Journalling

I've been keeping this journal since September, for my Writer's Craft class, and like I mentioned earlier, I did some painting yesterday. I'm horrifyingly amateur with it, buuut really, it's the thought that counts right? Haha.





Ohoh, and these are 3 books I recently bought, and am very excited in reading.



Anybody read any of those?

Between the Wet Hay - Memories of Murder adaptation

The deep, musty smell of rotten leaves and caked soil pervaded his nostrils as Kwang-Ho stood crouching low to the ground, shuddering—the cold snaking through his shoddy clothing, and slithering along his thighs.
He snuck a glance up at the detective pacing the ground, and at once was rewarded with a smart thunk on the shoulder.
“Oww!” He exclaimed, shielding his eyes automatically, bracing himself for more.
The skinnier detective with the black eyes suddenly dropped down to his stature, a menacing physiognomy twisted with passionate hatred.
“Speak! Tell us!” He ordered, with a guttural drawl.
When Kwang-Ho didn’t immediately respond, he was prodded forwards with another hollow thump, this time against his head.
Sharp, piercing skewers grazed his mind, blurring his vision. Seemingly-random images drifted to the surface of his mind, then drowned beneath the depths just as quickly.
Wanting to say something to appease the detectives but struggling with coherence, Kwang-Ho settled his muddled mind on the image of his father—his big, brawny old man who always protected him against the world. His father, whose words rang with startling clarity. “Wipe your mind clean like a chalkboard before you speak, always listen, and let your thoughts voice themselves, not your mouth.”
And so again he launched himself backwards into that night, the horror swelling anew in his pounding consciousness.
His thoughts began to divide themselves up neatly in his head, as he recalled the drizzling wet, forlorn night that everything first occurred.
“Beside the railway…in that field…” Kwang-Ho began, eyes widening in excitement. The memory began to adjust itself with slow progression, as the hazy lens of a camera is tuned to sharpness. Each flashback then collapsed into place with surprising ease.
“Her neck…” he hissed. “Hyang-Suk’s neck…” A pause.
“He was strangling her…” he spit out, finally.
At this point in the memory, fuzziness replaced the vividness with which Kwang-Ho could remember. He tried desperately to embody himself as he was that night, sandwiched between the wet hay, but it was no use.

The air was full of the smell of wet asphalt; the rain screamed in ecstasy as it clapped against the broken rows of wheat. Tucked around Hyang-Suk’s neck was a cherry-red collar that stood out like a drop of bright blood amidst the black belly-folds of night.
Her eyes, fluttering haphazardly against the beating water, shrieked in despair. Moans, which rose up her throat, died halfway before reaching her lips. Oh, how pretty she looked, even when her hair was in clomps of dirt and her cheeks were brazen with bruises.
The man’s nimble fingers moved in succession, tying knot after knot—methodically weaving around Hyang-Suk’s legs, up her arms, and across her pretty visage. Kwang-Ho was surprised when it was all over in a matter of seconds, the girl motionless, still glowing with the aura of recent human life. Before long, the man was running off into the darkness, letting the thick fog swallow his fading figure into oblivion.

The Joys of the Fairer Sex

Dramatis Personae

Mr. Tibs

Man (that sits next to Mr. Tibs)

Girl #1

Girl #2, a.k.a. Darlene

Girl #3

Girl #4

Announcer

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mr. Tibs, a lonely, mild-mannered middle-aged man stuck in a dead-end office job, arrives at his local community centre for the monthly Speed Dating Challenge, eager for companionship and curious about the concept. He sits down at his first station number. A librarian-looking girl with owl glasses stares at him perplexedly.

Mr. Tibs: "Hi, I'm—"

Girl #1 (angrily): "Shhh! The bell hasn't rung yet."

Announcer: "Contestants, are you ready? On your marks, get set, go!"

Mr. Tibs: "Hello, they call me Mr. Tibs—”

Girl #1 (looking contemptuous): "When, I first saw you, I thought you were handsome. Then, of course, you spoke.”

Mr. Tibs (anger rising): "Well you bootless tardy-gaited strumpet, you aren't a looker yourself."

*DING!* The bell sounds for the contestants to move on.

Mr. Tibs pushes himself out of his seat gracefully and moves on to the next lady. She is bubbly, blonde, and wearing a low-cut v-neck sweater.

Girl #2 (talking speedily): “Like oh my god, my name is Darlene, who are you? I’ve never been to one of these things before, this is sooo exciting! I hope I meet Mr. Right, I’ve had so many Mr. Wrong’s, like oh my gosh, I swear my luck is so rotten. You look like a nice guy, are you a nice guy?”

Man next to Mr. Tibs (whispers): Crazy!

Mr. Tibs (leaning over): “Well, I’m sure she’s not that bad.”

Darlene (glaring at the man): “Hey! You yeasty reeling ripe hugger-mugger. You better not be talking about me!”

Mr. Tibs: “Darlene, don’t you think you should take it easier?”

Darlene: “Oh-ho-ho, no, fasten your seatbelts, ‘cause we’re in for a bumpy night!”

*DING!*

Mr. Tibs: “Lord help the infectious full-gorged haggard! The women here aren’t very friendly.”

Girl #3, a young timid-looking brunette with blue coveralls and khakis, spontaneously bursts into tears.

Mr. Tibs: “Oh, oh, no, don’t do that. I’m sorry. Those two other women were just awfully bad.”

Girl #3: “Well I’m not bad; I’m just drawn that way!”

Girl #3 runs out of the room sniffling and heaving sobs.

Man next to Mr. Tibs (whispers): “Crazy, all of them!”

Mr. Tibs sits at his table alone, awkwardly, waiting for the next bell to signify rotation. Two long minutes later, it comes.

Girl #4: “Hello, you.” She bats her eyelashes playfully.

Mr. Tibs (warily): “Hi, how are you?”

Girl #4: “Okay let’s just cut to the chase, here. You want sex?”

Mr. Tibs (uncomfortably): “Uh, well, not really—”

Girl #4: “What’s your name?”

Mr. Tibs: “Tibs. Greg Tibs. What about yours?”

Girl #4 (ignoring him): “Well, Greg. I hope you can handle me.”

Mr. Tibs (beginning to feel exhausted of options): “What do you mean by that?”

Girl #4: “I’m very fantastical. I have fantastical fantasies. I mean, I have nipples, Greg. Can you—would you—milk me?”

Mr. Tibs: “Oh, sweet Heavens! Woman, you are a churlish boil-brained boar-pig! You disgust me!”

Mr. Tibs storms out of the Speed Dating room, tired than before, and feeling more melancholic about his love life than ever.

Mr. Tibs (roaring with anger): “Oh dear God, you are a ruttish pottle-deep flap-dragon! You fool with me! Do I amuse you?! AM I BUT A PUPPET?”

As if in response, the rain suddenly begins to drizzle wetly, and thunder sounds overhead. Storm clouds have closed in, and the thumping of rain gutters is loud and hollow. Mr. Tibs—defeated, and head hanging low—begins the slow trek home.

Chapter 1 - Who Am I?

Sid Meyer is a 15-year old boy, of Scottish and Irish descent. He lives in a decent, fairly middle-class neighbourhood, and attends a high school just five minutes around the corner. Therefore, he has lived in his own community since he was a child, and has never had any experience with lower-income people or communities. That all changes however, when he meets a new friend—somebody who broadens his tiny microcosm of the world, and gives him a peek of just what it’s like on the other side.

“Mom! You got my PB&J ‘wich ready?” Sid shouted unceremoniously as he rattled down the stairs on Monday morning.
“Sweetheart, inside voice please! Yes, I have. Would you like a snack as well?” his mother—a stay-at-home mom, tall, slim, with soft brown curls and a face that seemed to reject the onset of age—stood zipping up her son’s brand new lunch bag.
“Chips and cookies, thanks. Mmm, this bacon is delicious.” He licked his lips as bits of bacon fat dribbled down his chin, and onto his collared shirt. He hastened to wipe it off as his mother came over to pour him a glass of milk.
“I smell scrumptious pig meat,” boomed Sid’s father’s voice. Still clad in a bathrobe, with a belly just barely restrained in his undershirt, Mr. Meyer the successful real estate agent came ambling from the hallway into the kitchen to join his family.
It wasn’t but ten minutes that Sid was out the door, walking on his way to school, starting what would be an eventful day he was still unaware of.

***

“Jamie, ya see where I slugged that ball? Went over the goddamned school roof!” Sid said loudly, to his best buddy in the seat next to him.
“Yeah, man, that was awesome. Seriously.” Jamie nudged him with a wink in the direction of a girl that sat a few seats ahead. He figured Sid’s loud blabbering could be attributed to impressing Layla, the cute blonde who wore skimpy t-shirts.
In walked a stocky, messy-haired boy, clutching a torn red backpack that looked held together by dust molecules.
“Check out the new kid,” Jamie’s elbow jabbed Sid in the side painfully.
“I’m not blind, you idiot!” The two boys jeered and sniggered as the rest of the class filed in from lunch.
“Alright, everybody! I’m pleased to announce a new project. Well, group project that is.” Miss Marshall clapped her hands together excitedly, long black hair projecting down to her shoulders, eyes glowing with brightness.
The class groaned in unison.
Ignoring her students’ reactions, she began assigning pairs.
“Sid, you’re with Marvin. He’s new here at East Bay, I’d like you to give him a good ol’ welcome alright?” She grinned broadly.
Mumbling with annoyance, Sid nodded blandly in acknowledgement. After class, he went to find Marvin to discuss when they would meet up to work on the project.
“My house, 4 o’clock?”
The other boy nodded wordlessly.
Not affected, “Okay it’s the big red house over on Pine Street. Won’t miss it. See you then,” and he ran over to find Jamie, leaving Marvin standing there awkwardly alone.
Ding-Dong.
Sid slipped and skidded through his front foyer in anticipation of finishing his project with Marvin—as soon as possible.
“Hey Marvin,” he greeted the boy, who was carrying an armful of project supplies. He managed a half-smile at Sid.
He beckoned him in, and led the way upstairs into his room. Atypical of an average teenager, everything in the entire room was in perfect mother-adorned neatness. His bed was matching blue and white, made with the sheets tucked underneath. His computer desk, with small folders lined up and pencil holders in a single file, matched the colour of his room and the rug that was laid across the hardwood floor.
Marvin’s eyes glared open in wonder.
“So, what did Miss Marshall say was our topic?” Sid sat cross-legged on his rug, motioning for Marvin to do the same.
Thus far, Sid had not even heard the sullen boy even speak a single word yet. Therefore, when he opened his mouth and a voice that was deep and composed came out, Sid was surprised.
“Poverty. We’re looking at its presence in today’s society, and its change over the years.” Zipping open his pouch of supplies and scattering them over the floor, he began arranging his papers and stretching out a big piece of white Bristol board.
“So, I’ve already got a bunch of statistics and information. We could talk about various poverty groups or the difference in poverty rates across the globe. We could focus on Canada even; I’ve got a lot of stats for that. Here,” he slowly began attaching little pieces of scrap paper with scrawled hieroglyphic-writing on it, to the Bristol board in a haphazard fashion.
Wow, Sid breathed. He looked on quietly in fascination.


..To be continued.

Temptation

Down the

twisting, moth-bitten path I trod

A twinkle in my eye

and a prance

in my stride.

Wherefore a silver, iron-clad portal stood in my midst,

Cool spots

of chipped rust peeking through,

I stepped forward with but a slight of foot.

And in my wake was a bronze-crusted chain-link barrier

Inseminating the air with the diffusing smells of burnt wood

Which I trip-trapped through with trepidation

At once a little flower girl

Caressed with curls and polka-dots

Stepped forward

to tug my hand from the road

With little affliction

did I let her

tear

me

away.

Down the straight

marble-glossed trail

I was dragged

to a sparkling manor

with walls aglow.

I watched obliviously

as the girl with a mimicking grin
vanished into the blackness.

The walls began

collapsing inwards

as I cried loud to no avail

Plunged into an inviting dark abyss

I suffered

for

my

temptation.

New-Age Rev(elation)olution

I used to mock people who had iPods permanently super-glued to their bodies. I used to say “Do you ever not listen to music?”, and I would proceed to chuckle in a patronizing fashion, thinking myself above such things.
Well, I was wrong.
I had my serendipitous revelation on a gloomy weekday morning, commuting to school earlier than usual. Having whirl-winded out of the house like the typical hurried morning, I had arrived at my bus stop with an armful of things I had grabbed on my way out of the house. Keys in one pocket, coffee mug in one hand, backpack dangling off the right shoulder (and giving me a cramp already), and an Eggo for eating on the go.
It seemed a good tactic that worked well—rush out of the house carrying everything so as to not forget to bring anything. Apparently, I wasn’t always spot-on with gathering all my belongings, because when I finally settled myself uncomfortably between two intruding-onto-my-seat fellow commuters, I’d realized my iPod was not in my usual pocket.
Flummoxed, I started patting down the rest of my backpack with the precision of a maximum-security prison guard, until I forced myself to accept the fact that I would be going music-less all day. I let it sink in for a few moments, as I tried to focus on something other than the fact that the lady next to me was speaking unceremoniously loudly on her cell phone. If I had my music, I wouldn’t have to hear her yammering, I had thought to myself with bitterness.
I then sighed loudly, stoically resisting the urge to cry out in frustration, and trying to find interest in the bus full of people standing amongst me instead. One woman was scribbling erratically on a piece of paper with ridiculous concentration; one man was reading the Metro in an obscure corner; a few others seemed lost in their own heads as they stared straight forward at the multi-faceted, shimmering, hypnotic blacks of the bus seat in front of them. I felt bored already. What would I do during my work periods during class? What would I fiddle around with on my down time? What would I let tranquilize me as I headed back home on the bus after a terribly long day of high school?
Ten minutes into my bus trip, I shifted in my seat trying to find a better way to nestle between two people without actually touching them—I have a thing about no physical contact between pure strangers—when I felt a lump in my left pocket grind into my thigh. I reached down to inspect the obtrusive object, and as my fingers groped around and then felt the familiar blunt, rectangular figure of my iPod, I hurrahed with joy inside.
So I didn’t forget it after all!
I felt my inner triumphant self pumping its fist in the air, obviously fervent that my ears would no longer be an empty hole with nothing to be filled with.
All at once, as I let my euphoria slowly fade away, I felt dismay filling its place. Why had I been so upset that I would be going one school day, or rather eight hours, without a little music? Was I really so dependent on a little contraption that was ultimately not crucial for my survival?
Yes, I thought to myself. Yes, I was extremely dependent upon it. If someone asked me to bring one thing with me to go anywhere, I would be grabbing my iPod—no doubt about it. Maybe even if our destination was something like a deserted island. At least I would be entertained.
Then, I recalled my friends and their emotional attachments to their cell phones. Well I, unlike them, had chosen my good old mp3 player as my permanent lover instead. It was not really that different—most of us have an innate instinct to rely on some form of technology as our personal safety nets. Whether some people need to be able to have constant communication with others, or whether some need something to erase the reality of it all, we are all looking for the same thing. And we are turning to our fancy state-of-the-art toys to do so—not the same things our parents would have had.
So, as I look down at my beautiful companion sometimes, I feel nothing but a wave of love and adoration—oh, you have pulled me through so much!—and can’t resist sending a prayer to the big guy for giving those marvellous Apple people great, big brains.

"A Touch of Humour" - It's Good For Us... Isn't it?

I had the good fortune this past weekend in coming upon this, ah -- for lack of a better word -- pastime of a friend of mine's. Interestingly enough, it originated in India, and is known there as “hookah”. In other Middle Eastern countries, it may also be known as “shisha” or “water pipe smoking.” Now, the very mention of its roots in the Middle East should bring about the raising of eyebrows and skeptical of frowns. However, I assure you in this case, no mass nuclear weaponry is involved. So, after coming across pictures posted on the site becoming increasingly known as a revealer of not-so-law-abiding youth (aka Facebook), I immediately went to question my friend about her smoke-puffing faces. "It's totally safe," she assured me, as she giggled at my incredulity. I continued drilling her for more information, for despite my belief that any kind of smoking is a one-way ticket to Hades, I was intrigued. Why hadn't I heard of this non-nicotine, non-tobacco sort of drug before? Sure enough, after wikipedia-ing "shisha", I found out that it indeed did still contain tobacco, and consequently tar. Of course, anything on wikipedia must be true, so I confronted my friend again at this point. "Okay, maybe a LITTLE tobacco," she relented. I joined in her guffawing to mask my 'uncomfortableness', but I couldn't help feeling guilty for picturing her lungs coated in black tar already. What is so wrong with this world that teenagers are constantly on the merciless, unyielding search for a way to escape reality? To quell the monotony of one-hour-long classes? To lessen the heap of homework piled up to their X-Box? It seems even for the more thrill-seeking of young adolescents, marijuana and alcohol are too drab and tiresome in filling the empty void. It seems we have fallen behind even the most Neanderthal of human behaviour, if we have to lie to ourselves, repeating in a dogged chant, "It's perfectly safe! I'm not addicted! It's not going to hurt me!" Is it what we truly believe, or is it just the safety net we can fall into should we ever be accused of doing something "wrong"? Maybe it’s actually advancement; maybe it's really regression. It depends on your point of view: amazing that we’ve moved down a ladder rung for the amount of harmful substances we deposit into our body, or depressing that we still think inhaling tar is pretty cool, and that we like to pretend it’s not as bad?

Toronto

 
Favourite thing about Toronto: its vibrant city-life. The hustle & bustle, whether it be at 8AM or 9PM.

Hey! Hey! You!

Conservative!!
(or Republican, same political schmuck)

May the fetus you save be gay.


'Nuff said.
(That is all.)

Apple in the Gutter

 
Haha, abandoned apple, anyone? This made me giggle. I pictured an old lady with a bag full of apples from the grocery absent-mindedly dropping one as she got off a bus. Don't know why. 

Final Moments

He could smell Oklahoma again -- the waft of warm buttery pancakes for breakfast, mama's flowery scent as she moved about the kitchen in a whirlwind of mania, freshly-picked daisies in a vase at the table, and the old, musky smell of his wooden porch. He could even hear grasshoppers bzzzing in the grass, rubbing their legs together with heated vigour.

Then, with an uncomfortable tug of reality, he was whisked back to present time. The deep, throaty voice of the pastor who stood next to him as he read passages from the bible strewn across his hands resonated in the empty warehouse. He could hear the quiver in each syllable he pronounced, sensing the underlying hatred the man must've harboured for the criminal he was reading his sermon to.

His own hands began to tremble, as if the beat of his heart had duplicated itself in his sweating palms. The air around him suddenly began to thin, and his lungs struggled frantically to heave more into his system. He breathed in and out with exaggerated breaths, wondering wildly if he was having a heart attack. Images blurred in front of his eyes, he could no longer focus on anything else but his aching lungs.

Absent-mindedly, not noticing the man's increasingly-loud breaths, the executioner placed the black cloth bag over his head.

The pervading stench of hopelessness flooded his nostrils. He felt the black bag's string tightening around his neck -- a prelude to the opening act. To no avail, he attempted to resume regular inhalations and exhalations, when finally he saw his doomed end clearer than he had ever expected. His wondrous epiphany, came to him in his final moments: his life was ending. He was no longer going to wake up the next morning in a 4x4 cell, feeding on murky water and stale bread. He would never see his friends again, nor his estranged family. He would never get married, have children, find a woman who would make his coffee for him in the morning, and read him parts from the daily newspaper. This was his inconsolable end.

And as the straining floorboards fell away beneath him, the crrack! of human bone and tissue reverberated from wall to wall in the dejected gloom. The noose seized his Adam's apple with a death clutch, finally robbing him of any air.

A creak of the rope.
A rustling of clothes.
A soulless twitch.
And he was gone.

A Bridget Jones' imitation

123 lbs, 2 oz., caffeine units 1, alcohol units 0.5 (one of those silly-excuse-of-a-drink bottle from No Frills), calories 1245 (v.good)

8.30 pm. V. proud of myself, have mastered the art of squatting over public loos after 16 years.

8.45 pm. Have decided homework is the bane of my existence.

9. pm. Have math test tomorrow, better study.

10.45 pm. Oh bloody hell. Still have not opened notes. Maybe will leave it for tomorrow morning.

12.10 am. Cannot get to sleep. Must use loo. Squatting technique v. handy. Did not know til yesterday that there are millions of bacteria on own toilet. V. gross.

12.15 am. Decided am going to sound-proof my room one day to block out dreadful parents' voices. Do not understand concept of whispering, it seems.

1.15 am. Counting the spiky things on my ceiling.

1.25 am. Decided there are about 502 of them.

1.30 am. Oh for Pete's Sake! Was just drifting off to Neverland when some moronic neighbour let out a non-human sound.

2.30 am. Should take some Valium.

2.35 am. Mmmm, drugs.

Descriptive Writing

The man's bright, shining hair flashed golden for a mere second under the rays of the sun. He beckoned forwards with a come-hither smile that spoke multitudinously more than words could ever have done.

A small, knowing grin spread across her lips, barely able to suppress her ever-surmounting gaiety. A beautiful picnic site with a marvellous view, was all he had said about where they were headed off to.

From behind the lush, weeping willows a gallant, majestic animal emerged. Trotting, steadily, whipping its mane about in a frighteningly-accurate rendition of Repunzel.

The man lay a gentle hand on the animal's neck, stroking him affectionately, and then swept himself up onto its back with the grace of a swan. She peered up at them -- man and beast. He had never looked more in his element than now, atop his steed amidst all the vast green surrounding them.

Cat Fight

Melanie, a shopping-loving model, has just entered her favourite store, Holt Renfrew. While she is in one of the most expensive clothing sections, she encounters another girl. Her name is Gisele, a stay-at-home mom who occasionally likes to splurge.

"Oh Jacques, zee gala is going to be très grande! Oh qu’est que je vais porter? It must be perfect, za top fashion editors from all over ze world will be zere, ah mon dieu!" Melanie scrunched her face in frustration.

Gisele walked up next to Melanie obliviously, starting to brush through the clothing hangers.

Melanie scrutinized her with one look, and threw her a dirty face.

"Hey Jacques, cette bonhomme fille just walked into zee section I’m in. Pourquoi les bonhommes filles insist on shopping in my section? Don’t they know that les vetements du merde they seek, aren’t in zis store! Non! Jacques, no! Je n’aime pas these fashion wannabees. They have no fashion sense and shopping with them makes me look bad!" Melanie stamped a foot down angrily, shouting loudly into her phone.

”Um, is there a problem because it seems that you’re talking about me. Am I offending you?" Gisele finally looked up at the girl standing a few feet away from her.

Melanie looked at her straight in the face, as if daring her to hold the gaze.
"You are zee problem! you girls who shame us. We French people are what I like to call fashionista, et bonhomme fille, you are not fashionista. So out of my way, let me continue my work." She crossed her arms defensively, but turned back to her browsing.

Gisele stood her ground.
”Yeah you're right, I’m no fashionista, but I am a human being. I vote, I listen to the news everyday, I donate money to charity, when there’s an argument I pick a side... let me guess, you’re neutral when it comes to everything but fashion?" She imitated Melanie's stance, leaning on one foot and glaring at her with hard eyes.

Livid with anger now, "Leesten tramp, you could never doo what I doo, they would throw garbage at you, and you’re married are you? Does he work at zee McDonalds or zee Burger King? Haha, c’est domage!"
She snickered at her last line, for effect.

"Ok let’s get one thing straight miss fashionista; do not bring my husband into this. He is a hard-working man who takes care of his family. Secondly, quand je vois vous, je vois un piece du merde, you dress kind of emo, you’re fashion sense sucks and quite frankly, ton français, c’est ne pas bon n’est-ce pas?"

On the Other Side of Town

The sun is starting to set beneath the clouds spattered across the sky. The wind is blowing fiercely. Condensation suspended in the air threatens to fall as the atmosphere grows dismal by the clock-ticking second.

He wraps himself tightly in his shoddy blanket, trying desperately to fight off the chill creeping up from his toes. He can feel its grip on him--its clenched jaw with the strength of a thousand Trojan men. Ripped bits of newspaper are stuffed in between his armpits, his crotch, his hands. It helps to keep the heat in and the cold out. Sometimes. A flash of lightning overhead temporarily brightens his streaked face, covered with days-old grime and sweat.

A clinking sound. Someone has dropped a few coins into his paper cup. He peers over the top of his hands to check out his day's worth. It's not much, but perhaps if he skips out over some food tonight, he'll be able to have a decent meal tomorrow.

Rumble Rumble. The tail-end of a storm must be sweeping in from the Western hemisphere, he thinks. A snippet of conversation about a hurricane that struck not far from the area was all the talk of the streets, and even people like him are able to keep up.

He suddenly yelps as the first droplet hits him hard in between his eyes. Furiously diving under the covers, he pulls until not a single hair is in the path of the offending weather to come.

The sound of water beating against crumbling, old rain gutters is heard before anything more is felt. A gentle tap has turned to a heavy gush in a matter of seconds, and soon, the wet is soaking through.

In it goes, slipping through the decrepit fabric with ease, seeping through the singlefold newspaper, flushing against his skin, increasing in malevolence.

His skin is beaten till rawness, as the whip of a belt comes down hard upon a child that has done wrong. Tears of pain and internal agony stream down his face, intermingling with the rainwater. The sweet, salty taste on the edges of his tongue is the last thing he feels as the consciousness is knocked out of his system.

Note: Not a "Writer's Craft" assignment -- just a short thingymadoo.

An (re)ev(de)olution in language

Bush sucks. So what if I'm gay? And I'd like to unite my life with another man's? Is that really the business of anybody else's?? I'm gettin' so tired of hearing the "Hey man, you gettin' Brokeback?" jokes that hit me every two minutes that I'm walkin down the streets of downtown. For the record, I loved the movie. But anyway, when them funny people throw these words at me and my partner, I just LMAO at them. Laughter is the best medicine anyway, ain't it?

I don't care about womanly curves, dude, men are awesome. I notice a lot of things about 'em right away, but seriously, if he's got facial hair, he's my man! My favourite design has gotta be the pudding ring. I had my partner shave his into that design, and boy did he get some action that night! No, but really, the most ballin' combination would be if he had dark hair, too! You put dark facial hair against a light complexion, and you got a meatball in the rice! It's just like crack to me!

Sentences

Mi buddies n' I went oot ter chug a few beers the other ev'ning. We 'ooted and 'ollered fer a good cup'la hours 'fore I wos challenged to chop the sex-ay barmaid.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

The first thing I'm going to do on this very strange blogging thingamajig is suggest y'all read "Moby Dick" by Herman Melville. Best classic there is. And maybe it's kind of obvious that I love it.. but human beings love the obvious.

Anyway. Moving on,
I'm gonna try to make reading this as interesting as possible. I mean if you're not already intrigued by my pure awesomeness that emanates from every post (teehee), then just look at the pretty pictures.

Anyhoo, I shall seee you soon journal. I actually already have a livejournal, so I shouldn't post in this one too much or else it'll get jealous.. but more writing's always more fun right??
(SUCK-UP!)
Heh. Toodles.