Everyday Musings

Part 5 (Page like 6 and 7 out of 40)

2010-09-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

Alright everyone, sorry about the length of time inbetween this post and my last. I've been busy working out the job situation and I'm pleased to announce I am currently employed again; woo for not starving! Alright folks, as a token of my deepest appologies I'll give you a bit more of the story then I usually do in one post...enjoy!

“Seriously, fuck my life,” I froze, waiting for my eyes to adjust, hoping that those bastards couldn’t see any better in the dark than I could. As my pupils widened I realized that there were moon windows and a faint stream of moonshine was flowing into the building. I literally tip-toed to the water, and quietly began to fit as much water as I could into the bag. I kept glancing around; there was no blood over there too meaning my theory of what happened was more than likely right. The light from the moon was reflecting off the polished linoleum, and it freaked me the hell out. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, something shifted, “fuck fuck fuck,” I grabbed the shotgun and placed it in front of me as I finished loading the water. The bag was impossibly heavy now and I was leaning over just trying to carry it and shoulder the weight. Something else moved across the aisles, I knew it had to be one of them, but what the hell were they doing? I started to panic and forgot about my original escape route and just started heading down the main aisle to the exit instead of circling around. I realized my mistake as I arrived at the row of registers and began to head for the exit. I heard something fall; I realized later that they must have knocked over some cans of food as they tried to all come at me at once. I grabbed the gun out of the bag and put it underneath my right arm and began to walk backwards dragging the bag in front of me, big mistake. It jumped onto my back snapping at my head, digging its fingernails into my arms. You see, I couldn’t smell them then; they had just turned and hadn’t begun to rot. I felt the sticky mess of blood on its hands as it continued to latch on to me, trying to bite me. It swung its feet around my waist and I felt its muscles working as it dug its heels into my body. The gun was still underneath my arm, the zombies grip on me held it tight. I tried reaching for it but I could only move my forearms while at the same time constantly whipping my head around avoiding its foul breath and bloody teeth. I used my right forearm and kept slapping the barrel of the gun, slapping it down trying to angle it so I could pull it out from my forearm. There was a wall close so I started backing up as it continued to thrash, I knew it was close so I launched my body backwards towards the wall slamming it and myself into the wall. The impact caused it to loosen its grip while it tried to move around and take a bite. I grabbed the gun and felt the quickly-becoming-familiar feel of the trigger against my index finger. I angled the barrel against my shoulder and fired. The sound was deafening and my hearing disappeared as the shell hit the zombie in the shoulder and throat. It lost its grip and I staggered up, never letting go of the gun. I pumped it and fired again, this time its head opened up like a deep red firework against the night sky. Its body convulsed for a second then ceased and lay there, dying for the second time that day. I quickly pulled out four shells from my pocket and reloaded, pumping the gun hoping I didn’t need it. I grabbed the bag and started to try and run and drag it at the same time; the blood on the ground helped it slide along. The lights came back on, and then I saw them, three of them coming towards me, trying to run but lack of balance made it look as if they were jogging with stiff knees. None-the-less they were fast and I only managed to get a round off that hit one in the right shoulder ripping its arm off, but it kept coming. Before I could get another round off the fastest one lunged at me and I lunged to the left. I slammed the same elbow, my left elbow, on the ground I had earlier and screamed out in pain. All three moaned back as the other two caught up and turned to lunge. I pulled the gun up, pumped, aimed, and destroyed the entire skull of one of them, its knees collapsed and its body feel with a soft thud, cold juices leaked out of its throat. I figured I had fractured my elbow, I could barely move my left arm and when I did pain shot up form my elbow to the shoulder. The other two, oblivious to their counterpart continued to come forward, silent and not breathing, each foot step pounding on the ground like my heart in my chest. My body was covered in blood and I tried to crawl away until I ran into the greeting calf. They were almost on top of me now, they both lunged and I kicked one in the face. As my shoe made contact it continued to try and bite me, ripping a chunk of plastic out of the sole. The other landed on my leg and began clawing at my calf, trying to get to the meat. I brought the barrel down on its head, but the thing didn’t even notice. So I brought the end of it to its skull, wondering if it felt the heat of the barrel against its cold flesh. I pulled the trigger and the skull looked as if it had imploded as the hot metal pushed the bone into the neck. Its cold bodily juices leaked onto my legs and into my shoes. The third one was still biting at my shoe, and had begun to move towards my ankle. I kicked it again and again, and it held fast biting and scratching. I pumped the gun, and brought the barrel closer to the back of its skull trying to avoid shooting down and into my foot. I pulled the trigger and the shell ripped the back of its skull off, brain exposed but no blood came out. The thing continued to try and bite for a few more seconds, until the exposure to air destroyed the brain and it ceased to exist, for the second, the final (hopefully) time. I propped myself up on my right arm, trying not to pass out from the pain and from the smell of hot metal cooking flesh and boiling bodily fluids. I quickly realized I was out of shells and reloaded, four more in, and another pump. I got up, as fast as I could and grabbed the bag, it was time to leave.

Part 4

2010-09-21T13:50:00.001-07:00

I sat up, sputtering and coughing trying to hold down whatever was left in my stomach. Not the same could be said of the…re-corpse, the viscera of its abdominal cavity lay hanging, growing even colder, and rotting just as fast. I sat there trying to stand up, trying to stop shaking, trying to keep it together. The body lay there, leaning against the case, as if we were buddies, sitting and chatting face to…uh chin. The body fell over and I jumped, scared that perhaps it wasn’t finished with me yet. That made me move, those evil howls continued and the screams of the dying continued to reverberate off of the metal ceiling. I crabbed walked back, never letting go of the gun, never taking my eyes off of the slumped over torso. My clothes had turned into a sponge; I felt the absorbed blood travel from the cotton in my pants to the surface of my skin, dirty, cold, and sticky. I bumped into the camo bag, and I stood up, shaking and wet, alive but no longer living, existing. I shuffled a few more cases of shells into the bag and zipped it tight, realizing I had to take the same way out as I had come in, and I could only hope my car was still there. I grabbed the bag and slung it over my shoulder, stuffed my pockets with shells and reloaded the gun. I needed water, I had food in the house but I didn’t have any bottled water, now I needed as much as I could handle; so much for going green, in the end we all choose our own lives over that of the Earth. The screaming had stopped so had the blood coated vibrations of rotting vocal chords, “fuck me,” either they were all eating, or they had finished their meals. I figured out where I had to go; down past the electronics, past the shoes, through the baby clothes and into the aisle with all the bottle sodas and waters and whatever type of drink you could bottle. I decided to take the route around the counter since the slumped over chin proved that jumping the counter would probably be a mistake. I tried to avoid the glass while circumventing the blood painted on the floor. The bag was a lot heavier than I thought it would be, I was already out of breath and was only just passing through all the toys. I passed by the aisle with the gargling woman, but she was gone. Only a pool of blood and some strips of clothing remained, “that can’t be good.” I continued on, no time to pause and no time to think I just kept pumping my leg muscles and fighting my already aching back from the bag. At the electronics the lights above flickered for a minute, like a cheap strobe light at some haunted house. I passed by a rack of batteries and grabbed a couple packs of AAs and AAAs along with some C batteries. There was no blood on the floor back there, it seemed that those monsters hadn’t been there that long and when they did show up everyone must have tried running out towards the doors, “would I have done the same?” Everything was still on, and the two rows of TVs were looping some mix of clips that supposedly showed off the “true experience of HDTV,” the irony in that, nothing could be as real or as “true an experience” as those fucking things going for a 97 degree chunk of flesh. The set up displays of speakers were playing one of those collections of nature sounds, I remember wondering if all the way over there in the jungles the same crazy shit was occurring. I crept past the TVs and was serenaded by some tropical bird as I found myself navigating the shoes aisles. I remember wishing I had more room, more strength; an extra pair of shoes might come in handy. But I couldn’t waste the time trying to find a pair of shoes that fit and were comfortable, no time, even when the world was ending I still had no time. The cheap, thin carpet muffled my footsteps as the baby clothes area came into view and then semi-hid me as I continued shuffling towards the bottled water. I saw the aisle come into view, there was no short supply since there was no time for people to loot or stock up supplies, I glanced at my watch, and then the lights went out.

Part 3, (Yay Wal mart!)

2010-09-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks, I was out of town for the weekend and didn't get a chance to post, here's the continuing story of Alan.

In front of me, two men were busy eating the large intestine of a Wal-Mart employee. They were hunched over the body, squatting over the corpse devouring the intestines like a family does a turkey at Christmas dinner. I began to back up, trying not to make any noise as they feasted and dined. I made a sharp left and ran around the two diners, passing a woman lying their bleeding from a bite mark to her throat. She didn’t scream, she couldn’t, there was a hole in the throat, all she could do was gurgle and gargle her own blood, weakly reaching towards me. I was panicking, I couldn’t help her, I couldn’t do a damn thing, and I had to get to the sporting goods area. Running, I tripped and I cracked my head against the hard floor, I lost consciousness for about 10 seconds. I woke up to the sound of screams, human screams, blood curdling, life ending screams. I ran for my life to the guns, and I made it. The case had already been smashed open, but no gun was missing, blood and scraps of skin clung to the shards. I grabbed an 8-gauge, pump-action shotgun and began to search for shells. I grabbed a camo-bag that was on the shelf behind the register and began to stuff it with cases of shells, just cases and cases. As the bag began to be filled I heard a moan close by, and a shuffling of feet. The moan began to rise in pitch, the shuffling growing louder, and faster. I looked up from the bag and through a kaleidoscope of various shades of red on broken glass I saw it coming for me. I paused, the totality of the situation hitting me in the face as the thing honed in on its prey. It was 4am; I was covered in blood and trying to pack in as many shotgun shells and bullets as I could into some hunting bag. I had been greeted by a decapitated and gnawed on calf, I had watched two men eat a woman’s intestines; I had watched a woman choke on her own blood and had been knocked out after slipping in a pool of blood. And now, now I was about to be attacked by a fucking…ZOMBIE! But that was as far as I got, before the thing began to run after me, when it bared its teeth like a rabies invested dog about to kill. I opened the barrel of the shotgun and loaded four shells and slammed it shut. As it clicked shut the zombie broke into a sprint and lunged over the counter.

I began to shift my legs, getting off my knees and trying to stand as I chambered the round. A jolt of ticklish fire shot up my right leg, “fuck fuck shit” my leg had fallen asleep while I was packing the shells. I saw, or rather heard the creature jump over the counter, its flesh scraping and peeling off on the jagged edges of glass. It screamed at me, beginning as a low hiss and crescendoed as a high pitch growl as it landed on top of me. As it breathed out, freshly acquired blood sprayed into my face, the smell of bile and feces poured from its mouth. I punched it in the face, twice, three times and then it snapped at my jaw. I tried shuffling back but its body weighed me down, continuing to snap at me as I pushed and squirmed. It snapped so hard it chipped its upper front tooth on its lower front tooth; it fell onto my arm, stuck there for a moment, clinging with the glue of drying blood and saliva. The shotgun was lying next to me, hugging my thigh as I fought back the bloody jaws. The zombie rose up, about to use its shear mass to overpower me and give it the momentum to tear into my jugular. But I was faster, I snatched up the shotgun, pulled it up as it began to fall its mouth open and saliva running. Its jaw dropped down onto the barrel, lips wrapped around the barrel, gnawing on the metal shaft. All the while it continued to scream, muffled ululations pressing against the unfired shell. I pulled the trigger and screamed out as my elbow slammed into the ground from the report, “your meal-ticket has been punched motherfucker!” Its skull exploded, a shower of crimson and midnight sprinkled the area, a collage of shattered glass and brain splayed the gun case, the new campaign for gun safety.

A continuation of Alan's story

2010-09-17T09:30:00.001-07:00

I screamed and slammed on the breaks, paying no attention to Steve Miller singing, “abra abra kadabra I wanna’ reach out and grab you,” through my speakers. The person just stood there, staring at me, a dull look in its eyes. It was a teenage girl, probably 17 or 18, wearing jeans and a band shirt, all adorned with blood. As I went for the door she took one last glace and lumbered off into the darkness. I sat there, trying to piece together what I saw, looking into the night for something to explain her condition. And then suddenly something hit the side of my car, “thud thud thud,” something banging against my drivers side door. I hesitated, inching my hand to the cab light switch, afraid and mentally paralyzed and yet my hand continued to move. And then, right as the light switched on she slammed her head against my window and it cracked and blood flowed into the spider web cracks. “Bam, bam, bam,” harder and harder she slammed her body against my door, growling and clawing at me, craving me, hungering for my flesh. I sat there and watched in macabre interest and a paralyzed fear as she continued to ram my car, no sign of pain, no sign of…life. I began to scream, to yell louder than I had ever yelled before, and as I yelled I slammed on the gas pedal, and sped away. In my red taillights I saw her chasing me; showered in red she ran and ran until she simply couldn’t keep up. I continued to drive and scream for about five minutes. I began to feel cold and found it hard to breathe; I pulled over, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I sat there hyperventilating, the cab light on, shaking, as Steve continued to serenade me, “abra abra kadabra….” I began to calm down, not relax, but calm down. I couldn’t figure out, or decide what exactly had just happened. All I knew was that I needed a gun, and I needed food, and I needed to get home. As I entered town it was apparent that something was happening, the film had been replaced by mass hysteria. Cars overturned, people screaming and running through the streets. One woman was running down the street her scalp bleeding because something had managed to pull out half of her hair. Sirens could be heard throughout the city along with gunshots, a never ending volley of gunfire. I forsook my boycott of Wal-Mart and managed to park close to the entrance and ran into the store. Blood painted the floor, and all that was left of the nightly greeter was a cheap sneaker and part of her calf. I took one look and vomited all over the floor, a mixture of the earlier night’s dinner and stomach bile combined with the blood on the floor. Everything was on the floor, food, candy, everything, toys strewn about the entire store, painted in red. I began to run towards the outdoor section, almost slipping in the red muck but managing to keep my balance. I ran past an aisle with a bunch of towels where a middle-aged woman sat there, crying. She was hurt; it looked as if she had been attacked by an animal, as if she had been mauled by a dog, the image of the bloody girl flashed into my head. As I continued to run her sobs turned into screams and wails and I heard the same low pitched moans and screams that came from that girl, I quickened my already sprinting pace. As I rounded the corner where the electronics and toy sections intersected I froze.

"The Beginning" of the book

2010-09-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

Alright folks, this is the beginning of the story, right after the intro finishes. Enjoy, let me know what you think, and if you want MOAR!

It was a cool summer night; I had the windows open and was naked except for a pair of boxers. I had a wife, before she decided to start fucking the manager at our local Wal-Mart, her name was Melly. She had gotten a seasonal position there the Christmas before, trying to make some extra money for presents and such for our boy, Nathan. Not like we needed the extra money, I am, well I was a psychologist, and a pretty damn fine one if I must say so myself. Wal-Mart took my wife and she took Nathan, while I got the house. I had only found out about a month before, and I had just started to become accustomed to sleeping alone, in a house devoid of any breath except my own and the whispering wind. Nathan was only 6, not accustomed to talking on the phone; my last conversation with him was at the court meeting in which the sexist judge sided with the power of estrogen and everyday low prices, instead of reason and logic. Oh well, that’s that, and I can only hope Wal-Mart man is some torso rolling around in the dirt; I can only pray Nathan is alive, if only praying seemed as effective as a round to those monsters’ heads. I kissed his forehead, told him to be strong (he was crying) I would see him soon; we would be together again soon. If only that promise, like every-other one made before that night, actually held weight, actually mattered to any person now self-aware. The air that night carried something sweet with it, some infectious chemical that seemed to overpower any-other smell. It literally stuck to everything; I remember tossing and turning from the overpowering humidity all-the-while breathing it in; waking up from nodding-off covered in moisture, thinking I was sweating. But it was so cool, such a perfect cool summer night. I remember turning on the light and feeling the moisture on the switch, it looked as if something was glossed over every surface in the room. It was almost if the walls were sweating; as if the walls and the sheets, the floors, and the lights all had pores and those pores had opened, pouring sweat from the intensive labor of keeping the house together. How eerie the sky-blue walls were as they gleamed in the moonlight. As if the Lowe’s trim was crying, weeping for its loss of its other two inhabitants. I remember standing, feeling the moisture squish between the pad and heel of my foot and the floor. Each step felt like a trek through lightly wet soil, soft and wet but not sticky. I walked to the generic white blinds (purchased at Target, since I was then boycotting Wal-Mart; as if my weekly 50 dollar grocery purchase really affected the company, but it was the principle of it damn it!) and pulled on the nylon string and felt the water it had absorbed through the night as I pulled up the blinds. It looked like a flood had passed through, or as if it had just rained a hard rain. Except, not a single thing was unsettled, everything was as it is when water is absent and things dry. But it looked wet; the entire world was glowing, as if glitter water had been painted over everything! Nathan’s swing set did not move but glowed; the trees were still, but shone as if glazed over with a pearly coat. I remember being scared, as if this was a warning, Mother Nature was whispering, and I was praemonitus. My first instinct, like any person accustomed to modern living, was to turn on the TV. I flipped from channel to channel, watching as men and women with microphones were talking of a mass wave of high humidity that had appeared all over the world out of seemingly nowhere. Insomniac scientists, researchers, experts in every field that could possibly somehow have any chance of containing expertise on global waves of mass amounts of humidity were feeding bullshit into the camera, from global warming to the rapture, everything. And that’s what it all was, every interview, every sentence, every word, bullshit. As if carbon emissions had somehow caused nature to coat the world in a blanket of humidity; as if God had decided to bring hell on earth with a flood of moisture rich air. So I checked the web, I logged on and typed as the humidity never ceased, never continued to accumulate, just stuck to my computer’s keys like it stuck to my fingers. Besides the talking head’s spew of garbage there was a mass of blogs, news articles, and every other type of writing that had some theory, some explanation. But how were they, how were we to know what it really was, how were we to know what happened once it was absorbed through some open wound, if it was drank in a large enough quantity, from places such as personal wells and fresh water taps. We couldn’t have known, and it is because of this that everything became as fucked as it did. I spent an hour or so reading various theories: the end of days was upon us and all one had to do was drink and bathe in the humidity and Jesus would sweep you away to heaven. This theory alone explains why the infection spread as fast as it did; the religious fervor alone caused millions to indulge in the wave of moisture as much as they could. One man was postulating that it was some unknown chemical that had been frozen in the polar ice caps that had been exposed from such rapid melting, and hell, who knows, the bastard could have been right. But no one, not a single sole theorized about what it would do when ingested, when incorporated into the bloodstream. After reading every theory I could get my hands on I decided that whatever this was it wasn’t good and that maybe I should somehow be ready just incase I was right. I got dressed and decided to go buy some fresh water and a water pump, just incase it was found that whatever was happening did contaminate the water. I planned on buying some basic food supplies and some batteries, basic survival gear you know, because you never knew. My house was somewhere outside of State College, Pennsylvania, in a semi-rural area, and so it was about a 30 minute drive to the local grocery store. Half-way into town I realized that things were perhaps worse than I thought they were. I bent down to pop in some burned CD I had made the day before and when I looked back up at the road a person was standing there, with a deer-in-the-headlights look, covered in blood.

So I've been working on this book

2010-09-15T15:39:00.000-07:00

Alright time for some Original Content. I've been working on this story for quite some time. Well actually I wrote a ton of it at once and haven't had the time to pick it back up. I haven't really proof-read it, but I'll post the intro. Let me know what you think and if you like it I'll continue to post parts of it (in order of course.) Some background on it, it's about a man named Alan who awakes one night to find out that the world has changed...and unfortunately it isn't at all for the better. Also there is no formatting besides basic grammar and such, so no whining there, I'm aware of it!

We…I, stand on the teetering edge of survival; existing, existing…no room for living. I gave all my goodbyes last night, lost all hope today. I’m farewelling life as I know it, and I’ve already killed too many people to count. Who knows how many times I’ve heard the report of a gun. When was the last time I drank fresh water, probably the last time I saw a face possessing colors other than the familiar grays, black, greens of rot beneath their skin, blossoming in and consuming my sanity. I remember…I remember children, and animals, love, passion. Faded, faded just like the pigment in their skin, like supplies, like hope. What now rings true and clear is the empty wind, whistling at me. Whistling, like when a friend whistles at a buddy who is about to get into some huge shit because his girlfriend found some bar-chick’s panties in his car. Wind whistling, whistling wind, whispering, “Buddy, you are in one major pile of shit.” But who has time to listen? No time to listen, you’ve got to make sure there is ammo in the gun, ammo in your pockets, shells buried in your clothing like seashells buried in the sand. But that’s just it isn’t it, buried in the sand, that’s what I am, buried in the sand! All I have to do is dig, and push, pull, scrape and I’ll get out. That is, if I don’t die of the cancer beforehand, the rotting flesh-hanging-on-bone cancer plaguing mother earth. Mother, my mother, walking around, she died two days ago, came home today. They hadn’t buried her yet so she must’ve been lying in her coffin in some room and the creatures had found her fresh corpse and had a feast. I’ve never been much for reunions, unfamiliar relatives in unfamiliar circumstances pretending to be familiar with every Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin. Reuniting with my mother, at least I knew she missed me; only incorrigible maternal love could drive a person to take four shells to the chest, while on fire, to only stop when hot metal exploded in her head like the dull thud of the champagne bottles opened at her viewing. Although…perhaps it wasn’t maternal love, perhaps it was the never ending, overriding need to feed. Like a baby drawn to its mother’s teat, so was she to my flesh. Who knew such a need existed, such an overpowering drive inhabited some small part of our craniums. I remember her moans, her screams, rotting vocal chords vibrating, tearing. Such dull eyes, I always admired her milky blue eyes, and here they were, misty and swollen, like one of those stress relieving key-chains of some animal with jelly inside of it and you squeeze it and its eyes bulged from its plastic skull. She was blind but she smelled me, just like I smelled her, long gone was her flowery perfume, replaced by the smell of wastes excreted by millions of bacteria slowly digesting every inch of her skin. She was naked, where there wasn’t caked on dirt caked on blood completed the painted on ensemble. Her left thigh had more bone than meat on it, making it so she limped to the point of almost falling over. She was cut everywhere, various bites she received before she resurrected, various chunks of flesh missing. I remember my eyes traveling from her feet to her lips, admiring the pearly luminescent skin, absolutely devoid of blood flow. I remember watching each bullet penetrate her torso: the first took out the right side of her pelvis, she didn’t notice save a grunt; the second blew through her left breast, but no blood came forth; the third hit the left side of her collarbone causing her neck to sink a little giving her that classic head tilted zombie look; the fourth hit her naval directly, ripping open her stomach, allowing thoroughly rotted intestine to spill out, dragged along next to her left leg. So much for reunions; I know I cried, was crying, cried the entire time, cried as I reloaded the gun and took aim between those misty blue eyes. The bullet hit dead on; obliterating the back of her skull, allowing the mush of what was once her brain to ooze out like some thick slushy from a gas station drink stand. I’ve been here two days, and it feels like an eternity. I’ve got to move, the ammo is running low and the undead are flowing strong, pouring out through the woods faster than they ran in when still alive, still hoping. They all ran in, as if the trees and dirt and shrubbery would act as some natural womb to keep them safe, to protect them from the evil that lived outside. But the evil lived inside too, in fact, that is where it was thought to have started. It didn’t make it to the news, it happened too rapidly for the talking heads to milk it for a week or two. The entire country went to sleep one night, half of the world went to sleep while the other half rose, rose with the dead.

Update on the Job Situation!

2010-09-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

So I didn't take the job at CiCi's, they offered me "maybe $8 hour" and frankly that won't cover my bills. HOWEVER, after I got out of the restaurant and was headed home another company I had applied for called me and offered me a job that pays 10.30 an hour. It's part time but at that rate it will be fine. Basically I'll be the guy who is at Sam's Club demonstrating products and handing out samples. If this comes through guys it will be perfect.

I was never really good at Limbo

2010-09-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

So I have a job interview at Cici's in about an hour, a pizza cook. I don't know what to expect but I won't be able to accept the job if they pay me anywhere near minimum wage. 700 Dollars a month in bills can't quite be covered by $7.65 an hour. Oh well, an interview is better than nothing. It just doesn't seem worth it, working 40 hours a week for minimum wage when I could sell my car, and have enough money to pay my bills until I ship out. Well, that's assuming I could get the price I want for my car. And it's never good to count your chicken's before they hatch. Perhaps I'll just throw my car up on some ad sites and see if I get any takers and go from there? Still have to go to the interview though...eh, I could get a surprise!

So...question: How do you all cope with your bills? Do you have a partner who you split half/half with? Do you work your ass off and hope you have enough? Do you have a well paying job? Are you on disability?

Please make me feel like I'm not the only one stuck in limbo right now ha ha

Thoughts

2010-09-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm at a weird juncture in my life right now. I have about 128 days until I ship out for Basic Training, but I am jobless. I mean who wants to hire someone for only a couple of months? I don't really know what to do, I could sell my car. It doesn't even feel like I'm going into the Army because it's so far away. It simply feels like some far-off ominous event that is impacting my ability to work in the present moment. I have enough money for one more months worth of rent/bills and that's about it. I supposed I'll just have to try and get a job at some fast-food joint or try to find some odd-jobs. Do any of you who read this have any suggestions?

BONUS!!!

Now for an all too literal adaptation of getting your heart ripped out:

In rain swept streets, within the tremor of thunder, he walks towards her. The curbs hold against a stream, slowly collecting strength with the passing minutes. Ivy-green leaves try to bounce back against the heavenly tantrum, but can only look downwards. The pressure is immense; it pushes in on his ears and clouds them with a dim roar of kinetic energy. Thin hair clings to his skin with numerous hydrogen bonds while his clothes take on the weight of the storm. His feet displace cold water with each step forcing the contaminated liquid between pruned toes. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, and it’s easier that way. They sky opened up and started pouring rain.” He shivers and water droplets fall from his eyelashes, collecting beneath him. There is no light, and if there is any the liquid fog has consumed it. His eyes do not focus, each lens unfocused, obscured by excess moisture. If only he could let loose and allow the rain to carry him away, molecule by molecule. A proper burial, a natural burial, into the soil, recycled. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, it’s easier that way. Take me there, away.” The mud pulls at his feet as he walks into the street, “she’ll be there.” The road is flooding and it pushes him back slightly, “turn back.” She’s there, a silhouette against silhouettes. The rain looks black as it pulls on her hair. She’s smiling, hopelessly hopeful. He grabs the scalpel, and prepares to cut. “Dear…” She grabs him and kisses him allowing the blade to easily pierce the breast tissue. “Please, don’t.” He begins to cut, it comes easily and is quick. The flesh falls away, “I can’t…” She digs into his eyes, looking for something, something ancient. He drops the knife, and then pushes his hand into her chest. He feels around, and squeezes when he finds his target. “I don’t….love you. Not anymore, not at all.” He pulls as hard as he can and her heart gives way. The blood pools and washes away in the empty night.

New to blogging

2010-09-13T21:46:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone just want to say hi...I'm new to blogging so this is kind of a test run. I posted an essay I wrote a bit ago, comment it and let me know what you think. If you have the time click this ************ to get to my blog through linkbucks.

Peace!

Success of a sprout

2010-09-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

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When did it become common practice to determine the course of your life, when life is just beginning to sprout? Comparable to determining when to plant seeds before winter is half-way through. I am sympathetic with the modern-day-individual’s desire to succeed; though I highly question what exactly it means to succeed and how they came about said definition. Descartes’ methodological doubt comes to mind every time someone explains to me they’ve figured out what it means to succeed. “You’ve found a well-paying job, and you tell me you’ve succeeded? I’m afraid I must take a glance at this authorship of success, cross-reference your sources, examine your conclusions, and see if you haven’t plagiarized from the default scripture of societal values.” What your main association with success seems to be is money! “This can’t be,” I say, “for what of your thoughts, your wisdom, your children, relationships, and all that is related?” I believe a common retort would be that all of those things rely on being able to support yourself and those you’re responsible for, which, in modern society, is founded on your income. But, I say, what of the beggar on the street, does he not support himself, even if it is not in a house, or in a car? Does he not have friends; does he not contemplate his situation? He is supporting himself, so is he successful? But, you reply, “That isn’t support, that’s living by necessity and perhaps lack thereof!” Ah, so, if you are still in alliance with this train of thought, it is not simply enough to support the necessities of life, we must rise above it, and be “comfortable.” But, comfort itself is filled with idiosyncratic nuances of particulars and desires. So how are we to create a universal definition of success, if we must appeal to every individual’s wants?! We can’t of course, it would be contradictory of the term universal, and would run us into the ground. But then, what is universal comfort? We must look at what we require to maintain homeostasis (equilibrium) as an organism, to discover this. We must maintain internal heat, as Thoreau would maintain, through eating and having shelter; though it could be argued that shelter is only necessary during the cold seasons. So, we must have food, meaning our appetites must be quelled, so we need a steady supply of food. I would dare say that a beggar is alive, so they must have some source of food to maintain life. How much is enough? Must we eat twice, thrice times a day? “A man who eats hard, must work hard,” and then the cycle repeats as Thoreau would say. If we desire those luxurious things (e.g. soda, cake, meats, coffee) we must work hard to obtain them, but after working hard we eat hard the luxury we worked so hard for and must continue on another day! So support you say is in being comfortable, but your comfort only feeds your discomfort, and I must refuse it. I need only basic things, like my apartment, a can of beans, and the company of my cat and significant other to sedate me. Strip them away and I am for the worse, strip away my tv, my computer, and I am none the worse. Here is where comfort teeters on the edge of universality and that which society meticulously weaves into a stifling blanket of supposed necessity. Working so hard for the new tv, for the new computer, you’ve invested your very life in such things and thus, and if they disappear it is like taking the very life from you! So perhaps, living above physical necessity is but a sham delivered to you directly from your abhorrent luxury. So, we cannot find comfort in expensive and frivolous things, for they cause us to work so hard there will be much discomfort! So food, we need food only enough to sedate and nourish us. Perhaps one to two meals a day, if we don’t work as hard as we do! Now, what of shelter? It should be obvious now that big houses, with multiple bedrooms and baths will make us work so hard as to not only fail to have any time to enjoy it, but when will we use it? “But everyone needs their own room.” Ha, I feel you are misinformed, all those rooms allow us to habitually isolate, and what good does that do? People need space, and justify multiple rooms with this need, yet they neglect Mother Nature who waits outside their doors with open arms and a warm smile. Whenever I am a guest in a large house I find it odd that these people work so hard, just to have so much empty space, and places to tell me not to go and not to look! Look at my wealth, they say, but do not explore it, for I must go work, and will not be here to maintain it. Ha, silly people, so much room for your small bodies, too bad you don’t spend more of your time filling up that air with your thoughts! Oh well, I believe it possible to possess only a couple of rooms and find there is more than enough space for multiple people. How much space do you really use in your living room, your kitchen, your bathroom? A habitual path, that utilizes so little room while all those things you worked so hard for take up the rest and look “pretty.” Add up all the cubic feet of space you actually utilize, and I’m sure it will equal less than a medium-sized room. Besides, isn’t the basic premise of having shelter to maintain that internal heat? How exactly does a couch or a big tv contribute to that goal? So, to maintain comfort we need but two meals a day and a medium-sized room. Perhaps you disagree with me, but most likely that’s because you’re picturing your room full of items and frivolous belongings. Strip that schema of such eccentricities and visualize, what you need, not what you want. So, two meals and a room equates to universal physical comfort? So, if this truly is all you need, why do you work so hard for everything else, in order to support yourself? I know of no true friend who asks for anything more than the company of another friend. Children have needs as well, to maintain their heat, and thus it is necessary to work harder to support them, but I doubt that level of hardness necessitates a large house, a big tv, lots of toys, and the like. When we reminisce, how often do we think back to a big pay check? When we truly think of happy memories, do the faces of friends, or old presidents pop into your head? I’ll confess that if it’s the presidential lineage, I do not desire to be your friend. I would rather spend the evening taking shots of wit from a good friend than spending money on shots of cheap liquor. The point of course, is that the foundations of relationships, along with the structure and additions to it, are not built off of money and impressive furniture, but rather the words exchanged while wasting that money you worked so hard for or idly admiring said furniture. In regards to wisdom, and knowledge, how much more valuable is it to know yourself, than to know the clothes you are wearing are in style? Spend an hour contemplating what it actually means to succeed, instead of an hour shopping, and see which gains you more. Spend an hour exploring the neighborhood or local park, instead of watching that tv, and see which is more visually stimulating. The material, like the very skin you wear, will fade, decay, and cease to exist in the form it is in. Your thoughts on the other hand, can jump from person to person, generation to generation. The realization that thought is worth a million times more than the dollar, can be gifted much more easily and eagerly than a gift certificate to the mall. People can consume your wisdom, chug your wit, and rub your knowledge into their very character, but they cannot do such with a trivial gift of candy or a mp3 player. Success then, is not a measure of the money you earn, or the 12 hour work day, but rather the achievement of a simplistic physical life, allowing for mental and spiritual growth to spread like a wildfire or an air-borne pathogen. Success is not a purely physical thing, but rather is a state-of-mind, constantly evolving, extending away from the tangible towards universals and thoughts of the whole, not the self. To expand the self, you focus on everything but. The sprout does not wrap its roots around itself, but rather plunges them into the world around it, soaking up whatever it comes into contact with. Perhaps then, a sprout is more successful than the majority of us.