Devilishly Clever

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 11:14:01 GMT

Ai no kioku ga shibondekara
Me wo aketa mama zutto nemutteta
Omotta yori sore wa juushou datta

Hanbun ni chigirete oki-agatte
Hikari no sasu hou he mukaeba
Maboroshi janai kimi ga tatteta

Oshiete yo, doko ni ita no
Doushite boku wo shitteru no
Natsukashii namida ga dete
Kodoku no owari ni hibiki-wataru
Bran-new lovesong
Sore wa kimi he no uta nan da

Moteamashiteta yume wo zenbu
Atokata mo naku sotto hagashita
Ima wa nani mo nai tada kimi to futari

Kirai datta jibun no koto
Itsunomanika yurushiteta
Hashiridashita kono omoi wa
Tayasuku kowaretari nanka shinai
Bran-new lovesong
Kimi ga subete wo kuretan da

Oshiete yo, doko ni ita no
Doushite boku wo shitteru no
Natsukashii namida ga dete
Kodoku no owari ni hibiki-wataru
Bran-new lovesong
Sore wa kimi he no uta nan da

Is that so?

Tue, 25 Dec 2007 11:49:54 GMT

If a tree falls an nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

The answer is, at once, simple and complex.

Bound to the realm of physics, the tree will, of course, make a noise. This is a concrete fact of the universe we live in. However, the true answer to the question is that the noise itself is unimportant to the answer. If a tree falls an nobody is around to hear it, whether it makes a noise or not result in the same situation: nobody noticing. Since nothing is there to perceive the noise, it may exist or it may not, and nothing has been changed.

It can be said, then, that immortality of anything is impossible. Should anything ever exist in a state in which it perceives and is perceived by nothing else, then whether or not it is existing is irrelevant to everything else. It could exist or it could not. In truth, it does both.

Sigh.

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 21:35:10 GMT

Robert Jordan died on the sixteenth of September, 2007. The wheel of time turns, I suppose, and the story will never have its end.

Word up!

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 04:29:32 GMT

WIFFANY

Tonight.

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 08:35:32 GMT

I picked Danielle up from work and we hung out at my house for about an hour and a half. We made(or at least aided in the making of) cookies. And then Michael finally called, and came and picked us up, and we drove over to Megan's house. We we there for about an hour, and it was fun, if a little awkward at first. I didn't really know anyone there except for Megan and the two I came with, but they both knew Megan's siblings and Sarah Curry, so it was better. But then it was fun, and I now have two Pictures of Megan so I can remember. And then we were saying goodbye and now Megan lives on the east coast, leaving me posting this ridiculously poorly thought out journal entry. It's sad. I will likely never see her again.

So after she left, Michael and Danielle came back to my house and we ate the cookies, which had been baked while we were at Megan's house. And then Michael left and Danielle stayed for another hour and we just talked. It was good. It's good to be friends with her again. It's good.

Because I said so!

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 08:57:09 GMT

I thought it was time for a new post to be on top, so here it is!

Too bad I have nothing of substance, or even remotely interesting to say.

Rest in Peace.

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 20:08:09 GMT

Scott Rutherford.

I didn't know you well, or really even at all, but many of my friends were close to you. I wish you all the best in whichever afterlife it was you believed in. Go in peace.

Love, Will.

What is in my mind? I can't tell, can you?

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 06:29:34 GMT

This was written for me, but it was written for you too. They can both happen at the same time.

The light flickered, its fading beam only a shade of the brilliance it once was. It was old. It had seen many nights come and go, turning on faithfully each day as the sun set and resting with its return. The light had borne witness to many events, the comings and goings of cars, of people, humanity streaming by as time worked its slow and steady course, moving those people inexorably into their futures. Their lives were always changing, but the light was constant. And now it was dying.
Flicker. The light was going. The parking lot on the highway was cast into momentary darkness, shadows created by the neighboring light growing in length until it seemed as if they stretched to the horizon. The light remembered.
The shadows were long, the sun was going down. The light was on even though there was honestly no need for it yet. A young boy was playing in the parking lot, a remote control in his hand. As he pulled the trigger, a little green car moved around the parking lot. Turn the dial, turn the car. It moved left and right and left again in random formations, and the boy smiled to himself. He could make the car do whatever he wanted to, and he was pleased. The car had been worth the effort it had taken him to get it. He loved the car, it was his. He continued to play. Another boy—older, bigger than the first—came up behind and grabbed the control away. The green car stopped and started again, moving with the will of its new master. The young boy was scared. He did not know who this older boy was. He screamed, but to no avail. The older boy just laughed and kept driving, directing the car whichever direction he chose. The younger jumped on him, trying to grab back the car in the same fashion it was removed from him, but to no avail.
Try as he might, he could not get the control back. He asked, he tried to trick the older boy by pretending that he had lost interest, but when it came down to it, the problem was always the same. The other boy was bigger, and there was no getting the control back from him until he was ready to forfeit it. So the boy sat and waited. And waited. It became dark, and the light showered the two as they sat in the lot. The younger boy was tired, he needed to get home, but he wouldn’t leave without his car. He watched and waited for what he wanted to come to him, as he thought it would. However, the older boy was clever in his methods. He saw that the younger had not given up on his car, but he had already has his fun with it. Finding no way to both appease his desire to torment the boy and do something more worthwhile, he picked up the car and controller both and smashed them into the ground. They were destroyed, never to return to the way they had been. The older boy left, smiling to himself as he listened to the fading noises of his young victim in despair.
The light flickered. The lot was still empty, the night lonely for it this cycle. It was giving a gift with nobody to receive it, and it wondered what, then, it was even doing on, wasting the short time it had left shining for nobody to see. There was nothing for it here, and the end was near. Flicker. The light remembered.
The lot was full, cars parked in every space up into the very back rows, with more to spare driving up and down the aisles, waiting to find the best position for themselves. This was a cutthroat game of musical chairs, but the music was always playing and always ending, simultaneously, throwing the drivers into chaos. Nobody knew when they would find a spot, and so the drove on, always hoping to get lucky. It was fascinating to the light. It watched as each car moved up and down the rows, noticing how the majority tended toward the front side of the lot, as if hoping against hope that a spot would open just as they were in range to race to it. Those that stayed in the back quickly found spots, as the worse ones, those in the sun and those at the end were vacated and lacked competition, but some cars refused to settle for a bad spot, or missed their opportunity to get one while trying frantically to get lucky, as if luck were a tool—a power they commanded. It was those cars in particular that the light found interesting.
They came in all shapes and varieties, but they all had one aspect in common: the perfect blend of reasonable behavior and luck—casting aside all logic with the hope that their timing would be blessed with fortune—to assure that they would never end up in a spot they found satisfactory. They roamed the lot chronically, and there were always a few moving up and down the aisles. The light watched them individually and noticed an interesting behavior. These cars were very observant, perhaps the most observant of the bunch. They always noticed open spots and began to move in their direction, but were beaten by people who had position on them, who were already in an advantageous spot to take action. As they got beaten to spots towards the back, they would move to the front, hoping desperately that there would be a spot open there, as if lady luck would repay them for her cruel joke. And each time as they failed to get lucky as those who had already beaten them had, they moved further back before taking an opportunity to turn around. Some repeated this sequence four or five times, each failure resulting in a trip further back on the lot, until at last they learned to hang back, avoiding the front altogether. And then they parked, and their precious cargo removed itself and walked into the building that all along was its destination.
Flicker. The light was ended. The parking lot was cast into darkness, but light never returned. It was dark for some time, who knows how long. A sole pair of headlights pulled into the lot. A man stepped out of the car, another following him from the opposite side. They talked for a little while in the darkness, their shadows long as the neighboring light once again tried to make up for the deficiency of its former partner.
“I remember this lot,” said one man, “I played here once.” The reply came quietly, with much shuffling and delay.
“I know you remember. I played here once too. I just… I wanted to say that I am sorry. For what I did that day.”
“We were only boys, I know you didn’t mean it.” The younger shuffled. “I’m still close to a boy, truth be told. It wasn’t even that long ago. I got over it.”
“I know, but still…” the older man struggled with his apology, unable to find the words. The darkness hid his face, a reality he was happy for. He was more comfortable with his vulnerability hidden. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. You worked for five months to get that car, what with the dishes and lawn mowing. It just wasn’t something a brother does to a brother. I’m sorry.”
Movement. The younger man moved to sit next to his brother, leaning on the hood of the car. There was no more talking, only silence as the two sat there, watching the darkness. The distant light played across their backs, and their shadows stretched out in front of them, but there was nothing sinister in it. They seemed to continue on, to exist separately until that distant point across the lot where they met, joined together, unavoidably united. But this was no longer a problem.

It's not as long as the last one, but it still deserves the cut.

Courtesy of...

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 03:58:10 GMT

an Australian comedian on Last Comic Standing:

"So, I was watching TV the other day and one of those anti-pirating commercials came on. You wouldn't steal a purse, it said, you wouldn't steal a car, and I thought to myself, 'you know, that's true'. But if my mate called me up and said 'hey, I just bought a nice new car, would you like me to burn you a copy?', I just might go for that."

A story I wrote.

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 06:39:30 GMT

So this is a story I wrote about myself. It occurs at some point in my life, and is for the most part true. The reason I tell it to you now is actually because I just got it in the mail from the teacher I turned it in to. I was supposed to write and illustrate a personal narrative and turn it in as an assignment. I wrote it in two hours, early in the morning two weeks after it was due, didn't illustrate it or even give it a nice title, and still managed to get 100% on it, so I figure it must be worth something. It's also the reason I graduated. Hahaha.

James was a very normal boy. There was nothing about him out of the ordinary. Up until the age of thirteen, he seamlessly integrated with the swarm of youth around him, becoming just another face in the crowd. Seeking a way to stand out, James turned towards his academic strongpoint: literature. His stories soon became works of art, developed through personal insight and influenced by the themes and imagery of famous literature. It was not long, perhaps a year, until James was unique. His view—or way of viewing, rather—the world around him had changed. He no longer saw events simply as things that occurred, but as meaningful experiences, each bearing a life lesson or a theme applied to a real setting. That was the lens of James, the lens through which he modeled the world around him; the lens through which he gazed into the world of his stories.
At the age of fifteen, James began his second year of high school. At this point, James was a rare breed. Content to sit out the social scene and watch as new situations developed and were subsequently forgotten, he moved through his life at school as if he were an entity separate from the rest, an outsider looking in with cold, precise observation serving as his only connection or any sort with the inside realm. However, his disaffected exterior was soon to be tested. As he entered his math class on the first day, he noticed he was surely one of the last students to arrive. Most of the desks were filled, except for a grimy looking one in the middle and a desk with stacked papers on it in the back corner. The choice was obvious. After the papers were taken care of, James carefully sat down in his desk, making as little noise as possible, and took an appraising look around the classroom. There were two boys, talking about some unimportant aspect of a certain sporting event, there were three girls talking about the latest clothing and music. Nothing intellectually stimulating. Nothing important. There was the teacher, leaning on his podium with that bored look teachers have when they know the fate of a class before it begins. There was a girl, sitting there gazing out the window. Her hair was dark brown, and there were small freckles spread over the upper half of her face, of the sort that would surely disappear with the sunny weather. She gazed out the window as if it were a movie or a play, the actors creating a world for her where she was living, her mind removed from the grey world around her body. She was beautiful.
It took him a second to realize that he had attached something beyond an indifferent analysis to any object or life form in the room, but once he did, he couldn’t remove his vision from her, couldn’t make his eyes focus on anything else. Sensing the gaze of something real on her, she withdrew from her world of fantasy and looked over at James. Her slight smile was not gone, but her eyes had changed. In them was something sad, as if removal from her world of dreams had caused her some discomfort. Normally, James would have cast his eyes downward, to avoid any unnecessary contact with another person, but he was unable to. He looked into her eyes and tried to imagine what could have drawn her away into such a world. He wasn’t aware of any change in his own facial expression, but suddenly the girl’s smile broadened, once again touching her eyes, and she turned away, resuming her daydream. James, confused by this encounter, took out his notebook and began to write.
The next day, when James arrived at his math class, he was once again late enough that most of the desks were taken. As he came through the door though, his main concern was for the empty desk near the window where the girl had sat the day before. It was vacant today. He plodded down the row to his desk of choice in the class previous, his eyes on the ground, brow furrowed in consternation. As he sat down, he heard a timid hello from his left, on the side of his desk further from the windows. He turned, surprised by the greeting so obviously intended for him, and was startled by the sight of the girl in the desk next to him, smiling at him. He sat down and whispered a greeting back, as the teacher had begun his lecture on measuring angles based on proportion to their adjacent sides, or something similar of equally little importance. The girl’s name, it turns out, was Allie. Allie was new this year at the school and hadn’t made very many friends yet. She talked with James for the whole class period. Though the conversation often ran down to a point where the two could have cut it off if they desired, something else always seemed to spark it back up. James was confused. He enjoyed this communication so much, yet it made no sense to him. Nothing they talked about was really useful information. The fact that it was more intellectual than fashion or amazing sports replays didn’t mask the fact that it was purely small talk, and yet James desired more. The story he was writing took a new turn, a new character introduced.
Months passed and Allie made friends. She was quite outgoing, becoming popular with most of the students at the school very quickly. And though she now knew the rest of the class on some level or another, every day when it was time for math class, she only talked with James. Their talk had, by now, turned toward all sorts of subjects. They had talked about things ranging from tense political issues all the way down to how Allie liked the pair of shoes she recently bought. Allie was a constant in James’ life, his only real social contact outside his home, and James was a constant in Allie’s life, her anchor of sanity providing shelter from the dramatic influx brought on by her many new acquaintances. As their relationship grew, so did James’ story. Each day he went home and added a new chapter to the writing he began that first day he saw her, and each day the story neared its completion.
Time flew by, James and Allie moved on to their next year of schooling. They didn’t have any classes together, but they would exchange glances in the halls and maybe even a passing hello, neither of them caring for the disbelieving murmurs that followed them. Nobody thought that Allie would know a person like James, who never spoke a word to anyone. And as they spent less time together, progress of the story slowly ground to a halt. James could not find any reasonable way for the plot to continue. It was as if he had been blocked off from his creative sense, a problem he’s never had for more than a few hours in the past. This was apparently an insurmountable problem. James loved the story he had written so far. It was his first work that had truly given him a sense of completion. He felt as if he was accomplishing something while he was writing it, and knew that if it could just be finished, he would finally be able to know why he was writing it.
As the year passed, James thought. And he thought. His thinking led him down all possible paths, until he finally came to one conclusion: he was in love with Allie. There was nothing he could do about it. Without her presence, without her support in his life, he would never be able to finish his story, and he would never know how it was to end. Summer passed and he saw Allie around a few places. At one point, he even managed to meet her while she wasn’t busy and they talked for nearly two hours before she had to leave. However, her sentiments that they should talk more often were never to come to fruition. James just could never quite get up the courage to call her, or go to her house. All James could do was sit and think, sit and dream; and so passed the summer, with James once again sitting in his dark studio, waiting for inspiration to come to him. Until a school year began anew.
James was overjoyed. Not only was this his last year of public schooling, he also had Allie in another of his classes. English was even his best subject. After that first class period, dreams or impressing her with his talents and helping her when she had trouble ran rampant through his mind. Almost immediately his story picked up again, but he was still tentative. His ideas for the story were unsure, and they felt as if they were still not quite complete, but James couldn’t make himself care. He was ready for this story to be over. He needed to know the ending. One day, James brought his personal journal to school with him, so he could write while the ideas were freshest in his mind, but that day, Allie did not sit next to him. Though they had become close again over the few months of English (James had even managed to call her a few times outside of school), the year they had been separate left Allie with new friendships to tend to. So on that day, she sat with a group of girls, and when he looked over, she gave him an apologetic look, and that smile that she showed him the first time she saw him. He smiled back.
Allie knew James was in love with her, and there was something about him that she loved too. She knew that he would never get up the courage to say anything to her, but she hoped from the bottom of her heart that he would. She didn’t have the courage either. As she continued to sit with her newer friends in English, they would always ask about what he was writing in that journal he had started carrying, and why he clung to it so tightly whenever people tried to read it. Allie had taken glances at the text over James’ shoulder while he wrote on numerous occasions, and she knew James was aware of that fact. So all she would ever answer her friends was that he was writing a beautiful story. That it was for and about her was a fact that she kept to herself, a special bond between her and James.
Then end of the year came on quickly and the last day of school rolled around. James was in turmoil. He had never been so nervous in his life. This was his last day of high school and maybe the last time he would ever really see Allie. Of course, they might have a little time during the summer, but Allie had so many friends that needed tending to and James had gotten a job working at the public library. It just wouldn’t work out. No, today was the last. Today the story would end. The day wore on, passing as slowly as time ever had before in James’ experience. Math, Science, History, Study Period and then finally, it became time for English. He got there as soon as he possibly could, and sat down in his desk. Allie appeared only seconds later, panting slightly. James smiled to himself as he remembered that she would have come from the Art section of the building, all the way on the other side. She hurriedly came and sat down next to James. He had never been so nervous before. He looked at her, his hands sweating. Greeting her nonchalantly, he tried to make light conversation, and she was happy to accommodate him. However, not long into their chat, Allie’s friend Mike pulled up a chair and sat at their table. Talking with Allie, he showed no signs of leaving. He said something James couldn’t hear and she laughed, the teacher shushing her like a misbehaving second grader. She looked over at James and gave him that first smile again. The class went on, Mike continued to talk to Allie, and James continued to sit, silent as his love was ignored. Class ended.
As he picked up his things to leave, Allie had already packed hers and was ready to leave. This was his chance. He needed to say something now. As she stood up to go, he opened his mouth to talk to her, but her gaggle or girlfriends came up behind her and started squealing, shouting for joy, committing all sorts of crime on the ears. James, shoulders slouched, squeezed by the group and walked out the door. He could say nothing with so many people around. He walked slowly, looking at the scenery out the small windows and the awards on the walls, trying to enjoy his last hike away from the school he had been at for the last four years, but he could not. As he crossed the threshold into the bright world outside, he noticed a large group of cars all parked in the lot. There were two people there, and Allie was one of them. The other was her girlfriend. Her ride home. An unimportant person. He hurried over to Allie, his bag bouncing on his back as he ran. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things that needed saying. His story was clutched in his hand, creased in the familiar way it had been since its advent as he carried it around with him, but he had forgotten about it.
When he got to Allie, he threw his arms around her. She hugged him back. They embraced for a couple seconds, and split apart, James looking right into her eyes. He opened his mouth, but once again could say nothing. He couldn’t think of the words, couldn’t make them form in his mind or his mouth. She just smiled at him and laughed a little, with an admonishment not to lose touch over the summer, and with that, they parted, James never noticing how sad the smile on her face made her look. He didn’t need to know. He was frustrated with himself. He walked not ten steps before he turned around to go back, but the car was already gone, turning out of the parking lot. He was numb, cold. He began to walk. Walking was all he could think to do. He made it nearly a full mile, almost to his house before reality hit him. His chances were all gone. Allie was all gone. Tears streamed down his face as he though about what he has done, what he had failed to do. He sat down on the curb, kicking a recycling bin out of the way. Hands on his head, face buried in the darkness of his own shadow, he wept.
A good deal of time passed before he snapped out of his stupor. Opening his eyes, he brought his hands down and realized that one of the still held the script, locked tightly in the vice-grip of his fingers. He tried to fix it as best he could, removing the wrinkles and flattening the corners. Looking at the cover, he shook his head. He had no idea where the story would go now. There was nothing. This story was done. Completed with no ending. He would never know, now, how the character in the story would end up. He opened it to the first page and began to read. Soon, he was lost in his own words, pages turning quickly. How could he not have noticed? What could have been wrong with him? He was reading his own autobiography. He was reading the story of his love for Allie, the emotion he wasn’t ever able to express or understand transcribed on the paper in his hands. That was the meaning of the story, and now he understood it. Writing was simply a tool he had used to express in print what he could not in word. Standing up, he crumpled the story into a ball, righted the displaced recycling bin and dropped the story with no end into it. He looked down at it for two seconds, no more, and resumed his walk home, moving slowly as he examined the beauty of the world around him.

It is eight pages long, nearly 2800 words. Sorry for the wall of text. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. No answer is guaranteed. Hahaha. Hope you enjoy it, see you again in six months.

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 06:31:13 GMT

I needs to know how to use this thingy again so's I can make my semi-annual post.

Blah blah blah.

Teehee.

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 00:57:19 GMT

Because Haley complained about the new text input system, I had to try it out. I honestly can't tell the difference though, given that I haven't posted anything in at least three months. Good thing this post contains so much important material.

SAT Score

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 04:31:28 GMT

I hope I don't sound conceited when I say this, it's my honest belief.

I did shitty.

Critical Reading 690 94%
Math 670 89%
Writing 750 99%
Multiple Choice 72 (score range: 20-80)
Essay 11 (score range: 2-12)

Myoozik

Fri, 08 Dec 2006 09:56:23 GMT

So in the theme of Michael's recent update...

I recently found a South Korean hip-hop artist that is actually pretty amazing.

Jang Woo Hyuk. Have fun finding him, hope you have limewire.

A First.

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 06:52:12 GMT

It's over and done with, haha. Didn't see that one coming.

I hate Roger Federer, although I admire his skill and subsequently have no other grounds for disliking him.

Today in Bible/Myth Archer assigned us a paper wuth an october due date for the rough draft. We're supposed to go into a place of solitude, away from the modern(good luck to some kids, I doubt they know of anywhere to go), and think for an hour about the profound. If I just write a paper based on the ideas I have already transcribed onto my white board, would that be cheating? It's not that I don't have an urge to go out into the Hart or Highland woods for an hour, it's just that I believe the ideas on my white board are damn good and need to be shared. Maybe I'll go out into the woods and re-think and expand ideas that are no longer shrouded in mystery and uncertainty...

Anywho...

This post has been brought to you by Will's new computer, bought with his hard(yeah... right)-earned money and time spent babysitting the annoying neighbor girl for an entire summer. I wub it.

My life story.

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 06:37:08 GMT

I don't know when I will complete it, nor do I know how complete it will be, but it needs to be written. Whether or not any of you will ever see it is also a mystery(although I've been known to show people things when they ask). This small exerpt is something that I think has been important to my life and the way I am now, although when it happened I had no comprehension of the seriousness of events.

But the boy's life was about to change. Change was something new, something unexpected, something impossible to understand. Kosuke was his best friend, they played together, they had killed fanciful creatures together, but now Kosuke was leaving. Moving back to Japan. The boy heard this, and he might have even been sad, but all he knew was that tomorrow, Kosuke and he would go outside and they would play. Moving meant nothing, Japan meant nothing. Nothing can change. What even is change? Describing to a five-year-old boy the significance of change is like trying to explain color to a man born blind; and even if he did understand, if blue became red and red became green, what difference if he never truly understood blue?

"Ever since then, my left eye sees the past and my right eye sees the present."
"Men only think of the past when their lives are about to end."
~~BeBop.

Alkfsliehlkhfs

Wed, 16 Aug 2006 05:59:40 GMT

SNAKES ON A PLANE::Saturday, August 19th. No set time, no set Theater. If you have any input as to times/places that work best... now is a good time to figure it out. Saturday *might* be flexible, but try to avoid that one if you can.

Schedule

Tue, 15 Aug 2006 00:39:36 GMT

So, I got my class schedule quite a while ago, but I was just wondering if anyone knows anything at all about which classrooms teachers have... every single one of mine says unknown.

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 02:06:51 GMT

I'm home. Yay.

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 08:01:04 GMT

I think I'm entering into another cycle of depression. Shit.

Please... help me... I'm tired of feeling depressed all the time.

Eh...

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 07:58:58 GMT

Advanced Global Personality Test Results

Extraversion	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	33%
Stability	\|\|\|\|\|\|	23%
Orderliness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%
Accommodation	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Interdependence	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	83%
Intellectual	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Mystical	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Artistic	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Religious	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Hedonism	\|\|	10%
Materialism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Narcissism	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Adventurousness	\|\|	10%
Work ethic	\|\|\|\|	16%
Self absorbed	\|\|\|\|\|\|	23%
Conflict seeking	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Need to dominate	\|\|\|\|	16%

Romantic	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Avoidant	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Anti-authority	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Wealth	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Dependency	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Change averse	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	70%
Cautiousness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	76%
Individuality	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Sexuality	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Peter pan complex	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	70%
Physical security	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	90%
Physical Fitness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	64%
Histrionic	\|\|\|\|\|\|	23%
Paranoia	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Vanity	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Hypersensitivity	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Female cliche	\|\|\|\|	16%

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That's worrysome.

Kerosine.

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 07:35:02 GMT

I have to go on vacation starting tomorrow. Normally that would be alright, but this time I have to miss out on much better things(Snow Patrol) for a vacation that sounds mediocre at best. Even if Black Butte is a place I would normally enjoy, I probably won't now. Talk about sucky.

The Pear Tree.

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 11:08:57 GMT

Timothy ran outside, happy to have finally completed all of his chores. He was a young boy, only nine years old, just beginning to learn the working of his small world. He wasn't a particularly smart boy, or an athletic one, but his parents always said he had a special skill. Timothy's thumb was as green as the leaves on his precious pear tree. Given to him as a present for his sixth birthday, from his great uncle Samuel, the seeds from the packet had sprouted into a small pear tree. It had grown abnormally fast, and his parents said that it might even bear fruit this year. So every day, Timothy helped his mother do the dishes and then ran straight outside to check on his pear tree. He watched as the leaves grew in the spring, and saw as the flowers bloomed in late June and early July. August was almost upon him, and he was excited to see how many pears his special tree would make. When his pear tree came into view, he was astounded. There, between all the flowers, were the shapes of small pears, still hard as the branches they grew on, but pears none-the-less. He quickly ran back to the hose and dragged it out to the tree, screwing on the sprinkler head as he ran. He set it down near the base of the tree and ran back to the deck to turn it on.

So it went for the next few weeks: dishes, tree, sprinkler, sleep. Always watching the progress of his pears. Seeing how eager he was, his parents decided to caution him. Be careful, they said, too much water can drown the tree, and if you pick the pears ahead of time the tree may not be able to grow any more. Too much water, picking too early. The warnings fell on deaf ears. All Timothy could think about was helping the pears to ripen as quickly as possible. He loved the pears--loved the idea of the pears, and he wanted to have them in his hands as quickly as he could.

One night, after his father had gone outside to turn off the sprinkler, Timothy pretended to be asleep until his father went up to bed. Then, quiet as a mouse, he crept outside and turned the sprinkler back on. Satisfied that his pears would have enough water to ripen at least enough to be picked, he went back inside and fell asleep. Dreams of pears filled his mind, and in his subconscious world, he traversed the path to his tree and plucked the fully ripe fruit from the branches, savoring every morsel. He was enjoying himself so much that he didn't notice the fact that he was shaking. Shaking like an earthquake. Finally, the shaking caught his attention and he opened his eyes to blearily stare at his mother. Come with me Timothy, she said, I have something to show you. She led him outside and around the house. Horror filled Timothy's features as the sight of his pear tree greeted him. The leaves were wilted, the fruit had fallen to the ground. The base of the tree was a lone pillar erupting from the middle of a pond, a barren skyscraper bearing witness to the desolate bounty. He had killed his pear tree, drowned it. Crying, he ran to his tree, tried to gather the fallen fruit and return it to the tree, but he was unable to save it. His tree was gone, dead, a shell of it's former glory. His only love was gone, smothered by haste, strangled.

I'll proof read it and go obsessive compulsive over minor details when I'm not too tired to notice them.

Danielle...

Thu, 03 Aug 2006 08:39:46 GMT

sorry I just randomly signed off... AIM just kinda quit on me, and i can't get it to sign back on. Just says "Service is temporarily unavailable."

I'll talk to you tomorrow, or as soon as I get it working again.

Goodnight.