eye?) of the hand extending it's fingers, mushing you into the scorching hot bottom of the tub, then lifting you up again, then smashing you back down. By now the milky semen has dissapeared and in it's place is a sizzling mess of... marshmallows?
Passing out, your poor, lifeless body is shuffled out of the pan by an unknown force, but, by now, you fear it's too late... waking up in a cool place, you're chopped in half and you end in a cool watery grace after being impaled by sharp knives.
Is this why we want reincarnation? So we can be born out of an egg and die at the hands of ourselves?
|Writing a title before writing a work is like naming your car when you first see it. Just like you, and just like these words on a page, your car has a personality too. Some people choose to name their cars. I, ironically, do not. But, I know how my car is. I know the sound of 6500 RPM's in which it shifts into second gear, I know the smell of the burning oil it exhibits when I'm stuck at a stoplight. Sometimes I love the sound of it puttering away underneath my hood as I listen, silently, looking over into the car next to me, wondering if they've ever known escape from their dreary lives.|
Escapism. It's quite a rush when you discover yourself at a barnes and nobles, knowing that you can't buy any of these books because you already have too many. Or that split second when you're staring at yourself shaving on a mid-Monday-morning, quickly getting ready because you're late for work. Or when, that song you've loved pulls you back from dirty socks, cum-rags, and what you've been doing with your life, only to find you're still the same person you've been since high school.
It's hard to write. It's so hard to come up with phrases in your mind at night when you're trying to sleep, thinking about what you can add to the infinite void of the internet universe. And there's so much more to discover.
Who are you?
Why do you come here? Why do you read my thoughts and figures? Are you pretending to be someone you are not?
I try to see myself as a simple person, but instead I come with another "S" word: Special.
I don't always understand the words out of your mouth. Don't yell at me. Don't make me think you're as dumb as I seem to you by belittling me. Because I know under your hard, stubborn shell, you're really as dumb as you think I am, and I overtake you like a sparrow and a snail, gobbling up your inferior intellectuality and spitting you out from my behind.
What's your motives behind life? What's your reward system?
Making people happy is my reward. I am happy when you are happy. And I am concerned when you are down. Especially those who I care about, but not always those who care about me.
To find yourself. To find what you're made of and what makes you tingle. What makes tears from your eyes flow down your cheeks silently as the movie moves on. Finding your niche. Finding you out there in other people. Taking their attributes. Adding them to yours.
That's why we live. I live for you. I live for trees and cars and happy things. Sometimes I live for crude, animalistic things, but that is what nature has made us for. Nature didn't make us for cars and computers. Nature made us for reproduction, evolution, and life, for the sake of life.
But, why are we here? Is it a mistake? Is it a consciously made decision? I'm not saying I'm 100% right, and neither am I saying you're 100% wrong, but, sooner or later, death will show you the answer to life, but, by then, it will already be too late.
Therefore, we're never going to know the answer.
|Hello. Welcome to my night. |
Lay yourself down on your pillow, take a few deep breaths, let today slip through your mind, and let thoughts of tomorrow join you.
Pick up a book, read a few pages, perhaps a few chapters if you feel antsy, letting the pages flip through your fingers, the familiar scent lift you, the words recreate, your mind a stage for massive space battles, romances upon rolling hills, dark alleys and robotic treasures.
Push the book away, turn off the light, check your alarms, cover tightly. Don't want to wake up in the middle of the night cold.
Turn to the side, then on your belly... put those pillows on your head, and listen to the soft drone of the world around you, letting yourself drift off into the forever meadow...
| Ahh, the great glory of a blank prompt. So much can happen here. 26 letters of the alphabet, spaces, and the ten numbers on a keyboard, along with some mismatched symbols all lead to something: a story, a truth, a beginning and an end.|
And yet there's nothing to write. Nothing that I could write. Nothing that could sound as great as a song. As magical as the hum of a string orchestra, the deep bass encircling your head, the high strings taking you off, melting you to the air, feeling as if you belong...
But it sounds so good in your head as you read in that voice that represents me, or who you think I am, or who you know I am. Or you could take this as being written by Morgan Freeman, George Bush. And number of voices that read to you in your head, that stroll along, banter, YELL AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS to you. YOU. In your head.
No, you're not crazy. Well, you might be. But that's okay. We're all sane to ourselves. Things make sense in their own crazy little ways. That's all that matters. To us. But, being human, and having humanity, we care about others. And that might be why I write to you on this seemingly endless map of white. Perhaps.
Nothing is really as it seems. Everyone has their secrets that defy everyone else. We keep them concealed to everyone around us never to be revealed, and if they are, we panic. But life goes on.
I really don't know what to write about, but I just write... as you see before you. Writing writings. Right. Left. Sideways vehicular trafficking dog. You could make a story of that one. You can make a story of anything. you. YOU. Always you. And me. All of us. Together. One place, one world. Ahh.